Dukes to the Left of Me, Princes to the Right (3 page)

Bloody well it was too much to ask. “Do you often drug men who take you home?”

She refused to answer.

He turned her chin toward him. “Tell me.”

She shrugged. “It’s a habit of mine. I find it rather titillating.”

Looking into her lovely face, marred by a petulant expression, Nicholas saw how stupid he’d been to give in to temptation. He rarely made such careless mistakes. In fact, he wondered if he was losing his touch.

He’d known after one conversation with her at Gunter’s, where he’d followed her one day last week, that she’d no political
on-dits
of any import to offer, not even a morsel or two about her famous uncle Revnik or her twin brother, Prince Sergei.

Yet when Nicholas had run into her at a musicale later that evening, he’d come back with her afterward to Lord and Lady Howell’s residence, sneaking into her bedchamber through her balcony—out of sheer boredom.

He’d been back twice, which said a great deal about his mindset these days. He was in a rut, well before he should have sunk into one, by his appraisal. Ruts were for men over thirty.

He released Natasha’s wrists and stood. “Today we say good-bye.”

She sniffed. “You’ve no heart, Nicholas.”

“Consider yourself lucky for having found out so quickly.” He arched a warning brow. “You could’ve killed me, you know—me or one of your precious corgis. A few licks out of a tipped-over glass might be enough to do a doggie in.”

He could tell by the way the young widow’s eyes widened that she hadn’t thought
that
far. She was impulsive and, for all her sophistication, not very bright.

“Don’t worry,” he assured her. “Boris and company appear none the worse for wear this morning. But here’s a bit of advice: don’t drug the men you bring back to your bed. It’s bad form. And in your case, bad politics.”

He’d learned through experience that no woman likes a man to leave her bed whistling, so he closed the door with his usual somber expression on his face. This time it wasn’t faked. He
did
feel somber. It had been a near miss.

But when his champagne-buffed boots hit the pavement outside Lord and Lady Howell’s Mayfair town home, Nicholas couldn’t help but be restored to good humor. It was a gorgeous day, and he already knew just the expensive bauble he’d buy to soothe Natasha’s wounded pride, a bracelet she’d admired at an exclusive shop yesterday.

It was a small price to pay for his folly.

*   *   *

A few hours later, his pockets considerably lightened, Nicholas went to a meeting with Groop.

But he wasn’t his attorney. Far from it. The man was actually a spy chief in the clandestine branch of the government fondly known by its employees as the Service.

“Your IF is long overdue,” Groop told Nicholas in his thin, reedy voice. His cravats were always perfectly folded and his coats cut by Weston. His natural sartorial elegance called attention away from his long face and beady eyes. “You shall marry for King and country.”

“The King is quite mad, thank you,” said Nicholas. “And I still don’t see why marriage has to be my
Inevitable Fate
any time soon.”

The Service was fond of abbreviating terms. It lent an air of elitism to the whole profession, but certain codes—especially the more melodramatic ones—drove Nicholas a bit mad himself.

Groop arched a brow. “The higher-ups believe your new title will thrust you into a whole new realm of desirability among the
ton
’s matchmaking population.”

“I haven’t told anyone my new title, save for three very close friends. They and a few government hacks at Whitehall are aware of it, but men don’t tend to talk, especially about little-known dukedoms that carry no influence.”

“Nevertheless, everyone in the social world will soon know, and no one will care that your father made no ripples in Town. A duke’s a duke.”

“But—”

Groop put up a hand. “Prinny’s come out with a new directive. He’s cut short your year of mourning and has included you in his new crop of Impossible Bachelors. The list comes out any day, and you and your new title are on it.”

“Good God. Nothing’s as desirable as the unattainable. Every girl and her mother will be trying to win me over—damn Prinny’s hide.”

“It’s entirely too much attention you don’t need,” Groop agreed smoothly. “Therefore, you must slide into a dull, proper, entirely respectable engagement immediately. You’ll make your first contact this evening at the Grangerford ball.”

“This
evening
?” Nicholas sputtered. “With whom, may I ask? You know I avoid anyplace young, insipid debutantes tend to gather. Finding a bride will take some time in a gambling den. Or at Madame Boingo’s Palladium Show. I’ll have to take you, Groop. She dresses in nothing but feathers.”

“Not to worry, Your Grace. We’ve already chosen you a suitable candidate in a satisfactory quid pro quo arrangement. The girl’s father unknowingly hired one of our own Service employees who does private detective work. It seems this particular earl was looking for
you
.”

“Me?”

“Every one of his daughter’s rejected suitors has said she claims she’s on the verge of a betrothal to you. Of course, until she mentioned your title, not a one of them had ever heard of it, nor are they aware you’re in current possession of it. As far as they’re concerned, Lady Poppy has been carrying a torch for a wicked, mysterious, faraway lover for three years.”

Nicholas gave a short bark of laughter. “Absurd.”

“Your esteemed colleague discovered that you and the subject of his search were one and the same person. I’ve put the information to great use, as you will soon see. Here’s the girl’s name.”

He shoved a scrap of paper across the desk.

Nicholas almost swallowed his cheroot, but he leaned forward anyway, feeling a faint curiosity about this so-called candidate. “Lord Derby’s daughter?” he said after a quick glance. “He’s a high stickler, and no doubt she’s a milk-and-water miss. I prefer a red-cheeked hussy or no one.”

“We could find no red-cheeked hussies among London’s Upper Ten Thousand, Your Grace.”

“God knows you tried.” One of his small joys in life was teasing Groop.

“Your goal is to become an afterthought in the minds of the
ton,
” Groop reminded him, as usual ignoring all of Nicholas’s attempts to bait him. “Lady Poppy Smith-Barnes is almost on the shelf. We took a gamble, brought Lord Derby in, and told him of your connections to the Service.”

“I
hate
when you do that. I want to work a long time, not be a flash in the pan. I’m aiming for the wall of unsung heroes, you see. I plan to be front and center.”

“Right,” Groop said dryly.

Groop had one serious shortcoming. He still couldn’t tell when Nicholas was being serious—and Nicholas was very serious about that wall.

Of course, Nicholas liked keeping Groop guessing. He didn’t need anyone to get close.

Close
was reserved for his favorite horse, Fritz (who was now twenty-five and stabled at Seaward Hall), and his good friends, Lord and Lady Harry Traemore, Viscount Charles Lumley, and Captain Stephen Arrow of the British Royal Navy.

Everyone else could jump in a lake. Or go about their business. He didn’t care which.

“Lord Derby is a loyal subject,” Groop was saying. “Nothing to fear there. We told him he’d be doing a great service to his country and alleviating his own problems in the bargain if he would agree to your marrying his daughter, under certain conditions.”

“What conditions?”

“He has to help expedite the betrothal if you run into snags. And he must agree to pay off your brother’s debts and help get your family estate back on its feet. We can’t have any financially insolvent dukes, you know. Leaves you open to blackmail.”

Nicholas propped his feet up on his employer’s desk. “My God, Groop, that’s brilliant. The government can keep paying me a pittance and let a private citizen award me the compensation I deserve for marrying a silly debutante who just might be off in the head. Why didn’t I think of that?”

Groop didn’t blink an eye. “The fact of the matter is, starting right now, you’re off assignment until your betrothal takes place.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“We’ve a particularly intriguing assignment coming up, too,” said Groop, “Operation Pink Lady. It comes with an MR, a rarity in our profession.”

Monetary reward,
and Groop was right—they were hard to come by. Operation Pink Lady must be very important, which made Nicholas want to work on it all the more.

“How large is the MR?” he asked.

“Substantial. But you won’t need it if you align yourself with the house of Derby.”

“True, but—”

“But you want the assignment anyway.”

“Of course. Luscious assignments don’t come along as often as I’d wish. I want the monetary reward, too. The bigger the pile, the better. Seaward Hall requires a great deal of work, and in case Lord Derby’s tightfisted, that MR will be good insurance.”

“We should make a decision in the next day who shall handle it. If you want to be considered for it and if you care to continue working with the Service at all, you’ll betroth yourself to Lady Poppy tonight.”

Nicholas rose from his chair. “You dry-lipped devil. Why couldn’t you have told me this sooner?”

Groop shook out his cuffs. “I called you in a week ago. But you were too busy bedding Russian princesses to come in.”

“Oh, yes … right.” Nicholas sank back into his chair.

“This ultimatum should come as no surprise,” Groop said, steepling his hands under his chin. “On the first day of your training, you were told your IF.”

“Yes, but I thought I had several decades’ leeway.”

Groop’s gaze was unwavering. “Spoken like a true Impossible Bachelor. If you’d remained Earl Maxwell longer, you might have had another five years’ grace period. But the fact is, you’re now a duke. A duke should be married. Especially a duke who dabbles in clandestine work for His Royal Highness’s government.”

Nicholas scoffed. “I do much more than dabble.”

“We’re aware of that, Your Grace.”

“You know how I feel about marriage.”

“I do. If a brilliant, generous man like your father could be so deceived—”

“Then so could I.”

“Not all women are like your stepmother, draining away entire fortunes.”

“Yes,” Nicholas said, “but which ones aren’t? That’s the question.”

Groop sucked in his cheeks. “As you’ve no fortune to drain away at the moment, you’ve no need for concern in that regard.”

“Damn your cold, clear grasp of the situation, Groop.”

“Yes, you’re between a rock and a hard place, Your Grace. Your brother is currently in debt to Lord Wendell for a thousand pounds.”

“I know that,” Nicholas sputtered. “The half-shiner I’m sporting right now is what happens when an empty wooden keg thrown by one’s fleeing sibling meets with one’s eye.”

Groop steepled his hands. “Let me be blunt, Your Grace.”

“It’s your favorite thing to be.”

“Money
and
adventure. You and I both know you need them in equal measure. If you refuse to marry this girl, you’ll have neither.”

“I could go out on my own,” Nicholas said. “I could find my own wealthy bride, and I could certainly have my own adventures outside of the Service.”

“I’ve no doubt you could find that wealthy bride, Your Grace, but adventure? Where shall you find that adventure outside of the Service? At Seaward Hall?” He gave a bitter little laugh. “You’d slowly give up the idea that adventure exists, and you know it. You need
me
to seek it out for you, to put it in your lap, and to remind you that you’re more than a duke.” Groop drew himself up tall. “You’re a clandestine agent for His Royal Highness’s government,” he concluded dramatically, which for Groop meant his facial muscles twitched.

Nevertheless, Nicholas was shaken. Groop was right. Again.

Frank’s problems … Seaward Hall’s decay … to forget his personal troubles, he was foolishly indulging in too much brandy and too many women—sly women like Natasha, for example, who could have killed him if she’d wanted to.

He’d allowed himself to be vulnerable—was acting like a dilettante, as a matter of fact—and it was now time to shore up his defenses. A discreet mountain of money to dispense as needed, a meek bride, and a boring title would help restore some stability to his otherwise topsy-turvy life.

“Fine, then,” he said, never afraid to admit he was wrong. “But I’ll do the thing on
my
terms.”

The Service and his obligation to it always won out in the end, but he had to throw in a bit of rebellious rhetoric to keep things amusing.

“You’re wise not to waste time lamenting the current state of affairs,” his impervious advisor said over his spectacles. “Lord Derby will meet you at White’s at eight o’clock so he can make his own assessment of you, as any good father would. If you pass muster—which I’m sure you will—you’ll go to the Grangerford ball on your own and do your duty. If all goes well, by the end of the evening, you’ll be betrothed.”