by Burke, Darcy
“I am happy to do so,” Lady Satterfield said. “I am always eager to help others, especially young people, find their way in this confusing maze. How are you enjoying the Season so far, Duke?”
“A confusing maze is an apt description. I am managing, however. I am fortunate to count the Earl of St. Ives a close friend.”
“Well, when he escorts Lady St. Ives to the country for her lying-in, you must not hesitate to call on me and Lord Satterfield if you desire assistance, or even if you do not. You could also call on Kendal. He knows far more about being a duke than I do.”
“In fact, the earl and countess left this morning. I appreciate your support and will gladly accept any counsel you might offer.” He turned his attention to Arabella. “May I have your company for the first set?”
Arabella nearly exhaled with relief a second time. “I would be honored.” She slid a glance toward her mother, who looked as though she might burst with joy.
Halstead offered his arm to Arabella, and he led her to the dance floor just as the musicians were preparing to play.
“Thank you for pretending we hadn’t met,” Arabella said.
“Which time?” He sent her a wry glance. “I’m beginning to wonder if you’re a serial liar.”
She tensed and worked to keep her muscles from tightening. In one sense, she was a liar, given her efforts to hide her family’s destitution. And so the lies, or at least half-truths, would continue… “My apologies. Biscuit is my mother’s dog, and I like to take her for walks by myself sometimes. I know it’s not seemly—that’s why I dress as a servant.”
“So you can be anonymous. I can understand—and appreciate—that.”
The music started, a minuet, and they took their places for the dance. She touched her hand to his. “Thank you, Your Grace. It was never my intent to deceive you.”
“Not me personally, no, but you intended to shield your identity for propriety’s sake, and I can find no quarrel with that.” His common sense and ordinariness were refreshing. Most people she met in Society would have been horrified, but then she never would have revealed any of this to most people.
She’d been quite lucky that she’d run into Halstead instead of someone who would have told everyone she’d been walking the dog alone. She had to be more careful. Or stop walking the dog. Since she didn’t expect their situation to change anytime soon, she’d just have to do the former.
“Yes, for propriety. That’s why it was also necessary that we not disclose we met at Phoebe’s house,” she said. “That wasn’t a proper introduction either.”
He grimaced. “I hadn’t thought of that, to be honest. I’m afraid my social skills are not above reproach.”
“I’d be glad to help, if you like. If you have specific questions.”
“Thank you, that’s awfully kind.
He moved effortlessly through the steps of the dance as they conversed. “And yet, I would expect most young ladies couldn’t wait to tell their mother they’d met a duke.” His gaze found hers. “I am not surprised to learn you are not most young ladies.”
As heat barreled through her, suffusing her with a flush of awareness, she focused on her steps lest she crash into him. “You’re an excellent dancer, Your Grace.”
“I rarely missed an assembly back in Huntingdonshire.”
She imagined him dazzling all the women in the district with his easygoing nature and handsome features, along with his dancing skill. “All those assemblies, and you are unwed?”
He shrugged. “Marriage wasn’t my priority.”
She nearly laughed as she recalled Lady Satterfield’s comment. “Mine either.”
“And now?” he asked, his eyes briefly locking with hers.
“I hope to marry this Season.”
“I see. I probably should too,” he said casually, giving her the impression the “probably” was the most important word in his statement.
Did that mean he was definitely looking for a duchess, or was he simply open to the idea? She didn’t want to prod him. “It shouldn’t be too difficult for you. I think every young lady in the room has her eye on you.”
When his gaze found hers this time, his focus lingered. “Does that include you?”
As he looked at her while their hands touched, a connection was forged between them. She nearly tripped. She definitely botched her steps. “Sorry,” she muttered.
He easily guided them back to where they ought to be. “Don’t be.”
Once she had her bearings again, she answered his question. “I could be saucy and say that of course I have my eye on you—perhaps too much since I nearly caused us both to sprawl across the dance floor.” She allowed her lips to curl flirtatiously. “But I’ll be more direct. Yes, I have my eye on you. What young lady wouldn’t want to catch the attention of a duke?”
“I am just a title to you, then?” He sounded slightly disappointed.
“Not at all. Having met you on several occasions, I have determined I like you. I can’t say that about many gentlemen, duke or not.” She was flirting—she had to—but she meant it. While he was a means to a desperately needed end, she did like him.
He gave her a sly smile. “How lovely to hear, Miss Stoke, for I like you too.”
Was that some sort of indication as to his intentions? Her heart picked up speed, and she worked to keep her excitement in check. It wouldn’t do to appear overeager. It was one thing to be frank and another to be desperate.
But then she was desperate.
Hopefully, she wouldn’t have to reveal that. Doing so would surely ruin her chances with him and anyone else.
The set came to an end, and they were soon leaving the dance floor, her hand curled around his arm.
“Would you care to promenade around the ballroom once before I return you to your mother?” he asked.
“Indeed, thank you.” Her mother was going to be positively ecstatic, but Arabella didn’t want to get her hopes up. Though, her own hopes were escalating.
“Since you offered assistance, I wonder if you might help me identify someone, a gentleman named Piers Tibbord.”
Arabella almost said no, but the name tickled her mind. “The name sounds familiar, but I’m afraid I can’t summon his image, nor do I recall how I might know him.” She glanced up at him apologetically. “That’s not terribly helpful, is it?”
He laughed softly. “No, but that’s all right. I have an excellent recollection of names. However, sometimes I can’t place them to a face. So I see someone who looks familiar, and if their name doesn’t come to me, I have to sort through my brain to find it. Sometimes I can, and sometimes I pretend.” He winked at her, and it was hard not to let her hope run rampant.
Before they returned to her mother, she wanted to ask him a specific question. “If I take Biscuit for an early morning walk again soon, is there a chance I’ll see you practicing with your sword?”
“Unfortunately, no. I don’t have a house in town. It seems silly when I have an estate—Brixton Park—a mere five miles away.”
Disappointment spiraled through her, but she only nodded. They were depressingly close to her mother. “Thank you for the dance,” she said, wondering if he would ask to call on her. Her stomach knotted in anticipation.
“Thank you,” he responded, steering her to her mother. Lady Satterfield was no longer with her.
Mother smiled at them, her features practically brimming with excitement. “There you are. You looked lovely together.”
Arabella stared at her, silently begging her to stop before she said something like, “You should get married!”
Taking her hand from Halstead’s arm, Arabella moved away from him. With great reluctance. He smelled very nice, like sandalwood and spice. Being next to him felt…good.
Now, however, she was next to her mother as he bid them good evening. And then he was gone. Without any indication that they would spend even another moment alone together.
But then, he had answered her question
about seeing him in the park with the word, “unfortunately,” as if he’d rather run into her again. Had he meant it like that? It was possible, she decided, and possible was good enough for now.
Mother turned to face her. “Quickly, before it’s time for you to dance with someone else, tell me everything.”
“He’s trying to find his way as a new duke,” Arabella said pragmatically, trying to keep her emotions from getting the best of her. Inside, she was a tangle of anticipation and apprehension. She thought back over the dance. “He said he liked me.”
Warmth bubbled inside her, giving weight to the anticipation over the apprehension. He had said that. Perhaps he didn’t think he could ask to call on her yet. He was, as he’d said, not very adept at the social game.
Mother beamed at her. “Well, that is spectacular. Is he going to call?”
“He didn’t say so, but he’s still trying to get his bearings.”
“True. We shall endeavor to put you in his path as much as possible.” She paused briefly, clearly thinking. “Do you know where he lives?”
“His estate outside town—Brixton Park.”
“Of course.” She pursed her lips. “That will be difficult to wander in front of. We’ll find other ways. Surely he will be a regular fixture at events like these. I only hope our invitations keep up. People are very sympathetic about your father’s illness. So many ladies have stopped by tonight to wish us well.” She lowered her voice even further. “No one seems to be aware of our true situation.” Her tone was heavy with relief.
Arabella was glad to hear it. She wondered what Halstead would think if he knew they were destitute. Perhaps he wouldn’t care. And if he did, perhaps he’d fall madly in love with her and ignore such trivialities.
Their very future hung in the balance. It was not a triviality.
She recalled the name he’d mentioned and addressed her mother. “Do you know the name Piers Tibbord?”
The color completely drained from her mother’s face. “Why are you asking about him?” she whispered through gritted teeth.
“The duke mentioned the name, and I couldn’t recall how I knew it.”
“He’s the dastardly scoundrel who swindled your poor father!” She kept her voice to a low growl, but her distress was palpable.
Arabella felt foolish for not remembering. “I’m so sorry I brought it up. Please forgive me, Mama.” She touched her mother’s arm, and her complexion slowly returned to normal.
“Why did the duke mention him?” her mother asked. “If he is in league with that villain—”
“He didn’t seem to know him,” Arabella said quickly, hoping to soothe her mother’s anger before she worked herself into high dudgeon. “He’s merely trying to keep track of names and faces.
She recalled what he’d said about knowing names and not faces to match with them. Maybe he did know him… Still, she couldn’t think he would be associated with such a despicable sort.
“I hope that is all it is, because if Halstead is aligned with Tibbord, there is no amount of money that could support a union with him. It would kill your father.” Mother’s lips pressed into a firm line, and the creases of concern that almost constantly inhabited her forehead returned in force.
Arabella stroked her arm. “Come, Mama, we must be optimistic. Things will work out.” They had to.
She glanced around the ballroom and nearly wept with relief at the sight of Sir Ethelbert Plessey coming toward them. She’d met him at Lady Satterfield’s ball, and while he wasn’t astoundingly wealthy, he was situated well enough to save her family. Probably. Assuming he didn’t run screaming in the other direction when he learned of their insolvency.
It was best she not think of that.
* * *
By the time Graham escaped the Thursby ball, he’d danced five sets, taken three promenades, and dodged countless barrages of flirtation, as well as two distinctly sexual propositions from married ladies. He was exhausted.
But he couldn’t go home yet. First, he needed to visit Brooks’s to see if he could find someone who knew Piers Tibbord. Graham had found the name scrawled in the margin of one of the former duke’s ledgers.
Hopefully, he’d encounter Colton. If David hadn’t returned to Huntwell that morning, Graham would have gone to him directly.
Graham scrubbed a hand over his face as his coach traveled the streets of Mayfair toward St. James, where he was now, inexplicably, at least to him, a member of several gentlemen’s clubs. This new world was still that: new.
He fervently wished someone had introduced him to the dukedom. Not to being a duke—that he could work out with assistance—but specifically to being the Duke of Halstead. But that never would have happened. Since his great-great-uncle had banished Graham’s great-great-grandfather from the family, Graham’s forefathers had worked as secretaries to the Earls of St. Ives just as they’d continued their abiding hatred of the Dukes of Halstead—and the sentiment had been mutual. As such, Graham had had no interaction with the duke, not even after he was named heir presumptive. Since the duke hadn’t sold the property or willed it to one of the other relatives, it was as if the duke had wanted Graham to inherit a nightmare and be at as much of a disadvantage as possible.
“Well done, you,” Graham muttered. “If that was your intent, you succeeded marvelously.” He narrowed his eyes as he stared into the near darkness. “However, I do not surrender so easily.”
Graham wasn’t going to give up fighting for Brixton Park. It existed because of his ancestor’s hard work, and Graham meant to claim the legacy that had been denied his line for four generations, all because of a lie.
He had no idea if Piers Tibbord was connected to the massive investment the duke had made last year, but so far, Graham hadn’t been able to find any record beyond the ledger entry that only said, “investment scheme” with the staggering amount of money listed beside it. An amount of money that was impossible to support if the scheme went bad, which it apparently had.
Graham wasn’t even certain where the former duke had gotten the money. The accounting was a mess—both for Brixton Park and for Halstead Manor, which didn’t even make enough money to sustain itself. If not for his Parliamentary duties, Graham would go there to try to turn things around. For now, he’d manage it from London, then spend the summer and fall in Essex and ensure Halstead Manor became profitable. If he could.
No, he refused to think like that. Come hell or high water, Graham would right the former duke’s wrongs. First and foremost, he’d find where the money had gone and determine what had happened. It couldn’t be unrecoverable. The duke wouldn’t have made such a horrid financial decision, would he?
Unfortunately, there was no one to ask. The duke was dead, of course, and most of his retainers had retired or moved on, including his secretary, who’d relocated to Bath. Or so Graham had been told. His letters to the man had gone unanswered, and Graham had to consider paying a visit.
As if he had time for that. He had no time at all. The mortgage must be paid, or he’d lose Brixton Park.
Which brought him back to his mission—recovering the money from that investment, if he could, or marrying an heiress. He summoned an image of Miss Stoke, not that it had taken much effort. She’d been the best part of the ball. Charming, engaging, and refreshingly honest, she was a singular young lady on the Marriage Mart.
Though her father was untitled, dare Graham hope he was incredibly wealthy? Could Graham be lucky enough to find a lovely young woman who was everything he needed?
Some would say he’d been lucky enough to inherit a dukedom. However, no one knew the truth, and sometimes Graham wished he could go back to being David’s secretary.
Was that really true? Yes and no. Graham missed the simplicity of worrying about someone else’s fortune—it was an altogether different sort of commitment when the money didn’t belong to you and your livelihood didn’t hang in the balance. In many ways, it was far easier, for there was no emotional attachm
ent. Which was what Brixton Park was. If Graham were not emotionally attached, he would do as the banker advised and sell it now. But Graham couldn’t disappoint his father. He might not be here to see it, but Graham would reclaim what had been stolen from his family.
By his family. What a twisted tangle.
The coach drew to a stop in front of Brooks’s, and the coachman opened the door for Graham to step out. “Thank you, Lowell.”
The coachman inclined his head and asked if he should wait or return in a while.
“I’ve no idea,” Graham said, thinking. “Why don’t you wait?”
“Very good, Your Grace.”
Graham went into the club for just the second time. It was a trifle overwhelming with the grand staircase and the sound of heightened conversation from the subscription room. As he headed for the stairs, he encountered Viscount Anthony Colton.
Tall with dark, wavy hair and sad blue eyes—sad because they seemed to have lost their spark since his parents had died last year—he grinned upon seeing Graham. “Why, it’s the new Duke of Halstead. Good evening, Duke.”
At his side was the Marquess of Ripley again. He was not quite as tall as Colton, but his hair was darker, and his dark blue eyes held all the vivacity that Colton’s did not. In fact, tonight, as with the other night when Graham had made his acquaintance, Ripley appeared as if he were scheming something. Something decadent and likely scandalous. Or maybe that was because Graham was aware of the marquess’s outrageous reputation.
Graham moved toward them. “Good evening, Ripley, Colton. How fortuitous that I’ve run into you. I was in search of companionship.”
Ripley’s lips curled into a devilish smile. “You’ve fallen across the right path. We are just on our way to find feminine companionship by way of a gaming hell. Join us.”
Hell, he hadn’t meant female companionship. He should have said camaraderie. Ah well, he could certainly go along to the gaming hell and then beg off. “My coach is just outside.”
“Fortuitous indeed,” Anthony said, walking up to Graham and clapping him on the shoulder. “You saved us having to find a hack.”
