The Wicked Ways of a Duke

by Laura Lee Guhrke

  “We docked at Dover three days ago. It’s wonderful to see you, too. I was so pleased when I heard of your good fortune. Congratulations, Pru. You deserve it.”

  “But the London papers said you were in Derbyshire,” Mrs. Morris put in, “gadding about the countryside, visiting the duke’s estates, being the grand lady. Not supposed to be back until just before the wedding, we read. Of course, you can’t believe all you read in the papers, I know, but—why, my dear, what’s wrong?”

  Prudence shook her head, shoving down a momentary pang of heartache. “Nothing. It’s just—” She took a deep breath. “I’ve broken my engagement.”

  “Oh.” There was a pause, she and Emma exchanged glances, then she took Prudence by the arm and ushered her into the parlor. “Come and sit down, my girl. You need a glass of my damson gin.”

  “No, no,” Emma interjected as Prudence sat down in her former place at one end of the horsehair settee, “tea’s the only thing at a time like this. She needs a stimulant.”

  Mrs. Morris was a bit doubtful, but Emma was firm. She rang the bell for the maid. “Tea, Dorcas, if you please,” she said when the maid appeared a few moments later, and as Dorcas departed to comply with this request, Emma sat down beside Prudence on the settee.

  “Maria’s not in, I suppose?” Prudence asked Mrs. Morris as the landlady took her usual place in the chintz-covered chair on the opposite side of the tea table.

  “At this hour of the morning? No, my dear. She’s at the bakery, of course. She’s eating in this evening, though, so I know she’ll be home before dinnertime.”

  “Do you know if she has found another flat-mate yet?”

  “No, but—” Mrs. Morris gave her a puzzled look. “Now, why would you be wanting to know that? Surely, you’re not wanting to move back here into your old rooms? But my dear,” she added when Prudence nodded, “you don’t want to live here. You’re an heiress now.”

  “I won’t be an heiress for long. Since I’m not marrying, I won’t fulfill the terms of the will, and the money will be forfeit.”

  The landlady gave her an indulgent smile. “That’s a broken heart talking, I think. You wait, my girl, and see how things are in a month or two. You’ll change your mind or you and your duke will patch things up.”

  “No, we won’t, and I won’t change my mind!” she said more sharply than she’d intended. At Mrs. Morris’s startled look, she sighed and pressed four fingers to her forehead. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “It’s only that there is no possibility of reconciliation.”

  “Even so,” Emma murmured beside her, “are you certain moving back into your old rooms is a good idea?”

  Prudence lifted her head and turned to her friend, puzzled. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

  “I’ve been away, I know, but stories of your inheritance and your engagement to St. Cyres have been in all the papers, even the ones on the Continent. The London papers are filled with stories about you.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” she said wearily. “I stopped reading newspapers ages ago. But what does that have to do with me moving back into my old rooms?”

  “The breaking of your engagement will also be reported. I fear you will be hounded by the London journalists if you stay here. Not those who work for Marlowe Publishing, of course,” she added at once. “We can prevent that. But journalists from other papers will not be so considerate, I fear. If you stay here, there is nothing to prevent them from accosting you the moment you walk out the door. The lodging house offers much less protection for you than a hotel.”

  “I don’t want to stay at a hotel. I’ve had enough of hotels and inns to last a lifetime. I just want to come back home.”

  “But Prudence,” Mrs. Morris put in, “you’re an heiress now. Staying here, you would have no proper chaperone. Wouldn’t it be best if you continued to stay with your aunt and uncle? If not at the Savoy, perhaps you should return with them to Sussex for a bit?”

  “No,” she said decidedly. “Staying with my aunt and uncle is not possible. I don’t need a chaperone, anyway, since I have no intention of going out into society. Please,” she added as the landlady started to speak again, “I don’t want to argue about it.”

  Emma put a comforting arm around her shoulders. “What if you came to stay with me?” she asked. “Our house in Hanover Square offers you a measure of protection you couldn’t find here. I’m sure Harry would agree, although his competitors will certainly accuse him of hiding you away for the exclusive benefit of his own newspapers, but he won’t care about that. And,” she added, “I can act as your chaperone, if it should be necessary. You can return to Little Russell Street once the furor dies down and the journalists lose interest in you. A few months, perhaps.”

  “A few months?” Prudence was dismayed. “Will it take that long?”

  “I don’t know, but having worked for Marlowe Publishing, I have some experience with this sort of thing, and I suspect the London journalists will be watching you like cats around a mouse hole for quite some time.”

  Prudence groaned. “Oh, I wish everything could just return to the way it was before.”

  Emma gave her a look of compassion. “One can never go back to the way things were, Pru. One can only go forward.”

  Prudence tried to resign herself to that inevitable fact. After all, she told herself, if going back meant reliving what had happened to her during the past two days, she’d just as soon pass it by. Even an uncertain future was better than a broken heart.

  “Hard lines, my friend.” Weston gestured to the bottle of port as the waiter at Brooks’s decanted it for them. “You should have told me sooner. We’ll need something stronger than port if we’re going to get drunk.”

  “I don’t want to get drunk.” He looked at the waiter who was preparing to remove the empty container from the table. “Leave the bottle, too.”

  Although the waiter frowned in bewilderment, he complied and departed.

  “You don’t want to get drunk?” Weston eyed him dubiously. “The newspapers are saying your heiress jilted you. You’ve told me creditors will be swooping down on you within a few days to take everything you’ve got left. And now you’ve dragged me down to my club, but you don’t want to get drunk? God, St. Cyres, you’ve a stronger character than I. I’d be three parts pissed already, if I were in your shoes.”

  “Thank you, Wes. Your optimistic view of my situation cheers me enormously.”

  “Sorry. It’s just that nothing ever seems to rattle you.”

  Rhys didn’t reply, but he wondered what Wes would have said had he seen him two days ago by the lake, falling apart.

  “No doubt,” the baron went on, “you’ve another heiress waiting in the wings.”

  He took a sip of port. “No, as a matter of fact, I don’t.”

  “Got it!” Weston snapped his fingers. “You want to know if I’m acquainted with any heiresses, now that the Abernathy girl is out of reach.”

  “No.”

  Wes lifted his hands, giving it up. “Then why are we here?”

  “I believe Viscount Marlowe is a friend of yours?”

  “Marlowe?” Wes asked in lively surprise at the change of subject. “Yes, we’re friends. Why do you ask?”

  “I heard he’s returned from Italy.”

  “Yes, I believe he is back from his honeymoon, although I’ve not seen him myself. Why do you bring up Marlowe?”

  Instead of answering, Rhys gestured to the bottle beside the decanter on the table. “I believe Graham’s is his favorite port?”

  “I think so, but I’m all at sea. Why this interest in Marlowe and his favorite port? Devil take it, how do you even know what port he drinks? Fane, I suppose.”

  Rhys hadn’t been able to assign that particular task to Fane, but he had managed to obtain the information on his own. “I want you to introduce me to Marlowe.”

  “I’d be happy to, but only if you satisfy my curiosity and tell me why.”

  “It’s a matter of bu
siness.”

  “Business?” Wes began to laugh. “And you said you don’t have another heiress in mind.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Marlowe has two unmarried sisters, and since he’s rolling in money, their dowries are quite substantial, but with your reputation, he wouldn’t let you within ten yards of either Phoebe or Vivian. He’s very protective of his sisters.”

  “I’m not interested in either of the Marlowe girls,” Rhys cut him off impatiently. “I am going to marry Prudence Abernathy.”

  Wes leaned forward in his chair. “The engagement’s broken off,” he reminded him.

  “Just so. That’s why I want to meet with Marlowe.”

  “You’re being terribly mysterious, my friend, but if you wish to meet Marlowe, here’s your chance. He’s just come in.” Wes stood up and left the table, crossing the room to greet a tall, dark-haired man who looked to be a few years older than Rhys.

  As the pair came toward the table, Rhys stood up, and as they were introduced, he couldn’t help noticing, with some amusement, Marlowe’s wary expression.

  “Join us, Marlowe?” He pulled out a third chair and gestured to the bottle on the table. “We’ve an excellent port, a Graham’s 1862, if you care for a drink.”

  “Graham’s ’sixty-two?” Marlowe glanced at the decanter and the bottle beside it. “A fine vintage,” he murmured. “One of my favorites.”

  “Is it indeed?” Rhys pretended surprise. “Then join us, please, and have a drink.”

  As Marlowe continued to hesitate, Rhys decided subtlety was not going to work. “It took me all afternoon to locate any of Graham’s ‘sixty-two for you,” he confessed with a smile. “You must at least have one drink with us, so my efforts do not go to waste. Besides,” he added, lest the other man continue to fear for the virtue of his sisters, “I am celebrating my engagement to Miss Prudence Abernathy.”

  Marlowe sat down in the offered chair. “I heard that was broken off.”

  “I seem to be the only one unaware of that particular piece of news,” Rhys replied as he and Wes resumed their seats. “I noticed the Social Gazette devoted their entire society page to the matter of our broken engagement in today’s edition.”

  The mention of one of his newspapers made the viscount grin. “Are you denying the story?”

  “Oh, yes. Emphatically. I am marrying Prudence Abernathy.”

  “The lady seems to feel otherwise.”

  Rhys attempted to look apologetic as he poured wine for their guest. “I have never handled rejection well. You may quote me, if you like.”

  “Is that why you went to all this effort to acquire my favorite wine and arrange an introduction at my club? A club, I might add, of which you are not a member. Because you wish to tell your side of the story?”

  “Not at all. What your newspapers say about me, true or not, is of no concern to me.”

  “My newspapers only print what is true,” Marlowe hastened to say. “But if that isn’t your purpose, I must assume you are asking my permission to pay a call upon her at my home, though how you learned so quickly she was staying with us baffles me.”

  Rhys blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You didn’t know?”

  “I did not.” He shook his head, utterly fogged. “Why would Miss Abernathy be staying in your house?”

  “My wife is a close friend of hers and invited her to stay with us. Her trunks arrived this morning. I thought you’d found out somehow and were finagling for an invitation to call.”

  Rhys didn’t know if Prudence staying with the viscount and his wife would help or hinder his plans, but at the moment he didn’t care. He had other fish to fry. “No, I arranged this ‘accidental’ meeting with you, Marlowe, because I wished to talk with you about the business of book publishing.”

  Marlowe picked up his glass and leaned back in his chair. “If your intent was to pique my curiosity, Duke, you’ve succeeded.”

  “Good.” Rhys smiled and lifted his glass. “Because it may prove quite lucrative for both of us.”

  Chapter 17

  What is it about being in love that turns an ordinarily rational British gentleman into an idiot?

  —Talk of the Town, 1894

  William Fane stood opposite number 32 Little Russell Street, his eye on the entrance to the prim, lace-curtained lodging house on the opposite side, trying not to pace back and forth and draw attention to himself. He’d been here for six hours now, his tension growing with each passing moment.

  Every time he caught sight of a woman walking along the street, he caught his breath, hoping this time it would be Nancy. The servant at Miss Abernathy’s former lodging house had not known the whereabouts of Miss Prudence’s maid, but that disappointing announcement had been followed by the surprising news that Miss Woddell was actually expected at Little Russell Street. A letter was waiting for her from Miss Prudence, Fane was told, and she was expected to claim it sometime today. But as the minutes crawled by and she did not appear, he began to fear the worst.

  Perhaps she was ill, he thought with alarm. He pulled out his watch. Half past three. Surely by now—

  He glanced up and saw a woman in a willow-green dress coming along the opposite side of the street. He didn’t need to see the flash of her fiery red hair beneath a prim straw bonnet to know it was Nancy. Her slender figure and the graceful way she walked told him that. Relieved, he put away his watch.

  She entered the building and a few minutes later she reappeared, her letter in hand. He waited until she turned to start back the way she’d come, then crossed the street, quickening his steps to catch up to her.

  “Miss Woddell?” he called.

  She glanced over her shoulder, and when she caught sight of him, a scowl appeared on her freckled face and her pretty green eyes narrowed. But then she turned away as if she hadn’t even seen him.

  “Miss Woddell—Nancy, wait!” He walked faster, and so did she, but his longer legs gave him an advantage. He easily caught up and fell in step beside her. “I’ve been waiting all day, hoping for an opportunity to speak with you.”

  She didn’t look at him. “We have nothing to say to each other, Mr. Fane.”

  “The policeman came by twice on his round while I waited. He gave me quite a suspicious glare the second time, and told me to move along. If he sees me still lingering in the neighborhood on his third round, I shall be probably be arrested.”

  “No doubt you would talk your way out of that with some story or other. Perhaps he’ll be impressed by the fact that you are valet to an Italian count. Oh, no, wait.” She shot him a resentful glance. “You’re not really the valet to Count Roselli, husband of Princess Eugenie. That was a lie.”

  “You must let me explain.”

  “Must I, indeed?” She tilted her nose a little higher in the air. “Who are you to tell me what I must do?”

  “You have every right to be angry, but please listen to me, Nancy. Give me the chance to tell you my side of things.”

  She didn’t reply. Nor did she attempt to cross to the other side of the street to evade him, and William took that as encouragement.

  “I was valet for Count Roselli prior to his marriage. When he wed Princess Eugenie, he wanted me to stay on, but I fancied a change, and that’s when I became valet to the duke. I have been in his employ for five years.”

  She stopped at the corner, looked both ways, and crossed the street, pretending to be oblivious to his presence.

  William persevered. “I’ve enjoyed my position with His Grace,” he said as they both stepped onto the opposite curb, “and being his valet has given me the opportunity to travel a great deal. I’ve learned many things working for him—” He broke off, thinking perhaps he’d better steer clear of that topic, for not all the things he’d learned were quite aboveboard. “His Grace has been a good employer, very generous—at least, when he’s in funds. He’s easy to please and possesses a fine wit. And he is a duke, and a most affable,
courteous gentleman in every way.”

  Those words generated a reaction, though not perhaps a favorable one. She made a sound of disdain. “That you would think so highly of a scoundrel, Mr. Fane, does not surprise me in the least.”

  She veered sharply to her left and marched into a small, modest dressmaking establishment. Without hesitation, William followed her.

  “When I take on a position,” he said, ignoring the stares he received from the ladies in the shop, “I do my duty to my gentleman.”

  Nancy glanced at him over her shoulder as she walked toward the counter. “Go away,” she said in a whisper, looking appalled. “This is a ladies’ shop. You can’t be in here.”

  “I am a loyal valet,” he said stubbornly, still following her. “When His Grace asked me to find out what Miss Abernathy’s plans were, I did the best I could to fulfill his orders.”

  “Orders?” She stopped in the center of the room and turned so abruptly he almost cannoned into her. “You lied to me.”

  He looked into her face, and the pain he saw there hurt him, too. “I know, and I regret that, Nancy, believe me, I do. But it was necessary. Miss Abernathy might have discovered that the duke was—”

  “Was what?” she asked when he stopped. “Spying on her?”

  He swallowed hard. “Yes.”

  “So you lied along with him. Did you ever intend to tell me the truth?”

  “No.”

  She made a sound of derision and started to turn away, but his next words stopped her. “I’ve left the duke’s employ,” he said. “I have resigned my post.”

  She paused. “Have you?” she asked, head turned to the side, refusing to look at him. “Why should I care?”

  William ignored that question. “Given the circumstances, I feel I can no longer work for him.”

  “I don’t see why not,” she shot back. “Birds of a feather do flock together.”

  She turned away, and he couldn’t bear it. He grabbed her arms to keep her where she was. “Nancy—”