How to Deceive a Duke (23 page)
Read How to Deceive a Duke Online
Authors: Lecia Cornwall
N
icholas watched Augustus Howard gambling and losing.
“I hear that Howard’s afraid of losing his pretty young wife,” Sebastian said, following the direction of his friend’s gaze. “He promised her a fortune, a lavish and luxurious life, and other than the necklace he gave her as a wedding present, he has failed to present her with anything else since. Augustus needs to win tonight.”
The old man was sweating as he placed his bets. He could barely conceal his panic when he lost. Nicholas had no doubt the money to woo the lovely and very young Lady Claire had come from cheating David, and had just as quickly been gambled away again.
“Do you know Daniel Napier?” Sebastian asked. “He’s a baron’s son from Cheshire. Hasn’t got a farthing. I hear Claire was set to marry him when Augustus made her father a rich offer for her. Delphine and Eleanor think it’s romantic. Napier was brokenhearted when she married, and tried to join the army, but it was too late. The war ended. I suppose he’ll have better luck now Napoleon has escaped and is back to terrify Europe once more.”
Nicholas watched Howard lose another hand. He mopped his brow and pasted on a wan smile as he wrote out yet another vowel. The man was at the lowest point he could reach.
Nicholas strode forward, and Howard looked up and saw him coming. He watched fear kindle in his eyes, and guilt. He took a step backward, and cried out as Nicholas slapped him with his glove.
“Dawn tomorrow,” he muttered.
Sebastian grabbed his arm. “What the devil are you doing, Nick, what’s the challenge?”
“Honor,” Nicholas said, his eyes boring into Augustus’s as he held a trembling hand to his slapped cheek and cowered. “And lies, and murder.”
The crowd muttered in surprise. Those holding Howard’s vowels moved in. The old roué blanched, and Nicholas turned away.
“I’ll stand as your second,” Sebastian said, scrambling after him.
“Agreed,” Nicholas said. “Excuse me, Seb, but I’ve another errand to see to.”
“W
ilton doesn’t race the Wycliffe Arabian?” Nicholas asked Hector at the racetrack, as they watched one of Lord Wilton’s horses lose. The animal was high-strung and skittish, and poorly trained. Definitely not one of the hot bloods from Wycliffe’s stable.
“I was able to find out that he lost the Arabian some time ago to Lord Eldridge,” Hector noted. They watched Wilton make good on his losses with a handful of vowels and a sick smile. “Looks like he’ll have to sell the rest of his stable too.”
“What do you know of Wilton’s wife?” Nicholas asked as Wilton walked toward them.
“Even less than I know about his horses. They are estranged, and she stays in the country,” Hector said. “What of
your
wife, Temberlay? Have you heard from Meg? It’s been a fortnight.”
“She’s safer in the country. Once this business is sorted out, I’ll go and fetch her.”
Wilton frowned as Nicholas stepped into his path.
“Temberlay,” he said, looking smug, still imagining Nicholas didn’t know.
He flinched as Nicholas issued the challenge, the glove cracking against his face. “How dare you!” he cried.
“No, Wilton, how dare you? But I suppose we’ll find out at dawn tomorrow. Have your second see Lord Bryant.”
C
harles Wilton looked at the suspicion in the eyes of the gentlemen around him as they watched Temberlay’s retreating back. Wilton felt his gorge rise and swallowed hard, tried to still the panic in his breast. Nicholas Temberlay was an officer, a crack shot, and a far better swordsman than his brother.
There was a very good chance Charles would die tomorrow.
If he showed up.
He got into his coach and ordered his coachman home. He had estates all over the country. He’d leave London and go to ground. He made a mental list of valuables to take with him, now, in a hurry. He cursed Temberlay as he climbed the steps of his house. Within hours, men would come to demand he honor his vowels, pay his debts. He didn’t even have time to sell the last of his wife’s jewels, or the few works of art that remained.
He was ruined.
And Temberlay, the man he’d painted as a villain, as dishonorable, had honor after all.
He went into his study and poured a drink, quaffed it at a gulp, and poured another. His butler entered the room behind him and cleared his throat, and Charles turned on him.
“What do you want?”
The man held out a letter on a tray. “This just arrived, my lord.”
Charles took it. The cream envelope bore the Wycliffe crest. What the devil could Wycliffe’s widow want with him? Did she mean to challenge him as well, or had her husband’s shade risen from the grave to take his revenge?
He broke the seal and read it. Then he read it again, and smiled.
It wasn’t from the Countess of Wycliffe.
It was from Temberlay’s lovely duchess.
I
t was nearly midnight when Meg arrived at Bryant House. Her mother was attending a party, and was not at home, but Hector was in his study.
“Surprise!” she said with brittle brightness.
He embraced her, then held her at arm’s length to look at her.
“You look tired,” he said. “Are you on your way to Hartley Place?”
“If you’ll have me, I’d like to stay here for a day or two,” she said. “I’ve only come to run an errand.”
“Perhaps that’s a good idea. You can visit with your mother.”
He looked away, refused to meet her eyes, and Meg’s heart lurched, suspecting the worst.
“She must be delighted Rose is back, and safe,” she said, forcing a light tone. “Though she’s hardly written a word about what Rose is doing in Town. Have they been busy?”
He led her into the sitting room. “Your mother is a whirlwind of activity. If you’re hoping for even a brief word, you’ll have to catch her between social engagements. You’ve found me on one of my rare evenings at home. Your mother usually insists I accompany her to whatever party she’s attending, but I begged off with a headache tonight. I sent her out with Rose and her relations.”
“Then I’ve come at a bad time,” Meg said, biting her lip.
Hector smiled. “Not at all. I haven’t really got a headache. I just couldn’t bear to attend one more soiree.
That
gives me a headache. I simply anticipated it a little—and I have an early appointment in the morning.”
“Do you?” She imagined Flora dragging him to a breakfast rout at noon. “Tell me all the latest gossip. I feel like I’ve been rusticating in the country forever,” Meg said, but he rose to pull the bell.
“Gossip is more your mother’s department, but I can see you get a meal. You look as if a strong wind could blow you away. We can talk while you eat, and you can tell me why you’ve chosen to arrive in the dead of night.”
She studied her fingertips, and her wedding ring. “I’m here for two reasons, actually. I lied, Hector—I hear plenty of news from Town. The dowager sends me the
London Times
and the scandal sheets, so I know every
on dit
and wicked story about Nicholas.”
“And?” he prompted.
“Is he having an affair with Rose?” She braced herself for the answer.
Hector’s brows shot up. “What? Why on earth would you think that?”
“The scandal sheets, the dowager—it’s been more than hinted at.”
He frowned. “Nicholas has been rather busy of late. I suppose he may have met Rose through your mother, but I doubt she knows him well. Those infernal relations of Edward’s keep Rose under close watch. She’s with child, so they don’t allow her to stray very far. Certainly not
that
far.”
“Then what has he been so busy with?” she asked. He looked away.
“You’re tired, my dear,” Hector said. “Why don’t you get a good night’s rest, and we’ll talk tomorrow.”
She looked at him sharply. “Don’t brush me off, Hector. You’re the one person I can trust to be honest with me.”
“Then I am certain Rose is not having an affair with Nicholas.”
“Have you seen him?”
“We attended the races yesterday.” He shifted his gaze to the floor.
Meg felt suspicion rise. She felt tears prick behind her eyes, even as anger flared, hot and thick. “Then I assume there’s another reason why he has not written?”
He took her hands with a soft sound of sympathy. “Meg, you have nothing to worry about. He’s a good man. You must trust him. I can’t tell you any more than that. You’ve been brave, but you’re not on guard anymore. It’s time to let him take care of things for you.” He led her toward the stairs.
“What does that mean?” she asked.
He kissed her forehead without replying. “Go and get some rest.”
She climbed the stairs, her feet like lead, even more uncertain now.
“Meg?”
She turned to look at her godfather, standing at the bottom of the steps.
“You said you came for two reasons. What’s the second?”
She smiled wanly. “Arabella’s Glory has come up for sale. I came to buy him back.”
He paled. “You what? Have you spoken to Nicholas about this?”
“No. Arabella was my horse. I can manage this on my own.”
“Who is selling the foal?” he asked, his face tight.
“Lord Charles Wilton. Do you know him?”
He gripped the banister. “Unfortunately I do. Meg, stay away from him. Let Nicholas handle this for you. You can’t imagine—” He swallowed. “I can’t say more than that now. We’ll talk tomorrow, find a way . . .”
Hadn’t she proven she could manage perfectly well on her own in the past year? He made it sound like there was something sinister about simply buying a horse.
“Yes, tomorrow,” she said vaguely and turned to go up.
By the time they spoke again, the deal would be done.
T
here was a letter from Stephen Ives waiting for him. Nicholas read it, and stared out the window, not seeing the green square, or the budding trees. He saw the dry Spanish hills, the lines of red-coated soldiers, and heard the beat of distant drums as a French column came into view, marched closer.
Napoleon was once again threatening the peace of Europe. The armies of Britain, Prussia, and Russia were gathering in Brussels to meet the threat. They needed intelligence officers to find out just what Napoleon intended to do. Stephen had recommended Nicholas, the best spy he knew.
It was tempting. Nicholas had been certain in war, good at his job. He shut his eyes. But he had responsibilities and duties here. Men without heirs did not go to war. Nor did someone about to fight a pair of duels within the hour make such grand plans, though he fully expected to survive the encounters.
Once it was all over, he was going to Wycliffe to bring his wife home.
He picked up his pen and stared at the blank paper, at the ducal crest at the top of the page. His crest. He wrote his refusal of the commission.
T
he morning mist hid the illicit activities of gentlemen intent on proving their honor in Hyde Park. Somber figures gathered under the trees, anonymous in dark cloaks, their hats pulled low over their faces, sinister against the silver fog.
Nicholas watched a coach pull up. Had Wilton and Howard chosen to arrive together?
Howard leaped from the coach almost before it had stopped moving, hurried over the grass.
“You took her!” he screamed. “Where is my wife, you devil?”
Sebastian looked at Nicholas. “Did you?”
“No,” Nicholas said.
“Claire is gone. What have you done with her?” Howard sobbed, and gripped Nicholas’s lapels. His eyes were wild and bloodshot, desperate. He pulled a dueling pistol out of his belt and waved it. “Tell me!”
“If you have—interfered—with His Lordship’s wife, Your Grace, it changes this affair completely,” Howard’s second said.
“He hasn’t seen Lady Claire,” Sebastian replied in his best lord-of-the-manor tone. “Perhaps she ran off with Daniel Napier after all. It was common knowledge she was unhappy.”
“Common to whom?” Howard cried, pointing the pistol at Sebastian.
“Everyone with eyes.” Sebastian shrugged. Augustus sagged to the grass, blubbering. Nicholas stepped forward and took the gun before Howard shot somebody, and gave it to his second.
The gentleman looked uncomfortable. Augustus resisted all attempts to raise him to his feet. The gathered group looked at him with a mixture of pity and disgust.
“Are you still going to shoot him?” Sebastian asked.
“No.” He’d lost what mattered most, more than his life. That was revenge enough.
Another coach pulled up.
“What the devil? We’ve got quite a crowd,” Sebastian said as Hector Bryant hurried across the grass.
“Wilton’s late,” Nicholas told Hector.
Sebastian gaped. “You challenged Wilton as well?”
“Temberlay, he isn’t coming. I think Meg is with him,” Hector said, his face pale.
“Does anyone know where their wife is?” Sebastian quipped.
Nicholas’s stomach rose. “Meg is at Wycliffe,” he said, but Hector shook his head, his eyes frantic. “She arrived at Bryant House last night. Wilton is selling one of Wycliffe’s hot bloods. She came to buy it back. I told her to wait, told her to speak to you, but she was gone this morning. She doesn’t know about the duel. She doesn’t know about Wilton at all!”
“Where did she go?” Nicholas asked, taking his coat from Sebastian, shrugging into it. He took the dueling pistol and tucked it into his belt.
“I don’t know. She said there’s an auction today. Tattersall’s perhaps? It’s no place for a lady, but that won’t stop Meg,” Hector babbled, distraught.
“I’ll find her.” Nicholas vaulted onto Hannibal’s back and kicked him to a gallop.
“W
hat a stroke of luck finding the foal for sale,” John said as he handed Meg down from the coach. “It’ll be good to have him back at Wycliffe where he belongs. Any chance the others are for sale?”
Meg smiled at him. “Anything is for sale at the right price, John. I would love to get all three of them back again. Perhaps if Lord Wilton bought Arabella and the Arabian as well, we can come to an agreement. I handled the sale of our paintings and furnishings and silver. I can do this too.”
“I don’t think buying hot-blood horses is the same, Meg,” he began, but she grasped his arm and pointed.
“There he is!”
Most of the paddocks of the auction house were filled with carriage horses, matched teams, and leggy colts. Only Arabella’s Glory had a pen of his own.
He’d grown, John saw, and bore the fine lines of both his dam and his sire. His ears pricked as they approached him. Meg ignored the mud and the stares of the gentlemen around her, but John didn’t. No one should be looking at Meg that way but Nick. She’d been evasive when he’d asked if her husband was coming with them today.
“You seem to be the only lady here,” John said, moving closer to her.
She stroked the horse’s velvet nose with a cry of joy that warmed his heart. He hadn’t seen her this happy since the night the foal was born.
“Ladies do not usually come to horse sales,” a smooth voice said. “But Her Grace is a lovely flower among the usual thorns of this place, and most welcome.”
He bowed over her hand. “Lord Charles Wilton. I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of an introduction.”
The man was whip-thin, dark and dangerous, and he was staring straight down Meg’s bodice. He held her hand far longer than necessary in John’s opinion. “D’you know her husband, perhaps, the Duke of Temberlay?” he asked.
Lord Wilton’s eyes narrowed. “I can escort you from here, Your Grace. Your servant would no doubt be more comfortable with the other stable hands in the barn.”
He was far more than a stable hand, but Meg didn’t bother to correct the gentleman. Instead, she smiled at the gent. It was the kind of smile Rose bestowed on besotted lads. He winced as she tilted her head like a true Lynton coquette. John scowled and stepped closer to her.
“I was delighted to see Arabella’s Glory listed in the sale today, my lord. I have not seen him since my father sold him a year ago.”
“Fine lines to him. Good breeding,” Wilton said, barely glancing at the colt, his eyes still on Meg.
“Do you, by chance, know of his dam, Arabella, or his sire, the Wycliffe Arabian?”
His gaze slid sideways, like a snake slithering over smooth ground, John thought. He smiled like a snake too, without any warmth at all. There was something calculating about him that John didn’t like. He felt sure Nick wouldn’t like him either.
“Why, I hear of them constantly—my stable master sends me reports on a weekly basis. They are at my stud farm.”
“Oh,” Meg breathed, leaning toward him. John laid a hand on her shoulder, pulled her back.
Lord Wilton was still holding on to her hand, and John plucked it free. “Let’s start with the foal. How much d’you want for him?”
Wilton frowned, kept his eyes on Meg. “This is not the kind of negotiation one conducts with stable hands, Your Grace. It is usually a matter between gentlemen, or in this case, people of breeding.”
“I’m the duchess’s horse master, among other things.” John gave his bona fides to the man, towering over him.
Meg sent him a sharp look, then turned back to Wilton. “John helped birth this foal,” she said. “He knows horses as well as my father did. Did you know my father, the late Earl of Wycliffe?”
The man reddened. “I . . .” He hesitated. “Actually, the business of purchasing Wycliffe’s horses was handled by my man of affairs.”
“Consider me Her Grace’s man of affairs, then, in His Grace’s absence,” John said.
Wilton shifted his gaze from Meg to John and back, obviously waiting for Meg to rebuke her servant. When she didn’t, he stepped back with a sigh.
“I must tell you that there have been a number of offers for Arabella’s Glory, and for the other Wycliffe hot bloods.”
“I will double the highest bid!”
“Meg!” John warned. “Shouldn’t Nick—”
She shot him a look of furious desperation. “Any price, John.”
He would have told her she couldn’t buy back the past, could only go forward in life, should walk away, talk to Nick, but Wilton spoke first.
“Done. My man is in the stable offices, over there.” He waved John toward a distant building. “You may make arrangements with him.”
John didn’t want to leave her alone with the shifty-looking lord, but she looked at him expectantly, her brows raised, making it a command. There was nothing he could do but go. She turned her attention back to Wilton immediately.
“Might we discuss Arabella and the Arabian, Your Lordship? Would it be possible to purchase them as well?”
He smiled at her. “Something might be arranged, my dear duchess. But only if you call me Charles.”
“Charles,” John growled as he made his way across the muddy field, out of earshot. It would serve Meg right if Nick turned her over his knee for this.
C
harles Wilton looked at Temberlay’s wife. She was a beauty, and though she was doing her best to charm him, she only had eyes for the damned foal.
“Would you, perhaps, like to come see the horses?” he asked. “My farm is nearby. We could be there in time for luncheon, and back in London for tea if we left now.”
“Well, I hadn’t planned—” she began, and shot a glance toward her servant, who was out of earshot, but still throwing baleful glances over his massive shoulders at Charles as he went to arrange payment.
“I fully understand if you have unassailable plans to see your modiste or take tea with friends. I must go either way. There is another gentleman coming to see the horses this very afternoon, you see. He is also quite interested in purchasing them,” he pressed.
She bit her lush lower lip in dismay. Did Temberlay enjoy kissing his wife? he wondered. Would he want her after she’d been with another man? He shivered. “This is going to be a pleasure,” he murmured.
“Pardon?” she asked, and he realized he’d spoken aloud.
He snapped his fingers and a groom rushed over.
“Tell—” He glanced at the lovely duchess with his brows raised, waiting for her decision.
She raised her chin. “Tell John Ramsbottom, my stable master, to take the foal and the coach home. I will be lunching with Lord Wilton at—?”
She was waiting for the name of his estate. “Orion,” he said smoothly. Let them tell Temberlay that when he came for his wife.
“Orion,” she repeated, smiling, relaxing, and Wilton watched the man march gingerly across the muddy field to deliver the message. Could it have been any easier?
He took her hand and set it on his sleeve. “Shall we go?” he asked.
She smiled and let him lead the way.
N
icholas arrived at the auction house to find John Ramsbottom holding one of the groom’s two feet off the ground and threatening to throttle him. Meg was nowhere to be seen.
He grabbed the big man’s arm. The fury in his eyes faded instantly, and he dropped the groom like a doll and grinned. “Nick! It’s good to see you.”
“John, where’s Meg?”
His frown returned. “She bought a horse, that foal there, from a lord named Wilton. He told her he had Arabella and the Arabian as well, and she’s gone to see ’em, and this dunderhead won’t tell me where!” He glared at the groom, who was still staring at John in horror.
“Orange. He said orange,” the lad panted. “Or onion, perhaps. I
did
say so.”
“But where is it?” John demanded. “You didn’t tell me that.”
Dread prickled the back of Nicholas’s neck. “Orion?” he asked.
The groom rubbed his neck. “Oh, aye, that was it. Sounds like Orange, though. Thought he might mean the inn nearby, called the Coach and Angel. The gentry use it for trysts in the country. Maybe that’s where they went.”
Nick stopped John’s fist before he hit the man.
“D’you know it, Nick?” John asked.
“I’m afraid so,” Nicholas said. Would he find her there? She could be anywhere, since
Orion
was the name of the imaginary ship that David and Wycliffe had invested in. It was a message from Wilton. Meg was in trouble, and she probably didn’t even realize it.
“Take the coach home, John. I’ll see to it.” He strode back toward Hannibal.
John caught up with him before he’d gone a dozen steps. “She’d never do anything like what that fool suggested.”
“I know,” Nicholas said, his teeth clenched. “But Wilton would. Meg is an innocent, like her father, like—”
David, or Julia Leighton.
“She’s smart, Nick. She’ll figure it out, come to no harm,” John said, but there was worry in his eyes. “Ye’ll find her, won’t ye?”
He mounted Hannibal. “John, go back to Bryant House and wait for her. Tell Lord Bryant, but don’t say anything to the countess.”
He kicked Hannibal to a gallop, and headed toward the
ton
’s favorite illicit trysting spot, and prayed he wouldn’t find her there in Wilton’s arms.
He’d be obliged to kill Charles Wilton.
And Meg?
He shut his eyes and spurred Hannibal harder. He didn’t want to think about that.