The Duke

by Kerrigan Byrne

  Imogen knew she should be thrilled, not terrified.

  So why couldn’t she seem to shake a portent of impending doom? What if tonight turned out to be an unmitigated disaster? Wasn’t the chance of catastrophe and ruination a great deal of the reason everyone was here, to gawk at the interloper, the counterfeit countess who’d snagged an earl?

  Imogen’s hands fidgeted in their gloves, and she wondered if they were damp enough for her guests to feel the moisture through the fabric. Antithetically, her mouth was as dry as the Sahara. Her smile had begun to shake at the corners and, not for the first time, she wondered how much longer she’d have to stand at her grand entrance and greet people who neither liked nor accepted her as one of their own.

  It hadn’t bothered her until now. Imogen had thought, once she’d married the Earl of Anstruther, her days of scraping and bowing to the rich and titled were over. Her plan had been to lock herself and her family inside this lovely mansion with her canvases and paints and leave the rest of the world to itself.

  Apparently, she was a glutton for punishment, and found that she wasn’t suited to a life of idle leisure. Without a cause, without some kind of purpose, she just couldn’t seem to thrive.

  Who’d have guessed?

  But, had she known this evening would be the result of all her preliminary work, she might have seriously reconsidered her processes. So many people. Their bejeweled and adorned bodies winked beneath the lights, a firmament of gems. Imogen wondered if there were truly as many stars in the heavens as diamonds in London.

  “Relax, darling.” Millie LeCour slid her crimson-gloved arm through Imogen’s and tucked her into her side. For such a diminutive woman, the ebony-haired seductress was a considerable force. Her charisma arrived three entire paces before she did, and any room that contained her seemed a hundred times more colorful. “The scent of fear is like an aphrodisiac to these people.”

  “Not just these people.” The actress’s inconceivably large husband was her constant shadow. Imogen blinked up at Christopher Argent, wondering just what he meant as he scanned the ballroom with the air of a predator selecting which morsel to cull from the herd. Was he insinuating that he also enjoyed the scent of fear? That couldn’t be right, and yet …

  Imogen had been acquainted with them less than a year, but she’d observed that in their marriage, Christopher Argent was the sturdy ship upon which they sailed the stormy oceans of life, but Millie was unquestionably the rudder. The auburn-haired Viking seemed content to follow his lovely wife’s chaotic navigations, and their devotion to each other was as inspiring as it was envy-inducing. He seemed affable enough, his expressions only ranging from mild disinterest to faint amusement. But the enigmatic Mr. Argent often did and said things that sent a little thrill of fear sliding across the nape of Imogen’s neck. She didn’t know the man well, but she had the distinct notion that he was more lethal than a viper.

  Ignoring her husband, Millie swept her free arm to encompass the entirety of the Anstruther mansion’s grand ballroom. “I insist that you enjoy yourself, darling, the night is already a rollicking success.”

  “The night’s barely begun,” Imogen murmured, imaging the scenarios of any number of disasters.

  “Precisely, the evening is full of opportunity and possibility. Come morning, all of London will be talking of nothing but your incomparable affair.”

  Impulsively, Imogen hugged Millie, kissing her soundly on the cheek. “You and your friends have been so kind to me, I could never repay you.”

  Millie’s brilliant smile drew the stares of so many. “I’m lucky to have such women in my life, and am happy to share them with you, most especially in support of such a worthy cause.”

  Smoothing her white glove down the front of her intricate apricot dress for perhaps the millionth time, Imogen scanned the ballroom, ticking off her particular accomplishments to soothe her nerves.

  With the Marchioness of Ravencroft’s expert guidance, she’d draped the white marble hall in heaps of gold to match the embellishments on the Grecian columns. Billowing drapes caught the night air from windows left open to allow the late spring breezes to cool the room. Strings of lights, valances, candles, cast an ethereal glow over the crowd, accentuated by charming paper lanterns she’d had one of her boarders purchase from the Asian markets. Guests seemed to appreciate the flattering golden light, and some had already begun to turn about the floor as the orchestra cued their selections of music including Camille Saint-Saëns, Antonín Dvořák, Pyotr Ilich Tchaikovsky, and some Gilbert and Sullivan to appease the nationalists.

  Speaking of the marchioness, Mena Mackenzie’s statuesque figure glided toward them, draped in bronze silk that set her hair ablaze. To Imogen, she conjured Botticelli’s Birth of Venus. Not only in her build and beauty, but in the dualism of the rather sensual divinity and kind benevolence that shone from her aspect.

  Ascending the stairs to the entry landing, she held out her hands to Imogen, and greeted her with a kiss on both cheeks. “Everything is just lovely, dear,” she encouraged. “And look at what a marvelous time they’re all having.”

  Imogen had to admit, it did seem that everything was going well thus far.

  “I’m intimately acquainted with that look,” Mena confided. “You’re certain something is about to go wrong.”

  Imogen frowned, pained that she was so transparent.

  “I was a viscountess before I was a marchioness, and I’ve hosted more of these events than you can imagine. Let me assure you, your fears are not baseless. In fact, you can’t completely relax until you’ve put out a fire, whether literal or figurative. But with our help, you’ll avoid, or at least be able to conceal, any mishap or emergency before it’s noticed.”

  “I’m praying that the mishap this afternoon counts.” Imogen wryly referred to when Clara Boyle, a former fishwife who’d recently joined her employ, had shown the marchioness into the garden instead of having her wait in the parlor, without so much as an announcement. Imogen had been painting in little but her chemise and skirts, her hair twisted above her neck and her face ruddy from the heat.

  Mena, of course, had been gracious and sweet, laughing off Imogen’s mortification while mentioning that she lived in the Highlands where men worked the fields clad in only their kilts, boots, and the low Scottish sky.

  The lapse in etiquette worried her, though, as she’d planned on making a particular point this evening. That, given the proper training, education, and opportunity, even someone from the lowliest circumstances, like a prostitute or a petty thief, could live productive, lucrative existences in society.

  They only needed a chance.

  “Has anyone seen my wayward husband?” Mena queried.

  “I’m certain he’s not arrived yet.” Imogen glanced toward the door, where Mena watched expectantly. She was certain Laird Ravencroft wasn’t in attendance, because the Scotsman surpassed even Christopher Argent in size, and therefore was impossible to overlook.

  “It’s not like him to be tardy,” Mena worried. “He said he was visiting a friend here in Belgravia this afternoon, maybe you know him, the Duke of—”

  “Lady Anstruther.”

  Imogen turned to face Cheever, whom she’d promoted to butler upon her husband’s death. He hovered in a way that was both absolutely appropriate, and completely unsettling. Something had happened, she could tell by how he clasped his hands behind him.

  “What is it, Cheever?” She was proud of how she kept her voice even, though her breathing had increased dramatically.

  “Pardon the interruption, but there’s some urgent news from Croyden, madam. Might I consult with you in the blue parlor? Should only take a moment.”

  Imogen felt the blood rush from her extremities, and she released her hold on Millie so she wouldn’t give in to the impulse to collapse against her. “Of—of course, Cheever.” Excusing herself from her guests, she made her way across the ballroom on legs as substantial as glass.

  Croyden. Th
is was bigger than a mishap. This could very well be the epic disaster she’d been fearing. Croyden was the code word Edward and Cheever used when discussing the Bare Kitten.

  Imogen found Jeremy Carson in the blue parlor helping himself to some Turkish delight she kept in a crystal dish. He stood when she entered, and self-consciously swiped a dusting of confectioner’s sugar from his trousers.

  “Ginny—I mean—Lady Anstruther.” He gave a rather exaggerated bow and tried to hide the rest of the confection in his cheek.

  “Jeremy, what a pleasant surprise,” Imogen lied. It wasn’t that she harbored any bad feelings for the boy, quite the contrary; it was only that any news from the Bare Kitten promised to be dreadful.

  Imogen was somewhat of an expert in handling dreadful news, but … just not tonight.

  “I hope everything is well with you,” she prodded gently, keeping her voice deceptively mild.

  His cheek pouched over the candy somewhat ruined his crooked smile, but it was endearing all the same. “Sorry to inconvenience your ladyship, I didn’t know you were having a toff to-do tonight. It’s just that, there’s something I think you should know.”

  Bracing herself, Imogen reached for the high back of the chair, gripping it until her entire hand went white. “Go on,” she encouraged.

  “That lofty duke, the one what lost his hand, he came round asking after you again yesterday.” Jeremy took advantage of her astonishment to finish chewing his Turkish delight, and she watched the obtrusion of his Adam’s apple dip as he swallowed the entire thing.

  “After me?” she finally gasped.

  “Well, after Ginny, but yeah.” Jeremy removed his cap and held it in both hands, worrying at the rim. His hair, the color and consistency of oat straw, stuck out in wild tufts, though he’d obviously tried to tame it with pomade. “But I says to him, I says, ‘Oi, I don’t care what kind of title you throw around, I ain’t telling you a thing.’”

  “You said that to him?”

  “Well, not in those precise words.” He threw her a sheepish grin, revealing one gold tooth that was somehow utterly charming beneath his freckles. “But I told him that I didn’t remember nothing, I hadn’t seen you round, and it didn’t matter how many times he came asking, my memory’s not like to improve with time.”

  “Bless you, Jeremy.” Imogen stepped around the chair and sank into it, letting the fine velvet envelop her in comfort and warmth.

  “Ain’t nothing, Your Ladyship.” Jeremy gave her an endearing wink before placing his hat back on his head. “Though what that old cripple wants with you is a bleeding mystery, if you’ll pardon my saying so.”

  “You don’t have to call me Your Ladyship,” Imogen reminded gently. “You were a friend before…” It wasn’t that she didn’t want to answer Jeremy’s not-so-subtle question, it was only that she didn’t want to ponder the reasons why Trenwyth would be looking for Ginny after all these years.

  “I haven’t heard a word from Devina, Heather, or any of the others,” he said encouragingly. “They shouldn’t be a danger to you.” The women that had worked the Bare Kitten with her had been offered an entire year’s salary to relocate, no questions asked, and they’d all taken it gladly.

  “There’s only … Barton,” Jeremy reminded her soberly. “And no one’s seen him since that night. No one, that is, but Flora.”

  Imogen had never forgiven herself for what became of Flora Latimer.

  Apparently the night Imogen fought off Barton, Jeremy had chased after her until he’d lost her in the mist some blocks away from St. James’s Street. Upon his return, he’d found Mr. Barton had vanished. In Imogen’s frenzy, it seemed that she’d not injured him as gravely as she’d initially thought. Poor Flora Latimer, the sweet blond harlot, had had her throat slit in the cursed alley. She’d been discovered bound, sodomized, and facedown in a pool of her own blood.

  Imogen wished she’d have killed Barton after all, and then he’d not have taken his rage at her out on poor Flora. He’d disappeared, of course, but he was always there, a pinprick of worry in the canvas of Imogen’s new life, threatening to reappear at any moment from the shadows to ruin the entire tableau.

  “Your Ladyship?”

  Imogen blinked at him, startled for a moment that he still sat watching her with a particular alertness. “I’m sorry, Jeremy, what were you saying?”

  “I know it’s not my business, and if you don’t mind my asking, but why is it you’re so afraid of this Trenwyth? Is he threatening you? Is there something I can do? Because you say the word and we’ll—”

  “No,” she answered more quickly than she’d meant to. “No. It’s simply that when I married the earl and became a countess, it became imperative that I leave that part of my life in the past.” She tried to keep her answer as diplomatic as possible, so as not to offend him.

  “I can understand that, my lady. You know what they say, these toffs are more hypocritical and pitiless than a whorehouse full of vicars on a Saturday night.”

  “Just so.” Imogen laughed, in spite of herself. She’d never heard anyone say such a thing, and she hadn’t any idea who these they were that Jeremy always quoted. But she often found herself in agreement with them.

  “But not you, though.” His soft brown eyes reminded her of some guileless woodland creature, and for a moment, her heart melted and everything ceased to be so perilous.

  “You’re utterly kind to say so, Jeremy.” She stood and went to him, planting a chaste kiss on his cheek that left a fierce blush in its wake. “Through everything, you’ve been such a true friend.”

  “And always will be, Ginny.” He forgot himself, seeming unable to peel his gaze from the floor.

  “Call me Imogen,” she offered. “It’s my real name.”

  He looked at her as though she’d handed him a costly gift, and he had nothing to give her in return.

  Embarrassed and flattered by his youthful veneration, she turned away and put some appropriate space between them. “Is there aught else I can do for you? Things at the establishment are going well?” She didn’t want to offend him by offering him money, but wanted to give him the opportunity to ask should he be in need.

  He seemed to want to say something, to linger, but then changed his mind. “Naw, I’ve interrupted a right proper to-do, din’nt I? I should let you get back to your guests.”

  “Well…” She was terrible at this part. Never knowing just what to say, how to leave things with an old acquaintance she never chanced to meet anymore. “You can’t know how much I appreciate your coming here. I’m going to have Cheever give you a box of the Turkish delight to take with you. Please do call again.”

  “Maybe will do.” He flashed her that gold-flecked smile, and sauntered toward the door. “Maybe will do.”

  It seemed as though the moment he left the room, the din of her guests filled the space he’d emptied. She needed to return to them.

  She needed to think.

  About Cole.

  She’d not seen much of him since she’d left St. Margaret’s, though Jeremy had alerted her that he’d come by the Bare Kitten looking for her before he’d left for America.

  Now he had returned. And still hadn’t forgotten her. She didn’t know whether to be terrified or pleased.

  In her secret self, she could admit to a bit of both.

  The kindest reason for him to come looking would be that he remembered their time together with fondness. Perhaps he wanted to again pay to share her bed. Even offer to make her his mistress. Imogen had to admit that, had her circumstances remained what they were, she would have seriously considered such an offer. She’d enjoyed his illicit attentions, and even the parts that caused her pain were still worth the stability and opportunity such a position would have afforded her.

  But she didn’t need to reflect on options like that now. Edward had generously taken care of all such concerns, not only bribing del Toro with a small fortune, and buying the establishment for Jeremy, but going so far as
to set up a six-month investment stipend for the boy. Man, Imogen firmly reminded herself. Baby-faced as he was, Jeremy had to be at least twenty-and-one now, only a handful of years younger than herself.

  Which brought her to the most terrifying reason the Duke of Trenwyth might be looking for her …

  What if he suspected who she really was and, instead of wanting her as his mistress, he planned to reveal her scandalous and dangerous past to those who would revel in her downfall?

  Perhaps a year ago, that wouldn’t have mattered, but now … now that she’d begun to build something, to champion a cause, it was more and more imperative that her past remain where it was.

  Hidden.

  The last time she’d seen Trenwyth had been at Edward’s funeral in Belgravia Chapel. She’d been both heartsick and relieved as his last weeks had been miserable, and it hurt her unspeakably to watch him suffer.

  Cole had glared at her the entire time. Pale and wan from his own recovery, he’d regarded her with such contempt that it had filled her with angst. At the funeral, she’d been frightened of his recognition, remaining swathed in black and heavily veiled. Lord Anstruther’s peers, his military subordinates, and his friends offered her little in the way of comfort, and he’d been no different. The rebuffs had been expected, but she hadn’t thought they would sting as much as they had.

  Most especially his.

  Though, she supposed, it was better that she avoid him. Should he truly recognize her, the life she’d built for her mother and sister would be in peril.

  Now that he’d returned from his travels, she’d need to take care.

  Her appearance was most certainly altered from what it had been. Her hair, of course, was a different length and color than he’d remember, but beyond even that, she’d been well cared for since her wedding. Instead of her bones protruding through her thin, dull flesh, she’d become pink-cheeked and—admittedly—well fed. The women in her family were not intrinsically delicate, but the Pritchard women had become so for lack of sustenance. Indeed, Imogen had grown hips and breasts at twenty-and-four. Her hair became glossy, and her gaunt gray eyes now sparkled over features turned golden and freckled with too much time spent in the garden. She’d even dare to call her hazel eyes green now, if the light permitted.