How to Catch a Devilish Duke: The Disreputable Debutantes

by Bennett, Amy Rose

  Max retrieved his own cognac. “I don’t know if you’ve heard any of the latest on-dits about Town, but word has recently got out that my mother is putting pressure on me to take a bride by the end of this year’s Season.”

  “And is she?”

  Max grimaced. “She’s recently compiled a list of eligible debutantes. Not that I’m interested in becoming leg-shackled. Not for another five years at the very least. In any event, the result of all this gossip doing the rounds is that young women are beginning to ‘seek me out,’ shall we say? Vie for my attention. And it’s all rather disconcerting.”

  Charlie laughed. “So, marriage-minded young women are throwing themselves at you, are they? Oh, you poor, poor thing.”

  “It’s dashed dangerous, that’s what it is,” said Max. “And yes, they are quite literally throwing themselves at me on occasion. Why, only this morning when I was riding through Hyde Park, a woman quite recklessly ran onto Rotten Row, waving her arms at me, urging me to help her find her lost hound. But then her leashed dog charged out from a nearby copse, dragging her footman along behind him. At first I thought the footman had simply located the runaway animal, only he began to apologize to his mistress that the dog wouldn’t stay and was impossible to hold. The young woman blushed bright red and thrust her card at me, but as I rode away, she let loose a tirade of abuse at the footman, accusing him of ruining everything.”

  “Goodness,” said Charlie, mirth still dancing in her eyes. “That does seem a tad dangerous. And desperate. I won’t ask who it was.”

  “But it gets worse.” Max pointed at his desk. “See that pile of correspondence on the end? In the past week, I’ve received an inordinate number of perfume-drenched poems and letters from ‘secret admirers’. One of the missives even had a silk ribbon garter pinned to it, and another contained a lock of hair. And this evening, while I was out at my club, my valet discovered a young woman in the lime tree outside my bedroom window. Whether she hoped to gain entrance to my room or just wished to spy on me, I have no idea. In all honesty, I feel like I have a huge target painted on my back at the moment. I swear the battlefield of Waterloo was less fraught with danger.”

  A sad smile curved Charlie’s mouth. “Oh, Max. I do sympathize. I do. I recall last year’s Season when Nate was desperately trying to avoid the Duke of Stafford’s daughter, Lady Penelope, because my father had suggested that they might make a suitable match.”

  Max sighed. “I believe she’s at the top of my mother’s list.”

  Charlie shuddered. “Perish the thought. She’s really not as perfect as everyone claims. Well, at least that’s been my experience. But that’s a story for another day.”

  She took another sip of her cognac, and Max noted that she barely grimaced as she swallowed the fiery liquor. When she saw that he was watching her, her fulsome lips twitched with a wry smile. “Just add my taste for strong spirits to the list of ‘unladylike habits of the far-from-perfect Lady Charlotte Hastings’.”

  Concern for Charlie softened Max’s tone. “I cannot even begin to imagine how difficult the last few weeks have been for you. And I would be a hypocrite for passing judgment on you given my own fondness for brandy.” He raised his own glass to make a point, then promptly drained it.

  “So…” Charlie ventured after a quiet pause. “To return to the reason for my impromptu visit… When do you plan on breaking into Lord Rochfort’s house? I take it you’ve been waiting for a suitably late hour.”

  “Yes,” Max replied. “I intend to set out shortly. Word about White’s is that Rochfort intends to attend the cock fights at a public house at St. Andrews Hill before moving on to Birchmore House, a notorious brothel in Soho Square. That should keep him busy until the wee small hours. After his household servants retire for the night—and I imagine that will be quite soon—I’ll be able to break in and search safely without any interruption.”

  “I’m grateful I caught you, then.” Charlie’s gaze met his. “You see, it occurred to me that you have no idea at all what you are looking for. I’m sure Lord Rochfort has simply piles and piles of ledgers and journals and notebooks scattered about his house. You could be rummaging through his things for hours.”

  Max gave a huff. She was right, of course. And he was annoyed that he hadn’t thought of that himself. He prided himself on formulating thorough, precise plans, and he couldn’t fathom why he’d suddenly turned into such a dunderhead. Unless his concern for Charlie had addled his thinking… Now that was something he really didn’t want to think about. Not wishing to openly acknowledge his unforgivable oversight, he said, “You could have sent me a note with a description.”

  “True,” she acknowledged with an incline of her head. “But I wasn’t sure if you’d still be home, and as I said earlier, sitting about and waiting for news is far too agonizing for words. Aside from that”—she sat up straighter, and there was a determined glint in her eye as she continued—“I want to come with you. To help.”

  Horror blasted through Max. “No. Absolutely not.” He slammed his open hand down on the table. “It’s far too dangerous. I won’t have it.”

  Undeterred, she edged farther forward on her seat until her knees almost bumped against his. “Many hands make light work. Two heads are better than one. The more the merrier…” She arched a brow. “I could go on, but I think you gather my meaning.”

  Max ground his back teeth together. Damn it. She did have a point. Nevertheless, ingrained chivalry and the fear Nate would have his guts for garters if he ever found out about all of this made him say, “You can argue your case all night, Charlie. I won’t be swayed.”

  “Oh…” A sigh shivered out of her and her gaze dropped to her glass of cognac. “Very well,” she murmured. “I suppose you’re right.” Her bottom lip trembled and a tear slipped from beneath the thick sweep of her lowered lashes.

  Oh, bloody, blazing hell. He’d made Charlie cry, and the sight tore into his chest like the sharp thrust of a bayonet. In fact, he’d never seen her so defeated and miserable before.

  In all the years he’d known her, Lady Charlotte Hastings—despite all the slings and arrows hurled her way—was never ever anything but vibrant and bold and cheerful.

  He couldn’t bear to see her like this. He spent a moment evaluating the risks versus the benefits of each plan. Calculating the odds of success versus failure. If Rochfort came home, if his servants discovered both of them… God, what an utter disaster it would be. But Charlie’s arguments were also sound; the sooner they were in and out of the baron’s townhouse, the better.

  Max released a deep sigh. At least she was suitably dressed for the occasion in a dark green gown with some kind of black military-style frogging across the bodice. Sensible footwear of black half-boots. Black kid gloves. Even her wild chestnut curls were suitably restrained for once.

  Despite his bone-deep reservations, he relented. “All right,” he said, his voice rough with feelings he didn’t wish to examine. “You can accompany me to Rochfort’s residence. But”—he adopted his most ducal expression—“you must do everything I say, no questions asked. At once. Do I make myself clear?”

  Charlie nodded, her eyes now alight with eagerness rather than tears. “Of course, Max. Absolutely. We’ll be in and out in a jiffy, and then this will all be over.”

  Chapter 4

  Was there a commotion in Bedford Square last night?

  There have been unconfirmed reports of shouts, screams, and shadowy figures in and around one of London’s most prestigious addresses. One wonders what went on…

  The Beau Monde Mirror: The Society Page

  Bedford Square, London

  “My goodness, Max, I had no idea you were so adept at breaking into houses,” whispered Charlie as she huddled against the wall by the servants’ entrance of Lord Rochfort’s residence. Given the deep shadows, she couldn’t discern a great deal, but she could definitely hear faint metallic scraping sounds as Max worked at unpicking the lock. “Wherever did y
ou acquire such skills?”

  Max, who was squatting on the ground, emitted a quiet chuckle. “I’d rather not say,” he murmured. “You might think ill of me if I confess my secrets. Chalk it up to a misspent youth.”

  “I very much doubt that I would ever think ill of you.” Charlie pushed back the hood of her cloak and leaned down, squinting at what Max was doing, wishing she could see more. In the wash of moonlight filtering through the branches of a nearby plane tree, his bare hands were as pale as an apparition’s, the movement of his long fingers controlled and delicate. “Indeed, I’m sure your misspent youth couldn’t be any worse than mine, given my expulsion from Mrs. Rathbone’s academy. As far as I’m aware, you were never expelled from Eton or Oxford.”

  “True, but I’m certainly not a saint. And you know as well as I that many of my scandalous exploits have appeared in gossip columns far and wide.” Max jiggled and twisted his tools—a thin-bladed penknife and lockpick. “Talking of scandalous exploits and secrets, you still haven’t given me a description of this troublesome notebook of yours.”

  Charlie sighed. “For a troublesome notebook, it’s quite small, actually. Palm-sized and easy to fit into a reticule. And the cover is a lovely deep crimson leather with an embossed gold filigree pattern around the edges. My aunt Tabitha gave it to me on Saint Valentine’s Day—a parting gift before she left for Bath a few days later. She wrote a sweet little farewell note to me on the endpaper at the front of the book. If Lord Rochfort takes it to some horrid newspaper…” Charlie shuddered. “There’s no mistaking who it belongs to.”

  There was an encouraging click—the sound of the lock tumbling—then Max rose to his feet. He tucked his knife and lockpick into a pocket of his coat, then leaned forward to gently grasp her elbow. “Well, very soon it will be safely back in your hands,” he murmured, his warm breath softly brushing against her ear. “Are you ready, my dear Lady Charlotte?”

  Charlie’s pulse began to race, and it wasn’t just because she was about to do something both illegal and dangerous. Even though Max’s nearness was playing havoc with her senses, she shouldn’t misinterpret his attempt to reassure her as a display of affection or any indication that he wanted her at all. “Yes,” she whispered back. “I am.”

  “Good.” Max turned the handle, and the door swung open on silent hinges. “Stay close to me,” he said. “We’ll try Rochfort’s library first. Fingers crossed it’s easy to locate.”

  They stepped into a barely lit corridor. All was silent save for the sound of Charlie’s quickened breathing and the furious pounding of her heart. The rustle of her skirts and the slight creaking of the floorboards beneath their feet as they crept toward a darkened stairwell at the very end. The only door that was ajar revealed a kitchen—a dull glow emanated from the banked fire—but nothing and no one stirred except a tabby cat who blinked at them sleepily from the hearthrug.

  “Let’s hope the servants are all abed,” whispered Max as they began to climb the stairs to the next floor. “But just to be safe, we’ll take extra care near the front door in case there is a footman still on duty.”

  “Eminently sensible,” agreed Charlie, picking up her wool skirts so she wouldn’t trip.

  When they reached a closed door at the top of the staircase, Charlie’s heart was in her mouth, and it felt like a swarm of butterflies had taken up residence in her belly. She prayed Lord Rochfort was indeed out. She didn’t wish to see the man ever again, let alone be caught in the act of breaking and entering his house.

  Max paused on the landing and pressed his ear to the door’s wooden panels before cautiously opening it a fraction. “All clear,” he murmured before stepping into the corridor and beckoning. The light of a nearby wall sconce glanced off his artfully ruffled dark blond hair. There was no fear in his eyes, and as his wide mouth tilted into a slight smile, Charlie was oddly reassured that everything would be all right.

  Shadowing Max, they padded swiftly down the Turkish runner in the center of the hall, checking doors as they went. Several were locked; one led into a darkened room containing a billiard table, and then they came upon a high-ceilinged entry hall. With a brisk hand gesture and a jerk of his chin, Max silently urged Charlie to stay behind him before he peered around the veined marble column flanking the arched doorway.

  Turning back, he whispered, “There’s no night footman,” and Charlie released the breath she’d been holding.

  Standing on tiptoe to peek over Max’s wide shoulder, she surveyed the entry hall too. The candles in the chandelier burnt low, but there was sufficient light to ascertain that there were two sets of grand double doors—a pair either side of the central marble staircase—that they would need to try.

  “So, my lady,” murmured Max, “Where should we look first?”

  “I vote we try the doors closest to—” Charlie broke off as the sound of footsteps on creaking floorboards directly above their heads penetrated the quiet night.

  Max cursed beneath his breath. Before Charlie could blink, he’d tugged her behind a nearby set of heavy velvet curtains concealing a window embrasure. One strong arm circled her waist, and he pressed a long finger to her lips. Charlie nodded to indicate she understood the need to be absolutely silent and stared into his deep blue eyes. A silvery shaft of moonlight caressed the strong planes along one side of his too handsome face, and just like the night before at the brothel, she was transfixed. By the shape of his perfectly chiseled lips; the line of his nose and his high-cut cheekbones; the sharp angles of his square jaw and the small cleft in his strong chin; his intoxicating masculine scent. She forgot where she was and how much danger she and Max were in. For the space of several heartbeats, she allowed herself to pretend that this noble, charismatic, powerful man was hers. That they weren’t merely friends or temporary partners in crime, but lovers.

  No, more than just lovers. That they loved each other. Truly. Passionately. Deeply. That Max wanted her—despite her myriad faults and tainted reputation—for his wife. His duchess forevermore.

  Max stared back, his gaze intent. Heavy and somehow hot. And when his attention slid to her mouth where his finger still rested, burning the tender flesh of her slightly parted lips, Charlie’s breath caught in her chest.

  Kiss me. Please kiss me. His thumb brushed a barely-there caress over her bottom lip, and without conscious thought, her gloved fingers curled into the lapels of his coat.

  How long had she dreamed of a romantic encounter just like this? Max holding her close in his arms, looking at her as though he wanted her the way she wanted him. That he ached for her and her alone. That if he didn’t kiss her right now, this minute, he might die—

  The sound of a door snicking open broke the spell. And then a woman spoke, her harsh whisper close by. “Hurry, Nancy,” she urged. “We don’t want Mrs. Phipps to notice wha’ we’re up to.”

  “All right, all right, Ruth. The ’ot chocolate ain’t going anywhere. And Phipps is snoring ’er head off. How else do you fink I got the key to the pantry? Let’s just ’ope the master don’t come back early.”

  Light, rushing footfalls approached then passed by their hidey-hole, and Charlie let out a shaky exhale. Relief they were safe and disappointment she and Max’s intimate moment had been interrupted welled inside her in equal measure.

  “It sounds like Ruth and Nancy are headed to the kitchen.” Max’s expression was shuttered, his manner all business again as he released her from his embrace. “We’d best find the library before they return.”

  “Agreed.”

  The closest set of double doors opened onto an elegantly appointed drawing room. The second set on the opposite side of the entry hall led to the library.

  Thank God. Charlie offered up a prayer to heaven as Max quietly shut the oak-paneled doors behind them.

  The banked fire offered little light, so Max swiftly lit a pair of candles while Charlie crossed to the ornately carved desk on the opposite side of the room.

  “One thing that str
ikes me as odd, is that for a man who is blackmailing me for money, Lord Rochfort doesn’t seem short of funds,” remarked Charlie as she began to sort through a pile of books on one edge of the leather blotter. “I mean, his townhouse and all its furnishings”—she gestured at the enormous mahogany desk with its bronze lion’s paw feet and the preponderance of gilt Egyptian-style ornamentation and artifacts scattered about the room—“well, they’re very fine indeed. We could be in Hastings House.”

  “Yes.” Max approached with the candles and placed them on opposite corners of the desk. “It is odd. I haven’t heard any rumors that Rochfort is in debt.”

  “My notebook’s not here.” Charlie tried but failed to stop a note of panic creeping into her voice as she pushed the pile of books away. The only other items on the desk were an elaborate brass inkwell set, a jeweled snuff box that resembled a scarab, a letter opener with a vicious-looking dog’s head—presumably Anubis—at the end of the handle, and a neat stack of papers. Her gaze traveled over the cabinets and towering bookcases lining the walls and Lord Rochfort’s impressive collection of leather-bound tomes. If he’d hidden her notebook somewhere on the shelves—Charlie swallowed hard—she and Max would never find it. Not before Rochfort returned home, anyway.

  Max moved behind the desk, flicked out his coattails, and claimed the baron’s chair as if he owned it. “Fear not,” he said as he began to try all the drawers. Then he huffed out an exasperated sigh. “Damn it. They’re all locked. But not for long.”

  Flashing a grin at Charlie, he seized the letter opener, then wedged the slim blade between the edge of an upper drawer and the top of the desk. A quick wiggle, a thrust, and a twist, and there was a click.

  Charlie joined him as he pulled open the drawer. A swift rummage revealed nothing but papers, a penknife, sealing wax, and a few pencils.

  “Blast,” muttered Charlie. According to the Boulle mantel clock, it was almost half past eleven. “I do hope your intelligence about Rochfort’s movements tonight is correct, because this search is going to take a lot longer than I thought.”