A Duke in the Night

by Kelly Bowen

  Clara Hayward seemed to want less.

  And now that he’d kissed her, that was simply unacceptable. She had shaken him to his toes. Just the thought of her mouth on his, the memory of how her thighs had wrapped around his waist, had him hard and restless all over again.

  It was a good thing August had insisted he drive. If he’d had to make this journey seated next to or directly across from Clara, he was quite sure he would have done something exceedingly ill advised. Like pull her into his lap and kiss her. And then skip dinner entirely so that he might take her someplace and finish what they had started. Which would have been equally unacceptable.

  Because until he had pulled into this damn stable yard, he had forgotten why he was really here. And now that he had been reminded, an unpleasant guilt was starting to brew, seeping into the crevices of his mind and undermining his sense of purpose. He’d never intended to reveal his ownership of the school—certainly not while he was still in pursuit of Strathmore Shipping. But then, he’d never intended to become wholly besotted with the school’s headmistress either.

  August hardened his conscience. He had never experienced such a feeling before, and he didn’t like it. It reeked of weakness. Flawed ambition. And August Faulkner had never been weak. What was done was done. If he hadn’t bought Haverhall, someone else would have. Feelings and emotions did not have a place in business, because feelings and emotions made clever men make stupid decisions. One never knew what was around the next corner. What disaster might occur, what emergency might crop up. He needed to ensure his family was looked after forever, even after he was gone. He needed to make sure that what he had survived, and how Anne had been forced to live, would never be repeated. Not while he could control their circumstances.

  August squared his shoulders and turned from the yard, making his way to the side of the barouche. “Your servant, Miss Hayward.” He gave her a slight bow as he opened the small door.

  She’d repaired her hair admirably on the drive, but her cheeks were still flushed the way they had been when he had had his mouth and his hands—

  Arousal streaked through him instantly, and he averted his eyes.

  “Your Grace—”

  “Dukes can still open doors for their ladies, just as easily as they can drive themselves places,” he said, pleased with how smoothly that had come out. “I’ve discovered that becoming a duke hasn’t impeded my mobility or my coordination overmuch. Though it often creates an unwelcome distraction wherever I go. I’m generally not recognized in Dover, and I prefer to keep it that way. There’s only so much bowing and scraping and clinging a man can take.”

  “Ah. No fancy clothes, no carriage with a coat of arms.” She sounded amused. “No footmen, no drivers—”

  “And I left the heralds and the horns and the flower-throwing maidens at home this evening as well.” He returned her smile, unable to help himself.

  He heard her catch her breath slightly as she took his hand and stepped out of the barouche. “Pity,” she said, releasing his fingers once she was firmly on the ground and Miss Baker was smartly leading the team away. “Spectacles are vastly underrated,” she continued. “I’ve always wanted to walk under a shower of rose petals.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind next time I ask you to dinner.” Except it wasn’t dinner August was imagining but a bed covered in the velvet softness of scarlet petals, their fragrance as intoxicating as the woman who would be lying in their midst. He would start by—

  “The girl who took the horses. She knew who you were, even though you’re not dressed as a duke and were driving.” Clara was watching the retreating horses with suddenly narrowed eyes. “Why?”

  “A keen observation,” he said, firmly grasping the change in topic that offered a respite from his lewd imagination. He offered her his arm. “Most don’t notice Miss Baker is a miss at all.”

  “And you never answered my question.”

  August felt her hand come to rest delicately on his arm, as if she were determined to keep a more civilized distance. “Miss Baker and her brothers work for me.” He saw no reason to hide the fact from her.

  Clara stopped abruptly. “They work for you,” she repeated slowly. “You own this tavern.”

  “I do.” He paused. “Ah. I imagine you thought Monsieur Charleaux owned it.”

  “Yes.” Her voice was faint.

  “My ownership isn’t entirely a secret, but it’s something that I—and Charleaux—certainly don’t shout from the rooftops. I can’t be in all places at all times, so I hire competent people to manage my assets. Charleaux—and other individuals I’ve hired in similar positions—are better able to make daily decisions if the vast majority simply believe them to be owners.”

  “Your sister did not mention that you owned property in town.” She had a peculiar expression on her face.

  August hid a frown. “She’s only been to the Silver Swan once, and that was years ago, just after I purchased it and long before I had it renovated. Is it important?”

  Clara muttered something that August didn’t catch. “Forget I mentioned it. Please, tell me about Miss Baker.”

  August started forward again. “In truth, it is her older brother who is the crown jewel in the Baker family, as it were. A bloody wizard when it comes to managing stable yards and everything that goes with it. I poached him from one of the busiest coaching inns in London.”

  “And he just agreed to leave?”

  “Mr. Baker wished to be able to protect and ensure the well-being of his family. Something I could understand. At the time I hired him, his sister was only eight, his brother ten. My willingness to employ both his siblings and leave them under his tutelage has made him a loyal employee.” He paused. “And Miss Baker especially has proven herself an unexpected asset. She is a fine hand with horses.”

  “I see.”

  “I have developed it substantially. Kept the tavern, improved the dining room, and expanded the inn. It was in rather deplorable condition when I bought it, but the location is second to none. It is one of the first buildings a thirsty sailor happens upon and the first lodgings a weary traveler sees. Now that the wars are over, there has been a greater influx of passengers crossing to France. The shipping trade has similarly increased, and business is brisk.”

  “I see.”

  August glanced at her. She was saying that a lot.

  “Come, let’s see if your brother has arrived. Will he have come by horse?” He glanced back at the yard, but the trio of Bakers was nowhere to be seen. He should have asked Miss Baker when he had the chance.

  “I assume so.” Clara sounded distracted. “What else do you own?”

  August waved his hand dismissively. “A collection of other investments. None of which will interest you, I’m sure.” He didn’t want to get into a long discussion of his holdings. Quite frankly, it would take all night, and it would detract from his objectives if they were discussing profit margins, taxes, and land titles. No, August needed to get the Haywards talking about the Haywards. And what he could do to make the Haywards happy and solve all their financial woes.

  “Did you run out of money?” Clara said as they approached the door.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  She gestured above their heads to the sign hanging above the door. “The exterior has very clearly been repaired and upgraded, yet your sign looks like a holdover from the Children’s Crusade.”

  August glanced up at the battered wooden sign that had come with the building. “What’s wrong with it?” It was still perfectly legible, if perhaps a little faded. Well, perhaps a lot faded and a little cracked at the bottom. And perhaps the bird looked more like a turkey than a swan. But it served its purpose. And it was familiar to the residents of Dover.

  Clara shot him a dubious look. “You went to the trouble of improving this establishment but left it represented by a crooked flamingo?”

  “It’s a swan, not a flamingo. And you sound like my sister, though she called it a bat,�
� August grumbled.

  “You should have listened to her.”

  August paused, his hand halfway to the door. Perhaps Clara had a point. Perhaps, in an effort to bridge the gap between them and reassure Anne that he had not intended to be dismissive of her talents, he could have a new sign made. One that would be crafted from her sketch. He had no doubt it would please her immeasurably. And it would prove to her that, while he was still her brother and responsible for her future, he was making an effort to listen and not simply trying to control her life. What harm could it do, really?

  Anne’s drawing would still be on his desk. He would send a note to Duncan to have a new sign made and shipped immediately.

  “Come, Miss Hayward,” he said, buoyed by his decision. He grasped the heavy iron door handle. “Tell me about your brother. What made him want to pursue medicine?”

  Clara stepped past him into the din of the tavern. “Why don’t you ask him yourself?”

  August followed her gaze and gestured to a man sitting against the far wall, a tankard of ale in his hand, speaking with an individual dressed like a seaman. It had been a long time since August had seen Strathmore. The baron had nearly the same dark mahogany hair as his sister and the same dark eyes. He was dressed neatly, his hair pulled back into a queue, but his tidy appearance couldn’t disguise the weary, worried lines of his face. August recognized that look. He had once worn the same haggard look for too many years. Perhaps this would be easier than he expected.

  August strode toward the far side of the tavern, weaving his way through the long tables and benches. The tavern was busy tonight, just as Miss Baker had said, and it pleased August to no end to see trays of ale and bowls of stew being served with a most satisfying swiftness.

  Strathmore must have seen them coming, because he broke off his conversation and rose. The man he was speaking to turned, and August noted his battered coat and the old-fashioned tricorne he held in his hand. A sea captain perhaps, though one who looked more like a pirate, given his dark beard and the small braid at his temple.

  The baron stepped forward, grasping Clara’s hands and kissing her lightly on the cheek before he turned to August. “Your Grace, it is a pleasure,” he said. “My apologies for the change in plan. I hope it didn’t cause you any inconvenience.”

  “Not at all,” August replied, avoiding looking in Clara’s direction. “And the pleasure is all mine. I did not mean to interrupt your conversation.” He let his gaze settle on the sea captain.

  “Captain Black at your service, Your Grace,” the man said, not waiting for introductions and sketching a brief bow. His dark eyes returned to August for a second before they settled on Clara. He swept his tricorne in front of him and his bow became exaggerated. “And you must be Dr. Hayward’s beautiful sister, who he speaks of so often.”

  “One of them,” Strathmore said drily. “Clara, may I present Richard Black, captain of the Azores. Captain, my sister, Miss Clara Hayward.”

  “Enchanted,” the captain said, smiling widely at Clara.

  “A pleasure,” Clara replied, looking amused.

  “It could be,” the captain replied with a wink.

  August stiffened, but the baron merely laughed. “You’ll excuse us, Captain?” Strathmore said.

  “Of course, of course.” Black settled his tricorne on his head. “I must be away as well. People to see, ships to sail. Enjoy your evening.” He tipped his hat and melted away into the crowd.

  August watched him vanish in the crush. A man to remember, August thought to himself. Not because he particularly wished to make the man’s acquaintance, but because any sea captain clearly so familiar with the baron might just be an invaluable source of information when it came to Harland Hayward. Or Strathmore Shipping.

  “I’m sorry if we interrupted your conversation before you could finish,” August said to the baron. “Would you care to have him fetched back? He would have been welcome to join us—”

  “Hemorrhoids,” Strathmore said succinctly. “We were speaking of hemorrhoids. More precisely the means by which one may reduce them. Not a suitable conversation for dinner, I can assure you.”

  “Of course.” August eyed the baron. That had been neatly done. A subject meant to stall a conversation before it ever got started. “Shall we make our way into the dining room then?” He gestured toward the wide, arched door that led farther back.

  “Yes, please.” It was Clara who spoke. “I’m quite famished.”

  August led them into the room, characterized by ordered tables with proper tablecloths and proper tableware laid out and a noise level that was a third of that in the main tavern. The tables were all occupied save for the largest one on the far wall, set in front of a wide window overlooking the harbor.

  “Please.” August gestured for his guests to sit. The baron pulled out a chair for Clara, and once she was seated, both men took theirs. He had barely gotten comfortable when a server materialized at the side of their table.

  “Good evening,” he said, and August was pleased to see that the man’s appearance wouldn’t have been out of place in any fine dining room in London. August had worked hard with Charleaux to ensure that the service was impeccable. Along with the French chef, it added to the popularity of the dining room. The man produced a bottle of wine and set to pouring the ruby liquid into the glasses on the table with a subtle flourish.

  “Tell Charleaux we are ready to be served,” August instructed.

  “Of course.” The man set the bottle in the center of the table and vanished as silently as he’d appeared.

  “I understand you had trouble with some soldiers,” the baron said without warning.

  August froze. “I beg your pardon?” An image of Clara trapped against a stone wall before they’d been interrupted suddenly filled his mind. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Clara take a long swallow of her wine, which told him that she was imagining the exact same thing. Jesus, if he was going to start this negotiation with Strathmore calling him out, it was going to be a very short discussion indeed.

  “Ran into a patrol southwest of town the other day while rendering assistance to a young boy, as I understand.”

  The boy. Of course. “I didn’t run into them, exactly,” August said. “Avoided them, more like. Though my horse was not so lucky.”

  The baron’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Your horse?”

  Strathmore had obviously been speaking to someone other than the staff at Avondale. The nameless child, perhaps. Or perhaps someone in his family. The baron was a doctor, after all, one who seemed to spend a great deal of time in the community, and it wasn’t far-fetched that he might have heard the tale in the course of his travels.

  “A flesh wound from a reckless bullet. The horse will be fine,” August said.

  “You never said anything.” Clara sounded horrified. “Are you all right?”

  “It was nothing, really. No real harm done. I was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “Or the right place at the right time.” The baron was still watching him.

  August nodded. “Or the right place at the right time, depending on one’s perspective.” He didn’t elaborate. Because that would provoke questions about his actions that he had no interest in answering. Neither Clara nor her brother needed to know why he had done what he had for a boy he didn’t even know.

  The baron was watching August intently. “The last years have been difficult. Hunger is a powerful motivator.”

  “I understand.” Strathmore and Clara had no idea how much.

  “You must eat here often,” the baron remarked, looking around at tables of well-dressed ladies and gentlemen and the occasional table occupied by naval and military officers. “Given that you are on such…familiar terms with the hotelier.”

  “Occasionally,” August replied. He picked up his glass and took an appreciative sip. “I confess I enjoy the selection of wines.”

  Clara made an inarticulate noise. “The duke owns this taver
n and inn.”

  “I had no idea,” Strathmore murmured. Brother and sister exchanged a look that August couldn’t decipher.

  “I don’t generally advertise it. Monsieur Charleaux manages the day-to-day affairs.”

  The baron fingered the stem of his wineglass. “If you own this place, surely you can do something about the sign out front. The first time I was here, I thought the place to be called the Rotted Raven.”

  August glanced at Clara, who had suddenly become fascinated with the edge of her napkin.

  “As it turns out, Strathmore, that is being addressed as we speak. I shall have a new one in place in the very near future.” August sat back in his chair. He had no interest in speaking of his businesses. “I was asking your sister about your own profession. Whatever made you decide to become a physician?”

  Strathmore was eyeing him shrewdly. “It’s something I’d wanted to do for as long as I could remember. And I was fortunate enough to have a family who supported me.” The baron glanced at his sister. “We all were.”

  “Why not practice full-time?” August asked casually.

  The baron’s brows shot nearly to his hairline. “If I could make a copy of myself, I most certainly would,” he said, and there was a faint bitterness to his words.

  August sighed in commiseration. “Ah. I can understand that. The business left to you by your late father must be incredibly time consuming.”

  “Something like that,” Strathmore muttered, downing the rest of his wine.

  August took a moment to choose his words. “Have you ever considered taking on a partner?”

  “A partner?” Strathmore repeated, going quite still.

  Beside him Clara visibly stiffened.

  “Your comment about making a copy of yourself made me think of it.” August felt the first faint stirrings of misgiving. Perhaps he had misjudged—

  “No,” the baron said.

  “No, you have not considered it, or no, you wouldn’t consider it?” he asked.

  “Both. I have two partners already. One of them is sitting next to you.”

  August forced a chuckle. “And a formidable one she is. I learned that the hard way, if you recall.”