by Erica Ridley
“I accept your terms,” he announced and pushed to his feet. Before either of his friends could add more fuel to the fire, Cole hurried toward the door.
Startled, Eastleigh jumped to his feet. “You didn’t finish your beer!”
“It’s my tavern,” Cole said over his shoulder as he shrugged back into his greatcoat and gloves. “I can have ale any time I please.”
“You own half of the tavern,” Eastleigh called after him as Cole strode out the door.
Chapter 2
The chilly winter air was just as bracing this time around, but Cole barely registered the wind tugging the brim of his hat or the plumes of snow kicked up by passing horses. He swung himself into his waiting coach and directed his driver to the Middleton town house just outside Mayfair, part of a neatly kept terrace less than a mile from Cole’s home on Grosvenor Square.
A faint smile curved his lips as he strode up the front steps to the frozen iron knocker. When the Season was not in session, the thing Cole missed most was the sensation of being useful. Every moment in the House of Lords was dedicated to doing good works; to improving the lives of others.
Playing matchmaker to a wallflower did not perhaps compare to his work on the Bank of England Act or the Customs and Excise Act or Sykes’ Hydrometer Act, but Cole considered the pursuit of love and happiness as worthy a cause as any other measure.
In fact, he was hoping this exercise with the Middleton lass would prove good practice for when it came time to see his sister happily settled. For all her maddening ways, he loved Felicity dearly and hoped to see his sister in the sort of love match poets would wax lyrical about for centuries to come.
The door opened, revealing the ruddy cheeks of the Middleton family butler.
His eyes widened in recognition. “Your Grace.”
There was no need to present a calling card. Cole and Thaddeus had been firm friends ever since the Wicked Duke first opened its doors a decade ago. Although most of their meetings took place at the tavern, they had visited each other’s homes on occasion. It was always a pleasure.
“How do you do, Shaw?”
Cole was fairly certain dukes were not meant to greet other peoples’ servants by name, but as he had spent more than half his life without the slightest indication he would someday inherit a title—much less a dukedom—this simple kindness was a long-ingrained habit he had no intention of breaking.
“Very well, Your Grace, thank you.” Shaw did not move aside. “I’m afraid Mr. Middleton is not at home.”
“As it happens, I have not come to call upon Thaddeus,” Cole answered with a smile. “Is Miss Middleton receiving callers?”
“I…” Shaw stumbled backward as if the request had quite literally bowled him over. “This call is for… Miss Middleton, Your Grace?”
Cole did his best to keep his smile in place, despite the tiny worm of doubt now wriggling in his stomach. He understood the young lady was considered a wallflower; understood that to date there had been no interested gentlemen, but Shaw’s unfeigned shock at such a simple request could lead a man to think Miss Middleton had never received a single caller at all.
Nonsense, Cole assured himself. “Wallflower” was not synonymous with “invisible.” Surely the lady had some friends.
“Just so,” he said firmly. “I’ve come to call on Miss Middleton. Is the lady at home?”
“I…” Shaw’s hands fluttered like trapped birds. The bafflement on the butler’s face only grew more pronounced. “Do come in out of the cold. You’re familiar with the guest parlor. Please warm yourself by the fire while I check to see if… Miss Middleton is… receiving callers.”
It wasn’t until Cole stood before the front salon’s familiar crackling fire that he realized he was still wearing his coat and gloves, as if Shaw took it as a matter of course that even if Miss Middleton was at home, she would not be receiving callers.
Even a duke.
Movement caught the corner of Cole’s eye and he turned to see a maid slip into the salon. Possibly sent to offer him some sort of refreshment as he waited but, given how the mission was unfolding thus far, more likely the girl was simply going about her normal routine. Shaw would return at any moment to inform Cole his mistress had no wish to make his acquaintance.
He gave a subtle nod to acknowledge the maid’s presence and moved out of her way to sit upon the edge of a sofa.
The maid tilted her head as if considering him, but the brim of her mobcap flopped too low for Cole to discern the direction of her gaze. Of course a servant wouldn’t be so ill-trained as to stare rudely at her master’s guests. Likely she was deciding between carrying on with her duties or returning later once the unexpected guest had gone.
“You’re one of Diana’s friends?” came the soft query.
Cole wasn’t certain what startled him more: confirmation that Diana Middleton did indeed have friends, or surprise that a maid would dare to address him directly.
Perhaps that was why his mouth answered automatically, “I’m here to see Miss Middleton, yes.”
Even that small evasion caused a ripple of discomfort beneath his skin. It was none of the maid’s business what the Duke of Colehaven was or was not up to, but Cole prided himself on being scrupulously honest in all his dealings, regardless of situation or class. Yet he could not bring himself to say No, I am not her friend aloud. Honesty was paramount, but so was honor, and he was not here to besmirch Miss Middleton’s.
“Is she expecting you?” the maid asked.
“She is not,” he replied tightly, and made a show of arranging his long limbs in the opposite direction as though he had become struck with sudden fascination at the wallpaper on the other side of the parlor.
There. That should put paid to further inquiries.
“Then why are you here?” the maid insisted. “Have you come to press a suit?”
“Nothing like that,” Cole blurted out more forcefully than he intended. He gave up on the far wallpaper and turned to glare at the impertinent maid in the doorway.
She was no longer in the doorway. The maid now stood an arm’s length from the other side of the sofa. Her enormous mobcap still flopped too low for her eyes to be visible, but her slender fingers worried at each other against the starched panel of her apron.
The chit ought to be worried. If one of the Middletons caught her interrogating a guest… Or if the head housekeeper should spy her underling shirking her duty…
“Haven’t you anything to do?” Cole said at last. He was not rude by nature, but then again, he normally did not find himself in conversation with other peoples’ chambermaids. Reminding her of her duty was doing her a favor, he told himself. If she lost her post due to such antics, Cole would not be to blame.
“I have more to do than time to do it,” the maid said.
Cole did not doubt this. He gestured toward the opposite side of the parlor. “Don’t let me stop you from what you came to do.”
To his surprise, her lithe hands retrieved a small journal from the pocket of her apron, jotted a quick note with the nub of a pencil, and tucked both objects back inside as though they’d never existed.
“Where’s your chaperone?”
“I don’t require a chaperone. It’s Miss Middleton who—” He broke off as a sudden thought occurred to him, unlikely as it might seem. “Are you the young lady’s chaperone? Have you come to assess my character?”
“Did you hope for a stolen moment alone with her?” the maid countered.
“Heaven forbid.” He could not repress a shiver of horror. “I would never be caught alone with a marriageable young lady.”
“You’ve no wish to marry?”
“None,” he replied firmly. And definitely no wish to be compromised against his will.
“Then what makes you think Miss Middleton has any intention to marry?”
“Of course she intends to marry,” Cole said in exasperation. “All proper young ladies hope to find a worthy husband and become an equ
ally worthy wife. What else is she going to do?”
“Mathematics,” the maid replied without hesitation.
He blinked at this non sequitur. “What sort of woman prefers mathematics to marriage?”
“A wise one,” the maid snapped. She ripped off her mobcap and glared at him, revealing a beautiful pair of angry blue eyes. “I’d rather devote the rest of my life to applied sums and long division than spend a single second in the presence of yet another man who thinks he knows what a woman wants without bothering to perform the most perfunctory of information gathering interviews to determine—”
“Miss Middleton?” stammered from his mouth, but Cole need not await verbal confirmation to recognize the truth. “Why are you dressed like a maid?”
“Why are you alone with me in this parlor?” she countered, hands on her hips.
At this unfortunate moment, Cole noticed that when the “maid” entered the salon, she’d shut the door behind her. His stomach bottomed in abject fear. If she hadn’t known he was coming, why on earth was she wearing a disguise? Had she known he was coming?
“Please tell me this was not an elaborate trick to compromise me into marriage,” he managed, every muscle tensing in anticipation of the worst.
“No,” Miss Middleton said, blue eyes flashing, “it is leverage which I intend to use to force you to leave me alone.”
“You mean to extort a duke?” He paused as full realization set in. “Into not marrying you?”
“Is it working?” she demanded.
He rose to his feet with alacrity. “I harbor no wish to marry you. None. At all.”
“Splendid,” she said. “Now hear this. I don’t need you or any man. Understood? If you’ve any sense of self-preservation, you’ll find your way out of this town house before someone catches us alone together and both our lives are ruined.”
God help them both.
He dashed to the door and flung it open wide, to prove no nefarious seduction was underway in the guest parlor. But Miss Middleton was right. Lack of misdeed would not be enough. He needed to make haste before the distinct lack of chaperonage in the parlor forced them into an unwanted marriage.
Sensing any act of politeness would only serve to irritate her further, Cole tipped his hat as he swept past her. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Middleton. Have a lovely day.”
“I’m already delighted never to have to see you again,” she called after him, her plump lips pursed in victory.
He smiled to himself as he returned to his carriage.
That was where the fiery Miss Middleton was wrong. They would definitely be seeing each other again. After all, he had a ten-year winning streak to protect.
And the Duke of Colehaven never backed down from a dare.
Chapter 3
Miss Diana Middleton tried her darnedest to focus her attention on the proper calibration of the wine merchant’s measurement tools, but her mind kept wandering to yesterday’s unexpected visitor. It was not the first time the Duke of Colehaven had deigned to cross their humble threshold, but it was unquestionably the first time any such gentleman had asked to call upon Diana.
“Is it right?” came the querulous voice of the wine peddler. “May I return to selling my wares?”
Diana could not be fooled by feigned innocuousness. This was not the first time she’d been forced to give similar establishments a stern warning.
“You know as well as I do that the weight of a proper wine gallon is never measured against a half-peck ale gallon, but rather a half-peck corn gallon whilst filled with wheat,” she scolded him.
His rheumy gaze turned crafty. “How am I supposed to remember something like that?”
“Write it down,” she said firmly. She slipped her hand into the basket dangling from her arm and handed him one of the many pre-made reminders she’d drawn out the night before. “Don’t lose it this time.”
He sighed as he accepted the card with its precisely drawn diagrams. “Yes, Mrs. Peabody.”
Diana was not, of course, Mrs. Peabody. Mrs. Peabody did not exist.
Nonetheless, many shopkeepers in this corner of London believed Mrs. Peabody to be a frazzled and woefully underpaid “inspections secretary” to a ruthless barrister, and whose continued employment depended upon her reporting back to her litigious master as many cases of flagrant disregard to the 1815 Weights and Measures Act as she could uncover, so that all such miscreants might be brought to justice.
Due to an arrangement Diana had made with a barrister’s assistant, however, any inquiries referencing Mrs. Peabody or a “weights and measures inspections secretary” were forwarded to an anonymous account only Diana had access to. Her credentials were rarely questioned—merchants engaging in illegal conduct wished to call less attention to themselves, not more—making the indomitable “Mrs. Peabody” quite powerful indeed.
“If I find your tools overcharging customers again…” she said in warning.
“I know, I know.” The shopkeeper hurried to tack the reminder card to the wall above the weighing station. “If there’s a next time, I shall be defending myself not to a pip of a girl, but to a judge capable of doing far worse than simply dismantling my business.”
Diana gave a sharp nod of approval. She did not mind being referred to as a pip of any type as long as it meant future clients to this establishment were no longer at risk of being defrauded. It was often far easier to frighten unscrupulous owners into compliance than it was to convince the courts to pay any mind to the dozens of anonymous complaints she’d submitted to the “proper channels” this winter alone.
She took her leave from the shopkeeper and made her way back out onto the snow-dusted streets of the Haymarket.
It was far too early in the morning for any self-respecting member of the ton to be out of bed, but all the same Diana was clad in one of her many disguises.
Like most of her ensembles, today’s was designed to attract the least amount of attention possible. A serviceable gray day gown enshrouded by an even duller gray ankle-length pelisse and a thick woolen shawl. Hair tucked beneath a sturdy but colorless bonnet, whose extensive brim ensured both a respectable distance from passers-by and sufficient shadow to blur her face.
Woolen stockings, no-nonsense black boots, and a thick basket all contributed to the impression of a woman on a mission, like any number of the other servants dashing hither and yon on shopping trips for their masters.
“Inconsequential errand girl” was second only to “chambermaid” in its effectiveness at rendering her positively invisible to members of the upper classes. Nonetheless, in addition to her trusty journal and the weights and measures reminder cards, Diana’s basket also contained a scarlet redingote and festive bonnet, should she need to dash behind a folding screen in order to emerge a completely different person.
A hurried change of clothes next to some shopkeeper’s chamber pot had thus far never proved necessary. Diana hoped her run of good fortune would last for many more years—until monitoring unethical business practices was no longer necessary or until women could openly helm such a career without raising eyebrows, whichever came first.
She bit back a sigh. Neither outcome was likely to occur in her lifetime. In the best of scenarios, she would be eighty years old, disguised as the elderly mother of some litigious barrister, who had nothing better to do with her time than inspect the measurement tools of London shops in order to report her findings back to her dear son.
Maybe not a litigious barrister, Diana decided. If she was still doing this fifty years from now, she’d claim her grandson was a well-connected justice of the court. What polite soul hoping to keep his shop would dare to argue with a grandmother?
Diana indulged a quick grin at the image. It always tickled her to think of herself as a secret agent to the Crown. So secret, even the Crown itself did not realize she labored in its name. Just a humble sleuth, avenging misapplied mathematics every day for the betterment and fair treatment of all England�
�s citizens.
She slid her journal from the basket and added a quick entry describing the encounter with the wine distributor. When she finished, she flipped to a bookmarked page where she left notes of which establishments required a return visit to ensure honest business dealings were being upheld.
Her threat had not been idle. If the shopkeeper resumed dishonest business practices, she would use every bit of her limited power to see him brought to justice.
She closed the journal. The cover read, If something can be improved, improve it. Diana had penned the phrase herself. It had been her motto for as long as she could remember and her secret vocation ever since she’d become the ward of her cousin Thaddeus.
At first, she’d simply needed something to fill her year of mourning besides staring at empty walls or sobbing into her pillows. Doing instead of just dreaming had given her something to live for. A purpose. A small spot of brightness to fill her otherwise bleak days. And a chance to be someone other than a penniless orphan for an hour or two. An opportunity to be… important. To make a difference in people’s lives.
She narrowed her eyes down the snow-covered lane. On the other side of the Theatre Royal stood a far less opulent establishment known as the Wicked Duke.
Although women were allowed in the tavern, Diana had never ventured inside. Partly because to enter the front door as herself would ruin any hope of maintaining the level of reputation required to be accepted amongst the ton. Diana did not seek a high-in-the-instep suitor, but nor did she seek to bring public embarrassment to the cousin whose charity had given her a second chance at life.
The other reason was also Thad. No amount of billowing woolen shawl or floppy-brimmed bonnet would prevent her own flesh and blood from seeing through her disguise, if he got a good look at her close up.
Not that Thad was there at the moment. He was at home, expecting to take a meal with Diana in less than an hour. Forty-five minutes was not nearly enough time to spy on the Wicked Duke and return home while the food was hot. She bit her lip.
