The Wicked Duke (9 page)

“Well
. My
.” Mama let her shock finally show. “When he invited me to call the day we met, I did not believe he meant it. Such things are said all the time out of politeness. I certainly did not think he meant it so much that he now scolds me for neglecting him.”

“Do you know the third one? Mr. Fitzallen?”

“The old duke took a mistress early on, and kept her until he died, and that man is the result.” Mama turned back to the dressmaker. “If we are going to make a call on a duke, I must tell Mrs. Makepeace to enhance those ensembles they are doing over, and to complete it immediately. Come along, and pick out some trim for your mantelet. We will call the day after tomorrow, I think, not tomorrow. We do not want to look too eager.”

Considering the gleam in Mama's eyes, Marianne suspected they would look too eager even if they waited a week.

*   *   *

“Y
ou both must stay now. Ives, invite your wife to join you. She can study here as well as in London.” Lance made the demand as they strode down the lane. “Gareth, since Eva is with child, she does not have to come.”

“How good of you,” Gareth said.

“I am not going to request it of Padua on your whim, so she will not be coming either,” Ives said.

“It is not a whim. It will be much easier for me to devise ways to see Miss Radley if there is a woman or two about. Otherwise I am left with dull calls in Sir Horace's drawing room. I can hardly make good progress that way.”

“Good progress on what?” Ives asked.

“On being so bad she won't have me. Gareth, when they call, you are to attend on the mother. Attractive older women find you irresistible. Distract her, et cetera.”

“There will be no ‘et cetera.' I am a married man. I am not going to flirt with Mrs. Radley to accommodate your progress.”

“Perhaps after today you will not have to concern yourself with the lady, or with Sir Horace,” Ives said.

Lance thought that unlikely, but was willing to try anything.

Today's visit to the village had been Gareth's idea. At breakfast he suggested that, as Percy's next of kin, they all call on the coroner and express familial concern. They would press on him that the question regarding the circumstances of Percy's death left the entire family in a type of limbo.

They walked past the village's two taverns, either of which Lance thought would be a fine place for such a meeting. They turned a corner and instead entered a coffeehouse. Thaddeus Peterson, the coroner, favored this establishment over the others, being an abstemious sort of fellow. The son of a local landowner, he bided his time until he inherited his father's estate.

He sat on a divan, reading the
Times
and drinking his coffee. A thin, fair man with curly blond hair, his soft face appeared as bland as Lance knew his character to be. Many years ago, he and Peterson had boyhood friendship. Then Peterson grew up into someone who did not remember how to have fun.

“Peterson. What a fine accident, finding you here,” Lance said as they descended on him.

Peterson gazed up in surprise at the phalanx of Hemingfords hovering over his divan. “I am always here in the afternoon, except on Fridays when I make calls. I ride out at two o'clock each day, and take coffee here, then ride back at four.”

“Do you, now? I had forgotten what a pleasant place this is.” Lance pulled over a chair. Ives sat on the divan's arm. Gareth propped his ass on the edge of a table. They all smiled at Thaddeus.

Peterson took one more look at his paper before setting it aside. “You interrupted my pondering the news reaching London.” He tapped the paper. “Do you know this Elijah Tewkberry who is serving as the paper's correspondent in this county?”

“I have never heard of him,” Lance said.

“One of his letters mentioned me,” Ives said. “I do not recall meeting him, however.”

“I have no idea who he is,” Peterson said. “He wrote he was visiting here this winter. I have not heard of a family with such a visitor.”

“Not everyone parades their visitors down Cheltenham's lanes,” Gareth said. “I think you have no idea who I am, either, and I have visited the county many times over the years.”

Peterson eyed him thoughtfully. “I confess I would not recognize you, or even guess who you are, except that you are here with these two. You must be the old duke's by-blow.”

“Lance did not want to disturb you when we saw you in here, but I insisted,” Gareth said, ignoring the slur with what Lance thought was admirable patience. “The unresolved matter of my eldest brother's death weighs on me. On all of us. As the coroner, surely you can come down one way or another. Your determination of causes unknown has stood for nine months.”

Peterson glanced at Lance. “I am surprised you press me on it. After all, it may come down the one way you would not like.”

“There is no evidence of any crime,” Ives said.

“The physician—”

“The physician only said the stomach pains might indicate poison.
Might
,” Ives said. “If after nine months there is no proof he was poisoned, it is time to lay the matter to rest, don't you think?”

Peterson folded his arms over his chest. He glared at
each of them in turn. “I do my duty as I see it. When a possible murder is on the table, and of a duke at that, I do not clear the plates in the name of expediency.”

Ives looked ready to argue. A subtle gesture from Gareth stopped him. Gareth pushed away from the table and sat on the divan next to Peterson.

“No one would want you to do anything contrary to your sense of duty. We merely expressed our frustration with having his ghost still without rest.”

Peterson relaxed. “I thank you for that. I confess to experiencing some of that frustration myself.”

“Were you friends?”

Peterson hesitated. “He was amiable enough with me, and greeted me, and we spoke at assemblies and dinner parties. He called once or twice, on a matter having to do with my official duties.” He glanced sharply at Lance. “He did not insult me at least, or cut me, or turn his wit against me.”

“It sounds like a friendship to me,” Gareth said. “We knew there were those in the county who mourned him as we did, even if we did not know all of their names.”

Peterson nodded.

Gareth stood. “Let us leave Mr. Peterson to the revelations of Mr. Tewkberry. It is almost four and he will want to finish his coffee in peace.”

Ives did not like it, but he followed Gareth and Lance out of the coffeehouse. Back on the main lane, Gareth stopped and turned to Lance.

“He hates you. Why?”

“Perhaps he was insulted when I dropped him as a friend. You know how it is. You have a boyhood acquaintance with whom you might on occasion play knights in the woods, but then you get older and realize that boy has become a very dull man, so you stop seeking him out.” He gestured toward the coffeehouse. “Would you be friends with him now?”

“He spoke as if you did not merely stop seeking him out. He implied you insulted him.”

“I suppose, when I was in my cups, I may have teased him once or twice, when we were both still very young. It was so long ago I have forgotten it.”

“
He
has not forgotten it.” Gareth walked on. “Did you also insult the justices? Is all of this personal, and a way to flog you for your past deeds?”

They repaired to one of the taverns. Over some ale, Gareth raised the question again.

“I will confess that if it had been Ives in the house that night, there might have never been one day of suspicions, let alone nine months,” Lance said. “I have assumed from the beginning that it was partly personal, and revenge for my past behavior, but not by Peterson.”

“He is speaking of the other justice of the peace,” Ives said to Gareth. “Not Radley. Mr. Gregory.”

Gareth swallowed a groan. “So not just the coroner, but one of the magistrates as well. Did you insult him too?”

“You might say so.” Ives bit back a grin.

“What did you do?”

Lance never apologized for his behavior, but at this moment he felt some chagrin. “Seduced his wife,” he muttered.

“Excuse me? You were talking into your cup and I did not hear well. Did you say you seduced the man's wife?”

“He did indeed, and not discreetly.” Ives, who was always discreet, said the last with a tone of censure.

“He married a young woman, too young for him, and brought her up to London to show her off. In my defense, I did not pursue her, but one thing led to another—”

“So you did not just seduce his wife, you seduced
his bride
.”

Gareth appeared shocked. Lance thought that took a lot of gall considering the topic was the seduction of another man's wife. His bastard brother had been notorious for that.

“With Gregory honing his ax, and Radley blackmailing you, and Peterson sulking about a slight from long ago, you will find no mercy there. I had hoped—well, it is safe to say that nothing less than making good on your plan to find the real murderer will exonerate you,” Gareth said.

“That is why I intend to do just that.”

“Here is the problem,” Ives said. “What if we have always been correct, and he was not murdered? Then what?”

They all looked at each other. Leave it to a lawyer to point out the chasm on the path to salvation.

“S
mooth your mantelet. Straighten your hat.” Mama's instructions came in a quick whisper after she and Marianne stepped out of the carriage.

Not just any carriage. Not the gig kept in the carriage house, or even the tilbury, either of which Marianne could have driven. On hearing the request for one of the carriages, and learning their intention to call on Aylesbury, Uncle Horace had insisted they use the barouche, and had sent a footman to accompany them and the driver. Both servants wore ancient livery that Marianne had not seen since she was a child.

She did smooth her sapphire mantelet. Mrs. Makepeace had added fur to its edge. A new bright sapphire plum adorned her bonnet. Beneath the mantelet, a pelisse
dress of fine fawn wool sported a new border of brown embroidered with an intricate black design. The goal of that border was to increase the length of the dress due to Marianne growing an inch during their time in exile. The bodice had been let out an inch, too, to accommodate growth in another area.

Mama's green carriage ensemble now had plaid edging and new gold buttons. On leaving the house, Marianne doubted even Aylesbury would be able to tell both of them wore remade clothes. Mrs. Makepeace had done them proud.

Now, as her gaze spanned Merrywood Manor, her self-confidence wavered. Her family home was very large, but this manor house went on and on in every direction. There was probably twice as much again behind what she saw. This house would make anyone feel small, unless one was born to the manor to start.

Her mother muttered nonstop all the way to the door. “This will establish us again like nothing else will. And he insisted we call so he could receive us! I daresay you will find yourself with some eligible men dancing attendance on you when it becomes known a duke receives you and your family.”

“I would not mind a beau.”

“More than one, I hope. And not just any beaus. I have been making a list of the eligible bachelors in the county as I make my calls and hear of them. Much has changed on that count in five years, including your advancing years. Still, I am hopeful.”

They presented their cards to the butler. He put them
in a little reception chamber while he went away. He returned soon, and led them to the drawing room.

“Don't gawk like a rustic,” Mama warned as they stepped into the chamber.

It was all Marianne could do to obey when she saw the riches within. Hundreds of people would fit in the huge drawing room, and the many sofas and chairs would seat most of them. The ceiling soared above, replete with extensive moldings, and large windows lined one wall. Those windows were not composed of small panes of glass in the normal fashion, but with large ones lacking any leading. It was said the palaces of kings had windows like that.

Two of the largest carpets she had ever seen graced the floor. Her feet sank deeply into the one on which she stood. All of the fabrics in the chamber proclaimed the wealth of the owner. The drapes alone probably cost more than Uncle Horace's income in a year.

“Stand proud. We are more than presentable.” Her mother did not sound nearly as confident as her words.

“I think even if we dressed in sable and the finest lace, we might not be presentable enough,” Marianne whispered back.

They inched farther into the chamber, taking it all in. Then another set of doors opened, and the duke entered with his brothers.

Greetings. Bows and curtsies all around. A few mild flatteries from Mr. Fitzallen, along with a most charming smile. Tea arrived and they all sat and sipped.

“Will you gentlemen be attending the assembly?” Mama asked after some small talk.

“Regrettably I will not be staying that long,” Mr. Fitzallen said.

“It is only a few days away,” the duke said, as if his brother's departure was news to him.

“A few days too many.” He turned his attention on Marianne and her mother. “I will return to my wife tomorrow. My brother does not understand how a woman in the family way might grow anxious if left too long.”

“Goodness, yes,” Mama said. “How pleased you must be.”

“Ives's wife is not so burdened. Since her nose remains in books, she will not miss him, so he will still be here,” Aylesbury said. “We will go together, Ives. It has been some time for both of us.”

Ives apparently was the family name for Lord Ywain.

“In my brother's case, the reason he has not attended county events in all these years was for the best of reasons, as I am sure you know, Mrs. Radley,” Ives said. “However, if I am still at Merrywood, I will accompany him to this assembly, should he dare it himself.”

Mama reacted with puzzlement at his allusion regarding the hiatus. Then she must have understood, because her face went slack, her eyes widened, and a blush spread. Marianne itched to demand further explanation. She would have to badger Mama later.

“Would you like to see the garden?” the duke asked. “Gareth, let us escort the ladies there by way of the gallery. Gareth is a renowned art expert, Miss Radley. He can talk for an hour about any painting we own, but I promise not to allow him to bore you too much.”

“My mother is fond of gardens. She is currently remaking the one at my uncle's house.”

“You must tell me all about it, Mrs. Radley,” Mr. Fitzallen said, offering his hand to help Mama rise.

Mama appeared too bedazzled to move. What woman would not, with the attention of such a beautiful man showering down on her? Mr. Fitzallen had not flirted, or done the slightest thing to cause Mama's reaction. He merely was a man as handsome as the devil, with a smile that had Mama breathless.

She collected herself, and accepted his escort out of the drawing room. Lord Ywain drifted along in their wake. Aylesbury stepped into place alongside Marianne.

“I am pleased you called,” he said.

“I cannot imagine why. The three of you must have better things to do than entertain us.”

“Not many. You would be surprised at how uneventful it is here. It quickly grows very boring.”

She would not be surprised. Leisure was the product of privilege, but an unending supply of it could be burdensome. That was one reason she took such joy in caring for Nora. It gave her life a purpose that would be difficult to find otherwise.

“Is that why you lived in London for so long?” They strolled the long gallery of paintings. Up ahead, Mr. Fitzallen stopped occasionally to point something out to her mother. Mama's gaze tended to gravitate to the face of the man, not the canvas under discussion.

“In part. Perhaps it was one third of the reason.”

“And the other two thirds?”

Mama and Mr. Fitzallen had paused again. The duke did, too, and looked at her. “Once my brother Percy inherited, this house ceased being a home to me. Or to Ives either. We did not rub well together, Percy and I, and once he became the duke, the lack of mutual sympathy increased.”

“Once he became lord, did he lord it over the rest of you? I think it is probably a rare man who does not succumb to the temptations of power, even with family members.”

“How perceptive you are. You know the human heart very well for one so young.”

They moved on, slowly. More slowly than Mr. Fitzallen up ahead. The distance to Mama stretched longer with each step. Marianne looked at the paintings as she passed, but she did not have time to really examine any of them.

“You could make this house less boring,” she said. “You could entertain London friends. You could invite some neighbors for dinner on occasion. You might even open the estate grounds to the county for a day, the way your father used to do. Perhaps with a little time it would become a home again, and one that you enjoyed.” She tried to quicken their path, to no avail. Aylesbury's steps remained ever so slow.

At the end of the gallery, Mr. Fitzallen opened a door, chatting with Mama all the while.

“I may try that. We will plot a fair for the county in the spring. You can help me.”

We?
“I— Surely there is someone here—”

Without so much as looking back, Mama followed her escort out of the gallery.

Aylesbury stopped again.

“The lady of the house usually directs the servants in such things, and I do not have one. What do I know about the sort of food to be served, or the decorations? Your advice will be essential. We do not want everyone later saying it was a poor affair.”

Marianne kept one eye on the gallery, where Ives still lingered, studying a painting. “I am sure you know ladies more suited to the task than I. I have never managed a household, or been responsible for entertaining.” She gestured broadly down the gallery. “My mother, however—”

“I am sure you would be successful in every way. I can tell when a person has good taste.” Aylesbury took her hand in his. “I would be both pleased and honored if you gave your help in this.”

She stared down at her hand, then up at him, then at the distant, distracted figure of Ives. How careless of Mama to leave her like this.

With one finger on her chin, the duke coaxed her gaze back at him. He looked deeply in her eyes. A little panic swelled in her chest. She could not look away.

“Do I have your agreement, pretty flower?” he asked.

Agreement for what? Oh, yes, helping with that county event. “I suppose so.”

“I am so glad.”

A smile. A subtle one. Devilish, confident, and dangerous. She seemed surrounded by haze now. The gallery barely penetrated her consciousness.

Did she step forward, or float? She moved, that was certain, as the duke gently pulled her toward him while he eased back, toward the wall. Now she could not see
the gallery even if she wanted to, because a very large statue blocked her view of it.

Warmth on her face, as his hands cupped her head. Her mind absorbed what he was doing too late. By the time she realized his intention, his lips had already pressed hers.

Who knew being naughty could be so sweet? Who would guess the Wicked Duke would kiss so gently? He lured her into compliance, as if he touched the parts inside her that wanted to be kissed because he knew they were there. He made love to her mouth much as he had to her hand in the boat.

It was the first real kiss she had ever had, and his lips on hers felt absolutely perfect. Wonderful. Its effects on her were a revelation too. Such a small thing, a kiss. Yet it fascinated and vanquished her. A titillating pleasure lapped through her that defeated her conscience when it belatedly emerged.

I shouldn't, but
 . . .

He kissed her more fully.

I must stop this at once. Only I do not want to
 . . .

He drew her into an embrace.

This is scandalous, and yet
 . . .

His kisses became more ardent, less gentle. His hands caressed her back and hips, evoking wicked thrills unlike she had ever experienced, or even guessed could be felt.

I must not, I should not, I
 . . .

His tongue urged her lips apart. His tongue began a slow dance inside her mouth, shocking and mesmerizing her at the same time

“Lance, I am going out to the garden. Why don't you
allow Miss Radley time to see it too? I am sure by now the art has begun to bore her.” Ives's voice crashed through her euphoric daze. It did not sound far away at all.

Aylesbury stopped kissing her, but he did not release her for a few moments. Then he gave her a look such as she had never seen in a man's eyes before, and set her away from himself.

“If you insist, Ives. However, we have both discovered new things about this old Greek god here. His entire stance appears different from this angle. Don't you agree, Miss Radley?” He stepped away and into the gallery's long hall.

She took a deep breath to collect herself, and stepped out as well. “Very different. Far less languid, and much more angular.” She forced herself not to touch her hat, to see if those kisses had set it askew.

Ives stood fifteen feet away. He smiled at his brother, then her. He turned on his heel and walked away.

She felt herself again. Enough to continue walking down the gallery. Astonishment at her own behavior blotted out most of her thoughts. Except one.

She had been bad, and the duke had been
badder
, but . . . being kissed by him had been glorious.

*   *   *

“W
hat pleasant ladies.” Gareth offered his view of the visit while Lance sat with him and Ives out on the terrace, watching the sun set below the treetops of the forest.

“Mrs. Radley appeared captivated by you,” Ives said. “So much that she did not notice the absence of her daughter.”

“She realized it right before Miss Radley emerged from the house. Did the paintings make Miss Radley dally in the gallery, Lance? If she likes art, perhaps she and Eva would get along well,” Gareth said.

“She was not admiring art. She was with Lance.” Ives puffed deeply on his cigar. “Damned good thing I interfered. Two more minutes and . . .” He finished with a long glare at Lance.