Not Quite A Duke (Dukes' Club Book 6) (7 page)

“No mistake, this is the place where high and low mix, and no one knows who is who,” Mrs. Barton whispered, her eyes merry behind her golden mask. “Anything can happen. And they all like that. After all, what lady or gent doesn’t like a bit of rough?”

From the scene? Quite a few. And it appeared the rough liked to rub with a bit of lace.

There was an edge of violence to the room that hadn’t been in the halls of the elite that Mrs. Barton had led her through before.

She’d known there were different types of debauchery in London. Mrs. Barton had elevated herself to the cream of the crop but she knew many who preferred to linger amidst the more colorful and darker side of the demimonde, or so Mrs. Barton had said.

“And this is where Lord Charles prefers to spend his time?” she asked.

“My dear, Lord Charles, spends his time wherever he pleases, but these are more his people than any toff.”

“His brother is a duke,” Patience protested.

“Yes. But Lord Charles prefers painted doxies and hard men to the powdered fools of his birth.”

Patience couldn’t help laughing at Mrs. Barton’s disdainful tone. “I thought you liked the powdered fools.”

Mrs. Barton laughed. “I like their money when they actually have it. Their influence is also acceptable.”

“Very wise,” Patience said without judgement.

Mrs. Barton’s painted lips curled in a smile that could seduce the coldest heart. “No intelligent person actually likes a fool, Patience. They’ll use the fool, but they’ll never like him.”

“And Lord Charles is no fool?”

Waving her ornate fan before her pale face, Mrs. Barton replied easily, “If you’ve truly met him, you already know the answer to that question.”

She did. She’d asked on the off chance that Mrs. Barton might decry the man.

Smoothing a hand over her nearly transparent but voluminous skirt, she prodded, “But surely such a man, a second son, can have little to recommend him? He’s a rake and a scoundrel.”

Mrs. Barton laughed again, a rich, bell-like sound. “Are you looking for reasons to dislike him?”

She stared for a good long moment and considered dissembling but then replied, “Yes.”

“Well, my dear, you shall fail if you consider his accomplishments.”

Surely Mrs. Barton wasn’t about to turn Lord Charles into a paragon? “Besides in the bedroom, what are they?”

Mrs. Barton pursed her lips before beginning. “He’s a remarkable businessman for one. He owns more properties than any second son that I’ve ever met. He manages and owns a club. In truth, I’ve never met a man more savvy and as an actress, I value the art of commerce as much as I do that of the stage.”

Something Patience had quickly learned under Mrs. Barton’s wing was that all women,
all
, were one step away from being whores. Some walked a very fine line. And some were, somehow, both ladies and whores simultaneously.

Mrs. Barton was one of those ladies, as all successful actresses of the day, who walked the line. Her fortune came not only from the weekly pay she received from the playhouse but the presents lavished upon her by admirers.

She’d claimed after several meetings that she wouldn’t sleep with a man in exchange for a
present
. If a man chose to give her a present, she felt no obligation. However, if she found the man to be attractive and desired him, she felt no compunction in bedding him and felt that such a thing was not an actual transaction of coin.

Mrs. Barton played a game but not the oldest one.

In Patience’s opinion, the wives of the
ton
were no different than Mrs. Barton, playing their part for their quarterly pin money.

Women had a rough lot. And quite frankly, all women’s main source of income seemed to come from the marriage bed.

Patience had been lucky enough to find a source of funds that didn’t require slipping between the bed sheets.

Now, in this glowing and mysterious hall, there were ladies who’d come to collect coin but there were also a fair set willing to pay it to some of the young bucks gambling away. . . And then there were those simply looking for a moment’s pleasure in the garden or perhaps at a later arranged venue.

To a young Patience, this all would have been terribly shocking.

After years researching her novels, now little surprised her.

Except Lord Charles, it seemed.

He had not fit the box she had already made for him. Rakes were not supposed to be any more than that. They were simply, well. . . Rakes.

She drank in every detail as she stood along the wall beside Mrs. Barton.

She wouldn’t be able to come back to this place for some time, not until Lady Patience had dimmed in Lord Charles’ memory.

Even masks could be precarious protection in such a setting.

She had no desire to be recognized, unmarried lady that she was. Even married, she shouldn’t wish it! Society could be painfully fickle and, as the years progressed, seemed to becoming even more so.

“Whatever is the subject of your new novel?” Mrs. Barton asked.

“A young lady’s ruin.”

Patience eyed the crowded room.

Just at that moment, a roar went up at the end of the room and a table crashed over. Ivory chips flew into the air as did the screams of several ladies.

A gentleman yelled, “Fight!”

And the next thing Patience knew, two big men had flung themselves into a mêlée.

Mrs. Barton snapped her fan shut and waggled her brows. “What marvelous luck!”

A feeling of dread pooled in Patience’s belly. “Luck?”

“My dear, you're seeing Lord Charles in full glory!”

“I beg your pardon?” she demanded.

Mrs. Barton pointed her fan. “There he is!”

Patience swallowed then koshed the urge to flee to her carriage. Momentary panic that he might look up and recognize her vanished under an intense wave of curiosity.

As the two men grappled, Mrs. Barton cheered. Then she leaned in. “Your story?”

“Yes?” she asked, barely comprehending the question as she stared at the two Herculean men wrestling.

“Will it have a happy ending?”

Patience couldn't tear her eyes away from Lord Charles as the other man pounded him.

Suddenly, Lord Charles ducked and slammed a fist into the other man’s jaw. Said other man’s eyes bulged and then he fell like a colossus of old. The floor shuddered as he made contact.

Lord Charles stood over him, face cold, broad chest lifting up and down slightly the only indication the fight had been of any physical effort. He sneered slightly then stepped over the other man.

“Lady Patience?” Mrs. Barton prompted. “A happy ending, yes?”

As Patience stared at the dangerous, yet captivating, Lord Charles who she was finding herself drawn to despite all reason, she replied, “I’ve absolutely no idea. . . But I’m beginning to have my doubts.”

Chapter 7

Not for the first time since hearing Lord Charles was present, Patience considered turning on her slippered heel and running. Just moments ago she’d been thinking of the dangers of discovery and Lord Charles
could
discover her.

It was unlikely, however.

Her mask was of a special variety. It covered her entire face except her eyes and lips and her hair was dressed elaborately. Her heels were so much higher than her day shoes and her gown was so fantastical that she was as far away from the image of Lady Patience as a woman could get.

Unless Lord Charles strode up to her and ripped her mask off, there was absolutely no chance he would recognize her.

In fact, she was fairly certain they could even speak and he wouldn’t know. She’d perfected a voice and accent that were entirely foreign to her own.

Still, there was something thrilling about taking the chance.

Perhaps it stemmed from the thrill of seeing him so raw in his element.

She’d understood from Mrs. Barton that he was no over-starched cravat. He was a devil in every shape of the word and now, she’d seen first-hand that he wasn’t to be taken lightly.

To her own amazement, with every moment, it was becoming clearer that she was irreversibly drawn to Lord Charles. He was her opposite in every way and for that reason if no other, she was being pulled to him like the wave to the shore.

Surely it was simply to sketch his character? For he would be the perfect inspiration for the villain of her story.

Rakes were villains. No matter their interesting points. Of that she was certain.

One could like a rake, but one should never trust one. Her book was going to illustrate that.

And so, instead of running as reason might suggest she do, her inner author compelled her to stay.

That was all it was. There was nothing personal which held her captivated. Truly.

The heat of her cheeks and the rapid pulse of her heart were indicative of the crowded room.

It mattered not that all about were in a titter. Lord Charles and his opponent had turned the already wild atmosphere into sheer carnival.

The bloodlust had spurred other lusts. Men and women were slipping off, hand in hand, into the corridors.

Mrs. Barton waved her fan before her face, sending her dark curls fluttering. “We should be off.”

“Should we?”

“My dear, the evening will only descend to darker delights. And for your first evening—“

“I’d like to stay a little.”

Mrs. Barton shrugged her bared shoulders. “If that is your wish.”

She nodded then started edging around the room, weaving through the varied persons.

A few men eyed her but she stared straight ahead and walked with purpose.

She’d learned some time ago that if she was to swim with sharks she couldn’t act like a minnow. A shrinking violet she’d never been. Still, it took some skill to walk so boldly, dressed so scandalously, amongst such people.

She looked about.

Lord Charles had slipped off into a corridor.

Alone, thank goodness.

While she did make a study of people, she was not a voyeur. The idea of watching him in a tryst sent such a streak of horror through her she was stunned.

In all actuality, the very thought of him intertwined with any woman seemed entirely repellent.

Surely, she didn’t wish to be intertwined with him?

Did she?

He was tempting. There was no doubt.

She slowed her step and headed into the barely lit corridor. The jeweled chandeliers bore one candle each and the mirrored hall gave the space the feel of a jewel box.

He was walking slowly towards the double doors which led out, no doubt, to a garden.

She followed apace. She had to study him. To see how he behaved when alone.

While she didn’t doubt she’d go unrecognized if they were to meet, she wasn’t sure she should press it.

So, she waited several moments to follow him after he strode out into the moonlit garden.

When she herself, slipped outside staying to the shadows, she immediately drank in the scent of lilac and hyacinth.

The summer air was perfumed by it.

A soft murmuring of water from a concealed fountain added to the lush atmosphere and as she descended the steps to the lawn and the hedged garden ahead, she spotted a bench tucked underneath a copse of willow trees.

To her surprise, a lantern hung from an iron pole just beside it.

She looked about the garden. There were several such illuminations which surprised her. Shouldn’t these sorts of people wish for darkness to carry out their scandalous deeds?

Then again, even scandalous people probably had no wish to break their necks on an uneven bit of ground while pursuing pleasure.

She considered how she might best observe him without being noticed herself.

Such a thing seemed difficult.

Hadn’t she left him at Barring House this morning with the sole purpose of evading detection?

Yes and she’d assumed he’d stay there.

Fate must have shoved him out of her door and onto her proverbial path. After all, what the devil could have caused him to return to London so quickly?

Once, she’d been rather cynical. Her life had been dark and pragmatic but once she’d found her writing and she’d met her publisher quite by chance, she’d become a believer in fate.

The Greeks, much esteemed and highly practical fellows, believed in fate. Well, clearly, Lord Charles was hers.

Oh, not the star-crossed lover kind of hers. But clearly the man was meant to be in her life for some unseen purpose.

That didn’t mean she planned to charge across the lawn and present herself. Oh no. She truly fancied the idea of observing him without his knowledge.

In their encounters, he’d been so aware of her and, well, she had a strong feeling that he acted a certain way with different sorts of women.

Watching him on his own was something she couldn’t pass up.

She snuck behind a group of shrubberies and began making her way from groomed, towering bush to bush in the darkness towards him.

At last, she approached the pyramid-shaped topiary behind the willow.

He was. . .
Reading
.

Lord Charles was leaning back against the stone bench, his coattails splayed and in his palm rested a leather volume.

She couldn’t see his face, just his luxurious dark hair caressing his emerald green collar.

He shifted, his massive body shockingly relaxed given he’d just been in a brawl.

After several moments, she began to feel a fool. What the devil was she doing out here? Her own curiosity was causing her to act like a madwoman. What had seemed so reasonable moments before was absurd now that she was so close in the shadows.

She turned, ready to go back in the house but as soon as she took a step she nearly tripped.

Her gown’s copious folds of diaphanous fabric had caught on a branch.

An inner groan shuddered through her.

Blazes.

She tugged.

To no avail.

Patience glanced back towards the establishment that looked very much like a private residence. Surely, Mrs. Barton was looking for her.

She bent, but could scarcely see in the moonlight. Lord Charles’ lantern didn’t penetrate the foliage and she couldn’t see where or how, exactly, she was caught.