How to Marry a Duke Without Really Trying Page 10

  When tallied, the amount would have boggled his younger self. His younger self had not even known such sums existed in this world. For surely, no one had that kind of blunt. How mistaken he had been.

  He leaned back in his favorite chair, a chair made of brown leather with brass studs. Once he’d almost been afraid to sit in it. Now, he lounged like a king.

  When he was a child, he’d never have believed he’d own such a thing. Hell, when he’d been a child, he’d never seen such a chair, let alone known they existed. If someone would have told him, he would have laughed in their face. . . then picked their pocket.

  It had been a long, black, dangerous road, clawing himself up from the scum of London gutters to own this chair. To own this office. This whole club. One might even argue he was as mighty as a duke, ruling part of the darkest parts of East London.

  He skimmed his fingers over the desk, savoring the feel of the smooth walnut. It felt like silk under his palms. Sometimes, when he was alone, he rested his face against the cool surface, savoring its perfection. The wood had been sanded and stained and polished. Where he came from, one was lucky to have a wooden plank, splintering apart to rest their bones on.

  No one needed a desk.

  Sodding hell, no one could write.

  But now, things were different.

  He controlled how things went in this part of the East End, the part that was just dangerous enough for rich toughs to come slumming and sling their coin and promise notes at the gambling tables as if there was no tomorrow.

  He’d made his coin on the foolishness of others. And he’d learned over the years how to con a man out of a few shillings and how to extract thousands of pounds without having to stack a deck or rig a table.

  Most of the men who came into his club were right tossers who had more money than brains and so they threw it away while thousands starved in ragged clothes just a few feet away. But to the gentlemen who came into his place of business, those ragged humanity weren’t people at all. They were disposable animals, deserving of the lot they’d been handed at birth.

  Heath had files on all the men who came into his club because one never knew when one was about to do something exceptionally stupid to pay their debt. Or kill themselves.

  He studied the list again, something digging at him like sand in the shoe.

  There was one name that stood out to him. He couldn’t quite shake the feeling that something was amiss there.

  Yes, something. . . something wasn’t right. He wasn’t sure what it was. But when he looked into this particular lord’s dark eyes of late he’d seen the growing desperation that befell the worst cases.

  It was a bloody waste of birth, money, and intelligence. But he wouldn’t stop a man from throwing himself into hell when Heath had had no choice in being born there.

  But thirty thousand was a significant sum. Heath had bought up the man’s notes in other places which had given the lord more time to pay his debts off.

  But now. . . now, the man was living on the edge, gambling more every day, losing more every day. It wasn’t sustainable and Heath knew that something was about to break.

  Yes, he was going to have to keep his eye on Lord Haven. Lord or no, all men had devils in them waiting to be let loose. And Haven’s was clamoring to be freed.

  Chapter 14

  Eglantine darted up the granite steps and into her parents’ sprawling townhouse just off Hyde Park, fairly reeling from her friend Harriet’s revelations.

  All she wished was to hurry to her room and write it all down. . . without using names! It was all too scandalous for words. But it would make for the best of stories. Surely, she could find a way to include it in her manuscript.

  A highwayman!

  She and Harriet had been reading about the Gentleman Highwayman for some time, attempting to discover his identity through tidbits in the paper. The task had provided hours of thrilling conversation.

  But now, they knew exactly who the fellow was and all because of Harriet.

  None other than the Duke of Blackstone was the object of their fascination. Eglantine was fairly certain that her friend was half in love with him! It was almost too unbelievable for one of the novels she read or the one she was writing. And yet, there it was.

  She slipped off her spencer and handed it to Fortescue. “I shall be upstairs.”

  As the butler took her things, he said plaintively, “Lady Eglantine, you have callers.”

  She stopped, eager to fly to her room, and frowned. “Surely, you mean a caller.”

  The butler, who she had known her entire life, shook his head. “You have a number of callers and they have been awaiting your return. For some time.” Fortescue paused. “They are most determined.”

  A groan tore from her throat. She knew she must seem like a fool to the rest of the world but, really, she wished she could force the sheep-brained horde of bucks to stay away.

  Since the day of her first ball, the house had been full of flowers. She did not know how or why, but because of Harley’s interest in her, her oddities had been labeled fascinating eccentricities. What most would have considered a blessing felt like a curse. After all, there was only so much insipid conversation that one could tolerate.

  And really, it was all very bothersome.

  The less interested in the gentlemen who came to pay court on her she was. . . the more interested in her they became.

  What a coil.

  Sadly, the gentlemen themselves were rarely interesting.

  Really, it was quite infuriating. Did they have nothing better to do than sit in her salon for hours on end complimenting her earlobes?

  Lord Danvers had composed a sonnet which had praised every feature of her face. The rhyming had been appalling. She’d never really considered the turn of her nostrils before. Lord Danvers apparently had spent some time on the matter.

  Resigned, she nodded at Fortescue. She would not be cruel enough to make him break the news that she had gone upstairs with a headache.

  No. She had more fortitude than that.

  So, she squared her shoulders and strode into the morning room that was currently bathed in summer sunshine.

  The cream room fairly sparkled what with the gold filigree painted into the towering walls and wainscoting. The chandelier which dangled from the ceiling added a good deal of sparkle and dozens of rainbows danced along the Persian rug.

  Three gentlemen stood idly about the room and she fought the desire to roll her eyes in dismay.

  Not a single one of them was a second son, academic. . . or George.

  The last thought had come entirely unbidden and, really, she had not meant to have it at all. What did George have to do with any of this? Nothing, that’s what.

  Her mind had taken to doing the worst and sinful meanderings as of late. It was really imperative she take her imagination in hand.

  She gave the gentlemen a small curtsy, noting that one had yet to turn from the window.

  “Good morning, Lord Ferrars, Lord Lithgow, Lord Haven,” she acknowledged, for she had met them all before.

  Ferrars and Lithgow bowed in turn. Both were blond-haired fellows, their hair slicked back almost identically. Both were clearly worshippers at the altar of Beau Brummell and she wondered how much time they had taken to dress. Hours, no doubt. For they did wear the uniform of a dandy.

  Quite honestly, she could barely tolerate the thirty minutes it took herself to look presentable in the mornings. Hours was beyond her understanding.

  Their overly-starched cravats looked as if they were strangling them and their shirt points were veritably jabbing their ruddy English cheeks.

  They would have been handsome, she supposed, if they had anything at all between their ears. But as far as she could say, there was not. One often wondered if little more than air was there.

  But Lord Haven gave her pause. He’d now turned and stood near the window, the light pooling behind his tall frame. His hands were behind his back as he gazed, amu
sed, upon them. He wore a burgundy coat and black cravat. His dark hair was wild about his face and his eyes were the darkest orbs she’d ever seen.

  He was extremely handsome, well read, and articulate.

  There was something firm and strong about his lips, but perhaps she just preferred the more lush lips of. . .

  She shook the thought away.

  Lord Haven inclined his head then smiled which seemed to completely transform his angular, appealing face into something positively wolfish. “Good morning, Lady Eglantine.”

  His voice was silken and low. She imagined it was rather like a caress.

  It should have made her shiver.

  Much to her great regret, it did not. Oh, how she wished it did! Entertaining as he was, he stirred very little within her breast. She supposed she should be grateful that at least one of the gentlemen who came to call had some decent conversation. Actually, Lord Haven had a good deal of it. And her favorite kind. He did love literature. So, at the very least, she found his company very pleasurable.

  She eyed him carefully. “Lord Haven. Have you been waiting long?”

  “One could never wait too long for you!” chimed Lord Ferrars.

  “Oh, indeed. I should have waited all day,” agreed Lord Lithgow, fairly bouncing with enthusiasm on his polished booted feet.

  Eglantine swung her gaze to the dandies and asked, “Surely, you have something better to do than await my company?”

  The two men stared at her blankly as she realized apparently they did not. . . at least until they were required to dress for dinner. What kind of life was that? She wondered not for the first time. A terribly boring one, by her standards.

  “And you, Lord Haven?” she asked, grinning. For she felt she already knew the answer. “Would you have waited all day?”

  “No,” he said with a pleasant smile, a wicked glint in his dark eyes as he looked upon her.

  She gave him a playful tsk. “You have appointments then?”

  “My horses would never stand for it,” he said simply. Then he gave the two other gentlemen a bemused stare and added, “And I arrived but ten minutes ago.”

  She cocked her head to the side, curious. “Whyever did you bring your restless horses if the poor things would have to wait upon you.”

  His gaze positively glowed with excitement and a hint of temptation.

  “Because I’ve come to entice you.”

  “Have you, indeed?” she said brightly. “How shocking.”

  “It is my deepest desire to please you, Lady Eglantine, and I think I have just the thing. Come for a ride in my curricle.” He gave her a devilish smile. “You seemed the sort that might enjoy a bit of a race. And we could discuss your thoughts on Coleridge.”

  She laughed. She did love fast horses and curricles. They were thrilling. And so was Coleridge. It sounded like a pleasant way to spend the rest of her morning, indeed. Really, he was the only man she knew besides George and his set who seemed to have any interests other than dogs or clothes.

  “Let me fetch my things,” she replied easily, much to the dismay of Lord Ferrars and Lord Lithgow. But really, it was best she show them now she had no interest in their attentions. It would be cruel to give them hope.

  She turned to them. “Thank you, gentlemen, for visiting me.”

  “I shall return tomorrow,” proclaimed Lord Ferrars, placing his hand over his heart.

  Eglantine drew herself up, determined not to fall into the frankness that she sometimes expressed. “Alas, I shall be out.”

  “I will wait with bated breath,” added Lord Lithgow, darting forward.

  She bit back a sigh. Sometimes it was absolutely impossible to make men hear without bludgeoning them with a point but society did not allow her to be so rude.

  “Shall we, Lord Haven?” she asked as she started for the door.

  “Indeed, Lady Eglantine,” Lord Haven replied as he strode casually across the long salon. He gestured for her to lead.

  It felt more than a simple obligation as he held his hand out. It felt more like a declaration that he hoped that she’d be as adventurous as he.

  The appeal of it was surprising.

  And without a look for the other men, he strode towards her and took her arm.

  His confidence was palpable. As was his obvious amusement.

  As they strode into the foyer to find the butler already awaiting her with her spencer as if he had foreseen such events, Haven turned to her.

  “I’m glad you said yes,” he said softly, his gaze searching her face. “I can’t imagine you spending the morning away spouting inanities with such brainless fools.”

  “Can you not?” She laughed as she slipped her spencer back on. “I do it all the time.”

  A look of mock horror crossed his face. “And that is a tragedy. For I would have you speak your mind. For I do find that I adore it.” He bowed then glanced up through his thick lashes, his admiration of her clear. “Now, let me ready the horses.”

  With that, he headed to the door to ready his curricle.

  She stared at him, amazed as he left the house as easily as if they had been friends for years. But he did not wish friendship. The way he looked at her. . . no, he was not here to be friends. Of that, she was certain. He was here for passion. But his conversation was too good to turn him away. . . and perhaps she shouldn’t.

  George was never going—

  She stopped her thoughts. No, she would not think of him. It was not he who was here but another man entirely.

  Haven was handsome, wealthy, intelligent, and admired her mind. . . it was deuced inconvenient that he stirred nothing in her breast.

  Really, it wasn’t fair. For Lord Haven was most of what she’d dreamed of. A man who loved to hear her thoughts and express his own, who loved her turn of thought, and who clearly would happily quote Byron to her all day.

  Yes, it was bloody inconvenient, indeed.

  Chapter 15

  George clasped the engraved hilt of his rapier and swallowed back the unease that had gripped him all morning. How had he been so foolish? So remiss? The full horror of it was a crushing weight.

  His sister and his mother had been accosted last night by not one but two highwaymen. And he’d been blithely drinking and engaging in discourse with Royland and Yvette.

  Rob adjusted his open shirt. “Are you ready, old man?”

  George shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts away. Practice with Rob would help, no doubt. “My apologies.”

  George approached the dueling strip and took his stance.

  Rob echoed it and without even a beat, Rob advanced.

  The silver of his friend’s blade flashed and George quickly riposted the blows. The clang of steel hitting steel rang through the room.

  George rapidly gave ground, his feet dancing over the floor before he quickly turned and arced his own rapier down.

  Rob darted to the side and his blade sliced in.

  It stopped just before it could lodge itself in George’s ribs.

  Rob froze, holding his pose.

  “Look here, I’m not ready to die just yet,” George drawled even as he was amazed at how easily he’d been targeted.

  Rob smiled tightly, dropping his rapier down and away from his body. “You seem quite distracted.”

  George looked to the windows, ashamed to admit the truth. “My mother and sister were attacked last night.”

  Rob’s eyes flared. “My God. Are they well?”

  George nodded. “I’m a bit shaken. I had thought I was taking care of them properly.”

  In fact, over the last weeks, George had begun to realize he might not be the accomplished duke he thought he was. He had no heir, had bungled it with Eglantine in more ways than one, and now his family had been put in jeopardy.

  “The parks are dangerous places,” Rob said without recrimination. Always have been.”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  Rob hesitated but then said firmly, “You need outriders.�
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  George stared at his friend who was staring at him strangely. Was he being censured? He deserved it. “I’ve already hired them. It was the first thing I did this morning.”

  Rob closed his eyes briefly. “I’m relieved to hear it.”

  George’s heart warmed. He was lucky in his friends. “It’s good of you to care so much.”

  “Your mother and sister have been a most important part of my life.”

  George smiled. “You’ve been a good friend to them.”

  Rob nodded then quickly walked back down the strip. “Again?”

  George paused, feeling the need to continue the story. “Do you know, they were rescued by another villain?”

  “I beg your pardon?” Rob asked, lowering his blade.

  George frowned. “Surely, you’ve heard of this Gentleman Highwayman.”

  Rob examined his sword. “I do believe I’ve heard the name.”

  “Well, he came upon my mother and sister being stopped by what seems to have been a most violent sort.”

  Rob studied the edge of his blade, apparently looking for imperfections. “Oh?”

  “Yes,” George said, scarcely able to believe it. “He saved them and sent them on without taking a sou.”

  “Very noble,” Rob replied quickly.

  “Isn’t it? And most strange.” George huffed out a breath. “You would have thought he’d still take their jewels in payment for his help.”

  Rob nodded and turned. “Perhaps, he has a scrap of honor.”

  “Honor?” George echoed, considering the possibility. “That seems unlikely. He’s a criminal. But then again, what other explanation is there?”

  “Exactly.”

  George shrugged. “Whatever it is, I’m most grateful.”

  “It was nothing.”

  George stopped and stared at Rob. “I beg your pardon?”

  Rob twirled his blade, lunging at the air. “It must have been nothing for him, if he is as legendary as you say.”

  George nodded, that moment of unease slipping quickly away. “You’re likely right. Even so, I’m going to make damned sure that none of my family goes out unprotected. A footman or two seems to no longer be enough, no matter how brawny.”