Duke Du Jour

by Petie McCarty

  Jared growled, “I should go back after the bastards. You could have been hurt, or worse.”

  Ari gasped. “No, I just remembered something.”

  “What?”

  “Those men were after you.”

  He stared at her in disbelief.

  “The brigand with the red kerchief said, ‘Yer coming with us.’ He was looking at you, but you had turned to fight the one on your left.”

  “That reprobate Dexter said he came to Haverly because he heard I had been assassinated. Coincidence that someone tried again today? I think not.”

  “I’m not sure they were trying to kill you. The rogues were close enough, yet both their shots went wide. Either they were not really trying to kill you, or they were the two worst marksmen in all of England.”

  “So, they were only trying to stop us,” Jared mused. “But why?”

  “You are a duke,” she said drily, “and dukes are wealthy. No wonder we made it out unscathed. The highwaymen were trying to capture you, not kill you. Maybe for ransom.”

  “And yer curricle wheel falling off weren’t no accident,” Barry offered.

  “You’re right,” he admitted.

  “If that is true, what about the oxcart at the manor house?” Ari ventured. “That would be three tries.”

  “What oxcart?” Barry wanted to know.

  “Reston!” a voice shouted from up the street, and Ari spotted the Earl of Dexter striding toward them.

  “Funny how he now appears on the scene,” Jared muttered.

  “You cannot think—” Ari started, but Jared turned to young Bostwick.

  “Not a word of this attack to anyone. Understand?”

  The lad nodded.

  “Cool my horses and give my curricle a once-over. I may have need of your services later.”

  Bostwick all but saluted and led the rig into the stables as Dexter approached them.

  “Spot of trouble?” the earl asked, unsmiling.

  “Why would you say that?” Jared snapped.

  “Oh, I don’t know. You raced your curricle into town with your blacks at a dead run,” Dexter said drily.

  “I didn’t see you in town,” Jared growled. “Or were you back up the road with the highwaymen who attacked us?”

  “Jared!” Ari gasped.

  She touched his arm, but he shifted away. Nothing cooled his anger when Lord Dexter was around, but under the circumstances, he had every reason to be angry. Someone was trying to kidnap or even kill him.

  “What the bloody hell are you accusing me of?” Dexter demanded.

  “What have you done? You tell me.”

  “I have had enough of your ugly insinuations, Reston. You are lucky I don’t—”

  “What? Call me out? Demand satisfaction? Be my—”

  “Enough!” Ari shouted, and little Venus barked. Both men glared at her. “You two are supposed to be best friends. I would think you would want to work together on—”

  Jared cut her off. “You need a cup of tea or a drop of brandy at the inn.” He grabbed her arm and steered her toward the Hare and Hound.

  “Work together on what?” Dexter called and started after them.

  “Getting along, and you and I cannot,” Jared groused over his shoulder. “And your presence is no longer required, Dexter.”

  ****

  By the time Jared had calmed down, ditched Dexter, retrieved his curricle, and hired Bostwick Senior and his son as outriders to escort him and Ariana back to Wakefield, he had convinced both her and himself that all three situations were isolated incidents.

  The oxcart was a simple case of a lack of care and maintenance at Haverly due to Seven’s dissolute behavior. The curricle wheel was again a situation created by less-than-stellar maintenance. This was 1816—Devil be damned—and Seven had been gone over two years. The highwaymen claiming Jared had to come with them was no doubt some nineteenth-century brigand vernacular for “We are taking you away so we can strip you of your valuables.” Though Ari had disagreed with his reasoning on the last event.

  Dexter’s constant presence at the scenes of the recent crimes, Jared could not explain away. Bullen and Ari insisted the two had been the closest of friends since their days at Eton together, when Jared had evidently protected Beauregard William Edmond Talquin from school bullies—due to his small size, if not his pretentious name and demeanor. The future Jared had no knowledge of Dexter, and the earl had shown up at every one of the three suspicious incidents. So Jared had not suffered a shred of guilt when he handed young Bostwick a gold crown and told him to discreetly follow Dexter for a few days, at least until the ball at Wakefield.

  That had really set Ariana off, and she had huffed out of his curricle before he could climb down. Stalking into her house, she called back, “Attend the ball Saturday or not, your choice.” Even little Venus hanging over her shoulder had given him a doggy glare.

  Maybe he would be foolish not to at least consider the possibility someone was after him. Regardless, he would be smart to stay on his toes. If Seven had been as big an arse as Jared suspected, there could be a dozen blokes gunning for him.

  Chapter Nine

  Jared peered out the window at the line of carriages and carts waiting to unload the local gentry at the Earl of Wakefield’s door. The manor house had been lit up from ground floor to roof, torches burning outside and candelabra blazing in every window. No less than a half-dozen footmen hustled at the front of the house, running to lower coach steps and unload arriving guests for the ball. Harry was getting antsy and moved back and forth between the two bench seats.

  “Get your chops off my trousers. No dog slobber,” Jared ordered and pushed the wolfhound’s head toward Bullen.

  Wiggs had dressed Jared in Seven’s best evening attire, and he blew out a relieved breath when all the accompanying pieces had fit. The pants, waistcoat, and jacket did not feel like they fit him, more like a size too small, but Wiggs’s beaming face had claimed otherwise.

  “Not my trousers either,” Bullen said and promptly pushed Harry back. “They are the best I have ever worn.”

  When his brother had appeared in Jared’s suite wearing his normal daily—though much cleaner—clothes, Jared had insisted Wiggs fit him with one of the extra sets of Seven’s evening attire.

  “Cannot have you going to Ari’s ball not looking your best,” Jared told Bullen.

  “He’s going?” Wiggs had gasped, looking appalled.

  “Well, of course he is. He’s my”—Jared hesitated, unsure what others knew of Bullen’s lineage—“estate manager. Lady Ariana invited him.”

  At least, he hoped she had. And that comment had stripped the pleased grin off his valet’s face and pasted it squarely on Bullen’s face.

  This was Jared’s very first ball in the nineteenth century—maybe his only ball—and he felt pretty good about his debut. Of course, no one else knew it was his debut, though Bullen hadn’t stopped staring at him since Wiggs had dressed them—staring as though Jared had grown a second head.

  “Are you nervous?” his brother asked, pushing Harry’s snout away from his trousers again and toward the open carriage window.

  Jared grimaced at the string of drool clinging to the dog’s chops. He had commanded the big wolfhound to stay when they left Haverly, but the carriage had no more reached the entrance gates than Harry was pacing alongside. Dart was acting coachman tonight, so Jared supposed he could leave Harry in the carriage with him during the ball.

  “Not really nervous, but I don’t remember all the dances. I only remember how to waltz.”

  Bullen frowned. “It’s odd the things you remember and the things you do not. Like you pick and choose.”

  Jared ignored the odd stare his half brother gave him. “Well, I don’t need to dance. The local gentry will be happy enough just to have a duke show up for their country ball.”

  “I wouldn’t count on it,” Bullen muttered.

  “What was that?”

  “I said,
I wouldn’t count on it. And try not to start any fights. I am wearing your good clothes tonight.”

  “Do I start fights often?

  “Often enough,” Bullen answered, looking grim.

  Jared waited for more, and when Bullen remained silent, he pressed, “Why would me fighting have anything to do with your clothes?”

  “I fight your fights for you,” Bullen said simply.

  “What the bloody hell for?” Jared exploded. “I can fight my own battles.”

  Bullen shook his head.

  “I don’t?”

  “Our father always said my one job was to look after you. Said it was the only thing I was good for, and if anything happened to you, Heddy and I would be tossed out on our collective arses.”

  “Did I know about this?” Jared asked incredulously.

  “Of course you did.”

  “And I got into lots of fights?”

  “All the time. Mostly just to see me fight.”

  Jared sank back in the carriage seat, disgusted with himself—or rather his ancestor. “Is our shared lineage a secret around here?” he asked quietly.

  “Everyone knows. No one mentions it.”

  I will fix that.

  “Well, no more fighting for you. I fight my own battles.”

  Bullen stared at him like an extra nose had sprouted on the extra head.

  “What?”

  His brother just shrugged.

  “No more of that infernal shrugging. Out with it.”

  “Something is not quite right with you, Jared,” Bullen said quietly.

  That is for damn sure.

  “Why? Because I choose to fight my own battles now?” Then in a wisp of inspiration, he added, “Going to war must have toughened me up.”

  Bullen actually smiled at that.

  “Tonight, I plan to enjoy myself at the Wakefield ball and to waltz with Ari.”

  “Lady Ariana,” Bullen amended.

  “Right.”

  He had not seen Ari in two days, and he found he had missed her horribly. He could not remember ever missing a woman, but he doubted Bullen knew that. Seven’s half brother suspected all was not quite right. No need to worry him with Jared’s attraction to Ari. Bullen was perceptive, but was he trustworthy? Even though he was one of Jared’s ancestors?

  Jared wanted to confide in him. He had already grown quite fond of his taciturn half brother. To get back to the twenty-first century, he would require Bullen’s help. Yet, he held back. Bullen could easily get him shipped off to Bedlam, if Jared shared his crazy time-travel tale and Bullen didn’t believe him.

  Would his half brother stand to gain anything if Jared disappeared altogether? No. No way could the dukedom pass to Bullen, even if Seven had been killed. A peer might raise his bastard with his own children, even marry the mother later, but a bastard child could never be his legal heir, unless of course the prince regent should create some special letters patent, but that would never happen. Bullen had already mentioned a distant cousin salivating over Seven’s supposed demise.

  Those thoughts posed even bigger questions. What would his brother do if the real Seven showed up while Jared was still stuck here? What if Seven was still alive? Obviously, several people still thought Seven to be alive. No one had definitive proof of his death at Waterloo, and if Ari’s supposition was correct, three very nasty highwaymen thought Seven alive as well.

  If Jared ended up stuck in the nineteenth century, he owed it both to Seven and himself to find out what had really happened on the continent, so Jared wasn’t forced to spend the rest of whatever time he was trapped here looking over his shoulder. Then again, if the real Seven showed up all of a sudden, Jared could still be shipped off to Bedlam. Or worse yet, Newgate, for impersonating a peer. Did the crown hang blokes for that in the nineteenth century?

  Bloody hell, I need someone in my court.

  The only thing he had going for him was his amazing resemblance to Seven. The missing portrait of Seven at Haverly bothered him. Therein lay the proof of resemblance. Had it been removed from the gallery and why? Jared had been leery of asking the servants. If the portrait had not yet been painted, then Seven really was alive.

  “What made you say, something’s not quite right with me?” he asked warily. “And don’t bloody shrug.”

  Bullen let out a long annoying sigh instead. “You are nothing like the Jared I remember.”

  His brother had to be grabbing at straws. Better to be safe than sorry. He was not ready to confide all just yet. First, he needed that damnable fountain fixed.

  “Exactly how am I different from the Jared you remember?” he asked with as much calm as he could muster. “Besides the fighting, I mean.”

  The carriage suddenly lurched forward, and moments later, a footman pulled the door wide and tugged down the steps. Bullen motioned him out with a grim “We will talk later.”

  Torchlights illuminated the path from the entrance drive through a small garden as Bullen and Jared made their way to the steep steps at the entry to Wakefield Manor house. Lord Dalton’s deep baritone rang out behind them.

  “Hurry with those steps!” he barked at the lanky footman attending his carriage, then lumbered out and gave the lad a shove on his way past, knocking the footman against the side of his carriage.

  “Out of my way!” Dalton ordered Jared and Bullen as he steamed toward them on the path. “I am late, and Lady Ariana is waiting for me.”

  Jared stepped in front of him. “I seriously doubt that. Why would she be waiting for you?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” Dalton snapped, then realized to whom he spoke. “Ahem, Your Grace. I am her favored suitor. That is why.” He made to step around Jared, who shifted with him.

  “She didn’t want you bothering her the other day in Dolan. What could possibly have changed between then and now?”

  Dalton’s neck and cheeks flushed bright red, and he opened his mouth to argue.

  “Here we go again,” Bullen muttered behind him.

  “Oh my! What is going on?” Lady Wilder’s voice trilled as she sidled up the path to join them. “I heard you two all the way back at the entrance drive.”

  Jared and Dalton both sketched a brief bow, and she managed a curtsey before sliding between them.

  “This is going to be a lovely ball with my two favorite peers both here. Whom shall I choose?” She patted Dalton’s cheek, and he preened. She reached for Jared.

  “She is trying to make you jealous,” Bullen muttered next to Jared’s ear.

  “Not working,” he hissed back.

  “Not?” Bullen leaned to the side to give him that you-must-be-daft look.

  “Let’s go,” Jared said.

  “What is this?” Lucilla frowned at Bullen. “I cannot believe Ariana is so classless as to invite a servant to her ball.”

  “What servant?” Jared growled. “Whom might you be talking about, Lady Wilder?”

  “Whom? Your stable master,” Dalton answered for her.

  Jared looked at Bullen, then glowered at Dalton. “That is my brother, you bloody cretin. I suggest you watch your mouth, or I will lay you out just like I did in Dolan.”

  The baron plainly reconsidered his next move, and Jared almost smirked. Baiting a rival was one thing. Baiting a duke—one of the highest peers of the realm—was a whole different bailiwick.

  Dalton took a careful step back and slightly behind Lucilla.

  “You cannot be serious, Jared,” she hissed.

  “That is Your Grace to you,” Jared said coldly. “If you will excuse us, Lady Wilder. My brother and I are due inside.”

  He turned on his heel and stalked up the steps to the door held open by a mesmerized footman. A stunned Bullen trailed in his wake.

  Inside the foyer, his brother caught hold of his arm. “Why did you do that?” he whispered harshly.

  Jared leaned in until they were eye to eye. “Because you are my brother, and it is time everyone treated you as such. Now, come on—we�
��ve been invited to the ball, Cinderella.”

  “Who?”

  Jared rolled his eyes. “Never mind.”

  “I’d watch your back with that one around tonight if I were you. Got some unsavory connections,” Bullen said, careful to keep his voice low.

  “Who? Lord Dalton? I daresay Lucilla is harmless. A bit of a…wanton, maybe.” He grinned, pleased he had come up with proper Regency slang on the fly.

  Bullen did not smile back. In fact, his faux brother’s frown deepened.

  “After you left for the continent, it wasn’t long before Lady Wilder sailed off to Town and then bragged to folks back home about bagging an offer from a French comte who had fled the continent before Waterloo. Then about six months ago, she shows back up here—comte-less—and goes right after Dalton. That is, until you reappeared.”

  “That does not make her dangerous. It only makes her promiscuous.”

  “This from the man who survived an assassination attempt by the Frenchies,” Bullen said in his usual grim tone.

  “Lucilla dallying with some homeless French comte has nothing to do with me. Now come on, I want to find Ari.”

  “Lady Ariana.”

  “Right. I want to make sure she saves me all her waltzes.”

  “You cannot have more than two.”

  “Why not three? This is the country, not Town.”

  “Because even in the country, if you dance with a girl three times, folks will think you have already or will soon offer for her.”

  “More of your rules?”

  “That you have conveniently forgotten.” Bullen gave him a pointed stare.

  “Whatever.”

  There was no formal receiving line, and Jared spied his hostess moving through the crush in the large ballroom, greeting her guests. For but a moment, she turned and their gazes locked across the expansive ballroom. That almost familiar tug and pull on his heart made his lungs seize up. His mouth went dry. Clad in a pale blue silk gown with pale blue ribbons threaded through her upswept coiffure, Ari was breathtaking. He felt certain in that moment he had never seen a more beautiful woman.

  A neighbor stepped in front of her and broke the spell. Jared could finally pull air into his lungs. What had just happened? He had never been struck dumb by the sight of a woman before.