“Not beyond the normal sort regarding a tenant I have inherited.”
“Are you also asking about the other ones, then? The tenants on those other bits of land you received from Becksbridge?”
“I have not met them, so they are not yet of enough interest to provoke questions.”
“I look forward to your visiting them as you did me. It will be soon, I trust. I expect they are also close by.”
“Not at all close by. They are inconveniently scattered all over the country. Shrewsbury. Devon, I think. Manchester.” He speared her with a sharper gaze. “Why would you look forward to my visits to them? Are they acquaintances of yours?”
“I am only praying that they provide you with new distractions. I find the inquisitiveness that you aim in my direction excessive.”
“So do I.” He laughed lightly at himself. “It happens sometimes. There is really no predicting or explaining it. I am confident this little bout of curiosity will pass soon, however. In a week, perhaps, or a fortnight. Three weeks at most.”
She did not want him inquiring about her at all. “Would it not be more useful if you turned your curiosity to the mysteries of the natural world? To questions of philosophy? You waste your abilities on a matter of insignificance.”
He reacted as if she had scolded again. Which she had, she supposed.
“Mrs. Joyes, be assured that my abilities are devoted to matters of consequence most of the time, and the small puzzle you present does not interfere. Among other important vocations, I am writing a book that will be a great boon to mankind. It was that which you interrupted when you arrived.”
She felt her face warming as he dismissed her importance. How vain and stupid she must appear to him. He merely toyed with her as a momentary diversion, and she had taken to attributing sly and lengthy plotting to him, without true cause.
She looked at the writing desk and even took a few steps in that direction. All those papers. He had appeared most intent too and had bluntly told her he did not write letters.
He had not been whoring and drinking all night but engaged in this literary endeavor, and so absorbed that he did not even sleep. In light of such ambitions, it was a small wonder he had not even dressed for their meeting.
She had forgotten whom she really dealt with here. Her little property would barely signify to such a man. Neither would the person who lived on it. His game with her only occupied the dregs of his time, and he even resented his inclination to play it.
“I must apologize, Your Grace. I have allowed the prejudice of the scandal sheets and the gossips to influence me too much. I have been shamefully quick to assume you are the notorious, profligate scoundrel they describe.” She gestured to the papers and tried to make amends by showing some interest. “Have you been at it long?”
He went over and lifted a few of the sheets. He peered at them critically. “Some months now. There are parts that bedevil me and are taking too long to get right. I hope with experience it becomes easier. I never thought writing a book could be so difficult but also so engrossing.”
He had turned his mind to an important task and was finding it a challenge. She could not imagine he admitted that often, about anything.
“May I ask the topic? If it is a secret, forgive me for prying.”
“It is not a secret. I have already confided my intentions to a few friends. I would not want to bore you, however.”
“I would not find it boring.”
He gazed down at his words and appeared charmingly proud of whatever it was that he read. “It is a guidebook. To London. For the average citizen. Advice on where to go to find diversions.”
That was not nearly as elevated and scholarly as she had assumed, but it was still worthwhile. “How helpful. Visitors will be happy to have advice from a man of your taste and station on the theaters and races and such.”
“Mmmmm. Well, that has been done before, though, hasn’t it?” He muttered, distracted now by the prose on the sheet of paper. “This book will not plow previously tilled fields but break new ground. It involves very special diversions, in which few other men have my level of connoisseurship.”
She looked at him, then at the papers, then at him again. She caught him smiling over some passage he read.
“What sort of diversions, Your Grace?”
He did not hear her, he was so absorbed. He frowned. “Have you ever noticed that there are whole areas of experience for which the English language is inadequate? I had never acknowledged the deficiencies before I began this exercise.”
She could think of one area of experience where that might be true. Just as she could think of only one kind of diversion in which Castleford was said to have a rare level of connoisseurship.
He was writing a London guide to sinning.
“I surmise that this will be a book for men, Your Grace.”
He sighed while he shuffled the pages and put them down. “Unfortunately, I expect so. I have no experience with which to write chapters for women. I could ask some ladies whom I believe to be knowledgeable for their advice, but I doubt they would admit enough to be helpful. Women tend to be very secretive about enjoying diversions such as this. It isn’t as if the world is fooled. Everyone knows there are some very fine establishments that cater to females. They could hardly thrive in their trade if no females made use of them, now could they?”
She blinked hard. It was worse than she thought. He was not penning a tome about gambling hells and cockfights and such, but about
brothels
.
“I can see why you find this book so engrossing to write.”
“In truth, the research became burdensome, but on those thankfully rare occasions when I put my mind to something, I normally feel compelled to see it through. Fortunately, that part is well completed.”
Really!
“I will take my leave now, Your Grace, so I no longer inconvenience your day and so you can return to preparing your great gift to the men of England.”
For some reason that caught his attention. Perhaps it was her tone or maybe the way she executed a stiff, quick curtsy.
Suddenly the devil was watching her, and amused at what he saw.
“Are you jealous, Mrs. Joyes? Or scandalized? I cannot tell which emotion accounts for your blush.”
Jealous! “Neither. If there is color, it only comes from struggling to swallow another well-deserved scold.”
“You must hold it in. Summon all your strength. In fact, allow me to help you conquer the impulse.” He pulled her to him so quickly that she gasped. Suddenly his hand was pressing her nape and his mouth was pressing her lips.
She could not find the presence of mind to react at first. During that brief lull—she was very sure it was extremely brief—while she was taken aback, that kiss deepened to something other than a joke. First tender, then wicked, the kiss began to claim her, as if the notion to do so dawned on him even as pleasure dawned in her.
The mood changed quickly. He loosed his sensual power, and she felt it like a tangible wind. He began to embrace her. She placed her hand on his chest—to resist him, she was sure—and the clear feel of the naked body beneath that blue morning coat jolted her out of her shock.
Aghast at herself, she broke free, jumped out of reach, and glared at him.
“Come back here now,” he said in a quiet, soothing, alluring voice. His gaze, sardonic, amused, and knowing, insisted she not look away. “You know that you want to.”
She gaped at his outrageous conceit. “I certainly do not!”
His eyes darkened. “Perhaps that is true. Perhaps you do not know yet.”
He strolled to the table and poured himself more coffee.
“What a stroke of inspiration that was,” he said, raising the cup. “I think that whenever you subject me to a scold or get that look in your eyes that says one is coming, I will have to subject you to a ravishing kiss. You get the better half of the bargain to my mind, but at least I will know some compensation.”
Disgracefully pleased with himself, he called for a servant to see her out.
She was already at the door by the time one of the footmen pushed it open.
Chapter Eight
C
astleford wondered about Daphne Joyes while he rode his horse east through London. He was doing too much such wondering these days. That would surely end once he seduced her.
But in the meantime, he was wondering what she really thought of him. From her astonishment at learning he was writing a book, he suspected she might have concluded he was not very smart.
People did that sometimes. His good nature was to blame. The world considered scowling, brooding fellows intelligent, and pleasant, contented ones dim. Since he was only the former on Tuesdays, he was often underestimated. The misunderstanding put those in error at a disadvantage, so he normally did not care.
She also thought him a drunkard. She had made that clear enough. There was no point in trying to disabuse her of the notion either.
Then, of course, there was his reputation regarding women. She had heard about that. The whole world had heard about that. And if Hawkeswell and Summerhays had been indiscreet with their wives about his whores, Daphne Joyes undoubtedly knew he did not indulge himself thus only for the purposes of research.
Not that he had indulged recently, he noted with annoyance. He never did when his eye settled on one specific woman. He had learned long ago that, for him at least, desire for one woman made pleasure with other women no fun. A relief still, much like farting out a bad gas, but joyless.
Abstinence, unfortunately, only made the desire increase. It could be a hellish cycle, and reason enough to avoid allowing his eye to settle at all.
Dwelling on his current sexual situation made him surly, so he returned to wondering about Daphne. She probably did not think the duels spoke well of him either, now that he considered the matter. Women never liked duels. So that was one more likely objection she might have to his character.
The list of those objections became quite long by the time he swung off his horse in front of the collection of old, attached buildings that made up the War Office. So long that he wondered why he had been fool enough to begin wondering in that direction in the first place.
It probably had to do with his sobriety today, donned in part for the task at hand. He trusted the next hour would divert him from lists of reasons the cool, incomparable Mrs. Joyes might not admire him.
He entered the center building and made his way to its stairs, greeting stunned and cautious aides and clerks along the way. Two ran off as soon as they bowed, probably to inform their superiors that a certain duke had decided to grace the premises with his presence again.
Castleford did not go up the stairs to meet those superiors, but down. He found his way to a chamber in the bowels of the building. Light from high windows kept it from being a true dungeon. Golden beams sliced through the heavy shadows, illuminating the two men whose desks had been placed to take advantage of them, much like characters in a Caravaggio painting.
The older man’s smile of welcome dropped when that light fell on their visitor too. He stood and bowed and nervously fixed his spectacles on his nose more securely.
“Your Grace. We are honored. It has been some time. However, if you require records again, I must tell you that after the last time the minister strictly corrected us to always obtain his approval. He said he would explain this to you, sir, and—”
“I have all the approval necessary, Mr. Trilling.”
Mr. Trilling’s clerk watched, wide-eyed. Something about his expression piqued Castleford’s memory, but he could not place why.
Trilling fussed and flustered. Castleford subjected him to a level gaze that normally reduced government functionaries to cowering obedience.
Not this time, unfortunately.
“I think I should speak with the minister, sir. Just to ensure there is no misunderstanding,” Trilling said. “I hope you will not mind that, Your Grace.”
“By all means, go speak with Bathurst, if he is here. I will wait.” He dropped onto one of the uncomfortable wooden chairs, stretched out his legs, and smiled up at the old man.
Trilling shuffled away. Castleford took out his snuffbox, took a pinch, then held it toward the young clerk. “Join me while you can. I am sure Mr. Trilling allows no such indulgences.”
“You can be sure he never does, sir.” With a conspiratorial smile, the young clerk came over. He accepted the box and helped himself.
“What is your name?” Castleford asked.
He flushed and bowed. “My apologies, Your Grace. I am Harry Sykes, first clerk to the director of records, sir.”
“You look familiar to me,” Castleford said. “I am sure we have met.”
“Met? I am sure not, Your Grace. Why, when could that have been? I have only been employed by Mr. Trilling since June.” He beamed with pleasure at the notion that a duke thought there had been a meeting, though.