What the Duke Wants

by Amy Quinton

  Her breathing quickened and her legs wobbled. She felt like she walked through mud and her surroundings became both sharp and blurred at the same time, if that were possible. If it weren’t for the strength of Dansbury’s arm beneath her hand, she might have collapsed in a heap on the pavement while she covered her eyes to block out the reality of what she could see before her.

  Dansbury briefly covered her hand with his, for she hadn’t collapsed after all, before leading them inside. The door was already open, propped wide by a large chunk of wood. She realized then that she was squeezing the life out of Dansbury’s arm, but couldn’t care. She stumbled over the threshold as she walked inside.

  And stopped. And sucked in a breath. And beheld. Nothing.

  All of it: the freestanding shelves, the actual counter itself behind which her father had always stood and wrapped up purchases, the grouping of leather chairs where men sat to review a book before purchasing it and partake of cigars or coffee or tea, the little primrose her father kept at one end of the counter. All of it. Gone. Gone. Gone.

  All one could see now were empty walls and dusty, dirty flooring—scuffed and scarred. On the floor near the shop window to their right, more packages waited to be picked up by the workmen now skirting around them. Grace and Dansbury stood frozen just inside the doorway, shocked at the sight. There wasn’t even a curtain over the entrance to the back of the shop where the kitchens and the stairs leading up to her home were located.

  Her knees buckled just as Dansbury stepped forward. His grasp on her hand tightened—conveying strength—as he literally held her up and propelled her forward toward the back of the shop. She stumbled before her legs caught up with their forward momentum. She was dimly aware of a voice angrily shouting at someone in the back rooms. But all of her strength could not stop the tears from flowing freely down her cheeks.

  “This place was supposed to be entirely cleared as of yesterday. Why are you still here? My client needs the place cleaned and ready before the auction two days hence; we are out of time,” came a disembodied voice, raised in anger, from the back of the building.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but we have everything out from upstairs now. I just completed one last walk-through and was leaving,” came a softer, slightly nervous voice.

  Grace followed Dansbury through the emptied doorway leading to the back rooms. Anger replaced shock and grief like a veil. Her tears continued, but they were of a different source now. She held her head up, refusing to acknowledge the tears, her gaze direct and fierce.

  “Good morning. I am Clifford Ross, the Seventh Marquess of Dansbury.” Cliff, who preceded Grace into the back rooms, squeezed Grace’s hand in warning, reminding her to hold her tongue, as she followed behind through the narrow entryway.

  A short and rather round gentleman with thick, gray hair and sideburns, spun around at the newcomers’ arrival. He was dressed in quality clothing although he was unkempt. His cravat was mussed and stained, and his buttons and boots were not polished. He had been standing with his back to the door talking, or more like yelling, to a kindly looking gentleman of about forty years of age, clutching his hat in dismay.

  “My lord, Mr. Edward Banks, Esquire at your service,” spoke the rotund man, a solicitor, who mopped his wide forehead with a kerchief before stuffing it in his pocket and proceeding toward Dansbury, his hand outstretched in greeting and a wide, greedy smile on his face. His expression turned solemn as he waddled his way across the room, hand still outstretched. His somberness did not reach his eyes, which still held the fires of greed.

  “I am the solicitor representing the owners of this property, and I truly regret to inform you that the premises are closed to prospective buyers until the auction on Friday next.”

  The solicitor tried to look surreptitiously at Grace around Dansbury’s shoulder as he spoke (for she had not been introduced), infernal hand still outstretched, but neither she nor Dansbury acknowledged nor soothed his curiosity.

  Dansbury, who was generally considered an affable man by one and all, looked down his nose at the solicitor’s hand before ignoring it, and brushed past to face the unacknowledged gentleman with the crumpled hat, his brow raised in question. Clearly, Dansbury knew how to issue the cut direct—quite convincingly.

  The other man, clearly a gentleman though a little rough around the edges, smiled in return. He had dark-brown hair peppered with gray and kindly, brown eyes—a father’s eyes. He was dressed in a plain, brown jacket, a dark green waistcoat and brown trousers. The buttons were brass and one might detect a little fraying at the edges of his cuffs; nevertheless he appeared tidier than the solicitor. He seemed respectable, if a little haggard today. In light of what they had overheard before entering the room, it was understandable.

  “My lord, Mr. Marcus Smythe at your service,” he answered at the implied question, most respectfully.

  “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance,” answered Dansbury in turn. “I understand you were managing the bookstore before it closed.” At the gentleman’s nod, Dansbury continued, “Did I correctly overhear that you were previously living in the rooms above until recently?”

  “Yes, my lord, for the past year until we received notice last week that the owners were not renewing our lease. We were given a few days to remove our belongings and no time to notify our customers of the shop’s impending closure,” Mr. Smythe added with an angry look over Dansbury’s shoulder in the solicitor’s direction.

  “Now, see here. The renewal of the lease was never a guarantee, as you are well aware,” blurted out the solicitor. He looked worried and afraid. He had to be aware that he risked angering a high-ranking member of the peerage with his behavior. Not to mention that both Grace and Dansbury were well aware of who the solicitor worked for.

  Dansbury looked over his shoulder at the solicitor’s interjection. “You’re still here?”

  The solicitor paled before gathering his courage—or stupidity. “My lord, I appreciate that you might see this situation as highly irregular, but I assure you that our actions are completely necessary and in accord with the owners’ consent. As such, I must insist that I remain present until I can be assured that Mr. Smythe has indeed vacated the premises and has left no other possessions behind; my client expects no less.”

  “All is clear save for this key we found under a rug as the men came to clear away the last of the furnishings this morning. It is not ours,” replied Mr. Smythe, his voice fretful again. Mr. Banks glared at him as if he were a thief attempting some crime. Mr. Smythe pulled out a small key from his waistcoat pocket and handed it over to the solicitor.

  Dansbury was silent as he watched all this. He no longer seemed to care about the fact that the solicitor hadn’t left. He watched Mr. Smythe hand over the key.

  Then he spoke. “Well, Mr. Smythe, it has been a pleasure to meet you. What is your direction should I need to contact you in future?” His affable façade returned.

  “My lord, we will be staying with my sister and her family for a few days until we find new accommodation, #4 St. Clement’s Street, Oxford. It would be our pleasure to speak with you again.”

  “Excellent. I’ll be in touch.”

  Dansbury turned to the solicitor. “Mr. Banks, forgive me for not shaking your hand earlier; I apologize for the misunderstanding.” He held out his hand and clapped the solicitor on the shoulder as if they were men of the world, bosom friends, who knew a thing or two about life. Grace seethed, but said nothing.

  “Perfectly understandable, my lord. I understand this was unexpected,” replied the solicitor promptly and with no small amount of relief.

  Dansbury turned to offer his arm to Grace, yet he looked over at Mr. Smythe one last time. Mr. Smythe smiled knowingly before nodding at Dansbury and quitting the room. Dansbury winked in return.

  “Let us be off, Miss Radclyffe,” he added for the solicitor’s benefit.

  To the solicitor, who stood out of sight behind them, he added, “We’ll be in touch.”


  * * * *

  As soon as Grace stepped out into the brilliant sunshine, she whirled on Dansbury, ready to give him a piece of her mind, but he forestalled her tirade with a lift of one finger.

  “Grace, we’re outside. Wait until we’re in private.”

  “But we didn’t even go upstairs.”

  “Trust me; there’s nothing left, darling.”

  “But…”

  “Grace, trust me. I have something better. Now, let’s go.”

  He led her back to her room at a dizzying pace—quite a contrast to their stroll earlier that morning.

  Grace wound her way through the lobby of their hotel, headed in the direction of Aunt Harriett, who was seated on a sofa near the fire, but Dansbury redirected her to the stairs and on to her room. Once inside, he shut the door and locked it. Grace whirled around to tell him exactly what she thought about his behavior at the bookstore, but forgot her point at the sight of him standing there holding out a small brass key.

  “Is that the key Mr. Smythe gave to Mr. Banks?”

  “It might be.”

  “But, why?”

  “Think about it, Grace. The key obviously didn’t belong to Mr. Smythe, or he wouldn’t have tried to pass it onto the solicitor. It clearly isn’t a key to the property or anything in the bookstore, or he would have known what it was for and said so. I strongly suspect this key belonged to your father, and I have a pretty good idea what it goes to.”

  She crossed her arms across her chest as she waited for him to continue.

  “I believe it belongs to a safety deposit box—in a bank—in London.”

  She paced the floor, her thoughts awhirl.

  “I see, and how do you know this?”

  “The engravings on the key. The letters identify the bank and the numbers identify the box number. I have one like it myself.”

  “How did you do it? Take the key, that is. Especially without him knowing about it? And won’t he notice and realize you took it?”

  “Grace, I can’t answer your first question, and honestly, it was quite easy. My summation of the solicitor’s character is such that by the time he notices, he’ll think he lost it—if he even remembers.”

  “But why would you do this? Effectively steal, for me?”

  “Grace, I suspect whatever is in the box this key goes to is important, and I suspect that had I allowed the solicitor to pass it on to the earl, you would never know what secrets it holds.”

  She stopped pacing and plopped onto the bed, too emotionally drained to stand any longer as a whirlwind of feelings spun around in her mind: grief over her father’s emptied shop; all his possessions gone. Despair over the possible loss of the shop and her future prospects. Anger over the machinations of her uncle. Frustration at her inability to stop events that seemed so completely out of her control. Fear over all the secrecy and implications about her father, the old duke, the earl…She looked up at Dansbury in a silent plea, the weight of it all almost unbearable.

  He knelt at her feet and took both her hands in his.

  “Grace, try not to worry, darling, though I know it’s difficult.”

  She nodded in silence, conceding his point. Meanwhile, her tears were back and sliding down her reddened cheeks.

  “Listen to me. Here’s what I want to do. I want you to stay with Aunt Harriett. Travel with her to London tomorrow as we planned. And no matter what happens, I want you to stay with her. Do not go to your uncle, even if summoned by him. Do you understand? This is important.”

  “I understand. What are you going to do?”

  “I’m leaving for London. Now. I think we need to see what’s inside that box, and with your permission, I would like to go ahead of you. I can get there faster on horseback and retrieve the box on your behalf. I think it’s safe to say that time is of the essence.”

  She nodded her agreement. “What about the auction? Friday is only a few days away.”

  “I’ll do my best, Grace. You’ll have to trust me.”

  “I seem to be doing an awful lot of that today,” she added with a chuckle at the end. She wiped at her eyes, her nerves calmed with a plan.

  “You’ll be all right, Miss Grace Radclyffe.”

  She nodded. “I know. And, thank you.”

  She reached out to hug Dansbury, who was still on his knees before her, but as she pulled back, he had a strange look about him. And before she knew it, he kissed her.

  Chapter 14

  A Posting Inn on the way to London…

  Later that afternoon…

  Stonebridge swirled his drink as he warmed his feet by the fire. He was in a private parlor at a posting inn en route to London. His long legs were stretched out before him and resting on the bars of the iron fender. He was only stopping for a short rest and food while his coachmen exchanged the tired carriage horses for fresh stock.

  He was travelling to his London residence, having exhausted his interviews and his search of Stonebridge Park. And he was trying hard not to think of Grace and Cliff traveling to Oxford and then on to London together…quite unsuccessfully. Frustrating that.

  He set down his glass in defeat and picked up the book he had started. He refused to allow his thoughts to go there. Again. He needed something to do, something to engage his mind.

  He had just reread the same paragraph for the fifth time, and he still didn’t know what it said, when someone knocked on the parlor door. He placed his mark in the book and called out, “Enter.”

  A messenger, clearly road-weary and dusty, burst into the room. “Your Grace, I have a message for you from Lord Dansbury.”

  He was relieved for the distraction and wasted no time accepting the missive. He tore it open:

  Ambrose,

  Store and residence closed and swept. Property to be auctioned Friday next via Mr. Edward Banks, Esq; Oxford. Our mutual friend is distraught.

  Found key to unknown Lockbox in L. Off to L to retrieve contents. Miss R to follow with Aunt H.

  Cliff

  He stared off into space and remained that way for an awkward minute before he acknowledged the waiting footman.

  “That will be all, thank you.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  He tossed the missive into the fire, his thoughts awhirl. This was an unexpected maneuver for Swindon: not surprising, per se, just bold. He knew his next logical move was to make for London with all due haste, but Oxford wasn’t too terribly far away. Especially on horseback, was it?

  Yes. It was. Particularly since he was needed in London. The contents of this lockbox could well hold the key to solving everything. He repeated that mantra over and over again in his mind as he sought out his valet, Bryans, outside.

  “Bryans, gather everyone and send them on ahead to London.”

  “Very good, Your Grace. But where are you going?”

  “I am going to Oxford. Follow when you can. I’ll take rooms at the Oxford Arms.”

  Aaah…To hell with logic.

  * * * *

  Oxford…

  The next morning…

  Grace walked along High Street and peered into every shop front along the way. Not that she needed to buy anything, mind, and she was certainly staying away from the end where her father’s shop had been. No, the window shopping was all a ploy, really, to distract herself from herself—or her chaotic thoughts at any rate. It wasn’t working. She looked in the storefront windows and tried to focus on the items on display, but they didn’t really register in her mind. Other thoughts obsessed her.

  Could my life turn any further upside down?

  Two years ago, she had been blissfully happy, having never been touched by trauma. Even a month ago, though having suffered heartache with the death of her parents, she had settled into her new life with some semblance of normalcy and some measure of contentment. It hadn’t been blissful by any stretch of the imagination, but there had always been a future to look forward to, and it had sustained her through the rough times.

>   But today? Not only was her future uncertain, but her emotions were all a jumble over men—of all things. Curious creatures that they were. Who would have guessed it? A month ago, no men danced around her in her mind. Now, she was bombarded by thoughts of two.

  First, she was inappropriately consumed at all hours of the day (or at least it seemed that way at times) by a handsome, wildly attractive duke: Stonebridge and all his brooding glory. And now, as if she needed any further complications in her life, there was Dansbury. And his sweet kisses.

  Dansbury was handsome and steady, a fine man, and she enjoyed her time with him. He made her laugh. He was safe. He was perfect. And she should be shouting with glee over his obvious interest; though realistically, as with the duke, he was way too high for her, socially.

  She had never before considered Dansbury in any sort of romantic light, though. He just didn’t consume her thoughts like Stonebridge. She didn’t tingle all over with just a look. She didn’t feel like throwing her reputation and her life away should he even hint…Well, it was frightening to even think about it, really, how much she might risk should she forget herself with the duke.

  Stonebridge was moody and a little bit cruel. To her anyway. And he was altogether too unpredictable. Definitely not the stoic man everyone else portrayed him to be, at least in her experience. Yet he constantly occupied her thoughts. It was pitiful. By all accounts, she should rejoice in Dansbury, not yearn for a fickle duke.

  And it wasn't that Dansbury was unattractive, for he was undeniably handsome, and she was attracted to him in a general sort of way. As any woman with eyes would be.

  And yesterday, when she realized Dansbury was about to kiss her, she didn’t stop him as she ought. She was curious. She had never kissed a man, romantically, before the duke, and she had wondered if the experience would be the same, or at least similar.

  It wasn’t. Oh, Dansbury’s kiss hadn’t been bad or unpleasant at all. In fact, she had responded to it. She wasn’t dead, and it had been awfully naughty of them to engage in such behavior. It hadn’t been a kiss of fire or thunder, like with the duke, but more gentle, like a soothing rain. She hadn’t slapped him as she probably should have done, either, and her heartbeat had quickened, for she had felt nervous; after all, what they were doing was all taboo. But at the same time, her thoughts had been actively cataloguing sensations throughout it all.