For the Duke's Eyes Only (School for Dukes #2)

by Lenora Bell

  He’d made the choice to become a spy for his family. Because of Raven’s investigations, his father had not been formally charged with high treason, and Colin had a title and a fortune to inherit. Raven had to remember that when his choices began to feel wrong.

  “And how is your mother?” he asked Indy. “I saw her last at the wedding breakfast for your brother and his duchess.”

  “The dowager duchess is doing surprisingly well. I believe she is experiencing something of a second girlhood. She’s dressing her hair differently and wearing less plumage. And she spends a lot of time with Mari’s father, Mr. Lumley.”

  “My mother never remarried, though she could have.” He looked out the window. Fog rolled around the carriage in a mist of mauve and gray.

  She shivered and his first instinct was to drape his arm around her. He stopped himself with his arm half outstretched.

  She was cold. He wanted to warm her.

  She was in pain. He wanted to comfort her.

  He noticed that she hadn’t moved back across to the opposite seat. She rested her head against the wall. “I’m so tired,” she said.

  He fetched a woolen blanket and tucked it around her. “We’ve changed horses several times. We’ll be there soon. If you want to sleep more, you should.”

  Her eyes closed and her breathing slowed. The carriage jostled and she moved away from the wall, tilting toward him and dropping her head onto his shoulder.

  Brave, knife-wielding, independent Indy, resting against him while she slept.

  With her head on his shoulder and her warm breath against his neck, he was happier than he’d ever been. It was the happiest damned moment of his cold, blighted life.

  And it was all kinds of wrong.

  He could never let her know how perfect it felt to have her in his arms.

  He was glad they’d be staying in separate residences in Paris. He didn’t trust himself anymore. What had happened in Athens had shaken more than his confidence. It had shaken his soul.

  She made him want to stop putting one foot in front of the other, marching down the dutiful path.

  When he was with her, all he wanted to do was touch her, hold her, taste her lips.

  Raise his face to sunlight pouring through a stained-glass window.

  Watch firelight find strands of silver in her hair.

  Live another day. Find a new path.

  Chapter 11

  Her plans to outmaneuver Raven had misfired spectacularly, Indy reflected as the carriage they’d hired when they arrived in Paris rattled down the rue Notre Dame des Victoires.

  It was half past six in the evening. Parisians were gathered by the hundreds in the coffeehouses and cafes to drink Burgundy wine and gossip over a game of chess or billiards.

  Raven stared out one window, Indy the other.

  They had scrupulously ignored each other on the brief passage by steam packet from Dover to Calais. They’d taken luncheon in Calais at separate tables.

  Instead of hiring a private conveyance, they’d traveled by diligence from Calais to Paris with several other passengers. Raven had entertained the group with card tricks and jests during the long overnight journey. She’d done her best to finish her novel but she hadn’t been able to concentrate.

  She’d been thinking about what had happened in the carriage on the way to Dover. How she’d told him about her dreams. Talk about giving the man more fodder for his already over-sized ego.

  There was no trusting herself around him, and doubly so when there was Scotch whisky involved.

  When she’d seen his troubled sleep, a welling of sympathy and emotion had threatened to ruin all of her plans for remaining aloof. And when she’d found the knot of scar tissue, so close to his heart, she’d known his life could have ended.

  And that knowledge had hit her like a bullet to the heart. Lodging itself in her conviction, her confidence, that life was better without him. He’d betrayed her, yes. But she relied on him to be there. She relied on their rivalry.

  What if he had died? She couldn’t imagine life without him.

  Maybe there was more beneath his surface. Some complicated reason that he’d betrayed her. A morality and a purpose to his actions that she’d never envisioned.

  Maybe there was a chance that they could be friends again. Maybe there was a chance . . . She pressed her forehead against the window, watching the tide of humanity swirl along the avenue.

  A strapping young sailor threw his arm around the shoulders of a beautiful girl with laughing dark eyes, and ushered her inside the warmly lit doorway of a café.

  They weren’t so afraid in Paris to openly show their feelings.

  There were so many lovers in the world, so much hustle and bustle of humanity, and she was removed, always removed, by choice.

  She studied history and she studied the lives of others and those lives were always filled with complications. While she lived an unconventional life, she didn’t have the traditional complications: a spouse or a lover, children, responsibilities beyond her work.

  She’d had a privileged life on the one hand, wealth and social standing. Her father had terrorized her childhood and her mother had never succeeded in imposing her will on Indy because she’d learned to fight early. Her mother had softened after Edgar’s marriage, after their reconciliation—still, Indy had never had a heartfelt conversation with her.

  Indy had few friends. She had Lady Catherine in Paris. Mari and Viola in London.

  She was alone most of the time by choice; because she was mistrustful of opening herself to anyone, and wary of being hurt.

  For good reason.

  She mustn’t dig into Raven’s past any deeper. No more questions.

  Asking questions left her exposed and vulnerable. He’d crush her heart all over again and she didn’t know if she could survive a second time.

  Knowing his reasons wouldn’t lessen the sting of his actions.

  “I read somewhere that Paris has more than seven hundred coffeehouses and cafes,” said Raven.

  Indy inhaled slowly. She could do this. Converse pleasantly like strangers. Remark upon the weather and the sights.

  “Sounds about right,” she said lightly. “There seems to be one on every corner. And they’re incessantly crowded from nine o’clock in the morning until midnight. It’s so different here. Respectable ladies are free to sit in the cafes, conversing with their male companions with perfect ease.”

  “I like that about Paris. The ladies don’t labor under such repressive strictures of propriety and modesty.”

  “I visit Lady Catherine every year and stay for several months. Every time I visit, she tries to convince me that I would thrive here. I’m sure she’ll renew her campaign during this trip.

  “You had no time to inform her that you were coming—are you sure she’s at home?”

  “I have a standing invitation to visit with no advance notice necessary. If she’s not at home, the doorman knows me by sight.”

  “We’ll go to Sir Charles’s residence first and engage one of his carriages for your use while you’re in Paris, just in case Lady Catherine is not at home. I don’t trust these public conveyances for a woman traveling alone.”

  “I won’t argue with that. My trunk was stolen once by an unscrupulous outrider.”

  “Tomorrow morning we’ll begin our search by visiting the Louvre and speaking with Beauchamp.”

  “I’ve been thinking about potential scenarios,” she said. “If Beauchamp is involved, though I highly doubt he is, the Rosetta Stone would be a wonderful centerpiece for the new Egyptian exhibit at the Louvre. After Napoleon was defeated, the French were forced to return so many of the artifacts he’d pillaged.”

  “I don’t think they would display it so boldly. If Beauchamp is behind the theft, he’ll keep the stone secret.”

  “Perhaps. But if France had the provenance to support a claim that Beauchamp purchased the stone from an anonymous party with no questions asked because he wanted to
save it from being lost to a private collector, what claim does Britain truly have to the Rosetta Stone?”

  He gave her a searching look. “Our monarchy won’t see it in that light.”

  “Then I return to my theory that the Russians orchestrated the theft as a means to end the peace between England and France and they are waiting until an opportune moment to pin the deed on France and sow discord.”

  In other words, they could be engaged in averting a war, which was no light matter.

  The fate of the peace between France and England could hinge upon the success of their search.

  It was nearly dark when they arrived at the Hôtel de Charost, the British ambassador’s residence, on the desirable rue du Faubourg Saint Honoré. After Raven identified himself to the gatekeeper, their carriage was allowed to pass through the carriageway that connected the street to the courtyard.

  “Such commodious stables,” Indy remarked as they alighted. “One wouldn’t think a residence in the heart of Paris would have room for dozens of horses.”

  “Two dozen horses, I believe.”

  “And the house is quite grand. To whom did it belong before it became the ambassador’s residence?”

  “Wellington purchased it from Napoleon’s sister Pauline after she joined her brother in exile on Elba. These hôtels particuliers are built to house multiple generations at the same property. Sir Charles only has himself, his wife, and their daughter, Lucy.”

  They approached the main house between two stone pavilions and across the grassy cour d’honneur, which was separated from the kitchen and stable service courts on either side by arcaded screens of five arches each. The façade was mostly windows illuminated by lamps that cast a soft glow across the hard planes of Raven’s face.

  A British butler with an appropriately dignified manner showed them to a spacious drawing room, hung with green silk and oil portraits.

  A young girl of about seventeen, very slender and brunette with a long, swanlike neck, burst through the door. “Oh there you are. Finally! I’ve been on pins and needles waiting for your arrival.”

  “Greetings.” Raven laughed. “Lady India, this is the Honorable Lucy Sterling.”

  “Just Lucy, thank you very much, Your Grace.”

  “How do you do, Lucy?” said Indy.

  “I’ve been longing to meet you, Lady India!”

  “You have?”

  Lucy bobbed her head and the fan-shaped braided hairpiece attached to the top of her head waved back and forth. “Mrs. Bertha Featherstone arrived an hour ago from London. She only stayed for a half hour but she told us all about your wedding plans. It’s ever so romantic!”

  “News travels swiftly, I see,” said Indy. She’d hoped to avoid the topic for at least a day or two.

  “Oh we hear about everything in Paris. I do miss my friends in England quite dreadfully. You’re arrestingly beautiful.” Lucy walked in a circle around Indy. “I’ve never seen eyes that shade. If I were mixing the colors I would have to use blue, red, white and a hint of black, I believe. You must let me paint you while you’re here.” She turned to Raven. “Everyone is simply dying to see the lady who captured you at last.”

  “Lucy, pray do not importune our guests,” remonstrated a handsome older woman as she entered the room. She had the same graceful posture as her daughter.

  “You’re the one who said it, Mama. You said the Duke of Ravenwood will never be caught for he is a confirmed bachelor and enjoys his freedoms far too much.”

  “Did I say such a thing? My apologies, Lady India, you’ve given the lie to my words.”

  “We met once, Lady Sterling,” India said. “A chance encounter at the Palais Royal.”

  “So we did.” Lady Sterling clasped India’s hand. She turned to Raven. “Tell me, Your Grace, how did this delightful turn of events come about?”

  He grinned mischievously. “She hung about my neck, and kiss on kiss she vied so fast, protesting oath on oath, that in a twink she won me to her love.”

  Lady Sterling looked puzzled.

  “His Grace is quoting Shakespeare,” Indy explained. She had to give him credit. He kept using her weapons against her. She’d had no idea he was the type to memorize Shakespeare.

  As a boy, he’d always teased her about her love for the Bard.

  “I’ve never known him to do so,” said Lady Sterling.

  Lucy’s eyes sparkled. “Love changes everything, Mama.”

  “I suppose so.” Lady Sterling stared out the window for a moment, her expression sad. “Well,” she said with a smile. “I’m certainly glad you’ll be staying with us, Lady India.”

  “No, no I’m not staying here,” said Indy. “I’ll stay with Lady Catherine Hammond on the rue Louis le Grand. Ravenwood thought it best for me to borrow one of Sir Charles’s carriages to convey me thence.”

  “Lady Catherine? Impossible.” Lady Sterling waved her words aside. “Haven’t you heard? She sold her residence in Paris and purchased a crumbling old chateau near Montrouge.”

  “Really? How strange. I haven’t heard anything about it.”

  “It was all quite sudden,” said Lady Sterling. “Lady Catherine said she was moving away from the unhealthy environs of Paris upon the advice of her physician, Dr. Lowe.”

  Indy exchanged a glance with Raven. She’d told him of her concern about Dr. Lowe’s influence on her friend.

  “You must stay here,” cried Lucy. “You simply must. We’ve a whole wing for guests and no one staying at the moment.”

  Indy and Raven exchanged a glance fraught with tension.

  “I’ll go to Meurice’s Hotel,” Raven offered.

  “Nonsense. I won’t hear of it,” exclaimed Lady Sterling. “We’re rattling around in this enormous house, just the three of us.”

  Lucy brushed Indy’s hand. “You must come and meet my friends. They’re simply expiring of curiosity to meet you. We were having a musical evening when you arrived.”

  There was a question in Raven’s eyes. He wanted to know if Indy had any objection to sleeping under the same roof with him.

  It wasn’t ideal.

  She should probably insist on going to stay at a lady’s school that took in female travelers. That would be the prudent course of action. But they did have a job to do, and it would be expedient to be in close proximity to go over the plan of action and modify their list of suspects as events unfolded.

  And then, of course, there were all the new varieties of kissing that they hadn’t discovered yet besides argue-kissing and evasive-kissing. For instance, what would Paris-kissing be like?

  She mustn’t think such thoughts. Especially when she didn’t have whisky to blame.

  Lady Sterling would place them in opposite wings of the house with herself in the middle to act as chaperone. Not that Indy required a chaperone.

  There would be no more intimate conversations. A complete moratorium on dreams.

  And absolutely no Paris-kissing.

  She squared her shoulders. “Thank you, Lady Sterling, I’ll gladly accept your hospitality. And there’s no need for you to run away to a hotel, Your Grace. I’m sure you want to converse in private with Sir Charles.”

  “My husband is in the library,” said Lady Sterling. “I’ll escort you to him, Your Grace.”

  “Hoorah,” cried Lucy. “The lovebirds in our nest! Childhood sweethearts to be joined together at last in holy matrimony. If you’re here in Paris to have your wedding costumes designed, I hereby nominate myself as your willing servant. Anything you wish, anything at all—”

  “A bite to eat and a bed will be most welcome,” Indy said, cutting off Lucy’s rhapsodies.

  “Of course,” said Lady Sterling. “You must be fatigued after your long journey. Lucy will show you to your chamber.”

  “Please say you’ll allow me to paint you,” said Lucy. “I’m having lessons from Master Rossetti and I’m becoming quite proficient with portraiture.” She turned glowing eyes to an oil portrait of her moth
er that hung on the wall. “That’s one of mine.”

  “Modesty, Lucy,” said her mother.

  “But it’s beautiful!” her daughter replied.

  “It is indeed,” said Raven. “Both the subject and the painting.”

  Lady Sterling smiled. “Flatterer.”

  “Will you sit for me?” Lucy pressed Indy.

  “We’ll see,” replied Indy noncommittally.

  “Before you retire you must visit the music room to meet my friends.”

  “I—”

  “No excuses. Only for a moment. There’s something I want to show you.”

  Indy exchanged a helpless glance with Raven as she was borne from the room by a tide of chattering femininity.

  Lucy clutched her hand as if she were afraid Indy was a mythical unicorn and might bolt if the maiden relinquished her golden tether.

  Her friends were arrayed in the music salon like spring flowers, in gowns of yellow, pink, and pale blue: a wash of pastels like a rainbow glowing with shimmering life, all chattering at once, their coiled, braided, and beribboned coiffures bobbing atop their youthful faces, all big eyes and rosy cheeks and dewy lips.

  Only three of them—four with Lucy—but Indy felt surrounded by an army of girlish charms.

  “Here she is,” announced Lucy, presenting Indy to the young ladies. “Lady India Rochester, she who hath brought the Rogue Duke up to scratch.”

  Sighs and giggles met her dramatic pronouncement.

  “Miss Lydia Wright, Lady Susan Granville, and Miss Francoise Pelletier.” The young ladies performed graceful curtsies as Lucy introduced them.

  India bowed to them, she wasn’t much for curtsying, and her masculine greeting was met with more giggles and the tinkling chimes of eardrops and arm bangles against graceful necks and arms.

  Indy had been young and carefree once, but she’d never been one for adornments or giggling.

  Miss Francoise possessed the innate elegance and self-possession Indy had observed in many Frenchwomen, and her dark brown eyes assessed Indy with interest, and a hint of condescension. She’d obviously decided Indy, in her travel-worn cotton gown with messy curls piled atop her head, was no threat to her beauty.