Ten Things I Hate About the Duke - Loretta Chase Page 0,118

but only briefly. There were many confidential matters one might discuss concerning daughters. The youngest, Helena, was away at school, but children got into trouble at school. The other two—could one of them have found herself in a family way? That would be too delicious for words. “Ah, yes. One of your charming daughters.”

“I recall your mentioning that Mr. Humphrey Morris tells you everything.”

“I have always encouraged my children to speak freely to me,” said Lady Bartham. The two elder ones scarcely uttered two words to her in the course of a month. Not that they were known for their conversational skills.

“Always best, I believe. My children are confiding as well. Cassandra, for instance.”

At last Lady Bartham’s antennae quivered. “A handsome girl. So independent. One who goes her own way.” Inevitably the wrong way.

“So true. Not at all easy to predict what she will do. If she were in trouble, for instance, would she confide in her parents?”

“I cannot say. Perhaps it would depend on the kind of trouble.”

“If she found herself being blackmailed, for instance.”

The carriage’s hood was up, which meant one couldn’t see the two footmen in back. The coachman in front was plainly visible. But the ladies would have to raise their voices in order for any of these servants to eavesdrop, and ladies did not raise their voices.

Lady Bartham did not raise hers, nor did she attempt to jump from the carriage. She told herself she was a match for any woman, especially this one, who couldn’t manage her daughters.

In any event, she held all the cards. Lady deGriffith could only have come to plead for her daughter. That would be amusing. “Blackmail is an ugly word.”

“For an ugly business,” Lady deGriffith said. “A curious business, too. When monetary gain is not involved, one must ask, What is gained? Let me give you an example. Suppose Person X demanded that a young woman, who is no relation to Person X—not that person’s own daughter, certainly—break off with Gentleman A. What could the blackmailer hope to gain?”

The words blackmail and blackmailer rang in Lady Bartham’s head. A mental image arose of her standing in the dock of the Old Bailey. She blocked it out. “I am no lawyer. I could not possibly say.”

“Use your imagination, my dear,” said Lady deGriffith. “I can imagine several motives.” She sighed. “Sadly, none of them raise much sympathy. Some are rather pathetic. Petty would not be too strong a word. Or childish. For instance, I might guess that the blackmailer simply couldn’t endure seeing a young lady she doesn’t approve of become a duchess. Or perhaps this has nothing to do with the daughter. Perhaps the key is the girl’s parents? A resentment festering some forty years. Or perhaps I have let my imagination run away with me.”

“That is all too likely.”

“You may be right. Who would ever believe that a happily married woman of high rank would still nurse a grudge—forty years later—because the gentleman she fancied during her first Season fell in love with her friend instead?”

Lady Bartham went icy cold, then hot. She hadn’t simply fancied Lord deGriffith. She’d been wildly, madly in love. She’d gone so far as to write a love letter to him, which he’d sent back, with a gentle, tactful note, claiming to be unworthy, and wishing her happiness.

All the tact and gentleness in the world could not soothe her wounded vanity. Thanks to indulgent parents, she had been used, all her life, to having whatever she wanted. Since she could not have it this time, she ascribed the defeat to her friend’s cruelty, deceit, and machinations.

She was years beyond blushing, fortunately. “It is absurd, patently absurd,” she said.

“Yet it is precisely the sort of unpleasant little tale that Society likes to feast upon. Especially those who might feel some resentment against the grudge bearer. It would be a pity if, say, in response to a salacious story about her daughter, a mother let that sad little tale slip.”

“Forty years.” The countess waved her hand. “Ancient history. Who would care?”

Everybody. Every enemy Lady Bartham had made, and everybody happy to turn enemy. They’d feast upon any embarrassing tale about her, no matter how trivial, even one forty years old. Especially one forty years old that could only make her appear childish and spiteful.

Lady deGriffith shrugged. “Merely a thought. There are a number of responses to blackmail. One is to fight fire with fire. Then it would become interesting to discover whose flame blazes highest,