My Inconvenient Duke (Difficult Dukes #3)

Chapter 10

Blackwood House

Friday 4 May 1832

The letter from Newmarket arrived as Blackwood was in the last stages of dressing for the evening.

Lynforde, who’d arrived some time earlier, had poured himself a glass of sherry and settled onto the sofa.

“Ripley,” Blackwood said as he took the missive from the tray.

“I recognize the scrawl,” Lynforde said.

Blackwood waved the footman out of the dressing room and dismissed his valet.

When they’d gone, he said, “Since he isn’t the most diligent correspondent, we may expect a matter of urgency. Ashmont’s run

amok again, very likely. As though I could do anything about it. As though anybody could.”

He broke the seal and unfolded the letter.

No date, no salutation. Typical.

Aunt Julia’s got the wind up and commands us to appear at headquarters. She heard you’re in London. No surprise. Try keeping anything from her. She’s like Ashmont’s Uncle Fred— spies everywhere, and she knows all that’s happening and sometimes before it happens. To put it plain, my aunt is in a fine twist. The letter scorched my fingers. No point in answering. I never do well, trying to explain in letters. Best to appear as ordered. I’m setting out as soon as I settle a few matters here. You can guess at one of them. What do you reckon the chances are, Ashmont making matters worse if he’s with us? Damned good odds I’d say. Auntie sees through his charm. He’ll have to stay behind. Look for me to land at the Lovedon Arms in Kensington by Saturday night. Meet me there. Can’t turn up in London or she’ll have my head. We’ll set out for Camberley Place on Sunday morning. Make sure you’ve a good story to tell her. Keep in mind that she’s cleverer than the three of us put together. No difficult achievement, now I think of it.

R

Blackwood passed the letter to Lynforde, saying, “The timing could be better.”

“When is the timing ever right in life?” Lynforde read the letter through, squinting now and again to make out the words.

He gave it back.

Blackwood set it on his dressing table and poured himself a drink. He stared at it for a while before lifting it to his lips.

“I can play spy for you,” Lynforde said.

Blackwood drank and set down the glass. He returned to the dressing table, opened the velvet box Springate had set there, and removed the sapphire stickpin it contained. He turned to the dressing glass and inserted the stickpin in his neckcloth precisely where it ought to sit. “I should be easier in my mind if I were certain Worbury had left Town.”

“He can’t do that so soon after the event. He’s put it about that what happened on Thursday morning was a political demonstration,

caused by his opposing the Reform Bill. To leave immediately afterward would look cowardly.”

“He is a coward, as we and many others are well aware.”

“This is why we can be certain that he’s too shaken to make trouble for anybody at present,” Lynforde said. “He’ll leave London

as soon as he can devise a suitable excuse, I’ll wager anything.”

Blackwood had shared with his friend the broad outlines of recent events: Worbury had conceived a vendetta against the boy

Alice had shielded at Hyde Park Corner, Alice had alerted Blackwood, and he’d arranged the demonstration in Golden Square

to make Worbury believe he’d run afoul of a criminal overlord. As Alice had said, the scene bore Their Dis-Graces’ handprint.

The dukes had contacts in low places. Lynforde had a brain. That was sufficient.

“It’s only for a few days,” Blackwood said. “Once I explain the Worbury problem, Lady Charles will understand. As Ripley realizes,

however, the business ought to be done face-to-face.”

Not to mention that Blackwood would never put into writing all the details, any more than he’d confide them to Lynforde, much

as he trusted him. Without these details, Lady Charles would worry. He’d done damage enough. He would not add anxiety to her

sorrow.

The morning of the thirtieth of March haunted him still.

What is wrong with you? Drunk, shooting off pistols, so close to the house—and this house, of all places. Do you three think of anybody else, ever?... And you... You let this happen.

No, he hadn’t thought. Yes, he’d let it happen, and his best friend could have died in Lady Charles’s garden. He couldn’t

leave this to Ripley, who was in the dark about recent events, and therefore unable to reassure his aunt.

Blackwood was the one who’d decided to go against her wishes. He had to be the one to explain why. At least he had proof he’d

done the right thing in returning to London. A small amends but better than nothing.

“If anything happens, I know you’ll send a message immediately,” he said.

“Of course,” Lynforde said. “Camberley Place is only a few hours’ journey from London. You can be back on the spot in no time.

But I strongly doubt you’ll need to be. By the time you return, Worbury will be gone, beyond a doubt.”

Gardens of the Zoological Society,

the Regent’s Park

Saturday 5 May 1832

“One of the most useful peculiarities of the camel is its power of passing many days without drinking,” the Earl of Tunstall

was saying. “This has long since been recognized as dependent on a cellular apparatus connected with the first and second

stomachs, and capable, to quote the expressions of Monsieur Cuvier, ‘of retaining water or of continually producing it.’”

“Lord Tunstall is fully capable of continually pro ducing words,” Alice murmured. “He does not seem to be aware of the quantity.”

“It would appear that he’s memorized one of the Zoological Society’s publications,” the Duke of Doveridge said in the same

low tones. “One wishes we had encountered him not quite so early in our visit. Still, he means well, I’m sure. He is simply

a little na?ve.”

Alice glanced back at the bespectacled young man. His was not the most prepossessing figure, but he wasn’t unattractive. “He

is so earnest. Do you know, I believe he’s trying to impress Miss Emily Felpham.”

Tunstall had turned up as they were leaving the bear pit, the first stop on their tour of the gardens, and had attached himself

to their party. He wasn’t the only one.

At Almack’s on Wednesday night, Doveridge—who, naturally, was a member of the Zoological Society—had invited the Ladies Kempton

and Felpham, Alice, and a trio of debutantes for a tour. Since the young ladies were bound to mention it to somebody or other

who would mention it to somebody else, several enterprising gentlemen had discovered a compelling need to visit and had applied

to members of the society for orders for entry. Consequently, the small group had enlarged.

“She does not seem to be bored,” Doveridge said.

“Maybe she understands that he seeks her admiration,” Alice said.

While Lady Felpham was growing desperate about her twenty-one-year-old daughter’s lack of social success, the daughter had

her own views. Shy though she was, Emily was not so anxious for a mate as to encourage the first male who displayed interest.

Lord Tunstall was a reasonable choice, however. His behavior was gentlemanly, his rank and income acceptable. The spectacles did not detract from an amiable countenance.

Doveridge studied the pair. “She does not hang raptly on his every word, but she seems to be paying attention.”

“Possibly she comprehends that he, too, is shy, and tries to burst out of it in an awkward way. Perhaps she feels sympathy.

He doesn’t mean to be boring.”

“Good heavens, what man does?” Doveridge said. “We all like to imagine we’re fascinating fellows. Let us move on to the aquatic

birds, and give the pair a moment to themselves. If she hurries to catch up with us, we’ll know he’s failed to captivate.”

As they walked on, Alice looked up at him. “You’re matchmaking.”

“It is the besetting vice of a man who has failed to make his own match for some twenty years.”

“I suspect you weren’t trying hard enough.”

He lifted his eyebrows and regarded her for a moment. Then he laughed. A few heads turned their way.

“That wasn’t meant as criticism,” she said. “The trouble is the world we live in, which seems to encourage incaution. Most

people marry on the thinnest acquaintance, and that’s because they’re not allowed any more. There is Miss Emily, who must

decide on altogether flimsy evidence whether she can find happiness— for the rest of her life —with a gentleman with whom she’s had only snatches of conversation, and virtually no privacy.”

“What do you recommend, Lady Alice? Ought the chaperons to look on from a distance, perhaps with spyglasses?”

“They would need to be able to read lips,” Alice said. “If, that is, we young ladies are to be protected from the ignorance

imposed upon us.”

“I detect the voice of Mary Wollstonecraft.”

She shook her head in mock sorrow. “Alas, I’m found out for the radical being I am.”

“I found you out ages ago,” he said. “The first—no, second—well, the first time we met when I was paying attention.”

It was her turn to laugh, and she thought, He is so like Uncle Charles, and one can be friends with him, and is that not an excellent basis for marriage?

Impossible to imagine her parents ever being friends.

But Uncle Charles and Aunt Julia had had that kind of marriage. Private jokes. A private language. They understood each other.

Doveridge seemed to understand Alice well enough, considering how little time they’d had for anything like real conversation.

A minute or two here and there. While dancing. At dinner.

The present gathering was different. With two matrons chaperoning, the other members of the party could walk along in changing

constellations, some pausing here, others there, but never straying too far. And so, one or another pair might enjoy a brief

opportunity to talk more freely than was usually the case.

He hadn’t disappointed her.

She remembered Blackwood’s provoking comment: Maybe I’ll stay on, to follow your progress with your new—well, he’s not so new, is he?

Not so new, perhaps, but compassionate, liberal-minded, and civilized .

And that’s enough, is it? an inner voice demanded.

It will suffice , she answered.

Yet the memory returned of Blackwood’s hand on her shoulder and the sound of his voice and the way she’d wanted—what? Disappointment?

Heartbreak?

Excitement.

She pushed unwanted thoughts away and looked about her and listened. The noise of the streets didn’t reach here, except as a distant murmur, and she seemed to be in a Garden of Eden. The sounds of birdsong, along with bird talk and argument—squawks and honks and shrieks—and the sound of water splashing in the fountains and ponds washed over the human voices.

Then she saw him.

At the cage holding the birds of prey, Blackwood stood, hands clasped behind his back, and riveted, apparently, upon one of

the creatures within. The crowd of spectators at the cage, with their hats and umbrellas, had hidden him from her before.

But the crowd quickly thinned, as crowds tended to do when the tall, dark figure appeared among them, and a few whispers here

and there alerted the ignorant to his identity.

She didn’t need to be alerted. She felt her pulse quicken and her senses sharpen with anticipation.

Of what? Frustration?

She told herself to continue in the other direction, where Doveridge would politely continue with her, but she hesitated a

heartbeat too long.

Blackwood turned and looked at them. He nodded and tipped his hat.

Doveridge cursed in his mind, but on the outside, he was his usual urbane self. He had no valid reason to cut the Duke of

Blackwood, he told himself.

Not that he wouldn’t have given a great deal at this moment to possess one.

He’d spent time with Lady Alice. Not as much as he’d like, but as much as he could without putting her reputation in danger or placing himself in a compromising position before he was absolutely certain. As she clearly understood, intelligent young woman that she was, one’s choice of spouse was no trivial matter.

And he’d lived a bachelor life for a very long time.

Still, he was sufficiently acquainted with her to notice the change in her now, as though the air about her had grown heavier

somehow, and vibrated.

Invisible yet palpable. And undeniable.

He reminded himself that certain people possessed a personal magnetism to which others responded instinctively, on an animal

level. Was that not the way he’d responded to her on that day in the bookshop?

Blackwood possessed something, certainly. It wasn’t entirely Their Dis-Graces’ notoriety that made people retreat, as though

expecting an explosion.

Or an uninvited goat.

Remembering the goat, Doveridge recovered his good humor. He smiled and said, “Why, here is the Duke of Blackwood. I’d no

idea he’d taken an interest in zoology.”

“I wonder who let him in,” Lady Alice said. “Then I ask myself, Who could keep him out?”

This was encouraging.

Not that Doveridge needed encouragement. He was, after all, a man of the world, a gentleman of two score and two, hardly one

of the unseasoned young fellows who languished after Lady Alice and her circle. He was a courtier of long standing, an intimate

of both the previous and the present King, not to mention the Tsar of Russia. He was a hardworking member of the House of

Lords. He’d dealt with snakes and scorpions in human form since his minority.

He was not afraid of dangerous young men. He’d been one himself, once upon a time.

He returned Blackwood’s acknowledgment. Then there was no choice, really. As a member of the Zoological Society, one must welcome His Dis-Grace to the zoo.

Blackwood was aware of her before he saw her, in the way that one senses an approaching storm. Or, more prosaically, he’d

probably noticed her out of the corner of his eye. She always did dress to be noticed. That was enough to break the spell

the golden eagle held over him, and to make him turn away and look straight at her.

And there she was, the orchid amid domestic flora, fully encased up to her neck today in a walking dress of thick violet silk.

The upper part appeared to continue below the belt, to create the effect of a shorter coat over the skirt. Her hat was the

same color, of watered silk, with a gold moiré lining. The gold enhanced her green eyes. In the fitful sunlight, it seemed

to create a halo about her face.

For a moment he saw his hands cupping her face while he bent his head toward the enigmatic smile. He remembered the feel of

her mouth against his and the taste of her and the sensation of falling and drowning...

But he’d been a boy, nineteen, infatuated for the first time. The only time.

If he’d thrown away an opportunity—but he hadn’t, really. He couldn’t be the man she needed and deserved.

Doveridge is that man , Conscience said.

Blackwood shoved Conscience into the mental cavern.

“There you are,” he said when the pair drew near. “Lady Alice.” He bowed. “Duke.” Another bow.

Which was returned with equal courtesy.

Doveridge, too, must have a volume of Correct Behavior stuck inside his brain forever.

“This is a most welcome surprise,” Doveridge said. “You take an interest in zoology?”

“I’m partial to wild animals.”

Doveridge smiled. “Then you’ll be agreeably entertained, I trust.”

Blackwood contemplated the agreeable entertainment of feeding the duke to the nearby vulture.

Which was childish. Doveridge wasn’t Worbury but the opposite. Furthermore, not being dead yet, the duke was unappetizing

to vultures.

Doveridge was a damned paragon. Only his political foes had anything bad to say about him, and most of them were blockheads.

Alice had done the intelligent thing in captivating him. Not that he was her only victim. A handful of puppies hovered—though

at a safe distance—gazing at her as though at Venus rising from the waves. And while these half-fledged beaux could hardly

compete with a man of Doveridge’s rank and stature, he was, like them, a man. No person of sense could blame him for being

infatuated with her, and Society, according to Lynforde, had no doubt the man had fallen into that condition.

And so, having no excuse to do otherwise, Blackwood said what Correct Behavior required. “A fine collection—what I’ve seen of it so far. I shall have to make a proper tour at another time. Today, however,

I only came to have a word with Lady Alice. I went to Sussex Place and was informed that she and Lady Kempton were here.”

He was aware of Alice all but visibly vibrating with something. Anger, no doubt, at his turning up to interrupt her enslavement

of Methuselah.

“A message from Ripley,” he said, and felt her anger or whatever it was change to something else. “A family matter. I only want a moment.”

Blackwood led her a short distance away from the others. They didn’t need to go far. The vociferous birds and talkative humans

thwarted eavesdropping.

“I’m sorry to keep you from your lover,” Blackwood said. “I realize he hasn’t much time, and we oughtn’t to fritter it away.

I’ll be brief.”

Her green eyes narrowed. “A message from my brother, you said.”

“In strict truth, Ripley’s message was to me. But I knew you’d want to be informed. First, to ease your mind: He isn’t near

death or even damaged.”

“Or wasn’t when he wrote.”

The late March morning scene played in his mind. He pushed it back into the mental cavern.

“Yes, let’s be precise, shall we?” he said. “To the best of my knowledge, he’s thriving. However, it seems I’ve got him into

trouble with Lady Charles, and he’s been summoned to Camberley Place for an inquisition.”

She grasped her umbrella more tightly, preparatory, no doubt, to braining him. “Plague take you, Giles. You know you are not

to upset my aunt.”

“Do you suppose I did it on purpose?”

“I suppose you rarely think.”

He wished he could stop thinking.

“Lady Charles ordered Ripley to keep out of London while you set about subjugating the male population,” he said. “She was concerned that he might frighten away potential captives. But I couldn’t put off my business in Town.” That wasn’t a lie, exactly. Worbury was urgent business, and Blackwood had arrived not a minute too soon.

“I assumed the injunction didn’t apply to me,” he went on. “An error of judgment.”

Not his first. So many errors he couldn’t undo. So many bridges burnt.

“You split hairs very fine,” she said.

“Lady Charles seems to see it that way,” he said. “Word reached her that I was here, and now your brother’s in her black books,

and I must go with him and take my punishment.”

There it was, the spark of strong emotion in the green eyes. It came and went like a flash of lightning, yet he was sure he

hadn’t imagined it.

“I see.” She stared at the vulture. It stared back.

Her gaze returned to Blackwood. “Thank you for informing me. I shall endure your absence as best I can.”

She walked back to her ancient beau. She did not look back.