The Good, the Bad, and the Duke

by Janna MacGregor

  “Please, m’lady?” The soft voice of an angel caused Daphne to look up from her writing in a daze.

  She slammed her journal shut and pushed it inside her reticule while forcing her prurient thoughts into a semblance of submission. Before her stood a street urchin no more than eight or nine. Though his clothing was several sizes too big, the thick wool guaranteed he was warm. A fine wool scarf wrapped around his neck provided the finishing touch to the haphazard ensemble.

  “Might ye have a coin to spare, m’lady?” He pulled the scarf away from his throat and scratched. “Blasted thing is i’chy.” He tilted his head and grimaced. “It would mean the world to me if I could buy me poor ill mather a Christmastide present. Bu’ our landlawd demanded the rent last night.” He pulled out the pockets of his jacket to prove he had no coin. He blinked slowly, and several fine snowflakes caught in the ridiculously long length of his dark brown lashes. “Anythin’ you could spare would be a gift.”

  A Christmas angel in the form of this small boy had come to remind her there were more important things to remember of the season besides her predicament. The lad’s concern wasn’t for himself, but his dear mother. He set a perfect example for how she should concentrate her efforts on others and not herself.

  She bestowed her best smile and thanked her lucky stars she hadn’t been caught writing such salacious things. Her heart still raced from the wicked sensual images she’d summoned of her dream lover.

  “Let me see what I can find.” She pulled a guinea from her reticle and then pulled it shut. “Here you are.”

  The boy held out his hand, and Daphne placed the coin on his palm. “Perhaps you’ll have enough to get yourself a little something, too.”

  “Yor like manna from the bloomin ’eavens.” He pocketed the coin, then executed an exaggerated bow. “In celebration o’ the most ’oliest o’ seasons, m’lady.”

  Daphne stood in the slippery snow and answered with a slight curtsy, the movement requiring she extend her hand with her reticule for balance.

  With a swift swipe of his hand, he ripped the reticule from her grasp, causing her to jerk forward. She lost her footing and fell into a heap of black wool cloak.

  Her sweet angel had transformed into a little pirate before her eyes.

  His brilliant brown eyes widened in shock. “Forgive me, m’lady.” The little wretch tipped his hat, then ran.

  Stunned for a moment, Daphne couldn’t move. Then as her anger rose, she clenched her bare hands into fists. If she truly thought herself independent, then she needed to be her own savior. She’d pursue the boy on her own. He’d left the park, but there was enough snow that she could follow his footsteps.

  Daphne struggled to untangle her legs from her cloak. As off-balanced as a newborn filly, she hoisted herself off the ground. She took a deep breath for courage, then started after the little urchin.

  Through the park and down the street, she briskly walked the trail he’d left. When she got to the corner of the street and turned, she spied him. He was tearing through her reticule. No doubt counting the spoils of his thievery.

  He looked up, and they made eye contact. For a moment, they just stared at each other.

  “I just want my reticule and journal.” She kept her voice calm. “I’ll give you the money. You can go home then.”

  Without answering, he ran down the street.

  “Stop, you little miscreant!” She really didn’t give a farthing whether she ever got the reticule or her money back. All she wanted was her journal. If she lost it, it’d be akin to having her every memory stolen and her heart ripped out of her chest. It had her entire life in it. It contained every despicable thought and feeling she’d ever experienced. It held her hopes and dreams. It possessed her most wicked desires.

  Above all, it bore witness to her grief over losing her sister, and if any of that were read, lives would be ruined.

  After three blocks, the boy reached the quiet streets on the outskirts of Mayfair. He chanced a glance back.

  “Stop, please!” She slipped on the snow that had started to accumulate on the ground. The soles of her new half boots offered no traction on the slick walkway. “You can have everything except the book.”

  The distance between them had increased. Throwing caution to the wind, she accelerated into a full run. No matter how unladylike her appearance, she couldn’t lose him. Her lungs started to protest the exercise and the cold.

  Suddenly, he darted down a short alley. Without questioning the wisdom of her pursuit, she followed. He rounded another corner and proceeded straight ahead. Once he crossed St. James’s Square, he headed toward the theatre district.

  Her throat burned from inhaling the cold air. Her right side screamed with a splitting pain. She dismissed her discomfort. Only after she retrieved her journal could she afford the luxury of taking stock of her aches and injuries.

  They rushed passed the Theatre Royal Haymarket. Several carriages lumbered down the snowy streets. The little thief darted between them, then headed in the direction of Seven Dials. If he made it into that unsavory area of town, he would be gone forever. She was not foolish enough to attempt to visit that part of London without proper escort.

  Unexpectedly, he scampered into one of the gambling hells across the street that littered the area. Daphne slowed to a hurried walk so as not to draw attention to herself in the populated neighborhood. Elegantly dressed men and coaches with their attendants littered the street.

  Once she reached the building, she would knock at the gambling establishment’s door and ask the majordomo to find the little devil for her. As soon as he was delivered to her, she’d retrieve her journal, then turn him over to the nearest authorities. She’d brush her hands of him.

  Holiday cheer, indeed.

  With a quick glance in both directions, she started across the street, then suddenly stopped.

  In front of the Reynolds Gambling Establishment, larger than life, was the Duke of Southart.

  Proof that any luck she possessed had evaporated. Under no circumstances would she cross the street with him there. If he spoke to her, she’d have no choice but to be rude. He’d undoubtedly want to know why she was at the Reynolds. To engage in a conversation with him would invite unwanted speculation that either the family accepted him or, worse, she was interested in him. Though Alex and Paul were at times civil to each other, their friendship had never recovered the affection they had held for each other. Like most feuding families, hers had supported their own. If Alex didn’t want Southart’s friendship, then the family respected those wishes.

  She exhaled, and the vapor of her breath rushed forward as if wanting to join with the crowd gathered around him. She studied his form. Tall with blond hair and with a charming demeanor to match, the duke cut a striking figure. Men surrounded him as if begging for his attention. There was no denying he was handsome. Some said he was the handsomest man in all of England.

  Unfortunately, she agreed. He was beautiful. He’d always been kind and attentive to her, particularly when she was a little girl. But she was no longer a little girl. She could admire him from afar, but that was all she could do.

  She chuckled under her breath. That must be why she fantasized about Southart in a completely inappropriate manner. He was an ideal lover on the pages of her journal. He was gorgeous and tender in her daydreams, but he wasn’t real.

  Thus, making him the perfect man—one she didn’t have to answer to like a husband who would object to her opening a home for unwed mothers. More important, one she didn’t have to pretend perfection around like she did with her family. It was exhausting keeping things on an even keel since Alice’s death.

  As she watched him, he turned his gaze to hers. She pulled the hood of her cloak tighter around her face. He took off his gloves, tugging at one finger at a time, the movements slow and deliberate as if he were teasing her. Good lord, the man could make the simple act of taking off his leather gloves a seduction.

  Daphne had lit
tle choice but to find another entrance. She had to retrieve her journal as quickly as possible.

  Perhaps Southart was leaving.

  Inside her chest, her traitorous heart beat a little faster in hopes he’d just arrived.

  Chapter Four

  Paul stood in front of the Reynolds, an establishment known for high-stakes gambling. Only a few coaches and hackneys decorated the street. Two boys acting as attendants guarded the horses owned by the nobs, rakes, and other dissolute society hounds who were the regulars at the Reynolds. Such mongrels saved their affections for lady luck rather than concern themselves with the comfort and care of their employees or the poor creatures that conveyed them from one low-life haunt to another.

  He was—or had been—just like them. With a deep breath, he allowed the bitter cold to cleanse his lungs. It was a shame the air couldn’t clean his conscience. He’d spent so many nights and days at the Reynolds. A pure waste of precious time that he’d never reclaim. Time he should have spent with Robbie, easing his pain and keeping him company in his last years.

  He’d wasted money also but had recovered the massive amount of gambling losses. Fate had been kind to him, but he couldn’t see it at the time.

  When Pembrooke had bought Paul’s vowels, then forced him to renege on his engagement to Claire, Paul’s old friend’s actions had been solely for revenge—an act that had first infuriated Paul. Pembrooke had thought his youngest sister, Lady Alice Hallworth, and Paul had formed a liaison that resulted in the poor girl’s pregnancy and subsequent suicide. Like an avalanche, Alex wouldn’t stop in his plan to ruin Paul. After Alex had married Claire, the truth eventually unfolded as it always did. Paul hadn’t laid a hand on Alice, and in time Alex had discovered the truth of Paul’s innocence. In the end, a very much-in-love-with-his-wife Pembrooke had returned Paul’s vowels.

  In hindsight, Pembrooke’s deeds were a blessing. Alex’s bold acts had curtailed Paul’s incessant gambling, a forced habit to gain his father’s attention. It had cost dearly in other ways besides his lost time with Robbie.

  Paul had lost Pembrooke’s friendship. Though they pretended to be civil with each other, it was readily apparent in Pembrooke’s attitude that he’d not welcome Paul’s company. Like a broken plate glued together, it may appear whole, but if one looked close enough, the crack was still there ready to split open again.

  Against a sudden blast of frigid air, he squared his shoulders, his formal black greatcoat billowing around him. Tonight, he’d pay the gambling debt his father had left him, then put the Reynolds and that chapter of his life to rest. He’d keep his promise to Robbie and accept his role as duke with all its responsibility and its accompanying respectability.

  There were advantages to being a duke. He was treated like a national treasure or a rare bird. They looked at and sometimes admired him, but for the most part, people kept their distance. Perhaps they feared getting pecked.

  But the unanswered question remained: When a duke claimed the title, why didn’t anyone make mention that it was so damned lonely? The simple feat of finding trustworthy confidants—let alone friends—was practically impossible.

  “Southart, surprised to see you back at the Reynolds,” greeted Edgar Farnsworth, the Earl of Howton. Tall and in his mid-thirties, Howton was in charge of the Committee of Privileges. How fitting, since his position was as stuffy as his title. The man’s cheeks flamed. “I’m here to pay a debt for my youngest brother.”

  Paul nodded at the clearly embarrassed man. “I’m paying a debt also. One just brought to my attention.”

  “I see.” Howton tugged at the brim of his hat. “Well, Merry Christmas. Excellent speech you gave this week.”

  Paul nodded his thanks.

  An old acquaintance, Richard Pearce, the Marguess of Warwyk, joined them. “Southart, you’re here playing again?”

  “No, I have to see someone,” Paul answered.

  Warwyk nodded. “I needed a little entertainment myself, since my wife and I stayed in town over the holidays. We’ve a dinner engagement with her family this evening. One of those uncomfortable affairs where everyone looks down their noses at everyone else.” He shook his head and muttered, “Families. Must be going.”

  Without another word, both men left. The mention of family sent a pang through Paul’s chest. This would be his first Christmas without Robbie—without any family. Most would say he was blessed with riches, estates, and a noble lineage. Yet he considered himself rather poor in all the things that mattered in life, love and friendship. He quickly dismissed his melancholy, which could only be attributed to the season.

  Before he climbed the steps to the entrance, the massive ebony doors opened. In a smart evening uniform of the maroon and gold Reynolds colors, the establishment’s majordomo greeted him. Boisterous yelps of joy at fate’s kind hand along with the accompanying moans of despair when luck—the true definition of a fickle beast—inevitably departed the tables, then rushed into the night.

  “Evening, Your Grace.” The man beamed a smile, one he undoubtedly reserved only for the most elite upper crust with deep pockets. “Welcome to the Reynolds. We’re delighted you decided to join us this evening.”

  Paul nodded in return and proceeded into the establishment. There was no use in correcting the man’s presumption that he was here for entertainment purposes. The garish lights that surrounded the perimeter of the large entry were designed to lead a man into the gambling club’s main rooms where tables of hazard, vingte-et-un, faro, and dice were strategically placed for ease of play. A raised stage marked the center of the room. In the middle of the stage, two giant desks faced each other. One was for the croupiers who ensured no one cheated. The other was reserved for the exclusive use of the Reynolds brothers. The desk’s height provided for an unrestricted view of the gambling floor, so Thomas Reynolds and his brother, Forest Reynolds, could reign over all activities.

  Surveying the room from afar, Paul immediately found himself steeped in the thick scent of the patrons’ desperation and debauchery. Brightly painted serving wenches passed through the crowded floors with endless trays of spirits. Designed to get a man foxed, the house increased its odds the patron would gamble heavier if he was inebriated.

  It was a well-orchestrated but macabre play, one where fortunes were lost every night. Never mind that lives were ruined. Like a powerful break in a billiards game, men on a losing streak careened from table to table, desperate to find some luck.

  Thomas Reynolds caught his gaze. He said something to his brother, then with an ease only the most confident of men possessed, he approached Paul. Once he was within earshot, he dipped a bow. “Your Grace, we’re honored to have you this evening.”

  “Good evening, Mr. Reynolds. I’m here to pay an old note I discovered in my account books,” Paul drawled in the most bored, aristocratic voice he could summon. Anxious to leave the soul-rotting establishment, he wasted little time with pleasantries. “Would you lend some assistance…”

  His words trailed to nothing when his gaze fixed on a corner where the partially concealed majordomo stood embroiled in a heated discussion with a woman who had her back turned to Paul. Dressed in a white gown better suited for an Almack’s affair, she gesticulated quickly as she spoke. If the majordomo moved an inch closer, she would hit him with her hands as she made her point.

  The man towered over her as he shook his head. Instead of intimidating her, it seemed to have the opposite result and incited another round of arguments from the young woman. Whoever she was, she would shortly be leaving the Reynolds. They only allowed men in its hallowed halls. If she was looking for a place to gamble, she’d have better luck at the Beauchamp House, where women and men were free to play together.

  The majordomo had started to sputter in outrage at her latest comment. Paul’s gaze strayed to her velvet dress, which emphasized her straight backside and hugged her plump, perfectly shaped bottom, which begged for a man’s touch. Whoever she was, she was simply magnificent in
her demeanor. Paul couldn’t tear his eyes away from the lovely vision with ebony hair tucked in an elegant chignon.

  Completely ignoring the majordomo, she glanced at the side exit leading to the kitchen. The instant he caught her profile, Paul’s stomach dropped in a free fall. The curve of her exquisite cheek and the tilt of her lovely head held him spellbound. With the faintest of fragrances wafting his way, the allure of her scent captivated him.

  He knew that woman.

  What in the devil’s name was Lady Daphne Hallworth doing in the Reynolds?

  * * *

  If she had to spend the night in the gaming hell, Daphne would find a way to enter into the Reynolds kitchen before the sun rose the next day. It was beyond the pale that she had to argue with an overgrown baboon disguised as a man in formal livery two sizes too small.

  “Women aren’t allowed here,” warned the majordomo. He had the audacity to take her by the arm and pull her toward the back of the building.

  She dug in her heels and twisted away from his formidable bulk. “Please. I just need to see the kitchen. If he’s here, I won’t take but a minute.”

  “He isn’t here, miss. Garland works here as a runner in the evenings. Most of that time he dawdles in the kitchen with the cook Elsie. He’s always hiding in her shadow begging for food. Tonight, he and Elsie have the night off.” The majordomo snorted. “Now listen here, I’m not above throwing you out myself if you won’t leave on your own accord.”

  “Now just a minute, sir,” Daphne interrupted. “I happen to be—”

  “Lady Moonbeam,” a voice behind her announced. “My escort for the evening.”

  The deep sound wrapped around her in a polished smoothness that reminded Daphne of a calm bay at night off the Adriatic Sea. It was smooth as glass, but she knew that beneath the surface there lurked unfathomable danger. The Duke of Southart could blow everything out of the water for her with one word or command.

  Why had she even wanted him to be here?

  She turned and faced him. He moved in front of her and blocked the view of the gaming room. His cool gaze locked on hers, and the slight smile made him even more handsome than she remembered. Lit from within, his eyes blazed with a hint of temptation or mayhap seduction.