Sophie Barnes

by The TroubleWith Being a Duke

  “Nonsense,” Mr. Roberts replied. “Here, why don’t you have a look at the selection of reticules over there while we wait?”

  Having little else with which to pass the time, Isabella walked over to the display case that stood up against the shop window. A reticule made from deep red satin and trimmed with black beadwork caught her eye. It was bold—too bold for an unmarried woman to have in her possession, yet Isabella fell instantly in love with the item, most likely because of that. In fact, she was so busy admiring it that she failed to notice that there was someone else looking back at her from the other side of the window—until the person moved.

  Looking up, she caught only a brief glimpse of the back of a man’s jacket before the door to the shop opened and a little bell rang, announcing the arrival of yet another customer. Turning to look, Isabella found herself assaulted by a rush of heat, for there before her stood none other than the Duke of Kingsborough—the very man she’d hoped to avoid.

  It was her. Anthony was absolutely certain of it. Having decided to take advantage of the lovely weather, he’d chosen to leave his horse at the Sword and Pistol and walk to the Chilcotts’ home from there. It was more convenient anyway, since he intended to bring flowers with him, and flowers always looked better when one arrived on foot than on horseback.

  Passing the glove shop, he automatically turned his head to look at the items displayed in the window and froze. He couldn’t believe it. The upper part of her face was obscured by the shop sign, which read Burton’s Fine Goods & Accessories, but he recognized those lips . . . the curve of that jawline. . . . He’d pictured them in his mind’s eye repeatedly since the night of the ball. There could be no mistaking it—he’d found Miss Smith. Turning away from the window, he went to the door, pulled it open and stepped inside.

  “Ah, Mr. Roberts,” he said, recognizing the only other gentleman present. “What a pleasant surprise. Again, I must thank you for the curricle you had delivered to my estate—I still don’t know how you manage to make them faster and sturdier than other designs. It’s a remarkable bit of engineering, really.” Anthony hoped that a bit of light conversation would allow for an air of casualness while he discreetly regarded the woman who stood by the window. She’d turned to look at him as he’d entered, her eyes had widened and then she’d quickly looked away.

  Mr. Roberts nodded, his face as bland as usual. Anthony had always thought him an odd fellow, though he had to admit that the man knew how to dress. In fact, he couldn’t recall seeing him in the same ensemble more than once, which, for a man who wasn’t nobility and had inherited no fortune from anyone, could only be considered a testament to his success.

  “I’m glad that you’re pleased with it, Your Grace,” Mr. Roberts said, glancing sideways. He returned his gaze to Anthony. “As it happens, I’m developing a new design for a faster and more luxurious landau. Perhaps I can tempt you?”

  They moved aside to allow the other three women who had now finished with their purchases to pass so they could exit the shop.

  “I might have to visit your facilities one of these days,” Anthony agreed, his gaze shifting to the woman who’d drawn him into the shop in the first place. It was the first time he’d looked at her properly. His heart began beating faster in his chest. When he’d last seen her she’d been wearing a mask, and while he’d known she’d be beautiful without it, he hadn’t expected her to be quite so breathtaking.

  “How terribly rude of me,” Mr. Roberts said. “I’ve quite neglected to introduce you to Miss Chilcott. We were hoping to find a new pair of gloves for her—that’s why we’re here. Miss Chilcott, please join us.”

  With a growing sense of uneasiness, Anthony watched as Miss Chilcott stepped toward them. She looked perfectly calm and collected, save for her hands, which were clenched in tight fists at her sides. She looked at Mr. Roberts, who immediately said, “May I present you to His Grace, the Duke of Kingsborough?”

  Anthony waited while Miss Chilcott dropped into a deep curtsy. “It is an honor, Your Grace,” she said, her head bowed toward the floor.

  She rose, and Anthony reached for her hand. Bowing over it, he lifted it to his lips and placed a gentle kiss upon her knuckles, his eyes meeting hers from beneath his lashes as he did so.

  The blush in her cheeks was unmistakable. “What a coincidence,” Anthony said. He’d begun to suspect that Mr. Roberts was the man she intended to marry, for it would be unusual for them to shop for gloves together otherwise—especially with Mr. Roberts’s character taken into account. Consequently, Anthony found himself quite unable to stop himself from adding a little more to Miss Chilcott’s state of discomfort. “As it happens, I was on my way to the Chilcott residency just now to meet with your father.”

  “Oh, so you know them then?” Mr. Roberts asked, seemingly oblivious to the pallor of Miss Chilcott’s face.

  “Not yet,” Anthony said, smiling at Miss Chilcott. She was really taking the whole thing remarkably well, all things considered. “My interest in them pertains to some information regarding a missing person—it has come to my attention that Mr. Chilcott might be able to help.”

  Miss Chilcott coughed. “Beg your pardon,” she said. “If you don’t mind, I do believe I’ll take a look at the gloves.”

  “Well,” Mr. Roberts said, “I do hope you find this person you’re looking for.”

  “Thank you,” Anthony muttered, his eyes still on Miss Chilcott. The lady had a lot of explaining to do. Just to be sure that he’d made the right assessment, he turned to Mr. Roberts, lowered his voice to a whisper and said, “Forgive me, but I can’t help but wonder if congratulations are in order?” He nodded toward Miss Chilcott, who stood with her back toward them, her right hand inside a dark green glove.

  “Not yet, but soon, I believe. Her parents are quite eager, and besides, the sooner we marry, the sooner I can tell Mrs. Jenkins that she’s free to retire.”

  “Mrs. Jenkins?” Anthony asked, frowning.

  “My housekeeper. She’s a lovely woman but too old for all that’s required of her. Miss Chilcott is young and spirited—she’ll do marvelously well, I’m sure.”

  “As your housekeeper or as your wife?” Anthony couldn’t believe he’d just asked such a question, but what Mr. Roberts had suggested was far too outrageous to be ignored.

  “I see no reason why Miss Chilcott cannot fulfill the duties of a housekeeper and a wife. I am not expecting her to scrub the floors after all, but I don’t desire a woman who is of the opinion that it is her sole purpose in life to sit on a chair and look pretty. Besides, having a housekeeper is an unnecessary expenditure when one’s wife is perfectly capable.”

  “I see.” It did sound logical, but the way he said it . . . something about it convinced Anthony that Miss Chilcott was destined to live a grueling existence if she married Mr. Roberts. He didn’t like it one bit. There had to be a way to stop him from offering for her. As it was, he did seem a bit too much like a dangle after, though Anthony couldn’t for the life of him imagine why he was taking so long in coming up to scratch. Had he been in Mr. Roberts’s shoes, he and Miss Chilcott would have been well on their way to expanding their family by now.

  “What do you think of this pair?” Miss Chilcott asked, turning just enough to hold up a pair of dark blue gloves for Mr. Roberts to see.

  Anthony liked them and was about to say as much when Mr. Roberts said, “I don’t think that’s a very good color for your hands—the green ones were better.”

  Miss Chilcott blinked, and so did Anthony. What an absurd comment. Anthony considered saying as much but stopped himself. As far as Mr. Roberts was concerned, Anthony had no reason to defend Miss Chilcott, and for the present, it was best it remained that way. So he held silent instead while Miss Chilcott frowned, sighed and nodded as she told the woman behind the counter that the green pair was better.

  It was a dratted business really. When Miss Chilcott had mentioned her impending engagement on the night of the ball, it hadn�
��t occurred to Anthony that he might actually know the man. For some reason he’d thought it a simple enough task to steal her away from whoever he turned out to be. That the man was Mr. Roberts complicated the matter significantly, not just because Anthony knew him (however little that might be), but because he lived in Moxley and Anthony would have to face the very real possibility of happening upon him on a regular basis. Really, was there anything much worse than passing the man whose fiancée you’d stolen in the street?

  Anthony sighed. He’d speak to Mr. Chilcott first and then decide how best to deal with Mr. Roberts. And then of course there were the Deerfords, who needed contacting. That would be yet another delicate matter. It would probably be best if he first discovered if (a) the gown Miss Chilcott had worn to the ball was in fact the same as the one belonging to Lady Margaret and (b) if it was, then how such a thing could be possible.

  If he could only answer these questions, he felt certain that everything would be made a lot simpler.

  “Do you plan to stop anywhere else before calling on the Chilcotts, Your Grace, or would you like to walk with us? We’re going there directly.” Mr. Roberts said as he took Miss Chilcott’s parcel for her and offered her his arm. She did not look at Anthony as she took it, but she did not have to for him to know how awkward she felt—it was radiating from her entire person.

  “Thank you. I’d be happy to join you,” Anthony said, deciding that he’d have to abandon his idea of buying flowers—if anything, it would make the situation more difficult than it already was. He would have to slow down a bit instead. Especially since he didn’t wish to embarrass anyone, and he had to admit that arriving at the Chilcotts’ front door with flowers for Miss Chilcott when Mr. Roberts was in attendance would be humiliating for everyone, not to mention exceptionally badly done.

  “After you,” Mr. Roberts said, gesturing for Anthony to lead the way.

  They stepped back into the street and began walking. Nobody said a word for a while until Miss Chilcott, much to Anthony’s surprise, suddenly said, “I was wondering, Your Grace, do you enjoy reading?”

  Anthony considered asking if it was some sort of a trick question, considering how unexpected it was.

  “I don’t th—,” Mr. Roberts began, only to be silenced by Miss Chilcott, who continued with, “You see, Mr. Roberts and I were discussing the matter earlier—reading, that is. Not your reading habits, of course, since that would be absurd considering we’ve only just met, but relating to ourselves.” She drew a deep breath while Anthony struggled to hide his grin. Apparently Miss Chilcott liked to speak when she was nervous.

  “And what, pray tell, did you discover?” Anthony asked. He tipped his hat to an elderly lady and stepped aside so she could pass.

  “That reading is an indulgence that only serves to distract from more important things in life.” This statement came from Mr. Roberts.

  “Such as?” Anthony asked.

  “Such as the improvement of oneself, of one’s household and of one’s business.”

  Trust Mr. Roberts to think like that.

  “Well, I do like to enjoy the occasional book,” Anthony said, deciding that this was as good a time as any to start making Miss Chilcott aware of the ways in which he would make a better match for her than Mr. Roberts. “The library at Kingsborough Hall is vast, so I often find myself passing the evening with a bit of poetry or a novel.”

  There was an unmistakable sigh from Miss Chilcott, and Anthony found himself smiling. It didn’t matter—he was walking in front of them, so they couldn’t see.

  “To each his own, I suppose,” Mr. Roberts said. “But I for one have always considered the arts a complete waste of time. All it really is, is a bunch of people who’ve decided not to work but to take advantage of the rest of us instead by profiting on their hobbies. Painting, writing books and playing music . . . if all these so-called artists would only make themselves useful by doing actual work, the world would have advanced much further by now, of that I have no doubt.”

  That settled it. If there had been the slightest bit of uncertainty in Anthony’s mind about continuing his pursuit of Miss Chilcott now that he’d discovered that he actually knew the man she planned to marry, it had just been completely and utterly dismissed.

  The man was obviously an idiot. More than that, he’d actually told Anthony that Miss Chilcott would be taking on the duties of housekeeper once they married. If that didn’t spell frugal when even Anthony was aware that Mr. Roberts made a substantial amount of money, then Anthony wasn’t sure what did.

  But for Miss Chilcott—the vibrant and cheerful woman he’d met the night of the ball—to be subjected to such a dreary existence was not only unfair but would also probably be harmful to her character. Mr. Roberts would break her, whether he intended to do so or not, and Anthony realized that it was no longer only about his wish to be with her; it was also about a deep-born need to save her.

  None of them said anything further until they arrived at the Chilcotts’ cottage. “Mama, Papa,” Miss Chilcott said as she opened the door to what Anthony soon discovered to be the parlor, “we have returned from our walk and have brought with us the duke, who said he wished to meet with you, Papa.”

  Following Mr. Roberts into the room, Anthony spoke a greeting and bowed toward Mrs. Chilcott, who didn’t look the least bit happy to see him. He turned to Mr. Chilcott and put out his hand. The older man hesitated only a moment before accepting it in a firm handshake. Like his wife, however, he did not smile, which could only mean that whatever they imagined the reason for his visit to be, it wasn’t good. Well, he’d just have to prove them wrong, that was all.

  “If this is an inconvenient hour for you, sir, I can return at another time,” Anthony said, mostly because he felt it would be the polite thing to say—not because he really wanted to leave only to come back again later. He wanted the whole affair to be over with.

  “This way if you please,” Mr. Chilcott said as he directed Anthony through to another, much smaller room that was sparsely furnished with a wooden table that could seat up to six people, and a credenza that stood tall against one wall. This was clearly their dining room. Closing the door behind Anthony, Mr. Chilcott gestured to one of the chairs. “Do have a seat.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Chilcott.” Anthony sat, adjusted himself so he was comfortable and then reached inside his jacket pocket to pull out the drawing of himself and Miss Chilcott. “I met a woman the other day—at the Kingsborough Ball, to be exact—but she departed very suddenly while I was attending to some business. I’d like to find her again if possible and was hoping that you might be able to help me in that regard.”

  He handed the drawing to Mr. Chilcott, who studied it for a moment before he finally shook his head. “I’m sorry, Your Grace, but I have never seen this woman before.”

  Anthony sat frozen. He could not believe that Miss Chilcott’s own father was denying that it was his daughter in the picture. “How can you say that, sir, when it is obvious even with the mask she’s wearing that this is—”

  “Nobody I know,” Mr. Chilcott said firmly. “And in case you are implying otherwise, my daughter was here, asleep in her own bed that night. I know, because she and I played chess together that evening while we waited to watch the fireworks display—which was beautiful, by the way.”

  Anthony was stunned. He was being deliberately shut down. Either that, or Miss Chilcott wasn’t the woman he’d danced with at the ball after all. Perhaps he’d just wanted her to be Miss Smith so badly that he’d convinced himself that they were one and the same.

  They looked alike, based on the drawing, but then again there was the mask to consider. He shook his head. No, it wasn’t possible. Miss Chilcott was Miss Smith—she had to have been. He felt it deep in his bones. Whatever his reason, Mr. Chilcott was lying. Discussing the possibility of a courtship, not to mention the Deerfords, would have to wait. Anthony had to think about everything he’d learned first, and in order to do so properly, h
e would have to go home. His mother would be able to help perhaps, Winston and Casper too. Yes, he would have to invite Casper over, because when it came to women, he always knew what to do when faced with a problem. The fact that he was a rake was no coincidence—it was a vocation that came naturally to him.

  Chapter 13

  “Mr. Goodard is waiting for you in the library, sir,” Phelps announced as soon as Anthony returned home.

  He handed the butler his hat and gloves with a smile. How convenient that Casper had decided to call exactly when Anthony wished to speak to him. It was probably no coincidence though—his friend would want to know about Anthony’s progress regarding Miss Smith.

  “I was planning to send you a dinner invitation,” Anthony said as he walked into the library and spotted his friend, who was comfortably seated in one of the deep leather armchairs with a book in his hand, “but you’ve saved me both the paper and the need to dispatch a footman. Thank you for that.”

  Casper grinned. “Truth be told, I’m desperate to discover if you’ve found Miss Smith.”

  Anthony nodded and walked over to the side table. “I thought you might be. Care for a drink?” He held up a crystal carafe filled with brandy.

  “Please.”

  Turning his back on his friend, Anthony prepared a glass for each of them. “What are you reading?” he asked as he strode across to where Casper was sitting, placed the glass on the table in front of him and sat down opposite his friend.

  “Candide,” Casper replied, handing it to Anthony. “Love the sarcasm.”

  “Hm . . . trust you to find the one book I’ve hidden away.” Anthony put the book aside and took a sip of his brandy.

  Casper followed suit. “That’s not entirely true—there’s also the Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure that you’ve so diligently placed behind Chaucer.”

  Anthony coughed. “Yes, well . . . my mother would probably have a fit of the vapors if she discovered either one of them.” Getting up, he took the book and returned it to its rightful place—behind Defoe.