Page 97 of Never a Duchess
Dounreay quickly glanced at the other pages. “Nae that I can tell.”
“Is there any mention of Mrs Rowlands?” Mr Daventry asked.
“Aye. She has a page between Lillian and Madame Delafont. Mr Valmary was declared the winner.”
“Damnation.” Mr Daventry groaned. “We need time to study the book, but the villain will know if we take it. I need to speak to the coroner about Mrs Rowlands’ death. Based on Anne’s description, there’s every chance the woman was poisoned.”
Lillian’s mind was all a jumble. “You think Monsieur Baudelaire killed her because she chose Mr Valmary?”
“The Frenchman has delusions of grandeur. I’d not put anything past him. We need to find Baudelaire and detain him.”
Lillian considered the tatty notebook. “How long have the men been competing for lovers? How old are they?”
“They’re in their forties,” Mr Daventry said before continuing like he had a thick dossier on both men. “They spent time in India before inheriting the businesses. Their fathers were perfumers who trained together in Paris.”
Dounreay opened the notebook at the first page and gasped. “Ye’ll nae believe it, but Baudelaire stole Valmary’s lover twenty years ago. All the details are listed.”
Twenty years ago!
“So they’ve been competing since they were young men.” Lillian was both astounded and confused. Why play the game for so long? What had made them so wicked and bitter?
Dounreay shook his head. “Ye’ll need to investigate the deaths of all the women mentioned in this book. From the dates recorded, the men end the relationships once they’ve been declared the victor.”
There could be twenty women nursing broken hearts? Women used in such a cruel manner. Hence why Lillian had decided to write a book. So ladies might recognise scoundrels.
Dounreay started reading aloud. “Miss Swanson was the first, though she was only nineteen.” With his nose wrinkled in disdain, he continued naming the victims as if they were casualties of war. “Lady Beaumont. She was ten years their senior. They had nae scruples—”
He stopped abruptly, stood rigid.
“No! It cannae be.” Callan’s eyes grew wide, his face deathly pale.
“Callan, what is it?” she said, not caring that she had used his given name. By now, Mr Daventry knew they were lovers. “What’s wrong?”
He did not reply.
His eyes glazed.
The muscles in his shoulders tensed.
His breath came in shallow pants.
Without warning, he thrust the book at Mr Daventry. “Will ye see Miss Ware safely home? I must go.” He didn’t wait for a reply but raced out of the room like footpads were hot on his heels.
“Callan!” Candle in hand, she made to give chase.
But Mr Daventry clasped her elbow, his grip firm. “You’ll not catch him. He seems determined in his course, and I’ll not have you wandering these streets alone.”
Tears stung her eyes. “I have to go. He needs me.”
“Wait! You might be of better use to him if we can establish what caused such a volatile reaction.” Mr Daventry opened the notebook at the first page. He worked his way slowly through before jerking his head and sighing. “Curse the saints. It makes sense now.”
“What does? Tell me.”
His mouth took a downward turn. “Dounreay’s mother is listed in the book. It seems Mr Valmary won her heart, too.”
ChapterEighteen
Callan ran as if thecù-sìthbounded behind him. The mythical hound hunting him over the Highland moors, waiting for him to drop dead in terror.
