by Amy Jarecki
Opening the book, he stared at the lines of poetry without reading. Now and again, he turned a page. He crossed and uncrossed his legs while he waited.
And waited.
Never in all his days had he arrived at White’s and not been attended immediately. The club didn’t seem inordinately busy. He leaned forward and raised a finger at a passing waiter.
The man stopped. “Good evening, Your Grace. Would you care for a beverage?”
“Cognac. And bring the bottle.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but we have no cognac.”
Odd, but not completely untoward. “Whisky, then.”
“There’s no whisky either. I thought you would be aware.”
“Aware of what?”
“Spirits are in short supply—though we have plenty of gin. I’m told shipments are held up at the ports as well as the borders because of…”
Sher put the book aside. “You were saying?”
“I beg your pardon, Your Grace.” The man bowed. “I’ve overstepped.”
Pushing to his feet, Sher grabbed the man’s lapel. “Tell me what the bloody hell you were about to say!”
The man stammered. “I-it seems the prime minister and his task force have been busy. A-a-and according to the papers, you’re leading the charge, are you not?”
Releasing his grip, Sher gave no answer as he barreled out the door without bothering to collect his hat and coat.
Chapter Thirteen
Two days had passed before Eleanor found the opportunity to return to her correspondence. This was a letter she should have written the day she discovered Danby’s mother had no intention of embarking on a chinoiserie remodel. Regardless, after completing what seemed like the fiftieth draft of her rejection to the duke, Eleanor was finally satisfied and rested her quill in its holder. Bless it, before she’d discovered the cur had stabbed her in the back, she had tried to write on friendly terms, but now she just wanted to tell him to sod off and stay out of her life. As a result, she decided to keep her prose as formal and as brief as possible.
My Lord Duke,
It is with utmost conviction I hereby request that you never attempt to see me again, never set foot in my father’s house and, furthermore, refrain from reading salacious books to the Viscount of Lisle (yes, I did find Fanny Hill).
No reply is necessary or expected.
Yours sincerely,
The Honorable Eleanor Kent
p.s. Let me make it perfectly clear: I never care to be in your company again.
It did not take a seer to know that Danby held her in low esteem, and she wasn’t willing to give him a pass about the book. He was a scoundrel. He’d smuggled that piece of trash into Papa’s bedchamber. It may have helped her father some, but now that Papa’s eyes were opened, he was making advancements every day without the obscene and graphic soot.
And the painting she’d hung above his mantel was a masterpiece. Before she’d purchased the work, it had been on display in the gallery at the Royal Academy of Arts.
Eleanor folded the letter, addressed, and sealed it.
Alas, her meeting with the prince had been met with mixed enthusiasm. Of course, Prinny had been entertaining at the time and wasn’t happy to be taken away from his guest. Fortunately, he’d met her with a glass of wine in his hand and, when she’d ventured to ask why wine rather than his favorite, he’d replied that his steward had advised the order of cognac had not been delivered and he doubted a drop of the spirit existed in all of London. The drought opened the door for Eleanor to take the opportunity to tell him the entire country was indeed in short supply of cognac, rum, and Madeira and she doubted shipments would resume any time soon. Furthermore, the cigars the prince so loved would not be arriving, nor would the perfume, silk, or a host of other goods presently on order.
Her explanation was enough to enlighten His Majesty as to the gravity of the situation, after which she pleaded for his intervention, which he promised to give forthwith. Eleanor thanked him with the proper amount of enthusiasm, apologized for arriving without an invitation, and promptly excused herself.
Taking her letter for Danby below stairs, Eleanor found Weston polishing the silver in the dining hall. “I need this missive dispatched right away.”
The butler grew a bit flushed when he saw to whom it was addressed. “I hope there’s a dash of hemlock inside for his tea.”
Eleanor snorted. “You’re awful.”
“Am I?”
Picking up a silver candlestick, she turned it over in her hands. It was a fine piece in a set of three and each one was worth a small fortune. “I’ve been giving more thought to your suggestion of retiring.”
Weston’s expression brightened. “Is that so?”
“Well, at least for the time being. Besides, I think it would be good for Margaret as well as Papa to reside at the country estate for a time.”
“I’ve always loved Kingston Manor. I spent my happiest days there.”
Eleanor smiled, memories from her childhood flashing through her mind—rowing a little boat across the lake, climbing trees, learning to ride a horse. “Truly, I believe I was happiest there as well.” She squeezed Weston’s forearm. “And I know Margaret will thrive there.”
“Shall I start making preparations?”
“Yes, do so. I should like to leave within a week, two at most.”
“Very well, I’ll inform the staff.”
She pointed to the missive in Weston’s hand. “First have one of the lads take that letter to Danby straightaway.”
“Of course.” The butler tapped it in his palm. “Ah…I wouldn’t want to pry—”
“It is never wise to pry into a woman’s concerns,” Eleanor said as she turned and headed for the stairs.
“Naturally, you will be there?” asked Mama, adding a dollop of plum jam to her toast.
Sher glanced over the top of his gazette. Ever since she’d joined him for breakfast she’d been talking about a recital she was planning for Sunday next. “Must I?”
“Good heavens, Sherborn, have you not heard a word I’ve said?”
“The part about the recital or the part about the dozens of eligible ladies you have invited to fill my hall?”
Reaching for her teacup, Mama pursed her lips. “I beg your pardon, but as you have not taken your responsibility of providing an heir seriously, you’ve given me no recourse but to parade every available lady in London under your nose. Heavens, you will be thirty on your next birthday. Thirty!”
“Hardly too old to procreate,” he mumbled, hiding behind the paper. The news only served to inflame his ire, or was it his valet had tied his neckcloth too tightly? He turned the page and his jaw dropped. Right in front of his eyes was a caricature of him holding a man in rags upside down and demanding payment of duties owed. Worse, the caption read, “The Wealthy Stealing from the Poor yet Again”. Sher scanned the article below, which also pointed the finger at the prime minister for his disregard for the common man, and the prince regent for his excessive spending.
“I heard that,” said Mama.
Sher closed the paper. “Very well, I will make an appearance at the damned soiree.”
“It is a recital. And there’s no cause for vulgarity. I’m merely doing my duty as your mother and the dowager.”
Hartley came in bearing two missives on a silver tray. “For you, Duke.”
Taking them both, Sher examined the return addresses. The one from Prinny had been expected because of the news article, though not this early in the morning. After all, most days, the prince would still be abed at this hour. However, the second missive made Sher’s stomach flip—not only once.
He’d stayed away from Eleanor on purpose. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t in his ever-present thoughts. Had she sent an explanation of her exploits? An apology? A declaration of her love?
He ran his finger under the seal and slowly opened the letter. Though not perfumed, the stationery bore the faint hint of her fragrance. Addre
ssed formally, her penmanship was precise, with sweeping strokes that made it look like a work of art…
Except the message was not artful.
It was tormenting.
Mama leaned in. “Is that from Miss Kent? I cannot forget to add her to the guest list. I must admit I was quite skeptical, but I am duly impressed with your bedchamber.”
Sher’s face burned as he crumpled the letter in his fist. “I doubt she’ll come.”
“Why? Whatever is the matter?”
Pushing his chair back, he stood. “I’m afraid the lady lacks interest.”
“In you? How dare she? You are the Duke of Danby, one of the most affluent and esteemed men in the kingdom and—”
“And nothing. Some things are best left alone,” Sher growled. He tossed Eleanor’s missive into the fire, then grabbed the other and headed for the library, reading the contents as he walked.
He’d been summoned to appear at Carlton House. Promptly making an about-face, Sher found the butler. “Hartley, tell the coachman to ready the carriage at once.”
Sher paced the floor of the antechamber outside the throne room. Eleanor never wanted to see him again? Her words had been so final.
So devastating.
Yes, he’d been upset and disillusioned when he’d learned she was at the head of a vast smuggling empire. Why wouldn’t he be? But somehow he’d envisioned her coming up with an excuse, an ironclad reason to explain everything and cast all blame aside.
Never set eyes on Eleanor again? Her mane of auburn locks. Perceptive deep-blue eyes that missed nothing and revealed even less. The very thought of never gazing into them again, cut him to the quick—made it difficult to breathe. How could Sher protect her from the vultures at court if he wasn’t allowed to see her again? And what about Margaret? He’d fallen in love with that little bundle of gummy smiles.
Eleanor.
The woman who took in foundlings and offered them purpose. The woman who never gave up hope for her father.
Eleanor.
The woman with a thousand dark secrets. The woman who might be facing a turn in Newgate Prison if he did nothing to stop the maelstrom that was sure to come.
Because of Sher and his task force.
“Your Grace,” said the steward from the doorway. “The prince will see you now.”
Sighing, Sher started for the throne room, but the steward beckoned elsewhere, leading him through the corridor and into the blue velvet room. This chamber was smaller and more intimate, and Sher liked it immensely. The gilt-trimmed walls were filled with mirrors and portraits. Long rays of light beamed through the windows, giving the chamber a warm glow—though the warmth did nothing to heat the ice in his heart.
In the center of the carpeted floor stood an enormous writing table, one fitting the large man sitting behind it. With an expression indicating the prince might be suffering from indigestion, Prinny gestured to the blue velvet settee across from him. “Good morning, Duke. I see you received my summons.”
Sher knit his brows as he noticed the unopened gazette at the prince’s right. “I did indeed. I suppose you’ve heard of the libelous gibberish in the morning’s news.”
“No.” Prinny’s gaze meandered to the paper. “What have I done now?”
“It seems we, along with the prime minister, are at fault for trying to rid the kingdom of smugglers.”
Opening the gazette, the prince chuckled. “Damned if you do, damned if you don’t, I presume.”
Sher eased back against the velvet padding, though one never completely relaxed when summoned to a royal house. “Ah, well. This will pass, as do most slights.”
“Yes.” George casually cast the paper aside, his pained expression returning. “I suppose this whole smuggling business is why I’ve asked you here today.”
“Oh?”
“Eleanor Kent stopped by.”
Sher gulped against a lump forming in his throat. The mention of her name made him feel as if a knife were plunging into his heart.
“You do know she has been invaluable to me,” George continued.
“I had gathered.”
“And she is very dear to me.”
The lump grew tenfold. “How do you mean?”
Prinny looked to the opulent ceiling relief, painted to resemble the sky with a cascading crystal chandelier hanging from its center. “My affection is not what you think. As you may recall, I have bankrupted the kingdom.”
“More than once.”
The prince adjusted his neckcloth, tied so high up his throat it had to be nearly strangling him. “Yes, well, we won’t rub salt into the wound, but I’ll tell you now, if it weren’t for Eleanor, the problem would have been far worse.”
“Truly?”
“Absolutely. Yes.”
Sher waited while a maid brought in a tea service, poured, added four spoons of sugar to the prince’s cup, a dollop of milk to both, then promptly took her leave. “You are aware she did not pay duties on the statuary she acquired for the pavilion.”
George raised his cup. “Duties intended for the crown’s coffers.”
“Agreed, but she, or her enterprise, has eluded paying duties on countless shipments of liquor, textiles, perfumes, precious artwork…and Lord knows what else.”
“That may be, but I do not want any harm to come to her or any slander to befall her family name.”
“I cannot make promises, not when—”
“Are you familiar with Eleanor’s plight?”
“Plight, sir?”
“Allow me to enlighten you.” The prince rested his cup in its saucer and dabbed the corners of his mouth with a monogrammed kerchief. “The lady’s mother passed away when she was a young girl. She was then shipped off to finishing school whilst her father continued to serve in the navy to earn a living, mind you.”
“Lisle?” Danby asked rhetorically, though it was unusual for a viscount to be in a position where he needed to earn wages.
“She only has one father,” Prinny said, his tone rather flat. “He inherited a bankrupt estate, which he struggled to hold together even after the devastating loss of his wife. While he was able, he made payments on his father’s debts, but once Lisle’s ship was sunk by the French fleet and he was sent to the soldiers’ hospital, Eleanor’s world was destroyed. At first, the poor girl tried to manage the small importing shop owned by her father’s estate, but soon discovered it had never been profitable. The duties they were forced to pay nearly wiped out any revenues she made.”
Sher glanced to his untouched cup. He knew all too well the complaints of legitimate merchants. But if they could stop the bleeding caused by the criminals, the honest businessmen would benefit exponentially. Sighing, he reached for a silver spoon.
The prince sipped again, his chubby fingers gripping the cup’s delicate handle. “It was about that time when we crossed paths.”
“You are responsible for her misdeeds?”
“She is my privateer.” Throwing his shoulders back, Prinny raised his chin. “At one time, Eleanor desperately needed me. Now she is wealthy enough to do whatever she pleases.”
“I see.” He didn’t see. Eleanor should have married. Daughters of insolvent noblemen oft wed wealthy gentlemen. Such arrangements not only opened doors for lower-born chaps, it provided much needed funds for the lady’s family. The viscountcy might have then been restored had she chosen such a path.
“She’s a good woman.”
“None better,” Sher agreed. Though Eleanor’s judgement in her youth was questionable, with her mother gone and her father an invalid, she didn’t have anyone to provide guidance.
“I find her to be beautiful, kind, generous…” As the prince gazed out the window, the admiration in his eyes was unmistakable.
And Sher couldn’t argue. “She is stunning.”
“Mm-hmm.” When George’s eyes shifted back to Sher, the glint was as shrewd and calculating as it had ever been. “I understand you’ve spent quite a bit of time with
her. There have even been reports of your visits to the lady’s home—and did she not undertake a chinoiserie renovation on your behalf?”
“She did—though my mother engaged her.” Sher wasn’t about to admit his bedchamber had been the recipient of Eleanor’s expertise.
“I’ll wager her ideas were astounding.”
“Very imaginative.”
“And you like her.”
Sher blinked. “Pardon?”
“Do not play dumb with me, my Lord Duke. My sources say you are not presently maintaining a mistress. You also have not courted anyone, aside from Eleanor Kent. After all, you’ve been seen riding with her and dancing with her and…”
Now Sher’s cravat had suddenly begun to strangle him. To what, exactly, was the prince eluding? “Yes, but I have been conducting a little investigation of my own.”
“And now you’re not happy with your findings.”
“No.”
“Tell me, Danby, what are your marriage prospects at the moment? Do you have your eye on anyone?”
“No one, sir.” Sher reached for his cup and drank, trying anything to stop the strangulation.
“I thought not. And I say the time is nigh.” George reached for an almond biscuit and popped it into his mouth. “I have decided you will marry Eleanor Kent.”
Scalding tea blew through Sher’s nose. “Marry her?” Good God! Had Prinny misspoke?
“Do you not see? A royal wedding will cast all blame away from the woman, and the powers that be will be satisfied that she’s no longer privateering. Furthermore, once she is protected under the untouchable Price name, no one, not even the prime minister, will be able to come near her. ’Tis a win for everyone.”
“But marriage?” Sher blinked away images of the missive he’d received from Eleanor only this morning. “I’m not ready to marry. No! I—”
“Danby, listen to yourself. The woman is beautiful, she’s clever, she’s kind and caring. Moreover, you like her. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to come up with such a winning combination?”
