‘You’ll soon find out,’ he said grimly. Then seized her hand in his and set off for the house once more.
‘Please don’t worry,’ she panted, for he was walking so fast now he’d clearly made up his mind to beard the dragon in her den that she was having to trot to keep up with him. ‘Whatever is worrying you, I know you can deal with it. You can deal with anything.’
‘I hope to God you’re right,’ he muttered.
He took a deep breath, like a man about to dive from a high cliff into murky water, then strode up the front steps and rapped on the door.
‘Prudence,’ he said, turning to her, a tortured expression on his face. ‘Perhaps I should have warned you before we got here that—’ He broke off at the distinct sound of footsteps approaching from the other side of the door. ‘Too late,’ he said, shutting his mouth with a snap on whatever it was he’d wanted to warn her of.
Never mind. Whatever it was, she could weather it. If she’d managed to survive this past two nightmarish days, she could weather anything.
But then, as the door swung open, something very strange happened to Gregory. He sort of...closed up. It was as though he had deliberately wiped all expression from his face, turning into a hard, distant, cold man she couldn’t imagine ever climbing trees with a grin. He looked just like the man she’d first seen in The Bull—the man from whom everyone had kept their distance. And, even though she was still holding his hand, she got the feeling he’d gone somewhere very far away inside.
A soberly dressed man opened the door and goggled at the sight of them. Which was hardly surprising. Not many people looking as scruffy as they did would have the effrontery to knock on the front door of a house like this. But Gregory didn’t bat an eyelid.
‘Good morning, Perkins,’ he said. ‘Something amiss?’
‘No, Your Grace,’ said the flabbergasted butler.
Your Grace? Why was the butler addressing Gregory as ‘Your Grace’?
‘Of course not, Your Grace. It is just—’ The butler pulled himself together, opened the door wider and stepped aside. ‘We were not expecting you for another day or so.’
Gregory raised one eyebrow in a way that had the butler shrinking in stature.
‘Your rooms are in readiness, of course,’ he said.
‘And for my guest?’
The butler’s eyes slid briefly across Prudence. ‘I am sure it will take Mrs Hoskins but a moment to have something suitable prepared for the young person.’
Gregory inclined his head in an almost regal manner. Then walked into the house in a way she’d never seen him walk before. As though he owned the place. Well, he’d told her he did. It was just that until this very second she hadn’t really, truly believed it.
And there was something else she was finding hard to believe as well.
‘Why,’ she whispered as he tugged her into the spacious hall, ‘is the butler calling you Your Grace?’
‘Because, Miss Carstairs,’ he said, in what sounded to her like an apologetic manner. ‘I am afraid that I am a duke.’
Chapter Twelve
‘A duke?’
No. It would be easier to believe he was a highwayman and that this house was a den filled to bursting with his criminal associates than that.
But then why else would the butler have addressed him as ‘Your Grace’?
‘This is Miss Carstairs, Perkins,’ said Gregory—or whoever he was—to the butler, handing him his valise. ‘My fiancée.’
‘Your—?’ The butler’s face paled. His lips moved soundlessly, his jaw wagging up and down as though words failed him.
She knew how he felt, having just sustained as great a shock herself. Which made her realise her own mouth had sagged open on her hearing Gregory claim to be a duke.
She shut it with a snap.
‘Fiancée,’ Gregory repeated slowly, as though addressing an imbecile.
‘If you say so, Your Grace,’ said the butler, looking distinctly unimpressed. ‘I mean...’ he added swiftly, when Gregory raised one eyebrow in that way he had—a way, she now saw, that was due to his being a duke. A duke who wasn’t used to having butlers, let alone stray females, dare to express a view that ran counter to his own. ‘Congratulations, Your Grace,’ said the butler, inclining his head in the slightest of bows whilst refraining from looking in her direction.
‘Miss Carstairs and I fell among thieves on the road,’ said Gregory. Or whatever she was now supposed to call him.
‘Hence our rather dishevelled appearance.’ He waved his hand in a vague gesture encompassing them both.
‘I shall send for Dr Crabbe at once, Your Grace,’ said the butler, his eyes fixed on the cuts and bruises on his employer’s face.
Marks that she’d come to regard as an integral part of him. But which were not, to judge by the butler’s expression of horror, by any means typical.
‘Oh, no need for that. I am sure Mrs Hoskins can supply a poultice, or some soothing ointment of some sort that will suffice. And, while we are on the subject of ointment, Miss Carstairs will need some for her feet.’
‘Her feet?’ The butler, reduced to repeating his master’s words in a strained manner, glanced down at her feet, and then to the staircase, from the direction of which came the sound of a slamming door.
A slender youth, in very natty dress, appeared on the landing and began to jog down the stairs, whistling cheerfully.
Until he caught sight of the three of them standing by the open front door. Which had him coming to an abrupt halt, mid-whistle.
‘Halstead!’
Since the youth was staring at Gregory, Prudence could only suppose that Halstead must be his real name. Or his title. Aristocrats always had a handful of each.
‘The devil!’
‘Language, Hugo,’ said Gregory—or Halstead—or whoever he was. Though at least she could surmise that this youth was the Hugo with whom Gregory had suspected she’d done some sort of deal when they’d first met.
‘Language be damned,’ said Hugo, reaching for the banister rail to steady himself. ‘You didn’t last the full week. I’ve won.’
Won? Won what?
‘Extenuating circumstances,’ said Gregory, waving a languid hand in her direction. He spoke in a bored drawl. As though he was completely unmoved by the shock afflicting everyone else in the hallway, which he’d caused by strolling through the front door and announcing both his rank and his betrothal.
‘No such thing,’ said the youth, folding his arms across his chest. ‘Ain’t you always telling me that there’s never any excuse for outrunning the constable? That if you only have a little backbone, or willpower, or a modicum of intelligence...’
‘Not here,’ muttered Gregory—she had to think of him by some name, and that was the one she’d grown used to. And if he hadn’t wanted her to use it he should jolly well not have let her do so! ‘We will repair to the morning room,’ he said, taking her elbow firmly to steer her across the hall. ‘While we await refreshments.’ He gave the butler a pointed look.
The butler flinched. ‘Her Ladyship is in the morning room, taking tea,’ he said, glancing at Prudence, then back at Gregory, in ill-concealed horror.
‘Ah,’ said Gregory, coming to a full stop.
‘No point in trying to keep anything from Lady Mixby,’ said Hugo cheerfully, jogging down the rest of the stairs. ‘Since the person she is currently entertaining to tea is a most interesting cove who claims you sent him here. By the name of Bodkin.’
Bodkin? Wasn’t that the name of the man with whom he’d told her he’d broken into a mill? Making it sound as if he was some sort of...Robin Hood, or something. Going about righting wrongs. Now this Hugo person was making it sound as though it was a great jest. Coupled with his first remark, about not lasting a week and not winning
, it sounded suspiciously as though Gregory had gone to the factory in the course of trying to win some kind of wager.
Now all those things he’d said about what she had been doing in his bed made perfect sense. He’d thought that Hugo was doing all in his power to make him lose whatever wager they had agreed upon.
‘This way,’ said Gregory, steering her across the hall with the grip he still had on her elbow.
She put up no resistance. She didn’t have the strength. It had all seeped out through what felt like a great crack, somewhere deep inside her, where once her trust in Gregory had resided. She hadn’t even felt this stunned when she’d discovered that Aunt Charity, who’d appeared to be a pillar of society, had turned into a criminal overnight. Into a person she didn’t really know at all.
Because she’d never actually liked Aunt Charity, try as hard as she might.
But she’d started to look upon this man who was ushering her across the hall as a bit of a hero.
Now it turned out he was someone else—something else—entirely. A duke. A duke who’d been so bored with his dull existence that he’d put on rough clothes and changed his name in order to win a bet.
The butler leaped ahead of them to open the door to a room that was flooded with sunshine. Three people were sitting there.
A young man, wearing clothes that were so plain and so coarse that he just had to be Mr Bodkin, was perched on the very edge of a hard-backed chair, his hands braced on his knees as though ready to take flight at the slightest alarm. There was also a bracket-faced woman at a table under the window, tucking into a plate of cakes and sandwiches, a teacup at her elbow. And on one of the sofas placed on either side of the fire sat a plump little woman wearing lavender satin and a frivolous lace cap of white.
The plump woman uttered a piercing shriek when she saw them, and clapped her hand to her ample bosom.
Mr Bodkin started to his feet, took half a pace in their direction, then halted, saying, ‘Mr Willingale...?’
The bracket-faced lady froze, a sandwich halfway to her mouth.
‘Mr Willingale!’ said the plainly dressed young man again, this time with more certainty. ‘It is you. Thank heaven. I was that worrit when I got here and you hadn’t arrived. I was sure summat bad must have happened to you.’
‘I told you there was no need to worry,’ said Hugo, sauntering into the room and closing the door firmly behind him. ‘I told you we weren’t expecting Halstead until the end of the week.’
‘Halstead?’ Mr Bodkin frowned. ‘Who’s Halstead?’
‘I am,’ said Gregory.
‘But you told me you was Mr Willingale,’ said Mr Bodkin, looking as bewildered as Prudence felt.
‘Well, he ain’t,’ said Hugo firmly. ‘He’s Halstead. Duke of.’
So she wasn’t the only person he’d lied to about his identity. It should have been of some consolation. Why wasn’t it?
The youth in homespun glowered at Hugo. ‘Beggin’ Yer Lordship’s pardon, but I know what he said.’
Hugo was a lordship? Well, naturally! If Gregory was a duke all his relatives were bound to be lords and ladies, too.
‘Never mind that for now,’ said Gregory firmly, as the two younger men squared up to each other. ‘Miss Carstairs is in dire need of tea and a seat by the fire. Miss Carstairs,’ he said, addressing the plump lady on the sofa, ‘is my fiancée, Lady Mixby.’
The lady in lavender uttered another little shriek, though this time she clapped both hands together instead of clasping her chest as though she’d suffered a severe shock.
‘Oh, how wonderful! You are going to marry again. At last! Come here, dear,’ she said to Prudence. ‘And tell me all about yourself.’
Gregory held up his hand repressively. ‘You are not to pelter her with questions. None of you. Miss Carstairs has been through a terrible ordeal.’
And it wasn’t over yet. This had all the hallmarks of being a continuation of the nightmare that had started when she’d woken stark naked in bed with a stranger. Since then nothing and nobody had been what they seemed.
‘Oh, my dear, how selfish of me,’ said Lady Mixby. ‘You do look somewhat...distrait,’ she said, kindly choosing the most tactful way to describe her dirty, dishevelled appearance. ‘Come and sit here on the sofa,’ she said patting the cushion beside her. ‘Benderby!’ She waved at the bracket-faced lady. ‘Ring for more hot water and cake.’
Benderby put down her sandwich, went to the bell-pull and tugged on it. Prudence collapsed onto the sofa opposite the one occupied by Lady Mixby. Gregory sat down beside her. And took her hand.
What with being in a room full of titled people—not to mention Mr Bodkin—all of whom were already shocked by her appearance, she didn’t have the nerve to create a scene by tugging it free. The only way to express her confusion and resentment was to let it lie limp and unresponsive in his.
Bodkin stomped across the room until he was standing right in front of the sofa, glaring down at them. ‘Why does he keep saying you’re a duke?’
‘Because,’ said Gregory calmly, ‘that is what I am. The Duke of Halstead.’
‘You’re not!’
‘I am afraid,’ he said, apologising for his rank for the second time that day, ‘that I am.’ He gave her hand a slight squeeze, as though including her in the apology.
She didn’t return the pressure.
‘I am the Duke of Halstead,’ said Gregory. ‘The owner of Wragley’s. To whom you wrote.’
‘But you can’t be! I mean we—’ Bodkin clenched his fists, which were grazed about the knuckles, just like Gregory’s. As if he’d thought the same thing as her, he glanced down at them.
‘Yes, I do recall the incident,’ said Gregory. ‘Though why you think that precludes me from being the Duke of Halstead, I fail to comprehend.’ He leaned back and crossed one leg over the other.
‘Well, because dukes don’t go visiting mills and getting into fist fights with the foreman, that’s why.’
‘Is that so?’
Gregory drawled the words, looking down his nose at the poor man. Even though Bodkin was standing over them. But then he’d managed to look down his nose at her when she’d been kneeling over him in the lane, hadn’t he? And now she knew how he’d managed it. He’d clearly spent his entire life looking down from a lofty height on the rest of the human race.
‘Bodkin has been keeping us vastly entertained with his tales of how you and he broke into your own factory at dead of night and had to fight your way out,’ said Hugo with glee. ‘Lord, but I’d have given a monkey to have seen it!’
His own factory? Of course it was his own factory. He didn’t work for anyone as any sort of investigator.
He was a duke.
‘You would first have had to be in possession of a monkey,’ said Gregory scathingly.
‘I don’t see why you need to bring monkeys into it,’ Lady Mixby complained. ‘As well as talk of brawling with common persons. No offence, Mr Bodkin. I am sure you are a very worthy person in your way, and I have found your company most refreshing, but for Halstead to declare he means to have a new duchess is far more interesting!’ She waved one dimpled hand in Prudence’s direction. ‘For him to perform such a volte-face will rock society to its very foundations.’
It certainly would if they knew where she’d come from and how they’d met.
‘We were not speaking of real monkeys, Lady Mixby,’ said Gregory witheringly, ‘but a sum of money. Vulgar persons describe it that way.’
‘Halstead, I know I owe you a great deal,’ said Lady Mixby, her face flushing. ‘But I must really protest at anyone using vulgarity in my drawing room.’
‘Bravely said, Aunt,’ he said icily. ‘I beg your pardon, Aunt, Miss Benderby, Miss Carstairs.’
‘Never mind begging everyone’s pardon
,’ said Hugo, going to stand behind Lady Mixby’s sofa and placing his hands on its back. ‘We’re all of us dying of curiosity. Oh, and I had to let Lady Mixby in on the nature of our wager once Bodkin turned up, so you don’t need to go into why you went haring off to Manchester under an alias, without your valet or groom.’
Well, that was what he thought. Prudence most definitely wanted to know the exact terms of the wager.
‘No,’ continued Hugo, ‘what we want to know is how you came to acquire a fiancée who looks like a gypsy when everyone knows you’d rather cut off your right arm than ever marry again.’
So that was why Lady Mixby had said society was going to be rocked to its foundations. Well, she’d known about his reluctance to marry again. Because he’d confided in her. But she’d never suspected it was common knowledge. That put a different complexion on things entirely.
Gregory gave him a look that should have frozen the blood in his veins. ‘I’ll thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head,’ he growled.
She supposed she should be grateful that he was trying to defend her but, really, who could blame Hugo for speaking of her this way when it was obvious they’d never have crossed paths if he hadn’t been engaged in trying to win some sort of wager?
At that moment there was a knock at the door and the butler came in with a tea tray.
‘Better bring a decanter of something stronger,’ suggested Hugo as the butler deposited the tray on a table beside Prudence’s sofa. ‘Tea may suffice for this wench, but my poor old cousin looks decidedly in need of something more restorative.’
So did she.
‘Ale,’ said Gregory to the butler. ‘If this young scapegrace must start drinking at such an early hour I would rather keep him away from anything too strong. Since I have good reason to know he does not have the head for it.’
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