To Ruin the Duke

by Debra Mullins

  “So generous of you,” she sneered.

  He only arched an eyebrow, then quit the room, once again with no proper pleasantries.

  She stood there watching the doorway where he had exited, her insides a churning, whirling tangle of rage and confusion. How could she have thought him handsome, even for a moment? He had gotten Lettie with child, then abandoned her. For that alone he deserved to be reviled. Then he had rejected little James out of hand—the baby whose very existence he doubted. She should have brought the baby with her that morning. Perhaps then he would not consider her some sort of opportunist trying to catch his eye. But she had been too afraid he might take the child from her on the spot and she would never see James again.

  But perhaps that was what it would take. Maybe the overbearing man needed to see the child with his own eyes. Possibly then he would step forward and provide in some small way for the innocent result of his affair with Lettie. And if that was what it would take…

  “My dear!” Thaddeus ducked into the room, concern creasing lines around his mouth and eyes. He reached her and took her hands in his, lowering his voice. “I have been looking everywhere for you. Imagine my shock when I heard you had been seen leaving the salon with Wyldehaven. Are you all right?”

  “I am fine.” She gave him a rueful smile and gently tugged her hands free. “The disguise did not fool him, Thaddeus.”

  “Did he threaten to reveal your true identity? Oh, that would be disastrous!”

  Knowing Thaddeus would try to defend her to the duke, Miranda lied, “No, nothing like that. But he still maintains he is not James’s father.”

  “Not his father! I myself saw him escort Lettie more than once from the theater. Aye, he is the one; no doubt of it.”

  “Perhaps bringing James to him will prove that. I intend to go there tomorrow with the baby.”

  “Do not do it,” Thaddeus hissed. “What if he snatches the boy from you and sends him to an orphanage? His behavior these past few months indicates he is not above such a thing.”

  Since his fear echoed her own, she tried to put on a brave face. “I will not allow such a thing to happen. Trust me, Thaddeus.”

  “I do trust you; it is him I do not trust. Lettie trusted him, and look what happened to her.”

  “Calm yourself, Thaddeus.” She summoned a reassuring smile, masking the panic she herself felt. “I do not believe I have anything to fear from the Duke of Wyldehaven.”

  “I pray you are right, because if he decides to take James away, we cannot fight him, Miranda. He is too powerful.”

  “No one will separate me from James, Thaddeus.” Resolve hardened like ice in her heart. “No one.”

  Chapter 4

  The fire burned low in the grate, infusing the dimly lit drawing room with a dull glow that suited the eyes of gentlemen a shade or two past sober. Wylde regarded his half-empty glass of whisky and considered that he might end up more shades than that if his friends had anything to say about it.

  But then again, perhaps the oblivion of intoxication would do him some good. Perhaps he could forget about a pair of green eyes and the duplicity of women for at least a few hours.

  With an affable if slightly intoxicated grin, Kit Penthill, Viscount Linnet, tapped his whisky glass on the table. “The meeting of the Sons of Grendel will now come to order.”

  “And who put you in charge?” Wulf raised neither his voice nor his eyes from his glass, but the big man’s quiet growl had Kit’s grin fading.

  “Someone has to do it.” Kit slouched down in his chair, one blue eye glaring from beneath his tousled blond locks. “You can do it if you like.”

  “It’s Wylde’s house. Let him do it.” Lounging indolently on a comfortable sofa, Darcy saluted them all with his own whisky. His dark good looks and wicked smirk gave the impression of a sinful angel. “What say you, Wylde? Do we name you our leader now that poor Michael has gone to his reward?”

  Silence fell. Wylde regarded Darcy as he would a flea in his bed. “No one can replace Michael.”

  “Not replace.” Darcy swung his feet to the floor and straightened, alerted by the warning tone. His whisky splashed over the side of the glass. “But the Sons of Grendel need a leader.”

  “We do not, and have a care for that rug. It’s Persian.” Wylde sipped from his glass and wondered how long until he was drunk enough not to care about the bloody rug. The drink had already loosened his tongue too much, and somewhere between the third and fourth glass of whisky he had reluctantly confided his recent difficulties with the imposter to his friends. There was no one he trusted more than these three men—all that remained of his schoolboy mates, the Sons of Grendel. And yet knowing that, he still did not tell them about Miranda Fontaine.

  He wanted to forget about her. If she were smart, she would heed his warning and cease her chicanery. Leave London, or at least his part of it. But how ironic that the first woman he had responded to in years proved to be just one more grasping female.

  “Of course we need a leader.” Kit grinned like a fool and laid his head back on the chair. “Michael has been ours since Eton. We cannot expect to go on without one for much longer.”

  “We are grown men.” Dragging his thoughts away from that maddening woman, Wylde held up his glass and pondered the flicker of firelight through the amber liquid. “I see no reason to have a leader.”

  “I agree,” Wulf said. “All the Sons of Grendel inspire fear in the hearts of men to this day, even with Michael gone.”

  Wylde tipped some whisky into his mouth, then contemplated the fire again through the new level of alcohol, pretending his chest did not tighten at Michael’s mere name. “Indeed. The threat that forged us is long past.”

  “But there are other threats now.” Darcy pointed his finger at them, somehow keeping the other four wrapped around his glass. “Your recent troubles for one.”

  Wulf turned concerned silver eyes on Wylde. “You should have told us sooner.”

  “I am telling you now,” Wylde said.

  Kit leaned forward. “Have you called Bow Street?”

  “Not yet. That seems the next logical step.” He reached for the decanter on the table beside him. “Today another cardsharp approached me with another forged set of vowels.”

  “What did you do?” Kit asked, agog.

  “Paid, of course. What else could I do?” Wylde carefully measured another finger of whisky into the glass.

  “Tell him to go to the devil!” Kit exclaimed.

  Wylde shook his head. “That would only worsen matters.”

  “I imagine the gossips are making the most of it,” Wulf said, making Wylde wince. “And I know you detest that sort of titter-tatter.”

  “Because of your sire, God rest his soul.” Kit nodded to himself. “Madcap Matherton all over again.”

  Wylde glared. “Thank you so much for rubbing salt in the wound, Kit.”

  “Aye,” Darcy agreed. “’Tis not bad enough that some villain is running about Town impersonating the Duke of Wyldehaven, but now poor Wylde must contend with the resurrection of his father’s misdeeds as well.”

  Wylde sipped his whisky and closed his eyes, savoring the burn and wishing it could erase the events of the past couple of weeks. “I just do not know how he is doing it. Acquaintances claimed they saw me in places I never went. Gamesters have appeared with markers in their hands, supposedly signed by me. Young ladies have condemned me for trifling with their affections.”

  “Good God!” Wulf exclaimed. “What if he goes too far? Drags you into dun territory?”

  Wylde set his jaw. “I will stop him well before then.”

  “At least your pockets are deep.” Kit gulped back the last of his whisky. “Yours and Wulf’s. ’Tis just the opposite for me. Only today m’father declared that I have bankrupted the family coffers. Claims I waste my future inheritance on fripperies.”

  “If you feel the need to throw your money away, Kit, throw it to me,” Darcy said with a laugh. �
��For all that I have my title, there is naught but a moldering pile in Leicestershire to go with it.”

  “You are doomed to disappointment, my dear Darcy, at least for now.” Kit turned to face him, a generous amount of whisky sloshing in his glass. “Father has set forth an edict that I shall cease being a drain on the finances and instead seek to augment them. He intends to wed me to some mewling heiress.”

  Darcy set down his drink with a clank. “Which one?”

  “Miss Olivia Wherry.”

  “Ah, bloody hell.” Darcy fished a crumpled piece of paper from his coat pocket and stared at it with bleary eyes. “Number four.”

  Wulf chuckled. “Still got that list of heiresses, Rywood?”

  “Of course.” Darcy rose from his sofa and took up the quill from Wylde’s desk, dipped it in the ink, then scribbled out a name on the paper. “Good-bye to you, number four.”

  “You can have her,” Kit snapped, taking a huge gulp before flopping back into his chair. “God knows I do not want some hatchet-faced baggage ordering me about.”

  Darcy blew on the paper to dry the ink. “And I, my friend, would like nothing better. However, it seems no one wants their beloved daughter leg-shackled to the son of a murderer.”

  “Nothing was proven about your father,” Wulf interjected loyally. “Of course, that does not stop the gossips.”

  “Indeed,” Kit said, nodding sagely.

  “If I were you, I would accept wedded bliss with a smile,” Wylde said. “The alternative would be far worse.”

  Kit furrowed his brow in confusion. “Freedom?”

  “Poverty,” Wylde corrected.

  Wulf and Darcy roared with laughter.

  “Bollocks to that,” Kit muttered, and sipped his whisky again.

  “Such a pair we are.” Darcy tucked his list away as he came back to the sofa. “I would do anything to have an heiress merely acknowledge my presence, and here is Linnet whining because one is too eager to meet him at the altar.”

  “Would that I could give her to you, Darce,” Kit said with a sarcastic twist to his mouth. “For I have no doubt that my life will be sheer misery.”

  “You do not have to wed her,” Wylde said. “You can always say no and make your own way in the world.”

  Kit gave a little shudder. “No, thank you.”

  “Then stop your sniveling and do what must be done,” Wulf said.

  “Enough of this.” Wylde carefully stood and raised his glass. “To Michael, who led this ragtag group of runts and weaklings in rebellion against the bullies at school, forging our friendship for life. And for the first time since his funeral, we are all gathered together to remember him.” He paused, worked past the lump in his throat. “God-speed, old man.”

  A murmur of agreement rose, and glasses were raised. Wylde sank down in his chair, draining his glass to the dregs.

  “Who’s a runt?” Kit demanded.

  “None of us anymore.” Wulf stood and stretched, a lion of a man with silver threaded hair and a powerful build. “Though we cannot be considered boys any longer either.”

  “Speak for yourself, grandfather,” Darcy hooted. “You are older than all of us!”

  “By merely a year.” Wulf set down his empty glass. “Still, best I take these old bones home.”

  “I still think we need to elect a leader,” Kit mumbled.

  Wulf glared at him. “There’s time enough for that. We’re the Sons of Grendel, aren’t we? Stand up for each other and watch each other’s backs. You trifle with one Grendel…”

  “You trifle with us all!” Kit and Darcy shouted out in unison.

  Wylde rose and walked with Wulf, pausing as the footman opened the door to the hallway. “Good night, Wulf. It’s been good to see you.”

  “And you as well.” Wulf clapped him on the shoulder. “Call Bow Street to go after this blackguard. Do not wait any longer.”

  “I will contact them tomorrow.”

  “Good night, my friend.”

  “Good night.” Wylde waited until Wulf started down the hallway behind a servant, then turned back to his two other friends. “Shall I summon your horses, gentlemen, or will you stay the night?”

  “Ah, such a decision.” Darcy held up a hand and began counting off on his fingers. “Your chef is better than mine, your bed chambers more luxurious—”

  “And I am expected to take my grandmother shopping on Bond Street tomorrow.”

  “Zounds!” Darcy leaped to his feet with a limberness that belied his drunken state. “Come, Linnet. Wylde needs his rest.”

  “I will rest when I am dead,” Kit announced, his head nodding forward.

  “Not you, paper skull.” Darcy hauled Kit out of his chair and slung the viscount’s arm around his shoulders to keep him from falling back down again. “Wylde must be well rested for the duchess.”

  “The duchess is coming? Now?” Kit squinted around the room.

  “Bloody hell.” Darcy sent a look of exasperation to Wylde. “I believe we will need a footman. Or three.”

  “Indeed.” Smothering a grin, Wylde signaled to the footman beside the door, who nodded and left to summon assistance.

  “Well, aren’t you going to help?” Darcy asked.

  Wylde peered at Kit’s face and determined that his friend had slipped into the stupor of the truly sotted. He grabbed the viscount’s other arm and helped Darcy support their unconscious comrade. “I haven’t seen him this foxed in years.”

  “’Tis the heiress. The whole business has him addlepated. He hates that his father has forced him to this end.”

  Wylde grunted in agreement. “Understandable.”

  “This is the best thing that ever happened to him, if the fool would but realize it.” Darcy shook his head at Kit, his face creased with exasperated affection.

  “We will see this through.” Two footmen entered the room, and Wylde relinquished Kit’s weight to one of them. “We have always looked after each other.”

  Darcy stepped back, allowing the other footman to take over supporting his friend. “Against schoolyard bullies and outraged husbands.” He nodded in Kit’s direction as the footmen hauled him off. “And making certain our drunken comrades reach their homes safely. However, helping a fellow to the altar is a bit out of our territory.”

  “Should that stop us?”

  “No.” Darcy grinned and started toward the door. “I will see Kit home. I assume we are taking your carriage?”

  “I will arrange it. And I will send someone along with your horses tomorrow.”

  “Good night, then.” Darcy hesitated, emotion flickering across his face. “I would never have thought that a couple of reprobates like us would last in a friendship like this. Given our families, that is.”

  “We are in control of our destinies, my dear Rywood.” Wylde began steering him toward the door. “The sins of our families are in the past.”

  “Are they? Then why don’t you marry again?” Darcy stopped in the doorway. “Do you still blame your father for choosing Felicity to be your bride?”

  Wylde stiffened. “The whole matter was arranged before I was out of the nursery. She seemed perfectly normal.”

  “Until she—” Darcy clamped his lips shut. “I am foxed and have said too much. Good night, my friend. Pleasant dreams.”

  “Good night.” Wylde watched as the footmen escorted Kit and Darcy out of the room. He managed to keep his emotions under control until he was alone again. He glanced around the dimly lit drawing room, at the empty glasses, at the low fire burning in the grate.

  “It’s not the same without you, Michael. Damn you for dying. And damn me for not saving you.”

  He turned away and slammed the door as he quit the room, sealing the ghosts of the past inside. Michael. Felicity. Then he took the stairs two at a time to the next floor, where some modicum of peace awaited him in the small room at the end of the hall.

  The music room, where solace summoned him with open arms.

  He sat
down at his treasured Broadwood grand pianoforte and lifted the cover to reveal the keys. He should go to bed, half soused as he was. But he knew he would not sleep. The camaraderie of this meeting of the Grendels, the first without Michael, had made his soul weep with the promise of what would never be again. And Darcy’s casual mention of Felicity had sliced open the barely healed wounds of his scarred heart.

  She had fooled him indeed, his beautiful wife. Made him believe she cared for him, that she wanted the same things he did. That she was eager to bear his child. But it had all been a careful masquerade. The potion she had swallowed to rid herself of his child had also taken her own life. All she’d ever wanted was the prestige of being a duchess.

  He had never suspected, never saw a glimmer of the truth.

  Two years now, and still he wondered if he could have done something to save her. She had been his wife, his responsibility. Why had he not seen her true self? He never noticed her obsession with being beautiful, being a duchess. He never knew anything was wrong—not until she died.

  And then, if he had not been so shocked with grief and guilt over Felicity’s death, would he have let Michael go off to India in that cork-brained manner? Michael had died far away from the shores of home. And alone.

  Now there was this imposter, running about town ruining his sterling reputation. The blackguard gambled in gaming hells and seduced women in Wylde’s name, resurrecting the memories of the old duke—Wylde’s father, Madcap Matherton.

  And as if that were not enough, there was Miranda Fontaine.

  A beautiful woman, so striking in her exotic looks that she had reawakened his sleeping libido with a vengeance. But she had proven to be a lying jade just like the rest of them. He was certain he had been clear in his warning to her. No doubt she’d already moved on to a more susceptible dupe, and he would never see her again.

  Damn her.

  All he had ever wanted was a family, good friends, and to be known as an honorable man. Fate taunted him, taking first his bride and his child, then his best friend, and now his good name, the only thing he had left.