Page 49 of How Not to Marry a Duke

The letter from his mother arrived that evening.

Frederick opened it in his study, where the firelight cast long shadows across the Persian carpet and the whisky in his glass glowed amber. He had been expecting the usual complaints—his absence noted, his wedding preparations questioned, his mother’s disappointment expressed in language that somehow managed to be both excessively polite and deeply cutting.

What he found was worse.

Dearest Frederick,

I trust your business in London progresses satisfactorily. Penelope and I have been occupied with wedding arrangements—she is a dear girl, so eager to please, though I confess her mother’s influence is sometimes trying.

I thought you would wish to know that Miss Ashbourne has received several callers since your departure. Lady Raventhorn mentioned at tea that Lord Camberton has called twice this week—apparently he is quite taken with Miss Ashbourne’s knowledge of horticulture. He is a bachelor, I am told, with a respectable estate in the neighbouring county.

Frederick read the paragraph three times.

Four, he thought, before he could stop himself.

Lord Camberton. He knew the name—a minor baron who had inherited his estate two years past and was known primarily for his passionate interest in agricultural improvement. Hedgerows, if Frederick recalled correctly. The man was obsessed with hedgerows.

Hedgerows.

Frederick set down the letter. Picked it up again. Read the paragraph a fifth time, as though the words might rearrange themselves into a less objectionable configuration.

They did not. They seemed, in fact, to become more objectionable with each reading.

Twice this week. Lord Camberton had called twice. Lord Camberton, with his hedgerows and his respectable estate and his presumable lack of a betrothal contract binding him to another woman. Lord Camberton, who was free to call upon Florinda Ashbourne as often as he wished, to take tea in her garden, to admire her roses, to perhaps reach out and brush the dirt from her cheek without destroying everything he had been raised to believe about honour and duty and keeping one’s word.

Frederick crossed to the window.

The London street below was empty save for a lamplighter making his rounds, his pole a dark line against the gathering dusk. Frederick watched him move from lamp to lamp, counting without meaning to.

Seven, he thought. Eight. Nine.

He calculated the distance from London to Ashbourne. Forty-seven miles. Eight hours by carriage. Five on a fast horse.

He owned a stable of Arabians. He held a ducal coronet. He commanded an estate that dwarfed Camberton’s modest holdings by a factor of ten.

And yet Camberton was taking tea with her whilst Frederick examined contract law in a solicitor’s office, searching for loopholes like a drowning man grasping at flotsam.

Hedgerows, his mind repeated, with a venom that surprised him. He wishes to discuss hedgerows with her. The audacity. The sheer, unmitigated gall.

This was absurd.

He was jealous of hedgerows.

Frederick returned to his desk. Drew out a fresh sheet of paper. The pen felt heavy in his hand—or perhaps that was merely the weight of what he was about to do.

He began to write.

Expand the scope of your enquiries. I wish to know everything about Lord Ashworth’s finances—every creditor, every loan, every asset he has leveraged against the marriage contract. Additionally, make discreet enquiries regarding Lady Penelope’s activities prior to the betrothal. Any rumours. Any irregularities. Spare no expense.

He signed the letter. Sealed it. Set it aside for the morning post.

The wax hardened beneath his fingers, red as blood. Red as shame.

Then he stared at the fire and thought about hedgerows.

* * *

That night, he wrote another letter—the twenty-ninth.