Would I Lie to the Duke

by Eva Leigh

  She fought to make sense of what the letter from Daley’s Emporium had said. Here was the possibility that McGale & McGale might be able to salvage itself—because of Noel.

  But . . . “Cyn, if we can’t get the blunt to make the repairs and modernize, we can’t meet demand. They’ll place an order we cannot fill.”

  “A step at a time, love. Let us celebrate this good fortune for a moment and then we can think logistics.”

  “Wise girl,” Jess murmured.

  Cynthia broke the embrace first. “I’ve got to find Fred. He needs to hear the good news.” After giving Jess another kiss on the cheek, Cynthia ran down the path toward the barn and outbuildings, calling for her brother.

  Alone, Jess allowed herself to sink to the ground, right on the threshold of her home. She read the letter again. Elation filled her, mixed with caution, which was the peculiar alchemy of adulthood. She wanted to believe that everything would be all right, but there was no certainty.

  The urge to talk to Noel hit her strongly. He could offer his thoughts and opinions, say something witty to lighten her worry. He understood her ambition—he understood her.

  Jess started to rise so she might grab pen and paper, then she stopped herself. Her hands curled into fists in her lap.

  Even if she did write him, he’d never open her letter. Likely, he’d throw it into the fire and walk away before it became ashes—a fitting symbol. They had been mere embers, then blazed together before turning cold and dead.

  As she knelt in the doorway of her family’s home, she looked skyward. Success beckoned, but the price . . . the price was immeasurable.

  Noel tipped his head back, draining his glass. There was no satisfying burn that came from strong liquor. Come to think of it, he hadn’t felt that heat in days, not since he’d first started down this determined path of carousing. It was as useless as drinking tepid tea. He threw the glass to the floor, causing the people at his table to jump and look like startled rabbits.

  “Give me something stronger,” he demanded to the room at large.

  A man in a publican’s apron appeared, smiling too wide so he seemed like a ghoul. “What would you like, Your Grace?”

  “Scottish whiskey,” Noel said. “American bourbon. Water from the sodding Thames. I. Don’t. Care.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  “And more wine for my dear, dear friends,” Noel added, waving at the assortment of bucks and demimondaines draped around the table, who cheered in response. “Who are you, again?”

  “Your bosom companions, Your Grace,” a florid-faced lordling declared. “Recall—we met at the opera earlier and you swept us up in your excellent hospitality.”

  The last few hours, hell, the last few days, were a haze that Noel neither wanted nor cared to remember. His head was full of shrill laughter and his mouth tasted like a puddle in the middle of Charing Cross Road.

  “Still here?” he slurred to the publican. “Unless you’ve a twin brother who is currently fetching my goddamned drink.”

  “I have a sister, Your Grace, but no twin brother.”

  Vision swimming, eyes gritty, Noel stared at the man. The publican bowed before racing off to fulfill Noel’s command.

  Noel slumped in his chair, weary to the very fibers of his being. The days where he woke without a venomous headache and a dry mouth were less frequent than the days he could barely stir from bed. Even Beale’s pointed coughs as he gathered up Noel’s carelessly discarded clothing couldn’t make Noel give a damn about getting up and facing the world.

  But face the world he did. At balls and assemblies and opera boxes and supper clubs and everywhere in the whole of the city where people gathered to enjoy themselves and make merry. Noel would make merry until it fucking killed him. Trouble was, with a broken heart, merriment seeped out of him, pooling like congealing blood on the field of battle.

  He went to bed alone every night and woke up just as alone. But he’d keep trying, by God. He’d celebrate, carouse, and cavort like a madman and pretend that he was the same rake he’d been a few weeks earlier.

  Yet he couldn’t summon any pleasure when McCameron entered the chophouse. Posture as upright as ever, McCameron made his way through the riotous throng, nimbly ducking as a chicken bone flew through the air.

  “Duncan,” Noel cried. It seemed as good a time as ever to call his friend by his Christian name. Flinging his arm wide, Noel said, “Join us. We’re a disorderly bunch in need of a strong, reliable, and sober presence.”

  “Sobriety is in short supply,” McCameron said, eyeing the cups, mugs, tankards, and glasses strewn about the table.

  Noel shoved the various vessels to the ground, the clatter barely heard above shouts and laughter. “We are now the most ab . . . ab . . . abstemious of gatherings.”

  At that moment, the publican returned with a bottle. “From my own still, Your Grace.”

  “Piss off,” Noel said affably.

  “Yes, Your Grace.” He bowed once more and melted away.

  “Sit, sit,” Noel directed to McCameron.

  “There are no unoccupied chairs.”

  “He can have my seat, Your Grace,” some ash-pale buck announced magnanimously.

  “I must decline your hospitality,” McCameron said. He eyed Noel. “Can you stand?”

  “Perhaps,” Noel replied. “Wouldn’t lay odds on it, though. Bad investment.” He winced at the word investment. He’d always associate it with Jess. He’d associate breathing with Jess, likewise feeling any emotion other than being utterly cup-shot.

  “You and me are talking, but we’re not doing it here.” McCameron wrapped an arm around Noel’s shoulders and hauled him up from his chair. “Up you get. Time for a wee cozy chat.”

  “Good thing you’re such a braw laddie,” Noel said, affecting a Scottish accent. Even to his own ears it was terrible, so he didn’t use it again when he added, “I’ve the strong suspicion that if I attempt to stand without your support, my legs will liquify beneath me.”

  For all McCameron’s strength, Noel had several inches on him, which made balance a rare commodity as they staggered outside. His friend half carried, half dragged Noel down the street, until they reached a narrow alley. McCameron deposited Noel onto a large empty crate, but made certain to prop him against the brick wall as it was dead certain that sitting Noel upright was impossible.

  “This is charming.” Noel’s head lolled. A rat scurried by, yet what did it matter? He could be devoured by packs of vermin and wouldn’t care. “Got all the comforts of home.”

  “We’ve stopped by,” McCameron said, folding his arms across his chest. “Rowe, Curtis, Holloway, and me. Your ruddy butler said you weren’t at home to callers. When the fuck have any of the Union been callers?”

  “Perhaps I thought I should expand my social circle. You should commend my efforts to pursue a path of personal growth.” The bricks behind Noel’s head were slick with an unknown substance, yet he let it soak into his hair.

  “That lot at the chophouse are your new friends?” McCameron snorted. “Fine group if you like having your bunghole licked.”

  “Sod off.” Noel sagged forward, bracing his arms on his thighs, his head hanging down.

  “Holloway and Curtis told me what happened. With the woman.” McCameron’s words were surprisingly gentle, given that he was more familiar with barking orders at his men. “What you said at Ashford’s ball—none of it was true. It wasn’t a prank.”

  Noel glared at his friend. “Like hell it wasn’t.”

  “You forget, I met her. I saw how you looked at her. How she looked at you.”

  “Like a swindler looks at their mark,” Noel spat.

  “Lady Whitfield—”

  “Is no lady,” Noel snarled.

  “That’s what upsets you?” McCameron planted his hands on his hips. “The fact that she’s a commoner?”

  “I don’t give a rat’s arse if she’s a commoner. She used me.” His throat burned and he tried to
swallow around it. “Jess deliberately set out to seduce me so she could bring in investors to that sodding soap operation.”

  “Did she seduce you?”

  “Yes,” Noel answered at once. Then, “Maybe. No. I don’t goddamned know.”

  “I didn’t see everything,” McCameron mused. “If she targeted you specifically, that’s unforgivable.”

  The fog of alcohol did nothing to cloud his remembrance of the Bazaar. How drawn he’d been to Jess, how she had asked him to go slowly. Whenever she’d talked of McGale & McGale, she had spoken to other members of the Bazaar, and he’d added himself to the discussion.

  “I made some inquiries,” McCameron continued, “into Jessica McGale and the McGale family.”

  “You’ve too much time on your hands,” Noel grumbled. “Nosing around my affairs like a hound.”

  “We’re not all of us titled toffs used to pissing our lives away.”

  Stung, Noel leveled a finger at his friend. “Ought to get yourself a woman.”

  McCameron’s jaw tightened. “Tried that. She wanted someone else.”

  “Shit,” Noel muttered as contrition tightened around him. “Was badly done of me, bringing her up. I didn’t mean—”

  “About the McGales,” McCameron said, plowing doggedly ahead. “There was a fire—”

  “I know about that,” Noel mumbled.

  “Her parents died about eight months before that fire. She had to take over running the operation, and then the fire happened. She took a position as a companion, most likely to save up enough to rebuild.”

  “Doesn’t matter what her motivation was. She lied. The whole time, she lied. To further her own ambition.”

  He’d told himself that he would never be taken in by a liar. He’d never be hurt by someone’s deceit.

  But he had. He bloody well had.

  “Aye, she did.” McCameron nodded. “Can’t help but wonder, if I was in her place, and stood to lose it all, what would I do? How far would I go to take care of the people I love?”

  “Damn it.” Noel tugged his hands through his hair. “I don’t know. I don’t know a fucking thing.”

  “Do any of us?”

  “Curse you—I’m sobering up.”

  “Ah, now that’s a shame,” McCameron said.

  “Always looking out for me,” Noel accused. “Like you did back at Eton. All of you, setting me down a peg, opening my eyes, making me think.” He spat the last word as though it was a vile practice. “Why? Why’d you all do that? Could have left me to sink into the mire of my own pride—yet you didn’t. Why’d any of you take the trouble?”

  McCameron exhaled a tiny laugh. “Because, jackass, we saw that you had the potential to be something great. To this day, every single one of us believes it still.”

  “Amazing that four men could be so very wrong,” Noel said after a moment.

  “Amazing that you’re still a prideful bastard,” McCameron replied. “I’d suggest we go in search of a drink, but you’re sotted enough as it is.” He moved forward and once again slid his arm around Noel, then hauled him to his feet. “Time to drag you home. And when you pass out, I’ll help myself to what’s left of your cellar.”

  Chapter 28

  “Mind where you step, Cyn,” Jess cautioned, guiding her sister through the Bond Street throng. “You’ll crash into one of the fine folk and make them drop their parcels, and that’s no way to make an impression on Mr. Daley.”

  “Can’t help it,” Cynthia whispered. “There’s so much. Have you ever seen such hats, Jess?” She stared as a woman in an enormous feathered bonnet glided past. “I think there’s a whole forest of birds on that one. I want to feed her crackers.”

  “Gawking later.” Holding on to her sister’s elbow, Jess maneuvered them toward Daley’s Emporium. She tried, without success, to navigate around her memories of meeting Noel here, but their spectral selves haunted the pavement, ghostly apparitions that only served to remind her of what had been lost. “Business first.”

  Bless her, Cynthia snapped to attention. “Right you are. This is the place?” She stared at the sign proclaiming Mr. Daley’s shop.

  “It is.” Jess drew in a steadying breath. “Remember what I told you.”

  “Don’t touch anything and don’t stare at the customers,” Cynthia echoed, then rolled her eyes. “Remember what I told you. I’m not a child anymore.”

  Jess smiled ruefully. “Point taken. Ready?” She straightened the collar of her pelisse, though she fought the urge to perform the same service for her sister.

  Cynthia hefted the satchel in her arms. “Ready.”

  “Here we go.” Jess pushed open the door to Daley’s Emporium. Inside was exactly the same as it had been weeks ago when she’d first visited here, with the same shelves and counters full of high-quality merchandise, the shop itself filled with elegant people.

  “Mr. Daley,” she said to the pale man watching the clerks with a sharp eye.

  His expression brightened and he came out from behind the counter. “Ah, Miss McGale.”

  “This is my sister, Cynthia McGale.”

  Cyn curtsied. “Thank you for meeting us, Mr. Daley.”

  “I cannot tell you what a relief it is to have you here at last.” The shop owner guided them toward a quiet corner. “The number of customers asking for your soap surpasses all expectations.”

  “We’ve three dozen bars of soap in here,” Jess said, patting the satchel Cynthia carried. “There’s a crate holding five dozen more back at the coaching inn, which we can bring if we come to a mutually agreeable arrangement.”

  Mr. Daley nodded. “My emporium wants exclusive rights to carry McGale & McGale soap.”

  “For how long?” Cynthia asked.

  The shop owner blinked, clearly surprised at the question. “I imagine . . . a year to begin with.”

  Jess and Cynthia shared a look. “Three months to start,” Jess said.

  “Oh.” Mr. Daley blinked again. “Six months.”

  “Four,” Cynthia countered.

  After a moment, the shop owner inclined his head. “Very good. Four months at the onset.”

  “At which point we will renegotiate,” Jess said crisply. “We must be candid, Mr. Daley. The repairs to our operation still need to happen, especially if we’re to meet your customers’ demands. Surely we can revisit your decision regarding the provision of the necessary capital required to fund these repairs.”

  “It is quite unusual for the Emporium to enter into such an arrangement,” Mr. Daley said uncertainly.

  “Unusual, but possible,” Cynthia said. “Consider what that investment will secure you—exclusive rights to sell McGale & McGale soap, and the possibility to gratify all of your customers’ wishes.” She nodded slowly.

  “True, true.” Mr. Daley mirrored Cynthia’s nods. “I think we can supply the means to accomplish those repairs. I employ a bookkeeper—you can send him the estimate.”

  Jess had never been so proud of her sister than she was at that moment. Cynthia’s negotiating skills were incomparable, and remorse pinched Jess to think of how much she’d underestimated her siblings.

  The rest of the meeting went smoothly, with handshakes securing the partnership and wide smiles from Mr. Daley. When it was at last concluded, Jess and Cynthia emerged from the shop and walked half a block before ducking into an alleyway.

  “We did it,” Cynthia said in wonderment. She grabbed hold of Jess’s hands and swung them.

  “We did.”

  “McGale & McGale, sold on Bond Street!” Cynthia let out a little scream of excitement.

  “You were brilliant, my love. Had him agreeing to our terms and nodding along with you.”

  “Only following in the path blazed by my big sister.” Cynthia peered at Jess. “Aren’t you happy, Jessie? We’ve just rescued McGale & McGale, and you look positively dejected.”

  Jess made herself smile. “I’m happy. I am,” she averred when Cynthia looked like she wanted to
argue the point. “Only tired, and there’s much to do, many things to consider.”

  Though Cynthia’s brow furrowed with concern, she seemed to know better than to press a point when it was clear that Jess didn’t want to discuss it. “We’ll have to rush back to Honiton to get the wheels turning. There should be space on tomorrow’s mail coach.”

  “You can have the rest of the day to explore London. I recommend Catton’s, and Covent Garden Market.” Two places Jess could never go again, not without drowning in bittersweet memories. She threaded her arm through her sister’s and walked toward the street.

  Cynthia halted. “Aren’t you coming with me?”

  “Before I return to Wiltshire, there are some things here in the city I need to take care of,” Jess said sadly.

  “I’ll come with you,” her sister offered.

  “I’ve got to go on my own. But don’t worry.” She made herself smile. “I’ll meet you at the coaching inn tonight and we can have supper together.” It would be a rare treat to spend the evening with her sister away from home, but there was no chance Jess would enjoy her meal. She would eat and sleep and go on, of course, but she’d never again feel joy in anything. That was certain.

  “You’re telling me the truth?” Lady Farris studied Jess from the other side of the tea table. Like everything else in the countess’s home, it was graceful and restrained—which contrasted with the bright buttercup-yellow wall in the drawing room, a color more exuberant than elegant.

  “You deserve complete honesty,” Jess answered. She looked down at her hands in her lap, then up again. “It was all my idea, not Noel’s—His Grace’s. I deceived him, and you, and everyone at the Bazaar.”

  “That is . . . quite astounding.” Lady Farris sat back, her expression dazed.

  “And true.”

  The countess rose to her feet, and paced to the drawing room window, where she looked at the passing traffic. “If that’s so . . .”

  Jess braced herself for Lady Farris’s condemnation. Though they hadn’t known each other for long, she’d come to value the countess’s camaraderie. Yet she had to be prepared to lose it.