He had no idea how much longer before he’d be able to do so again. Probably never, given the momentous task of repairing the family name and taking his seat in the House of Lords. “Tedious business, being the duke.”
Time, he was aware, was not always on one’s side. He tried to concentrate on the latest letter from his sister, Lady Phoebe. His sister claimed to be distinctly unhappy living in the country while he and their brother Edward were in London attending balls and musicales the likes of which she could only imagine.
Even though the Season was already underway, if he sent for his sister, she would no doubt cause quite a stir, unseating those comfortably ensconced at the top, enjoying the attentions of those on the marriage mart.
Mayhap he should see about sending his sister to Paris to one of the top modiste’s to see to her wardrobe. He needed to ensure his sister cut quite a dash and received the attention he felt she would be due as sister to the Sixth Duke of Wyndmere. He’d see to it she not only enjoyed her first Season but would meet the most eligible gentlemen. Mayhap, he could put off accepting an offer of marriage for her until next Season.
“Bloody hell. I cannot in good conscience let her go to Paris, let alone here in London without running the risk of an attack on her person, be it of a societal nature or physical.” Neither of which would be acceptable.
“Phoebe is so young and beautiful,” he murmured. He had no doubt his sister would be in contention for one of the Season’s Incomparables…a diamond of the first water fortune hunters and rakehells would not be able to resist, once it was safe for her to be in London. He would hire the most sought after modiste in town when he collected his sister and brought her to the family’s town house.
“Marriage. Good God, she’s too young to even consider the prospect!” But he knew she was not. Many debutantes in their first Season received more than one offer of marriage. “Usually the highest title won the debutante’s hand…or the richest.”
Frowning, he set her letter on the growing pile of correspondence he needed to respond to. “Marriage…bloody hell.” That was on the extensive list his brother had found among Oliver’s papers. Their father had obviously spent a prodigious amount of time instructing his first heir on the duties and expectations of a duke. Jared had no desire to marry.
“Heir and a spare.” Obviously, a necessity he had not given any credence to until his father’s untimely demise, and the short time his brother held the title before meeting his untimely end.
Had Edward read the journals and papers? What if the attack had been meant for him…and not his younger brother? From this moment forward, Jared would insist his brother be apprised of all Jared had done since taking on the title. His family would not be on the verge of ruination again. He had made a vow the day they’d added his brother’s coffin to the family crypt. He would uphold that vow or die trying.
“Never thought to be considering marriage and death simultaneously.”
He shuddered to think of leg shackling himself to any woman. He was in his prime. Had he not inherited the title, he would be traveling happily between Sussex and the Lake District overseeing the family estates, while trying to decide who to hire to take on the massive job of rebuilding the ancient crumbling family tower in Cornwall. He’d be free to stop in any number of taverns along the way, enjoying the attentions of more than one comely barmaid.
A knock sounded moments before the door to his study opened. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace.”
“What is it, Jenkins?”
“A Mr. King to see you.”
Relief speared through him. Patrick had returned the previous evening reporting he’d met with Gavin King and to expect to receive word from him.
“Show him in.”
Jared was waiting, hand extended to greet the famous Runner. “Thank you for coming so quickly.”
They shook hands, each silently taking the other’s measure.
“Your father was a great man. I’m pleased to be of service to his son,” King told him. “After meeting with your man O’Malley last night and going over the points of both cases, I have one question for you, Your Grace.”
“Of course. What do you need to know?”
“It is of a rather delicate nature but being that your brother, the earl, was attacked and you have received a cryptic threat from a heretofore unknown source, I must have all pertinent questions answered prior to beginning my investigation.”
“My brother’s injuries are serious, but they could have been far worse,” Jared began.
“What if he was not the intended target? Have you considered that?”
Jared nodded. “Yes.”
“The message would hint of a woman scorned,” King said. “I knew the fifth duke by reputation only, having never met him, and would not judge a man until and unless I have proof and reason to do so.”
“Understandable.” Jared had a feeling he knew what King wanted to ask and sought to lay the foundation for their working relationship. “I am not my brother,” he said firstly. “My family has suffered for his poor decisions and lavish and unseemly lifestyle. I am responsible for my younger brother and sister. I will not rest until I have restored that which was taken from my family. There will be time enough to enjoy the charms of the fairer sex once I have secured my goals.”
King nodded, but remained silent, waiting for the duke to finish.
“I fully intend to restore the family name, now that I have restored the family coffers. My sister was to be enjoying her first Season, but that has been put off until I can be certain no harm will come to her should I bring her to London.”
“A wise decision, Your Grace.”
“I’m becoming accustomed to guarding my every thought and conversation but feel if you are to move ahead with your investigation, you need to be apprised of a certain situation.”
King nodded. “I appreciate your candor.”
“I have spoken with my brother, who had been bent on the same path of self-destruction as our elder brother. He has promised not to continue on that path as it would no doubt damage the family name further and put paid to our sister’s ability to secure a gentleman worthy of her.”
“I am aware of your consequence and the formalities to which you are accustomed as the Duke of Wyndmere, but may I speak plainly when it is just the two of us?”
“Yes, if you would,” the duke replied.
“I know from years of experience that what you’ve asked of your brother is no easy task. Once a man has a taste for certain activities, it is hard to give them up. You are certain that he has been induced to leave his former way of life behind?”
Jared nodded, accepting the question as it was meant, a means to an end…ending the attacks on his family. “We will not see our sister ostracized or become the target of the whims of the ton. She had no part in our brother’s destructive lifestyle. We aim to see that she will have the opportunity to attend social functions and meet gentlemen of good family and deep pockets. We would see her happily married,” he paused. “Our father would have wanted that for Phoebe.”
King locked gazes with the duke. “Only a man of the same caliber as his sire would have such lofty goals for one of his family. It would be my pleasure to rout out those behind these attacks and put an end to them.”
They discussed the upcoming social events the duke and his brother had been invited to, and those they planned to attend. Meetings outside of his town house were made a note of as well.
Jared tried to make light of the situation that was beginning to weigh quite heavily on him. “You now know more about my comings and goings than my own brother.”
King’s look was long and level. “I will get to the bottom of this, Your Grace. You can depend on it.”
The men shook hands. “I will.”
Jenkins was once more on hand to see the Bow Street Runner out.
Needing to set aside all they’d discussed, dissected, and planned, Jared sat at his desk, feeling the weight of the mantl
e he’d assumed pushing down on him even more.
Time to pen another letter to his sister.
Chapter Twenty-Six
“Persephone!” Lady Phyllida rushed to her friend’s side, hugging her close. “I never thought to see you again.”
Persephone laughed at her friend’s dramatics. “It is so wonderful to see you. Truly, I have missed you. Mother has been on a tear, having me meet gentlemen of her choosing. Do you know Lord Harkwell?”
When Phyllida told her she did not, Persephone launched into a lengthy tale of meeting him and the unsettling and abhorrent way Harkwell treated her, ending with her mother sending a note to Harkwell canceling the proposed outing.
“I’ve had to be on my very best behavior. Spent a rather tedious evening, commanded to attend a family gathering at my uncle’s town house.”
“The Marquess of Ferndale?” Phyllida asked.
“Mmmm…” After spending a few hours in the marquess’ company, she knew why her father rarely saw his brother. The man positively preened in front of his guests, demanding constant attention as he was the highest-ranking gentleman in the room. Her father had been the complete opposite of his brother.
“Father avoided him at all costs when he was alive,” she confided.
“My mother’s brother has that very effect on Mother,” Phyllida said. “I believe she described him as a pompous bag of wind.”
Their shared laughter eased the last bit of residual tension from the previous evening’s thinly-veiled invitation—more like a command to appear, Persephone thought.
“Your gown becomes you,” Phyllida told her. “Such a lovely shade of rose, brings out the same in your cheeks.”
“Do not tempt me to cosh you on the head with my reticule, dear friend,” Persephone warned, before belying that threat and hugging Phyllida. “Have I mentioned Lord Yarmouth?”
When her friend shook her head, Persephone told of his arriving for tea, remembering to share the bit about the name of the composition she played for Lord Yarmouth, and the lord telling tales of his three rapscallion sons.
They were laughing as they strolled along Bond Street, arm in arm, while their maids walked behind them. Stopping for tea and then more than one shop to purchase ribbons and sundries, their maids had let a good distance form between them. They did not notice the maids lagged a bit behind to chat with a handsome dark-haired footman resplendent in his gold braided, snug fitting uniform.
A few shops later, Phyllida’s fingers tightened on Persephone’s arm. “I do believe that is the same man I noticed when we were trying to decide whether or not to have a confection with our tea earlier.”
“Really? Where?”
“Do not turn around,” Phyllida whispered, “he’s looking this way. Come on,” her friend urged, pulling Persephone inside the nearest shop.
A man cleared his throat quite close to them. “Afternoon, ladies,” he boomed.
Persephone and Phyllida stared at the bear of a man with the leather apron across his considerable girth and the dueling pistol he was polishing with a cloth.
Thinking quickly, Persephone said, “Oh, dear, we thought this was the new shop that carried yard goods. Do forgive us.”
He nodded and smiled as they rushed to the window.
“He’s still here,” Phyllida whispered.
“What shall we do?” Persephone truly had no idea, never coming across this social situation before. Phyllida thought they were being followed and were now standing inside a pawn broker’s shop. Not the sort of establishment a lady would normally venture.
“Is there trouble afoot? Are you ladies in need of rescuing?” a deep voice asked from behind them.
The concern in the man’s voice eased a bit of the tension building at Persephone’s temples. “I…that is we…” Persephone began, looking at Phyllida and then the shopkeeper. “We’ve gotten separated from our lady’s maids,” she explained, “and do believe we are being followed by a man standing across the street. The tall gentleman with the thin face and hawklike nose. He’s wearing a deep blue frockcoat and impossibly high cravat.” She paused, then added, “He’s holding a gold-tipped walking stick as if to bash someone over the head with it. Oh, dear! He’s staring at your shop.”
“Ladies such as yourselves ought to have more of a care when walking about on the streets of London.” He drew in a breath, straightened his shoulders and with the dueling pistol still in his hand, he strode out of the shop.
“Why did the shopkeeper take the pistol with him?” Phyllida asked, the tremble in her voice alerting Persephone that her friend was on the verge of fainting.
Persephone instinctively wrapped her arm about her friend and gave her a quick hug. “Well,” she answered, keeping her tone light, “he was polishing it.”
“Persephone!” Phyllida’s worried gaze met her friend’s. “Who is that man? He’s quite intimidating.” Her friend paused before asking, “Did we meet him at the Chellenham ball? It was the last time we were at a ball together.”
Persephone reminded her friend to relax, relieved when Phyllida breathed normally again. “He is quite tall, thin, but oddly quite broad through the shoulders.” Persephone turned to Phyllida with a mischievous grin on her face. “I do believe his coat is padded with buckram to achieve such an effect.”
Phyllida giggled, just as Persephone had hoped. “There now, you see? Not so intimidating now that we know his secret. Probably has sloped shoulders beneath his coat, else he wouldn’t be brandishing his walking stick as if it were a weapon.”
The shopkeeper stepped back inside. “He took off before I could reach him,” he rumbled. “Problem solved. Now then ladies, what be your names? I can send my apprentice off with a message to your families to come collect you.”
They looked at one another and then back at their burly rescuer. “Thank you for your kindness and your rescue, sir—”
“Grimsby,” he offered. “Couldn’t let young ladies of quality such as yourselves come to any harm. Have a daughter just your age at home.” His face clouded as he frowned. “I would hope someone would return the favor should my Sarah run afoul of such as that dandy.”
“Lady Phyllida Ipswitch,” she told him, “Thank you, Mr. Grimsby.”
He bowed and turned to Persephone, waiting.
“Lady Persephone Farnsworth,” she said. “Thank you, Mr. Grimsby. We are quite in your debt.”
He bowed and waved that last comment away. “What kind of a man would I be if I let a pink of the ton, accost two young ladies right outside my own shop?” When they didn’t answer right away, he said, “One without a conscience, that’s what. Never mind that word would get around and gentlemen would take their business elsewhere.”
“I wonder, would you have a smallish weapon a lady might be able to secure in her reticule, Mr. Grimsby?” Persephone asked.
He wrinkled his broad brow as if considering. “I might at that,” he said, then frowned. “If my daughter was to come to an establishment such as mine, I’d ask that she return with her father.”
“But we are here now and interested in buying something from you.” Persephone glanced about her at the trinkets, jewelry, pistols, and odd articles of quality clothing displayed in Mr. Grimsby’s shop.
Lady Phyllida spoke up. “You see, Mr. Grimsby, Lady Persephone’s father has passed on—only just last year.”
He sighed. “Mortal sorry about that, your ladyship. Do you not have a male guardian? I’m not comfortable waiting on ladies such as yourselves without a proper chaperone.”
Persephone and Phyllida agreed to let him send his apprentice to Phyllida’s mother. Persephone was certain her mother would not be pleased to learn of their whereabouts. She would avoid that particular discussion for as long as possible.
“I do not wish to sound ungrateful, because we are most appreciative of your coming to our rescue, but we are still in your shop,” Phyllida said. “Isn’t that the same as waiting on us?”
He shook his head.
“You’re seeking shelter here, temporarily, until Lady Ipswitch sends someone to fetch you. That’s proper in my book.”
Persephone and Phyllida realized they had, indeed, been rescued by a man of his word. No matter how many items they complimented him on, trying to divert his attention before asking how many pounds an item would cost, he thanked them, smiled and shook his head.
A short while later, Phyllida’s brother, Lord Charles, arrived with two footmen in tow. “Phyllida!” he exclaimed striding into the shop. “Why are you and Persephone here? Where are your lady’s maids?”
“We…uh…well you see…” Phyllida began.
“We wandered a bit too far ahead,” Persephone added.
Her brother frowned at his sister first, Persephone second. “I would learn the reason why on the way home. By the by,” he said, “whose idea would it have been to seek shelter here?”
When neither one answered, he sighed and turned to their rescuer. “My thanks, Grimsby,” Charles said. “Your apprentice showed up just when we were about to call on the Watch.”
“Do you know Mr. Grimsby?” Phyllida asked her brother.
He smiled. “Indeed. Quite stouthearted,” Charles said. “Trustworthy,” he added.
“Thought I recognized the name,” Grimsby said.
“But you never disclose names, do you?” Charles said.
“Business practice, your lordship.”
“We are deeply in your debt for offering my sister and Lady Persephone shelter when they were somehow separated from their maids.” Charles frowned at them again and asked, “How long have they been here?”
Grimsby glanced in their direction before answering, “Only a short while.”
Persephone realized he was now protecting them from Phyllida’s brother. Grimsby had said if his daughter were in a similar situation, he hoped someone would protect her. Thank the Lord for Mr. Grimsby.
They took their leave, thanking him one last time, before they were whisked away in the Ipswitch coach, all the while wondering when Lord Charles would ring a peal over their heads.
Mending the Duke’s Pride Page 20