“Oh, dear,” she muttered, looking down at her hands as she twisted them in her lap. “You wanted to be notified if anyone spoke … ill to Miss Sophia, or if—”
“What happened?” he asked, all humor fleeing.
When the housekeeper looked up at him again, she swallowed hard. “Mr. Burroughs went to see her in her room, and—”
Adam shot to his feet. If Burroughs had charmed his way into Sophia’s bed, he was a dead man. If he’d touched her, he was a dead man. The anger curling into him was hot, clean, and palpable.
Abruptly he caught sight of the white-faced servant cowering in the chair across the desk from him. Choking back his fury, he very slowly seated himself again. Considering that he’d just promised the blasted woman that nothing would happen to the messenger, he needed to calm the devil down. “You were saying?” he managed.
She cleared her throat. Twice. He could practically count the number of his heartbeats that stretched between when he’d spoken and when she opened her mouth again.
“He—Burroughs—asked if Sophia wouldn’t like to be kept by him. When she refused, he said she would end up on the streets as a whore. Not in those exact words, but I heard it all, and it wasn’t pleasant, Your Grace. I would have gone in and stopped him, but until that last venom he spat at her, she was giving better than she got. I got … caught up in listening to her.”
That, he understood. For a moment Adam concentrated on the last sentence or two his housekeeper had uttered. Sophia’s past and the nature of men told him that she’d been propositioned before, and her nature told him that she would no doubt have some very direct responses to those same men. But Burroughs had a nasty streak. He’d on occasion appreciated its bite.
“Thank you, Mrs. Brooks. I’ll see to it.”
She put out a hand. “But Your Grace! Sophia will know I’ve been talking to you, and she’ll never trust me again.” Tears began streaming down her plump cheeks. “That poor girl! I would never—”
Slamming the flat of his hands on the surface of his desk, he stood again. “I’ll see to it, Mrs. Brooks,” he repeated more forcefully. “You needn’t worry about you and Miss White.”
“Oh. Oh. Thank you, Your Grace. I do apologize, Your Grace. It’s just that—”
“That will be all, Mrs. Brooks. Go down to the kitchen and have some tea. Calm yourself.”
Moving with more speed than he’d thought she could manage, the housekeeper stood and darted out his door, slamming it shut again with more force than he would generally have found tolerable in a servant. Adam bowed his head, staying where he was for a long moment while he weighed what he wanted to do against the wisest course of action.
Things had definitely changed, if he was hesitating to act out of consideration for a housekeeper and a redheaded slip of a girl who’d been promised to a vicar. What he wanted to do was simple: he wanted to beat Aubrey Burroughs into a bloody pulp. Of course he also wanted to beat Mr. Loines into a bloody pulp, and he’d never even met the man. What he should do, however, was more difficult to discern.
He stalked to the door and yanked on the bellpull hanging on the wall there. Half a minute later, Udgell knocked at the door, and he pulled it open. “Find Keating Blackwood and bring him here,” Adam said, and closed the door again before the butler could acknowledge the order.
Burroughs and he were friends. They had been for years. Eight years or so earlier, the two of them and Oliver Warren had been the closest of friends. Shortly after the debacle with Oliver, Adam and Burroughs had begun drifting apart, as well. In a sense, Aubrey Burroughs was a remnant of an old life that Adam had mostly discarded once he’d realized it wasn’t going in the direction he wanted. Once he’d realized how closely he’d begun following in his unlamented father’s footsteps.
“What?” Keating said, pushing open the door and stepping inside.
“I need a word with you,” Adam returned stiffly, closing the door before he stalked to the office window and back again.
“Get on with it, then. Camille and Sophia are eating all the roasted chestnuts.”
Adam faced him. “Sophia is with you?”
Lifting an eyebrow, Keating dropped into a chair. “They’re nearly inseparable, if you haven’t noticed. Not that I mind; I owe Sophia a great deal, and Cammy’s suffered a scarcity of friends.” His expression cooling, he sat forward a little. “What’s wrong? You look like you want to hit something again.”
Though he would rather have kept pacing, that wasn’t helping anything. Adam sat on the arm of the chair beside Keating. “Did Sophia look upset about anything?”
“Now that you’ve made me consider it, I suppose she was a little … subdued, but with what she has coming in her direction, I’d be subdued, as well.”
She was subdued. Burroughs had hurt her. Adam therefore meant to hurt him. “Was Burroughs present?” he pressed, unable to help the growl in his voice when he said his former friend’s name.
Rather than answering, Keating folded his arms over his chest. “I’m not saying anything else until you tell me why you’re holding this unpleasant little inquisition.”
Including anyone else in his plans, in his decisions, had never appealed to Adam. But whether he wanted to acknowledge it or not, he’d called in Keating for a reason. He trusted Blackwood. “I need your silence about what I’m about to say.”
Keating nodded. “You have it.”
His friend hadn’t hesitated. No conditions, no favors to be collected at a later date. Blackwood had his own demons to contend with, but there was a forthright honesty about him and what he’d done that Adam had always admired. Those were some of the same qualities he admired about Sophia, now that he considered it.
“Secondhand, I just learned that Burroughs asked Sophia to be his mistress. When she declined, he said some rather nasty things to her, the gist of which was that she would die whoring herself in the street. The fact that her actual future is only marginally more tolerable is, I believe, beside the point.”
For a long moment Keating sat very still. That gave Adam time to remember that until he’d met Camille, Keating had spent much of the past six years drinking and brawling. That could be useful, except that if anyone was going to hit Burroughs, it was going to be him.
“I have a question,” Keating finally said in a low voice.
“I’m listening.”
“What is Sophia to you?”
That stopped him. “What? What kind of question is that? I just told you that someone insulted your wife’s dearest friend.”
“And I’d like to know whether you’ve done the same thing.”
That old, molten heat began rising deep in his gut. “Explain yourself,” he murmured.
“No. You explain yourself.”
Evidently unconditional support only went so far. “I may have mentioned that I could remove any monetary burdens she might ever have,” he conceded grudgingly. “When she declined, she also told me her circumstances. I did not call her names because of her background. I did not insult her over her choice of livelihood. When I did insult her, she cracked me in the head with a snowball.”
As he spoke, that roiling rage subsided a little. Even thoughts of Sophia had the effect of lighting his soul just a little.
“You invited her to sell herself to you.”
He might have found some balance, but if anything Keating sounded even angrier. “I wouldn’t have put it quite that way, and it was more of a suggestion than an invitation, but yes. It’s nothing new, Keating. And for some women it offers them a way to keep their nice homes and their nice jewels and their nice dress—”
Keating hit him. Sitting on the arm of the chair as he was, Adam went backward into the seat. With a growl he rolled onto his feet. His first instinct was to strike back. Hard. Again, though, he needed Keating. If Blackwood was dead, he couldn’t help. So instead of swinging, Adam clenched his fist into the back of the chair. “I’ll excuse that,” he said very evenly, tasting blood from a c
ut lip, “because I’m glad she has a protector. Do it again, and I won’t be so generous.”
“Do whatever the hell you like. Camille and Sophia and I are leaving.”
“No you’re not.”
“You expect me to remain here while you proposition my friend and allow other men to do the same? She wanted a pleasant damned holiday, Greaves. Not to have her host make things even worse for her. You’re a bastard, and I’m done with you.”
With a curse Adam strode up to block the door. “I did it once, Keating. Weeks ago. Since then, Sophia and I have been … We’re friends.”
“Ha.”
“Don’t ‘ha’ at me. I’ve been spending the nights in her room for the past week. Whatever is between us, we’re in agreement about.” More or less, anyway. Precisely what was between them, he couldn’t define. He wasn’t certain he wanted to; that would dredge up more questions he couldn’t possibly answer. “We both know what Hennessy has set out for her, but she still has a few weeks to do as she pleases.”
“Oh, so now you’ve ruined her, which I’m certain will make her life in Cornwall much easier. You had to know that no good could possibly come of you gadding about. Isn’t there someone closer to your own rank you could play with?”
That was enough of that. “Excuse me, but didn’t you steal your cousin’s fiancée from a church? In the middle of the wedding? Don’t you dare lecture me about my behavior. If Sophia is content with this, then so am I.”
Keating paced back and forth in front of the desk. “Very well. If I can’t hit you, then I’m going to hit Burroughs.”
“No, you can’t hit Burroughs. If Sophia realizes that I know what transpired, she’ll know that someone told me. I … gave my word that I would keep that person’s confidence.”
Oh, good God. What the devil was wrong with him? Everyone knew that when he wanted something accomplished, he saw to it. The means and method were secondary. And yet he’d assured Mrs. Brooks that the messenger wouldn’t be punished. Beyond that, he was quite aware that Sophia liked the housekeeper, and he wasn’t going to be the reason she lost another member of her small, odd circle of friends.
“Then why am I here?”
“To keep me from hitting Burroughs. And to favor me with some advice about how I can be rid of him without making Sophia suspicious.”
Keating narrowed his eyes. “A shame Burroughs wasn’t the one to fall into the river.”
“It’s early days yet. Anything could happen.”
TWELVE
Adam took his customary seat at the head of the dining room table, noting that Sophia sat between Keating and the mostly harmless Francis Henning. Good. Burroughs, on the other hand, had moved to the far end of the table close by Eustace. Whether he’d moved simply to distance himself from Sophia, or to signal some sort of alliance with the pointy-nosed brigade, Adam didn’t know. But he meant to discover the answer.
“If I may say so, Miss Sophia, you look stunning tonight,” Henning said, offering her a toast.
Several other men, all unmarried, Adam noticed, raised their own glasses to her and muttered their agreement. Adam wanted to toast her, as well, since stroking his hands along her curves was momentarily out of the question. She’d donned the deep crimson gown he’d ordered for her, the one he’d demanded to see fabric samples for to be certain it would perfectly complement her hair. Now she looked like flame and fire, vibrant and laughing and the most alive person in the room.
To keep from staring, he bent his head and concentrated on his roast turkey. Henning, Timmerlane, and Lassiter had found four of the surviving gobblers and brought them down, though he’d been halfway to hoping that they would successfully escape their fate.
Someone tapped a glass, the sound cutting through the conversation and laughter, and Adam looked up again. And narrowed his eyes as Aubrey Burroughs stood, his wineglass in hand.
“A toast,” Burroughs said with a broad smile as everyone quieted. “To our host, His Grace, the Duke of Greaves, for so generously sharing his bounty.”
“His Grace,” the guests affirmed, lifting their own glasses in his direction and then drinking.
Burroughs was a clever bastard. Adam couldn’t attack him now without looking petty—and jealous. It would appear precisely as Aubrey likely intended, that something he didn’t want to share had been taken.
Swearing silently, Adam glanced at Sophia, to find her fair cheeks even whiter than usual. His anger deepened. Sophia didn’t know that he’d been informed about her conversation with Burroughs. What did she make of the toast, then? That Aubrey was attempting to leave clues about her sharing her own bounty with his male guests? That seemed the most likely explanation.
Distressing Sophia was not allowed. He stood.
Before he could charge around the table to plow into Burroughs, Camille Blackwood gave a small, surprised yelp and shot to her feet. “I have a toast, as well,” she said in an unsteady voice, sparing a quick, annoyed glare at her husband still seated beside her.
Because a female had risen, every man present was then obligated to do the same. Burroughs wasn’t the only clever fellow at the table. And Keating was proving to be a better friend than Aubrey had ever managed to be.
“What is your toast, Mrs. Blackwood?” Lassiter asked with a lazy smile, as everyone lifted their glasses.
She looked at Keating again, and he put an arm around her. “May I, my love?” he asked.
“Certainly. In fact, I insist.”
He grinned. “To good friends. A growing circle of good friends.”
The echo of his words was drowned out by Sophia’s delighted shriek. “Your growing circle?” she demanded, grabbing Camille’s free hand and bringing it to her chest.
Camille nodded, finally smiling. “Yes.”
Sophia hugged her friend. The Hart sisters, to their credit, began applauding, offering their own good wishes, as did Lady Caroline. Though Eustace’s end of the table for the most part remained subdued, he was likely the only one to notice that in the general wave of congratulations.
With a grin of his own, he walked around the table to clap Keating on the shoulder. “Well done, Blackwood.”
“Thank you.” Keating grabbed him by the arm, pulling him closer. “Calm down,” he murmured. “I don’t have any more surprises up my sleeve.”
“He wasn’t supposed to mention this one until I had a chance to tell Sophia privately,” his wife chimed in sweetly.
Still smiling, her joy obvious, Sophia leaned up to kiss Keating on one cheek. “Never mind that. I am so happy f—”
“Dash it! You clumsy oaf!”
Adam looked beyond Sophia. Burroughs backed away from the table, his impeccably tailored brown jacket and black and brown waistcoat covered with the remains of a turkey dinner. Beside him, Udgell held an empty plate and swatted a napkin at the mess, smearing it in further.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Burroughs,” he rumbled, his face as impassive as usual. “An unforgivable mistake.”
“Yes, it is unforgivable!” Aubrey snapped around to pin Adam with a glare. “You should do better than hire apes to serve you.”
In the entire fifteen years of Udgell’s service, Adam had never known the butler to drop anything. Ever. “To the kitchen, Udgell,” he said mildly, hiding an abrupt urge to smile. “Go and change your clothes, Burroughs. It’s not the fall of Rome.”
Evidently the affection and loyalty his servants felt for Sophia went even deeper than he’d realized. And Udgell was getting a damned Christmas bonus.
* * *
“What says everyone to a game of snapdragon?” Adam asked, strolling into the drawing room with the rest of his male guests on his heels. The faint scent of cigars and port touched Sophia a moment later.
Camille, seated on the couch beside her, clapped her hands. “I haven’t played snapdragon in ages!”
Sophia had heard of the game, of course, but she’d never played it herself. Rising, she pulled Cammy to her feet as two foo
tmen moved furniture out of the middle of the room and set a plain wooden table in the cleared area. A third footman arrived with a large, shallow porcelain bowl in his hands, while a fourth carried a smaller bowl of raisins and a decanter of warmed brandy.
Adam took the bowl of raisins, then produced a small black button from his pocket. “Whoever finds this button,” he said, showing it off, “will receive a boon from me.”
“An estate?” Drymes asked with a grin.
“Your damned horse,” someone whose name she didn’t know stated.
As everyone began suggesting outrageous gifts, laughing and talking over each other, Adam lifted his hand. Without him having to say a word, the room quieted. For a moment Sophia wondered what it would be like to have everyone hanging on her every word and commanding everyone’s attention with a single gesture. Adam did it effortlessly. Even when he was sitting or standing or skating on ice, he drew everyone’s attention. He certainly drew her attention.
“I see that I need to be more specific,” he drawled. “Whoever finds the button,” he repeated, “will receive this boon.”
Another footman approached, a small mahogany box held carefully in both hands. When he stopped in front of his master, Adam opened the box’s lid, reached in, and withdrew a delicate silver chain. At the end of the chain, sparkling in the chandelier light, hung a splendid, perfect diamond. It spun slowly, as large as a chestnut and worth more than she could earn in three years at the Tantalus. In five years, even.
Adam put the diamond back and shut the box lid again. “Do you accept the challenge?”
In response to the chorus of “yes,” he ceremoniously dropped the button into the bowl of raisins and swirled his finger through it. “Queue up, one line to each side of the table. You get two attempts, and then move to the back of the line for your next go-round.”
The footman with the brandy poured it into the shallow bowl, and Adam liberally sprinkled the hundreds of raisins all across the flat bottom. The same footman lit a touchwood in the fireplace, while the others went about putting out all the candles in the large room. In the near total darkness, Adam took the touchwood.
Rules to Catch a Devilish Duke Page 21
