The Duke in Disguise (13 page)

* * *

The next day, the dinner guests started to arrive early in the evening. Richard moved between the small chatting groups in the drawing room, feeling more and more at ease when no one seemed uneasy or overly curious. The women wanted to be teased, and he was more than capable of doing that. The men wanted to laugh, so he had prepared some fictitious London stories guaranteed to make everyone believe he spent much of his time there.
His cousin Sir Charles Irving was the last to arrive. Richard studied him from the far side of the room, only slightly paying attention to the mama discussing the merits of her marriageable daughter. Charles was six years older than Richard, but he had kept himself in trim form. His favorite amusement was hunting, Richard remembered, whether it was fox or grouse. He rode endless hours in the saddle to keep himself well prepared. Whenever they'd been together as children, competition was something Charles relished, and winning was the only goal. His dark hair was gray at the temples, but that didn't stop other mamas from seeking him out. Richard wondered why he'd never married. Maybe he didn't want to spend his wealth on anyone but himself. Richard delayed their reacquaintance just enough to annoy Charles. When he finally approached his cousin, he thought Charles's eyes were narrowed in poorly concealed anger.
"A good evening to you, cousin," Richard said, oozing too much charm in Cecil's teasing manner. "I'm glad you could attend my reentry into hospitable society."
Charles smiled. "Your illness seems to be a thing of the past, Cecil."
"I am still a bit fatigued, but I'm resting well at Thanet Court."
"I'm glad to hear of it. And how is my young cousin, Stephen?"
Was that a deliberate taunt or an innocent inquiry?
"Doing well, thank you. He'll come down to greet everyone after dinner."
"I was hoping to see how much he'd grown since I last saw him."
As if Charles cared about children, Richard thought, remembering the special pleasure his cousin used to take in making other children cry.
Hargraves alerted him that dinner was ready, so Richard led his guests into the dining room. He had seated Charles far enough down the table so that he wouldn't have to speak to him during the meal.
After dinner, the women waited in the blue drawing room, and Richard made sure the men joined them after only one drink. He was anxious to finish this evening, to see Charles's reaction to Stephen and be done with it. After a game of charades, he sent for Meriel and Stephen.
The women oohed and aahed over the boy. Richard remained alone near a wall and watched Charles. His cousin barely noticed the boy at all, which was surprising. Charles's gaze was fixed on Meriel, who had retreated to a window seat.
Charles approached her, and she rose to her feet. At first Richard couldn't hear what they said. He moved closer, standing just out of their line of sight, in time to hear Charles say, "For only six years old, Stephen is quite accomplished."
"You are being too kind, Sir Charles," Meriel said. "I have only been in charge of Lord Ramsgate's education for two months. But he is a bright, inquisitive boy, and he learns quickly."
How could it help Charles to put Stephen's governess at ease?
Unless he wanted easy access to the boy.
A governess would have no influence on whether Charles was named Stephen's legal guardian, should something happen to Cecil.
But of course, something had already happened to Cecil, and Stephen was vulnerable.
"So you are the duke's cousin," Meriel said, a bit too conversationally for a governess.
What was she up to?
Charles nodded. "I see you recognized my name."
"I've studied Lord Ramsgate's family, so that I can help him understand how everyone is related. Do you have any stories I can share with him about his father and his uncle?"
Richard was too surprised to interfere immediately.
Charles only laughed. "They were both younger than I, so we did not see much of each other. Our parents were not close. I'll be candid and admit that that was mostly my own mother's fault. Jealousy was not something she easily overcame."
"I wonder if that's a natural feeling between siblings," Meriel said.
"I wouldn't know."
If Meriel was fishing for information, it seemed Charles was not going to take the bait.
Richard approached them. "Charles, I see you've met my governess."
Meriel looked up at him with blank eyes, and he gave her a wide, innocent smile.
Charles saw it and looked between the two of them, but said nothing. Let him think what he would about Meriel and the duke— it was Stephen who was important.
"As usual, Cecil," Charles said, "you choose the loveliest of women."
Meriel took a deep breath, but said nothing, though her subtle anger was palpable.
"She was well qualified for the position," Richard said.
A mistake, for Charles's eyebrows rose. "I was not suggesting otherwise," he said.
Richard decided to change the subject. "I assume your estate is flourishing, as usual."
Meriel excused herself to return to her window seat.
"Do you remember that property I'd bought from Richard eight years ago?" Charles asked.
Richard nodded politely, but inside he tried to imagine every reason that Charles could be mentioning such a random thing.
"Of course you remember it, Cecil," Charles continued. "You were the one who forced Richard to sell his inheritance."
"You can't believe everything my brother says," Richard said dismissively.
"When you took his inheritance money, what else could he do but sell the land to begin investing?"
"Richard and I have gotten past that misunderstanding, Charles. You don't need to bring it up."
"You asked me how my estate was doing. That property I purchased from Richard has become a profitable farm since then. My tenants' harvest has succeeded my expectations year after year."
Richard smiled. "You always had a way with money."
"And you don't," Charles said bluntly. "You could use my help."
"To what are you referring?"
"You haven't made the wisest investments, Cecil. Good heavens, your clothing expenditures alone would feed a nation."
Richard laughed and clinked his glass with Charles's. "You can stop worrying about me, cousin. I've gone to my brother for advice."
Charles looked surprised. "Have you, Cecil?"
"I will admit I still have much to learn. That's why I'm here, taking control of my estates. We all grow up eventually."
"Ah, but not as far as your female servants are concerned, dear Cecil," Charles said. "Still choosing them all for their beauty— though I now realize that you don't want to say so in front of them. I regret the error with your governess. Have you chosen your latest mistress yet?"
Richard resisted the urge to sigh. He had thought flirting and debating his choice might work, but of course people outside the household wouldn't see that. They'd only see that the duke was not choosing a mistress.
"Charles, there are so many lovely women to choose from."
"I know. You even hired one away from me a few months ago," Charles said, shaking his head in a rueful manner. "You can be quite devious."
"But I offer them so much, Charles." Richard shrugged and donned an innocent smile. "They just can't help themselves. Now if you'll excuse me, Miss Barome obviously needs my assistance."
Meriel sat very quietly, withdrawn within her window seat, and watched with worry as the Impostor Duke left Sir Charles. She could see Miss Barome waving at Mr. O'Neill from across the room as she searched through sheet music at the piano.
Stephen was happily occupied with the wolfhounds, who were behaving themselves for the guests and performing their tricks on Stephen's command.
Meriel could see Sir Charles's profile. He still watched the man he thought was the duke, and though his face held no expression, the glacial coldness of his eyes chilled even her.
What was she to make of everything she'd overheard? Her own questions to Sir Charles had yielded nothing, but it was obvious that there was rancor between Sir Charles and— both the duke and his brother? It was difficult to tell, for Mr. O'Neill was a superb actor.
Sir Charles knew about the mistresses— maybe every man knew, and in the way of men, thought nothing of it. Meriel considered Mr. O'Neill's reaction, and she wondered how
he
felt, being forced to choose a mistress. Maybe his claim of indecision was actual…reluctance?
She didn't want to think well of him, and of course there could be many reasons he did not choose a maid to seduce. He probably just didn't have the time, what with keeping his dark secret.
What was most shocking to her was that the real duke had cheated Mr. O'Neill out of some of his inheritance. That was a strong motive for Mr. O'Neill to seek revenge, or even to take the money back. But if it was only money, he could have obtained that easily by now, with his access to the accounts.
Sir Charles had hinted that the duke had financial problems. Maybe there wasn't enough actual currency for Mr. O'Neill to take. If his inheritance was what he wanted, then perhaps he found himself overseeing the dukedom to correct its finances. After all, maybe it was true that the real duke had come to his brother for help— and gotten himself kidnapped for his effort.
All the while she was thinking, Meriel kept a close eye on Stephen. The Impostor Duke had previously sent word that Stephen was not to wander the house alone while they had guests. Did that mean he thought she would lose the boy, and embarrass the duke? Or was this for Stephen's safety? If only she knew what Mr. O'Neill had in mind for his nephew.
She looked around for Sir Charles and found him conversing in a corner with several gentlemen, local landowners all. He was the closest family member Stephen had. Should she confide her worries to him?
But Sir Charles had come between the brothers. He'd deliberately bought property from the illegitimate son, and made sure to throw it back in the face of the duke, even years later.
No, she couldn't trust him, either. In his zeal against the duke— maybe he was jealous, just like his mother— he might go directly to the police. The element of surprise would be lost.
No, she was still in this alone.

* * *

When the dinner party was over, and the last guest— Renee— had gone home, Richard was approached by Hargraves, who wished to speak with him alone.
In Richard's study with the door closed, the butler's usual remote expression gave way to worry. "Your Grace, you wanted to know if Sir Charles did anything suspicious during the evening."
"Did he?"
"Yes. While you were occupied singing with Miss Barome, Sir Charles left the drawing room."
Richard sat back in his chair and swore. "Where did he go?"
"Since I had servants stationed all over the house, no one ever lost sight of him. I did have to tell everyone that you were worried about a thief, of course."
"Yes, yes," Richard said impatiently. "But what did Sir Charles do?"
"Nothing, Your Grace. He simply walked from room to room and…looked."
"Looked?"
"He studied portraits and sculptures, almost as if he'd never seen them before."
"As if he was cataloguing what was still here," Richard said softly. "He might believe that Cecil was selling things off to support his vices."
Hargraves could only shrug.
"And he was in sight of someone for the entire evening?"
"Yes, Your Grace."
"Very well. Thank you, Hargraves."
When the butler had gone, Richard stared unseeingly at his desk. What was Charles up to?

* * *

After a sleepless night revising his plans, Richard sent for Mrs. Theobald.
When she arrived in his room, looking concerned by such an unusual summons, Richard put a finger to his lips and closed the door, summoning her near the window.
"Mrs. Theobald, I need your help," he said in a soft voice. "My plan to flirt with the maids is not working."
"I know, young sir," she said, glancing worriedly at the door. "They're beginning to fight over you, keeping the servants' wing in an uproar with their arguing. And I hear from the head coachman that the grooms are grumbling over their betting."
Richard closed his eyes for a moment. "I'm sorry. This is not fair to you."
"You learned nothing from Sir Charles last night?"
"Nothing much. He is a cunning man. But when even
he
asked me about my mistress, I knew something had to change. I've decided to choose one."
Her eyes widened as she searched his face. "You'll…do such a thing, young sir?"
"Not really, of course, but I can pretend. And the only one who'll fight me is Miss Shelby."
"Oh, sir, she'll be terribly angry. She insisted I inform you she'll never be your— the duke's— mistress."
"Then that's perfect, isn't it? I don't want a real mistress. She can refuse me all she wants, and it will look like for the first time a woman has said no. And of course I won't give up my pursuit."
"A woman did say no once, young sir, and the duke respected her wishes. Miss Shelby knows this."
"Ah, but I'm smitten this time, Mrs. Theobald. I'll continue to pursue Miss Shelby, in hopes that I'll be rewarded."
She frowned.
"I mean that's what the duke would hope," Richard quickly said. "I personally know she's too proud to ever give in."
"But won't it seem like you would eventually give up, as you did the last time?"
Now it was his turn to frown. "Hopefully it won't come to that. But I have no choice. I have to stop the maids from fighting, and I have to
be
the duke. So today I need you to prepare a picnic lunch. I'm going to begin wooing the object of my affections."

Chapter 15

M
eriel and Stephen were studying a globe in the library when the Impostor Duke made a grand entrance. She looked up to see him flinging back the doors, carrying a large basket.
"Stephen, you must be hungry," Mr. O'Neill said.
Meriel frowned at him in suspicion. "It is almost time for our luncheon, Your Grace. I'm certain Mrs. Theobald will send our meal up to the nursery, as she always does."
"Not today. I've told her you'll be dining with me. Stephen, shall we have a picnic?"
The little boy was beside himself with eagerness. "Can we take Victoria and Albert, too?"
"Of course we can."
Meriel would have done anything to remain at home— except put Stephen at risk. And by the slyly amused expression Mr. O'Neill wore, he guessed her feelings. But that didn't stop him from languidly sweeping his gaze over her behind Stephen's back. His amusement faded, and the smoldering look that replaced it made an answering heat blossom inside her. She wouldn't let this happen— but that didn't stop her body from responding.
The dogs were already out in the corridor, and they followed their master and Stephen adoringly, leaving Meriel to bring up the rear. She refused to look at the man as he walked, for that wouldn't help her physical reaction to subside.
As they walked down the spacious corridor, she noticed the servants peeking out from various rooms to watch. Then to her mortification, Mr. O'Neill suddenly decided to wait for her and took her arm to pull her along between them— right in front of Beatrice and Clover. Meriel had to turn away from their angry, disappointed faces.
Her arm was tense linked with his, and she subtly tried to pull away, but he refused to relinquish his grasp. His arm was warm and very hard, and the curve of muscle made her feel flustered.
On her other side, Stephen was skipping to keep up with them, and when he put his hand in hers, she softened and stopping fighting his uncle.
"You must continue Stephen's lesson on the walk," Mr. O'Neill said. "When we're outside, you can tell us the names of all the flowers we pass."
The sun seemed to burst upon them as they stepped outdoors. It was a rare, warm summer so far, and she didn't even regret her lack of a bonnet. She finally was able to disentangle herself from Mr. O'Neill, so that she could point out the various flowers and plants. She didn't know how much of it Stephen actually absorbed in his excitement, but she felt calmer being able to talk. The dogs cavorted beside them, and after one word from their "master," they stayed out of the flower beds.
They were only a hundred yards past the stables in a small clearing when Mr. O'Neill said, "Let's spread our blanket right here."
"In full view of the outdoor staff?" Meriel asked suspiciously.
"I have a meeting early in the afternoon, so I can't be too far from the house. Stephen, take the blanket and find us the perfect spot."
The little boy did as he was asked, and though Meriel attempted to follow him, once again Mr. O'Neill took her arm and slowed her down. She could feel every groom and stable lad gawking at them.
"You're doing this deliberately," she said in a low voice.
"Doing what?" he asked, full of innocence.
"Touching me while in a public place. What other purpose could there be?"
"A father needs no other reason than being with his son for a picnic."
"You'll get your garments stained. Surely you can't want that."
"Stop fighting, Meriel, or I'll hold your hand next."
She pulled away and glared at him. They both heard the hoots of laughter from the outdoor staff.
"I did not give you permission to use my Christian name, Your Grace— and you would not dare touch my hand in front of your son."
He sighed. "No, I would not dare. But what he can't see— "
She groaned and stomped away from him to help Stephen, who was struggling to lay out the large blanket. The dogs kept lying on it.
Meriel understood that Mr. O'Neill was deliberately wooing her in front of the servants to prove himself the duke. But at least he was being very public about it, rather than cornering her alone, where her strength to resist would be so much harder to maintain.
When she and Stephen had the blanket laid flat, she was startled when something brushed her skirts. It was the Impostor Duke as he moved past her to lay himself out on the blanket, hands behind his head.
She put her fists on her hips. "Yes, it was a terribly long walk from the house, Your Grace. You must be exhausted."
Stephen laughed. "That's sarcasm, Father! Miss Shelby taught me what the word means."
"Sarcasm?" Mr. O'Neill echoed. "And it's so unnecessary, Stephen. Miss Shelby doesn't understand how tiring it is to host a successful dinner party."
"Especially when you have servants to do all the work," she said.
"She's doing it again!" Stephen said gleefully.
Meriel couldn't help smiling at the little boy as she ruffled his unruly hair. "Why don't you see what's in the picnic basket, my lord?"
She knelt on the far side of the blanket from Mr. O'Neill and watched as Stephen unearthed cold chicken and fruit and cheese, along with stoppered bottles of lemonade. The dogs sat beside him and attempted to look pathetic and hungry. Stephen wanted to serve the adults, and she bit back a smile as he carefully set out plates and napkins.
"There aren't any forks," Stephen said, burying his face in the basket to look.
"We don't need them." Mr. O'Neill came up on his elbow. "Chicken tastes better when you eat with your fingers."
Stephen giggled and dug in. Meriel stayed focused on her pupil and her food, but when she was licking her fingers, she glanced up and realized that Mr. O'Neill was watching her, his smile fading. She froze with one finger in her mouth. Something unnameable flashed between them. It was awkward and riveting and…exhilarating. She looked away and quickly found a napkin. The sun was suddenly overly hot, and she wished for a bonnet to hide behind.
"Father, have you ever boxed?" Stephen asked.
She sighed with relief when Mr. O'Neill's attention left her.
"Yes, I have," he said. "Many gentlemen box for recreational purposes."
"What does that mean?"
"We box for fun."
Meriel glanced at Mr. O'Neill witheringly. "Hurting other men is fun?"
He grinned. "The object is not to get hit, Miss Shelby. Stephen, how have you heard of boxing?"
"The grooms box, but they were worried I'd get hurt."
She nodded solemnly. "You are far too young for such things, my lord."
"Father, can you teach me?"
"Lord Ramsgate," she began, "I still think— "
"I can teach you a little," Mr. O'Neill interrupted, "but it is not a sport you should attempt without me."
That mollified her somewhat, and she held her tongue when Stephen pulled his uncle to his feet. To her shock, Mr. O'Neill began to disrobe. He flung his coat down where he'd been lying, and his waistcoat followed. Even his cravat and stock were dropped to the ground, and she finally looked up past his long legs to find him grinning down at her as he rolled up his shirtsleeves and unbuttoned several shirt buttons. She was relieved when he finally joined Stephen, instead of looming over her, inspiring dangerous thoughts.
Off toward the house, she could see the stable boys sitting along fences, waiting for the show. And Mr. O'Neill provided it. He taught Stephen how to hold up his fists to protect his face, and how to throw a punch. He was light on his feet as he moved around the little boy. Meriel hated that she noticed how his damp shirt clung to his back, outlining the width of muscle, and the narrowness of his hips where the shirt disappeared into his trousers. She was glad that she could pretend it was the heat that made her fan herself.
She was more than relieved when they moved on to the next sport, archery. She was skilled at it, but she did not mention it. Sitting and drinking her lemonade was all she wanted to do, as a groom brought bows and arrows, and a target was set up against a bundle of hay. Stephen's arrows all missed their target, and one even sailed into the lower branches of a tree.
The exercise and the sun were finally affecting Stephen, because he pouted at the thought of losing one of the arrows. Mr. O'Neill lifted him to reach it, but his fingertips were still a foot away.
Stephen came running toward her as she was packing up the basket. "I can't reach it, Miss Shelby," he said, sniffing back tears. "But you can."
"I'm certainly not tall enough, my lord."
"But if my father lifts you, you'll be just right. Come on!"
"Lord Ramsgate, I cannot possibly allow your father to lift me into a tree!" she protested, hearing her voice rise unprofessionally.
But he was pulling on her hands, and for the first time since her initial week here, she thought he might disintegrate into tears. He took his embarrassment seriously, and the last time he'd cried in front of servants, he hadn't wanted to leave the nursery for days. How would he feel crying in front of his father? And wouldn't Mr. O'Neill insist on her help anyway, just to annoy her?
She found herself on her feet, Stephen dragging her forward. Mr. O'Neill was leaning against the base of the tree, his white shirt bright in the shade, his dark eyes showing nothing but amusement.
With every step closer, a voice inside her rose ever higher, telling her that this was a bad idea. She stumbled to a halt in front of him.
"Use her, Father," Stephen said, giving her a push.
Mr. O'Neill caught her arm, and she shivered at even that contact.
"Turn around."
Was his voice rougher than normal? She couldn't decide, even as she obeyed.
And then his hands were on her waist. Oh, there were plenty of layers between their skin, but just the strength of him took her breath away. He lifted her, and she felt the pressure on her rib cage, in her back. She went higher and higher, her feet dangling.
"Reach for the arrow!" he said.
She was shocked to feel the movement of his jaw against her backside as he spoke. Her trembling fingertips brushed the arrow.
"Higher!" she cried.
He groaned, but soon she had the arrow in her hand. She looked over her shoulder to see Stephen on his knees in the dirt across the meadow, not even paying attention anymore.
And then Mr. O'Neill was letting her down, but so slowly as to make her want to scream with frustration. He was deliberately brushing against her. Her backside slid down the length of his chest, and even lower, across his hips. She was not a naive girl, unaware of a man's hidden form, so she understood the protrusion just above his thighs. It should disgust her.
But when her feet touched the ground, she could not move for a moment. She was overcome by a wave of longing and desire so fierce that it shocked her. Everything she knew about him didn't matter in that moment when they were still touching. She wanted his attention; she wanted to be with him in ways she could hardly imagine.
"Stop it," she whispered, not daring to look over her shoulder at him.
"I can't. I won't."
She felt his lips against her head. His hand moved, sliding forward around her stomach—
Tossing an angry look at him, she pulled herself away and strode to Stephen. Every stable boy and groom on the estate had witnessed the duke's crude assault. He could have shouted his lascivious intentions from the windows and reached fewer people.
He'd
chosen
her.
She was trapped.
At dinner that night, there were enough flowers to begin another conservatory. Stephen giggled at this new game. When she retired to her room for the evening, she found several new carpets and pillows, even a more comfortable chair by the hearth.
She collapsed into her new chair and put her face into her hands. What was she supposed to do? She still had no clue what the Impostor Duke's intentions were— except for attempting to ruin her reputation.
And poor Stephen, who was so enjoying his father's attention— he would never be the same when he discovered he was being tricked.
She picked up the letter she'd received in today's post. It was from her new brother by marriage. He had sent her a generous allowance, which he hadn't needed to do. It was enough for her to leave, to anticipate beginning a new life.
But she couldn't.
Childishly, she pounded one foot on the floor.
After a second, someone pounded back.
Oh God, she'd forgotten that the master suite was right below the nursery. The man who haunted her days and nights was but a staircase away.
She tucked her feet beneath her and tried to concentrate on the other letter she'd received, from her sister Victoria, the new bride. More and more, Victoria's optimism was proving well founded. She and her husband were slowly becoming happier with each other.
Meriel was relieved for Victoria— and selfishly sad for herself, trapped in a mystery she had to unravel for the sake of a little boy, drawn to the criminal himself.