Deceiving The Duke (Scandals and Spies Book 2) (2 page)

Morgan counted at least five other peers of note among the men gathered. One, the Earl of Wycombe’s second son, earned himself a position at the table, seated in front of a contraption covered in a white linen sheet. He spoke to no one, eyeing those who ventured near with a wary glare, as if they meant to peek at whatever secret he concealed beneath the cloth.

Any one of these men might have changed their allegiances and decided to ferry information to the French through the sale of their inventions. Morgan paid close attention to the conversations—those who stood in pairs debating, those who demonstrated their device to whoever cared to watch, those who whispered to one another along the perimeter. He watched for the exchange of money or messages. Those who aroused his suspicion, he placed on a mental list of people to investigate.

Two men strode through the door, the shorter with a parcel tucked under his arm. Despite the difference in their heights—nearly a foot between the shorter and the taller—they were obviously related. Both sported auburn hair; the taller man, who looked as young as his companion, neither appearing old enough to sport facial hair, wore his in a fashionably short style with a longer forelock that dripped onto his pale forehead. The shorter man, narrower in the shoulder but thicker in the waist and rump, wore his hair in a long queue. Both had relinquished their hats, but sported hat-head, wisps of hair escaping in disarray. Without preamble, the shorter man claimed the last seat at the table, leaving his grumbling compatriot to find a spot along the perimeter to lounge. The fellow looked bored. He idly contributed to conversation with the man standing beside him, a pudgy blond youth whose whiskers were so pale as to be invisible.

Meanwhile, the shorter man grinned as he fielded questions from the men seated alongside and across from him. He tucked the parcel into his side, refusing to reveal its contents as he shook his head with a smile. His sharp chin was softened by the fluffy white cravat tied around his neck. The curve of his eyebrows looked a bit too precise—a dandy, to be sure—and they betrayed his excitement when he spoke, raising and scrunching in turn. Something about him set Morgan’s senses to tingling, but Morgan couldn’t put his finger on what. Perhaps the mischievous way his lips curved, as if he knew a salacious secret.

Trusting his instincts, Morgan paid particular attention to this young man as he interacted with other inventors and shook hands with the peers.

At half past seven, according to Morgan’s pocket watch, the doddery old man at the head of the table raised his hand. The room fell silent in turns as the occupants noticed him. He coughed into his fist, jiggling his jowls and the unfashionable powdered wig he wore.

Once underway, the meeting flew by. With difficulty, Morgan wrested his attention from the wonders the inventors displayed. Wycombe’s son revealed the prototype for a two-wheeled contraption he called a running curricle. Another man unrolled a design for a man-sized flying machine that somewhat resembled a kite. He paid particular attention to the wealthier patrons of the group, citing costs and the time it would take to build and test a prototype. At one point, his eye turned to Morgan, trying to get his attention. With a small shake of the head, Morgan leaned back. As tempting as it would be, he didn’t have the time to invest to become the benefactor of an inventor. Judging by the gleam in Folkestone and Marchwood’s eyes, the man would have lavish offers heaped upon him by the end of the meeting.

Throughout the meeting, Morgan’s eyes continually returned to that short, peculiar man as he tried to name what about him irked Morgan to such an extent. More wonders were revealed, though not the parcel the young man had tucked under his arm. At long last, the meeting disbanded. Out the window, the twilight had deepened into full, inky night.

As Morgan predicted, Marchwood and Folkestone immediately swooped on the man designing the flying machine. Various others jockeyed around the inventors. The noise in the room swelled to a roar as everyone tried to speak at once. In the chaos, Morgan was hard-put to keep his eyes on the groups, searching for anything that exchanged hands.

As he stood, stretching his legs, he found himself near the short young man with the queue and the impish smile, along with that man’s lanky relative. The shorter man all but jogged through the room to reach the door.

“Phil—” The taller man brushed a lock of hair out of his eyes, looking harried.

“I’ll meet you down by the carriage in twenty minutes. I need to take care of something first.”

As the shorter man slipped through the door, his companion clenched his fist at his side. He lingered in the room, staring at the open door with hostility. Something was about to happen, and the lanky young man, about eighteen or twenty at most, would miss it at this rate.

Morgan made no such mistake. Squaring his shoulders, he slipped through the door. His instincts had been clamoring all night, and they were about to be confirmed.

This had to be the spy meeting he’d been waiting for.

M
iss Philomena St. Gobain
lengthened her stride as she slipped into the corridor. The herd of inventors would be on her heels in minutes. If she wanted to escape the deluge without being delayed, she had to complete this meeting quickly. She’d slipped an invitation to her “cousin’s” upcoming soiree in two days into the hands of every peer crowded around the table. To the men of the Society for the Advancement of Science, she was Phil, the bright cousin of a brilliant but eccentric heiress. Men were fickle. She was certain more than half of her patrons suspected that Phil and Miss St. Gobain were one and the same, but so long as she didn’t flaunt her gender during the meetings, they were content not to say a word against her. A word in the wrong ear could bring censure down upon her and lose business.

The money was the bottom line. As a woman, she only served as her brother’s regent—the inheritance was his, not hers. Without her clientele among the peerage, she would have nothing. Not that Jared would turn her out, but he might at some point marry and encourage her to do the same. Tie herself to a man who would curtail her freedom and her creativity? That, she would never do.

Her only recourse was to squirrel away money against that eventuality. For that, she plied the interest and curiosity of rich peers with an interest in science. When they turned up at her townhouse on Monday evening, she would use the cover of the ball to arrange for a private tour of her invention room and, with luck, earn herself a few more commissions. Perhaps not Folkestone and Marchwood, who seemed enamored with the thought of racing to their deaths in midair, but several others had probed her for information as to what her “cousin” was currently working on.

The goggles dug through her jacket, waistcoat, and shirt and into her side. With just one small adjustment, she should be able to make them work. She’d painstakingly replicated every single component of the original light-enhancement goggles, or LEGs as she liked to call them. Left to her by her father, their creator, upon his death, they were one of the many mysteries she had sought in the past four and a half years to recreate. Now, she was so close to success she could taste it.

Crossing the fern-patterned runner to the staircase, she descended one floor to a dimly lit hallway. Her eyes adjusted slowly to the faint light as she followed the T corridor by rote, pausing near the junction as she spotted a man’s silhouette. He was stocky in the shoulders and chest, only a hand taller than her with a plump face that seemed to dwarf his nose.

Squaring her shoulders, she infused her stance with confidence. She didn’t much like dealing with him, but since the pieces she needed to complete her invention had been created in France, she had no choice. Without that particular cut and material of prism, her LEGs wouldn’t amplify the ambient light properly—which made them no better than a bizarre fashion choice.

As she stepped abreast of his form, tightening her hold on the package beneath her arm, the stocky man blurted, “Do you have the money?” There was a slight twist to his words, the hint of a French accent.

For a moment, it conjured the image of her father, explaining how one of his fantastical devices would one day change the world—and her life.

She shut her eyes, banishing the image. When she opened them again, she squinted to see her contact, Mr. Lefevre. The light drifting from the rest of the manor was dim. “I do. One moment.”

Taking a step back, she reached up to the light in the sconce on the wall. It had been devised by the Society’s chairman. A thin cylinder on the side served as a switch. When she rolled it between her fingers as quick as a snap, the inner workings struck the flint and steel together and ignited the small flame. The lamp’s angled mirrors did the rest of the work by amplifying the light, much like her LEGs—albeit the LEGs turned the light in toward the eye, whereas the lamp turned it outward and took up a much larger space to do it. The mirrors stretched almost a foot long in places, scalloped like a seashell.

As the light bloomed, Lefevre scowled. His mop of blond hair fell onto his wide forehead. He didn’t bother brushing it away.

Phil juggled the parcel under her arm, pulling on the twine that held it closed. The brown paper crinkled as she peeled it away from its contents—not only the goggles, but also a fat purse. It clinked as she handed it to Lefevre. At his insistence, she had brought coins, not a banknote. As she rewrapped the paper around the goggles to keep them from accidentally slipping to the ground, the Frenchman pulled the drawstring on the purse to peek inside.

Phil scowled. “It’s all there, like you asked. I trust you have the product?”

With a sneer twisting his plump cheeks, Lefevre thrust his hand into his pocket. He emerged with two identical, intricately-cut transparent rings of glass. His disdainful expression falling from his face, he thrust them into her hand and strode toward the window at the end of the hall.

Her mouth dropped open as she juggled the thick jewels, trying not to drop them. Her parcel slipped from beneath her arm instead. She dove to catch it, fumbling and thrusting her hands beneath just in time to cushion the impact. She winced.

Please don’t break.
She ran her hands over the parcel, but it felt intact. Quickly, she stuffed the prisms into her pocket. She turned her attention to the window in time to see Lefevre slip onto the sill and grasp the rickety trellis.

What the devil had gotten into him?

The vibration along the floor hailing the approach of footsteps gave her the answer. She tilted her face up to spot who had intruded upon the transaction. Her breath fled as the light illuminated a face she hadn’t thought ever to see this close.

The Duke of Tenwick. She’d interacted with his youngest brother, Lord Gideon Graylocke, enough times to recognize the family resemblance. When had he arrived—why? He’d never attended any other meeting. Ordinarily, she might try to interest him in her inventions, but the forbidding set of his sensual mouth warned her that he wasn’t in an investing mood. His gray eyes pierced the air like silver bullets.

If his mouth wasn’t set in a scowl, he would have been handsome. Devastatingly handsome, in fact. Ebony locks of hair swept over his forehead, punctuated by a vivid white streak at his right temple. His chiseled jaw held the barest kiss of stubble, a shadow framing his mouth and chin. Phil curled her fist, fighting the urge to touch him and feel the rasp beneath her palm. His wide shoulders filled out his dove-gray jacket to distraction. The color seemed to make his eyes gleam—or maybe that was a trick of the light.

Her heart galloped as he neared. Hastily, she sprang to her feet, hoping to meet him on equal footing. It was in vain. He loomed over her, towering even taller than her brother. Her nose scarcely reached his chest. Even if he believed her a man, it was clear from his imperious expression that they were far from equal.

She clutched her parcel to her chest. A glance behind her showed the window ajar, a breeze of cool night air gusting through. Climbing down the trellis was starting to look very appealing.

He’s only a man.
Titles meant little to her. Her family might not have one anymore, but thanks to her inventions and ingenuity, she was richer than most peers.

Still, as he raked that shiver-inducing gray gaze over her, she couldn’t decide if she wanted to flee or press closer.

“Is there a second meeting down this hall that I am unaware of?”

Phil shifted in place. The duke’s deep voice was as sinfully sexy as he was. It swept through her like a warm gulp of brandy.

Did he notice her reaction to him? If he did, he would surely guess at her gender. She bit the inside of her cheek as she schooled her expression to a blank mask.

Deepening her voice, she answered, “No, your grace. I was just saying goodbye to a friend.” A friend who slipped out the window. “If you’ll excuse me…”

She almost curtseyed before she caught herself. How bacon-brained was she? She used the bend in her knees to slip around his form. She arrowed for the staircase at the end of the hall. The bright light cast a long shadow ahead of her, like a pointing finger aiming away from danger.

The duke caught her by the arm before she took more than two steps. His large hand easily wrapped around her bicep. His grip was inescapable, but not punishing. It burned through her clothing, seeming to brand the shape of him into her flesh. Her breath caught. A strange ache blossomed in her gut.

“What do you have there?” His voice was pitched low, intimate. It was the kind of voice that convinced women to strip themselves bare.

Pretend you aren’t a woman.
Usually, she had no difficulty keeping up the pretense. Society meetings were a time to discuss science, when it was her mind that mattered, not her body.

Her heart stuttered as his gaze dipped from her eyes to her bosom. Did it show? She glanced down, but the paper-wrapped parcel covered her. On a normal night, she might eagerly show it to him, but tonight she clutched it closer. It wasn’t complete.

“I’m not at liberty to show it to you. Perhaps at next month’s meeting.”

His eyebrows swooped down over his eyes like birds of prey, hailing the same predatory mood. “I insist, Mr…?”

Her heart jumped into her throat. She couldn’t give him her name!

The stampede of boots on the stairs interrupted the tense moment. The duke retracted his hand immediately, fisting it at his side. Glimpses of the other members came into view.

Phil darted into their midst. She elbowed the lead man aside as she slid into position in front of him. As she escaped down the staircase, the rest of the grumbling line shielding her from her pursuer, she glanced up toward the second floor. His piercing eyes snapping with irritation, the Duke of Tenwick stared after her, mute and motionless. Unable to help herself, she waggled her fingers at him in a little wave a moment before she stepped out of sight.

She didn’t know why the duke had singled her out, nor why he was so avid to peek into her parcel, but at the very least, he could pursue her no more. Her life would return to normal, and she would never have to see him again.