Page 52 of Never a Duchess
Madame Delafont shrugged. “That, I cannot say. Matters only become complicated if one develops an obsession. I would not like to think what would happen if the men ever fell in love.”
It all sounded ridiculous, so implausible, but jealousy had caused many a war. Jealousy had brought down empires.
A thought sprang to mind.
If Lord Sheridan was related to Mr Valmary, perhaps he played the game, too. If both perfumers fought for Madame Delafont’s affections, had Lord Sheridan swept in to claim the prize?
It would explain why the lord had moved to pastures new. Why he would discuss his conquests in the retiring room with Mr Valmary.
“Did ye leave the Kinver residence via the garden?” Dounreay asked, returning to the facts.
He could be quite commanding when the need arose. Oftentimes, Lillian forgot he was a duke. She had begun to see Callan Maclean as a virile man. One who rarely left her thoughts. One whose hands she imagined caressing every inch of her needy body.
“I planned to leave via the mews,” Madame Delafont said, coughing a little. She moved to pour a glass of sherry from the crystal decanter on her dressing table, wincing as she drank, as if she’d swallowed nails, not fortified wine. “But I saw Lady Sheridan in the garden, no doubt off to meet a lover, and so I left through the servants’ door in the basement.”
Lady Sheridan?
Might she be their mystery abductee?
Lillian exchanged glances with Dounreay, his brown eyes flashing cool with intrigue, not burning hot and hypnotic like they had fifteen minutes earlier.
“Can anyone verify yer account?” Dounreay said.
“The maid. The one arguing with that lecherous fool Major Rowlands. Though she was so distraught, I doubt she will remember me.”
Dounreay frowned. “Lecherous?”
“The beast had his hands all over her.”
A frustrated sigh left the duke’s lips. “That damn reprobate.” He brought the interview to an abrupt end. “We’ll leave ye to rest. It’s late, and we’ve nae more questions at present.”
Looking somewhat relieved the interrogation was over, Madame Delafont escorted them to the door and dropped into a deep curtsey. “Your Grace.” She faced Lillian, her rouged lips curling into a coy smile. “If you’re to gallivant about town with an unmarried gentleman, Miss Ware, you really do need a better disguise.”
Lillian’s heart missed a beat, but she had chosen her fate and had to deal with the consequences. “I risk nothing in coming here, madame. Should you spread gossip, few would trust your word. I bid you good night.” She cast a confident smile before joining Dounreay in the corridor.
“Damn the devil to Hades,” Dounreay cursed, taking hold of Lillian’s elbow and escorting her along the dim passage.
“What? Are you annoyed she recognised me?” They could not hide forever. Soon, MacTavish’s poisoning would become common knowledge, and most people would know they were working on a case for Mr Daventry.
“Now I’ll have to interview the major, and I’ll likely throttle the scoundrel this time.”
“You despise men who abuse their position?”
“I despise men who remind me of my father,” he snapped.
Like her, he rarely spoke about personal matters. That said, she had never dared to delve deeper. Family secrets were best left buried.
“I’d always assumed you were close.” She presumed to know the duke’s motivations when she did not really know him at all.
Was he a sad child? A sick child? A lonely child?
It suddenly seemed important.
“Let’s just say Satan granted me a boon when he took the rogue. I imagine my father is warming himself in the fiery pits of hell.”
They burst out of the exit and into the rancid alley. Still, the duke sucked in a deep breath like he would rather suffer anything than his suffocating memories.
Lamplight—a distant glow in the darkness—drew her gaze to the street and her brother’s waiting carriage. Heaven knows when she would find herself alone with Dounreay again.
