My Inconvenient Duke (Difficult Dukes #3)

Chapter 3

Sussex Place

Friday 27th April

My dearest Cassandra,

Please forgive my delay in answering your last. The round of social events is not entirely to blame for leaving me with hardly

a moment to think, let alone write. But all goes as smoothly as one could hope. Further acquaintance with the Duke of Doveridge

has only made me admire him the more. He is one of the most diligent members of the House of Lords, as I’m sure your father

will agree. The duke is well-read, intelligent, witty, but above all, a kind and generous man. He is a staunch supporter of

Madame Girard, and with her I find a cause after my own heart.

I daresay your grandmother will know who she is, if you have not heard of her already. The lady is Haitian born, but grew up in Paris, where she wed. Upon M. Girard’s death, she inherited an enormous fortune. She moved from Paris not long after her bereavement and settled in London, where she founded the Minerva Society as a vehicle for her philanthropy. Among other worthy schemes, it was her idea to revive the sixth Baron Digby’s practice of arranging, twice yearly, the release of some of the most wretched of the Marshalsea debtors. We did this on Easter Sunday, then treated them to dinner at the nearby George Inn, as he used to do.

I needn’t describe to you prison conditions and the state of the debtors. You know what they are like, and this represents

only one aspect of her charitable efforts. Of special interest to me is the Minerva Society’s recent decision to begin the

work of founding schools for pauper children.

Oh, Cassandra! You know better than anybody how I feel about the subject. I spent only three months at the Tollstone Academy

for Girls, and every minute of the experience is branded in my memory. Of course we both understand that it was by no means

the worst of places to send unwanted or unruly children. I was unruly, certainly, not the most manageable little girl. But

to send a nine-year-old to such a place, ten miles from home and mother—no great distance, but an infinity to a child who

sees no hope of ever going home again...

Ah, well. You know all about it. Uncle Charles and Aunt Julia rescued me. Now the Minerva Society presents an opportunity to rescue other children in vastly worse circumstances. And what do you think? Doveridge is one of our most generous benefactors. He reminds me of Uncle Charles, and that, as you well know, is high praise indeed.

Still, I cannot put all my eggs in one basket. Doveridge is handsome and charming, and a prize catch, but he has eluded the

parson’s mousetrap for years. There is also the Earl of Lynforde, a widower nearer to my brother’s age. Handsome and charming,

but he, too, is in no haste to wed, from all I’ve heard. Several other gentlemen have paid me attention. This is gratifying

for a girl who doesn’t quite fit in. All the same I do find the Husband Quest trying. You and I have spent so little time

here that we are not used to London Society—nor, may I add, is it used to us. We were never truly part of Parisian or Florentine

or any other Society, either—and honestly, I had rather be elsewhere, on less humiliating business. But thanks to my brother

and his friends, I have no choice. Without a husband, I shall not be able to help myself, let alone anybody else. I made up

my mind to do this, and I shall.

Your most devoted and loving,

Alice

Crockford’s Club, London

Early evening of Saturday 28 April 1832

“Damned waste is what it is,” said one of the gentlemen lounging by the drawing room window. “The raven-black hair. The evergreen eyes. The goddess-like figure. Lady Alice Ancaster might have any fellow in England. Crook her little finger and he’s hers. And she picks him ? Forty if he’s a day.”

This window, like its counterpart in the dining room, looked out onto St. James’s Street. Lord Consett having failed to glance

that way at the crucial moment, it was now too late.

“Two and forty, to be precise,” Lord Worbury said. “In the Duke of Doveridge the lady acquires a valuable antique as well

as the bright prospect of early widowhood. As I calculate, the assets include seventy thousand a year at the very least, some

dozen or more immense properties, including extensive portions of London, a collection of jewels surpassing the royal trinkets

in the Tower, any number of—”

“If I may interrupt,” came a low voice from the doorway.

A silence fell. Or crashed, rather.

“My hearing must be faulty,” the voice went on. “I had the oddest notion that the name of a lady of my acquaintance was being

casually bandied about the rooms of a gaming establishment. Perhaps I was mistaken.”

All the color drained from Lord Consett’s countenance and he froze, mouth open.

He was not the only one of the room’s occupants to grow pale. Several gentlemen, despite having nothing to do with the conversation

at issue, surveyed the room for alternate departure routes.

Worbury arranged his own mouth into a bland smile and set his brain to work at great speed. He could not count on his friend.

The Earl of Bartham’s eldest son did not own mental faculties of the highest quality.

One might say a great deal about the second Viscount Worbury, and undoubtedly will. However, what one could not possibly say was, “He wishes to die young and make a pretty corpse.” The Duke of Ripley’s heir presumptive did not wish to make a corpse of any kind at any time, unless, that is, he made it of somebody else.

“I spoke in a general sense, Duke,” Worbury said. “Merely enumerating the gentleman’s advantages. These are by no means contemptible,

as all the world acknowledge.”

The gentleman in the doorway bent his dark gaze upon the paralyzed-with-fright friend.

“J-joke,” Consett said. “M-mean to say, not a j-joke but the f-fellows... That is to say, all jealous, you know. Of any

f-fellow the lady would smile on. I was—erm—trying to cheer ’em up. Ghastly choice of words, though. Not what I meant at all.

Beg your pardon, Duke. Meant no disrespect. Furthest thing from my mind. Only got carried away. For a moment.”

“Better hope you aren’t carried away permanently, on a litter,” somebody murmured from behind a newspaper in another corner

of the room.

The recent arrival stepped into the drawing room. “My memory, sadly, is imperfect,” he said. “Do you know, it’s altogether

possible for me to forget a few indiscreet remarks, should the perpetrators pass quickly out of my sight.”

Worbury’s color rose, and an unfriendly spark flashed in his light brown eyes. But while ruthless in many circumstances, he

was, as mentioned, not eager to end his life quite yet.

He turned to his friend. “As it happens, we could do with a breath of fresh air.”

Chances of their obtaining that article in London on this damp, fog- and coal smoke–shrouded evening were small. Since present

company refrained from mentioning the fact, Worbury contrived to leave the room with his usual swagger, his acolyte following

close on his heels.

The Duke of Blackwood settled into his preferred chair.

“Foul little ticks,” he muttered.

And, I’ve come not a minute too soon , he thought.

He glanced down at the table at his elbow, where a copy of Foxe’s Morning Spectacle lay. He took up the newspaper. His gaze settled on one column. His mouth thinned.

“Had it been Ashmont who overheard those remarks,” came a quiet voice by his shoulder, “one of those two—or perhaps both—would

spend the rest of the night wetting himself, in anticipation of an engagement at dawn with eternity.”

That would not be half so satisfying as breaking Worbury into small pieces with one’s bare hands. But that would be untidy.

Blackwood must not make untidy scenes or set off even a hint of scandal. He needed to be discreet. The goal was to keep off

the undesirables, not kill them.

He owed Alice that much.

“Duels are boring,” he said.

The slender, dark-complected gentleman who spoke was the same who’d mentioned a litter. He took the chair on the other side

of the table. “While humiliating one’s enemies—”

“To call those creatures enemies would imply that I take them seriously.”

“An annoyance, then. So much more satisfying to mortify these... let us call them human gnats.”

“They’re human, are they?” Blackwood set aside the paper. He had no objections to the Earl of Lynforde. Had he entertained

any, his lordship would be fully aware of this fact, and would not be such a fathead as to plant himself next to a dangerous

gentleman in a state of irritation.

The degree of irritation was by no means obvious, even to its owner, but Lynforde was a keen observer. Moreover, he had known Blackwood since their earliest school days.

The earl, who’d inherited his striking good looks from his Indian mother, was a tougher article than he appeared, as the Eton

bullies had learnt the hard way. Far more important, it was he who’d brought three miserably lonely dukes’ sons together.

The principals viewed this act as an inestimable kindness. Others, a great many others, held a different opinion.

He took up the paper Blackwood had discarded. “No doubt you saw what led to their unfortunate remarks.”

It is whispered that a marriage is on the tapis between a peer notable for his splendid weekly entertainments and the sister

of a nobleman notorious for his riotous ones... The D____ of D____ danced twice with Lady A____ A____, who has become a

favorite of the ton this Season.

“What set their tongues wagging is beside the point,” Blackwood said, and that wasn’t entirely a lie. “What they said is the

issue.”

“Your restraint is admirable.”

Blackwood’s smile was sardonic. “Yes, that’s what everybody admires me for. My restraint.”

A gentleman does not give way to his passions. One of thousands of rules and regulations crammed into his brain from infancy.

Having only the one son, thanks to a second marriage late in life, the previous duke had poured all his energies into making that one Perfect. The strictures currently reposed in a gigantic tome in Blackwood’s mind titled The Correct Behavior of a Gentleman . One could break the rules easily enough. Forgetting them was impossible.

After a pause he said, “Why don’t you join me for dinner?”

The earl glanced toward the doorway.

“Ashmont and Ripley will not appear,” Blackwood said. “I had business in London that I preferred not to postpone.”

His companion arched an eyebrow.

Blackwood shrugged. “I wanted a change of scenery, among other things. Your pretty face makes a change. Then there’s your

brain.”

“And I’m a wonderful gossip,” Lynforde said.

“That, too. You go everywhere and do everything—as we, owing to an unfortunate series of misunderstandings, do not.”

Thanks to these misunderstandings, the ton’s invitation lists these days rarely included the Dukes of Ashmont, Blackwood,

and Ripley.

Not that they wished to be invited to respectable gatherings.

“In the usual way of things, this is not a problem,” Blackwood went on.

“Ah, something unusual, then,” Lynforde said. “And you want information. I’m delighted to be of use.”

He truly did own an operating brain. A refreshing change.

Meanwhile, some streets away

“’Pon my honor, I thought my heart would give out,” Consett said, clutching his chest. “When I heard that voice— Ye gods, who’d’ve guessed he’d turn up like that? For a minute I thought it was the Old Harry himself, took a mind to pop up from Hades to stand big as life in the doorway. One of us is a dead man, I thought. Or both. Only think if the other two had been with him. No, no, can’t bear to think of it. He’ll remember this, rely upon it. You know what they’re like.”

“What does it matter what he remembers?” Worbury said. “What do you think the chances are, one of them killing Ripley’s heir?

Talk of bad ton.”

Had John Ancaster not succumbed to a lung inflammation, Worbury would have felt shyer about returning to London. Since then,

however, he’d paid off the most dangerous of his creditors. The more respectable ones hesitated to decline the future Duke

of Ripley’s custom.

“You don’t imagine there’s a good chance, one of them shooting your ear off?” Consett said. “Or rearranging your face?”

“For what? Blackwood comes looming like the Angel of Death over us, over what? A few harmless remarks. He makes us look like

the veriest cowards in front of every fellow in Crockford’s drawing room. You know what that means.”

“The tale’s all over the club in five minutes.”

“And in another few hours, all the world hears. Mockery in Foxe’s Morning Spectacle tomorrow or the next day and satirical prints in every print shop window before the week’s out. And we’ll have to pretend

to be amused.”

All because of her, Worbury thought.

But one of these days, Ripley would get himself shot or get his skull broken in a drunken fight. Stabbed in the alley of a

brothel. Trampled by a mad bull. Drowned in a lake or a river. He gave himself so many ways to die young.

Then Lady Alice would learn a lesson or two.

The trouble was, one of these days wasn’t now. And Blackwood was in London, damn him to hell.

“I should rather feature in a satirical print than get my ear shot off, thank you,” Consett was saying. “And what if his aim

went wrong for once? Knowing my luck, it would be the day I was on the receiving end. By gad, by gad, what’s he doing in London

now? They were supposed to be safe away for months, rampaging over the countryside. My mother said so.”

“Overbearing, sneering bully.” Worbury slammed his stick against a lamppost. The blow’s force made his arm vibrate with pain.

“Walks into a room and everybody trembles. Nobody dares stand up to him, and he thinks he can do as he pleases. Thinks he

can lord it over the world.”

“Well, he can, actually.”

“We’ll see. We’ll see. One of these days...”

A drunken derelict staggered out from a narrow alley. “Pennyworth o’ gin, yer worships. Pennyworth o’ gin fer a gennelman

what’s fallen on evil times.”

“I’ll show you evil times, you old sot,” Worbury said.

He shoved the swill tub, making him stagger backward into the alley. Giving him no time to recover his balance, Worbury swung

his stick at the fellow’s legs. With a shriek, the drunkard toppled to the ground. While he lay there moaning, Worbury kicked

him in the stomach. And in the head. And in the back.

Worbury smiled down at him. “Let that be a lesson to you,” he said.

He left his target groaning and writhing on the ground and walked on. After a moment’s stunned hesitation, Consett followed.

“I feel better,” Worbury said.