One Fine Duke

by Lenora Bell

  “You were nearly undetectable before that stream of inventive blasphemy.” Drew couldn’t help chuckling again.

  “I’m glad you think it’s so hilarious.”

  Drew laughed harder. “Where on earth did you learn to curse like that?”

  “My Uncle Malcolm has some unsavory friends, including several former sea captains.”

  “Miss Penny, you amaze me.” He hadn’t had a moment of peace since he laid eyes on her at the ball. He’d been too busy being charmed and disarmed.

  It was past time for her to be safely home and out of arm’s reach.

  She shivered and he resisted the urge to slip his arm around her slender shoulders and tuck her against him. She made him feel far too protective.

  He offered her his arm. “Everyone’s asleep and we’re nearly there.”

  She glanced up and down the street. “I suppose it’s all right. I’ll melt into the shadows if we see any sign of life.”

  He snorted. “How did that work for you the last time?”

  She glared at him. “That dog came out of nowhere, I tell you.”

  She’d gotten her wish. She’d made him laugh. He had a rich, bass laugh that vibrated in the air, tickling her throat with the desire to join in.

  She smiled. “Perhaps I should work on the whole melting-into-the-shadows bit.”

  “You could never melt into the shadows, Miss Penny. You’re a scene stealer. A wave maker. A hurricane. A thief of hearts.”

  Thief of hearts? She kept her lips in a half smile but her heart broke into a grin.

  Perhaps the cold-hearted Duke of Thorndon was not so inured to fanciful imaginings as he supposed himself to be. She’d glimpsed another side of him tonight.

  The passionate, poetic side.

  Silly girl. That was only because he’d been hit on the head. Not because you drove him to it with your beauty and wit. More like your bumbling and wantonness.

  What she’d seen tonight, what they’d done, the entire unforgettable night—it was as though she were truly living for the first time. This was her. The new Mina.

  Fearless and free. Wanton and wild.

  No boundaries. No more prisons. Her uncle couldn’t control her anymore—no one could.

  Thorndon slowed his stride to match hers. Gracious, his legs were long. And his biceps solid. Their linked arms symbolized their new alliance. They were united in the common cause of finding Lord Rafe. If her suspicions were correct, Lord Rafe could be pursuing Le Triton.

  Her heart skipped a beat thinking about this new information. If she could help Lord Rafe apprehend Le Triton, she would not only have revenge for the death of her parents, she would be able to prove her skills and usefulness to Sir Malcolm. He wouldn’t be able to stop her from becoming an agent after such a triumph.

  “We’re nearly to my house, Your Grace,” she said. “I’ll go ’round the back and enter that way.”

  He released her arm. “Then I will stop here, Miss Penny.”

  “Until tomorrow, Your Grace,” she whispered.

  His face was shadowed but his eyes glinted with amber, like a glass of brandy held before a fire. “Light a lamp in your room so I know you’ve arrived safely. I’ll be watching until I see your light.”

  His words sparked warmth in her heart. She wasn’t alone. They would do this together.

  For some reason his concern for her safety didn’t feel like a restriction—it was sweet. It meant he . . . no, he didn’t care. He only saw her as a responsibility, one he was well rid of and hadn’t wanted in the first place.

  He probably didn’t feel any of this earth-shaking attraction.

  He held out his hand. She placed her hand in his. He brushed his lips across her knuckles. “Until tomorrow, Wilhelmina Penny.”

  “Thank you for the lovely evening, Your Grace,” she blurted, and rushed away.

  Thank you for the lovely evening? Good lord, what a ninny-ish thing to say. She kicked herself all the way through the back door and up the stairs to her room.

  But what else could she have said? Thank you for the anatomy lesson. And the bone-melting kiss. Oh, and by the way, thank you for squeezing my nipple when you were semi-conscious?

  When she reached her room she quickly removed her cloak, bonnet and boots, and hid her satchel in the back of the wardrobe.

  He was still watching beneath her window. She lit a lamp and set it near the window.

  Secret signals just before dawn—her life was already so much more exciting.

  Had he seen the glow in her heart, her mind? She’d lit up like a lamp when he kissed her.

  Thinking about it made her glow again. If she opened her window the moths would fly to her, instead of the lamp, and beat their fragile wings against her cheeks.

  Why had she enjoyed kissing him so much?

  Perhaps being opposed to someone, by nature and by goals, made the kissing more heated.

  She knew what he looked like lying in a bed. How his long arms stretched the width of the bed and his tall body the length.

  She knew what his hands felt like covering her bum, her breasts, tangled in her hair to draw her closer into a kiss.

  She knew so many things. All of which she must promptly forget. Her mind should be occupied by formulating a new plan. The more she thought about it the more she realized that her dream of marrying Lord Rafe had been misguided.

  But he could be a means of bringing Le Triton to justice. He’d said he was after the biggest prize of all, and he’d been extremely startled when she mentioned antiquities thieves.

  If Thorndon hadn’t been injured she could have run after Lord Rafe, and she might be chasing after Le Triton with him even now.

  As it was, she required more information before setting off on any quests for vengeance.

  She should stop thinking about kissing Thorndon, and start finding ways to make him useful to her goals.

  That’s what secret agents did.

  She should study the Duke Dossier more closely. She found the notebook where she’d cast it, in the bottom of her traveling trunk, and opened it to the chapters devoted to Thorndon.

  This is a road map, if you will, to the heart and mind of London’s most eligible duke. Study it closely, Wilhelmina, and you’ll be the Duchess of Thorndon within a month’s time.

  Her uncle had spent most of the chapters enumerating the duke’s agricultural experimentations with the rotation of crops and new methods of irrigation. He’d highlighted his concern for the plight of poverty-stricken cottagers.

  Thorndon has few discernible faults. He manages his vast holdings with a firm, yet just, hand, and has increased profits tenfold since the death of his father, while improving the lives of his tenants in every regard.

  He attends church most Sundays, takes an interest in the welfare of his cottagers, and keeps a pack of superior foxhounds.

  Sir Malcolm made Thorndon sound like the dullest man on the face of the planet, while Mina knew the opposite was true. Thorndon was storm clouds and the lightning zing of attraction.

  She shivered, remembering the disconcertingly delicious feeling of being pressed against a wall by six-odd feet of solid muscle.

  There was even a section devoted to the duke’s dietary preferences:

  Thorndon prefers strong coffee, with no milk or sugar, to tea. One might see this as a metaphor for his life in general, as he daily subjects himself to a punishing regimen of physical and mental exercise and work that would exhaust a lesser man.

  She could certainly believe that. She’d seen what all that physical exercise had done to his body in the prominent ridges of his muscles, the taut firmness of his abdomen.

  Oh Lord. There she went again.

  She was supposed to be searching for exploitable weaknesses, not giving herself palpitations by remembering all of his strengths.

  Finally, she found something. Buried in the next-to-last paragraph and issued as a warning for a topic never to touch upon. This must be the trouble that Lady Beatr
ice had referred to.

  As a boy of fifteen, Thorndon was kidnapped and held for ransom for the space of ten days. His kidnapping, and the resulting trial, were a public spectacle with devastating effects on the duke and his family. The experience made him wary, mistrustful, and gave him a desire for solitude. It is a testament to his fortitude that he was able to escape before any monies were paid by his family. Never mention this topic, Wilhelmina. It is one of discomfort for the duke, and should never be alluded to in conversation.

  He’d been kidnapped and held for ransom. No wonder the letter he’d received had made him drop everything and race to London. He was here to protect Lady Beatrice from suffering the same fate.

  She’d accused him of being privileged, of having no knowledge of what it was like to feel helpless. She’d told him she’d been kept in a prison and that he had no idea what it felt like. How wrong she’d been.

  Uncle Malcolm had given her a comfortable home even if he’d withheld the love and acceptance she so desperately craved.

  The brief mention of the kidnapping raised more questions than it answered. Why had he been held for so long, what had they done to him, and how had he escaped?

  This new information made Thorndon more complex and interesting than your average arrogant duke, but it changed nothing.

  They were only temporary partners, thrown together for a shared purpose: to find where Lord Rafe had gone and whom he was pursuing.

  She absolutely couldn’t be drawn to Thorndale for so many reasons, not the least of which was that her uncle had chosen him as the perfect gentleman to keep her out of trouble by locking her away in his lonely estate in Cornwall.

  Thorndon was here because of the letter, but he was also here to find a wife. And a wife for Thorndon was a purchase to be made and then forgotten about and neglected, a ripple on the dark waters of his life.

  Their temporary alliance was a new pathway to her emancipation. The duke wasn’t so much an obstacle, as a powerful ally.

  Powerful being the key word. He had the power to make her knees wobble, to steal her breath away with his skillful kisses, to set off fireworks in her belly.

  She’d have to be constantly on her guard. Constantly wary of his ability to scramble her mind.

  This was her very first mission. She could taste some of the thrills and excitement she’d been longing for, but she couldn’t go too far.

  A good spy never lost their head, or their heart.

  Chapter 13

  The club hadn’t changed since Drew’s last visit. Somber oil paintings of illustrious members still lined the mahogany wall paneling. A lingering odor of cigar smoke, citrus wood polish, and Sunday roast permeated the hallways.

  In this upper crust bastion of brandy snifters and dampened passions the fates of men and nations were decided by well-fed politicians who had never known the knife of hunger or the bite of bitter cold.

  The stasis of it struck him not as comforting and familiar but as rather pathetic.

  Your days are numbered, gents, he thought as he left his hat and gloves with the wizened old porter. There’s a revolution brewing. There are ladies like Miss Penny on the loose, flouting your rules and expectations for femininity. Don’t expect your reign to last forever.

  The club hadn’t changed, but Drew had.

  He wasn’t the same reckless devil searching for a temporary surcease of pain at the bottom of a glass. His life had purpose now and his actions were controlled.

  The place brought back too many bad memories. He wouldn’t be here at all if he wasn’t searching for news about Rafe.

  “Hello, Mr. Bickerstaff,” he said to the headwaiter, an unsmiling, gray-mustachioed man who betrayed no surprise at seeing Drew after so many years.

  Bickerstaff, unlike Rafe’s garrulous manservant Crankshaw, was trusted for his silence and discretion—which was a good thing because the conversations he overheard could no doubt start wars, both domestic and international.

  “Your Grace.” The waiter bowed. “Your usual table?”

  “It can’t still be reserved after all this time.”

  “I will make it so.”

  “No need to oust anyone on my account. I’ll sit anywhere.”

  “If you insist, Your Grace.”

  “I do. How are you, Bickerstaff? How is your family?”

  A shadow passed over the man’s already gloomy face. “My family, Your Grace?”

  “Er, that is . . .” Embarrassed, Drew strove to recall anything he knew about the headwaiter, besides his famed stoicism and tact. “Wasn’t there a Mrs. Bickerstaff?”

  “Never, Your Grace.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry.” He’d offended the man when he was trying to be nice, to show how he’d changed from the drunken rake to a sober, well-meaning duke.

  Bickerstaff looked mortified that Drew would apologize for anything. “Think nothing of it, Your Grace. My brother is married and has a family. My niece Elsa is a bright young thing and a comfort to me.”

  “Glad to hear that.” He cleared his throat. “Have you seen my brother lately?”

  “Lord Rafe hasn’t visited in several weeks.”

  Drew detected a note of scorn in his voice when he spoke about Rafe, which wasn’t surprising given that dealing with an inebriated Rafe would try the patience of a saint.

  “Perhaps one of his friends is here?” asked Drew.

  “The Duke of Westbury is in the dining room, Your Grace.”

  “Perfect. I’ll join him.”

  Bickerstaff led him to the table.

  Westbury reminded Drew of Rafe—fair hair, cloudy heart, and up to his bloodshot eyeballs in debt.

  Drew didn’t think he could be the author of the note, though. Miss Penny had said that the person who wrote the note held a deep-seated grudge. And Westbury, while desperate for cash, wasn’t the kind to threaten young ladies.

  Westbury raised bleary eyes from a glass of something inappropriate to the early hour. “Thorndon. Heard you were in Town.”

  “Westbury.” Drew took the seat across from him.

  “Bickerstaff, bring the duke some of that excellent Madeira.”

  “Coffee,” corrected Drew.

  The headwaiter bowed and left them.

  “Coffee?” asked Westbury. “Heard you were sober as a schoolmarm but didn’t believe the rumors. You used to drink me under the table most nights. Those were the days, eh? Brandy, barmaids, and bedsport.”

  Drew frowned. He wasn’t here to relive his wicked past or to defend his present choices. “I’m no schoolmarm but I never drink brandy before lunch. A little coffee would do you good, Westbury. Keep you alert.”

  “Don’t want to be alert. Prefer a hazy state of inebriation gathering to full-on fog by nightfall.”

  “Have you seen Rafe?”

  “Not for weeks. Owes me fifty quid. If I’d seen him I’d remember, because I would’ve tried to squeeze it out of him.”

  Westbury was a cautionary tale about what would happen to the estate if Drew failed to produce an heir. Westbury had already lost most of his fortune at gaming houses and had been forced to begin selling off his properties one by one, causing hardship and havoc for his tenant farmers.

  “I’ll pay his debt if you answer a few questions,” said Drew.

  “Ask away. I’ve got all day.” Westbury leaned back in his chair, squinting in the sunlight shining through the windows.

  “Viscount Fitzbart was chasing Rafe down the Strand waving a pistol—do they have a long-standing feud?”

  Westbury snorted. “One of them is always chasing the other with a pistol. They don’t mean anything by it—thick as thieves, those two.”

  Fitzbart could probably be ruled out. “Has Rafe spoken to you about any trouble he could be involved in, or any plans to do anything foolish?”

  “More than the usual foolishness? No. As I said, I haven’t seen him in weeks. Been hiding mostly. From my creditors. And my sisters. And their music instructor, whom I haven’t pai
d in months. Don’t know why the young lady comes back every week to attempt to force some musicality into my sisters. It’s no use. But she’s very persistent, Miss Beaton.”

  Bickerstaff arrived with a young waiter, who served Drew his pot of coffee.

  Drew blew on the coffee until he could take a sip. “I danced with one of your sisters the other night.”

  Westbury perked up. “Don’t suppose you tumbled madly in love and offered to marry the girl?”

  Drew raised his brows.

  “Didn’t think so,” said Westbury glumly. “They’re good girls but they don’t have any dowries thanks to me. I’ll have to be the one to marry well. No respectable lady in her right mind would have me, though. Thinking of trading my title for an American heiress.”

  “Best of luck. About Rafe—”

  “Heard you waltzed with Sir Malcolm Penny’s ward and that she’s pretty and heavily dowered.”

  “I wasn’t aware her dowry was substantial.”

  “As enormous as she is purportedly petite.”

  Miss Penny was small in stature but she was fierce. Also troublesome, persistent, and irresistible.

  He had to stop thinking about her. “I require practicality and fortitude over prosperity,” Drew said.

  Westbury sloshed the liquid around in his glass. “I always seem to have these conversations with my friends about young ladies and then they marry them. Had a talk like this with Banksford about his governess. Red-haired slip of a thing, no fortune to speak of, but he wed her. Promise me that you won’t marry Miss Penny until I have a go? Give a man a fighting chance. What’s she like? Demure and sweet natured?”

  “Hardly. She’s quite the firebrand.” The memory of their kiss was seared into his mind. He couldn’t stop thinking about it.

  “Damned pretty is what I heard,” said Westbury. “Laughing blue eyes and ample bosom.”

  “Some might see her eyes as blue but they’re a far more complex color. And don’t talk about her bosom.”

  Westbury grinned. “Oh, I see how it is.”

  “What’s that?”