My Inconvenient Duke (Difficult Dukes #3)

Chapter 4

The new entrance into the Green Park, through the splendid archway erected a few years ago, under the direction of Mr. Burton,

the architect, opens to the public today. The arch commands a fine view of the garden front of Buckingham Palace, also the

fine and extensive plantations behind it.

— Foxe’s Morning Spectacle

Monday 30 April 1832

Hyde Park Corner

T hough the new archway’s opening had occurred without ceremony, a crowd had gathered. The viewing platform was narrow, as

was the spiral staircase leading up to it. At present the Countess of Bartham and her entourage occupied the platform. Consequently,

Lady Alice Ancaster and her small party had decided not to ascend quite yet.

The afternoon was mild, the skies intermittently sunny. Lady Alice did not feel sunny. On the outside, she was a proper lady,

garbed in the latest fashion. Her pink-and-grey moiré dress was French, the full sleeves ruffled in a novel mode that had

elicited more than one envious stare.

On the inside she was restive. She stood, it seemed to her, among a flock of expensively dressed pigeons, her aunt’s friends murmuring and cooing the same inanities she’d heard a thousand times before.

Worse, Cousin Worm and his minion Lord Consett, Lady Bartham’s eldest son, had decided to loiter in the vicinity.

Alice moved away and turned her attention to the ever-changing drama of Hyde Park Corner.

Every day in this place, riders, pedestrians, vehicles of all kinds, livestock, stray dogs, and stray children made a great,

heaving conglomeration, sometimes narrowly avoiding collision and sometimes not. On dry days a cloud of dust swirled and swelled

about the scene. On wet days the masses roiled in a stew of fog and mud.

On this day, which had followed several rainy ones, excrement-infused mud prevailed underfoot, and the crossing sweep’s task

was no sooner done than it was undone. Vehicles raced through, throwing up mud, and sometimes throwing out passengers. Drivers’

shouts and curses, horses’ hooves clip-clopping, and wheels rattling on cobblestones made the music of the place.

London. When she went away, she missed it. When she was here... well, it depended.

Her gaze drifted back to her immediate surroundings, this time to meet a more piquant sight: a trio of young pickpockets.

They were arranging themselves close to Cousin Worm in the approved manner: one for lookout, one to distract, and one to do

the job.

One of them she recognized: The lookout was a street child known as Jonesy, among other nicknames and aliases.

She went cold inside. The Worm was the worst possible choice of prey.

She started toward them, to shoo them away, the footman Thomas shadowing her as he was required to do.

But before she could act, the tallest boy dipped his hand into her cousin’s coattail pocket. In the instant the lad snatched

his handkerchief, Worbury turned away from the young woman he’d been flirting with, saw the boys, tried to grab the nearest,

and shouted, “Thieves! Get them! Get them all!”

The thief was already running, his long legs carrying him swiftly past Grosvenor Place. The second boy eluded Worbury and

tore across the road toward Hyde Park. Jonesy shot the other way, in Alice’s direction. His eyes widened as he recognized

her.

She made a small beckoning gesture. He darted behind her.

“My lady,” Thomas said.

“Hush,” she said.

“That one!” Worbury shouted. “He’s one of them!”

She put her hand behind her and motioned the boy to approach. As soon as he was near enough, she grasped his arm. He gasped

and sent her an accusing look. No matter. She knew what she was about.

“This boy?” she said. “I think not. I saw it, and was about to warn you, Lord Worbury, but the pickpocket was too quick for

me.” The woefully thin little arm in her grip relaxed.

“This little bas— brat ran!” Worbury said.

“When somebody shouts ‘Thief!’ they run,” she said. “It’s instinct. This child had nothing to do with the others.” She turned

to Jonesy. “Or am I mistaken?”

“No, Yer Highness,” he said, all blue-eyed angelic innocence. “Vat’s how it were, like you said. Never seen ’em before. But

I seen what was happening and was about to tell hizzoner to look sharp.”

Her cousin apparently had no more trouble than she did in turning the strangulated vowels and misplaced consonants into something like English, because he narrowed his eyes. “That’s a barefaced lie.”

“Worbury, once more I find myself doubting my hearing. The lady explained the matter. Do you accuse her of abetting a falsehood?”

The voice, one of the last Alice might expect to hear at this moment, came from somewhere above and behind her. A sensation

like electrical sparks raced down the back of her neck.

Those who’d drawn near to watch the show retreated several paces. Anyone with a modicum of intelligence would move out of

the way. Even the boy, hardened to the London streets, tensed under her hand.

Ah, well, she’d wanted excitement.

To say that Blackwood had spotted Alice was to understate the case.

He saw her first and saw her only, the crowd and the hubbub of Hyde Park Corner fading into a stage background.

He saw her and felt a sharp, almost painful leap within, the way one might feel when the sun finally breaks through the clouds

after weeks of cold and bleak days.

He told himself he felt only surprise, and that she was impossible to overlook, even in this busy place. He told himself he

was simply reacting to the way she dressed. Thanks to his sisters, nieces, and a discriminating taste in mistresses, he knew

more about women’s attire than any man deemed necessary. He told himself that what had caught his eye were the refinements

signaling the latest Parisian fashion.

Yet in his heart he knew that, for him, Alice would stand out in a crowd if she were dressed as dully as some of the ladies nearby.

Still, had seeing her been all, he would have made a detour. He wasn’t here to further their acquaintance, what was left of

it. He most certainly wasn’t here to rejoin Society. He was in London to make sure nobody caused trouble for her and to be

Ripley’s eyes and ears.

Seeing her, however, had not been all. Once he regained his perspective, he noticed Trouble standing mere paces away from

her, in the shape of Worbury.

And so Blackwood approached, to do what he was here for.

She looked up at him. “There you are,” said she, quite as though she’d been expecting him. “Did you happen to see?”

“Yes,” he said. “I heard as well.”

“I believe the gentleman labors under a misapprehension,” she said. Her expression was bored. Her green eyes held a signal

he’d learnt to recognize years ago: She wanted him to play along.

He did not want to play along. He wanted to throw Worbury into the road, onto a fresh heap of horseshit in the path of a speeding

vehicle.

Blackwood wasn’t used to not behaving badly. He most certainly wasn’t accustomed to taking orders from anybody, however subtly

conveyed.

But he was here to protect Alice and not make untidy scenes. If he wanted to do Worbury damage, he must do it discreetly.

No scandal must touch her. He must do nothing to hamper her matrimonial efforts. Ripley was counting on him. And Blackwood

owed her this much and more.

Since he couldn’t maim or kill Worbury, he must make London disagreeable for him.

“Sadly, Lord Worbury does misapprehend on occasion,” he said. “And sometimes he speaks before he’s fully thought matters through.”

It was a narrow way out, but the Worm would take it. He’d know how much danger he was in. He wouldn’t know how long Blackwood’s

forbearance would hold.

And so, as one would expect, the Worm’s murderous expression swiftly reshaped into blandness and something like chagrin—as

though he wouldn’t have hanged the child himself from a tree in Hyde Park, had he only been able to do it at night, without

witnesses.

“The duke has the right of it, Lady Alice,” he said. “I do beg your pardon. I never doubted you for an instant and never would.

I only doubted the brat had any intention of warning me—if, that is, I comprehended him correctly. I believed him more likely

to laugh and call me a gull than to warn me. But one fact is beyond question: The culprit’s been and gone with my handkerchief.”

“Is that all?” Lady Kempton bustled toward them. “The noise you made, I should have thought somebody had made off with your

pocket watch, chain, rings, and fingers in the bargain.”

“It’s the principle, Lady Kempton,” Worbury said. “Thievery is thievery.”

“So it is. However, let us not bear false witness. If my niece says the boy was not involved, that ought to be sufficient.

Do let the child go, my dear. We’ve no reason to detain him.”

Alice released the little maggot, whom she ought not to have touched. He was ragged and filthy, and the smell spread about

him like a toxic fog. That he crawled with vermin was beyond question.

He made off at speed, dodging Piccadilly’s dogs, walkers, horses, and speeding vehicles with the finesse of an expert.

Blackwood watched him go until he’d disappeared into the crowd. As he turned back to the others, he saw Alice still looking after the boy, with an expression like... anguish?

It was there and gone in an eyeblink’s time. It made him uneasy all the same. She was too softhearted where children and other

defenseless beings were involved. Never mind that the boy seemed well able to look after himself.

Worbury’s departure, on the other hand, left her unmoved. She watched coolly as he swaggered away. Consett, who’d tried to

hide himself in the thinning crowd, hastily followed.

She brought her green gaze back to Blackwood.

“Neatly done,” she said. She smiled up at him.

He was not in the least prepared for the smile, and for a moment the world went away.

He’d known her since she was a ten-year-old hoyden. He’d seen her up close, her face mere inches from his, only a month ago.

But that morning drifted in a haze that the passing days and riotous living had only thickened.

Before that, when? Two years earlier? Had it been so long as that since Lord Charles Ancaster’s funeral? He, Ashmont, and

Ripley had drowned their grief in drink that day and in the days following, a process that had turned her into a dim, elusive

figure in the clouded landscape of his mind.

And so the reality of Alice, here and now and smiling up at him, struck him very much like a hard punch in the head.

Ripley’s hair and eyes, yes, inherited from their late, unlamented father. Ripley was no Adonis. Alice, though...

Her mouth was not a rosebud. It was not bee-stung. Hers was the wide, full mouth of an ancient Egyptian statue, and hers was the same enigmatic smile. For a moment, looking down into her extraordinary face, Blackwood forgot where he was. Who he was. What he was.

“Neatly done by all concerned,” Lynforde said.

Blackwood had forgotten his friend was there. Caught in a smile, he’d forgotten rather more than he liked. He reminded himself—again—why

he was here.

“Even the boy played his part,” he said. “Harboring criminals these days, are we, Lady Alice?”

“That one isn’t a criminal yet,” she said. “A juvenile delinquent, perhaps. I’m sorry I had to let him go. I meant to give

him a talking-to.”

“Oh, really, Alice,” said her aunt. “As though it would do any good.”

“He’s intelligent,” Alice said. “He’s... an interesting little puzzle.”

As Blackwood had guessed, she’d seen a Defenseless Child.

“You can tell one of those wretches from another?” he said. “The smell made my eyes water. All I saw through the blur was

an animate pile of filth.”

“That’s what most of our kind see,” she said. “Nuisances. A lot of stray dogs underfoot. And no, I don’t speak from sentiment.

Most of these children are not angels, and I don’t see how they could be. They’ll only grow more hardened and hopeless as

they grow older. I know this. But now and again...”

She looked away and shook her head. The ribbons and flowers and lace adorning her hat fluttered. “Good heavens, I was on the

very brink of preaching. How ghastly.”

“Speaking of ghastly.” Lady Kempton nodded in the direction of the arch’s entrance. “That tiresome woman is coming this way. She must have noticed the furor and raced down the stairs.”

“A pity she didn’t break her neck,” Alice murmured, so low that only Blackwood’s sharp hearing detected it. That, or maybe

he stood too close.

He moved away and turned toward the entrance. Consett’s mother, bearing down on them like the warship she was, abruptly paused.

Then, nose aloft, she veered off in the opposite direction at no slow pace.

“That is impressive,” Alice said as they watched her ladyship’s departure. “I vow, Duke, you’re more effective than a pack

of snarling bull mastiffs. I’ve never seen her turn tail before.”

“Nor have I,” said Lady Kempton. “How fortunate, your arriving at this moment.”

“He can be useful sometimes,” Lynforde said.

“When one wants to empty a room, for instance,” Alice said. “A pity you are not there when one wants you.”

“You’ve wanted me somewhere?” Blackwood said. “Apart from at the devil? This is a thrilling new development.”

She turned her gaze away, but not before he caught a flash of something that was not boredom and nothing like the way she’d

watched the boy run away.

“I should have welcomed the devil to Lady Drakeley’s conversazione last night,” she said. “Lord Tunstall droned on, at length

and not altogether coherently, on every topic raised. I found myself wondering whether life was worth living.”

“Alas, I was not invited, else I’d have hastened to your rescue.”

He told himself he’d done his job. Worbury removed. Battleship Bartham in retreat. He’d attracted more attention than was

desirable.

Also, Alice hated him, with good reason. As to the smile?

A momentary thing. He’d saved the Defenseless Child. The smile was a pat on the head, no more.

Good dog. You chased away the intruder. Go back to your kennel now.

Blackwood made himself look away from her compelling face. His gaze drifted up to the arch, and his brain malfunctioned and

he heard himself say, “Have you visited the top?”

“It was overcrowded,” Lady Kempton said.

“That does not seem to be the case now,” Alice said. “The crowd has all but vanished. Even our friends have suddenly recollected

previous engagements.”

He looked about him. Men in uniform, mounted and on foot, came and went. Everybody else had found another place to be.

“I seem to have that effect, yes,” he said. “Well, then, it appears that I’ve done as much as I can for one day.”

He’d stayed longer than he needed to, longer than was good for him. He was about to lift his hat for a farewell bow when Alice

said, “Why don’t you gentlemen join us?”

He paused, hand on hat brim, and blinked.

Aunt Florentia threw her a look. Alice threw one back. They could argue about it later.

She was not a dolt. She knew Society had marked Blackwood as persona non grata. She knew being seen with him would remind

people that her brother was cut from the same cloth.

But it wasn’t as though Society forgot those sorts of things. Meanwhile the Countess of Bartham, owner of London’s most poisonous tongue, had already ob served the encounter. Her version of events, with nasty embellishments, would travel through the beau monde this evening. It would appear in the gossip sections of the papers tomorrow or the next day.

Blackwood had merely been passing by, but nobody would believe that when they could believe whatever lurid tale Lady Bartham

fed them.

So the damage was done.

The question was, what was Blackwood doing here? Hadn’t Aunt Julia told the three dukes to keep away? Not that he hadn’t been

useful today. But Alice could have managed without him, although less easily, and it was not convenient to have him about.

She would have to make that clear to him before he caused further damage.

“I daresay the gentlemen have already been,” Aunt Florentia said, clearly hoping Blackwood would take a hint, since Alice

wouldn’t.

“Not yet,” Blackwood said.

“We were at Tattersall’s,” Lynforde said.

The horse auctioneers stood round the corner behind St. George’s Hospital.

“Settling-up day,” Alice said. “You were at Newmarket with my brother last week. He wrote—scrawled—something about making

his way to the ancestral mausoleum. One assumed you’d go with him.”

“I had business in London that couldn’t be postponed,” Blackwood said.

“Bringing your will up to date, perhaps,” Alice said. “In case of fatal accidents. I should have realized that only a matter

of life or death could tear you away from your friends. How selfish of me to keep you from doing whatever it is. I shouldn’t

for worlds wish to delay your departure.”

There. That was sufficient.

The sooner he did what he had to do, the sooner he’d be gone.

And she’d be glad when he was gone, she told herself.

Her mind, however, chose that moment to revisit Lady Bartham’s abrupt exit. Keeping one’s nose in the air while fleeing a

scene was no easy task, but the countess had performed it admirably.

And all he’d had to do was stand there.

Alice turned away, biting her lip to keep from laughing aloud. She told herself that the Duke of Blackwood was no laughing

matter and started toward the entrance.

“This day grows more interesting by the minute,” Lynforde said.

“Do you think so?” Blackwood said.

“This is the second time in a few days you’ve defended the lady and thrown Worbury into a murderous rage.”

“He’s fortunate to have dealt with me, in a humor of forgiving loving-kindness. It might have been Ashmont, who would not

have understood Lady Alice’s subtle hint not to kill anybody. Or Ripley, who would have understood but ignored her.”

“The lady has also hinted that we’re not unwelcome,” Lynforde said.

“Speak for yourself. That message was not clear to me.”

“You ought to pay closer attention. For my part, I’ve discovered a craving to take in the view. But if you think the company

of two respectable women will bore you witless, we can come at another time.”

What Blackwood was not, at the moment, was bored. It would be better if he were. Following Alice was a bad idea. Leaving the

scene— now —was a good idea.

The trouble was, he’d caught the hint of laughter as she turned away.

The trouble was, he’d fallen into the habit of pursuing bad ideas.

The trouble was, his mind flew to the past, and another scene at Camberley Place, a decade ago.

Alice gazing up at him, her green eyes sparkling.

“But you must teach me to shoot,” she said. “Nobody else will. My brother laughs at me. Nobody else understands. Suppose a

highwayman appears at the moment Cassandra and I are about to rescue a lady in distress. What am I to do? Throw my reticule

at him?”

The right thing to do was refuse.

She was a girl of fifteen. She was a girl.

He could have told her that young ladies didn’t travel without an escort. He could have told her that’s what servants and

outriders were for.

He said, “Meet me at the shooting gallery and don’t tell anybody.”

Years earlier, his father and Lord Charles had created the practice area for the three dukes-to-be. They had a place cleared

on a part of the vast estate well away from the main house, surrounded by woodland. It was arranged according to Blackwood’s

father’s rules for pistol shooting. These, like all of Father’s rules, were Perfect. Young men must learn to handle all sorts

of weaponry, after all. Duels were lamentable, but on certain occasions, unavoidable. Therefore it was crucial to learn how

not to get killed.

The three friends had leave to practice here, under supervision.

Girls did not have leave. Girls did not fight duels. Girls were supposed to be shielded from danger.

But Alice believed that she would be called upon to perform dangerous deeds. And Blackwood thought it would be amusing to teach her, and one day surprise his friends with the new trick he’d taught her.

As though she were a pet.

She got off several reasonably good shots (for a beginner and a girl) at the target without their absence being noticed. It

was not, after all, unusual to hear shots from this part of the estate.

The trouble was, he stood too close. He had to, in order to teach her the proper way to clean and load the pistols. The trouble

was, he touched her. He had to, in order to guide her arm to the proper position and her hand to grasp the weapon correctly.

While he did all these correct things, he was drinking in the softness of her skin and the sparkle of her eyes... and he

wouldn’t have detected her scent if he hadn’t stood too close. Then he wouldn’t have got ideas he had no business getting,

but he was seventeen years old and those ideas came all too easily.

And so he lost track of time, and somebody must have noticed at some point and decided this was not the usual thing, because

they heard dogs barking and men tromping through the nearby woods and shouting.

“Go,” he told her. “Run as though you’re escaping an enemy army.”

“But you—”

“I’ve simply decided to practice shooting on my own.”

She slid him a conspiratorial smile, and made herself vanish.

And later, Ripley had caught Blackwood looking at her the Wrong Way.

“Blackwood?”

Lynforde’s voice brought him back to the present.

“Ah, well,” Blackwood said.

He started after her. With a soft laugh, Lynforde joined him.