The Duke's Men [1] What the Duke Desires

by Sabrina Jeffries

  She glared at him. “Dom began planning this trip to Edinburgh weeks before you received that note from Tristan. I have the letters he received from the client, notes about the information he’s been—”

  “Edinburgh?” Maximilian cut in, as hope of speaking to Manton died. “He’s in Scotland?”

  A sigh escaped her. “I suppose you might as well know. He left by ship yesterday morning.”

  “Confound it all. He has a day’s start, then.”

  “Following him won’t do you any good. He doesn’t know where Tristan is any more than I do. In fact, before he left we were discussing our concern that Tristan hasn’t written for months, which isn’t like him.”

  “Obviously Bonnaud was already planning his trip to England.”

  “I don’t think so. He would have written us about it. Dom and I and Tristan are very close. We have no secrets from each other. Dom would have told me if he’d heard from Tristan.”

  “Unless Dom is part of your brother’s scheme.”

  Anger flared in her face. “He would never be part of any ‘scheme.’ ”

  Maximilian considered that a moment. He had to admit that Manton had an excellent reputation as a man of good character and principles. It was hard to believe he would countenance a fraud, especially one involving a duke.

  Manton’s half brother, however, was another matter entirely. “So your Tristan didn’t tell either of you. That just points to his guilt. He was probably ashamed to admit that he sought to defraud me.”

  She shook her head. “I still say something bad must have happened to him. That is the only logical explanation.”

  Not as far as Maximilian was concerned, but clearly she had blinders on when it came to her brother. “In any case, none of this helps me find him. He didn’t even leave a note with the tavern keeper or inform the messenger boy what to do if he was gone when we arrived. You have to admit that looks suspicious.”

  “Yes. And it’s not like him at all.”

  “Have you no idea of where he would go in London?” he pressed her.

  “I’m telling you—he can’t possibly be in London. Not willingly, anyway.”

  He sifted through his memory. “Then perhaps he went to the family seat. It’s in Yorkshire, is it not?”

  A hard laugh escaped her. “It is indeed, but clearly you know as little about my family as I know about yours. My eldest half brother, George, hates us all, even Dom. Dom stood up to him on our behalf, so George cut him off, too.”

  “Too?”

  Pain slashed over her features. “Because of my father’s negligence in providing for us and because of . . . other things, George was able to cut off all three of us. Why do you think Dom works in such an ungentlemanly profession? Because he has no choice.” A contemptuous edge laced her voice. “I assure you, Yorkshire is the last place Tristan would ever go.”

  Frustrated by her answers, Maximilian drained his cup, then rose to pace again. “The tavern was near the docks. Perhaps he stayed on board a ship. I can go through the manifests of every one that has recently been at port in France.”

  She lifted an eyebrow. “Good luck. Thousands of ships come through the Port of London every year, and that isn’t counting the smaller vessels. You forget that steam packets make the journey daily. If he took one of those, he might already have returned to France, having missed you.”

  Damn it all. “Steam packets don’t travel on Sunday, so perhaps he’s still nearby.”

  “And perhaps he took the coach to Dover or Brighton or Southampton to pick up a packet in those towns tomorrow morning.”

  “So you do think he might have returned to France.”

  She shrugged. “It’s possible he never left France. He could have sent that note from anywhere.”

  “He mentioned the messenger and set up an assignation.”

  “True.” She worried her plump lower lip with her teeth. “Perhaps the note is forged.”

  He narrowed his gaze on her. “You’re grasping at straws, madam.”

  She rose. “I know my brother’s character. He would never coax a duke to meet him unless he had every intention of being there.”

  A curse escaped him. It did bother him that Bonnaud hadn’t come to the town house. A sensible swindler would have come in person, asked for money to bring the impostor to him, and taken what he could get. And if Bonnaud’s purpose had been to get Maximilian off where he could demand money easier, why hadn’t he stayed around?

  He hated to admit it; she was right—this made no sense. But that didn’t mean he would stop looking for the man. He couldn’t, not if there was any chance in blazes that Peter was alive.

  “Then I have no choice. I have to find your brother. I cannot sit here doing nothing in hopes that he seeks me out again. I must have my answers.” He stalked up to the desk. “You mentioned reaching him through his employer—I can use that, too. I’ll travel to France myself to speak to his employer if you will but give me the man’s name and address.”

  She stared him down. “Not on your life.”

  He stiffened. He couldn’t believe it. The impertinent chit was actually refusing to help him! “I don’t think you understand, Miss Bonnaud. I will—”

  “Oh, I understand completely. You mean to go to Tristan’s employer and ruin his reputation by making wild accusations about him, with only a possibly forged letter as proof. I will not allow it.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Tristan has a good position working for the French government, and I’m not sending you off to destroy that over what is probably some misapprehension.”

  “Misapprehension!”

  “But having already been worried about his silence of late, I want to know the truth as much as you. So I will help you find him. Under one condition.”

  He glowered at her. He should have known how this would end. “You want money, I suppose.”

  “Certainly not!” She drew herself up. “I want you to take me with you.”

  3

  IF CIRCUMSTANCES HAD been different, Lisette would have laughed at the look of sheer outrage carving deep lines into the duke’s brow. But much as she would normally enjoy shocking a haughty English lord, this was not about that.

  It was about making sure that Tristan didn’t find himself at the end of a hangman’s noose. Because if he were in London or if the duke made a big to-do over finding him in Paris . . .

  It didn’t bear thinking on.

  No, she had to avoid having the duke speak to the new head of the Sûreté, who would use any excuse to dismiss Tristan. She would talk to Vidocq, who was Tristan’s friend. He might know what this was about.

  But that meant she had to be there. The wily Vidocq would never reveal anything to the duke.

  “You have lost your bloody mind,” Lyons said in a low hiss.

  She squared her shoulders. “I have not. I know how men like you work. You run roughshod over whomever you please, simply because you can. Well, you’re not going to run roughshod over my brother.”

  He glowered at her. “And you won’t stop me from prosecuting him to the fullest extent of the law if I find he has attempted to defraud me.”

  A chill froze her blood. She ignored it. “And I won’t try, either. If he’s guilty of such a horrible thing, I’ll hand you the shackles to secure him, myself.”

  Clearly that caught him by surprise. “Is that a promise?”

  “It is,” she vowed. “But I’m not doing anything until I determine that you have the right culprit.”

  A muscle ticked in his jaw. “How do you propose to do that?”

  “I don’t know,” she said truthfully. “I only know that if I hand you the means to find him and you muck up his life and future in France, I will never forgive myself. He and Dom are my only family. I owe them better, for all the years they’ve looked after me.”

  That seemed to give him pause, thank goodness. He scrubbed one hand over his face, and she realized that he looked quite weary. If he’d been up since yesterda
y morning . . .

  A sudden pang of sympathy made her scowl. Why should she care if he was tired? He was threatening to hunt Tristan down like some common criminal, with nothing more to go on than that note.

  And Tristan’s inexplicable disappearance.

  She suppressed that thought. Tristan couldn’t be guilty of fraud. He could not!

  “What if I swear to treat your brother fairly?” he said.

  She eyed him with suspicion. “Men like you do not—”

  “You know nothing about men like me,” he snapped.

  “I know more than you think.” She thought of George’s determination to destroy Tristan. “Besides, I have connections of my own to the authorities in France. If you attempt to malign Tristan unfairly, I’ll have some recourse. But only if I am there when you do it.”

  The duke prowled before the desk like, well, a lion . . . all tawny hair and muscular brute of the forest. He was a rather frightening fellow in a temper. His words and manner might be cold, but a terrifying anger simmered just beneath the surface, showing only in the wild glint of his eye and the tautness of his jaw.

  So she didn’t wait for more of his protests. “I can be a help to you. I know not only where Tristan lives, but how he works, how to find him, where his haunts are.” And Vidocq still had friends in high places. Not to mention a few in low places who might be useful.

  The duke glared at her. “But you cannot travel alone with me, so I’ll lose precious time finding a chaperone for you.”

  Was he joking, for pity’s sake? “I don’t need a chaperone. No one cares about my reputation. I’m a nobody.”

  “You’re a respectable woman.”

  She snorted. “That’s not what you said earlier.”

  That brought him up short. He stared at her, his gaze unreadable. “That was rude of me, and I apologize.”

  “No need,” she said, though the apology gratified her. She doubted he offered one very often. “I’ve grown used to people making such assumptions through the years. What people think of my mother is bound to reflect upon me.”

  That was why she was so wary of men. Even Tristan’s soldier friends were only interested in dallying with her. Her brothers couldn’t see that; they seemed to believe she could find a husband anywhere if she just tried. She knew better.

  “All the same,” he said earnestly, “I won’t ruin any chance you have for a decent marriage by carrying you off with me unchaperoned to France.”

  A bitter laugh burst from her. “I assure you I have few prospects for a ‘decent marriage.’ I’m nearly twenty-seven. I have no connections or fortune. Not to mention that I’m the daughter of a French actress.”

  “And a viscount.”

  “Who chose not to marry my mother.” When he looked as if he would say more, she added, “If the thought of damaging my reputation truly bothers you, just tell people I’m your relation. Your sister, perhaps.”

  He shot her an incredulous glance. “I’m the Duke of Lyons. Everyone knows I don’t have a sister.”

  “Then choose something else, something they would never know was a falsehood. Tell them I’m your mistress.”

  She regretted the flip statement the moment something hot and fierce and raw flared in his eyes, something distinctly ungentlemanly. It provoked the oddest fluttering in her belly.

  And then it provoked her temper. She braced herself for whatever sly innuendo he was sure to make, about how he would happily take her along as his mistress if she would be his mistress. Or some lecherous comment about her bosom—that one happened a lot.

  Instead, the glint in his eye abruptly vanished, and he flashed her his cool, mocking smile. “As intriguing as that sounds, Miss Bonnaud, that would never work.”

  She eyed him warily. “Why not?”

  “Because you have no idea of the gossip that attends me wherever I go. The moment I announce myself—nay, the moment I arrive in my crested coach—the tongues start wagging. By the end of our first day on the road, whomever we meet will have resolved to find out your name, your family’s name, your rank, and your personal connection to me. In under a week, they will know everything about you, and you will be ruined.”

  Good Lord, he really was concerned about her reputation. How astonishing.

  He strode up to the desk, his gaze hard upon her. “Not to mention that the world will no doubt learn that my brother may be alive, and I will be confronted with even more impostors and defrauders.”

  An idea took form in her mind. “Then don’t announce yourself. Don’t travel in your crested coach. Travel as a regular person. Then you could pretend to be my relation without comment.” She couldn’t resist a mischievous smile. “We’ll be nobodies together, and no one will give a fig for my reputation. Or yours. Or the possibility that your Peter is alive.”

  The words echoed in the still room. He stared blankly at her.

  She hastened to fill the silence. “It will make everything easier. If you masquerade as another of my brothers, there will be no attendants to accommodate, no questions to be answered. We will travel to France, find out what we can, and return without anyone’s being the wiser.”

  “And what about the advantages my rank offers?”

  “What advantages? In France you will still be a foreigner, a lord in a world that recently lopped off the heads of as many lords as it could find.” Her tone turned arch. “You may discover that being an English duke is actually a disadvantage in France, Your Grace. All things considered.”

  She held her breath, waiting for more protests, but to her surprise, he grew thoughtful. “A regular person, eh? I’ve never been one of those, to be sure. That would be novel indeed.” He sounded almost wistful. Then his expression hardened, and he shook his head. “No, it will not work. I’ll be recognized.”

  “Not if you dress and behave appropriately. People notice only what you reveal, and the key is to reveal only what you want them to see.” Not for nothing had she watched Vidocq manage his agents, who moved seamlessly through Paris’s underground, uncovering criminals. “You look about the same height and build as Dom. I can give you some of his clothing, so you aren’t bedecked in your usual finery. If we travel by mail coach to Brighton—”

  “Why Brighton?” he cut in.

  “Because coaches leave frequently for Brighton on Sundays. In fact, there’s one that leaves from the Golden Cross Inn at two. Since we can’t take a steam packet, we can still move forward and be ready tomorrow morning for the packet to Dieppe.”

  “Ah yes, Dieppe shortens the route to Paris by ninety miles,” he said smoothly.

  But she caught the calculating glint in his eye. The sly devil was still trying to figure out where Tristan was. “It shortens the route to Rouen and Dijon, too. And any number of French towns.” She wasn’t about to reveal that they were headed for Paris, not yet. She couldn’t take the chance that Lofty Lyons would abandon her once he knew their eventual destination.

  With a scowl, he crossed his arms over his chest. “You’re really not going to tell me where Bonnaud has been living or who he’s been working for.”

  “No.” She tilted up her chin. “Not unless you take me with you.”

  “I could travel to Edinburgh to find your half brother. No doubt he would tell me where Bonnaud lives and works.”

  “He might. But Edinburgh is only where Dom is disembarking from the ship—he’s traveling on elsewhere in Scotland, and I’m not going to tell you where that is, either. So while you’re rambling about Scotland, I’ll be off to France to warn Tristan that you’re hunting for him, and if you’re right and he’s guilty, he’ll be long gone by the time you reach him.”

  What an idle threat—she couldn’t afford a trip to Dover, much less a trip to France. But he didn’t know that.

  Lyons studied her a long moment, the small crease between his eyes deepening until it mirrored the small crease in his chin. The intensity of his gaze sent tremors of apprehension down her spine.

  Apprehension
, yes. That’s what it was. She knew better than to feel tremors of anything else for an English lord of his consequence. A very attractive, very virile English lord of the highest consequence in the land.

  “So what’s it to be, Your Grace?” she said, as much to remind her of the gulf in their stations as to stop that intrusive stare. “A masquerade? Or are you going alone to search for a needle in a haystack in France?”

  He scowled at her, then propped one hip on the edge of the desk. “I would play your brother,” he said, as if trying the idea on for size.

  “Yes.” She fought to hide her relief from him. At least he was considering her proposal. “We’ll make it simple, which is always best. You can use your real surname, since that will make it easier for you to remember. No one will connect Mr. Cale with the Duke of Lyons, especially since Cale can be spelled so many ways. And I’ll be Miss Cale. It’s probably less conspicuous than my own French name anyway.” She tapped her chin. “Oh, but I’ll want to call you by your Christian name. What would that be?”

  Though that impertinence made him raise an eyebrow, he said, “Maximilian,” in that oh-so-cultured voice of his.

  “That won’t do at all. I’ll call you Max.” At his dark stare, she added wickedly, “To throw off suspicion. ‘Maximilian’ sounds far too lofty a name for plain Mr. Cale, the cotton merchant.”

  “Cotton merchant? You said to keep it simple. What the blazes do I know about cotton?”

  “You don’t need to know anything about it; I know plenty already. Dom had a case once involving that industry. I’ll field any questions you’re asked.”

  “Right. Because that won’t look odd in the least,” he said sarcastically. “Nor will anyone notice that we have different accents. And before you suggest it, no, I cannot change my accent. Unlike you, I’m unaccustomed to playing a role.”

  Was that supposed to be an insult—implying yet again that she and her family were devious? “What do you mean—‘unlike you’? Do you think I play roles routinely?”

  “You must,” he said dryly. “You seem to think it the easiest thing in the world.”