The Most Dangerous Duke in London

by Madeline Hunter

  “That was at tomorrow’s meeting.”

  “Well, then.” He raked his fingers into her hair and held her head to a thorough kiss. “Come upstairs with me, before I make shocking use of the carpet in my impatience.”

  He spoke of impatience, but he showed none. Not in leading her to his bed. Not when he undressed her, and not when he laid her down and covered her with his body. He took his time with every kiss and every caress. He murmured words of love in her ear while he gave her the sweetest pleasure. First in English, then in French, his words gave voice to the emotions filling her own heart too, until the pleasure and love were one and the same, each stronger for the power of the other.

  Their joining became a precious intimacy, one not to be rushed, the first ever after acknowledging their love. The sight of him, the feel of him—she knew she would remember all of it forever, from the first press of his fullness to the image of him braced above her to the love-drenched ecstasy at the end.

  She held him to her afterward, with her arms and legs wrapping him. She could not have held back her love even if she wanted to. Free now, no longer bound by questions or guilt or worries, it moved her to where she quietly wept with happiness.

  * * *

  Late that night, Clara slipped from the bed while Adam slept. She pulled on her dress and half fastened it so she would at least be covered. Taking the lamp, she went down the stairs. The household had all gone to their chambers except the footman at the door, and he slept at his post.

  She made her way to the study and sat at Adam’s desk. She set the lamp close to her and lifted those papers from the corner.

  She did not have to read any of these, but she wanted to.

  The letter to his mother lay on top. It was four pages long. Not a single word had been crossed out. She guessed he had written several drafts that would show many changes, and this was the final version.

  It felt odd reading his words to this mother she had never met. He addressed her with a son’s informality, even intimacy. His love for her came through, even if he never used that word. Paragraph by paragraph he told her what he had learned about the events leading up to his father’s death. On the fourth page he explained the revelations discovered by the man sent to Paris at the behest of the Earl of Marwood.

  That evidence had been damning in Brentworth’s letter and was equally damning here. Adam did not try to qualify any of it. Jewelry owned by them had been sent to France. Only one question remains, he wrote. Did he send it, or did you?

  He did not ask for an answer. He made no accusations. That question just sat there, before he added two paragraphs with information about the estate.

  She set the last page down. He had not sent this. It did not yet bear a date. This might have been written days ago. She pictured him anguishing over sending it, trying to decide if he needed to know or even wanted to.

  Her heart broke for him. He had come back to England to clear his father’s name. How horrible to discover that he only could do so if he found he could betray his mother instead.

  She wiped her eyes of the tears welling up in them and set the letter aside. A page of notes labeled Hollsworth faced her. It included some of the information already found in the letter. She expected everything else in the stack would as well, but she flipped through anyway.

  At the bottom she found a drawing. Two, actually, but of the same object. A necklace and diadem. Heavy and old-fashioned, they filled their pages. She thought it a beautiful set. This must be the jewelry that had disappeared from the family inventories and that Adam thought had ended up in France.

  She moved the drawing closer to the lamp, then closer yet. She stared at it a long time. She stood, walked away, and looked out the windows into the night while she battled a profound sadness. Then she collected herself, returned to the desk, and folded one of the drawings. She returned to the bedchamber.

  * * *

  His dream shook. No, his body did. He opened his eyes to darkness.

  Clara jostled his shoulder. “Light will break soon. I must go, Adam.”

  He circled her waist with his arm and pulled her down on him. She fell with a squeal and tried to extricate herself. Black crepe covered his face while she fought him. She had already dressed. Well, that was easy enough to rectify. He groped for the fasteners of her dress.

  She reached behind her back to slap at his hand. “Stop being naughty.”

  “You do not have to go. Who will care or know if you stay? That housekeeper who brought me to your chamber our first night?”

  She escaped his grasp, sat on the edge of the bed, then turned to hold his arms down, pressing with her weight.

  “I seem to be imprisoned,” he said. “If you stay, I will let you bind me properly and do your worst.”

  A flash of curiosity showed in her eyes, but she shook her head. “I have things I have to do this morning.”

  “More mysterious doings?”

  “Very mysterious.”

  “If I ever convince you of marrying me, you will have to tell me about them.”

  Suddenly serious, she cocked her head. “Will I? That argues against marriage, it seems to me.”

  “I will tell you about any such doings I have too, so it is fair at least.”

  She looked down at his chest and bent to give it a kiss. “You are proposing again. Are these settlement negotiations?”

  “I hope so.”

  “Would you promise I can keep the use of my house?” She asked right away, as if she already had a list in mind.

  “As long as you do not bring lovers there. Or anywhere, of course.”

  “Can I have at least half of my income from the land, to use as I choose?”

  She pressed her advantage now, but he was in no condition to truly negotiate after last night. “I have no need of that income.”

  “Can I continue with my circle of literary friends? Those bluestockings, as you once called them?”

  “I would never deprive you of friends.” That might be too generous. This was Clara, after all. “As long as they are not revolutionaries or criminals.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Criminals?”

  “I am just eliminating the impossible, darling.”

  She decided to let it pass. “And no matter what else you should learn, do you promise that you are finished with this quest you brought back with you? Do you promise that you will never seek revenge?”

  “I have already said so.”

  She released his arms and sat straight. “Then I will marry you, Adam.” She laughed quietly. “Those words almost made me choke, but it seems I got them out.” She leaned down and kissed him. “I will marry you because I love you too much not to, it seems. So much that I can never be contented again without you.”

  He wrapped his arms around her and held her to his body. They remained like that long enough that he decided she must stay. Again he felt for her fasteners.

  Again she slapped him away. She stood. “You should write to your mother and tell her to come home, I think. I am sure that you will want her at the wedding. Now I really must go. I will tell the servant at the door to find me a hackney.”

  Two thoughts crossed his mind after she left, while he drifted back to sleep. One was that writing this letter to his mother would be far easier than the last one, which he would never send now.

  The other thought was that as soon as they were married, he intended to find out about Clara’s mysterious doings.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The Decadent Dukes sat in their usual chairs in the upstairs chamber at White’s. Adam had just told the others about his nuptial plans.

  “We will announce it in a fortnight.”

  Brentworth congratulated him graciously.

  Langford did too, but with little enthusiasm. He gazed around the chamber. “I suppose this is over now or will be soon. The Decadent Dukes will be no more.”

  “Why? I am decadent still, just with one woman.”

  “It won’t be t
he same. There is nothing decadent about being bad with your wife. If we continue, we will have to change our name.” He pondered it. “The Dour Dukes. The Despondent Dukes . . .”

  “In time I expect it will be the Domesticated Dukes,” Brentworth teased.

  “Take that back. I cannot bear the thought of it.”

  Brentworth laughed. “The Dutiful Dukes.”

  Langford covered his ears with his hands. “I refuse to hear it.”

  “You could continue alone and be the Debauching Duke.”

  Langford brightened. “That isn’t so bad.”

  Brentworth turned to Adam. “Have you met with her brother yet?”

  “This afternoon. He was so happy he almost wept. He believed a duel was inevitable and only a marriage alliance would save him.”

  “If he knows half of what you know, he worried for good reason.”

  “Clara reports that her grandmother is also elated.”

  “I am sure, since she probably knows all that you do,” Langford said.

  “So you decided to leave it all as it stood after all,” Brentworth said. “Just as well.”

  Yes, just as well. He had faced a devil’s choice. He understood his father better now, and why he had ended it as he had.

  “Let us go out,” he said. “It is too fine a night for this chamber. Langford, you can lead the way. We will visit your favorite lairs.”

  Langford was on his feet at once. “Follow me, and we will reclaim our name. There is a most interesting party taking place tonight that you will both find a revelation. After that we will visit a new pleasure house that opened near Covent Garden. Stratton, you can remain in the gaming salon if you choose. Unless, until you marry you believe you can visit the more interesting chambers. There is one in which a woman shackles a man and uses a whip and a feather to—”

  “It sounds inventive, but I will remain in the salon.”

  * * *

  Clara climbed out of her carriage at Gifford Hall. As soon as she did, the door opened and Emilia ran to her and embraced her.

  “Theo told me. Everyone is so excited and happy. I think Stratton rather frightening still, but if you like him this is wonderful news.”

  “I do like him. Very much.” Clara linked her arm through Emilia’s and they walked together. “Perhaps you can visit us, if you like. Should Grandmother ever become a trial.”

  “Do you mean it? Here in London?”

  “At any of his properties. You will always be welcomed as part of our family, Emilia. It is important to me that you know that.”

  “I am so glad. My one sorrow since I heard was that we would not see each other so much anymore. This way we shall.”

  Inside the house, Clara went to the morning room at once. Emilia trailed along.

  “Has Grandmamma not yet come down?”

  “She is still in her apartment,” Emilia said. “She chaperoned me last night at the theater. She had a wonderful time, since so many ladies stopped by to pay their respects. I am not surprised she slept in.”

  Clara pictured her grandmother holding court in the family box at the theater. Of course she had a wonderful time with all of that groveling proving her place in society.

  “I will go up to see her,” Clara said.

  “You know she does not like that.”

  “This cannot wait.”

  Emilia thought better of joining her and stayed in the morning room. Clara mounted the stairs slowly, not looking forward to this meeting. She had not seen her grandmother since she wrote and told her of her pending engagement to Stratton. Five letters had come in reply, in fast succession, praising her in the first, and listing long series of instructions in the others.

  She faced the door to the dowager’s apartment for a solid minute before knocking. Margaret opened it and led the way to the dressing room.

  The dowager sat at her dressing table, dressed and ready. She looked over at her visitor and her whole expression lit. “Welcome, Duchess. I am delighted to see you, although it took you a good long while to come. Sit, sit. Margaret, have some coffee sent up. Lady Clara and I have much to discuss.”

  “Please do not, Margaret. I will not be here that long.”

  “Oh, tosh, of course you will stay. In fact, I have had your apartment made ready. It is best if you move back here until you marry.”

  Clara did not argue. She wanted Margaret to leave, and this provided a reason.

  “August would be good, I think,” the dowager said. “Ideally we would wait until the year of mourning is over, but I think we can wink at that. Or even July, if that would not be too rushed. Most of society is still in town in early July. It goes without saying that it must be a special license, but I doubt Stratton would have it any other way . . .”

  Her grandmother chattered on, moving from one plan to the next. Clara spent her time finding her courage to say what she had come to say.

  “You are probably relieved,” she finally interrupted.

  “Pleased, that is certain.”

  “No, relieved. You so worried that Stratton might harm Theo. Remember? It was your reason for trying to form an alliance through marriage. So he would not find a reason to challenge Theo.”

  “I am sure I did not say it quite that way.”

  “You said it exactly that way. As did Theo. You indicated it had to do with that old argument over property. I thought it bizarre that you believed he would kill a man over that ancient disagreement. And you said I did not know everything.”

  “Did I say that? I don’t remember. Nor can I think why I would. Now, about your wedding garments—”

  “You know why he came back. Why he fought those duels. What he intended to discover. That was why you were afraid.”

  “I am sure that I do not know what you—”

  “He has learned what you feared he would learn, Grandmamma. About how my father revived the accusations and even sent a man to investigate. He says he knows everything.”

  The dowager fussed with the bottles and cases on her dressing table, holding her expression firm and her composure strong.

  “Except he is wrong,” Clara said. “He does not really know everything, even now. I think I do, however.” She stood, walked over to her grandmother, and placed a sheet of paper on the table in front of her. “As do you.”

  Her grandmother looked down at it. Her color rose. She picked it up and waved it. “What nonsense is this?”

  “It is a drawing of jewelry.”

  “I can see that.”

  “That set belonged to Stratton’s family. Only I saw it here when I was very young. Right here, in this very dressing room. It was in that drawer with your paints. I even wore it. Then I stared at it in a looking glass while you whipped me. Do you remember? I have never forgotten.”

  Her grandmother’s arm dropped. The drawing hung limply from her hand, then fell to the floor. She turned her body and faced Clara. She looked afraid.

  Clara’s heart clenched for her. This woman was often an interfering harridan, but she was also family.

  “I love you, Grandmamma, but not enough to pretend ignorance about this. A man killed himself over this deception. The man I love believes one of his parents committed treason. So I must put the question to you. How did jewelry that I saw in your possession find its way to France to help pay for Napoleon’s last army?”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Adam rode to the entrance of Gifford House and handed his horse to a waiting groom. To his surprise, Brentworth rode in right after him.

  “I hope you did not forget to bring the special license,” Brentworth said after dismounting.

  “I have no license yet.”

  “You can’t get married without one.”

  “I am not getting married today.”

  “How odd. I received a letter yesterday from the dowager requesting my attendance today to bear witness. Her exact words.”

  “Since I came at her request as well, let us go in and see what whimsy drew us her
e.”

  They were brought to the drawing room. The dowager sat there, resplendent in black. Her grandson did too, looking bored. Clara also waited, along with an older woman.

  “What is Lady Farnsworth doing here?” Brentworth murmured to Adam.

  “Perhaps she will bear witness too. It would be like the dowager countess to find a way to arrange a wedding without my consent.”

  After greeting Adam and Brentworth, the dowager turned to Clara. “Are you quite satisfied now?”

  “I am.”

  Face pursed, the dowager surveyed her company.

  “Should you not begin, Countess?” Lady Farnsworth asked.

  The dowager glared at her, then composed herself. She looked at Adam, or rather at his crown, not his eyes. “I asked you here, Duke, in order to explain some family matters to you. Why my granddaughter insisted you also attend, Brentworth, is beyond my understanding. As for Lady Farnsworth, that is utterly incomprehensible to me.”

  “She wanted witnesses so no one will ever believe your claim that Stratton lied about what you are about to say,” Lady Farnsworth inserted. “Should you ever decide to recast any of it later, that is.”

  “Please, Lady Farnsworth,” Clara whispered. “Let us allow my grandmother to do this her own way.”

  “That way will take two hours,” Lady Farnsworth muttered.

  “Not at all,” the dowager said. “I have no desire to prolong this. I will get right to the heart of it. Stratton, neither of your parents sent that jewelry to France. I did. Not to support that Corsican, I assure you. However, it was not them, but me.”

  Adam hoped his expression remained bland, but he suspected not. Such a public admission cleared his father’s name and answered the remaining question in one sentence. Clara rose and came to sit beside him. She smiled at him sweetly, delighted by his relief and astonishment.

  “If not to support that army, then why?” Brentworth asked. “If you do not explain that, the world will damn you no matter what the real reason was.”

  “She assumes her word will be enough,” Lady Farnsworth said. “Don’t you, Hannah?”

  If looks could kill, the swords in the dowager’s sharp glance would slay Lady Farnsworth on the spot. She then closed her eyes, as if to steel herself. “The real reason is embarrassing. I must ask that my grandchildren hear it with generosity in their hearts.” She glanced at the earl, not Clara. Theo no longer appeared bored, but concerned.