The Duchess Deal (Girl Meets Duke #1)

by Tessa Dare

  As he strode away, this time he heard no scampering steps in pursuit.

  Thank heaven.

  “You’re right,” Trevor called after him cheerily. “Tomorrow night’s better. I need time to sort out my disguise anyway.”

  Ash tugged down the brim of his hat and groaned.

  If this boy was indicative of the next generation, God save England.

  Emma tripped down to the servants’ hall, intending to request eggs be added to the evening’s dinner menu. To every evening’s dinner menu. Eggs were rumored to increase the chances of conception, weren’t they? Perhaps nothing but superstition, but it wouldn’t hurt to try.

  She stopped just outside the door. The servants seemed to be having some sort of a meeting. Khan stood in front of a large slate—the one usually employed for the day’s menus—with the remainder of the house staff huddled around the servants’ long dining table.

  She was about turn around and come back later. Then the topic of conversation reached her ears.

  “Think hard, all of you,” Khan said. “Swanlea wasn’t enough. We need a new plan.”

  A new plan?

  Emma wasn’t an eavesdropper by nature, but further “plans” involving her marriage seemed good cause for an exception. She tucked herself in the wedge of space between the open door and the wall. From here, she could not only listen, but peek through the gap.

  “Well, it has to be a ball,” Mary said. “Balls are ever so romantic. Surely they’ll receive an invitation to one.”

  “The duke would never accept,” one of the footmen said.

  “Then perhaps we could host a ball here,” she replied. “As a surprise.”

  “Perhaps we could,” said Khan dryly, “if we all wished to be summarily executed.”

  Mary sighed. “Well, whatever we do, we must do it soon. Once Her Grace is with child, it will be too late.”

  A scullery maid hooted with laughter. “That won’t be long, will it? What with them humping like rabbits all over the house.”

  “Not only the house,” a groom said. “The mews, as well.”

  Mary hushed them. “We’re not supposed to let on that we’ve noticed.”

  “Oh, come on. How could we not?”

  Oh, Lord. Behind the door, Emma cringed. How mortifying. Although she supposed it was to be expected. They had polished every stick of furniture in Ashbury House with her hiked petticoats. They weren’t especially quiet, either. Naturally, the servants had noticed. As the groom said, how could they not?

  “Ahem.” Khan tapped his chalk against the slate. “Let’s return to the list, please.”

  The servants burst out with a flurry of suggestions.

  “Set a small fire?”

  “Rig one of the carriage axles to break. Accidentally. In a storm.”

  “Oh! They could go swimming in the Serpentine.”

  Khan refused to even chalk that one on the slate. “It’s nearly December. They’d catch their deaths.”

  “I suppose,” Mary said. “But there’s nothing to encourage affection like a good scare. Perhaps we could make one of them just a little bit sick?”

  “The duke was bedridden for nearly a year,” the butler replied. “That would be cruel. Though perhaps a minor incident . . .”

  The same footman’s hand shot toward the ceiling. “Bees! Hornets! Spiders! Snakes!”

  “Frogs. Locusts. Rivers of blood,” Cook deadpanned. “I believe we’ve covered all the plagues, Moses.”

  Emma wheezed. She clapped both hands to her mouth.

  “She could walk in on the duke while he’s dressing,” Mary suggested.

  All the servants perked up at that one. “Oooh.”

  Khan apparently agreed. “Now that has possibilities.”

  Emma couldn’t remain quiet any longer. She emerged from her hiding place and announced her presence. “That last happened already.”

  The assembled staff leapt to their feet, the blood draining from their faces. For a good half minute, the only sounds were anxious gulping.

  Mary broke the silence. “And . . . ? What was the duke’s response?”

  “The duke’s response was none of your business.”

  The footman piped up. “How do you feel about spider bites?”

  “What I feel is that this needs to stop. All of it. You must all adjust your expectations. There will be no romance. The duke is not falling in love.”

  Emma needed the stern reminder as much as anyone.

  It wouldn’t even matter if he did begin to love her. In the end, they would part. He was resolute on the matter, and she needed to be at Swanlea this winter for Davina’s sake. But before Davina could get permission to visit, Emma must convince the duke to move in society—at least a little bit.

  “I think,” she said quietly, “he needs friends.”

  Khan gave a heavy sigh. “We’re sunk.”

  “They all deserted him,” Mary said. “And the few who didn’t—well, he drove them away. His Grace doesn’t have any friends any longer. Not outside this room.”

  Emma pondered in the ensuing quiet. If it was true that Ashbury’s only remaining friends resided inside this house . . .

  She must convince him to venture outside it.

  Chapter Twenty

  Ash stalked the corridors of Ashbury House. Where the devil was his butler?

  Khan wasn’t in the library. Nor the billiard room, ballroom, sitting room, drawing room, or music room. Though Ash wasn’t certain why he’d even checked the last. It had been established quite painfully last summer that the man couldn’t hold a tune.

  Eventually, Ash found him in the kitchen.

  The pungent fragrance of herbs came from a pot boiling on the hob. Khan sat on a chair, holding a compress to his eye, while Emma cooed and fussed over him.

  Look at her, the picture of tender domestic care. She’d make an excellent mother. He’d suspected as much from the first, but it was reassuring to see with his own eyes. His heir would need a steady, loving presence in his life, and it wasn’t going to be Ash.

  She looked up and noticed him, and her concerned eyes narrowed to knife-blade slits. “You.”

  “What?”

  “You know very well what.” She waved at Khan. “Look at him. His eye’s all blackened and swollen. I know you’re responsible.”

  Oh, she would make a fine disciplinarian, too. Her censure almost made Ash feel guilty, and he never felt ashamed of his actions. Only his appearance.

  “It was only a bit of sparring. And the injury was his fault.”

  “His fault? I suppose he punched himself in the eye.”

  “We were practicing a new combination. Khan was supposed to weave and dodge.” He turned to his butler. “Go on, tell her. You were supposed to dodge.”

  “I was supposed to dodge,” Khan mumbled from behind the compress.

  “See?” As his coolly silent wife went to the stove, Ash continued, “Anyhow, I need him back. He has work to do.”

  Khan set aside the compress and drew to his feet. “Thank you, Your Grace, for your kind attention.”

  “But your poultice,” she said. “It’s nearly ready.”

  “Perhaps Your Grace would be so good as to save it for later.” He bowed to Emma, then turned to Ash. “I will wait in the library.”

  After the butler had quit the room, Emma banged about the kitchen in silent censure.

  “It’s a bruise,” Ash said. “One derived from manly activity. I’m telling you, he loves it.”

  “He was weeping,” she returned.

  He spread his hands. “Tears of joy.”

  She sighed.

  “Yes, I’m demanding. Yes, I’m inconsiderate. Yes, I’m remorseless. Anything else I should admit to being while I’m here?”

  She retrieved a broadsheet from the table and held it up for his view. It was emblazoned with the headline “Monster of Mayfair Strikes Again.”

  Ash reached for it. “I hadn’t seen that one. That’s brilliant
. I’ve top billing, too.”

  “There are several.”

  He paged through the stack she offered.

  “Monster of Mayfair Assaults Local Lad.”

  “Monster of Mayfair Terrorizes Three in St. James Street.”

  “Monster of Mayfair Abducts Lambs from Butcher. Dark Rituals Suspected.”

  “Hah. The ‘local lad’ was twenty if he was a day, and he richly deserved it. There were four in St. James Street. Foxed dandies chatting up a lady of the evening on their way home from Boodle’s. I didn’t like their disrespectful attitude. This last . . . I didn’t even do this last. Lambs, my eye.” He chuckled. “Do you know what this means?”

  “I’m married to an unchecked vigilante?”

  “No. Well, maybe. But also—it means people are making up their own Monster of Mayfair stories just to share in the notoriety. It means I’m a legend.”

  Emma shook her head. She strained the herbs through a cheesecloth, twisting them into a bundle.

  “This”—he riffled the papers—“is stupendous.”

  “It’s not. It’s truly not.”

  “Oh, look. This one has an illustration.” He turned his twisted profile to her and held up the paper’s engraved portrait of “The Monster Himself.” “What do you say? I think they made my nose a trifle long, but otherwise it’s a surprisingly accurate likeness.”

  She slammed the empty pot on the table. “It is not an accurate likeness, but it is a perfect illustration of the problem. You’re only letting people see one side of you. If only you’d give them a chance to see past your scars—”

  “People can’t see past the scars. In an alley, a market . . . anywhere. They suck up all the attention in the room, and I’m just the drain it’s circling.”

  “It doesn’t have to be that way.”

  His jaw clenched. “I’ll make you a bargain. I won’t pretend I know how it feels when strange men stare at your tits, and you won’t pretend you know how it feels when people stare at my face.”

  Her demeanor softened. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t presume.”

  “No, you shouldn’t.”

  “Won’t you give it a chance?” She skirted the table, coming to stand before him. “One outing, that’s all I ask. A single afternoon with normal people. Well, I suppose they’re not precisely normal people. But they aren’t footpads, at least.”

  He frowned. “What are you on about?”

  “Come to tea with my friends Thursday next. That’s what I’m on about.”

  He began to object. “I’m n—”

  She pressed her fingers to his lips, shushing him. Her fingertips were scented with herbs and honey. Intoxicating. How was he supposed to stay irritated when she smelled so lickable?

  “Lady Penelope Campion’s house. It’s just across the square. That shouldn’t be any great trial.” She lifted an eyebrow in teasing fashion. “That is, unless you’re afraid of a few harmless spinsters.”

  Ash couldn’t recall the last time he’d crossed the square to the Campion residence. He’d been a boy, surely no older than ten. Lady Penelope had been much too young to be a proper playmate for him, not to mention she possessed the unsalvageable flaw of being a girl. But he’d been forced to make the effort once a summer anyhow. Her single saving grace, as far as he’d been concerned, was that she always seemed to be hiding a grubby creature or two in her closet or under the bed.

  He had a distant memory of piglets. And a newt, perhaps?

  Emma rang the bell.

  “I’m doing this once,” he muttered, staring at the door. “And that’s the end of it.”

  “I understand,” she said.

  “And only because my parents thought highly of the family.”

  “Of course.”

  “They would want me to look in on Lady Penelope now that she’s living alone.”

  She squeezed his hand. “Don’t be so anxious. They’ll adore you.”

  The door opened. His guts clenched.

  “Lady Penelope. A pleasure.”

  Ash reached for Penelope’s hand, intending to bow over it, but she only laughed. Instead, she placed her ungloved hands on his shoulders and pulled him down for a hug. As if it were nothing.

  “Come in, come in.” Penelope threaded her arm in his and led them inside. “And you must call me Penny. We’re old friends. I’ve seen you in your nightshirt. You don’t expect me to use ‘Your Grace,’ I hope.”

  “Ashbury will suffice.”

  “Ash,” Emma said. “He goes by Ash among friends. At home, it’s pumpkin.”

  He sent her a look.

  She smiled in return.

  “Ash it is,” Penny said, patting his arm.

  The house looked much the way he remembered. Same paintings on the walls, same furnishings . . . only now they were covered in a great deal more fur.

  He braced himself as they rounded the corner into the salon.

  However, he met with no outbursts of shock or cries of horror. It would seem the other guests had been well prepared for his appearance—which was a relief in some ways and rather lowering in others. He could just picture Emma telling them over tea: Now don’t be alarmed, but my husband is a hideous monstrosity.

  Penny made the unnecessary introductions. Surely the other two women knew who he was, and Emma had told him a bit about them.

  Miss Teague had the frazzled ginger hair and smelled of something burned. Miss Mountbatten was the small, dark-haired one who . . . who was dressed in a stylish, flattering walking dress in a peacock-blue damask that strongly reminded Ash of his music room draperies.

  He made a small bow, then waited until the ladies were settled before taking his seat. Penny began pouring cups of tea.

  Miss Teague and Miss Mountbatten sat in silence, stealing looks at Ash, then glancing toward each other, and then looking down at their laps. He was accustomed to being the object of curiosity. The strangest thing, however, was that they seemed to be wearing slight, knowing smiles all the while.

  A white cat came slinking around the leg of his armchair and leapt into his lap.

  Ash removed it, setting the beast on the floor.

  It promptly jumped back up, settling into his lap.

  “That’s always the way with cats,” Penny said. “They’re drawn to the person who wants nothing to do with them. And Bianca is a particularly naughty one. Torments Hubert no end.”

  “I don’t recall a Hubert in your family,” Ash said. “Is he a servant?”

  “Heavens, no.” Penny laughed as she passed him a cup of tea. “Hubert’s an otter.”

  Of course he was.

  His hostess offered him a tray of triangular sandwiches with the crusts cut off. “Sham sandwich?”

  “I’d like a ham sandwich very much, thank you.” Ash took one eagerly, stuffing a large bite into his mouth. The more chewing he could manage, the less speaking he needed to do.

  “No, no. It’s a sham sandwich,” Penny said. “Vegetables mashed and pressed into a loaf, then sliced like a ham. Turnip and potato, mostly, with cloves and a few beets for color. Quite nourishing, and every bit as delicious.”

  Oh, God.

  Ash choked on his bite. He strove manfully to conceal a grimace as he washed the mess down with a gulp of tea.

  “Lady Penny is a vegetarian,” Miss Teague said.

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  “She doesn’t eat meat,” Emma said.

  He paused. “I still don’t understand.”

  “Here, try the cakes.” Miss Mountbatten passed them to Emma. “Nicola baked them.”

  Ash took one, eyeing it with suspicion. It appeared innocent enough. “I thought Emma said you were a scientist, Miss Teague.”

  “Baking is science,” she answered. “Success is all in the precision.”

  Ash took a bite, and found the cake to be precisely delicious. A great improvement over the sham.

  “Well,” Penny announced brightly. “We all have tea and refreshments,
and now we must have conversation. What shall we discuss?”

  “If only there were a current event occupying all London’s attention.” Miss Teague’s speech had a stilted tone.

  Almost a practiced tone.

  “Oh!” Miss Mountbatten perked. “What news do you hear of the Monster of Mayfair?”

  Ash put down his teacup. He turned his head to regard his wife.

  Emma stared into her cup with great interest, as though the tea leaves were performing an underwater ballet.

  Penny turned to him. “What is your opinion, Ash?”

  “Dastardly fellow, to be sure,” Ash said. “Dangerous. Vile. Reprehensible.”

  “I have a suspicion he’s misunderstood,” Miss Mountbatten said.

  The salon was quiet—that was, until Miss Mountbatten nudged Miss Teague’s knee.

  “Oh! Oh, yes. This part is mine, isn’t it?” Miss Teague cleared her throat. “You may be correct, Alexandra.”

  “I’ve just recalled that I happen to have some of the recent broadsheets.” Penny turned to the table behind her and retrieved a stack of newsprint.

  The truth was undeniable now. Ash had been lured into the spiders’ web, and now he found himself at the center of delicately woven conspiracy.

  A sham sandwich, indeed. One that sat on a tray of lies.

  Penny leafed through the broadsheets. “Oh, look! ‘Thousand-Pound Donation to War Widows Fund Credited to Monster of Mayfair.’” She turned over another. “‘Monster of Mayfair Turns Cruel Taskmaster Out of Workhouse. London’s Downtrodden Cheer.’”

  She picked up the next sheet and, instead of reading it, turned it face-out to display the headline.

  Ash grabbed the broadsheet from her hand and regarded it with horror. “‘Monster of Mayfair Saves Puppies from Burning Storehouse’?”

  This . . . this was an outrage.

  Widows. Downtrodden.

  Puppies.

  Someone was chipping away at the legend he’d so carefully constructed. He took the stack of broadsheets and leafed through them, skimming the stories themselves. A pattern of suspiciously similar phrases began to emerge.

  This paper has it on the highest authority . . .

  An anonymous source of great repute . . .

  “The pups wouldn’t cease licking him in gratitude,” a lady of Quality reports . . .