by Gaelen Foley
“There are ways. Strategy games that take more skill than luck.”
“Like what?”
“Whist and vingt-et-un. Those weren’t the games that got me into trouble, you see.” He hesitated. “It was faro. Hazard. Games of chance. And I—I could play cautiously. I usually don’t,” he admitted after a moment.
“Oh, God,” she breathed, looking away in disbelief.
“Try to trust me, Becky. I know you’re scared, but—try.”
Staring out the coach window, she could feel his earnest gaze upon her. “It seems I have no choice.”
Before long the carriage slowed to a halt. Alec jumped out first, helping Becky to descend.
“What is this place?” she murmured, shading her eyes against the noonday sun as she glanced up at the towering Palladian mansion at the edge of Green Park.
“Knight House.” Behind them the hackney clattered away again, rolling off toward St. James’s Street. “This is my eldest brother Robert’s house. He is the Duke of Hawkscliffe. Nobody’s home,” he added to soothe the quick flash of alarm in her violet eyes, given his promise not to bring anyone else into their quest. “The whole clan’s gone north to Hawkscliffe Hall for the summer. A blessed event is expected by the end of the month, Their Graces’ second child. The other women all wanted to be there to help when the babe comes, so Jacinda and Lizzie have gone up to the castle with Rackford and Strathmore. Demon and Lucifer have also gone up to the castle with their wives.”
She furrowed her brow. “Demon and Lucifer?”
“Sorry—Damien and Lucien, the twins.”
“Oh. It’s not very nice to call your brothers that, is it?”
He grinned. “Maybe not, but it fits.”
“How come you’re not with them?” she asked, slanting him a pointed glance.
“It’s, ah, complicated.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“Let’s just say they’re a little out of charity with me.”
“Oh,” she remarked, reluctantly restraining her female curiosity, much to his relief.
Walking her up to the stately front entrance of Knight House, Alec thought about his family gathered for the summer at the old ancestral pile, missing them with great affection. Most of all he hoped that Bel was doing all right. In many ways, the beautiful young duchess had become the heart of the family since Robert had married her a few years ago.
Alec did not mention it to Becky, but the doctors had voiced some concerns about Bel’s second pregnancy. He did not know why. He only knew there was no way he was going to disturb them at a time like this. If he wrote to Robert to get advice about Becky’s situation, Bel would be able to tell in a glance that something was preying on her husband’s mind. She would no doubt manage to finagle the whole disturbing story out of Robert, and that could not be allowed. Nothing must upset her and risk her health or the babe’s. In any case, Alec had no intention of drawing Robert’s attention away from his wife’s side at this critical time.
He could still contact the twins—well, easygoing Lucien, anyway. No-nonsense Damien was still disgruntled at him for coaxing a loan out of his heiress-bride, Miranda, a few months ago. Alec knew he shouldn’t have done it, but he was desperate, and after all, he and Miranda had been great chums ever since the statuesque, raven-haired beauty had married into the family. But aside from having promised Becky that he would not involve anyone else, it was the thought of his wee nieces and nephews that forbade Alec from calling on his brothers.
It would be wrong to call their papas into action and risk their lives when his brothers had young children at home. No, Alec reflected, the heroic twins had already faced more than their share of peril in the war. If he got in over his head, then he would call in the cavalry, but not one bloody moment sooner. This was something that he had to do by himself. Baby brother was on his own.
He suddenly noticed that Becky seemed to be shrinking into her pelisse; she hung back with an overawed stare up at Knight House’s soaring columns, haughty portico, and gleaming white facade. “Something wrong?”
“It’s very grand, isn’t it?” she murmured.
“That is the idea,” he said wryly. Looking askance at her, he realized his plucky country lass was beginning to feel very much out of her element. He glanced again at the family showplace and did not need to wonder why.
The Town residence of the Hawkscliffe dukes had been built to intimidate all who entered, an opulent statement in stone of the family’s pomp and power, from its fortresslike foundations to the crown of bronze goddesses posing here and there around the roof.
“What are we doing here, anyway?” She didn’t look quite keen on going in.
Little did she know most girls of the ton would have killed for an invitation to Knight House, especially for a private tour on the arm of one of the Knight brothers.
“I daren’t risk bringing you back to the Althorpe after what happened in the mews. Just in case there were any witnesses to my battle this morning, I don’t want your cousin to be able to track you through me.”
“Do you think he could?”
Alec shrugged. “I’m not taking any chances. My neighbors, as you noticed, are all young bucks. Can’t bring a chit as pretty as you into that place without everybody noticing. Roger Manners is probably the only one who got a good look at you so far, and he’s sensible enough to keep his mouth shut, but it’s best to play it safe. Besides, if you’re going to be staying with me for a while, we’ll need some supplies.”
“Like what?”
“Has anybody ever told you that you ask too many questions?” he asked lightly. “Come.” Giving her hand a gentle squeeze, their fingers still firmly linked, he walked in without knocking, drawing Becky with him.
“Crikey,” she breathed, ogling the white marble entrance hall and curved staircase that floated up to the first floor without any visible supports.
Alec turned at the sound of slow footsteps and spied gray-haired Mr. Walsh, the unsmiling Hawkscliffe butler, approaching at his usual funereal march. Mr. Walsh’s nostrils flared at the sight of the family’s scapegrace youngest son with yet another disheveled female, but Alec grinned.
“Good morning, Walshie!”
The butler honored him with a dutiful nod. “Lord Alec,” he intoned, then bowed to Becky. “Miss.”
“Good day, sir,” Becky mumbled, slipping partly behind Alec in a sudden fit of shyness. Apparently his little battle-maiden was more frightened of the superior, frosty-eyed butler than she had been of the Cossacks. Recalling the bad luck she’d had with ducal butlers earlier today, Alec could understand why.
Mr. Walsh now eyed her with discreet suspicion and a stare that seemed to demand: Who might you be, on the arm of one of our young masters? And where, young lady, is your chaperon?
Harrumph, he seemed to say to himself before turning to Alec with arrogant precision. “How might I be of service, my lord?”
Alec cleared his throat. A distraction was needed to occupy this formidable old guardian of the doorway. “Will you, ah, have a spot of breakfast prepared for us in the morning room?”
Mr. Walsh pursed his lips and bowed. “Right away, sir.”
“Excellent. Capital chap. Miss Ward: this way.”
“He’s terrifying,” Becky whispered as they mounted the grand staircase side by side.
“No, he only pretends, trust me.” He hurried her up to the third floor and showed her down the upstairs corridor, trying to remember which was Bel’s dressing room. “You’ll have him eating out of your hand within the hour.”
“I don’t know about that.”
Hearing Mr. Walsh’s footfalls echoing swiftly behind them, Alec gave an indignant growl under his breath. Becky glanced back worriedly at the butler, but Alec nodded to her to follow and marched on.
He stopped abruptly and turned around. “I say, old boy, are you following us?”
“Pray, forgive me, Lord Alec, but I have been asked specifically by His Grace to ensure t
hat nothing should be taken from the house.”
“Is that right?” Alec exclaimed. “My brother fears I might rob him and sell his goods for a few quid while he’s away?”
“So it would seem, sir. Terribly sorry. Not ‘rob,’ to be sure. Perhaps ‘borrow.’ My lord has ‘borrowed’ things before.”
Becky’s eyebrows arched high as she glanced at Alec in question. He scowled.
“Quite.”
“I’m very sorry, sir.”
“Not at all, old boy. Not your fault. Simply doing your duty and all that.”
Mr. Walsh raised an eyebrow at Alec’s placating tone, instantly alerted to some sly business afoot. The old fellow had served the family for all of Alec’s lifetime, after all; whatever tricks Alec had up his sleeve, old Walshie had seen them devised when he had been but a grinning boy, honing his charmer’s slick devices to an art form over the years.
There was no getting past the man, hang it all.
“Might I have a word with you, Mr. Walsh?” Alec grasped the butler’s bony elbow and took him aside, gesturing to Becky to wait.
“Indubitably, Lord Alec.”
“Look here, old fellow,” he said in a confidential tone. “This young lady currently finds herself in the direst of straits. I know what you’re thinking, but trust me—she’s not. She happens to be the granddaughter of an earl.”
“Naturally, sir. And which earl might that be?”
Alec glowered at the old fellow’s skepticism. “Talbot. But you are not to tell a soul, on your honor.”
“Not even His Grace?”
“Especially not His Grace. No one,” he said emphatically. “It’s like this, old boy. The chit’s got nothing but the clothes on her back, and as you can see, they are in tatters. She happens to be in considerable peril, and right now I’m all she’s got.”
“Oh, dear.”
Alec frowned. “I’m doing my best to sort it all out for her, but in the meantime she’s got nothing to wear, nothing to eat—”
“I say,” Mr. Walsh interrupted, “is that your blood all over your shirtsleeve or someone else’s, Lord Alec? What on earth happened?”
“Bit of a scuffle. Don’t worry. It’s just a scratch. I told you, she’s in danger. There are rather . . . unpleasant individuals after the girl. She’s got no one.”
Mr. Walsh looked at Becky with new concern.
“I cannot imagine, surely, that either Robert or Bel would refuse this girl help, especially with all their running about after the poor.”
“Well, you do have a point. If she is in peril . . .” He shook his head.
“I mean to take a few items of clothing for Miss Ward to wear until she has been restored to her home. You will not stand in the way, will you?”
Mr. Walsh hesitated, but only because he had his orders and was obsessive about his duty.
“Look at her, man,” Alec urged him. “Is she not an angel?”
The butler glanced at Becky again, deliberating. “I assured His Grace that I would not allow any of your—pardon, sir—shenanigans, while he was away.”
“No shenanigans!” Alec vowed, holding up his right hand. “It’s not for me, it’s for her. Robert would not turn away a poor young damsel in distress, and as for Bel, she’s the size of a barn with the babe due.”
“Sir,” he chided.
“You know it’s true. It’ll be months before she can fit back into her gowns, and by then her whole wardrobe will be out of fashion, anyway. Have a heart, man. Where’s the harm? We both know the duchess has got at least two rooms full of clothes—”
“Oh, very well,” Walsh relented, pursing his lips. He glanced at Becky, a glimmer of softhearted sympathy peeping out from beneath his haughty facade, then he snorted. “I’ll summon one of the maids to assist. This could be a rather large endeavor. Your young lady,” he said pointedly, “is an utter mess.”
In a struggle between pride and practicality, the latter won out in Becky’s bosom as Alec, the maid, and Mr. Walsh all conspired to fill a fair-sized trunk for her with the duchess’s borrowed clothing. Alec ignored the fact that a male had no business anywhere near an unmarried young lady in her chemise and brought his famed taste to bear in what looked beautiful on a woman. Becky endured as best she could while the celebrated dandy thrust his discerning choices into her hands and threw others out of her reach. “No. Not that one, it’s horrible. Try this, try that. No, not that color. Dreadful. Ah, better. Very smart. Now, that is very fine, indeed. . . .”
At last the trunk contained everything from stockings, shifts, and underthings to a silk wrap, kid leather slippers in three different hues, gloves, two wide-brimmed hats and a poke bonnet, a yellow parasol, four simple morning gowns, a few walking dresses, dinner dresses, promenade gowns, and two carriage dresses.
Still more luxury followed as several liveried footmen served them breakfast in the pale blue morning room. The white-wigged footmen marched through the tall white doors bringing coffee, tea, freshly squeezed orange juice and pastries, covered silver dishes containing sausage, beans, eggs, and warm toast with butter.
Dressed in a loose-fitting day-dress of sprigged muslin, Becky glanced at Alec. He had gotten rid of his bloodied shirt and coat and donned some clothes of his brother’s, which fit well enough, but which he complained were “dull, dull, dull.”
The Paragon Duke, as Alec informed her Hawkscliffe was nicknamed, apparently dressed too conservatively for his youngest brother’s flashier style.
Now Alec, with a bored flick of his hand, directed the servants to put the food on the table instead of the sideboard. It was plain that he was thoroughly accustomed to this treatment, being waited on hand and foot.
Lord, Becky thought, if I had lived like this all my life, I’d be spoiled, too.
Maybe it wasn’t “spoiled,” after all, she mused as she gave the footman a quick smile of thanks; instead, perhaps it was a matter of being taught from the cradle to look at life and one’s role in the world in a different way. Though half aristocrat herself, she was surprised to realize that she could get used to this. Usually she clung to the commoner’s half of her nature, as well she might after her titled grandparents had rejected her, but there was something to be said for hedonism.
The meal did much to lift their spirits. Alec downed large quantities of food and coffee, and Becky found she had more of an appetite than she had expected.
“Who is that?” she asked at length, nodding to the portrait above the alabaster chimneypiece of a grand-looking lady with a mischievous glint in her dark eyes.
Alec paused, barely glancing at it. “That’s Mother. She left when I was young.” He resumed eating.
“Left?”
He shrugged. “Died. Whatever.”
She was taken aback. “Well, which? Left or died?”
“Both. Left, then died.” He wiped the corners of his fine mouth with his linen napkin and coolly inquired, “Do you really want to know or are you just asking?”
She furrowed her brow, regarding him with puzzlement. “I think I really want to know.”
Alec poured himself another cup of coffee. “Quite a romantic tale,” he said with breezy nonchalance. “When I was fourteen, she went racing off on some adventure with her paramour, the Marquess of Carnarthen. Her true love. He fathered two of my brothers—half brothers, technically. The twins.”
Becky stared at him with her eyes like saucers.
“Mother and Lord Carnarthen ran away to France to rescue aristocratic children from the guillotine. They had quite a lot of friends in Paris who had been murdered by the mob. Many of the nobles’ children had been taken into hiding by their servants and were unaccounted for. Mother felt it was her duty to help her slain friends’ offspring, so she endeavored to locate them and bring them over to England.”
There was something odd about his speech, as though he had memorized it by rote.
“Together they made a few trips back and forth across the Channel, bringing the children
over on Carnarthen’s ship. One day she never came back,” he said frankly. “Got caught in her good work, it seems, and put before the French firing squad.”
Becky gasped.
“Carnarthen had been dealing with the smugglers who let them come ashore in their port, and was too late in his attempt to rescue her.”
“Good heavens!” She set down her fork and looked from Alec to the craftily smiling duchess on the wall. “I—I’m so sorry. I don’t know what to say.”
Alec looked at her intently. He did not look at all aggrieved, but surely the loss caused him profound pain.
“Don’t you ever miss her?” Becky attempted in a soft tone.
“Not really,” he replied.
She could only stare at him in startled confusion.
He twirled his fork with deft, idle fingers. “I hardly ever think of her at all.” He paused and rested his chin on his hand. “Why should I? She didn’t think of us.”
Becky winced; Alec studied her as she lowered her gaze.
“How many brothers did you say you have, Alec?”
“Four, and one sister. Jacinda. Your age. She was only two when Mother left.”
Becky took a steadying sip of tea. “I see.”
He was watching her with a covert intensity that made her certain he wanted something very specific from her in response—almost as though he were testing her—but she was bound to fail because she did not know what it was he wanted her to say.
“You look shocked.”
“I am.”
“What do you think of my story?”
She shook her head guardedly. “You London folk are—different.”
“You’re not so put off about the marquess, are you?” he asked lightly, leaning back in his chair in a leisurely pose. “Because, I hate to say it, but the truth is we all have different fathers—except for the twins, who came as a matched set, obviously, and Robert and Jacinda, who are both his brats.” He nodded at the portrait of a stiff, unhappy-looking man on the opposite wall.
