The Duke's Daring Debutante (Regency Historical Romance)

by Ann Lethbridge

  ‘Have you seen Falconwood this morning?’

  ‘I gather he rode out early,’ his cousin said. He smiled genially but there was something oily about his expression. ‘You don’t have to worry about my cousin, my dear Miss Rideau. He really is an excellent horseman.’

  ‘I am not worried. I simply wanted to speak with him.’

  He tugged at his neckcloth. ‘I thought you might be concerned for his safety. His foot, you know. Not quite right. But he manages admirably, don’t you know.’

  Minette wanted to hit him for the insincerity on his face. What with his mother and this idiot, it was no wonder Freddy had withdrawn into himself. And no wonder he risked his life given the future he’d committed himself to. His admission last night of the vow he had made had given her a much greater understanding of the man he was. ‘I’m not at all worried. His Grace is one of the most athletic men I know.’ She glanced pointedly at the other man’s small paunch.

  The other two men chuckled and she heard it again. Moreau’s voice. Coming from the elderly fat man. It wasn’t possible. Could two so very different men have the same laugh?

  She wanted to inspect him, walk around him, look at him from every angle, but she had to continue as if she had noticed nothing. She glanced at his face, trying to appear casual. While nothing else about the man looked right, his eyes were Moreau’s.

  Her heart lurched. With a struggle she maintained her outward calm—at least, she hoped she hadn’t given her shock away—and smiled sweetly at Freddy’s cousin. ‘Thank you for the information. Have you gentlemen had breakfast? It is being served in the dining room.’

  ‘Ate earlier,’ the cherub said with a bow. ‘Thank you for asking.’

  ‘Feeling a little peckish myself,’ Moreau said.

  She gave them a vague smile. ‘Excellent. Hopefully I will see you this afternoon out on the lawn? Her Grace has planned an al fresco tea, provided the weather holds, and we have some games for your entertainment. Shuttlecock. Croquet. Archery.’ She accepted their bows with an inclination of her head and strolled out.

  That man was Moreau. She was sure of it, though he had disguised everything—his face, his body. He had even managed to look shorter. But that deep, low chuckle was his. The man had ever been bold. But this? What on earth was his purpose? Had he guessed she was onto him? He must certainly recognise her. Her blood ran cold at the thought of the damage the man could do with so many important people inside the house. How could they have missed him last night when the guest list had been checked and rechecked?

  Freddy. She had to talk to Freddy. Dash it all, why did he have to choose now to go riding? Perhaps she should talk to Gabe. Nicky would know of his whereabouts. She headed for their chamber on the second floor.

  Halfway up the stairs the idea hit her like a bolt of lightning. If Moreau was an overnight guest, why would she not sneak into his room and take back the damning evidence of her past so she and Nicky would no longer have anything to fear?

  Freddy would arrest him, and there would be no damage done to anyone.

  Blast. Why could she not remember the name he had given when they had been introduced? Mr Patterson, the butler, would know, though she would have to be very careful with her enquiries. It would not do to alert Moreau she’d seen through his disguise.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Freddy left his horse with a groom and strode into the taproom of the Bull and Bear, where he found Barker downing a tankard of heavy wet. He nodded to the barman to pour him the same. They took their drinks to a table in the corner.

  ‘Well done,’ Freddy said. ‘What do they have to say for themselves?’

  ‘They know nothing. Not who they were working for or why. They were following orders.’

  Freddy finished his drink. ‘I think I will have a word.’

  Barker signalled to the innkeeper behind the bar. ‘We’ll be going down to the cellar. No interruptions, mind.’

  The man touched his forelock.

  ‘How much did you pay him?’ Freddy asked as they made their way down the stone steps.

  ‘Enough for a day or so.’

  The underground space reeked of stale beer and damp. Barker lifted a trapdoor in the floor. ‘Hidey-hole for contraband. Luckily there isn’t any right now.’ He lowered a wooden ladder into the darkness below their feet and grabbed a lantern from the wall. At the bottom there was yet another locked door. When he opened it and shone the light inside, three men blinked like sleepy owls.

  ‘You can’t keep us here,’ one of the men said, thrusting his chin in their direction. It was the only move he could make as his hands and feet were tied. ‘It ain’t right. We’ve done nothing wrong. Report you for kidnapping.’

  ‘That’s Herb,’ Barker said.

  ‘I am sure the authorities will be delighted to make your acquaintance, Herb,’ Freddy said.

  ‘Ho, is that your game?’ the same man said, obviously the leader of this little gang. ‘We was asked to deliver a carriage to a farm and then to make our way back to Lunnon. Which is just what we were doing.’

  ‘You were asked to act as a decoy for a French spy. In other words, you are traitors.’

  The man cursed.

  ‘Tell me about the man who hired you. What did he look like?’

  ‘A proper good ’un,’ Herb said. ‘Paid half up front. I figured that even if we never got the other half we’d done very well out of the arrangement.’

  ‘Where and when were you to collect the other half?’

  ‘We were to see the cove in charge of the Fools’ Paradise. A hell in Whitechapel.’

  Barker cracked a laugh. Freddy glowered at him. ‘I know it.’

  ‘That’s it. In a nutshell.’

  ‘What did he look like? This man who hired you?’

  ‘Not much to look at. Ordinary. Dressed like a cit. Not a nob, but not down at heel. Sat in the shadows so it was hard to see his face.’

  ‘How tall was he?’

  ‘He never stood up. We left first.’

  Freddy cursed inwardly. ‘And he gave you no hint as to why he wanted you to undertake this delivery?’

  ‘I asked ’im, but he said weren’t none of my business if I wanted the money. I got mouths to feed, I ’ave. There ain’t no crime in delivering a carriage, now, is there?’

  ‘It is a crime to help a French spy.’

  ‘I didn’t know that then, did I? Wouldn’t have done it else. I’m as loyal to my country as the next man. He never sounded like a Frenchie.’

  ‘So there is nothing more you can tell us that will help us find him. Listen well. If I find out you lied, that you knew even a smidgeon more of information, I’ll have you clapped in irons and off to Newgate quicker than a cat can lick her ear.’

  One of his companions squeaked like a mouse and wriggled.

  Freddy lifted the lantern to shine on his face. ‘Well?’

  ‘I did ’ear somefink,’ the fellow said.

  Their leader made a growling noise. ‘Ratty, I told you not to follow ’em.’

  Freddy could quite see why he was called Ratty. His sharp nose and large yellow front teeth gave him a rodent-like appearance.

  ‘I didn’t,’ Ratty said. ‘Honest. I just ’appened upon ’em on my way ’ome.’

  The leader made a sound of disgust.

  ‘What did you hear?’ Freddy asked.

  ‘Promise you’ll let us go?’ Ratty pleaded.

  Freddy shrugged. ‘No promises. But if the information is useful...’

  ‘Tell ’im, you nodcock,’ Herb said. ‘If you knowed one of ’em was French then you shoulda said.’

  Not that Freddy thought it would have made a bit of difference to Herb, but he would give him the benefit of the doubt. This time.

  ‘’E met anothe
r cove outside the tavern,’ Ratty said. ‘Said as how some bird in a forest would never look right under his nose and to have a ship standing ready.’ He shook his head. ‘Couldn’t make any sense of it. Then they started talking foreign like.’

  ‘Who did he meet?’ Barker rapped out.

  Another shrug. ‘’E was a Frenchie. Or I think he was. Spoke foreign when he answered. No idea what he was sayin’.’

  ‘Some bird in a forest wouldn’t happen to be Falconwood, would it?’ Freddy asked.

  ‘Yerst. ’Ow did you know?’

  ‘Not your concern, my lad,’ Barker said.

  A chill slithered down Freddy’s spine. ‘Right under my nose.’ He started for the door, Barker following.

  ‘Hey!’ Herb yelled. ‘You said—’

  Barker locked the door behind them. ‘I’ll be back for you lot later.’

  ‘What is it?’ Barker asked as the climbed the steps to the taproom.

  The man had a nose for trouble. ‘If I’m right, though I hope to God I’m not, he is in my house.’ And everyone he cared about—Nicky, Gabe, Minette—was in there with him.

  * * *

  Heart high in her throat, her pulse racing, Minette stole into the room assigned to the man the butler had identified as a Lord Peckridge. He’d been on the guest list as a distant relation of Freddy’s cousin’s wife, Liz. The chamber was one of the smaller guests rooms on the third floor in the oldest wing in the house, as far from the public rooms as it was possible to be without entering the servants’ quarters. Peckridge was clearly considered one of Falconwood’s least important guests.

  The room had a bed, a nightstand, a desk, an armchair beside the fire and a wooden chair beside the desk. Against one wall was a clothes press. There was no dressing room for the man’s valet—he would be quartered up in the attic with the other servants.

  Where to look? She must not linger long. Even though he had expressed the intention of going to breakfast, his servant might return. Or the man himself. Peckridge indeed. Her blood ran cold. But for his laugh she would not have seen through his disguise. And he had been walking among them for hours.

  It was not a disguise he had used when she had travelled with him. Then he had usually been a displaced aristocrat or a rebel peasant. It was not important now. Not until she had the portrait in her hands. Then she would reveal him to Freddy.

  She started with the desk. There was nothing in its drawers but the obligatory writing paper, pens and ink. The clothes press held linens. The nightstand held a candlestick and a book. Rousseau. Suitable reading material for an English gentleman. Even more suitable for a French revolutionary. The washstand, the usual gentleman’s toiletries.

  And that was it. Where were his personal papers? Jewellery? Could the valet have them locked away somewhere?

  She took a deep breath, tried to calm her rapid breathing. Think. Where would he hide items he wanted no one to find? She slipped a hand under the pillows. Cold metal. She lifted it to reveal a pistol. It wasn’t loaded, but the ball and shot were in a small leather pouch alongside. Clearly he was so sure of his disguise he didn’t expect to be discovered or it would have been loaded and ready to fire. Useful as it was to know he had a weapon in his room, it wasn’t what she had come to find. Carefully she returned the pillow to its original place, smoothing the creases.

  She got down on her hands and knees and peered under the bed.

  Nothing but a pair of slippers set side by side.

  Old memories careened through her mind. Times she’d tried not to remember. She used the pattern on the carpet to establish their exact location, then carefully lifted the slippers clear. With her fingernails she scraped the surface of the carpet around where the slippers had sat until she found an edge. Slowly she lifted a square patch of carpet free and the board beneath it. In a hollow between the floor joists, she discovered a small leather satchel.

  Moreau had always been secretive about his hiding places. Though she hadn’t ever told him, she had always been able to discover them in the inns where they had stayed. He had liked to hide things under the floorboards, though none of those rooms had been carpeted.

  Desperate to lock the door, she didn’t dare to in case he or his man came in. She had to hurry. With shaking hands she pulled the bag from its hiding place and set it on the floor beside her. It was locked, of course, but it didn’t take her a moment to open it with a hairpin. Inside, she found a notebook and pencil. She flipped the pages. It was full of tiny writing, none of which made any sense. Code others would find of interest.

  She pulled out a small leather-covered box. Inside it was a signet ring. A gold fob. A set of collar studs set with emeralds and a matching stick pin.

  And beneath a layer of white velvet, the miniature. Just the sight of it made her flush hot then cold. What could she have been thinking to pose in such a lewd manner? But she’d loved him and had thought it a great joke to give him such a gift. Before she’d discovered the truth.

  Fear a hard lump in her throat, she slipped it into the valley between her breasts, hiding it between her stays and her chemise.

  She packed everything else back exactly as she had found it. Moreau would notice the smallest difference, though hopefully he’d be arrested before he noticed the missing memento. She returned the valise to its hiding place, covering it with the board, the carpet and finally the slippers. She let go a sigh of relief and rose.

  A creak as the door opened.

  Heart rising in her throat, she took one big step. It brought her up against the desk. She slid the drawer open at the same moment Moreau, in his disguise as Peckridge, stepped in.

  Bushy grey eyebrows rose towards his hairline. A smile broke out on his face. It looked more like a leer on that horrible face, but she remembered it well now she was positive of his identity.

  ‘Well, well, my little Netty. What a pleasant surprise. I should have guessed you of all of them would sniff me out.’

  ‘Pierre,’ she said, her heart contracting as she forced a smile. To her he would always be Pierre Martin, no matter that he had used the name Paul Moreau in all his dealings in England. ‘I certainly never expected to see you at my betrothal ball.’

  He opened his arms. ‘I have missed you.’

  She quelled a shudder and steeled her spine against the trickle of fear creeping through her veins. ‘Did you, Pierre, when you abandoned me to my fate?’

  He frowned. He shifted, his body growing in height and breadth, though his face remained purely Peckridge. ‘You could not possibly believe such a thing of me, my sweet. You break my heart.’

  He looked so forlorn, even within his horrid disguise, she believed him implicitly. That was what made him so very irresistible. His charming sincerity. She also knew he would kill her without a second of thought if she posed the most minute of threats.

  His gaze dropped to the desk. ‘What are you seeking? You know I would give you all that I have.’

  More allusion to their time together sent a shudder through her body. Was he saying he wanted her back? Or was it all a trick to set her at ease before he struck?

  She gave him a hesitant smile. ‘Your disguise is so good I wanted to make sure I was right. I didn’t want to make a mistake in so public a place.’

  ‘Hmm.’ He glanced in the mirror, touching his face. ‘What gave me away?’

  ‘A small thing. Nothing anyone else would notice.’

  ‘It is good, I admit. I studied the man for weeks. Your Duke should take more care to familiarise himself with his distant family.’ His gaze met hers in the glass. He smiled. A quick baring of his perfect white teeth. Another thing she had liked about him. ‘Congratulations on your betrothal, by the way. You were always one of the most intelligent females I have ever met.’

  ‘Thank you. So that’s what you were doing up north. Establi
shing a new identity.’

  ‘Indeed. My original plan to capture Falconwood was to use this cousin to get close to him. Your engagement and the invitation to your ball brought things to a head in a much more satisfactory manner. Your Duke has been making a thorough nuisance of himself these past few years. Fouché would be very generous with anyone who could bring him to France for questioning.’

  Her heart seemed to stop beating. Of all the people she had assumed Pierre might be here to kill, Freddy had not been among them. Fear was a cold, hard lump in her belly. ‘I would have expected you to be more interested in the Prince.’

  A burst of the so-familiar laughter filled the room. ‘That fat fawn? That tearful, womanising dilettante? You think I’m fool enough to want to replace him with his brother, the Duke of York? A real man and a soldier? The emperor would have my head in a basket and rightly so. No, the loss of your Duke and his secrets will be a setback from which the British will never recover.’

  ‘You plan to kidnap him.’

  ‘Naturally.’ He turned away from the mirror, walked over to the bed and retrieved his pistol. He loaded it with methodical ease.

  This was not good. She eyed the distance to the door. But he was in between. And the window was closed.

  He rammed the shot home and glanced up. ‘You haven’t yet told anyone of my identity, I presume?’ He shook his head. ‘Of course not. You were not sure.’ He glanced around. ‘And there was something you wanted, hmm? A picture perhaps?’

  Nausea rose in her throat. He had planned to use it against her somehow. She repressed the urge to press her hand against her bosom, where the miniature suddenly seemed much too large for so small a space, where she was sure he would see it should he happen to look more closely. She had to think of something. Anything. To stop him.

  Her heartbeat quickened as she slipped into a version of the games he had taught her when she had thought he was working for the loyalists. When she had handed him their lives, thinking she was saving them. Until she’d discovered his true colours by accident. One day while he’d been out, she’d found a letter from Fouché congratulating him on his success in trapping a leader of a small band of royalists. A heartbreaking shock she’d never revealed and instead had tried to warn his potential victims. And then, with professions of undying devotion, because he’d thought her besotted, he’d used her as bait to trap her sister. It seemed he still thought her besotted. The man’s ego knew no bounds at all.