The Good, the Bad, and the Duke

by Janna MacGregor

  Most likely, it was just surprise.

  Daphne exhaled and pushed her consternation aside for another day. She had to find the kitchen. The cook would know the whereabouts of the boy.

  “Come, Moonbeam,” Paul whispered. He’d leaned close enough that she could smell his fresh, clean sandalwood scent. He extended his arm in a command for her to take it, then directed his attention to the major baboon. “Why don’t you alert my footman that Lady Moonbeam and I are ready to retire for the evening.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.” The majordomo nodded and snapped his fingers at one of the attendants who worked the floor of the gambling hell. As if a piece of rubbish, he held Daphne’s cloak between two fingers. She reached for it, but Paul easily intercepted it and casually laid the black wool garment over his arm.

  Before she could say a word, the summoned attendant was halfway out the door.

  She and Paul faced each other like two ships ready to commence fire on the open seas. “You had no right to interfere.” She ignored Paul’s offered arm, and there was enough hiss in her voice to alert him that she wasn’t happy. “And quit calling me that ridiculous name.”

  Paul grinned, and it transformed him from an arrogant aristocrat accustomed to getting his way into a man who took her breath away. Without taking his eyes from hers, he addressed the majordomo. “My good man, you’ve seen what type of mood she’s in. Might there be a place where Lady Moonbeam and I might have an intimate conversation for a few minutes before the carriage is brought to the door?”

  “Of course, Your Grace. If you and Lady Moonbeam will follow me.”

  Chapter Five

  Paul waited until the majordomo shut the door to the private room before he addressed Daphne. “Imagine my surprise and pleasure to find you standing in the middle of the Reynolds. Unfortunately, for both of us, women aren’t allowed, and there’s no exception for the sister of the Marquess of Pembrooke.” With a purposeful insouciance, he strolled to the side table against the wall where an open bottle of chilled champagne waited for him. He’d say one thing for the Reynolds brothers—they took care of their guests whether expected or not. “May I pour you a glass?”

  “No, thank you.” Daphne straightened her shoulders.

  Her prickly mood and appearance reminded him of an inquisition, and he was the examiner.

  Interesting, since he hadn’t asked her a single question—yet. He poured a glass and, without taking his eyes from hers, took a sip. An excellent vintage, but too sweet for his tastes. He much preferred the brut variety, so he replaced the glass. “Moonbeam, I thought with our history, you’d share without me having to ask.” He feigned a sigh and placed his hand over the middle of his chest.

  “Please stop calling me Moonbeam.” She tipped her head and regarded him like an unwanted interruption. “To answer your question, I’m looking for someone.”

  “Aha.” Though he said it in a lighthearted manner, his stomach twisted at her confession.

  The thought that Daphne Hallworth would risk her reputation for some reprobate who frequented a place such as the Reynolds made him want to curse the vilest oaths he could conjure. There wasn’t a single man in the place he’d allow to attend her.

  Shocked at the intensity of his feelings, he drew a deep breath. The only reason for such a strong reaction had to be his protective instincts. He was simply concerned for her welfare, much like a brother. Granted, he’d seen her at Langham’s house and at a handful of social events, but they barely spoke. Yet she’d always left an indelible impression on him. The reason didn’t escape him. She was striking.

  He shook his head to clear such inane thoughts. He would never ever in his entire life as a reprobate consider Daphne Hallworth a sister. “Who is it?” He asked the words with a nuance designed to learn her secrets.

  “No one you would know.” She turned toward the door. “I’ll leave you to your evening, Your Grace.”

  “Stop, please. Someone might recognize you.” In a stealth move, he followed her. By the time she’d twisted the knob, he rested his palm against the door, thwarting her escape. “Moonbeam, you can’t go out there without a proper escort. Where you go I go.”

  She turned around and flattened her back against the door in a show of defiance. “Please, I would hate to ruin your plans or festivities.”

  The urge to whip out a witty quip fell silent when he caught Daphne’s gaze. She looked like a devil’s angel with her dark hair, ethereal silver eyes, and those strawberry-colored lips. Any sin she offered, he’d have no hesitation rising to the challenge.

  He leaned in close. Her chest rose and fell with a rhythm that drummed like a well-crafted metronome, and his heartbeat joined into the melee with abandon. Daphne’s warmth and her delightful scent of lavender and woman transformed into a witchery he couldn’t resist. He drew nearer until his breath mingled with hers.

  “You’re not ruining anything.” He lowered his voice. “In fact, my night became much more interesting since a beautiful moonbeam appeared.” Her allure called to him, and powerless to resist, he brushed his fingers against her cheek. The silkiness of her skin could soothe the most savage and jaded of beasts.

  Her black lashes drifted down when she leaned just a fraction closer. His chest swelled in response. She was affected as much as he was.

  “Shall we sit until your carriage is ready?” Her breathless sigh was a welcome distraction and indicated her wariness was fading.

  “After you.” Taking several steps back, he swept his arm toward a matching pair of club chairs that faced the fire. Her quick acquiescence meant it would take little effort on his part to find out whom she intended to meet.

  A gentle smile adorned her face and locked him in place. She charmed him in returning one to her. When she held her smile a little too long, he instantly recognized his mistake. With her hand behind her, she opened the door and flew down the hall without a look back.

  “Bloody hell,” he muttered. If she returned to the game floor, her reputation would be in tatters if some lowlife libertine recognized her. There was only one thing he could do—he gave chase.

  He, the Duke of Southart, had to catch a moonbeam.

  * * *

  Daphne rushed down the hall and hoped she was headed toward the Reynolds kitchen. Ever mindful, she kept her head averted in case she met an employee. As she passed an exquisite red-lacquered cabriole side table, she picked up a discarded serving tray. If people thought she was some serving wench sans painted face, she stood greater odds of making it to the kitchen before she faced an unwanted escort out of the establishment.

  “What’s your hurry, l-lub?” A very inebriated oaf swayed before her with a hiccup. “Luv, I mean.”

  Belying a quickness for such a drunkard, he placed his hands around her arms and drew her near. The stench of alcohol and cheroot combined into a miasma that made her stomach protest. Before she could fight him off, another man pulled her free. She found her backside nestled against a hard, broad chest and her bottom pressed against a set of iron legs. Instinctively, she fought to free herself from the man’s embrace.

  “Easy, Moonbeam. I’ve been looking for you,” Paul’s voice teased her from behind. Without warning, his lips pressed against her cheek, then traveled close to her ear. “Turn around and hold me close. Pretend we’re lovers,” he whispered.

  Paul wouldn’t have to ask twice. With a tremulous breath, she turned, then folded her arms around his neck and pushed up on her tiptoes. She was surely going to hell after this. If anyone in her family, particularly Alex, could see her now, they’d likely explode into a thousand pieces of disbelief and anger. But she had little choice if she wanted to keep her identity a secret. She pressed her lips to his earlobe. “Thank you,” she murmured.

  She drew a breath, forcing herself closer to him. The scents of sandalwood, lemongrass, and pure male melded in a heady mixture that turned intoxicating. There was little doubt. Paul, the devil himself, could lead any woman, including her, on a merry
dance to utter ruin.

  She’d do well to remember that simple fact.

  But that was the least of her worries. Her only goal was retrieving her journal.

  “S-Southart, I saw her first,” the drunkard slurred. “She looks like a bloody virgin angel in that garb. Since when did the Reynolds require the help to wear costumes?”

  “Bennington, it’s a treat for the holiday season. Now run along, as true love can’t be denied. Moonbeam and I have a special tryst we’ve planned all evening.”

  “Bloody unfair. Makes no difference if they’re whores or ladies. They always melt for you. Even when you were nothing but the spare.” Bennington tried to stare at Paul, but he kept stumbling and catching himself.

  “Watch your tongue,” Paul growled, and Bennington fell backward. “She’s a lady.”

  “Of course she is, Southart. You always did have a fanciful imagination.” Bennington guffawed at his own quip. When he tried to slap one knee, he missed, resulting in him falling into a heap in the middle of the hallway.

  “Have a good nap, old fellow.” Without missing a step, Paul threw her discarded cloak around her shoulders and pulled her hood into place.

  She’d completely forgotten about her wrap. If she kept this pace of losing articles of clothing, she’d not have anything to wear by the end of the week. It was of little consequence. The only thing she needed to survive the holiday was retrieving her lost journal. “I can’t leave until I visit the kitchen.”

  “Why? I never took you as the domestic sort.” He quickly surveyed the hall. “There’s no one roaming about. We should leave.”

  “I lost something,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Something small,” she answered with a scowl.

  “A spoon? A teacup?” he joked. “An embroidered apron? Perhaps your favorite tarts?”

  His humor made the depth of his blue eyes twinkle. He’d remembered her weakness for tarts. She couldn’t resist his charm and laughed. “It’s none of your concern, but I thank you for your help. I can find my way from here.”

  “A secret recipe, hmm?”

  “Good evening, Your Grace.”

  “Wait. Let me come with you.” The sincerity of his tone and the candor in his expression gave her pause. “This place is besieged with secret passageways, hidden corridors, and paths that lead nowhere. What if someone grabs you again? You’re not safe here alone. I can help you find the kitchen and give you an escort outside.”

  “You know all this?” She arched a brow. “How could I forget? You frequent this place.”

  “A wound straight to the heart.” He feigned a stumble backward. “That’s in my past, Moonbeam.”

  “Why help me?”

  “I thought tonight I might like to try something different. Perhaps, I’ll be the one in shining armor instead of my usual black.” The silky sensuality in his voice promised her a taste of the forbidden.

  “As in knight?” she asked, ever mindful that he held a power reminiscent of a potent elixir over most women.

  “Yes. But if you prefer black, then black it shall be.” The raspiness in his voice reminded her of a cat’s tongue when it licked you—signaling you were chosen as a token of affection.

  Daphne leaned close ready to answer, “Black,” then stopped. She couldn’t succumb to his seduction. Not tonight. Not ever. But it would save precious time if he’d take her to the kitchen, since she only had a vague understanding of where it was.

  As if he knew she struggled with her decision, he added, “I can get you to the kitchen where there is a secret exit. You can find your recipe or whatnot, then I’ll see you safely away.”

  “Thank you,” she murmured, still not certain if this was the best plan, but time was not on her side. The quicker she recovered her journal, the quicker she could put this nightmare behind her.

  He glanced down the hall where they came from. “No one is coming. Follow me. Tell me what you’re looking for.”

  “My bag.”

  “Seriously? In the Reynolds?” he said with a raised brow. Without waiting for her answer, he strolled down a short hallway that looked like a dead-end and pushed aside a bookshelf. Magically, it rolled easily, as if on wheels.

  “I’ve never seen the like.” The bookshelf contained real books but moved with the ease of a sliding door. “I’d have never found that opening.”

  “Proving I’m a knight in shining armor,” he replied. He swept his hand in front of him as if inviting her to tea with the queen.

  She stepped inside to another world. The sounds of pans and pots banging along with the bustle of people preparing meals surrounded them. “This is amazing.”

  He nodded, then surveyed the room. “We shouldn’t tarry. It appears no one is paying attention to us, but I guarantee the Reynolds brothers have already been alerted that we’re in their kitchen. Whatever you’re looking for, find it, and we’ll leave.”

  Without responding, she walked through the kitchen searching for the boy. There were no hiding places that she could see, but that meant little if the kitchen entrance was any indication of the possible niches a boy could hide in. Paul stayed by her side without drawing much attention. Several of the footmen had nodded their way, but the rest of the staff ignored them.

  “Any luck?” Southart asked.

  Suddenly, the door of the kitchen rolled open, and the majordomo swept his gaze across the room until he found them. He shook his head as if dismayed, then started toward them.

  Paul lifted a hand in greeting and held his other arm for her to take. “No need for your services, my good man. We bid you adieu.”

  For a moment she hesitated, as she didn’t want to leave until she found the boy and her journal.

  “Come, Moonbeam,” he coaxed.

  With a deep sigh and an even deeper reluctance, she capitulated.

  Southart pulled aside a small curtain, exposing a door. When he opened it, they were outside the Reynolds in a small side alley. He started to escort her to the front of the building. “You may never find your bag. Is there something valuable in it?”

  Her breath caught at his words. “Please. I must go back.”

  “Lady Moonbeam, not tonight. I’ll visit tomorrow and look for it.”

  “Why would you do that?” she asked incredulously.

  “To prove I’m a knight in shining armor. Now, do you have a way home? My carriage is out front. I could take you.” Without warning, he stopped and pulled her close. Abruptly, he propelled them toward the closed shop of a cobbler on the other side of the alley and didn’t stop until the dark awning covering the shop door concealed them.

  “What are you doing?” Her voice betrayed the small pang of disquiet that had unfurled in her thoughts. This was the man who had besmirched her lovely sister-in-law. He was practically an enemy.

  But an enemy who had helped her this evening. Immediately, she thought of a stroke of lightning, something brief and brilliant—a coup de foudre. His efforts were simply a splash of brilliance in the dark night, nothing more.

  “We can’t leave that way.” He searched her face and something akin to panic made his ice-blue eyes shine like a finely cut aquamarine stone. “We’ll have to walk completely round the building.”

  He took a step back and peered down the alley toward the back of the building. A garbled moan drew her attention toward the front of the establishment. Under the cold haze of a street lamp, several dozen or so feet from the Reynolds side entrance, a man leaned against the wall. Bobbing her head in a frantic and awkward dance, a woman was on her knees directly in front of him.

  “That’s it. Deeper, take me deeper,” he crooned. He put his gloved hand on top of her head and pushed her lower.

  The woman adjusted her stance, leaving a clear view of what she was doing. The man’s erect member jutted like a sword toward the woman’s mouth. Daphne knew she should turn away, since ladies shouldn’t bear witness to such a shocking escapade. Yet she couldn’t. Her curiosity was st
ronger than her sense of decorum. The woman appeared to be kissing his erection, then trying to eat it.

  Though her upbringing didn’t provide for such an education, she’d overheard several conversations between the under-maids who loved to gossip. When she first heard men sought pleasure like that, she’d thought it disgusting. Now she wasn’t certain what she thought. Her own breath deepened trying to dampen her racing heartbeat.

  The man in the alley released a loud groan that lasted an eternity while the woman held still. With a pop of her lips, she released his organ and proceeded to wipe her mouth.

  Gently, Paul pulled her back into darkness the overhang offered, then rubbed a hand over his face. “Daphne, your brother would kill me if he had any inkling what you were watching.”

  The old Daphne would be sputtering a protest at the ribald crudeness of the couple. But after today’s events, she could do anything she wanted, even watch the exchange between the woman and the man. She bit her lip in a poor effort to thwart the laughter that threatened at the vulgar banter and interaction between the two. Paul moved close enough that his greatcoat brushed against her cloak. The sensation caused the fine hairs along her arms to stand straight up at attention, and she shivered.

  “You’re cold,” Paul declared.

  She took a deep breath of the frigid air. “No. Just curious at the levity of the conversation.”

  “You hellion.” He brought her into his arms. If she wasn’t mistaken, his lips pressed against the top of her head. “You are incorrigible. And I adore—”

  “Southart? Is that you?” A different man from the one who’d been pleasured by the whore crept closer.

  Paul’s eyes widened. “I’d recognized that snake’s hiss anywhere. It’s Martin Richmond from The Midnight Cryer.”

  “The gossip rag?” Her throat tightened in a panic.

  There were ways of having one’s reputation ruined that were self-inflicted and couldn’t be avoided—like running a home for unwed mothers. However, to have it revealed she was outside the Reynolds with the Duke of Southart while prostitutes serviced their clients was another matter. The future of her home would be in jeopardy—even before she purchased it. With her reputation in tatters, no one would seek her help. Nor would anyone associate with her if they thought she was watching or, God forbid, if they thought she was involved in such salacious activities.