The Misfortune of Lady Lucianna (The Undaunted Debutantes Book 2) Page 2

  “Your Grace, I…” Lucian started again after taking a deep breath.

  “Enough with formalities,” Roderick said, pushing his chair back to stand.

  “I think I have finally determined the source of the Mayfair Confidential column.” He dared a glance at Roderick and seeing his pleased expression Lucian continued. “There is a woman. She’s come and gone from the Gazette on five occasions over the last fortnight. She was there in the late-night hours, and while I have not confirmed, I suspect a new column was printed in the London Daily Gazette today.”

  “You are correct.” Roderick nodded to Joshua to remove his plate of hardly touched food. “Have you ascertained the woman’s identity?”

  A moment of excitement hung in the air.

  “No, Your Grace.” Lucian shook his head. “I wanted to make certain you approved of me looking further into the matter. I do know she does not find full-time employment at the paper, nor does she have relatives within the Gazette. I asked about the business, but no one was familiar with her—or they refused to comment.”

  “Of course, I want you to investigate further.” Roderick’s command thundered, and once again, standing against the wall, Joshua flinched. “This woman, whoever she may be, is responsible for destroying my life. I will see she pays for her actions.” He needs must calm his anger, especially if he wanted to keep his footman from expiring from fright. “What can you tell me of this woman? Is it possible I am acquainted with her?”

  Lucian pulled at his coat as if noting for the first time his ramshackle appearance. “She arrives in a fancy carriage each time, leaving it down the street. She enters the business without so much as a glance over her shoulder. This was why it took me so long to figure her out. If I were the one exposing men of the ton, I would be paranoid and watching my back at every turn. But this woman, her chin is always high, raven hair always perfectly groomed, and her gowns are impeccable, likely made by the finest modiste in London.”

  “You suspect she is of noble birth?” Why hadn’t the notion crossed his mind before? Roderick had suspected the culprit to be a jealous lord, not a woman—especially not a lady of class.

  “I have little doubt of it, Your Grace.”

  “Then you have my permission to look into the woman further; however…” This was not an entirely new venture, sleuthing. He’d been investigating random men and businesses for several years now; though it was imperative that he not draw attention to his activities. “Do not let the woman know we are on to her, or she is likely to vanish.”

  “Certainly, Your Grace. I will bring you information as soon as I know anything more.” Lucian bowed and turned to leave.

  “And, Lucian.”

  “Yes, Your Grace?”

  “Do bathe and get some rest before going back out.”

  The servant smiled, wearily. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

  Roderick glanced back toward the footman pressed against the far wall; he seemed unimpressed and no less anxious by the kindness Roderick had shown Lucian.

  No matter, he had many important things to accomplish, far more dire than convincing a new servant he was not the beast he appeared to be despite his jet-black hair, severe jawline, and penetrating ice-blue eyes. He only knew these terms for a gentleman’s appearance because Lady Daphne was always going on and on about his dashingly handsome face.

  His gut twisted at the thought of the young woman, so innocent and shy. It would have been a pleasure to take her as wife and make her the Duchess of Montrose. Yet, that had been another thing stripped from him by the Mayfair Confidential. What his father’s dastardly friends hadn’t stolen from him, the person who’d published the damning column in the London Daily Gazette had.

  He could remember every scandalous word:

  It is hereby stated that this writer has born firsthand witness to the

  7th Duke of Montrose, scandalously alone with a golden-haired nymph

  in his private opera box, all whilst betrothed to Lady Daphne.

  As this writer can also attest, Lady Daphne’s hair is pure night,

  compared to the observed doxy’s crown of light. Let this article stand as proof

  that Lady Daphne would do well to find herself another eligible

  lord to take as husband.

  -Mayfair Confidential, London Daily Gazette

  Lady Daphne’s father had decided to do just that: secure another eligible lord for her to take as husband.

  Roderick had been so hell-bent on finding out the truth of his family’s missing fortune, he hadn’t even thought about the repercussions of being seen in public with another woman. At first, he’d pondered the idea that the Mayfair Confidential writer had actually done him a glorious favor. He hadn’t loved Daphne. She was sweet, innocent, and beautifully angelic even with her dark locks. And with time, he had no doubt an affection would have grown between them, despite the girl’s lack of passion for anything of substance.

  Bloody hell. His fury over the situation returned whenever he thought of it; his pulse beating erratically, and his blood hammering through him.

  There was no more Lady Daphne in his future. And with her gone, so was the dowry he’d counted on to restore at least a portion of his family’s coffers. Admittedly, it was much less than he needed to secure the Montrose line and keep it from ruin, but it would have bought him enough time to find the men responsible for swindling his father out of every coin not nailed down.

  He should be donning riding garb and Hessians for an afternoon at Hyde or Regent’s Park to socialize and search for a new bride. If he had half the sense he claimed to have, Roderick would be doing just that. Unfortunately, he’d inherited more than just his midnight looks from his father. Apparently, he’d also gained his lack of wisdom.

  The time would come to begin his search anew for a wife, but that wasn’t now. Perhaps he’d look through the few invitations that had arrived over the last few days and select a few social gatherings to attend. Maybe a ball or a recital.

  At the moment, Roderick needed something to ease his fury and cool his heated blood. That was something a ride in Hyde Park could not do.

  However, he knew the exact place it was acceptable to thrash another—and it was called sport.

  Chapter 2

  Lucianna wanted nothing more than to strike down the man before her; however, he was not the cause of her rage. Nevertheless, he would do for now. She gracefully stepped back as her opponent lunged at her. Behind her mask, she grinned as the man’s foil thrust into empty air.

  Recovering quickly, he returned to the en garde position and awaited her next move.

  She took a deep breath, though it did nothing to calm the raging current within her.

  The nerve of her father, bringing his mistress to a ball when he knew bloody well his wife and daughter would be in attendance. It was the height of embarrassment. What galled her further was the way her mother, Lady Camden—a pillar of London society—had shrugged and moved on to the refreshment table as if there were nothing she could do about it. As if she weren’t utterly mortified by her husband’s scandalous actions. At one time, her mother, Eloise Constantine, had been the envy of every woman at the ball. The rare, dark beauty every woman wanted to be and every man wanted to bed. But nearly twenty-two years with Luci’s father had broken something in the woman.

  Not broken…utterly obliterated.

  With time, her dark locks had lost their luster and finally given over to grey, her shoulders were not as straight as they’d once been, and her friends had, one by one, distanced themselves from the marchioness.

  Did they think Luci’s father’s rakehell ways would rub off on their own dear husbands?

  Luci didn’t doubt for a second her father would corrupt any man that gave him a speck of devotion. She’d spent years outraged over her mother’s situation, but what could a mere child do to change anything, especially when Lady Camden appeared unconcerned with her position.

  Luci held her foil out in a poi
nt-in-line manner. She tired of this match.

  She could have bested her opponent in her sleep.

  This would force him to defend himself by enforcing a beat, a tap to her blade to either initiate an attack or provoke a reaction from her.

  There was nothing more she wanted than for her opponent to force her to react.

  The match had been one of parry and counter thus far. No grand moves, no unexpected flèche, and certainly no feint.

  Luci had come to Bentley’s to work off her aggression and anger from the night before; instead, she felt as if she were matched with an amateur. After returning home, she’d hastily hurried to Ophelia’s townhouse and instructed her friend to write the Mayfair Confidential column about her father. Lady Ophelia had done her best to persuade Luci not to write such damning things about her own family—that it could ultimately harm her own reputation. Luci didn’t care. She was beyond giving a whit about her future prospects. Not to mention, she’d failed to make the acquaintance of a man worthy of her love, let alone her respect.

  Lord Torrington, Lady Edith’s betrothed, was the exception, though she was loath to admit the fact aloud. The man had an overinflated, arrogant notion of his own self-worth as it was, and there was absolutely no way Luci would give the man more fodder with which to build himself on.

  Regardless, it was her father whom Luci truly wanted at the tip of her foil.

  Comical since fencing was the one thing her father had taught his eldest daughter. The only thing of worth the marquis had passed on to her as yet. The memories flooded her; not many fond ones surfaced, overshadowed by hours spent at the tip of her father’s foil as she learned harsh lesson after harsh lesson.

  Never had her father taken compassion on her, even during her first years of learning.

  Her opponent hadn’t made the decision to attack or force her to attack.

  Taking one step forward, she thrust the tip of her foil in his direction—a challenge, of sorts.

  Their masks made it impossible for her to tell what the man felt—either reluctance or renewed confidence. And, she knew, neither did he suspect his opponent was a woman. Which was for the best. Luci didn’t desire for anyone to go easy on her because she was female—they were all sportsmen at Bentley’s. Her tall stature and wide shoulders were only embellished by her outfitting.

  Her opponent lowered his foil tip to the ground at his side, admitting defeat.

  Bollocks.

  It appeared she was not to gain the vigorous match she’d desired.

  A part of her longed to place her tip at the man’s heart, forcing him to defend himself; however, unsportsmanlike conduct would have her membership revoked. It was something she’d never jeopardize.

  Luci rolled her neck from side to side, dispelling the stiffness that came with hours on the strip. No doubt also partly due to her forgoing sleep the previous night to make certain the column reached the London Daily Gazette in time to be printed in this morning’s post.

  No matter that Edith was distracted by Lord Torrington and their coming betrothal ball, and Ophelia would rather have her nose in a book, Lucianna was still determined to fulfill their promise from the night of Tilda’s death. She would expose any scoundrels for their misdeeds, and her own father was not beyond her vengeance. The man she longed to rip apart before all of society—Lord Abercorn—remained just out of reach. But she was certain he could not escape for long.

  Her opponent bowed stiffly and departed the strip.

  Luci was capable of biding her time. Abercorn would misstep eventually—she was certain of it—and Lucianna would be there to take him down. Permanently.

  Turning, she surveyed the room for her next match partner; however, the pickings were slim this early in the day. Many men—the lords who could afford the dues at Bentley’s—were barely breaking their fast at this hour.

  “Are you prepared to take on a skilled opponent, my lord?” A man stepped from the shadows created by the rack holding spare foils and other gear. He was tall, even by her standards, with massively broad shoulders. Thankfully, a man’s sheer size normally spoke of their less than agile abilities. His mask in place and his foil at the ready, he didn’t wait for her response but joined her on the strip. “En garde.”

  His impertinent manners were overlooked when she noted his expert stance and strong hold.

  This was the opponent she’d been waiting for—and his disregard for proper etiquette only fueled her ire.

  Exhilaration hummed through her, but she focused her entire being on the match to come—the correct footwork, the perfect hold on her foil, and, lastly, the appropriate set of moves to gain the win.

  Luci lowered her chin and immediately advanced, her need to take control of the match overpowering her common sense to bide her time and assess the fencer’s skill set.

  He expertly parried her action.

  She’d learned years before to always knot her waist-length hair tightly and securely under her mask—or face the consequences. Namely, male opponents treating her like a weak female as opposed to the accomplished sportswoman she was. Thirteen years of daily fencing lessons would turn any girl into a fierce competitor—either that, or break their spirit. Luci allowed no one and nothing to bring her down, especially not her father’s relentless need to best his children at the one sport he could muster any talent for.

  Very advantageous for her father that business was not considered a sport.

  Regrettably for Lord Camden, Luci, his eldest child, had mastered the art of fencing by the young age of fourteen.

  After a year of lost matches, Luci’s father refused to spar with her and had instead purchased her membership at Bentley’s.

  The buzz of her opponent’s foil sounded close to her ear as he advanced, forcing her to back step or risk injury. His skill was something she hadn’t witnessed at Bentley’s before, nor did she recognize the man’s voice.

  She needs must keep her head on the match—not on her father’s scandalous activities or their rough past as father and daughter.

  And most positively not on attempting to identify her opponent.

  Concentrating on the set of her feet, she knew a match could be won—or just as easily lost—because of footwork.

  Luci cross-stepped, bringing her farther from his dominant hand, but he was too quick and had anticipated the novice move, bringing his foil around. She was forced into a passata sotto, twisting and lowering herself under his weapon and holding herself balanced with her free hand upon the ground. She moved to attempt an upward thrust with her own foil, hoping to catch her opponent off guard; however, he’d deftly accomplished a riposte and outmaneuvered her point.

  He was a worthy opponent, indeed.

  Recovering quickly, she prepared her next move.

  It had been many months since she’d located a fencer with half the skill she possessed.

  But his retreat gave her ample time to reset and contemplate her next move.

  She must think two steps ahead. She quickly advanced with a straight extension, knowing any decent opponent would parry, and she’d be forced to disengage, twisting her foil. But she expertly changed tactic to an expulsion, successfully opening the man’s defenses. Before he knew her course, the tip of her foil was aimed directly at his heart. Victory surged through her. The thrashing of her heart as she allowed herself several deep inhales and exhales, echoed through her head.

  She expected him to enact some practiced maneuver, removing the tip from his breast, but instead, he chuckled and flipped up his mask.

  Luci was not fool enough to think her opponent had no other moves planned, and she kept her tip trained on him until he lowered his foil in surrender.

  She had the oddest sense it was not a move of defeat but one of promise for another time.

  She narrowed her glare on him, her irritation only growing. The man had not shown her his true capabilities on the strip, but had only seen the match as spirited fun. Luci did not have the same opinion, and she wished
to slash her foil before his face to remove his smug grin.

  “To whom do I owe the honor of my first loss in too many years to count?” he asked, his blue eyes sparkling. A nagging sensation of recognition filled her. He completely removed his mask, revealing hair of the darkest black—so deep, Luci thought she saw hints of blue. It was a shade darker than hers, which Luci hadn’t thought possible. His locks were midnight obsidian, while his eyes were as clear as the blue sea. “Come now, lad. You are certainly skilled and deserve to be commended.”

  She studied the set of his jaw, his extreme height, and commanding presence. Where had she seen the man before?

  Her rule was to never, ever remove her mask while on the strip. Never reveal that she was a lady. And, under no circumstances, allow any man the opportunity to go soft on her during a match based on her femininity. She entered Bentley’s prepared to fence and only removed her mask when she’d once again gained the safety of her carriage. Bentley’s proprietor had never betrayed her confidence, which she suspected had more to do with her father’s money as opposed to any loyalty to Luci.

  However, a piece of her needed to show the arrogant man that a mere woman had bested him. Longed to show the haughty lord that no matter his superior demeanor, he was no competition for her…

  Slowly, she pushed her mask up and completely off her head. A tumble of dark waves cascaded down her back and over her shoulders. Luci flipped her head as she tucked her gear under her arm, sending her long tresses out of her face.

  His mouth gaped, and his brow rose in question.

  Luci knew well the sight he beheld: ebony waves of hair, piercing, intense green eyes, and sun-kissed skin. She was tall in stature, and every inch the lady many women envied—just as every woman had envied Luci’s mother in her day. This man now took in her regal stare and supple curves in her masculine garb—though it was tailored to hug every inch of her body.