by Burke, Darcy
The trio went outside, where Graham led them to his vehicle.
“You’ve a nice coach, if slightly outmoded,” Ripley remarked. “If you’re looking for a newer model, I can recommend someone.”
Graham only said, “Thank you.” He’d be lucky if he could survive the Season without having to sell the bloody thing.
Ripley directed the coachman to Covent Garden before climbing inside and taking the forward-facing seat. Colton sat opposite him. Graham entered last, sitting beside the marquess.
“So what’s the likelihood you’ll wed by Easter?” Colton asked as he leaned back against the squab.
The coach moved forward, and Graham blinked. What the hell had they heard? No one knew of his desperate urgency in finding a wife. “Why do you ask?”
Ripley settled into the corner, angling himself slightly toward Graham. “You’re not aware of the wager?”
“What wager?”
“In the betting book at White’s,” Anthony answered. “There’s a bet as to whether you’ll be wed by Easter.”
Graham’s muscles loosened with relief. “And what are people saying?”
Ripley lifted a shoulder. “Most say you’ll be wed, but it’s early yet. The wager was just placed this afternoon.”
The betting book was well known to Graham even if he hadn’t ever participated in placing wagers. He supposed he’d fully arrived in Society now. “At least the bet isn’t about whom I will wed.”
Colton chuckled. “Oh, that may come.”
Ripley regarded Graham for a moment. “It’s too early to say because no one knows you well enough to guess. What sort of woman is your type? A great beauty? An unimpeachable reputation? A bluestocking? An heiress? A wallflower?”
This could be a great opportunity. Graham’s pulse sped as he smiled mischievously. “All of them.”
Colton laughed, and though it took Ripley a moment, he joined in.
When their humor subsided, Graham looked from one to the other. “Who would that be?”
“What do you mean?” Colton asked, his brow creasing.
“I mean, who possesses all those traits?” He kept his tone wry, but he was deadly serious—he wanted to know who was an heiress, and this was a spectacular way to do so without asking, “Who are the richest ladies on the Marriage Mart?”
“So you do plan to wed?” Ripley asked with interest.
Anthony looked to Ripley. “We should go back and place our wagers.”
“Not necessarily.” It was still important that Graham not appear as if he was in a hurry, lest people think he was desperate and then ferret out why.
Ripley smirked at Colton. “He’s being coy.” He turned his attention to Graham. “I can’t think of anyone who would fit all those descriptions.”
“Miss Phoebe Lennox,” Colton said. “Actually, no, her reputation is less than distinguished since she abandoned her betrothed at the altar last Season.”
“Oh, she sounds like my type,” Ripley said with a glint in his eye.
Colton snorted. “Hardly. She’s not a widow. Or a courtesan.” He glanced toward Graham. “Ripley wouldn’t bother with a young, virtuous lady like Miss Lennox.”
Ripley frowned. “But you said her reputation was in tatters.”
“I did not say that. I said it was less than distinguished. My sister knows her. She’s quite nice, or so Sarah says. Leave her alone, Rip.”
The marquess raised his hands in mock surrender. “I wouldn’t dream of tarrying with someone like her. We’re just having fun. Now, let me think of who else I know…”
“How about Mrs. Billingford?” Colton suggested.
Ripley’s lips spread into a wide, sinful smile. “Halstead didn’t say he wanted a tigress in bed.”
Graham couldn’t resist saying, “Halstead didn’t say he didn’t want that.”
Laughter erupted in the coach, and it was a long moment before Ripley said, “We are definitely going to the right place, then.”
“Mrs. Billingford’s house?” Graham asked innocently.
This was met with more laughter. “Can you imagine?” Colton asked. “If all three of us showed up?”
Ripley smoothed his hair back over his temple. “She’d be quite happy to accommodate us, I’m sure.”
Bloody hell. Graham was speechless.
“Well, we can discuss that if we want, but I’d rather partake of Mrs. Alban’s stock.” Ripley fixed his gaze on Graham. “She owns the brothel above the gaming hell. Actually, she owns the gaming hell too. We’ll gamble for a while and then head upstairs. Or I suppose you can head up straightaway, if you prefer.”
He preferred to return to Brixton Park. He wasn’t in the mood for Mrs. Alban’s “stock”—what an awful description—and he sure as hell wasn’t going to gamble. He didn’t have a shilling to lose.
“I should probably return home after I drop you at the hell,” he said. “I’ve a bit of a drive to get to Brixton Park.”
“You are welcome to stay with me,” Ripley offered. “Provided you don’t mind a smudge on your good name.”
Yes, he minded that a great deal. His good name was just about all he had at present.
Colton chuckled. “Rip isn’t kidding. I know my reputation has taken a beating since we became friends, not that I care. I stayed at his house once, and you’d think I killed someone in a duel.”
The coach moved into Covent Garden, and Graham realized he hadn’t addressed his most important question. “I don’t suppose either of you know Piers Tibbord?”
Ripley shrugged, but Colton answered. “He’s a swindler. Or so I’ve heard. Never met him, and as far as I know, no one has. He conducts all his affairs through an intermediary.” Colton’s gaze narrowed at Graham. “I hope you aren’t tangled up with him.”
Bloody hell. Graham couldn’t tell them the truth of where he’d found the name. “No. I heard the name and thought he sounded familiar. Clearly, I was mistaken.” His mind whirled as he tried to think of his next move. He couldn’t very well ask where he might find Tibbord, not after what Colton had just revealed.
The coach came to a stop.
“You sure you won’t join us?” Colton asked. Tibbord had apparently been forgotten. Good.
“I’m sure, but I appreciate the invitation.” Graham yawned for good measure. “I’m still finding my London legs.”
The door opened, and Colton climbed down first.
Ripley clapped the top of Graham’s shoulder. “Do let me know if you ever need a place to stay—my door is open to you.” He clambered around Graham and out of the coach.
Graham bid them both good night and was soon on his way toward Brixton Park.
The events of the evening and the information he’d gleaned played through his mind. How was he going to find Piers Tibbord if no one had actually met him? Perhaps he should ask Lord Satterfield or the Duke of Kendal. Lady Satterfield had seemed genuine in her offer of assistance.
However, then he’d have to come up with a reason that wasn’t the truth. If he said the former duke had possibly done business with him, the reality of Graham’s situation could get out. Or not—if he was careful. This was going to take careful consideration.
Finding Tibbord was going to be difficult and perhaps even impossible. He had to think of other ways to track down the duke’s investment. Recovering the investment money—hell, even determining what the investment had been—seemed an insurmountable task.
Even if he found Tibbord, how would he go about getting the duke’s investment back? He wouldn’t think about that right now. He had to locate the swindler first—or at least get a little closer to that goal.
Which brought him back to an heiress. Phoebe Lennox was still his best option.
And yet Arabella Stoke kept creeping into his mind, along with the hope that her father was fabulously wealthy. She’d be the answer to all his problems, and he could think of plenty of benefits of making her his duchess that had nothing to do with her bank account.
Damn, he was at half-staff and growing harder by the minute just thinking of her. He forced himself to think about his lack of funds instead. It was an effective, if depressing, tool.
His efforts were going to take time. Too bad he had about as much of that as he did money.
Chapter 5
Mama walked into the small sitting room at the back of their narrow town house. “Your father had a good lunch. He’s actually sitting up in bed and will have a bath later.”
Arabella smiled at the warmth and happiness in her mother’s voice. “Wonderful news. I’ll go up and see him in a while.”
“He’d like that.” Arabella’s mother sat in her favorite chair near the fireplace and picked up the newspaper she’d set down earlier. “Perhaps you can read to him from that novel.” She was referring to The Castle of Otranto, which was Arabella’s father’s favorite.
“Of course.” Arabella returned her attention to the ball gown she was embroidering. She’d designed clusters of flowers and was stitching them onto the sleeves to update the two-year-old garment.
Their butler, Baxter, entered and presented a card to Arabella’s mother. “His Grace, the Duke of Halstead.”
Arabella’s fingers froze, and her spine went stiff. She snapped her gaze to her mother, who looked down at the card, her eyes widening. Then she promptly surveyed the room. “Are we presentable?” She turned her attention to Arabella. “Hide that gown so he can’t see what you’re doing.”
Why, because ladies didn’t embroider their gowns? Arabella stood, and the butler came forward.
He took the garment. “I’ll give it to Janney.”
“Thank you, Baxter.”
“Then please send the duke in.” Mama stood and hid the newspaper under the cushion of her chair. She blinked as the usual lines of worry creased her brow. “Unless we should go up to the drawing room?”
To do so, they’d be visible going up the stairs from the entry, and what would be the point of that? “I think it’s fine if we receive him here,” Arabella said. “This is a lovely room.”
“Yes, but it’s perhaps too…comfortable.” Mama frowned. “Never mind, none of our rooms are as splendid as they should be.” She sounded as if she might cry, and Arabella hated that.
“I’ll bring a plate of fresh butter biscuits,” Baxter offered. “That will ensure he remembers this visit for all time.” The cook had tried Phoebe’s cook’s recipe the other day, and even Arabella’s father had eaten some.
Mama relaxed slightly, her mouth finding the ghost of a smile. “That’s true. Thank you, Baxter.”
He inclined his silver head as he ambled from the sitting room with Arabella’s gown.
Mama looked over at Arabella. “Why do you suppose he’s here?”
“To pay a call?” Arabella didn’t mean to sound flippant, but really, why else would he be there?
“Yes, yes, of course,” Mama said with a hint of smiling exasperation, which buoyed Arabella’s spirits where she was concerned. “I mean, what should we make of his call?”
Footsteps sounded outside the door. “I’m sure we’ll find out,” Arabella murmured.
Mama dashed over to her side and urgently whispered, “Remember, you must find out why he asked you about Tibbord!” She hastily pasted a welcoming smile on her face just as the duke entered.
Halstead bowed. “Good afternoon, ladies.”
They curtsied and greeted him in return.
“It’s an honor to welcome you into our home,” Arabella’s mother said. “Please sit.” She gestured toward the settee, then sent a look at Arabella that clearly said she should sit beside him.
Arabella perched on the settee, and he lowered himself next to her. It was a small piece of furniture that left only a few inches between them. The familiar sense of awareness that his proximity aroused washed over her.
“It’s a pleasure to see you both again,” Halstead said. “I had such a lovely time dancing with Miss Stoke the other night that I thought I should come and thank her in person.” He turned his head to Arabella. “Thank you.”
Arabella cast a glance toward her mother, who looked as if she might weep with joy. She refocused on the duke. “You are in for a treat because the cook just made butter biscuits, and they are perhaps the best butter biscuits you will ever have.”
He waggled his brows at her. “I am aquiver in anticipation.”
It was barely a flirtation, but the simple act of his being here meant he was at least interested in getting to know her better. Arabella would do everything in her power to pass muster.
Baxter entered with the plate of biscuits along with a pot of tea and three cups. He removed the items from the tray onto a small, low table at the center of their seating arrangement. “Shall I pour?” he asked Arabella’s mother.
“That won’t be necessary. Thank you, Baxter.
After the butler had departed, Arabella’s mother urged the duke to try a biscuit. As he removed his gloves and reached toward the table, he asked, “Where do you spend your summers? You’ve a country home, I imagine?”
Arabella was afraid to look at her mother and see distress flash in her eyes. They’d sold their country house—where Arabella had spent her childhood—last year. Not that it had made them any money, for it had been mortgaged to the hilt.
“We do not,” Mama said in a surprisingly smooth tone. “We prefer London.”
That was a simple, and believable, enough answer.
Mother continued, “You’ve two country homes, do you not? Your seat in Essex and the magnificent Brixton Park? You probably have a Mayfair town house as well.”
“You are correct.” He finished his first butter biscuit and looked to Arabella. “That is the best butter biscuit I’ve ever had. I don’t think my cook at Brixton Park makes those, but I shall ask.” He transferred his gaze to her mother. “I don’t see a need for a house in town, not when Brixton Park is so close.”
“What a reasonable and wise choice,” her mother said with warm approval. Arabella could practically see the inside of her mother’s mind as she deduced he must be responsible with his money if he chose not to waste any on a house in London when many other gentlemen in his position would. “I should love to see Brixton Park. I’ve heard it’s quite grand.”
The duke angled himself toward Arabella. “Do you ride?”
Damn, another question that could provoke her mother’s panic. “Yes, but I admit I lost interest in recent years as I began to focus on the Season,” Arabella said.
“Her horse was put out to pasture a few years ago, and we’ve never gotten around to replacing her, have we, dear?” Mother threw in a light laugh along with the fabrication.
They’d surreptitiously sold off their horseflesh over the past few years, as Papa had begun to gamble too much and became interested in flashy investments guaranteed to increase their wealth. He’d hoped to recover from a spate of bad losses at the gaming tables but had only succeeded in driving them deeper into debt. While the duke was perhaps good with money, her father was exceptionally bad.
Arabella saw no need to answer the question and instead queried the duke. “Do you ride, Your Grace?” It seemed he must, particularly since he lived outside town.
“I do.”
“And do you have a passion for fast vehicles like so many young gentlemen?” Mother asked. “Perhaps you have a high-perch phaeton.”
“I do not have either of those things,” h
e said. “I was not raised with privilege, so I don’t necessarily have all the trappings you might expect of a duke.” His tone was even, but there was something charged beneath the surface of his response, perhaps a current of frustration.
Her mother was interrogating him somewhat, though she was doing a good job of hiding it in casual conversation. In fact, one could argue he was doing the same thing, asking about their country home and whether Arabella rode. She began to feel a vague sense of discomfort, which was silly. Just because they were trying to determine his financial status didn’t mean he was trying to determine theirs.
Except he might be. Particularly if he were interested in marriage. Wasn’t that something families discussed as part of a marriage contract? Only her father wasn’t in a position to discuss such matters, and even if he was, what could he say except “We’re insolvent, but please, marry my daughter anyway?”
“I’d forgotten you recently inherited, and my goodness, you were a secretary before that, were you not?” Mama asked with genuine interest and not a shred of disdain for the duke possessing the background of a commoner. But then they were commoners, and it was by sheer luck that Papa’s close friendship with the former Earl of St. Ives had elevated them in Society.
“I was,” Halstead said. “I enjoyed being a secretary very much, and since I worked for the Earl of St. Ives and consider him a close friend, I was raised in tandem with the nobility. I went to Oxford with St. Ives and learned all the same things he did.” In some ways, Halstead’s relationship with the earl mirrored Arabella’s father’s with the earl’s father. Both had benefitted from friendship with the Earls of St. Ives.
Mama seemed impressed, her eyes lighting. “You may not be aware, but Arabella’s father was quite close with the former earl. They went to school together and remained dear friends until the earl’s passing.”
“I am aware,” the duke said gently.
Arabella gauged her mother’s reaction. Thankfully, she only responded with a serene nod before continuing.
“I imagine it’s quite an adjustment going from secretary to duke,” Mama said. “What do you like best about being a duke? Is it the ability to purchase anything you’d like?”
