How the Duke Was Won (2 page)

He kissed her neck.

“Let me go.”

“Don't you want the things I can give you?” He sounded genuinely puzzled. “Aren't you tired of wearing sackcloth and smelling of lye? I'll bring you to live in luxury. You'll have silks and French perfume.”

And she would be owned, kept for a man's pleasure. She would never let that happen.

“Let me go,” she repeated, staring him straight in the eye.

“No. I've waited too long for this.”

Wait until his energy is full
. Kyuzo's words echoed in her mind.
Use his energy against him. In that way you have the strength of two
.

She turned her face to avoid his kiss. He clamped one large hand around her throat and forced her back to face him.

Soon.

Wait. Breathe.

Now.

Swiftly, she stepped back, following Kyuzo's instructions.
Place both hands around the hand that holds your throat. Bend backward, away from harm. Twist his wrist. Lock your elbow above his elbow. Right foot to left foot. Force him down.

“What the devil?” Grant's right knee hit the floor. He grunted in surprised pain, his arm bent at an awkward angle.

She could snap his elbow from this position.

Breathe. No anger.

She applied more pressure to his weak, extended elbow, forcing his other knee down to the floor. “I'm not yours for the taking.”

“You don't decide that,” he gasped, struggling against the arm lock.

“Charlene.” Kyuzo burst into the room. “I heard a noise.”

Charlene released the baron.

Grant stumbled to his feet, cradling his elbow and wrist against his chest. He glared at Kyuzo. “I see you still have your mongrel protector.”

Kyuzo's arms crossed over the formidable chest that had convinced her mother to hire him as a guard. “Miss Beckett said you were leaving.”

Charlene gathered the baron's top hat, gloves, and overcoat, and thrust them into Grant's arms.

Kyuzo took the baron's elbow, but Grant wrenched free. “Don't touch me.” His brown eyes turned nearly black. “I'll be back to collect my due.”

“I'd think twice about coming back if I were you,” Kyuzo growled. “Go on with you then.” He steered the baron out the door ahead of him.

Charlene's spine remained rigid until she heard them descending the stairs. She staggered against the wall, her knees buckling.

Grant would be back.

Even with taking in washing and selling Lulu's paintings, they hadn't saved nearly enough to repay the loan and the exorbitant interest he'd charged.

As her breathing returned to normal, Charlene searched her mind for a solution. She must find a way to settle their debt, close the house, protect Lulu from Grant.

She'd find a way.

She had to.

 

Chapter 2

S
haking out her skirts and smoothing her hair, Charlene took the lamp and headed back downstairs. Kyuzo had resumed his post by the front door.

“Impressive.” Kyuzo's eyes crinkled up around the edges. “You used
Ude Gatame
.”

Charlene smiled. “I had an impressive teacher.”

Fifteen years ago, Kyuzo had escaped from the Dutch merchant vessel that stole him from a fishing village in Japan and forced him into unpaid servitude. He'd survived on the streets of London with only his wits and fighting prowess to earn a living.

It was his knowledge of the traditional Japanese art of
Jujitsu
that had secured him the position of guard. Over the years, Charlene had helped the older man improve his English language skills and, in return, he'd taught her basic defensive techniques to safeguard herself against the unwelcome advances of the titled gentlemen who came to the Pink Feather for sport.

Charlene drew a shuddering breath. “He'll be back, Kyuzo. And he won't come alone.”

“I know. We'll be ready. Don't worry.”

There was a knock at the door. Charlene's breathing quickened. “Grant again?” she whispered.

Kyuzo shook his head. “He wouldn't knock.”

Charlene slid the viewing panel open and peered out at the tall, imposing man and black-­cloaked woman standing on the stoop. Their clothing was expensive and their demeanor impatient. They were nobility, and unaccustomed to being kept waiting.

“May I help you?” she asked.

The man spoke into the open panel. “We have a private matter to discuss.”

Not a threat, Charlene decided, unlatching the door.

“Miss Charlene Beckett?” the man asked.

Charlene paused. How did they know her name? “What brings you here?”

“You,” the woman said.

Beside her, Kyuzo's shoulders stiffened.

“I'm not available.” Charlene was so weary of clients who assumed she was one of the commodities for sale.

The woman lowered her hood, and Charlene's heart hammered into her throat. She recognized the stern profile and pale blue eyes. Lady Desmond. Her mother had pointed her out one day when they'd been shopping on Bond Street.

“You know who I am,” the countess said. It wasn't a question.

Charlene nodded.

“Come here.”

The imperious order carried Charlene toward the countess before she knew she was moving.

Lady Desmond gripped her chin. “Dismal light in here.” She turned Charlene's face toward the tallow candles burning in sconces along the hallway. “What say you, Jackson? Will she do?”

“It's uncanny, your ladyship. She could be Lady Dorothea's twin.”

“Precisely.” The countess squeezed Charlene's cheeks until her mouth popped open. “All her teeth. And passably white, too. I must say I am surprised.”

Charlene jerked away and stood next to Kyuzo.

“She's a bit fleshier, though.” The countess cocked her head to one side, measuring with her eyes. “But I'll be able to squeeze her into Dorothea's gowns. She'll do, Jackson. She'll do.”

“I really must bid you good evening, your ladyship.” Charlene sketched the barest of curtsies and gestured to the door.

When they didn't move, Charlene glanced at Kyuzo and tapped one finger to her wrist—­their signal that these visitors were unwelcome.

Kyuzo took a step forward.

The countess held up her hand. “Send your guard away. We need privacy. I have a matter to discuss that could prove extremely lucrative for you.”

“Anything you have to say you will say now, and Mr. Yamamoto stays.”

Kyuzo eyed Jackson and widened his stance. “I stay.”

“Very well.” The countess extended one elegant, white-­gloved hand toward Charlene. “I know you are unhappy here. Let me help you.”

Charlene hugged her arms to her chest. “You don't know anything about me.”

“On the contrary, I make it my business to study all of my husband's by-­blows. The ones he acknowledges, and the ones he does not.” Lady Desmond inhaled sharply, as if the subject pained her. “You are of particular interest because you are nearly identical to my own daughter, Lady Dorothea.”

The earl's legitimate daughter. Her half sister. Charlene had often thought about Lady Dorothea and wondered what her life was like in her fashionable house in St. James's, worlds away from the chaos and grime of Covent Garden.

“You have put up a brave struggle,” the countess said. “But it's only a matter of time before you are forced to follow in your unfortunate mother's footsteps. Sell yourself. Become a bawd. And Luisa, such an artistic child. What will be her fate? Have you thought about that?”

Of course Charlene had thought about it. Lulu was still an innocent. She lived in a world of her own creation, intent on the miniature portraits she loved to paint, blissfully unaware of their home's improprieties. Charlene would do anything to keep her from learning the truth.

Countess Desmond reached inside her reticule and extracted a thin, rectangular piece of paper. Candlelight caught and held gold-­embossed words and gilded edges. “This is your golden opportunity. An invitation from the Duke of Harland, issued to only four young ladies in all of London.”

“How is that relevant?”

The countess handed Charlene the paper. “The invitation is for Lady Dorothea, who happens to be on a ship returning from Italy.” She narrowed her pale blue eyes. “I refuse to let the trifling fact that she is not here ruin my daughter's chance of becoming a duchess. You were born to play this role, my girl. You will use your . . .
arts
. . . to snare the duke. He will be forced to marry my daughter. She will become a duchess.”

Charlene suppressed a hiccup of disbelieving laughter. “You want me to seduce a duke? While pretending to be your daughter?”

“If you must put it so crudely, then yes. It's really very simple. Three days of acting for enough coin to achieve your dreams. What is it you want most?”

That was easy. “Pay our debts, close the Pink Feather, and open a respectable boardinghouse.” Her mother's health was worsening. She couldn't sustain the long hours she worked. Charlene would run the boardinghouse. Save vulnerable young girls from prostituting themselves, save them from predators like Grant. “And I want to purchase a painting apprenticeship for my sister.”

“Well then,” said the countess with a slight smile. “Is that all? Jackson.”

Jackson drew a packet from inside his coat. “Her ladyship has anticipated your requests. Here is a letter of introduction for your sister to Mrs. Anna Hendricks of Essex, an elderly miniaturist whose eyesight is failing and who has need of a gifted young apprentice.”

His gaze traveled to the countess for a moment, as if he were giving her time to stop him. When she did not, he continued. “This is in addition to the one thousand pounds her ladyship will settle upon you should you succeed.”

Charlene gasped. The countess must truly be desperate. They'd have the wherewithal to pay Grant and open a boardinghouse in a decent neighborhood.

How did they know so much about her and Lulu? It was downright sinister.

“Well?” asked the countess.

Charlene shook her head. “I was raised for . . .
this life
. I can't pass for a lady.”

“No matter how you were raised, the blood of emperors flows in your veins, however tainted or diluted.”

Charlene squared her shoulders. She'd already booted a baron. She refused to be cowed by a countess. “If I am so
tainted,
how do you expect to fool the other ladies, who, I assume, are acquainted with Lady Dorothea?”

“Only one of them knows her, and not well. The other two have never met her.”

“And the duke? Surely he's met Lady Dorothea before?”

“He's been living abroad for a decade and only recently inherited the title. They say he's brutish, more pirate than gentleman. But I daresay you're adept at handling difficult men.”

This was all too preposterous. Charlene held out her ungloved hands. “Do you see these? I earn my keep in this house doing the bookkeeping and some of the washing. Can a girl with these hands entice a duke?”

“Pish,” countered the countess. ­“People see only what they expect to see. A duke is no exception. A few days under my tutelage will suffice to transform you.”

The determination in her icy blue eyes made it clear that the countess believed herself omnipotent.

Kyuzo gestured for Charlene to walk a few steps with him. He turned his back on the countess and whispered in Charlene's ear. “Ask her what are the terms if you fail. If the duke doesn't propose. You need to be paid either way or it's not worth the risk.”

“You're right,” Charlene agreed. They returned to Jackson and the countess.

“What are the terms if I don't secure a proposal?” Charlene asked. “What then?”

Jackson set his lips disapprovingly. “Her ladyship has established terms that you will find more than satisfactory. One hundred guineas now, yours to keep even if you fail to procure a proposal.”

He shook the purse. There was the metallic sound of coin against coin. The music that ruled her mother's world. The sound of a girl being sold.

“If you succeed, the full payment. Contingent upon the promise that you will never contact her ladyship, or any member of her family, and will accompany Miss Luisa to Essex for the period of at least one month after the conclusion of the contract.”

Charlene wavered. This could be the answer to her prayers.

“It's only five days, Miss Beckett,” urged the countess. “We must begin your training this very night. You may send your family a letter of explanation in the morning, making no mention of my name or your mission, of course. I require absolute secrecy.”

“You there, Yamamoto, is it?” Jackson tossed a smaller purse to Kyuzo. “Here's something for your silence. If I hear you've been spreading tales, you'll answer to me.”

The lines around Kyuzo's mouth deepened as he examined the contents of the pouch. “You call this a bribe, Sir? Twenty guineas? I could win twice that at the gambling tables tonight.”

Charlene had to grin at the shocked expression on Jackson's face. Clearly he hadn't expected any resistance.

“I highly doubt you have the wherewithal to command such large sums,” Jackson said disdainfully. “You'll be happy with what I gave you.”

Kyuzo pretended to reconsider the offer. Then he smiled. “I wonder. Do you think The Times might be interested in this little story?” The smiled dropped off his face. “Fifty guineas and count yourself lucky.”

“This is outrageous,” Jackson exclaimed.

Kyuzo shrugged. “A man's got to save for retirement.”

“Oh just pay him, Jackson,” the countess said impatiently. “Come along, Miss Beckett, we haven't a moment to lose.”

There was a noise from the stairway. Lulu appeared at the top of the stairs, fragile and pale, her long red hair, so different from Charlene's blonde locks, covering her thin shoulders. “Charlene? Are you coming to bed?”

Charlene hurried to the foot of the stairs. “Go back to bed, sweetheart. Everything is fine.” She smiled reassuringly. Her sister appeared so much younger than her fourteen years.

“It's late.” Lulu's hazel eyes were filled with concern. “Who are these ­people?”

“Come along, Miss Beckett. We must leave,” Jack­son said.

Kyuzo joined Charlene. “Don't worry. Luisa will be safe.”

“What if Grant returns?” Charlene whispered.

“I'll hire another guard while you're gone. Go now.” Light danced in his eyes. “That poor duke doesn't have any idea who's coming for him. You can do this.”

She
had
to do this. There was no other alternative.

She took Lulu's hand. “Sweetheart, I'm going on a short journey. Nothing to worry about. I'll be home in a matter of days.” She forced herself to look away. The questions in her sister's eyes would have to wait.

Kyuzo guided Lulu back up the stairs.

Charlene closed her eyes, just for one heartbeat, then followed the countess and Jackson to the waiting carriage.

She could act the lady if she had to. She'd been groomed to become an exclusive courtesan, and even though she'd rejected the role, she spoke French, played the pianoforte, and knew the proper forms of address for titled, pleasure-­seeking gentlemen.

She glanced back at the house. Candlelight flickered in the upstairs windows, outlining the curvaceous silhouette of Dove, her mother's favorite. Mama was there as well, oblivious to her daughter's desperate bargain.

As Charlene settled onto the carriage's opulent silk cushions, she ran a finger over the gold lettering on the invitation.
The Favor of Lady Dorothea Beaumont's Company is requested at Warbury Park by His Grace. . .

The Duke of Harland.

He probably wore stays to control a rotund belly, oiled his moustache, and had a custom snuff blend. And because he was born to privilege and obscene wealth, he thought nothing of ruining and discarding females as casually as he changed coats for dinner.

The same egotistical, autocratic bully she'd dealt with so many times.

But what alternative did she have?

They traveled the short distance to St. James's in silence. Before they reached the front gate of the earl's town house, Jackson rapped on the carriage ceiling and gestured for Charlene to follow him out. He took her around to the servant's entrance and smuggled her up the back stairs, shrouded in the countess's black cloak.

“This is Lady Dorothea's room,” he whispered, glancing up and down the hallway before bringing her into the chamber. “Lady Desmond will be here soon.” He handed Charlene a leather-­bound copy of
Debrett's Peerage.
“Study this,” he said, and left.