The Devil in Disguise: A Regency Rogues Novel

by Stefanie Sloane

  “You know me better than to ask such a thing, Clairemont,” Weston replied, a smile spreading over his tanned face.

  “Good,” Will said with satisfaction. “Now, Parsons, your report on the surveillance efforts.”

  The meeting, true to Will’s promise, was quick and efficient, the necessary information shared, plans for the morning reviewed, and the men sent back to their various posts to resume their duties.

  Will slipped quietly back into the manor and made an unsuccessful attempt at sleep, only to be awakened two hours later when sounds from below signaled the house staff was up and readying for a new day.

  Dressing quickly, he escaped the manor undetected and made haste for the stables, saddling Sol and leaving the property at a hard gallop.

  He was glad for the forethought he’d shown when he’d left Lucinda at her chamber door and told her he would be gone this day due to business in the district. It would allow him the opportunity to interrogate informants who had yet to yield to his fellow Corinthians’ wishes—always an activity that proved useful in ridding oneself of excess anger and frustration. And, more importantly, it would remove Lucinda from his sight, giving him the distance needed to make a decision he knew to be absolutely necessary.

  But he dreaded it, all the same.

  Weston appeared not far up the road at the agreed upon meeting site, his gelding’s ears pricking with interest at Sol’s approach.

  Will didn’t slacken the stallion’s speed and Weston kneed his mount into motion, joining Will on the road as the two horses raced neck and neck toward town.

  There were certain obligations that came with country life, and chief among them was replying in the affirmative when one’s closest neighbor issued an invitation for supper. In Lucinda’s case, this meant that when the Earl of Rowton, upon learning of her unexpected arrival at Bampton Manor, arranged for a meal in her honor, she had to say yes.

  She was not quite certain how Lord Rowton had heard that she was in residence, but it didn’t really matter. Her aunts had brought her up to be a good neighbor, and a good neighbor she would be.

  And so here she was, climbing the steps to Rowton Manor, Charlotte at her side, trying desperately not to wince as she moved.

  She was sore. Really sore. How was it possible that her regular riding schedule had not better prepared her limbs for the physical exertion of lovemaking?

  “Where is His Grace?” Charlotte asked once she’d surveyed the room and taken note of those attending. “He agreed to come, did he not?”

  “Yes, of course,” Lucinda assured her. He hadn’t been particularly pleased about it, but she’d eventually wrenched a yes from his lips. It was what a proper suitor would do, she had said sweetly. That had been met with a scowl.

  They were courting, weren’t they?

  His scowl gave way to grumbling.

  So she’d launched into her good neighbor speech, sounding to her ear remarkably like her aunts.

  He had acquiesced immediately.

  He had said that he’d some business in town, although what she could not imagine, but he’d promised that he’d be there.

  “I’m sure he’ll arrive shortly,” Lucinda told her aunt. “He mentioned that he might be delayed by some sort of ducal business.”

  “Here?”

  Lucinda shrugged. As far as she knew, Will had no property in Oxfordshire, but the dukedom’s holdings were vast, and she was quite certain she did not know the extent of it.

  “Do you see Rowton?” Charlotte murmured in her ear.

  Lucinda shook her head. She had known Lord Rowton for years. He was ten years her senior and had made no secret of his desire to join their properties. His father had suggested the match at her birth, and Rowton had taken up the cause as soon as Lucinda had reached a marriageable age.

  She had not mentioned this to Will. It did not seem relevant, at least not while she was trying to convince him to accompany her.

  “Ouch!” Lucinda looked over at Charlotte with some irritation. “What was that for?”

  Charlotte retracted her elbow, which was presently dug into Lucinda’s ribs. “Rowton, my dear,” she murmured without moving her lips.

  Lucinda’s gaze followed Charlotte’s. “Oh,” she said under her breath.

  Each pasted a smile on her face and prepared to greet their host.

  There was nothing precisely wrong about Lord Rowton. He was an avid horseman, which was certainly a point in his favor, and he did not bore Lucinda with recitations of parliamentary proceedings while implying they were beyond her understanding.

  In truth, Lucinda had to suppose that Lord Rowton had been the best of her suitors, or if not that, certainly the most convenient.

  But that had been before Will. And with the memory of his body on hers still burned into her memory …

  “Lucinda!”

  She turned to Charlotte. “What?”

  “You moaned.”

  “I did not,” Lucinda shot back, horrified.

  “Oh, you did. I assure you my hearing is—Lord Rowton! How nice to see you again.”

  Their host stood before them, smiling down at both. “Lady Charlotte,” he began, nodding, bowing, and grasping her hand to kiss the air just above her fingers.

  Charlotte had barely murmured a brief response before he turned to Lucinda, the look of adoration plain for all to see. “And Lady Lucinda. It has been far too long since our last meeting.”

  “Lord Rowton,” Lucinda began, reluctantly offering her hand, “you are too kind.”

  His lips barely brushed her fingers, though they lingered too long for Lucinda’s comfort.

  She gently pulled back, not wanting to create a scene but desirous to retrieve her hand all the same. “This looks to be quite a happy gathering, I must say.”

  “Indeed,” he replied, gesturing for the ladies to accompany him into the room. “I was surprised to find you in residence at this time of year.”

  Lucinda eyed Charlotte wearily, her heart not quite prepared to speak of Winnie with the indifference necessary for such settings. “An ill horse, I’m afraid.”

  Charlotte cleared her throat. “Thank you for asking, Lord Rowton.”

  “And will you be staying on?” he pressed. “It really seems a shame to come all this way only to stay for a few short days.”

  Lucinda smiled sincerely. It was difficult not to admire his determination. “Aunt Charlotte wishes to stay on for the remainder of the week, and so we will.”

  “I’m very glad to hear as much,” Rowton replied enthusiastically.

  The three walked toward the pianoforte, where a plump, brown-haired woman was busily playing Mozart. She ended the piece with a dramatic tinkle of two keys and smilingly received the polite round of applause.

  “Miss Winstead, you play beautifully,” Lucinda said to the woman, her compliment failing to draw the round young woman’s chocolate brown gaze away from Lord Rowton.

  “Thank you, Lady Lucinda,” she replied, her attention focused unwaveringly on Lord Rowton.

  This could work to my advantage, Lucinda thought to herself, winking at Charlotte before proceeding. “Would you not agree, Lord Rowton?” she asked.

  “I’m sorry?” The earl replied, his glass of wine halfway to his lips.

  “I was just commenting on Miss Winstead’s skillful playing.”

  “Oh, that. Well—”

  “I could not agree more.” The deep, masculine comment came from somewhere behind Lucinda.

  The fine hairs on her nape stood up, her body coming to life as if he’d commanded it to do so.

  She showed restraint though, waiting to turn until her companions did. “Your Grace,” she began, not wanting to appear overly eager. “Do join us. I very much would like to introduce you.”

  He walked purposefully toward them, failing to acknowledge the buzz of surprise and excited whispers that were taking place about the room.

  He joined them, standing between Charlotte and the seated Miss Wi
nstead, whose seemed to have removed her attention from Lord Rowton and refixed it firmly on Will.

  Lord Rowton cleared his throat, and everyone turned to look at him. Lucinda thought he resembled a yearling she’d once owned. The young horse’s reaction to castration had been to stand at the fence that separated him and the other geldings from the resident stallion and watch with quiet and decidedly bitter resignation as the virile Thoroughbred pranced about, displaying his undeniably large and functional manhood for all the world to see.

  “I do beg your forgiveness, Lord Rowton,” Lucinda began, pausing to push the thought of the defeated gelding from her mind. “Do you know His Grace, the Duke of Clairemont? He arrived in Oxfordshire most unexpectedly.”

  “Of course,” Rowton replied, with remarkably little inflection.

  Lucinda acknowledged his comment with a smile and a nod. “I assured His Grace that Aunt Charlotte and I would do everything in our power to show him all that we have to offer. An introduction to what makes our little corner of the country so special would not be complete without attending one of your soirées, would you not agree?”

  “Welcome to my home,” Lord Rowton said, nodding at Will. He did not appear terribly excited to have a duke in his midst, but he was nothing if not polite, and he added, “Any friend of Lady Charlotte and Lady Lucinda’s is, without a doubt, a friend of mine.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet a close family friend of the Greys,” Will replied with a polite, ducal nod.

  Lord Rowton returned the pleasantry with a perfunctory bow. “If you will excuse me, I must tell my staff we’ll be one more for dinner.” He gave the group a vague smile, ventured one last, lonely glance at Lucinda, and took his leave.

  “Well, I suppose that leaves you, Miss Winstead,” Will said.

  The young woman’s eyes grew wide as saucers. “I’m sorry, Your Grace?”

  Will gave her a devastating smile. “Forgive me. It’s most improper to speak before being introduced, but I simply could not wait any longer.”

  Lucinda took pity on the blushing girl. “Miss Winstead, may I introduce His Grace, the Duke of Clairemont.”

  Will bowed over her hand.

  “Your grace …” Miss Winstead began as she rose from her bench, her voice trailing off into confused silence when Will refused to release her hand.

  “I am a most devoted student of all things musical. And you,” he said, gesturing for her to be seated once again, “are a truly talented musician. Please, gift us with another piece. Do not deny the world your talent.”

  Miss Winstead giggled and succumbed with blushes and an agreeing nod. She retrieved her hand from Will and thumbed through the sheet music, uttering an “Aha” when she found just the one.

  Will left her, returning to stand between Charlotte and Lucinda. The three clapped softly as Miss Winstead readied herself.

  “Just what are you playing at?” Lucinda asked Will from behind her fan.

  Miss Winstead boldly began a piece by Handel, her pleasure at being singled out by a duke evident in the particular enthusiasm with which she played.

  “Your Miss Winstead is a more accomplished player than most young women of her acquaintance,” Will murmured. “If Rowton is ever to take notice of the chit, she’ll need to make use of any assets at her disposal. I’m simply helping her along.”

  “How sweet—and quite clever of you, to boot,” Aunt Charlotte commented. “If I did not know better, I’d say you’re a bit of a romantic, Your Grace.”

  “You overestimate my capacity for kindness, Lady Charlotte.”

  A servant entered the room, tapping a small metal gong with a padded mallet. “Dinner is served.”

  “I think not, Your Grace,” Charlotte said, her lips curving into a knowing smile. “My estimation of my fellow man, or woman, is rarely wrong.” With that, she tucked her arm into the crook of Will’s and allowed him to lead her away.

  Will escorted Lady Charlotte to her seat, then looked about for his own, the many-armed epergne placed strategically in the middle of the table making it a rather more difficult task than it should have been.

  “I do apologize, Your Grace,” Lord Rowton began from his place at the head of the table, “but the servants were hard-pressed to rearrange the placement on such short notice.”

  Will walked to where Rowton sat, nodding in understanding. “Of course, Lord Rowton, think nothing of it.” He continued on, pausing to stand over Lucinda.

  He leaned in slightly so that Rowton would not overhear. “Now, where do you think I might find my seat?”

  Lucinda’s expression, only just a moment before one of happiness, turned serious as she gestured for Will to move closer. “About that,” she began. “You’re seated next to Lady Shipley, at the end of the table.”

  Will schooled his features to match Lucinda’s. “Is this information meant to inspire fear in my heart?”

  “Well … That is to say …”

  “Lucinda,” Will urged gently.

  “Do be kind to her, please,” she asked solemnly.

  Will raised his eyebrows in mock outrage. “You wound me, Lady Lucinda. Truly,” he replied.

  “Oh, and do remember to speak directly into the trumpet. And the louder, the better,” she whispered urgently.

  Will looked at her quizzically, but thought it best to end their conversation before any more mysterious oddities were introduced.

  “If you’ll excuse me, I must join my fellow dining companions in what I can only assume is the northern wing, if I am to judge by distance.”

  Lucinda laughed, then mouthed “Thank you” as Will left her side and walked to his seat.

  Lady Shipley enthusiastically swung the brass trumpet about and raised it to her ear in anticipation of a conversation.

  “Lady Shipley, how delightful to find myself sitting next to you,” Will offered, smiling at the woman as if she were the only person in the room.

  Confusion crossed the older woman’s face. “You must speak into the trumpet,” she yelled, pointing at the apparatus as if Will might confuse it with another ear trumpet in the room.

  “Bloody hell.” This is going to be far more difficult than I’d anticipated.

  “What was that?” Lady Shipley yelled again.

  “I could not agree more,” a raspy voice offered from the seat at the very end of the table.

  Will turned to take in the man. Slight of build with wispy tufts of white hair and a nose that was far too large for his face, the elderly man stared back at Will with a look of boredom.

  “Shipley,” the man said, then gestured toward his wife. “And you’ve met Lady Shipley.”

  “Alistair, you know it vexes me so when you leave me out of the conversation.”

  “Precisely,” the baron answered, though his wife could not hear.

  Will arched an eyebrow in response. “I am Clairemont.”

  “Ah, the man who has stolen Lady Lucinda away, then.”

  “I don’t know that I would put our courtship in such terms—”

  “No need to be polite on my behalf. Rowton had every opportunity to land the woman. Tactically, his campaign was an unmitigated disaster.”

  “Gentlemen,” Lady Shipley pleaded, her voice quivering with curiosity. “Do tell me what you’re speaking about.”

  The baron rolled his eyes then leaned forward toward the trumpet. “This is Clairemont, the ‘devil of a duke,’ if I recall your words, who’s attempting to steal Lucinda away,” he yelled, the polite conversations at their end of the table coming to a sudden halt, all eyes turning toward the baron.

  Will could feel Lady Shipley shiver next to him, her ample bosom shaking the table as she threatened to expire on the spot.

  “Your Grace,” she said in a shrill whisper. Rowton’s wolfhound let out a pained whine from the corner of the room.

  Will turned to the woman, offering her a sympathetic smile. “Lady Shipley, I have been called far worse, and, I might add, by far less charming individual
s. And in truth, I am courting Lady Lucinda, though,” he paused, looking down the length of the table with a possessive gaze to where Lucinda sat, “it remains to be seen whether or not the lady’s heart will be won.”

  Lucinda’s eyebrows shot shockingly close to the crown of her head while every other woman in the room sighed with sentimental enthusiasm. The men simply took the opportunity to begin eating.

  “Ah, the soup,” the baron said, a servant having appeared silently at his elbow with a silver tureen. Another servant carefully ladled a portion of the white soup into his bowl, then moved to fill Lady Shipley’s.

  Will waited patiently while his own bowl was seen to, then brought a spoonful of the fragrant soup to his lips, the scent of chicken broth and a hint of peppercorn filling his nostrils. “Tell me, Lady Shipley,” he began, shouting into her trumpet. “Have you always resided in Oxfordshire?”

  “Glutton for punishment,” the baron said under his breath, then quietly slurped up a spoonful of soup.

  Will acknowledged the man’s comment with a perfunctory glance then turned his attention back to Lady Shipley.

  “That is a fascinating story, Your Grace,” she replied, her eyes bright with excitement.

  The courses flew by in a blur of savory and sweet until the end of the meal was at hand. Will popped a walnut into his mouth and smiled at Lady Shipley.

  He would have been hard-pressed to repeat most of what she’d shared, the pace at which she narrated simply too swift to follow. But one thing he knew without a doubt: He’d enjoyed himself, because she had.

  Good God, what is becoming of me?

  The women began to stir, Rowton’s great-aunt being the first to rise from her chair and the others following suit.

  “I do hope Miss Winstead will honor us with a song,” Lady Shipley announced, nodding to her husband and standing.

  Will rose and gave Lady Shipley a charming smile. “It was truly a pleasure, Lady Shipley.”

  “Oh, Your Grace, I dominated the entire conversation,” she replied, color heating her cheeks.