The Duke's Men [1] What the Duke Desires (9 page)

That brought a smile to her lips. How ludicrous that Skrimshaw was worried about him—why,
the duke couldn’t even bring himself to say the word
arse
to her. Once he’d determined that she wasn’t a loose woman, he’d been the soul of
propriety.

Except for that moment when she’d proposed that she play his mistress.

Remembering how boldly his eyes had raked her, she caught her breath. Perhaps “soul
of propriety” wasn’t the best description of him, either. He was an enigma, one she
wished to unwrap.

She frowned. No, certainly not. Men like Lofty Lyons were more trouble than they were
worth. And she didn’t need that kind of trouble. She was finally making inroads with
Dom; one day soon he might actually let her investigate a case, or at least do some
of the important parts.

That was what she’d dreamed of all these years—being in control of her own life, being
able to pull her own weight instead of having to depend on feckless men. Taking up
with a duke would not help her plans.

So she had to keep a distance between herself and Lyons. She had to ignore his compliments
and the absurd attraction she felt for the man. This was a matter of saving Tristan’s
future. That was all.

♦  ♦  ♦

A
FEW HOURS
later, when she arrived at the Golden Cross Inn with her bag, she had to remind herself
of that. Because the haughty duke had once more defied her expectations.

Dressing in lower-class attire ought to have made him look ordinary and workaday,
dulling his virile appeal. Instead, it amplified it. With his greatcoat slung casually
over one shoulder, he looked like a rakish adventurer out to conquer the world.

And she had a decided weakness for rakish adventurers.

Drat it all. She couldn’t blame his clothes; the fustian suit was what any merchant
might wear—a medium-brown coat, buff breeches, and a dark brown stock tied simply
about his neck.

But the soft brown color brought out the warm green of his eyes. And his brown leather
high boots, with their creases and weathering, made him look rough and daring, a man
to be reckoned with. Worse yet, the bold features and unfashionably straight, gold-streaked
hair that had seemed wrong for a rich lord were perfect for an adventurer in fustian.

Then he spoke, and the duke returned in full force, arrogant accent and all. “There
you are. I thought that you had forgotten what time the coach left.”

She forced a smile as she approached. “It took me forever to get packed.” Mindful
of the people milling about the coach office, she added, “Were there any more notes
waiting for you at home from . . . our brother?”

His expression hardened. “No. No word of any kind.”

She released a sigh. Part of her had hoped that Tristan had just been delayed somewhere
and would have tried to reach the duke again. But it had been over twelve hours since
Tristan had first sent that note. It wasn’t looking good.

Feeling a sudden chill down her spine, she glanced about the coach office, but nobody
seemed to be paying them much mind. She’d had the oddest sense that
someone was watching them, but it must have been her imagination, spurred by her worry
about Tristan. “I suppose you’ve purchased our tickets already.”

“Of course. Did you bring your passport?”

“Certainly.”

“Give it to me. I’ll need it to book passage aboard the packet boat.”

She handed it over and watched as he shoved it into his coat pocket. “Where’s your
bag?”

“Already loaded.”

“Then I should—”

“Miss Bonnaud!” cried a voice behind her. “I can’t believe you’re here!”

Her heart sank into her stomach as she turned to see Mrs. Greasley, one of her neighbors,
bustling toward her with her stoic husband in tow. Oh no. The biggest gossip in her
street just happened to show up at an inn halfway across London? What were the odds?

“Going on the coach, are you?” Mrs. Greasley continued as she caught sight of Lisette’s
bag.

Steady now,
Lisette told herself.
If she asks who’s accompanying you, all you need do is claim that Dom is running late.
Lots of coaches left from the Golden Cross Inn, and the woman might not even be here
to travel on one.

“Good day, Mrs. Greasley,” she said smoothly. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“We’re off to Brighton to visit our daughter,” Mrs. Greasley said cheerily. “I suppose
you’re off to Brighton, too, eh?”

Lisette froze. This couldn’t be happening. How was
she to play Miss Cale if the Greasleys were in the coach with them all the way to
Brighton? “I—I—”

But Mrs. Greasley didn’t seem to require an answer, for she went on without pause:
“I spoke to the coachman, and he said he had a gentleman and a lady booked for the
inside seats with us, but I never dreamed it were you and your half brother.” She
glanced about the inn. “Where is Mr. Manton, anyhow? The coach will be leaving soon,
our driver said.”

Panic seized her. She couldn’t be Miss Cale, and Mrs. Greasley knew that she had no
other brothers, so she couldn’t claim that the duke was another Mr. Manton or Mr.
Bonnaud or—

“I’m afraid the cat has got her tongue,” Lyons said smoothly beside her. “You’ll have
to forgive her—it’s been a busy week.” He bowed to Mrs. Greasley. “The lady is going
with
me
to Brighton.”

“You!” Astonishment mingled with outrage in Mrs. Greasley’s voice.

“Yes. Allow me to introduce myself. Max Cale, at your service.” As Lisette’s panic
grew to a fever pitch, he took her hand and placed it firmly in the crook of his arm.
“I am Miss Bonnaud’s new husband.”

M
AXIMILIAN COULD FEEL
Miss Bonnaud’s fingers digging into his arm, but he ignored them. It was her fault
they were in this ridiculous situation. She was the one who’d dreamed up this idiotic
plan and was now reduced to a blithering fool at the first obstacle.

But my neighbors won’t be taking the coach to Brighton.

Naïve female. He’d known this wouldn’t work from the beginning, but she’d jammed him
between a rock and a hard place with her refusal to tell him where Bonnaud was, so
he’d had no choice.

Now it was left to him to salvage things. As always.

“Oh my word,” the plump Mrs. Greasley breathed, then turned on Miss Bonnaud with obvious
incredulity. “Husband? You got
married
?”

He held his breath, praying that Miss Bonnaud wouldn’t fall apart right there and
confess all.

After their earlier encounter, while preparing for the trip, he’d sent a servant to
the area around Bow Street to ask about her and Bonnaud. Everything she’d told
him so far had proved true. Bonnaud had never been seen at Manton’s Investigations,
and her role at the place was strictly administrative.

Judging from all reports, she was as forthright as she seemed. Which probably explained
why the appearance of her neighbor at the coach office was throwing her into a panic.
He braced himself for any reaction.

But she rose to the challenge, leaning close to look up at his face with feigned adoration.
“Yes. I’m Mrs. Cale now.”

Mrs. Greasley was having none of that. “But . . . but . . . I saw your brother last
week and he said naught about it! Why, I didn’t even know you
had
any beaus!”

When Miss Bonnaud stiffened at the veiled insult, an inexplicable urge to throttle
her busybody neighbor seized Maximilian. “Didn’t you?” he said coldly. “She was the
belle of the ball in France. That’s where we met. I had great difficulty persuading
her to choose me over the others.”

“Others?” Mrs. Greasley squeaked.

Warming to the subject, he patted Miss Bonnaud’s hand. “She came to England to avoid
her French suitors. Fortunately, I’m English, so I just followed her to London after
I returned from doing business on the Continent. Then I courted her relentlessly until
she agreed to marry me.”

The woman still looked skeptical. “The banns weren’t called.”

“We married by special license,” he said smoothly. “Mr. Manton had to take an emergency
trip to the
north, so he prevailed upon the archbishop to grant us the license so he could accompany
us to the church before he left. I’m sure you know that Mr. Manton has friends in
high places.”

That certainly knocked the good Mrs. Greasley off her game. “A special license,” she
breathed with clear reverence. “What did you say your name was?”

“It’s Kale,” Miss Bonnaud said quickly. “With a K. My husband is a—”

“Land agent,” Maximilian broke in. He was having none of this cotton merchant nonsense.
He didn’t know a damned thing about cotton. Or being a merchant, for that matter.
“I’m land agent to a gentleman in . . . Have you ever visited Devonshire, Mrs. Greasley?”

She was staring at him wide-eyed. “Afraid not.”

“Ah, a pity. That’s where I’m a land agent. Big estate. Lots of sheep.” It wasn’t
entirely a lie. Among his several estates was a rather large one in Devonshire that
brought in most of its income from wool.

“Oh my, a land agent,” Mrs. Greasley said, obviously impressed. “That’s why you speak
so well.”

“Doesn’t he, though?” Miss Bonnaud said with false sweetness. “My husband has improved
himself wherever he can. He’s very ambitious.”

“I can see that.” Mrs. Greasley nudged her husband, who’d done nothing but stand there
like a lump. “You could use a bit of Mr. Kale’s ambition.”

“Aye,” the poor man answered. “But then you wouldn’t have nobody at home of an evening
to listen to your harping now, would you?”

“Mr. Greasley!” she protested.

Maximilian kept his face carefully blank, though he was laughing inside. Clearly Greasley
had his own way of dealing with his busybody wife.

A horn sounded from the front of the inn.

“That’s the ten-minute warning,” Mrs. Greasley said. “We’d best hurry.”

“We’ll be right there,” Miss Bonnaud said. “I just need a moment with my husband.”

“All right, but they’ll leave you if you’re late,” Mrs. Greasley cautioned as she
tugged her husband toward the door.

As soon as the woman was out of earshot, Miss Bonnaud whirled on him. “My
husband
? Are you out of your mind?”

“You gave me no choice. You stood there gaping like a fish about to be filleted, and
one of us had to do something. I realized you couldn’t go by another name when she
already knew yours, and you couldn’t invent another brother, so I improvised. I gather
she is familiar with both your brothers?”

“She knows Dom.” She hit her forehead. “Oh, Lord, I should have told her you were
Tristan! She’s never met him.”

“I somehow doubt she would believe that I am your half-French brother,” he said. “Besides,
a husband will be easier to pass off, since then we don’t have to look or sound alike,
or pretend we have the same background and family connections. And a husband is far
easier to get rid of than a brother.”

“What do you mean?”

He shrugged. “All you need do when you return from France is claim I had an accident
while we were abroad. I drowned or dropped off a cliff.” He fought a smile. “Or dueled
with one of your many suitors and died tragically in your arms, wounded by love.”

“That’s not funny,” she muttered. “And if I claim you died, then I become a widow.
I’ll have to put on widow’s weeds for a year, not be able to marry for a year, not . . .”
Her eyes lit up. “Wait a minute, what a fine idea! You’re brilliant!”

“I always thought so,” he drawled.

“If I’m a widow, I’m free!” She lifted a shining face to him. “My brothers can stop
their fruitless search for a husband for me. Widows can do as they please . . . well,
not
completely
as they please, but they can do far more than a spinster. I could travel . . . I
could work for Dom! He wouldn’t be so reluctant to train me, and I could actually
be
one of his men.”

He eyed her askance. “I doubt that becoming a widow magically alters one’s sex.”

“You don’t understand. Shaw and I are always telling new clients that Dom and ‘his
men’ will handle their cases, even though we know that Dom can’t afford to hire other
investigators.” She grinned up at him. “But he wouldn’t have to hire anyone else if
I
worked for him. I could be one of Dom’s ‘men’!”

The idea of her striding about town asking questions of strangers all alone sent a
chill down his spine. “Why would you want to do that?” he asked sharply.

A noise in the inn yard made her glance out the window. “We’ve got to go. The coach
is about to leave.” She grabbed her bag.

“I’ll take that,” he said as he extricated it from her hand. “You have a husband,
remember?”

Her eyes gleamed at him. “Not for long.” Then she hurried ahead to the coach.

With a frown, he quickened his steps. “You don’t have to be so cheerful about it,
Miss Bonnaud. Or so confounded eager to kill me off.”

“Stop calling me ‘Miss Bonnaud,’ ” she reminded him. “I’m your wife Lisette for the
time being.”