All You Need is a Duke (The Duke Hunters Club, #1)

by Blythe, Bianca

  The bishop did not seem aware of the fact that ‘absolutely’ was a word that denoted confidence, for the bishop’s forehead crinkled again. “You did not desire to attend your own ball?”

  “I’ve just arrived,” Jasper said. “Besides, why merry-make when one can contemplate the miraculousness of life?”

  “Quite right,” the bishop said. “You are a wise man, Your Grace.”

  “He is a man hiding my daughter,” Mrs. Carberry exclaimed. “Margaret! Margaret! Where are you?”

  For a moment, Jasper thought Miss Carberry might poke her head out from behind the curtain, but no sound drifted from the window.

  “She’s not here,” Jasper said. “Obviously.”

  “We truly must leave,” the bishop urged his companion. “Lingering in the duke’s private chambers is inappropriate.”

  Mrs. Carberry sniffed. “I refuse to take societal etiquette lessons from a bishop. He must have hidden her somewhere.”

  “I do not hide women in my bedroom,” Jasper said stiffly.

  “Perhaps she’s in your wardrobe,” Mrs. Carberry said.

  “An abominable suggestion,” the bishop said. “Please, do not embarrass yourself. We would not want the duke to think poorly of you.”

  Mrs. Carberry hesitated, doubtlessly contemplating the consequences of lingering, but finally, she shook her head firmly.

  Jasper’s heart sank.

  Perhaps Mrs. Carberry thought she’d already hindered her place on the list of invitees for future festivities. If she found her daughter, that would ensure an elevated status.

  “Nevertheless, I shall look.” Mrs. Carberry strode toward the wardrobe, swung it open, stared at the rows of tailcoats and trousers, and quickly slammed it shut. “Not here.”

  “Precisely,” Jasper said. “I would not harm your daughter.”

  Mrs. Carberry sniffed and ducked her head below the bed. Her face had reddened, bearing a resemblance to a strawberry, but she continued to search the room.

  Jasper almost admired her resolve.

  “Perhaps she’s behind the curtains!” Mrs. Carberry marched toward the window.

  “N-No,” Jasper said.

  If Mrs. Carberry found her, as she certainly would, the bishop would become suspicious. No doubt he’d announce an immediate need for Jasper to post the banns. With Jasper’s current luck, the bishop might be seeing the Archbishop of Canterbury the next day and would begin the arrangements for a special license.

  “That’s not necessary,” Jasper blurted.

  “On the contrary, it’s quite necessary,” Mrs. Carberry replied.

  Though Jasper’s bedroom was of a generous proportion, and though Mrs. Carberry’s legs were of the short variety, it did not take Mrs. Carberry long to reach the window.

  “I’d rather you wouldn’t look,” Jasper said.

  Mrs. Carberry’s lips formed a straight line, and she drew the curtain.

  No woman was behind it.

  Jasper’s mouth dropped open. Miss Carberry should be standing right outside. No stairs descended from the balcony.

  Where the bloody hell had she gone?

  CHAPTER THREE

  WIND SLAMMED AGAINST Margaret. Even though the wind had seemed unremarkable when Margaret had queued outside, ranking lower in irritation than the incessant drizzle, now it was impossible to ignore. If only the duke had decided to shatter tradition and have a ground floor bedroom. Margaret had known she shouldn’t exit the window, even before she’d seen the exact manner in which the duke’s majestic eyebrows had lurched toward his artfully tousled hair.

  One didn’t clamber from bedroom windows.

  But then, one also shouldn’t be tied to bedposts.

  Somehow, her actions had seemed appropriate, but an appreciation for the practicableness of stairs and the reasons for their decided popularity swept through her. Facade clambering was not a common occupation, even for the athletic.

  Margaret was not athletic. Running only irritated her generously sized bosom, and doing other exercises, which involved bending and contorting her body into odd positions, made her feel ridiculous.

  And yet, here she was, on a narrow balcony.

  She glanced down. Guests no longer queued outside the townhouse. The last thing Margaret needed was for someone to spot her and yell “thief.” Even worse would be if someone recognized her. There was no explanation possible for why a debutante might be on the balcony that led to a duke’s bedroom. After all, no chaperone, was beside her. Not even Grandmother Agatha, whom she normally managed to wrangle to accompany her on visits that were of less interest to her mother.

  Margaret assessed the situation. The problem with clinging onto a balcony was the now chilly air. The wind slammed against her, pulling her canary-colored dress, as if delighted to have so much fabric with which to play. Even if it had chosen to be less active, the frigid air would still be galling.

  Below her, carriages continued to drive past, sometimes dropping off passengers, or sometimes picking up the ones who contented themselves with making a brief appearance before a long night of drifting from party to party.

  Rain dabbled down, sliding over her fingers. She’d already destroyed her lace gloves trying to break her restraints.

  Margaret was glad she couldn’t see the duke’s expression—but even if she couldn’t see his face, she knew he must be aghast.

  Margaret shifted her legs. Voices sounded from below, and she scrunched against the balcony, wishing the architect had designed the facade with less enthusiasm for columns. One hardly needed a building to resemble a Greek temple when—even in Greece—people had stopped worshiping their gods centuries ago.

  Her mother’s voice rang out. She was going to search on the balcony.

  Margaret’s heart spun, careening this way and that, uncaring about her other body vessels. Breathing grew difficult.

  She needed to hide.

  At once.

  Unfortunately, balconies made atrocious hiding spots.

  An idea shot through her.

  Margaret hastily climbed over the balcony rail and placed her feet on the brick header to her left.

  It worked, and Margaret beamed. Other women might have been afraid of the lack of stability, but Margaret had done it. She clung onto the iron rails of the balcony, and now if her mother opened the door—when her mother opened the door—she would be hidden.

  It was perfect.

  The rain continued to splatter onto her face and hands; it continued to dampen her dress, but it didn’t matter. Half an hour ago, she’d been certain she would have to marry the duke. And though the man had shown no signs of cruelty, she had no desire to marry a man forced to become her husband. He would always know he was a duke, and that she was a wallflower dragooned into society by the sheer force of her father’s sudden supply of coin.

  “Oy! Up there!” a man shouted.

  Margaret froze. Her dress was unlikely to blend into the brick walls, and she cursed the fact that the Duke of Jevington had not possessed an eccentric manner that had compelled him to order the bricks to be painted to match the sun. Instead, the house resembled the other townhouses on the block. Only the exact composition of columns and flourishes differed.

  “Get down, girl. It’s dangerous up there!” the man yelled.

  Oh, dear.

  The wind blustered but failed to swallow the man’s voice. Any moment now her mother might investigate.

  That moment would arrive sooner if the man continued to flaunt his diaphragm capabilities.

  Margaret flung her gaze downward. It was easy to spot him. He wore a cloak and top hat, familiar livery for a driver.

  She twisted her torso inelegantly toward the man, even though turning when one’s feet needed to remain on a brick header above a window and one’s hands needed to be clutching onto balcony rails must be one of the great foolish things to do. If only she’d taken a greater interest in athletic conditioning. She’d always scoffed at the women who deemed such mane
uvers the pinnacle of their day, favoring the joys of memorizing new facts.

  She placed her finger over her lips, hoping he’d be quiet.

  “Careful, lady!” the man hollered.

  She repeated the gesture.

  “Did you see that woman?” the man yelled, turning his head.

  Margaret cringed.

  The man wasn’t the sole person outside. No doubt in a few minutes he’d have every driver staring at her. Worse, he might have the butler out there staring at her.

  “Quiet!” she mouthed.

  The balcony door opened, and she froze. Then it slammed shut, before the man could shout again, and relief thrummed through her.

  She was safe.

  She attempted to adjust her position, so she could clamber up to the balcony and wait until her mother left the duke’s room. A gust of wind nearly toppled her, seeming desirous of forcing the tear in her dress to increase in indecency.

  Her fingers slipped. She struggled to retighten her grip, but more rain landed, swathing her hand in icy liquid.

  Her heart leaped uncertainly, but she gritted her teeth.

  I can do this.

  I have to do this.

  Margaret concentrated on tightening her grip around the rail, not caring how ridiculous she might appear from the street.

  She couldn’t let go.

  Letting go might mean injury.

  Letting go might mean death.

  “Hang on, dearie!” the man shouted. “Don’t fall. You don’t want to kill yourself.”

  The man’s hollers lacked reassurance.

  “That girl’s about to die,” he said loudly. “Right on Grosvenor Square. Imagine that. Not worth it being a thief, no it ain’t.”

  Margaret’s heart lurched in her chest, and the cold rain continued to pelt her. Raindrops slid under her neckline, trickling over her back with more force than the champagne had succeeded in doing.

  Her teeth chattered, but she held on.

  More voices sounded under her, carriage wheels rumbled, and a horse neighed, but she held on.

  The process remained difficult. Exhaustion ratcheted through her, and pain shot through her arm. Wind blustered against her, whipping ringlets of hair over her eyes.

  Her fingers slipped.

  Fiddle-faddle.

  Margaret plummeted.

  She flung her hands into the air, attempting to clasp onto something, anything.

  Her locks swept away from her eyes, but all she saw was grayness.

  She flailed her arms upward, as if there might possibly be anything to grasp, but there was nothing: this was the end.

  Margaret crashed.

  She bounced.

  Bouncing was not the outcome she’d expected. She rolled, then fell more, this time landing on cobblestones.

  She was alive. It was a state she’d taken for granted, but which she now very much appreciated.

  Cold raindrops continued to land on her, her body ached, and her dress was now both torn and muddied, but it didn’t matter.

  I’m alive.

  She sighed.

  Blissfully.

  “Miss?” The stern-looking butler from earlier dashed from a carriage, followed by the talkative driver, who was on the pavement.

  She scrambled from the cobblestones. Her feathered turban had landed in a muddy puddle, and a feather had snapped from its perch. Though she’d desired an excuse not to wear it, the vision of the destroyed turban lacked the satisfaction she’d envisioned.

  The butler scrutinized her with the vigor of a man accustomed to searching for the slightest smudges when polishing silver. “Are you well?”

  “Yes.” She was fine. She was standing, and her hands worked.

  Margaret surveyed the carriage. Evidently, she’d landed on the carriage’s roof and that had saved her. “You moved that for me?”

  The butler nodded. “After that man alerted me, I contemplated going indoors and reaching you from the balcony, but I thought this would be quicker.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “You could have ruined that carriage,” the driver barked. “Glad it ain’t mine.” He cast a stern glance at the butler. “Carriages are expensive.”

  “I-I didn’t mean to fall,” Margaret stammered.

  The driver furrowed thick brows and glared.

  He turned to the butler. “Shall I look for a night watchman? Perhaps she was trying to steal! Awfully nice dress for a vagrant. Most suspicious.”

  The butler gave a gentle smile. “I believe she is a guest, sir.”

  “A guest?” The driver’s eyes rounded. “Are you certain?”

  “It is hard to forget a dress of that particular shade of yellow. The same goes for that turban.” The butler moved his gaze solemnly toward the puddle and its ruined contents.

  The men continued to speak, but Margaret couldn’t listen. She needed to leave.

  Even the most eccentric weren’t supposed to clamber outside ducal balconies. Margaret hadn’t survived so she could be berated more. Her status in society already sufficed in lowness. She hardly required rumors she was a thief. She couldn’t stay here, but she couldn’t enter the ball with a muddied, torn dress either.

  Drivers gazed at her curiously from their carriages, some moving their heads into the drizzle of rain.

  If only her driver were lingering here. Unfortunately, he was going to pick them up at midnight. The sky might be dark, but she doubted it was anywhere near that time yet, and Margaret had no desire to wait for him.

  “Would you like to go inside?” the butler asked.

  Margaret hesitated.

  Not remaining in the rain was tempting. She shouldn’t remain here and continue to have conversations with bemused drivers. At any moment a guest might exit the townhouse. Margaret’s presence would be impossible to not notice, and Margaret’s reputation would become even more questionable.

  Perhaps Margaret had not been discovered bedding the duke, but standing on a street in a torn, tattered dress alone was not a great improvement.

  And yet...

  Even if she could absolutely not linger outside, unfortunately, she could not venture inside. Without question she would encounter more members of the ton inside.

  She squeezed her eyes.

  Her mother had succeeded in ruining her after all, and all Margaret had accomplished was to make certain the Duke of Jevington was not involved in any scandal.

  She frowned.

  She was in Grosvenor Square.

  Daisy lived nearby.

  Margaret could visit her, since Daisy wouldn’t be at the ball.

  “You really should step inside,” the butler said gently.

  “I should be hauling her off to determine she ain’t no criminal,” the driver said. “Not good when a woman can burgle a house in a nice neighborhood like this.”

  “I wasn’t going to steal,” Margaret protested.

  “Then just what were you trying to do?” the driver asked. “Seems to me you must have been trying to do that, even if you did have an invitation.”

  Margaret stared at him.

  The butler and driver stared at her.

  Right.

  Margaret shifted her legs.

  “Must be a professional too,” the driver mused, “given as how I didn’t even notice her climb up.”

  There was no time for further musings, no matter how valuable the process of thinking normally was. Instead, Margaret bolted.

  She lifted her skirt to avoid stepping on the hem and scurried down the street. She avoided looking at the carriages, as if not catching the drivers’ eyes might mean they would not spot a flurry of canary yellow and brunette locks.

  She fled past Grosvenor Square, then turned onto one side street, then another. Too late, she realized she didn’t even have a reticule and had no money for a hack.

  She gritted her teeth.

  She wasn’t looking for a hack—yet.

  She was looking for Daisy.

  Finall
y, she arrived at her friend’s townhouse.

  She considered clambering through her friend’s window. But unlike in Loretta Van Lochen novels, she didn’t trust herself to scale the building. Even the duke’s balcony had proved perilous.

  Besides, Daisy was sensible and unlikely to have her window open. This part of Mayfair might be pleasant, but this remained London, and many people in need of coin were aware of its abundance in this neighborhood.

  Margaret smoothed her dress, conscious mud remained caked on various parts. Dress smoothing hardly compared with dress washing, drying and pressing, but it would have to suffice.

  She grabbed the knocker, tapped it, and eventually, the butler opened the door.

  If he was indignant at having been interrupted from his plans to sleep, he did not verbalize them. He did though widen his eyes and curl his lips.

  “I’m so sorry,” she rushed to say. “But I wanted to speak with Miss Holloway.”

  The butler frowned, and she shivered under his steely gaze.

  “Is she in?” Margaret’s voice trembled.

  “Miss Holloway is not prone to cavorting about the city at odd hours of the night.” The butler’s voice boomed in an authoritative tone. No doubt he was successful at keeping the footmen in check, perhaps even appearing in their dreams after particularly clumsy serving incidents.

  Margaret shuddered, as if he were a ship’s captain who’d just announced that the ship’s mast had toppled into the ocean and survival was uncertain.

  “But may I see her?”

  The butler exhaled, and his confident manner appeared flummoxed. “These are not regular calling hours, young lady.”

  Thumping sounded upstairs, and Margaret suddenly was grateful for the strength of the butler’s voice, after all.

  “Oh, Jameson,” Daisy called from the mezzanine. “You needn’t pretend to be a guard dog. It’s only Miss Carberry.”

  “You haven’t seen her attire,” Jameson murmured, and his lips twisted in that particular manner common to people who had discovered the perfect retort, and were contriving, for continued employment purposes, not to utter their witticisms.

  Daisy waved her hand through the bannister. “Don’t mind him. Come on up.”

  Margaret nodded and hurried up the stairs. Daisy’s mouth fell when Margaret approached. Evidently, she’d noticed her attire.