Wylde stared at his friend with growing confusion. “Darcy, are you foxed? I was not at Fulton’s three nights ago, and there was no bloody fight. As I told you, I only arrived in London late last night.”
Darcy’s jaw tightened. “I am trying to be a good friend to you, Wylde, but we will get nowhere if you continue to deny the facts.”
Wylde’s eyes narrowed, his affection for Darcy icing over like his garden pond in winter. “In the twenty years of our acquaintance, my dear Lord Rywood, when have you ever known me to lie?”
“I can’t say that I have. But now I have done it, eh? You only become formal with me when you are vexed. But I am just trying to help. You have always been the epitome of propriety, Wylde, and this sudden burst of disreputable behavior is simply not like you. The talk is all over Town.”
“Talk?” Wylde leaned forward, his entire body rigid. “What talk is this? I have been installed at Wyldehaven since before Felicity’s death.”
“News of the brawl has reached all the drawing rooms in London. I’m sorry about that, Wylde. I know how you hate gossip.”
“There was no bloody brawl, Darcy. Someone made a mistake.” Wylde sat back, sucking air into his lungs. Bloody rumormongers. As if he did not have enough misery on his plate without their input.
“No mistake, Wylde. Jonas Pendleton saw you there and spread the word. Of course you were utterly drunk at the time, so perhaps that explains it.”
“This is madness.”
“If you had taken me with you, I could have helped you avoid the whole distasteful mess.” Darcy fingered the slightly worn edge of his coat. “You know I am always available for a game of cards.”
“This tale is all over London?”
“I am afraid so.”
“Upon my honor, Darcy, I tell you I was not even in Town at the time.” He caught and held his friend’s gaze. “Pendleton must be trying to blacken my name for some reason. You must believe me.”
“Perhaps.” Darcy frowned. “I must admit to being taken aback by the story.”
“How can it be that gossip like this spreads when I am not even in the city?” Wylde curled his lip and cast a disgusted glance out the window at the buildings of London. “Father would no doubt be quite amused, were he alive.”
“I suppose Pendleton could be trying to discredit you,” Darcy speculated. “It makes more sense than the current version of events.”
“You know me better than most people, Darcy. I do not lie, I do not gamble, and I have never in my life engaged in fisticuffs outside a friendly match at Gentleman Jackson’s.”
“I would have agreed wholeheartedly until two days ago, when I first heard of the incident.” Darcy frowned. “Very well. If you say it never happened, then I will take that as truth.”
“Thank you.” Wylde tapped his fingers on his knee. “I will have a word with Pendleton and see what mischief he is about.”
“Excellent notion. If you need any help, you know you can call on any of us.” Darcy flashed a quick grin as the coach came to a stop outside his residence. “Or all of us, for that matter.”
Wylde nodded. “I will keep that in mind.”
“See that you do.” The footman opened the door, and with a jaunty salute, Darcy hopped out of the carriage.
Wylde watched him go. Once, the offer of help from his friends would have meant the world. He, Darcy, Kit, and Wulf had all been young boys tormented by the bullies at school. Then Michael—bigger, braver, and more clever than all of them—had convinced them to band together to fight back against their oppressors. With the arrogance of the very young, they called themselves Sons of Grendel, named after the mythical monster from Beowulf whom no one could defeat. The plan worked, and their friendship, which included Michael, had lasted well into adulthood.
But when Michael had needed him, he had not been there. Michael died alone in the middle of the ocean with only strangers around him. With that on his conscience, Wylde did not dare ask any of his other friends to extend themselves on his account. He would get to the bottom of this scurrilous rumor and put a stop to it. Alone.
Since it was not yet even noon, he found Jonas Pendleton at home, still abed. The butler tried to indicate that his master was not currently receiving callers, but Wylde would have none of it and pushed past the older man into the house. Given the reality of a duke standing in the foyer, the servant had no choice but to summon his master.
Wylde awaited Pendleton in a tiny salon whose decor looked somewhat the worse for wear. When the man himself entered the room, he did not look much better, hurriedly dressed in shirt and coat without his cravat, his hair a hastily finger-combed mess. His pale blue eyes were bloodshot and his skin waxen, except for a greenish bruise on his jaw.
“Wyldehaven. What in blue blazes are you doing here at this hour?” he demanded.
Wylde glanced out the window. “The sun is well up, Pendleton, and the world is awake.”
“The world did not crawl into bed with the dawn.” Pendleton went to the window and yanked the drapes closed. “Now I demand to know your purpose here.”
Wylde raised his brows, taken aback by the hostility. “I am here to request an explanation for rumors you have started about me.”
“What rumors?” Heedless of the fact that his guest remained standing, Pendleton threw himself into an armchair. “I have not said anything that is not the truth.”
“Indeed?” Wylde did not sit but instead came to stand over Pendleton’s chair. “What of that nonsense about Fulton’s three nights ago?”
Pendleton glared at him. “As I said, nothing but truth. Perhaps you do not remember the details clearly since you were so bloody drunk, Wyldehaven, but I cannot forget.” He touched the bruise on his jaw. “You sent me home with a reminder.”
Wylde reared back. “Are you now accusing me of striking you?”
“Too right. I tried to peel you off poor Winchell and got this for my trouble.”
“Impossible. I only arrived in London last night.”
“The hell you did.” Pendleton stood, pushing nose-to-nose with Wylde. “I saw you myself, called you by name, played cards with you. You won my money but then lost badly to Winchell. Then you accused him of cheating and thrashed the poor sod until he was incoherent.” He sneered. “Have to admit, Wyldehaven, I didn’t know you were so handy with your fives.”
“But it was not me,” Wylde murmured, more to himself than Pendleton. “I was not even in London.”
“It was you, all right, Your Grace. Took a bit of time, but it looks like you took more after your sire than anyone knew. You truly are the son of Madcap Matherton, aren’t you?”
The words chilled him. “I tell you it is a mistake. I was at Wyldehaven until yesterday.”
Pendleton jerked a finger at the bruise on his face. “This was no mistake. You were the one who chopped me in the jaw when I tried to pull you off Winchell. Luckily for me Fulton employs those big louts to break up these things. They dragged you out and probably saved poor Winchell’s life.”
“It did not happen,” Wylde said. He stripped off his gloves. “Look at my hands. Why are they not bruised or scraped?”
Pendleton barely glanced at Wylde’s bared knuckles. “Those of us who were there know what we saw, what we felt.” He swept a scathing gaze over Wylde’s impeccable clothing. “You are no gentleman.”
Wylde stiffened and tugged his gloves back on. “Step carefully, Pendleton. I came here to discover what game you are playing, and I warn you, I will find out.”
“I have no desire to rise with the sun to meet my maker. Everyone knows you are a crack shot, and I am fond of my own skin.” Pendleton returned to his chair and glowered. “Your consequence may be enough to hide your true nature, Wyldehaven, but you cannot silence those of us who have seen that side of you. The world will learn the truth about the Duke of Wyldehaven.”
“You are mistaken,” Wylde gritted out, shaken by the intensity in Pendleton’s gaze. The fellow believed ev
ery word he had spoken. With a curt nod of his head, Wylde strode out of the drawing room and out of the house.
Had the entire world gone mad?
From across the street, he watched Wyldehaven storm out of Jonas Pendleton’s residence and down the stairs to the glossy black coach waiting at the curb. Footmen jumped down to open the door to the elegant equipage, making the coat of arms on the door blaze in the morning sun.
Mocking him.
His bloody Grace, the Duke of Wyldehaven, climbed into the coach without a word to his servants. Pretentious sod. He could see the duke’s stony countenance through the window as he settled back into the seat. The poor fellow looked as if he wanted to take a bite out of something—or someone.
Well, well. Out of sorts, was he? A grin tugged at his lips. Apparently Pendleton had not received His Grace with a fatted calf. Too tragic, that. But what could a fellow expect after thrashing a man over a gaming dispute? He chuckled and rubbed his bruised knuckles. Some pain was worth the reward.
The coach pulled away, no doubt headed to Mayfair, where His Grace would be soothed by his army of servants at the elegant town house that had long belonged to the Matherton family.
For once he felt no envy—only a delicious anticipation. “That’s right, dear boy,” he murmured. “Hurry home to your darkened rooms and the spirits that haunt you. Leave the night to me.”
Wylde arrived at his town house and sought the privacy of his study immediately upon returning from Pendleton’s. Seated at his desk, he took out a crystal decanter from a nearby cabinet and poured a large portion of whisky into a matching crystal glass. As he lifted the glass to his lips, he sat back in his chair and began to sort through the post his secretary had left for him.
After a moment he carefully set down the glass.
Bills from tailors, demands of payment for gaming debts, even an invoice for a horse he had never purchased. There were dozens of them. All purchases supposedly made by the Duke of Wyldehaven. All from London. All in the last several weeks.
This was impossible. He had not been in London for nearly two years. During his self-imposed exile at Wyldehaven he had seen no one—with the exception of Michael—and had tried to lose himself in the opera he was composing. He was mourning, not mad. He knew he could not have possibly incurred these debts.
But someone had, using his name.
Pendleton’s words came back to him. Pendleton had seen him, claimed to have played cards with him, accused him of giving him the bruise that currently decorated his jawline. Except he had been in Dorset at the time.
Someone was impersonating him. Someone who looked enough like him to fool those who did not know him well.
With a frustrated sweep of his arm, he shoved the bills aside. How many years had he carefully followed the strict parameters of behavior set by Society? His father had done considerable harm to the family name with his scandalous exploits, but Wylde had been the one to set the example after Father’s death. He had avoided London and its gossip mill as much as possible, choosing instead to live most of the time in quiet solitude at Wyldehaven. But despite his care, someone was destroying the good name he had fought so hard to achieve, the honorable reputation that finally made people forget about the disreputable one left by his father.
He had done everything right, walked every step with excruciating care, and this was his reward? To be used by some stranger?
Enough. He had tolerated years of his father’s undisciplined swings from disreputable rogue to strict parent. He had suffered at the hands of bullies as a schoolboy. He had handed out thousands of pounds in gaming debts on his father’s behalf as well as to any of his sire’s many by-blows who presented themselves on his doorstep. But no more. This scheme was outside of enough. He did not deserve such treatment, and he would stop the villain behind it.
He scooped up the papers from the floor. One letter caught his eye because of its feminine handwriting and plain appearance. It did not look like a demand for payment.
Curious, he ripped it open. The few sentences in the missive first made his heart freeze in his chest, but then it began pounding again—too fast. His blood surged through his veins, red hot. He grabbed a piece of stationery and his quill and jotted a short reply. He sealed it with wax and put it on the pile of post that needed to go out tomorrow.
Bills he could manage. God knew he had enough money to pay these honest tradesmen until he could find out who was behind this mischief, and he would rather do that than add to the gossip by appearing to avoid his debts. But this last letter had nothing to do with overdue bills or rumors of fisticuffs. He knew for certain he was not responsible for this matter, and better that he tell the young lady the truth at once, so she might continue to search for the real culprit.
He got up from his desk and blew out the lamp, heading for his bed. Forty-eight hours be damned. There was no way he could leave London now, not without discovering the identity of the villain who was impersonating him. He would have to pursue the blackguard and stop these nefarious activities…before Society began to believe its own rumors and determined that he was, indeed, his father’s son.
Chapter 2
One month later
Miranda stood on the doorstep of Matherton House, her eyes fixed on the heavy brass knocker that decorated the door. Her heart thundered in her chest, and her hands trembled. No decent woman would be seen visiting a gentleman at his home, but here she stood, mentally summoning her courage to lift that knocker and announce her presence.
What if he refused to see her? What if he tossed her into the street?
Just the thought of it straightened her spine. She had promised Lettie, and baby James needed someone to stand up for him. This duke had sent a pithy dismissal to her letter informing him that he had a child. Perhaps he would not be able to set aside her person as easily as he had a piece of paper.
Using her righteous anger as a crutch, she rapped on the door.
Wylde strode down the hallway of his London home slightly the worse for wear, as he had not found his bed until dawn. He had spent last evening as he’d spent all others since Michael’s funeral, combing the gaming hells of London in an effort to track down the blackguard posing as the Duke of Wyldehaven. He always seemed to be just a step behind the fellow, and everyone he spoke to said the same thing: that they had witnessed him gaming or fighting or seducing a woman or some other mischief. Gathering even that little bit of information had proven time-consuming and expensive.
This cat and mouse chase had begun to weary him, especially since he was beginning to believe he was the mouse and not the cat. Therefore, he was not inclined toward a pleasant demeanor in any shape or form, and most especially not to the young woman who had presented herself at his door this afternoon and demanded an audience with him. His head pounded from both lack of sleep and frustration, and the last thing he wanted to do was deal with unwanted company. However, every caller might have some clue to the imposter, so he was obliged to see each and every one of them. Though today he was determined to see this visitor dispatched with all haste.
The female in question awaited him in the blue parlor, and when he walked into that room, his first thought was that she did not look like a woman of questionable morals, which was his natural reaction to any unwed young miss who presented herself uninvited at a gentleman’s home. She sat primly and quietly on the edge of a settee, her gray dress serviceable yet out of date. Dark hair peeked from beneath a simple straw bonnet, which was all he could see of her as she stared down at the gloved hands folded in her lap.
Impoverished gentility, he thought. Another one of Father’s by-blows, no doubt.
“I am Wyldehaven,” he announced as he made his entrance. “And you are…?”
She gave a start and got to her feet, immediately dipping a curtsy. “My name is Miranda Fontaine.”
He frowned, the name plucking a familiar chord in his mind. “What is your business here, Miss Fontaine?”
She had to tilt
her head to look up at him. A lovely face, somewhat unusual with sloping cheekbones and full, pouting lips that made a man think of anything but church on Sundays. Her eyes were green and slightly slanted, like a cat’s. She furrowed her lovely brow at him, no doubt in response to his curt tone.
He hoped like hell she wasn’t his half sister.
“I wrote to you, Your Grace, on a matter of some urgency.”
“Wrote to me.” Damn and blast, where had he heard her name? He waved a hand at the settee, and she sat down again, though he remained standing. “What was this matter of urgency?”
“The matter of your son.”
Recollection snapped into place. He had shoved the memory of the letter aside, assuming the matter was closed. “As I recall, Miss Fontaine, I replied to your missive. I am not the father.”
Her lip curled with a cynicism that surprised him. “A common refrain.”
He stiffened. “I am not in the habit of denying my own actions, Miss Fontaine. You are mistaken.”
“I do not believe I am, Your Grace.”
Impudent chit. He slid an admiring glance down her fine, feminine form and had the satisfaction of seeing her fingers clench in reaction. “I would certainly recall a liaison with you, dear lady.”
She glared at him, all fire and indignation. For an instant he regretted that he hadn’t been the one to get her with child. Did she bring such passion to the boudoir? Would the sheets be singed after their coupling?
Dear God, how long had it been since he had even noticed a woman?
“I am not the child’s mother, as you well know,” she snapped. “His mother was Lettie Dupree. Now do you recall?”
“I am not acquainted with Miss Dupree,” he said with a shrug, still distracted by her curves. By God, this was a woman made for bedding. His wife had been gone for nearly two years, and no female had attracted his attention in all that time—until now. Then the guilt of Felicity’s memory made him frown. “If you are not the mother, why is it that you are here but she is not?”
To Ruin the Duke Page 2
