How to Deceive a Duke

by Lecia Cornwall

  As she dressed for the evening, Meg listened for sounds of Nicholas’s return, but beyond the connecting door, his suite was quiet. She chose a dress of sea green silk with delicate puffed sleeves.

  “I have brought you the Temberlay pearls to wear, Marguerite,” the dowager duchess said, arriving with her maid, who carried the box. At a wave of the dowager’s hand, the maid opened it with a flourish. Meg gasped. The collar was magnificent, set with a large yellow diamond in the center.

  “Should I not wait for an occasion when I am with Temberlay?” she murmured as the cold pearls touched her skin.

  “He is no doubt busy with some male pursuit tonight,” the dowager said, looking at the necklace in the mirror and avoiding Meg’s eyes. “Like buying a racehorse, or dining at one of his damnable clubs.”

  “Or perhaps he’s with one of his mistresses,” Meg said tartly. Lavish jewels could never make up for a lack of love or even regard from her husband.

  “Don’t be impertinent, Marguerite. It is equally important to be seen in public with someone like Delphine St. James. She and her sister are quite influential. Win her, and you’ll win the ton.”

  Pride and position—it was all that mattered to the dowager, while Nicholas flouted both. Where exactly did Meg fit in? How was she to act if the ton imagined her husband was disappointed with her? She supposed the pearls were meant to be a sign of her acceptance, his ownership of her.

  She turned away from the mirror and rose, letting Anna settle her cloak around her shoulders.

  The dowager looked her over and nodded her approval. “Remember who you are, and keep your chin high.”

  Meg took her place in the St. Jameses’ box at the opera. Delphine leaned in. “No one is watching the opera. Every pair of opera glasses in the house is trained on you, Meg.”

  “No doubt they’re surprised I am not blond,” Meg murmured.

  Delphine laughed. “Not at all. Nicholas never did the expected thing in his life. They are all scrambling to say they were the first to know all about you.” She regarded Meg. “Are you concerned there will be awkward questions?”

  “Our marriage was—hasty,” Meg said.

  “It was arranged. No one expects it to be a grand romance,” Delphine replied. “There are plenty of women who envy you, foolish debutantes mostly, who imagined that they would be the one to capture him. He’s never been the marrying kind.”

  “You seem to know him well,” Meg said.

  “He and Sebastian have been friends since school. Nicholas was every bit as bad as Seb once, but that was before he went to war. He came back a different man.”

  “How so?” Meg asked.

  “Harder, more circumspect. He’s not the man he used to be, the one in the scandal sheets. Perhaps it was David’s death, or inheriting the title. And now he’s married.” She sighed. “I must admit I quite admired him myself for a time, had hopes . . . I wish Sebastian had gone to war. He must grow up sometime, and I despair of that ever happening.”

  Delphine raised her opera glasses and scanned the crowds with as much eagerness as they were scanning her. She lowered them again. “It appears the tsar has not come tonight after all. Or the grand duchess, but look, Claire Howard has made a rare appearance.”

  Meg looked at a lady sitting with an older woman in the box across from them. She looked very young, and very pale. She wore a magnificent necklace as well. She nodded to Meg.

  “Wasn’t she at tea today?” Meg asked.

  “Yes, with her dreadful companion, Miss Phipps. Her husband is Augustus Howard. He adores Claire, can’t bear to let her out of his sight for fear she’ll run off with the man she loved before her parents insisted she marry him. Augustus is old enough to be her grandfather. Claire only appears in public with her husband or her companion, and no one has ever seen Claire Howard smile.”

  “How sad,” Meg said.

  “Uh oh—Fiona Barry is looking this way—smile!” Delphine chirped. Meg felt her skin heat under the unaccustomed scrutiny of the audience.

  They were probably wondering where her husband was, and why she was here alone. She searched the crowds for a friendly face. Claire Howard gave her a shy smile. Meg smiled back. Delphine caught her arm.

  “Look, there’s Major Lord Ives,” Delphine sighed. “I have quite set my cap for him. My sister is married to a colonel, and I think it would please me to marry an officer like Major Ives if I can’t have—well, Stephen Ives is almost as heroic as Nicholas, I hear. I daresay Nicholas would still be in uniform if he hadn’t inherited the title.”

  The handsome officer nodded to Delphine, and regarded Meg for a long moment before he looked away. Did Nicholas look as magnificent in his scarlet tunic?

  “Delphine, why did Nicholas inherit the title? What happened to his brother?”

  She tore her eyes away from Major Ives. “David? He died in an accident. No one really knows the circumstances, since the dowager refused to say. His death was simply announced in the papers without explanation. There were rumors of a duel over a lady, but it was a year ago now. Nicholas came home from war months later to take the title, and now everyone would rather talk about him.”

  A year ago. The same time her father had died. Meg wondered if Nicholas had been close to his brother, had suffered when he died, felt grief, as she had. She studied the diamond wedding band. She knew nothing about her husband.

  At intermission, there was a rush of people wanting an introduction to the new Duchess of Temberlay. Delphine was quite right. No one seemed to find it odd that she had red hair, or that her husband of three days was not by her side. She smiled and exchanged pleasantries.

  “You’re a natural at this, Meg. You’ll be busy tomorrow, beset with callers who wish to know you,” Delphine predicted. “And poor Gardiner will be awash in invitations.”

  Whatever tomorrow brought, tonight Meg would go home and offer an apology to her husband for her deception. Perhaps he was indeed more than he appeared.

  Start as you mean to go on. The words haunted her.

  It was time to start again.

  Chapter 25

  He should go and see Angelique.

  But Nicholas had no interest in visiting his mistress. When he thought of sex, only one woman came to mind.

  His wife.

  She’d tricked him, seduced him, insulted him, and still he wanted her—and he wanted her as he’d never wanted any other woman. And he didn’t want to think about it.

  He was by nature chivalrous to women, kind and honorable, but he did not involve his emotions when dealing with them. How was this any different? He should hate her.

  But she was bold, clever, passionate, and beautiful.

  So were a lot of women of his acquaintance. Just not in a single package.

  He slumped miserably in the leather chair, looking around the club at other men in other chairs, also drinking, and no doubt avoiding their own wives.

  “I’m surprised to find you here, Temberlay, newly married as you are.”

  Nicholas shut his eyes, willing whoever it was away, not wanting to discuss the fact that he’d stupidly married the wrong sister, which was probably the hottest bit of gossip in the ton by now.

  “May I join you? I have a bit of news I think you might wish to hear.” He opened his eyes and found Stephen Ives staring down at him.

  “Does it involve redheads or weddings?” Nicholas asked.

  Stephen frowned, and glanced at Nicholas’s half-empty glass. “I saw your lovely wife at the theater not an hour ago with Delphine St. James, but I came to see you about a duel.”

  “And why would that interest me, unless my wife—or her mother—has called me out?” Nicholas asked.

  “Another officer asked me to stand as his second this morning. Some silly affair over a woman.”

  “Shall we make a pact, my friend, never to shoot each other over a woman?”

  “Agreed,” Stephen said as the waiter set a pint of ale in front of him.

 
“So what’s this duel got to do with me?”

  Stephen shrugged. “Everything, or perhaps nothing. There was a doctor present, just in case he was needed. It seems he regularly offers his services at dawn in Hyde Park, and makes a pretty penny tending the injured and dying. They pay him to keep his silence, since dueling is illegal.”

  “Was he at David’s duel?” Nicholas asked leaning forward.

  Stephen shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s a place to start, Nick. He might have some information, if he’s paid well enough.”

  “His name?” Nicholas asked. The prospect of finding a witness, someone who knew who David’s opponent was, the details of his death, made him sharp, despite the amount of drink he’d consumed.

  “He didn’t give one. Kept his face covered as well. I had someone follow him.” He fished in his pocket. “Here’s his direction.”

  Nicholas read the scrawl on the scrap of paper. It was the first link to discovering just what had happened to his brother.

  “Thank you.” He took out his purse and laid money on the table to pay for their drinks. Stephen pushed the coin back across the table. “Keep it. You’ll need it to pay the good doctor.”

  An hour later, Nicholas knocked at the door of a house that squatted in a neighborhood that was firmly in the shade of respectability. It was the perfect place for a man with secrets, since his neighbors likely had dark dealings of their own, and knew not to ask questions.

  He bribed the maid who opened the door, and was shown into the foyer to wait.

  The doctor appeared a few minutes later, a shabby man of middle years, with sharp eyes and a bland face. “Your Grace, this is most unexpected,” he said, pulling on his coat at the same time he tried to remove his spectacles. “Do come in. Sadie, bring the port at once.”

  He opened the doors on a sitting room that was as dowdy as he was himself, the worn furniture many decades out of date. Stacks of books served as perches for empty wineglasses, papers, and clothing. A dead cat floating in a glass jar filled with yellow liquid regarded Nicholas in dull surprise. Other similar specimens stood on the bookcases, taking the rightful places of the books.

  “Is there a matter I can help you with? I am not used to such esteemed company as a military hero like yourself. I read of your exploits in Spain, sir.” When Nicholas failed to smile, his own grin faded.

  “My surgery is closed at the moment, of course, but if you come back tomorrow, or allow me to come to you in the morning, then I can certainly offer my medical opinion.”

  “You attended a duel a year ago. The late Duke of Temberlay, my brother. Do you recall it?”

  The doctor’s eyes shifted to the floor. “Dueling is against the law here in England, Your Grace. I understand you have been away at war for some time. Perhaps you are mistaken—”

  Nicholas tossed a purse on the dusty table, and watched the doctor’s eyes widen as the guineas clinked.

  “Tell me what happened to my brother.” He made it an order.

  The doctor made a low sound in his throat and pushed the books off the settee and indicated the seat, but Nicholas remained standing.

  The surgeon shook his head, and his jowls wobbled. “Please, Your Grace, there was nothing I could do to save him. He was wounded by all three of his opponents.”

  Nicholas felt his brows shoot up in surprise. “He was fighting with three men?”

  The doctor looked grim. “He challenged them all at the same time. It was, I believe, something about the honor of a young lady, and His Grace—your brother—seemed to feel he’d been swindled in some way.”

  Nicholas shut his eyes.

  “I trust he fought them one at a time, and was wounded by each?” The David he remembered was not much of a swordsman.

  The doctor fished a handkerchief out of his pocket and mopped his florid face. “No, he fought them all at once. They declared that since the challenge had insulted all three of them, that your brother must meet them at the same time.”

  Nicholas imagined David beset, desperate. He had lost the entire Temberlay fortune through a foolish investment. Then Julia had come to break their betrothal, telling him she was with child. David had died just two days after her visit.

  Nicholas felt sick to his stomach. Duels were affairs of honor. There had been nothing honorable about the match that ended David’s life.

  “Who were the gentlemen who fought my brother?”

  The surgeon shrugged uneasily. “Men of rank, Your Grace, but I don’t recall their names.”

  Nicholas drew his sword, and pointed it at the doctor’s throat, dimpling the second and third chins that hung over his wrinkled cravat. “Now do you recall?” he asked.

  The doctor swallowed carefully. “I seem to remember Lord Charles Wilton being present,” he said.

  Wilton? He had no idea that David even knew him.

  “And the others?” The doctor tried to step backward, but Nicholas followed. “I assure you, I am far better with a blade than my brother.”

  “Lord Augustus Howard!” the surgeon squeaked. “And the Earl of Wycliffe.”

  Wycliffe? The doctor whimpered as the blade slipped.

  “That’s all I know, Your Grace, I swear! I did my best to save him, but Lord Wilton’s blade pierced his lung, and Lord Howard skewered his liver!”

  Nicholas lowered his sword an inch.

  “And where did Wycliffe’s blade land?”

  “He merely grazed His Grace’s hand, and refused to do more. He was sick, there in the grass, and was crying like a babe when they led him away.”

  “Who was my brother’s second?” Nicholas asked.

  “He was a gray-haired man, Your Grace, short of stature, older. He was quite dismayed when your brother was struck down. I didn’t catch his name, but I make it my business to avoid introductions.”

  The maid appeared in the doorway bearing a tray of port. She gaped at the sight of the weapon poised at her master’s throat.

  Nicholas sheathed his sword. He took the tray from her shivering hands and set it on the table. “Thank you, Doctor. You’ve been most helpful. I won’t stay for the port, but do have a glass yourself.”

  The doctor put a hand to his throat. “Oh, I will, Your Grace. I do believe I will.”

  Nicholas let himself out.

  He got into the coach and shut his eyes. “Home, Rogers,” he ordered.

  The Earl of Wycliffe. Marguerite’s father.

  Did she know? His chest tightened at the thought that this was one more part of her deception.

  Granddame would never forgive anyone who had a part in the death of her beloved grandson. Wycliffe had deloped, turned away, refused to lay a killing blow. And he had died soon after. Of what? Guilt? Or had Wilton and Howard taken deadly exception to his cowardice?

  He knew the names of the investors now, and possibly one of them had been Julia’s seducer, but what concerned him most was how much his wife knew. Was it enough to win him an end to their sham marriage?

  He needed more information, something solid to base any accusations upon, something even Granddame couldn’t refute.

  He pondered what the doctor had said about David’s second. Tobias Simmons, David’s valet, fit the description. He would have done anything for David, was more like a second father to him, a beloved uncle. Simmons had been there at the end, holding David’s hand. Granddame had granted him a pension, given him a cottage at Temberlay for his services.

  Nicholas ordered Hannibal saddled as soon as he arrived home. He stood in the shadow of the stable and looked up at his wife’s bedroom window. It was dark. Was she there, lying in her bed, waiting for him to come to her?

  Until he had answers, he could not face her, or his grandmother.

  “Please advise Mr. Gardiner I will be at Temberlay Castle,” he told the groom, and rode out into the darkness.

  Chapter 26

  “Good evening, Gardiner,” Meg greeted the butler when he came to collect the pearl necklace to return it to the safe.
“Is His Grace at home?”

  “He left earlier this evening for Temberlay Castle,” he said.

  “Temberlay?” she murmured. “Did he say how long he’d be gone?”

  “No, Your Grace.” He took the jewels and left the room.

  Meg went to bed, and lay in the dark, listening to the silence.

  He’d gone without leaving word for her.

  What did that mean?

  He hadn’t forgiven her after all. Kisses didn’t make anything right. They just made things more confusing.

  Chapter 27

  Temberlay Castle sat on several hundred prime acres of Derbyshire countryside. Each duke since the sixteenth century had added to the original keep, until red stone towers dominated the horizon for miles.

  The marble hall rang with footsteps as the staff hurried to greet Nicholas.

  “Lord Nicholas—rather, Your Grace!” the housekeeper said, looking fondly at him as if he were still the child she’d known. “It is lovely to see you home at last.”

  “Hello, Mrs. Dunne. I apologize for arriving unannounced.”

  She looked over his shoulder. “Is your new bride with you? We read the announcements, and of course Her Grace sent us word. I’ll have your mother’s apartments ready in no time at all—”

  “I came alone. Just for a few days.”

  “I see,” Mrs. Dunne said, masking her disappointment behind a wan smile.

  He looked around the grand entry hall, at the carved wood, painted plaster, and marble. Two staircases twined upward toward the glorious ceiling his father had commissioned. The goddess of the dawn bore his mother’s gentle face. The naughty cherub teasing a dove at her feet was himself at the age of three. Cupid had David’s eight-year-old face, and was gazing at the painted Derbyshire landscape that would someday be his inheritance, while his father as Zeus pointed out a distant copse of trees. The perfect family—until his parents had died the following year in a carriage accident and Granddame had stepped in as guardian and decided that her grandsons needed a stricter upbringing.