How to Catch a Devilish Duke: The Disreputable Debutantes

by Bennett, Amy Rose

  Again, Charlie sent Diana a grateful smile. The young woman could only be a few years older than herself. She was very attractive—pretty, even—with a heart-shaped face, pale blonde curls, and a pleasing figure displayed to perfection in her well-cut gown of lavender muslin. Charlie suddenly wondered why she hadn’t remarried after the passing of her husband. And why she’d chosen to remain living with Cressida, her mother-in-law, rather than members of her own family. “I think that sounds like a wonderful idea, Your Grace.”

  “Please, do call me Diana,” the young duchess replied. “After all, we’ll be sisters very soon, and I don’t know about you, but I fear there will be so many ‘Your Graces’ flying about, we’re all bound to get confused.”

  Charlie couldn’t help but laugh. “As long as you call me Charlie—” she began, then broke off when there was a knock at the door.

  Cressida called, “Come in,” and another liveried footman entered, proffering a note upon a silver salver. The dowager duchess perused it, then her lips tightened. “If you’ll excuse me,” she said, putting aside her tea and napkin before rising to her feet. “I just have a small matter to attend to. I shan’t be long.”

  In the split second before the drawing room door clicked shut, Charlie caught a glimpse of a balding, bespectacled gentleman with a leather portfolio tucked beneath one arm who bowed as Cressida approached. She didn’t have time to ruminate any further on who the man might be as Diana began to ask who Charlie would like to invite to Heathcote Hall.

  “Cressida and I thought that we shouldn’t invite more than forty guests for the four-day event, lest the party becomes too unwieldy. And an intimate affair is always nicer, to my way of thinking. But of course, on the night of your betrothal ball, you and Max can invite as many guests as you li—” She broke off as her stomach emitted a rather loud rumble. “Oh, pardon me.” She placed a hand upon her belly, and a rosy blush colored her cheeks. “I’m so, so sorry.”

  Charlie waved a dismissive hand. “Think nothing of it,” she said. “But perhaps you should have one of Cressida’s biscuits…”

  Diana made a moue of displeasure. “You were wise not to have one. They’re quite horrid.” Her stomach protested again, and this time a laugh escaped her too. “I know it’s wicked of me to say so, but I really can’t wait for Lent to be over so I can have something decent to eat,” she murmured in a conspiratorial fashion.

  My goodness. Diana sounded like she was positively famished. Charlie reached for her reticule. “Would you like a bonbon?” she asked. “I carry a tin about with me. The toffee is quite hard, but they’re delicious all the same.”

  Diana’s eyes lit up. “I would love one.” After selecting a hazelnut praline, she popped it into her mouth, closed her eyes, and moaned. “Oh, my word.” The sugared sweet filled the left side of her cheek, and her next words were little more than a mumble as she added, “This is so good. I could eat ten. Perhaps a dozen. A baker’s doz—”

  The drawing room door swung open without warning, and Charlie and Diana both jumped in their seats. As Cressida swept toward them, Diana’s whole countenance turned bright red, and she looked as guilty as a child who’d just been caught raiding a jar of sweetmeats. Or, in this particular instance, a tin of bonbons.

  Cressida’s gaze narrowed as she took in her daughter-in-law’s cheek and its odd, squirrel-like protrusion. “Are you all right, Diana?” she asked as she sank with regal poise onto her chair.

  Diana nodded. “Yes. Char—I mean, Lady Charlotte offered me a comfit. To settle my stomach.”

  “Yes,” agreed Charlie, lifting up the silver tin. “Of course, you’re welcome to have one too, Your Grace. They’re clove, cinnamon, and ginger flavored, but the texture is a little hard and gritty. I fear the apothecary did not grind the spices and apricot kernels up as well as—”

  Cressida held up a hand. “No, thank you. My tea will suffice.”

  Diana cast Charlie a thankful look, and Charlie sent a small smile back. She’d been dreading this call for an entire week, and she was nothing but relieved that she might have found a friend in Diana. Navigating Society’s fraught waters suddenly seemed far less daunting a prospect if she had an ally like the Duchess of Exmoor by her side.

  When Charlie arrived back at Hastings House an hour later, she was greeted by a mewling Peridot and the sight of an enormous bunch of yellow and white roses that smelled divine. Molly had placed them on display on a mahogany table in the center of her sitting room.

  Another gift from Max, no doubt. For a man who professed he was incapable of feeling tender emotion, he was certainly playing the part of besotted fiancé to perfection. In fact, he’d been sending fresh bunches of roses—her favorite flower—and boxes of Gunter’s treats to Hastings House every few days. Because the hue of the blooms often matched the color of her day gown, Charlie was beginning to suspect Molly was sneakily sending him intelligence about her sartorial choices.

  In any event, perhaps Max thought such extravagant gifts would make up for his absence. They didn’t. Charlie hadn’t seen him since the afternoon he’d presented her with a betrothal ring, and then she’d gone and slammed the door on him in a fit of pique.

  Such a silly, childish way for her to have behaved. But then, the man’s commitment to “doing the right thing” was beyond infuriating.

  She released a disgruntled sigh as she plucked the small card from the flower arrangement. As usual, Max’s handwritten note was sweet but brief.

  Dearest Charlotte,

  I hope these make you smile.

  Yours,

  M

  Ugh. Charlie cast the note aside. She didn’t want the gentleman. She wanted the rake.

  The hot-blooded, take-what-he-wants-whenever-he-wants-it-duke of her own wicked dreams.

  She scooped Peridot into her arms and wandered over to the window seat. She shouldn’t really be so miffed with Max. Not when he was making such an effort to spoil her. But when all was said and done, she only wanted him. His smile. His conversation. His kisses. His touch…

  Sweet heaven above, how she yearned for his touch. After that night at the Rouge et Noir Club, all she could think about was the feel of his large hands at her waist, on her hips. The heat of his hard body and the taste of his skin.

  Even though it seemed Max was determined to continue with this “engagement-in-name-only” arrangement for the foreseeable future, something else he’d said to her at the end of their last meeting wandered through her mind. It would be wrong to act on my desire…

  If only you would, Max, Charlie thought as she sank onto the chair and began to tickle Peridot beneath her chin. If only you would. She’d tried to flirt with him over afternoon tea, but he’d been steadfastly oblivious to all of her advances.

  But he did admit he desires you, she reminded herself. And he’s never done that before. Ever. And you have until the end of the Season to change his stubborn mind.

  Well, she was equally stubborn. And as Sophie had pointed out, Charlie didn’t lack spirit. Or guile. It was about time she fully deployed her arsenal of feminine wiles. “‘Faint heart never won fair rake’ should be a proverb too,” she murmured as she continued to pat a purring Peridot. “And of course, ‘all is fair in love and war’. So, Max Devereux, you had better watch out, because I’m not going to give up on you just yet.”

  Exmoor House, Grosvenor Square

  “I’m afraid all reports indicate that Lord Rochfort has taken a turn for the worse, Your Grace.”

  Max leaned back in the chair behind his desk, affecting an air of nonchalance in front of the inquiry agent. Sadly, maintaining a neutral expression in the face of troubling news—or anything untoward at all—was a skill he’d perfected by the age of fourteen. “Go on. I don’t need coddling, Mr. Hunt,” he said. “I need specifics. That’s what I pay you for.”

  The man, a former Bow Street Runner, simply tilted his head. He never seemed ruffled by Max’s direct, no-nonsense attitude, and Max liked that. “Of
course, Your Grace. According to one of Rochfort’s footmen, the baron’s physician had to aggressively debride his shoulder wound several days ago because it had turned purulent. Aside from the infection, there have been other complications too…”

  Irritation at the inquiry agent’s prevarication made Max impatient. “Out with it, man.”

  “It appears the additional procedure has resulted in some sort of nerve damage. My source tells me that Lord Rochfort has lost most of the movement in his left arm and that he suffers from bouts of ‘nerve pain’, a burning, shooting pain in his arm that is quite debilitating. He’s begun to quaff laudanum likes it’s water.”

  “Will this be a permanent condition?”

  “No one knows, Your Grace. It’s too early to tell.”

  “Hmm.” Max couldn’t say that he was sorry considering all the grief Rochfort had caused Charlie and Euphemia Harrington. In Max’s opinion, if the man ended up with some sort of permanent impairment, it was just deserts for his unconscionable behavior. In contrast, Max’s own bullet wound was healing well. In fact, his own physician was due to remove his stitches later on in the day. Perhaps Charlie’s friend, Lady Langdale, was right, and there was some merit in using alcohol to cleanse a wound.

  Max had one more question for Mr. Hunt before he dismissed him. “And what have you learned about the Beau Monde Mirror?”

  “So far, only what is available on the public record. The paper is produced by Juno Press, and its head editor is a gentleman by the name of Erasmus Silver. Another company called Fortuna Trading owns the publishing house. But as to who owns Fortuna Trading…” Mr. Hunt shrugged. “Unfortunately, it is run by a group of silent partners. I suspect they must have some status and influence but wish to keep their identities secret. And as I’ve reported before, the baron does not seem to be in any obvious financial strife. In fact, he appears to be swimming in funds. His motive for blackmailing and extorting money and property from others is not clear.”

  Interesting. Max was beginning to wonder if Rochfort was the kind of man who engaged in such practices just for the perverse enjoyment he derived from manipulating others. From controlling them. His own father had been such a man.

  Max turned his attention to the other gentleman in the room, his man of affairs. “And what have you learned about the Bloomsbury Square townhouse? The one Rochfort effectively stole from Euphemia Harrington?”

  Mr. Woodleigh pushed his spectacles farther up his nose and sat up straighter. “It appears Lord Rochfort’s ownership is all above board. It will be difficult to prove that Miss Harrington was coerced into giving up her property unless she is willing to come forward and make an official statement to the authorities. And even then, it would be her word against the baron’s if it went to court.”

  Max nodded. “I thought as much. It looks as though the only way Miss Harrington will have her property restored to her is if I purchase it and gift it back to her. Would you be able to arrange the purchase via a third-party, Woodleigh? I fear that Rochfort won’t sell if he knows who’s behind the acquisition. And I’m also prepared to offer a good deal more than what the property’s worth if Rochfort seems disinclined to let it go. I trust that in the end, his greed will win out.”

  Woodleigh bowed his head. “Very good, Your Grace. I will have an intermediary begin discreet inquiries.”

  “Excellent.”

  Max dismissed both Hunt and Woodleigh, but after his man of affairs exited the library, Hunt turned back. “There’s something else I wanted to mention to you, Your Grace, but I think it’s best that I disclose this particular piece of information to you in private.”

  “Of course.” Curiosity mingled with uneasiness as Max watched the inquiry agent shut the door and approach the desk again. “It sounds like it’s intelligence of a sensitive nature.”

  “Yes.” Hunt met his gaze directly. “My men have been keeping up a round-the-clock surveillance of Rochfort House. The majority of the comings and goings have been inconsequential, but one of the baron’s recent visitors might be of interest to you.”

  Max frowned. “Who is it?”

  Hunt flinched slightly. “I’m afraid your mother was observed visiting Rochfort House two days ago.”

  What the hell? Max couldn’t hide his shock this time. Why on earth would his mother visit Lord Rochfort? “You’re absolutely certain that your man hasn’t made a mistake?”

  “No, Your Grace, he hasn’t. I should also add that one of the baron’s footmen, a younger fellow who’s been quite happy to take my coin in exchange for information, also confirmed it this morning.”

  Max rubbed his temple. He could almost feel a megrim coming on. “Thank you for telling me, Hunt. I appreciate your discretion. Keep up the good work.”

  As soon as the inquiry agent took his leave, Max summoned his personal secretary to inform him that he would be out for the next hour or so. Then he donned top hat and gloves and strode the half mile from Grosvenor Square to Devereux House in just under ten minutes. He found his mother in the vestibule, putting on an elegant bonnet.

  “I can’t receive you right now, Maximilian,” she said tersely as she checked the ribbon beneath her chin in a large, gilt-framed mirror.

  “This won’t take long, Mother,” he said grimly. “And I’d suggest we repair to somewhere a little more private for this discussion.” He nodded toward a nearby parlor.

  She arched a brow. “Has your fiancée already come bleating to you about how I upset her during our afternoon tea together? Considering she only left half an hour ago, she certainly didn’t waste any time.”

  “What the deuce? What did you say to her?”

  His mother shrugged a shoulder. “That she could do with losing a few pounds before your wedding. Now, don’t scowl at me like that, Max. You know it’s true. Plump girls are not your type.”

  “Don’t presume to think you know what sort of woman is ‘my type’, Mother,” growled Max. If he didn’t have to question her about Lord Rochfort, he would have turned on his heel and quit Devereux House straightaway. “Although I would love to take you to task right this minute and demand you issue Lady Charlotte with a sincere apology for insulting her yet again, that’s not actually the reason for my visit.”

  His mother sniffed, then turned to face him. “Very well, Max. You can have five minutes.” Waving away the pair of kid gloves a nearby footman held, she marched across the polished parquetry floor to the parlor.

  Max followed and shut the door. “I have it on good authority that two days ago, you paid a visit to the home of one of London’s worst scoundrels. I want to know why.”

  “I take it you’re referring to Lord Rochfort,” his mother said, adjusting the cuff on one sleeve of her pale blue pelisse.

  “Yes, of course I’m referring to Lord Rochfort. Or do you make a habit of calling on worthless dogs?”

  “And you accuse me of issuing insults.”

  “Stop obfuscating. Tell me why you visited the man I called out because he grievously insulted the honor of Lady Charlotte.”

  “As if Lady Charlotte has any hon—”

  “Enough,” Max snapped. “Answer the question.”

  “Now, there’s no need to shout like a bully,” his mother said stiffly. “The reason I called upon Lord Rochfort was simply to check if he was in any danger of expiring. I’d heard that the man’s condition had deteriorated, and if he were to die, you’d be in deep trouble, Max. You’d have to leave the country or else stand trial for the man’s murder. And I couldn’t have that. I know we have differences of opinion on occasion, but the dukedom—you, my son—must be protected at all costs.”

  Suspicion prickled along Max’s spine. “How? How did you know Rochfort had taken a turn for the worse?” he demanded. “I, myself, only heard this a short time ago.”

  “I have my own sources of intelligence, Max. I certainly shan’t divulge them to you. In any event, you needn’t worry that anyone will remark upon my visit. It occurred during broad
daylight, and Diana, her maid, and a footman accompanied me. It was all terribly mundane, all things considered. We even took a fruit basket. Come to think of it, you should be thanking me for smoothing things over with Lord Rochfort, not berating me.”

  Max ground his teeth so hard, he was surprised they didn’t disintegrate into dust. “Mundane? Visiting a man like Rochfort is anything but that, considering the circumstances. I forbid you from undertaking such a foolhardy venture again. What if it ended up in the Beau Monde Mirror’s gossip column?”

  “Pfft.” His mother flicked a hand. “It would hardly signify.”

  “Really? For a woman who’s always fussing about appearances and maintaining a pristine reputation…” A horrible, altogether chilling thought occurred to Max. His gut tightened with foreboding. “How well do you know Rochfort? You’re not in any trouble, are you?”

  “Trouble? Of course I’m not in trouble. What are you implying?” His mother raised her chin, her expression glacial. “I don’t like your line of questioning, Maximilian.”

  “And I don’t understand why my mother would be cultivating a far-too-familiar association with a black-hearted blackguard. That man is dangerous.”

  His mother’s eyes darted blue fire. “How dare you insult me in such a fashion. And how dare you spy on me! I’ve told you why I paid Lord Rochfort a visit. If you wish to ascribe an indecent, ulterior motive to my actions, I cannot stop you. But I will most vehemently object to you voicing such vulgar thoughts in my presence. Now I’ll thank you to leave.”

  “And I’ll thank you to heed my warning, Mother. Because if I hear you’ve been dropping by Rochfort House, supposedly delivering fruit baskets again, I’ll cut off your allowance and pack you off to Exmoor Castle’s dower house so fast your head will spin. And the same warning applies to insulting my fiancée. I won’t have it. Do I make myself clear?”