“No more buying ink and paper,” Thea said. “It is well past time you gave up such fanciful foolishness, Cecily, and set your mi—that is, your heart on something more sensible and proper. Such as finding a husband. What about Mr. Eastman? Your uncle has been persuading him to offer for you.”
The vicar? If she was ever so desperate as to marry him, he wouldn’t let her write anything except his weekly sermons. Otherwise, Mr. Eastman’s only redeeming feature was not being Harry.
“I will do so on one condition,” Cecily lied, for she would never give up her “fanciful foolishness”—but she’d worry about that later. “That you and Uncle Willard stop Harry from publishing that book. I will gladly see it destroyed.”
Before Thea could respond, Harry said, “I’m over one and twenty—indeed, I’m almost one and thirty—and they cannot order me what to do.”
“He’s right, Cecily,” said Thea. “Maybe you could write a letter to Bradbury, informing him that you intend to publish a sordid book about him unless he pays you to refrain from doing so.”
“Now there’s a plan,” Harry said. “Write the letter, Cecily—if you dare.”
“Why would I do that when I’m not the one trying to get it published? Not to mention that’s blackmail. I’ll do no such thing. Let your mother write the letter, since it’s her idea. Bradbury will use all his ducal powers to bring charges of blackmail.”
Harry burst into derisive laughter. “Against whom? If he does, he won’t be charging her. He’ll be charging you. Why would she sign her name to the letter? She’d be signing yours. You’re the one who wrote the book.”
“That’s forgery.”
“Only if you refuse to sign it. And how will you lodge a complaint against her? Who would believe you?”
Panic roiled inside of Cecily. “Then how do you expect to profit from any of it, if I’m in jail for blackmailing the duke?”
Harry shrugged and grinned. “The book will be published. And people will buy it. We’ll have money again.” He rubbed his hands together, unwittingly working the damp ink stains deeper into his palms. What an oaf.
“I’d rather we not risk angering Bradbury,” said Thea. “He’s your father’s nephew, and he won’t even let us stay in the great house though it has hundreds of rooms and he’s there for only a few months each year. We’re lucky he allows us to reside in the dower house.”
Harry scoffed. “I doubt he would evict us because Cecily wrote a book about him—after all, we’re part of his family. She isn’t. You might remind her that she lives with us strictly at our pleasure.” He said that last with a suggestive leer at Cecily that was doubtless lost on his mother. “Rest assured his anger will be directed only at her—if he finds out she’s the one who wrote the book. Write that letter to him, if you will. In the meantime, I’m away to London to see the publisher and buy a new waistcoat. Maybe I’ll buy a dozen.”
“Oh, but Harry—your sister and I have only just returned from Bath yesterday. You’ve barely even seen Rebecca since—” But Harry was already galloping down the staircase.
Thea threw up her hands and turned to Cecily. “He’s right, Cecily, and you know your uncle would agree with him. Unlike the rest of us in this house, you’re not really Bradbury’s relation. You’re only the daughter of my late sister. You’re seven and twenty, and we can’t be responsible for you anymore. You need to find a position in another household.”
“After I was sacked with no reference by Lady Sanford last year because she didn’t approve of her son being cordial to me?” Which the old harridan might never have known had the Duke of Bradbury not seen Cecily with her son and split them up. That was when she started writing the book that now had her plunged deep into some very thick suds.
“You might try writing to my brother, Lord Frampton,” said Thea. “Perhaps his new wife would like a lady’s companion.”
“I’ve never even met him. Why do you not write to him on my behalf?”
Thea flicked a hand. “Oh, he stopped answering my letters years ago.” Probably because they were nothing but pleas for more money. “Or you can try writing to your late father’s nephew, who’s now the Earl of Ashdown. His father and grandfather might have disowned your father, but now that they’re off this mortal coil, the new earl might take pity on you.”
Cecily heaved a sigh as she pondered her options, all of them thoroughly unpalatable. “I suppose I have no recourse but to throw myself upon the duke’s mercy.”
“Oh, no, don’t do that!” Thea grabbed her niece’s shoulders. “Why, that is the very worst thing you could ever do, Cecily!”
“And why would it be the worst thing, Aunt Thea? Because I will tell him that Harry is the one behind this?”
Thea let go of her shoulders. “You’re the one who wrote it. Promise me you will not go to the duke, Cecily. You must weather the storm that you yourself have created.”
Cecily stared at her aunt for a long moment before she finally said, “So be it.” She ducked back into her bedchamber and closed the door, leaning her forehead against it as she listened to her aunt’s footsteps fade away and back downstairs.
Only then did she open the door and head for the servants’ backstairs, resolved to do the worst thing she could ever do. She was out the door before realizing she’d forgotten her bonnet, but she wasn’t about to go back for it and risk losing the courage now driving her to the duke’s doorstep.
She knew she was walking into a lion’s den. Indeed, the Duke of Bradbury somewhat resembled a lion, with his thick mane of tawny golden hair. Sometimes he could even roar like a lion. He probably would once Cecily told him what was going on.
But she didn’t know if he would roar with rage...or laughter. He was renowned for both.
With Cecily, he’d only ever roared with laughter. But now, he was certain to be enraged, and probably at her. The only thing she felt she could do at this point was try to mitigate his anger as best she could.
As she headed outside and down the narrow road to Bradbury Park, Cecily contemplated all the times he’d roared with laughter...at her.
The first time was when she was eleven years old, and clambered up a tree on the edge of some woods, where Harry’s cousins, sons of the previous duke, had built themselves a clever little house. You climbed a hanging, swaying rope ladder to reach it. The ladder could be pulled up into the treehouse and detached from a pair of pegs around which the ends of the ropes were looped. That was how Cecily had wound up trapped far from the ground, like a frightened cat treed by a vicious dog.
The vicious dog in this case—in every case, come to think of it—being Harry.
He’d perched himself up there and dared her to climb up. He told her she couldn’t do it because she was a girl. That was all the impetus she’d needed at that age. Up she climbed.
She never liked to recall what ensued between the moment she entered the treehouse, and the moment Harry detached the ladder, threw it to the ground, and left her there after he climbed down the tree. It was easy for him to do it without the ladder. It proved to be impossible for young Cecily in her skirt, and with no experience climbing up and down trees.
She was stuck in that treehouse for hours. Afternoon shadows lengthened as the sun slowly sank down to the horizon she could almost glimpse from her lofty perch that was even higher than the roof of the dower house. She might have been awed by the sight, if not for the fear she’d be marooned forever. The duke’s sons, by then, were all adolescents who’d long since abandoned the treehouse in pursuit of less puerile pleasures.
Rescue came in the form of the firstborn son, the eighteen-year-old future Duke of Bradbury, who happened to ride by on horseback as twilight was falling, accompanied by his groom.
He sent his groom to fetch a ladder, and stayed in the saddle beneath the treehouse to reassure Cecily that all would be well and soon she’d be back to earth.
Cecily fell so madly in love with him during that brief time that she almost never did come ba
ck to earth.
But she did, once he took her home, roaring with laughter as he told their mutual uncle and aunt what happened.
Uncle Willard and Aunt Thea were not amused. If anything, they were horrified that Cecily had done something so unladylike as to climb a tree, only to make herself the object of ridicule and cause so much trouble for the future duke, who surely had better things to do than rescue a miscreant little girl from her own stupidity. After he left she’d been duly punished. Severely.
Harry, meanwhile, got away with what he did once he’d lured her up the tree and into the little hut nestled among the stout limbs of oak.
She’d encountered her rescuer maybe two or three times a year since that dreadful day sixteen years ago. On each and every occasion, he seemed maddeningly compelled to remind her of the day he rescued her from his brothers’ treehouse. And each and every time, he roared with laughter at the memory, while she silently stewed with mortification.
Yes, Cecily had fallen in love with him that day...but she’d been furious with him ever since, because it seemed he did nothing but laugh at her and get her into trouble. As she marched up the front drive to his magnificent manor with its hundreds of rooms where he abided all by himself, she found herself hoping that for once, he might roar with rage at her. Maybe then she’d fall out of love once and for all and despise him forevermore. She’d hoped writing that book would do the trick. Instead, it just brought more trouble raining down on her head.
She’d walked about two miles by the time she reached the duke’s enormous manor, built of warm, golden-brown stone in the English Baroque style. Not for the first time, she wondered why her uncle and aunt and cousins—and Cecily herself—couldn’t live here. Uncle Willard, after all, had spent most of his childhood here. The duke himself stayed for no more than six or seven months out of the year; and it was big enough that none of them would have to see him or each other if so desired.
As she entered the graveled forecourt, only then did she ponder the possibility that Bradbury might not even wish to grant her an audience. She knew he was currently in residence. He usually was this time of year. The display of his ducal standard attested to that, occasionally swishing against the pole atop the roof on this relatively calm day that did not match Cecily’s mood. Yet she knew she’d have to remain calm if by chance she was able to speak to him.
All she could do was try.
Her heart sank as she spotted a curricle near the front steps. Not only did he already have a caller, but she recognized the curricle and horse belonging to none other than Vicar Eastman—the same Vicar Eastman her uncle thought she should marry.
The same Vicar Eastman even she’d thought of marrying in one of her darker moments of despair.
Now what?
By now it had to be about noon. Had Mr. Eastman come to Bradbury Park for luncheon? Cecily had made a serious miscalculation, not too unlike the one that left her trapped in the ducal family treehouse sixteen years ago. She’d walked all this way, and it could be another hour before Mr. Eastman left. Cecily, meanwhile, had come here uninvited with hardly a thought about luncheon—until this moment, as she heard her stomach growl.
One of the duke’s grooms, keeping an eye on Mr. Eastman’s equipage, eyed her tentatively. “’Elp ye, miss?”
“I came to see His Grace, but I see he has other callers. I suppose I should come back some other time.”
He stared at her as if she had a third eye on her forehead, or a second nose on her chin. “If ye’re ’ere ’bout a maid’s job, then may’ap ye’d rather go ’round to the trade entrance.”
Cecily really should have written that letter Harry suggested, minus the threat of blackmail. It wasn’t every day she had to concede he might be right about something. Then again, he’d spilled all of her ink, leaving her no choice but to come here personally. But she couldn’t see the duke now, if Mr. Eastman was here. “Thank you. I’ll do that,” she said stiffly, and turned to make her way to the back of the house. Not that she intended to go through the trade entrance. She merely decided to return home in a roundabout way. Coming here to see the duke had been a mad, rash idea.
Her heart tripped, and she almost tripped with it as a banging sound from one of the manor’s windows startled her. She glanced up to see a man with blond hair gazing straight back at her from the window.
Even from here, she could see that he was tall and broad-shouldered, his jaw finely chiseled with a cleft in the chin. An odd thrill tingled through her core as she gawped back at the Duke of Bradbury...who looked ready to roar with laughter.
Chapter Two
Demetrius Aubrey Norbert Elton “Dane” Armstrong, the Duke of Bradbury, might have opened the window and called out to Miss Cecily Logan, if not for Vicar Eastman standing about ten paces behind him. For that matter, Dane shouldn’t have knocked on the glass, but he could only resist so much mischief, especially where Miss Logan was concerned.
What was she doing out there, and without her bonnet? Was she hoping to spy on Mr. Eastman’s audience with Dane? Maybe she really did have a tendre for the vicar. She froze, turned to face him, and—speaking of faces, what happened to her own? Several black smudges marred her left cheek and brow. He surmised he’d have to rescue her yet again from one of her silly blunders. One would have thought she was more than old enough to know better by now.
She really needed a husband. But Dane wasn’t entirely certain Eastman was the man to tame such a wild filly.
She gaped at him for the space of a heartbeat, and then broke into a run toward the other side of the manor.
Dane turned back to Mr. Eastman. “I beg your pardon for the interruption just now. There appears to be a prowler on my property.” He stepped over to the bell pull and yanked.
“In broad daylight?” Mr. Eastman asked skeptically. “I vow, what is this world coming to?”
“I should think that is your area of expertise, Vicar.”
The door opened to reveal one of the footmen. “Your Grace?”
“There is a young woman lurking about the south side of this house. Brown hair, blue frock, no bonnet, and dark smudges on the left side of her face.” A woman of that description could be anyone, even one of the maidservants, not necessarily Mr. Eastman’s prospective bride. “I would like you to show her to the kitchen with all courtesy and ask her to wait there until I have summoned her. Tell Mrs. Hooper to offer her tea and refreshment, whatever she fancies.”
The footman blinked, a crease appearing between his brows as he said, “Yes, Your Grace.”
As the door closed, Mr. Eastman peered at Dane. “Do you have many prowlers about your estate, and do you always offer them tea and refreshment when you see them?”
Dane grinned. “Only the women. I must assume they come here looking for some sort of...position.”
Mr. Eastman’s bespectacled eyes bulged as he made a choking noise in his throat which he tried to cover by clearing it. His usually ruddy cheeks flushed a deeper scarlet as his spectacles slid down his nose.
Dane pursed his lips to keep from bursting into laughter. He didn’t know whether to feel sorry for Mr. Eastman or Miss Logan, in the event they married. One did not deserve the other. The unanswerable question was, who was the one and who was the other?
“I shouldn’t detain you any longer, Mr. Eastman,” he said.
“Oh, but Your Grace has hardly detained me. Indeed, I am the one who came here to impose on your—well, on your grace and your hospitality, when I am quite aware of how busy you must be with more important matters.”
“You do have a point there. It’s not as if I caught you lurking outside my window and sent my footman to seize you and lock you in the root cellar till I have time to interrogate you.”
No sooner did he push his spectacles back into place than Eastman’s eyes bulged again. No hint of scarlet darkened his cheeks, but he may have actually burped this time. “Excuse me, Your Grace. Don’t know how that happened. Been hours since I broke my fast.”<
br />
The vicar’s chosen hour for calling had not been lost on Dane, and for the past quarter hour of his visit, Eastman had dropped more than one hint about luncheon.
“You needn’t apologize, Vicar. Indeed, I thought you might have quite a large amphibian trapped in your throat. But you needn’t fear I intend to have the young woman locked in the cellar and interrogated at my...pleasure.”
This time Eastman coughed.
“No, I shan’t keep you any longer,” said Dane. “You should hasten back to the vicarage and summon the physician to look at your throat. You surely don’t want to break into fits of coughing or choking or even burping when the time comes for you to drop on bended knee before Miss Logan.”
“Thank you, Your Grace. I suppose I should have accepted that brandy you offered when I first came here, but as I said, I personally do not care to imbibe such strong spirits ere the midday meal. Perhaps what I really need is a bowl of hot soup.”
“Perhaps you do. A pity I cannot abide soup, or I might have entreated you to join me for that midday meal, and maybe afterward try again to offer you brandy. Alas.” Dane was about to yank on the bell pull again, then recalled he’d sent the footman to waylay Miss Logan. He led Mr. Eastman out the front door to where his curricle awaited him at the bottom of the steps.
“You’ll let me know what she says?” Dane inquired, as the vicar climbed into his curricle.
“Of course, Your Grace. But I’m quite certain she’ll say yes.” He flicked the ribbons and away he rolled down the drive.
Dane remained on the front steps, watching the curricle make its way through the shady tunnel of elms before it finally disappeared out the front gate.
Familiar footsteps he recognized as the butler’s approached him from behind. “Your Grace? May I ask if Mr. Eastman just departed?”
The Duke Is a Devil Page 2