My Inconvenient Duke (Difficult Dukes #3)

Chapter 11

Camberley Place

Afternoon of Sunday 6 May 1832

Lady Charles still wore mourning. She still mourned. The sadness lingered in her eyes, though it by no means dulled them.

Her mind was as dagger-sharp as ever.

She did not interrupt once during Blackwood’s explanation, though it was long and detailed. He felt she ought to know everything,

or very nearly everything. He simply couldn’t prevaricate with Ripley’s aunt. She’d been an aunt to Blackwood as well. Like

Ripley, he loved her dearly and respected her. Ashmont felt the same, he knew.

Moreover, she knew Alice better than he did, and couldn’t possibly be surprised, let alone scandalized.

She sat listening, her elbow on the arm of the drawing room’s scroll sofa. Her head rested on her hand.

No, rested wasn’t a proper description. She held her index and middle fingers at her temple and her thumb at the angle of her jaw under

her ear. He recognized the pose, and knew it was not a relaxed one. It was the look of one struggling for patience and, possibly,

words.

Because she said nothing, Ripley kept still, though it was clear he was poised to jump up and hit somebody or break things. Blackwood had told him the full story when they met at the Lovedon Arms last night. Today they’d traveled some thirty miles—this following Ripley’s sixty-mile journey from Newmarket. Nonetheless, Ripley’s anxiety about Alice and rage at his swine of a cousin hadn’t quieted much.

Blackwood understood.

When his tale was done, what felt like a year’s silence ensued before Lady Charles said, “Worbury is tiresome.”

“We should have let him drown when we had the chance,” Ripley said.

His aunt’s eyebrows went up.

“Long time ago,” Ripley said. “Not important.”

They had never revealed the facts of the fishing house episode to anybody, even Ashmont.

“Florentia never dropped a hint of these matters in her letters,” Lady Charles said. “She would not want to worry me, though

she must have been worried to death. I grieve to think of what she’s endured. But she’s had charge of Alice these last few

years, time enough to develop a degree of resilience. All the same, I do not understand why other girls can go on the Marriage

Mart without becoming involved with murderous gang leaders.”

“To be fair, that encounter could not be avoided,” Blackwood said. “Alice only wanted to keep the foul little boy out of Worbury’s

clutches. Perhaps you believe I ought to have put my foot down.”

“Refused to help my sister?” Ripley said. “As though you could stop her, short of locking her in a cage. And good luck trying that. Aunt, you remember what would happen whenever she was confined to quarters. It was a matter of pride and principle for her to break out, even if it meant breaking her neck. One doesn’t stop Alice. Can’t be done, short of violence. Even then it’s a tetchy business. All we can do is try to contain the damage.”

“I’d believed the warrior business was a phase she’d outgrow,” Lady Charles said. “Clearly there was more to it than children

playing Let’s Pretend.”

“There’s more to it,” Blackwood said. “That’s who Alice is.”

One could blame the company she kept: Keeffe. Miss Pomfret. But they only supported her in what she believed in, didn’t they?

Blackwood found himself wishing he’d been the one supporting her. All these years, and what had he accomplished, compared

to her?

Well, then, how was he to have known that when he was seventeen years old? Or nineteen. Or twenty-one. Or a month ago?

He became aware of Lady Charles’s penetrating gaze. Her eyes were hazel, changeable, but always keen. Even in sorrow, her

formidable mind seemed to catch the smallest clues.

“Her life would be easier if that were not the case,” she said. She smiled faintly. “Finding a spouse would be easier, I daresay.

Most gentlemen would prefer their wives perform heroic acts without calling attention to themselves or inconveniencing their

husbands.”

“I’ll wish them good luck in achieving that dream,” Ripley muttered.

“Given the circumstances, I don’t see what else she could have done,” Blackwood said. “She was deeply distressed about the

boy. I cannot say why. He’s one of the most unpromising specimens I’ve ever had the misfortune to come within smelling range

of. All the same, even I couldn’t relish the prospect of his falling into Worbury’s hands.”

Lady Charles closed her eyes. “Please tell me she isn’t making plans to teach him a lesson.”

“Whatever for?” Ripley said. “She knows Blackwood took care of it, as he described. Very neatly done it was, too.”

The lady’s eyes opened and her gaze fixed, like a bayonet, on Blackwood.

“I saw the note in Foxe’s Morning Spectacle about the mob in Golden Square on Thursday morning,” she said. “A Reform Bill demonstration, they claimed.”

“What could be neater than that?” Ripley said. “Everybody else thinks it’s politics, and the Worm thinks he’s come up against

a crime lord! Ha-ha!”

“He has, actually,” Blackwood said. “If he’d gone after one of Madam Proudie’s senior boys, rather than a recent acquisition,

I believe Worbury would regret it very much.”

“I should rather my niece not become involved with felons, Giles.”

Too late , he thought.

“We’d all like that,” he said. “Still, her charity isn’t merely for show, and one can’t deny her courage. I wonder how many

other members of the upper orders would risk their lives for a street child.”

“In which case I must be glad you were on the spot,” she said.

Blackwood did not swoon with relief, but he felt it wash through him, a slight cooling and quieting of the inner turmoil.

“What could’ve been better?” Ripley said. “Blackwood’s the one of us three with finesse, and this proves it. No scandal. No

lovers running away in terror on account of him, either. Nobody who signifies, at any rate.”

“Indeed, you or even the three of you at once are unlikely to frighten away a man like Doveridge,” Lady Charles said. “To him you are mere striplings—ill-behaved ones, to be sure, but little more than naughty boys to a man like him.”

“Ouch,” Ripley said. “I knew Auntie would bare her talons sooner or later, didn’t you, Blackwood?”

Whether he’d expected the jab or not, Blackwood felt it.

“Sad to say, your revered aunt speaks no more than the simple truth,” he said. “Unlike nearly everybody else, Doveridge failed

to turn pale at the sight of me. Instead of slinking away, he advanced in the most amiable manner and welcomed me.”

Alice had not, but she wouldn’t. She couldn’t wait to be rid of him.

They’d been partners in crime briefly, but what did that signify? He’d helped her retrieve the boy. He’d helped her in the

past. That didn’t make him her hero. If, on occasion, she found his general worthlessness and bad behavior useful, that didn’t

mean she forgave him or had stopped hating him.

He’d hurt her badly—once, most certainly. Very likely he’d hurt her on other occasions without realizing.

He knew he’d hurt her a few weeks ago.

He couldn’t blame Ashmont. Blackwood had been as drunk as the other two. He’d participated. Then, angry with himself, he’d

slunk away in shame. Promptly thereafter he’d done the usual to stifle those disagreeable feelings.

They’d left Camberley Place, and then...

For a moment the drawing room seemed to dissolve into a hazy landscape while thoughts raced through his mind like wind-driven

clouds.

And then...

Alice had gone to London.

And then...

Instead of returning to the Continent and her best friend, she’d gone on the Marriage Mart.

I set a date a month ago , she’d said on that day at Hyde Park Corner.

A month would make it the thirtieth of March.

He looked at Ripley, who might have died that day, who might even now be sealed away in the family vault at Castle Ancaster,

or here at Camberley Place, next to the uncle he’d loved.

With her brother dead, Alice would find herself at Worbury’s mercy. Then, no matter what the law said, no matter what Ripley’s

will said, Worbury would find a way to make her life a purgatory. He’d dispute every last legal detail and do everything else

his filthy mind could devise to punish her and everyone who tried to help her.

He was a reckless profligate who’d destroy the dukedom, in any event. He’d complete the ruination her father had begun and

Ripley had spent years repairing.

That was why.

That was why she was ready to throw herself away on a man who didn’t know her and would have no idea how to deal with her.

Worbury wouldn’t dare to tackle Doveridge. The duke would crush him like the worm he was.

My fault , Blackwood thought. This is all my fault.

The two dukes departed Camberley Place on the following day, leaving Lady Charles to the melancholy that nobody and nothing

could assuage, except, perhaps, time. At least she’d forgiven Blackwood and understood why he needed to remain in London until

Worbury left it.

“Remain discreetly , if you please,” she’d said.

The hard part was persuading Ripley not to hang about in Kensington, waiting for word or plotting his cousin’s demise. Patience wasn’t Ripley’s greatest skill, and while not as volatile and unpredictable as Ashmont, he could be single-minded and heedless when Something Was Wrong.

Not altogether unlike his sister.

Blackwood sent a message to Lynforde, inviting him to join them for dinner at the Lovedon Arms. The earl was a calming influence.

Equally important, since he always knew the latest gossip, he’d be among the first to learn of Worbury’s doings.

When they reached the inn, they found Lynforde awaiting them. They adjourned to Ripley’s rooms, and dinner was sent up. Once

the food was served, Ripley dismissed his valet, Snow, to give the gentlemen complete privacy. His servants were discreet

and trustworthy. All the same, he’d rather they didn’t overhear certain conversations.

“Can you credit it?” he said to Lynforde as they began dissecting their chops. “Going after a child, to spite my sister, merely

because she protected the brat. And he a street child, no less, ignorant and ragged and half-starved. Somebody needs to teach

my cousin to pick on somebody up to his weight.”

“If you try to teach him, he’ll only nurse a grudge, and go after another unfortunate, to get even,” Blackwood said. “Let

the demonstration and Maggie’s message do the work.”

“It seems that’s been accomplished,” Lynforde said. “Worbury told Lady Bartham that he intends to visit an invalid aunt in

Bath. He and Consett mean to set out on Tuesday or Wednesday. In the meantime, he’s playing least in sight.”

“I should rather he set out for the Outer Hebri des,” Ripley said. “Excellent chance he’ll drown en route. Will somebody please explain to me why I can’t kill him?”

“We’re not to make scandal, remember?” Blackwood said. “Killing your heir is Not Done.” The rule was bound to be somewhere

in Correct Behavior .

“There’ll be a scandal only if I get caught,” Ripley said.

“You’ve never killed a man in your life,” Blackwood said. “You’re sure to bollix it up.”

“Leave it to Blackwood,” Lynforde said. “He’s already frightened the fellow out of his wits without uttering a word to him.”

“Right,” Ripley said. “Finesse.” He raised his tankard. The Lovedon Arms was known for its ale. “Here’s to the finesse of

my friend and brother by bonds thicker than blood, and whom I’ve missed, actually. Let’s have another toast, then, to Blackwood’s

rejoining his brothers at Newmarket in the very near future.”

Tuesday or Wednesday , Blackwood thought. So soon.

More toasts were drunk as the evening wore on.

But it wasn’t the usual drunken debauch, lasting into the small hours. Ripley had a long journey ahead of him tomorrow, and

Blackwood wanted to be in London in case Worbury devised any parting atrocities. They left Ripley soon after dinner.

“I thank you for coming on short notice,” Blackwood said as he and Lynforde rode back to Town. “As I’d hoped, his mood improved

markedly when you turned up.”

“He was right to be furious,” Lynforde said. “I fear we didn’t beat Worbury often enough and hard enough when we were at school.

Now I’m reluctant to dirty my hands.”

“One of these days he’ll annoy the wrong person,” Blackwood said. “Somebody free of our delicate sensibilities and exquisite principles. For now, I only want him far from London.”

“Then you can rejoin your friends.”

Blackwood glanced about him. They were approaching the King’s Arms. Here the granite paving stones ended, as did the inns

and taverns that clustered along this portion of the road. They’d meet another cluster as they neared Hyde Park Corner...

where it had all started.

The episode with Alice and the pickpockets played in his mind. He could hardly believe it had happened only a week ago.

He drew his attention back to the present and said, “Once Worbury’s gone, there’s no compelling reason for me to remain—although

I’ll miss your company. Why don’t you come with me?”

Lynforde laughed. “I grow old. I haven’t the stamina.”

“You’re not thirty.”

“Perilously close, my friend. Another few weeks only. And truly, I no longer have the wherewithal to keep up with you three.”

He no longer had the desire, more likely. Blackwood had caught hints here and there that, after some five years of widowhood,

Lynforde, too, was beginning to contemplate marriage.

A lot of that going about. Alice. Doveridge, the confirmed bachelor. Lynforde, the longtime widower.

Too bad. Blackwood had enjoyed spending time again with Lynforde. He was good company and not demanding. One needn’t always

remain braced for battle to erupt or be prepared to deal with whatever uproar had to be dealt with.

Blackwood had hoped—well, what?

Whatever it was, he’d think about it another time, or never.

“Then we’ll make the most of what time remains to me in London,” he said.

“Can you endure an hour or two of nearly pure idleness?” Lynforde said. “The Society of Painters in Watercolors has mounted

a new exhibition. I’d planned to attend tomorrow.”

“Do nothing but look at pictures?” Blackwood said.

“I’m afraid so.”

“No children likely to be kidnapped? No criminal acts on offer? No crises?”

“Unlikely, I’d say. One or two persons demonstrating their ignorance in loud voices is about as much excitement as we can

expect.”

“Sounds perfect,” Blackwood said.

Blackwood House

Tuesday 8 May 1832

The midday visit to the exhibition passed peacefully.

Blackwood’s arrival home did not.

He entered his house to find his butler in a high state of emotion.

This was unheard-of.

Dawson was never agitated. His normal self was wooden.

The butler had Views, and in his View, servants were to keep Feelings to themselves, reserving them for their leisure time,

which, by the way, they ought not to have too much of, because it put Ideas into their heads. It was not a servant’s business

to have Ideas. They encouraged Feelings.

At present Feelings seemed to have overcome him. His face was red. His usual stately manner had deserted him. Speech burst out of him in rushes, not altogether coherently.

“Snow was here?” Blackwood repeated, unsure he’d heard correctly.

“He left not half an hour ago, and I assure Your Grace that I did my best to detain him. It was of no avail. He was in a shocking

state of nervous upset. He would go to Lady Kempton, though I endeavored to explain that this was highly inadvisable. Whatever the trouble was—and I must

apologize, Your Grace, because it was exceedingly difficult to make heads or tails of his speech, so agitated he was.”

Gone to Lady Kempton.

This wasn’t good news, in a hundred ways.

Blackwood bit back some extremely bad words. “I take your meaning,” he said. “But the main points, Dawson, if you please.”

With visible effort, the butler composed himself. “As I understand it, Your Grace, the crucial point is that Snow has lost

his master.”

At first Blackwood thought that Ripley had dismissed Snow. But that was impossible. Snow was a paragon among valets. Ripley

was no more likely to part with him than to dismiss his brilliant French chef, Chardot.

Then light dawned. “Do you mean Snow can’t find him?”

“That seemed to be the gist of it, Your Grace.”

“And now he’s gone to Lady Kempton.”

“I remonstrated with him, Your Grace. I told him he ought to know better. ‘Their Graces will have their little jokes,’ I told

him. To no avail.”

Unlike Ashmont’s valet, Sommers—who cried at the drop of a hat or a handkerchief and sobbed over fluff on a coat sleeve—Ripley’s man was a steely fellow, as unlikely a candidate for hysteria as Blackwood’s valet, Springate.

Blackwood thought quickly, something he was accustomed to do, given his friends’ propensities for sudden starts and whims,

not to mention accidents. “Thank you, Dawson. I shall want the mail phaeton as soon as may be.”

Ripley might be perfectly well. He might be the opposite. In the latter case, one needed a larger vehicle than the cabriolet.

In the mail phaeton, one might safely though not very comfortably stow incapacitated persons. Dead drunk persons. Post-melee

persons.

“I took the liberty of ordering it, Your Grace. In the circumstances, and expecting you momentarily, as I tried to tell Mr.

Snow.”

It wouldn’t be the first time Blackwood had needed to retrieve one of his friends. His servants were old hands.

After taking a few minutes to make suitable changes to his attire, Blackwood went out again. He found his carriage drawn up

at the door, his powerful matched bays, Circe and Sappho, in harness. In lieu of a footman, a more useful though less decorative

groom by name of Pratt accompanied the duke’s tiger, Elphick.

Dawson had thought of everything, as he was exceedingly well paid to do.

That was the easy part.