Page 63 of A Gamble with the Rakish Duke
“I’m here to pay, Father,” she addressed her father, who was now looking at her with half-open eyes.
“It’s about time.”
“Come here, little girl, and show me how much you have for me,” Lockwood jeered, beckoning to her with a beefy hand.
Alexandra bristled, but she didn’t have a choice. She was in his territory, paying for her father’s debts. She handed him the envelope.
“Looks like someone had torn it apart it took something from it,” Lockwood noted as a bleary-eyed Lord Hartwell looked on. “Did someone else take anything from my money?”
“No. Of course not,” Alexandra snapped. “I was merely counting the banknotes again.”
“Well, it’s not enough. Your father is a gambler. He cannot stop himself.”
“How much do I still owe?” Alexandra asked, even though she was afraid to find out.
“Ha. Finally, Daughter. You are claiming my debt as your own, as you should,” croaked her father, who had managed to straighten up.
Lockwood told her the remaining balance. At this rate, she might have to sell some jewelry, after all.
Chapter Twenty-Five
“Where is your mistress?” Oliver demanded. “Don’t tell me we are going to do this again, Ellen.”
The maid was as pale as a sheet. She was standing a few feet from the townhouse’s entrance as if she had been frozen in time. As if she had been waiting for Alexandra or Oliver to come the whole time. Alongtime.
Oliver had just arrived home, and he already knew something was wrong. It was pure intuition.
For the past few days, he had been living in marital bliss. He had even asked Henry Fields to stop investigating his wife’s source of income and following her around even if he weren’t there with her.
No more secrets. That was what they had promised each other. Oliver was not too pleased to discover that his wife had to solicit the help of her former music teacher to sell her compositions.
Her confession had also confirmed his earlier suspicions that her early morning walk was not for the purpose of purchasing food or trinkets. It was to meet John Prescott.
What Oliver had felt for his wife for the past few days was true passion. She was an innocent who had not known how to make love before he introduced her to it. A virgin. Therefore, he was certain that what Alexandra had with Prescott was not physical. But what if it was something else?
He struggled with the thought during the nights, even as his wife’s head lay on his chest. However, as the days went by, he learned to accept her story.
“Damn, man,” Oliver had muttered to himself.
A week and two days. He didn’t expect any more upheaval, except perhaps from his profligate father-in-law. He and Alexandra had grown closer. Every night, before or after making love, they would reveal new things about each other.
Their childhoods. Their mothers. How some women succumbed to the pressures of Society and became independent like Oliver’s mother, and how talents were stifled—just like the talent of Alexandra’s mother. Just like Alexandra’s talent.
Warmth filled Oliver every time he thought about what his wife could do. He felt pride and something else. That something else sometimes made his chest tighten and prickle, and it wasn’t indigestion.
“I, uh… I don’t know, Your Grace,” Ellen cried, her hands clasped together.
“So, you don’t have a story prepared for me today. When did she leave?”
“Not too long ago, Your Grace. This morning.”
“This morning? It is still morning, but it’s almost noon. Early morning?” Oliver pressed, walking closer to the maid. He didn’t really want to intimidate, but he needed answers. Immediately. “Why aren’t you with her?”
“She left perhaps two hours ago, Your Grace. Right after daybreak, a man wearing a cloak came here with a letter for her. That man shoved me as he gave me the message. I told Her Grace that it would be safer if you accompanied her, but she still left on her own. I didn’t want to insist that I come with her unless she asked me to.”
Oliver’s thoughts raced. Alexandra might be in trouble. What could the letter be about? Could she have been threatened by someone from Devil’s Draw? Did someone from thetondiscover that she was J. Lewis?
“You were sending letters for her, weren’t you?” he finally asked.
