To Ruin the Duke

by Debra Mullins

  “Fine with me. Don’t marry the chit.”

  “You misunderstand. I meant this business with Wylde. Your dealings with Rothgard’s heir were reprehensible. It is a miracle the gossips have not yet gotten hold of the story. You are taking matters too far now.”

  Byrne smirked. “Young Alonso knew what he was doing when he sat down at that card table. Perhaps he even learned a lesson from the incident. I, however, acquired a prime bit of horseflesh in the bargain.”

  “And nearly bankrupted the boy! I thought you were focusing your efforts on Wylde.”

  “Alonso is a grown man. And this is connected to our darling duke. Rothgard has had a man watching the duke’s house for a couple of weeks now, though I have been unable to discover why. There must be a connection of some sort, so setting up the card game with Rothgard’s son seemed the best way to ingratiate myself.” He chuckled. “Of course once I discovered the fellow was a completely inept card player, I could not resist the opportunity to line the coffers a bit more.”

  Kit narrowed his eyes. “This ends now. This whole business with Wylde, all of it.”

  Byrne’s face darkened. “Who the bloody hell are you to decide when it ends?”

  “I will not help you anymore. Surely you will agree that Wylde has paid the price for his insult to me.”

  “To hell with your blasted honor! What about me? Do you think I have been planning all these years just to crawl away and hide under a rock on your word? Don’t I get what I want?”

  “Not if it means hurting people. That stunt in the park could have killed someone.”

  “You exaggerate, Linnet.” Byrne’s mouth curved in fiendish glee. “But you should have seen those dainty ladies lifting their skirts and screaming and scattering like geese when we came racing down the path.”

  “I am glad you were amused, but nonetheless, Mrs. Colley was injured when your mount scared her cattle into bolting. Her curricle was completely destroyed.”

  “A pity. I assume the harridan lives, as her demise has not yet become common knowledge to Society.”

  “Damn it!” Kit snapped. “Do you care for no one but yourself?”

  “That is a fair summation.”

  “This is why I will no longer help you. You are losing all control.”

  “I am in perfect control of myself, Linnet. I believe it is you who feels the lack of control—over me.”

  “Yes, damn it, you are right. You have lost all direction. This game has gone on long enough, and I will not help you anymore. I cannot have this madness on my conscience.” Kit slapped his glass down on the table.

  “To hell with your conscience.” Byrne finished off his whisky. “You have gone too far to stop now.”

  “Are you mad? Just take the money you have earned and disappear back to where you came from.” Kit waved a dismissive hand. “No one will be any the wiser.”

  “You are gravely naive if you believe that can ever happen.” Byrne rose, raking his gaze over the viscount with obvious contempt. “If we stop now, Wyldehaven will discover what you have done, and then where will you be?”

  Kit tensed. “He will forgive me.”

  “Will he? Is he so saintly a person that he would forgive his best friend for helping a scoundrel like me ruin his good name?” Byrne leaned closer. “Did he forgive his own father? No, he didn’t. Wyldehaven does not tolerate betrayal.”

  “That was different,” Kit said, but even he heard the lack of conviction in his own voice.

  “No, it was not. Wyldehaven does not forgive easily, and he will consider you the ultimate traitor for helping me ruin him.”

  Kit could not respond to that. He knew that Byrne was right. Wyldehaven would never forgive him. “I do not want anyone else hurt. No more races through the park. And no more fleecing striplings of their inheritances.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Byrne executed an elegant bow. “As you wish.”

  “Do not mock me, damn it. This is serious business. It should never have gotten this far.”

  “How did you think it would go, Linnet old boy? Ever since I learned that I was the eldest son of the Duke of Wyldehaven, I have wanted to get what was mine from that usurper. It is only right. Firstborn always inherits all.”

  “You are illegitimate,” Kit pointed out. “Bastards cannot inherit the title, no matter what you choose to believe. It can never be yours.”

  Byrne gave him a terrible smile. “We shall see about that, Linnet. Now I shall thank you not to use the word ‘illegitimate’ going forward. It casts a tawdry image over my consequence.”

  “You have no consequence!”

  “Indeed, I do. It belongs to the Duke of Wyldehaven. And with your help, Linnet, that will be me.”

  With a mocking salute, Daniel Byrne turned and left the flat.

  Kit stood where Byrne had left him, sick with regret over the game he’d started. When had he lost control? It seemed a lark in the beginning, a trick to get a bit of covert revenge—and a bit of coin—without Wylde ever knowing he was involved.

  But now…now Byrne was talking madness. What did he mean that he intended to become the Duke of Wyldehaven? That was impossible. A bastard could not inherit. But unless he wanted to confess all to Wyldehaven, there was nothing he could do about Byrne and his madcap actions. He could not risk the scandal, especially with the engagement to Miss Wherry dangling before him as his only hope for financial independence.

  So he would hold his tongue and keep a close eye on Byrne. If he were vigilant, he should be able to stop the imposter before anything irrevocable happened. Before anyone else got hurt.

  Chapter 12

  Wylde arrived at the dower house precisely at eleven o’clock that morning. His grandmother’s summons had been written in short, succinct sentences, and brooked no argument. He was to present himself at her home at that hour, and no excuses would be tolerated.

  At his knock, the butler opened the door and greeted him, bowing as he stood aside to let Wylde enter the house. A footman came to relieve him of his hat and gloves, and Wylde said, “Winters, where is my grandmother?”

  “In the Chinese drawing room,” the butler replied. “Allow me to announce you, Your Grace.”

  “No need, Winters. She is expecting me.”

  Wylde took the stairs to the second floor and headed with unerring accuracy to the Chinese drawing room. A footman scurried to throw open the door, as Wylde did not slow his pace but simply walked straight into the room. He stopped short just inside the doorway.

  “Good morning, Grandmother. My apologies. I did not know you had a caller.”

  The duchess gave him the same stern look he used to get as a child when he had tracked mud across the Aubusson carpets. “Thornton, I believe you know Lady Crisdale. And this is her companion, Miss Tenet.”

  The crone sitting across from his grandmother gave him a glare that should have incinerated him on the spot. Dressed from head to toe in black bombazine and crepe, the elderly Lady Crisdale had been mourning her husband for some thirteen years now. Wylde rather believed she would be buried in her mourning attire.

  Her companion, a mousy-looking thing with spectacles, watched him with palpable apprehension, as if he might pounce and devour either of them at any moment.

  Despite their evident hostility, Wylde nonetheless bowed and said, “A pleasure to see you both again, Lady Crisdale, Miss Tenet.”

  “You have nerve, Wyldehaven.” With a sniff, Lady Crisdale stiffly got to her feet. Her companion leaped up from her seat and took the widow’s arm, steadying her. “I cannot fathom you would dare speak to me, you scapegrace.”

  Wylde’s polite smile froze on his face. “Have I offended you, Lady Crisdale?”

  “Never mind me, young man. What about your poor grandmother? Have you no consideration for what your exploits do to her good name? You should be ashamed of yourself!”

  Before Wylde could speak, Grandmother stood. “Shall I have Winters summon your carriage, Aurelia?”

 
“Excellent notion. I certainly will not remain in this house as long as your ne’er-do-well grandson is about.”

  “I understand your feelings, Aurelia. However, please keep in mind that he is my grandson, and I will ask you not to speak ill of him in my presence.”

  “He should be horse-whipped for the scandals he has caused!” Lady Crisdale pressed her lips together, then reached out to the duchess. “I am outraged on your behalf, Maria.”

  The duchess took her friend’s hand and patted it. “I know, dear. But he is my grandson.”

  “An unfortunate circumstance.”

  “Come, let us summon Winters.” The duchess accompanied Lady Crisdale and her companion out of the drawing room, sending a hard look at Wylde that warned him not to interfere.

  Well, then. What in blazes had that been about? he wondered.

  The mantel clock ticked steadily as he sat down in a chair to await his grandmother’s return. She had demanded that he present himself, then seemed annoyed that he’d done so. He watched the hands on the ornate clock move, listening to the idle conversation of the servants as they walked the halls. Twenty minutes passed before he heard the duchess’s footsteps approaching.

  He sprang to his feet as she entered the room, but she cast him a stern look and waved a hand at the armchair. “Sit down, Thornton. I want to speak to you.”

  “I am at your service, Grandmother.”

  She gave a little snort—an odd sound for a duchess, especially one of her advanced years—and sat down on the comfortable sofa across from him. Only when she was seated did he seat himself. “I would like to know what has gotten into you, Thornton. I have heard the most remarkable stories about your conduct, and I cannot credit that these people were speaking of my grandson. I had heard better of your father, even at his worst.”

  Wylde winced. “What have you heard?”

  “All manner of talk, some of which should not even be whispered in a lady’s presence. But my friends are loyal and most are too old to give a fig what Society thinks, so they have brought the stories to me that I might judge for myself if you have become a miscreant like your father, God rest his soul.”

  “There is indeed much talk about me,” he said, “but most of it can be dismissed. Perhaps you should tell me what you have heard.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him, tilting her head as if trying to determine if he spoke the truth. “There was talk of fisticuffs at a gaming hell known as Fulton’s. I am certain you have never been there.”

  He nodded, grateful to acknowledge the truth. “I was not involved in any such altercation.”

  “And a scandal about a race through Hyde Park where a lady’s curricle was damaged.”

  “I have heard this as well.”

  “Is it true?”

  “The incident occurred, but I was not present.”

  “Hmm. And also some shameful rumors about you trifling with women like the worst sort of rake and even starting an affair with some Italian countess.”

  “Ah.” He could not help but smile. “That Italian countess is Miss Fontaine.”

  Grandmother gasped, blue eyes flashing with temper. “Thornton, please tell me you did not take advantage of that poor girl!”

  “Calm yourself, Grandmama. We are not having an affair; I simply rented a house for Miss Fontaine and the baby to live in until we get matters sorted out about the child’s paternity.”

  “Indeed? Then why does Aurelia assume she is Italian? I met the girl, and she is as English as you or I.”

  “True.” He paused, searching for words. “Miss Fontaine maintains a livelihood where she sings at fashionable events professionally. She calls herself a contessa to make herself seem exotic.”

  “What rubbish. The polite world will believe anything.” His grandmother snapped open her fan and began to wave it. “I cannot fathom that a decent young woman like Miss Fontaine would be performing like a common Gypsy for the entertainment of the upper ten thousand. Does she have talent?”

  “She does,” he admitted. “Now that I have ensconced her in a decent house and provided her with servants, I do not expect that she will continue such madness.”

  “Excellent. I can respect her need to provide for the child, but since you will see to that, she should apply herself to pursuits more suited to a female of good breeding.”

  “My sentiments exactly.”

  The duchess closed her fan. “I take it you are treating her with respect? I do not wish to hear that you have compromised the girl’s reputation.”

  He resisted the urge to look away from those unwavering blue eyes. “Of course not, Grandmother. You have declared the child a Matherton, and both he and Miss Fontaine will stay under my protection until we discover the identity of the father.”

  “No doubt one of your father’s by-blows,” she muttered. “It is the only thing that makes sense.”

  “Agreed,” he said. “I have secured a Bow Street runner to investigate.”

  “A pity that you are not the babe’s sire. I find Miss Fontaine and her child most agreeable.”

  He raised his brows. “I wouldn’t have expected to hear such a statement from you, Grandmother. Miss Fontaine’s mother was an actress, her father unknown. She appeared on my doorstep with a child she insists is mine. Most ladies of your caliber would consider her beneath them.”

  “Most ladies of my caliber are foolish ninnies,” the duchess snapped. “This girl conducts herself well and has acceptable manners. And she is striving to do right by a child that is not even her own. In my estimation, she is more than worthy of my company.”

  “I must admit, I am surprised by your tolerance.”

  “The world could use a bit more tolerance,” she declared, snapping open her fan again. “It would certainly lessen the affliction on one’s nerves.”

  Wylde chuckled. “Grandmother, you are an original.”

  “Indeed I am. But do not think this casts you out of the briars yet, my boy. What of these unpleasant rumors? If it is not you propagating these scandals, then who dares shame the name of Wyldehaven in such a manner?”

  He tightened his jaw. “A pretender, Grandmother. A scoundrel who resembles me enough that he is able to present himself as Wyldehaven in order to commit this mischief.”

  “Dear Heaven!” The duchess’s fan ceased in midwave. “Who is this vagabond?”

  “I do not know. That is something else the runner is investigating. The imposter is the one who started the brawl at Fulton’s and is also the one who scuttled Mrs. Colley’s new carriage.”

  “And is he also the man who fathered Miss Fontaine’s babe? She did seem convinced that you were the rogue who sired and then abandoned the child.”

  “I have begun to believe the same thing,” Wylde admitted. “Which means that this fellow has been brewing his mischief for far longer than I suspected.”

  The duchess folded her fan again and leaned forward. “If the babe’s sire was one of your father’s baseborn sons, then perhaps he bears enough resemblance to you to cause this coil. I vow he is the imposter you seek.”

  “I will not know for certain until I find him.” He reached for her tiny, wrinkled hand and kissed the back of it. “Until then, believe no stories you hear about me. The bounder is cunning and seems to be getting more impudent with each challenge.”

  The duchess patted his cheek. “See to it you put an end to this, my boy.”

  “I will, Grandmother. No one shall soil the name of Wyldehaven ever again, not as long as I breathe.”

  “I’ve never been to Bond Street, never in all my days!” Clad in Miranda’s serviceable gray dress and straw bonnet, Annie bounced on her seat as she turned this way and that, trying to see all the shops from the barouche. “Goodness, look at all the fine ladies!”

  Dressed in an elegant dress of pale blue with a matching bonnet, Miranda could not help but smile. “Remember, Annie, you work in a fine household now. Try to reflect the dignity of your station.”

  “Oh
. Right. I mean, of course.” Annie folded her hands tightly in her lap, but her gaze continued to dart back and forth, spurring a laugh from Miranda.

  Upon reaching the linen-draper’s, the barouche pulled out of traffic and in moments the footman had hopped down and was offering a hand to the ladies to descend.

  Annie gaped at the fashionable women crowding the streets, servants burdened with packages scurrying after them. “It’s like a circus!” she whispered.

  “Indeed it is. Have a care to stay close lest we get separated in the crush.” Head held high, Miranda began to make her way through the throng toward the doors to the shop.

  Annie hurried behind her, muttering observations under her breath. “Heavens…how does that hat stay on her head? Is that a bird’s nest? And sure as I breathe, that ’un stuffs her bosom, else I’ll be called a three-legged donkey. Gad, look at this ’un’s hair. That blond ain’t from nature, not with those black brows…”

  Miranda couldn’t suppress a chuckle as she listened to the colorful musings. She would need to discuss with Annie her ability to whisper. Clearly she thought she was being discreet, but the occasional glare cast back at her by passersby told another story.

  “Stop! Thief!” The shriek stopped the crowd in its tracks. Heads turned as an urchin raced past them, barreling through the crowd, a lady’s reticule clutched in his hand. Miranda glanced from the overblown matron wailing about her loss to the disappearing boy. Silently, she wished him Godspeed.

  A pair of servants took up the chase, sending the elegant shoppers scurrying out of the way as they shoved through the throng. Miranda found herself backed up against the wall of the shop as ladies shrieked and scrambled. She looked around for Annie and could just see the flowers on her bonnet not far away. The girl had pushed to the front of the crowd to better observe the thief’s getaway—of course.

  Miranda straightened her own bonnet and assured that her reticule had remained fastened to her wrist. She went to take a step toward Annie. Then someone jerked her back with a hand around her elbow. She had only a moment to glance up at her captor—he was dressed in livery, like a groom, with a hat that shadowed his face—before the sharp blade of a knife pressed against her side.