by Erica Ridley
Thus far, Diana had every reason to be impressed. With the exception of the absent Jimmy, every member of staff was at his post and performing his job admirably. The shelves were well-stocked and neatly organized, each post designed for a specific position or task.
She glanced over as two maids entered, apparently having just come from market. With brisk efficiency, they set several heavy baskets on a narrow kitchen table and began to unload their bounty.
One of them furrowed a quizzical brow toward Diana. “Who’re you?”
“Mrs. Flanders,” she improvised with authority, as if that answered the question. She arched her brows. “Were you able to purchase all the necessary supplies?”
The maid nodded, her mind clearly on other tasks. “The usual, plus provisions for tonight.”
“What’s tonight?” Diana asked. Now that the maids assumed she’d been charged with inspecting the kitchen, she could not allow such a singular opportunity to go to waste.
The maid looked at her as if she’d lost her mind. “Scotch collops, veal, roast wigeons, stewed celery, sweetbreads, peas, and tartlets. It’s Thursday.”
“Of course,” Diana murmured.
The elder maid pushed a square of parchment in her direction. “Check it yourself.”
Diana accepted the paper.
She immediately pulled her weights and scales from her basket and placed them on the table. One by one, she weighed each of the purchases and compared the results with the expected weight indicated on the paper.
Most of the items balanced perfectly.
Three did not.
“Where did you get this cream?” she demanded. “And this barley? And these peas?”
The younger maid turned over the paper to reveal a crude map on the other side.
“Not everyone’s there all the time, but there’s the best peas—” She pointed to a small X. “—and the best barley—” She pointed to another X. “—and the cheapest cream.”
No wonder the cream was inexpensive. The vendor had given the maid short measure, either by placing a surreptitious finger on the scale, or having an incorrectly calibrated scale in the first place.
The peas likewise fell under the desired weight, but the barley was slightly over. Either the vendor had been generous to two pretty maids, or the person he swindled every day was himself.
Diana copied the map to her journal and added appropriate notations. She would ensure her future list included each of these vendors. Regardless of whether the Duke of Colehaven proved to be the sort of man a woman could converse with about weight distribution and mathematical accuracy, Diana could not allow him or his kitchen staff to be cheated out of a single pea.
She returned the slip of paper to the maids just as the sound of loud laughter filled the other half of the tavern.
“Midday, then,” the elder maid muttered without glancing at a time piece.
The younger one nodded in commiseration. “Queue starts at half past eleven.”
“Their Graces will be here within the hour.” The elder maid pointed at the celery. “Start chopping.”
Diana’s spine snapped up straight in alarm.
Their Graces could only mean the tavern’s owners, the original wicked dukes: Colehaven and Eastleigh. Diana had never met the Duke of Eastleigh, but she could not risk still being present when the Duke of Colehaven arrived.
Yet the voices that spilled through the open doorway leading from the kitchen to the primary salon were impossible to resist. She would not make a return visit to the tavern. This was her last chance to observe firsthand the character of its clientele.
Careful to stay out of sight, she moved closer to the open door and listened.
“I disagree,” said a male voice. “Defining the pound sterling relative to gold was the wisest act Parliament made last year.”
Diana blinked. This was definitely not the drunken banter she had feared.
“Don’t let Colehaven hear you go on about it,” said another. “You’ll fill his head with flowers.”
“That was one of his?” The first man asked.
“On the committee,” a third voice confirmed. “Don’t you remember when he barely stayed for more than a pint before going off to shut himself in his office to rewrite drafts?”
“No,” the first man said with a laugh. “I drank my pints. Can’t recall a thing.”
Glasses clinked together.
With a little smile, Diana shook her head and turned to go.
“Think he’ll have married off that Middleton chit by now?” asked another voice.
Diana froze in place.
“He’s on a winning streak, isn’t he?” Said one of the men. “Besides, I hear she’s comely enough, if you catch sight of her.”
“Mayhap,” another said slowly. “Then again, didn’t Thaddeus claim she was nigh unmarriageable?”
“Not ‘nigh’ unmarriageable,” corrected his friend. “Unmarriageable.”
Diana swayed, her head dizzy. Thad said that? Her stomach sank. He wasn’t just her guardian. He was her cousin and only friend. Everyone thought of them as practically siblings. Diana loved him like a brother.
And he could not wait to be rid of her.
“That’s as may be,” said another. “But Colehaven would not have agreed to the scheme unless he was confident he’d come through a winner. I imagine he has a whole host of potential suitors in mind.”
Her stomach sank. The news was worse by the second.
“Wager you’re right,” said the first man. “Colehaven’s probably drafting up marriage contracts as we speak.”
She curled her shaking fingers into fists. To the devil with the duke’s potential suitors—and her cousin’s lack of faith in her worth. She was no man’s pawn.
Diana definitely wasn’t going to be married off against her will because some self-righteous duke believed he knew what she wanted better than she did. Or maybe he didn’t care what she wanted at all. She was just a wager. Another notch on his fancy winning streak.
Without a word, she stalked out through the kitchen and into the sunlight. A grim smile curved her lips.
The Duke of Colehaven believed himself capable of playing puppet-master over Diana’s life? He had vastly underestimated his opponent.
She’d be the one to play him.
Chapter 8
Cole strode through the main entrance of the Wicked Duke with his brow furrowed in thought.
“Colehaven!” came the rallying cry. A dozen mugs toasted him in unison.
He took his usual seat amongst the usual crew, but little about his life seemed usual anymore. He didn’t even want the frothy ale the barkeep slid in his direction. Instead of drinking, Cole glared at the monogrammed mug in silence.
“Why the scowl?” Jack Barrett asked. “Your sister take apart your curricle again?”
“Worse,” Giles Langford teased. “He’s been sacked from the Proper Planting of Plums committee.”
Cole wished he was on a plum committee. Perhaps then his brain would have something productive to ruminate upon, rather than replay every maddening moment of his interactions with Diana Middleton.
When Thad had claimed his ward was unmarriageable, Cole had assumed her lack of suitors was due to a plain countenance, or slow-wittedness, or perhaps some sort of clumsiness that kept her from being a desirable dance partner. Green bucks were often superficial in their requirements for a wife.
But the lady was beautiful, clever, surefooted, sure-everythinged. If she lacked suitors, Cole now suspected she had frightened them off on purpose.
“Well?” Eastleigh drawled.
“Diana Middleton,” Cole muttered, and lifted his ale to his lips before he could be prevailed upon to clarify.
“He’s losing?” Someone blurted out in disbelief.
“Check the book,” someone else shouted in delight. “I put ten quid on an end to the winning streak!”
“I’m not losing.” Cole set down his ale. “I have until the
end of the season, which you might recall only began this week.”
“Definitely losing,” Eastleigh stage-whispered, to the crowd’s delight.
Cole glared at his best friend.
Eastleigh clinked his mug against Cole’s. “May all the women in your life never give you a moment’s peace.”
“May the one who got away find her way back,” Cole shot back.
Eastleigh choked on his ale.
“Another round,” Langford called out.
“And a bib for Eastleigh!” someone else shouted.
Everyone was laughing again, including Cole. He couldn’t help it. No matter what was going on outside, the Wicked Duke always put him in a fine mood.
The tavern was more than just a familiar haven where everyone knew his name, and was pleased to see him every time he walked through the door. He’d enjoyed their company for years. He knew them; and they him. A simple thing, but one Cole took great comfort in.
When he’d first arrived in Oxford, he’d been “befriended” by a group of Janus-faced lads who mocked Cole behind his back at every turn. Everything marked him as an outsider. His accent, his discomfort in his clothes, his occasional failure to respond when addressed by his new title, to realize that “Your Grace” referred to him. To that lot, he’d been nothing more than an object of ridicule.
Meeting Eastleigh and his friends had changed everything.
Suddenly, Cole found himself surrounded by lads who were exactly who they presented themselves to be. Rogues, every last one of them. Cole and Eastleigh were the worst of the lot. Genuine, honest, and unapologetically mischievous. They’d earned the moniker “wicked dukes” and lived up to their reputations. Not just as impish scoundrels, but also as formidable opponents in the classroom and out.
He’d sworn never to waste time with two-faced hypocrites ever again.
Cole no longer remembered who had dared them to open a tavern and call it the Wicked Duke. He was just glad they had. The unpretentious public house had succeeded far beyond anyone’s expectations.
“To the Wicked Duke,” he said and lifted his mug.
“To the Wicked Duke!” his friends chorused back.
Cole grinned and took a swig of ale.
“What are you going to do with Miss Middleton?” Eastleigh murmured.
An image of plump, rosy lips and teasing blue eyes filled him with sudden want.
“Nothing,” he managed, unable to wipe the tantalizing image from his mind. “Marry her off.”
“I assume you’ve prepared a list of likely candidates.”
Cole lifted his beer rather than reply.
He did not have a list of likely candidates prepared. In fact, the thought of her opening her arms to some other man raised the hackles on the back of his neck.
“Not all men are created equal,” he muttered. “I have to ensure he’s worthy.”
Eastleigh snorted. “You’re supposed to find her a good match, not hold out for a fairytale prince to come whisk her away to his castle.”
Cole had the sneaking suspicion he wouldn’t care much for the fairy prince, either. Not that it mattered. He’d taken the bet, and was playing to win.
He would find Diana Middleton a match.
Chapter 9
At the Riddings’ soirée the following night, Diana assumed her usual spot along the wall farthest from the dancing. The Jacobean Oak of the Riddings’ wainscoting prevented her from truly blending with the background, but she’d taken care to select a gown whose pale blue color matched the wall hangings perfectly.
Diana prepared for a long evening of protracted invisibility. She was never bored; analyzing the notes in her journal kept her mind happily occupied. Soirées were also splendid opportunities to observe ton exchanges undetected.
At least, they used to be.
To Diana’s surprise, the wainscoting had been digging into her spine for scarcely a quarter hour before a trio of fashionable young ladies headed straight to her refuge, with Felicity Sutton leading the way.
“Do not try the lemonade,” Lady Felicity whispered as she handed Diana a glass of sherry. “Unless you enjoy the shock of undiluted lemon juice without the slightest hint of sugar, that is.”
Diana blinked. “I…”
Lady Felicity gestured to the young lady on her right. “This is Lady Viola Fairfax. Our brothers own the Wicked Duke, but please don’t hold it against us.” Lady Felicity gestured to her left. “This is Miss Priscilla Weatherby. Her parrot can swear in three languages.” She grinned at her friends. “Pris, Vi, this is Miss Diana Middleton. I witnessed her tongue-lash Colehaven and live to tell the tale. She’s one of us.”
Diana’s throat tightened. She’d never had an us to belong to before. The sensation almost made her dizzy.
Although the last thing she needed was an exponential increase in members of high society who could recognize her, Diana could not help a flutter of wistfulness in her belly at the idea of having friends. Of being part of an us.
“How do you do,” she stammered belatedly.
Now that they’d met her, the best thing to do was not to call further attention. She would present herself as ordinary, boring, unremarkable. Within a few days’ time, something more interesting would attract their attention, and Diana would return to her usual wallflowerdom.
“Have you any plans tomorrow afternoon?” Lady Felicity asked. “We’re going to Bond Street for new gloves, then to the park for ice-skating.”
“Unless it rains,” Lady Viola added.
Lady Felicity nodded. “If it rains, I’ll spend the entire afternoon before a fire with a pot of chocolate and my copy of Glenarvon. I’ve almost deduced the true identities of each of the characters.”
Lady Viola pulled a face. “Bad form to gossip about one’s peers.”
“But delicious reading,” Lady Felicity said with an unrepentant grin. “I once believed myself a hoyden, but I now realize I’ll have to work much harder if I’m to be satirized in a gothic novel someday.”
Miss Weatherby choked on a laugh. “If Colehaven heard you say such a thing—”
“—I would unleash Miss Middleton upon him.” Lady Felicity sent Diana a conspiratorial wink. “He doesn’t scare her one whit.”
A perfect storm of warring emotions battled in Diana’s chest. She longed to be part of such a lively, laughing group. To go ice-skating, to shop together, to exchange books and giggle over private jests.
But that was a different life than the one she had chosen. A different woman. She needed to remain in the background, to be the sort of person one’s eyes might notice but never quite see.
In such a position, only a fool would spend a moment more than necessary in the company of a young lady who prided herself on her ability to unmask true identities. If Diana’s double life became common knowledge, her reputation would be ruined—and perhaps Thad’s as well, by association.
The best thing for Diana and these smiling young ladies was to go their separate paths.
Yet how was Diana meant to shoo them off without arousing even greater intrigue?
Miss Weatherby glanced over her shoulder. “Where is Colehaven?”
Diana’s eyes immediately flicked to the duke’s precise location. She had been aware of him from the moment she and her cousin had entered the ballroom.
It was more than merely being the most handsome man present. It was as if every inch of her body was attuned to his every move. A flash of a smile warmed her insides. A rumble of a laugh set her heart aflutter.
Nerves, Diana told herself. Nothing more. A duke was dangerous on general principle, but a lord who appeared to be close personal friends with every person he passed was even more so. His interest in her was predicated solely on a dare. Likely he was canvassing his peers to determine which poor cretin was the one he could foist her off on.
Oh, why did he have to make that wager? A member of the House of Lords acknowledging the passionate opinions of an unwed, untitled, unimportant young
lady was a long shot in the best of circumstances. With the duke’s attention consumed with winning a bet, he would be even less open to long discussions of politics or the painstaking research she’d charted by hand in her journals.
“I’ll wave him over,” Lady Felicity said, and immediately lifted her fan to catch her brother’s eye.
Colehaven’s gaze snapped not to his sister, but to Diana.
“Excuse me,” Diana blurted. “I have to go.”
She handed back the sherry and fled the ballroom before the young ladies could ask any questions. Diana hated to be rude, but nor could she risk the duke and his sister and her friends joining forces in a mission to force her to the dance floor in hopes of meeting her future betrothed.
That was someone else’s dream. Not Diana’s.
Blindly, she passed the corridor leading to the terrace, the ladies’ retiring room, several closed doors, and then caught sight of a dimly lit library. The door was barely ajar, and the only light seemed to emanate from a dwindling fire behind a far grate.
Perfect.
She ducked inside, slipped past the shelves of books to the remains of a fire, and settled on a worn Chesterfield to jot her latest observations in her journal.
Before her fingers could wrest the small volume from her reticule, movement caught the corner of her eye as a certain handsome gentleman penetrated her sanctuary. The duke had found her in the darkness.
“Are you so afraid that someone might dare request your dance card?”
Diana shivered as the low rumble of his voice enveloped her like a caress. Just knowing he shared the firelight with her made her skin flush with heat.
She leapt to her feet, determined to ignore such flights of fancy.
“I don’t carry a dance card,” she shot back. Or meant to shoot. Now that she saw how little space separated them, she wasn’t certain sound had escaped her throat at all.
