Never Have I Ever With a Duke

by Burke, Darcy

  “What was that, dear?” His voice had thinned in recent months. Arabella prayed it would return to its deeper strength when his health finally improved. If it improved.

  No, she refused to think like that.

  “I don’t really want to see Biscuit just now.”

  He meant the dog, whom he’d found bothersome since becoming ill. Biscuit could get overexcited when she came into his chamber, probably because she missed seeing him, and Papa preferred she stayed out. It was troubling because Arabella felt certain Biscuit could improve his disposition. It was impossible not to smile when she laid her head on your lap and let her tongue hang out while you scratched the underside of her chin.

  “Not Biscuit, Papa. A plate of butter biscuits.” Arabella closed the door and went to set the plate on the table next to the bed. A chair was angled nearby—it was where Mother spent so much of her time and where Arabella read to him.

  Papa chuckled, and, though thready, it was a wonderful sound. “Those I will gladly welcome.”

  Arabella sat in the chair. “Mother is out walking Biscuit, though I daresay you would benefit from a visit with her. Dogs have mysterious restorative qualities.”

  He reached for a biscuit and gave a noncommittal grunt in response.

  Arabella regretted discussing the dog. She didn’t wish to get off on the wrong foot. Today was his most lucid of the past few, which was excellent timing for what she needed to do. She must take full advantage.

  She inwardly winced. She didn’t wish to take advantage of him, but couldn’t dismiss the sensation that she was doing precisely that.

  No, you’re doing this for him. For all of you.

  “Papa—”

  “Tell me about your Season, dear.” He started speaking on top of her, so she let him continue. “Your mother says the Duke of Halstead called yesterday. I am sorry I missed it.” His gaze turned sad as he ate the biscuit. Thankfully, the emotion seemed fleeting as he enjoyed the confection.

  “The Season is going well, Papa. The duke is very charming, but he is not the only gentleman paying me interest.” She didn’t want him to get his hopes up, especially when she had no future with the duke.

  Papa’s brows arched briefly. “Is that right? Who else has called?”

  It suddenly felt as if no one was interested. “No one.”

  “Ah well, no matter, not with a duke on board! How wonderful if you could land him.” His eyes narrowed, and his lip curled. “I’d like to see what St. Ives would say about that, the blackguard.”

  This was a familiar line of conversation. No, not conversation, because Arabella didn’t encourage it. Diatribe was a better description. “He’s not a blackguard.” He’d simply fallen in love with someone else, and Arabella couldn’t fault him for that.

  Papa scoffed. “He’s worse than that to have thrown you over. His father is likely tossing in his grave. The boy lied to his father on his deathbed.” He shook his head. “Unforgiveable.”

  Arabella saw no point in trying to defend the earl to her father. Furthermore, she had no desire to agitate him right now, not when the reason she’d come to see him would do that well enough on its own. Instead, she joined in his disdain. “Good riddance to him anyway,” she said. “I can’t say I really cared for him.”

  “Of course not, dear. You’ve far better taste.” He gave her a half smile and reached for another biscuit.

  Biscuit! Her mother would return soon. Arabella didn’t have a moment to lose.

  “Papa, I met with an investigator about…Mr. Tibbord.” She hesitated briefly before saying the man’s name, her body tensing as she awaited Papa’s reaction.

  He’d just taken a bite of biscuit and now sat up straight to sputter and cough. Arabella jumped to her feet and patted his back.

  “Are you all right?” She felt horrible for rushing forward without paying attention to the fact that he’d just eaten a biscuit.

  He quieted and leaned back. “An investigator?”

  She nodded and sat back down. “Tibbord is a thief—we are not the only people he has fleeced.” She thought of Halstead, not that he’d been fleeced, but he was a victim of the man’s misconduct just the same.

  “Of course not,” Papa said. “Who hired the investigator?”

  “I’m not sure.” She hated lying to him, but it was necessary. This was for their benefit. Their livelihood depended on it. “But we can help if you tell me about what happened.”

  He shook his head. “I must speak to the investigator, not you.”

  She’d anticipated he might insist on meeting the investigator. “Papa, it’s not possible. You are too ill. Mama would never allow it.” That much was true.

  He frowned. “But I am the head of this family.”

  “Yes, but you are also too ill to get dressed.” She edged forward in her chair, clasping her hands together tightly as she looked at him pleadingly. “You must let go of some of the burden. I can handle this. Please.”

  He was quiet for a long moment. “It isn’t right.”

  Arabella held her breath. She was running out of time before her mother returned.

  Papa exhaled. “If it will punish Tibbord for what he’s done, I’ll help.”

  Inside, she relaxed with relief. Outside, she smiled. “Thank you, Papa. The investigator would like to know how Tibbord managed to steal from you.” His eye twitched, and she felt wretched for dredging this up.

  He looked toward the window. “He gained my trust. I invested a small amount at first, and it earned a tidy return, so I invested more. Tibbord required it, you see, to stay in the game. If I didn’t invest more, he would find another investor and I’d lose my spot. When I lost a goodly sum at the tables,” he winced, “I invested more.”

  Tibbord had preyed upon a man who possessed little financial acumen. Then, when Papa had fallen into financial distress, Tibbord had gone in for the kill. “How did you come to know Mr. Tibbord?” she asked gently.

  “I heard about him at a gaming hell, er, establishment.” He looked away and folded his hands in his lap.

  Arabella didn’t think there was anything she could say to ease his embarrassment. Furthermore, it wasn’t up to her to alleviate his conscience. While she’d forgiven him for jeopardizing their well-being with his gambling, it wasn’t easily forgotten. “I know you went to gaming establishments, Papa. Most gentlemen do. How did you meet Mr. Tibbord?” she prompted, all too aware that her mother would return soon.

  “I didn’t meet him.” Again he looked away, and a faint flush of pink crept up his neck. “I conducted all business through his assistant.” The confirmation that there had been an intermediary wasn’t surprising, but it was frustrating. She’d been hoping her father had perhaps met the man.

  “Then how did you even hear of Tibbord?”

  “Everyone at the hell knew of him. He was known for his clever handling of investments. He was aware of all the latest shipping interests and building schemes. Gentlemen were eager to invest with him. When Osborne—that’s his man—spoke to you, everyone seethed with jealousy.”

  That couldn’t still be the case, not if Tibbord’s reputation was now that of a thief. “Has that changed? I imagine it must have if someone is investigating him.”

  “I was not the only person who lost a great deal of money with him. Those of us who did were evasive about the specifics, of course.”

  Of course. “Who else lost money to him?” she asked.

  Papa pressed his lips together firmly. “That I won’t say. It’s not my place to reveal others’ secrets.”

  The sound of Biscuit’s bark carried into the bedroom. Papa scrunched up his face. “Would you mind keeping the dog out?”

  “Mama won’t bring her in.” Arabella wasn’t quite finished with her questions, but she was out of time. Rising, she asked, “In which hell did you make Osborne’s acquaintance?”

  “The Thundering Stag,” he said. “In Covent Garden.”

  The dog yapped again, and it sounded a
s though they might be in the sitting room just outside the bedchamber. Arabella gave her father a pointed stare. “Remember, don’t tell Mama about this. She would worry, and she already has enough weighing on her mind.”

  “She is far too encumbered.” His voice was sad and full of regret.

  Arabella’s heart melted. She moved to the bedside and took his hand. “Things will get better. Perhaps this investigator will be able to recover the money you lost.”

  He gave her an encouraging smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Yes, that would be lovely, dear.” He obviously didn’t think it was possible. “You must keep me apprised of what’s going on. Promise me.” He sat forward, and his features were more animated than she’d seen them in weeks.

  She squeezed his hand. “Yes, Papa. I will.”

  Biscuit barked again, and Arabella quickly stepped out into the sitting room, where her mother was just handing the dog off to Millie.

  Mama patted Biscuit’s head before turning to Arabella. “You were in with your father?”

  “I brought him some biscuits.”

  “You shouldn’t overtire him. He needs his rest.”

  Arabella didn’t agree. What he needed was exercise. However, it wasn’t worthwhile to argue with her mother.

  Mama went into the bedchamber, and Arabella followed. Papa was out of the bed and heading toward his dressing chamber.

  “Yardley, what are you doing?” Mama asked with alarm.

  “Getting dressed. I’d like to go out to the garden.”

  As he disappeared into the dressing room, Mama spun about and blinked at Arabella. “What happened?”

  Apparently, she’d given him something to get out of bed for. Arabella stifled a smile. She’d been so worried about how the Tibbord conversation might adversely affect him, she’d never imagined it might do the opposite. “Nothing. We ate biscuits. He really loves them.”

  Mama shot a look toward the plate on the bedside table. Only two biscuits remained, showing he’d eaten several more since Arabella had left the room. She smothered another smile.

  “Mariah, will you lend your assistance?” Papa called.

  “Of course.” Mama hurried toward the dressing chamber with alacrity, and Arabella retreated to the sitting room.

  That had gone much better than she’d hoped. Not only had she gathered vital information, Papa seemed to be energized by the prospect of the investigator. Too bad it wasn’t true.

  A shard of discomfort sliced through Arabella. What if nothing came of Halstead’s inquiries? What if nothing changed, and Arabella was forced to marry for money? Worse, what if Arabella wasn’t able to do so?

  Ice coated her spine. She wouldn’t think like that. There was too much at stake. She would be back on the Marriage Mart tonight. And she would pursue Tibbord. She would save them all at any cost.

  With Halstead’s help. She was eager to tell him what she’d learned. Tomorrow couldn’t come soon enough.

  * * *

  Sitting in the House of Lords was perhaps the strangest aspect of Graham’s new life. He was still learning so much, but the sheer importance and responsibility of being a duke was slowly—and firmly—settling in. He’d been so focused on his personal financial issues that he hadn’t paid proper attention to his other duties. Yet another reason he needed to solve that problem once and for all.

  As he left a committee meeting at Westminster, an unfamiliar voice called his name. Stopping, Graham turned about and recognized the man who was looking for him. “Lord Satterfield, it’s a pleasure to see you,” Graham said.

  The earl was perhaps sixty or so, but in possession of a youthful countenance, despite his nearly bald pate. His brown eyes met Graham’s. “How are things? Lady Satterfield asked me to check in on you.” He smiled warmly. “I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all, that’s very kind of her. Things are going well, thank you.” Inside, Graham laughed riotously at the blatant lie. He seized upon the opportunity to discover something about Tibbord. “I wonder if you might help me with something.” He beckoned for Satterfield to join him off to the side in the vestibule.

  “I’d be delighted to provide assistance however I may,” Satterfield said, his gaze open and eager.

  Graham started with another lie. “I’m helping a friend track down a rather scurrilous fellow, a gentleman named Tibbord. Have you heard of him?”

  Satterfield’s features darkened. “I’m sorry to say that I have, if you mean the Tibbord who’s known for making faulty investments. He fleeced a friend of mine last year. Fortunately, it wasn’t too bad, but I understand others have not been so lucky.”

  “Indeed? What have you heard?” Graham’s breath lodged in his throat as he waited to hear if Satterfield knew anything that could cast Graham into a poor financial light.

  “Just rumors, really. I know for a fact he invested money for my friend—or said he did. Who knows what he really did with the funds. My friend earned a return for a short time. When he invested more, things started to turn. He then heard whispers of this happening to other investors. Then Tibbord vanished.”

  “When was that?” Graham asked, hoping he didn’t sound too impatient.

  “Late last fall, perhaps?” Satterfield gave his head a shake. “I’m not entirely sure. I know he preyed on gentlemen who were down on their luck at the tables. You could ask around at a few gaming hells. I believe he spent much of his time in Covent Garden. At least that’s where my friend always encountered him.”

  Graham was thrilled to learn even this much, but wondered if there was more to be gleaned. “Did your friend ever meet Tibbord? It’s my understanding he typically worked through an intermediary.”

  “That’s my understanding as well. I will never comprehend why someone would agree to invest under such circumstances, but then I have never found myself in desperate need of a financial windfall.”

  Just as Graham was now. Would he take what remained of his savings and sink it into such an investment if he thought he could save Brixton Park? He didn’t think so, but he had the benefit of knowing what had happened to Tibbord’s victims. Absent that information, he might have been desperate enough. It was a sobering and discomfiting thought.

  Satterfield peered at him with curiosity. “You’re looking for Tibbord on behalf of a friend?”

  “Yes.” Graham offered a weak smile. “I’m afraid it’s difficult for me to completely relinquish my former life as a secretary.”

  “Ah, that makes sense. You’re a good friend.” Satterfield nodded approvingly. “Will you visit some hells in Covent Garden?”

  It seemed he must. While it appeared he was closer to finding Tibbord, searching for the man in the hells of Covent Garden seemed a daunting task, especially if he hadn’t been seen in months.

  “I may,” Graham said. “I do appreciate your help, Satterfield.”

  “It’s my pleasure. Will you be at the club later? Kendal has a private suite, and we often meet there, if you’d care to join us.”

  “Thank you. I’m not sure of my evening plans, but will drop by if I can.” On his way to Covent Garden, perhaps.

  After taking his leave of Lord Satterfield, Graham rode back to Brixton Park, his mind turning over all he’d learned. If Tibbord had preyed on men losing at the tables, where had the former duke been gambling? Though Graham hadn’t known his relative, he couldn’t imagine the man frequenting gaming hells over White’s or Brooks’s.

  Graham took his horse to the stable with the intent of speaking with the head groom who’d been in the former duke’s employ. Dyster was a fairly young man, maybe a year or two short of Graham’s twenty-eight. With a bright thatch of blond hair and a crooked smile, he was exceedingly good-natured as well as being stellar at his job. Which was a very good thing since the stable workers consisted of him, Lowell, the coachman, and one much younger lad.

  Dyster took the reins of Graham’s mount, the one animal he’d never be able to bring himself to sell. Uther had been a gift fr
om his father six years ago, and Graham loved the beast as much as he’d loved his dog who’d died five years ago.

  “Good afternoon, Your Grace,” Dyster said.

  Graham dismounted and patted Uther’s neck. “Good afternoon, Dyster. Take good care of him for me.”

  “Always.”

  “May I speak with you a moment?” Graham asked.

  “Of course.” The groom inclined his head toward the boy, who came forward to take the horse. Dyster turned his attention to Graham. “I’m at your service.”

  “What can you tell me of the former duke’s habits with regard to going into town?”

  Dyster’s brow gathered into neat, furrowed lines. “I’d say he went into town about twice each week, primarily for business in Parliament, though he did visit his club periodically, I think.”

  He thought? Graham pressed for more information. “Did you drive him?”

  “I did not. He preferred Rockley drive him, but Rockley moved on after His Grace passed.”

  “Rockley was the head groom?” At Dyster’s nod, Graham continued. “Do you happen to know if His Grace ever visited Covent Garden? Specifically, did he ever frequent gaming hells?”

  Dyster’s eyes widened briefly. “I can’t imagine His Grace doing anything like that. However, he did like to place bets. He was always wagering at his club. I overheard him talking about it sometimes with Rockley.” Dyster grimaced. “I beg your pardon. I shouldn’t have listened.”

  “I'm quite glad you did,” Graham said with an encouraging smile. It wasn’t much, but he at least knew the duke had liked to gamble. Graham would definitely need to visit some hells in Covent Garden, but maybe not tonight. He wasn’t sure he wanted to return to town, particularly when he would be meeting Miss Stoke there early tomorrow.

  Graham thanked Dyster, then went to the house, his mind fixating on his morning appointment with Miss Stoke. Had she learned anything of value from her father? Graham dearly hoped so.

  Beyond that, he looked forward to seeing her. She had a keen mind, and he appreciated her drive to help her family. He would do everything he could to aid her in avoiding an unwanted marriage. Indeed, there was no one better to provide assistance in that endeavor than him, someone who was equally motivated to avert a union.