The Duke's Privateer (Devilish Dukes Book 3)

by Amy Jarecki

  “How many foundlings have you employed?”

  “A few—though they must prove trustworthy to work in my—ah—household.”

  “Astonishing.”

  “Here it is, miss.” The door burst open and the footman came in with a dusty old cradle. “It wasn’t an easy task to find this in the disorder up there.”

  “I imagine not. The thing hasn’t been used since I grew out of it.” Eleanor pointed to an empty spot beside the settee. “Put it here, please, and find a duster.”

  “Yes, miss. Straightaway.”

  Mrs. Michaels appeared next with an armful of linens and a pail of steaming water. “These ought to suffice for the clouts and I’ve brought some twine to secure them in place.”

  “Excellent. What about the physician?”

  “Weston sent the errand boy for him. I’m sure he’ll be here directly.”

  “And the pilchers, and smock?”

  “Annie is off to Smith’s.” The housekeeper set linens on the bed and placed the pail at the foot of the hearth. “Shall I bathe the…I daresay, is the babe a boy or a girl?”

  Miss Kent nodded toward the washstand. “Pour the water into the bowl. It is time to find out.”

  The housekeeper did as asked, then reached for the babe. “I’ll tend the wee one until you hire a nursemaid.”

  The lady hesitated, just as she had in the park. “Perhaps I—”

  “Goodness no, miss.” Wide-eyed, Mrs. Michaels inclined her head toward Sher. “Allow me.”

  “Yes, by all means,” Eleanor said, handing the child to the woman as if the babe were as fragile as a crystal vase.

  Sher crept closer as Mrs. Michaels placed the child on the bed and removed the swaddling. “Have a look at that. ’Tis a girl.”

  Gasping, Eleanor dipped one of the linen cloths in the water, then skimmed it over the downy white hair on the baby’s crown. “I shall call her Margaret Lehn after my grandmama.”

  The housekeeper took the babe to the washstand and lowered her into the bowl. “A lovely name, indeed.”

  Sher liked it as well.

  “I beg your pardon, Miss Eleanor,” said Weston, popping his head through the door. “The wet nurse has arrived.”

  Beaming, Eleanor draped the cloth over the rail on the washstand. “Thank heavens.”

  As the woman was ushered into the now overcrowded bedchamber, Sher scooted toward the door while the particulars were discussed. How had he ended up embroiled in the welfare of a foundling? And why did he feel an attachment to the helpless little bundle? True, the child’s face was adorably angelic. And Miss Kent was captivated.

  But this certainly wasn’t the outcome Sher expected from a jaunt through Hyde Park with a woman he suspected of engaging in a smuggling operation.

  I do suspect her, do I not?

  By the way the viscount’s daughter immediately acted to protect Margaret, Sher was not convinced. Miss Kent behaved like no smuggler the duke had ever encountered. Yet, something seemed off. He knew without a doubt that Viscount Lisle had fallen on difficult times and, now over a decade later, the estate was clearly thriving even though Lisle had been incapacitated all that time.

  As the wet nurse situated herself on the settee, Sher cleared his throat. “If you ladies will excuse me, I’d best take my leave.”

  Miss Kent scarcely looked his way. “Do you mind seeing yourself out?”

  “Of course not.”

  Sher shut the door behind him and made his way to the stairs. He absolutely did not give a fig about showing himself out.

  But why did a cavernous hollow stretch inside his chest?

  “The shipment is where?”

  Sher froze as a step creaked beneath his feet. He could have sworn he heard the butler’s voice.

  “They received the signal.”

  “Oh, thank the merciful heavens, what with His Grace nosing about.”

  Sher’s hackles stood on end. What shipment? What signal? Were Miss Kent’s servants engaging in skullduggery under her nose?

  Good God, it was time to step up his efforts. Careful not to make another sound, he hastened out the door.

  The following day, after Weston presented Eleanor with a missive bearing the seal of the Duke of Danby, she waited until the butler left the parlor. Only then did she slide her finger beneath the circle of red wax and unfold the letter.

  Dear Miss Kent,

  I hope you do not consider my actions impertinent; however, since you have your hands full with Margaret Lehn, I had my secretary notify the Foundling Hospital, the Lord Chancellor, as well as place notices in the London papers about finding an abandoned baby in Hyde Park. To protect your identity, your name has been excluded from the public announcements, and anyone who might come forward with information about the child is to report to my contact at the Court of Chancery. Furthermore, the Dowager Duchess of Danby is a benefactor of Mrs. Spence’s Society for the Placement of Nursemaids and Governesses. My mother took the liberty of asking them to select potential candidates for your approval. As you may be aware, Mrs. Spence’s provides services to the most affluent of polite society.

  I have some business that requires my attention, though I hope to pay a visit soon to check on Margaret Lehn and also to continue reading to your father.

  On another note, you and I did not satisfactorily complete our ride. I do hope you will see fit to grant me the favor of another outing sometime in the very near future.

  Yours faithfully,

  Sher

  Eleanor pondered the significance of his signature as she folded the letter. Danby hadn’t given her leave to call him familiar, yet he’d signed the missive as if they were old friends. He hadn’t even used Sherborn. Furthermore, she had not asked for his assistance, and his meddling struck a dissonant chord.

  Or did it?

  With yesterday’s visits from the wet nurse and the physician, there hadn’t been time to think about finding a nursemaid. Nor had she a moment to notify the proper authorities.

  Margaret had slept in the cradle beside Eleanor’s bed last night—not exactly slept. Eleanor had spent much of the night pacing the floor with the babe wailing in her arms. And though she now had an excruciating headache, she was glad to have done it.

  Obviously, the baby couldn’t sleep in Eleanor’s bedchamber forever. After all, there was a nursery at the rear of the town house—the very chamber where Eleanor had spent her childhood whenever the family was in residence in London.

  Eleanor rose from her writing table and checked on Margaret who, after the night-long vigil, was sleeping soundly. On a sigh, she opened and reread Danby’s missive.

  Yes. The duke was definitely meddling.

  I ought to reply and tell him to mind his own affairs.

  The man was confounding to say the least. By his reputation alone, he ought to be washing his hands of her, especially after she defied him and insisted they bring the foundling to her home, demanding that he hire a hackney. He ought to be galloping his Arabian stallion as far away from Mayfair Place as he could go.

  Oddly, the duke still desired to see her socially. What were his intentions? Was he intending to court her? If so, his tactics were rather clandestine. Eleanor looked heavenward. Danby was not enamored with the likes of her, spinster, and old maid by society’s estimation. Aside from catching him staring a tad longer than proper, or a sharp intake of breath now and again, there had been no indication of his fondness whatsoever. She had been around the ton long enough to know when a man was flirting, yet she was undeniably clueless about Danby. And His Grace knew how to flirt mercilessly. He was, after all, notorious.

  Eleanor guffawed.

  I am being a complete and utter flibbertigibbet.

  Of course, the Duke of Danby harbored no romantic interest in her whatsoever. Aside from being a consummate rogue, the man was a bloodhound, sniffing about for smugglers, and he most likely picked up on her scent in Brighton. Blast Prinny for inviting him, and moreover, seating them toget
her.

  Sherborn Price must be dissuaded at all costs. No matter how much interest he took in Margaret Lehn, Eleanor’s father, or whomever, His Grace was a threat to her very existence.

  A knock sounded at the door. “Miss Eleanor? There’s a young woman to see you.” Weston’s deep voice resonated through the timbers. “Claims she’s a nursemaid sent by Mrs. Spence’s.”

  Already?

  “Show her to the parlor and tell her I’ll be down directly. And send up Annie to watch Margaret. The baby mustn’t be left alone.”

  “Straightaway, miss.”

  Eleanor checked her reflection. Her figure wasn’t fashionably proportioned by any stretch of the imagination. Too tall with too much on top and hips too wide, she never considered herself a beauty—not exactly plain, but not petite and delicate either. On closer inspection, the dark circles under her eyes made her look as if she’d imbibed in far too much wine last night. But they couldn’t be helped.

  Such is the lot of a mother, I suppose.

  She stood back and smoothed her hands along her trim waist, thanks to her stays.

  Mother.

  Never in all her days had Eleanor dared to hope that one day a child would come into her life. Even if Margaret wasn’t really hers, rearing a child was a new opportunity. A gift.

  How interesting to discover she had such an incredibly protective nature. Two days ago, if anyone had asked Eleanor if she dreamed of motherhood, she would have laughed aloud. And had it been someone in her confidence, she would have told them that a woman who controlled the most exclusive privateering ring in Britain had absolutely no business raising a child.

  But why not?

  Because Danby is sniffing about.

  Should she take Weston’s advice and retire?

  Well, there was no time to think of such a drastic option now. She had a nursemaid to interview.

  Chapter Six

  Pipe smoke as thick as a country brush fire hung in the air in the saloon at Westgate Gentlemen’s Club. Mr. Davis, the Bow Street runner hired to lead this crew of sleuths, rubbed his palms together. “We caught them red-handed. The raid yielded fifty barrels of tobacco and enough gin to have the entire population of St. Giles in their cups.”

  Sher snatched a billiard ball from the table and gave his man a nod. He’d chosen Westgate as the meeting place because it was nondescript and none of the lawmen recruited to his task force would pose any suspicion coming and going, no matter their station. Besides, these hand-chosen few were all respectable, well-educated young men.

  Better yet, each chap was hungry to make his mark and build his reputation.

  “Good work, Davis,” said Sher. “But are these not the same miscreants the crown has caught smuggling before?”

  “They are.”

  “The bastards need to be tried and hung. ’Tis the only way to ensure they do not keep going back to the trough,” said Moss.

  “Hear, hear.” Kenrick leaned against the billiard table and crossed his arms. “The leader of this band was caught one year past, served three months in Newgate and paid a hundred-pound fine. Not enough by half, I say.”

  Sher let the ball roll from the tips of his fingers and watched while it slowly rolled the length of the table. “I will address the severity of punishment with the prime minister, especially for repeat offenders. However, our task is not to impose punishment, but to help the crown identify and arrest these festering thieves.”

  “And string them up by their balls,” Moss grumbled.

  Though he agreed, Sher chose to ignore the last remark. “You men did well to identify the warehouse in St. Giles and confiscate the contraband. What else do you have for me?”

  Kenrick raised his pipe. “As you asked, I’ve been following Mr. Millward from Lion’s Imports. Interestingly, he paid duties on a shipment of Madeira a few days ago.”

  “Interestingly?” Sher asked while the hairs on his nape stood on end. Was Millward in cahoots with Miss Kent’s servants? “What do you mean?”

  “The whole thing didn’t sit well with me.”

  “How so?”

  Puffing his pipe, Kenrick squinted. “First of all, the captain did not declare the contents of its ballasts when they were intercepted by a customs patrol just off Sheerness.”

  “Hmm.” Sher drummed his fingers on the table’s felt bumper. “That is rather odd.”

  “Furthermore, according to the customs office, Lion’s Imports doesn’t usually deal in spirits.” As he exhaled, smoke swirled around Kenrick’s head. “It is as if they suddenly began taking on a new venture.”

  “Such a move is not untoward. Perhaps that explains the confusion with the patrol.” Sher snatched the red ball and rolled it between his palms. “What do they usually import?”

  “Artifacts, carpets, hard-to-find items from exotic places like Africa and the Orient.”

  Sher recalled Miss Kent’s voyage to Constantinople. “Lion’s brings in a great deal of chinoiserie, I assume?”

  “I reckon chinoiserie might be more typical than Madeira, Your Grace.”

  “You reckon? Are you not sure?” Sher asked as he tossed the ball in the air, caught it, then held it out and dropped it into Mr. Kenrick’s palm. “Find out. Go to the customs office and compile a list of chinoiserie imported by Lion’s in the past…say…two years. And while you’re at it, keep a look out for Madeira and the like.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Sher retrieved his silver-capped walking stick and panned it across the men’s eager faces. “We have a good start. But if we are ever to refill the crown’s coffers, we need more—far more.” He brushed past Davis. “If anything of magnitude arises, notify me at once, day or night.”

  Davis bowed his head of scruffy brown hair. “Duly noted, Your Grace,” he replied in a voice every bit as rough as his mien.

  Once Sher had collected his hat, gloves, and great coat, he wound his way through the back, out the close, and stepped out onto a footpath several streets away from the club. Drawing in a deep breath of fresh air, he hailed a hack. In this part of town his coach would draw too much attention in broad daylight, as would his horse. And smugglers had spies everywhere.

  “Where to, governor?” asked the driver, clearly not realizing he was addressing a duke.

  “Mayfair Place.”

  Sher climbed into the carriage and closed the door. Three days had passed since he’d been riding in Hyde Park with Miss Kent. It was past time he paid her a visit.

  “You have the gall to complain about your profits?” Eleanor asked as she faced Captain Townsend of the King’s Jewel. He’d come to her house of all places. She never met with the sea captain anywhere aside from on his ship or in Lion’s offices. Good heavens, the man knew better than to knock on her door in broad daylight.

  “Forgive me, but you’ve left me with no other recourse.” Townsend paced in front of the hearth, the eye not covered by a patch blazing with fury. “With the duties deducted from my share I hardly have enough funds to pay my crew.”

  No matter what the captain said, he had the funds to pay them. Eleanor had made sure of it at her own expense. “With all due respect, you ought to be happy you weren’t arrested, mind you.” She stepped nearer and lowered her voice. “This is the risk we all bear. Not every voyage will yield enough profits to keep your mistress in her rooms in Chelsea.”

  “But I have debts—”

  “Indeed? As do I. And you deign to complain? Have I not made you a wealthy man over the years? What else have you done with the coin I’ve paid you? Squandered it in some gambling hell?”

  Townsend grew red in the face, confirming her accusation.

  “There is no need to answer. I can read the squandering in your eyes.” Eleanor could have blown steam through her nose. “The fact of the matter is we are under scrutiny and we must endeavor to exercise every precaution. And it should go without saying that a man in your particular industry must exercise restraint where money is concerned. Save it for a
rainy day, as it were.”

  “Ahem.” Weston cleared his throat while he entered the parlor, his face pinched as if he’d just been forced to drink a draught of lemon juice. “I beg your pardon, my lady, but the Duke of Danby is here to see you.”

  As her throat suddenly constricted, Eleanor looked beyond the partially opened door. The plague take it, the duke was standing in the entry. Unfortunately, the town house walls were not made of lead. How much had he heard?

  Eleanor flicked her fingers, quickly beckoning the butler inside. “How long has he been here?” she mouthed, barely making a sound.

  Weston blanched as he shot a heated glare at Townsend. “Just stepped inside as you were mentioning the need to exercise restraint.”

  “Thank heavens for small mercies,” she whispered, then pointed to the captain. “Heed this as a warning. A directive with details for your next voyage will be sent to you forthwith, which will enable you to set sail before your creditors grow ravenous.”

  “But, Miss Kent—”

  “Weston will show you out.”

  No sooner had Eleanor collected her wits when Danby strode inside with a lumpy parcel tied with twine tucked under his arm. If it weren’t for his frown, she might have thought he was bearing gifts. “You consort with sea captains?”

  She turned toward the wall to ensure the blasted duke wouldn’t notice the color suddenly burning her face. Though he might be a duke, she did not owe Danby an explanation. Moreover, she must throw up an impenetrable barricade and stop his inquires. “It seems Captain Townsend has underestimated the magnitude of his gambling debts. He sought an advance and mistakenly believed that by addressing the chairman of the board directly, he would meet with leniency.”

  “Ah, I see. Forgive my impertinence.” The pinch between his brows eased as he smiled and set his parcel on the table. Stepping nearer, he took Eleanor’s hand, bowed over it, and applied a kiss. A warm, chivalric, unbearably swoon-inducing kiss. “I came to inquire as to Margaret Lehn’s health. Is she well?”

  Eleanor rubbed the back of her hand and cleared her throat to still her thumping heart. How many times must she remind herself that the duke had no interest in her? He was either poking his nose into her importing business, having his mother meddle, or reading to her father. The man was nothing short of bewildering. “Yes, she’s quite well, thank you. Thriving, in fact.”