“He did, as a matter of fact. Don’t tell me you set the luncheon table for two?”
“We did, but we can always remove the extra setting. We will serve whenever you’re ready.”
“Keep the extra setting in place, Osbert. I may have a guest, after all.”
He cast his gaze toward the south side of the house, where he assumed Miss Logan had gone. He’d only seen her heading that way. It was quite possible that once he turned away from the window, she went in another direction, maybe back to the dower house where she resided with Dane’s Uncle Willard, to await Mr. Eastman’s formal call.
Indeed, Dane highly doubted the footman managed to intercept her. For one thing, he hadn’t heard any screaming. He wasn’t sure Miss Logan was the type who would go along quietly. He hoped not.
He turned to go back inside the house, then stopped short as something caught the very edge of his vision...from the north side of the house.
He leaned over, narrowing his gaze. The shrubbery at the far corner of the house rustled. Maybe it was just a bird. Even as he had the thought, a very large creature—too big to be any bird native to England—flew out of the shrubbery and across the graveled drive.
Miss Cecily Logan, skirts hitched up to her knees the better to run.
“Come back here, you!” called out the footman, who burst out from that side of the house in hot pursuit.
“Stop!” Dane bellowed from the front steps.
The footman stopped.
So did Miss Logan, much to Dane’s surprise and, he had to confess—but only ever to himself—satisfaction.
He gestured the footman back into the house as he descended the steps. Miss Logan, having dropped her skirts, remained frozen in the graveled drive, not unlike one of the statues that adorned the adjacent gardens of Bradbury Park. Of course, all of those statues were nude or nearly so.
He leisurely approached her, taking in her chestnut hair, her eyes the color of bluebells, and even her height. He’d never noticed before how tall she was compared to other women, at least not until Mr. Eastman happened to mention it during his call. The vicar seemed to consider it one of her drawbacks.
Dane didn’t think it was a drawback at all, but then he was taller than just about everyone.
He halted about six paces away from her, and bowed. “Miss Logan. Whatever brings you here today, and in such a surreptitious manner? Dare I ask if you were aware of Mr. Eastman’s visit?” He longed to ask about the dark smudges on her face, but thought the better of it. He surmised she didn’t know they were there, and he had no wish to cause her any more embarrassment than he was probably doing already.
“Not at all, Your Grace. Indeed, had I known he was here, I might not have ventured near your property. Or at least I would have remained out of sight of the house until he departed. It was not my intention to trespass and prowl about.”
“Then you came here with a purpose? One that has nothing to do with Mr. Eastman or gaining access to the interior of the house so you can case it for a later, more nocturnal intrusion?”
“No, Your Grace. I wished to see you.”
“I can’t help noticing your use of the past tense. Now that I stand before you, you no longer wish to see me? Or now that you’ve seen me, you’d like to take your leave?”
She glanced around and wrung her gloved hands, clearly flustered. “I came here hoping to speak with Your Grace, but not under such circumstances. Even if Mr. Eastman hadn’t been here, I wasn’t sure I’d be admitted or allowed to see you.”
Dane nodded in understanding. Ideally, she should not have come here without a card, a chaperone, a bonnet, or, for that matter, a clean face. It just wasn’t done. Still, she’d done it, and there could only be one reason to explain it all.
Miss Cecily Logan was in trouble.
Again.
And it was something worse than being trapped in a tree. Something that would explain those smudges on her face. Something that might have something to do with Mr. Eastman, but Dane was quite sure she didn’t happen to come wandering by at this hour in hopes of being invited to luncheon.
He favored her with his most cordial smile. “Well, you’re here now, as am I, and Mr. Eastman has left. Shall we go inside? Perhaps you’d care for some luncheon?”
For a fleeting moment, she looked as if she was seriously considering that offer. Dane heard a growling sound that didn’t come from his own belly. At that very same moment, she pressed a hand to her own and looked as if she wished the ground to open up beneath her and swallow her.
Wait until she finds out about her face, he thought with a barely suppressed chuckle.
“Come,” he said. “They set a second place for Mr. Eastman, but alas. You may as well join me.”
“Thank you, but I’m afraid that wouldn’t be proper,” she said quickly, as if she wanted to get it all out before he interrupted her or she lost her nerve. “Especially when I tell you why I’ve come. In that case, you may well regret showing me any kind of hospitality.”
His smile faded. “Should I not be the judge of that, Miss Logan?”
“Yes, and I have every reason to believe Your Grace will judge accordingly.” Her gaze was earnest, but with a flicker of apprehension in those wide blue eyes.
“Then perhaps you should tell me now, and we’ll get it over with.”
The wide blue eyes flicked from side to side. “Out here? Right here?”
“I might suggest my library, but I can’t imagine that would be proper, either. I understand from my sister-in-law that libraries are where young ladies, for some reason, get into the worst trouble with gentlemen who are then made to marry them. Why, no one knows. You’d think a lady surrounded by books would never get herself into such trouble.”
“One would certainly think so. Very well, we’ll stand out here in the middle of your drive and I’ll tell you what brings me here.” She paused.
Dane waited.
She said nothing. Somehow, she’d managed to freeze anew and revert to statue form.
“Is this something to do with Mr. Eastman?” he prodded.
She visibly gulped. “No, I’m afraid it’s much worse than that.”
He arched a brow. “Then you know why he was here just now?”
She met his piercing gaze. “I believe I do now.”
“Will this other matter affect it?”
“Most assuredly. But I’m more concerned with how it might affect you.”
He cocked his head to one side. “Yet you’re behaving as if it affects you just as much—if not more so. Pray do tell me what it is. It may not be as dreadful as you think.” Most women of his acquaintance always tended to brew tempests in teapots.
She was wringing her hands again, taking a series of deep breaths, evidently gathering her nerve to spit it out, which by now Dane suspected and even halfway hoped she would literally do any moment.
“Permit me to assist you, Miss Logan. Vicar Eastman, whose living is on my estate and therefore in my gift, consulted with me this morning about the possibility of making you his wife.” Was it his imagination, or did she suddenly look—as if she didn’t already by now—panic-stricken? Eastman had not indicated this morning that she was unaware of his feelings for her, if feelings they were. He only stated that a spinster of her age and temperament—Dane thought the word Eastman really wanted was resignation—would make her the perfect wife for a clergyman. “You have reservations about this that have something to do with me. Could it be—”
“’Tis not because I harbor some secret tendre for Your Grace!” she exclaimed.
It took all of his strength not to burst into laughter. “Is that what you thought I was going to say, Miss Logan?”
“Is it?” Those two words almost came out as a wild screech.
“I can’t deny it,” Dane said tersely, still trying to suppress his mirth.
“Surely you don’t believe that, do you?”
“Do you?”
“Your Grace...” She raised her hands, palms
facing him in what seemed a gesture to stop the direction of this conversation. “The matter of which I speak, or am trying to speak, does not concern Mr. Eastman so much as it does you and our mutual cousin, Mr. Harcourt Armstrong.”
Dane promptly sobered. He had little to no esteem for Cousin Harry, the only son of the previous duke’s younger brother, or for that matter, anyone in that branch of the family, save for the possibility of Miss Logan, the orphaned niece of Harry’s mother. He regarded her with his most earnest gaze. “Pray, continue.”
Another deep inhalation... “Mr. Armstrong came into possession of a book—an unpublished manuscript, to be precise. But he means to have it published over the author’s objections, unless you pay him not to do so”...followed by an equally deep exhalation.
Harry’s involvement was news to Dane, but the rest came as no surprise to him, for he’d already received a letter from his London solicitor along with a galley proof of the book, thought to be the ravings of an anonymous madwoman. Dane’s own brother once accused him of being attracted to madwomen, so it was probably true—and very intriguing. The publisher wisely sought to make the Duke of Bradbury aware of it before proceeding any further with its publication.
He wasn’t about to tell her this. Not without first indulging in a bit of sport with her. Besides, she might know something about the madwoman. “Ah, so you’re here to warn me that Harry intends to blackmail me? Well, it wouldn’t be the first time anyone has tried to do that. But there’s yet to be a first time that anyone succeeded. Thank you, Miss Logan. I appreciate your coming all the way over here to put me on my guard.”
“But this—this book, such as it is. If it’s published, people will think it’s about—you. Your Grace.”
“They will think, and nothing more? They won’t know?”
She clasped her hands together. “Well, they might know.”
“Then it is about me?”
“So everyone will assume.”
“What else do you know about this book? What is it, exactly? A compilation of letters I wrote to someone whose heart she thinks I broke many years ago?”
Miss Logan narrowed her eyes. “How do you know it’s a she?”
“I’m not aware of having broken any men’s hearts, though I imagine it’s possible. I don’t suppose you’ve read this rubbish yourself?”
She winced, as if offended by the very suggestion that she would ever read rubbish.
“I take it the answer is no?” Dane asked.
“He won’t let me have it.”
“How did he come to be in possession of it?”
“He stole it, Your Grace.”
“From whom?”
“The author, of course.”
“Of course. But who is the author?”
“Your Grace.” She lifted her hands again, this time as if she hoped to ward off a blow. “The author never intended for this...rubbish, as you put it, to be published.”
“Who is she, Miss Logan? And by the way, you need not address me as ‘Your Grace’ every time you say something to me.”
As he expected—indeed, hoped—she turned a lovely shade of deep pink that made Vicar Eastman’s blushes and flushes look like apoplectic fits. Dane didn’t wonder what kind of children those two would produce. No, he wondered how they would even manage to produce them in the first place.
Hands still up, she said, “I’d really rather not say who she is. I only want to emphasize that she never, ever intended for the rest of the world to see what she wrote.”
Dane was beginning to suspect the identity of the author. On closer scrutiny, those smudges on her face were ink stains. There were even ink smears on one of the sleeves of her blue spencer jacket. Oh, he would indulge in more than a bit of sport with her. “Then why did she write it?”
“For her own amusement,” Miss Logan replied, as if that should have been the most obvious explanation even to a lackwit, which may have described Harry, but not Dane. Or so he liked to think.
“Not revenge? Just to amuse herself?”
“She knows it would be dangerous to publish it—not to mention she doesn’t believe it even merits publication because it is, as you said, rubbish.”
“But somehow Harry found out about it, stole it, and having read it, wishes to publish the rubbish, unless I pay him not to? How much is he asking—or should I say, demanding?”
“I know not. I only know the author has no wish for it to see the light of day, for it’s full of exaggerations and fancies that could be misinterpreted by some readers.”
“How do you know, if you haven’t read it?”
“Because I know the author. She’s oft been accused of exaggerations and fancies, no doubt because she writes. Indeed, one might say it’s why she writes.”
“Then I daresay I have nothing to worry about.”
“But surely you know how people are, Your—that is—”
“I surely do know how people are. They’re more likely to believe exaggerations and fancies about me than they are the truth. I learned long ago that it’s useless to fight human nature, especially in hopes of changing it.” His gaze bored into her eyes that didn’t even blink, for it was apparent to him that she understood him perfectly.
“I happen to agree with Your—with you,” she said. “But she feels that what she wrote belongs to her. That it’s her property, though she’s acutely aware that women aren’t allowed to own any property. Yet he stole it.”
“You live under the same roof as he does. Were you not able to steal it back?”
She slowly shook her head in such dejection that Dane actually felt a strange tugging sensation somewhere in the middle of his chest. He never realized he had a heartstring, let alone one that wasn’t too taut to be plucked.
“Well, Miss Logan. You might inform your author friend that I care not if her book is published, since I do not believe it will adversely affect me regardless of its content. I trust I need not explain to you the reasons a man in my position is unlikely to be ruined as a result. Who knows, it might even benefit me. The matchmaking mamas will cease to plague me. Not that they plague me all that much now. I’m sure you must be aware of my reputation for securing brides deemed unsuitable by all the usual busybodies, only for them to jilt me as if I’m even more unsuitable. The tendency seems to have taken a toll.”
Without hesitation, she replied, “I am aware. But what about the author herself?”
“What about her?”
“She herself could be ruined if this book is published.”
He knit his brow, well aware it would look to her like a scowl. “How? Is she one of those former brides?”
“No. But if her identity were known, she would be ruined and duly banished from all of polite society.”
“That may not be such a bad thing, when one considers the sort of people who fancy themselves in charge of polite society,” said Dane, who’d never noticed Miss Logan taking much of an active part in so-called polite society.
“Her family might be scandalized enough to turn her out,” she argued. “And then she would have nowhere to go. No marriage prospects.”
Mr. Eastman would almost certainly not marry Miss Logan if he ever found out she was the author of a salacious book about his ducal patron. Dane was suddenly curious to read it for himself. The galley proof was sitting on his desk under the solicitor’s letter, but he had yet to peruse it.
He clasped his hands behind his back. “I believe you worry over nothing. The book will, in all likelihood, be published anonymously. Readers may speculate over her identity as much as they will the veracity of whatever” –he almost said you’ve— “she’s written about me, but how will they ever know for certain?”
“They will if Harry insists on not publishing it anonymously.”
“Then let us assume for the sake of argument that I don’t pay him not to and that he does publish it under the author’s name. People will buy it. Who gets the money? Besides the publisher’s share?”
&nb
sp; “Harry says he will.” She sounded rightfully indignant about it.
“Then it would behoove him to publish it anonymously. Still, not exactly fair to the author, is it? What would you like me to do, Miss Logan?”
“Stop the book from being published.”
It was such a simple request, but Dane was too intrigued by her appeal to grant it so easily and end the matter today. “Before I do anything else, I should eat my luncheon. Perhaps you will join me? It’s all perfectly respectable, I assure you. A maidservant can act as chaperone.”
How could she resist? “Very well. But may I have the chance to freshen up a bit, first?”
At which point she would finally learn about the ink on her face. Dane could hardly wait to see how she’d react to that. “Of course. Let us go indoors, and I shall see you are directed to the proper place for that purpose.”
Moments later, he stood in the center of the cavernous front hall, waiting for the inevitable. It would take a great deal of scrubbing to remove those smudges, and even then, it would be days before they faded and disappeared entirely.
The great manor was quiet, save for the ticking of the massive, long case clock near the grand staircase.
Then came the piercing scream.
Dane couldn’t help it. He roared with laughter.
Chapter Three
He’d seen her face like this! And never said a word.
For that matter, nor had he laughed. At least not until she screamed in horror at the sight of her ink-stained face in the looking-glass. The Duke of Bradbury laughed as loud as Cecily screamed.
She scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed. The maidservant thoughtfully kept her supplied with plenty of water and soap. But the smudges left by Harry’s fingertips faded only slightly. Just slightly. Tears smarted her eyes. The duke had seen her like this, and found it just as amusing as the time she was scolded for imposing on him by getting herself—so everyone still believed—trapped in a treehouse with no ladder.
She finally gave up and left the small retiring room, following the maidservant to an elegant dining room where Bradbury stood at one end of a long table, apparently waiting for her. Two places were set, one at the end where he stood, and another close to the corner on his right. Fleetingly, it occurred to her that if by some insanely remote chance she were to become his wife (Ha!) her place would be at the other end of the table, where neither of them would be able to see one another for all the candelabra and epergnes in the way. Nor would they be able to converse without shouting, thus making the servants think they were constantly quarreling.
The Duke Is a Devil Page 3