Weary of being raked over the coals for something of which he was not guilty, Lucas finally snapped, “Ma’am, I must beg leave to tell you that if you were a man I would have called you out by now. Your stepdaughter is of age and, as I daresay she has already told you, perfectly capable of taking care of herself. But lest you fear that I am not a gentleman, which I will add I have never given you cause to suspect, rest assured that if, in the course of our acquaintance, Miss Hurston is compromised by me in any way, I will make up for that fact by marrying her out of hand.”
Rather than being cowed by his show of temper, however, Lady Hurston laughed.
Lucas felt a headache coming on.
“There now,” she said cryptically. “That was not so hard, was it? I knew Amelia Snowe was lying about you!”
Before he could reply, however, Cecily appeared at their side.
“Whatever are the two of you discussing?” Cecily asked, looking curiously from one to the other. “It cannot have been very pleasant, for Winterson looks in need of a tooth drawer.”
Lady Hurston patted Cecily affectionately on the arm. “Oh, nothing of import. I’ll leave you to cheer him up, dearest. I see Lady Ellis is here and I must ask her where she found that delightful hat she was wearing yesterday.”
Cecily watched her stepmama walk away with bemusement. Was she not the woman who had warned her only yesterday that she must guard her reputation by spending less time with Winterson? Either Violet was much more featherbrained than Cecily had imagined, or she had some plot to throw Cecily and Winterson together in the hopes that they would make a match. She was inclined to believe the latter since her stepmother seemed to think that Cecily’s sartorial transformation would lead her straight from the wallflower seats to wedded bliss.
She stole a look at Winterson, who did look rather splendid today in a bottle-green coat that fit his broad shoulders to an inch. Still, she had no intention of allowing herself to fall under the spell of any gentleman, much less one who could not give her what she needed—access to her father’s journals. Which led her back to their plan.
“Have you made any progress on the list of possible candidates for my hand?” she asked, careful to keep her expression neutral, as if they were discussing something unobjectionable like the weather.
Unfazed by her direct question, Winterson shrugged. “It takes time to assess the various assets and deficits of the numerous candidates.”
“Yes,” she said, trying to keep her temper, though his lack of initiative bothered her. “But surely you have had time to come up with a preliminary slate of possibilities. Were you not the one who claimed to know more than I could because you are a gentleman? If you continue to shirk your duty, I shall be forced to rely on the dance card!”
“I did not misrepresent myself,” Lucas began before her words brought him up short. “What dance card?”
Realizing what she’d said, Cecily inwardly cursed in five languages. “Nothing, Your Grace. Nothing that need concern you,” she said hurriedly. “We were speaking of you and your obligation to me.”
But he’d obviously noted her discomfort and pressed on. “That won’t work, Cecily,” he said firmly. “Tell me about this dance card.”
She knew she owed him no explanation, but Cecily said in a low voice, “I found Amelia Snowe’s dance card at the Bewle ball, if you must know. And it has been signed mostly by members of the Egyptian Club. Single ones.”
His eyes narrowed. “So you’ve been using Miss Snowe’s dance card under false pretenses?”
“Keep your voice down,” she hissed. “I don’t want everyone in the ton to know about it!”
“I should think not,” he said, lowering his voice. His eyes narrowed. “So you’ve been pressing me to investigate these men and using this pilfered dance card? Miss Hurston, you have a more deceptive nature than I had guessed.”
“It’s because I am desperate,” she said sharply. “If your father were being accused of murder, I have little doubt you’d do whatever it took to see his name cleared. I do not understand how you can be so patient given that we need those notebooks to learn more about your brother’s disappearance.”
“I did not say that I do not have a list, nor that I blame you for using the dance card—Miss Snowe is hardly my favorite person,” he said, clearly unperturbed by her agitation. “But it may not be necessary for you to sacrifice yourself upon the altar of matrimony in order to procure your father’s journals. There may be another way to obtain them.”
She did not bother alerting him to the fact that she might be sacrificed upon the altar of matrimony regardless. As the days passed with no marked improvement in her father’s condition, it seemed more and more likely that she would be forced to marry in order to remove herself from Cousin Rufus’s meddlesome care. A husband of her own choosing—even if he turned out to be a not-quite-appealing one—would be far preferable to one Rufus chose for her. But she was shy of telling Winterson any of this. He was worried about his brother, and she did not wish for him to do something noble like offer to marry her himself. Something about the idea of him marrying her for duty made her stomach ache.
“What do you mean ‘another way’?” she asked, unwilling to mention the key until she heard his plan.
Taking her arm, Winterson moved them away from the arbor, following the picturesque path that wound about the perimeter of the Mulsington gardens. Though they were not the only couple taking advantage of the privacy afforded by the trees, there was chatter enough to keep their conversation from being overheard, and company enough for them to remain perfectly respectable.
“I mean a way to get your father’s journals that will not trap you in marriage with a member of the club that very well may have had something to do with my brother’s disappearance.”
“There is no way. We’ve been through this, and short of outright theft—of the notebooks, I mean—I cannot imagine what plan you might have to breach their defenses and retrieve the journals.”
“Yes,” Winterson said, nodding at her with approval. “You’ve hit on it.”
She stopped, pulling him to a halt beside her.
“Theft?” she asked in a high-pitched voice. “You mean to steal them?”
“It worked for you with the dance card,” he said with a raised brow.
“But I found the dance card. I didn’t actually set out to take it,” she argued, thinking of a myriad of reasons why the idea had no merit. It was ludicrous to imagine a peer of the realm, a duke, no less, stooping to outright thievery. She thought of that key sent to her by some unknown benefactor. The notion of using the key to get into the club after hours had occurred to her before, of course. Sneaking into the Egyptian Club alone had seemed like more adventure than she could manage on her own. With a partner, however …
“It’s the only way,” he said simply. “I cannot allow you to marry on the off chance that your husband may be so good as to allow you into the club. What if he disapproves of scholarly females? What if he takes you to live at his country estate, never to return to London again? It’s a ridiculous plan and I will not be a party to it.”
“Well, you did not think so before! Else why would you have even considered helping me?” She thought again of Cousin Rufus and the life she might be forced to endure should her father succumb to his illness. If she did not marry soon, she might lose any opportunity to make a choice on her own terms.
“I was humoring you,” he said baldly. “And now that I’ve discovered another way to get the journals, it’s entirely unnecessary.”
He paused. She kept her expression bland, but inside she struggled to decide what to do next. What would she do without his assistance? She had gained a sort of popularity in the past few days, thanks to the dance card, but nothing like what she needed to attract a real suitor. And his earlier revelations about the proclivities of certain gentlemen she had considered as possible husbands before had convinced her that there was quite a bit that even Violet did not know abo
ut what men got up to when left to their own devices.
“Tell me what you are thinking,” Winterson demanded, his blue eyes searching. “I thought you’d be pleased.”
“Oh,” she said, making a determined effort to steady her features. “I am quite pleased to hear you’ve found another way. I simply…” She searched for an excuse for her chagrin. “I do not like the idea of you risking your own reputation,” she finished lamely.
He waved off her worries, and looked relieved that she did not appear to have any other objections.
“I have found that there’s actually very little a duke can do to truly damage his reputation. I’m afraid you ladies have a great deal more to worry about on that front.” He cleared his throat. “Which is why you are to have nothing to do with this new plan of mine to retrieve the journals.”
She’d been afraid he’d do something like this. “I will not allow you to take over this endeavor,” she hissed. “The journals belong to my papa, after all. And without me to translate them, they’ll simply be gibberish to you! Or have you found someone else to do the translation as well?”
“Do not fly into the boughs, Miss Hurston,” Winterson replied mildly. “I am not proposing to cut you out of the investigation. I simply do not wish for you to risk your already—let’s be honest here—shaky reputation by breaking into the Egyptian Club with me. As soon as I have them I will bring them to you at once.”
Cecily pulled her arm out of his and faced him. “No.”
“What do you mean, ‘no’?” he asked, tilting his head in puzzlement.
“Just what I said,” she said, arms akimbo. “I do not choose to let you take all the risk.”
“Miss Hurston,” Winterson said, his face a study in patience, “I cannot, as a gentleman, let you risk your person in this way. I will simply nip into the Egyptian Club one evening, retrieve the notebooks, and then nip out again. The next morning I will promptly deliver them to you and allow you to use your language skills to decode them. Nothing could be simpler.”
“Yes.” She nodded. “It will be quite simple, only I will accompany you.”
“No you will not.”
“Yes I will.”
“No you will not.”
“Yes I—”
He pressed a finger to her lips, surprising them both. Even gloved, his touch had the power to make her pulse race. And his darkening eyes, intent upon her mouth, sent a throb of awareness straight to her belly.
“I fear there is an echo,” he said at last, drawing his finger across the sensitive skin of her mouth. “Let us stop this bickering and talk sense.”
When she did not argue, he dropped his hand, though it was clear they had both been rattled by the jolt of attraction between them.
“I do appreciate that you wish to go inside the Egyptian Club,” Lucas continued. “Believe me, I do. I promise to take note of every last detail, from the carpets on the floor to the décor on the ceiling.”
“I believe you have forgotten one key thing, Your Grace,” Cecily said, desperately trying to dispel the lingering sensuality.
“And what is that?” His slight smile revealed he was well aware of her discomfort.
She lifted her chin in defiance. “You have no idea what my father’s journals look like.”
“No, that is true, I do not.” He nodded to acknowledge the point.
“And without that knowledge you will have no notion of just which—of what I can only assume is an extensive library of texts—books you seek.”
“But you will tell me,” he said quietly. “Won’t you.”
It was not a question, and Cecily felt the beginnings of a blush creep into her cheeks. Lucas stepped forward, his height putting her at a disadvantage to which she was unaccustomed.
“Won’t you,” he repeated.
“I will not,” she said, schooling her features to give no hint of how his nearness affected her. “You will take me with you.”
“I will not,” he said, parroting her. “So, it would appear that we are at an impasse.”
“Not if you would simply agree to let me accompany you,” she said, turning her persuasive powers, such as they were, on him. She lowered her voice, though no one seemed particularly interested in what they were saying. “I may even be able to obtain a key.”
Lucas felt his resolve wavering. It would be a damned sight easier to get into the club if they had a key. He had been forced upon occasion in his military career to use various methods of skullduggery. He could, in fact, pick a lock with a great deal of success in most cases. However, the vulnerability in Cecily’s eyes, coupled with her sensible assertion that he did not know what her father’s journals looked like, served to tip the balance slightly in her favor. In addition, now that he considered it, even if he were familiar with the general appearance of said journals, he could not—being unfamiliar with her father’s secret language—be certain that he could read the bloody things to make certain that he was taking the right ones!
“Tell me more about this key,” he said, deciding to give her a chance to plead her case.
Her answering smile hit him like a right hook to the jaw. He’d better keep his wits about him in her company, he thought, stepping back and tucking her hand back into the crook of his arm. Too many more smiles like that and he’d find himself making a public spectacle of them both, which would do neither of them any good if they planned to become thieves in the night.
Nine
“I cannot believe I allowed you to talk me into this,” Lucas hissed as he followed Cecily into the basement entrance of the building that housed the Egyptian Club.
It was madness enough that he’d agreed to her ridiculous scheme to dress as a boy—the view of her backside in a pair of his worn breeches alone was enough to fever his blood—but that he had allowed her to accompany him was an indication of just how susceptible he was to a pair of beseeching blue eyes.
For two and thirty years he had toed the line. When his peers had gotten up to mischief in school, Lucas had been the one to dissuade them from taking things too far. When his brother had hit upon the capital idea for them to romance a pair of barmaids who were unfortunately possessed of two brothers with quick tempers and quicker fists, Lucas had been the one to smooth things over before anyone suffered any broken limbs. But for some untold reason, when faced with the pleading eyes and quivering lip of one Miss Cecily Hurston, the man who had previously been capable of talking himself out of any scrape turned to complete and utter blancmange. His heretofore iron backbone swayed like a windblown poplar tree.
No matter how many times he reminded himself that she might be the daughter of his brother’s murderer, some part of him always seemed to give her the benefit of the doubt. Maybe because she seemed just as determined as he was to find out the truth of what had happened to Will. Even if it meant learning that her own father was responsible in some way. For all her stubbornness and determination, he sensed that she was constitutionally incapable of covering up the truth. Perhaps it was because as a scholar, she had made it her mission to tell the truth. Whatever the case, he trusted her. And it was about more than just beauty.
She was beautiful. Not in the classic sense of beauty as her exquisite stepmother and her equally captivating Featherstone sisters, mind you, but in a subtler, more sophisticated manner. For it was not just her figure alone, though it certainly could entice the male gaze, but her mind that lured him. And while it was possible to control a woman’s body for a short period of time, he was damned if he knew how to capture her mind.
Not that he would wish to control either her body or her mind, he reminded himself. One of the things that made both so enticing was the knowledge that either could surprise him at any moment. From the feeling of her long, nimble fingers playing along his jawline to the quicksilver turns that steered her every thought, being with Cecily was a constant struggle to keep up. And he liked it that way. To control either her mental or physical presence would be as cruel a deed as cagin
g a lion meant to roam the wild.
However, he had to figure out a way to keep himself from turning into a babbling fool in her presence. For both their sakes. Until this issue with William was resolved, he could do nothing about the growing attraction between them. And if her continued push for his assessment of possible suitors was anything to go by, she was just as determined as he was to keep whatever it was between them on a strictly friendly basis.
Still, every time he attempted to inform his libido of the fact, he was met with stubborn disagreement. He was afraid his body cared little for convenience or the gentleman’s code.
“Come on,” Cecily hissed from inside the darkened cellar. “What is taking you so long?”
“Nothing,” Lucas returned morosely, grateful that the dim lighting of the club would protect him from the view of her in those damned breeches. “Where are you?”
“Here,” came her reply, closer than he’d supposed. As he stepped toward her voice, he smelled her clean rose-water scent, and followed it.
“The stairs are this way,” she said, waiting for him to catch up.
When he reached her, she slipped her hand into his. “This is strictly for safety’s sake,” she warned him. Though he could not read her expression in the dark, he suspected that she’d adopted what he thought of as her “high priestess” look. It was the way she always looked when she did not wish to hear argument.
He made a noise of assent, though he could not help but enjoy the feeling of her soft hand in his. Silently, he followed along behind her toward the shadowy staircase. The full moon gave a slight glow of light through the window at the base of the stairs, though the farther they moved up the stairs the darker it got.
Lucas carried a candle and flint in the pocket of his coat, but they had both agreed not to use the light until absolutely necessary, neither of them wishing to alert the watch to their presence in the supposedly empty building.
They moved in eerie silence to the top of the stairs and into the main hallway on the ground floor. “I believe we are nearing the door to the club,” he said as they passed first one then another door to the other organizations that took rooms in the building.
How to Dance With a Duke Page 15