Rules to Catch a Devilish Duke

by Suzanne Enoch

  “I did.”

  Clearly the Blackwoods truly had no idea where Sophia might be. And the old hat on the floor in her bedchamber abruptly became more significant. That hat had been in a hat box. With a curse he turned on his heel and strode back down to the empty room. The hat box was gone. And so were the gifts she’d received, with the notable exception of the necklace. Her blue dress was missing as well, as were her borrowed groom’s boots and his old greatcoat.

  “What are you doing?” Keating demanded from the doorway.

  Adam straightened from digging through Sophia’s wardrobe. “She’s gone.”

  “Well, she isn’t in the wardrobe. What—”

  “No,” he barked, turning again and shoving past Blackwood. “She’s gone. To damned Cornwall. Udgell!”

  The butler appeared almost immediately. “Yes, Your Grace?”

  “You know the comings and goings of everyone in this house. Tell me what you know of Miss White.”

  “I don’t understand, Your Grace.”

  Clenching his jaw, Adam closed the distance between them. “You heard me. When did Sophia White leave this house? Answer me now, or I will sack anyone involved. Everyone involved.”

  A muscle beneath the butler’s left eye jumped. “As a point of clarification, Your Grace, does this mean that if I did know something and told you about it, no one’s employment would be in danger?”

  Sophia would kill him if he fired one of his servants because of her. And angry as he was, as small as his chances of even seeing her again, he didn’t feel prepared to put another brick in the wall that he and circumstance had built between them. “That is correct,” he said stiffly. “If you tell me immediately.”

  “Miss Sophia left Greaves Park at approximately eleven o’clock this morning. She rode into Hanlith and boarded the southbound mail stage, which departed at noon.”

  A sharp, grinding pain speared through his chest, as if someone had stabbed him. She’d truly left. She’d gone away and hadn’t said a word to him first. And if she’d been gone since eleven, she’d known from the moment they’d spoken that she was going to leave. For a moment he felt like a boy whose one favorite toy had been taken away, but that wasn’t it. Her absence left him … empty. Truthfully he couldn’t even be angry with her, because he’d caused this. He’d found something precious, and he’d trod all over it and now she’d decided that misery in Cornwall was better than being insulted by him.

  “Adam, I hope you’re not contemplating something stupid,” Keating said in a low voice, his tone actually cautious.

  “What? Of course not. I’ve parted company from women before.” The words tasted sour in his mouth, but what the deuce was he supposed to say, that more than anything he wanted to ride through the storm after her, drag her back, and lock her in a room with him until she saw reason? “And I have an engagement to announce.” After he informed Lady Caroline that he’d settled on her, that was. At least he could do that in the correct order.

  “So all this over the past weeks was just playing? You could have fooled me.”

  “Evidently I did.” Adam sketched a shallow bow and made his way to his private rooms.

  The moment he opened his door Caesar and Brutus came forward, snuffling into his hands and demanding scratches. Sophia had turned his guard dogs into wagging house pets in a matter of weeks. He complied, more to keep them from leaping on him than anything else. Otherwise he wasn’t feeling particularly friendly.

  What the devil had he done? He walked to the window and pushed open the glass. The light snow of earlier had become a heavy blanket that curtained the trees and the hills beyond, leaving Greaves Park alone in a sea of white nothingness.

  Any sane woman of her limited means would have agreed to his terms. Why, then, had she not only refused, but fled? The answer was somewhere directly in front of him. He knew it was something he’d done. Something he was.

  Snow began to drift through the window into the room, and he pushed the glass closed again. Then he sat on the floor beneath the sill. As badly as he wanted a drink, he didn’t dare. This time if he gave in to the molten blackness inside him, he didn’t think he would be able to climb out of the pit again.

  A knock came at his door. The dogs began barking, but he stayed where he was. Until he figured out what to do next, how to make this right, he wasn’t going anywhere.

  His door opened. “Greaves?” Keating walked into the room. “What— Christ. You—dogs—out.” He shoved the mastiffs out into the hallway and closed the door again, locking it behind them.

  Adam noted it all dully but didn’t particularly care. The ice inside him continued to spread, chilling him to the bone. Everyone said he had no heart. Clearly he’d just proven them correct.

  “Greaves,” Keating repeated, and squatted down in front of him. “Adam.”

  “If you’re here for another round of ‘I told you so,’ keep it to yourself,” Adam finally said.

  “Very well.” Blackwood took a breath. “Six months ago you said something to me. I remember the exact wording. ‘There is no one so blind as he who thinks he doesn’t deserve to see.’ I’m repeating it to you now because of what I owe you, which is every moment of happiness I’ve experienced since then.”

  Finally Adam met his friend’s gaze. “What is it that I think I don’t deserve, then? I made a bid for Sophia, and she refused me. She’s content to do her duty by her friends, and I shall do my duty to keep my inheritance. It’s merely been a long day. I’ll be fine tomorrow.” He would never be fine, but no one else was allowed to know that.

  “I think you hit on the difficulty rather precisely just now. You made a ‘bid’ for Sophia. Even I know that she isn’t for sale. She wouldn’t have been, even if she didn’t know she needed to martyr herself for the sake of the Tantalus.” Keating caught sight of the note on the desk, and without ceremony he opened it. “You’re corresponding with Haybury? When did that happen?”

  “Today. A few days ago. It doesn’t matter.”

  “Hm. I think it does. He says she’ll be miserable. That vicar will break her, you know. We’ve both seen it happen.”

  “How the bloody hell am I supposed to do anything about it?” Adam burst out, pain tearing through his chest again. “She chose. Him, and misery, over me.”

  “I can’t tell how or what to do. You’re a duke, and she’s an unacknowledged by-blow of a duke, and she’s promised to another man. Figure out what you truly want, but—”

  “That’s what I’m attempting to do,” Adam snapped. “Get the hell out of here.”

  “But I’m not certain you can manage it,” Keating finished, standing again. “Not even the Duke of Greaves can perform miracles.”

  The door closed again. “‘Not even Greaves can perform miracles,’” Adam repeated, mimicking Keating’s low drawl. “Very helpful, Blackwood.”

  He pushed to his feet so he could pace as questions pelted through his mind like gunfire. How many times had he teased Sophia by announcing that he was a duke and could therefore do anything? She’d very effectively just proven him wrong about that. And in a few days she would prove him wrong again. She would prove that he couldn’t protect her, couldn’t keep her safe or happy. No damned amount of blunt in the world, no pretty baubles or gowns, could save her.

  What had Keating said? That he should figure out what he truly wanted. Well, that was simple. He wanted Sophia. He wanted to chat with her and tease with her and hold her and not have to hide how very much he’d come to love her.

  Adam stopped in the middle of the room, stunned not by the thought, because he knew it already, but by the way it felt. He loved the sound of her laugh, and her wit, and the courage that had enabled her to be so warm despite the chill of her life. She warmed him, when he’d been so cold for so long.

  He cursed again, long and loud. So he knew what he wanted. How, though, to achieve it? Keating didn’t seem to think he would be able to do so. Very well, then. He could work backward, begin with th
e answer and figure out the steps he needed to make to reach it. He’d done it before, though never when the stakes had been this high, this … necessary to his continued existence.

  And the best, most perfect answer to what he wanted was marriage. To Sophia White. The idea made his heart scamper about like a nervous puppy. The only way he could own her was if she owned him to the same degree. Taking a breath, he resumed pacing. Pacing helped.

  Marrying Sophia. His mother would spin in her grave. His sister would likely drop dead of mortification and end in a grave. His father … his father would be baffled that he cared for a chit enough to go to the trouble. And he—he, as powerful as he was, would face censure. The loss of friendships, such as they’d turned out to be. The loss of business partnerships and alliances. But he would keep his properties and his income.

  In fact, the only obligation marrying her would fulfill was the actual decree that he marry. As clever and cruel as his father might have thought he was being, the ninth duke had never specified the pedigree of this nameless bride—only that his son marry by his thirtieth year.

  That realization stopped him again. His friends, his sister, could moan and cry and tear out their hair, but they couldn’t actually do anything. Not to him, and not to Sophia. The next fence blocking his way was, therefore, what Hennessy could do to her, to him, and to the Tantalus if he swooped in and stole the bride for himself.

  The Duke of Hennessy, if he used every ounce of his influence, called in every favor, and played on every drop of pride owned by the aristocracy, could crush The Tantalus Club. He could make being a member ridiculous, and worse, he could make certain that those who visited the club faced public and monetary censure. If that happened, it would be closed within a year.

  What the Duke of Hennessy wouldn’t have bargained on, what he couldn’t possibly have anticipated, however, was another duke becoming involved. And not just any duke, but one with a reputation for getting what he wanted, by whatever means necessary. One who could take a man’s spine-stiffening pride and twist it until it snapped.

  A slow, grim smile touched his mouth, new determination heated his chilled insides. All he had to do was not make a single misstep. And not fail. It seemed he would be journeying to Cornwall, after all. He had one or two matters to see to, first, however. If he was attempting to make things right, he wasn’t doing it halfway. And it was about damned time, if he said so himself.

  * * *

  “Ah, there you are, Greaves,” Burroughs said with a slight smile, leaning an elbow on the pianoforte in the crowded music room. “I heard a rumor that someone is missing. Do you need any help looking for h—”

  Adam punched him. With a grunt Aubrey went down on his backside, his feet kicking up in the air. “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen” clanked to a halt, and Sylvia Hart fainted. Before Burroughs could regain his feet Adam hauled him up by the lapel and shoved him into a chair.

  “Blackwoods, please move over there,” he said, noting belatedly that Keating and Camille had evidently changed their minds about abandoning him. Either that, or they wanted to make certain he didn’t go charging after Sophia. He was going after her, but he was going prepared.

  With a lifted eyebrow, Keating took his wife’s arm and they moved back by the window where he indicated. “Mr. and Mrs. Flanagan,” he continued, “over by the Blackwoods. Now.”

  “Greaves,” Keating rumbled.

  “Later. Henning. With the Blackwoods. And you as well, Lady Caroline.” He sent a glance at Drymes. The marquis had asked about his relationship to Sophia, but he hadn’t taken part in the gift giving or the taunts or wagering. And he was a scoundrel, which today counted in his favor. “Drymes. You, too.”

  The marquis shrugged and moved to stand beside Caroline. “Very well.”

  “This is unacceptable, brother,” Eustace chirped, not doing a very good job at concealing the affront on her pretty face. “You cannot order your guests about like … like servants.”

  He turned his back on the small group he’d gathered. “Everyone whose name I did not just call, I want you out of this house by nightfall.”

  Sylvia miraculously lifted her head as she lay in Lord Lassiter’s arms. “But you invited us here! You mean to say you’ve chosen Lady Caroline? Oh, that’s unfair!”

  “And it’s Christmas!” her sister chimed in, plump tears rolling down her cheeks and turning her nose that ghastly red color again.

  “I don’t care which day it is. Out. Now.”

  “You cannot!” Eustace wailed.

  “I just did.” He folded his arms across his chest, resisting the urge to begin grabbing people and shoving them out of the music room. “I suggest you also make certain that anyone who wasn’t in here also be informed that they are to leave.”

  With indignant looks and sour-sounding muttering, twenty aristocrats filed out of the room and began clomping loudly down the portrait gallery. He could even make out a word or two comparing him to his wildly erratic father, and he didn’t give a damn. Instead, he walked over to Lady Caroline and took her aside. “I need to explain something to you, Caroline. I’m not going to offer for you,” he said in a low voice. “Th—”

  She put up a hand. “Your Grace, if you had asked me to marry you, I would have declined.”

  Slowly Adam closed his mouth again. “Not to complain, but why, precisely, would you have turned me down?”

  “Because I have some pride, and I cannot see myself being second to a duke’s unacknowledged by-blow. A legitimate daughter, yes. But—and please don’t take this wrong, because I actually happen to like Miss White—I would not care to hear the gossip about the affair.” She put a hand on his arm. “I hope you’re able to make an arrangement that sees both of you happy, but I’m glad you understand that it cannot include me.” She leaned in closer. “And between you and me, your sister is a terror.”

  “I … agree,” he said slowly, looking at her with a great deal more insight than he’d possessed a handful of minutes ago.

  “I shall pack my things and leave with the others, then.”

  “You may do so if you wish, but considering that you wished me well, wished Sophia well, and insulted my sister all in the same breath, I would just as soon you remain here.”

  She smiled. “I would like that.”

  Another chit he could consider an ally. Either Sophia had set the world on its ear, or she’d set him on his ear.

  When he turned around, Eustace remained in her seat by the window. “Adam,” she said in a low voice, sending an annoyed glance past him at the remaining seven people in the room. “Do you have any idea what you’ve just done? You have embarrassed yourself, and me, and the Baswich name.”

  “I’m not interested in your opinion, Eustace. If you wish to complain about how I’m shaming the family, you may do so in a letter. I suggest you wait a month or two before writing me, however, because I won’t yet have returned from my honeymoon before then.”

  His sister shook her head. “Caroline Emry. A marquis’s daughter, at least, but did you have to choose one who has an Italian opera singer for a cousin? You are determined to disgrace the Baswich name, aren’t you?”

  Adam gazed at his sister. “I’m not going to marry Caroline Emry,” he said in a low voice. “I’m after a duke’s daughter.”

  “A…” Her mouth snapped shut. “What does that mean?” she asked, her voice even more shrill. “I insist that you state precisely your intentions. No games, Adam. Your future—and mine—rests on this.”

  He smiled. “And I insist that you use your imagination. Conjure the worst thing you can possibly imagine happening to the Baswich family name. Combine that with the realization that dear young Jonathan is not going to claim my fortune. Ever.” Adam waited, watching his sister’s already fair face turn almost gray as she blanched. “That is what I’m going to do. Exactly what you’re thinking.”

  “Adam, for God’s sake! You can’t m—”

  “You’re still here. Leave.”
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  “You can’t set me out of this house,” she protested, her voice shaking. “I am your sister.”

  “What you are is a hateful vulture who’s been picking at me since I was born, and who just spent weeks doing everything possible to make a holiday miserable for a woman who only wanted to experience a pleasant Christmas for once in her life. Get your damned luggage and get out of my house. And be glad I’m not doing anything further.”

  With a rage-filled squawk, she fled the room. When Adam turned around, the remaining occupants looked decidedly uneasy, with the exception of Keating. Blackwood looked rather amused. “You lot,” Adam said, straightening his arms and flexing his fingers. “I’m going to be leaving in the next day or so, but you’re welcome to stay. In addition, my holiday party next year is going to be much smaller. I would be pleased if you would agree to join me.”

  “Is it going to be this exciting next year?” Lady Caroline asked, a smile touching her brown eyes.

  “Anything is possible.”

  “I say, that’s good of you, Greaves,” Henning put in. “I’m honored.”

  Adam nodded. “No. I am honored. One would think I’m a bit old to be making self-discoveries, but evidently I still have some lessons to learn. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go set footmen in the hallways and tell the cook we’ll have fewer guests for dinner.”

  He had some other arrangements to make as well, but for the moment he would keep those to himself. And he needed to figure out how to convince Sophia to trust him enough to agree to wed him rather than marry a vicar and simply … surrender.

  SIXTEEN

  By the time the snow of Yorkshire reached Cornwall, it had lowered into a stiff, blowing rain. Hefting a hat box in each hand and burying her cheeks into her stolen greatcoat, Sophia walked down the mud and stone main street of Gulval, her gaze on the old church at the end of the pathway.

  Old gray stones with patches of moss around the north-facing window looked unblinkingly back at her. Black slate roof tiles glistened in the heavy rain, and a scattering of headstones leaned amid the winter-bare sticks and flattened grass. If she’d been visiting, she might have found it … quaint. Possibly. Knowing that she would be spending the rest of her life in the equally stony house located two dozen feet from the rear of the church, however, all she could do was stifle a shiver. The weather might have been colder in Yorkshire, but her insides had never felt as chill as they did now.