Never Fool a Duke

by Claudia Stone

  "What shall you do?" Jack queried, slightly curious as to what the next steps would be.

  "Ah," Nevins jumped a little, so lost in thought that he had momentarily forgotten Jack's presence, "There are strict protocols we must follow. Dull, internal investigations to be sure we have the right man before we send him off to swing on Tyburn's Tree—though, of course, not before we get the name of this higher up Waldo speaks of."

  Jack shivered a little, as he realised that he had probably just handed over a man's death warrant to his executioner. Still, there was nothing worse than a man who had betrayed his country, and if this John Greer was indeed a traitor, then he deserved to hang for it.

  "And you, your Grace?" Nevins queried, politely, "Have you plans for the rest of the season?"

  Jack's current plans stretched no further than an afternoon brandy in White's, but now that he thought on it, a trip away from the city might be in order. He pictured the lush, rolling valleys of his estate in Glamorgan, and—even better—a strong pint of Bragawd, the local ale.

  "I am away to my estates for a spell," Jack said, surprising himself, "Unless you have further need of me, that is?"

  "Oh, heavens no," Nevins profusely exclaimed, "I cannot ask you to do any more than you have already done. My thanks, your Grace, for your help in this matter. You can trust that I shall remedy matters with Greer."

  "Good luck on that front, Nevins."

  With that, Jack took his leave, glad to be done with the sordid business of spies. As a soldier, he preferred face to face conflict, to the slithering and backstabbing of espionage.

  The rest of the morning was spent attending to all the correspondence that Jack had neglected over the past few weeks. Jack worked steadily until the afternoon, stopping only for a quick luncheon of bread and cheese.

  Once the hour struck three, he put away his quill and summoned the footman to arrange the delivery of his various letters.

  "Does His Grace require anything else?" the courteous young Kimmage queried, before taking his leave.

  "His Grace does not," Jack grinned, still slightly amused by the use of the third, "He will be attending his club this afternoon, so the kitchen staff may go back to twiddling their thumbs."

  "I'll tell them that, your Grace," Kimmage gave a mischievous smile.

  "No, you will not," Jack retorted, "For then I will have to spend the afternoon convincing Jean-Pierre not to leave. Away with you now, before you cause any mischief."

  Dear Frederick had harboured a love of all things French and had installed a chef from the Aquitaine region in his kitchens. The man was highly excitable and easily insulted. Still, despite being as difficult to keep as a racehorse, Jack was reluctant to be rid of him, for he did know how to cook a steak to perfection—even if he was liable to fling it at Jack's head as a mode of serving.

  White's was, as it usually was of an afternoon, filled to the gills with the aristocracy. The day's session in the House of Lords had ended, and the members of the house had duly filed into their members' club to discuss politics.

  Jack side-stepped one or two gentlemen who looked as though they wished to chew his ear off, and nimbly deposited himself at the table by the Bow window, which had been left empty in expectation of the arrival of the Upstarts.

  Next to file in, straight from the Houses of Parliament, was Montague, grousing about his new-found nemesis, Lord Pariseau.

  "He spent twenty minutes pontificating on the plight of orphans when he probably eats them for breakfast," Montague grumbled, "In fact, I'm nearly certain I heard a rumour that he used them as live-bait to train his hounds."

  "Really?" Jack replied dryly, "For I heard that he has pledged a considerable portion of his fortune toward building a new Foundling Hospital."

  "Well, that's clearly just a cover," Montague blustered, before falling into a petulant sulk. "You're supposed to be on my side, Orsino."

  "I am, and always will be," Jack replied evenly, "And as someone who has your best interests at heart, please listen to me when I say that you are being completely ridiculous."

  "No man wants to listen to someone calling him ridiculous," Montague grinned, "Let alone pay heed to it. But you're right, I should not try to defame Pariseau—I should try to best him. How much did you hear he was pledging? I'm sure I could double it, triple it even! I'll show him what it means to care about orphans."

  Orsino briefly closed his ears, as his friend began to outline the various ways in which he might help the poor, orphaned street-Arabs of London. When Montague got a bee in his bonnet about something, it was usually best to let him tire himself out. And, who knew, perhaps this time the dashing marquess might actually talk himself into doing some good?

  Montague's ramblings were soon interrupted by the arrival of Penrith. Their friend had recently got himself into a spot of bother with his paramour, Miss Charlotte Drew, and his troubles had gifted him with a disposition as cheerful as a gravedigger during a plague.

  Though, this was nothing as compared to Penrith's cousin, Augustus Dubarry, who shortly joined the men to share his own woes about Bianca, Miss Drew's sister.

  Orsino listened patiently, as both men outlined the various ways in which they had tried to win back their sweetheart's hands, but one among the group was less than impressed with their efforts.

  "You have written her a letter?" Montague hooted in amusement, as Dubarry finished detailing what he had done to try to win back Bianca. "No wonder the poor girl is ignoring you. You are not a clerk; you are her suitor."

  The poor young man turned pink with indignation, as he hastily defended himself by arguing that he had also sent her flowers—though Montague was even less impressed by this than he was by the letter sending.

  "What you need," Montague advised Dubarry, "Is a grand gesture."

  The two men then began to discuss what sort of grand gesture Dubarry might carry out, but Jack did not pay them any attention, for his eyes were focused on Penrith.

  His friend since their first day at Eton, many moons ago, Jack could tell—with just a glance—that the reserved duke was hanging on Montague's every word. Which meant, Jack grinned, that he must be in a bad way if he was going to take advice from the marquess.

  As Montague regaled Dubarry with tales of his own grand gestures—which seemed to involve a lot of irritated abigails throwing buckets of water out windows on top of him—Jack debated how he might help Penrith. He knew that Miss Drew—who was refusing all of Penrith's calls—would be at Miller's Pond the next day, but he did not particularly wish to announce that to the room, lest anyone queried his source.

  Thus, once their meeting had ended, and they were preparing to depart, Jack leaned over to quietly whisper this information to his friend.

  "Miss Drew will be attending a boat-race at Miller's Pond in Hyde Park tomorrow afternoon, with Miss Havisham and Lady Julia," he imparted, "But for heaven's sake, please don't ask me why I know that."

  Glad that he might somehow have aided his friend's romance, Jack followed Montague out the door of White's.

  The marquess was waiting for him on the front steps, his handsome face rather smug. Evidently, he had enjoyed playing the role of a wise oracle of White's.

  "You seem pleased," Orsino commented, as he fell into step beside his friend. Both men lived just around the corner, on St James' Square, and while at night-time it was prudent to travel by horse or carriage, a short stroll was commonplace of an afternoon.

  "Who doesn't love love?" Montague questioned cheerfully, "And who could not be taken by the idea of Penrith finally finding it? And with a girl with spirit, not a laced-up Oizys, as I had feared."

  "So, you knew that he was listening alongside Dubarry?" Jack queried, quite impressed at Montague's instincts.

  "Pfft, of course, I did. I have known him as long as you!"

  They strolled on in silence for a while more, rounding the corner of King's Street, where Christie's Auction House was located.

  "And do you think
Miss Drew will be amenable to Penrith's grand gesture?" Jack ventured, hoping to subtly glean a little advice from Eros beside him. "She was hurt, perhaps even humiliated by Penrith's deception. What hope is there for love, when one of the parties has suffered an injury?"

  Montague was silent, as he contemplated Orsino's question. The sound of his cane tapping against the footpath as they walked was the only noise he made.

  Jack rather regretted asking the question, afraid that his friend might realise he was really speaking for himself, but then Montague shrugged.

  "Ruined love, when it is built anew, grows fairer than at first, more strong, far greater," he offered, his grin evidence that he was proud of having sourced a fitting quote from the stern of his brain.

  "But what if Miss Drew is too hurt?" Jack pressed, not wishing to talk of building love anew when he was still smarting. "I mean, she must have been very upset. Humiliated even. No man likes to be made a fool of."

  "Well, thankfully Miss Drew is a woman," Montague offered lightly, and Jack flushed as he realised that he had outed himself.

  They had reached St James' Square, where Montague paused, as though he wished to speak further.

  "I had best hurry," Jack said brusquely, "I am away to Glamorgan for a spell, to check in on the estate."

  Montague raised his eyebrows in question at this abrupt announcement of his departure.

  "It is imperative that I go," Jack blustered, as he felt a blush creep up his neck, "Ducal business. You will understand when you inherit."

  It was a low blow, Jack had to admit, lording his title over his friend, though Montague seemed not to care.

  "Ah, what a pity," he said with a sigh, "For I was hoping you might accompany me to a masquerade in a sennight. Never fear, perhaps I shall persuade Penrith."

  "Can you not go alone?" Jack questioned.

  "Well, I am not technically invited."

  "Not technically?"

  "Not at all," Montague beamed, "Though we must not dally over a silly ball, Orsino, when you are setting off on your travels to the back of beyond."

  Jack frowned at this barb, though Montague did think that the world ended at the boundary lines of Westminster.

  "I will offer you one more piece of advice though before you go," Montague continued, before adding with a wink, "Or rather, I shall offer Miss Drew another piece of advice."

  "Go on," Jack rolled his eyes.

  "He that is proud eats up himself: pride is his own glass, his own trumpet, his own chronicle," Montague said lightly. "Penrith did not intend to hurt Miss Drew, and I'm certain that once she realises this, and casts aside her pride, she will find that he has not left her heart. Well, safe trip, old friend."

  Montague doffed the rim of his beaver hat at Jack and set off across the square, merrily swinging his cane. Jack remained where he had left him, for a moment, his mind ruminating over the marquess' none-too-subtle analogy.

  It was true that Violet had not set out to hurt Jack; in fact, she had merely fooled him in order to try and save her brother from their father's ire.

  But that did not take away from the hurt he felt, he thought stubbornly, as he turned toward home.

  No, Jack decided, he would not cast aside his pride as Montague suggested; instead, he would go to Wales, where the mead was strong, and nobody was quoting ruddy Shakespeare.

  Chapter Thirteen

  "I say," Sebastian said, as he strolled into the drawing-room, "Have you ever heard of someone called Lady Olivia?"

  Violet, who had been busy at her easel, poked her head out from behind it in panic.

  "Ah," Sebastian grinned, "I take it from your look of terror that this has something to do with your recent escapades."

  "Lud, it never ends," Violet groaned, as she downed her paintbrush, "Tell me, was it terribly awkward?"

  "No, not at all," Sebastian wore the smile of a Cheshire Cat, "Rather the opposite, in fact. I have never had a lady walk up to me and kiss me, right off the bat."

  "She kissed you?" Violet gawped, "What? Where?"

  "On the lips," Sebastian hooted, perhaps thinking that Violet had meant something else, "We met on one of the secluded walks in Vauxhall, just last night. She called out "Sebastian?" and when I turned, she said "You are a most difficult man to find" and walked up and planted one right on my lips. I say, Violet, I must have you play me more often, perhaps the next time you pretend to be me, you might land me a fortune, as well as a wife."

  "A wife?"

  Violet pushed away her childish revulsion at hearing her brother's tale of being kissed to focus on the more pertinent matter at hand.

  "Well, yes," Sebastian shrugged, "A woman like Olivia does not fall into one's lap by chance, only by divine intervention. And fate leads the willing, does it not?"

  "I would hardly call my dressing as you a divine act," Violet rolled her eyes, "More a moment of lunacy. Are you certain you wish to marry her, Sebastian? You have only known her for an evening."

  "But what an evening," Sebastian sighed happily, as he threw himself upon the chaise to gaze up at the ceiling, "Did you know that Olivia adores the theatre? We spent an hour last night, as we walked the gardens, discussing our favourite plays. Then this morning, when I paid a call at her home, we recited our favourite lines to each other over tea. It was marvellous."

  "Nauseating, more like," Violet grinned, quickly ducking out of range of the cushion Sebastian flung her way.

  "Don't play the cynic with me, sister dear," Sebastian argued, "I have seen the sketches for your latest painting. I know you are not as immune to love as you profess to be. Tell me, have you heard from Orsino?"

  "He has left London for Wales," Violet sighed, "Henry tried to deliver a letter for me, but his footman told that His Grace had departed for his Welsh estate."

  "We could go after him," Sebastian cried, sitting up with a gleam in his eye.

  "Sit back down," Violet instructed sternly, "You forget that I am not a man."

  "You're not always a man," Sebastian corrected, and Violet duly responded by flinging the cushion back at him.

  Alas, Violet's aim was poor, and the cushion did not hit Sebastian, but the wall behind him, right beside the door which Dorothy had just walked through.

  "Och!" she grumbled, "You donas, attacking an old woman only trying to do a day's work."

  "I'm sorry, Dorothy," Violet offered contritely, "I was not aiming for you; I was aiming for this addle-pate."

  "Well, you may practice harder if that's the case," Dorothy tutted, bending down to scoop up the cushion and lobbing it at Sebastian. Dorothy's aim was true, and the cushion neatly hit the back of Sebastian's head.

  "You have to really want to hit your mark, lovey," Dorothy advised, as she began bustling around the room with her duster. "I learned that when I was in India with your dear aunt. Where do you think the tiger-rug in the library came from? It didnae come from a poor shot."

  Dorothy winked at a rather bewildered Violet, who could not imagine the elderly Dorothy taking down an enormous tiger. But then, when she thought on it further, she actually rather could.

  "Where is my dear aunt?" Sebastian queried, hopping up from the chaise, as Dorothy began to swat it down with her feather duster.

  "She's in the orangery," Dorothy said, as she absent-mindedly began to dust Sebastian.

  "Right-ho," Sebastian grinned, though his smile quickly vanished as he inhaled one of Dorothy's feathers up his nose.

  "You must be coming down with a cold," Dorothy tutted, to Sebastian's loud sneeze, "Wait there one minute, and I'll brew you up a nostrum."

  Dorothy abandoned her dusting to head for the kitchens, leaving Sebastian and Violet alone again.

  "What is it that you need to discuss with Aunt Phoebe?" Violet queried.

  "Well, I need her permission to marry Lady Olivia," Sebastian shrugged. "If Aunt Phoebe is amenable to the idea, she might increase my annuity, and when that is coupled from the wages from Whitehall, I will be able to support
my wife in the manner she is accustomed to."

  "What position in Whitehall?" Violet blinked; this was news. Well, further news.

  "Orsino wrote a letter to the War Office, detailing my knowledge of French and the service I had already carried out for the Crown," Sebastian had the good grace to blush, "They called me in yesterday and offered me a position."

  "But what of your dream, Sebastian?" Violet asked, feeling slightly tearful, "Don't you wish to follow your path and live the life of an actor?"

  "Journeys end in lovers meeting, sister dear," Sebastian replied with a shrug, and his customary lopsided grin, "Playing Hamlet was a dream, but one that I knew must come to an end. How fortunate, that you found me Lady Olivia to cushion my fall back to earth. And not just a wife, but a position in Whitehall as well. Lud, I am deeply indebted to you, Violet. Would you like me to dress as you and see what comes of it?"

  "Don't even think of that Sebastian, let alone say it," Violet objected, with a gale of laughter. She reached for the cushion on the Queen Anne and lobbed it neatly at her brother, where it bounced off his head.

  "Gracious," Violet grinned, "Dorothy was right, you have to really want to hit your mark for it to work."

  "All right, all right," Sebastian held up his hands in surrender, "I promise I shall not don one of your dresses. I rather think Olivia might object, at any rate. And besides, we have a plan for you, have we not? Venice, Florence, the great masters. Give me a year, Violet, and I shall have the fortunes to send you there. You can count on me."

  "Oh, Sebastian," Violet smiled, crossing the room to offer her brother the warmest of hugs, "I know you will. Now, go! Go tell Aunt Phoebe that you wish to marry the woman you love."

  Sebastian gave a flourishing bow in response and left the room with a very obvious spring in his step. As the door closed behind him, Violet gave a rather wistful sigh. How easy love was for some.

  Violet picked up Dorothy's abandoned duster and began to tend to the room. Though she was happy for Sebastian, she could not help but feel slightly morbid about her own love life.

  If only Orsino had allowed her to apologise more, she thought, as she flicked the duster across the mantelpiece, before she stopped herself. It was selfish to wish for the duke to have remained so that she might apologise and make herself feel better. He was hurt, and he had every right to be. Tempting as it was to force herself into his sphere, and demand that he forgive her, and love her again, it would not be right.