Regarding the Duke

by Grace Callaway

  At least now Gabby wasn’t the only one blushing.

  “Are we talking about you-know-what?” Tessa broke in.

  At that, all the ladies pealed with laughter, Gabby included.

  When they all quieted, Maggie reached over and gave Gabby’s hand a conspiratorial squeeze.

  “Love is nothing to be ashamed of,” she said in her quiet, wise way. “Having waited so long for Ransom, I, for one, believe in seizing the moment.”

  “Especially when our respective moments are so very fine,” Tessa said.

  Everyone blinked at her.

  “What? I can be sentimental.” Their hostess’s slim shoulders moved up and down. “I mean, look at our gentlemen: finer specimens you’ll not find elsewhere.”

  Their gazes shifted to their husbands—in Maggie’s case, her fiancé—who were having their own conversation near a row of potted plants. Gabby had to agree that their male counterparts were an exceedingly virile bunch, each man in his own unique way.

  With his spectacles and tall, muscular figure, brown-haired Harry Kent was an intriguing mix of scholar and athlete, his fierce intelligence a match for his lady’s cleverness. Maggie’s fiancé Ransom had the exotic look of a pirate prince with his dark hair and dashing trimmed mustache and beard, his charm the perfect foil for Maggie’s steady nature. Nor was there any arguing with the wicked appeal of Strathaven’s cool jade eyes or Acton’s Adonis looks, the way both men kept looking over at their wives the most appealing of all.

  And there was Adam. To Gabby, the most magnificent of the group (she was a bit biased). It was good to see him at ease with the other husbands. He didn’t speak often, yet his sultan’s gaze missed nothing, the faint curve of his mouth conveying his enjoyment of the male camaraderie.

  “Goodness, Gabby, you do have the look of a newlywed tonight.” A smile tucked in Emma’s cheeks. “I take it matters with Mr. Garrity have improved?”

  “Beyond my wildest dreams,” Gabby said fervently.

  “It shows, you know.” Polly’s aquamarine eyes out-sparkled the gems in her exquisite necklace. “You’ve always been lovely, Gabby, but tonight you’re glowing inside and out.”

  “The look of a woman in love…and who knows she’s loved in return.” Maggie’s smile included the whole group. “We all have that special glow, don’t we?”

  “My glow is because I’m increasing,” Tessa grumbled. “Why doesn’t anyone tell you that being with child makes you hotter than a blasted steam engine?”

  “What the devil do you think they’re giggling about?” Harry Kent asked.

  Adam stood with Kent and the Dukes of Strathaven, Acton, and Ranelagh and Somerville. They were observing the merriment of their respective ladies.

  Strathaven’s brows lifted. “How are we to guess what transpires in the minds of females? We’d have better luck catching fish with our hands.”

  Seeing Gabby’s blush, Adam was certain he knew the cause of it. She always got charmingly flustered when it came to things of a sexual nature. She’d had that blush after he’d tupped her in her dressing room, after he’d waltzed with her, and she had it now…which pretty much told him the topic of conversation.

  “Garrity’s got a smug smile.” Behind the wire rims, Kent’s eyes were acute. “I think he has a guess.”

  “Well, he is an old married fellow,” Ransom drawled. “He’s had more time to develop his husbandly powers of deduction. Tell us, what are our lovely ladies plotting?”

  Although Adam didn’t remember the time when Ransom had been a client who’d owed him a great deal of money, Gabby had filled him in on the details. The part he’d played in saving Ransom’s daughter had apparently dissolved the contention between him and the duke. When Ransom had visited during Adam’s convalescence, he’d been sincere in his well wishes but wary. Adam had sensed a similar guardedness from the husbands of his wife’s friends.

  Tonight, however, he noticed a subtle shift in their attitude toward him. From politeness to something friendlier. If he’d had to put a name to it, he’d call it acceptance.

  Adam didn’t much care what anyone thought of him—with the exception of Gabby. Her opinion mattered. Yet the male company wasn’t unwelcome, and there was something to be said for husbands banding together. Especially when their wives were likely up to no good.

  “Should we be worried, Garrity?” Acton arched a brow.

  “They’re women. We should always be worried,” Adam said succinctly.

  “Spoken like an experienced husband.” Despite Strathaven’s grimace, there was amusement in his jade eyes. “Emma’s ‘hobby’ of being an investigator has given me more grey hairs than I care to count.”

  “At least Emma only takes on the occasional case.” Kent directed his gaze heavenward. “My wife runs a territory in the bloody underworld.”

  Yet there was unmistakable pride in his voice, and he snuck a glance at his lady. She waved her fingers at him, blowing him a kiss, and he winked back at her.

  “You have it easy, Acton,” Strathaven said. “Polly being the most docile of the Kents.”

  “Oh, my kitten has claws.” Acton’s grin was slow and altogether male.

  “Say no more.” With a mock shudder, Kent held up a large hand. “That’s my sister you’re talking about, and what’s heard cannot be unheard.”

  “I suppose I shouldn’t tell you about how Emma surprised me on my last birthday…” Strathaven drawled.

  When Kent clapped his hands over his ears, his brothers-in-law guffawed.

  Even Adam felt his lips twitch.

  Kent turned to him. “Garrity, you’re not married to one of my sisters—thank God. Let’s talk about the lovely Mrs. Garrity. How do you keep your lady out of trouble?”

  “By giving her everything she needs and wants,” Adam said.

  The group went silent, the men staring at him as if he’d sprouted another head. He wondered why his words surprised them when it was obvious that every one of these fellows was devoted to his lady and would do everything in his power to make her happy.

  Ransom cleared his throat. His shocked expression had turned into one of…respect?

  “I do believe that is the best advice of all for this husband-to-be,” he said in solemn tones. “And precisely what I intend to do with my Maggie.”

  “We should toast to that.” Kent waved over a footman bearing a tray of champagne.

  The men took glasses and raised them.

  “To our ladies,” Kent declared. “May we be everything they deserve.”

  After they drank to that, Adam heard the orchestra start up again. The lilting melody he’d been waiting for filled the room.

  “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen,” he said, “I’m going to claim my wife for our second waltz.”

  With a bow, he strode away, but he caught Ransom’s murmured words to the others.

  “I never thought I would say this…but, devil and damn, I actually like the new Adam Garrity.”

  Flushed from dancing and the pleasure of being in her husband’s arms, Gabby felt giddy as Adam led her off the dance floor. In the past, if they were at the same function, he had usually stood with her for one dance. Tonight, he’d claimed two, both of them waltzes. And while he had always been her favorite partner, their newfound intimacy added another dimension to their dancing.

  He led flawlessly, and she followed with equal grace. Their bodies swayed together in perfect, sensual synchrony, one that reminded her acutely of how well they moved together in bed. Or against the wall. Or in the carriage…

  “I can’t wait to get out of here,” Adam muttered.

  She blinked, seeing the taut edge of his jaw above his crisp cravat. “I thought you were enjoying the evening?”

  “I was. But dancing with you,”—he slanted her a meaningful look—“is enough to make a saint hard. And I’m no saint. How much longer do you want to stay?”

  “We ought to bid our host and hostess farewell before we leave,” she said decorous
ly.

  “Excellent, there they are now.”

  She smothered a giggle at her husband’s virile impatience as he tugged her toward their friends.

  There was a newcomer in the group, she noted, a man to whom she’d never been formally introduced but whose wheat-blond hair and piercing dark eyes were instantly recognizable. Sketches of him appeared regularly in the papers, and a recent caricature had shown him sitting astride a golden locomotive, a crown atop his head and scepter in hand.

  The caption had read, Midas Rules the Railways.

  “Ah, here are my dear friends, the Garritys,” Tessa said. “May I introduce Mr. Anthony De Villier? Although I’m sure he needs no introduction. He does us an honor, gracing this ball despite his busy schedule.”

  The industrialist was rumored to be in his sixties, yet he had a young man’s vigor, his body ruthlessly fit. His light hair, dark brows, and unlined face gave him an oddly ageless aspect. When De Villier took Gabby’s hand, she noticed his heavy signet ring, the gleaming bloodstone carved with his initials.

  “A pleasure, Mrs. Garrity,” he said in deep, silky tones.

  “Likewise, sir.” Something about the man’s hawkish stare made her uneasy. His hand gripped hers with a bit too much pressure; flustered, she pulled away. “I’ve, um, been reading about your latest successes in the papers. I understand your steam-powered design is to be the fastest in the world?”

  “My steam engine, once completed, will revolutionize the industry.” De Villier’s charisma and confidence were potent; Gabby could see why so many people had invested in his ventures. “We have orders already from all major railway interests. Our business is booming—but your husband is no stranger to that.” He turned to Adam, his gaze assessing before he inclined his head. “Garrity, I hear you are quite a successful…entrepreneur in your own right.”

  Gabby did not miss De Villier’s subtle slight. She narrowed her gaze at him.

  “I’m a moneylender,” Adam said bluntly. “Have we met before?”

  “I don’t believe so.” De Villier’s smile was condescending. “But then, our circles aren’t exactly the same, are they?”

  This time, the snub wasn’t subtle, and Gabby felt her hackles rise. How dare the blighter look down upon her husband? De Villier might be rich, but so was Adam, and both were self-made men who’d found success in their respective trades. Why did people feel the need to push others down in order to make themselves feel superior? Why couldn’t everyone just be nice?

  A lifetime of held-back emotion surged in Gabby. Boxes and bins toppled in her head, thoughts and feelings breaking free. Restraint gave way to blazing indignation.

  “If you do not like the present company, sir,” she said in trembling tones, “then you are welcome to go elsewhere.”

  The words shocked her as much as her friends, who went wide-eyed. The men stilled, their postures tensing, as if they were readying to deal with the aftermath of her cut direct.

  De Villier stiffened, his dark eyes flashing. A pair of burly men emerged out of nowhere to flank him. They were dressed like footmen, but she knew what they were for Adam had guards too. De Villier’s men looked especially brutish: one had an angry red scar that ran from his ear to his chin, his beady gaze focused on Adam.

  Sweet heavens. The consequences of her outburst hit her. What have I done?

  “Actually, stay if you like, De Villier.” It was Adam who broke the silence, his voice calm and controlled. “My wife and I were on our way out. Our thanks to you, Mr. and Mrs. Kent, for your hospitality. And felicitations to the happy couple.”

  “As our dear friends, you’re welcome any time,” Tessa said, with a cold look at De Villier.

  Numbly, Gabby let Adam steer her away.

  “I can’t believe I did that,” she said in shock. “That I just insulted one of the most powerful men in England.”

  “The prat deserved it.” Adam flashed her a grin. “Next time he’ll think twice before insulting me in front of my fierce and loyal wife.”

  30

  A few days later, Gabby entered Adam’s study while he was at work. She was in search of her son’s missing book. Max was inconsolable at its disappearance, and the staff had combed the house from top to bottom to no avail. The study was the only place they hadn’t looked, and since Adam often read to Max, Gabby had high hopes for finding the lost volume in here.

  She checked the seating area by the hearth first, even peering beneath the furnishings. She didn’t find Max’s book but did recover one of Fiona’s hair ribbons. Heavens, the pair was like Hansel and Gretel, leaving a trail wherever they went. With a rueful smile, she continued onto Adam’s desk. She sat in his chair, the feel of the studded leather and faint whiff of his spicy musk giving her a pleasant shiver.

  She scanned the surface of the desk, which included a tray of writing implements and an ornate wax jack. Burke had left a large stack of the day’s correspondence on the leather blotter, and she started there, triumph sparking when she spied the missing book beneath the pile.

  A mama’s intuition is never wrong, she thought with a touch of smugness.

  As she dug out the book, a letter slid from the stack, the flowy, feminine handwriting catching her eye. After a moment, she set down the book and picked up the note. The paper was creamy and thick; coolness feathered over her nape as the scent of cloying perfume reached her nostrils.

  The letter was addressed simply to Adam Garrity with no return address. Turning it over, she found a red wax seal that bore an odd stamp. She examined it more closely and saw that it depicted two crossed swords—no, not swords…riding crops? The chill spread to her insides, her fingers curling around the sealed note.

  A private note, one that she had no right to open.

  She broke the seal. Unfolding the paper, she read the short lines:

  My dearest Adam,

  It has been weeks since I’ve heard from you. Know that I’ve been thinking of you, praying for your speedy recovery. And hoping that I shall see you at the club soon on our usual Friday.

  Yours fondly,

  J.

  J…Jessabelle.

  A crack split open in Gabby’s heart, the pain making it difficult to breathe. She stared at the note, willing the voluptuous loops of handwriting to change, to somehow rearrange itself into something less damning.

  But it remained exactly as it was. Proof of her husband’s infidelity.

  A hammer poised to smash her happiness to smithereens.

  Yet as despair pushed hotly behind her eyes, another feeling surged alongside it. A similar but stronger version of what she had experienced when she’d stood up to De Villier. It took her a moment to label it as…rage.

  Our usual Friday.

  Had Adam kept this…this harlot on a schedule too? How long had he been carrying on this affair? Was he in love with the blasted lightskirt?

  In the past, she would have tried to hide from the pain. To ignore or block out the evidence of Adam’s betrayal. To try to move on from it the best she could.

  But that was before.

  She was different now. The Bin of Blissful Ignorance was no more, and she would accept nothing less than honesty in her marriage. With bitter irony, she saw that love had changed her. Afterward, she would nurse her broken heart, but first she wanted the answers to her questions—deserved them. Because of his amnesia, her husband, damn his eyes, couldn’t give them to her…and now she didn’t know if she would even trust what came out of his lying lips.

  No, she would have the truth from the source.

  Her hands shaking, she inspected the note again. Perfectly discreet, no address, no clues except for the stamp on the seal and the fact that the meetings took place at “the club.”

  Our usual Friday.

  Adam had to get to the meetings somehow. If this was a regular visit as the note implied, then there was someone who’d transported his master to that place time and again. Someone who would now take Gabby there—or else.


  She marched out of the study to find the groom.

  Adam stared at the report on the desk in front of him. Cornish had presented it to him a half hour ago, and as he’d looked at the summary of his failing investments, he’d heard a strange buzzing, like a fly trapped in his ear. The buzzing got louder and louder, as if the invisible insect was trying to burst out of his skull. For a terrifying instant, he’d wondered if he was going mad. Then the noise turned into a megrim, a pulsing vise that gripped his entire head.

  He’d dismissed Cornish and washed down a packet of birch bark with a swallow of whisky. As he waited for the pain to subside, he kept looking at the report. Kept turning Cornish’s conclusion over and over in his head.

  The banks in question are failing, sir. No question about it. I would recommend that you cut your losses immediately. Indeed, I don’t know why you refused to do so before now…unless it was because of Anthony De Villier.

  Anthony De Villier. The throbbing in Adam’s temples increased. There’d been something familiar about the man.

  These banks have one thing in common: all have sizeable loans out to De Villier. It’s possible that, like so many others, you were betting that his latest venture will pay off in spades, and these banks will be the beneficiaries. But being a conservative sort myself, I must caution against gambling on speculative interests. Recall the fiasco of the South Sea Bubble. Anthony De Villier may appear to have the Midas touch, but beneath that veneer of gold, there may lay a core of lead.

  Anthony De Villier. What was it about him? Why would Adam invest so heavily to support his schemes? By nature, Adam was a man who took calculated risks…not foolish or reckless ones.

  On a positive note, it appears that De Villier has been paying off some of his debts recently. In the week that it took me to compile this report, he has discharged his commitments to two of the banks you own.

  On a gut level, Adam knew he’d had a reason for extending credit to De Villier, one that didn’t necessarily involve profit. A reason that had to do with De Villier himself. God, he could sense it, like a word on the tip of the tongue, a memory just beyond reach…