Mad About the Duke (16 page)

He didn't know which was more disconcerting—the fact that there was no one there to see to his immediate needs (of which he had none) or that it had taken him half a dozen steps to realize the situation.

Then again, it wasn't like he was entirely alone, for here came Jack down the stairs in a great rush.

“There you are! And what of my cattle? My carriage?”

“At the stables,” James told him.

“But you came in on foot,” Jack said, arms crossed over his chest, brows raised. “Which means you either lost my horses and carriage, or they were stolen.”

Good heavens, when had his younger brother started looking and, heaven forbid, sounding like…like…him?

All accusations without the facts. Dear God, was he really this annoying?

“I drove them to the stables and then walked home,” James said as he tried to step around his brother, but Jack was back in his path.

“You walked?”

James had had enough of this. For now Jack was starting to sound like their father. “Yes, I walked. Now I need a bath and a change of clothes, for I have an appointment.”

He moved past his brother, all ducal dignity and older brother disdain moving him forward until Jack spoke again.

“What the devil did you do to my jacket?”

James cringed.
Demmit
. He had thought Jack wouldn't notice. He'd planned on having Richards undo all Lady Standon's handiwork so his brother wouldn't discover the alterations.

Because Jack, being Jack and all, would come right to the point and ask the one question James wanted to avoid.

What were you doing with your coat off?

The real question was what had he been doing when his coat had come back on, but having once been one of London's most disreputable rakes, Jack would assume that the only scandalous course of action had been with the coat off. And James would have assumed as much as well until an hour ago.

When he'd found himself drowning in that kiss with Lady Standon while putting his coat on.

“James, what happened to my coat?” Jack repeated.

Not the usual “Parkerton” or his mocking “Your Grace” but plain old “James.”

“Lady Standon thought it didn't fit properly—”

“Of course not, it's my coat!”

“Yes, well, she doesn't know that.”

Jack circled him like a farm dog, eyeing his jacket with growing displeasure. “You might have thought to tell her.”

“Now you know I couldn't do that,” James said in his defense.

Planting himself right in front of James, Jack took a stance that spoke of stubborn determination. The sort that had kept the Tremonts afloat amidst their lesser qualities for centuries. “Why ever not?”

It was a good, some might even say sensible, question.

Why not tell her?

James shuffled his feet a bit and stared at a spot over Jack's shoulder. Well, what could he say? Certainly not the truth.

Jack, I cannot tell Lady Standon the truth because then she might not let me kiss her again.

“James, what did she do to my coat?”

Again, telling the truth would also tell Jack that he'd stripped off his coat in her presence, and that was a slippery slope if ever there was one.

“I'll get you a new one,” he offered. “I'll get you a dozen new coats, just leave off, Jack.”

“I will not!”

“Good God, Jack, it is just a coat. There is no need to sputter about like Aunt Josephine.”

“I don't want a new coat. Not even a closet full. I like that one,” his brother said with mulish determination. “The way it was.”

If only James could explain that it was worth the sacrifice.

But he hadn't the courage. For he didn't quite understand it himself. One moment he was off on this lark of an adventure, helping Lady Standon find her future husband, and the next he was kissing her.

Devouring her…crossing men off her list until there was only one name left.

He glanced up and found Jack gaping at him, almost as if he'd guessed the truth.

Which, of course, he had.

“And while my jacket was being ruined, what were you doing, James? Without it on?” His brows cocked up and he gave his brother a wry look.

Demmit! It was no good having a brother who'd been the most ruinous rake who'd ever lived.

Luckily for James, this inquisition came to an abrupt end with the arrival of Miranda.

Never in his life had he been more happy to see his busybody sister-in-law.

Miranda came down the stairs, saying, “Parkerton, you've returned. Safe and sound. Goodness, the way Jack was acting it was as if you'd run off and joined a tribe of gypsies.” Coming to a stop next to her husband, her sharp gaze flitted from one man to the other and came back to rest on James. “Do tell, what did you discover about Lady Standon today?” Then she glanced around the empty foyer. “Good heavens, where is the staff? And whatever are you doing standing out here? Come, let us go in the front room and ring for some tea. I suspect you are famished!”

“He looks rather sated to me,” Jack said under his breath as Miranda turned and led the way to the salon.

“Jack!” James said, warning his brother off.

Again, Miranda glanced at the two of them and James did his best not to shuffle his feet or glance away. Mad Jack's wife was as sharp as her
cit
father had been reputed to be, and she'd see through any attempt at subterfuge.

“Whatever are you two muttering on about? I want to hear what Parkerton learned about Lady Standon today.”

“Oh, yes, James,” Jack said. “Do tell.
All of it
.” He smirked at his brother and made a pointed glance at his jacket.

Miranda ignored both of them, pulled the bell, then took a seat, folding her hands in her lap and sitting with the perfect posture of a former teacher waiting for a student to make a report.

“She has a fondness for red gowns,” James said.

“In them or out?” Jack said quietly as he walked past James and took his seat next to his wife.

“Red, you say?” Miranda replied. “I wouldn't have thought so of Lady Standon. But I must say, now that I think about it, a good crimson would suit her admirably.”

“Admirably” was hardly the word James would use. More like splendidly. Passionately. Seductively.

“Anything else?” Miranda prompted, interrupting the images flitting through his imagination.

Elinor moving through a crowded ballroom in that gown. Of her leading him to some secluded hideaway. Of that gown falling to the floor…

“Parkerton?” Miranda said again.

“Father, you're finally home,” came a voice from the doorway.

Arabella. Looking every inch the regal lady.

He smiled at her, which he didn't do often. She really was his pride and joy. Not that he wanted her to know that. She'd take advantage of him mercilessly if she knew how fond he was of her.

She sat down on the chair next to his and smiled back. “The way Uncle Jack was telling the story, you'd gone round the bend and most likely would end up in a ditch in Chelsea.”

“I hardly think—” He didn't have time to correct her before she continued.

“Did you really go to Petticoat Lane? I daresay, Uncle Jack is being a terrible tease with such shameful lies about—”

“I did.”

Arabella stilled, her mouth falling open. She gaped at him as if he'd grown a second head. “Whatever were
you
doing
there
?”

“Escorting Lady Standon while she shopped.”

“She shops in Petticoat Lane?” Arabella's features ran from shock to horror.

“Apparently many people do,” he informed her. “It is just not mentioned in polite Society.”

“Is that true?” she asked Miranda, whom she considered the all-encompassing expert on the realm beyond the
ton
.

Miranda nodded. “Yes, people from all levels of Society are known to frequent the Sunday markets. Especially since one can get anything there—and get it cheaply. Gowns, laces, ribbons, silks, stockings.”

“Coats?” Jack posed just to be annoying.

No one else got the joke, for Miranda answered as if the question had been in earnest. “Yes. But a good many of the items you find aren't just pawned by maids and valets for their down-on-their-luck employers but are stolen goods. So one must have a care.”

Arabella shuddered. “Sounds a dreadful muddle. I believe I will keep my shopping to Bond Street.”

“Advice you might consider, Parkerton,” Jack said, as Cantley came into the room.

“Ah, Cantley, a tea tray would be excellent,” Miranda told him, giving him a complete list of what she wanted. When the man left, she looked around. “Where were we?”

“Parkerton's shopping expedition,” Jack reminded her.

“Yes, yes,” Miranda said, turning back to James. “You were telling us all about Petticoat Lane, which is well and good, but I want to hear more about Lady Standon.”

“Yes, do tell us more about Lady Standon,” Arabella said, sitting back in her chair and folding her arms over her chest. “She seems to be occupying an inordinate amount of your attentions of late.”

James glanced over at his daughter and could see a hint of the same inquisitive, knowing glimmer that had been in Jack's eyes earlier.

What the devil did his daughter know about these things?

He made a note to speak privately to Miranda about this later. After all, James had summoned Jack and his wife to London to help him keep a good eye on Arabella.

“Father, you can't be serious about this? About finding this lady a husband. It's just a lark, isn't it?”

James shuffled a bit. “Well, I—”

Arabella's eyes widened. “Oh, so she's to have a husband while every likely gentleman who enters this house to court me is given the choice between a long Continental tour or, if he becomes too insistent, a one-way passage to Botany Bay?”

“It isn't at all like that—,” he began.

Arabella rose to her feet and glared at him. Just the same way Jack had done when he'd spied his remade jacket.

“Arabella,” Miranda said gently, but firmly, “your father is doing the lady a favor. She hasn't your advantages.”

“I don't see that I have any when there isn't a man alive in England who will risk my father's wrath to come calling.”

“Then they don't deserve you,” James told her.

“
Harrumph
!” Arabella sputtered.

“What else did you discover about Lady Standon, Your Grace?” Miranda prompted politely.

If there was one thing about his sister-in-law, she had a way of managing conversations and people that kept a tense situation from becoming an outright shindy.

“I discovered she likes the country,” he said.

Arabella yawned. “She shops secondhand and prefers the country. She sounds the veritable perfection.” She shuddered at the very thought of either inclination. “She'll make some mushroom of a baron the perfect bride.”

James turned to his daughter. “She also possesses an unpardonable scamp of a sister who reminds me of someone else I know. Perhaps the two of you would enjoy a long sojourn in a Swiss convent?”

This threat had been used too many times to be effective, and Arabella took it with the same concern as she might his other one—to marry her off to an American.

Cantley returned with several footmen and maids behind him bearing the tea trays. All of it was artfully arranged and precisely ordered, but James found himself looking for a pile of misshaped scones that smelled of heaven.

Following this parade of food and offerings came Winston, fluttering about at the doorway as if he couldn't decide whether or not to interrupt this unscheduled tea.

James glanced up at him. “Yes, Winston?”

“Your Grace, it is nearly four.”

Four? Why, he was supposed to meet with Avenbury at half past. James bolted up from his chair.
“Dear God, man. Why didn't you tell me sooner! I'll be late.”

“I didn't know you'd returned. This morning's errand wasn't on your schedule.” There was a hint of a scold—a rebellion of sorts—in Winston's voice that James had never heard before.

And while before that might have been grounds for dismissal, James realized the man was just doing his job—and he was running late.

“Not following your schedule, Father?
Tsk tsk,
” Arabella added.

“Oh, yes, speaking of my schedule,” James said, snapping his fingers. “Winston, Tuesday I am going on a picnic. Adjust my schedule accordingly. And Arabella, borrow a gown from your maid. Or better yet, one of the scullery maids. For I want you to attend as well.”

Arabella's mouth fell open. “A gown from one of the scullery maids? I will not.” Apparently that notion was more grievous than the idea of a picnic in the middle of February.

“Yes, you will. We'll discuss the particulars over supper.”

“Then I am not having supper,” Arabella said, setting her heels. “Besides, I have plans for Tuesday.”

“Change them,” he told her.

But Arabella was a Tremont through and through. “Father, I'll have no part in this masquerade of yours. I'll not help you court this Lady Standon.”

“I am not courting Lady Standon,” he told her.

“
Harrumph
!” Arabella snorted, sounding very like Aunt Josephine, whom unfortunately his daughter took after. “Courting, I say! Don't think half the
ton
didn't see what the two of you were doing in the gardens at the Setchfield ball. The only comfort is that
no one knows it was you who was making a cake of himself. Really, Father! At your age! I would think you would be well and done with such things.” With that she flounced out of the room in a great huff.

There was an awkward moment in the room before Winston dared to make a discreet cough.