“There is more than fifty pounds there,” he continued. “I believe that should compensate you and Annie for the lost income?”
She cast him a long look of blue-eyed suspicion. “It will do.”
“I am quite serious,” he continued. “This villain resembles me so closely, I am told, that those who do not know me well might be fooled.”
“Is that so?” She scooped the money back into the bag, then squirreled it away in a drawer. “I don’t care if you are queer in the attic,” she said. “You paid for Annie, so we’re square.”
“If you see him again, would you please send a note around to Matherton House in Mayfair?”
She sat back in her chair. “If I see you, I’m supposed to send a note to your house that I saw you?”
He could not fault her skepticism and accepted it calmly. “Yes.”
“All right, if that’s what you want me to do.”
“It is. I will make it worth your while.”
She shrugged, nearly dislodging one precariously tucked breast. “Fine.”
“Might I also ask your assistance in locating my companion?” he asked. “Your guard let him through the door and I have not seen him since.”
“Of course.” She stood, her green dress shimmering around her spectacular figure as she stepped out from behind the desk. “Come with me.”
She took his arm, curling her fingers possessively around his coat sleeve, and led him to the door. They stepped out into the hall just as a disruption flared at the end of the corridor. The guard from the door was holding back a skinny blond woman who clung to him with one hand and slapped at his massive arm with the other.
“Let me go, Moss! I want to see Ball throw him out into the street!”
“Calm yerself, Annie. You’re going to hurt yerself.”
“You saw what he did to me, Moss. He’ll never pay for it; no one will ever make him pay. All I got is watching Ball toss his highborn arse into the gutter!”
“Annie.” Ball’s quiet voice froze them cold. “Come into my office. You too, Moss.” She glanced at Wylde. “My apologies, Your Grace, for detaining you. I can have one of the men help you locate your friend.”
“Not necessary.” Wylde watched the slender blond girl as she approached, the way she shrank into the hulk of the doorman, her one eye—the one that was not swollen shut, that is—wide with wariness. The girl was passing pretty, but she walked slowly and carefully, as if every step were agony. Moss, the doorman, eyed Wylde as if he wanted to tear him apart with his bare hands.
Wylde turned to Ball. “Perhaps we should all step into your office, madam, that we might clear up this matter.”
Ball shrugged. “Fine, but if you go for Annie again, I’ll have Moss toss you out.”
He clenched his jaw. “I understand.”
They all filed back into Ball’s office, and the way Annie tried her best to curl away from his gaze made Wylde’s gut clench with anger. This imposter, when he was found, had much to answer for.
“The duke has paid for your lost earnings, Annie, so you can stay in your room tonight,” Ball said. “But if you’re not able to take customers in a day or so, I’ll have to give it to another girl.”
“I know,” Annie murmured.
Moss glanced at his boss as if he wanted to say something but did not dare.
Wylde frowned at Ball. “You are expecting her to go back to work as if nothing has happened? She is injured!”
“You’re the one who done it!” Moss snarled.
Ball held up her hand to silence her employee and turned her attention to Wylde. “This is a business, Your Grace, not a charity house. If Annie can’t work, she can’t stay. She knows that.”
“There must be something else that can be done.”
“I don’t know why you’re acting all nice all of a sudden,” Annie muttered.
“Because I did not do this to you, Annie.”
The girl sneered. “It was you.”
“No, it was not.” Wylde kept his voice calm and gentle. “There is a man going about London who looks like me and is pretending to be me.”
“What? Like your brother?” Annie scoffed.
The careless remark gave him pause with the denial still on his lips. His brother? One of Father’s by-blows, perhaps?
And if the same man causing all this trouble was also the fellow who had fathered the baby Miranda had brought to him…Well, that would account for the Matherton toes, wouldn’t it? And it would mean that the blackguard had been causing trouble for much longer than they suspected.
He kept his expression calm, though his blood surged with the certainty that he had stumbled onto the truth. “Look carefully at me, Annie. Do I look different than you remember?”
“What’s he talking about?” Annie wailed, looking at Ball.
“Do as the duke says,” Ball told her. “Take a good look and tell him what he wants to know.”
Moss glared at Wylde as Annie turned her attention to scrutinizing him. “You look thinner,” she said finally. “But that could just be your clothes. And your hair is longer. But there’s ways around that, too.”
“Is he tall like me? Tell me anything you can.”
“About the same size.” She stared into Wylde’s face, finally looking closely, then gasped. “Blimey, your eyes are different!”
“Different how?” Wylde ignored Ball’s sudden stillness and Moss’s narrow-eyed stare.
“His eyes were green, real green. I remember thinking they looked like the devil’s own eyes when he hit me. Your eyes are brown.” She let out a slow breath. “It wasn’t you that hurt me.”
“That is correct.”
“Then who did?”
“That,” Wylde said with a glance at Ball, “is what I am trying to discover.”
Annie shifted, and Moss took a step back from his protective stance. “But Ball said you paid for me. Why did you do that if you weren’t the one?”
“Because it is the right thing to do.” Wylde looked at Ball. “As a man can hardly change his eye color, I believe we have established that the person who did this horrible thing was not the Duke of Wyldehaven. Madam, I would like to negotiate for this girl’s release from your employment.”
“Anything can be negotiated, Your Grace,” Ball purred.
“What do you want her for?” Moss demanded, suspicion coloring his tone.
“I will give her a position in one of my houses.” Wylde looked at Annie. “Would you like that, Annie? I assure you that I will pay you a fine wage.”
“Like a maid?”
“Exactly.”
“I can do that. But I got my own bed here.”
“You will have your own bed in my home, as well as hot meals every day.”
“Every day?” Annie grinned as much as her swollen face would allow. “Blimey. But no one puts a hand on me ’less I say so.”
“Agreed.” Wylde raised his brows at Ball. “Shall we begin the negotiations, madam? And while we are discussing terms, perhaps your man here would locate my friend for me.”
“Of course.” Ball dismissed her employees with a jerk of her head toward the door. “Moss, find His Grace’s companion. Annie, pack your things. I have a feeling you will be leaving us tonight.”
“Yes, Ball.”
Ball swept over to her desk and sat down. “Come, Your Grace. Let us discuss terms.”
The Contessa della Pietra accepted the gushing compliments of Lord Arenson, keeping her smile in place with effort. Sir Alec Bennett and his wife had secured her services for their soiree, and she’d already received two more invitations to sing, one from the aging earl. Unfortunately, the earl appeared to believe that hiring a performer entitled him to lay his hands on whatever part of her person he cared to.
“You sing like a nightingale,” Arenson said, stroking her arm. “I know you will be a lovely addition to our card party.” His watery gaze locked with almost pitiful obsession on her bosom.
“Thank you, my lor
d.” She leaned away an inch or so, forcing him to drop his hand, though his eyes remained fixed where they were. “How unfortunate your lady wife could not join you tonight. I do hope her health improves.”
“Bah.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Megrims, as always. She will be right as rain come the morning.”
“I am glad to hear it.” She fixed a polite smile and looked beyond him. “Oh, here is our hostess. I hope you will excuse me—”
“You remind me of someone.” He caught her arm again before she could walk away, and this time his hold did not allow her to escape.
“Contessa.” Lady Margaret Bennett stopped beside them, her expression a perfect balance of polite authority. “The Marchioness of Welsfield would like an introduction.”
“Of course.” Miranda tugged at her arm. “Lord Arenson, if you will excuse me, I must attend the marchioness.”
The baron did not appear to hear. “She reminds me of someone, Margaret,” he said. “I should remember in a moment.”
“Now, Uncle.” Lady Margaret cast Miranda an apologetic glance. “Let go of the contessa. Her ladyship is waiting.”
“I am flattered by your admiration, my lord,” Miranda said. “Every performer seeks to touch her audience.”
“Touch her audience. Aha! I have remembered.” He held up a finger. “You remind me of an actress who was all the rage about twenty years ago. My friend Rothgard and I were mad for her. Sent her roses every performance.” He chuckled, clearly lost in his memories. “Fannie Fontaine. A beautiful woman. You could be her image.”
Miranda’s heart seemed to stop in her chest. “Thank you, my lord.”
“Of course you are too young to remember her.” Arenson finally released her arm. “Wait until I tell Rothgard.”
“Lady Welsfield awaits, Uncle.” Lady Margaret managed to steer Miranda out of range of Lord Arenson’s roving hands.
“Yes, yes, go on.” He smiled wistfully, clearly lost in the past.
Lady Margaret led Miranda away. “Please forgive my uncle, Contessa. He is getting on in years. Sometimes his mind wanders.”
“There was no harm done,” Miranda said, still shaken by mention of her mother’s name. “I find it flattering that I reminded him of someone he once admired so much.”
“You are very kind. Come, the marchioness awaits.”
Chapter 7
Mrs. Cooper had arrived and left again after feeding James his morning meal. The cheerful woman was clearly fond of the baby, but she had her own family to attend to in the meanwhile.
Miranda sat in the parlor at a small table near the window, her head bent over her accounting. If she continued to receive invitations to perform, as she had last night, she and James might live comfortably indeed—with or without the Duke of Wyldehaven. James kicked and squealed in the basket on the floor, delight in every sound. She looked up from her numbers and smiled at his joyful innocence as he amused himself with his flaying hands. But her smile faded as she considered that while she could certainly feed and clothe the babe on her earnings, she could never provide a father’s love.
A rap came at the door. With a sigh, she set down her quill and, with a glance at the baby to make certain he was secure, went into the foyer just as another authoritative knock echoed. She glanced out the window beside the door, then gasped and hurried to throw it open.
Wyldehaven regarded her with disapproval from his lofty height. “Miss Fontaine, are there no servants to attend the door?”
His mild chastisement was just enough to stiffen her spine. “This is a humble household, Your Grace, not a Mayfair manor. Do come in.” She swung the door wide. As he strode into the house, she glanced out at the two gleaming carriages standing at the curb.
“Miss Fontaine!”
“Yes?” She closed the door and turned to face him. “You need not bark my name like a general, Your Grace. I was merely curious.” She crossed her arms and asked with feigned sweetness, “Is your consequence so great that you need more than one carriage to accompany you on your calls?”
“You are a cheeky baggage, considering you are the one who came to me for aid.”
“And you are rather high in the instep.”
“I am the Duke of Wyldehaven, young woman. There is no instep higher than mine.”
He said the words with such solemnity that it took her several seconds to realize that his eyes were glinting with humor.
A chuckle burst from her as her defensiveness waned. “You are a man of peculiar amusements, Your Grace.”
“I trust you will keep such knowledge to yourself.” He took off his hat, then looked around. “You truly have no servants?”
“Cook is cleaning up the kitchen from the morning meal, and Mrs. Cooper, the wet nurse, will be back by luncheon.” She took his high-crowned hat from his hands and turned to set it on the table beside the door. A whiff of sandalwood from the costly beaver teased her senses, and she quickly turned back to face him. “To what do I owe this honor, Your Grace?”
“For pity’s sake, you may refer to me as Wyldehaven, or Wylde if you prefer.”
“As you wish.” A tiny mewl from the parlor grabbed her attention. “Do come into the parlor, Your…I mean, Wyldehaven. I must attend to James.”
She hurried forward into the parlor, heedless of the lack of courtesy in leaving him to follow. James was working himself into a fit. As his cries grew louder, she scooped him out of the basket and jiggled him in her arms. “There, there. Miranda’s come.”
The duke entered the room more slowly. “Is there something wrong with him?”
She glanced up, amused by the hesitant tone in his voice. “No, he is just tired. I expect he will drift off to sleep soon.”
“I see.”
She cuddled James close to her body and began swaying, turning so she might see the duke. “Babies do little else but eat and sleep when they are so young.”
“How do you know he is tired?”
“By his cry.” She smothered a smile at the awkward way he remained standing before the chair. “Do sit down, Your Grace.”
“Wyldehaven,” he corrected mildly. “And I cannot sit while a lady stands.”
“I cannot sit and rock him at the same time,” she said. “Really, you will not offend, and you make me uneasy standing there so grimly.”
“You have no reason to feel uneasy. I have agreed to support the child until his true father is found.”
As quickly as that, their easy rapport dissolved.
“How good of you to offer shelter to an innocent babe.” Conscious of the bite in her voice, she turned her back on him, ostensibly to return James to his basket, but in fact to hide the disappointment she was certain showed on her face. Why did she keep relaxing her guard around him only to be reminded of who and what he was?
A man, and a rich man at that. A duke. Someone who could never care for others as much as he cared for his own boot blacking.
She glanced down at the baby, reminding herself again of what was important. What mattered. James had his eyes scrunched tightly shut, and he sucked furiously on one fist, well on his way to sleep. Her heart ached with love.
She would do her best by him.
Gently, she adjusted his clothing so he slept comfortably. Then she gathered her defenses around her and turned back to face the Duke of Wyldehaven.
To her surprise, he was watching the baby with a mixture of pain and something that looked for a moment like longing. “It is amazing,” he mused, “how we all start so small and helpless and yet somehow grow into who we are meant to be.”
Her heart slowly turned over in her chest.
No. She would not soften toward him. She could not trust him.
“Yes, well, that is the way of things, isn’t it?” She sat down in her chair by the window again, and he finally seated himself in the armchair. “Why have you granted me the honor of your presence, Your Grace?”
The hint of sarcasm rolled off Wylde without inflicting any damage, but he was
certainly aware of it. He paused before responding, searching for some modicum of warmth in her eyes. But her expression remained polite and distant—not his objective at all.
Curse it, what had he said to put her on her guard? When he had first arrived, she had been laughing and joking with him. Now she watched him as if he were a thief in a jewel shop. He wanted her to be comfortable with him, and not just because he suspected that she had information he would need to solve his most current difficulty. He just wanted her to like him—for reasons he dared not explore too closely. And thus far he had not given her much incentive to regard him as friend rather than foe.
But neither would he lie to her.
“I am here because I said I would provide for the child on a temporary basis, at least until his paternity is determined. I have come to take you to your new home.”
“My new home! What is wrong with this house?”
He glanced around, his shrug dismissing the welcoming surroundings as substandard. “I have rented a fine town house for you, Miss Fontaine. You will be quite comfortable there—especially since there is a staff.”
She had stiffened up like a billiards poker as soon as he began speaking. “I do not like living at the behest of another.”
“Is this not what you wanted?”
“Not really.” She stood and began pacing, her arms folded protectively over her bosom. “I had hoped you would accept your son and raise him yourself.”
“And so I would—if he were mine.”
She whirled to face him, outrage widening her eyes and coloring her cheeks. “How can you deny him? Your own grandmother has declared him a member of your family.”
“I have told you that I cannot be the boy’s father.”
“Yes, because you were cloistered at your country estate, grieving for your wife.” She waved a dismissive hand. “I hardly see how that precludes you from being capable of fathering a child, Wyldehaven. It is not as if you were out of the country or felled by disease.”
He clenched his hands on the arms of the chair. “I might as well have been,” he replied softly. “I was not at all inclined to be in the company of anyone during that time, not my friends and not my family. Certainly not a mistress.”
To Ruin the Duke Page 8