Carla Kelly (35 page)

The sight of the open window disturbed him. He had a vague memory of Eustace Wiltmore perched there last night, teetering about on the sill as he rambled on about…what? Nez shook his head slowly. He crawled to the window and raised himself up enough to look out. There were no remains of Eustace littering the flower beds, so obviously his friend had not hurled himself to the ground.

But there was something else, something Nez could not recall. He took several gulps of the clean air and felt better. His second attempt to sit in a chair was more successful. Gingerly he propped his leg on a footstool and wondered what it was he had promised Eustace Wiltmore last night when he was three sheets to the wind.

Nothing came to him. He looked down at himself in disgust. “Oh, Lord,” he said out loud. “Why do I do this?”

No one answered. The only sound was the ticking of the clock, a sound that crashed about in his brain and kept time with the little animal in there that was still hurling itself about.

His neckcloth was already draped over the bust of an ancestor, so he unbuttoned his shirt, eased himself out of it, and sat there bare-chested, his eyes drooping. The little breeze from the window was cool and felt good, even though he shivered. He moved to another chair in the direct sunlight and sighed. June. June in England.

Someone banged on the door, pounding so loud and long that the hinges shook and the door bulged. Nez put his hand to his head. No, the door did not move. It was someone barely tapping. The animal inside his head stopped to pant and listen for a moment, then whirled around again.

Luster poked his head in. “Sir?” he asked. “My lord?”

“Get my dressing gown.”

The butler returned in a moment with the dressing gown, all tapestry and frogs and much too busy for a man scarcely able to comprehend primary colors. Nez closed his eyes against its design and allowed Luster to help him into sleeves that seemed too difficult to maneuver alone.

“What…what day is it, Luster?” he asked finally.

The butler permitted himself a smile. “It is the fifteenth, my lord.”

“The year?”

The smile broadened and then disappeared as Nez frowned back. “1816, my lord.”

The duke managed a slight twitch of his lips. “I know that, Luster,” he said. “I was merely testing you.”

The butler coughed and held out a cup.

The duke sighed and looked away. “No, Luster. I think I will never drink again.”

The butler would not withdraw the offensive cup. “Please, your grace, try it,” he urged. “You’ll feel much more the thing.”

“Do you promise?” the duke asked, eyeing the cup with vast disfavor.

“I do,” said the butler. He coughed. “’Twas my grandfather’s own remedy for the Duke of Marlborough.”

“Very well, then, in memory of the great duke.”

Benedict sipped at the brown brew, wishing that it did not look so awful. He closed his eyes and huddled down into his dressing gown, wishing to pull it over him like the shell of a turtle and retreat from all human contact, particularly the brightness of this June morning.

He took another sip this time, less cautious, and noted that the animal in his brain was slowing down. In another moment, it was sleeping again. He handed the cup back to Luster.

“If this were Waterloo, you would have received a battlefield commission just now, Luster.”

The butler bowed and accepted the cup. “Your grace, there is a curious person waiting below who insists upon seeing you.”

“Oh?”

The butler raised his eyebrows in unconscious imitation of his master. “I do think he is nothing but a tradesman, and he has the most unusual sample case with him.”

“Come now, Luster, you know all salesman are shown the entrance belowstairs.”

Luster came closer. “Of course, your grace, but this one might require your attention. Look you here, sir,” he said, and held out a card.

The duke took it. “Why, this is Eustace’s calling card,” he said, turning it over. He peered closer at the words scrawled on the back. “You promised,” he read out loud. He looked up at his butler. “I do not perfectly recall…”

Hardly had Nez uttered a larger understatement. The last thing he remembered from last night was snatching a garter from an opera dancer at Covent Garden, and even that memory was not as sharp as he would have liked. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the red satin garter.

Luster coughed again and looked away.

“Luster, you old prude,” the duke said, the hint of smile in his voice. “Never tell me my father never surprised you with one of these.”

“Your grace,” the butler declared, his voice shocked. He rocked back on his heels. “But now that you mention it—”

“I rest my case.” The duke stuck both hands in his pockets and stretched out his long legs. “This man below. Does he have a card?”

“Indeed, your grace. Here it is.”

The duke accepted the card. “Ignatius L. Copley,” he read. “Copley Chocolatier, by appointment to His Majesty King George III.”

A warning bell began to toll in the back of his brain, right next to the sleeping animal that started to circle about inside his head again. What in God’s name did I promise Eustace last night? he asked himself.

“Send him up, Luster. Let’s get this over with.”

The butler withdrew. Nez lurched to his feet and headed in the general direction of the sideboard, where he was vastly disappointed. Mother must have seen to the removal of the chamber pot that His Grace William Nesbitt, the Sixth Duke of Knaresborough, used to keep there, for situations such as this one. Considering the state of his much-abused kidneys, this interview with the candy man would be a short one. He would guarantee to purchase whatever it was he must have promised Eustace last night, and then beat a hasty retreat to the necessary.

The door opened and Luster showed in a gentleman as round as he was tall, who appeared to be all teeth and handshake. Weakly, the Duke of Knaresborough allowed himself to be greeted like a long-away cousin. He gestured to the chair next to him and looked at the salesman expectantly.

The man stared back just as expectantly. He cleared his throat finally when the duke appeared disposed to remain silent, and leaned forward. “My lord, do you not know why I am here?”

The duke shook his head, a motion he instantly regretted, and waited for his brains to fall out of his ears.

“Pray enlighten me,” he said when they did not, and looked at the man’s calling card again. “I am overfond of chocolate, to be sure, but I do not know that I require a salesman to look after my needs. A simple trip to the sweet shop will suffice.”

“But, your grace, the Earl of Devere said you were needing my services.” The little man strained forward, and the duke was compelled to lean forward too, his arms resting on his knees.

“Pray explain yourself, sir,” the duke said.

The salesman blinked in surprise. “He told me you would understand perfectly. See here, he paid me for the use of my sample case.” The little man winked. “I don’t doubt but what the Earl of Devere was a bit to let at the time, but he said you would be borrowing the case for a couple of weeks for a trip to Kent.”

Kent. The warning bells went off all at once in Benedict’s overtaxed brain. The Duke of Knaresborough could only admit defeat and slump back in his chair. “He paid you money?” he asked. Good Godfrey, Eustace is serious, Nez thought as the salesman nodded so vigorously that his stomach shook.

“If I may venture, sir?” began the salesman.

The duke was stricken into silence by the monstrous perfidy of his nearest and dearest friend.

“He admitted to me that you had made him the happiest man on earth.”

“I don’t doubt that for a moment,” agreed the duke. “Well, sir, let me see your wares.”

The salesman opened the sample case, which had double rows of drawers with brass fittings. He opened one drawer and the duke leaned closer.

“Your grace, behold the prize of Copley Chocolatiers,” said the man with a flourish. He paused for dramatic effect. “King Charles Revels!”

The duke stared at the gleaming lump of chocolate, which nestled on a bed of white satin. “God bless us,” he breathed, his tone reverent. “Is that the one with a nougat center and just the hint of cherry?”

“The very same,” Copley said proudly. He opened another drawer. “And for those what like nuts, here is St. Thomas’ Temptation.”

“I know that one well,” murmured the duke. “Ate a whole box once on bivouac, and wasn’t I sick?”

Copley clucked his tongue. “Moderation in all things, your grace,” he said.

The salesman opened drawer after drawer, displaying his wares. “This would have been my last sales trip,” he explained as he lovingly patted each chocolate. “I don’t sell chocolate in summer, ordinarily. When Lord Wiltmore said he wanted to borrow my sample case, I was only too glad to oblige him.” He permitted himself a giggle behind his hand. “Lord Wiltmore said something about a prank you are playing in Kent involving a lady?” He tittered again and then closed all the little drawers.

The duke groaned as the conversation of last night came back to him again. I am supposed to disguise myself as a London merchant and travel to God-help-me Kent, where I will conveniently meet with an accident. I will survey the lady in question and give Eustace Wiltmore, formerly my best friend, a report.

He directed his attention again to the little chocolate salesman. “Yes, Mr. Copley, he did mention a prank. Leave your case, and I will consider the issue.”

Ignatius L. Copley got to his feet again. “To complete the disguise, you have merely to drop in on the occasional sweet shop and emporium that you pass in Kent. We are well known.” He fumbled in his pocket and handed a handmade card to the duke. “Lord Wiltmore told me that he is having these cards made up for you, and you may stop at Adams in Fleet Street this very afternoon.”

“I have never known Lord Wiltmore to act on any matter with such promptness,” the duke murmured.

He looked at the proffered card, wavered for another instance between cowardice and duty, sighed, and took it. He looked closer and chuckled, despite his roaring headache. “Nesbitt Duke, merchant for Copley Chocolatiers, et cetera, et cetera,” he read, and pressed his fingers to his temple. “So be it, Mr. Copley. I suppose you have…Goodness, what are they called? An order sheet?”

“Certainly, sir. In the top drawer of the case. Fill them out three times, your grace.”

“And how would you recommend I transport myself to Kent?” asked the duke, dreading the answer almost before he finished the question.

“A gig is best, sir,” was the expected reply, and Mr. Copley did not fail him. “Of course, this is slow going to one of your equestrian fame, your grace, but it would never do for a London merchant to jaunt about in a high-perch phaeton.”

His own wit sent Ignatius L. Copley into a coughing fit. The duke did not trust himself to render aid and pat the man on the back. He went instead to the window, looked out, and then leapt back, his heart pounding in rhythm with his head.

His sister, Augusta, and his mother were stepping down from a barouche outside his front door, business written all across their faces.

He fingered the mock-up card. “Nesbitt Duke, is it?” he mused out loud.

“Yes, your grace,” said the merchant. “And don’t you know that Lord Wiltmore was pleased with his own cleverness!”

“Scylla and Charybdis,” muttered the duke as his sister rang the doorbell with that vigor typical of all Nesbitts.

“Beg your pardon, sir? Might that be a new chocolate I don’t know of?”

“It should be,” said the duke grimly. “Those cards are ready this afternoon, did you say?”

The bell rang again, more insistent this time. Likely Augusta would tell him about the latest matrimonial prize and insist that he accompany her and this paragon driving in the park, punting on some river or other, or dining al fresco amid the ants and wasps. There would be another unexceptionable face to admire, more small talk to suffer through, and another day wasted in the company of a female he couldn’t care less about.

“I could pick up the cards on my way out of town, couldn’t I?” he murmured, more for himself than the merchant’s benefit.

“Indubitably, your grace. Think what a diversion this will be, your grace!”

The door opened and Luster peered inside again. “Your grace, your sister, Lady Wogan, and the dowager await below.”

The duke looked from the merchant to the butler, and back to the pasteboard card in his hand. He contemplated the ruin of his summer and the obligation of friendship and smiled at his butler.

“Luster, show this gentleman out. Tell my sister that you don’t know how this comes about, but I have already left the house and have taken myself off to the…oh, the Lake District.”

“They will never believe me,” Luster declared. “You know perfectly well that Lady Wogan will come storming up here.”

“Then I will hide myself in the dumbwaiter until she is gone,” said the Duke of Knaresborough, who had held off a whole company of Imperial Guards with only ten survivors of his brigade at Waterloo. “This is no time for heroics. Or hysterics. Stand back, Luster.”

“Very well, your grace,” said the butler as he opened the door to the dumbwaiter and tugged on the rope.

The duke winced as he ducked his pounding head through the little doorway. “A tighter fit since the last time I tried this ten years ago,” he said. He looked back at his butler, who was controlling his expression through mighty effort and years of training. “And if you can locate a gig, Luster, do so at once, only do not trumpet it about.”

“Very well, your grace,” Luster replied as he ushered out the candy salesman and bowed himself from the room. “And should I procure a moleskin vest for you, perhaps?”

“You do and we part company, Luster. There are some lengths to which I will not go, not even for friendship!”

Carla Kelly
is a veteran of romance fiction. The author of more than thirty novels and novellas for Donald I. Fine, Inc., Signet and Harlequin, Carla is the recipient of two RITA Awards from Romance Writers of America and two Spur Awards from Western Writers of America, plus a Lifetime Achievement Award from
Romantic Times.