She admired the duke. If only her brother had been so circumspect. But Will was impetuous and eternally hopeful. He had probably hoped the next card or the next roll would change his fortunes. But thanks to this man, she no longer had to fear her brother would lose more at the gaming tables.
“Your Grace, I beg your pardon.” Melman had come up behind her and the duke.
Greybrooke stepped aside with the servant. The major domo spoke in such low, confidential tones she could not hear a word. To eavesdrop, she would have had to have squirmed in between them.
Helena watched Greybrooke’s face. His full lips thinned into a hard, angry line. Whatever the interruption was, it infuriated him. He gave a curt nod. “I will come.”
He turned to her. “A moment, cousin.” With no more explanation, he stalked away.
This must be important—it could be a critical clue to whether Whitehall was correct and the duke had sold secrets. But to chase after him would look too conspicuous.
Or would it? She muttered words about too much champagne and the retiring room, but everyone watched the dice. No one paid any attention to her.
She threaded through the crowd. For the Duke of Greybrooke, people stepped smartly aside. No one moved to give George Caldwell room. But in masculine clothing, she was agile, and she reached the far side of the hazard room just as the duke disappeared through a shadowy doorway.
If she followed, would he spot her? She had no choice but to take the risk. When she reached the door, though, Greybrooke was gone.
A man’s voice said, “Good evenin’, Yer Grace. So delighted ye came to meet me.”
Mocking in tone, the voice had come from the end of the hallway. With a quick breath of relief, Helena crept down. There was a door ajar, but as she got close, the door shut firmly in place. Bother!
She slipped into the room beside, thankfully empty. It proved to be a small parlor. A window at the end of the room let in silver-blue moonlight. Quickly she looked out, her heart soaring. It overlooked the rear yard and was on the ground floor. If her luck was in, Greybrooke’s room would have a window and it would be open enough for her to spy.
Helena slid up the sash, hopped out. Thank heaven for trousers. Greybrooke’s room was also a drawing room, but larger, with glass-paned doors leading to a small terrace.
Her work in seeking scandals for the newspaper guided her. She knew to creep along the wall. Then, with her back against the brick, she peeked through the door. The low fire illuminated two men. Greybrooke, who stood with his back to the terrace door, hands fisted. The other man—
She recoiled, stunned. It was a monster’s face. A gargoyle, not even human.
Heavens, it was a mask. She’d been startled by a child’s oldest trick: to put on a mask and try to frighten people.
The man wore a devil’s face, within the hood of his cloak. Whoever he was, he’d wanted to ensure he wouldn’t be recognized.
Smash!
Greybrooke’s fist slammed into the frame of the door, rattling glass. Helena had to coax her heart back down into place.
Greybrooke’s angry punch had unlatched the door. He stalked back toward the masked man. Holding her breath, she snaked out her hand and opened the terrace door about an inch.
“If you ’urt me, Yer Grace, the information I’ve got gets published for all England to see. Don’t think ye can escape this by killin’ me. I’ve planned for that.” The man’s voice was confident, mocking.
“You want more than can be paid.”
“I don’t think so. Think the reason you’re here is proof I’ll get what I want. I’ll be a gentleman and keep my price the same. Two thousand.”
Greybrooke gave a harsh laugh. “You’ll be back for another two thousand as soon as you’ve run through that.”
“Ye can afford it, Yer Grace.”
“Who in hell are you?”
The man laughed roughly. Yet, like his accent, it sounded forced, as if he was playing a role. “I’m not going to tell ye that, Yer Grace.”
“Damnation,” the duke growled. “You will get your two thousand, but it will take me time to acquire the funds. Meet me in two nights in Hyde Park. Midnight. Then you will get your money.”
“Double-cross me, Yer Grace, and ye’ll be reading about it in the newssheets. What a pretty scandal it would make.”
Greybrooke took a menacing step forward, but the masked man laughed. A cackling laugh. “Don’t think I haven’t taken care of meself. If I die, my associate sends everything to the newssheets. You wouldn’t want ’er to pay the price for yer anger, would ye?”
The duke looked like that now—as if his restraint would snap and his body would explode in violence. “Leave her alone, damn you,” the duke said. He took a step toward the man, who took a quick one in retreat.
“Bring the money as ye’ve promised two nights from now, and ye needn’t worry about reading the story in the newssheets, Yer Grace. But of course, I know ye will honor your word. Since ye’re such a gentleman.” Chuckling, the man turned and walked away.
Helena stared at his back, covered by the swaying cape. Firelight reflected on the sinuous slither of it. She would not have turned her back on the furious duke.
Indeed, Greybrooke lifted his fist. Then he drove it, with a growl of rage, into the top of a delicate table. The inlaid wood surface broke with an ear-shattering crash. That must have been painful for Greybrooke, but he didn’t even wince. He smoothed down his hair, straightened his cravat, then left the room.
But she now knew Greybrooke was being blackmailed.
“D
oes this mean the duke is being blackmailed because he was a traitor?”
The carriage rumbled off and she faced Whitehall, who sat opposite. This time she had met him without Will and told him what she’d overheard.
Her heart hammered madly as she waited for his opinion.
“Or he is being blackmailed over the secrets that led him to be a traitor.” Whitehall leaned forward, a tall beaver hat covering his dark head, but the shadows made his face look even more skull-like. His black eyes burned into hers. “Did you get into his home? Did you find diaries or letters?”
“N-not yet.” Greybrooke had been nothing but a gentleman when he’d returned to the hazard table. He had ended their night, had taken her back to the mews behind the Winterhaven house, had not even pressed a kiss upon her. He’d apologized for being distracted and had promised her a more dazzling evening tonight. After all, she knew tomorrow night he was supposed to meet a blackmailer. “But I convinced him last night to bring me to his house tonight.”
She shivered with nerves, but also with anticipation, remembering how she’d convinced him. She had asked for one kiss. To see what it was like, to see if she was ready to give him more. One kiss to be given to her in his home.
Greybrooke had agreed on one condition: He was allowed to choose where he kissed her.
When she thought about kissing him, she felt a hot, intense thrill. Then her sensible voice berated her for being heady with desire for a man who was being blackmailed and could be a traitor. At the very least he was . . . danger personified.
“Do not waste this opportunity,” Whitehall said coldly. “You must find out the reason behind the blackmail. You must try to learn the secrets he is hiding. It could help us get at the truth and prove his guilt.”
But it would have to be something personal. Something perhaps dangerous. “Do we need to actually know what his secrets are? Isn’t it enough if we can find out he did commit treason?”
“Miss Winsome.” Whitehall’s grip tightened on his walking stick as if he were restraining his temper. “You find out the
ton
’s secrets so you can publish them in Lady X’s scandal column. Why do you balk at this now, when it is for the good of your country?”
“He did a—a kind thing for me. It was one thing to expose his crime if he is guilty. But it’s quite another thing to hunt for private secrets that are none of my business.”
Whitehall glared at her. “Are we finished then, Miss Winsome? You no longer want to continue serving your country and you are willing to let your family be destroyed by your brother’s debt?”
She took a deep breath. “I cannot do this anymore. I don’t want to spy on the duke and his family. I have another way to pay my family’s debts.”
Whitehall’s hand snaked out. He grasped her wrist, squeezing tight. “How, Miss Winsome?”
“Please, Mr. Whitehall. This hurts—”
He began to bend her hand back.
She gasped, the pain excruciating. “If I’m going to have to become the duke’s mistress, I can use the jewels he will give me to pay the debts.”
Whitehall lessened the pressure on her wrist slightly. “You are not walking away from your obligation to the king, Miss Winsome. We could easily destroy your brother, regardless of his debt. His newspaper could be ruined. We can completely ruin your family. As for you—if the duke were to find out you have been spying on him over treason, do you really believe he would want you?”
“You’re going to force me to do this with threats?”
“Yes, Miss Winsome.” He gave a ruthless smile. “Until I get what I want.”
Lifting the hem of her cloak, Helena mounted the steps, feeling like the heroine of a horrid novel.
She had thought Greybrooke was dangerous. But Whitehall had proved he was the real danger.
The duke’s door opened before she even reached for the knocker. A footman bowed with perfect respect, and the door quickly shut behind her.
She held onto her hood, which she’d tugged low to hide her face. She was the one in disguise, knowing she was facing ruin. But the duke was the one with the truly perilous secrets. If he really was a traitor, he had been willing to see young soldiers—his own countrymen—die in battle. And she was walking into his house alone.
Churches were built to make you feel awed and insignificant. The duke’s foyer made her feel like the tiniest woman in the world. It blossomed round her like a fairy land.
A domed skylight let moonlight glimmer on the pure white marble floor. Pink marble columns soared, topped with leaves of gilt. The coved ceiling was painted like an Italian church, with ethereal angels, muscular mortal males, and a ring of clouds that opened to a perfect blue sky. It was painted to look as if it disappeared up to the heavens, and she almost lost her balance as she peered at it.
“Ostentatious, isn’t it? My father’s idea. It used to make me stagger and fall when I’d stumble in drunk.”
The duke. His voice held a throaty intimacy as if he were speaking to a good friend. Helena whirled around. Drawn to the fountain, she had not noticed doorways behind her. In one, Greybrooke leaned against the doorframe, his dark hair in tousled disarray. He’d dressed as though he were meeting a friend—in white shirtsleeves and a gray waistcoat. His cuffs were open too, his hands bare.
For some reason, the sight of his naked hands—the long fingers, the strong wrists, the ridges of veins along the back—was shockingly intimate. She remembered what he’d said: Her hands molded children’s futures; his would touch her . . . private place and make her climax.
A soft squeak left her lips. To cover that, she said, “It’s breathtaking.” A part of her wondered if those whispered words were about him, not his ceiling. “It does make one lose one’s balance. This whole room . . . it feels as if I am in Italy.”
“You’ve been?” His brows lifted in surprise.
She laughed. The idea of it: her, impoverished governess, touring the sun-soaked beauty of Italy. That was for young men with inconceivably huge fortunes. “Of course not. It is just how I imagined it would be.”
“Indeed? I’ve toured Italy. I believe a man is just as likely to encounter a lovely, virginal angel in London than in Rome.”
“Why would a man want an untouchable angel, Your Grace?”
“For the fun of making her fall, of course.”
She gave him a disapproving look—then remembered she had agreed to ultimately become his mistress and had offered to take the second step in that shocking path.
Her heart beat frantically, pounding out the question: Are you really going to do it?
Although the duke was joking, there was no smile on his lips. The shadows from last night still clung to his expression, in the lines on his forehead and a grim look in his eyes. Of course, tomorrow he had to meet a blackmailer and surrender two thousand pounds. If she didn’t find evidence tonight, she knew what she must do. Spy on their meeting in Hyde Park, learn what she could. Then she would have to come back, again and again, until she learned the duke’s secrets.
Oh heavens. It was one thing to spy on members on the
ton
to find out about scandals. It was quite another to conspire to destroy people’s lives.
“You wished to visit a gentleman’s home alone,” he said. “I thought it was my duty to make this experience as decadent as I could. We begin with brandy in the study.”
Brandy? She couldn’t drink brandy—she had seen the effects of it on strong men. Besides, the taste of it made her want to paw the surface off her tongue. But she
needed
to get into his study. It was one place where a gentleman kept his private letters.
The duke put his hand to the small of her back. She stiffened. Not out of fear of ravishment, out of guilt born from lying.
“Relax, Miss Winsome. I promise to be as well behaved as your best pupil tonight.” He studied her. “I thought you wanted this. A kiss in a forbidden place—a gentleman’s home.”
“I do,” she lied desperately. “It is not easy to undo a lifetime of learning to be proper.”
“If you’d let me, I’d show you how quickly it could be undone.”
It was a typical arrogant rake’s statement, but it didn’t put her back up. She was beginning to believe him.
He offered his elbow, as if he were taking her into supper at a party. He thought he was fulfilling the fantasy of a governess. He had no idea.
Helena expected at least a perfunctory tour as he led her to his study. But Greybrooke said
nothing
about his house. Nothing about the enormous music room she glimpsed, or the massive portraits and exquisite landscapes that adorned every wall. In fact, he kept his gaze focused ahead as if he didn’t want to look around him.
Acting the part of dazzled governess, she cooed and gasped over many of the things she saw: life-size portraits; an enormous, gleaming pianoforte; a Chinese vase large enough for a child to swim in; a suit of armor by the stairs. But the harder she played her part, the heavier her heart got.
He only wants to use you for carnal pleasures.
She reminded herself of that. It should make it easier to betray his trust, shouldn’t it?
Finally he pushed open a door of dark oak, and she stepped into the most important room she needed to see. Greybrooke left her to pour brandy, and she drank in everything.
Books lined two walls. A huge fireplace stood in the center of the third, surrounded by sketches of horses and hounds. The outer wall was a line of windows, overlooking the lawns of the rear yard, and the tall, stone back wall. A desk occupied the corner, placed on the diagonal. She walked toward it as if fascinated by the view from the windows behind the desk. A key rested in the lock of the center drawer. Her heart pounded. So close, but she couldn’t open drawers with the duke watching her.
He held out her brandy, poured in a huge balloon glass, the plump curve engulfed by his large hand. “You seem more fascinated by my room than you are by me.”
“It tells me so much about you,” she said quickly.
He raised his glass. “A toast to my adventurous governess.” He took a long swallow.
She took just a sip . . . and swallowed fire. She coughed. Sputtered. How did he drink this stuff so quickly? She knew of course: He’d done it so often he was immune to the effects.
They drank in silence—he with his healthy swallows, she with dipping her tongue into the fluid like a timid rabbit.
“Come here, Miss Winsome.” The burn of the liquor had turned his voice husky.
She swallowed hard. She knew how to deal with children, with their titled parents, with her brother. She didn’t know how to deal with dukes to whom she’d promised a kiss—to whom she’d intimated she would be a mistress.
Once she let him kiss her, there was no turning back.
Inspiration struck. “Not here. I want something more daring.”
“Really, angel? You won’t even drink brandy.”
“I
am
drinking brandy.”
“Like a kitten lapping milk, love. Though the sight of your little pink tongue is arousing.”
“You are making fun of me.”
“No, I’m not. I’m being honest. Isn’t that one of the lessons governesses teach? To own up to one’s sins?”
The brandy made her cheeks feel hot. “Yes. You must have had a spectacular governess. You seem to enjoy owning up to sins.”
“I do. Sometimes I even make some up so I can admit to them. Things I’ve never even had the pleasure of actually doing.”
“You are most definitely making fun of me, Your Grace.” She couldn’t quite understand him. Sometimes he seemed so arrogant and commanding. Other times there was a naughty, devilish little boy inside him. One who couldn’t help but make her smile.
“No,” he said softly. “And call me Greybrooke.”
“All right, Greybrooke. I wish to see your bedchamber. That is where I want to kiss you.”
Utter silence. Broken only by the lick of flames in the fireplace and the slosh of fluid as Greybrooke drank a long draught of his brandy.
She’d thrown the words out as if he’d goaded her into being daring. In truth, she’d taken this bold step because she actually did need to see his bedroom. Besides, if he were in his bedchamber,
no one
would be in his study. So if she could find a reason to sneak back down here alone, she could get at his desk.
Why did he stare at her without saying a word, with his brandy glass almost tilting over in his hand?
“Your Grace?”
“All right,” he said slowly.
“I’ve never seen a strange gentleman’s bed,” she said with breathlessness that wasn’t all faked.
“Well, I am certainly a strange gentleman. Let’s not keep you waiting, my curious angel. Since you express an interest in seeing my bed, do you want to actually see me in it?”
Was he just calling her bluff? He watched her intently.
She said, as coolly as she could, “Perhaps.”
“Then you’ll be disappointed. I never do anything as pedestrian as have sex in my bed.”
What in heaven’s name did he mean by that?
Of course she was too shocked and cowardly to ask.
Helena steeled her shoulders as Greybrooke held open the door to the bedroom for her; she’d been in Will’s bedroom before, but never in the most intimate room of a man who was a stranger.
There was no hint on the duke’s face that he intended to throw her on his bed and ravish her. But surely she might as well have screamed, “Ruin me! Ruin me!” at him the instant she asked to see his room.
Except he’d said, quite casually, he never did his ravishing in his bed.
His bedroom was gold—literally everything in it was gold, gilt, or opulently shimmering. It was like a sultan’s room. An enormous bed stood in the middle, surrounded by curtains of gossamer-sheer gold lace. Every piece of furniture was richly stained in a dark red, and decorated in so much gilt, they shone. Gold decorated the fireplace, gleamed in the drapes, reflected firelight from the dressing table mirror.
“This is like a sultan’s room.”
“Again, my father’s taste.” He grimaced the way she had when brandy touched her tongue. “I never bothered to change it.”