Celeste Bradley - [Heiress Brides 01]

by Desperately Seeking a Duke

  “Yes, well …” The thin gentleman peered at them all doubtfully as they sat in a semicircle facing him in the same guest parlor where they had received Brookhaven. Mr. Stickley took up decidedly less room than their previous caller. “Lady Tessa, are you quite sure the vicar himself isn’t available?”

  Tessa smiled daggers at the man. “The vicar has gone on to Brook House with the marquis. All the affairs of the Pickering heiresses have been left in my hands.”

  The man blinked. “Still …”

  Tessa’s smile evaporated. Mr. Stickley tapped his fingers on his file case as if he debated waiting until an actual male could be found. Phoebe admired his fortitude, then realized he was probably simply too myopic to see the danger he was in.

  “Sir, I fear we must get on with things. You see, Miss Millbury has an appointment with Lementeur, himself, this afternoon. We”—she waved her hand at the others and herself—“are going to have fittings as well, since Miss Millbury insisted on it.”

  Phoebe gazed at Tessa. The woman was unbelievable. “I did?”

  Tessa’s eyes sparked danger. “You did.”

  Phoebe smiled. Tessa suddenly seemed rather tiny and, well, insubstantial. Lady Tessa did not compare to the Duchess of Brookmoor, after all. Not even to the Marchioness of Brookhaven, come to think.

  Phoebe’s smile became wry. She tipped her head lightly. “It would my honor to ask you all to accompany me to Lementeur’s for fittings.”

  Deirdre’s eyes flashed something that might have been resentful respect, but Sophie only shrugged. “Do you think it will take long?”

  Mr. Stickley frowned, for he clearly cared little for such nonnecessities. “I suppose we must begin—although I will enter it into record that I wished to delay until the vicar could join us.”

  “You may enter it anywhere you like, Mr. Stickley,” Tessa said with loaded emphasis. “As long as you begin. Now.”

  “As you ladies have doubtlessly been informed, the Pickering fortune now stands at twenty-seven thousand pounds—”

  Someone gasped. Phoebe realized it was her. The others seemed less startled, although Sophie seemed vaguely confused, as if that outrageous amount were difficult for her to grasp.

  Mr. Stickley turned her way. “Is this the young lady who is engaged to the marquis?”

  Phoebe nodded, her mouth still dry. Twenty-seven thousand pounds? That wasn’t just a fortune, it was an obscene one.

  Mr. Stickley regarded her with wan approval. “Well, it seems as if you might well win the day. I have it on reliable information that the current Duke of Brookmoor has taken a turn for the worse yet again.”

  An old man was dying. Phoebe’s stomach turned that this was good news … and yet it was. His death and her marriage would free her forever. She wanted that safety more than she’d ever wanted anything.

  Except Marbrook.

  She managed a noncommittal noise for Mr. Stickley, who nodded.

  “Now, should Miss Millbury inherit there will be small annuities for the other two—I believe the will states that they will receive fifteen pounds per annum …” He trailed off, for even he must have realized what a paltry sum that was.

  A decent governess made more than that, and had her room and board supplied as well. He cleared his throat. “It is regrettable that Sir Hamish did not account for rising costs … but there is no adjusting that amount.”

  Phoebe didn’t want to meet her cousins’ eyes, but she forced herself to. She needed to win the Pickering fortune. Her father’s dream … her mother’s dying wish … her future was not hers to change.

  Deirdre was beautiful and well connected. She would do well enough.

  Sophie … Sophie was gazing into space, her brow slightly wrinkled. It occurred to Phoebe for the first time that Sophie had never expected to win a cent of Pickering money.

  Why was she here in London, then?

  Mr. Stickley cleared his throat again. “Now, you must understand, Miss Millbury, that Stickley & Wolfe cannot release the inheritance until you are married and your future husband is officially named the duke. Nor can word of this arrangement leave the family or the entire matter becomes null and void.”

  Deirdre frowned. “But that is the part I’ve never understood. We could all catch a duke if we could wave twenty-seven thousand pounds before him.”

  Oh, no. Deirdre wasn’t resentful, not even a little tiny bit.

  Mr. Stickley nodded sadly. “Precisely. Your great-grandfather realized that. He wishes you to earn the inheritance with your own resourcefulness.”

  Of course, Phoebe could understand Deirdre’s ire. If fair hair and sapphire eyes did not count as the finest of resources … well, what was the world coming to?

  “What happens to the money, then, if someone tells?” Everyone turned. It was Sophie, speaking for the first time since the proceedings began. All eyes shot back to Mr. Stickley, who reddened in a rather splotchy manner and tugged at his collar with his index finger.

  “In the unlikely case that not one of you ladies secures a duke—or if the contents of the will are leaked to non-family members—in that case …”

  Furniture creaked as all four women leaned forward, the intensity of their regard apparently enough to dismay even a cold fish like Mr. Stickley. He coughed and cleared his throat yet again. “In that case, the entire account … well, Sir Hamish had very decided views on the excise tax …”

  He gazed about him at all their expectant expressions and shrugged helplessly. “He left it all to the smugglers.”

  “Smugglers.” Sophie looked down and smiled. “Whisky smugglers, I take it?”

  Mr. Stickley looked as though the very idea of all that lovely money going to a lot of unwashed criminals made him want to vomit. “Yes. The entire fortune will go to pay the fines and penalties of men convicted of distilling and transporting whisky without paying lawful duty.”

  Phoebe thought of the portrait of Sir Hamish that hung in Thornhold. With sandy hair and piercing blue eyes, yes … she could see the rebel in those eyes.

  Oh, look, Great-grandfather. I’ve won.

  The smugglers wouldn’t see a penny. She would marry Lord Brookhaven and quickly, too, for it meant she would never have to be afraid again.

  She didn’t give a hair on her head for rich gowns or jewels, but the thought that she might never again have to bite her tongue or lose sleep wondering if she’d said too much or ponder any stray whisper she might hear, trying to ascertain if someone knew something terrible about her—that thought was worth all her integrity and her heart besides.

  The Duchess of Brookmoor. Just remember that you will be the duchess.

  Chapter Eleven

  Mr. Stickley entered the austerely elegant office of Stickley & Wolfe, appointed as it was in a classical style that quite matched the elegant exterior of their Fleet Street building. There were no papers cluttering up the vast gleaming desks, there was no murmur of clerks busily seeing to the more mundane tasks of a busy firm.

  Stickley & Wolfe had only one client—one purpose in the world, one might say. For the past twenty years, the sole occupation of Stickley & Wolfe had been the protection and management of the Pickering trust.

  There had been other clients when the original Stickley & Wolfe held court in this office. Mr. Stickley senior had been the sharp, detail-oriented partner, while Mr. Wolfe senior had been the charming social representative, bringing in new high clientele with his wit and good looks. Although there had been a prevalence of freshly baked widows in the clutch, it had made for a profitable business.

  Mr. Stickley the younger, however, was not interested in the accounts of widows, who had the irritating tendency to actually want to spend the money. Mr. Wolfe the younger had inherited his father’s good looks and charm, but not the innate class that had made his father welcome among even the highest society—if there were an odd number of ladies that must be matched at dinner.

  Mr. Wolfe the younger was more inclined to be found at a
gaming hell with a ladybird on his lap—at least while he was still sober enough to want one.

  So one by one, the large client list that was inherited from the fathers was lost by the sons until only the Pickering trust remained. Sir Hamish was long deceased, thankfully, or his business might have gone the way of the merry widows.

  To be truthful, the state of things suited both Mr. Stickley and Mr. Wolfe to a fine stitch. Mr. Stickley nurtured and petted the trust into its current astonishing growth, while Mr. Wolfe gambled away his retainer with gusto, for there would always be more to come. After all, the odds of one of the Pickering great-granddaughters capturing a duke were well worth playing.

  Stickley sat himself in the large tufted leather chair that he loved so dearly and listened to the welcome quiet of the serene office. Thankfully, Wolfe was rarely present but for the occasional visit to pick up his portion for that night’s wastrel fling.

  Stickley despised Wolfe with all the exquisite delicacy of a man who would never dare to free his inhibitions so, but he would not have parted with him for the world. Aside from the fact that he would have to use his personal monies to buy Wolfe’s half of the firm, where else would he find someone who would leave him so delightfully alone?

  This was why, when Wolfe breezed in an hour later, Stickley was able to peer at the useless bounder over the lens of his spectacles with a certain degree of friendly disdain.

  “Hoy there, Stick. I’m here to fill me purse.”

  Stickley rose in no particular hurry. “Your father didn’t send you to Eton so that you could murder the King’s English so.”

  He went to the safe, casually keeping his back to Wolfe’s chair. He’d had the combination changed years ago, fully intending to share it with Wolfe should he ever ask, but he hadn’t. Therefore, why put the poor, morally unstable fellow in the terrible position of having to restrain himself from cleaning out the vault?

  Stickley filled a small bag with several large pound notes and coins. He was always entirely generous with Wolfe, never scrimping on his “purse” as he called it. When there was a rise in the trust’s carefully managed investments, Wolfe’s purse was increased accordingly.

  Stickley wouldn’t dream of cheating the son of his father’s beloved partner—although it would be incredibly easy to do so. In fact, over the years, Stickley had thought of any number of ways to leach more from Wolfe’s retainer, but one must set one’s moral compass high and never allow it to falter, or one would lose oneself in sin.

  Stickleys didn’t steal.

  Without turning, he tossed the purse over his shoulder, knowing that Wolfe would catch it in the air. That done, he closed the safe box and carefully reset the combination, all with his back blocking the process from Wolfe.

  Then he turned, fully expecting to see Wolfe already on his way to the door. Instead, his absurdly handsome partner sprawled disrespectfully in the matching tooled leather chair, gazing at him narrowly.

  “You’re losing your hair a bit young, aren’t you, Stick?”

  Stickley passed his palm over his scalp before he caught himself. He jerked his hand back to his side and stalked to his side of the great desk. “I haven’t the slightest idea what you mean.” He seated himself with a precise flip of his coattails, perfectly centered in the fine chair. He looked up to see Wolfe grinning at him fondly.

  “Stick, don’t let it worry you. Neither one of us is a lad anymore.”

  Eyeing his partner’s dissipated pallor, Stickley nodded sharply. “Indeed.”

  “I think you need a wife, Stick.” Wolfe rolled forward to plant both elbows on the pristine parchment blotter on his side. Stickley’s was not so perfectly clean, but then Stickley’s was actually used. “Someone to give you a couple of little Stickleys—a son to carry on the firm and a daughter to brighten your old age.”

  “I am perfectly content as I am,” Stickley countered. “You, on the other hand, might benefit from cleaving to only one woman.” Less likely to die from nasty pox or be shot by some objecting husband.

  He didn’t speak aloud, but Wolfe grinned unrepentantly, as if he’d heard every word. “Stick, at least when I die, someone will notice. You’ll just be left here, sitting at the desk until you turn into one those African mums.”

  “Egyptian mummies,” Stickley corrected acidly. “Which you would know if you ever used a newssheet for anything but to line your boots.”

  “Not even that. My valet lines my boots for me.” Wolfe leaned back in the chair and plunked both said boots on the blotter, crossed at the ankle. He laced his fingers behind his head and gazed across the desk with a slight frown on his face. “Stick, I think I’ve been neglecting you.”

  Stickley went very still. Pray, do not say you wish to take more responsibility within the firm!

  Wolfe nodded as if he’d come to some sort of decision. “I think it’s time I take more responsibility within the firm.”

  “No!” Stickley nearly leaped to his feet in protest. Then he forced himself to calm as he slowly sat more deeply in his chair. There was no need to panic. This was Wolfe, after all. Give him a page of figures to account and he’d be asleep or gone within the hour.

  Stickley took a deep breath and tried a patient smile on for size. It must not have looked well, for Wolfe’s gaze became somewhat alarmed. Giving up on smiling, Stickley merely pursed his lips. “Wolfe, please forgive my … argument. Of course you are welcome to take over some tasks. I must say, with all the hullabaloo over Miss Millbury’s engagement, I could use a bit of help.”

  Wolfe blinked. “One of the Pickering girls is getting hitched up? When did this come about? They’ve only been in town for one day.”

  Stickley pressed his lips more tightly. “They have been here for one week, and apparently that was enough for Miss Phoebe Millbury to secure the affections of one Marquis of Brookhaven—whom you might recall is shortly to inherit—”

  Wolfe waved a hand. “Yes, I know who Brookhaven is—likely better than you do.” He rubbed his other hand across his lips. “This is a pickle for us, isn’t it?”

  “Not necessarily.” Stickley took a small gold case from his breast pocket and withdrew his spectacles. Although they were spotless, he cleaned them automatically. “We have served the trust well for all these years. The girl certainly won’t need the money if she is to marry Brookhaven. I don’t see why we cannot convince her to leave it safely in our hands indefinitely.”

  Wolfe gazed at him pityingly. “Stick, you know nothing about the aristocracy, do you? They’re all paupers, in debt up to the roots of their hair, if they have any left.”

  Stickley twitched slightly at the reminder of the impermanence of hair. “Nonsense. I passed Brookhaven in the street myself today. He was most elegantly turned out, with a very fine equipage.”

  Wolfe waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, they hide it well. Borrowing on their expectations, they call it—but they borrow again and again and somehow those expectations never seem to bear fruit. Land-rich and pocket-poor, I call it. I’ll bet that once Brookhaven finds out about Miss Millbury’s pretty packet, he’ll gut it to shore up his crumbling estate and pay off just enough of his vowels at White’s to borrow more.”

  Stickley looked down at his hands, which were trembling on the blotter. “He—he has a crumbling estate?”

  “They all have crumbling estates, old Stick. Vast miles full of tenants and cottagers who need new roofs and plows. Miss Millbury’s twenty thousand pounds will be gone in a puff of smoke.”

  Stickley didn’t bother to correct Wolfe as to the amount. What Wolfe didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him—or require explanation. Instead, he looked with desperation at the only person in the world he could count on in this, his hour of need.

  “Wolfe, what are we going to do?”

  Wolfe leaned forward, his eyes narrowed. “We’re going to do the only thing we can do. We’re going to stop this wedding.”

  Chapter Twelve

  When Calder had returned to Brook House
, he had rather indifferently ordered Fortescue to secure a lady’s maid for Miss Millbury. After thus briefly seeing to his fiancée’s future comfort without so much as a pause in his stride, he disappeared into his study to immerse himself in his factory concerns once more.

  Rafe watched him go with concerned disbelief—although not surprise—then turned to the butler.

  “Fort, Miss Millbury—well, she’s not the sort to complain, even if she doesn’t like who you choose … just find someone young and likeable, will you? Someone she can be herself with, someone she can be—”

  Fortescue gazed at him with no expression whatsoever, which was how Fortescue always gazed at him. However, this time there was just a trace of speculation in that sea of blandness behind those pale sharp eyes.

  “Indeed, my lord. I shall take care to choose someone perfectly suitable … as always.”

  Translation: I knew that, I’ve already seen to it, and you’re not the only one around here with eyes.

  Rafe persisted. “I am serious, Fort. I want her to have someone cheerful, not one of those dour, creaking old tarts who lace too tight and make her wear shoes that pinch and—”

  Fortescue nearly had a tremor of expression. It stopped Rafe mid-sentence. “What?”

  The butler cleared his throat. “If your lordship will permit me, I have already chosen a likely girl from the present staff. Patricia is no older than Miss Millbury, is an intelligent and attractive girl who has a sort of … kindness about her—” Fortescue stopped short.

  If Rafe wasn’t mistaken, the wintry bastard also colored a fraction, turning from pale to not-quite-so-pale.

  Struggling for words? Fortescue? Ho ho! Perhaps something other than ice water ran through the usually imperturbable butler’s veins! Rafe contemplated teasing the man, but he wouldn’t want the poor bloke to have a seizure from too much unaccustomed emotion. Besides, he presently had a great deal of sympathy for those afflicted with unrequited … well, anything.

  Rafe let the corner of his lips twist upward. “You’re a good man, Fort. If you ever want to leave this pit of slavery I’ll hire you myself.”