The Way to a Duke's Heart: The Truth About the Duke

by Caroline Linden

  “How lovely you look,” gushed Mrs. Bates. “Oh, Tessa dear, I am so glad you heeded Lady Woodall’s advice to bring one evening gown.”

  “Yes,” said the lady with a wry smile, pulling on the cloak her maid brought out. “My sister was right; I admit it. A lady must be ever prepared for a dinner party, no matter where she roams. Are you ready, sir?” She turned to Charlie, who had to plaster a quick smile on his face to conceal any sign of his lascivious thoughts.

  “To offer you my arm? Of course.”

  Her lips parted and she gave him a sideways look before her smile reappeared. “I meant for dinner with Mr. Scott.”

  “I am prepared for that as one prepares for an examination by the tooth drawer,” he replied. “With stoic valor and fierce determination not to weep.”

  She choked on a laugh. “You’re ridiculous.”

  “No, merely unserious. But I am greatly looking forward to escorting you to the banquet.” He put his hat back on and made a show of offering his arm. “Shall we?”

  “Good-bye,” said Mrs. Bates, beaming at them as they went out the door. “Have a pleasant evening!”

  “Thank you for coming for me,” said Mrs. Neville as they walked. It was only a short distance to The Bear, and it was a very fine evening. The last of twilight still lit the sky, and patches of light from doors and windows checkered the pavement ahead of them. Other people hurried past, going home or ducking into pubs or heading to the playhouse. Frome was a small town but by no means a sleepy one.

  “I didn’t wish to arrive alone,” Charlie replied. “You have done me the favor.”

  She laughed. “Flummery!”

  He grinned, as he always did when he made her laugh. “Truth! The mere thought of facing the bankers alone . . .” He shuddered. “Instead I shall arrive with a lovely lady on my arm, and she shall likely be the most informed person in the room to boot.”

  He spoke lightly, but the glance Tessa Neville gave him was not. It was hesitant, curious, a bit wary—as if she wanted to take his words seriously and wondered if he had meant them so. “How very unusual you are, my lord, to say such a thing.”

  Charlie bent his head toward hers. “I gather I’m not like most men you know, Mrs. Neville.”

  “Indeed not,” she replied with such wry fervor he couldn’t help a grin.

  “Indeed not,” he repeated in delight. “Good heavens, how you do torment me.”

  “Oh? How so?” She looked braced for a rebuke.

  “How shall I know exactly what you meant? ‘Oh, no, Lord Gresham, you’re not like any other man of my acquaintance. No one else is quite as impertinent.’ ”

  “Oh, Lord, no,” she said at once, with a relieved little laugh. “If I’d thought that, I would have merely smiled and murmured something politely vague.”

  “Then it was a compliment.” He let a bit of swagger creep into his stride. “Thank you, madam, for recognizing my superiority to other men.”

  Her eyebrows went up but she only smiled. “As you wish, my lord.”

  “Ah,” he murmured. “I knew a compliment was too much to hope for.”

  “I suggest you not hope for compliments, sir,” she answered as they reached The Bear. “Expect none, and then each will seem a lovely surprise.”

  Charlie paused, his hand on the door, and looked at her. She was serious. He didn’t know a woman in London society who didn’t expect compliments, or who didn’t thrive on them. Tessa Neville not only grew a shade uncomfortable when complimented, she clearly preferred a more egalitarian relationship. She owned her faults, and made no effort to hide her weaknesses—and she required the same of him, puncturing his pride with glee but also crediting him with the same level of meticulous interest in Scott’s canal that she had, when the rest of the world would have laughed uproariously at the thought of Charles de Lacey buying his own canal shares, or even knowing what one was. “You’re a most unusual woman, Mrs. Neville.”

  “I’m well aware of it,” she said with a faintly weary smile. “I hope you can overlook it.”

  “On the contrary,” said Charlie, still staring at her in fascination. The light from the inn shone on her face, turned toward him with an open, frank expression. Any other woman would have clung to his arm and either teased him or played coy all night. There was nothing coy about Tessa Neville. “I believe I like it.”

  Her eyes widened in surprise, and he swept the door open for her. With the tiniest frown at him, she walked into the inn, where the landlord hurried forward to show them to the parlor where dinner would be served.

  Charlie followed, somewhat surprised by how that thought had become so clear to him of late. Tessa Neville was unlike every other woman he’d ever met, and he did like it. He liked her, in fact, a great deal. This was not new. Charlie had liked a number of women. The part that was new was his intense interest in her feeling for him: initially chilly, gradually thawing, and finally—he hoped—a state of growing regard. It made him want to laugh at himself; if the ladies in London had ever guessed that forcing him to work for their regard would have tantalized him so, he’d have been the most disdained man in London.

  Scott came forward at once to greet them. “Welcome, my lord,” he said with a bow. “Mrs. Neville. How good of you to join us this evening.”

  Charlie just bowed his head. At his side, Mrs. Neville dipped a curtsy. “Good evening, sir.”

  “Let me introduce you.” Scott offered her his arm and led her to the gentleman standing before the fireplace. “This is Mr. Tallboys, from Norswick and Gregg, in Poole. Mr. Tallboys is our banker.” A slim man with thinning brown hair bowed. He was as nondescript as every other banker and solicitor Charlie had ever met. “Sir Gregory Attwood, whose property lies along the canal line. As you know, all our shareholders are welcome to attend any meeting of our directors, even such a small one as this.” Scott smiled, but Charlie got the feeling Attwood wasn’t actually welcome, but rather tolerated. Attwood was a rotund figure of a man, with pale blue eyes set rather far apart in a round face. Drops of wine already marred his waistcoat, and he gave Mrs. Neville a glance that was almost a leer.

  “And tonight I’ve invited Mr. Lester, our resident engineer, as well,” Scott finished, indicating the last man, who stood behind the other two. He was a strapping fellow about Charlie’s own age, but with a weathered face and somber air. He bowed very courteously as Scott introduced them. “We’re a small group, but I believe that will be beneficial tonight.” Scott beamed at them all, looking very pleased with himself.

  Tallboys, the banker, stepped up to Charlie as Scott led Mrs. Neville aside. “A great pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lord. Mr. Scott’s mentioned your name and said you’ve an interest in our enterprise.”

  Charlie tore his eyes off Mrs. Neville, who was exchanging pleasantries with Scott and the engineer. “Yes—or rather, perhaps. I’ve not decided yet.”

  Tallboys smiled. “I would be delighted to answer any queries you might have. How can I persuade you?”

  Good Lord. Would he actually have to speak of the canal? He should never have let Tessa Neville leave his side. “It’s behind schedule,” Charlie said, plucking one recollection from his brain. “When will it be completed?”

  “Only a few months behind,” said Tallboys, launching into a detailed description of a troublesome aqueduct, the difficulties of hiring competent workers during the war, and so on. Charlie made no pretense of attending. He watched Mrs. Neville nod and converse, very soberly, with Mr. Scott and Mr. Lester. How could she bear this? he wondered. Tallboys’s voice was like the drone of an insect in his ear. Who cared for the bloody price of iron, or how many bricklayers a canal needed? Charlie wanted to know what Tessa Neville had meant when she said he wasn’t like other men.

  For her part, Tessa couldn’t stop thinking about Lord Gresham’s last remark, that she was unusual and he liked it. He liked
it? That was a step above tolerating her, or finding her oddly fascinating like some sort of museum specimen. She knew Eugenie would sigh and smile in delight if she had heard that, which made her doubly glad he’d only murmured it to her in passing, and at a moment when she couldn’t drive herself mad wondering what he’d really meant.

  “Mr. Lester is our resident engineer,” Mr. Scott said after he’d introduced her to the man in question. “Any particular questions you have, he is the man to ask.”

  Mr. Lester ducked his head. “Honored to make your acquaintance, ma’am.”

  “How good of you to join us this evening,” she replied. “Thank you for making time to come. I’m sure the canal must keep you very busy.”

  A flush stained his face and he dropped his gaze. “ ’Tis part of my job, ma’am. I shall try to explain anything you wish to know.”

  The poor man looked so uncomfortable, Tessa was almost glad when Mr. Scott clapped him on the back. “There, Lester! No need to worry. I doubt Mrs. Neville plans to scrutinize your drawings and check your figures.”

  “Of course not,” said Tessa with a smile. “I merely wish to evaluate the canal as a business proposition, not as an engineering marvel.”

  Lester gave an awkward smile and darted a glance at Mr. Scott. “I’m sure I never thought so, ma’am.”

  Scott cleared his throat. “Lester, would you be so good as to ring for dinner?” Looking vastly relieved, the other man ducked his head again and hurried away. “He’s a very capable engineer,” Mr. Scott said quietly to Tessa. “Started as a millwright’s boy when he was small, and knows his way around anything you want to build. But these dinners make him uncomfortable. He’s a solitary sort, I suppose.”

  “I understand.” And she did, all too well—except that it was fine society parties that made her uncomfortable, not business dinners.

  “And I must apologize—one of our chief shareholders was expected tonight, but I had a note from him just this morning with his regrets. Lord Worley would have been able to discuss every part of the enterprise with you at great length; he’s been one of our most important proponents from the beginning, both in Parliament and in local circles.”

  “He is a landowner?”

  Scott nodded. “His estate is west of here, in some rather rugged, though beautiful, hills, but he owns a large tract of coal-producing land further west, along the canal route. Naturally he has a high interest in the canal, but I assure you, he is an exacting man who requires the best of us.” Scott chuckled. “I daresay he’s as attentive to detail as you are yourself, madam.”

  “How unfortunate he was unable to come.” Tessa would have liked to meet someone who knew the project from the beginning, especially someone with a critical interest in it. Scott wouldn’t dodge her questions in the presence of one of his chief shareholders.

  “Yes, indeed.” Scott hesitated. “I particularly wished him to meet Lord Gresham as well. I’ve been unable thus far to determine how deep His Lordship’s interest runs; dare I presume to ask if . . . well, if you might have a word with him? Only after I’ve satisfied all your own questions, of course.”

  Tessa’s eyes narrowed. “I’m sure Lord Gresham can decide on his own. I was quite as surprised as you to discover he contemplated investing.”

  “Of course,” murmured Scott. “Of course. Naturally, should you counsel Lord Marchmont to purchase shares, it would be in his interest as well for Lord Gresham to purchase shares. Any question of money running short would be detrimental to the canal.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Is there any question of money running short?”

  “No,” he said quickly. “None! But as I’m sure you know, no engineering project can ever be too flush with funds.” He gave her a rueful smile.

  Tessa returned it. “Yes, I do know.” She wasn’t about to promise anything regarding Lord Gresham, though.

  “Ah, here is Lester,” said Mr. Scott, looking up as the engineer slipped back into the room, followed by a parade of servants carrying covered trays. “Madam, gentlemen,” he said to the room at large, “shall we dine?”

  Mr. Scott took the head of the table, ushering her to the seat at his right hand. Sir Gregory Attwood took the seat beside her, leaving Lord Gresham across from them with Mr. Tallboys at his side. Mr. Lester silently went to the chair at the foot of the table. Scott beamed at them all as the wine was poured. “This isn’t a true meeting of shareholders, but on behalf of the South Somerset Coal Canal, welcome!”

  “Welcome, indeed,” added Mr. Tallboys, raising his glass. “We are delighted to have such company, and hope it is a portent of meetings to come.”

  “Aye, I daresay,” muttered Sir Gregory, raising his glass and tossing back the entire contents. “Let us eat, Tallboys! No one will buy your shares if they faint from hunger.”

  Mr. Scott gave him a pained look but nodded, and they all sat down to eat. For a while the conversation wandered down dull and trivial paths; the weather, local politics, nothing of use. Tessa tried from time to time to bring up something related to the canal, but Mr. Scott or Mr. Tallboys always answered her question lightly and changed the subject. Mr. Lester, whom she would have liked to speak to, kept his head down and said little.

  Charlie would have been content to exchange empty niceties all night long. He wasn’t paying much heed to it anyway as he wracked his brains for a way to draw Scott out in some betraying fashion. There was nothing to the man; he had no wife and no children, no passions or interests beyond his iron factory and this cursed canal. Was this what ambition looked like? He had the damnedest self-possession Charlie had ever thought to see in a blackmailer, never losing his equable smile, no matter how snide or pointed a comment at the table. It began to annoy him, in fact, almost as much as Mr. Tallboys did. While Scott held court like some genial host, Tallboys seemed bent on worming his way into Charlie’s good graces. It was only by steadily eating and drinking that he was able to avoid speaking to the man. Even listening to Mrs. Neville ask about the water sources was preferable to Tallboys’s voice.

  At one point, when Charlie had adamantly ignored his overtures for some time, the banker leaned closer and murmured, “I perceive you are a man who prefers to listen, and form your own conclusions. Very admirable, my lord.”

  “Yes.” Charlie tipped his glass to his lips again to avoid saying more.

  “Mr. Scott can be a trifle carried away in his enthusiasm at times,” Tallboys went on with a sympathetic look. “But then, I daresay a man of his rank and profession must be more prone to emotion and ambition. He is a merchant, and has been selling something or other since he was a boy.”

  “You make him sound a charlatan.” A servant appeared to refill his glass the instant he set it down. Charlie broodingly watched the burgundy stream into his goblet. Decent wine was the sole salvation of the evening, in his opinion.

  “That was not my intent,” replied Tallboys hastily. “Merely that he hasn’t got the same reserve and decorum a gentleman might.”

  Charlie knew several gentlemen without reserve or decorum; in truth, he was often one of them. If he kept drinking this way, and Tallboys continued annoying him, he might yet lapse into his usual ways.

  Somehow that thought led his mind to another point, and then another. “You’re the banker,” he said abruptly. “You must keep the account books.”

  Tallboys blinked, but nodded politely. “I do indeed, sir. Mr. Scott also maintains a set of books. Do you wish to see them?”

  “Mrs. Neville does.” Charlie gestured at her with his wineglass. “Scott hasn’t produced them for her. I wonder why.”

  “Ah—yes, yes, he did tell me the lady wished to review the books. I believe the delay has been mischance; I said Mr. Scott maintains a set of books, true, but they are not complete. I understand Mrs. Neville wishes to see the complete accounting, which I have brought with me from Poole. I expect he s
hall make them available to her very soon, as they would be to any prospective investor.” Tallboys’s gaze went to the woman across from them. “Perhaps you wish to view them with her, my lord.”

  One corner of Charlie’s mouth bent upward. He’d rarely had to read a ledger in his life, and didn’t plan to start with a canal ledger he had no interest in, not even for the pleasure of reading it with Tessa Neville. “No. I prefer to make my judgments based on other criteria.”

  Tallboys’s mouth pursed in minute frustration, but he merely bowed his head. “Of course, my lord. I remain ready to answer any criteria you have.”

  “Excellent.” Charlie raised one finger, and the servant with the wine promptly stepped back up to fill his glass yet again. “Sir Gregory,” he said into a momentary lull in the conversation, “what is your opinion of this canal?”

  Sir Gregory looked up from his plate, casting a critical eye on Charlie. He had hardly said a word thus far, the dribbles and spots on his waistcoat showing his true interest: the roast joint of beef. If Scott intended to lure investors with fine food and drink, he was doing an excellent job. Attwood leaned back in his chair and swiped the trickle of juice from his chin. “ ’Tis a damned fraud, sir.”

  Charlie raised one eyebrow. Hiram Scott made a sound like a sigh before smiling stiffly. “Now, Sir Gregory, we’ve addressed your complaints.”

  “Not all of ’em,” retorted the older man. He caught up his wineglass and fixed his gaze on Charlie. “You’re a fool if you give these gentlemen your money, Gresham.”

  “And yet you allowed them to build across your land,” said Mrs. Neville. “Why has your opinion changed, sir?”

  Attwood’s eyes bulged a little, and he turned to glare at her in indignation. “And what business is it of yours, madam? I changed my mind, and that’s that.”