How to Catch a Devilish Duke: The Disreputable Debutantes

by Bennett, Amy Rose

She chose a tiny cake topped with a glacé cherry and popped it into her mouth. As the rich flavors of butter, almonds, and cherry brandy flowed across her tongue, she almost moaned with delight. Of course, such treats were but a temporary antidote to the ever-present anxiety buzzing through her veins—especially tonight, given her thoughts kept straying to Max and what he might be doing right now. And whether he would be successful in his quest to retrieve her damning notebook.

  Hating that she felt so powerless, Charlie focused on the box of sweetmeats again. “All right, Peridot, I’ll have two at the most.” She licked her sticky fingers and perused the delectable array. “Definitely not more than three.”

  She was just about to choose her fourth treat when a knock at her sitting room door made her start with guilt. After replacing the lid, she hastily pushed the box beneath a silk cushion on the settee between her and Peridot. Ignoring her cat’s disgruntled frown, Charlie called, “Come in.”

  It was her father.

  “Well, aren’t you complete to a shade this evening, Lord Westhampton?” observed Charlie as she took in his rather dapper evening attire which included a paisley satin waistcoat in rich shades of crimson and cobalt blue. “If I didn’t know you better, Papa, I’d wonder if you were trying to impress someone.”

  Her father made a pretense of polishing his monocle on the sleeve of his smartly tailored Savile Row jacket, perhaps to hide the dark flush stealing across his cheeks. “Do you think it will invite too much comment?” he asked. “Wearing such a bright waistcoat rather than something a little more sedate? It is Lent...”

  Ah, so he was avoiding the topic of whether he did indeed wish to impress someone. Interesting. Rising to her feet, Charlie gave a small snort. “I’m sure you can get away with it. I would be surprised if your sartorial choices became the subject of the latest on-dit.” Although, who the very eligible Earl of Westhampton was accompanying to the theater tonight might become fodder for newspapers like the Beau Monde Mirror and the ton’s insatiable gossipmongers.

  Her father emitted a short chuckle. “I suppose you’re right.” After tucking his pristinely polished monocle away, he focused his attention on her. His brow creased with a frown as he noted her rather disheveled appearance: her undressed hair, her crushed wrapper, and the plain muslin morning gown that she had in fact been wearing since she’d breakfasted with him. “Are you sure you won’t change your mind and come to Drury Lane with me, Charlotte?” he asked. “This evening’s concert is a celebration of Handel’s hymns. Viscount Wyatt, his wife, and their daughter, Lady Tilbury, are sharing my box.”

  Ah, so the lovely young widow, Eleanor, Lady Tilbury, was the woman who’d snared her father’s interest at long last. Charlie was nothing but pleased for her father. He’d been a widower for almost sixteen years now, and it was about time he began to court again. He deserved to find happiness. “I’m quite sure, Papa,” she said, making an effort to smile. “Besides, I’ll take far too long to get ready and only make you late.” Even though she would very much like to make the acquaintance of Lady Tilbury—who by all accounts was intelligent, agreeable, and the epitome of refinement—her mind would be elsewhere.

  “Hmm.” Her father’s frown deepened. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed how you’ve been closeting yourself away since your aunt Tabitha left Town. I think a change of scenery will do you good.”

  Charlie batted away his observation with a flick of her wrist. “I’m perfectly fine, Papa,” she lied, feigning a nonchalance she certainly didn’t feel. “And not lonely at all, if that’s what you are concerned about. Indeed, tomorrow I plan on spending a good deal of the afternoon with Nate and Sophie, and darling baby Thomas. Besides, you know Handel’s oratorios are not really my cup of tea. I’d be sure to fall asleep and snore during the performance.” She affected a little laugh. “Now that would invite comment and make the papers. Aside from that, I’m certain Lord and Lady Wyatt and their daughter would be far from impressed.”

  Her father gave a heavy sigh of resignation. “Very well, my dear girl. If you’re set on staying home, so be it.” He gave a wink, then nodded at the settee. “Although I would appreciate it if you saved me a sweetmeat or two. I think I’d rather fancy one with a glass of port when I return.”

  Oh, darn and drat, and double damn. Peridot had shifted, and the cushion concealing the box from Gunter’s had fallen down. Her face flaming with mortification, all Charlie could do was acquiesce. “Of course, Papa,” she murmured. “I’ll leave the box on your library desk.”

  After her sitting room door swung shut behind her father, Charlie flopped back onto the settee and groaned. Her appetite had well and truly fled now.

  She must be the worst daughter in London, if not all of Christendom. Not only was she devouring decadent treats during Lent, she was also telling her father bald-faced lies.

  Because truth to tell, she was lonely. Aunt Tabitha had departed over a month ago to help care for her dear friend, Lady Kilbride; they were currently taking the waters in Bath, and Charlie wasn’t sure when her aunt would return.

  Two of her closest friends whom she’d bonded with during her time at Mrs. Rathbone’s Academy for Young Ladies of Good Character—Arabella and Olivia—were also absent from Town. Arabella was presently busy in Edinburgh establishing an orphanage with the help of her besotted husband, Lord Langdale, and his mother, Caroline. And Olivia, who was now happily married to the deliciously gruff marquess, Lord Sleat, was currently far away on the Isle of Skye.

  Of course, her own dear sister-in-law, Sophie, was nearby. She and Nate had taken up residence in a grand townhouse in Park Lane just before Christmastide. But while Charlie adored playing the doting aunt—Thomas had made his entrance into the world only a few short weeks ago—she didn’t wish to encroach too much. After all, her brother and Sophie were still very much newlyweds. And if she were honest with herself, seeing them together and so much in love was a bittersweet experience. It made her even more aware of the fact that for the most part, she was viewed as an unsuitable match by most of the ton’s ranks. Over the last four years, the number of times she’d been whispered about, sniggered at, snubbed, and worse besides… Charlie shuddered. She’d truly lost count.

  Yes, despite the elevated position of her father, aunt, brother, and friends, it seemed her ruined reputation followed her about like her own personal dark cloud of shame, forever casting her in dismal shadow. A target for the most sanctimonious, unkindest members of “polite” society.

  Unmarriageable. Disreputable. These were the less vicious barbs aimed her way.

  Fast. Loose. Hoyden. Slut. She’d heard those words too, and often from the tongues of supposed “gentlemen” when she’d refused their lewd propositions in quiet corridors and shadowed corners.

  To make matters worse, she’d believed Lord Rochfort was different.

  What a fool she’d been to be gulled by his false flattery and easy smiles. His kisses and whispered words of praise.

  But then the predator had struck. And she still had no idea why he’d chosen her as a victim.

  Charlie’s eyes burned, and she dashed an angry teardrop away from her cheek with impatient fingers. If only she could brush all of her horrid memories and cares away so easily. While she missed Aunt Tabitha and spending time with her dearest friends, it was also a relief that she didn’t have to constantly pretend that nothing was amiss in her world.

  But it most certainly was.

  After depositing the box of sweetmeats on her father’s library desk and spending the next hour fruitlessly searching the shelves for a book to capture her attention, Charlie returned to her sitting room empty-handed. A current of dread still hummed through her veins, even though she’d drunk a nip of her father’s brandy.

  As she slumped onto the settee again, her gaze strayed to the mantel clock. It was almost half past nine. She suspected Max wouldn’t want to sneak into Lord Rochfort’s townhouse too early. Even if the baron was at one of his clubs or elsewhere, the
re would be far too many servants about. But Max wouldn’t want to conduct his search when it was too late either, because Lord Rochfort might be home.

  Gah! Charlie thumped a fist into the silk cushion, earning another reproving look from Peridot. “Sorry, puss,” she murmured and patted the cat’s silky head. Sitting around fretting about what Max may or may not be doing right at this moment was giving her heart palpitations.

  And then another, altogether disquieting thought filtered through the fog of her anxiety. Max had no clue at all what her notebook looked like. Its size, the type of cover. What, if anything, was printed on the outside. How could he possibly conduct a swift search if he had no idea what he was actually searching for?

  And if he did happen to find it, well, he would undoubtedly open it up to check that it was indeed her notebook. He’d peruse the contents…

  Oh, God.

  Charlie flew across the room to the bellpull to summon Molly.

  Exmoor House, Grosvenor Square, Mayfair

  Little more than half an hour later, Charlie stood on the front doorstep of Exmoor House.

  As to whether Max was in, Charlie couldn’t be certain. All the curtains were drawn, but slivers of light spilled out from between the chinks in the heavy fabric. Thank goodness he lived alone. His mother, Cressida, the formidable Dowager Duchess of Exmoor, resided in nearby Curzon Street with Max’s widowed sister-in-law, Diana. At least she would only have to contend with Max’s perennially flustered but amiable butler, Chiffley, when she summoned the courage to knock on the door.

  One of Hastings House’s footmen—a strapping young man named Edwards—waited on the pavement below, shifting nervously from foot to foot. She beckoned him closer. “Once I’m inside, you may go back to Berkeley Square,” she instructed.

  Edwards frowned. “Of course, my lady… Only, I’d be happy to wait until you are ready to return to Hastings House. I know it’s only a ten-minute walk, but it’s dark and rather late…” He trailed off uncertainly, his gaze skipping away into the shadows.

  Ordinarily, Charlie would have been irked by a servant questioning her orders, but she realized Edwards was simply motivated by concern for her safety.

  “No, that won’t be necessary.” Her tone was kind but firm. Whatever the outcome tonight, Max would provide her with a suitable escort to see her home.

  As Charlie expected, Chiffley failed to contain his surprise when he discovered who was visiting at such a late hour.

  “Lady Charlotte,” he exclaimed, his bristle-brush eyebrows darting up toward his receding hairline. “At the risk of overstepping, and if you don’t mind me asking, is everything all right?” His gaze darted behind her to where Edwards waited before returning to her face. “His Grace had not informed me that he was expecting any calls this evening.”

  Irregular calls late at night from single young women was what he really meant.

  “Yes, I do apologize for making an unscheduled visit,” said Charlie. “And to answer your first question, nothing’s wrong.” Of course, that was a lie, but she wasn’t about to explain herself to Max’s butler. No doubt the man was wondering why she hadn’t a suitable chaperone. On the few occasions she’d been a dinner guest at Exmoor House, her aunt Tabitha, Nate, and her father had accompanied her.

  Stepping into the elegant entry hall that was a study in marble, polished wood, and gleaming brass, she slid back the hood of her cloak. “However, I do need to speak with His Grace—if he’s at home, of course. And if he isn’t home”—she lifted her chin, hoping a show of confidence would get her what she wanted—“I’ll wait.”

  “Oh…” Chiffley’s spiky brows plunged downward. “I see.” He glanced in Edwards’s direction again, but the young man had disappeared into the night. “Harvey here”—he nodded at a nearby footman—“will take your cloak, my lady. And then if you would care to wait in the front parlor”—he gestured to an oak door to the right of the entry hall—“I can send one of the maids along with a pot of tea if you like.”

  Charlie forced herself to tamp down her impatience. Tea and the chaperonage of a chambermaid would not do at all. Not when her whole future hung in the balance. “So, I take it the duke is at home?” she asked as she shrugged off her cloak and handed it to the waiting footman.

  Chiffley’s Adam’s apple bobbed above his perfectly tied neckcloth. “Ah, I would have to check, my lady…”

  The butler was clearly lying. If Max wasn’t at home, the servant would have told her straightaway. She narrowed her eyes. “He’s in the library, isn’t he?” With determined strides, she started across the black and white parquetry floor toward the hall leading to the back of the house. “Or his private study?”

  Charlie swore she heard Chiffley groan before he muttered, “In the library, my lady. I shall send your tea there.”

  “Thank you,” Charlie called over her shoulder as she hastened down the hall. Although she doubted she’d drink it. She was sure Max would at least have sherry at hand, even if he was reluctant to serve her brandy.

  As Max leaned back in his favorite leather wingchair, he yawned and scrubbed a hand over the bristles on his jaw. Good Lord, he was tired. After last night’s escapade at the Rouge et Noir Club, a ride through Hyde Park this morning, several bouts of bare-knuckle boxing at Gentleman Jackson’s, followed by a prolonged session at his club to try and discreetly gather intelligence on Rochfort, he was spent.

  But he’d promised Charlie he’d recover her notebook, and he wouldn’t let her down. Because if he did, God only knew what further trouble she’d get herself into. And then of course, he so very badly wanted to trounce Rochfort.

  He sipped his cognac and stretched his booted toes toward the fire’s leaping flames, idly studying the play of light across the polished black leather. According to the oak longcase clock in the corner, it was just after ten o’clock, which meant he’d best set out for Rochfort’s townhouse in Bedford Square within the hour. All going well, he’d have Charlie’s dashed notebook back to her by midnight.

  Not for the first time, he wondered what on earth she’d written that was so damned incriminating. Not that it was any of his business, of course. But there must be something scandalous within its pages, otherwise Rochfort wouldn’t have anything to hold over Charlie’s head.

  Charlie’s observation the night before floated into his mind. Yes, she did indeed have a singular propensity for getting herself into scrapes.

  She was definitely trouble…and in more ways than one.

  A knock at the door had him straightening in his seat and frowning. He’d instructed Chiffley that he wasn’t to be disturbed tonight unless the matter was urgent. “Yes?” he called. “What is it?”

  When the door opened to reveal Lady Charlotte Hastings, he nearly dropped his cognac.

  “Charlie.” Discarding his drink, he sprang to his feet. “Is everything all right?”

  A brittle laugh escaped her. “Aside from the deep pickle I’m currently in, yes,” she said as she closed the door, then joined him at the hearthside. “Although, I was rather hoping that you had already managed to retrieve my notebook and I’d been unpickled, so to speak. Now wouldn’t that be wonderful?”

  Max winced as guilt pinched. “I wish I did have good news for you. But no, not yet.”

  “Considering you hadn’t sent word, I suspected as much.” She removed her gloves with a few impatient tugs, then deposited herself in the wingchair opposite his. “To be perfectly frank with you, sitting around Hastings House, not knowing what is going on, waiting to hear from you—it’s pure torture. In any case, I do hope you can forgive me for invading your bachelor’s sanctum at such a late hour.”

  Max reclaimed his seat. “Of course. I can appreciate how difficult this situation is for you. Although”—his voice held a gruff edge as he added—“I hope to God you didn’t make your way here on your own.”

  She gave a small snort. “I’m not a complete widgeon. A footman escorted me. And my father is at the theater, so
you don’t need to worry that I’ll be missed at home. Indeed, no one of consequence knows I’m here at all.” She eyed his brandy on the occasional table beside his chair. “Chiffley is sending a maid with a tea tray—I suspect he’s concerned for my reputation and will ask her to stay and act as chaperone—but might I have one of those instead?”

  Max arched an eyebrow. “It’s cognac. Are you sure?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Yes, I’m sure. I’m not a child, Max. I know what I like.” Her shoulders dropped with a sigh. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be so shrewish. I’m just…I’m so tired of being on tenterhooks. Over time, it tends to wear one down.”

  “Perfectly understandable,” Max said gently. “And no offense taken.” He crossed to the sideboard where he kept a tray of spirits and poured a measure of cognac into a cut-crystal tumbler. “Actually, I’m surprised Chiffley let you in at all,” he observed over his shoulder. “He’s become quite protective of me lately. A veritable guard dog.”

  Charlie gave a huff of laughter. “Protective? Of you, the powerful Duke of Exmoor? The man with five sprawling estates, including a castle in Devonshire and heaven knows how many properties in London? A distinguished former officer in Wellington’s army who’s rumored to be richer than Croesus?”

  “As strange as it may sound, yes.” Max returned to the fireside with her drink. As he passed her the tumbler and his bare fingers inadvertently brushed hers, he tried to ignore the disconcerting reaction of his body. The tingle of his flesh and the surge of heat in his veins. He might be a battle-hardened duke with untold property, wealth, and influence, but right now, he felt quite inexplicably randy like a callow schoolboy. Giving himself a silent rebuke, he resumed his seat. “Actually, I think you’ll find the whole situation rather amusing.”

  “Oh, do tell.” Charlie’s eyes gleamed with expectation as she regarded him over the rim of her glass. “It will take my mind off my own trials and tribulations.”