The Duke's Privateer (Devilish Dukes Book 3)

by Amy Jarecki

  “Since the project has moved to my bedchamber, I’d prefer to make the decisions myself.”

  The reins slipped from Eleanor’s fingers and she quickly re-collected them. Now she’d put her boot in her mouth. Though she was a far better expert on chinoiserie than Millward, conferring and meeting with the duke about such a personal space was disconcerting. Even for her. Blast her pride, if she’d given the credit to the chap in the first place, she could wash her hands of the ridiculous project—dragons and all.

  They crossed into the park, alive with birds flitting within and around the massive chestnut trees. “I expected to see more people about.”

  “’Tis still too early for the fashionable crowd.”

  “Are you not concerned with what polite society thinks, Your Grace?”

  “Never have been and never will be.”

  “Surprising, given how close you are with Prinny.”

  “I’m a duke. It is my duty to be at the prince regent’s beck and call just as it was with his father before he took ill.” Danby slowed the pace to a walk and turned down a quiet, grassy lane, flanked on either side by well-established trees. “My impression is that you are of a similar mind.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “You are the daughter of a viscount. You’re also exceptionally beautiful, you speak well, you dress well, your intelligence surpasses most young ladies of your ilk. I am certain had you wanted to marry, you would have done so by now.” Danby raked his gloved fingers through his stallion’s mane. “But instead, you serve as the prince regent’s expert, filling his palaces with unique decor.”

  If Eleanor was confused about the duke’s intentions before, she was doubly so now. “You’ve ascertained all that in the short time since we’ve become better acquainted?”

  “Nothing I mentioned is earth shattering. I’ve made a simple observation.”

  She needed to plant a seed of doubt. “Perhaps I have annoying habits that drive away suitors.”

  “Oh?” He regarded her out of the corner of his eye. “Give me an example.”

  Eleanor had only been pursued by one suitor in her first and only Season, Baron Strange. At the time she’d been penniless with no dowry. Impoverished and destitute, she’d also begun dabbling a bit with smuggling. War was rife, women couldn’t find the perfume they loved, gentlemen’s clubs were begging for cognac, tobacco, and rum. So, after she’d told Strange she had no fortune and watched him grow red in the face with outrage, she had done the only thing she could think of to save her father, his ancestral lands, and her own hide. She’d sold a small, partially ruined estate in Scotland, took the profits, and sailed a steam packet to France. There she acquired goods she needed to truly become a viable force, including barrels made with smuggling cavities, over which the barrels were filled with cider. Then she contracted with a Dutch captain to ship the goods directly into London. Weston and some laborers offloaded the barrels onto wagons and took them directly to White’s and Boodle’s clubs where they purchased the entire contents of the shipment, including the perfume. Within a year, she had established the foundation of her empire as well as acquired the King’s Jewel, which was used mainly for transporting Madeira and any voyages Eleanor might take herself.

  From the time she was nineteen, Eleanor had completely embraced the idea of spinsterhood and set not only to paying off her father’s debts, but to putting away funds exclusively for her future retirement. True, there had been gentlemen who’d expressed interest, but she always found a way to dissuade them—after a bit of harmless flirting, of course.

  “Is it that difficult to think of something?” Danby asked, pulling her away from her thoughts.

  “Ah.” What should she say? At one time she’d been so poor, she feared facing debtor’s prison? “I’ve been so busy taking care of Papa, I’ve never seen the use of encouraging anyone’s affection.”

  “But you do attend the odd social engagement. If my memory serves, we first met at a ball.”

  Ballrooms had become Eleanor’s most engaging places of business, especially private, smaller affairs. Dancing enabled her to speak confidentially to wealthy patrons who needed her. Often orders were slipped to her in the theater or at recitals and soirees. It was all rather convenient to be a member of the ton.

  “I do try to keep up appearances,” she mused. Why did all this matter? She had chosen her path and was content regardless of what anyone else thought.

  Danby reined his horse to a halt and examined her beneath the brim of his hat—looking ever so tempting yet entirely off limits. Except his dark stare wasn’t one of examination as much it was an expression making a statement.

  Of raw masculinity.

  How on earth did he make her shiver with a mere quirk of his mouth and shift of his eyes?

  “I’m not convinced,” he said. “Surely you’ve caught the attention of more than one good-natured chap.”

  Bless it, would his interrogation never cease? And why was he so concerned with her marital status? Wasn’t he sniffing about on behalf of the prime minister and his quest to rid Britain’s shores of smugglers? Well, regardless of his good looks, it was time to put an end to Danby’s line of questioning. “I suppose if I had wanted to invite the attention of a chap, good natured or not, I might have put forth more effort. But as I mentioned at Prinny’s dinner, I am quite content to stay as far away from the marriage mart as possible.”

  “Hmm.” The duke shifted his gaze through the corridor of trees. “What say you we have a little race?”

  “I beg your pardon?” Was he trying to throw her off? Though she was glad to have sidestepped his probing, she knew better than to attempt a race, especially when on the back of a horse she hardly knew. “You are a man of the track, not to mention you’re riding a stallion. I cannot hope to win.”

  “Very well, I’ll give you a head start.” Grinning like a devil, he pointed. “Only to the end of the lane.”

  Eleanor patted the mare’s neck. She did love the feel of a fine mount beneath her with a clear path through which to run. “Four lengths?”

  “Sounds fair,” he encouraged. “Come, your filly needs to stretch her legs.”

  Without a word, Eleanor slapped her reins and kicked, demanding a canter. Leaning over the horse’s withers, she used crop and heel to urge the mare into a gallop. The filly snorted, thundering ahead with a gait as smooth as a wherry on a placid lake.

  Throwing her head back, Eleanor let herself laugh aloud, only to make her bonnet fly off her head.

  “I’ll fetch it,” Danby hollered somewhere behind.

  But she didn’t care. The wind whipped through her hair, pulling the curls from their pins. And it felt wonderful. At the end of the lane, she reined her mount to a halt and looked back. Danby was hastening toward the trees with his stallion’s reins in his fist.

  A tiny sound not far away caught Eleanor’s attention. “Hello?” she asked, looking at the shrubbery from where the noise had come.

  Was it a bird? Perhaps the poor thing had been injured.

  The sound came again, louder this time, as if an infant were crying.

  Eleanor dismounted and tied her horse’s reins to a tree branch. “Hello?” she asked again, raising her voice. Before stepping into the shrubbery, she glanced over her shoulder and spotted Danby. He’d remounted and was riding toward her, bonnet in hand. She pointed toward the sound to indicate where she was headed, then slipped through the foliage.

  As the cry grew stronger, Eleanor was certain it came from a child. Then, bending a branch downward, she spotted a basket perched on an enormous rock.

  Good heavens.

  “Is anyone here?” she asked, hastening toward the bundle.

  The infant was red-faced, its gummy mouth gaping, its tongue vibrating with the growing intensity of its cries. Eleanor quickly peered around the clearing, then stooped over the bundle, caressing the baby’s cheek. “There, there. ’Tis all right.”

  The child was swaddled in
a threadbare blanket and refused to be coddled.

  “Well, since there’s no one here to comfort you…” She reached in and pulled the tiny newborn into her arms. “You sound as if you’re hungry.”

  Turning its mouth toward her breast, the infant nudged with its nose.

  Warmth filled her as she hummed to herself. How long had the baby been here? Eleanor leaned over the basket and looked for a note but saw none.

  “What have you there?” asked Danby, stepping into the clearing with her bonnet.

  “I think he’s been abandoned.”

  “He?”

  She gently rocked the bundle. “I’m not exactly certain.”

  The duke’s gaze meandered to the bundle in her arms. “Oh heavens, ’tis a foundling.”

  Most likely it was. But the baby was warm and beautiful and full of life. “He is a human being.”

  “My word. We must take him to the Foundling Hospital at once.” Danby tugged her elbow. “Come, I’ll use my coat to make a sling. By the tenor of the infant’s wails we must go directly.”

  Eleanor turned her shoulder away, shielding the babe. “We will do no such thing. Hail a hack and I will take him back to Mayfair Place.”

  “You cannot be serious. You can’t keep the child.”

  Heat flashed up the back of Eleanor’s neck. Though her mind was screaming no, her heart swelled, forming a lump in her throat. This infant needed nurturing and protection. “How dare you tell me what I can and cannot do?”

  “Forgive my impertinence, but this incident must be reported.”

  “Perhaps to the papers, but this baby will not spend one day in that lice-infested, overcrowded institution.” She shot up ramrod straight and raised her chin. “Not on my life.”

  “Certainly. How thoughtless of me.” Danby gestured toward the horses. “I’ll find a hackney and accompany you home.”

  “Thank you.” Eleanor kissed the babe’s forehead. “You’re safe, dear one, we’ll have you set to rights in no time.”

  Chapter Five

  Sher watched Miss Kent from beneath his lashes as she cradled the baby’s basket in her arms. The whole predicament baffled him. The woman had been doing her best to convince him she had absolutely no intention of marrying, yet as soon as she set eyes on the infant, she became as fiercely protective as a mama badger. If only half the children in Britain had a mother with such mettle, there would never again be another foundling. Truly, ever since she found the child at the park, she’d had a determined set to her jaw, giving him no doubt that she’d issue a brusque tongue-lashing to anyone who stood in her way.

  Dash it all, she was gorgeous. Passionately strong-willed. A force to be reckoned with. With a backbone akin to Miss Kent’s, there was no wonder the Lisle estates appeared to be thriving.

  Once they arrived at her town house, Sher helped Miss Kent alight, and then as he paid for the hack, giving the driver orders to return the horses to his mews, the lady headed straight inside. Grumbling under his breath, Sher swiftly dashed up the stairs before the door swung shut behind her.

  “Weston!” she hollered as the butler approached. “Mrs. Michaels, Earnest!”

  Within a heartbeat, all three servants appeared in the entry.

  “What have you there, miss?” asked Weston, his rheumy eyes growing rounder than Sher imagined they’d done in years.

  Miss Kent tilted up the basket like a preening swan. “I have a new ward.”

  “’Tis a baby,” said the housekeeper, stepping in and tugging the swaddling away from the infant’s face. “Oh my. The child cannot be more than a few days old.”

  “I’m certain you are correct.” Eleanor headed for the stairs. “Find a wet nurse immediately—and I mean posthaste. If the entire household must stop to bring a woman here, then so be it. Weston, send for the physician. Earnest, go up to the attic and fetch the old cradle. I need blankets, warm water, and linens for clouts.” She stopped and turned. “Send Annie for woolen pilchers, infant shifts, lace caps.”

  “Anything else, miss?” asked Mrs. Michaels.

  “I’m certain there is, though I’m at a loss to think of it.” The lady of the house looked at her servants who all stood with their mouths agape. “Go on, quickly. You’ve been assigned your tasks. Only Lord knows how long it has been since this poor child last nursed.”

  With that, the baby in the basket launched into a cacophony of howling cries.

  Sher followed Eleanor up the stairs. “What can I do to help?”

  As she reached the landing, her schooled features crumbled into a grimace of overwhelmed exasperation. “I hardly know.”

  “At least allow me to carry the bundle.” He hastened beside her and grasped the handles of the basket. “And I’ll help you settle him…or her.”

  Eleanor started to object but when he gave her a ducal look—one that said he would entertain absolutely no argument, she gave a sharp nod. “This way.”

  She led him up past the floor where he’d read to the viscount and pushed into a spacious bedchamber—obviously feminine, artfully decorated in soft pastels, and very much reminding him of Miss Kent’s elegance and grace. The bed-curtains were of muslin lace. The fireplace appeared to be recently cleaned, surrounded by a white marble hearth. Before it, was a settee in rose velvet. Near the window was a toilette with an enormous mirror, and across stood a gilt writing desk so ornate it could have been acquired from Versailles.

  While the babe continued to cry, Miss Kent strode into the middle of the chamber, stopped abruptly, and turned in a circle.

  Sher glanced down at the child and gently bounced the basket. “What do you intend to do now?”

  “We have naught but to wait.” As if she were handling a tiny dove, she pulled the baby out of the basket and cradled it in her arms. “If only there were a wet nurse next door.”

  “I’m certain your servants will be able to find someone.” Sher grasped Her Ladyship’s elbow. “In the meantime, why not make yourself comfortable on the settee whilst I make up a soother?”

  “Very well.” She took the infant in her arms and perched on the edge of the settee. “You know how to make a soother?”

  “With three older sisters, I am an uncle five times over.” He found a clean bit of cloth, rolled it into a finger-sized knot and dipped it in some water. “Do you have a bit of spirit? Wine or brandy perchance?”

  She gave him a sideways glance. “There’s a bottle in the bottom right drawer of my toilette, and I’ll hear no guffaws from you.”

  “Of course not. I keep a flagon of brandy on my sideboard in full display.”

  “Yes, well, the rules are quite different for you than they are for me.”

  He found a small bottle of Madeira—very exquisite Madeira indeed. Unable to help himself, he turned it in his hands. “Where did you acquire this?”

  “I brought it back from my trip to Constantinople.”

  “Ah, that explains it.” As the child’s cries grew painfully loud, he dribbled a few drops onto the damp cloth and hastened back to Eleanor’s side. “Let the babe suck on this for a moment.”

  She took the soother. “Is it safe?”

  “’Tis what my sisters use for teething. Quiets their children right down.”

  “Thank you.”

  Sher leaned over the settee as Miss Kent slipped the concoction in the baby’s mouth. In an instant, blissful quiet filled the air.

  “Oh, that’s better.” The lady glanced up with a smile. “And here I was thinking about sending you home, Your Grace.”

  Hmm. She had entertained the thought, yet there he stood. In the lady’s bedchamber, no less. Sher’s heart skipped a beat, more than one, he’d wager. Needless to say, Miss Kent’s smile had been given in relief for the silence, but the entire chamber came alight with it. “Would you like for me to take my leave?”

  Her brow furrowed with an adorable, worried expression. “I suppose now you’re here, it is too late to worry about covering up any scandal that may have a
risen.”

  “I don’t know. As I said, we were in the park too early for the fashionable crowd.” Spreading his arms, Sher glanced from one wall to the other. “I haven’t spotted any old biddies of the ton who might gossip about such nonsense.”

  “Thank heavens for small mercies.” Miss Kent seemed much more at ease above stairs in this well-appointed chamber—more of a real person than a gently bred daughter of a viscount, with impeccable manners. “To be honest, I’m surprised you followed me inside.”

  “It would have been ungentlemanly of me not to have done so.” Sher looked to the baby, suckling the cloth, its eyes wide and staring up at Eleanor.

  “Are you certain you want to take on the responsibility of a foundling?” he asked.

  “Absolutely, yes. I do.”

  “Your conviction is remarkable.”

  “I suppose I made up my mind the moment I saw this helpless child.”

  Sher sat for a moment. He didn’t blame her, though a single woman raising a child would not be easy. “Do you mind my asking why you, when there might be a couple out there who wishes to foster a wee one?”

  Shifting the babe to her other arm, she pursed her lips, those astute blue eyes drilling into his. “Have you any idea how many infants there are at the Foundling Hospital who go without finding those loving couples to whom you are referring?”

  He didn’t. Sher was the benefactor of fallen soldiers, not abandoned children and orphans—though his mother might be a patron of the hospital. Mama was forever giving money to worthy causes, though she rarely involved herself with one.

  He looked to his folded hands. “To be honest I have no idea.”

  “Over the years I’ve employed a number of unloved foundlings as houseboys or scullery maids. Earnest was one such child until I gave him a position at the age of thirteen.”

  “You hired from the home?”

  “I did, as do many. Though most employers of orphans are only after cheap labor, giving their charges poor food and poorer living conditions.”