A Duke in Disguise

by Cat Sebastian

  “You’re quite right,” she replied blithely, as if insensible to the insult. “The problem is that she’s had too many of those invitations. She’s in a fair way to becoming a bluestocking, not to put too fine a point on it. I hope that a few evenings spent in, ah, more exalted company will give her mind a different turn.”

  Had she just suggested that her own associates were too serious-minded for a young girl? It was almost laughable. But not as laughable as the idea that Alistair ought to lend his countenance to the debut of any daughter of the notorious Mrs. Allenby, regardless of whose by-blow the child was. “My dear lady, you cannot expect—”

  “Goodness, Pembroke. I’m not asking for her to be presented at court, or for vouchers to Almack’s. I was hoping you could prevail on one of Ned’s sisters to invite her to dinner.” If she were aware of what it did to Alistair to hear his father referred to thusly, she did not show it. “The old Duke of Devonshire acknowledged his mistress’s child, you know. It can’t reflect poorly on you or your aunts to throw my children a few crumbs.”

  So now, after bringing his father to the brink of disgrace and ruin, she was an expert on what would or would not reflect poorly on a man, was she? The mind simply boggled.

  “Of course I wouldn’t expect to attend with her,” she continued.

  He reared back in his chair. “Good God, I should think not.”

  Only then did she evidently grasp that she was not about to prevail. “I only meant that I would engage a suitable chaperone. But I see that I’ve bothered you for no reason.” She rose to her feet with an audible swish of costly silks. “I wish you well, Pembroke.”

  Alistair was only warming to the topic, though. “If I were to acknowledge all my father’s bastards I’d have to start a charitable foundation. There would be opera dancers and housemaids lined up down the street.”

  At this she turned back to face him. “You do your father an injustice. He was not a man of temperate desires, but he and I shared a life together from the moment we met until he died.”

  “I feel certain both your husband and my mother were touched to discover that the two of you had such an aptitude for domestic felicity, despite all appearances to the contrary.” Mr. Allenby had been discarded as surely as Alistair’s mother had been.

  Was that pity that crossed the woman’s face? “As I said, I’m truly sorry to have bothered you today.” She sighed. “Gilbert is a regular visitor at my house. I mention that not to provoke you but only to suggest that if you’re determined not to acknowledge the connection, you ought to bring your brother under bridle.”

  She dropped a small curtsy that didn’t seem even slightly ironic, and left Alistair alone in his library. He felt uncomfortable, vaguely guilty, but he knew perfectly well that he had behaved properly. His father had devoted his life to squandering money and tarnishing his name by any means available to him: cards, horses, women, bad investments. And he had left the mess to be cleaned up by his son. Alistair, at least, would leave the family name and finances intact for future generations.

  He paced to the windows and began pulling back the rest of the curtains. It annoyed him to admit that Mrs. Allenby had been right about anything, but the room really was too dark. He had been working too hard, too long, but even now with all the curtains opened, the room was still gloomy. The late winter sun had sunk behind the row of houses on the opposite side of Grosvenor Square, casting only a thin, pallid light into the room. He went to the hearth to poke the fire back to life.

  His plan had been to double check the books and then go out for a ride, but the hour for that had come and gone. He could dress and take an early dinner at his club, perhaps. Even though the Season had not quite started, there were enough people in town to make the outing worthwhile. It was never a bad idea for Alistair to show his face and remind the world that this Marquess of Pembroke, at least, did not spend his evenings in orgies of dissipation.

  As he tried not to think of the debauchery these walls had contained, there came another apologetic cough from the doorway.

  “Another caller, my lord,” Hopkins said. “A young gentleman.”

  Alistair suppressed a groan. This was the outside of enough. “Send him up.” He inwardly prayed that the caller wasn’t an associate of Gilbert’s, some shabby wastrel Alistair’s younger brother had lost money to at the gambling tables. He glanced at the card Hopkins had given him. Robert Selby. The fact that the name rang no bells for him did nothing to put his mind at ease.

  But the man Hopkins ushered into the library didn’t seem like the sort of fellow who frequented gambling hells. He looked to be hardly twenty, with sandy hair that hung a trifle too long to be à la mode and clothes that were respectably, but not fashionably, cut.

  “I’m ever so grateful, my lord.” The young man took a half step closer, but seemed to check his progress when he noticed Alistair’s expression. “I know what an imposition it must be. But the matter is so dashed awkward I hardly wanted to put it to you in a letter.”

  It got worse and worse. Matters too awkward to be put in letters inevitably veered towards begging or blackmail. Alistair folded his arms and leaned against the chimneypiece. “Go on,” he ordered.

  “It’s my sister, you see. Your father was her godfather.”

  Alistair jerked to attention. “My father was your sister’s godfather?” He was incredulous. There could hardly have been any creature on this planet less suited to be an infant’s godparent than the late Lord Pembroke. “He went to church?” Really, the image of his father leaning over the baptismal font and promising to be mindful of the baby’s soul was something Alistair would make a point of recalling the next time his spirits were low.

  “I daresay he did, my lord,” Selby continued brightly, as if he had no idea of the late marquess’s character. “I was too young to remember the event, I’m afraid.”

  “And what can you possibly require of me, Mr. Selby?” Alistair did not even entertain the possibility that Selby was here for the pleasure of his company. “Not an hour ago I refused to help a person with a far greater claim on the estate than you have.”

  The fellow had the grace to blush, at least. “My sister and I have no claim on you at all. It’s only that I’m in quite a fix and I don’t know who else to turn to. She’s of an age where I need to find her a husband, but . . .” His voice trailed off, and he regarded Alistair levelly, as if deciding whether he could be confided in. Presumptuous. “Well, frankly, she’s too pretty and too trusting to take to Bath or Brighton. She’d marry someone totally unsuitable. I had thought to bring her to London, where she would have a chance to meet worthier people.”

  Alistair retrieved his spectacles from his coat pocket and carefully put them on. This Selby fellow didn’t seem delusional, but he was speaking like a madman. “That’s a terrible plan.”

  “Well, now I know that, my lord.” He smiled broadly, exposing too many teeth and creating an excess of crinkles around his eyes. Alistair suddenly wished that there was enough light to get a better look at this lad. “We’ve been here a few weeks and it’s all too clear that the connections I made at Cambridge aren’t enough to help Louisa. She needs better than that.” He shot Alistair another grin, as if they were in on the same joke.

  Alistair opened his mouth to coolly explain that he could not help Mr. Selby’s sister, no matter how good her looks or how bad her circumstances. But he found that he couldn’t quite give voice to any of his usual crisp denials. “Have you no relations?”

  “None that suit the purpose, my lord,” Selby said frankly. This Mr. Selby had charming manners, even when he met with disappointment. Alistair would give him that much—it would have been a relief to see Gilbert develop such pleasant ways instead of his usual fits of sullenness. “Our parents died some years ago,” Selby continued. “We brought an elderly aunt with us, but we grew up in quite a remote part of Northumberland, and if we have any relations in London, we’ve never heard of them.”

  Northumbe
rland? Now, what the devil could Alistair’s father have been doing in Northumberland? Quite possibly he had gotten drunk at a hunt party in Melton Mowbray and simply lost his way home, leaving a string of debauched housemaids and misbegotten children in his wake.

  That made something else occur to Alistair. “There’s no suggestion that your sister is my father’s natural child?”

  “My—good heavens, no.” Selby seemed astonished, possibly offended by the slight to his mother’s honor. “Certainly not.”

  Thank God for that, at least. Alistair leaned back against the smooth stone of the chimneypiece, regarding his visitor from behind half-closed lids. Even though there was nothing about Selby that seemed overtly grasping, here he was, grasping nonetheless. There was no reason for this man, charming manners and winning smile, to be in Alistair’s library unless it was to demand something.

  “If you want my advice, take her to Bath.” He pushed away from the wall and stepped towards his visitor. Selby was a few inches shorter than Alistair and much slighter of build. Alistair didn’t need to use his size to intimidate—that was what rank and power were for—but this wasn’t about intimidation. It was about proximity. He wanted a closer look at this man, so he would take it.

  Selby had tawny skin spotted with freckles, as if he were accustomed to spending a good deal of time outside. His lips were a brownish pink, and quirked up in a questioning sort of smile, as if he knew what exactly Alistair was about.

  Perhaps he did. Interesting, because Alistair hardly knew himself.

  Alistair dropped his voice. “Better yet, go home. London is a dangerous place for a girl without connections.” He dropped his voice lower still, and leaned in so he was speaking almost directly into Selby’s ear. “Or for a young man without scruples.” The fellow smelled like lemon drops, as if he had a packet of sweets tucked into one of his pockets.

  For a moment they stood there, inches apart. Selby was ultimately the one to step back. “I knew it was a long shot, but I had to try.” He flashed Alistair another winning smile, more dangerous for being at close range, before bowing handsomely and showing himself out.

  Alistair was left alone in a room that had grown darker still.

  “What did he say?” Louisa asked as soon as Charity returned to the shabby-genteel house they had hired for the Season.

  “It’s a nonstarter, Lou,” she replied, flinging herself onto a settee. She propped her boots up onto the table before her. One of the many, many advantages of posing as a man was the freedom afforded by men’s clothing.

  “He turned you away, then?” Louisa asked, looking up from the tea she was pouring them.

  “Oh, worse than that. He asked if his father had gotten your mother with child, then advised me that if I allowed you to stay in London, you’d end up prostituting yourself.”

  Louisa colored, and Charity realized she had spoken too freely. Louisa had, after all, been raised a lady. “Oh, he didn’t say that last thing quite outright, but he dropped a strong hint.” She hooked an arm behind her head and settled comfortably back in her seat. “Besides, what does it matter if he thinks we’re beneath reproach? He’s never even heard of us before today. His opinion doesn’t matter a jot.”

  “Maybe he’s right, though, and I shouldn’t stay in London.” Instead of looking at Charity, she was nervously lining up the teacups so their cracks and chips were out of sight.

  “Nonsense. As soon as these nobs get a look at you, you’ll take off like a rocket.”

  Louisa regarded her dubiously. But it really was absurd, how very pretty Robbie’s little sister had turned out to be. Her hair fell in perfect flaxen ringlets and her skin was flawless. Other than her blond hair she looked nothing like Robbie, thank God, because that would have been too hard for Charity to live with.

  Charity shook her head in a futile attempt to dismiss that unwanted thought, and then blew an errant strand of hair off her forehead. “I only have to figure out how to make them notice you in the first place, and if that prig of a marquess isn’t willing to help, then we’ll find another way.”

  “Was he really that bad?”

  Charity put her hand over her heart, as if taking an oath. “I tell you, if he had a quizzing glass he would have examined me under it. He seemed so dreadfully bored and put upon, I nearly felt bad for him. But then I remembered all his money and got quite over it.”

  That made Louisa laugh, and Charity was glad of it, because it wouldn’t do for the girl to worry. Charity was worried enough for both of them. Going to Pembroke had been a last resort; he was such a loose connection of the family, but he was the best Charity could come up with. Louisa needed a husband, and she needed one soon, because Charity wasn’t sure how much longer she was going to be able to keep up this charade. Dressing like a man didn’t bother her—quite the contrary. But pretending to be Robbie when the real Robbie was cold in his grave? That was too much. It was a daily reminder of what she had lost, of what she would never have.

  Louisa put down her teacup and clasped her hands together. “I’d be glad to go to Bath for a few months. Remember that the Smythe girls found husbands there.”

  Charity remembered all too well. One of them had married a country clergyman and the other had gotten engaged to an army officer on half pay. She’d be damned if Louisa threw herself away like that. Hell, if she had gone through with this farce for Louisa to wind up marrying a curate she’d be furious.

  She had to forcibly remind herself that her feelings were immaterial. This was her chance to see Louisa settled in the way Robbie would have wanted. It was only because of the Selbys that Charity was here in the first place, clean and fed and educated, rather than . . . Well, none of that bore thinking of. She was grateful to the family, and this was her chance to take care of the last of them.

  “Listen, Charity. When I think of the expense of this London trip—”

  “You mustn’t call me that,” Charity whispered. “Servants might hear.” And if Charity knew anything about servants, which she most certainly did, it would only be a matter of time before one overheard. And then their ship would be quite sunk.

  “Oh!” Louisa cried, clapping a hand over her mouth. “I keep forgetting. But it’s so strange to call you Robbie.”

  Of course it was. Not everyone was as hardened to deceit as Charity had become. She had been assuming this role for years, from the point when the real Robert Selby had decided that he did not want to go to Cambridge and would send Charity in his stead. She, at least, was used to answering to his name. But since Robbie had died two years ago, she increasingly felt that she no longer had his permission to use his name. The deceit was weighing heavier on her with each passing day.

  All the more reason to get Louisa set up splendidly. Then Robert Selby could fade gracefully out of existence, leaving his Northumberland estate free for the proper heir to eventually inherit, while Charity would . . . Her imagination failed her.

  She would figure that out some other time. First, she’d take care of Louisa.

  “If all else fails, we’ll go to Bath or a seaside resort. I promise.” And she flashed her pretend sister her most confident smile.

  About the Author

  CAT SEBASTIAN lives in a swampy part of the South with her husband, three kids, and two dogs. Before her kids were born, she practiced law and taught high school and college writing. When she isn't reading or writing, she's doing crossword puzzles, bird watching, and wondering where she put her coffee cup.

  Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.

  Also by Cat Sebastian

  The Regency Impostors Series

  Unmasked by the Marquess

  A Duke in Disguise

  Coming Soon

  The Duchess Deception

  The Seducing the Sedgwicks Series

  It Takes Two to Tumble

  A Gentleman Never Keeps Score

  The Turner Series

  The Soldier’s Scoundrel

  The Law
rence Browne Affair

  The Ruin of a Rake

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Excerpt from Unmasked by the Marquess copyright © 2018 by Cat Sebastian.

  a duke in disguise. Copyright © 2019 by Cat Sebastian. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins Publishers. For information, address HarperCollins Publishers, 195 Broadway, New York, NY 10007.

  Digital Edition APRIL 2019 ISBN: 978-0-06-282066-2

  Print Edition ISBN: 978-0-06-282161-4

  Cover att by Christine Ruhnke

  Cover photograph © romance novel covers (couple); © AndreySkat/PinkyWinky/Shutterstock (two images)

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