by Burke, Darcy
“Yes, just like that. And I didn’t even show you how to thrust the sword.”
Oh, she wanted him to show her that, all right, but not with that sword. Good Lord, she was a wanton and her mind was not where it should be at all.
She handed him the sword. “That’s enough for today.”
He took the weapon, pointing it down. “Does that mean I will get to give you another lesson someday?”
“Who can say? It depends on our future interactions.” Which they had to keep to Tibbord. They had no other reason to associate, and she would do well to remember that. “Where shall I send the description of Osborne?” she asked.
He picked up his scabbard and sheathed the sword. “Brixton Park.” He shook his head. “That’s too much trouble if you’re sending one of your retainers. Have them take it to Colton.”
“What’s his address?”
“He has rooms at the Albany.”
“I’ll send it there, then. I’ll be dying to hear how it goes.” She wanted to suggest they meet again tomorrow, even as she knew that the more time she spent with him, the more she was in danger of repeating what had happened with Miles. Or not. She had no inkling if Halstead was as attracted to her as she was to him. And it was for the best if she never learned.
He thought for a moment, his head tipping briefly to the side. “I will be visiting Miss Lennox on Friday. Perhaps we can arrange to meet then? Either at her house or ‘by chance’ on the street.” He gave her a sly, warm smile.
She felt an absurd urge to cry for she was horribly jealous that he was visiting Phoebe. Instead, she gave him a close-lipped smile in return. “I will be sure to stop by.”
“Excellent. This has been a most favorable meeting. Here, hold this.” He handed her the sword, then went to untie Biscuit’s leash from the trunk of the tree.
Arabella averted her gaze from his backside as the warmth of the sword handle—from his bare hand—seeped through her glove. He stood with Biscuit in tow, and they exchanged items, the sword for the leash.
“I’ll see you Friday, then,” she said.
He inclined his head toward her at a jaunty angle. “I look forward to it.”
Why did he have to say that? She nodded, then spun around and walked away before she said something foolish such as “Not as much as I do!”
Only she did look forward to it. Far, far too much.
* * *
Before leaving town after his appointment with Miss Stoke, Graham had stopped by the Albany to let Colton know that a message would be delivered later that day. However, Colton hadn’t been receiving. His manservant had said he was indisposed, which Graham ought to have expected given the earliness of the hour. Even so, he was reminded of Miss Stoke’s comment about the viscount’s reputation.
It was said he was grieving his parents’ death, which Lady Ware had also told him. That made sense to Graham. He still suffered moments of sharp sadness regarding the loss of his father. Perhaps he could lend support from someone who’d also recently lost a parent.
Graham was anxious to meet with Colton and Ripley. They’d planned to rendezvous at the Thundering Stag—at Graham’s suggestion. He’d sent notes to them after meeting with Miss Stoke. He arrived a few minutes early and stationed himself at a table not far from the door so Colton and Ripley would see him easily.
“What can I bring ye to drink?” a serving maid asked. Petite, with dark brown hair and wide, deep-set brandy-colored eyes, she was attractive. And if the way her gaze lingered on him and dipped to his lap meant anything, she found him attractive too.
Not that anything would come of it.
Why not? She was precisely the type of woman he would have tumbled back in Huntingdonshire. Furthermore, he’d felt unsettled all day. Since seeing Miss Stoke.
Provided unsettled meant aroused. Which in this case, it most certainly did.
Seeing her had been lovely enough but then he’d had to go and touch her, to teach her to fence, to try to appease her desire for excitement. How he longed to appease her in other, far more exciting ways.
The serving maid pulled him back to the present. “Sir? Do ye want a drink or not? Or something else?” She winked suggestively and cocked her hip out.
“An ale, thank you. Bring three. I’m expecting friends.” Before he could dissuade her expectations for later, Ripley and Colton arrived at his table.
“Evening, Halstead,” Ripley said, taking a seat. His gaze roved appreciatively over the maid. “I wondered why you chose this establishment, but I can see why. Excellent selection.” He gave her a provocative smile.
The maid licked her lower lip as she returned his stare. “Happy to entertain all three of ye, if ye want.”
Ripley took her hand and brought it to his lips for a brief brush of a kiss upon the back. “That’s not my preference, love. However, if you have two friends, do let me know.”
She let out a throaty chuckle. “I’ll see what I can do. I’ll be right back with yer ales.” She lifted her shoulder and gave Graham a look of apology before she took herself off.
“Blast, did I steal your fun?” Ripley asked. “That was never my intent. I’ll leave her to you.”
“No, that’s fine—do as you like. We did not make any arrangements.”
Ripley settled back in his chair. “Excellent.”
“Here’s your letter,” Colton said, pulling the missive from Miss Stoke from his coat and handing it to Graham.
Ripley’s dark brows rose as he looked at Colton. “Since when did you become his butler?”
“Since he arranged to receive this at my apartment. Came at an ungodly hour to say so too. I’d barely arrived home.”
“It was a rather late night,” Ripley said with a satisfied chuckle.
Graham listened to their conversation as he opened the letter, then promptly tuned them out.
Dear Duke of Halstead,
I was able to gather Osborne’s description. He is in his middle thirties, exceptionally tall with a sharp chin and nose. His hair is dark with gray at the temples. He dresses somberly, always gray and black, and he carries a walking stick with a raven on the top.
I hope this helps you and look forward to your report.
Yours,
Miss Stoke
Yours. How he wished that were true. Hell, he was more than aroused. Perhaps he should lay claim to the serving maid after all.
“Who’s it from?” Ripley asked.
“No one.” Graham folded the parchment and placed the letter into his coat, where it warmed him through his waistcoat and shirt. What a ridiculous thought.
“I doubt that,” Ripley said, his brows lifting once more. “You arranged to have it sent to Colton instead of Brixton Park. Why would you do that?”
Graham bristled. “Because I needed the information tonight, and I didn’t want to waste time having it delivered all the way to Brixton. Does that satisfy your curiosity?”
“No. I asked who it’s from, and ‘no one’ is not an accurate answer.” Ripley’s answering stare was even, and Graham had the sense he was not easily intimidated.
Well, neither was Graham. He leaned forward slightly and stared at Ripley across the table. “Then let me be more accurate. None of your business.”
Colton, who sat to Graham’s left, interjected. “Now, ladies, can we put our claws away?”
Ripley relaxed and laughed. “I was just trying to get a rise out of Halstead, which I did.” He winked at Graham. “My apologies. As most people will tell you, I’m a right ass.”
Graham flicked a glance toward Colton, who nodded. “It’s true. But he’s entertaining as all hell. I’m glad you arranged for us to meet tonight. You need a proper introduction to London. It occurred to me that your friend St. Ives and his friends are all married and boring. It’s good they left town so you won’t be dragged down by their domestication.”
The maid brought their ales, depositing them on the table with a lingering stare at Ripley, her dark eyes full of p
romise and her body swaying with anticipation. Ripley picked up his tankard and held it toward her, his eyes twinkling. Graham feared the maid might swoon.
After she left, Graham gripped his mug and regarded Ripley with an arched brow. “I don’t think the ladies care if you’re an ass.”
Colton snorted. “They definitely do not. He could throw them from a moving carriage, and they would show right back up at his doorstep. It’s disgusting.”
Ripley blinked in mock affront. “You exaggerate. And not prettily. I would never cast a woman from my carriage, moving or otherwise.”
“Of course you wouldn’t,” Colton said with a laugh. “My mistake.”
Ripley sipped his ale. “You’re starting to give me competition—both as an ass and a lothario.”
Colton shrugged. “You’re the model of a hero, apparently.” He took a deep pull from his tankard, then set it down with a clack. He turned his head toward Graham. “Now, why are we here at the Thundering Stag?”
Graham had crafted a story to tell them that would hopefully satisfy their curiosity without exposing his financial woes. However, he was marginally concerned about Ripley given how he’d gone after the letter and who’d written it.
“I’m looking for a gentleman called Osborne. He made an investment on behalf of the former duke and there has been no return. I mean to find him and demand the reimbursement of the investment or the interest I am owed.”
Colton paused in lifting his tankard to his mouth. “You mean to find him in a hell? Seems an odd place to find a man who makes investments.”
“This is where he operates,” Graham said. “He preys on men who are losing at the tables.”
“Then Rip has never heard of him.” Colton grinned before taking a drink.
Graham rotated his attention to the marquess. “I take it you don’t lose?”
Ripley lifted a shoulder. “Not usually.”
“Ha, not ever. Now he’s being coy.” Colton rolled his eyes.
“I’ve recently decided not to play anymore,” Ripley said, sounding disappointed.
“Because some men won’t participate if he does,” Colton explained.
Ripley ignored the comment and narrowed his eyes at Graham. “Does this have something to do with Tibbord?”
Graham nodded. “Yes. Osborne is Tibbord’s intermediary.”
“When you asked us about Tibbord before,” Colton said, “I told you he was a swindler, and you acted as though you didn’t know that. You said something to the effect of Tibbord just being a name you’d heard.”
There was no mistaking the curiosity in Colton’s tone, as well as a slice of skepticism. “Forgive me,” Graham said. “I was trying to gather information, and I didn’t want to disclose my suspicions at the time. I suspect Tibbord has either been making bad investments or, and this is what I truly believe, he isn’t making investments at all.”
“Your reticence is understandable since you barely knew us.” Ripley stood abruptly. “Give me a moment.” He took a swig of ale, then wove his way to the back of the establishment.
Graham watched as the marquess spoke with the serving maid, then they disappeared through a doorway. Swinging his head toward Colton, he asked, “Did Ripley just leave to go shag that maid?”
Colton laughed. “Probably. He’s done it before. Once or twice.”
“Good God, how does he not have every disease?”
“French letters,” Colton answered promptly. “He swears by them. Can’t say I’ve ever bothered, but I should probably start if I mean to keep up with him.”
“Is that your intent?” Graham sipped his ale.
“Not really.” Colton’s eyes gleamed. “My intent is to enjoy myself and live for every moment of pleasure I can find.” He said this with such fervor that Graham couldn’t help but feel his passion.
“Life feels very different after losing someone,” Graham said softly. “Don’t you think?”
“Of course it does.” Colton’s response was cold, and Graham feared he’d overstepped.
“I didn’t mean to cause you any pain. I lost my father last year. We were very close. It’s been difficult. I only meant to offer my support—and condolences.”
“I do appreciate that, but I don’t need either.” He finished his ale and waved toward another serving maid for her to bring another.
A moment later, she brought two fresh mugs to the table and swept the others away, even though Graham hadn’t quite finished his. “Why didn’t she stop to flirt?” Graham asked, seeking to lighten the mood after he’d unintentionally darkened it.
“Because Ripley’s not here?” Colton laughed. “She’s likely just busy since one of her coworkers is otherwise engaged.”
Graham sipped his ale and wondered if he could possibly keep up with Colton and Ripley. Their lives were not his, nor did he think he wanted them to be. What did he want his life to be?
That was a question he hadn’t pondered. There hadn’t been time. From the moment he’d become the duke, he’d been overwhelmed with learning his new role. Whatever life he might have wanted or expected was gone.
He’d never dreamed of more than he’d had. In fact, he’d been quite content to be a secretary and manage Huntwell. However, now that he had the chance to manage a magnificent estate like Brixton Park and an ancestral pile in need of a complete refurbishment, he was energized. Yes, that was the life he wanted—a duke who worked to better what he had for future generations.
Really? He’d never thought of future generations except for St. Ives. He managed Huntwell for David and his children and his children’s children. But now he could do that for himself.
The thought gave him a thrill of anticipation. Tempered by grave concern. How could he do that if he was bankrupt?
Scowling, he took a long pull from his mug.
“You look rather upset all of a sudden,” Colton remarked. “What’s the matter?”
Thankfully, Graham didn’t have to answer, for Ripley returned.
“That was quick,” Colton said drily.
Ripley’s answer was fast and smooth. “Speed is no measure of gratification. However, I was not pleasuring the fair maid. I asked her about Tibbord and Osborne, and she took me back to speak with the owner of the hell.”
Graham kept his excitement in check. Barely. “What did you learn?” He hoped he sounded calm and collected instead of desperate.
“They may or may not be what you suspect—he wouldn’t confirm it. He did say they’d left London for a time, but appear to have returned recently,” Ripley said. “It seems it’s your lucky night.”
“How’s that?” Graham looked around, wondering if they were here.
“They aren’t here, if that’s what you were hoping—sorry to disappoint you. But I can arrange for you to meet them, I think. Apparently, they were seen at a Cyprian ball the other night.
“They—both Osborne and Tibbord?” Graham asked. “Tibbord isn’t typically seen.”
“I didn’t clarify,” Ripley said. “I do think he said ‘they,’ but I could be wrong. In any case, I would be happy to host a Cyprian soirée at my house and will do my best to make sure they attend. We’ll have gambling to sweeten the pot, since Tibbord preys on those who are failing at the tables.”
Graham couldn’t quite mask his surprise. “You would do that?”
“As your friend, I want to help you get what’s owed to you.” His eyes darkened, and the aura of danger overtook that of a careless rake. “The scoundrels can’t get away with stealing.”
“Thank you.” Graham was quite glad to have the marquess on his side. He didn’t think he’d want the man as an adversary. “I appreciate your friendship.” Too late, Graham considered the ramifications of his attending a Cyprian party at the Marquess of Ripley’s house. He could ruin, or at least taint, his reputation, and that might very well be all he had. He certainly needed it intact to find an heiress.
Graham took another drink of ale before speaking. “While I am d
elighted by your generous offer, I don’t think it would be wise for me to attend.” He grimaced. “My apologies.”
Ripley waved his hand. “No need to apologize. I completely understand. Masks will be optional, and people need not disclose their identity. That way, you can come. Furthermore, you can either come before the party or enter through the back so no one sees you arrive.”
That could work. And right now, it was his best option. “The owner of the hell couldn’t give you any information about Tibbord or Osborne? Not where they live or where they might be found?”
Ripley shook his head. “I’m afraid not. I did ask.”
“A Cyprian ball sounds like a terribly fun evening. I hope it’s soon,” Colton said before finishing off his second tankard.
Ripley looked toward Graham. “Is Saturday too soon?”
Anticipation thrummed through Graham as he fought to keep his voice even. “Saturday is perfect—if you think you can organize it so quickly.”
“I wouldn’t have offered if I couldn’t. I’m usually ready to entertain at a moment’s notice.” His mouth stretched in a catlike smile. “Come early.”
Graham nodded. “I will.” He could hardly wait to tell Miss Stoke.
Wait. Should he tell Miss Stoke? A Cyprian party was hardly the sort of thing one should discuss with a young lady. And yet, he had to keep her apprised. He’d leave out the Cyprian part.
“What will you do when you run Tibbord to ground?” Colton asked.
Graham had thought about it, but so far had nothing beyond simply threatening the man. “Insist he return the duke’s investment.”
“It’s entirely possible, likely even, that insistence will get you nowhere.” Ripley’s tone was wry. “Extortion would work better. If you could find something to use against him.”
Bloody hell, Ripley definitely possessed a dangerous edge. He also was not wrong. “Hard to find something to use against him when I can’t even find the man.”
Colton shrugged. “Something to consider.”
It was indeed. Feeling both energized and thoughtful, Graham nearly polished off his ale before setting his tankard down on the scarred table. “Shall we go to Brooks’s?”
