“It is a puzzle,” the duchess agreed, then turned to Miranda. “When was the child born?”
“The third of March, Your Grace.”
“And if you are not his mother, who is?”
“Her name was Lettie Dupree. She died in childbirth.”
“A pity.” The duchess cast an eye at her grandson. “You never left Wyldehaven, Thornton?”
“Never. You know why.”
“I do. And if you tell me you are not this babe’s father, I will believe you.”
“I have never even met this Lettie Dupree, so I can hardly be the father.”
“You were seen with her several times,” Miranda said.
“By whom? You?”
“No. I am only recently arrived in London. But there are others who knew of your…acquaintance…with her.”
“I would bloody well like to meet these ‘others.’”
“Thornton, your language,” the duchess rebuked him.
His face tight with frustration, he gave the older lady a respectful nod. “I apologize, Grandmother.”
“As I said, you are overset.”
“Too right I am overset. I did not do this thing.”
“Yet the evidence seems to be to the contrary,” Miranda said. For the first time, she felt some optimism, at least for James’s future. Yet she was also disappointed. She had begun to hope that Wyldehaven was different from other men of his class, other men like her own father, who rejected their unwanted children like a wrinkled neck cloth.
“This child appears to be a Matherton,” the duchess said. “Please understand that I do believe you, Thornton, if you say you never met the babe’s mother. However, the evidence indicates that this child is a member of our family, which makes him your responsibility, even if you are not his father.”
“Accepting responsibility is akin to admitting guilt,” he protested. “And I am innocent in this.”
“You are also the head of the family, Thornton.”
“Very well. Since you wish it, Grandmother, I will provide funds for the raising of the child. On a temporary basis,” he emphasized. “Only until we discover the identity of the babe’s true father.”
Miranda wanted to protest for James’s sake. Money was a cold substitute for a parent’s acceptance, but in her current circumstances, she realized, she had no choice but to settle for what was offered. “I am willing to continue to care for James, Your Grace, until you decide on a permanent situation.”
“I am certain you are, Miss Fontaine.” His words carried a scorn that she could not mistake. “Do leave your direction with Travers, and I will send word to you tomorrow about what that new arrangement will be.” He signaled to a footman to show her out.
“Very well.” She placed James in his basket, picked it up, and headed toward the door, then hesitated on the threshold.
“Have no fear,” the duchess said, obviously sensing her uncertainty. “My grandson keeps his word.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” With one last look at the duke’s stern visage, Miranda bobbed a curtsy to the duchess and followed the footman from the room.
“That young woman reminds me of someone.” Alone with her grandson, the duchess pursed her lips in thought. “I cannot think of whom, but it will come to me.”
“I do not see how you could ever have met her before,” Wylde said, still frowning after the persistent Miss Fontaine. “She is hardly in your circle.”
“Botheration, Thornton! You have no idea who is in my circle.” The duchess gave an annoyed sniff. “Or who might have been in the past. I could tell you stories of my youth that would curl your hair.”
“Please, do not.” He held up a hand and tried to smile. “Let us forget all this unpleasantness and continue on to Bond Street.”
“Ha!” The duchess stood, balancing on her cane and not waiting for Wylde’s helping hand. “If you can forget about that lovely young lady, Thornton, you are not half the Matherton I think you are!”
“I consider that a compliment.”
The duchess snorted and began to walk from the room, but Wylde noticed her lips curving when she thought he was not looking. Pushing aside thoughts of Miranda Fontaine, he increased his pace to keep up with his grandmother. Better to stay at her side lest she get another mad notion into her head—like trying to drive the carriage!
Chapter 6
Miranda climbed down from the hired hack, still simmering about her encounter with the duke. Clutching James’s basket, she marched up the pathway to Thaddeus’s small house, grateful the duke had at least paid her fare beforehand—the very least he could do.
Though the duchess had shamed him into providing monetary support for James for the moment, it disturbed Miranda greatly that he still maintained he was not the father. She had only his word that he had been deep in mourning for his wife for the past year, and yet Thaddeus had told her other stories of Wild Wyldehaven, a man driven by hard gambling and soft women since the death of his wife. Unfortunately, Lettie had apparently been one of those women. Hardly the actions of a grieving widower. Someone was lying, and all indications pointed to Wyldehaven.
She could not believe she had thought him the least bit attractive, even for a moment. People lied all the time, but she wanted to believe his protestations of innocence. And why? Because he was handsome and his smile made her insides tumble around like kittens in a basket. Because their music together had made her believe for one crazy instant that there was something more at work, some destiny that drew them together.
But she knew better than that. How often had she witnessed it firsthand, with both her mother and the other women who worked at the tavern? Women were so gullible when it came to men, so willing to believe every word that fell from male lips. They all wanted to fall in love, to be rescued by a handsome knight on a white charger.
Well, more often than not that shining knight turned out to be no more than a sweet-talking charlatan on a stolen mule…and usually one with no compunction about trampling a woman’s heart or stealing her hard-earned wages.
No, the Duke of Wyldehaven could take his charming smile and wicked dark eyes to the devil. She herself might have been abandoned by her own blue-blooded father, but she would not accept such a future for James. The duchess had already confirmed that James was related to their family. She only needed the duke to admit the truth, for even a reluctant father was better than none at all.
Miranda reached out to open the front door. As she turned the knob, a hand shoved hard at her back, propelling her inside. She cried out and clutched the basket, terrified she would fall and take the baby with her. Rough hands grabbed her upper arms and steadied her as the door slammed behind her.
“We’re looking for Thaddeus LeGrande.”
She was spun around and found herself facing two men she had never seen before. Both of them were dressed in the serviceable, plain clothing that marked them as laborers and not gentlemen. One of the men leaned against the front door, watching out of the tiny window beside it. The other still had her in his grip, his large nose slightly crooked, as if it had been broken once upon a time. One of his mud-brown eyes focused on her, but the other had a tendency to slide to the right of its own accord.
She had seen men of this ilk before, in the tavern and at the docks near where she’d lived. Dangerous. Unpredictable. She clutched the handle of the basket more tightly.
“Where’s LeGrande?”
The man’s breath smelled of ale and onions, and it was all she could do not to turn her head and retch. “He is not here.”
“When will he be back?”
“He is not living here at the moment.” She straightened her spine and looked them in the eye as she fibbed, “My husband and I are renting the house.”
“Husband, eh? I don’t think so.” He tightened his grip on her and dragged her up on her toes. “You LeGrande’s woman?”
“Certainly not!”
Her outrage must have amused him, for he gave a brief chuckle. “Y
ou tell him that Mint and Barney were here.”
She held onto her composure with all her might. “If you care to leave your direction…”
“He knows where to find us.” The ruffian finally let her go, then cast a quick glance at the basket. “Nice baby. If you like him so much, make sure LeGrande gets the message.”
“I will.” She forced herself to meet his gaze without wavering. “Good day.”
His mouth quirked in amusement. “Good day to you, yer ladyship.” He turned away, gave a nod at his companion, and the two men slipped out the front door, leaving it ajar.
Putting down the basket, Miranda rushed forward, slammed the door, then threw the bolt and leaned back against the solid wood. Dear God. What did such riffraff want with Thaddeus? They had clearly been ready to resort to physical violence at any moment. Her heart pounded, and she sucked in breaths through dry lips. Anything could have happened, to her or to James.
She had become adept at avoiding unwanted male attention after years of living first with her mother, then on her own above the tavern. Now and again one of her mother’s gentlemen callers had taken a fancy to a younger face and form and tried to convince her to yield herself to him. She had always managed to escape, except for the last time, when Jack Hinton came looking for her late mother and had instead nearly taken Miranda’s innocence by force when he discovered that his paramour had died. Lettie had stopped him with a well-aimed chamber pot to the head.
How she wished Lettie were there now.
The baby stirred, making those breathy grunts that indicated he was waking. She shook off the ghosts of the past. James was her present and possibly her future. He needed her now.
“Miss Fontaine, is that you?” Mrs. Cooper, the wet nurse Thaddeus had hired for the baby, came down the stairs, a cheerful smile on her apple-cheeked face. “Oh good, you’re back. I was folding the baby’s linens and did not hear you until you closed the door.”
A wail rose from the basket, starting low but escalating in volume with each passing second.
“I believe James is hungry,” Miranda said, untying her bonnet with shaking fingers. She turned away to hang it up on the peg beside the door, taking a moment to regain her composure. She could not resist glancing out the tiny window, but there was no one outside.
“For certain, he is.” Smiling, the nurse scooped the baby out of the basket. “I’ll just take him upstairs and see to that before I leave for the afternoon. My young ones will be looking for their supper.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Cooper.” Miranda picked up the basket from the floor and set it on a nearby table as the wet nurse climbed the stairs, cooing to James. Again her gaze settled on the window. Still no one out there.
She stripped off her gloves, pushing back the fear with the mere strength of her will. She intended to have a few choice words with Thaddeus when she saw him. She had risked everything to come here to London, to make a better life for James. Ruffians barging into the house hardly made London any different than Little Depping. When she turned to put her gloves on the table, she noticed the letter sitting there, addressed to the Contessa della Pietra. Curious, she picked it up and opened it.
She scanned the lines within and slowly smiled.
“Haven’t had this much fun since my salad days,” Kit said with a grin as he and Wylde exited the coach in front of Ball’s gaming establishment. Wylde had instructed the servants to conceal his coat of arms on the equipage; he did not want to add to the gossip about the Duke of Wyldehaven patronizing gaming hells. Kit, on the other hand, practically vibrated with enthusiasm, more excited than a stripling with his first woman.
“If this villain maintains his current pattern, I would expect him to arrive here at some point.” Wylde regarded the nondescript town home with distaste.
“Or perhaps we have anticipated him.”
“Perhaps. We might be able to warn the owners of this establishment and ask them to alert us if he does appear.”
Kit laughed. “You truly do not understand the mentality of the underworld, do you, Wylde?”
Wylde cast him a grim glance. “I understand that these people want to make a profit. I expect to make it worth their while to help us.”
Kit shook his head, amusement still curving his lips. “Lead on, Your Grace. I will watch your back, in the event someone tries to put a knife in it.”
“I would appreciate that.”
Wylde marched up the steps of the gaming hell and paused on the landing, eyeing the brute of a man blocking the door. The doorman stared right back, his glower a silent challenge. “We would like to enter,” Wylde said.
The doorman pointed at Kit, then flipped a thumb at the door behind him. Kit flashed a grin, then darted around the fellow and opened the door. Wylde made to follow, but a ham-sized palm slapped into his chest, halting him.
“Him,” the doorman said. “Not you.”
Wylde grabbed the man’s wrist and shoved his hand away. “Do you know who I am?”
“Wyldehaven.”
“Oh.” Nonplussed, he considered his options. Clearly the imposter had been here already…and left a less than flattering impression. “You let him in, but I am richer than he is.”
The doorman folded his arms across his massive chest and regarded him as if he were a cow pie on the drawing room carpet. The hard glint in his eyes dared Wylde to try something physical.
Wylde glanced at the closed door, wondering why Kit did not come back to find him. No doubt his friend, ever searching for the quickest way to increase his wealth, had deserted him for the tables. He made a mental note to bring Wulf with him the next time he sought to infiltrate a gaming hell.
He looked the guard in the eye. “You will not let me in?”
The brute simply stared.
Wylde produced a guinea. “Will this change your mind?”
Outrage rippled across the doorman’s homely face. Baring his teeth in a growl, he slapped Wylde’s hand, sending the coin flying. “Annie is worth more than gold.”
“Annie?”
The doorman grabbed two fistfuls of Wylde’s perfectly tailored coat and lifted him easily to his toes. “You know what you did to her.”
The genuine offense in the guard’s tone made Wylde’s senses go on alert. Something terrible had happened here, and the imposter had something to do with it.
“I want to speak to the owner of this establishment,” he said, keeping his tone reasonable with effort when faced with a giant who looked like he might send him flying after the guinea. “I want to make things right.”
The doorman’s grip loosened, surprise and suspicion warring on his face. “You want to see Ball?”
“Yes. Is that possible?”
The doorman hesitated, and then an unholy grin split his face. “We’ll go see Ball.” He turned and opened the door with one hand, hauling Wylde along with the other still clenched on his coat. Faced with the possibilities of either falling or being dragged, Wylde managed to keep up with the doorman’s pace.
The noise of the place assaulted his ears—voices striving to be heard over others, shrill laughter, the clinking of bottles to glass, the quiet slap of cards against table. Once inside, the doorman nodded at a fellow nearly as big as he was, and that behemoth slipped outside to take the guardsman’s place at the front door.
Wylde’s nostrils flared at the odors of tobacco and excessive cologne, and as they passed the common room, he glanced over in search of Kit. He thought he caught a glimpse of familiar blond hair, but then he was yanked down a hallway.
They finally stopped outside a door guarded by yet another huge man, who nodded at the doorman and thumped a meaty fist on the door. A voice replied from within, and the guardian to this doorway pushed open the door, then nodded to them.
“The Duke of Wyldehaven to see you, Ball,” the doorman said, then shoved Wylde into the room. As Wylde stumbled on the plush red carpet, the door shut with ominous finality behind him.
He registered a fire burn
ing in the grate, several bookcases stuffed with books, and behind the enormous desk piled with ledgers and papers, the woman.
He judged her to be somewhat past her prime, but the generous, smooth breasts barely covered by her form-fitting jade silk evening dress would have attracted attention at any age. A spectacular necklace of diamonds and emeralds lay across that impressive bosom and sparkled with every breath she took. She might have been a stunning beauty once, but her wide mouth, colored a dramatic scarlet, was surrounded by lines carved by hard living. Her brilliant blue eyes glittered with the well-learned lessons of survival.
“You’ve got some nerve showing that pretty face of yours around here,” the striking redhead said. “I don’t want to hang for killing a duke, but some of the boys aren’t as picky.”
“You are Ball?”
She laughed. “Don’t play games, Wyldehaven. Have you come to compensate me for Annie?”
“There has been a misunderstanding—”
“You beat my girl and she can’t work. I say you owe me for the money she would have been making me.”
Wylde drew himself up and gave her his coldest stare. “Madam, as I said, there has been a misunderstanding. This is my first visit to your establishment.”
She barked with laughter. “You cold-hearted bastard. You were here just last night, drunk as a lord. You took Annie for your pleasure and then used your fists on her. The girl can barely walk today.”
“I did not. Unfortunately, Mrs. Ball—”
“Just Ball. It’s a nickname.”
“As I was saying, someone who resembles me is going about town pretending to be the Duke of Wyldehaven. He has been causing me no little trouble.”
She gave a cackling laugh. “That’s a new story to avoid a scandal. You nobs are a queer lot for certain.”
“I assure you, madam, this is no joke.” He pulled out his purse and counted out a number of coins and bills, then slapped the money on her desk with a clank of coin. Ball pounced on it like a cat on a mouse.
To Ruin the Duke Page 7
