Mad About the Duke (28 page)

“Oh, I remember him very well. St. Maur. With that fine shiner of his. Ever wondered how it was that some petty-flogging solicitor sports something that looks like he'd been in a regular roust? No, I suppose you didn't, you stupid gel.”

I don't believe this,
she told herself. None of it. But she had to admit, she had wondered about the black eye.

Questioned much more than that.
Oh, no, this couldn't be.

“Doubt me all you want, but I tell you that fellow knew his way into one of the worst hells in London. You don't know that place unless you've played loose and deep with the best of them.”

“You're lying,” she said, waving her hand at him. “I'll not listen to another word.”

“You'd best listen,” he spat back at her. “Never seen the likes of him. Cool and cunning that one. Took trick after trick, like they was his before the hand had even begun.” The baron shoved his hands in his pockets and set his jaw. “Took everything I had. Everything…” The man lapsed into silence as if replaying the ruinous night in his mind.

Elinor staggered back.
What do you really know of him?

Nothing.

She hadn't asked for any references, just taken him at his word as to who he was.

Yes, he'd helped Lucy, but then again Lucy Sterling's friends were hardly good
ton
…most of them were usually only a quick step in front of Bow Street. Dangerous sorts who were not above…and she remembered Lucy's shocked reaction when Elinor had admitted hiring the man.

She gasped, her hand coming to her mouth.
This could all be true!

Could be
.
Consider who is telling you all this.

Lewis made an inelegant snort. “I can see from your face he's taken you in. Not that I care what happens to you, but I would like to see him set down a bit. And if you are forewarned, I'll bet you can do the trick. Set Hollindrake on him,” he suggested. “The bastard might not see that coming. But I'd be demmed careful. This St. Maur is a man used to winning. Used to getting what he wants.”

Used to getting what he wants.

Those words stopped her. For how many times had she felt the exact same way about St. Maur? That he was used to getting his own way, expected it.

Like a sharpster who always won.

Lewis edged closer, lowering his voice. “St. Maur knew exactly what he wanted last night—the brat's guardianship—knew what it was worth and where to find it. Did you do this? Did you put him up to stealing it from me?” He glanced over her gown and the diamonds, a cruel light glowing in his eyes.

“Me? Whatever are you talking about? There is no money in Tia's guardianship. You've said as much for years.”

He eyed her again, weighing her words. “So you
didn't know.” He laughed a bit. “Oh, there's money there. Or there was. It's his for the picking now.” Lewis shook his head and then snorted. “Course, I'm not the only one rolled up here. He's taken you as well. Cold comfort that.”

Elinor backed away, shaking her head. It was all too much to consider.

Lewis plopped his hat back on his head and went toward the door. “You'll need to find someone demmed clever and ruthless to save the brat now. Be surprised if he hasn't gambled her off or sold her by now and made a tidy profit from the entire venture. Hate to see good money go after bad, but I suppose it is worth it to see your face right now. You look just like your mother did when she learned the truth about me. Thought me her knight in shining armor. And I'd hazard a wager—if I had a shilling to me—that you thought that lying bastard St. Maur was yours. Seems all you've got left, Miss Hoity-Toity, is your mother's poor taste in men.”

“No, Elinor, no!” Minerva called out from above. “Don't listen to him!”

Lewis shrugged, then cackled as he wrenched open the door, letting in an icy breeze to cut through her broken heart.

Elinor dashed out the door after him. “You bastard! You wretched, evil devil!” she cried out, pummeling him with her fists, kicking at him with her slippered foot, though it pained her more than him. She followed him out to where a drab hackney waited. “How could you do this?”

He shoved her off, and she fell to the curb. “Because I could.” Then he got in and drove off, leaving her and his wake of misfortune far behind him.

Struggling to her feet, Elinor barely heard Minerva's quick steps down the stairs, or even the carriage that had rolled to a stop before her, for Lord Lewis's revelations rang through her thoughts like an entire carillon being pealed at once.

Ever wondered how it was that some petty-flogging solicitor sported something that looks like he'd been in a regular roust?

St. Maur knew exactly what he wanted…

You'll need to find someone demmed clever and ruthless to save the brat now…

“Madame,” the driver in the carriage called down. “Are you Lady Standon?”

Elinor closed her eyes for a moment and shook out the wayward thoughts. “Pardon?”

“Are you Lady Standon?”

“Yes. Yes, I am.”

He snapped his fingers at the tiger, and the other liveried servant bounded down to open the door with great flourish. “His Grace, the Duke of Longford has sent his carriage for you. With his compliments,” the driver said, bowing his head.

“Longford?” she asked, trying to piece this all together, taking in the elegant carriage, the fine servants. All the things money and power could provide. Oh, yes. Longford. His party. His invitation. And then she remembered something else. Exactly what she needed.

Someone demmed clever and ruthless.

Elinor straightened up. If there was anyone who might fit that description, she suspected it was the Duke of Longford. He'd know how to save Tia, stop St. Maur.

Ruin St. Maur.

“Thank you,” she said to the driver and nodded to the tiger, who held the door open for her as she climbed in.

Minerva stood on the steps of the house, pistol in hand. “Elinor Sterling! What are you thinking?”

“That I am going to put an end to all of this,” she declared before she leaned out and said to the driver, “carry on. Quickly. I don't want to keep His Grace waiting.”

The carriage jumped forward and left Brook Street before Minerva could stop her.

M
inerva shook her head, for she'd seen enough of the crest on the carriage to know where her friend was headed.

“Oh, this is what becomes of deceptions,” she muttered, having spent the better part of her life waiting for her own to fall down in a shambles at her feet.

But tonight it was not her disaster but Elinor's. Dear, headstrong, foolish Elinor.

She turned around and retreated back into the house, only to find Thomas-William standing in the foyer, eyeing the pistol in her hand.

The tall, imposing man rarely said anything, and he didn't now. Only raised one dark brow in an impertinent arch and held out his hand.

It was his pistol, after all.

“Yes, yes, I suppose you want it back.” Minerva glanced down at the weapon in her hand and then back out the door, where Elinor had raced off to Longford and his party. Oh, heavens, what if the
rumors were true and Elinor was leaping from the frying pan into the fire? “Did you hear what Lewis told Lady Sterling?”

He crossed his arms over his chest and snorted.

Apparently so. “I suppose you already know that St. Maur is the Duke of Parkerton,” Minerva surmised.

Again the ironic arch of the brow.

“Of course you do,” Minerva said, pacing about, the pistol in her hand. Why wouldn't he? He'd been George Ellyson's servant for years, and Lucy's father had been a master spy. “Seems everyone knows the truth but Elinor. Oh dear, what is to be done?”

“Stop her,” Thomas-William said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“How can I? I certainly can't go gallivanting into a private party at the Duke of Longford's, nor can you,” she said, throwing up her hands. A prim widow and a nearly seven-foot-tall African servant? They'd be more than a bit conspicuous.

Thomas-William shook his head. “Then send someone who can go.” The brow arched again, as if prompting her to the answer.

But of course! “Parkerton!” she gasped. “Will you help me get to him?”

“Aye, my lady, but I must ask a favor first.”

“Yes, yes, what is it?” she asked impatiently.

He held out his hand yet again. “My pistol.”

Minerva paused. “Oh, yes, I quite forgot.” She handed it over and Thomas-William let out a long, aggrieved sigh.

“But you must bring it with you,” she told him. “Because if I am wrong about Parkerton and he isn't the man I think he is, we may have to use it to force
his hand.” She smiled at Lucy's servant. “I have some experience in these sorts of matters. Your pistol came in quite handy recently.”

Thomas-William cringed. “My lady, one other favor, if I may.”

“Oh, heavens, what now?” Minerva asked.

“You promise not to tell me what you've been doing with my pistol.”

 

James paced about the foyer of his house in a high state of dudgeons.

Where the devil was his carriage? For that matter, where the hell was his staff?

His usually ordered house had gone as topsy-turvy as his life. And while falling in love with Elinor was an excellent result of his new outlook, this—he glanced around the empty foyer—was not.

“Whatever is wrong with everyone?” he muttered, stomping over to the bell and yanking it for the third time.

And still his summons was met with nothing but silence and not a single servant scurrying forth to see to his needs. Which were quickly going to turn into demands. And he was going to lose his temper.

His Tremont temper.

He pulled out his pocket watch and checked the time. He'd written Elinor that he would be by more than an hour ago. She must think him very rag-mannered indeed to keep her waiting so.

Yet this was how his entire day had been—nothing but delays. He'd been late for his meeting with the Bishop of London having had to wait for Richards to fix a jacket that had suddenly lost not one, but two, buttons.

In fact, nearly every jacket he owned was sud
denly missing buttons. His boots appeared to have all gone on long walks about the park on their own, for there wasn't a single pair that stood polished and ready. And his carriage, which was always outside and awaiting him—for Winston and Cantley saw to that—today had been as absent as the rest. Then, when his red-faced driver had finally arrived to take him to the bishop's office at Doctor's Commons, he'd explained his late arrival by saying he'd gotten lost.

Lost? Driving from the mews around the block to the front of the house?

James was starting to suspect a conspiracy.

His driver's tardy arrival had left him too late to meet the Bishop of London, for he'd just missed the man. So James had spent three hours cooling his heels waiting for the reverend fellow to return so as to ensure that the Special License James had procured would have nothing less than the bishop's signature upon it.

From Doctor's Commons they'd gone to Rundell and Bridges, only to find the shop was closing. It had taken some convincing and a bit of bribery, but James had finally convinced them to reopen—once he told them of his intention to buy a wedding ring. Then they'd gone by Oxford chapel to see the vicar and confirm that the man would be home this evening.

To perform a wedding ceremony. The ruffled vicar had been about to protest such a hasty event, but when he'd seen the Bishop of London's signature on the Special License, his protests had faded away like a Sunday sermon on temperance, especially since the bishop had also granted dispensation from having the ceremony performed in the morning, as was usual in these cases.

At least being a duke had some advantages, James realized, but today one of them seemed to be having a staff that had all gone on holiday.

He stalked over to the bell and yanked it as hard as he could. He was ready to be off. He'd propose to Elinor, carry her off to Oxford Chapel, be married without any fuss, and then they could start their new life together.

Beginning with a proper wedding night—no more stolen kisses, half passions, and assignations on the sly. But a night spent exploring the heady desires she brought out in him.

James paced distractedly about the floor, for he was getting ahead of himself. He needed to marry her first.

No. He needed to make a clean breast of things first. Then propose. Then marry her. He glanced over at the tall clock in the corner. Which he could hardly do when he was stuck here without a carriage!

He was of half a mind to walk over to Brook Street, but to what end? He couldn't very well ask his bride-to-be to walk to her own wedding.

His teeth ground together and he was about to ring the bell again when the doorbell jangled, startling him out of his reverie. Glancing up, he strained his ears to discern the tromp of boots from a footman, his housekeeper, a maid, anyone who might possibly remember that they were supposed to answer the door.

“Oh, this is just impossible,” he muttered and went to the door himself even as the bell rang again.

Opening it, he was immediately brushed aside by a woman, followed closely by a large Negro servant. “I must see His Grace immediately!” she demanded.

“What the devil!” he said, for he knew immediately who it was. “Lady Standon, what are you doing here?”

The woman paused, having come to a stop in the middle of the foyer, her servant flanking her. “Good heavens! Is that you, Parkerton? Answering your own door?” She huffed out a breath, then continued, “I do hope you aren't as nicked in the nob as the rest of your relations, for I need your help.”

And yes, Lady Standon, lovely to see you again as well,
he thought. Then the last of her words rang clear through his annoyance.
I need your help.

Which meant only one thing. Elinor!

“Where is she?” he said, crossing the space between them. “Is something wrong?”

“Well of course something is wrong!” Lady Standon exclaimed. “That is what I am trying to tell you. She's gone with Longford!”

“Longford?” And even as James was sputtering out the duke's name, it was being echoed by Jack and Miranda, who, having heard the cacophony of bells, were coming downstairs to see what all the fuss was about.

James shook his head furiously. “No, madame, you must have it wrong,” he told her. “She wouldn't go to him. When I wrote her this morning I expressly forbid her to do any such thing.”

From the bottom of the stairs, Jack snorted. “And she's listened to your ‘orders' before?”

Much to his consternation, he had no help from his sister-in-law and Lady Standon. The two women stood shoulder to shoulder, arms crossed over their chests, glaring at him.

Lady Standon shook her head furiously. “What letter, Your Grace? There was no letter.”

“Of course there was. I wrote it myself and gave it to Winston to have it delivered to her immediately.” Even as James said this, he saw Cantley and Fawley standing at the edge of the foyer. Except they weren't rushing in to do as they should be—serving this household: they were backing out of this mire as if it were…as if it were…

Then the entire day dawned with a new light. The delays. The problems. The misguided service at every turn.

“There might have been a letter,” Lady Standon was saying, “but it never arrived, Your Grace.”

No, he supposed it hadn't. Just like the rest of his notes to Elinor. And if the mirrored expressions of horror on Cantley's and Fawley's faces were any evidence, he knew just whom to blame.

“Fawley!” the duke called out in a low, dangerous voice.

The footman wavered, his legs wobbling as he came forward. He glanced over his shoulder at Cantley's stern expression and then back at his employer.

James's furious expression was enough to have the man spilling like an open bag of beans. “I wanted to, Your Grace, but I…that is, we all…we thought you'd gone—”

Now it was Cantley's turn to step forward. “Your Grace, we had your best interests at heart. We were only worried for your welfare. You haven't been yourself of late, and we feared you'd…that you'd…” He glanced over at Jack to make his point.

Miranda's mouth fell open. “You thought he'd gone mad! Oh, heavens, this is a disaster.”

Lady Standon wasn't done, for apparently to her a major rebellion among his staff played little part
in her immediate concerns. “Elinor believes you've played her false.”

“False?” James ruffled at such an insinuation. It was like being accused of being a cheat or a liar. Then he felt a moment of guilt. There was the small matter of his deception as St. Maur.

“Why ever would she think such a thing?” he brazened instead of conceding his own part in this mess.

“Because of what Lord Lewis told her tonight,” she said, her arms still folded over her chest.

“Lewis! Whatever could he say about me?”

Jack coughed and shuffled his feet together.

“Plenty! How you, well not you exactly, how St. Maur cheated him out of Tia's guardianship, and that you were a practiced sharp and had probably been after Elinor's money, as well as Tia's guardianship all this time. How you know your way around a gaming hell and played loo against him until all hours last night.”

James waved a hand at such fabrications. “Elinor would know that is all nonsense.”

“How would she?” This came from Miranda. Then she glanced over her shoulder at her husband. “A gaming hell? You told me the two of you went to White's last night.”

Jack groaned. “I didn't want you to worry.”

Her brows rose in arched disapproval. “Lord John Tremont, don't tell me you squandered our hard-earned money in one of those ruinous places last night.”

“No, indeed,” he replied. “I squandered Parkerton's money.”

“Oh, bother whose money was wasted last night,”
Lady Standon declared. “The point is that Lord Lewis did his devilish worst to poison Elinor's good opinion of you. She thinks you a terrible cheat and not the man she's fallen in love with.”

For all the horrible accusations flying about and the direness of the situation, James had only one question.

“She loves me?”

Lady Standon threw up her hands and huffed a sigh. “Well, she did up until about half an hour ago, but now she's run off to Longford's party to seek his favor.”

“Truly, she loves him?” This question came from Arabella, who had also heard the commotion and was coming down to discover what was about in their usually placid household. There was a soft light in her eyes that no one had ever seen glowing there.

“With all her heart,” Lady Standon told her.

“Oh, Father, you must go save her,” Arabella told him, glancing at the spot where her father had been standing.

But all that remained was an empty space, and then the sound of clattering hooves and the lurch of a carriage outside.

“Oh, good heavens, he's stolen our carriage,” Lady Standon said.

“Not again,” Jack groaned.

For the very mad Duke of Parkerton had raced off to save the lady he loved with all his heart.

 

When she arrived at the house where the Duke of Longford was holding his party, Elinor should have known that she'd made a very bad decision. Little Queen Street was in a part of London where, she
knew from whispers and outright gossip, men kept their mistresses.

Granted, the house was the largest on the block and was more of a size for entertaining than just housing a lady-love, but the address was still enough to send a shiver of trepidation down her spine.

Nor did the man at the door bat an eye that she was arriving without her cloak, without her pelisse. Instead, he handed her a mask and pointed up the stairs, where a hum of voices and the tinkle of music trickled down. No receiving line. No maids to scurry off with your wrap.

Just a thumb jerked up the stairs and a blank stare from the man, indicating that her disheveled arrival wasn't even worth a second glance.