Duke Du Jour

by Petie McCarty

  “Thieves’ version of a press gang,” Bullen muttered.

  The man turned miserable eyes toward Jared. “I begged him, I don’t mind sayin’. Tol’ him I didn’t have the money, but I’d work it off. Then he smiled like a snake would—all evil-like—and he says, ‘Just what I wants to hear. I have the perfect job fer ye. But just so’s ye’re honest, I am leaving one of my men to keep an eye on yer wife and yer shop.’ ”

  “You could be lying through your teeth,” Jared said coldly.

  “I could, but I’m not. I just wants to go back to me wife and child and make me belts. Iffen ye send me to Newgate, I’ll never see ’em again.” His eyes glistened in the lamplight.

  Jared stared for a long moment at the would-be assassin, then told Bullen, “Take Collins and get the horses ready.”

  His brother and Collins were out the door moments later.

  “Do you believe him?” Jared asked Dexter.

  “Strangely, yes. There is a lot of that sort of blackmail going around.”

  ****

  The night had gone rank and cold, and everyone’s spirits soured as the hours ticked by. The clock on the church tower two streets over had chimed midnight only minutes before. Jared’s thoughts kept shifting to Ariana, and he berated himself for not calling on her aunt that afternoon to be sure she had been accepted and situated properly before hieing himself off to meet Dexter and his cohorts. What if her aunt had been appalled by Ari’s arrival unescorted and dressed as a boy? What if the aunt had refused to take her in for fear of scandal? He should have made an appearance to lend her his ducal support.

  Instead, he was stuck here deep in the stews—with its throat-gagging stench—waiting for a traitorous Frenchman to show up. His temper had gone threadbare with the late hour and his inability to check on Ariana. This odd gut-wrenching concern chipped at his temper as well, since he had never worried so much about a woman before. What in the hell had gotten into him?

  He needed to concentrate on his mission. He would be leaving soon. He had to focus before he did anything else to change the course of history.

  “Well?” he snapped at Collins. “Where is he?”

  Little or nothing had been said for a couple hours. All communication had been in hand signals or whispers, but Jared’s temper had gotten the best of him.

  “Keep your voice down,” Dexter hissed over his shoulder.

  The Bow Street Runners had fanned out at locations and alleys across the narrow thoroughfare. Two runners slumped in doorways like common gin drunks. Everyone had grown impatient with the wait. Even the two drunks had stirred and eyed the tenement and alley where Jared, Dexter, Thorpe, and the rest waited.

  Collins swallowed hard. “I told ye this is where I meets Cochran. I don’t knows where Cochran meets the Frenchie, and he never meets ’im this late,” he whispered back. “He’s always back by ten of the clock.”

  “Damn,” Dexter muttered. “The leader must have discovered Cochran’s dead.”

  “How?” Jared wanted to know.

  “Obviously, you were still being followed cross-country and didn’t realize it,” the Bow Street Runner in charge—a man called Clive Herford—calmly said.

  Jared spun on Collins. “Or you told him.”

  Collins took a step back and bumped up hard against Bullen.

  “There was no way he could,” Dexter interceded. “He has been with me or Bullen the entire time.”

  “And he could not have managed to get a note out?”

  “Unlikely.”

  “I swears I didn’t,” Collins whispered desperately. His hands came up to hold Jared back.

  “So what now?” Jared turned on Dexter. “You who have all the answers.”

  “I’m thinking.”

  “Great.”

  Dexter glowered. “I am thinking we’re going to require some bait.”

  “Bait…”

  “Exactly.” Dexter eyed Jared intently.

  “Oh no! Not me again. Third time’s a charm, remember? They’ve already made two attempts on my life. This one might work.”

  “Three,” Bullen muttered.

  “What?”

  “You forgot one. They have already made three attempts. This would be the fourth.”

  Dexter grinned wolfishly. “And everyone knows the fourth time is never a charm.”

  Jared rolled his eyes heavenward.

  “So, what is your plan?” Thorpe asked from the shadows.

  “The new Viscount Hadden, the Duke of Reston, and the Earl of Dexter will attend Lady Marsden’s ball tomorrow evening. I will secure invitations for all of us.”

  “What about Bullen?” Jared asked.

  “Tomorrow night, he will be a coach footman.”

  “The hell he will!”

  Bullen put a hand on Jared. “It’s all right.”

  Dexter glowered. “We need someone watching the mews, Reston. Someone we can trust.”

  Bullen nodded.

  “The Bow Street Runners will be stationed, or rather hidden, out front. By watching both front and rear, we should be able to intercept our assassins before they get inside or get close to you.”

  “What do I do?” Jared asked.

  “Have a good time.”

  “With an assassin hunting me?”

  “If you are constantly wary and continually glancing around, your assailants may drop back and try again another day. And we won’t know when. Waiting for your attack is good for them and bad for us. It makes us nervous. We need to have an edge.”

  Thorpe nodded.

  “We need to smoke them out in the open and get this over with, before they can get to Wellington. If you act normal, normal for you anyway—”

  Jared glared, and Dexter only grinned.

  “If you act as though nothing is wrong and you have not a care in the world other than—”

  “Wine and wenching,” Bullen added, receiving his own glare from Jared.

  “—then the bastards are quite likely to make their move,” Dexter finished.

  Every man—Collins, Thorpe, and the Bow Street Runners included—nodded their agreement.

  “Whatever,” Jared grumbled.

  “You and I will be his only protection once we are inside,” Dexter told Thorpe grimly.

  “I owe Reston,” Thorpe said solemnly. “You can count on me.”

  “I would think the trouble would happen after I left,” Jared argued. “The Frenchies would make their move then. What could happen at a ball? There will be footmen everywhere for protection.”

  Dexter, Thorpe, and Bullen all looked at him as though he had sprouted an extra eye in the middle of his forehead.

  “Have you forgotten your entire way of life?” Dexter finally exclaimed. “Every footman present at the ball will be busy waiting hand and foot on all of the aristocracy in attendance. No one will be looking after your safety except us.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “One stray shot from a gallery in the ballroom or a balcony overlooking the garden and the shooter could disappear into the chaotic crowd. No one would be watching for him when it happened. Aristocrats—earls and dukes like you and me—are only concerned with being waited upon and whom they might order about.”

  “I see.”

  Jared did, actually. Up until this unscheduled visit to the real-time annals of his family’s history, he had resembled that unpleasant aristocratic portrait himself, and he did not care for the picture. He had only ever concerned himself with his own wants and needs.

  Dexter took Collins and Thorpe and went to collect the Bow Street Runners, having given up on catching the Frenchman that night. Only Jared and Bullen remained in the alley.

  His brother clapped a hand on his shoulder. “I shall not let anyone past the mews.”

  He nodded and had to clear his throat before he answered. “Why do you help me? You do not even have to be in London. Bad enough you are having to take care of my estates for me, but from what I hear, I was rotten to you bef
ore.”

  Bullen shrugged. “You are better now and…”

  “And what?”

  He sighed. “You are my brother.”

  Jared blinked. “And you are an honorable gentleman.”

  Bullen gave him a lopsided smile. “Hard to believe, with me the offspring of our arse of a father and a mother who abandoned her child to the care of that same arse.”

  Jared chuckled. “And glad I am that you are my brother.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  By the following evening, Jared’s mood had not improved, and his temper had a razor-thin edge, saved only by the luxury of moving out of the flea-bitten inn with Bullen that morning and into the ducal town house on Grosvenor Square, courtesy of the three ex-military men Dexter had hired to guard the place.

  Some food, a bath, and clean clothes had put both him and his brother in better spirits, but their inability to communicate with Ariana only dashed them again. The brothers had paid a call at the home of Wakefield’s sister—Felicity Beresford, Viscountess Morton—only to be informed by her elderly but incredibly haughty butler that Lady Morton, Lady Ariana, and Lady Ariana’s new maid had gone to Bond Street. To shop of all things.

  Jared had almost lost his temper right there in the foyer, so angry was he that Ari’s safety had been compromised.

  “What part of lie low and out of sight did she not understand?” he had grumbled to Bullen when the butler refused to let them wait out Ariana’s return in the drawing room. Even Jared’s ducal hauteur could not budge the ancient butler.

  “I am the Duke of Reston,” Jared had informed the older man.

  The butler then managed to look down his nose at Jared, though he was a good six inches shorter. “I know exactly who you are, Your Grace, and you still may not await their return in the drawing room. Lady Morton would not allow it—and she is my employer.”

  Bullen took Jared by the shoulders and steered him toward the door before any more eruptions were forthcoming. “Come along. The wages of sin have come back to roost,” he muttered. “Nothing to do about it now.”

  Jared was still fuming over the snub when Dexter’s carriage arrived that evening to collect him for the Marsden ball. The fact that Bullen had dressed in Reston livery, held the door for him, and then hopped aboard the carriage did nothing to appease his frame of mind.

  “I would have thought to find you in a better mood,” Dexter said when Jared slumped in the seat across from him and crossed his arms in disgust. “Now that we are out of the Bear and Beagle.”

  “Lady Ariana went shopping with her aunt and her maid, and I have not been able to get in touch with her.”

  “I see.”

  “Well, are you not the least bit worried?”

  “Evidently, not as much as you,” Dexter said, studying him closely.

  “Good God, man!” Jared exploded. “We told her to lie low. She can identify the assassins. They could be after her, even now.”

  “Only Dawson is left,” Dexter reminded him. “Cochran is dead, and Collins is in our custody. Actually, Collins is one of my liveried footmen this evening and will be helping Bullen watch the mews. I do believe that one is salvageable.”

  “Well, there is still one assassin out there. What was she thinking, prancing around Bond Street today?”

  “She probably was in desperate need of clothes after she arrived dressed as a boy, which may be part of the reason you are persona non grata at Lady Morton’s home, since Lady Ariana travelled here with you.”

  Jared glared at the earl, having no ready response for that bit of truth.

  “If it makes you feel better, I will have one of our military men watch her aunt’s townhouse, too.”

  Jared sat up. “Oh. Well, good. I still do not like her gallivanting about London.”

  “She was gallivanting, as you put it, in broad daylight with her aunt, the dowager Viscountess Morton, and her lady’s maid. They no doubt had at least two strapping footmen with them and a coachman as well. Unlikely Dawson would have gone after her.”

  “But she can link Dawson to the plot to assassinate me, so his boss, the Frenchie, will want to silence her.”

  Dexter thought about that for a moment. “Possibly,” he allowed, “but not likely. You are their real target, and they have lost two men already. They will have to concentrate on you.”

  Their vehicle stopped, and Bullen hopped off the carriage to open the door and throw down the steps.

  Jared frowned when Bullen grinned in at him. “This is not funny.”

  “I think so,” Bullen said cheerfully. “The only one it bothers is you.”

  Dexter laughed, and Jared disembarked, then strode angrily for the steps of the Marsden mansion, his black tailcoat flapping against his trousers.

  Dexter caught up with him at the top of the steps, and the two watched Bullen and Collins ride the carriage toward the mews. “I have spotted two of our Bow Street Runners,” Dexter informed Jared, careful to keep his voice low, “so they must all be in place. Shall we go in and greet our host and hostess?”

  The Earl of Marsden and his countess appeared much happier to see Dexter than Jared. He shrugged off the hint of a snub. The couple probably had a daughter Seven had chased. He made a mental note to ask Bullen about it later. He stood patiently while Dexter chitchatted a moment with the countess, his temper temporarily appeased by the bodyguard Dexter had placed at Viscountess Morton’s home. Ariana would be safe for tonight.

  “Shall we go in?” Dexter said, and they moved toward the stairs down to a ballroom already packed with guests.

  The orchestra began to play a waltz, and the dance floor quickly filled. Dexter told the surprised butler not to bother announcing the two of them, obviously preferring they kept to themselves for now.

  “Your Grace!” a feminine voice trilled behind them, and both men shifted to see a beautiful young woman break free of the receiving line and make a beeline toward them.

  “Oh, good Lord,” Dexter groused under his breath.

  “This evening may not turn out so bad after all,” Jared said, smiling for the first time that evening.

  “You will not think so when she gets over here.”

  “Why? Who is she?”

  Dexter gave him that you-have-sprouted-a-second-head look Jared hated.

  “What?”

  “Damn, your memory. I forgot.”

  “Very funny.”

  Dexter chuckled. “You won’t think so in a moment.”

  The woman reached them and sidled much too close to Jared for society’s dictates in this century or even his own. Jared was not about to complain. The woman was truly beautiful—red hair, the color of fire, and a decadent mouth. There were worse ways to spend the evening, like hunkering in a stench-filled alley and waiting for assassins to show up.

  “Your Grace,” the woman cooed, taking note of his glance at her mouth. “Rumors had circulated of your return from the continent, and I was overjoyed by the news. We had all heard you were killed at Waterloo.” Her eyes glistened as though with unshed tears.

  “We?”

  “All of your friends here in London,” she said with a delicate sniff.

  “Friends, hmm?” Dexter muttered at his shoulder.

  Jared turned to him. “Maybe you could introduce us, Lord Dexter?”

  “Introdu—” The woman’s voice had gone hard in an instant. “What are you talking about?”

  Dexter cleared his throat. “Your Grace, may I present the um, widowed Viscountess Valentine.”

  “You are introducing me, my lord?” Her eyes flashed at Dexter, whose brows shot up in an innocent expression.

  “Yes, I am. You see His Grace has sustained a blow to the head, and he suffers a bit of temporary amnesia.”

  “Amnesia?”

  “He remembers places mostly, just not people.”

  Her hands were on Jared’s arm before he could blink. “You have forgotten me, Your Grace?”

  “Plainly I have, Lady Valenti
ne,” Jared said, suddenly finding her company not quite as intriguing as moments earlier. Especially since the fingernails digging into his coat sleeve bespoke some degree of desperation. Her breasts shifted purposefully against his arm with every breath she inhaled, and she was apparently pretending some form of hyperventilation.

  “But you used to call me Maggie,” she whispered for Jared’s ears only.

  I have no doubt that Seven did exactly that.

  He purposely did not respond, merely gave her a blank stare.

  Her eyes had magically unglistened and taken on a rather speculative gleam. “If you have forgotten me, then you have forgotten your desire to formalize our close friendship. We had spoken of it privately, before you took your commission.”

  Her comment hit Jared like a blow to the gut. Surely, Seven had not made promises to this fast piece of baggage.

  “Hardly, Lady Valentine,” Dexter said with a grin, “but a funny joke to play on His Grace, nonetheless.”

  Jared felt such a wave of relief he could have hugged Dexter. If he had doubted the earl’s friendship before, he never would again. The man could have left him swinging in the wind.

  Apparently, the widow thought so as well, for the glare she shot at Dexter should have singed his eyebrows. The earl failed to notice, for his gaze had shifted beyond the widow to the ballroom.

  “What the hell is she doing here?” he exclaimed.

  Jared followed his line of sight and stilled.

  Baron Dalton swept Ariana out onto the dance floor and into his arms for a waltz.

  “Who is she?” the fast widow wanted to know and silenced the roar Jared almost let loose.

  “The daughter of Reston’s neighbor,” Dexter said quickly.

  Evidently, the widow liked that response. “Oh. Too young for you, Your Grace,” she trilled, all happiness and light once again. She eased in close for another sortie. “Now, about the waltz I promised you the night before you left for the army.” Her voice had gone sultry at the last.

  “Nice try, Margaret,” Dexter said, careful to keep his voice low enough only the three of them could hear. “But my memory is completely intact, and that was me you promised a waltz to, the night before Reston left. You did it when he wasn’t looking. Now come along.”