The Duke's Privateer (Devilish Dukes Book 3)

by Amy Jarecki

  “Oh? I’m not surprised the dowager duchess is a connoisseur.” Miss Kent rested her spoon at the side of her bowl, leaving the soup half-eaten. “Does she have quite a collection?”

  Taking heed of her example, Sher followed suit as well. No use gorging himself on consommé. “Not as yet. I believe the dowager duchess could use some assistance there.”

  “Morgan and Sanders have acquired a number of unique pieces.”

  “Excellent notion. However—” He sipped his wine, doing his best not to appear eager or benevolent, which would cause the lady undue embarrassment. “I think Mama might greatly benefit from advice of an expert such as yourself before she embarks on her refurbishment project.”

  “I say, Danby, that is a capital idea.” Bless Prinny, he certainly could take a cue. Had he not been born into the royal family, the prince would have made an excellent actor.

  “Ah…” Miss Kent glanced between the pair. Was there a hint of apprehension behind those blues? “I suppose if Her Grace would be open to a few suggestions, I could write to her and offer my assistance.”

  “Write to her?” Danby dismissed the notion with a flick of his hand. “I will ensure my mother invites you directly.”

  “The dowager duchess will be delighted,” Prinny agreed, tapping Miss Kent’s elbow. “Are you aware that the duke has been undertaking some very important work for us?”

  Sher could have sworn Prinny winked as the woman’s rose-bud lips formed an O. “Is that right?”

  “Indeed. He’s heading up a coalition to clamp down on smugglers.”

  “How interesting.” The lady’s jaw tightened ever so subtly before she raised her glass and swirled the wine. “What is this vintage? It is quite delicious.”

  “Quite.” Prinny winked again.

  Miss Kent sipped before sliding her gaze toward Sher. “If your mother is amenable, I should be delighted to discuss her project.”

  “She will be ecstatic.”

  “I’d like to confer with you about refurbishing my music room as well,” said Lady Chester from across the table.

  “Lovely,” Miss Kent replied. “Shall I call on you?”

  “Please.”

  “I suppose you have no recourse but to resort to finding clients among the nobility and at regal dinners,” said the Countess of Jersey, leaning forward and peering around the prince—rather catty of her, especially given that everyone at the table was well aware of Her Ladyship’s indiscretions.

  Miss Kent took a deep breath through slightly flared nostrils.

  “It was my idea,” Danby said. After all, the woman uttered not a word to him about her consulting work. Prinny had been the first to mention it.

  “How many Seasons have you been out, pray tell?” Lady Jersey persisted.

  “For anyone who is curious, I was seventeen when I was presented to court. Ten years have passed.” With a pursed-lipped smile, Miss Kent seemed to grow a tad taller, a blue vein pulsing at the base of a long, elegant neck. “It is my opinion that not all young ladies are destined to be shackled by the bounds of matrimony.”

  “Security is hardly a jail sentence, my dear,” said Lady Chester.

  Giving a pleasant nod, Miss Kent acknowledged the countess by raising her glass. “Perhaps I haven’t found the right companion as of yet.”

  “I wouldn’t wait much longer,” replied Lady Jersey. “Beauty has a way of fading like a portrait exposed to sunlight.”

  “Duly noted,” Miss Kent whispered under her breath as she turned her attention to the chandelier above. “I do so love your dragons, Prince.”

  Taking yet another cue, Prinny pointed his knife to the chandelier above. Reputed to be a ton in weight, a monstrous, silver dragon with red fire coming from his mouth, held the light fixture in its enormous claws. Not only was a fountain of crystal illuminated by innumerable candles, six smaller dragons exhaled light through glass shades shaped like lotus flowers. “That dazzling monster is my favorite part of the banqueting hall…”

  As the conversation continued, Sher tuned out and his mind wandered. Casting aside all modesty, he watched Miss Kent retreat into a façade of complete placidness—the epitome of a woman bred to grace the halls of great dinner parties such as this. But from the preceding conversation, he already knew much more lay beneath the surface of her exceptionally schooled features. The woman had spirit, that was clear, though her views were quite radical for a gentlewoman of her station.

  Surely, she ought to be more serious about marriage. Though stunningly beautiful, at seven and twenty, Lady Jersey hadn’t been wrong. Miss Kent’s prospects were undoubtedly dwindling.

  Chapter Two

  A week later

  “Are you quite serious, Sherborn? Chinoiserie?” Mama asked as if the term embodied a gnat. Seated in the parlor of Danby’s London town house, she glanced up from her embroidery. “Surely the style is another of George’s passing fancies.”

  Sher slid into a chair across from his mother, the stalwart matriarch of the Danby dynasty who was forever resistant to change. “It may very well be,” he said, brushing a bit of lint from the lapel of his navy-blue coat. “However, I believe it is time to bring the décor of this place into the nineteenth century.”

  “But I like the parlor the way it is.”

  He regarded the wallpaper. The pink roses on a blue background reminded him far too much of his parents’ era. And though his mother now occupied the dowager wing of his enormous London town house, Sher had made no improvements since his father passed away. “What would you think about renovating the drawing room?”

  Pulling her needle through the cloth, Mama glanced up, her mouth in a grimace. “Oh no. Turn the drawing room into a spectacle? It simply isn’t done.”

  “I say, if George has chosen chinoiserie to decorate the gallery of his Brighton residence, then we certainly can adopt it here.”

  “George is a consummate fop, as you are well aware,” said Mama, her eyebrows raised, her gaze unwavering. “Why are you so intent on making changes?”

  Sher drummed his fingers. By rights, he could insist every chamber in the house be renovated, though he cared for his mother far too much to go to such an extreme. “This isn’t a change so much as it is a favor.”

  “For Viscount Lisle because he’s an ailing war veteran?”

  “Of course. I visited him years ago when he was receiving treatment at the soldiers’ hospital.”

  “One moment.” Mother set her embroidery aside, giving Sher her full attention. “Dear boy, it did not escape my attention when you mentioned Lisle’s daughter has become something of an expert on the subject.”

  “She is quite well-schooled, yes.”

  “And how, exactly, did you come by this information?”

  “The lady herself. I had the pleasure of sitting beside Eleanor Kent at George’s dinner in Brighton.”

  Mama’s eyes widened as she leaned forward. “As I recall, Miss Kent is undeniably fetching, though somewhat of a reclusive bluestocking.”

  “Yes,” Sher agreed, not liking where the conversation was leading. “However—”

  “Oh, rapture! My prayers are answered.” Sighing, Mother dropped back in the chair, rapidly patting her heart. “You have finally found a woman to marry. And if that’s the case, please do allow her to renovate to her heart’s desire.”

  Hang it all, why must his mother manage to turn every conversation into a discussion of the need for him to wed? “Not exactly. I should have been clearer from the outset. Miss Kent is taking on some exclusive consulting work to support her father.”

  “The daughter of a viscount? Working?” Mother rolled her eyes. “Unheard of.”

  “I think her industriousness is remarkable. Commendable, even.”

  “Please, Sherborn, Lisle must receive a pension.”

  “Perhaps, though hardly enough to sustain his estates as well as his daughter.” Sher stretched out his legs and crossed his ankles. “If you’re not willing to make a few
changes to the parlor, then I’ve decided it will be the saloon.”

  Mama pushed her needle up through her embroidery. “But the French influence in the saloon is so utterly exquisite.”

  He’d given enough ground, and the mention of the French always gave a rise to Sher’s hackles. “Have you so quickly forgotten that I fought against the French at Waterloo? As a matter of respect for the fallen, I have decided. We shall have chinoiserie in the saloon, and I’ll entertain no further argument.”

  “If you insist.” Mama brushed the lace on her cuffs. “But I will not like it.”

  “You always say that.”

  “Well, I shan’t this time. At least you could have engaged an heiress in whom you are interested in marrying.” Huffing, Mama waved her needle through the air. “Time is roaring past, son. I need grandchildren flitting about these rooms, lest you die a bachelor and thus end the Price line—three and twenty generations, mind you. You do not want our legacy of the Dukes of Danby to end with you.”

  Marriage. The thought sent a chill straight through to Sher’s bones. It was frosty enough to wither one’s infernal cock—almost. He’d watched his friends one by one fall victim to the marriage mart and, within a year, they were all miserable. His weakness might be beautiful women, but he’d never met one with whom he wanted to spend eternity. What interested him most was the chase. Once his conquest was made, however, he soon tired of feminine frivolities. And that’s exactly why mistresses had been invented.

  Which was another thing Sher needed to rectify. His former mistress, an Italian opera singer, had returned to the Continent.

  Sher cleared his throat, about to tell his mother to stop worrying, when Hartley came in bearing a silver tray that held a small white calling card. “The Honorable Miss Eleanor Kent, Your Grace.”

  Mama’s fingers stilled as she gave Sher a pointed look. “Today?”

  He stood and kissed her temple. “Why not?”

  “Because a woman of my advanced years needs time to adjust to such ideas.”

  “All you must do is meet with her. Miss Kent is quite enterprising and I’m certain she will take the reins and leave you to your tea parties and soirees. You will not have to worry about a thing.”

  “While there are untoward tradesmen traipsing and pounding about my saloon? The work will simply have to be done after the Season.”

  “I beg your pardon, Mama, but do keep in mind it is now my saloon and I wish it to be refurbished.”

  Danby’s butler reminded Eleanor of a bloodhound—a protruding lower lip, jowls that sagged beneath his jawline, all of which was presided over by droopy eyelids. The man ushered her to the parlor with a regal air as if he’d been the butler of this exquisite town home forever, which most likely wasn’t far off the mark.

  He opened the door and stepped inside. “Miss Kent.”

  After the butler bowed and moved aside, the Dowager Duchess of Danby smiled from an armchair. “Oh, my dearest, how long has it been since I last saw you? Goodness, I do not recall the enjoyment of your presence at a single ball this Season.”

  Eleanor curtsied and strolled inside. The woman was a patroness at Almack’s and never missed an affair. “I daresay I have not had the occasion to attended a ball of late.” Or had anything to do with the smothering marriage mart. Eleanor dearly loved to dance, but it took a fair bit of arm-twisting to coax her into Almack’s, teeming with flighty, bright-eyed young ladies in their first Seasons. To her, ballrooms were a place to conduct business and little more.

  “Such a shame. I must ensure you are on the guest list to the spring soiree.”

  “Thank you, but I am content to remain tucked away at home and let the young ladies enjoy themselves,” Eleanor said, doing her best to dissuade the woman from meddling.

  Frowning as if she’d swallowed a bitter tonic, the dowager duchess gestured to a chair. “Please, you may not have found your match in your first Season or two as my three daughters did, but you are by no means unmarriageable.”

  Sitting, Eleanor tried very hard not to make a sour face of her own. “Thank you,” she managed. Usually, keeping her replies short without segueing into a long explanation as to why she was still a spinster was the best way to put an end to the inquisitions of those who saw fit to pry.

  “My son tells me you’re an expert in chinoiserie.”

  “Indeed.” Thank heavens Her Grace had moved on to the reason for Eleanor’s visit. “I am quite well-versed in the style.”

  “And what say you, is this penchant for Oriental décor a passing eccentricity?”

  “I hope not. What with the sums outlaid by the Duchess of Evesham, the Baroness of Derby, and the Prince of Wales to bring statuary and furnishings from China and beyond, I imagine the style will endure through the ages—the artifacts will become priceless heirlooms.”

  “Priceless?”

  “Your Grace, would you not agree that anything hard to find and well made, coveted by many but possessed by few, appreciates in value over time?”

  “Hmm, I hadn’t thought of it that way. Do you truly believe the style will endure?”

  “Well, if the popularity on the Continent is any indication, I would say yes. Most definitely.”

  “And the prince himself sought you out for his pavilion?”

  “Indeed, he did.”

  “Pray tell, what are your fees?”

  Eleanor could have sworn she saw a flicker beyond the door, left ajar by the butler. In truth, though talented with a knack for decorating, she was no kind of consultant. Prinny had come to her demanding chinoiserie, and she had endeavored to find a way to supply the best while keeping his costs reasonable. The Baroness of Derby and the Duchess of Evesham had purchased a few pieces from Eleanor—at a quarter of the usual price—but they were dear friends and had been for ages. On top of that, both women would vouch for anything Eleanor said, as would the prince.

  She cleared her throat. “I would not dream of charging a fee, Your Grace.”

  “No fee?” The woman craned her neck, looking out the door, then lowered her voice. “What about your father?”

  “My father?”

  “Why yes. Sherborn told me that your father fell victim to the wars and is now an invalid.” Her Grace brushed out her skirts. “Is that not why my son contracted you to consult on his remodel?”

  Eleanor’s head swam. As she recalled, Danby had clearly stated his mother was interested in chinoiserie—and had mentioned nothing about being benevolent toward Papa. “Firstly, the duke was correct, my father is quite ill and has been for a decade. Fortunately, among other things, the viscounty has benefited from a modest importing operation, which my father oversaw prior to the war.”

  In truth, her father’s only involvement as chairman of Lion’s Imports had been purely to skim profits, as was common for most gentry who financed importing businesses—they left the operational humdrum to the people appointed as overseers.

  “Prior? But who looks after it now? Surely not you?”

  “Of course not. I sit on the board of directors, but the day-to-day is handled by Mr. Millward. He has connections all over the Continent, even in India, which, in turn, has helped us find the most sought after chinoiserie money can buy.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes.” Eleanor nodded emphatically. She always gave the same story. Mr. Millward took orders in the little shop on Pottery Street, spoke like a curator, and passed every request on to her. She supplied the items he ordered with no questions asked, and thus posed the front for her entire dynasty, which furnished half of England’s nobility with artifacts, cognac, perfume, lace, satin, Madeira, and the like. It was very neat and tidy and had been for years.

  Which was exactly why she didn’t want anything to do with the Duke of Danby and his quest to rid the kingdom of smugglers. It was dangerous to pose as his consultant, and she must tread lightly. Had it not been for Prinny’s insistence, she would have refused. On the other hand, perhaps this was the prince’s
way of insuring Danby kept his nose out of her affairs—albeit a move fraught with risk. Nonetheless, anything and everything she supplied for his little project would arrive with proper duties paid and impeccable paperwork.

  She glanced around the parlor, a lovely room, though the décor was outdated. “Is this the chamber you would like to renovate?”

  “Heavens no. The parlor is my pride and joy. I oversaw its restoration when I first married Sherborn’s father, may he rest in peace.” Her Grace pushed to her feet. “My son would like you to look at the saloon to see if it would suit your new Oriental style.”

  Eleanor followed the woman out the door and up a flight of stairs. The saloon was quite large for a London town house, even one owned by a man as wealthy as the Duke of Danby. In fact, it was almost as long as Prinny’s gallery in Brighton.

  She examined the panels of white plaster reliefs on Saxon green, décor far more fashionable than the parlor. Reliefs of Grecian urns overflowed with fruits and flowers. The work appeared to be flawless. “This room is rife with potential, but why would you want to do away with such exquisite plasterwork?”

  “Me?” Her Grace asked as if exasperated. “I believe this chamber is perfect as it—”

  “Miss Kent,” said Danby as he stepped into the saloon and strode straight toward her. “It is lovely to see you.”

  When he took her hand and applied a warm kiss, Eleanor’s stomach fluttered. How ridiculous. Her stomach rarely ever fluttered, and it certainly had no business doing so when this particular duke kissed the back of her hand. His very presence threatened everything she had worked so hard to secure.

  She curtsied and rubbed away the tingling sensation just as she’d done in Brighton. “Good afternoon, Duke. Are you certain you would prefer to refurbish this chamber?”

  “Yes, Sherborn, I agree.” The dowager duchess gestured toward the pristine north wall. “Besides, the paint has hardly dried since we had the plasterwork done.”