The Duke's Privateer (Devilish Dukes Book 3)

by Amy Jarecki

  Danby knit his brows and clasped his hands behind his back. “What would you recommend, miss?”

  Eleanor hadn’t seen the entire house, and since the awful parlor was off limits, there was only one other chamber she could suggest. “Perhaps the entry could use some sprucing up?”

  Her Grace lowered her arms to her sides, drawing in a pent-up breath. “Absolutely not.”

  Eleanor turned full circle, taking in the space. “Obviously, you have captured the essence of Roman architecture in here. I love the Corinthian pillars supporting the triangular pediments above each door. Are you certain you want to change it?”

  The dowager duchess sighed. “Sherborn’s father adored this room but my son thinks it is too French.”

  Eleanor chuckled. “I daresay if that is the case, then most of the grand dining halls in London will need refurbishment.”

  When Danby said nothing, Eleanor gestured to a marble statue of a couple in an embrace. “Chinoiserie consists of lacquered dark wood inlaid with gold, faux bamboo, nature scenes, dragons, pagodas, red lanterns, and statues of court officials in brightly colored robes.”

  “Dragons?” asked Her Grace as if she were outraged. Evidently, she hadn’t had the pleasure of paying a visit to Brighton as of yet. “If you ask me, such absurdity would be more suited to Sherborn’s bedchamber.”

  Eleanor gulped. It wasn’t like her to blush, but as soon as she shifted her gaze to the duke, a rush of heat spread across her cheeks. His bedchamber? A high-pitched laugh stuck in her throat. “I can imagine carved mahogany dragons entwined around bedposts as they claw their way up to the bed-curtains.”

  She clapped a hand to her chest. Had she truly suggested such a thing?

  A spark flickered behind those mysterious green eyes. “Hmm. The idea has merit.”

  Her Grace clasped her hands. “Thank heavens.”

  Drat, why had Eleanor mentioned the blasted bedposts? The last place in London she ought to be was in Danby’s bedchamber. Ladies simply did not visit men’s boudoirs, even if their mothers were present. “Shall I send Mr. Millward by to have a look? He could sketch the chamber, after which I’m certain we can commence the search for the décor. Why, I’ll wager we will be able to commission the manufacture of the bed right here in London.”

  Eleanor’s mind raced. The sooner she could push this project elsewhere, the better. Besides, it seemed the duke had only engaged her services as an act of charity, which she definitely did not need.

  “Millward?” Danby rubbed the back of his neck. “If you think it best.”

  “Nonsense,” said Her Grace. “I shall show you the chamber myself.”

  Appearing as if he’d conceded defeat, the duke bowed. “I’ll leave you ladies to it. However, I’d like to approve the drawings before you begin work.”

  “By all means.”

  “One last thing.” Danby rested his hand on the back of a settee. “I’ve been a patron of the soldiers’ hospital since returning from Waterloo and I haven’t seen your father there for some time. Would you mind if I paid him a visit?”

  “Were you close with my father?” Eleanor asked.

  “I called on him when he was a patient there.”

  “Papa hardly recognizes me. If it is conversation you are seeking, I’m afraid you will be sorely disappointed.”

  “Some of the orderlies have had some success with…”

  “Hmm?”

  “Reading to those who have withdrawn.”

  Eleanor sat and talked to her father most every evening, though she’d never opened a book and started into a story—she’d never seen the point. “Perhaps I ought to give it a try.”

  “I’ll swing by with a few books,” Danby said as he bowed.

  “Thank you, but—”

  Curses, the duke disappeared out the door before she had the chance to dissuade him with a suitable argument.

  Chapter Three

  Sher pored over the map spread atop Admiral Dryden’s library table. “The Royal Navy has only thirty-five customs boats patrolling the entire British coastline?”

  The balding officer favored a Caesar haircut with wooly facial hair extending down his cheeks, trimmed into the shape of lamb chops. “Correct, and when I came into office it was fewer.”

  “Our task is insurmountable unless we acquire more cutters.”

  “More boats are expensive. Not only must we commission them, there will be an upturn in costly repairs, not to mention men who will be expecting wages, none of whom I have the funds to pay.” The admiral eyed him through a round monocle. “I thought you said you are trying to augment the crown’s coffers, not deplete them.”

  Sher pounded his fist on the map. For the love of God, above the Firth of Forth, the kingdom’s waters weren’t patrolled at all. “I am, blast it. There must be another way.”

  “Smugglers are a slippery lot. They take care of their own, and few subjects are willing to come forward and testify against them.”

  As Sher eyed the Thames snaking through London, an idea began to form. “Then we need to beat the bastards at their own game—provide an incentive for information.”

  The admiral pulled out his pocket watch and tapped it. “Another monumental task that will bleed funds.”

  “The prime minister and I have already assembled a team of honest men, and we’ve kept the strain on the kingdom’s purse reasonable by employing recent graduates who are hungry. Moreover, they’re led by a seasoned Bow Street runner, no less.”

  “And what do you propose to do with these enthusiastic, yet untried minnows? Spread them out across England and throw them to the wolves?”

  “Not at all. Tell me, where do most smuggled goods end up?”

  “London, naturally.” Dryden folded his arms and paced. “But I guarantee they oft do not arrive in her port.”

  “Understood. Perhaps I’m wrong, but I’ll wager the best place to start is with bills of lading and trace them back to their origins.”

  “Yet another insurmountable task. And if there are bills of lading, then duties most likely have been paid.” The man huffed as if he’d hashed through the conundrum a hundred times. “You’re not reinventing the wheel. Revenue Officers oft employ such processes when goods are under suspicion.”

  Sher wasn’t unschooled on the issues either. “And sometimes they find a petty smuggler who is fined a hundred quid and scurries off to continue his ill-begotten trade.”

  “Aye, that would be the way of it.”

  “I’m planning a somewhat different course.”

  “Well, do not come back here claiming I didn’t warn you. I say, the only way to catch the blighters is red-handed when they’re in the act.”

  “Now you’re back to the argument of needing more boats.” Sher headed for the door. “I agree, the Royal Navy must continue patrols and increase them where possible. Meanwhile, I’ll see what I can do about ferreting out any land rats.”

  After taking his hat, cloak, and gloves from the butler, he strode directly to his shiny black town coach displaying the Danby coat of arms etched in gold leaf on its door.

  “Where to, Your Grace?” asked the coachman.

  “Viscount Lisle’s town house,” he replied. After all, three days had passed since he’d offered to read to Miss Kent’s father.

  Once he climbed inside, Sher retrieved the two books he’d selected for this visit. One was an adventure novel and the other a memoir, one that might actually have a chance of stirring Lisle’s interest. If Eleanor’s father was ever to come out of his shell, perhaps something that ignited an inner flame might help. Sher had come across the writings of a Dr. Schneider, who suggested some who suffered withdrawal after military action would exhibit cognitive understanding when memories of happier times were encouraged, especially if they stirred a man’s basic interests.

  At least reading was an idea. Whenever Sher was in residence in his London house, he visited the soldiers’ hospital weekly, as well as contributed to their upkeep a
nnually. He always took an interest in the officers, especially those whose outlooks appeared bleak. He’d read countless papers on the melancholy that ails men who had experienced the horrors of battle, though no one seemed to have a cure. Reading was said to help, on occasion touching the heart within, perhaps giving the stricken a reason to live.

  And why not add a spark to Lisle’s otherwise dreary existence?

  Sher chuckled when he stepped out of his carriage onto the footpath in front of the viscount’s town house on Mayfair Place. All these years, he’d never realized that Eleanor Kent lived a mere five-minute walk from his own London residence.

  If she weren’t a gently bred woman, the pursuit of her wiles might be interesting. But ladies, even spinsters, always expected more than he was willing to give. Besides, Miss Kent’s involvement with her little importing operation intrigued him. She may very well become a conduit to cracking into the smuggling world. Was everything Lion’s imported legitimate? Sher intended to find out.

  A rather buff young man answered the door. Dressed in a footman’s livery, the lad looked far too young to be a butler, but Sher extended his card, nonetheless. “Danby here to call on Lord Lisle.”

  The lad studied the card. “I’m sorry to say the viscount is unable to receive guests.”

  “Did Miss Kent not tell you? She is expecting me to stop by with some reading material for—”

  “Danby,” said the woman herself, stepping into the entry. “What a surprise.”

  Sher held up the books, careful to keep Robinson Crusoe on the top. “I thought I’d start the little reading project I’d mentioned.”

  “Ah, yes.” She gestured to the footman. “Thank you, Earnest.”

  “Is this not a good time?” Sher asked, removing his hat and stepping inside.

  “My father is having a bath. Weston, our butler, also serves as Papa’s valet when needed.”

  Of course, a woman in her circumstances ought to be prudent and divide the duties among the serving staff. No use having a valet and a butler when one man could handle the task.

  The lady’s gaze wandered to the novels in his hand. “Perhaps I could give him the books later.”

  “Does he read?”

  Miss Kent’s teeth scraped over the corner of her mouth as if she were considering exactly how to respond. “To the question, ‘Can he read,’ the answer is yes. However, he either no longer has interest in such a pastime or he chooses not to.”

  “So, things haven’t changed over the years?”

  “No.”

  “Then I should like to read to him.”

  “You?”

  “Yes, when using the first person singular, one is usually referring to himself.”

  “Sorry. But a man of your stature—you must be far too busy to trifle with an infirm viscount.”

  “I donate my time to the soldiers’ hospital. Why not here?”

  “Oh.” Miss Kent patted her chest, then skirted toward the parlor. “Forgive me. I should have invited you in. Would you care to wait? I could ring for some tea.”

  “That would be lovely, thank you.”

  Sher followed the woman into a parlor so pristine it appeared as though the chamber had been renovated in the past week. The carpet hardly looked worn, the velvet-upholstered furniture was the same. However, nothing in the room compared to Miss Kent’s radiance. Today she wore a peach-colored dress, her hair pinned up in a chignon with lovely auburn ringlets framing her face, and a few adorning a slender neck. Had she been out? Or perhaps was she about to venture out? Whatever the case, she was far too fetching not to be seen somewhere in London, or by all of polite society. What was it about this woman that had him so intrigued? Her looks? Possibly, but Sher had seen many beautiful ladies and none of them had captured his attention, at least not for more than an evening or two.

  After she sat in an armchair, he chose the settee adjacent and crossed his ankles. “Every time our paths cross, I am more impressed than the last.”

  “Oh? How so?”

  He brushed his fingers over a table statue of dancing nymphs. Was it bronze? It appeared to be quite old. “I imagine looking after your father all these years hasn’t been easy.”

  “No, but we have our routines and it seems one day blurs into the next.”

  A maid brought in the tea service and placed it on the low table. Miss Kent reached for the pot. “Shall I pour for you?”

  “Please. Milk, no sugar.”

  Her smile was genuine as she prepared the cups. “Not fond of sweets, as I recall?”

  “I’ve never taken to sweetening my tea or coffee.” He gestured to a plate of shortbread. “Especially if it is served with biscuits.”

  Eleanor placed one on his saucer and handed it to him. “I prefer my tea black.”

  Sher’s finger brushed hers as he took the plate. Such a simple, unpretentious touch, but it made a tingle skitter all the way up to his neck. With a sharp inhalation, he met her sapphire gaze and his bedamned heart skipped a beat. “Black?” he croaked like an adolescent, not that how she took her tea mattered in the slightest.

  “Mm-hmm.” Miss Kent sipped, pinky up, lowered lashes—beguiling as hell. “I put together some sketches for your project. Would you like to see them?”

  Sher bit into the shortbread. As he recalled, she was more than eager to send Mr. Millward in to take over. “You drew the sketches?”

  “I did.”

  He could have sworn she’d said Millward would do it. But then again, it wasn’t unusual for gently bred women to be skilled with a pencil.

  Another bronze caught his eye, this one of a nude Grecian man adorning the mantel. It appeared to be older than the first, its patina a rich red-brown—a fine specimen that had to be from the ancient world.

  “Your Grace?” Miss Kent asked, cutting through his thoughts.

  “Hmm?”

  “The drawings? Would you like to see them?”

  “I would, thank you.”

  “Very well.” She set her cup and saucer on the table. “I’ll just be a moment.”

  After the lady slipped out the door, Sher stood and examined the piece. The base was numbered with Greek lettering. Had the statue been in the family for some time? Possibly centuries? Surely such a work of art would demand a small fortune at auction if it were sold in the present day.

  Miss Kent returned momentarily with a sketchbook and placed it on the low table, beside the tea service. “Here we are.”

  Sher carefully replaced the bronze and returned to the settee while Miss Kent observed beneath a fan of long auburn eyelashes. She said nothing even though she most likely knew more about the value of the bronze than he. After all, she sat on the board of an importing operation—one that had been in existence for quite a long time—one Sher’s informants had reported to be operating within the law.

  But does it?

  A kernel of doubt caused a twitch at the corner of his eye.

  “I think the centerpiece of the chamber ought to be the bed,” said Miss Kent, spreading open the book to an ornately detailed four-poster.

  Blinking away his suspicions, Sher leaned over the table. “That sounds reasonable.”

  She used a pencil to point. “It shall be a furnishing of such magnificence, anyone who sees it will be in awe.”

  He followed as she drew imaginary lines and loops just above the parchment.

  “Each post will be different, and startlingly dramatic with fearsome dragons climbing up toward the bed-curtains.”

  “Like Prinny’s enormous light fixture,” he mused.

  “Similar, but not quite as life-sized as that one.”

  “Not that dragons exist.” Sher tapped a column. “Though I can imagine opening my eyes to the snarl of this sharp-toothed beast.”

  All too easily he imagined Eleanor Kent in this bed, her magnificent mane of locks spread across his chest.

  “Do you have night fears, Your Grace?” she asked.

  “Ah…” Blinking, Sher m
uch preferred his present train of thought. “I suppose not since I returned from the wars.”

  “I see.” She bit her bottom lip. Holy everlasting hell, did she realize how utterly delicious she looked when she did that? “Do you think the posts are a bit overdone?”

  Sher stroked his fingers along his chin. “I say, they are quite dramatic. Manly, if not beastly.”

  “I thought it a fearsome piece for a powerful man.” She straightened, aiming her pencil at his heart. “Better, it can be manufactured right here in London.”

  “No need to import?” he asked, somewhat disappointed. He was planning to follow the trail. Himself. If nothing else, it might be diverting to delve deeper into Eleanor Kent’s world.

  “Not at all,” she continued, completely oblivious to his scrutiny. “Did you know the bamboo in the pavilion was made here?”

  “Preposterous. Bamboo does not grow in Britain.”

  Miss Kent closed the sketchbook and set it beside the tea service. “It doesn’t, but local craftsmen were able to replicate the look with cast iron painted to resemble bamboo. I can attest that only one piece of bamboo furniture was imported. The other chairs and tables were made right here, crafted from beechwood. Moreover, none of Prinny’s guests are the wiser.”

  “And you helped him with this endeavor?” Sher asked.

  “Contrary to popular belief, the prince does try to curb his spending where he can,” she said, sidestepping his question.

  “Except where dining is involved.”

  “I suppose one must grant the future king his indulgences.”

  “As long as he doesn’t bankrupt the country…again.”

  Miss Kent twisted one of her auburn curls around her finger. “Ah, yes. There’s that.”

  “Hence my current project with the prime minister.”

  Her nostrils flared as she met his gaze. “How is it going, may I ask?”

  Sher reached for another biscuit. “Bleakly.”

  “That bad?”

  Suddenly, he didn’t want to have this conversation, especially given present company. This woman was in the importing business and, though her operation was reportedly clean as a whistle, Sher mustn’t show his hand to anyone, no matter how paltry it might be.