The Duchess Deal

by Tessa Dare

  This, he told himself with every cringe and wince he inspired, was what sort of welcome the world gave a monster. This was how "accepted" he was by his fellow man.

  Perhaps he had another month of "yes," but he must never forget this: The long, bitter life stretching beyond it would always be "no."

  "Bloody hell. I knew it."

  Ash froze in place, one hand immobile on the gate latch. His other hand tightened on his walking stick. He turned around to view the source of the outburst.

  A boy was waiting on him in the alley behind the mews.

  Not merely a boy. That boy. The one from before.

  "I knew it," the boy said. "I knew it had to be you."

  God's lords and his ladies.

  Ash collared the youth and dragged him into the shadows. He looked about the alley to make certain no grooms or coachmen lingered close enough to overhear.

  "The Duke of Ashbury is the Monster of Mayfair."

  "I don't know what you're on about," Ash said sternly. As if there might be some other scarred man wandering the alleys of Mayfair by night, wearing a cape and carrying a gold-knobbed walking stick.

  "I knew from that night--said to my mates, I did--that you had to be Quality," the boy rattled on. "The rest, I pieced together from the gossip sheets. The Duke of Ashbury came to Town just a few weeks before the first sighting appeared in the papers. Rumored to have suffered an injury at Waterloo. I decided to wait out here just to see if my guess was on the mark. And damn me, here you are." He smacked his hands together. "Wait until the lads hear this."

  "The lads will hear nothing." Ash gave the boy a shake. "Do you understand me?"

  "You can't frighten me. I know you won't hurt me. Roughing up innocents isn't your game, is it?"

  No, it wasn't. Unfortunately.

  Ash released the boy's collar. "Fine. You'll have a crown from me, but nothing more."

  "A crown for what?"

  "In exchange for keeping your mouth shut. That's why you're here, isn't it? Starting the blackmail a bit early, I must say."

  "My mum always said I was advanced for my age." The boy grinned, revealing a gap between his front teeth. "But it's not money I'm after. My family's flush with it. My father made a fortune in coal. Name's Trevor, by the way."

  "If you try to spread this tale, Trevor, no one will credit it. You live in Mayfair; you should already know how the snobbish ton thinks. They won't take the word of some new-money brat over that of a duke."

  Ash brushed past the boy and started down the alleyway at a brisk pace.

  Of course the boy followed.

  "You've got me all wrong," Trevor said in a loud whisper, trotting at Ash's side. "I don't want to expose you. I want to be your associate."

  That brought Ash to a standstill. "My associate?"

  "An assistant. An apprentice. A protege. You know what I mean."

  "No. I don't."

  "I'm going to join your wanderings at night. Help you mete out justice. Pound footpads and such."

  Ash looked the boy up and down. "You couldn't pound a lump of bread dough."

  "Don't be so certain about that. I've a weapon. A secret one." The boy looked both ways before withdrawing something from his pocket and holding it up for Ash to see.

  "A sling. This is your secret weapon."

  "Well, you already have the walking stick. And a pistol or blade seemed out of character for us."

  "There is no 'us.'"

  "Too violent, you know. We're peacekeepers."

  "There is no 'we,' either."

  "A sling would set me apart, I reckoned." The lad plucked a pebble from the ground and fitted it in the leather pocket. "See that crate at the corner?" He flicked his wrist a few times, building momentum, then released the sling.

  The pebble smacked into a stable door on the opposite side of the alleyway.

  A horse whinnied. From the loft above, a sleepy groom called out in anger, "Oi! Who's there?"

  Trevor looked at Ash. Ash looked at Trevor. They each mouthed the same word at the same time.

  Run.

  Once safely down the lane and around the corner, Trevor put his hands on his knees and panted. "I'm"--huff--"still working on my aim."

  Ash walked on, hoping to lose the boy while he was winded.

  "Next I'll need a disguise, of course. I'm thinking a mask. Black, or perhaps red. And a name, naturally."

  Ash growled. "There will be no disguise. There will be no name. Do you hear me? Go home before I take you there myself and have a word with your father."

  "What do you think of this? The Beast of Berkeley Square."

  "More like the Pest of Piccadilly."

  "Or we could go with something simpler. Like Doom. Or the Raven."

  "I suggest Gnat. Or the Measle."

  "Maybe the Doom-Raven?"

  Ash shook his head. "Jove that thunders, you are a menace."

  "Wait. That's brilliant. I'll be known as"--he swiped one hand before his face, as if tracing a broadsheet's headline--"the Menace."

  Oh, indeed you will be.

  Ash stopped, turned, and stared down at the boy. "Listen, lad. I am returning to my house. You are returning to yours. And that is the end of it."

  "But it's not even midnight. We haven't thrashed any scoundrels yet."

  Ash grabbed Trevor by his jacket and lifted him onto his toes. He bent forward and lowered his voice to a threat. "Consider yourself fortunate I haven't thrashed you."

  As he strode away, this time he heard no scampering steps in pursuit.

  Thank heaven.

  "You're right," Trevor called after him cheerily. "Tomorrow night's better. I need time to sort out my disguise anyway."

  Ash tugged down the brim of his hat and groaned.

  If this boy was indicative of the next generation, God save England.

  Emma tripped down to the servants' hall, intending to request eggs be added to the evening's dinner menu. To every evening's dinner menu. Eggs were rumored to increase the chances of conception, weren't they? Perhaps nothing but superstition, but it wouldn't hurt to try.

  She stopped just outside the door. The servants seemed to be having some sort of a meeting. Khan stood in front of a large slate--the one usually employed for the day's menus--with the remainder of the house staff huddled around the servants' long dining table.

  She was about turn around and come back later. Then the topic of conversation reached her ears.

  "Think hard, all of you," Khan said. "Swanlea wasn't enough. We need a new plan."

  A new plan?

  Emma wasn't an eavesdropper by nature, but further "plans" involving her marriage seemed good cause for an exception. She tucked herself in the wedge of space between the open door and the wall. From here, she could not only listen, but peek through the gap.

  "Well, it has to be a ball," Mary said. "Balls are ever so romantic. Surely they'll receive an invitation to one."

  "The duke would never accept," one of the footmen said.

  "Then perhaps we could host a ball here," she replied. "As a surprise."

  "Perhaps we could," said Khan dryly, "if we all wished to be summarily executed."

  Mary sighed. "Well, whatever we do, we must do it soon. Once Her Grace is with child, it will be too late."

  A scullery maid hooted with laughter. "That won't be long, will it? What with them humping like rabbits all over the house."

  "Not only the house," a groom said. "The mews, as well."

  Mary hushed them. "We're not supposed to let on that we've noticed."

  "Oh, come on. How could we not?"

  Oh, Lord. Behind the door, Emma cringed. How mortifying. Although she supposed it was to be expected. They had polished every stick of furniture in Ashbury House with her hiked petticoats. They weren't especially quiet, either. Naturally, the servants had noticed. As the groom said, how could they not?

  "Ahem." Khan tapped his chalk against the slate. "Let's return to the list, please."

  The s
ervants burst out with a flurry of suggestions.

  "Set a small fire?"

  "Rig one of the carriage axles to break. Accidentally. In a storm."

  "Oh! They could go swimming in the Serpentine."

  Khan refused to even chalk that one on the slate. "It's nearly December. They'd catch their deaths."

  "I suppose," Mary said. "But there's nothing to encourage affection like a good scare. Perhaps we could make one of them just a little bit sick?"

  "The duke was bedridden for nearly a year," the butler replied. "That would be cruel. Though perhaps a minor incident . . ."

  The same footman's hand shot toward the ceiling. "Bees! Hornets! Spiders! Snakes!"

  "Frogs. Locusts. Rivers of blood," Cook deadpanned. "I believe we've covered all the plagues, Moses."

  Emma wheezed. She clapped both hands to her mouth.

  "She could walk in on the duke while he's dressing," Mary suggested.

  All the servants perked up at that one. "Oooh."

  Khan apparently agreed. "Now that has possibilities."

  Emma couldn't remain quiet any longer. She emerged from her hiding place and announced her presence. "That last happened already."

  The assembled staff leapt to their feet, the blood draining from their faces. For a good half minute, the only sounds were anxious gulping.

  Mary broke the silence. "And . . . ? What was the duke's response?"

  "The duke's response was none of your business."

  The footman piped up. "How do you feel about spider bites?"

  "What I feel is that this needs to stop. All of it. You must all adjust your expectations. There will be no romance. The duke is not falling in love."

  Emma needed the stern reminder as much as anyone.

  It wouldn't even matter if he did begin to love her. In the end, they would part. He was resolute on the matter, and she needed to be at Swanlea this winter for Davina's sake. But before Davina could get permission to visit, Emma must convince the duke to move in society--at least a little bit.

  "I think," she said quietly, "he needs friends."

  Khan gave a heavy sigh. "We're sunk."

  "They all deserted him," Mary said. "And the few who didn't--well, he drove them away. His Grace doesn't have any friends any longer. Not outside this room."

  Emma pondered in the ensuing quiet. If it was true that Ashbury's only remaining friends resided inside this house . . .

  She must convince him to venture outside it.

  Chapter Twenty

  Ash stalked the corridors of Ashbury House. Where the devil was his butler?

  Khan wasn't in the library. Nor the billiard room, ballroom, sitting room, drawing room, or music room. Though Ash wasn't certain why he'd even checked the last. It had been established quite painfully last summer that the man couldn't hold a tune.

  Eventually, Ash found him in the kitchen.

  The pungent fragrance of herbs came from a pot boiling on the hob. Khan sat on a chair, holding a compress to his eye, while Emma cooed and fussed over him.

  Look at her, the picture of tender domestic care. She'd make an excellent mother. He'd suspected as much from the first, but it was reassuring to see with his own eyes. His heir would need a steady, loving presence in his life, and it wasn't going to be Ash.

  She looked up and noticed him, and her concerned eyes narrowed to knife-blade slits. "You."

  "What?"

  "You know very well what." She waved at Khan. "Look at him. His eye's all blackened and swollen. I know you're responsible."

  Oh, she would make a fine disciplinarian, too. Her censure almost made Ash feel guilty, and he never felt ashamed of his actions. Only his appearance.

  "It was only a bit of sparring. And the injury was his fault."

  "His fault? I suppose he punched himself in the eye."

  "We were practicing a new combination. Khan was supposed to weave and dodge." He turned to his butler. "Go on, tell her. You were supposed to dodge."

  "I was supposed to dodge," Khan mumbled from behind the compress.

  "See?" As his coolly silent wife went to the stove, Ash continued, "Anyhow, I need him back. He has work to do."

  Khan set aside the compress and drew to his feet. "Thank you, Your Grace, for your kind attention."

  "But your poultice," she said. "It's nearly ready."

  "Perhaps Your Grace would be so good as to save it for later." He bowed to Emma, then turned to Ash. "I will wait in the library."

  After the butler had quit the room, Emma banged about the kitchen in silent censure.

  "It's a bruise," Ash said. "One derived from manly activity. I'm telling you, he loves it."

  "He was weeping," she returned.

  He spread his hands. "Tears of joy."

  She sighed.

  "Yes, I'm demanding. Yes, I'm inconsiderate. Yes, I'm remorseless. Anything else I should admit to being while I'm here?"

  She retrieved a broadsheet from the table and held it up for his view. It was emblazoned with the headline "Monster of Mayfair Strikes Again."

  Ash reached for it. "I hadn't seen that one. That's brilliant. I've top billing, too."

  "There are several."

  He paged through the stack she offered.

  "Monster of Mayfair Assaults Local Lad."

  "Monster of Mayfair Terrorizes Three in St. James Street."

  "Monster of Mayfair Abducts Lambs from Butcher. Dark Rituals Suspected."

  "Hah. The 'local lad' was twenty if he was a day, and he richly deserved it. There were four in St. James Street. Foxed dandies chatting up a lady of the evening on their way home from Boodle's. I didn't like their disrespectful attitude. This last . . . I didn't even do this last. Lambs, my eye." He chuckled. "Do you know what this means?"

  "I'm married to an unchecked vigilante?"

  "No. Well, maybe. But also--it means people are making up their own Monster of Mayfair stories just to share in the notoriety. It means I'm a legend."

  Emma shook her head. She strained the herbs through a cheesecloth, twisting them into a bundle.

  "This"--he riffled the papers--"is stupendous."

  "It's not. It's truly not."

  "Oh, look. This one has an illustration." He turned his twisted profile to her and held up the paper's engraved portrait of "The Monster Himself." "What do you say? I think they made my nose a trifle long, but otherwise it's a surprisingly accurate likeness."

  She slammed the empty pot on the table. "It is not an accurate likeness, but it is a perfect illustration of the problem. You're only letting people see one side of you. If only you'd give them a chance to see past your scars--"

  "People can't see past the scars. In an alley, a market . . . anywhere. They suck up all the attention in the room, and I'm just the drain it's circling."

  "It doesn't have to be that way."

  His jaw clenched. "I'll make you a bargain. I won't pretend I know how it feels when strange men stare at your tits, and you won't pretend you know how it feels when people stare at my face."

  Her demeanor softened. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't presume."

  "No, you shouldn't."

  "Won't you give it a chance?" She skirted the table, coming to stand before him. "One outing, that's all I ask. A single afternoon with normal people. Well, I suppose they're not precisely normal people. But they aren't footpads, at least."

  He frowned. "What are you on about?"

  "Come to tea with my friends Thursday next. That's what I'm on about."

  He began to object. "I'm n--"

  She pressed her fingers to his lips, shushing him. Her fingertips were scented with herbs and honey. Intoxicating. How was he supposed to stay irritated when she smelled so lickable?

  "Lady Penelope Campion's house. It's just across the square. That shouldn't be any great trial." She lifted an eyebrow in teasing fashion. "That is, unless you're afraid of a few harmless spinsters."

  Ash couldn't recall the last time he'd crossed the square to the Campion
residence. He'd been a boy, surely no older than ten. Lady Penelope had been much too young to be a proper playmate for him, not to mention she possessed the unsalvageable flaw of being a girl. But he'd been forced to make the effort once a summer anyhow. Her single saving grace, as far as he'd been concerned, was that she always seemed to be hiding a grubby creature or two in her closet or under the bed.

  He had a distant memory of piglets. And a newt, perhaps?

  Emma rang the bell.

  "I'm doing this once," he muttered, staring at the door. "And that's the end of it."

  "I understand," she said.

  "And only because my parents thought highly of the family."

  "Of course."

  "They would want me to look in on Lady Penelope now that she's living alone."

  She squeezed his hand. "Don't be so anxious. They'll adore you."

  The door opened. His guts clenched.

  "Lady Penelope. A pleasure."

  Ash reached for Penelope's hand, intending to bow over it, but she only laughed. Instead, she placed her ungloved hands on his shoulders and pulled him down for a hug. As if it were nothing.

  "Come in, come in." Penelope threaded her arm in his and led them inside. "And you must call me Penny. We're old friends. I've seen you in your nightshirt. You don't expect me to use 'Your Grace,' I hope."

  "Ashbury will suffice."

  "Ash," Emma said. "He goes by Ash among friends. At home, it's pumpkin."

  He sent her a look.

  She smiled in return.

  "Ash it is," Penny said, patting his arm.

  The house looked much the way he remembered. Same paintings on the walls, same furnishings . . . only now they were covered in a great deal more fur.

  He braced himself as they rounded the corner into the salon.

  However, he met with no outbursts of shock or cries of horror. It would seem the other guests had been well prepared for his appearance--which was a relief in some ways and rather lowering in others. He could just picture Emma telling them over tea: Now don't be alarmed, but my husband is a hideous monstrosity.

  Penny made the unnecessary introductions. Surely the other two women knew who he was, and Emma had told him a bit about them.

  Miss Teague had the frazzled ginger hair and smelled of something burned. Miss Mountbatten was the small, dark-haired one who . . . who was dressed in a stylish, flattering walking dress in a peacock-blue damask that strongly reminded Ash of his music room draperies.