Page 11 of The Boxing Baroness

But she could not work up any genuine pleasure in contemplating the other woman’s incipient misery. Indeed, she felt nothing but pity for anyone who’d been ensnared by Dominic Strickland.

A new thought pushed its way through the chaos swirling in her head, and she narrowed her eyes at the duke. “Why is the baron writing to you, Your Grace?”

“He claims to have knowledge of my younger brother, Benjamin, who was reported killed in early 1814.” He stared at her, his gaze like a raptor’s. “He was an Exploring Officer.”

Marianne had heard of those men, high-born officers who scouted for information to use against the French. They were no better than spies, of course, although they proudly—and rather foolishly, in her opinion—wore their uniforms as they gathered intelligence for Wellington.

“Strickland claims your brother is alive?”

“He sent my brother’s ring, accompanied by a letter in what appears to be Ben’s handwriting.”

“And you accept this as ample proof of his claim?”

“The army never found Ben’s body, so it is possible Strickland is telling the truth.”

Marianne took a deep breath and held it while she considered what she was about to say. “I sincerely hope your brother is alive, Your Grace.” Marianne didn’t wish death on anyone, not even Dominic. “And I appreciate your thinking I might want to know that the baron is alive.” That was a lie; it actually annoyed her that Staunton believed she would care to hear from a man who’d humiliated her in front of all and sundry. Marianne would have been happy if she never had to think of Dominic again.

“But?” he prodded.

“But, in my experience, Baron Strickland is a manipulative, scheming liar.”

The duke did not look surprised.

She continued, “He is entirely motivated by self-interest. If he claims your brother is alive, then there is most certainly something in the situation for him. Knowing the baron, it will be money.”

“I agree, Miss Simpson. And you are correct—in part, at least. He is asking me for money for his help recovering my brother.”

She gave a bitter bark of laughter.

“I apologize, Your Grace,” she said when he frowned at her. “I am not laughing at your situation. I am laughing because that is the man I knew: a person who is always willing to profit from somebody else’s misery.”

Marianne pushed up from her chair. “I wish you the best of luck with your brother, sir, but I don’t want anything from Dominic Strickland, not even a few words on a piece of paper.” She inclined her head. “You needn’t ring for a servant. I can show myself out.”

She was halfway to the door when his voice stopped her. “Strickland won’t give me the information about my brother unless I bring you with me when we meet.”

Marianne whipped around. “He wants to see me?”

“Yes.”

“You mean he is here—in London?”

“No, he is on the Continent. He said he will meet us in a small town just east of Metz.”

“Why in the world would he think I would go all the way there because you asked me to go?” She held up her hand. “Never mind. I don’t know why I even asked that question—it doesn’t matter what he thinks or why. I don’t want to see him. Ever. And he must know that, which is why he didn’t bother sending me a letter, because I would have disposed of it without opening it.”

Marianne looked away from Staunton’s too penetrating stare, annoyed at the guilt that pooled in her belly. “I can see he has led you to believe that my presence is the key to your brother’s freedom. He is lying—there is nothing left between us, and he knows that better than anyone. If he says that he wants to see me before he gives you any information, then what he really means is that he wants more money and has used his outrageous demand—which he knows I would never accede to—as a bargaining device. Trust me, Your Grace, you don’t need to bring me to him to get your brother; just offer him more money.” She turned and strode to the door, expecting him to call her back, but he remained silent.

One of the footmen closed the door behind her after she’d exited the library, and she stood in the middle of the corridor, staring at nothing, her mind a frantic whirl; Dominic was still alive.

“May I show you out, sir?”

“Hmm?” Marianne blinked and turned.

“It is this way, sir,” the footman said. He gestured in the opposite direction, so it was just as well that he’d spoken because her wits were so scrambled that she couldn’t recall how the devil she’d gotten there.

The butler was just entering the foyer when she descended the grand staircase, making her wonder if the duke had somehow notified the man.

“Go see that a groom brings Mr. Simpson’s mount round, Gerald,” the butler—Buffle, Staunton had called him—said to the young footman who’d accompanied her.