by Erica Ridley
Ignorance of the Wicked Duke’s goings-on had never bothered her before. It was a public tavern and for all purposes Thad’s “club,” seeing as he lacked the title or the connections to be welcomed into a proper club like White’s or Boodle’s or Brooks’s.
The Wicked Duke’s clientele ranged from the working class to political reformers to indolent poets and infamous bluestockings. Yet the owners were the highest peers of the realm, giving the fashionable-adjacent establishment an air of pomp and legitimacy, attracting second sons and titled bachelors alike. The sort of self-important men Diana had long hoped never to be trapped in conversation with. Whatever antics unfolded within the Wicked Duke’s walls had never piqued her interest.
Until now.
“Don’t do it,” she muttered to her twitching boots. “Do not head in that direction.”
The only reason she was even thinking about the Wicked Duke was because she’d chased one of its namesakes from her front parlor.
Maddeningly, the Duke of Colehaven was not what she had anticipated at all.
Diana prided herself on her ability to think ten steps ahead of everyone else. If life was a game of chess, she wasn’t a mere player but rather the craftsman designing the game.
The impeccable attention to appearances? Yes, she’d expected that much. Champagne-shined Hessians, buttery soft buckskins, coal black greatcoat, intricately tied neckcloth, closely shorn jaw, dazzling hazel eyes, ridiculously handsome. She’d seen an illustration of His Grace once in a caricature. The artist had got the duke’s unceasing perfection right, but failed to convey the most unnerving aspect of Colehaven’s character.
The confounding man was nice.
Because Diana had been on her way out for one of her reconnaissance missions, she’d reached the ground floor just in time to overhear the duke greet the butler warmly and by name.
Then, when confined in a parlor with an increasingly insolent housemaid, the duke had unflaggingly continued to treat her like a person and respond to her queries, rather than dismiss her out of hand as a servant beneath his notice.
Inconceivable. And yet it had happened.
Extorting him into a hasty retreat had been a calculated risk. He clearly knew nothing of Diana Middleton, but Diana made it her business to know as much as possible about him. She had an entire journal dedicated to the most important members of the ton. The depth and richness of its contents made Debrett’s Peerage look like a lazy extract.
Caleb Sutton, fifth Duke of Colehaven. Hair, black. Eyes, hazel. Birthdate, the twentieth of August, 1787. Two years to the day before Jurij Vega—one of Diana’s mathematical heroes—calculated pi to the 140th place, correcting a computation error made by Thomas Fantet de Lawny almost seventy years earlier. If something can be improved, improve it. Vega was a man after Diana’s own heart. Why, his 1794 comprehensive thesaurus on logarithms—
Diana shook her head. She was analyzing the Duke of Colehaven, not continental mathematicians.
Like many eligible bachelors bearing both title and coin, Colehaven had quite a reputation. Unlike most of his peers, Colehaven’s reputation was neither that of shameless rake or an arrogant prig, but rather of a well-respected, unflaggingly honest, genuinely nice human, whose greatest vices appeared to be a talent for brewing fine ale, open friendliness toward lower classes, and a penchant for accepting silly dares.
That must be what he was doing in her parlor. One of his cronies must have dared him to pay a call on the most uncelebrated wallflower in London. There. Call paid. End of association. They’d crossed paths once in twenty-five years. With luck, another quarter century would pass before they crossed paths again.
After all, Diana did her level best to stay clear of his world. She didn’t want to waltz, didn’t want to flirt behind painted fans, and definitely didn’t want a husband. The only way her good works could continue was if she remained in charge of her own life.
Resolute, she turned her back toward the Wicked Duke and caught the first hackney back to Jermyn Street, where she slipped in the terrace’s rear entrance, deposited her basket and outerwear in her bedchamber, and made it downstairs to the family dining room five minutes before her cousin.
Their great-aunt Ruthmere had moved in when Thaddeus became Diana’s guardian, but due to her age and health, now rarely ventured from her private quarters. Diana brought her fresh books once a fortnight from a traveling library, and knew better than to expect her great-aunt to be awake at such an early hour.
Her cousin entered the dining room with his dark hair unkempt and a guilty smile, as if he’d rolled out of bed a scant moment earlier.
Diana returned Thad’s smile with warmth. He was more like a brother than a guardian. Plus, the fact that her family were slugabeds was a boon. By the time they exchanged greetings each day, her true work was already done.
“Chess tonight?” he asked.
She arched a brow. “Aren’t you tired of losing?”
He shrugged and reached for the platter of fruit and cheese. “I’ll get you someday.”
Diana doubted it, but very much appreciated the effort. She and her father had often played chess deep into the night. She still felt the loss of those precious moments keenly, but it was a little better now that she had Thaddeus.
Ever since the day he’d caught her playing a lackluster chess game against herself, he’d immediately offered himself as her partner.
Although not as skilled a player as her father—a man whom Diana had only managed to best on three exceedingly rare occasions—Thad was upbeat and cheerful, keeping up a steady one-sided conversation of on-dits and jests until Diana’s sorrow faded to the background and she began to enjoy life again. She owed Thad for that. He was not just a cousin, but a friend. Her dearest and only friend.
Which made his next words all the more shocking.
“I think you should take advantage this Season and find a husband.” He winked at her. “You’re not getting any younger.”
Diana’s fork clattered against her plate.
“You’re not getting younger, either,” she spluttered. “Why don’t you find a wife?”
“I intend to,” he said with a shrug. “Eventually. Fortunately for me, unwed gentlemen of two-and-thirty are not labeled ‘spinsters’ but rather ‘a fine catch.’”
“You’re a terrible catch,” she grumbled. “No matter how many times I tell you not to lead with F4, you insist upon opening yourself up to a two-move checkmate.”
“I have no idea what you’re saying,” he said cheerfully as he served himself a healthy portion of meat. “F4, 2B, 86, XD. It sounds like a military cipher you’ve intercepted from some foreign shore.”
“I wish I could join the military,” she muttered. “I would make a splendid secret agent for the Crown.”
“Eat your vegetables,” Thad advised her. “And don’t make such scandalous claims in polite company, or you’ll never have a suitor.”
Exactly the plan.
Chapter 4
“Finally.” Cole leaned forward off the squab and reached for the carriage door.
“Stop that,” Felicity scolded with a devilish twinkle in her eyes. “Younger sisters are supposed to drag their elder brothers to these things, not the other way around.”
“It’s the first major rout of the Season,” Cole protested, moving his fingers closer to the door handle. “Everyone will be there. Including us!”
With a laugh, Felicity knocked his hand from the door. “At least wait for the coach to stop before you leap out to catch up with four hundred and one of your closest friends.”
“Four hundred and twelve,” he corrected solemnly. “I’ve been busy since breakfast.”
Cole’s propensity to befriend everyone he met was a long-running family jest based firmly in reality. For him, the greatest advantage to owning a tavern was not the unlimited supply of fresh-brewed ale, but the equally unlimited stream of old friends and new faces.
He felt much the same about Soci
ety gatherings. Any fête that styled itself “the crush of the Season” meant he was bound to bump into bosom friends he hadn’t seen since last Season, old schoolmates he hadn’t seen since Oxford, as well as a new crop of strangers a mere introduction away from becoming casual acquaintances or possibly even friends.
When the tiger swung open the door to hand Felicity from the coach, Cole all but bounded out on her heels.
In moments, the butler greeted them at the door, their winter outerwear was spirited away by industrious footmen, and he and his sister stood at the head of a beautiful staircase. Sparkling glass chandeliers illuminated the sprawling ballroom beneath.
Fashionable gentlemen, elegant ladies, sumptuous refreshments, an extravagant orchestra… Cole could scarcely wait for their names to be announced so that he and his sister could join the fun.
“His Grace, the Duke of Colehaven, and Lady Felicity Sutton.”
At last! Cole grinned at his sister and held out his arm to escort her into the grand milieu.
Part of the reason Cole befriended everyone he met was because some gentleman out there was the right one for Felicity… and she showed no signs of hunting him down herself.
His sister was no wallflower—Felicity had several close friends and no shortage of names on her dance card—but if the Season were to abruptly end the day after tomorrow, she would not weep at the loss. She was just as content milling in some poet’s drawing room or losing an entire afternoon in a library as she was standing up for a waltz with an earl.
“Don’t meddle,” she said as if she could read his mind. “I will dance if I want to, and it’s no business of yours.”
“I’m supposed to meddle,” he reminded her cheerfully. “‘God-given right to meddle’ came with the title. I participate in making laws that govern all of England. Perhaps the next will be called The Great Felicity Sutton Betrothal Act of 1817.”
“God help us all,” Felicity muttered, but she could not repress a fond smile. “What year will The Great Duchess of Colehaven Act take place?”
“Shh,” he whispered urgently. “Don’t make such jests with matchmaking mamas within earshot. I’ll be beset by so many fresh-faced debutantes, I won’t even be able to move my arms.”
“That only happened once,” she scolded him, then thought it over.
“Twice,” they said in unison.
“The Lyndon soirée,” she agreed with a wry shake of her head. “I thought they were going to leap upon you like kittens. You could’ve taken the whole pack home, if you’d wanted.”
He shuddered. “I did not want.”
There would eventually be a Duchess of Colehaven, but she would not be some giggly seventeen-year-old chit fresh out of the schoolroom. The future Her Grace would be a decorous, intelligent woman, beloved and respected by their peers. A friendly, dignified lady with impeccable manners and a sweet soul, capable of commanding her household and her husband’s heart with the crook of her finger. A proper duchess by any measure.
Cole was not at all ready for such a woman. He needed to earn the privilege. Become a respected peer not just in title, but in truth. Perhaps once he’d been chosen to lead a committee, once it was finally his ideas changing the world for the better—
“Is there a library somewhere?” Felicity asked.
“Don’t you dare.” He trapped her hand about his elbow and dragged her in the direction of the orchestra. “No books until you’ve stood for at least five sets. And try the cakes. If you don’t try the lemon drizzle cakes because you’re hiding in the library, I’ll eat every last tasty morsel, and then you’ll be sad.”
“You’re the worst brother. The very worst. You know lemon tarts are my weakness.”
The one thing she liked more than libraries, in fact. Both of which were Cole’s fault.
When they were poor, fine confections were the one treat he scrimped and saved for twice a year. Felicity’s birthday, and Christmas Eve. With the tart, delicious sweetness melting in their mouths, they could forget the weight of poverty for a moment and enjoy a small slice of heaven.
The title had brought a tidal wave of money and privilege. Suddenly Cole was off to Oxford and no longer needed to sweep chimneys in order to spoil his sister with a sugary treat.
After sharing every joy and despair of their lives together, it hadn’t been fair for only Cole to gain the advantage of higher education. He couldn’t send his sister to Eton, but there was no reason for her to be ignorant. He sent home every book he could find that could improve her mind or provide an hour’s entertainment. Every day after lessons, he penned long letters summarizing the key points of everything he’d learned.
Although many long miles separated them, it was as though they attended Oxford together. From the day Felicity had held her first book in her hands, her love affair with libraries had grown unabated.
“Five sets,” he reminded her. “Find five gentlemen worthy of half an hour of your time, and I will escort you to the closest stack of books with a plate of lemon tarts in each hand.”
“Very well.” The sparkle in her eyes belied her sulky pout. “If these paragons of dandihood bore me to tears, I may send you back to the refreshment table for a second round of fortifications.”
“Fair enough.” He grinned to himself as his sister melted into the crowd.
Knowing Felicity, she would dance until her feet could not bear another reel. And then, after six or eight or ten whirlwind sets, she would absolutely seek refuge amongst the closest towers of books and not emerge until the coach was ready to take her home.
“There you are,” came a voice from behind Cole’s shoulder.
He turned to grin at his friend, the Duke of Eastleigh. “Oversleep from last night?”
“Wrap up the Middleton betrothal yet?” Eastleigh countered.
“I will,” Cole assured him.
“No hauling her out to the dance floor so that the young bucks copy you,” Eastleigh reminded him. “And no marrying her yourself.”
Cole rolled his eyes toward the arched ceiling. “I remember the rules.”
Indeed, the rules were the least of his concerns. The next time he crossed paths with the unpredictable Miss Middleton, she was just as likely to toss a cup of ratafia in his face as she was to rip off a painted mask and reveal herself to be an articulate kangaroo.
“You would remember,” Eastleigh agreed. “I’ve never seen a man memorize so many obscure particulars as when you were on that Foreign Packets Act committee.”
Cole shrugged. “I like committees.”
They didn’t just make him feel useful. They were useful. Importation, exportation, debt reduction, peace preservation, pillory abolition… all those were just in the past year. It had been a joy and a privilege to do his part.
“If you like them so much, you should take over for Lord Fortescue.”
Worry creased his brow. “Did something happen to the earl?”
“Gravity happened whilst sledding too close to a tree,” Eastleigh answered dryly. “He’ll be confined to his bed with a fracture-box to keep him company for the next six weeks. When Parliament opens on Tuesday, the first act will be determining someone to replace him in the committees he helmed.”
Cole was a member of both the committees Fortescue helmed: Public Works and Fisheries, and Offices of Exchequer. Excitement rushed through his veins.
This was the opportunity he’d been waiting for. If he could convince the Lords to choose him as interim leader, he could prove himself to be as knowledgeable, passionate, and capable as any of the peers that had been born to their roles. Because he’d only been “important” for half his life, Cole had worked twice as hard. He didn’t want to be “as good as” any other. He wanted to be exceptional. This would be visible proof that he was worthy of the title he’d inherited.
“You think they’ll put it to a vote on Tuesday?”
“I think they’ll accept nominations on Tuesday,” Eastleigh answered with a shrug. “They probably won�
��t put it to a vote for another week.”
Then the clock was set. Cole needed the Middleton dare sorted by Monday evening at the latest. On Tuesday, he would present himself as a serious, dignified contender. Then no more wagers until after he was elected interim committee leader.
No—until after he was designated head of some topic in his own right. Perhaps passenger vessels or night poaching. Cole wasn’t picky. He would simply have to mind his Ps and Qs for the next several weeks. Once he threw his hat into the committee leader ring, he could not risk some blunder of comportment preventing him from being considered as an equal.
“If you’ll excuse me,” Eastleigh murmured. “I believe I’ve caught sight of the very reason I accepted this invitation.”
Under normal circumstances, a statement that suspicious would have piqued Cole’s curiosity.
Nothing was normal anymore.
He’d already completely forgotten whatever intrigue the duke might have afoot, because his gaze was now sharpened on a slight bend in the shadows against the far wall of the crowded ballroom. He moved closer, weaving between passing lords and ladies, careful not to give his position away.
Diana Middleton. He was sure of it.
Swathed in a pale rose gown that matched the silk wallpaper so precisely he could almost believe she’d specifically selected the color in order to become a living trompe l’oeil, more than capable of fooling the average eye.
What the devil was the chit about? Irritation tickled his skin. He was not fascinated by her, Cole assured himself. Rosy lips and beautiful blue eyes would not sway him. He believed in honesty and transparency and fairness above all things, and Diana Middleton was nothing but lies and disguises.
She did not appear to be in conversation with anyone else. She was not eating, not drinking, not smiling, not frowning, not blinking so much as an eyelash… Cole wasn’t certain whether he should be suspicious or concerned. “Wallflower” was supposed to be a metaphor. Usually due to shyness or plainness or some other so-called flaw that kept unimaginative gentlemen from taking a second look.