Kate Pearce - Educating Elizabeth

"She did what?" Gervase tried to mask his surprise as he listened to Nicholas's report.

"Mrs. Waterstone, Your Grace," Nicholas repeated slowly. "She met Jack Llewelyn at the same coffee house early this morning."

"Damnation!" Gervase slammed his hand onto the desk and looked up to see Nicholas still waiting. He drew in a breath. "Out with it, Nick. I sense there is more."

Nicholas looked down at his boots. "You also asked me to find out where Jack Llewelyn lives. Yesterday, while I waited at the Forester's, Jack Llewelyn escorted Mrs. Waterstone to the carriage. I followed him back there this morning as well."

Gervase fought the frisson of unease Nicholas' reluctant words forced through him. "How did they seem together? Was he affectionate toward her? Did they seem close?"

"Llewelyn embraced Mrs. Waterstone and kissed her on the cheek before he handed her into the carriage. She didn't seem to object to his familiarity."

Sir John, who had been standing by the window, gave a sniff, his face rigid with disgust. "Well we already knew she has the morals of an alley cat, didn't we, Your Grace?"

Gervase clenched his fists and stifled an unexpected urge to plant Sir John a facer. He still found it impossible to believe that his Elizabeth would casually share her favors with another man.

Sir John strolled across to the duke's desk. "We can also dispense with the fiction that she is a widow. Mr. Forester told me that Miss Waterstone perfected the art of playing the innocent young lady years ago." He gave a coarse laugh. "I understand that on occasion she miraculously reproduces her maidenhood with the help of a well hidden bladder of pig's blood."

Nicholas opened his mouth as if to protest Sir John's crudeness but Gervase made a decisive gesture with his hand.

"That is enough. I was the one who suggested she pretend to be a widow. It suited my plans, not hers." He deliberately paused to ensure Sir John's full attention. "I'm only interested in Miss Waterstone's dealings with the code, not unsubstantiated gossip about her past."

He turned to Nicholas. "Is it possible that Jack Llewelyn is a friend of one of Miss Waterstone's brothers? I believe she has two. Perhaps he is just visiting the family."

Sir John interrupted Nicholas's attempt to reply. "I don't believe they are at home at the moment. Mrs. Forester told me that her eldest son, Hugh, is currently serving with the army of occupation in France. And she doesn't speak of the younger son, Michael. She says he is as dead to her."

Sir John folded his arms, the triumph on his face unmistakable. "Do you think Jack Llewelyn is passing himself off as Miss Waterstone's long-lost brother?"

Gervase clenched his teeth. "Of course not, Sir John. I'm just attempting to examine all the possibilities. Now, have you anything further to add or do you intend to rely completely on gossip and innuendo?"

Sir John resettled his glasses on his thin nose. "Perhaps you would appreciate this snippet of information then, Your Grace. Last night, in a drunken moment, Mr. Forester told me he is expecting Miss Waterstone to hand him the final version of the code by tomorrow. Has Miss Waterstone completed the translation?"

Gervase shook his head. "I spoke with her last night and she told me she was still trying to determine the exact location and the time."

Nicholas sighed. "She told me the same thing, Your Grace."

"Then it is possible that she is deliberately delaying giving you the vital information that you need." Sir John said. "Just think, if she can hold you up until the day of the procession, you won't stand a chance of catching the assassin."

Gervase averted his gaze from Nicholas's anxious face and tried to ignore Sir John's gloating presence. "I need to think about how we should proceed. I don't want to alert Miss Waterstone to our suspicions. I will allow her the rest of the day to translate the code and then I will confront her."

Sir John bowed and left, a satisfied smile on his lips. Nicholas lingered as though he wished to speak, but after a quick glance at the duke's face, he quietly withdrew.

Gervase buried his face in his hands and tried to separate his tangled emotions for Elizabeth from the problem in hand. Perhaps she lied as well as Imelda after all. Images of Elizabeth in Jack Llewelyn's arms, confiding her secrets to him and laughing at the duke, kept intruding and ruining his sense of calm. He felt as though someone had taken his heart and was slowly squeezing it dry, draining his last hope, his last chance to believe in love.

Gervase let out a scathing curse and allowed himself to admit how tightly Elizabeth had woven herself into the fabric of his dreams and into his sense of self. Bitter experience had taught him that there were very few real coincidences in life and yet, here he was, still trying to make excuses for Elizabeth.

He was such a poor deluded fool that he had started to see her as his salvation, as his road out of the treacherous world he currently inhabited. Had he been a fool in bed and out of it? He got up and tugged on the bell cord to summon Standish. He needed to see Angelique.

Elizabeth spent most of the day pretending to mull over the code whilst making sure that Sir John never got a good look at the altered pages. She had to assume he had obtained a key to her desk, so she allowed him to see her tucking the code into her reticule and taking it with her whenever she left the room.

As she quit the dining room after her solitary lunch, she met the duke in the hallway. After handing his rain-dampened hat and driving coat to Standish, he gave her a curt good afternoon, took her arm, and marched her into his study.

"Have you solved the code yet?"

"Not yet, Your Grace."

His expression grew distant and he stepped away from her, running his hand through his flattened hair. Conscious of the loss of his touch and the stretch of carpet he put between them, Elizabeth tried to think of a way to placate him.

"It is proving to be more difficult than I anticipated." With a sense of dread she stole a glance at him and went still.

He watched her with the hard, unamused eyes of a stranger. "A relative of mine, Lord Vincent Delacroix, arrived in London today. I intend to take him out this evening. You will accompany us."

The duke turned on his heel and headed into the hall without waiting for her agreement. She stared at his broad back as he mounted the stairs and she longed to call out to him and lay all her problems at his feet. Only the thought of his disbelief and contempt for her half-hatched suspicions gave her pause. She needed to be sure; he at least had taught her that.

She gathered her flounced skirt in her hand and trudged toward the study and the uninviting prospect of a long afternoon spent parrying Sir John's barbs and rebuffing Nicholas's ineffectual efforts to protect her.

When Elizabeth retired to her room in the early evening she found a dress on her bed. She picked up the slippery purple and lace satin gown and regarded it doubtfully. It was not one that she recognized and, at first glance, it seemed a trifle gaudy for the duke's impeccable taste.

After a short struggle to lower the skimpy bodice and skirt over her head, she walked over to the mirror and brought her hand sharply to her mouth. The bodice was cut so low that her bosom threatened to fall out every time she breathed. Lace panels inserted vertically into the lush purple satin revealed glimpses of her skin. She rotated slowly, aware that the narrow skirt was so sheer that it displayed the shape of her legs. She doubted she would be able to fit a single petticoat under it.

Her skin flushed from the neck upwards as she smoothed her hands over the tight satin. The dress might as well have been painted on her flesh. Was it truly an evening gown or had the duke meant for her to wear it to bed? She looked like a common trollop. Was this how the duke saw her after their weekend of lovemaking?