It seemed unlikely that a male thief would utilize women’s clothing as a disguise. No one would willingly encumber himself with skirts, especially if he had housebreaking in mind.
Nick held himself still, waiting to see what she would do. It had to be the Walsley girl who had attempted to call on him. She was closer to the fireplace than he, and it illuminated her chestnut hair. She lifted her skirts halfway up her leg, and a finely shaped leg it was, to slide a small knife into her boot. She wore breeches underneath her skirts, and a much larger weapon was strapped to the outside of her thigh. Whoever this girl was, she was serious.
Just when he didn’t think the evening could become any more bizarre, she plunked herself down on the floor and removed her boots, then slid her feet back and forth across his Aubusson carpet, almost as if she was scratching them. He couldn’t help but note the delicate curve of her ankle and the graceful arch of her foot. Really, it was impossible to ignore a shoeless woman breaking into his library.
She arched and flexed her feet, as if they had barely survived the cruel confines of her boots, then stood and headed to the shelves in the opposite corner and began removing books from the first two. Once all of the books were stacked neatly on the floor, she crouched and felt around in the back corner where the boards met. She fumbled around for some time, her features scrunched into a scowl, until he decided this had gone on long enough. It was time to reveal himself.
“May I be of service?” he asked in a not so quiet tone.
She jumped at the sound of his voice and whacked the top of her head against the shelf. Spinning quickly, she turned toward him as she pulled a cutlass from the sheath on the outside of her thigh and crouched in a defensive position.
He noticed three things at once, each of which caused the hair on the back of his neck to rise. First, her countenance left no doubt that she was prepared to use her weapon; second, she wielded the cutlass in way that spoke to her proficiency with said weapon; and third, her eyes were a deep emerald green that was rarely found outside of a forest. He held up his hands. “I mean you no harm. Yet.” He stood and walked around to the front of the desk and leaned against it, arms crossed. “May I ask what you are doing in my library?”
Like a cornered animal, she flicked her eyes from him to the door, then to the window in the opposite corner.
Her eyes narrowed as her gaze settled back on him. “Your library?”
He nodded.
Straightening, she lowered the cutlass, holding it against the outside of her thigh. “You are the Duke of Boulstridge.”
“Yes.” He couldn’t quite place her accent, a strange mix of English with a faint French lilt.
Her face dropped, and she shifted her eyes away. “But if you are here, why did your butler say you were not at home?”
Her confusion was genuine, revealing a vulnerability that touched the hollow space inside him. He did not respond, but waited for her to reveal more.
“Why did you lie about not being at home?”
The woman was too much by half. If a man had made such an accusation, Nick would have called him out. He stood and strode toward her, stopping with his nose mere inches from her admittedly exquisite face. Stepping back so she was against the window, she lifted her cutlass.
“Madam, I suggest you identify yourself at once, or I shall have you thrown out.”
She glared up at him. “You haven’t answered my question.”
He stretched to his full height and squared his shoulders, ready to issue a much-deserved dressing down to the chit. “I am the Duke of Boulstridge and you have broken into my home. I have no obligation to answer your questions.”
“I should think my identity would be obvious as your butler announced my arrival not a half hour ago.”
He preferred her earlier vulnerability to this shrewishness. “So you are Miss Walsley.”
“No. Helena Walsley is my mother. I am Catherine Malboeuf,” she said, her chin held high.
The name sounded familiar for some reason, but he couldn’t place it. He raised a brow. “What are you doing in my library, Miss Malboeuf?”
She crossed her arms, but did not move to sheathe the cutlass. “Looking for my great-grandmother’s journal. It belongs to my mother.”
“I’m afraid not. The contents of my house belong to me.” He could almost see her thinking, working out how to proceed.
“As you may have guessed, my mother was the daughter of Viscount Walsley. When she left, she was unable to take the journal with her. It is a precious family heirloom, and I wish to have it back.”
Precious family heirloom my arse. What did she really want with it? “As I said previously, anything that remained in the house when I purchased it belongs to me.”
She bit her lip. “But…but, I need that journal.”
What she needed were some lessons in behavior becoming a lady. Her actions were disgraceful. Though she was not entirely responsible for her character deficiencies. No, her parents shared the blame. He felt a modicum of sympathy for her, but not enough to sway his decision. “I’m afraid I can’t help you. It’s time for you to leave before I turn you in to the magistrate.” He tugged the bell pull and watched her to make sure she didn’t dash back out the window.
Rather than attempting to escape, she moved back to the shelves and began to replace the books in the exact order in which she had found them, only once running her hand along the back of a shelf, presumably in the hope of finding the journal. Her actions were disconcerting. It was a rare occurrence when someone surprised him, yet she had done it multiple times in a matter of minutes. Many a man had balked when receiving a direct order from him, but this woman calmly defied him in favor of returning the books to their rightful locations. Her lower lip trembled slightly, the only sign that she was affected by his command.
The fire outlined her profile, the soft turn of her cheek, the gentle slope of her nose. He shifted and shook his head to break the spell she had cast over him. A knock sounded. “You may enter,” he said, knowing it was Phillips answering his summons.
“Your Grace.” He bowed.
“Phillips, would you please escort Miss Malboeuf from the premises?”
Phillips’s eyes widened, and he shot an incredulous look at the lady in question.
He tilted his head to the right and leveled his butler with a stare. “And this time, make certain she leaves.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Phillips strode over, grasped her arm, and led her from the room. When the door began to close, she turned to meet Nick’s gaze, challenge in her eyes. He walked to the window and watched as a footman brought her horse around.
Interesting. Both her horse and that of her escort were of the finest quality. This woman might be common, but she did not lack resources. Though it was shameless for her to travel without a female chaperone, at least she had brought a footman. And a dog. She knelt and wrapped her arms about the scruffy creature, burying her face in his fur. Malboeuf. The name was so familiar.
Nick went around behind his desk and leafed through the newspaper. There it was—mention of a shipping corporation owned by a Claude Malboeuf. Good Lord. The man was a reformed pirate who ran his business from New Orleans, of all places. The foolish girl probably didn’t realize she could have been hanged for breaking into his home.
His thoughts were interrupted by a knock. “Enter.”
“Your Grace, I wanted to apologize for—”
He lifted a hand. “There is no need to apologize. You could not have anticipated that the lady would break into my library. I haven’t quite grasped it myself.” He leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands over his stomach. Surely she wasn’t traveling alone with only a footman to see to her welfare. Was she? Though he had no responsibility whatsoever for her, he could not leave her unprotected. He stood. “Have my horse saddled immediately.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” He bowed and exited.
It seemed likely that her parents were staying at the inn in Nunefie
ld, and she had simply escaped their supervision. If the entire family planned to descend upon him, he would do well to be forewarned. He opened the bottom drawer of his desk and drew out a box. If she wanted the journal badly enough to break into his house, there must be something in it he had missed when he read it. The journal fit snugly in the pocket of his overcoat. He had no doubt she would return, and he couldn’t risk her finding it before he determined its value.
Nick strode through the house and out the front door, where his stallion shuffled restlessly at the foot of the stoop. Taking the reins from the groom, he mounted. Thick clouds filtered the light from the setting sun. Though he relished a good gallop, it wouldn’t be safe with such low visibility, and he couldn’t risk catching up with Miss Malboeuf before she reached the inn, which was just under three miles from Walsley. He set out at a leisurely pace.
Bright light poured from the windows of the inn, lighting the entrance and making it easy for Nick to peer inside to make sure the Malboeuf woman wasn’t around. He expected she would be less than thrilled to see him again. He leapt down and handed the stallion’s reins to a waiting groom. “I shan’t be long.”
“Your Grace. To what do we owe the pleasure?” asked Mr. Jones, the inn’s proprietor, as he rushed to take his coat.
Nick pulled off his gloves and gestured to a door leading from the main reception area. “Is there somewhere we may we speak in private?”
“Of course, right this way, Your Grace.” He indicated Nick should precede him into the room, and shut the door behind them.
The innkeeper rubbed his hands together. “I hope nothing is amiss, Your Grace.”
“Not at all. I simply wished to inquire about one of your guests. A Miss Malboeuf.”
His eyes widened. “Miss Malboeuf? She seemed a proper young lady. Arrived this afternoon in a right nice, private carriage, but with only a maid and a coachman accompanying her.”
Just as he had feared, the foolish woman was traveling virtually alone. What sort of father allowed his daughter to travel by herself to another continent? A pirate, that was who. Despite her impertinence, she deserved the same consideration he would show to any other woman in need of protection. He also had no doubt that she would make known her connection to the Walsley family, and he would not have it said that he had done anything improper in his handling of the situation.
“Miss Malboeuf is a friend of the family. One of my footmen will be spending the night outside of her room and will escort her back to Walsley in the morning.” He handed the man a generous number of coins to soothe any upset he may have felt at Nick’s questioning the safety of his inn.
He quickly slid the coins into his pocket. “Yes, of course, Your Grace.”
They exchanged farewells and Nick strolled into the taproom. There were a few locals he acknowledged with a nod, but the majority of the inn’s patrons were travelers. Most appeared harmless, but a rowdy group of men gathered at a table near the window stood out. He knew enough to recognize the Russian language when it was spoken, but not enough to understand their conversation. Hopefully they were just passing through and weren’t staying the night.
He slipped out the front and mounted his horse. He would send Johnson immediately to guard her and advise him to look out for the group of Russians. A man deep in his cups wasn’t particular about which bed he slept in. He kicked his horse into a canter.
Nick had no doubt she planned to return to the manor on the morrow, so he would take matters into his own hands and have his footman escort her here in the morning. She would learn who was in charge, and it certainly wasn’t her.
Chapter Two
Catherine charged back and forth across her chamber. After yanking the pins from her hair, she tossed them on the bed. The nerve of that odious man with his raised brows and smug demeanor. Lying about being at home and then dismissing her without even hearing her out. It didn’t matter how his eyes reminded her of the mysterious, dark patches of deep blue water offshore or the way he tilted his head to the right as he studied her. He was so certain of himself, of his superiority, of his righteousness. But he didn’t scare her. She was tenacious and determined and stubborn. And she would return to the manor in the morning.
She rubbed her forehead. The weight of their long journey and lack of sleep had finally caught up with her. Her door flew open, banging into the wall. She reached for her cutlass before realizing it was Diana.
“Where have you been? I awoke and found both you and Thomas missing.”
“I’m sorry, Diana.” Catherine squeezed her hand. “I couldn’t wait to go to Walsley Manor, so Thomas escorted me. I knew you were tired, so I didn’t disturb you.”
Diana grasped her chin and forced Catherine to look into her eyes. “You will not go off by yourself again. Do you understand?”
Biting her lips to keep them from curving into a smile, Catherine nodded.
“Your parents entrusted me with your safety and I do not intend to fail them. You are not familiar with this country and must rely on the people your parents chose to care for you.”
Catherine leaned into her embrace. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“I know you didn’t, dearest.” She stroked Catherine’s hair. “But you must think before you act.”
Diana summoned a maid and spoke softly with her, asking for food and a bath to be brought to Catherine’s room. She took Catherine’s hand and towed her over to the bed. “What did you discover?”
“I discovered that a pompous duke now owns Walsley Manor, and he isn’t going to simply give me the journal as I had hoped. I shall have to devise a new strategy.”
Diana’s lips twitched. “We are no longer in the Bahamas, or even New Orleans, dearest. You shall have to play by his rules if you wish to succeed.”
Catherine was too tired to concoct a plan, but she would work something out in the morning. If all else failed, the duke couldn’t remain in his library forever.
…
Following a restless night’s sleep caused by nightmares about never-ending shelves of books to search through to find Great-Grandmother’s journal, Catherine awoke early. Diana came in briefly to help her don her gown, then, perfectly capable of dressing her own hair, Catherine dismissed her.
Just after she placed her hairbrush on the edge of the washbasin, it clattered to the floor. When she knelt to retrieve it from under the bed, she discovered her diary pushed all the way back against the wall. The hair rose on her nape.
She hadn’t removed her diary from her trunk, and Diana would not have done so. Lying on her stomach, she managed to get her fingers around the edge of the cover and pull it toward her. It had originally been tied closed, but the ties were undone and a few of the pages were bent. Diana would never have opened her diary without permission. She studied the marks on the cover. Perhaps Cay had gotten a hold of it, though she had no notion how it came to be out of her trunk. A shiver snaked up her spine as she remembered the books in her cabin on the ship that had been rearranged, though neither she nor Diana had touched them.
Stifling a yawn, she acknowledged that she had been exhausted by her foray to Walsley. Could she have forgotten that she took out her diary?
A knock sounded on the door, startling her from her musing. She was surprised to find one of the inn’s maids asking her to attend the owner in the common room. After tossing her diary back into her trunk, she quickly put up her hair, then headed to the door. At the last second, she grabbed her bonnet. As much as she disliked it, Mama had drilled into her the necessity of wearing one, insisting that in England, it was considered improper to leave the house without a hat of some sort. Catherine promised herself she would adapt to this, just as she would adapt to wearing shoes at all times. The sacrifice of her comfort was a small price to pay to finally be here, in England.
The owner of the inn greeted her the moment her foot touched the bottom stair. “Miss Malboeuf, you have a visitor from Walsley Manor. Please follow me.”
> Apparently the duke was trying to get the upper hand by making the first move, perhaps even attempting to bar her from ever returning to his estate, but Catherine was too distracted by the possibility that someone had gone through her possessions to worry about his machinations at the moment.
The innkeeper raised his brows. “This isn’t your first visitor, you know.”
That caught her attention. “It isn’t?”
“The duke himself asked after you last night.”
Her pulse quickened and she bit back an oath. The loathsome man had the nerve to follow her after refusing her admittance to his house? Perhaps he had hoped to have her forcibly removed from the inn as well. She chewed on her lower lip. The duke certainly had not searched her room. He would never lower himself to performing such a menial task, and he wasn’t aware of her existence until last night, so there was no way he could have sent someone else to do it before she returned from Walsley.
“My lady.” A footman bowed before her. If she wasn’t mistaken, he was in the livery of the Duke of Boulstridge.
“It is Miss Malboeuf.” Wariness prevented her from being friendlier to the man.
“Miss Malboeuf. I’ve come to issue an invitation for you to meet with the Duke of Boulstridge at your earliest convenience.”
“Thank you for conveying the message, Mr.…?” She raised her brows.
“You may call me Overton, ma’am.”
“Very well, Overton. We shall join you shortly. I’ll send my coachman to have my carriage prepared.” She turned and strode to her chamber, pondering what the duke could be up to. Surely he would not capitulate this easily, although she didn’t understand what he could possibly want with an old journal, anyway. Today she would find it and, if she was lucky, she would be able to broach the subject of the other purpose of her trip to England with the duke.
Catherine loaded everyone into the carriage, including Cay. She didn’t wish to leave him alone at the inn, and he would be safe with Thomas in the stables. Her choice to take this vehicle was purposeful. She may not come from a noble family, but she had the means to support herself in style and she would make sure the duke knew it. As soon as the vehicle moved off, Cay vaulted onto the seat and peered out the window.
How to Beguile a Duke (Entangled Scandalous) Page 2
