My Inconvenient Duke (Difficult Dukes #3)

Chapter 2

Fashionable Arrivals

Lady Kempton and Lady Alice Ancaster, on Wednesday afternoon, at Sussex Place, the Regent’s Park.

— Foxe’s Morning Spectacle

Thursday 5 April 1832

Since the return to London of a high-ranking peer’s beautiful and charming sister, floral tributes fill the rooms of a fashionable

Regent’s Park abode, and a steady parade of callers may be seen on days when the ladies are at home.

— Foxe’s Morning Spectacle

Wednesday 11 April 1832

Hatchard’s Bookshop, Piccadilly

Wednesday 11 April 1832

She came. She saw. She conquered.

The Duke of Doveridge didn’t know he was conquered. Men rarely do, until it’s too late.

Others in the vicinity could have enlightened him. One of these was Lord Frederick Beckingham, uncle and erstwhile guardian to the Duke of Ashmont, and very possibly the most perceptive gentleman in London—to a point.

Although Doveridge had appointed to meet him here, His Grace, caught up in a discussion with the senior clerk, failed to notice

Lord Frederick’s arrival.

Doveridge noticed the one shortly afterward, however.

Still busy with the clerk, he felt the air stir about him. A glance at the entrance showed him two ladies.

He broke off mid-sentence, his grey gaze fixed on Lady Kempton’s tall, dark-haired companion.

She was not pretty, any more than a goddess is pretty.

Her features were firmly sculpted: a straight, decided nose, splendid cheekbones and jaw. As to her mouth... oh, not a

pretty mouth at all, but one that put mad ideas into a man’s head, though he was no puppy or green schoolboy, but a hardened

bachelor of two and forty years.

It was the mouth, some wise observers said, that reduced a man to a blithering idiot.

It was unfashionably wide, full, and inviting and at present offered a faint, dangerous hint of a smile, the kind that seemed

to hold a universe of possibilities.

None of these distinctive features offered a clue to what she was thinking.

I know her , he thought. I’m sure I know her.

He ought to. He knew everybody.

He was a duke, a preposterously rich and influential one. He’d been one of the previous King’s favorites and continued in

that not always enviable position in the present Court.

Forgetting whatever it was he’d come for or had been talking about, he walked away from the clerk and toward the goddess.

He did recognize her chaperon, Lady Kempton, a handsome, middle-aged widow. He greeted her with his usual grace and charm, but it wanted all his sense of dignity not to let his gaze fix on the young lady with her. He was aware of his heart beating in an immoderate manner while he tried frantically to remember something, anything to do with this stunning creature. Had he not read something, very recently? No use. His mind refused to function properly.

“Ah, Duke, we had not looked to see you back in London quite yet,” said Lady Kempton. “But you are fully well, fully recovered,

I see.”

He was too old a hand to flush at the reminder of his recent infirmity: a bout with sciatica that had nearly crippled him,

and common enough in men and women of any age. All the same, he’d prefer not to be reminded when a shockingly attractive young

woman was present. Perhaps he winced a little on the inside.

“A mild indisposition, no more,” he said. “Along with a disposition to breathe cleaner air and get away from the noise of

politics for a time.”

Then she spoke. “I know that look,” she said. “Duke, you are trying to put a name to my face.”

Lady Kempton threw her a reproving glance, which she ignored.

“I am asking myself how I could forget,” he said.

“Easily. We were introduced during my first Season. You were so gallant as to dance with me. Pray don’t trouble your mind

trying to remember. I’ve been abroad a great deal, and I was not memorable that evening. It was my brother and his friends

who attracted all the attention.”

“I fail to see how you could fail to attract attention,” he said, “if an elephant irrupted into the room, chased by six lionesses.”

“It wasn’t an elephant but a goat,” she said. “Al mack’s. The creature was introduced to the company. You will remember her, a peaceable being who took no notice of the fuss. She was last seen being led out, the calm eye in the midst of the storm. A silk rose from a lady’s dress dangled from her mouth.”

The scene appeared in his mind instantly: the women shrieking, running about, feathers flying, turbans toppling. Three young

men under the orchestra stand, laughing themselves sick. He had laughed, too.

He laughed now, and heads turned their way. “Good heavens, how could one forget?”

“That was my brother’s doing,” she said. “Ripley and his friends. I’m the wretch’s sister—and now, I see, the light dawns.”

He was enchanted. “Lady Alice. Of course.”

She bowed her head a very little, and the artistic furbelows of her hat danced with the movement. She was dressed in exquisite

taste, in a redingote of deep onyx. His own taste being exquisite, he did not fail to notice details indicating the forefront

of Parisian fashion.

He didn’t remember the young lady he’d danced with. He was one of London’s best dancers, and the patronesses could always

count on him to lead out his share of debutantes. Whatever Lady Alice had been like on that night some half-dozen years ago,

she was altogether different now. This sophisticated young woman would be impossible to forget, goats or no goats—or elephants,

for that matter.

“We’ve come for the latest sensation,” Lady Alice said. “Mrs. Trollope’s book about the Americans. We’re behindhand, it seems,

having been abroad for so long.”

“Not so far behindhand as the Americans, according to the author,” the duke said. “Be warned. The book is not for the squeamish.”

Lady Alice’s green eyes sparkled with mischief. She smiled, clearly amused, and the smile made him dizzy.

At that point, Lord Frederick Beckingham joined them, and the duke, aware that he was in danger of making a fool of himself,

gently took his leave. He left the shop, with no recollection of his appointment. He had other things on his mind.

He did not see Lord Frederick’s faint smile as he watched him go.

***

One of Society’s most admired young ladies has caught the eye of London’s most dedicated bachelor. Where so many other fair

have failed to win the gentleman’s hand, will this exotic succeed?

— Foxe’s Morning Spectacle

Monday 23 April 1832

Newmarket

Wednesday 25 April 1832

The London newspapers of days earlier lay scattered about the coffee room of the Rutland Arms. Few gentlemen had given them

more than a glance. Rumor, opinion, counter-opinion, and the occasional fact regarding the Reform Bill filled most of the

columns. Hardly soul-stirring. And the columns titled “Sporting Intelligence” could offer only old news to those on the spot

at the Newmarket Craven race meeting.

It had rained yesterday. It rained harder today. Nonetheless, the Dukes of Ashmont and Ripley had gone out to the racecourse, and were very possibly draped over railings or lying on their faces in the mud at present, having enjoyed an eventful evening.

Though he had no plans to lie on his face in the mud, the Duke of Blackwood intended to join them at some point. He’d laid

out a sum on the Oatlands Stakes. Afterward, win or lose, one could look forward to festive dinners. Depending on the host,

one might encounter attractive women of less-than-strict morals. Most certainly one could expect gambling. Probably fights.

No, since Ashmont was about, fights were not probably but definitely .

At the moment, however, Blackwood was studying Foxe’s Morning Spectacle , seeking confirmation of news he’d heard this day.

A crease formed between his black eyebrows.

He frowned and tore out the offending page. He stared at it for a moment, then crumpled it. Not his affair what Alice did

or with whom. He’d made his choice.

He was about to hurl it into the fire when Ripley flung his great carcass into the room. “Where the devil’d he go?” he said.

Blackwood stuffed the scrap of newsprint into his coat pocket. His valet would go into spasms, but what were pockets for,

if not to put things in?

“Ashmont, you mean?” Blackwood said.

“Who else? He was there. Then he was gone.” Ripley threw up his hands. “Went off with a girl, I’ll wager anything—the one

I had my eye on, most likely—but he might have dropped a hint. I looked about, you know, and up and down, because you can’t

tell with him. Up on a roof. Down in a ditch.”

“Half drowned in a horse trough,” Blackwood said. “Hanging off the back of a haycart.”

“Almost got himself trampled yesterday.”

“Yes. I was there.”

“After this and the First Spring Meeting, we’ll go on to Castle Ancaster,” Ripley said. “Give him a rest cure.”

Ripley’s ancestral pile occupied a sizable expanse of Yorkshire’s West Riding. He’d spent thousands restoring this and his

other properties.

It was a beautiful place. Quiet. Even with Ashmont there.

London was not quiet.

A fierce inner struggle ensued. It was none of Blackwood’s affair what she did. He wasn’t Sir Bloody Galahad.

His mouth opened, and the wrong words came out: “You’ll have to go on without me. Tell Ashmont I’ve business in London that

won’t wait.”

Ripley gave him a long, hard look. He’d healed well enough from the pistol explosion. Since his had never been the prettiest

countenance, being rough-hewn rather than classically beautiful like Ashmont’s, or otherworldly like Alice’s, the small burn

scars were hardly noticeable.

You let this happen... I hate you. I shall never forgive you.

Alice’s choked voice.

The tender way she’d brushed Ripley’s hair from his damaged face.

Watching her walk away into the mist.

“Business,” Ripley said. “In London. Must be deuced important.”

Blackwood took out the torn piece of paper and gave it to Ripley, saying, “You promised your aunt you’d keep away.”

“Mustn’t frighten off Alice’s lovers. What do you reckon? They’ll forget I exist? Out of sight, out of mind? But Aunt knows best.” He glanced over the scrap. His green gaze grew puzzled.

“I must agree with your aunt. The husband-hunting will go more smoothly if you’re not looming over the proceedings.”

“Wasn’t intending to loom. What the devil do I want with their mealymouthed Good Society? Hour after hour of propriety until

a fellow wants to stick a fork in his eye.”

Blackwood didn’t want it, either. He’d had too many years of freedom to relish the idea of reentering the suffocating world

Alice had entered.

“Wasn’t intending to interfere,” Ripley went on. “Her beau—whoever he turns out to be—will have to come to me in any event

for all the legal matters. If I don’t like him, I’ll pitch him out. Simple enough. But these women fuss over every little

thing, and one must do as Aunt Julia says.”

“There’s a bit of a problem. Rumors I heard today.” Blackwood waved a hand over the heaps of newspapers. “Nothing there. But

it turns out your cousin Worbury’s in London, after all. He slunk back quietly. No mention of him under Fashionable Arrivals.”

Ripley stared at him. “Back, is he, by gad? Everybody said he was in Calais or Calcutta or some such, hiding from his creditors.”

Pryce Ancaster, Ripley’s great-great-uncle Edward’s son and the first Viscount Worbury, had been a military hero who’d fully

earned his title. Pendric Ancaster had inherited the title but none of his late father’s stellar qualities.

“It seems he had a run of luck at cards,” Blackwood said. “So he claims.”

“A run of luck at fraud, more likely. Or he did away with his French landlady for her life savings.”

“However he contrived it, he’s in London.”

“I don’t like it,” Ripley said. “You remember the time at Camberley Place, when Cassandra Pomfret and Alice gave him a drubbing

and left him sobbing in the river.”

“Because he tried to drown a kitten.”

“Two little girls. Twelve years old to his sixteen.”

“I remember.”

“They march off, bruised, filthy, and wet, leaving us with the problem of what to do with him.”

He and Ripley had been fourteen, their fathers still alive. In those days, Blackwood held the courtesy title Marquess of Rossmore.

Ripley was Earl of Kilham.

Blackwood saw the scene, as clearly as if it played on a stage before him.

Worbury cries for help as he struggles to get out of the river.

Rossmore and Kilham look at each other.

Kilham: Not likely to drown. Water here’s shallow.

Rossmore: The stones, though. Slippery. Weeds, too. The swine could get tangled and fall and break his skull.

Kilham: The world will be a better place, then.

Rossmore: I agree. On the other hand, there’s bound to be unpleasantness, and I should like not to have my visit cut short.

Kilham: You think this fits the Murder or That Sort of Thing category?

Rossmore: Very possibly.

Sighs and swearing ensue. They climb down the riverbank to assist the battered bully to solid ground. They offer Wormy, as

he was known at Eton and elsewhere, a few parting words of wisdom.

Kilham: My advice to you, cousin, is to hold your tongue about this little contretemps. On account you might not come out so well

in the telling.

Rossmore: And on account you might have a painful accident if you blab.

Kilham: One more piece of advice. Don’t annoy Alice. That sort of thing never ends well.

A silence ensued while the two men reflected upon Alice.

Then Blackwood said, “Your aunt said Alice’s situation was delicate.”

“Because of me. Us. Yes, yes, I know. My sister needs to prove she’s respectable. She doesn’t need her public menace of a

brother about, striking terror in her beaux’ hearts.”

“Do you imagine Worbury won’t try to undermine her? You know he never forgives or forgets. You know he’s a liar and a sneak.”

“A swine. Yes, I know.” Ripley scowled. “This isn’t good news. But we’re not good for her, either. We’re supposed to play least in sight.”

Out of sight, out of mind. That was best. On the other hand...

“I realize this is Alice we’re talking about,” Blackwood said. “She isn’t the typical wide-eyed innocent. She wasn’t that

during her first Season.”

“Alice can take care of herself. Alice wants to take care of herself.”

“The trouble is, she’s lived abroad. She doesn’t know London as we do. She doesn’t know the men as we do. Somebody ought to

be on the spot. Somebody needs to keep an eye on the men, not only Worbury but the fortune hunters and other bad characters.

Discreetly, of course.”

Ripley was taking it in, thinking. “And it’s Alice,” he said. “Which means somebody needs to be on watch for Murder or That

Sort of Thing. If my sister needs to right a wrong, there’s no saying what might happen. Didn’t she have to leave Barcelona

or one of those places because of a fuss with a donkey seller? Hit him with the stick he’d beat the donkey with and set off

a to-do.” He sighed. “Alice.”

“I don’t doubt she’ll do her best not to make a spectacle of herself or put herself in danger,” Blackwood said.

“As long as there isn’t Injustice with a capital I . Then all bets are off.”

“You understand, then. Somebody needs to be there, discreetly. You promised to keep away. Ashmont is—”

“Out of the question. Discretion is a foreign country to him. On Mars.”

“That leaves me,” Blackwood said.