A Duke to Remember (A Season for Scandal Book 2) (24 page)

He turned to address a duke he had never met. “Thank you for that,” Noah said, making sure he couldn’t be overheard. “And it is a true pleasure to meet you.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” Alderidge replied. “I’m sorry about the circumstances.”

Noah inclined his head. “As am I.”

“You were splendid, by the way,” Alderidge added. “I think Mr. Miller was suitably convinced.”

“Mr. Miller looked like he was going to cast up his accounts.”

“A good start then.” Alderidge watched him. “You’ll get used to it, you know,” he said suddenly.

“Used to what?”

“Being a duke.”

Noah stared at him.

“I’m discovering it has far more advantages than disadvantages.” Alderidge paused. “Certainly more advantages than being a pirate.”

Noah wasn’t sure if he was joking or not.

“Your Grace?” The raspy address came from behind Alderidge. “I hope I am not late.”

Both men turned to find a stooped, plainly dressed man holding a leather doctor’s bag. Spectacles sat under a mop of shaggy brown hair, and an unfashionable beard covered most of his face, giving him a slightly studious and somewhat antiquated appearance.

“Not at all. You are right on time, Dr. Rowley.”

“This is good to hear.” The doctor shifted his bag. “I trust your meeting was successful,” the man said, and met Noah’s gaze for the first time. The spectacles that the man wore could not completely conceal the worry in his hazel eyes.

Noah froze in stunned recognition.

It was eerie how completely she had transformed herself. The way she held herself, her mannerisms, the way she spoke and moved, there was nothing left of Elise DeVries in this slightly stoop-shouldered physician. Except, of course, for the eyes he knew so well.

“It was,” Alderidge confirmed for them, since Noah couldn’t yet speak.

Elise transferred her gaze to Alderidge. “Ah. Then this too I am happy to hear.”

“Yes.” The duke turned to Noah. “I’ve been remiss, Ashland, in not introducing my personal physician, Dr. Rowley. Dr. Rowley has agreed to accompany us today to give us his professional opinion on the health of the aging Duchess of Ashland, in the event that it is required.”

“Of course.” Noah finally found his voice. He wanted to touch her. Wanted to reach out to draw her to his side and keep her there all day. All night.

Forever.

But he didn’t, because dukes did not kiss stoop-shouldered physicians senseless on a London street. This was what she had meant when she had said that she wouldn’t be herself. That she would be present, but inaccessible to him. It was harder than he had thought it would be.

“Then we should go, yes?” Elise pulled a timepiece from her pocket and consulted it pointedly before glancing back in the direction of the solicitor’s office.

A half-dozen faces that had been watching through the window ducked from view.

“We should,” Alderidge agreed. “The first domino has fallen and set the rest in motion. My carriage is just up the street.”

Elise tucked her watch away and put a hand on Noah’s sleeve, a familiar, fleeting gesture that meant everything. “Let’s go fetch your mother, Your Grace.”

B
edlam had been as awful as she had remembered it.

The only advantage this time was that she got to watch as the Duchess of Ashland was unchained and carried through the hospital corridors under the chilling direction of not one, but two, dukes. Her expert opinion and services had not even been needed, at least when it came to Miriam. When it came to Noah, however, she’d stayed as close to his side as she dared.

He’d gone white as a sheet as he’d entered the building. And though it might have been a new building with halls that were less crowded and walls that were unmarred by cracks and rotting masonry, the sounds and the smells would have been the same. The constant din he had described, the lingering stench of urine and too many bodies.

Yet he’d stridden through the institution without hesitation, tight-lipped and stone-faced, issuing orders with precision and control. It was only when they were unchaining the limp, unconscious duchess that Noah had pressed himself against her for support. The heavy clanking of the chains as the keepers frantically worked the key at the duchess’s ankle had his fist curling unseen into the back of her coat where they stood, as if he needed to anchor himself to something.

And then they’d released the duchess and Noah had released Elise, and within a half hour they were back in the Duke of Alderidge’s carriage. They’d let Elise out a quarter mile from Covent Square before the driver had urged the horses on, heading out past the edges of London, to Ashland’s closest estate, near Kilburn. Lady Abigail had already left that morning, not happy about leaving her brother but unable to argue with the fact that the duchess was going to need a great deal of care if she was to recover. Noah would return to the house in Mayfair by early evening, but as Alderidge had said, the first domino had been tipped and now the others behind were falling faster and faster.

The Duke of Ashland would entertain tonight, a small, informal soiree arranged by Ivory. This was Ivory’s specialty, this subtle and skillful manipulation of society, and she did it better and with more cunning than anyone. Elise’s role in the instating of Noah Ellery to the Ashland title was drawing to a close.

Tonight two earls and a viscount, along with their wives, would offer their condolences but profess their delight and pleasure that Noah was back safely to take over where his father had left off. There would be a carefully staged ride along Rotten Row tomorrow afternoon, where a marquess and the wealthy widow of a baron would create a very public, joyful scene as they welcomed the new Duke of Ashland back to London. And there were more arranged events just like those, each time and location chosen with deliberation, each person selected with meticulousness and made to understand exactly what might be at stake for him or her. And all were encouraged to share with others the news of their happy meeting with the new duke.

As Elise watched Alderidge’s carriage disappear from sight down the road, she now fully understood just how far out of her reach Noah Ellery had already slipped. By the end of the week, Elise would witness the final act in the production that would see the Duke of Ashland assert his full dominion and power and take control of the life that had always been his.

A life where she would not fit. She had known that all along. But it didn’t keep a black, yawning chasm of emptiness from making her feel like a hollowed shell of who she had once been.

Her eyes blurring, Elise turned from the spot where the carriage had been and started walking. She’d reached Covent Square and had almost made it to the stone steps of Chegarre & Associates when a man stepped into her path.

“Good afternoon, Doctor.”

Elise stopped, her hand tightening around the handle of her doctor’s bag as pale eyes inspected her disguise with interest. “King.”

The man flicked a nonexistent piece of dust from the front of his coat. “I wonder, for the number of times I see you in the guise of some sort of physician, if you’ve actually picked up any doctor-type knowledge.”

Elise cleared her throat and selected her words carefully. “I know when a man’s throat is slit, the blood pumps bright red and in copious amounts. I know that when a rifle bullet lodges itself in the muscle of a second man’s leg, that blood is darker, the bleeding slower, and it will take him longer to die.”

King tipped his head, his red-gold hair glinting in the sunlight. “Indeed?”

“Noah Ellery knows this too.”

His pale eyes shifted. “I see.”

“I thought you might.”

“The Duke of Ashland is back in London.” It wasn’t a question.

She was not surprised. “He is.”

“I’m impressed, Miss DeVries. It would seem that your services are worth every penny. And then some.”

“What do you want from him, King?” Elise asked, tired of the game.

The man looked thoughtful. “You care for him.”

Elise ignored the way her heart thumped erratically and painfully. “He is a client, King. I care about all my clients,” she said, aiming for bored impatience.

“Of course you do.” He ground the tip of his walking stick into the dust at their feet. “Tell me, Miss DeVries, did you disclose my involvement in this…affair to your duke?”

“Of course not.” She left it at that, knowing that anything else might betray the conclusions that she had only so recently drawn regarding the past that these two men shared.

His cold eyes impaled hers. “Strangely enough, I believe you.”

“Good. Now what do you want, King?” she asked again.

“Only to settle my account in full.”

“I beg your pardon?”

King extracted a small velvet bag from the inside of his coat and pulled at the string. From the depths of the bag, diamonds sparkled, a thousand rainbows trapped in brilliant stones. “I regret that I don’t have coin on hand. But in truth it’s bulky and difficult to transport with any discretion. I trust that these will cover the outstanding balance I owe to the duchess and yourself.” He closed the bag and held it out to her.

She accepted it, her hand closing around the velvet. “Your debt has been settled then.”

King straightened his shoulders. “Not quite yet.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means not quite yet.” He turned then, disappearing back into the crowded market, and Elise was left standing on the steps of Chegarre & Associates, clutching a bag of diamonds and understanding nothing.

F
rancis Ellery had been surprised by the Marquess of Heatherton’s sudden invitation to join him at one of his vast country estates.

But at the time it had pleased him immensely. Not only would he be living, eating, and drinking like a bloody king at Heatherton’s expense for a week, he was looking forward to the distraction. Surely there would be pretty women, maybe a good shoot or two for birds, and certainly evenings filled with games and other…attractive entertainments. If Francis played his cards right, perhaps the influential marquess might even be able to put in a good word with the solicitors and courts on his behalf.

Except there hadn’t been a party. There hadn’t been women or card games or shoots. Instead there had been sheep. Hundreds and hundreds of sheep that the marquess had dragged Francis out to view each day.

Heatherton, it seemed, was under the impression that Francis would be interested in agriculture, in the sense that it applied to large estates not unlike the ones that the Ashland duchy boasted. Unwilling to alienate the powerful man, Francis had endured lectures on enclosures, wool prices, and breeding stock. He’d suffered through conversations that the marquess had had with mere peasants, discussing things like forage crops and hoof rot, for God’s sake. And after five days Francis had been ready to shoot every one of those damn sheep, or possibly Heatherton himself, if only to stop the agony of boredom.

So when the marquess had been called away to one of his other estates, Francis had inwardly rejoiced. He’d waved off Heatherton’s apologies for their visit’s being cut short with what he hoped was a suitable show of disappointment, and packed immediately. He’d never been so relieved to see the city of London rise up on the horizon.

In truth he was also anxious to return for another reason.

He’d received only one brief message from the men he’d hired to find Noah—a barely legible letter that had revealed they’d discovered information that had set them on Noah Ellery’s trail. The two men were confident that it wouldn’t be long until they tracked his idiot cousin down and dispatched him, should he still live. Francis had been delighted. Really, how hard could it be to find a half-wit?

Except that had been the last message he’d received. There hadn’t been anything since, and there had been nothing waiting for him when he’d finally returned home. No confirmation his cousin had been found, no affirmation that he was dead. Nothing but silence.

Which was vexing.

Francis recognized that unfortunately, there was very little he could do about it at the moment. He reminded himself that he needed to be patient and told himself that, however dull his country sojourn had been, it was a step in the right direction. Important men like the Marquess of Heatherton were already doing the smart thing and aligning themselves with the next Duke of Ashland. That knowledge buoyed his spirits. And, coupled with the excruciating boredom of the past week, it was enough to drive Francis out to find the types of diversions that he had sorely missed.

Perhaps he’d start with a mutton steak.

Noah had seen a leopard once.

It had been part of a traveling fair, the exotic cat trapped in a large, ornate cage. Noah had stood back and observed the creature that paced back and forth, back and forth, hemmed in by beautifully painted bars and subjected to a long line of gawking onlookers. The leopard had snarled when someone had gotten too close to the cage, before resuming its incessant pacing.

Noah had never felt more like that cat than he did now. Though he was careful not to snarl.

The week had been endless, a steady stream of the same gawking onlookers come to examine the new creature in their midst. Many of them had been planted by Miss Moore, he knew, and however she’d managed to…encourage them to embrace the new Duke of Ashland with nary a whispered doubt had been effective. With each new face that came and went, word spread, and more followed in their wake, not wanting to be the only ones ill-mannered enough not to welcome a duke back into the bosom of society.

And to satisfy their curiosity, of course.

Under the tutelage of Miss Moore, he took care to control the conversations. Any error in his speech was followed with a self-depreciating muttering in Italian and a rueful explanation that he still found himself slipping into a language that had become more familiar than English over the years. Though errors happened far less than he had feared.

He also took care to supply believable generalities. Yes, he had spent most of his childhood abroad. And yes, he had spent time in England. If one was to be an effective duke, one must understand how the people of this nation really lived, wouldn’t they agree? No one had yet disagreed.

And there were indeed benefits to being a duke, Noah was discovering, and one was his ability to ignore any questions he didn’t care to answer. A cold gaze or an annoyed frown was enough to stop even the most impertinent. It was strange, though, being surrounded by an army of people all the time. In Nottingham he’d gotten used to the quiet, used to the unobtrusive presence of Mrs. Pritchard, and used to the seclusion of his farm. But here there was a constant stream of humanity, in and out of his house, be they visitors or the host of servants employed to make a duke’s household run smoothly.

And for all the people around him, Noah had never felt as lonely as he did now. He missed Elise. Terribly. He understood that she had taken a step back, letting her colleagues do what they did best to make this work. Elise had told him what would happen. She had told him that she wouldn’t be at his side. And he had told her he’d understood.

Yet he hadn’t been prepared for the reality of it.

He’d finally sent a message to Chegarre & Associates, asking after Elise, but it had been Roddy who had shown up at his door a few hours later, informing him that Miss Elise was unavailable, that she was helping another client whose son had gone missing. Missing into the bottom of a bottle of blue ruin, Roddy had opined with a disgusted shake of his head, but still. Miss Elise didn’t get to pick who she went and found.

He felt as if he was losing her. She had been his once, for a glorious window of time, but now, here, in this place, he felt as if she was slipping through his fingers as surely as water. He had last seen Elise in Bedlam, her presence the only thing that had managed to stay the memories that had threatened to crush him with their potency. It had taken every ounce of his self-control to remind himself of his responsibilities. To remind himself that he needed to see his mother safely deposited with Abigail and not simply step from the carriage with Elise when she disembarked and slipped into the crowds.

He stood by the window in his bedroom, watching as the streets of London darkened, wondering where Elise was now and desperately hoping she was safe. And wondering if she might be thinking of him.

There was a sharp rap on his door and it swung open. “Are you ready to dress, Your Grace?” His father’s—well, now his—valet stood in the doorway. Noah glanced over to where the man had already set out his evening clothes, the severe black of the garments suiting his mood perfectly.

After a week of performances, this evening at Lavoie’s club would be the last. Miss Moore had assured him that, in the dearth of social events in the city at this time of year, the tournament Lavoie had arranged was eagerly anticipated and would be well attended. It would be a decisive finish to the week’s worth of work on his behalf. All he had to do was follow the script that had been given him.

And after that he would go and find Elise.

Francis Ellery had settled into his club. Well, he called it that, but it wasn’t really. Not like White’s or Brooks’s or Boodle’s. He wasn’t sure which one he would patronize when he became the Duke of Ashland. Maybe White’s. Or maybe all three just for the hell of it.

The establishment he was sitting in now was nowhere close to St James’s, but at least the alcohol wasn’t watered much and the gaming tables weren’t always rigged. And there were women. Willing women who didn’t much care that you were a mere mister, even though you were related to a goddamn duke.

“Another?” A serving wench was bent over the table, holding a bottle of…well, something alcoholic in her hand. Gin, perhaps? Francis didn’t much care what it was, only that he was enjoying the spectacular display of cleavage.

“Yes.” He held out his glass to have it refilled. God knew there had been a dearth of gin and women this last week.

The girl finished filling his cup, and Francis patted his lap. The girl complied with that too, tucking the coin he gave her into her bosom.

“Where is everyone?” Francis asked. The card table at which he sat was still empty, though the night was far from young. Unusual.

“At Lavoie’s. He’s having a card tournament.” The girl shrugged. “Everyone knows that.”

Ellery seethed. Now there was a man who was the very epitome of insufferable arrogance. Lavoie had had the gall to evict him from his club for a simple misunderstanding and then forbid him any further access to his establishment.

When Francis was a duke, he would see the man destroyed. Ruined and run out of town.

Just for the hell of it.

“I guess that’s why ye didn’t bring yer cousin along with ye tonight, Mr. Ellery,” the girl said as she wiggled against him.

Francis almost sloshed his drink down the front of her dress. “What?” he said rudely. Hell, but he must be drunker than he thought. He’d thought the girl had said—

“Your cousin. The duke.” The girl gave him a wink, and her fingers wandered over his chest. “I would have liked to have…served a duke.”

“My cousin,” Francis managed, “is dead.”

The girl on his lap had set the bottle aside, and her hands were wandering lower now. She had her fingers in the front of his trousers, but Francis was too disturbed by her outlandish comment to even notice.

“Well, there is certainly one thing that’s dead, and it’s not the Duke of Ashland,” she muttered, her fingers becoming bolder.

Ellery surged to his feet, sending her tumbling off his lap and careening into the side of the table.

“Who…how…why are you asking me about my cousin?”

The girl righted herself, rubbing a rapidly swelling lump on her forehead, and gave him a scathing look.

“Is there a problem here?” A man built like a bull had materialized next to the girl. His eyes slid down the length of Francis, and his lip curled.

Belatedly Francis realized he had spilled the contents of his drink down the front of his trousers. He ground his teeth. “No.”

“I asked him about his cousin. The duke. And then he got mean,” the girl pouted. “I think he’s jealous.”

“I think it’s time you leave, Mr. Ellery.”

“My cousin—”

“Has money and more manners than you,” the man sneered. “Now get out.”

“My cousin is dead,” Francis shouted.

The bull of a man lunged toward Francis and picked him up by the collar, dragging him toward the door. “Your cousin is at Lavoie’s along with all the rest of the titled sots still left in London.” He kicked open the door and tossed Francis into an ignoble heap on the pavement. “Let me give you some advice, Ellery, though it is certain you don’t deserve it. Lay off the gin,” he said, wiping his hands on the front of his coat. “It’s making you sound like a lunatic.”