What a Duke Wants

by Lavinia Kent

  Isabella had reluctantly agreed. After all the worry she had put Violet through it seemed a small price to pay—plus it had gotten her into Masters’s house and into this room.

  Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, the coronation had required his attendance and the dinner afterward had gone well into the night. He’d been called away first thing this morning and now Isabella, having been deposited at his home by Violet, was forced to wait for his return.

  She’d met his new wife. Clara seemed very nice, far better than he deserved. It was almost enough to make Isabella wonder if Violet was right. Could he have changed? She did not hold out hope.

  So why was she lying on her bed staring at the ceiling instead of searching for the papers she needed? Why was she not even considering fleeing?

  She’d promised Violet she’d stay, but she’d broken promises before.

  She should at least look for the papers. Nothing was gained by prolonging the inevitable—and once her brother was back, who knew what would happen. Her room was much as she’d left it, but it had clearly had a good cleaning. She’d probably left stockings draped over chairs and hairpins scattered on the floor when she left.

  Pushing up on her elbows, she pursed her lips and considered.

  She’d left the papers in a trunk on the bed—a trunk that had been moved. Had it been emptied? If so, what had happened to its contents?

  She walked over to the dresser and began shuffling through the orderly piles of garments. It was surprising that Masters had kept them.

  Nothing.

  She searched through her wardrobe. No papers. No trunk.

  Nothing.

  Under the pillow. No. Although she couldn’t imagine the maid putting them there.

  An ache began to grow in her gut again, not that it had ever really left. It was unbelievable that she’d ended up here, in her old room, when she’d thought coming back here to retrieve the papers impossible.

  And now she couldn’t find them.

  She sat at her writing table and began to shuffle through the drawers and compartments. She never kept anything personal there, but a maid might have thought that was where they belonged.

  She was going to start swearing, using all the colorful words she pretended she didn’t know.

  Could the maid actually have thrown them out? They had looked like nothing more than bits and rubbish, but surely a maid would ask before disposing of them. But Isabella hadn’t been here to ask. Would a maid have asked Masters? And if so, what would he have done?

  She worried at her lower lip. It would be too cruel to be forced back here, forced to face her brother, and to still not find the papers that might end this whole blasted thing.

  She tapped her heel against the floor. It had seemed a brilliant move to persuade her brother’s wife that she needed a few hours to collect herself and rest before seeing Masters. Clara had been all too ready to spend the morning chatting while they waited, but Isabella had not felt quite up to that task. Clara might be lovely, but until things were straightened out with Masters she did not want to form any type of relationship with his wife.

  And then she saw it. Neatly set beneath her bed was her trunk, the trunk she’d thought to take with her when she’d run away and then fled without. It had taken only a few minutes for her to realize that she’d never be able to handle the trunk herself. She’d packed a small valise instead.

  Could the papers still be there?

  She walked over and knelt beside the bed, knees shaking.

  Pulling out the heavy leather and wood trunk, she said a silent prayer. Please, let this be it. Let this one small part of my problems be over.

  Mark stood across the street from Lord Peter St. Johns’s house and stared up at the handsome façade. What was Bella doing there?

  Perhaps she knew one of the maids or another of the servants?

  No, she had been escorted here by Lord Peter himself. That did not sound like she was a member of the staff.

  Could Douglas have followed the wrong Grace? That was distinctly possible. It certainly made more sense than that Bella had come to one of the most elegant homes in London by invitation. Lord Peter was the brother of the Marquess of Wimberley and you couldn’t move much higher than that.

  Unless, of course, one was a duke who kept company with the king. Mark grimaced at the thought.

  What a farce yesterday had been. It had felt more like a play than a coronation. He understood the importance of production, but surely the king would have been advised against such obvious wanton spending. The public was already outraged enough at the king’s debts without the public reminder of how quickly he could incur expenses. Had it really been necessary to have a raised platform to walk on all the way to Westminster? And the crown—the single blue diamond at its center could probably have fed half the city.

  And that was not even considering the spectacle of barring the queen from the whole affair. There had actually been prizefighters stationed at the door to bar her entry to the ceremony. That was not something that would be forgotten soon.

  And it had all kept Mark from pursuing Bella. That had been the true hardship of the affair. He might even have survived the codpiece and pantaloons if she’d been there to laugh with him.

  But she hadn’t been. She’d been here.

  At least he hoped she was. It seemed so unlikely.

  He considered the high windows and gracious proportions, the delicate flowers blooming along the short path to the door. The house had belonged to Lord Peter’s wife before their marriage and it still retained a feminine touch.

  It was odd that Lord Peter had not sought a new home upon his marriage. There had been stories about the wife, if Mark remembered correctly. He didn’t know the details but he believed she’d been rather notorious in her day—not exactly a courtesan, but as close to it as a woman could come and retain her respectability. Their marriage had been quite shocking.

  He hadn’t heard anything about her since he’d returned to Town, however.

  Could Bella be visiting the wife? He wished he could remember more. If she’d actually been a courtesan then maybe Bella was looking to her for advice.

  No, Bella had said she’d met an old friend. Lord Peter’s wife was supposed to be years older than he. That would make it unlikely that she’d been friends with Bella. Which led him back to Lord Peter. What exactly was the man’s relationship to Bella?

  Mark swung his walking stick against a low garden wall, enjoying the jarring of the hit. He’d much rather it had been Lord Peter he struck.

  Isabella stared down at the pile of things before her. It made no sense. There was nothing here that anybody would want. She’d hoped for something she’d missed before, but none of it seemed of value.

  She picked up a few notes marking gambling debts. There were more of them than she had remembered, but they were not for outlandish amounts. Still, perhaps they were for enough that some might have trouble with payment. The man had called them letters—could he have meant vowels, IOUs? It didn’t seem likely, but she put them neatly aside.

  Next was a pile of scribbles. Perhaps a code? Could Foxworthy have been a spy, or known of one? No, she could not imagine that they were anything but somebody’s odd and senseless jottings.

  There was half a map. She had not remembered that. A spot was circled. Buried treasure? She examined it closely. No, more likely it was the direction of a cheap but fashionable tailor.

  A recipe for sugar biscuits. She could not even begin to guess why Foxworthy had that. Again, it could be code, but why somebody would disguise code as sugar biscuits she could not imagine.

  She picked up the last papers. Love letters. She remembered these well. Even at seventeen she had not been able to picture penning such overwritten drivel. The woman who’d written them went on endlessly, describing the muscles on her lover’s shoulders and how his shirt pulled across them. Isabella had spent plenty of time admiring Mark’s shoulders but she’d never have called them broader
than a stallion’s withers and harder than cannon’s ball. What woman would even be thinking of cannonballs and the male body? And that didn’t even get to the description of the lower body. She couldn’t imagine thinking of Mark as having a hard iron sword that pierces my most tender places. That just sounded painful.

  And purple ink. Who used purple ink?

  It was almost the same color as the lace on the man’s cuffs.

  She stopped breathing. Her mind filling with the impossible.

  What if they were not a woman’s letters?

  What if they were his? The handwriting did look masculine. She had heard rumors of such relationships, relationships that a man could hang for. It seemed unbelievable. How would such a thing even work? Could it be true?

  If it was, now, that would be something Foxworthy could have used for blackmail.

  Something that was worth almost any price to get back.

  But who was he? She could not get past the feeling that there was something familiar about him. He was not somebody she knew well, but she was sure they had met—and recently. It was not a comforting thought.

  The letters were easily tied together into a small bundle and she pushed it down the bodice of the dress Violet had loaned her. The dress was loose and the papers hardly showed. It seemed she was forever running away, leaving her clothing behind. She was sure that somebody would bring her the things she had left at Annie’s, but it was unclear when.

  Annie might be furious with her over the misunderstanding with Lord Richard. She could only hope that he had figured out she was not his wife. Although if Annie had taken a lover, as she’d planned, it might not matter what he thought.

  That, however, was a worry for another day.

  She patted the papers. For now she only need figure out how to deliver them.

  There was a tap at the door. Masters must be home. She hoped that Violet was right and that he had changed. It took courage to call out to him to enter.

  He strode in stiffly, and stood looking down at her as she knelt beside the bed. His face was as expressionless as ever. She’d sometimes wondered why it didn’t crack.

  He had not changed at all.

  And then she saw them. Tears. There were tears in his eyes.

  “Isabella, oh Isabella. I could not believe it when Violet said she’d stumbled upon you. Do you know how hard I have searched for you? I had begun to despair that I would ever find you. Even when my agent said you’d been involved in some scandal with the Duke of Strattington, I could barely believe it. And now you are here.”

  Isabella didn’t think she’d ever heard so many words from her brother at once, at least not addressed to her. “Yes, I am here.”

  Masters stood staring down at her. Having finished his speech, he clearly did not know what else to say.

  She did not know either. The trunk still lay open beside her so she shut it—the top closed with a bang—and shoved it back under the bed. Bracing herself on the rail of the bed, she stood as gracefully as she could manage. “You kept my things,” she said.

  “Yes, they have been here, waiting, since you left.”

  “Did you really think I would come back?”

  “I hoped you would.”

  It was too painful. She turned and walked away from him, staring blankly into the dark fireplace. Remembering all she’d been through in the past years, she found it hard to even contemplate forgiving her brother. “Why would you hope that? It is not as if you cared for me. You could not have cared for me and tried to force me to marry Foxworthy.”

  Masters’s boots tapped as he took a step toward her and then stopped, hesitated. “I did care. I just did not know what to do. You saw the papers he had—you are the one who retrieved them for me. They clearly said our father had committed treason. Foxworthy would have ruined us all. It was selfish of me to give in to his demands, but I truly thought it would be better for us all—not just myself. I could not imagine what would happen to you if it all came out.”

  “Probably about what happened to me anyway. I would have been forced to seek employment and fend for myself. It has mostly not been so bad.” She avoided thinking about these last most wonderful and most horrible weeks.

  “Was it wrong of me to try and save you from that?”

  She turned back to him. “And to try to save yourself?”

  He looked straight at her. “Yes, and to try and save myself—and Violet. I saw no other choices at the time.”

  “You could have talked to me about it.”

  His gaze wavered, but did not drop. “Yes—and I should have. If you’ve met my wife, and I believe you have, you will know that I have been informed of that many times. And we will not even begin to discuss my conversations with Violet.”

  “I was quite surprised when she insisted that I come and talk to you. I did not think the two of you spoke.”

  “That is my Clara’s doing. She is a great friend of Violet’s and between them they managed to persuade me of the error of my ways.”

  If she’d been unsure of what to say before, she was speechless now. Her brother still walked like himself, still held himself stiffly, still kept his face blank, still spoke in the same carefully modulated tones—but his words, his words were not those of her brother.

  And yet. . .

  “I do appreciate what you say,” she said, “but it does not change things. What happened happened.”

  “It does not have to be that way. You are home now.”

  A while ago she’d been thinking of this room as close to home. Now it felt anything but. “But not to stay. I intend to go to the country with Annie, with Lady Richard Tenant. I will act as companion to her and governess to any future children.”

  “No.” Now, that sounded like her brother.

  “I do not see that there is a choice. You seem to forget that I killed a man. You may not have been there, but surely Lord Peter and Violet informed you of the situation.”

  “Foxworthy was stabbed after you left. Violet reported no knife wounds. Foxworthy must have still been alive when you left.”

  “Is that what Violet said? I can assure that he was very dead when I left. I have wished that what you say was true, but it is not. I killed him. Do not doubt that.”

  Now Masters did turn away. He went and stared out the window, but she doubted that he saw the sunny, flower-filled garden. “It does not matter. No one knows. We will pretend it never happened.”

  Isabella patted the papers held tight in her bodice. Was it possible? If she managed to return the papers, maybe it could all be hidden away. “And where will you say I have been these last years? I am sure my absence has been remarked on.”

  “We have said you were in the country.”

  “And I am sure everyone believed that.”

  “They claim to have. No one has questioned me.”

  “Not to your face. I am sure rumors abounded when I left and did not return.”

  “Nonetheless, once you are safely here, back in the bosom of your family, we can launch you again, find you a good, steady husband. Once you are wed any rumors will stop.”

  “You want to marry me off again?” She truly could not believe him.

  He turned from the window. “I am afraid I phrased that badly. Yes, I do think you need to marry, but to a man of your choosing.”

  Her mind filled with an image of Mark and her dream cottage. “I do not wish to wed. Not now. Probably not ever.”

  “What has you acting like a cornered tomcat?” Douglas settled in the chair across from Mark and swung his boots up onto the table.

  “It’s a fine thing when a man can’t have peace in his own library,” Mark replied.

  “Perhaps I should have said growling like a bear.”

  “Do you want me to run you through?”

  “I might be scared if you threatened to shoot me. We both know that I am the better swordsman.” Douglas leaned forward, picked up Mark’s glass, and sniffed it. “If you’re drinking brandy of this qua
lity, and still grumbling, it must be bad. You still can’t find her?”

  “It could be something else, you know.”

  Douglas just raised a brow and set the glass back on the table.

  “Yes, it’s Bella. Are you sure it was her you saw with Lord Peter St. Johns? There has been no sighting of her in days. She can’t simply vanish into his house.”

  “I’ve a feeling that girl can do just about whatever she wishes. You find her a nursery maid, make her your mistress, and now she’s moved in with a marquess’s brother. Next she’ll be marrying one of the highest lords in the kingdom.”

  “Lord Peter is already married. Bella wouldn’t stay with a married man.” Mark knew he was growling again. “And if she’s his mistress now, she’d have been better off staying with me.”

  “I do not believe she is Lord Peter’s mistress,” Douglas replied, his voice calming. “It is his wife’s home. I cannot imagine any wife would allow a mistress under her roof.”

  “Then what is she doing there, assuming she even is there?”

  “I don’t know. Are you sure she hasn’t left?”

  “It is impossible to tell. None of the descriptions of women who have left the home sound like her, but she could have altered her appearance. I don’t know whether to instruct my men to look for a maid, a mistress, or a Greek goddess. It does rather complicate matters.”

  “And what of the murder she claims to have committed? Have you found out more about that?”

  Mark pushed himself up to standing and paced back and forth across the worn carpet. “No, damn it. All I can tell you is that Isabella Smith seems not to have existed for more than a couple of years. I believe I have found the first place she was employed and am waiting to hear. She must have arrived with some type of reference. Nobody would have hired her otherwise.”

  “That is true. So if you find out who gave her the reference you can find out who she is?”

  “It is at least a step in the right direction.”

  “And what will you do when you find her?”