The Duke's Dilemma (The Wolf Deceivers Series Book 2)

by Elaine Manders

  Edward nodded to a table in the corner. “Who is that man in black riding dress with Lord Werford?” Edward knew who he was but wondered if Charles would volunteer any information.

  Charles craned his neck to get a better look. “That’s Sir Harcrumb. He owns the merchant fleet I engaged. Do you wish me to introduce you?”

  “No, I have no need of his business—just interested. It occurred to me that you’d mentioned Sir Harcrumb at our tea the other day when Lady Wayte took ill.”

  “I believe you’re right. She probably knows of him. He didn’t get on with Lord Wayte at all.” He lowered his voice. “Lord Wayte accused Harcrumb of running brothels all over London.”

  “Lady Wayte received news that one of her former employees drowned yesterday. I dug into the matter a bit this morning and discovered the young woman fell from Harcrumb’s ship.”

  They both looked back at Harcrumb’s table. He had thrown back his head and was laughing uproariously. “He doesn’t seem perturbed,” Charles said. “Do you think he’s responsible?”

  “The death was ruled a suicide.” Edward drained his mug. “But I wonder what Lady Wayte thinks.”

  “And you intend to find out.”

  Edward sent another darkened gaze toward Harcrumb. “I do.”

  He’d developed a sixth sense about danger during the war, as well as a keen perception of whom to trust. “And I need your help.”

  Chapter 7

  The next afternoon Sarah burst into Edward’s study. Her eyes flashed with enough excitement to make him drop his quill. “Lady Wayte is ready to sketch your portrait.”

  Lady Wayte’s voice carried from the other room. “There’s no hurry, Sarah. We have plenty of time.”

  Sarah sent him a pathetic look. “I’ve almost finished the primroses. Lady Wayte can do the sketch while I’m in the garden, if you’re willing to pose.” She leaned over the desk. “You don’t have anything more pressing at the moment, do you Edward? This portrait is the desire of my heart.”

  Edward glanced at the report he’d been writing. Nothing more important than the fate of the country. “Of course I’ll pose, if Lady Wayte is ready.” He got to his feet and followed Sarah. This would give him a chance to speak to the lady in private. She might give up her secrets.

  Lady Wayte sat behind the easel, examining her pencils. As he approached, she glanced at him from under those incredibly long lashes. “I hope we didn’t take you away from something important.”

  He took the stool Sarah scooted behind him. “Only a boring bill that hopes to insure a lasting peace with France. Since we’ve been waiting for peace at least a dozen years, a few more minutes shouldn’t matter.”

  She laughed that lighthearted sound he wished to hear more often. “I don’t envy you legislators. I recall the aggravation Lord Wayte went through whenever a bill was being debated.”

  “Did he discuss such things with you?”

  “Indeed. I heard those great orations before anyone else.”

  This surprised him. He’d never heard of men trying out their speeches on their wives, though it sounded like a good idea. “Did you enjoy that?”

  “Very much…though by the fifth or sixth recitation, I would have been convinced by anything he said.”

  Edward chuckled. “Sarah, shouldn’t you finish your primroses.”

  “I shall.” Sarah hoisted the satchel that contained her painting supplies, and slipped Cassandra a sly grin before skipping out the door.

  Cassandra poised her pencil over the canvas and peered at Edward. Her gaze traveled from the top of his head to his lap and back without making eye contact. Her lips parted in her concentration, and he couldn’t help wondering what it would be like to kiss them.

  He smiled.

  “Your grace, it would be better if you didn’t smile. A duke should hold a serious pose, I should think.”

  He tried in vain to pull his mouth into a firm line. The harder he tried, the more his lips twitched. “I agree I should be serious, but would it be permissible to speak?”

  “Of course.” Her attention dropped to the easel, and soft scratching sounds of graphite to canvas commenced.

  Now was the time to question her about Lucy, but the temptation to tease her overcame that purpose. “Am I serious enough now?”

  She didn’t lift her gaze. “It matters not. I have the pose firmly in mind.”

  He grinned and reached over to retrieve an apple from Sarah’s still life composition. Placing it atop his head, he managed to speak in a solemn tone. “Perhaps you should check to make certain. I shouldn’t want to ruin Sarah’s portrait.”

  She glanced up, her eyes widening for a second before she burst into laughter—delightful peals of gaiety. When he joined in with a chortle of his own, the apple fell. As he swooped to catch it, the apple went further out of reach. He stretched, losing balance and fell off the stool onto his rear in a most ridiculous manner.

  Cassandra laughed until she was holding her sides. “Oh Edward, if the lords of the chamber should see you now.” She didn’t even notice using his name. “Who are you? William Tell?”

  He sprang to his feet, wishing it was possible to keep that lighthearted tilt in her voice. “I believe William Tell was the one shooting the apple off his son’s head.”

  Her giggle was spontaneous and carefree. “You’d be in a sorry state if I should attempt to shoot the apple from your head. I was atrocious at archery.”

  Each time she attempted to look at him seriously, another giggle burst forth, and each time, that forced another chuckle from him.

  “Ah, hum.” Aunt Chloe stood in the doorway. Edward frowned. How long had she been present?

  He raised his brows in a question, and Aunt Chloe came forward with a rustle of taffeta. “Edward, may I have a word with you? Alone? It’s quite important.”

  “Is it necessary at this moment? We’ve just begun, and Sarah expects the sketch to be fin—”

  “It’s quite all right,” Cassandra said. “We can work on the sketch another time. I’ll go help Sarah with her primroses.”

  Without waiting for an answer, she swept past Aunt Chloe and was gone before he could stop her.

  His scowl deepened as he stared at Aunt Chloe, whose frown matched his. She chose a velvet-turfed wing chair and fluffed her skirts as she lowered her plump bulk onto the seat, much as a bird settles in its nest. “Edward, you’re in a fair way of falling in love with that woman.”

  Irritation rose inside him like steam from a tea kettle. He crossed his arms. “Aunt Chloe, I ask that you never refer to Lady Wayte as ‘that woman’ again. She is a lady of the realm and a guest in my home.” He wouldn’t even address the accusation of ‘falling in love.’

  “Very well then, you’re infatuated with Lady Wayte, and I believe I know why.” Wrinkles deepened around Aunt Chloe’s mouth as her lips stretched into something between a smile and a frown. “She resembles your dear mother in ways. Her hair is the same shade of blonde, though her eyes are a darker blue.”

  While that might be the reason Sarah admired Cassandra, there was nothing motherly about the sentiments the lady evoked in him. “It’s true that Lady Wayte reminds me of Mother, but not because of anything physical. Their characters hold similarities, like kindness and generosity.”

  “Dear Magdalene was an inspiration to us all. How I miss her still.” Aunt Chloe sniffed. “But you can’t seriously compare her to that—Lady Wayte.”

  “I do. It’s a determined spirit, a tenderness of heart.” Emotions rose in his throat at the memory of his mother, and he forced them down.

  He had to make Aunt Chloe understand those rumors about Lady Wayte were wrong. “I’ve made some discrete inquiries and discovered that Lady Wayte gives financial support to those actresses she receives. She’s befriended them only to save them from having to accept the sponsorship of men who expect more than a well-performed play.”

  He silenced Aunt Chloe for the moment and pressed on with more conf
idence. “Mother always said that when we judge people, we more often misjudge them.”

  Aunt Chloe was a sensible woman. She’d come around in time, but she wasn’t ready to give up this argument. Shifting in her chair, she shrugged. “Even if Lady Wayte wished to patronize those actresses to save them, as you say, she didn’t have to join in their behavior. She should have been discrete.”

  “Perhaps she didn’t know how. It’s true she offered them her house to hold parties, but she never participated. That famous incident written up in the Gazette was misconstrued. Lady Wayte was upstairs attending Lady Hayes when that party caused a riot. The noise drew her attention, and when she discovered a drunken brawl was occurring, she ordered everyone off the property.”

  He leaned forward with hands gripping his knees. If he couldn’t win an argument with his fussy aunt, how could he hope to sway members of parliament? He sent her the most disarming gaze he could muster. “When Lord Dunfear refused to leave, she pushed him into the goldfish pond.” That image made him chuckled under his breath.

  Aunt Chloe’s shoulders slumped as she picked at the embroidery of her sleeve. “I never had the godly sensitivity your mother possessed, but I’ve tried to do my best for you and Sarah.”

  Tears glistened in Aunt Chloe’s eyes. He hadn’t meant to wound her. Without her help, he couldn’t hope to help Lady Wayte reenter society. Like most men, a column of soldiers didn’t bother him as much as a woman’s tears, so he went to her and squatted beside her chair.

  He took her plump hand. “You have helped us enormously. No one could take Mother’s place, but you’ve been the best substitute anyone could be. Why, the most faithful of hounds could take lessons from you.”

  She gave him a wavering smile. “Oh, Edward, I’m afraid.”

  “Afraid of what?”

  “You are but twenty-six years of age—a very young man, and with enormous responsibilities. A mistake at this point could haunt you for the rest of your life.” She stretched forward to place an affectionate kiss on his cheek. “Lady Wayte may be perfectly innocent, but her reputation is tarnished, nonetheless. I fear you’re in love with this…lady, and if you marry her, what will it do to your reputation?”

  Edward dropped her hand and stood. “Your fear is unfounded. I’ve given no thought to marrying her.” That wasn’t exactly true. He’d considered that possibility a time or two, but Aunt Chloe was right. Marriage to Lady Wayte would create a tempest, the topic of conversation at every gathering from taverns to churches for years.

  “What about Daphne?”

  “I don’t believe Daphne and I are suited to each other, and there are other men who are interested in her, as she’d find out if she stopped pursuing me.”

  “But what if she loves only you?”

  Edward clutched at his patience. “Aunt Chloe, we both know Daphne only cares for my title. She doesn’t wish to marry down, but if you stop entertaining her, she’d settle for a lesser title.”

  “That entertaining, as you put it, will end soon. I’ve persuaded Lady Hayes to accompany me to Bath. I’ve no real desire to go, but I believe she’ll benefit from the waters. The dear lady is doing so poorly, I fear she may not endure until the end of the year. I hope you can manage Sarah without me.”

  This was welcome news, and he couldn’t withhold the enthusiasm from his voice. “Go with my blessings. I’ve been considering retiring Miss Bates and bringing in a more qualified governess for Sarah. I hope to hire a tutor as well. I won’t have her education neglected.”

  With a labored puff, Aunt Chloe rose and sent him a sincere smile. “That makes sense, as she’ll likely have an important household of her own to manage someday. But Edward dear, please take as much care in selecting a wife as you will in hiring staff.” She smoothed her skirt and turned to take her leave.

  After Aunt Chloe left, Edward paced back and forth in front of the window. From the left side he could just see Cassandra and Sarah in the garden. The opportunity for a private moment with his mysterious neighbor had evaporated along with the morning fog. He turned from the window and hastened across the floor.

  Instead of questioning her personally, he’d get Viscount Galloway to follow her—hire Bow Street Runners, if necessary. Maybe that was underhanded, but he had to know the truth before becoming more involved.

  He’d promised to take Cassandra and Sarah to the modiste tomorrow. A public place. That would occasion talk. Well, let it. It was time to find out what the Ton thought of his association with Lady Wayte.

  ***

  The next day blazed with sunshine cooled by a crisp breeze. They couldn’t have ordered better weather for shopping.

  The duke’s smart phaeton stopped in front of Madam LeCleir’s shop huddled in the center of Mayfair. She’d moved from Cheapside several years ago and catered mainly to the wealthy nobility.

  Cassandra wished the duke had chosen a carriage instead of the phaeton, but she understood he enjoyed driving his matched chestnuts. She sat on the high seat beside Edward with Sarah on the other side. The traffic was heavy at this time of day, and they were visible to all the gawkers.

  Edward seemed not to notice—or care.

  He set the brake and handed the ribbons to his groom before jumping off, first lifting Sarah to the ground, then offering his hand to Cassandra. As they touched, vibrations traveled through the fabric of her glove, forcing her gaze to his eyes. The depth of emotion in those forest green orbs made her look away. She gathered her skirt in the other hand and negotiated the steps, slipping on the last to pitch into his arms.

  “I should have warned you about that last step.” His soft voice in her ear set a shiver racing down her spine.

  Sarah rescued her. “Let’s go.” As the girl tugged her by the hand, Cassandra sent a smile over her shoulder to the duke, wondering why he’d decided to accompany them. Did he not trust her with Sarah? What man truly cared about his sister’s clothing?

  Madam LeCleir came from behind the counter piled high with fabrics and notions. The smell of cloth and dyes tickled the nose, and Cassandra fought a sneeze as she acknowledged Madam’s curtsey.

  She explained their requirements, and Madam turned her attention to Sarah. “I have several samples that will please the little lady.”

  Madam LeCleir was born an Englishwoman, a commoner, who’d married a French aristocrat. They’d fled from France during the Reign of Terror.

  She’d escaped. He hadn’t. If Madam could survive such atrocities, Cassandra could defeat Sir Harcrumb.

  Cassandra and Sarah followed Madam to a back room where rows upon rows of colorful gowns hung on racks. The modiste flitted from one to the other rack, sliding garments back and forth until she’d selected three of the smallest gowns.

  “The white muslins are all very jeune fille, but I think Lady Sarah needs a touch of color.”

  Madam held up a petite gown in orange blossom crepe with tiny puff sleeves of gauze and silver thread. “It’s lovely.” Cassandra fingered the priceless lace that trimmed the bodice. “But a bit too elaborate for an afternoon party, and I’d forgotten until this moment, but Lady Sarah is still in half mourning.”

  “No I’m not. Mama never liked wearing black, and Edward said I might have any color I desire.”

  Cassandra shrugged. She’d never cared much for the custom either, though she’d adhered to it during her year of mourning Lord Wayte. “Very well, if your brother approves.”

  The modiste shoved the orange blossom to the back and revealed a fine white muslin accentuated with yellow ruffles. “This one has a charming chip straw hat to match.”

  “It would certainly be suitable.” Cassandra took note of how the ruffles would accent Sarah’s youth.

  “M’lady might prefer this one.” Madam held the final gown before them, a white satin with primroses embroidered on the bodice and hem.

  Cassandra heard Sarah’s intake of breath. Madam smiled. “It has a little confection of primroses and ribbons for a headdress. We
can make it with the ribbons streaming down as is proper for a very young lady.”

  “It’s suitable, is it not, Lady Wayte?” Sarah turned pleading eyes to Cassandra. “Since I’ve been painting primroses, it’s inevitable that my gown have primroses.”

  Madam was already putting the other two gowns back on the rack. “I believe I have some high-heeled slippers that would fit Lady Sarah so the skirt need not be shortened much.”

  The white and yellow muslin would be more acceptable for a child, but Cassandra knew how Sarah felt. She recalled the excitement and wonder of being outfitted when she’d first become Lord Wayte’s ward. Gama had stood nodding her approval as Lord Wayte directed the modiste.

  That moment stood out as the turning point in her life, when she could finally believe the nightmare was over, and she was safe.

  But the beautiful new gowns failed to hide the ugliness inside.

  She remembered Lord Wayte’s reaction when she explained her feelings. He must have sensed the way she felt, and quoted a verse of scripture, as he was prone to do. “Fear not him who can destroy the body, but rather him who can cast both body and soul to hell. You couldn’t prevent what happened physically, Cassandra, but no one can touch your heart unless you’re willing.”

  She had allowed Lord Wayte to touch her heart, and thought no other man could do so, but the duke might, if she allowed it. No—the duke didn’t know the truth, and he must not.

  Cassandra smiled. “I think we’ll take that one and the white and yellow as well, if her brother approves.” He would approve once he saw the joy on Sarah’s face.

  “Come with me, Lady Sarah. You’ll don the primrose so you can show the duke.” Madam took Sarah behind the curtained section.

  Cassandra stayed where she stood beside the cracked door. A swoosh and crick from the other side let her know someone had entered the shop.

  “Your grace, what a surprise.” Millicent Wayte’s tinny voice startled Cassandra. What was Millicent doing in London?

  “Lady Wayte,” the duke’s baritone responded. “It’s a pleasure to see you again. Is Lord Wayte with you?”