My Favorite Duke (The Duke Hunters Club Book 2)

by Bianca Blythe

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “DAMNATION,” SEBASTIAN said. “Damnation. Damnation. Damnation.”

  Sebastian had many faults, but a proclivity to curse was generally not one of them. Still, Sebastian had expertly described the situation with a succinctness even the most devoted dictionary readers might admire.

  “We didn’t find the criminals,” Lucas said dejectedly.

  “Nonsense!” Sebastian raised his eyebrows. “We let them get away!”

  Lucas wrinkled his brow.

  “That woman shot me,” Sebastian said with palpable exasperation. “That’s a sign of a criminal. Do you know how hard it is to shoot me? Not a single wound in France. Then this woman comes along...”

  “She shot you from a pearl-hilted pistol that contained a single bullet.”

  “She combined excellent taste with strong shooting expertise.”

  “She grazed you.”

  “Precisely,” Sebastian said. “She desired to frighten me. It worked.”

  Lucas pondered this.

  “But it doesn’t matter,” Sebastian said, tossing his blond locks. “We don’t know where those women are going. We missed our opportunity.”

  “But I know them,” Lucas said.

  “What?” Sebastian turned to him.

  Lucas nodded. “You’ve met one of those women too.”

  “I could never forget that ferocious blonde.”

  “Lady Juliet—er—the redhead was a guest at Jasper’s house party. She was a friend of Miss Margaret Carberry.”

  “Her?” Sebastian raised his eyebrows. “She spent most of her time in her room.” Sebastian frowned pensively.

  “I believe she didn’t want to outshine her friend.”

  “Hmm...” Sebastian rubbed his shoulder. “Perhaps she wanted time to conduct her criminal activities.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “Isn’t she engaged to the Duke of Sherwood?”

  “Yes.”

  “I think you should investigate her,” Sebastian said. “Because if there’s a chance—”

  “Right.” Lucas bowed his head down. “I suppose I can always pay her father a visit.”

  “People like having dukes around.” Sebastian grinned.

  Lucas strode into the breakfast room. Footmen flanked the lace-covered table, and Lucas pretended that last night he hadn’t fled their presence.

  It was not horrible to know one had hired a brave staff. Lucas had only been concerned about the ability to hold a platter without scattering food upon guests inadvertently. It was nice to know he’d found a staff who also refused to allow highwaymen to attack damsels in distress and rushed to the aid of unfamiliar junior servants.

  Lady Juliet’s father, the Earl of Shelley, had a house in neighboring Westmoreland. He would have to pay him a call.

  After breakfast, Lucas instructed his manservant to pack and have the groom prepare his chaise.

  He was relieved when he finally exited the cottage. Though he did not mind that the place was smaller than his Staffordshire estate, he worried servants might discover the true reason for his presence.

  He stepped into the chaise. His driver closed the door. Lucas then removed his spectacles and tucked them into his valise. He wouldn’t require them until he met with the earl.

  Spectacles were useful. They clouded one’s gaze and bequeathed one with an instant air of respectability. Lucas didn’t need the respectability, but he appreciated the accompanying dullness. It was far better for him to trot out the occasional quote from the Aeneid, mastered during his time at Eton, and mention a passion for botany, then for people to delve too deeply to see if he had other interests.

  Sheep stared at him from a field, seeming to eye him skeptically.

  Naturally, the Lake District was not a fairytale region. Fairy tales might exist, but fairies certainly did not. Only the most fanciful might report seeing tiny winged creatures in elaborate ballgowns flying from one bud to another. Similarly, Lucas doubted the presence of witches and warlocks.

  And yet...

  Something about the Lake District was more special than any other region. There might be higher mountains on the continent, with more proud alpine climbers ascending them, but this area suited Lucas fine.

  This land sloped and curved, and from place to place, long lakes stretched out enticingly, gleaming under the sunlight, their surface unmarred by the thrusting of waves across rocks.

  Some people dismissed the Lake District as being too quiet, and when he’d first visited, he’d shared their skepticism. His mother’s doctor had lauded the benefits of fresh air, and Lucas had reluctantly agreed. In truth, the sounds in London, of carriages careening over the road, fighting for spots amid the wheelbarrows, livestock, and hollering newspaper boys, did not favorably compare to the sounds of chirping birds, humming bees, and the wind sweeping through the trees and rustling the leaves.

  After a few hours of driving, he pulled his chaise onto a tree-lined road. Formal gardens peeked from between the trees, and after a few hundred feet, he came to a sizeable manor house.

  A servant boy spotted him and rushed inside, perhaps to inform others of his arrival. Guilt moved through Lucas. Normally, one didn’t invite oneself to a person’s house.

  Lucas parked his chaise, patted Galahad and Lancelot, then proceeded to the entrance. A butler opened the door. He eyed Lucas with skepticism, but when he spotted the chaise, his shoulders relaxed. After a short wait, a servant ushered Lucas through a large foyer toward the earl’s library.

  A rotund man with the sort of red face that one often encountered in public houses rose.

  The butler cleared his throat. “The Duke of Ainsworth, my lord.”

  The earl bowed, then gestured to an armchair. “Sherry?”

  Lucas nodded, and the earl beamed.

  “Perfect, perfect! Can’t be drinking in the daytime too often. My wife is friendly with the household staff. You give me an excuse.” He gestured to the butler, who soon poured the musty red liquid into glasses. “Better bring the entire bottle, Haverstock.”

  “Very well, my lord.” The butler placed a tray of drinks on the desk, and the earl rubbed his hands eagerly. “Now, to what do I owe the honor of your visit?”

  “The bluebell, my lord,” Lucas said.

  “Bluebell?” The earl frowned.

  “I’m a botanist,” Lucas lied, “and I was hoping to inspect the bluebells on your estate. If I have permission.”

  “Of course, you have permission,” the earl exclaimed predictably. “Just didn’t know I had any special ones.”

  “All bluebells are special,” Lucas said solemnly.

  The earl chafed. “Er—quite.”

  “I was hoping to stay here a few days,” Lucas added.

  The earl widened his eyes. “You want to stay here?”

  Lucas nodded. “While I conduct research. Your estate contains a very special type of bluebell. Very—er—unique.”

  The earl crinkled his eyes. “I had no idea.”

  “Indeed. It’s extraordinary.”

  The earl stared at him bemused, and Lucas regretted the additional word. Perhaps the earl might discover his prevarication. After all, the earl had lived on this estate for decades. Lucas was not especially gifted at lying. He was more confident in his skills in athleticism and discernment.

  Lucas forced himself to breathe regularly and maintain a casual nonchalance suited to an aristocrat. He took off his spectacles and cleaned them.

  “I have an excellent property.” The earl grinned, and his chest seemed to puff out, like one of the robins that hopped merrily from tree branch to tree branch, proud of the attention their red chest bestowed them. “Of course, you’re welcome to stay as long as you desire.”

  “Splendid.” Lucas rose.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Juliet entered her father’s library.

  “Ah! Dearest!” Juliet’s father took a slurp of port, then put his crystal tumbler on a silver tray.


  “You called for me?”

  “Yes, yes. We have a guest here,” Juliet’s father announced.

  “Indeed,” Juliet said politely.

  Juliet’s father nodded, and a wide smile spread over his face. Normally, the prospect of houseguests did not enthuse Juliet’s father. Houseguests possessed the habit of eating all the best spreads and inspiring Cook to go through the sugar supply with uncomfortable rapidity. Juliet’s father might be rich, but even he could not control Westmoreland’s isolated position.

  “He’s a duke,” Papa said. “One can hardly say no to a duke.”

  Juliet blinked. “A duke?”

  “Precisely.”

  Horatius.

  Juliet’s heart swelled. Her darling betrothed must be visiting. She should never have entertained the horrible insinuations. The Duke of Sherwood had proposed to her. Naturally, he must be fond of her and now he desired to visit her.

  Juliet tumbled into the armchair opposite her father. Papa furrowed his brow. Her dear father hadn’t even realized he’d spoiled the duke’s surprise. Juliet’s heart beat pleasantly.

  Perhaps Horatius hadn’t desired to visit her at a ball, but that was only because he’d planned to visit her after the ball. The sweet man knew she would desire to speak with her cousin at the ball.

  Warmth spread through her, and her shawl toppled from her shoulders. Who needed to swathe themselves in cashmere when one’s beloved was on his way?

  “When does he arrive?” Juliet breathed, her voice an octave lower than normal.

  Her father scrunched his eyebrows together. “Are you feeling well, my dear?”

  “I’m feeling wonderful.”

  “Hmph. Sounds to me like you have a cold. Most unpleasant thing, colds.”

  “I do not have a cold,” Juliet said stiffly.

  “You might get one if you don’t keep your shawl on. It’s an utter wonder why all men are forced into these abominably tight tailcoats and outrageously knotted cravats, and women parade about in absolutely no tailcoats and only a fichu for coverage.”

  Even her father couldn’t dampen her mood. She flashed him a beatific smile. “But when does he arrive?”

  “He’s already here.”

  Juliet’s heart stopped. “Indeed?”

  Her father nodded.

  “You should have told me!”

  “You’re eager to see him.”

  Juliet clapped her hands together. “Oh, I am.”

  She’d been wrong to suspect Horatius. So utterly wrong. Horatius had traveled to see her. In fact, he would be spending multiple days here.

  “Where is he? Why isn’t he here?”

  “He’s waiting in the drawing-room. I told your stepmother to have the housekeeper bring up some tea.”

  “He’s been here all this time?” Juliet exclaimed. Still, she refrained from frowning: her lips couldn’t move downward when happiness thrummed through her at such a frenetic pace.

  She hurried toward the door.

  “Where are you going?” her father called behind her.

  “To see him!”

  She rushed over the sumptuous oriental carpets, lest she be hindered by her father rolling his eyes. Papa was convinced all romances paled to that he’d experienced with her stepmother, even though they’d already been married a decade. The red colors of the carpets clashed with the rose papered walls her stepmother had installed, as if to prove her complete control over every inch of the house.

  Juliet barreled toward the drawing-room. Heavy oak doors gleamed. The doors might be medieval, but they’d been added recently. Her stepmother had discovered King James was rumored to have visited the manor house that contained them and had purchased the doors for a considerable price.

  She stared at the door.

  On the other side was the Duke of Sherwood.

  Horatius.

  The word didn’t quite roll in her mind, and a strange nervousness overwhelmed her. How long had it been since she’d last seen him? A year?

  He’d proposed, and everything had been wonderful. Then she’d started to plan their wedding, and he’d written to postpone it. She hadn’t been distraught at the thought of having a season, even if, unlike the other debutantes, her future was secured. Fortunately, Papa had not quailed at the expense of the season. She suspected her stepmother had already looked forward to having her out of the house.

  A faint unease moved through Juliet, and she smoothed her dress. The navy-blue afternoon dress lacked the finery found in the ball gowns she’d worn when she’d met the Duke of Sherwood before. Had he even seen her in a dress not composed of silk or lace? One that didn’t shimmer?

  She hesitated. Her fichu seemed staid, and she tore it from her chest. She clutched it in her hand, looking for a place to put it. Now would be an excellent time to spot an oriental vase, but all the vases were filled with flowers.

  Perhaps she could tuck it underneath one of the oriental rugs. The material was thin.

  She beamed and shoved it discreetly underneath the rug. Then Juliet smoothed her dress, ascertained the strands of her locks were in place, and opened the door.

  A man sat in the room, facing the enormous windows that overlooked the rose gardens. The green hills that led to the Lake District curved appealingly beyond the collection of geometrically organized flowers and rigidly maintained topiary.

  Her heart raced. “Dearest!”

  The duke turned his head, and she blinked.

  She’d seen the Duke of Sherwood turn his head before, but he’d never resembled this man.

  “Lady Juliet.” The man rose abruptly, and she gasped.

  Though both the Duke of Sherwood and this man had dark hair, and though they could both be described as tall, with no chance of being compared to walruses or giraffes, the resemblance stopped there.

  “I-I’m sorry,” Lady Juliet stammered. “I thought—”

  The man gave her a quizzical glance. She glanced behind her. Had Papa directed the Duke of Sherwood to another room? Perhaps darling Horatius was lost, sitting in the breakfast table.

  “I see my presence surprised you,” the man continued.

  Juliet’s cheeks warmed. Any hope the man had not heard her address him with a sentimental greeting vanished.

  Still, Juliet wasn’t one to avert her gaze, even in embarrassing circumstances. She pasted a bright smile on her face and stared.

  The man smiled somewhat dubiously back. His spectacles were smudged, and his clothes looked like the ‘before’ pictures in Matchmaking for Wallflowers. Everyone knew one never mixed navy and ebony. The colors were practically forbidden to see each other, like feuding aunts, always placed at differing tables, lest they suddenly recount their wrongs in excruciating, elaborate detail.

  Evidently, this must be some new absentminded curate, who spent his days contemplating the wonders of the heavens, the potential horrors of the underworld, and not the vision in the mirror before him.

  If he had a mirror.

  Juliet smiled politely, bracing herself for a monologue on the importance of prayer and a beseeching to help with some church function. The promise of a dull conversation might not be precisely enjoyable, but it served to cool the unpleasant warmth of her cheeks.

  She took in a neatly tied cravat which possessed none of the flourishes which her fiancé, the Duke of Sherwood, favored. The man’s waistcoat was a dull navy, as if it were years old.

  Personally, if Juliet planned to wear something over years, she would choose something with more elegance. It was hard to imagine his navy waistcoat ever suited his black tailcoat, even if it were in a less wrinkled, less faded state.

  She raised her head. The man was slender, less muscular than the Duke of Sherwood, though he exceeded him in height. His eyes were a seldom found rich blue, devoid of any gray or gold. For a moment, she stared. Juliet’s own eyes were a dependable green.

  “Ah, Lady Juliet, you do remember me,” the man said with a smile.

  She blinked
and attempted to ignore the manner in which her skin heated. Juliet wasn’t prone to blushing, but now her body seemed to heat on its own.

  Clearly, she remained on edge after the previous adventures.

  She raised her gaze and scrutinized the man. He appeared familiar, though she was certain she hadn’t seen him at a ball before. His hair was tousled in an inelegant manner she imagined Beau Brummel would ridicule, and he wore unflattering spectacles.

  The man was nondescript.

  “I must find the countess,” Juliet said.

  She might not be fond of her stepmother, and she might normally find the custom of chaperones irritating, since it deprived one of easily conversing with half the population, but the process seemed useful now. No doubt, some young lady, irritated at making dull chit chat, had invented the notions of chaperones. For that, Juliet was grateful.

  LADY AGNES SHELLEY differed from Lady Juliet. Her hair was a pale blonde, and her skin devoid of freckles. She was handsome, and Lucas had a vague recollection that she’d been the earl’s second wife. He was certain some tipsy widow had attempted to tell him about a scandal relating to her. He’d missed much gossip when he’d been away fighting.

  “Ah... How nice to meet you, Your Grace.” She swept into a deep curtsy.

  Lady Juliet chafed.

  Lady Juliet behaved most curiously. It was a fact Lucas should have anticipated. Bounding about in carriages was itself an oddity. Somehow, he’d forgotten how pretty she was. He’d met her briefly at a house party, but she’d kept to herself. He’d thought she’d been penning love letters to the Duke of Sherwood.

  But Lady Juliet was pretty. There was no other way to describe widely set emerald eyes or her auburn hair. Freckles dotted her skin, bestowing her an expression of warmth.

  “What a lovely unexpected surprise,” the countess continued. “Is it not, Juliet?”

  “Yes,” Juliet squeaked, then stared at him.

  Lady Juliet seemed uneasy in his presence. He hoped she hadn’t discovered his identity and was relieved when a servant came with tea and sweets.

  Sebastian had been wrong to suspect Lady Juliet of any wrongdoings. Obviously, she wasn’t involved in any criminal dealings.