A Duke Changes Everything (The Duke's Den #1)

by Christy Carlyle

  Her first impulse was a desire to tell Nick. But would he care? His life was here in the city, at his gambling club and conducting business with men like Iverson.

  Their commitments and cares were worlds apart. Yet more and more, Mina couldn’t imagine her life unfolding and not seeing him, speaking to him, being close enough to touch him.

  And she couldn’t imagine how his duty and hers would ever allow them to be together.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Nick could breathe again.

  Dusk and a thick umbrella of fog had settled over London by the time he arrived, but the metallic, sooty air tasted sweet on his tongue. Familiar.

  Every mile they rolled away from Enderley, the lighter Nick felt. Freer. More himself. The city was the only place he’d ever considered home, and he was glad to be back.

  But there was more. A niggling sense of anticipation. Mina was here. Somewhere in this vast metropolis, she was rambling aimlessly with her cousin, who was as ill-prepared for London’s dangers as she. He hoped they’d taken in some of the sights. Enjoyed themselves away from the grim walls of Enderley.

  He wished he could see her here. More, he wished she could see him at home in the city where he’d achieved so much. The place where he was at ease and might at least seem like a man she could admire.

  If only she’d spoken to him first, he might have arranged a meeting with Iverson or Huntley or other investors willing to fund her cousin’s agricultural design.

  Mrs. Scribb insisted the two planned to return to Enderley tonight, and Nick wondered if they were headed back already.

  “Lyon’s Club,” the driver called down as the carriage drew to a stop.

  Nick jumped out and headed to a side door. He rarely entered through the front. To do so invited noblemen to approach and complain about their losses or ask to see him belowstairs about a loan. He wished to avoid causing any interruption in play at the tables, and to spend a bit of time checking in with Spencer before heading to Iverson’s.

  He’d sent a messenger from the train station to let Iverson know he was in the city, asking him to arrange a meeting with Calvert immediately, if the ill-mannered nobleman was amenable.

  He sniffed the air’s familiar scents when he stepped inside Lyon’s. Slow-roasted beef and stewing vegetables from the dining rooms mixed with colognes and hair pomades from the game rooms. What was shockingly unfamiliar was the quiet. A few voices carried from the large lounging rooms, where men dined or drank and conversed for hours. But the gaming tables were usually abuzz after nightfall. Tonight, the hum of chatter was minimal, the clink of dice and betting chips few and far between.

  Nick bounded up the stairs and burst through Spencer’s office door. “What the hell has happened to my club?”

  His factotum looked up slowly from a ledger book and removed his spectacles. “Good evening, Mr. Lyon. So good to see you again.”

  He hired Spencer because he was smart, efficient, and unflappable no matter what trouble arose. But it also made the man damned hard to read.

  “Tell me what’s happened.”

  “In two words? Lord Calvert.” Spencer stood and approached a teapot and cups set on a tray near his desk. He poured as he continued. “He has engaged in a campaign of near military precision. Choosing those noblemen with the most sway, the wealthiest friends, to poison their minds against you and the club.”

  “I’m here to meet with him, hopefully this evening.”

  “Are you?” Spencer lifted his teacup and shot Nick a pleased glance over the rim. “You agree with Iverson and Lord Huntley, then?”

  No, not really. But Nick would swallow the whole matter like a child took bitter medicine, hating every minute of it. Still, he knew compromise was necessary to resolve a messy legal battle he’d loathe far more.

  “Perhaps I’m learning, Spencer. Maybe you have to let them win a skirmish now and then in order to win the battle.”

  “Being a duke agrees with you then, sir?”

  “Not at all.” The title itself had taught him nothing. If he’d learned anything it was because of one petite dark-haired lady with sparks in her eyes and a heart for wounded, hopeless creatures. “But I know there are times a man must cut his losses and walk away.”

  “Excellent.” Spencer returned to his desk and handed Nick a folded pile of papers. “I’ve gathered all of Lord Calvert’s vowels.”

  Nick narrowed an eye at the man as he went on merrily sipping his tea. “You were certain I would agree to forgive the man’s debts?”

  “I was certain you would do whatever was necessary to restore the success of Lyon’s. As would I, sir.”

  “Thank you, Spencer.” When Nick started out toward where he’d asked the coachman to wait, his factotum followed.

  “Will you be returning to London as you’d intended? Or will you be remaining at your castle in Sussex?” Spencer’s normally calm tone faltered. “While I will do as you bid, sir, there is much here that would benefit from your oversight.”

  “I plan to wrap up estate matters soon.” Nick glanced through a multipaned window that led onto gaming floor. There were more gentleman at tables than he would have expected from the sounds, but he still felt guilt at leaving his business behind for so long. Would Calvert have succeeded in his campaign against Lyon’s if he’d been in town to deal with the man’s mischief?

  The minute the carriage started onto evenly paved streets, Nick knew they were drawing close to Iverson’s townhouse. A bit of tension returned to ride the muscles of his shoulders. He didn’t relish another confrontation with Lord Calvert, but he was feeling more generous than he had in years. He’d buy the nobleman’s compliance, as he had with Lord Lyle.

  Every man had his price.

  An unusual number of windows in the house were lit at Iverson’s for a man who lived alone and often grumbled about possessing so many empty rooms.

  The pretty housemaid blushed as she always did when Nick came to call.

  “Is he at home?” he asked. “He’s expecting me.”

  “You’re not here for the dinner party then, sir?”

  “Dinner party?” Nick heard the bouncing voices of conversation as soon as he stepped across the threshold. A woman burst into throaty laughter and several gentlemen’s responses came in a cheerful chorus.

  “Lyon, you came.” Huntley sauntered into the hallway. “Iverson showed me your message. Did you receive mine?”

  “No.” Nick shot Huntley an accusing glare. “Was it to warn me there’d be a party?”

  “I didn’t know about the dinner myself.” He held up his hands in mock surrender. “But you know I’m always prepared for a party.”

  “Of course you are.”

  “I feel confident saying that every party is better with me in attendance.” He looked even more pleased with himself than usual. “But business first. I convinced Calvert to come,” he explained. “He’s waiting for both of us in Aidan’s study.”

  “Good, let’s get this over with.”

  “Indeed.” Huntley clapped Nick on the shoulder. “If we can get Calvert to desist with his menace quickly, perhaps we can join the party.”

  “I’m afraid the meal is finished, my lords.” The housemaid looked truly bereft to deliver the news. “But we’re serving drinks in the large drawing room.”

  “I desperately need a drink, but first we must find Mr. Iverson.”

  “I believe he’s in with the guests.” The maid led them toward the heart of the partygoers, but before they made it halfway to the room, a male voice stopped them in their tracks.

  “You found him.” Iverson stepped out of his study. He offered Nick a somber expression. “We’re ready to begin.”

  Inside the room, Nick saw Calvert had come alone.

  “You’ve told him?” Calvert asked, gaze fixed on Iverson. “He understands my terms?”

  “Not yet.”

  The smile that stretched Calvert’s wrinkled face made Nick’s skin itch. “Then do let me
have that pleasure.” He finally turned to face Nick. “Your club, Mr. Lyon. Or should I call you Tremayne? That’s my price.”

  “You’re insane.”

  “Nick.” Huntley laid a hand on his arm, as if to hold him back from striking the nobleman. Nick shrugged him off.

  “The club is not for sale.”

  Calvert let out a maniacal cackle. “I’m not interested in buying anything from you, Tremayne. You will sign over ownership because if you do not, I shall drag you through the courts until I’ve beggared you, ruined you, left you with nothing but a title you don’t deserve.”

  Somewhere inside him, Nick knew there were perfectly rational thoughts. Reasonable, even generous impulses. Mina had unearthed them in a fortnight.

  But he couldn’t find a single ounce of generosity now.

  All he saw was black. Ink spots flickered behind his eyes. This pompous, corrupt fool of a man thought he could take everything. One threat and he and Huntley and Iverson would fold like a gambler afraid of losing his first bet.

  “No.”

  Every head in the room pivoted. Every set of eyes locked on his face. Calvert began to tremble as if he had a lit firecracker inside him and its fuse was burning low.

  Nick worked to control his anger and speak clearly. “My terms are these. I forgive your debt. I burn your vowels, you go on your way, and you never enter Lyon’s Club again.”

  “Have you been to your club of late? A few empty tables, I’d wager.”

  “I’d rather have fewer members than arseholes like you laying down your bets.”

  “How dare you?”

  The words were familiar. Though Lyle had pronounced them with more dignified horror. Calvert just sounded tremulous. The man wasn’t as sure of the cards he held as he pretended to be.

  “I have a strong case,” he insisted. “Others have also agreed to bring suit against you for unfair play at Lyon’s.”

  “Then they’re liars too.” Nick sighed deeply. “I’ve no interest in tangling with the courts.” He waited for the twitching grin on Calvert’s face to grow. “But I employ the best solicitors and barristers, and justice rarely smiles fondly on gentlemen who refuse to pay their debts.”

  Calvert shifted on his chair. Nick could see the man was wavering.

  “Do you not recall what you offered if your debt went unpaid? What will your wife say when I take possession of the hunting box bequeathed in her uncle’s will?” One step closer to the viscount, Nick noticed the sheen of perspiration on his wrinkled brow. “Or the ruby necklace you bought as an engagement gift? Or the diamond ring you gave your mistress?”

  Among the pile of Calvert’s vowels, Spencer had included a helpful list describing what the viscount had wagered as collateral. Nick had been employing private inquiry agents for years to look into the property he acquired when nobleman failed to pay their loans. He’d learned long ago that a man’s greatest weakness had nothing to do with pounds and coin, but what the money represented. And who might be harmed by its loss.

  “Take his offer, Calvert,” Huntley put in, employing a friendly tone. “Let the man forgive your debts and think no more about the duke and his devilish club.”

  Calvert began to tremble like a man taken by fever. Rage carved his face in hideous lines of tension, and then his mouth twisted in a grimace of pure loathing. But, rather than spewing more vitriol, he slumped back in his chair.

  “I want forgiveness of Lord Webster’s debt too,” he said on a choked whisper.

  “Who?” Iverson had taken the chair behind his desk to write out what Nick assumed was a statement of the agreed terms of their negotiation.

  “Lord Calvert’s nephew, I believe,” Huntley said. “We can do that, can’t we, gentlemen? Anything to put this unpleasantness to rest. I for one wish to join the other guests.”

  “Are we finished here, Calvert?” Nick asked the nobleman.

  “I need your signature.” Iverson quickly added a few lines to the paper under his wrist and slid the document to the front of his desk. “After the duke signs, we’ll ask for yours and then pass the documents on to our solicitor.”

  “I want the signed document now!” Calvert’s cry contained all the fervor of a childlike tantrum. “I won’t leave without it.”

  Nick glanced at Huntley then Iverson and exchanged a nod with each before signing his name. After the scratch of Iverson’s pen on the foolscap and the signature of Calvert, Nick breathed a sigh of relief as he watched the man depart.

  “Thank God that’s done.” Huntley strode to gaze at himself in the mirror over the fireplace and swept a hand through his already unruly hair.

  “Perhaps,” Iverson said, “we should be more particular about who we admit as members at Lyon’s.”

  “Yes.” Nick agreed with Iverson, as he often did. The man was a successful investor because he mixed instinct with caution.

  “Shall we join the others?” Huntley asked, already half way to the door.

  As they entered the main hall and proceeded toward the drawing, heavy footsteps sounded at Nick’s back. He turned to find Calvert striding toward him from the front entry hall, spittle clinging to his lips, rage darkening his eyes. “Someday you’ll lose, Lyon. All you hold dear will be ripped from you. I only hope I’m alive to enjoy your misery.”

  “You’re too late, Calvert. I’ve already had my share.”

  Her choice was made, and it was too late to turn back now.

  Mina rubbed her gloved hands together, though she wasn’t cold. Just rattling with nerves.

  The two steps from the threshold of Aidan Iverson’s enormous drawing room into the fray of gathered guests seemed an enormous chasm. Strangely, the vibrant red dress she’d chosen soothed her nerves. The velvet felt delicious against her skin, and the comfortable cut of the fabric made every movement seem regal and purposeful. For the first time in her life, she understood the power of wearing a beautiful gown.

  One deep breath and she took another step toward the laughter and conversation-filled room. All her hesitation dissolved when she spotted Colin. He was standing in a cluster of ladies and gentlemen and waved her over with an encouraging smile. His easy nature always allowed him to endear himself quickly to everyone he met.

  “Mina, come and meet Mrs. Elmhurst. She’s writing a book on household management.”

  After introductions, the lady scanned Mina from head to toe through pince-nez spectacles, brows lifted. “So young. Mr. Fairchild tells me you’re steward of a ducal estate in Sussex. What a task that must be for one your age.”

  “My father taught me well, and I quite enjoy keeping busy.” Mina liked Mrs. Elmhurst immediately. The lady wasn’t shocked by Mina’s sex, only her age. A refreshing change from Magistrate Hardbrook and Vicar Pribble.

  “We must sit together when the games begin. If you don’t mind a few questions about what you do and how you manage such a large staff.”

  “Of course.”

  “Perhaps you should consider writing a book, Miss Thorne. No doubt you have some interesting stories to tell.”

  “Indeed.” Though the most interesting stories of late involved a tall, dark, moody gambling club owner who wouldn’t wish to be mentioned in print.

  A round of applause broke the low murmur of voices in the room, and Mina and Colin joined in when Lady Lovelace and a man who looked to be twice her age entered.

  “It’s Babbage,” Colin said in a reverential tone.

  The older man, Colin had informed her, was a famed professor, inventor, and mathematician. But what caught Mina’s eye was Lady Lovelace. Mr. Iverson had been wrong about the lady’s disinterest in fashion. The noblewoman’s dark plum satin gown was by far the most striking in the room.

  When guests moved forward to greet the newly arrived pair, Colin stayed back and nudged Mina’s shoulder.

  “You’re clenching your jaw so fiercely,” he teased, “I believe you might break it.”

  “I’m not hiding my nervousness well. Is that what
you’re saying?”

  “Why be nervous? This is the most perfect collection of party guests possible. Noblemen and commoners. Wealthy and poor. With a single purpose that binds them all.”

  “Which is?” Mina asked, assuming he meant their connection to Mr. Iverson.

  “A commitment to progress.”

  Mina quite liked that thought. “Stop it,” she told Colin. “Your enthusiasm is infectious.”

  “Good, better that than your nervousness.” He smiled over at her. “Enjoy yourself, Cousin. You’re a clever girl in a pretty dress in a city filled with possibility. We should make the most of this visit.”

  Colin grabbed two glasses of wine from a passing footman and offered her one for a toast. Glass in midair, Mina froze when a new group of guests entered the room. Behind Mr. Iverson and a tall golden-haired man stood the one person she’d wished to see from the moment she’d opened her eyes this morning.

  Nick .

  “The Marquess of Huntley and the Duke of Tremayne,” Iverson announced to the assembled guests.

  Nick’s gaze zeroed in on her, and for a moment Mina forgot to breathe. Forgot Colin and the wineglass she held.

  He started toward her and she gulped down a sip of wine before handing the glass to Colin.

  “Breathe,” Colin reminded her. “You’re turning as red as your dress.”

  “Fairchild,” Nick said when he reached them, though his gaze never left Mina’s.

  “Your Grace,” Colin said jovially, “what a merry coincidence to come all this way and find you here.”

  “Yes, especially since Mrs. Scribb assured me you’d both be returning to Sussex by nightfall.”

  “Mr. Iverson invited us to stay,” Mina said, feeling a desperate need to explain that she hadn’t put herself here so that he might find her. “I would have told you we were departing, but you weren’t in your study this morning.”

  “I returned to tell you of all I’d promised the villagers, but you weren’t in your office.”

  Mina wondered if he’d felt as lost as she had when she’d found his study empty. “I didn’t think you’d mind if I took a day away.”