“Did my nephew drop ashes on your dress, Miss Gardner?” she asked in a horrified voice, leaning from her chair for a closer look.
Griffin smiled. The River Styx might need to be refilled tonight.
“It was my fault,” Harriet said quickly. “I fanned some papers I hadn’t noticed in the grate. His grace was good enough to air out the room.”
Lady Powlis settled back in her chair. “Hmmph.”
“But everything is fine now,” Griffin added, suddenly afraid it was anything but. Thanks to Aunt Primrose’s meddling, his cousin Charlotte now appeared to be on the scent.
She had excused herself from chatting with Lady Dalrymple and was making a quiet assessment of Harriet’s crumpled gloves, her dress-and heaven only knew how Charlotte put two and two together, but all of a sudden she was looking right at Griffin’s cravat.
He coughed into his fist. “I hope no one will take offense if I slip away for the rest of the day? There are matters of my aunt’s comfort that I have promised to attend on Bedford Square.”
Charlotte turned to him. “Of course. No one has stayed in the town house for years. I should have thought to offer Odgers.”
He lowered his hand. “I would appreciate a few hours alone, to be quite honest.” As only a man who had been trapped in a carriage with Aunt Primrose and Edlyn could understand. He’d rather have walked the distance to London, in fact, than have listened to his aunt prattle on about his future wife, about when they would have Edlyn’s debut, and about how she prayed Edlyn wasn’t going to make pets out of the pigeons in London as she had the crows in the castle turret. Yet while Griffin looked forward to a private evening, he would not have minded spending another hour or so with the young instructress who had unwittingly entertained him.
“Edlyn will do well here,” Charlotte assured him as they walked to the door.
“I hope so. She is not… easy.”
She gave him a knowing smile. “If you doubt our success, you have only to look at Miss Gardner for proof.”
“Proof. Of?”
“The academy’s ability to resurrect the sensibilities of one who might otherwise be considered dead by Society.”
Griffin didn’t know what to say. Harriet Gardner seemed anything but dead to him. She had certainly enlivened his arrival.
Charlotte bit her lip. “When you look at Miss Gardner, what is it that you see?”
He couldn’t very well answer, A winsome face with wicked hazel eyes, or A smudged dress. So he said, as gamely as he could manage, “A perfectly… perfectly… well, a gentlewoman.” Which was a safe reply that shouldn’t earn him or Miss Gardner a scolding.
“Did she give you a spot of trouble at first?” Charlotte asked shrewdly. He grinned.
“If she did, I probably deserved it.”
Harriet unstrapped the single traveling trunk sitting up against the bedchamber window. It didn’t occur to her that Edlyn had dragged it there herself until a few moments later.
“Shall we unpack and have your clothes pressed?” she asked.
Edlyn shrugged and wandered like a wraith to the window. The girl’s drab gray frock hung on her thin frame like a shroud. Thoroughly versed in the art of furtive escape, Harriet realized that Edlyn was assessing how dangerous it would be to drop to the garden. “You’d shatter your kneecaps and probably your back. It’s impossible since they cut down the old plane tree.”
“How do you know?” Edlyn asked, kneeling on the trunk.
Harriet hesitated. “One or two of the girls tried to see how far they could go without being caught.”
Edlyn glanced at her. “How far did they get?”
“Don’t you dare say I told you, but Miss Butterfield was brought home before she got past the gardeners. Miss Ruston landed in the philodendrons just below. They’ve taken a while to grow back.”
“And you?”
Harriet smiled. “I’m growing nicely, thank you.”
Edlyn slid backward on her knees, off the trunk. “I don’t care if it’s ever unpacked.” She curled her fingers over the windowsill. “Are there always that many people in the street on a rainy day?”
“That’s nothing.” Harriet came up behind her. “London doesn’t come to life until after midnight in some places.”
“What does one do during the evenings here?”
“Those would be for sitting by the fire, practicing the spinet, or reading.”
“I hate it in this house already.”
“That’s your right, I suppose.” Harriet rubbed the heel of her hand across the glass. “Still, you don’t want to be walking about London unescorted, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Would you like to escort me? I shall pay you.” Edlyn ventured a smile. Insincere as it was, Harriet decided that the girl would be beautiful if she didn’t go to so much trouble to make herself look like a corpse. She had to spend a fortune on rice powder, bleaching cream, and beetroot lip salve.
“You do know London?” Edlyn prompted.
Better than the landscape of her left ear. Harriet knew London from the vice-ridden alleys of the East End, where she’d been born, although no one had ever produced a certificate of birth to prove she existed at all. She knew the riverside docks where her father had worked when capable of rousing his soused arse into action. She knew the dirty warrens, the church bells, and the House of Corrections, at whose doors she’d waited in the rain for her half brothers to be released.
She’d gotten to know the West End, too, the elite squares and mansions of Mayfair where her father had finished her unwholesome education by introducing her to larceny.
“I know the city well enough to entertain you,” she said evasively. “As a student here, you’ll participate in many adventurous outings. There are circulating libraries, operas, and-”
Edlyn twirled a black curl around her half-bitten fingernail in an attitude of bored disinterest. “Will we see any duels?”
“I certainly hope not. Trust me, there’s nothing exciting about seeing a man bleed-you know, breaking the law. But we’ll go on rides in the park, attend dances, and shop on Bond Street. And there are champagne breakfasts that don’t even begin until three, and supper parties-”
“What about Vauxhall Gardens?”
“A duke’s daughter would never set foot in a disreputable place like that.”
“I’m not even sure that I am his daughter.”
“A duke’s niece, then,” Harriet amended, deciding it was high time to slip downstairs for an emergency chat with Charlotte. “I’ll bring you up some tea and cake while you rest.”
“Lots of cake.”
“Very well.”
“Miss Gardner?”
A tinge of foreboding inched down Harriet’s spine. “Yes?”
“Leave my tray outside the door. I don’t want to talk to you again tonight.”
Chapter Six
I never was attached to that great sect, Whose doctrine is, that each one should select Out of the crowd a mistress or a friend.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY
Epipsychidion
When a long-lost family member returned to the infamous Boscastle flock, it was cause for his brethren to rejoice. When that black sheep happened to be a duke, it was an excuse for Grayson Boscastle, the fifth Marquess of Sedgecroft and anointed leader of the fold, to host as many parties in the prodigal’s honor as could be crammed into a season. He had already been inundated with requests for an invite to meet this new sensation.
Only two days after the young Duke of Glenmorgan’s arrival in London, Grayson feted him at a ball in the Park Lane mansion that had been best described as a small-scale palace. After all, it was not every day that one could display a peer.
As a chosen favorite, Harriet had been invited inside this spacious house on numerous occasions. She wished she could forget her infamous first visit, however.
By some miracle she had managed to elude the senior footman’s coterie of guards and infiltrate Lady Jane’s
private closet. The moment she’d stepped into the room, she completely forgot what she had come for. She felt like a princess getting ready for her first ball and not a thief whose half brothers had sent her to do their dirty work.
The closet had seemed bigger than the crumbling pile she shared with seven other people. The huge gilded mirrors that hung on the walls reflected her astonished face and shabby appearance. Piles of painted fans covered a blue silk chaise. She had never seen so many shoes strewn about in her life.
The marchioness must have spent the entire day selecting the perfect costume for the gala. Harriet went to pick up a gold hairpin from the floor. The next thing she knew, she’d slipped one foot into a diamond-encrusted shoe and the other into a dancing pump with a pearl-inlaid heel that made her ankle look devilishly attractive. Then she spied a collection of tapestry shoes in an adjoining room.
“Cor,” she’d exclaimed, walking unevenly toward the door, “so this is where the cobbler’s elves work all night.”
“Wrong,” said the snootiest voice that to this day she had ever heard. A tall footman dressed like an enchanted frog plucked a shoe from her fingers. “This is where you shall remain until the police remove your person to the station.”
She snorted. “I don’t ’ave a person. I work alone.”
He had leaned down, his mouth pinched like a clam. “You are going-”
The chatter of female voices interrupted whatever dire threat he’d been about to make. “Heavens above!” he muttered, his hands lifting as if he were about to tear off his wig. “The marchioness is here! And-” He made a menacing noise in his throat and snatched the gold hairpin from Harriet’s hair.
It was at that moment that his mistress, the Marchioness of Sedgecroft, and her sister-in-law, Emma Boscastle, the widowed Viscountess Lyons, had walked through the adjoining door of the closet. Neither of them screamed, although Lady Lyons blinked when she noticed the cashmere shawl Harriet had stuffed halfway up her sleeve.
“Who is this young woman, Weed?” the marchioness asked, eyeing the mismated slippers on Harriet’s feet in amusement. “One of the new scullery maids? Remember that we forgive the curiosity of the first week.”
“She’s a thief, madam.”
“Oh,” the marchioness said, “I see.”
“I shall have her removed immediately from the premises,” Weed vowed, lowering his hand to reach for Harriet.
“Wait,” Lady Lyons had said, in a powerful voice that halted the footman’s hand. “She cannot be observed by anyone at the party. For one thing, her hair has not seen a brush in at least a week. For another”-she fanned the air-“she smells so strongly that my eyes water.”
The marchioness took a delicate sniff. “That’s the new perfume Grayson bought me for my birthday.”
Harriet gave her a frank look. “Lovely, ain’t it?”
More than two years had passed since that ignominious day. Since then, fortunately, Harriet had never been caught in anyone else’s closet. Although Lady Jane teased her from time to time about her crime, she did so with a fond twinkle in her eye. She also paid Harriet the high compliment of seeking her confidence as concerning family secrets.
Within a half hour of her arrival tonight, Lady Jane had taken Harriet aside to whisper, “What is your opinion of the duke and his relations?”
Harriet admired Lady Jane. She was not merely pretty, generous, and kind, she was also a devious schemer who had sabotaged her own wedding, only to fall in love with her scoundrel of a marquess. “Lady Powlis is a double-edged sword,” Harriet whispered after a moment’s reflection. “The duke’s a moody one, and I’d be afraid to guess what Lady Edlyn’s got locked up in her turret.”
“Darling,” Jane said, drawing Harriet deeper into the shaded alcove. “What do you mean?”
“She hasn’t been at the academy long enough to get into trouble, I swear. But every time I’ve gone to her room she’s been sitting at her window as if she’s waiting, for whom or what I’ve no idea.”
Jane’s green eyes darkened in worry. “Poor lambkin. Could she have met a young wolf so quickly?”
“I wouldn’t think so. I’ve got a sense for that sort of thing.”
“Perhaps she is still grieving her father,” Jane said quietly. “Is she close to the duke and his aunt, or are they estranged, as the gossips say?”
Harriet peered out into the vestibule. “Lady Powlis couldn’t love her more. But as for what Miss Edlyn and the duke feel for each other, well, your opinion would be better than mine, madam.”
Jane patted her on the arm. “I never fail to think of you whenever I buy a new pair of tapestry shoes. Now, now. Don’t blush. We all have our skeletons in the dressing closet.” She stepped out into the vestibule, gasping in pleasure as she spotted the tall masculine figure who stood in front of an enormous queue of guests. “Is that Griffin?”
Harriet stood on tiptoe to peek over Jane’s elaborate headdress. Somewhere between the thicket of ostrich feathers, she made out a bladed nose that belonged to a lean man in a black evening suit. Oh, dear. The duke appeared to have been caught in a receiving line and looked none too happy about it. Perhaps he had not been exaggerating when he’d complained that he had hordes of admirers.
“My goodness,” Jane whispered. “How handsome he is! And you never said a word. I always wondered what an infusion of Welsh blood would do to the line. I imagine the castle drawbridge had to be closed every night to keep him safe from the village girls.”
Harriet dredged up a pleasant smile. Never mind the village girls. The marchioness must have given every eligible debutante in London an engraved invite to meet the duke tonight.
Jane’s delicate face grew pensive. “I should have known. Why would I think the family could escape even one season without notoriety? My, my. We do have our hands full, don’t we, Harriet?”
“The Duke of Glenmorgan has-”
He had not even been properly announced by the majordomo before a swell of guests, ladies primarily, surged forth from the line to surround him. He’d lost sight of his aunt and Edlyn. He suspected that they were watching from the balcony above, where only family or the most favored guests were taken for a private introduction. He felt like a human sacrifice being fed to a flock of harpies in evening gowns.
He looked about for someone to rescue him. The only person he recognized in the crush was the flame-haired Miss Gardner, who sent him a wicked smile and promptly disappeared.
“Condolences on your brother’s untimely and cruel demise, your grace.”
“Congratulations on your calm grasp of duty.”
“Your grace, it is a privilege.”
“What a tragedy, your grace. All of London wept.”
“My daughter Anne-Marie has composed a poem in honor of your loss. If your grace could spare an afternoon this week to have it privately heard…”
Condolences. Congratulations. An arena of London’s weepy and conniving mamas sharpening their claws and quills with a ravenous appetite that gave him heart palpitations.
He knew he had promised his family that at some unspecified time in the future he would carry on the line. But he also knew he wasn’t about to marry any of the ambitious debutantes who were eyeing him like a supper course. In fact, it was all he could do not to shout something unforgivably rude to scare the lot of them away. And when one of them suddenly had the unmitigated gall to sneak up behind him to grab the tails of his coat, and another to slap her hand upon his shoulder like a sledgehammer, he ground his teeth and-
“Isn’t he pretty?” a hideous voice cooed as its owner tugged again on his evening coat.
“He’s the belle of the ball.”
“Ooh. Feel his shoulders. How strong he is.”
“I want the first dance.”
He might have known by the deep laughter accompanying this assault that he was being set up by his cousins. He swung around, expelling a sigh of relief. “I don’t want to dance, as flattered as I am by your attention.”
“Not even to save yourself?” the tallest of the three men surrounding him asked.
Lords Heath, Drake, and Devon. He would have recognized the three black-haired, blue-eyed demons as his cousins even if they weren’t grinning with the wicked intentions that distinguished a Boscastle male from other gentlemen. Unfashionably faithful to their wives, they still dabbled in mischief every now and then. Lord Heath, it was said, had a hand in something of an undisclosed nature for the Home Office. Their propensity for brewing scandals was as legendary in London as was their loyalty to the clan.
“Which one of you wants to dance with me first?”
Drake, dark and cynical at heart, nudged his older brother in the ribs. “Heath has always been lighter on his feet. And he’s a perfect gentleman.”
Devon, devil-may-care and friendly, said, “He’s more graceful, too. And he can whisper Egyptian endearments in your ear.”
“But Drake is more rugged,” Heath protested. “A man’s man. I know I’d feel safe prowling an alley with him at my side. Just don’t let him lure you out onto the terrace.”
“I have a brilliant suggestion.” Devon threw his arm over Griffin’s shoulders. “We could form our own set, and share you.”
“That seems a rather drastic way to take myself off the market,” Griffin said with a faint grimace.
Heath lifted his brow. “Anyone in particular on your list you’re hoping to avoid? Or capture?”
“I’ve only been in London a few days.”
“That long?” Drake gave him a skeptical grin. “And you haven’t found a woman to pursue yet? This might call for a family cabal.”
Odd. Griffin thought suddenly of Harriet Gardner. She was the first woman he’d met in London. And even though he had been introduced to quite a few others since, she was the only one who had come close to setting him on fire. He smiled inwardly. He had wondered quite a few times since what would have happened if they’d been alone a little while longer.
“My wife mentioned something in the papers about Lady Constance Chatterton,” said Devon, who was not the most discreet member of the family. “Fact or fiction?”
The Wicked Duke Takes a Wife Page 4
