Beyond a Reasonable Duke (Half Moon House Series: Novellas Book 5)

by Deb Marlowe

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Beyond a Reasonable Duke

  © 2015 by Deb Marlowe

  Cover Design by Lily Smith

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  About the Author

  For Peggy Kennedy: a daily ray of light!

  Prologue

  London, England

  1814

  The hour was indecently early, the dawn barely broken. Why were so many people already crowding the Strand? So many—and all in good humor. Clerks moved quickly on their way to start the day. Carters called out their wares, bankers and girls with baskets exchanged nods and ‘Good-Days!’

  Their high spirits were an affront to her own misery.

  Their numbers complicated her escape.

  She could not tell if she was being followed. She struggled to maintain her disguise as she dodged through the crowd, to walk normally in her high boots and to hide the evidence of her injured ankle. With her cap and wig gone, she worried constantly that her top hat would fly off.

  But her father’s voice rang in her head. That one never did know how to give up.

  Stiff and straight, she pressed on until she reached Craven Street. Here the morning began quieter, the street showing empty save for a bit of mist creeping up from the river and a maid sweeping a stoop.

  She let her shoulders slump in relief, gave in to the desperate need to favor her injured foot. By the time she reached her destination, her breath sawed out on a sob.

  Yes. Here it was. The famous fan above the door, with the crystal Half Moon and the surrounding stars. Light shone through them even at this dim hour.

  She knocked hard and stumbled as the door swung open almost immediately. A large, bald man looked her over.

  She knew what he saw—the shining boots, embroidered waistcoat and sturdy cloak of a Town Beau.

  “Please,” she whispered. “I need to speak with Hestia Wright.”

  “Come back later.” The servant didn’t wait, but began to swing the door shut.

  She stepped halfway in, blocking the door and wincing as it caught her ankle. “You cannot mean to turn me away! Why, I’ve been in Town but a few weeks—and how often have I heard it said that anyone may find help at Half Moon House?”

  “Any woman may find help here, at any time,” the footman clarified. “Gentlemen may keep to proper visiting hours.”

  She pushed against the door again, making room so that she could reach up and remove her beaver hat.

  The servant gaped at the tumble of chestnut curls that fell past her shoulders. She smiled her triumph—then slid slowly down the doorframe.

  Through a long, narrowing tunnel she watched him gasp and reach for her.

  And then the light winked out.

  Chapter One

  Several Weeks Earlier

  This was it. Tonight would be the true test of her abilities.

  Miss Laura Stokes straightened her waistcoat and consciously did not reach up to test her skillfully applied sideburns. She’d done well enough in her masquerade so far, thanks to endless practice and relentless coaching, but her efforts had largely been confined to dimly lit taverns and smoky gaming hells.

  Those late nights had done the trick, though. No one had questioned Mr. Lawrence McConnell, his arrival in Town or his somewhat humiliating history of being the title-less brother of Lady Kinton, a Scottish baroness in her own right. No one quibbled when he obligingly lost money at cards or bought round after round of drinks.

  Certainly no one had asked if he might be a girl masquerading as a man.

  And tonight would be the culmination of it all. All the lies, the disguise, the nerves, the money, the weeks of cultivating the acquaintance of every disenchanted younger son and extra branch of Society’s family trees.

  These discontented young men—be they angry or resentful at their lot in life—they were the key. The worst of them had been handpicked, gathered into a loose society—and invited here tonight. Laura walked among them, amazed that she might actually be more at ease in her assumed role than many of these malcontents were in their own skins. Tensions were high. Nerves on edge. Because they all knew at whose behest they were gathered here—the Marquess of Marstoke’s.

  Scandalized talk of the nobleman hung on everyone’s lips. There had been some sort of dust-up at the theater a few weeks ago and rumors of the Prince Regent’s displeasure and the marquess’ abrupt departure from England abounded.

  But it was the other talk that drew them here tonight. Whispered words like treason. Radical notions of coming changes, quiet plotting to upset the current order of things, hints of foreign interests and the urgent encouragement to get in on the birth of what might be a quiet, but real revolution.

  All aptly designed to appeal to this dissatisfied lot. They were here to judge and be judged. To learn more and offer themselves up to become Marstoke’s minions.

  Except for Laura. She was here to gain access to the missing Marstoke—so she could kill him with her bare hands.

  There was only one thing in the way. The Gatekeeper. Their host, their judge, the one man who would pick and choose amongst them tonight. His Grace, the Duke of Rothmore.

  She accepted a drink from a passing servant, rotated on her heel—and paused before she could raise the glass to her mouth.

  Now there was a man comfortable in his own skin. A tingle went up her spine. Tall and straight, with a sharp blade of a nose that acted as the perfect foil for his wide, square jaw. Ash blonde hair, blue eyes that sized up and measured the men around him—and appeared to find them wanting.

  Surely this must be him.

  She moved a little closer. Good heavens, he was handsome, sure and exacting—exactly the sort of opponent she would normally love to throw herself against. But she was no longer a girl decked out in her favorite tangerine gown. She was a man on a mission—and she would not be found lacking, by God.

  Pluck through to the backbone. A hundred times her father had said it.

  She tossed back the drink and began to push her way through the crowd.

  Thomas Havers, the Duke of Rothmore, did his best to bury his frustration, but the truth was he’d made his choice before he got here and finalized it within the first thirty minutes of his arrival.

  Marstoke deemed two types appropriate for recruitment. Intelligent, observant young men, far sighted enough to be offered entrance into the mix of political and personal intrigue that the marquess labeled The Game. Or the fervent, fanatical type, looking for a leader and apt to follow any given order.

  Rothmore had already sent two of the latter out of the party and on to the first leg of their clandestine journey. But he was tiring of this role he played. Yes, he’d agreed to do whatever it took to help England’s interests when he’d joined Lord Stoneacre to work for the Privy Council, but he hadn’t thought that meant he’d actually be aiding the nation’s greatest threat.

  To make things more complicated, he had actual work of his own to do, now that his brother was gone. Somehow he had to keep up his deception for Stoneacre, and also manage to learn to balance all the political, financial, social and land management duties of a peer.

  Worse yet, these men, they affected him. He might actually have fit in with them the way he was purported to, had his temperamen
t been different. It had been one thing when he was a second son, the lowly spare, higher on the family branch than even than many of these. But now that his brother had met an untimely end, he had the title—and some of these men resented him for it. Others watched him carefully, as if trying to ascertain if he’d had anything to do with Robert’s accident.

  What these young bloods needed was something else to think about. Something fulfilling to occupy their thoughts. He kept wondering if there couldn’t be a way—

  “Must there not be a better way?” someone interrupted his reverie. “Some project or pursuit that could be found for some of these men? Take away their idleness and occupy their minds and it might be a different gathering altogether.”

  Rothmore turned to see who had echoed his feeling so exactly. He blinked in surprise at the sight of the slight young man. The boy owed some of his shoulder-width and calf-muscle to a bit of buckram, no doubt, but he wore a very knowing look on his finely set features.

  “I was just thinking the very same thought.”

  “Were you?” The young coxcomb raised dubious eyebrows.

  “Do you doubt me? And even before we are introduced.”

  “Oh, I know who you are, your grace. I’ve been watching, you see. I’ve seen your disdain.” He leaned in. “And I saw you send out those two who passed muster.”

  Rothmore hid his surprise. He’d been doing this for several months, watching them all closely in the days leading up to these gatherings, when none of them suspected. He hosted the event to help widen the net and sent his chosen malcontents right out of the party and on to the next step on their crooked path. Until today no one had caught on to that trick. “Well, for God’s sake, don’t say it too loud.” He gestured towards the over-eager men surrounding them. “We’ll have a riot on our hands.”

  “I won’t then, provided you send me along with your first picks.”

  He stilled. “It’s too late for that.”

  “Then send me along behind. On my own.”

  “I’m afraid it doesn’t work like that.” He paused. “You have the advantage of me.”

  The young buck’s eyes narrowed and Rothmore stopped again. There was something . . .

  “Mr. Lawrence McConnell at your service.”

  Scottish? Or borderland. It explained the slight accent, but still . . .

  The young man set aside his empty glass. “Have you always been a meddler, sir? Or is it an acquired habit?”

  Rothmore lowered his drink. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I only wondered because there’s been so much talk of you and your brother. Just the one brother, was it not, and him nearly a man by the time you were born? Not much chance for meddling, there. So, I wondered.”

  Rothmore wondered if the sprig could recognize the danger he was in.

  “They say that he barely knew you, hardly acknowledged you, beyond what duty dictates.”

  “Do they?”

  “Yes. And they speculate about your possible hand in his death.”

  “Do they say that you have an insolent manner?” Rothmore asked, dangerously casual. “Or perhaps an underdeveloped sense of self-preservation?”

  “I don’t mean to offend—just to understand the man who has placed himself as our judge.”

  “You mistake the matter.” Rothmore’s words came out cold and quiet “It is Marstoke who placed me as your judge.”

  “Ah. Very good. Well, I can tell you without doubt that you would be doing the right thing to send me to him.”

  It may be that the rude beggar was right. “I’ll take that under advisement.”

  “Send me to the Marquess,” the lad said, low and fierce.

  He began to think that this youngster and his smart mouth and his quick, determined mind was exactly the sort that Marstoke would wish to groom. And Rothmore had the sudden notion to save him from such a fate. “No.”

  Red crept along the boy’s jaw line and fury flared in his eyes. “This isn’t over.” He turned and stalked away.

  Rothmore watched him go, certain that he was right.

  Chapter Two

  Over the next week, the enterprising Mr. McConnell set about keeping his word. Everywhere Rothmore went, there the lad would be—and it was not as if the boy was merely following him, either.

  He met a friend at Tattersall’s, and McConnell was there before him, debating the merits of the horseflesh. Rothmore scheduled an appointment with Gentleman Jackson and found the sprig watching the sparring from the sidelines. The duke took refuge in his club—and there the blighter was, toasting him from across the betting room.

  The boy didn’t make the mistake of being irritating about it either. He made his presence known, then generally removed himself. When he did engage with Rothmore or his friends, he was polite, well-spoken and witty. He didn’t mention Marstoke again.

  He did, however, approach Rothmore outside of his bank and present him with a box of his favorite tobacco. His private, specially blended tobacco.

  “I believe you might be running low,” McConnell said with a bow, then he was lost in the crowded street.

  The duke questioned his staff. He grilled his valet and his man of business. He talked to the tobacconist and the secretary who scheduled sales appointments at Tattersall’s and the boy who swept the street on the corner near his Townhouse. They all denied sharing anything of Rothmore’s habits or schedule.

  It was impressive, really. McConnell was either very good, or he inspired real loyalty. Or both. Marstoke might well make use of such a youngster, but every feeling revolted when Rothmore thought of how the marquess would warp that quick mind. And there was still that something . . . something off, and yet indefinable . . . he couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but he couldn’t stop searching for it when the boy was near.

  So, when a pair of days passed without any of McConnell’s appearances, the duke actually missed him. With the tables turned, though, he found he knew next to nothing about the lad.

  Except . . . he did know his friends.

  Laura was a trifle bosky—and on the verge of a perilous situation.

  Truthfully, she’d enjoyed playing Lawrence McConnell so far. It was so freeing, being a man. She could stretch her legs, walk as fast as she wished, go where and do what she liked, ride fast and offer opinions on everything. No one told her to slow down, quiet down, sit down. No one worried endlessly about what people would think of her, like her mother would never cease doing.

  Oh, everything would have been easier, had you been a boy.

  No one smiled vaguely, grimaced slightly and retreated back to their sketching, like her sister.

  Except that her sister didn’t smile anymore. She didn’t draw. She didn’t enjoy her garden. She’d spent the last couple of months lurking in corners and trying to hide her tears. Her perfect, quiet world had been shattered by the wicked Lord Marstoke—and Laura had donned this disguise for the sake of revenge.

  She’d also donned it yesterday morning, with no chance to escape it since then. She’d made the mistake of attending a race with Geordie and Stuart. Those two, instead of returning to Town, had followed the racing crowd to a country mill, and insisted on celebrating their winnings with a night at a hayseed tavern. Today, when they’d finally got back, it was to find that young Mr. Bentham had summoned them all to hear some news about Marstoke.

  Which was why she was drinking again—slowly—and cursing the band that flattened her breasts beneath her clothes. She’d been wearing the thing too long—it had begun to cut into her flesh and rub her raw.

  “Where the hell is Bentham?” she growled, pulling at the band surreptitiously.

  “Be here soon, he said.” Geordie gave a negligent wave of his hand and called for another drink. They’d been told to wait in a private parlor at the George—and they’d found many of the young gentlemen from Rothmore’s candidate pool there before them.

  They all turned as the door opened and Laura gave another swift, unseen yank at th
e fabric under her arm.

  “What’s he doing here?” Stuart grumbled.

  Rothmore. Laura’s lip rose in a snarl that matched Stuart’s aggrieved tone.

  What was he doing here? Certainly not appreciating the lengths she’d go to just to impress him. She and Jenny, her hired partner in this affair, had done their utmost to convince him to change his mind—and the damned duke had barely blinked an eye.

  Resentment building, she watched him approach. He nodded around the small group, then raised a brow in her direction. “McConnell.”

  She glared back. Why in blazes must he be so unflappable, so confident, so handsome? Suddenly furious—at herself as well as him—she stood up and moved away. She was tired and sore and tipsy and more than a little afraid that he’d never relent. So how dared he come around and act as if nothing was wrong?

  “Mind if I join you?”

  Her friends glanced at each other, but no one objected. Rothmore didn’t wait, but sat down. “What occupies you lads this evening?”

  “Waiting on Bentham,” Geordie told him.

  “Oh? Let me buy you a round in the meantime.”

  That reconciled the rest of them to his presence quick enough.

  “McConnell, how about you?” the duke called.

  “No thank you,” she answered curtly.

  “What? Nary a sign of you for days and now you refuse my hospitality? I begin to think you’re annoyed with me.”

  She snorted. “Annoyed with you?” She put her hand on the mantle in an attempt to ease the rubbing under her arm. “Because you fail to recognize skill and zeal when it stares you in the face? Don’t be absurd.”

  “You do sound annoyed,” Geordie offered helpfully.

  Her temper flared, fueled by exhaustion, stress and ale. “Well, I’ve no need to be.” She shot the duke a look of disdain, left the mantle and began to pace while the barmaid distributed drinks. “Because I don’t need you, your Grace. I’ll do what I’ve always done when someone shuts the gate against me. I’ll go over or under.” She slapped a hand on the long trestle table. “I don’t need you, do you hear? I’ll find Marstoke on my own.”