The Good, the Bad, and the Duke

by Janna MacGregor

  His gaze bored into hers. “I’ll never forgive myself if something happens to you. Let us be quick.” He took her elbow and escorted her down the abandoned hall.

  Suddenly, a boisterous roar from the main gambling room exploded around them. Haunting ripples of laughter followed in its wake.

  “If I’ve inconvenienced you by asking for your escort, I apologize. Perhaps I should have asked Devan, since he also knows about the journal, but I thought he might be offended at visiting such an establishment.”

  As they continued down the hallway toward the kitchen, Paul grunted. “He’s entirely in his element here, but you did the right thing asking me. However, you would have started a bloody war if you’d asked Lord William to help you.”

  She smiled tentatively. “Indeed. My brother would have been livid if Will had escorted me.”

  “My lady, you misunderstand. I’m not talking about your brother.” Paul’s delivery lacked a mocking tone, but his humor was ever present in his tone. “I’m referring to me.”

  She grinned up at him, and he answered in kind. Suddenly, a door opened, and a large masculine hand grabbed her. Wrenched free of Paul, she found herself pulled into a darkened room with the door slammed shut behind her.

  Without any light, blackness surrounded her. Shouting his outrage and pulling on the handle, Paul banged on the other side of the door, causing the wood to crack. Her fear became her ally, rallying her to escape. She turned to open the door as the soft light of a candle flickered to life.

  “Lady Moonbeam, here you are again.”

  She stared wordlessly at the club’s majordomo. His slight smile and relaxed demeanor immediately calmed her fear.

  “What are you doing?” she demanded as her heart slowed its rapid pace.

  “What I should have done in the first place. I’m removing you from the premises.” He crossed his arms over his barrel chest. “If you ever attempt to enter the Reynolds again, I take no responsibility for any resulting action.”

  “Please. I’m begging you. I just need to see—”

  Without warning, the door cracked like a battering ram was assaulting it.

  “Insufferable dukes are the scourge on society. He’s going to break the door with his shoulder,” the burly majordomo announced as he swooped to open the door.

  Paul stood with his feet spread apart. His furious gaze flew to Daphne’s, and she nodded all was well. His anger dissolved into his familiar haughtiness. “Gilby, beside the fact that it’s bad form to keep me waiting, you should never try to separate me from Moonbeam.”

  The majordomo shook his head, then pointed at Daphne. “Stay out, understand? There’s danger here.” He turned his attention to Paul. “You need to leave immediately.”

  “Please,” Daphne said. “I understand Garland is to work this evening. Is Elsie here?”

  “No, Lady Moonbeam. The duke has already made his daily visit, and I informed him that she didn’t show up today, nor did Garland. It’d be best—”

  “You were here?” Her gaze flew to Paul’s face.

  He nodded once. But his vexation was readily apparent with his clenched jaw.

  “Thank you.” Her heart thumped in approval as her voice softened. He’d kept his promise. Inside, the small remaining kernel of invisibility that held her captive loosened its hold.

  Mr. Gilby nodded. “Every day. Now you must leave, Lady Moonlight.”

  “Moonbeam, not Moonlight.”

  The voice from the hallway made the hair on the back of her neck straighten in alarm. There was no mistaking the man’s identity. She’d heard it in the alley the first time she’d visited the Reynolds.

  Martin Richmond, the publisher of The Midnight Cryer.

  With a smile, he walked toward her until no more than two feet separated them. “Makes me wonder what is so valuable that you’d risk being bodily removed from this fine establishment. Boughs of holly for your Christmas garland? I find I’m pursuing the same things. Perhaps a boy who loves food scraps from the kitchen? Desperation causes mistakes, doesn’t it, my dear?” The threat in Richmond’s voice was unmistakable. “Your mask does a magnificent job of keeping your face hidden. However, all I have to do is take a couple of steps and I’d be near enough to rip it off you. I’d have my answer as to the diary owner’s identity, wouldn’t I?”

  Suddenly, Paul stood in front of her, and Mr. Gilby drew close to her side.

  “I’m certain that I’d mentioned this, Richmond, but perhaps it needs repeating. I don’t share. If you touch one marvelous hair on her head, I’ll not be responsible for my actions. Understand?” The menace in Paul’s voice sounded like a deep guttural growl, the kind that gave warning before an imminent attack.

  Richmond laughed and held up his hands in surrender. “No need for that, Your Grace. But there are other ways to find out a person’s identity. I find the hunt to solve the puzzle as gratifying as the actual publication of your identity, Lady Moonbeam.”

  Mr. Gilby took a step in the publisher’s direction. “Mr. Richmond, I’ve been instructed by both Mr. Reynoldses not to allow you to harass the establishment’s patrons or guests. Now, the way I see it, I can persuade you two ways. Whether it’s by my charming personality or my physical prowess makes little difference to me. But it probably does to you, sir.”

  Richmond nodded, but the smile on his face didn’t reach his black eyes. “I’ve always been susceptible to charm, my good man.” He turned to Paul. “Your Grace, it’s always a pleasure. I’m certain I’ll see you again. Your duchy must not keep you busy enough. Perhaps I can help.”

  “I don’t need your help,” Paul answered.

  Richmond stood his ground like a cock sure of his hens. “Come now, a little free publicity would certainly increase your popularity. Imagine the social calls when all of London hears that the newly reformed and distinguished Duke of Southart is sneaking—I mean escorting a…” Richmond’s gaze lazily traveled the length of Daphne’s body. “A woman of the night into this fine gambling establishment.”

  Though Richmond’s gaze wasn’t lurid, it seemed to bore straight through her. It took every ounce of strength she possessed not to back away in fear.

  Paul leaned close to the publisher and whispered, though they all could hear each word clearly, “I live for these moments, Richmond. It turns my dull life into an orgy of intrigue.”

  “As you wish.” Richmond elegantly bowed to all. “I’ll try my hardest. Look for the next edition of The Midnight Cryer. You won’t be disappointed.”

  After he left, Paul ran his hand through his blond mane of hair, then held out his arm to Daphne. “Shall we, my lady?”

  Still shaken by the confrontation, she grappled with what to say in response to Richmond’s vile threats as she took his arm. “I’m sorry.”

  Paul shook his head. “Let’s discuss this later, Lady Moonbeam.” He placed his hand over hers and squeezed.

  She nodded to the majordomo. “Mr. Gilby, thank you.”

  “You’re most welcome.” With his cheeks flushed and smile dimpled, the majordomo ushered them from the room, then pointed toward the side door. “Now, out!”

  Silently, Paul escorted her to the hackney where Mavis and Tait waited. Thankfully, the alley was still empty. Instead of assisting her into the carriage, he steered them to the back of the vehicle.

  He cradled her neck with one hand and the other encircled her waist. In one motion, he embraced her tightly as if he’d never let her go. Leaning close, he brushed his lips over her earlobe. “Oh God, sweetheart. Enough.” The rumble of raw emotion made her heart pound in her throat. “Enough, hear me? Tonight”—he exhaled and his warm breath caressed her skin—“you put yourself in unspeakable danger.”

  She wrapped her arms around him in return and pressed her lips against his cheek. “I’m sorry, but I’m desperate to put an end to this. Thank you for coming today and tonight.”

  “Don’t ask me again, Moonbeam. You have to trust me. The next time, I’ll perso
nally bar you from entering.” He kissed her soundly on the lips, then escorted her into the carriage without another word.

  * * *

  Paul’s valet, Brice Tobler, raked his gaze over Paul’s jacket. The fastidious manservant brushed Paul’s shoulders once more before nodding his approval. Paul studied the cravat in the mirror and made the final adjustment.

  Satisfied with his appearance, he dismissed the valet. Tonight was another hallmark in his endeavor to rebuild his respectability. A new and unexpected excitement surged through him. The soiree was only weeks away. Already, the Duke and Duchess of Langham, the Duke and Duchess of Renton, and the Marquess and Marchioness of McCalpin had accepted his invitations. Langham had sent along a note asking if Paul would call on him this week to discuss the upcoming parliamentary session. The duke also had invited Lord Kenton so they could discuss committee appointments within the House of Lords.

  The request had pleased Paul to no end. His position within society and the important political acumen necessary to make his mark as the Duke of Southart were progressing nicely. With the Duke of Langham’s support, Paul’s wish to develop a legacy honoring Robbie would soon come to fruition.

  When Pembrooke and Claire’s acceptance had followed within hours of Somerton and Emma’s acceptance, Paul’s confidence had soared. He wouldn’t expect their immediate welcome, but their willingness to attend was a step in the right direction.

  “I’ll send word you’re preparing to leave for White’s. Anything else, Your Grace?” Brice asked before exiting.

  Paul shook his head. Tonight, he planned to socialize at his favorite gentlemen’s club. Since there were few of his peers in town, tonight’s visit would be informal and a perfect opportunity to renew old acquaintances. The next visit, he hoped to renew even more. His struggle for new respectability would be won battle by battle. “Thank you. You’ve done a marvelous job in making my foray into society easier this evening. At least I look ducal.”

  The valet smiled. “You make my job easy, Your Grace.”

  Paul turned to the mirror and adjusted his sleeves once more.

  “Your Grace?” His loyal butler, Ives, entered the room with a paper under his arm. His stance gave Paul the impression the man was hiding it instead of delivering it.

  What a nonsensical thought, as Ives had served the family for over thirty-eight years in various positions. It wouldn’t be long before the good man would retire. Paul hoped to entice him to stay in the position as long as possible. His history and experience with the duchy were invaluable.

  Paul nodded in answer.

  Ives shut the door, leaving the two of them in the ducal dressing room. He presented the paper, then swallowed, his prominent Adam’s apple bobbing in an odd dance. “You should read this before you leave for the evening.”

  The Midnight Cryer’s familiar type taunted him. Paul simply nodded. The butler’s face was devoid of any emotion. A perfect response from a perfect English butler serving a not-so-perfect duke.

  Paul straightened his shoulders in defiance. He’d not allow Martin Richmond’s spew of stench spoil his evening. “Just lay it on my desk in the study. I’ll read it tomorrow.”

  “Respectfully, Your Grace, you need to read this before you leave for the evening. It’s about Lady Moonbeam.”

  Paul took the offending piece from Ives’s outstretched hand. He’d instructed his loyal butler to alert him to anything dealing with Daphne. “That will be all.”

  He waited until Ives closed the door before he dared to read the headline.

  LADY MOONBEAM’S GLOW CAPTURES EVERYONE’S ATTENTION

  A CERTAIN “POOR” DUKE IS LEFT IN THE DARK!

  Paul’s body stiffened while his gut churned as if gutted. In black and white, without relaying any facts that could damage either Paul or Daphne, Richmond taunted them both.

  Though he wanted to retch, he continued to read the filth before him.

  A new celestial body has been orbiting the Reynolds, a lady by the name of Moonbeam. Her graceful reserve wobbled upon seeing this intrepid reporter. It was apparent to all that my presence broke up a lurid intimate tête-à-tête with another while her duke, who’s no stranger to the Reynolds, lost his renowned charm and proceeded to bellow his outrage in the hallway. Meanwhile behind the closed door, Lady Moonbeam used her magic on another. Gentle reader, she’s an enchantress ready to devour any man who can’t fight against her charms.

  What’s most fascinating? She’s after the same diary we are. Why would she be interested in such a book? The only plausible answer is that it’s her scandalous entries!

  It’s my duty as a journalist to bring you every new detail I can on her wicked adventures. I warn all the great citizens of London. Protect the men of your family from such sorcery.

  He swallowed hard, then turned to meet his gaze in the mirror. Deftly, he tugged the expertly tied cravat. His interest in attending White’s disappeared faster than snow on a July morning.

  His anger blazed at Richmond and, frankly, at himself.

  He’d caused this—Daphne’s dance with ruin. If he hadn’t cavalierly escorted her—repeatedly—to the gambling hell himself, she’d be safe. He closed his eyes as the memory of her scent stole around him. More fool he. His groin tightened and every muscle tensed as he recalled holding her close last night. The power of her lavender fragrance reminded him that she’d do what she wanted, and he found that more enchanting than infuriating. He was allowing his fanciful thoughts to control his decisions instead of common sense.

  His own actions had caused not only her safety and reputation to be at risk but also his. Instead of trying to be a respectable duke, he’d completely allowed his own interests and desire for her to rule his actions. His time was better spent preparing for the soiree and wooing his peers to support his political and charitable agendas. Always a creature who catered to his baser instincts, he’d allowed his fascination with Daphne Hallworth to consume him.

  He pulled the cord for a footman. He’d not go out tonight. Instead, he’d sit by the fire and try to find a way to disentangle her from this web he’d managed to weave around the both of them.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The longcase clock gently chimed the half hour as if announcing the coast was clear for Daphne to escape.

  She straightened her cloak while admonishing herself for such thoughts. She wasn’t escaping or sneaking anywhere. She had business to attend to, and if that business took her to a friend’s house, then so be it. She’d not rest until she saw Paul, especially after today’s titillating article in The Midnight Cryer.

  After she’d arrived home from Lady Ashton’s dinner party accompanied by her mother, Alex, and Claire, she made the excuse of a headache—which wasn’t far from the truth—and retired to her room. Her mind whirled with the paper’s brusque words and innuendo. The threat that they’d soon discover her identity had stunned her so completely that she couldn’t think. Once she reached the confines of her room, her brain had functioned again.

  What was more, Richmond knew exactly what he was doing. If he could infuriate Paul or her so they reacted to the article, then Richmond had a lead to Daphne’s identity.

  If the publisher of The Midnight Cryer found out she was Lady Moonbeam, then he’d have the identity of the owner of the journal.

  It was a dire threat she’d have to address, and soon. If Paul washed his hands of the whole affair, she wouldn’t blame him. His own reputation was now at risk. But she still needed his help if he was willing.

  “My lady, Tait has secured a hackney for both of you.” Mavis’s soft whisper interrupted Daphne’s musings.

  “Thank you,” she answered. They kept their voices low so as not to alert any other servants of her midnight travels.

  “Don’t worry,” her maid reassured her. “I’ll stay in your room in case anyone checks on you during the night.”

  Tait’s gentle steps down the entry staircase broke the silence surrounding Daphne and Mavis.

/>   “My lady, are you ready?” he asked.

  She nodded, then addressed Mavis. “I’ll be back as soon as possible.”

  “I’ll be waiting for you.” Mavis handed Daphne the muff that Paul had given her for Christmas. “My lady, this probably isn’t my place, but you’ve been so kind to me.” Mavis grabbed her hand and held it tight. “His Grace is a good man with a good heart. He’ll continue to help you.”

  Daphne didn’t answer. Instead, she followed Tait down the hallway that led to the servants’ entrance where the hackney waited.

  Deep inside, her own heart encouraged her to tell Paul the whole truth. She should tell him of her regard for him and for how long. That would mean opening herself to the heartache of his rejection. She reached into her pocket and grasped the heart-shaped rock he’d given her years ago. So many times, it provided the strength she had needed when she didn’t think she could endure the sadness. He’d given her comfort when she’d so needed it the most—whether he realized it or not.

  Tonight, he would understand how much succor he’d provided in the past.

  She’d tell him as much as she dared and only hoped it was enough.

  * * *

  “Your Grace?”

  Ives’s question broke the silence that had descended in the study. Paul had prepared to retire for the evening, but his chambers offered little solace from the heaviness that weighed on his shoulders, so he’d returned to his desk. He’d finished answering the letters and invitations that had been strewn across the desktop. Afterward, Paul had moved to the sofa that framed the fireplace. He tore his gaze away from his entertainment, the thorough examination of the blazing fire before him, and directed it toward his butler, who stood inside the doorway of his study.

  His study. Every day he was becoming more comfortable in his role—his legacy—as the Duke of Southart.