The Perfect Duke (10 page)

“What?” Wariness added to the collection of emotions.

“Once this whole affair has settled, I want you to return with me to Belcraven.”

“I’ve already told—”

“Only until summer’s end. Then, if you choose, you can come back here.” He moved closer, until he could feel the warmth of his own breath as it hung in the air between them. “Think what it will mean to Rachel. Without you, she’ll be left in
my
questionable care.”

He could see the battle waging in her expression. “I’ll even make sure the vicar has someone to take care of him in your absence.”

She closed her eyelids and angled her face away from him. “I’ll return with you.” Her eyes opened and she met his gaze. “However, only after we find the children.”

“Do you promise?” The puff of air from the word
promise
stirred her silken hair.

“Yes.”

“I want to hear you say the words.”

“I promise I’ll return with you to Belcraven.” A challenge gleamed in her eyes. “For the summer only.”

“As you see, I believe promises should be kept.” When he spoke, his lips nearly brushed hers. “I’ve not touched you, though anytime you feel the need to be kissed or caressed in any way, I shall be happy to oblige.” At her little gasp, he drew back.

Her horrified expression amused him. She ducked under his arm and escaped up the stairs without a backward glance.

Satisfaction filled him. Now all he had to do was find out what happened to those damn students. She’d keep her word, and once they’d returned to Belcraven, he’d be in control.

And the Prince felled the hideous beast. Though he’d fought well, he knew he would be tested by other trials before he could reach the castle.

Sleeping Beauty

Cara felt Tess’s disapproval as her friend pointed to a bench. “Let’s sit for a while. I’m weary of shopping.”

They approached the ornate seat located near St. Mary-Le-Bow’s church. Papa admired Wren’s design, based on the Basilica of Maxentius at Rome, but she loved the dragon weathercock on the steeple. As a child, she used to imagine it would come to life at night and soar the skies, returning to its perch during the day.

They sat. She tried to pretend to an interest in the hawkers selling their wares. A fruit vendor stood closest to them. She could almost smell the lemons and oranges over the baked goods and less agreeable odors.

“Well?” Tess had that determined tinge to her voice.

Cara sighed and turned to her friend, who appeared very regal in her yellow-and-white-striped gown with its matching hat.

“What’s wrong?” Tess raised her eyebrow. “You haven’t been the same since you returned from your post as a governess. Didn’t things go well with your duke?”

“He’s not my duke.” She tried to keep the disappointment out of her voice. “As a matter-of-fact, he’s going to be getting married.”

“Oh.” Tess held the word a little too long.

“What do you mean ‘Oh’? And don’t you dare say ‘I told you so.’”

“I did warn you.” Tess gave her a sympathetic smile. “I knew you’d think of him as your prince, but just because the newssheets portrayed him as a dashing figure, didn’t mean you should become entangled.”

“I’m not entangled.”
Yet.
What would her friend think if she told her the duke had followed her home?

Tess sighed. “I wish you weren’t such a romantic. You need to be practical.” She started to count off several points on her fingers. “First, you’re too far apart socially. Second, you have no dowry. And third, from what I understand about the duke, he wants a woman who is his equal in every way. You’ve been trained, but would you really want to live up to the expectations of the Ton?”

“Perhaps not.”

With her hand over her heart, Tess’s voice took on the dramatic tone she used on the stage. “I fall in love with my leading men all the time. I’m sure we are destined to be together.” She dropped her pose and resumed her normal voice. “But it’s not real.”

“I never said I was in love.”

“No, you didn’t.” Tess gave a slight shake of her head. “I think perhaps it’s best you’ve returned. A man like the duke would simply take what he wanted, then move on, even though it would ruin you.” She leaned forward, as if asking Cara to believe her. “I know. His type regularly approach me at the theatre.”

“How do you keep them at bay?”

Tess’s mischievous smile reminded her of when they were children. How she loved to take chances. “I never give them my heart. That way, I’m never tempted to lose my virtue.” Her grin gave way to a thoughtful expression. “You need to find a sensible suitor and marry him. You want a family, I know you do. Forget about this ideal man your searching for. He doesn’t exist.”

Cara closed her eyes, picturing Garret’s arrogant features. Only the smile differed from her dream lover. Garret never smiled, at least at her.

“You’re right.” She opened her eyes, then brushed at a spot of dirt on her serviceable blue gown. “I need to move on with my life.

Tess touched her arm. “I think it’s for the best. There are so many men who are interested in you, Mr. Russell, that school instructor, even the blacksmith’s son. Why not give them a chance?”

“I know I should.” She met her friend’s gaze, but she couldn’t seem to feel enthusiastic at the prospect of searching for a husband.

Tess must have sensed her reticence. “Then you’ll start encouraging them? Promise me.”

“I promise.” She painted on what she hoped was a convincing smile, but doubted it fooled her friend, the actress. “Shall we walk over to Bread Street and purchase some of the tarts you’re so fond of?”

“Let’s.”

Cara could always count on her friend’s appetite to prove a distraction. However, the expression on Tess’s face told her that the subject wasn’t going to be dropped.

How would Garret react to her actively seeking a husband? He’d probably get annoyed and return to Regina, while Cara would long for the things only he seemed to inspire in her, at least judging from last night.

The thought of his pursuit in front of the fire sent excitement coursing through her body. He’d stood so close she could smell the brandy he’d had after dinner. Her back had felt warm from the fire, but a different kind of heat emanated from his muscled frame, making her believe she’d go up in flames at any moment. His smoldering gaze and low-pitched voice had brought back in vivid detail each time he’d kissed her. He hadn’t touched her, but in that instant when their breath mixed, she’d almost leaned in to kiss him.

Frustrated, she forced her thoughts elsewhere. She had to find her missing students soon, before Garret wore her down. She’d talk to Michael. If he had any information, then perhaps she could use it to set some kind of a trap for the abductor.

Once she no longer had the children to worry about, she’d return to her position as Rachel’s governess, just as she’d promised. She and Papa needed the funds, and it would do her good to see Garret back in his element. At Belcraven, he’d no doubt become the arrogant, demanding, and
unapproachable
, Duke of Kendal. Surely that would end her fascination with him.

“I never took it. Tommy gave me ‘is lucky piece.”

Cara watched Michael run a hand over his matted hair. He’d never be able to comb his fingers through the filthy curls. She sighed. Cleanliness seemed to be the hardest lesson for her children to grasp.

“I’m not saying you took the coin, Michael. But I know how important it was to Tommy. You were his best friend. He’d never let you have it unless he thought there was going to be trouble.”

“I promised I wouldn’t say nothin’ to anyone.” He sat there, kicking his heel against the leg of the office chair.

“Even me?”

Behind all the bravado, fear lurked in his dark brown eyes.

She scooted a chair across from his and sat down. “You know Tommy would want you to tell me what’s going on. He’s in trouble.”

“Don’t know that fer sure. The gent said Tommy wouldn’t be commin’ back, but he’d be goin’ to the country to work fer some rich lady. Gave ‘im twenty shillin’s an’ a new set o’ clothes.” He sounded like he was trying to convince himself.

“What gent?”

“He warned me I wouldn’t be chosen if’n I told. Then I wouldn’t be able to give Tommy back ‘is lucky piece.”

Cara leaned closer and held Michael’s gaze. “I want you to listen to me. He told Tommy that story to get him to go. Don’t you think if it were suitable employment, they would have spoken with me first?”

He shook his head. “The gent said you wouldn’t like the lady, but that she were willin’ to pay a high price fer us that were instructed here.”

Fear and anger vied for supremacy as she pondered his words. They’d used her training,
her school
, to lure the children. “Michael, have I ever lied to you?”

“No, Miss McClure. You always tells us the truth.”

“Then listen to me now. This is a very wicked man Tommy’s gone with.”

His eyes grew wider as what she said appeared to register. “So Tommy, an’ the others—”

“Have been taken.”

Michael stood, nearly knocking his chair over. “I’ve gots to find ‘im.”

She reached up and rested her hands on his shoulders. When had he grown so tall and strong? He was only thirteen. She held firm as he attempted to twist out of her grasp. “Michael, wait.” Her breath came in short gasps as she struggled to restrain him. “What do you think you can do? Running off won’t help. I need you to give me a description.”

With an exasperated cry, he moved away and ran his hands over his hair, leaving them clasped along the back of his neck. “He looks like every other bloke.”

“I’m sure there must be something to distinguish him. Relax. Think.”

He closed his eyes and his features contorted into a mask of concentration. At last he dropped his pose and opened his eyes. “He’s got dark hair an’ a hooked nose, ‘pears like it’s been broke. Dresses fancy an’ wears lots of rings. I only saw him the once with Tommy. He had us meet ‘im on a side street off Drury Lane.”

“How tall was he? As tall as Mr. Stone?”

Michael’s expression became guarded. “No.” He moved closer to her. “You won’t tell the new instructor about this. Will you? You an’ I can find the gent.”

“Don’t you like Mr. Stone?”

“I don’t like the way ‘e looked at you in class the other day. Yer too good fer the likes of ‘im.”

“Michael, I think you’re imagining things.”

“Not bloody likely.”

“You know I won’t tolerate that language.”

He studied the floor, his toe nudging a loose board.

She crossed to him and lifted his chin, then smiled and brushed the hair off his forehead, the way she’d done since he was nine. “You may not like your new instructor, but he could be a great help in finding Tommy and the others.”

“You like ‘im, don’t you?” Michael’s accusing stare made her uncomfortable.

“Of course I like him. He’s been gracious enough to volunteer at the school.”

“That’s not what I mean.” His pleading expression tore at her heart. “Don’t tell ‘im about this. Let’s just keep it as our secret.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Fine.” He broke away from her, hurt written clearly on his features. “You and
Mr. Stone
can search for the gent. But I’m gonna find ‘im first. Then you’ll ‘ave to admit that I’m the better man.”

“Michael.” If he heard, he didn’t stop, but ran out the door. What on earth had gotten into the boy? He couldn’t leave like that. She hurried after his retreating form as he bounded down the school’s steps and headed up the street. Fear added speed to her pursuit. If he got into mischief, it would be her fault.

“We’re being followed.” Morgan’s deep voice carried over the hubbub on Tottenham Court Road.

Garret glanced back and caught a glimpse of a belligerent face and matted hair before the child ducked into an alley. He seemed familiar. Then he pictured the boy standing on a bench, inciting the others. “It’s one of the students. I’m afraid I angered him yesterday. But he’s not a threat.”

Laughter danced in Morgan’s eyes. “You’re good with children, aren’t you? Did you enjoy your class?”

He was saved from replying because they’d come to Featherwell’s Academy. As he followed Morgan into the surprisingly modest space, his stomach recoiled at the sour smell of vomit, sweat, and roasting meat. Who could possibly have an appetite with this stench?

Ancient beams, black with soot from the flambeaux, arched overhead, giving the room a dim, shabby appearance. An eclectic group of men sat at a cluster of tables, watching the current bout. They must have had some wager on the outcome, for now and again they’d toss out a yell of encouragement for their favorite, some brandishing the bones from their meal. No wonder his instructor had chosen not to be involved in the clubs.

Garret masked his distaste for the clientele and followed Morgan to an empty table. They sat and ordered ale from a wraith of a woman who didn’t look capable of carrying one mug, let alone the three she’d set down on a nearby table. After she left, he noted his companion had chosen a location near the steps leading to the ring.

The raised stage ate up the majority of the space. Four men stood on the plank platform. Two, obviously the contestant’s seconds, watched from the perimeter, ready to lend their man assistance.

The current opponents weren’t evenly matched and in very short order the larger fighter landed a punch to his adversary’s chest, felling him like a bird of prey dropping from the sky. Senseless, the man lay there while his second attempted to revive him within the allotted thirty seconds. At his failure to do so, the winner took a bow and sauntered from the ring, his smirking second close behind him.

Garret shook his head as the groggy looser managed to gain his feet. In a practice match, the man’s second should have thrown in the sponge and ended the match. What had he been thinking? The poor bastard hadn’t stood a chance; his opponent’s reach was a full hand longer.

The server brought their drinks. He took a sip of the bitter ale and grimaced. What he wouldn’t give for a nice port from his wine cellar.

As the winners reached the bottom of the stairs, Morgan caught Garret’s gaze and said in a loud voice, “I’m telling ye, yer wrong. I’d not be knowing about this sort of thing, but the winner’s technique looked fine to me.”

Morgan gave a slight nod, then glanced at the victor and his companion. So, the culprit was one of them. He made sure his reply carried across the room. “Technique? The man should not be allowed near a ring.” Garret poured disdain into his comment, cringing at how much he sounded like his grandfather. “It was rather like watching Michael Ryan, all Irish bluster with no substance.” He raised one hand in a dismissive gesture. “However, if you consider brute force to be finesse, then I’ll bow to your judgment. But I still maintain that any opponent with a modicum of skill could have bested him.”

At his comments, the second changed direction and approached them, his feral smile setting Garret’s instincts on alert. He still wasn’t sure what game Morgan played, but at least they had the man’s attention.

The second stopped before them, extended his leg slightly, and gave a bow. He affected a gentleman’s clothing, but the coarse brown hair and craggy face didn’t reflect a life of ease. “The name’s Farley, Lawrence Farley. I’ve not seen you gents in Featherwell’s before.”

“Sure, and we’ve not been here before. First trip to London. I’m John Hobbs, visiting from the North country.” Morgan stood, his accent became more pronounced, and he appeared every inch the affable commoner.

Even Morgan’s smile seemed genuine. He could have made a living as an actor. Garret now understood Bradford’s trust in the man.