The Duke of a Thousand Desires

by Jillian Hunter

  She compressed her lips. “Then I’ll wait up until you return home.”

  “Don’t worry if we’re late.”

  30

  She was reading on the chaise when he tiptoed into the bedchamber at a little past four in the morning. She was fully dressed in a violet woolen gown, cape, and half-boots. She examined his rumpled attire and unshaven jaw over the top of her pamphlet. “You don’t look quite respectable. Rough night?”

  “Uneventful.” He sat down beside her, frowning over her shoulder. “’How to Marry a Duke?’” Have you been keeping a secret? Who wrote this?”

  “One of the students Harriet taught at her finishing academy before she married my wicked duke of a brother. It’s light reading and not inaccurate. What did you discover?”

  He made himself comfortable beside her on the chaise. “Nothing unusual. Rhys is a rogue. I dropped him off at his ballerina’s lodgings. She has invited us to the opera house. Bruxton, his groom, and all but a skeletal staff have left London. Why are you dressed like that?”

  “I was afraid I’d have to rescue you. Grayson and Jane stopped by on their way back from a dance. Tell me more.”

  “With Heath’s invaluable knowledge, we broke into Bruxton’s house and pinched a box of letters.”

  “You committed a crime. You’re a housebreaker.”

  He stroked his jaw. “A comely young maidservant employed by one of the earl’s neighbors assisted us. She confirmed that Bruxton had gone to a country race.”

  She tugged at the end of his muffler. “How comely was she?”

  “Ask your brother. He convinced her we’d lost our way and wandered into the wrong house. This spoils my plans. I wanted you to have a look at the groom. But only from a distance.”

  “Is he that handsome?” she asked, lifting her brow.

  “He’s the ugliest man I’ve ever encountered. A veritable troll. He ought to wear a mask.”

  “Now I have to meet him.”

  “Not without me. He’s too likable, I fear.” He swung forward. “To bed then.”

  She released a breath. “How was Mrs. Watson?”

  He turned his head to hers. “We didn’t go.”

  She swallowed. “Why not?”

  “Because it would upset you,” he answered. “And there is nothing she could tell me that she couldn’t tell Heath.”

  She stretched up from the waist and touched her lips to his chin. “Thank you.”

  “For what?” His eyes gleamed with intent. “If you’re interested in what goes on inside a brothel, I could show you -- from what small experience I have.”

  She considered his proposal. “Perhaps I shall write a booklet entitled ‘How to Pleasure a Duke.’ After I’ve researched the subject more thoroughly.”

  “It has all the makings of a literary masterpiece. To bed then?” he repeated.

  “Yes. I have plans myself for tomorrow.”

  “Another tea?” he asked with a sympathetic grin.

  “Aunt Glynnis and I intend to shop.” She held up her hand. “Without you, please. No one is about to assault me in broad daylight on Bond Street.”

  He caught her by the wrist and lifted her from the chaise. “I’m not certain that I want my personal life put into a pamphlet for public consumption.”

  “Nor do I,” she softly agreed.

  31

  He insisted that four of his sturdiest footmen accompany Ravenna and her aunt on their shopping excursion. Ravenna objected as he followed her downstairs after breakfast.

  “The indignity of it,” she said, shaking her head. “Browsing for shifts and unmentionables in the presence of four young men, who shall thenceforth know whether I am wearing French pantalettes beneath my frocks.”

  He stood firm. “Do not attempt to provoke my possessive inclinations in this matter. The fact is that I would rather see you clad in only a handkerchief than see you come to harm.”

  “Only you, Simon, could make such an admission.”

  “’An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.’”

  She buttoned on her gloves. “Says he who has become a Mayfair housebreaker and my constant gaoler.”

  He accompanied her outside to the front steps. The quartet of footmen awaited her in silence on the pavement. “Purchase something delicate from me,” he said under his breath. “I am partial to sheer white lace.”

  “And for Aunt Glynnis? Do you have a particular undergarment in mind? Would you like to see her in blush silk stockings and diamond-studded garters?”

  He winced at the suggestion. “Do not talk to strangers.” He cast a covert glance at his footmen who, he just remembered, had been hired by a housekeeper with a predilection for muscular young men. “Do not talk to anyone, in fact, unless it is necessary.”

  “Simon.” She patted his arm in dismissal. “Read a political pamphlet. Write one. Go for a walk or visit Heath.”

  He shook his head in surrender. “Enjoy your afternoon.”

  Indeed, she had not been gone two hours than his vigilance proved warranted. He, Rhys, and Heath had been digging through a collection of Bruxton’s stolen correspondences, most related to bloodstock, some belated expressions of sympathy for Susannah’s death, when the butler and three housemaids appeared. Each carried a salver brimming with the post.

  “What on earth?” Rhys said, looking slightly unkempt from a night in his agile lover’s arms.

  “Leave them for Ravenna,” Simon said. “She and her maid spend a few hours each morning replying to acquaintances.”

  Heath removed a cigar from his vest pocket. “Don’t you ever read your letters?”

  “Of course, I do, but I’ve fallen behind since the wedding. Timpkins weeds through the bulk of them first. These are liable to be congratulations. Or invites, which I’d prefer not to acknowledge.”

  Heath stared down at the table. “One should never ignore a written correspondence. You might have received a fortune from a long-lost relative. Or another note from a secret admirer.”

  “He’s right,” Rhys said. He picked up a sealed letter and held it to his forehead like a seer. “We wouldn’t want a message from one of your old paramours to upset my sister, even though she can stand up to any rival.”

  “She has no rivals.” Simon pushed aside Bruxton’s portfolio and reached into the pile of letters. “I daresay she’s the one collecting admirers.” He opened one of the missives and read it aloud. “’Would his grace care to participate in a rowing race?’ No, he wouldn’t. ’Is her grace interested in attending a lecture given by Dr. Angus Fraser on a new method of breeding sheep?’ Positively not. Timpkins and Isolde should sort this out. It’s an utter waste of time.”

  “That one.” Heath motioned with his unlit cigar to a lightly inked letter that protruded from the pile. “It’s not franked and the seal bears no insignia.”

  Simon examined the missive in question. Blue-black ink. A common vermillion seal melted into a blob without a crest or initials. “I see nothing else remarkable about it.”

  “Open it,” Heath said, standing to light his cigar at the fireplace. “Someone had it slipped into the post.”

  Simon broke the seal and felt as if a blizzard had blown into the room. A ballad had been clipped from a book and pasted to the paper. “How could you have known?”

  “I have a suspicious nature. What does it say?”

  * * *

  “’When a lovely woman stoops to folly

  And finds too late that men betray,

  What charm can soothe her melancholy,

  What art can wash her guilt away?

  The only art her guilt to cover,

  To hide her shame from every eye,

  To give repentance to her lover.

  And wring his bosom -- is to die.’”

  * * *

  “I believe that’s a song by Oliver Goldsmith,” Rhys said, gripping the arm of his chair.

  Heath exhaled a plume of smoke. “I believe that is a threat. At base it is a
petty and personal attack. We need to fetch the ladies without delay and if possible without panic. I’d like to compare the script on the outside to the anonymous note you received the night of the ball.”

  Simon was on his feet, in his jacket, papers flying to the carpet. “Do me a favor, Rhys. Ring for Timpkins before you leave. Ask him and Isolde to gather up any letters that I have not seen.”

  Heath picked up the ominous letter from the carpet. “I was under the impression that Isolde was no longer speaking to your steward.”

  Simon strode to the door. “They shall forgive and forget, or else.”

  Ravenna smiled in resignation. No sooner had she emerged from the milliner’s shop than she sighted her husband advancing across the pavement in her direction. “I suppose he can’t help himself,” she said to the bonneted woman beside her. “If only he understood I do have a backbone.”

  Aunt Glynnis nodded in approval. “I have never known a man to be so enamored of his wife. He does care for you, Ravenna. It is quite touching.”

  “Or he is touched,” Ravenna said. “In the head. I begin to wonder.” In truth she was pleased to see the handsome devil until he came close enough that she could read the anxiety in his eyes. His careworn smile seemed more designed for her aunt’s benefit than for hers.

  “Ladies,” he said, relieving Ravenna of her boxes. “I am traveling home with you.”

  He led them to the carriage in a silence so profound that as Aunt Glynnis thumped upon the seat, she whispered, “Perhaps the shopkeepers alerted him to the cost of your purchases. He appears to be in a mood.”

  “He gave me carte blanche,” Ravenna murmured.

  “He must have set a limit.”

  “Not as of yet.”

  Simon looked anything but his indulgent self as the carriage set off, the interior crammed with parcels that the footmen could not stow above. Ravenna knew Simon well enough to perceive that his appearance did not mean he had missed her or was concerned that she’d broken the bank purchasing accessories.

  He waited a moment before satisfying her curiosity. “I wouldn’t have ruined your day without good reason.” He removed a letter from his waistcoat pocket. “Ravenna, read this as best you can in the light.”

  “Not another scandal sheet?” Aunt Glynnis said with a sigh. “Our reputation falls by the day. I shall be disgusted if this is another poke at your voluptuous passions.”

  Ravenna unfolded the letter with a prickle of foreboding. She scanned it twice, her aunt peering down her shoulder. “This is disturbing,” she said, looking up at Simon.

  Aunt Glynnis was less reserved. “You must cut to the heart of this, Simon. One cannot ignore a death threat.”

  “You don’t recognize the handwriting on the outside?” he asked Ravenna.

  “No,” she said tightly.

  “Until this person is found,” he said, his face flushed with anger, “you shall not leave the house without me. Call me a tyrant. I do not care.”

  “I shall have to move from Griffin’s house into the room down the hall in yours,” Aunt Glynnis stated. “Never mind that I detest the color of the wallpaper. All I need is a reliable pistol. It is clear that you need me as you did when you were younger. I am frightened to the teeth for you both.”

  Simon snorted. “What do you think you can do to protect us, Glynnis?”

  Ravenna shook her head in warning, but he continued.

  “I do not need to worry about you shooting someone in the dark should you be overcome with nerves,” he said, clearly too agitated to realize he had offended an ally.

  Aunt Glynnis glowered at him. “I’ll have you know that Primrose and I held the castle against brigands more than once when our men were absent or lying sick. I fought a duel on the stairwell against the suitor who would have forced his attentions on me.”

  He swallowed.

  “And she won,” Ravenna added, not certain whether Simon or Aunt Glynnis needed her comfort the most. They were afraid for her.

  “Neither of you are fighting this battle,” he said, the birthmark on his cheek dark and prominent. “I have no intention of leaving you defenseless. Aunt Glynnis, you are welcome to stay with us. I apologize for my outburst.”

  32

  Simon burned the midnight oil with Rhys and Heath long after Ravenna had gone to bed. The gentleman had moved their investigation into the billiards room. Everything recently sent to the house had been gathered in this room from bills, cards, letters, and newspapers. It was here that Aunt Glynnis and Isolde had stored wedding presents yet to be graciously acknowledged or duplicates to be donated to a charity.

  Heath examined letter after letter under a magnifying glass until his eyes crossed. Numerous servants had come and gone to relight the lamps that illuminated their quest. The search to discover a single correspondence that matched the one received today proved futile, as did a go-through of the wedding gifts.

  “How many silver trophies and Etruscan vases does a duke’s household require?” Rhys asked, poking his hand deep into one vessel.

  Simon cast him a bleary glance. “What are you looking for? Loose change?”

  “A message, perhaps. I don’t know. You tell me. I’m stiff as a plank,” he added. He raked a hand through his hair. “Isolde and Aunt Glynnis will not appreciate the disarrangement of their carefully arranged presents.”

  “Why don’t the both of you stop complaining?” Heath paged through a vellum-bound volume of Shakespeare’s Antony and Cleopatra. “This is a gift to be treasured. It’s inscribed by the Duchess of Wellington. I do not think she’s our suspect. Anything left to examine? What is that under your seat, Rhys? No. Back another inch.”

  Rhys reached under his chair for a rectangular pink-and-white striped box that had apparently been missed. The package was decidedly feminine and looked expensive. “It’s not a trophy.”

  Simon stood up again. “It looks like one of the boxes that my wife bought today,” he said, his fatigue lifting. “How would it have gotten under the chair?”

  Rhys held the package to his ear and gingerly shook it. “I hear a slight rattle.”

  “What on earth are you doing?” Heath asked.

  “I wanted to make sure there wasn’t a snake inside,” Rhys said. “You’re the one who brought up Cleopatra. How do we know that someone has not sent an asp in a box?”

  “For pity’s sake,” Heath said. “Shall I open the damned thing? We can’t sit here forever shaking a box. We don’t have asps in England. We have adders and they don’t rattle.”

  “It isn’t our box to open,” Rhys pointed out. “Shouldn’t Ravenna have the privilege?”

  Heath rubbed his face. “Not if its contents upset her.”

  “So then opening it could be considered an act of valor?” Rhys said.

  “After my brother Devon,” Heath muttered, “you are the most aggravating person I know. It must have something to do with being a younger sibling.”

  Rhys looked wounded. “You open the blasted box, then.”

  In the end Simon dismantled the package, unburying layers of tissue and dried lavender buds before the contents were revealed. He could not believe his eyes. Behind him Heath erupted in laughter.

  “It’s as fragrant as a courtesan’s dressing closet,” Rhys said. “But am I seeing things? That appears to be a corset.”

  “We cannot both be imagining corsets.” Simon peered down at the ivory silk undergarment that he had exposed.

  “Would you like me to take it out for you?” Heath asked in amusement. “I have steady hands.”

  Simon shot him a look. “I have no trouble removing a corset.”

  “It is a rather impertinent wedding present,” Rhys said as Simon lifted the busk from the box, the laces dangling. “I might be tempted to confront the sender. Is there a message enclosed? Who would dare gift such a personal item to a duchess?”

  Heath removed the perfumed card from the tightly boned bodice. “I should have known,” he said with a grin
. “It’s from my sister.”

  Simon settled back down on the semi-circular couch. “Not the sister renowned for her manners? The one who started the ladies’ academy in London?”

  “No. That would be Emma, otherwise known as Mrs. Killjoy, the Dainty Dictator. Chloe is my youngest sister and has been causing mischief since the day she was born.”

  Simon raised his brow. “I’ve met her.”

  “Marriage has done wonders to subdue her vitality,” Heath continued, “but she will never be a fainthearted woman. This must be a personal joke among the ladies. Chloe discovered her husband half-dead and buried in her closet in a trunk of undergarments. I take it that a corset played a part in their love affair. Honestly, I do not wish to know.” He tucked the card back into the box. “I shall not read this aloud.”

  Simon regarded the corset with a smile, not only relieved that the gift posed no threat to his wife, but also that he would have the privilege of seeing her laced into it. “Perhaps we should seek our beds.”

  Rhys nodded in the direction of the long sash windows. “It’s first light. I’m afraid if I nod off, I might have a nightmare that Simon and I are getting married.”

  Heath collected a few lavender buds from the floor, then stood and shook his arms. “We’ll decide what to do after a few hours of sleep and a decent breakfast. It is good manners to send a thank-you for each Etruscan vase, but a written threat, even disguised as a ballad, forces us to wage a different response. If I had to guess, I’d say that this letter is a farewell from Ravenna’s former betrothed. The one who was ordered to leave town.”

  “I should have killed him,” Simon remarked.

  “But you did not,” Heath said. “And now perhaps the wisest course is for you and Ravenna to leave until your safety is assured.”

  Simon took Ravenna out into the garden after breakfast. There had been a rain shower a little earlier and the sweet peas shone like fragments of stained glass in the feeble sun. He wiped off the bench with his glove for her to sit.