A Duke is Never Enough

by Darcy Burke

  When she left, Anthony slammed his tankard on the table with a grin. “You aren’t here five minutes, and the women are already throwing themselves at your feet. Maybe I’m sorry you came. When I’m alone, I don’t have competition.”

  “I didn’t come for that, actually, so she’s all yours.”

  “Excellent. She’s not the one I was thinking of, but she’s quite pretty too.” Anthony was turning into a regular lothario.

  “Remember that you need to soak the French letters before you use them. No quick fucks.” Marcus deemed it his responsibility to protect the younger man, especially since he felt wholly responsible for his decline into hedonism.

  “Yes, Father.” Anthony’s eyes darkened just before he tipped his hand down and lifted the tankard to his lips, draining it.

  The maid returned with Marcus’s ale, depositing it on the table, and gave him an expectant look. “Another ale for my friend,” Marcus said.

  She hastily took herself off once more.

  Marcus hadn’t meant to provoke Anthony’s melancholy. That was the true reason for his slide into debauchery—Marcus had just provided the path.

  “I didn’t mean to lecture,” Marcus said softly.

  “I know.” Anthony looked up, then sat back in his chair. “I just… I like to feel good. Is that bad?”

  “No, so long as you’re careful, and I’m sure you are.”

  “Because of your guidance, which I appreciate. Now, if you aren’t here for the maids, why are you here?”

  “I’m looking for Osborne.”

  “That tall fellow with the cane?”

  Marcus nodded. “I’m hoping he can tell me where Drobbit’s hidden himself.”

  The maid returned again with another tankard. She set it in front of Anthony, then gave Marcus an openly suggestive stare. “How can I help you, my lord?”

  “I’m looking for a rather tall gentleman with a walking stick. Goes by Osborne. Have you seen him of late?”

  Her full red lips drew down into a pout. “That’s what you wanted?”

  “Yes.” He took a coin from his pocket and slipped it into the bodice of her gown, letting his fingers linger against her flesh, not because he wanted to, but because he knew she wanted it. And he needed information.

  She licked her upper lip in blatant invitation. “Haven’t seen him in over a week. He does that sometimes—disappears for a bit.”

  Damn. It sounded like he’d gone underground around the same time as Drobbit. “Do you know where he goes?”

  “No, but I could ask.” She cocked her head to the side. “For a price.”

  Marcus pulled another coin from his pocket and pressed it into her hand.

  She closed her fist around it, then dropped her gaze to his crotch. “Not what I was hoping for.” When she didn’t immediately leave, Marcus worried she wasn’t going to help him. And he wasn’t going to shag her for information.

  Anthony stood and wrapped his arm around the maid’s waist. He leaned down and spoke softly, but loud enough that Marcus could hear. “Come, we’ll see what we can do to get you what you want. I may not be a marquess, but I’m a viscount and you’ll still be able to boast to your friends.”

  Marcus opened his mouth to object, but Anthony gave his head a shake before spiriting the maid away through a doorway into the shadows. Hell and the devil, he didn’t want Anthony shagging her for information either. Not that Anthony appeared to mind.

  Scowling, Marcus drank a good portion of his ale. He looked around the room and instantly made eye contact with a well-known prostitute. She was a celebrated entry in the Ladies of Covent Garden circular. Apparently, she’d moved on to Leicester Square.

  He quickly averted his gaze and finished his ale, then moved on to Anthony’s. Even so, she appeared beside his table a moment later.

  “Lord Ripley. What a delight to see you here.”

  Normally, he would exchange pleasantries with her, perhaps even a light flirtation, but he wasn’t in the mood. He’d come for one thing: information. And then he was going to Mrs. Alban’s.

  “Evening.” He dropped his attention back to his ale.

  “Oh dear, when a gentleman is more interested in his cup than me, I fear I may be on the decline.”

  Marcus gave her a faint smile. “Not at all. Don’t let me keep you.”

  She exhaled with regret. “I wish you would keep me.”

  Thankfully, she took herself off, and Marcus focused his energy entirely on the ale and keeping his head down. Dammit, but Anthony was taking his time.

  Perhaps he’d taken Marcus’s counsel about soaking the letter to heart.

  Shaking his head, Marcus finished the ale just as Anthony returned. He sat down with a smug expression.

  “Damn it, Anthony, you can’t have soaked it long enough to use.”

  Anthony laughed. “I didn’t tup her. I did, however, learn that if you leave a particular word with the barkeep here, he’ll notify Osborne that one of his associates is looking for him.”

  Marcus edged forward in his seat. “What word?”

  Anthony shrugged. “He won’t tell her, said it defeats the purpose of having a special word.”

  Marcus slapped his hand on the table. “Fuck.” He stood up and stalked toward the bar.

  But Anthony followed, clasping his arm and pulling him to a stop. He swung around to see Anthony grimacing. “Don’t ask. She wasn’t supposed to tell me any of that. You’ll just get her in trouble.”

  Groaning, Marcus threw an irritated glance at the bar. Then he changed course and stalked toward the door leading to the street.

  Anthony followed him outside. “Where are you going in such a hurry?”

  “Mrs. Alban’s,” he clipped.

  “Indeed?” Anthony sounded…overjoyed. He clapped a hand on Marcus’s shoulder. “Excellent! Ripley is back to form, ladies and gentlemen!”

  The people passing by cast them looks, and one fellow grinned and applauded. Marcus rolled his eyes.

  “Mind if I join you?” Anthony asked. “Mrs. Alban’s always has soaked letters on hand.”

  Yes, they did, which was why it was typically Marcus’s destination of choice when he was in search of female companionship. Her establishment was the closest thing he’d ever had to a mistress. But tonight, he visited for a different reason.

  As they walked toward Covent Garden, Anthony asked, “I was there the other night, and Mrs. Alban asked when you planned to visit.”

  “She invited me to dinner this evening. I’m sure you could join us.”

  Anthony shook his head. “I wouldn’t want to intrude. You and Mrs. Alban have a…special relationship.”

  Marcus paused and turned to face Anthony. “What do you mean by that?”

  “That you have a special relationship. I don’t know of anyone else she invites to dinner, do you?”

  No, but then Marcus had never asked. “I’m sure I’m not the only one.”

  “You’re the only one who puts that light in her eye and the lilt in her voice. Surely you’ve noticed.”

  Hell. “No.” He started walking, moving quickly across St. Martin’s Lane. The brothel was just two streets ahead on the right. “Listen, there is nothing special about our relationship. We are friends, which I know is odd, but that’s all we are.”

  “Truly?” Anthony sounded quite surprised. “I assumed you shagged her when we visit. Is that not the case?”

  “I’ve never taken her to bed.” And he never would. That would be wrong somehow. They were friends.

  Yet, he considered Phoebe a friend, and he would take her to bed tonight if she invited him.

  Instead, he was going to a brothel, to ask Mrs. Alban if she had any contacts who might know of Osborne’s or Drobbit’s whereabouts. But in the back of his mind, he’d expected to go upstairs to one of her most expensive ladies. Or two.

  Suddenly, the thought of it repulsed him. His steps slowed when they neared the brothel’s door. As Anthony went up the steps, Ma
rcus lagged behind.

  The door swung open, and the wide footman, Barclay, greeted them by name. Anthony disappeared inside while Marcus stood with his foot perched on the bottom step.

  “Coming in, Lord Ripley?” Barclay asked.

  “Yes.” Because he needed information and was expected for dinner. He was many things, but rude was not one of them.

  Barclay turned and spoke to another footman, who inclined his head, then hurried away. “I’ve informed Mrs. Alban that you’re here. Go on to her private sitting room.”

  Anthony was already on his way upstairs, and he didn’t look back. Marcus steeled himself for what he hoped wouldn’t be an uncomfortable evening. It shouldn’t be, and yet now Anthony had him wondering if Mrs. Alban had developed a tendre for him. And how the hell hadn’t he noticed?

  Maybe he could continue in his ignorance. Surely she would have said something if she wished to pursue a liaison. She hadn’t risen to her position of wealth and independence without confidence, grace, and steel.

  Yes, he would pretend he hadn’t heard a word Anthony had said. It was entirely possible Anthony was wrong anyway.

  Marcus moved into her sitting room only to find it empty. She kept him waiting sometimes, and that was fine.

  A few minutes later, she swept in, her indigo skirts brushing the doorframe. Her ink-black hair was piled high atop her head in an elegant style dotted with sparkling jewels. She wore cosmetics, but never to excess and always to advantage, highlighting the delicate arch of her cheekbones and lush curve of her lips. “Good evening, Ripley. How delicious you look.” She said the same thing every time they met.

  And he repeated his part of their ritual, taking her hand and presenting a perfect leg. “Good evening, Mrs. Alban. You are far more delectable than I.”

  She gave him a saucy smile. “Indeed I am. Come, let us enjoy a feast that pales in comparison to us both.”

  He offered her his arm and escorted her into her private dining room. Once they were settled and he’d sampled the excellent madeira, he wasted no time broaching the topic uppermost in his mind.

  “I wonder if you might be able to help me find someone. I’m looking for Archibald Drobbit, my cousin. He frequents this area—in gaming hells mostly.” Where he preyed on gentlemen who were down on their luck and eager to recoup their losses by making a risky investment.

  “I don’t know of him, but I will see what I can discover. Anything to help you.” She lifted her wineglass in a silent toast.

  He returned the gesture, then took another sip. Setting the glass down, he continued, “I’m also looking for his associate, Mr. Osborne.”

  “That name sounds familiar. Isn’t he exceptionally tall? Carries a walking stick with a raven’s head?”

  “Yes, that’s him precisely. If you can find him, he should be able to direct me to Drobbit.”

  A footman served turtle soup. “And why are you in search of your cousin?”

  Marcus didn’t wish to explain the specifics. If Drobbit thought he was telling everyone about his misdeeds, he’d likely stay hidden. “A delicate family matter.”

  “I see. Well, as I said, I am glad to be of service.” Her eyes glimmered briefly before she picked up her spoon to try the soup. Was that the light Anthony had spoken of?

  Marcus ate a bit of the soup, then, disregarding his earlier plan to continue in ignorance, set his spoon down. “We’re friends, aren’t we?”

  She looked over at him, her lids flickering in slight surprise at his question. “Certainly. Why would you ask?”

  “Some—many, probably, say men and women can’t be friends. I think they can. We are.”

  “I agree. Though I suppose it is quite novel.”

  “Have you no other male friends?”

  She shrugged. “One or two. Have you other female friends?”

  “Until recently, no.” Hell, why had he answered truthfully? His relationship was no one’s business, least of all Mrs. Alban’s.

  But she was clearly intrigued by his answer. “Oh, do tell. If you don’t mind,” she added demurely.

  The footman removed the soup and delivered a course of salad and ham.

  “There’s nothing to tell, really.”

  “I think there is. You asked me about friendship between men and women and admitted that I’ve been your only woman friend. I suspect your newfound friendship is causing consternation. Is it yours or someone else’s? The consternation, that is,” she clarified with a sly smile.

  It was causing him frustration. Because he wanted more. “Truly, it’s nothing. She’s a friend, and I’ve no problem with it.”

  “She’s a lady, isn’t she? A member of your haute ton.”

  He wasn’t sure she was, not anymore. “She’s a friend. Let us leave it at that.”

  “I think she’s more than a friend, but I will leave it. Since you asked. You can always come to me—for help with finding someone, for advice with women, for anything you desire.”

  He wanted to understand her expectations. If she felt something for him, he owed it to her to set her straight. “Is that a specific invitation?”

  She smiled briefly, and it was tinged with sadness. “It probably shouldn’t be. Forget I said anything. I don’t like competition, and I think your lady friend is more than you admit. I’m glad for you.”

  “She’s not. At all. Don’t you agree that moving beyond friendship would ruin the friendship?”

  “I do, actually, which is why I ask you to forget my brief indiscretion.” She took a bite of ham. “Oh, this is divine.”

  And that, Marcus knew, was the end of the conversation. He breathed an inward sigh of relief. Yes, moving beyond friendship would be awkward. Especially when things ended, as they would inevitably do.

  Which was why he couldn’t ever think of Phoebe as more than a friend. He’d be grateful for their flirtation and nothing more.

  Chapter 7

  “This is an absolute crush,” Graham said with a tone of disbelief.

  Marcus grinned at the throng of people in the ballroom. They spilled out through the doors leading to the brick patio and the garden beyond, where large torches flamed at intervals. Not that everything was brightly lit—Marcus had ensured there were plenty of places for private interludes. “Of course it is. Everyone wanted to come to Brixton Park.” He recognized people here whom he hadn’t seen socially in years.

  The only problem with so many attendees was that Marcus had yet to find Phoebe. She’d taken their wager quite seriously, so he’d expected difficulty. Except he was also beginning to grow frustrated.

  “Thank you,” Graham said. “Arabella is absolutely delighted. This was an exceptional gift.”

  “It’s my pleasure. Your ancestor designed this estate to be enjoyed, so it should be, especially with you as the host. Someday, you’re going to buy it back from me.”

  Graham chuckled. “Yes, and for a reasonable sum, not the ridiculously low price you offered it to me for.”

  Marcus shrugged. “The offer stands. When are you heading to the country?”

  “Thursday. We will take a meandering journey to Huntwell.”

  “As you should. Enjoy your newly wedded bliss.”

  “I intend to.” Graham grinned, and his gaze found his bride. Adorned with a swan mask, she was easy to spot, which Marcus had done all night in the hope that Phoebe would speak with her. However, no one Arabella had spoken with had resembled his quarry.

  Suddenly, a brunette walked up to the duchess. Marcus’s pulse quickened, then tempered. She was perhaps a little too short.

  “Ripley?”

  Marcus realized Graham was speaking to him, and he’d missed it entirely. “Sorry, what was that?” He didn’t entirely pull his attention from Graham’s wife and the mystery woman she was talking to.

  “I wondered if you’d made any progress with Drobbit.”

  “Sadly, no. It’s a growing frustration. I’ve enlisted additional help in searching for him, however. Hopefully, s
omething will turn up this week.” Marcus thought of Mrs. Alban and their dinner the other night. After their brief period of uncomfortable conversation, the evening had progressed as it normally did, with humor and camaraderie.

  With one marked difference: Marcus kept finding himself comparing her to Phoebe and the time he spent with her. While he enjoyed Mrs. Alban’s company, he didn’t think about when he would see her next. He certainly didn’t pine for that moment. Which was precisely what he was doing now. He was positively consumed with finding Phoebe, and it wasn’t just so he could win the bloody wager.

  The woman with the dark hair speaking with Arabella pivoted, and Marcus could finally see that she wasn’t Phoebe. Blast.

  Her hair. She must have changed her hair after what he’d told her. He should perhaps look for a blonde woman.

  Parting from Graham, Marcus went on a meticulous circuit of the room, taking his time to look closely at every woman with light hair that he encountered, including those wearing powdered wigs, of which there were several. People studied him, clearly trying to determine his identity and finding it difficult. Good, that meant his elaborate golden eagle mask, which he’d designed to cover as much of his head as possible, was effective.

  Anthony stood near the doorway to the gaming room, a glass of wine in his hand. From the dilation of his eyes and his too-easy laugh, Marcus deduced he was already drunk.

  Marcus paused in his search and sidled close to his friend. “Having a good time, I see.”

  “That is you. I wasn’t sure. And yes, I’m having a marvelous time,” Anthony said. “It’s a hell of a party.”

  “Just remember this isn’t our usual venue. Try to behave.” Marcus clapped Anthony’s shoulder before catching sight of pale blonde hair.

  Moving after the woman, Marcus increased his pace. He caught up to her near the doors to the patio where she turned. A simple ivory mask decorated with pink and orange flowers adorned her face. He knew from the mask and the young woman’s mouth that it was Miss Jane Pemberton. He quashed his disappointment.

  On the other hand, perhaps there was no reason to be dismayed. Miss Pemberton was, in fact, Phoebe’s closest friend…