The Duke's Perfect Wife

by Jennifer Ashley

“Who is this Mrs. Whitaker?” Eleanor asked as she rolled the platen to type the address. “And why is Hart sending her…” She turned over the cheque Wilfred had placed facedown on her desk. “One thousand guineas?”

  “His Grace can be generous,” Wilfred said.

  Eleanor stared at him, but Wilfred only bent his head and went back to writing.

  Eleanor had learned that Wilfred was a poor source of information about the Mackenzie family. The man refused to gossip about anything or anyone. This quality was likely why Hart had promoted him from valet to private secretary, but Eleanor found it quite inconvenient. Wilfred was discretion made man.

  Wilfred was a human being some of the time, Eleanor knew. He had a daughter and a granddaughter in Kent and doted on them both. He kept their photos in his desk drawer, bought them chocolates and little gifts, and boasted of their accomplishments to Eleanor, in his quiet way.

  However, Wilfred never spoke about his shady past when he’d been an embezzler; never mentioned a Mrs. Wilfred; and never, ever told tales about Hart. If Wilfred did not want Eleanor to know why Hart was sending one thousand guineas to this Mrs. Whitaker, Wilfred would take the secret to his grave.

  Eleanor gave up, typed the address on the envelope—George Street, near Portman Square—and neatly folded the cheque inside the paper.

  Perhaps Hart had found the source of the photographs. Perhaps he was paying the woman to destroy them or to keep quiet about them, or perhaps to persuade her to send him the rest.

  Or Mrs. Whitaker might have absolutely nothing to do with the photographs.

  Eleanor tucked the cheque into the envelope, closed it, and added the envelope to her stack of finished correspondence.

  The house near Portman Square where Mrs. Whitaker lived was ordinary-looking enough. Eleanor studied it carefully as she strolled past for the third time.

  Eleanor had used the pretense of doing some shopping to journey to Portman Square, timing the outing to coincide with Isabella returning to her own house to argue with the decorators. In order to lend verisimilitude, Eleanor wandered the shops on the square and nearby streets, buying little gifts for the Mackenzie children and their mothers. Maigdlin trailed her, carrying packages.

  Eleanor had seen no activity at all in or around Mrs. Whitaker’s house in the hour or so she’d drifted up and down George Street. No maids cleaning the stoop or footmen walking out to pass the time of day with the maids next door. The blinds remained closed, the door firmly shut.

  In order to linger on the street a little longer, Eleanor started browsing the carts of the street vendors, deciding to buy a present for Cameron’s son Daniel. That Daniel was now eighteen was difficult for Eleanor to swallow. He’d been a wild and unhappy child when Eleanor had first met him, always in some scrape or another, earning Cameron’s wrath. He’d resisted Eleanor’s attempts to be motherly, but he had shown Eleanor his collection of live beetles, which Hart had told her was an honor.

  Daniel had turned out all right, she’d seen, despite growing up in a houseful of Mackenzie bachelors. He was settled at the university in Edinburgh now, and seemed happy enough.

  Eleanor was startled out of thoughts of Daniel by the door of Mrs. Whitaker’s house opening. A footman, a large, beefy lad like Hart’s footmen, came out of it. At the same time a carriage pulled up, and the footman hurried the few steps across the pavement to open the coach’s door.

  Eleanor stepped to a street vendor who sold little cakes and watched as a quick-walking maid emerged from the house, followed by a woman who must be Mrs. Whitaker.

  The lady was not very tall, but she was voluptuous, a trait she did not bother to hide. Even her fur wrap, pulled on against the chill, was draped to show off her large bosom. She painted—she had deeply rouged cheeks and red lip color—and the hair under her highly fashionable hat was very black.

  Mrs. Whitaker adjusted her skintight leather gloves, gave her footman a kind enough nod of thanks, and let him hand her into the carriage. Eleanor stared openly as the carriage moved off, bearing mistress and maid. The footman, looking neither right nor left, strode back into the house and shut the door.

  “Good heavens,” Eleanor said to the man selling cakes. “Who was that?”

  The vendor glanced at the retreating carriage. “Not the sort of woman I should be talking about to a lady, miss.”

  “Truly?” Eleanor slid a coin to him, and the vendor put a warm, wrapped seedcake into her hand. “Now you do have me curious. Do not worry—I am quite long in the tooth and not easily shocked.”

  “No better than she ought to be, and that’s the truth, miss. And the gentlemen what go in and out at all hours… Some of the highest in the land, would you believe?”

  Yes, Eleanor would believe it. That Mrs. Whitaker was a courtesan did not surprise her in the least. That she was a very successful one showed in her expensive furs, elegant carriage, and high-stepping horses.

  Eleanor hid her dismay by unfolding the paper that wrapped the cake and nibbling a corner. “Gracious,” she said.

  “I do mean the highest,” the vendor said. “The things I could tell you. Princes go in there. And dukes, like that Scots one, what always wears his kilt. Why a man wants to wear a skirt, I couldn’t say. I’d think the cold would go right up his jacksie, wouldn’t you? Oh, begging your pardon, miss. I forget my tongue.”

  “Not at all.” Eleanor smiled at him and took another bite of cake.

  Curiosity certainly killed the cat. Mrs. Whitaker was a courtesan, and Hart Mackenzie had sent her a thousand guineas. For the photographs? Or for the usual reason a gentleman paid a courtesan?

  Well, Hart was a man, his longtime mistress was dead, and gentlemen did have bodily needs. That was a scientific fact. Their gently born wives could neither understand these bodily needs nor were able to endure them, the scientists went on to say, because gently born ladies did not have the same needs.

  Absolute nonsense. Eleanor scoffed at this fiction, and so did her father. The truth was that gentlemen visited courtesans because they enjoyed it. Ladies stayed home and endured their husbands straying because they had no choice.

  Hart had never been a saint, and he was dedicated to no one at the moment. Eleanor should not condemn him.

  And yet. Eleanor’s heart burned, and for a moment, the street blurred. Another conveyance came toward her while she stood unable to move, a dark square in her clouded vision.

  The carriage solidified as it pulled to a stop in front of the house. “Speak of the devil,” the vendor said. “That’s his crest. The Scots duke’s, I mean.”

  Eleanor’s vision cleared. There was no time to run and nowhere to hide. Eleanor scuttled to the nearest lamppost and put her shoulder against it, hiding her face to eat another bite of seedcake.

  She saw square, polished boots stop in front of her, saw the hem of blue and green Mackenzie plaid above them. Her gaze moved from the kilt that hugged his hips to his crisp shirt under his open greatcoat to Hart’s granite face under the brim of his hat.

  Hart said not one word. He’d know perfectly well why Eleanor lurked outside the house of a courtesan called Mrs. Whitaker—he had no need to ask. Eleanor could claim it coincidence that she’d chosen to purchase a seedcake three feet from the woman’s door, but Hart would know better.

  Eleanor met his gaze and refused to feel remorse. After all, she wasn’t the one visiting a courtesan or paying her a thousand guineas.

  They might have stood on the cold street, staring at one another the rest of the day, if the door of the house hadn’t burst open again. The same beefy footman emerged, this time carrying a man out over his shoulder. Hart barely paid any mind as the footman made straight for Hart’s carriage and put the man inside.

  Eleanor’s astonishment mounted as David Fleming came out of the house, looked up at the cloudy sky, put on his hat, and climbed into Hart’s carriage as well.

  Eleanor swung back to Hart, questions on her lips.

  Hart pointed at the carria
ge. “Get in.”

  Eleanor started, and the cake vendor, who’d been watching with evident enjoyment, looked worried. “No need,” Eleanor said to Hart. “I’ll find a hansom. I’ve brought Maigdlin, and I have so many parcels.”

  “Get into the carriage, El, or I’ll strap you to the top of it.”

  Eleanor rolled her eyes and took another bite of seedcake. She waved at Maigdlin, who was at another vendor’s cart a little way down the street. “Come along, Maigdlin. We’re going.”

  The maid, looking relieved, trotted back toward Eleanor and the familiar coach, set down the parcels, and let Mrs. Whitaker’s footman boost her up beside the coachman. The cake vendor watched the proceedings, arrested in the act of lifting another cake off his tiny coal stove.

  “It is quite all right,” Eleanor told the cake seller. “His Grace can’t help being rude.” She turned and made for the carriage. “Hart, give the man a crown for his trouble, won’t you?”

  Chapter 9

  Inside the coach, Eleanor sank onto the seat opposite the two gentlemen already there—David Fleming and an unconscious, white-faced Englishman Eleanor had never seen before.

  “Who is that?” she asked. The footman started handing in her parcels, and Eleanor leaned to tuck them beneath David’s seat. “Excuse me. Could you just push that under? Be careful; it’s breakable.”

  David obeyed, regarding Eleanor with bloodshot eyes. He was in evening dress and smelled strongly of cigar smoke, brandy, perfume, and something else it took Eleanor a moment to identify. It had been a very long time since she’d encountered such a scent, but she soon realized what it was—that of a man who has been with a woman.

  David saw Eleanor’s assessment, grew red in the face, jerked out his flask, and took a long drink.

  “Hart, don’t sit on that,” Eleanor said as Hart hauled himself into the carriage. “It’s for Beth. Could you, please…?”

  Hart growled, took the parcel, and shoved it onto the shelf above the seat. “Couldn’t you have put these in the back?”

  “Good heavens, no. Some of the things are fragile, and I don’t want to give a lucky thief the chance to relieve me of them. Thieves climb onto the backboards and rifle the baggage, you know.”

  “No one robs this coach,” Hart said.

  “There’s always a first time. I spent my week’s wages on these gifts.”

  The carriage jerked forward, David still staring in shock. “Mackenzie, what are you doing? This is Eleanor.”

  “Mr. Fleming is awake,” Eleanor said. “He can recognize ladies he’s known for years.” She studied the other man, who snored against the wall. “Who is he?”

  David kept staring at Hart and didn’t answer. “That is Mr. Neely,” Hart said.

  “Ah,” Eleanor said, understanding. “I see. You sent him to Mrs. Whitaker in return for whatever he promised you.”

  “I need his backing and that of his friends when we go after Gladstone,” Hart said.

  “Hart.” David was anguished.

  “I keep no secrets from Eleanor.”

  No?

  “There is no point,” Hart went on. “As you can see.”

  “Well, if you had let Wilfred tell me why you sent her a thousand guineas, I would not have had to try to find out for myself,” Eleanor said. “Although I did need to do the shopping.”

  “A thousand?” David glanced down at the sleeping man. Mr. Neely looked innocuous, like a clerk or a banker, with well-kept hands. “Then again, he was a lot of trouble.”

  “I assumed he would be,” Hart said.

  “What did he do?” Eleanor asked, her curiosity rising.

  David shot Hart a worried look. “You brought her into the coach to make me look a dissipate rake in front of her, didn’t you?”

  “I already know you are a dissipate rake, Mr. Fleming,” Eleanor said. “You’ve never made a secret of it. He seems very small and fragile. What on earth sort of trouble could he cause?”

  “He refused to leave,” Hart said. “So I was told. How did you finally manage it?” he asked David.

  “The liberal application of whiskey. On top of what he’d already had. Whenever the puritanical decide to indulge themselves, it’s a sight to behold. I doubt he’ll remember much of it.”

  “Good,” Hart said. “I do not need him to have a day of remorse that sends him running back to my rivals. You’ll take care of him?”

  “Yes, yes. Sober him up, lessen the agony as much as I can, tell him he thoroughly enjoyed himself.”

  Eleanor studied Mr. Neely, childlike in his sleep. “You bribed him with a courtesan to obtain his vote,” she said.

  David winced. “Bribe is such an unkind word.”

  “No, she is right,” Hart said. “It was a bribe, El, pure and simple. But I need him, and his friends.”

  He met her gaze without blinking. Hart knew exactly what he’d done and how bad such an action made him, and he’d weighed the consequences of it before he’d done it. The balance had come out on the side of bringing Neely into his fold. Hart had known how to play the man, and he’d played him.

  “You are awful,” Eleanor said.

  “Yes.”

  He was ruthless, driven, and determined to win no matter what it took. The look in his eyes told her that.

  Eleanor glanced at Mr. Neely again. “I suppose his support is terribly important?”

  “It’s twenty more seats behind me.”

  “And you need as many backsides as possible, do you?” Eleanor asked.

  David barked a laugh. Hart kept his gaze on Eleanor, never wavering. He was not asking for her understanding or forgiveness. He was simply showing her what he did and what he was.

  “I do,” he said.

  Eleanor let out her breath. “Well, then. Let us hope the thousand guineas was worth it.”

  Hart descended at Grosvenor Square, telling David to continue to Neely’s home and get the man to bed—and resisted the urge to drag Eleanor into the house. He did tell her he wanted to speak to her in his study, but it took a long time for her to extricate herself and all her parcels from the carriage. David helped her with a look of idiotic surrender. The man was still in love with her.

  Then Eleanor had to instruct Maigdlin and Franklin to take her parcels to her room, told them to split the seedcake she’d bought from the vendor, and at last headed up the stairs.

  Even with all that, Eleanor made it to Hart’s study before he did, because Wilfred waylaid him to sign things. Hart entered to find Eleanor standing in front of the polished Queen Anne cabinet, both doors open, as she gazed at the painting inside.

  Hart came up behind her and closed the doors, shutting out the face of his father. “I locked that.”

  “I know. I found the key in your desk.”

  Hart locked the cabinet again, strode to the desk, and put the key back into its place. “I keep the key here because I don’t want anyone opening the cabinet.”

  She shrugged. “I was curious.”

  “You are avoiding my true question. What possessed you to take a hansom to Portman Square and stand outside Mrs. Whitaker’s?”

  “Why do you keep it?”

  Eleanor had removed her pillbox hat with its veil, and he got the full force of her blue eyes. “Keep what?” he growled.

  “The portrait of your horrible father. Why not put it on the fire?”

  “Édouard Manet painted it. It’s valuable.”

  “Monsieur Manet was one of Mac’s teachers, was he not?”

  Hart had told Eleanor the story long ago. When the old duke had condescended to have his portrait painted while in Paris, Mac had met Manet, and ran away to take lessons with him.

  “Mac can paint something else equally as valuable for you,” Eleanor said. “Get rid of the thing.”

  Hart loved Eleanor’s clear-eyed way of looking at the world. The portrait of his father grated on him, but for some reason Hart kept it, perhaps believing that through it his father would see that Hart had g
rown beyond the scared youth he’d been. Hart wanted the old duke to see that he’d surpassed him, had become something more than a rakehell and a bully. You beat me until I couldn’t stand, but I’ve beaten you, you bastard.

  Eleanor, on the other hand, simply looked at the picture and said, Get rid of the thing.

  “I keep it locked inside the cabinet so I don’t have to look at it,” Hart said. “My great-grandchildren can sell it for a profit.”

  “I hate to think of it in there, haunting you.”

  “It isn’t haunting me. Stop changing the subject and tell me why you went to Mrs. Whitaker’s.”