A Man Above Reproach (4 page)

“Allow me to drive you home in my carriage.”

She actually guffawed. “I am sorry—Your Grace—but a woman from a brothel getting a ride home from a duke would cause quite a stir. It is uncommonly good of you, but I cannot.”

He looked hurt.

“You do not want me to know where you live.”

He was damned astute. She thought her excuse still stood as well; there was no societal way it would ever be accepted. Someone would see and someone would talk. There was a moment where they were just staring at each other. She could see those absurdly deep brown eyes considering how long the argument would be to convince her otherwise. She could see the moment that he knew she would not give in. There was an odd look of respect on his face after that.

“Do not let the wench take too much of your money, Blue.”

“I have no control over that,” she told him with a sad smile. “Farewell, Elias.”

One last impropriety.

“For now, yes.” He stood and bowed, holding his hat instead of putting it on his head. It was almost as if he was stalling.

Josephine scraped to her feet and curtsied rather without a stitch of grace. She took a good look at the wolfish and sensual face that she was sure she would never see again. She had a wild premonition that he was going to sweep her into his arms—whatsoever was wrong with her racing thoughts? Josephine shifted, trying to break his heavy gaze without being obvious. She could daydream about him, perhaps cast him in the novels she read at voracious speed. Unlike Sally, she would not hold out hope that this particular nobleman was anything but a strange hiccup in her normal routine.

“Good evening,” she forced out.

The next day, she was sure it would be like it had never happened.

C
HAPTER
T
WO

“Foxhunting, as a so-called sport, does not have much to recommend it. If it serves only as a social activity, I can think of many examples that would involve more merriment and less blood. I do not think it bold of me to wonder if the hounds and the gentlemen are not too far apart in personality and I ask you, do we not have ambition to be more than merely dogs?”

—F
ROM
T
HE
C
OLLECTED
E
SSAYS OF
L
ORD
E
LIAS
A
DDISON

Elias was groggy in the morning, staring into his dressing mirror. He was trying to remember the dream he had been pulled out of, one of a piano and miles of fabric dropping to the floor. His valet fussed around him, muttering muted curses about the state of his hair.

“Are you certain you will not take more time with your hair today? Perhaps I can trim it? Her Grace expects you to accompany her to the market and you know how she hates you frowzy.”

“Yes, of course, I ‘look like a wild man.’ My mother will have to accept me as I am if she wants to go to Cheapside this morning. She could just take Alessandra like usual.”

“I believe the duchess wants to speak with you, Your Grace.”

Of course, why take his sister when the duchess could use the time to criticize her son alone?

“She wants to speak at me, not with me.”

Elias regarded his countenance. He was glad to be out of mourning clothes. The black had become stifling. The navy chosen by Dryden suited him much better. His cravat sat starched brilliantly white on his dressing table.

“You may go, Dryden,” he dismissed his valet, who frowned with disapproval.

“But your cravat, my lord…”

“Yes, yes,” Elias waved a hand. “You have made it clear that you find it improper, and you would rather take care of it. However, you may go.”

He sank down into a chair and let out a long sigh, one that he would only release when alone. Elias hated Cheapside, he hated shopping, and he especially hated wasting the day away. He wanted to finish searching his father’s study. James Addison had a habit of hiding papers that he thought might be embarrassing: bills of sale for things bought for his courtesans over the years, deeds for city houses bought for the same. Elias was exaggerating when he complained that his father had frittered away the fortune—and he would only complain to Thackeray. The duchy of Lennox had so much money that his father’s debauches could not put a dent in it, but Elias was annoyed nonetheless. The farms around the Lennox country estate were not suffering greatly, but his father had done little to improve their situation. As the new duke, Elias intended to fix this, to give his young sister Alessandra the London debut she deserved, and take up his seat in the House of Lords. He had plans that did not include finding a wife immediately.

It was inevitable that was what his mother wanted to talk about on this little trip.

He picked up his cravat and began to tie it into a mathematical knot, hoping that the tight angle would hold his head on his neck as he listened to Sophia natter on endlessly about finding the proper woman and making an heir. She had already been on Elias to pair off before James died, but now that he was gone and there was no successor, she had ratcheted up her efforts. She believed he was far too old to be unmarried, as did the patronesses who threw every available lady in his path each time he attended a ball.

He would eventually marry. He had no choice. It was just that he refused to believe that any of the women—to be more accurate, girls—would be happy living with a man of his demeanor. He could already
see himself beginning to resent their tittering. The woman he would marry would be the one he would sit across the breakfast and dinner table from for the rest of his life, and he did not want a life where he was silent and bitter. He had seen that dynamic during his childhood, James and Sophia ingesting their meals and then parting ways. It had much to do with James’s behavior, but Elias knew that Sophia’s conduct had also played a part.

There were many times he wished to have been born a stable boy, where his choices could be his own. His sister said he would have made a terrible farm lad; with his face, the wolves would think he was one of their own. That Alessandra was going to be quite a catch for some man, some day.

Elias’s mother never knocked. She would never think her admittance was not welcome, even in his private chambers.

“Do hurry, darling boy. I want there to be fresh flowers when we arrive at the market, and we still have not had breakfast. Alessandra is not feeling well, so she cannot accompany us today.”

“How convenient,” he muttered, examining his mother’s still stylish mourning gown and her elaborate hairstyle. She was powdered and painted to an outlandish level. She would never be seen in public looking anything less than the most expensive widowed duchess. Truly, she had always looked much younger than she was in reality. It had only gotten worse since his father’s death… she was still a beautiful woman for her age, and he suspected that she was starting to look for a male companion. He shuddered inwardly. It was none of his business.

“I expect you downstairs in ten minutes,” she chirped. “Dryden will have the phaeton ready for our trip as soon as we finish dining.”

“Yes, Mother.”

After a hurried breakfast where he listened to his mother chatter about what she intended to purchase and how she hoped it would
not rain, Elias sat unhappily in the phaeton, wondering how he would make it through this journey.

“Four crates arrived today, Josie!” Sally exclaimed. Though she was known as Crimson at the Dove, she was just Sally Hopewell at the Paper Garden. “Four crates of new books and some old ones that look like they’ll be worth some money!”

Perhaps she could be excited about the prospect of new inventory, but Josephine only saw more things to put away and sort through. Her back was aching, not only from sitting rigid at the piano last night to not shame the duke with her poor posture, but from shifting tomes back and forth while trying to arrange the front window to entice shoppers. There were not many who stopped in before passing by.

Josephine looked around her bookstore and let out a long breath of air. Mother Superior had taken over half the money that Elias had given to her last night. She did not mind as much, because it had been an interesting evening, but the money was becoming even more necessary. As it stood, the combination of money from the Dove and the Garden was barely keeping her afloat. Having Sally around helped, and the poor girl really had no other option. Orphans like herself were especially vulnerable at the Sleeping Dove. On the nights that certain groups of men came in and girls disappeared forever, it was always a girl without family who fell victim to them.

“You’re worrying again,” Sally remarked, fussing with a stack of books to be delivered to infirm customers. “Don’t be anxious. I’m just sure things will turn around.”

“You are being far too optimistic. Too like your Lord Thackeray. He is filling your head with nonsense.”

The bells jingled to announce a customer, an overly made-up and obviously wealthy woman who looked as if she was trying to compensate for her advanced age with a mass of face powder. She was doing a sufficient job of it, Josephine thought to herself, but some of the age lines could not be hidden. Trailing behind her was a tall man in a crisp velvet-lined overcoat, smelling of… sandalwood and leather and wealth. Josephine cursed and turned away. Of all the bloody rotten luck. It simply could not be him. What would he be doing here?

“I am finally ready to read some of this Miss Austen material,” the woman declared. “I cannot be so ill-informed when other ladies start talking for one moment longer.”

“Of course we can help you with that, Lady…?” Sally began.

“The Duchess of Lennox.”

“Oh! I am so sorry, Your Grace!” Sally fell into a sloppy curtsey. “Please accept my sincere apologies.”

Lennox
, Josephine noted.
The Duke of Lennox
. And a wife. A decorated, aged wife who was at least fifteen years older than him. She must have been frothing with money, rich enough for the duke to overlook her age. Or they were in love, which sent a buzz of horror straight through Josephine. She tried to shake her head to clear it, but found that nothing on her would move. She was frozen in her spot, though it would have taken her less than thirty seconds to show the duchess where any number of editions of Austen were and only moments more to tell her the pros and cons of each. However, there was no way she was turning around for fear of catching his eye. There was no way she could see his dignified, classical face without a mask. It was not an image she wanted in her memory. She certainly did not want to see him standing stalwartly next to his wife. Sally’s eyes slid toward her as recognition dawned on her as well.

Josephine found that her legs awakened at the thought of having to face him in the daylight. She tried to slink away.

“I hear this shop has a fine rare books room,” Elias’s deep voice intoned. Josephine heard it in her sternum, reverberating through her and bouncing off all of the walls of her insides. It felt like arrows shot from fifty paces, true to their target. She clutched her petticoat with white knuckles. “Perhaps while the duchess browses, your other shop girl would kindly direct me to it.”

“Ah, Your Grace! Miss Grant is the proprietress of this fine establishment, no mere employee. I am sure she would be proud to show off the collection of rare books we have amassed.”

Proud was not exactly the word, Josephine thought. Aghast was much more appropriate. She saw that she had no choice now but to turn around and smile as if there was nothing at all wrong. She should be pleased to have a member of the nobility in her store. Her fake smile overpowered her face as she wracked her brain to find a reason to stay silent. There was a chance he would recognize her voice, even though it was less husky than the tone she used at the Sleeping Dove.

“If you please, Yer Grace—follow me, right this way,” she said, significantly higher and much more Cockney than her ladylike upbringing. Sally gave her a queer look at the sound of it. She saw no recognition in Elias’s eyes, just a strange detachment from his surroundings. It was a relief and a disappointment to find she was beneath his notice. He had a ducal comportment; she had seen it many times before. Out in the light of the day, he looked colder and more closed off. His posture was stick straight and all very proper. No one would have ever guessed he had spent the last evening at a brothel. Unfortunately, she still found him handsome. It was dashed inconvenient.

He followed along the hallway, stylish Hessian boots clicking on the stones. She had to remind herself to breathe. She reasoned that there was little chance he would recognize her eyes or lips or voice—he had been drinking at the time, and he was a duke. He surely met scads of women on a daily basis and they would blend together. Her backup
plan, she decided, would be to play the innocent. This was, of course, a delicate way of saying that she would deny everything.

“’Ere you are, Yer Grace,” she said in the ridiculous accent. “I’ll leave you to examine at cher leisure.”

Elias picked up a book, glanced at it, examined her with a piercing stare, and set it back down again. A tempting smile debuted on his mouth. It was altogether more daring than any she had seen the night before.