Such a revelation, however false, might not ruin him—he was still a duke, after all—but it could ruin Miss Logan if it were published and anyone with a partially functioning brain box happened to figure out her identity.
In that case, no wonder she didn’t want it published! But why did she write it?
No one else will give me employment, and my father says the only way I can remain under this roof is if I wed Harcourt. I would rather marry Vicar Eastman though he would never let me write more books.
Dane never stopped shaking his head, and now he chuckled. “Not one for proofreading, are you, Harry?”
Therefore, either I publish or you must pay me not to publish by giving me the same amount of money I stand to make if it is published. The publisher has informed me that this amount could be in the tens of thousands.
If you are a true member of nobility and a gentleman of honor, you will pay if you have no wish to see either of us the objects of ruin and ridicule.
He finally picked up the galley proof of the book and started reading. It was infinitely more coherent than the letter. It wasn’t a very long book; he finished it before supper.
The story was best described as a gothic fairy tale, something his sister-in-law would enjoy reading. Written in the first person, the narrator was a bold, brazen maid by the name of Catriona who, unlike most fairy tale heroines who were ravishing beauties, more closely resembled someone’s big-footed ugly stepsister. Madfury was a giant with hair like the mane of a lion, and like a lion, he roared with laughter at his hapless victims. Still, a devilish duke would sell more copies than a leonine one.
Per Miss Logan’s advisory, it was full of exaggerations and fancies, but nothing anyone in the ton didn’t already know about him, or the myriad women to whom he’d been betrothed over the years, only to be jilted by each and every one for some lesser mortal, because he was said to be such a devil. Why else would anyone in their right mind jilt a duke?
I sought to find out for myself by venturing to his castle. Mayhap I could be the one to tame the beast, but not with my beauty, for alas, I had none. I had only my wits and wiles.
Was that what she was trying to do earlier today?
There was no mention of him seducing her and having her sacked from a governess position; only of him scaring away anyone else he thought would marry her. The seduction accusation was apparently an invention of whoever wrote the letter, but he was satisfied it wasn’t Miss Logan.
By the time he reached the end of the book, he thought he knew why she didn’t want to see it published. She’d tamed the beast, or devil, something no one else had been able to accomplish, because she was his true love once promised and then lost to him many years ago, ere all the other women he’d charmed as if casting an evil spell, only to frighten them away once he realized none was The One—until The One came to him. Indeed, it was true love that finally broke the spell that made Madfury a devil and Catriona someone’s ugly stepsister, unloved by all but each other. The duke was no longer a devil to me. He was a dream, my dream. He was my true love forever.
Maybe she did have an inkling of what her father had arranged with his many years ago.
The next day, he sent the galley proof back to his solicitor in London with orders to publish and a list of conditions. The devil in him longed to see how far she would go before she finally admitted authorship, and what she might do to stop him.
Chapter Six
On the following Sunday, the devil, better known in these parts as the Duke of Bradbury, attended the village church where he had his very own pew at the front of the nave.
This particular pew had always belonged to the dukes of Bradbury, who shared it with their duchesses and heirs and spares and any daughters. As children, neither Dane nor his brothers had ever liked sitting in the ducal pew, where the backs of their heads were on constant display for the judgment of the rest of the congregation. They would have much preferred to sit in the very back row, where they could get away with more mischief.
Willard and his own family occupied the opposite pew, and all were present save for his wastrel son and Miss Cecily Logan, who was evidently still laid up with her bad ankle. Dane wondered if Mr. Eastman had managed to propose marriage to her since he last saw the two of them.
At the end of the service, Mr. Eastman sauntered up the aisle to the portal. Those in the front pews were the first to follow him. The Duke of Bradbury could not be seen to wait for the rest of the congregation to vacate their pews and clog up the aisle, thus impeding his own departure. Hat under his arm and walking stick in hand, Dane followed the vicar outside, where he complimented him on another rousing, relevant sermon.
“And you will join me for dinner?” Dane queried. “That is, after everyone else has left. I would be pleased to have your company in my carriage. It’s enclosed, in case it should start raining.” Thick gray clouds darkened the eastern horizon as they crept in from the North Sea.
“Yes, Your Grace, thank you,” Eastman replied, and Dane moved to one side as the Armstrongs emerged from the church. He donned his hat and stepped far enough away that none of them would suspect he was, in fact, eavesdropping, but only busying himself with trying to pull on his gloves without dropping his walking stick. Usually an attending footman or groom assisted him with that, but this morning Dane waved them away.
“A pleasure to see you in church on this fine morning, Your Lordship, Your Ladyship” said Mr. Eastman. “And, of course, Miss Armstrong.”
“’Tis always a pleasure to see you, Mr. Eastman,” replied Rebecca.
“Then I shall look forward to seeing you again,” he said.
“Come along, come along,” Willard said gruffly, shepherding his wife and daughter away from the vicar. “An hour spent here is long enough.” He exchanged a curt nod with Dane, while his wife and daughter curtsied and boarded their carriage. Mr. Eastman watched them go as if he couldn’t bear to see them doing so, seemingly oblivious to the next family filing out of the church.
Dane couldn’t help noticing that Mr. Eastman—who almost a week ago had called at Bradbury Park for the sole purpose of stating his matrimonial intentions toward Cecily Logan—had not asked any of her relatives how she was doing. Then again, maybe he’d called on her only yesterday, and there was no need. But that did nothing to satisfy Dane’s own bewildering curiosity.
With long, swift strides, he approached Willard’s open carriage as it started rolling. “Uncle Willard!” he called out.
Willard turned, saw it was Dane, and ordered his coachman to halt. Dane held up his hand to stop his uncle from standing. “I should have inquired when you came out of the church a moment ago,” but I didn’t because naturally I assumed Eastman would inquire, “but it didn’t cross my mind until just now. How is Miss Logan?”
All three of them stared at Dane as if they had no earthly idea to whom he was referring.
“Your niece?” he prodded. “I take it she had to miss church because of her ankle?”
“Ohh!” Aunt Thea widened her eyes and sat back, clutching the frills of lace at her throat as if he’d said, I take it she had to miss church because of her breasts? Her daughter, meanwhile, craned her neck to survey the people still trickling out of the church as if searching for someone in particular, no doubt some local clodpole of whom her parents would never approve, but might find perfectly suitable for Miss Logan were she not already spoken for by the vicar.
“You do have the right of it, Bradbury,” Willard said drearily, sounding very much as if he’d rather discuss anyone other than his niece.
“Then won’t you give her my regards? And tell her I found my other hat exactly where she told me I would.”
“I trust you received her letter?”
Letter? What letter? Did Willard refer to the letter his son had forged in her name? Was Dane’s uncle in on that harebrained scheme, too, despite his needless assurances that he knew nothing? Still, Dane wouldn’t be surprised.
But he wo
uld not be blackmailed, regardless of who wrote or forged the letter.
So he said, “Yes, I received the letter, and I’ll have you know I promptly burned it for the piece of rubbish it is.”
Willard didn’t even try to hide his dismay. He looked absolutely stunned. His wife, meanwhile, all but collapsed in a faint against her daughter, who was still peering over her shoulder at her would-be suitor.
Dane went on, “I trust I will never read anything like that ever again?”
Willard’s mouth snapped open and shut several times, but no sound came out.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Dane said curtly. “Good day, Uncle. Aunt Thea. Cousin Rebecca.” He turned his back and sauntered away.
Half an hour later, he was riding in his carriage back to Bradbury Park, with Mr. Eastman for company. To make conversation, he said, “I should be going back to London soon.”
“For the Little Season, Your Grace? I understand Lord Willard and Lady Althea will be taking their daughter there next week.” The carriage, despite being very well sprung, jolted slightly as it hit a bump in the road, sending Mr. Eastman’s spectacles sliding down his nose.
“I suppose they still mean to find a husband for her there,” Dane remarked.
Eastman pushed his spectacles back into place. “Dare I ask if that’s also why Your Grace is going? Mayhap to find the next Duchess of Bradbury?”
“Not among the new debutantes. They’re far too young for me by now. I’d rather find someone a bit closer to my age. I’m already four and thirty. Then again, there’s no great need for me to marry, is there? I still have a younger brother, who could just as easily inherit my title, and his wife just gave birth to a baby boy—who may also be a duke one day. You might say that’s the main reason I’m going to London. I’d like to see my new nephew.”
“’Tis good to do as the Lord sayeth, to go forth and multiply,” said Mr. Eastman. “I look forward to children of my own, and very soon, I hope.”
Dane thought again of Miss Logan, and he couldn’t help shuddering. Not that she alone made him shudder. It was the thought of her married to Eastman that he couldn’t quite stomach for some reason.
Dinner was ready and waiting when they arrived at Bradbury Park. Dane bade Mr. Eastman to take the same chair occupied by Miss Logan last week. They sat, and he allowed the vicar to say grace.
They spent most of the meal discussing the other parishioners, nothing scurrilous. This was one of the ways Dane kept abreast of what was going on amongst the populace around Bradbury Park, many of whom were his tenants. He meant to save the subject of Miss Logan for dessert. His conversation with her at this same table last week had been infinitely more entertaining.
Over the apple tart, he said, “I believe I heard you say on the drive over here that you look forward to children of your own, and very soon, you hope.”
“I did.”
“Then should I assume you’ve already proposed to Miss Logan, and that she’s accepted?”
Mr. Eastman, who’d been eating with great gusto all this time, slowly lowered his fork and averted his gaze, looking very much as if the deadly sin of gluttony was suddenly coming back to haunt him with an attack of severe indigestion. His usually ruddy face turned a strange shade of grayish-green.
“Then you haven’t? Or you have, but she didn’t accept? Have you not even spoken to Lord Willard yet—not that I believe his blessing is even required in this case? Or is it Mrs. Hooper’s apple tart that disagrees with you?” Dane sincerely hoped it wasn’t that. He could accept all the other possibilities but Mrs. Hooper’s apple tart.
“Oh, I’ve had the necessary conversation with Lord Willard,” Mr. Eastman assured him. “Indeed, he’s the one who suggested the match. I only sought the blessing of Your Grace, since my living is in your gift.”
“And I gave that blessing.” Against his own better judgment, but for all Dane knew, maybe Miss Logan was just as keen for Mr. Eastman as he was—which wouldn’t seem that keen at all, if he still hadn’t proposed to her. And if he was still sitting here acting as if Mrs. Hooper’s apple tart might have just poisoned him. “How is she doing, might I ask? I noticed she wasn’t in church this morning.”
“Miss Logan? Oh, but she was, Your Grace. I’m quite certain she was there, for she’s always there. ’Tis Mr. Armstrong who seldom attends.”
“She wasn’t there.”
Though he was still grayish-green, Mr. Eastman picked up his fork again, as if it were a sword and he was readying himself to do battle and defend his honor. “Well. I would never impugn the word of Your Grace, but upon my own word, I did not even notice her absence. She does tend to blend in most of the time, and rarely stands out.”
Except when she manages to spill ink all over herself and fall into muddy ha-ha’s, Dane silently added.
Eastman went on, “Indeed, I once thought that a reason she might make a suitable wife.”
“You once thought? Do I detect second thoughts?”
“Maybe it’s just as well I have them now, before I take the next step of proposing to her. That could turn out to be a bad business for all concerned.” The vicar emitted a plaintive sigh. “In which case, my last visit here was all for naught, and for that reason, I hesitate to seek your counsel yet again.”
Now Dane was the one who put down his fork, but that was because he’d finished eating his apple tart. “Since you’re here, you need not hesitate. May I ask what prompted the second thoughts?”
That sickly, grayish-green tinge faded from Mr. Eastman’s face, and his usual ruddiness returned in force, perhaps due in part to his equally usual state of embarrassment. “After I left Bradbury Park last week, I thought to visit the dower house and consider making that offer to Miss Logan, but she wasn’t there. As I arrived, Mr. Armstrong was on his way out the door, and he told me that Miss Logan had run away and he intended to go after her.”
Dane sat back in his chair. “Obviously she did not run away, since I found her in a nearby ha-ha with an injured ankle. I brought her home myself. You were there, having luncheon with the family, though I never saw you make an appearance in the parlor, where I placed her on the sofa. But you must have been aware of that?”
“Oh, I was, Your Grace. But the fact remains she was trying to run away to London until you stopped her.”
“To London?” Dane scoffed. “No. And I didn’t stop her. I found her lying in the ha-ha.”
“Where she must have fallen while taking a shortcut to the village and the posting house therein, whence she must have hoped to board the next stage to London. That stage was due to depart about a half hour after I came to the dower house—so you see, it fits the timeline.”
It took all of Dane’s strength—and he prided himself on possessing quite a bit of it—not to lean his elbows on the table and bury his face in both hands while cursing and blaspheming under his breath. Instead he stared at Mr. Eastman as if what the vicar just said was about the most outrageous thing Dane had ever heard him say.
But he wasn’t about to reveal where she’d really been prior to that. At the moment, it didn’t seem relevant. “Then she never went to London, after all. So why did Mr. Armstrong go, if she never went?”
Mr. Eastman held up a hand, his index finger pointing heavenward. “Having missed the stage, he must have taken a mount in pursuit, not knowing she never reached the posting house.”
Dane shook his head. “If the stage left half an hour after you last saw him, then he should have had plenty of time to reach the posting house before it came and went, only to find that she wasn’t there.”
Eastman lowered his index finger, using it to scratch the side of his nose. “I only know what he told me, Your Grace. Since no one has given me reason to believe that Miss Logan was not trying to run away to London, I must assume that was indeed her intent. Mayhap she has no wish to marry me, and that’s why she tried to run away when she did.”
“Then you will not be marrying her, after all?”
Dane leaned forward in his chair. “You mean to say you now wish to marry his daughter instead of his niece?”
Mr. Eastman daubed his lips with his napkin and nodded. “When I was there last week for luncheon, she and I were left alone in the dining room while her parents were called away to receive Your Grace and Miss Logan. And in that short time, something happened.” He lowered the napkin and cast his eyes heavenward as a dreamy expression drifted across his face. “Something wonderful. Something divine. Something that seems like an unexpected gift from above.”
“Something greater than faith or hope?” Dane asked dryly. “The greatest of all?”
“That would be it.”
That would explain much of what Dane observed after the church service this morning. Mr. Eastman and Rebecca were in love.
How sweet.
“Then I find no reason to oppose the match,” he said. “Your biggest obstacle will be to obtain the blessing of her father.”
Mr. Eastman’s dreamy expression clouded as he lowered his gaze, and his spectacles slid back down to the end of his nose. “And therein one finds the dilemma. I fear her father will never consent. That’s why they’re going to London—to find her a husband with greater prospects than a mere country vicar. I must let her go...unless...” His brows slowly rose in silent entreaty, and he pushed the spectacles back up.
“Let me guess,” Dane said. “You would like me to meet with Lord Willard and advocate on your behalf?”
“If you would? Tell him you do not approve of me marrying Miss Logan, that you would view more favorably a match between me and his daughter.”
This, Dane thought, was one of the disadvantages of being a duke. Of course he would view such a match more favorably, all the more so because the parties were in love. How he envied them that! Certainly he didn’t think a match between Mr. Eastman and Miss Logan was the best for both parties, but he couldn’t say in all honesty that he formally disapproved of it. For all anyone knew, Miss Logan still wished to marry the vicar. She was suffering enough pain already without Dane adding to it—and he’d already given her more than his share.
The Duke Is a Devil Page 8