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

by Sabrina Jeffries

  “Oh,” she said, slightly mollified. “Well, it is. My mother was an actress, you know.”

  “Have you ever done any acting yourself?”

  She colored. “No, but I know all the techniques. I spent years helping Maman prepare for her roles.”

  And she’d always wanted to be an agent for Vidocq, to pretend to be someone else while traveling to exotic places and infiltrating the highest and lowest levels of society. To be a spy. It sounded very exciting.

  He was watching her now, his gaze hooded. “All the same, no one will ever believe that you and I are brother and sister. We sound too different, look too different.” His voice dropped to a rough thrum. “And I can assure you, I will never be able to treat you like a sister.”

  That got her dander up again. “Because I’m too far beneath you?”

  “Because you’re too beautiful.” When she stiffened, he added ruefully, “I can’t pretend I don’t notice. And the last time I checked, brothers weren’t supposed to notice such things about their sisters.”

  The bald statement threw her off guard and made a stealthy warmth creep under her defenses. She steeled herself against it. He was probably using flattery to try to get his own way, since blustering hadn’t worked. Obviously he thought she would melt at the idea of being thought beautiful by a duke. Then she would relent in her plans.

  Arrogant beast. “It doesn’t matter if people believe it. As long as they don’t know who we really are, they can speculate all they want. We are two relatively anonymous travelers. No one will ever connect the real me to the real you. Hardly anyone knows me anyway. I only returned to England six months ago.”

  He cocked his head to one side. “Yet you backed out of the doorway to keep your neighbors from seeing you speaking to me in your night rail and wrapper.”

  A blush heated her cheeks. “That’s different. I can’t have my neighbors gossiping about me, because it would reflect badly on Manton’s Investigations.”

  “Exactly,” he drawled.

  “But my neighbors won’t be taking the coach to Brighton or the packet boat to Dieppe. As long as I don’t join you in your coach to travel to the Golden Cross Inn, no one will be the wiser. We’ll arrive there separately and let Shaw deal with my neighbors. He’s good at telling tales. He actually is a professional actor.”

  “Your butler is an actor?” he said incredulously.

  “Well, he’s not exactly a butler, more like a jack of all trades. But he’s an excellent actor. So you see, there’s nothing to worry about.”

  “Right.” He lifted his gaze heavenward. “Just the possibility of disaster when either you or I let something slip that unmasks us.”

  “Come now, Your Grace, think of it as an adventure,” she said firmly. He was not going to talk her out of this. “It sounds as if you could use one, quite frankly.”

  He shot her an arch glance.

  “The coach from the Golden Cross will land us at the coast well before midnight,” she continued, “and we can be up at dawn to take the packet for Dieppe.”

  “Can we indeed?” he said dryly.

  She ignored him, determined to have her way in this. “I know that leaving at two allows us only a few hours to pack, but you won’t want to take much with you anyway—just Dom’s clothes and a few essentials. Nothing fancy that will call attention to yourself. And no big trunk, either—public coaches don’t have room for such.” She walked to the window. “You mustn’t show up at the inn in your coach either, or—”

  “You’re forgetting one thing, Miss Bonnaud.”

  She turned from the window to find him standing with legs apart and hands clasped behind his back, looking every inch a duke as he fixed her with a steely glance.

  “And what is that?” she asked, feigning nonchalance.

  “I haven’t yet agreed to your plan.”

  She girded herself for battle, ignoring the tremor of alarm that swept down her spine. “But neither have you suggested any other workable plan that I will agree to. So unless you can read my mind for the information you seek, you will have to work with me. Or let the matter of your brother’s handkerchief remain an intriguing mystery.”

  He scowled at her. She stared right back at him.

  At last he let out a low oath. “Given that time is of the essence, you leave me no choice.”

  “None,” she agreed. She’d actually won!

  She headed for the door, now that the worst was over. “I’ll see what clothes Dom might have that would fit you—”

  “I’ll find my own clothes,” he interrupted. “I’m sure one of my servants can provide attire different enough from my ‘usual finery’ to suit you.”

  “Oh.” How could she have forgotten that he would have legions of servants to order about and borrow clothes from? “Of course.”

  They walked out into the hall and down the stairs in utter silence. When they reached the entrance, where Skrimshaw already had the duke’s greatcoat and hat waiting, Lyons faced her with eyes glittering.

  “Forgive me for being blunt, Miss Bonnaud,” he said irritably, “but I think you should know that the reason you’ve remained unmarried until now isn’t your age or lack of connections or even your illegitimacy. It is the fact that you are a royal pain in the—” He caught himself as Skrimshaw cleared his throat. “In the derriere.”

  She burst into laughter. “Dom said exactly the same thing to me before he left yesterday, except that he used the more colorful version. It appears that you can play the role of my brother after all. Obviously it comes naturally to you.”

  The duke must have missed the humor in that, for he glowered at her. “Then it’s a good thing I never had a sister. Because I would have throttled her before she was even grown.”

  The statement was so similar to something her brothers might have said that she couldn’t resent it.

  “You wouldn’t have done any such thing,” she said softly. “You would have fought to protect her with every ounce of your strength, the same way I’m fighting to protect my brother.”

  He studied her with eyes the color of a summer forest. “Then for your sake, I hope that Bonnaud proves worthy of your faith in him.”

  “He will.” He’d better, in any case. Or she would throttle him.

  “Very well, then. It seems we have a plan.” Taking his coat and hat from Skrimshaw, he dipped his head. “I shall see you in a few hours at the Golden Cross.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Once Lyons walked out the front door, Skrimshaw came to stand beside her as she watched the duke get into his coach. “Are you sure about that?” Skrimshaw murmured.

  “About what? That I’ll be there?”

  “That Mr. Bonnaud is worthy of your faith in him. ‘There is a method in man’s wickedness, / It grows up by degrees.’ And it sounds as if your brother is edging a trifle too close to criminal behavior this time.”

  “Tristan isn’t wicked or a criminal, and besides—” She scowled. “Wait, were you eavesdropping on my conversation with the duke? That’s very rude.”

  “Is it? Half of the plays in the world contain eavesdropping. I assumed it was a common practice.”

  She eyed him askance. “You assumed no such thing, you sly dog. You’re well aware of the bounds of propriety when you want to be.”

  Skrimshaw stared earnestly at her. “Yes, which is why I know you are tempting fate with this wild scheme. His Grace is right about that.”

  Swallowing her apprehension, she turned for the stairs. “I have no choice. I have to make sure Tristan is all right, and I see no other way to do so.”

  He fell into step behind her. “You could write to Mr. Manton in Scotland and let him handle the matter.”

  “And how would that get rid of the duke?”

  “You could tell him what he wants to know.”

  “So he can rage over to Paris to ruin Tristan’s future with the Sûreté? Not on your life.”

  “You assume that disaster will ensue if His
Grace goes off without you, but perhaps he will find Mr. Bonnaud and discover that your brother has indeed located his brother.”

  She paused on the landing to glance at him. “I doubt that. I’m sure Tristan has merely leapt to a conclusion that won’t bear up under the facts. A duke’s long-lost elder brother appears out of nowhere to claim the dukedom? It’s like something out of a play.”

  “As You Like It comes to mind.”

  “Exactly. Which is why I have to be there when Lyons discovers the truth, whatever it is.” She continued up the stairs. “Someone has to ensure he doesn’t make Tristan bear the brunt of his anger.”

  “Mr. Bonnaud is a grown man, you know. He can take care of himself.”

  She snorted. “No man can take care of himself entirely. I should never have left him alone in France.”

  They climbed in silence a few moments before Skrimshaw ventured another remark. “Perhaps that is the real reason you wish to embark on this mad journey. Because you miss your home, and you’re seizing your chance to return.”

  Halting at the top of the stairs, she considered that possibility. “Perhaps. I do miss Paris sometimes . . . the people, the food, the art.” She headed down the hall. “But I like London, too. That’s the trouble—in a perfect world, I would visit both regularly . . . and Venice and New York and even Timbuktu.” A long sigh escaped her. “But it isn’t a perfect world, is it?”

  “No.” He stayed her with one hand. “Which is why you shouldn’t be going off with a stranger. You don’t even know the man, yet you mean to travel with him?”

  “We’ll be crowded into coaches and packets with several other people, for pity’s sake. What can he do? And as sister and brother, we’ll have separate rooms at any lodging, so I needn’t worry.”

  Skrimshaw narrowed a particularly stern gaze on her. “You told the man you’d play his mistress if that’s what it took.”

  Lord, he really had heard everything, hadn’t he? “All right, I’ll admit that was foolish of me, but I was trying to make a point. And I didn’t mean I would actually be his mistress. He knew that.”

  “Did he?” Skrimshaw sounded skeptical. “Take care, miss. You’re letting the gentleman’s high rank, fine attire, and subtle flatteries sway your good judgment. ‘All that glisters is not gold.’ ”

  “I realize that. Still, do you think I learned nothing from Maman? I know how easy it is to fall under such a man’s spell—and how dangerous. I’m well shielded against such nonsense. You’re worrying over nothing. It will be fine.”

  “I daresay Mr. Manton would think otherwise if he were here.”

  “Ah, but he’s not here,” she said with a wave of her hand. “And why do you care what he thinks? With me gone, you can begin rehearsing the part of Diggory in She Stoops to Conquer. It might lead to greater things.”

  He eyed her askance. “Yes, like being turned off for allowing you to travel with the Duke of Lyons on some wild expedition to France.”

  “What a bag of moonshine. Dom would never turn you off.” When he still looked nervous, she added, “I won’t let him—I swear it.”

  “And what am I to tell people if they ask where you have gone?”

  “Tell them I went with Dom.” She steadied her shoulders. “I know what I’m doing. Go enjoy being in your play, and don’t fret over me.” She headed for her room. “But first, fetch Mrs. Biddle to come help me pack.”

  Still, as she prepared for the journey, she wondered if Skrimshaw was right. Was she letting the duke’s high station and wealth tempt her into trusting him? Or worse yet, his flatteries?

  Because you’re too beautiful. I can’t pretend I don’t notice.

  That same dratted fluttering arose in her belly. The man certainly knew how to give a compliment. It had seemed devoid of pretense and winking insinuation.

  But that didn’t mean it was real. How could it be? She wasn’t the fragile, wilting flower that every fine gentleman wanted. Even Papa had called her his wild filly, and if she knew one thing about the English, it was that they didn’t like wild women. The duke had made that abundantly clear when he’d called her a pain in the “derriere.”

  That brought a smile to her lips. How ludicrous that Skrimshaw was worried about him—why, the duke couldn’t even bring himself to say the word arse to her. Once he’d determined that she wasn’t a loose woman, he’d been the soul of propriety.

  Except for that moment when she’d proposed that she play his mistress.

  Remembering how boldly his eyes had raked her, she caught her breath. Perhaps “soul of propriety” wasn’t the best description of him, either. He was an enigma, one she wished to unwrap.

  She frowned. No, certainly not. Men like Lofty Lyons were more trouble than they were worth. And she didn’t need that kind of trouble. She was finally making inroads with Dom; one day soon he might actually let her investigate a case, or at least do some of the important parts.

  That was what she’d dreamed of all these years—being in control of her own life, being able to pull her own weight instead of having to depend on feckless men. Taking up with a duke would not help her plans.

  So she had to keep a distance between herself and Lyons. She had to ignore his compliments and the absurd attraction she felt for the man. This was a matter of saving Tristan’s future. That was all.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  A FEW HOURS later, when she arrived at the Golden Cross Inn with her bag, she had to remind herself of that. Because the haughty duke had once more defied her expectations.

  Dressing in lower-class attire ought to have made him look ordinary and workaday, dulling his virile appeal. Instead, it amplified it. With his greatcoat slung casually over one shoulder, he looked like a rakish adventurer out to conquer the world.

  And she had a decided weakness for rakish adventurers.

  Drat it all. She couldn’t blame his clothes; the fustian suit was what any merchant might wear—a medium-brown coat, buff breeches, and a dark brown stock tied simply about his neck.

  But the soft brown color brought out the warm green of his eyes. And his brown leather high boots, with their creases and weathering, made him look rough and daring, a man to be reckoned with. Worse yet, the bold features and unfashionably straight, gold-streaked hair that had seemed wrong for a rich lord were perfect for an adventurer in fustian.

  Then he spoke, and the duke returned in full force, arrogant accent and all. “There you are. I thought that you had forgotten what time the coach left.”

  She forced a smile as she approached. “It took me forever to get packed.” Mindful of the people milling about the coach office, she added, “Were there any more notes waiting for you at home from . . . our brother?”

  His expression hardened. “No. No word of any kind.”

  She released a sigh. Part of her had hoped that Tristan had just been delayed somewhere and would have tried to reach the duke again. But it had been over twelve hours since Tristan had first sent that note. It wasn’t looking good.

  Feeling a sudden chill down her spine, she glanced about the coach office, but nobody seemed to be paying them much mind. She’d had the oddest sense that someone was watching them, but it must have been her imagination, spurred by her worry about Tristan. “I suppose you’ve purchased our tickets already.”

  “Of course. Did you bring your passport?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Give it to me. I’ll need it to book passage aboard the packet boat.”

  She handed it over and watched as he shoved it into his coat pocket. “Where’s your bag?”

  “Already loaded.”

  “Then I should—”

  “Miss Bonnaud!” cried a voice behind her. “I can’t believe you’re here!”

  Her heart sank into her stomach as she turned to see Mrs. Greasley, one of her neighbors, bustling toward her with her stoic husband in tow. Oh no. The biggest gossip in her street just happened to show up at an inn halfway across London? What were the odds?
/>   “Going on the coach, are you?” Mrs. Greasley continued as she caught sight of Lisette’s bag.

  Steady now, Lisette told herself. If she asks who’s accompanying you, all you need do is claim that Dom is running late. Lots of coaches left from the Golden Cross Inn, and the woman might not even be here to travel on one.

  “Good day, Mrs. Greasley,” she said smoothly. “Fancy seeing you here.”

  “We’re off to Brighton to visit our daughter,” Mrs. Greasley said cheerily. “I suppose you’re off to Brighton, too, eh?”

  Lisette froze. This couldn’t be happening. How was she to play Miss Cale if the Greasleys were in the coach with them all the way to Brighton? “I—I—”

  But Mrs. Greasley didn’t seem to require an answer, for she went on without pause: “I spoke to the coachman, and he said he had a gentleman and a lady booked for the inside seats with us, but I never dreamed it were you and your half brother.” She glanced about the inn. “Where is Mr. Manton, anyhow? The coach will be leaving soon, our driver said.”

  Panic seized her. She couldn’t be Miss Cale, and Mrs. Greasley knew that she had no other brothers, so she couldn’t claim that the duke was another Mr. Manton or Mr. Bonnaud or—

  “I’m afraid the cat has got her tongue,” Lyons said smoothly beside her. “You’ll have to forgive her—it’s been a busy week.” He bowed to Mrs. Greasley. “The lady is going with me to Brighton.”

  “You!” Astonishment mingled with outrage in Mrs. Greasley’s voice.

  “Yes. Allow me to introduce myself. Max Cale, at your service.” As Lisette’s panic grew to a fever pitch, he took her hand and placed it firmly in the crook of his arm. “I am Miss Bonnaud’s new husband.”

  4

  MAXIMILIAN COULD FEEL Miss Bonnaud’s fingers digging into his arm, but he ignored them. It was her fault they were in this ridiculous situation. She was the one who’d dreamed up this idiotic plan and was now reduced to a blithering fool at the first obstacle.

  But my neighbors won’t be taking the coach to Brighton.

  Naïve female. He’d known this wouldn’t work from the beginning, but she’d jammed him between a rock and a hard place with her refusal to tell him where Bonnaud was, so he’d had no choice.