What the Dashing Duke Deserves (Lords of Happenstance, #3)

by Sandra Sookoo

  Archewyne nodded. A faint grin played about his mouth, and Crispin took that as a sign of approval. “Quite right. However, if either of you, Ambassador, should need assistance, send for me or the duke straightaway.”

  “I appreciate that, my lord,” the man said with a slight bow.

  Archewyne transferred his gaze to Andrew. “Why are you here in Egypt, Lord Ramsay? I wouldn’t think a man of your energy would linger with the grit and the dust. Hard work doesn’t seem to be a particular strength of yours.”

  Damnation, but that is cold. Crispin looked at his superior with new respect.

  Lord Ramsay man slowly finished his drink. Amusement danced in his eyes. “I am here for the same reason you are, Lord Archewyne. Fortune, glory, and the lure of the find, the quest for treasure.”

  The earl snorted. “Except, I aim to donate my discoveries to the British Museum so that everyone may admire the artifacts as well as study them.”

  “Ah, I see.” He set his empty snifter on a nearby table. “So, then carrying such treasures from this country under the guise of donation makes stealing not illegal?” A light brown eyebrow rose. “Or perhaps you wish to land in The Times so that everyone will dangle after you while you play the conquering hero from a country so very poor and without resources to stop the rape of their history.”

  A muscle in the earl’s cheek ticked, but he didn’t rise to the bait. “Ah, then so you mean to dig this winter?”

  “Perhaps.” Lord Ramsay’s shrug was a negligent affair. “We shall see once my business in Cairo has concluded. How fortuitous it would be if we were to find ourselves working in the same area.”

  “Bah! I need no visitors, and I care not for the competition. The site I’m working has been in my family for years,” Archewyne answered. He clenched his hands on the armrests of his chair. “It’s unlikely we’d find ourselves neighbors.”

  “Egypt is a small country when it comes to dig sites, my lord,” Andrew said in a quiet voice, but he glanced at Juliana. “May the best man prevail at finding treasures first, for some of us desire everything those prizes will bring.”

  A barely audible whimper escaped Juliana. She sent Crispin a glance that clearly pleaded for him to help. But why? It was surely no business of hers what Lord Ramsay did with his time.

  Crispin cleared his throat. “Perhaps we should all change the subject. It won’t do for us to come to blows right before dinner. Not good for the digestion, yes?”

  Both men gave curt nods, but the earl’s flashing eyes didn’t bode well for future relations. Before anything else was said, the butler returned to the room and announced that dinner was served.

  Archewyne and Lord Ramsay practically raced each other to the door while the ambassador followed at a more sedate pace.

  Crispin offered Juliana his arm. “What the devil is going on here?” he asked in a whisper.

  “It’s... complicated.”

  When she rose to her feet and took it, he said, “You owe me that explanation.” And the sooner, the better apparently.

  She nodded. “I never break my promises if I can help it, but not while Lord Ramsay is present.” She didn’t say more.

  Chapter Four

  October 25, 1822

  The archive section of the Museum of Antiquities hadn’t been open for more than a quarter of an hour before the duke strolled in.

  Juliana stifled a groan. If she ducked below the stack of books currently sitting on her desk, would he think that she wasn’t in? As she contemplated the idea, his gaze met hers across the dusty expanse of floor, and this time she did groan. It was too late. And he came forward with all the confidence and joie de vivre he’d always had.

  Imagine, Crispin Herrick as a duke. In the light of day, he was no less handsome than he’d been in the evening—both times she’d seen him. Had he always been thus or had the title enhanced his looks? Such a silly thought; she cared nothing for titles or positions within the ton. But she couldn’t believe how his life had changed so much in a few years.

  When she’d known him—or really rather of him—Crispin had been a viscount’s son and a pawn broker, carefree and well-adjusted to his place in life. Now, as he strode toward her with the hint of a smile curving his sensuous mouth, he was so much more, and having a title hadn’t spoiled him as it had for so many men in the ton—especially that title.

  A shudder wracked her shoulders. What a horrible legacy to live beyond, so why had he accepted such a challenge? She needed to know, for it would help unlock her understanding of the man he’d become in the year and a half she’d been out of circulation in society.

  Except with him constantly underfoot and apparently overly curious, the chances of hiding her own secret diminished. She’d successfully put him off last night, but she rather doubted he’d let her waylay him again, which explained his presence now. Dogged determination was a trait that would make him a great duke and a splendid archeologist.

  Then he’d reached her desk and she quickly scanned her brain for something witty to say. “Good morning, Your Grace,” was all she could come up with.

  He waved the greeting away. “Crispin. My name is Crispin. You made use of it once. I would appreciate it if that’s how you continue to address me.”

  “Very well.” Juliana paused, eyeing him as speculation ran rampant through her mind. She focused her gaze on his sky blue waistcoat. Embroidered paisleys in a darker blue thread danced over the silk. Would he dress so smartly while digging out tombs? Or would he relax his personal style, perhaps leave off with the cravat, leaving the tanned skin of his throat exposed... She gave herself a mental shake to dislodge thoughts she had no business thinking. After today, he’d leave Cairo for his dig and she’d never see him again. “Why are you here?”

  “To see you.” When tiny spears of pleasure twisted down her spine, he continued. “And to find out the answers to my questions, since you gave Archewyne and I the bum’s rush after dinner last night.”

  Heat bloomed in her cheeks. There was only one word to describe that dinner—horrible. Lord Ramsay had dropped by, which wasn’t unusual, for the ambassador regularly entertained. Except, she’d missed her meeting in the marketplace with that same peer, thanks to Crispin’s interference. Of course he’d come calling, for he was after the same relic as her... for different reasons.

  And she’d do anything to keep him from it.

  However, when he’d had the gall to bring up her father’s—or the man currently masquerading as her father—spot of trouble in the director’s death, she’d wished to wash her hands of him for good. Andrew didn’t deserve any intel she had on the relic, and she’d be damned if she’d do anything else for him.

  As soon as dinner had concluded and the men expressed a wish to linger over port, she’d abruptly stood but said her father was fatigued, as was she, and everyone needed to leave post haste. It wasn’t that much of a lie, for she’d been ready to drop from recent worries, and her father struggled with anxiety over the death of his friend, as well as his unofficial part in the death. The house had cleared of guests in short order, but Crispin, though he’d been polite enough, had had questions in his eyes.

  She’d needed everyone away, for it was too difficult to know who to trust with so many strong personalities conflicting against each other.

  “Juliana?” The sound of her name yanked her from her musings.

  “What?”

  “I’m still waiting.” His eyes, the exact shade of tea that she liked to drink, twinkled with amusement. “I would like to have answers to my questions, which seem to grow and multiply like weeds each time I’m in your company.”

  “I’m afraid I won’t be able to help you after all.” She couldn’t involve him in this issue, not if she wished to redeem herself within the King’s agent network. The more he knew, the likelihood that he’d be placed in danger would grow. “I had sunk into a weak point when I made that promise, and I can see now that I was in error.”

  For long momen
ts, Crispin stared at her. She expected him to protest or throw about his rank, but he said instead, “When I hear something like that, my gut instinct flares, for it means the person uttering those words does so out of fear or a misguided sense of responsibility.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Juliana scoffed and averted her face so he couldn’t read her emotions. “I’m not afraid of anything.”

  “Another lie.” His whisper sounded overly loud in the cluttered space. He laid his gloved palms flat on her desk and leaned toward her. His cologne—a bouquet of scents ranging from bergamot, orange, hints of carnation, cinnamon, to woody notes of perhaps amber and moss—teased her nose. It smacked of a high-end London perfumery.

  “No.” Oh, he smelled delicious, but she tamped down the wont to sniff him. How gauche that would be, and she didn’t need an additional reason to form a bond.

  “I saw your face last night, Juliana. Not only were you incensed at the slight Lord Ramsay put forth, but you were also terrified at the same time. I want to know why.”

  The muscles of her stomach tightened while she blinked away silly tears. How long had it been since anyone had offered to assist her? Not on a case for the Crown and not with the tangles she’d landed in since relocating to Cairo. The Duke of Rathesborne had washed his hands of her after her spectacular failure and mistake. Never once had he sent her a missive to check on her progress or her mental health. Never once had he sent an agent to this forsaken place to see if she might need to talk or brainstorm. That tiny consideration, couched in Crispin’s gentle voice, nearly broke her.

  “How long have you carried your burden alone, Juliana?” he asked, and the caring in his eyes snapped the reticence deep inside her.

  She pressed her lips together to still their trembling. Perhaps it was indeed time to solicit help, for it was readily obvious she couldn’t continue on alone. She’d tell him all that bothered her, and when he left Cairo, she could carry on once more. “A year and a half.”

  Crispin’s eyebrows raised. Surprise reflected on his face as he straightened. “So, then, whatever this is,” he waved a hand, presumably to encompass the whole of her issues, “is bigger than just the alleged murder of the director.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Yes.” The word, ragged and barely-there, felt torn from her throat. Telling this man would either further her cause or affect the remainder of her failure. Was this the moment she’d declare defeat and return to England with her tail between her legs, full of disgrace? As emotions warred within her, she held the duke’s gaze, searching his eyes for answers she didn’t know if she wanted. Perhaps it was better than this void of nothingness she’d fallen into. Finally, she nodded. “Can I trust you?” She’d thought she could trust Lord Ramsay when she’d consented to enter into a romance with him, thought he might be able to help her in seeking the relic, but he’d betrayed her on both counts, continued to work at cross-purposes with her.

  It was vital he not succeed. Would she make more headway with the duke in that regard?

  “Haven’t you always?”

  The brilliant morning sun on his slightly curling hair—why did he insist on using pomade to tame what would probably be a glorious riot—gave him the appearance of having a halo, and the look of an angel. She stifled the urge to give into hysterical laughter, but sobered with a thought. Was he the savior she desperately sought to escape the morass she’d made of her life?

  “We haven’t known each other intimately enough to encourage trust,” she finally said.

  Crispin snorted. “I’d venture to say this is yet another lie.”

  “Why?”

  “Every time we’ve seen each other over the years, the unlikely friendship we’ve struck has continued. I have done nothing untoward to you, even rescued you a time or two from the lecherous advances of ton men while on the dancefloors of London.” His smile was crooked and somewhat endearing. “What more do you require of a hero? For a rather doubt I can easily acquire a white steed.”

  “Is that how you perceive yourself in this situation?”

  He shrugged. “I’ve always wished to play the hero to a damsel in distress. Why not you?”

  Why not indeed?

  Oh, how much did she wish to give into laughter in this moment, but she also didn’t want to appear weak or somehow less in front of this man. If she could redeem herself, she would, but obviously, she needed help when everything indicated the powers-that-be in London had given up on her. The longer she stared at Crispin, the more she realized he was exactly what she needed—all joking aside. Though they’d only orbited each other much of the time outside of those balls he’d spoken of, there was something about him that invited her trust and her confidence.

  With a sigh, Juliana nodded. “Yes, I trust you, and no, a white horse isn’t required. I can fight my own battles.”

  “I don’t doubt that you can, yet at times, it makes a woman stronger to ask for assistance. And two pistols are infinitely better than one, don’t you think?” He flashed a smile and it was as if the sun shone all the brighter, temporarily banishing the blue devils that had fallen over her. “This is a start. Hard won, actually.” Then he sobered. “Let us start with the most obvious. What is happening with your father?”

  She laid her hands in her lap but didn’t stir from her position from behind the desk. “You are aware he is not truly my father.” It wasn’t a question.

  “I am.” He waited with patient expectancy, never once pushing her to get on with it.

  How to explain that didn’t portray the man in a horrid light? There was no choice but to tell the truth. “Three days before you chased me when I left with the ushabti, I had gone next door to the museum. I’d wished to speak with the director about... something.” No reason to reveal her mission quite yet.

  “Did you see him?”

  “Yes.” She nodded and fixed her gaze on the stack of books to one side of her desk. The compassion in Crispin’s eyes nearly became her undoing. “Unfortunately, I found my father—yes, I’ll continue to refer to him as such—standing over the director, who was dead, and only just.”

  “Your father truly killed him?” Incredulity rang in the duke’s voice.

  “I don’t believe so.” She snapped her gaze back to his face, needing his reassurance and his support. “He looked too shocked to have perpetrated the crime, and his horror was all too genuine. Not even the best actor on Drury Lane could produce that.”

  Crispin nodded. “I understand. Please continue.”

  “In any event, I asked my father if he killed the director. I needed to know, but he said that he hadn’t, that he’d come to the museum in order to meet with the director... for the same purpose as me.”

  “Why?”

  Now they were coming perilously close to her mission. “To discuss a theory he—we—had had regarding a certain antiquity.” She worried her bottom lip with her teeth. “According to my father, the director had stepped out of the room to attend to an interruption of some sort, and when he didn’t return after a reasonable amount of time, my father grew worried.”

  “And?” Nothing in Crispin’s voice or demeanor passed judgment.

  She shrugged. “He went searching for his friend. When he found him in one of the galleries, the director was dying, the hilt of a dagger protruding from his chest.” A shiver wracked her shoulders. That must have been terrible for anyone, let alone the gentle man masquerading as her father.

  Crispin clasped his hands behind his back. “Did the director confirm your father’s theory?”

  “It was difficult to say. He uttered a riddle before he finally expired.”

  “A riddle?” A look of befuddlement crossed his features. “Why?”

  “It has to do with the antiquity.” She let her gaze jog away from his once more. “The riddle stated that solid objects are often false and hollow. Doors are but windows into other worlds. And that men are the same sort of evil, whether they be kings, pharaohs, gods, or sons.” With a sigh, she gl
anced at him. “What do you suppose it means? My father doesn’t know.”

  The duke shook his head. “It makes absolutely no sense without proper context.”

  “That’s what I thought too, but to which are you referring: the riddle or the murder of the director?” It was nice, this being able to talk to someone about the problems weighing down her shoulders.

  “Both. The riddle is expected for this country. Hieroglyphs and tombs drawings are often filled with puzzles and warnings.” He held her gaze with a fair amount of seriousness in his expression. “But do I think your father could kill a man?” He frowned. “It’s doubtful. From what I saw of the man at dinner last night, he doesn’t possess the avarice or hate that would motivate such a crime.”

  “How can you know that?”

  “Trust me. I do.” Then he once more leaned a palm on her desk, never breaking their eye contact. “However, the ambassador is not your father. You’ve said as much. Why do you wish to involve yourself in this sordid mess he’s landed in, a man of no connection?”

  Heat washed through her cheeks, whether from his intense regard or his question, she couldn’t say. “He took me in when I had no other recourse, when I was essentially thrown to the proverbial wolves. He secured the position in the archives for me through his connection with the director.” Tears prickled the backs of her eyelids. “And he was only too eager to assist me when I needed it regarding a particular antiquity I sought.”

  “Ah, and this is where the popular ushabti comes into play,” he said with a grin. When she remained quiet, the grin faded in the face of a fierce scowl. “I don’t know why you continue to lead me on with lies and falsehoods and silences that make you look fetching and vulnerable, but I’m growing annoyed that you are.”

  “I’m sorry.” Even though the sudden onslaught of emotion animated his face, his frown bothered her more than it should, she couldn’t ignore that he’d noticed her. “Like I said, the story is twisted and complicated.”