A Duke to Remember (A Season for Scandal Book 2) (28 page)

The duke’s expression was positively glacial. “I give the orders here, Miss Moore, not you. Don’t presume that I will ever follow your lead.”

Irritation surged. “Take a look around you, Your Grace. Do you see a crew of sailors anxiously awaiting your direction?” She put emphasis on the last two words. “This is not your world. This is mine.”

“Get out of my house,” the duke said, his voice as sharp as cut glass. “Now.”

His aunt made a strangled sound of distress.

“If that is your wish, Your Grace, we will be happy to comply, of course. But I ask that you consider carefully. Our firm has been brought here by your aunt to preserve your good name and honor. Our objective is the same as yours: we want only to protect Lady Beatrice and the rest of your family. And what you must understand is that there is a window of opportunity here that is rapidly closing. Downstairs there is a ballroom filled with some of the most important and influential people in London. Soon those people will begin to wonder where the Earl of Debarry has gotten to. Soon people will start wondering where the comely Lady Beatrice—the guest of honor—is hiding. Soon people will come looking. And should they find a dead earl tied to Lady Beatrice’s bed, I will no longer be able to help you. But it is your choice, of course, if I stay or if I go.”

“I don’t need you to fix my problems,” the duke growled.

Ivory resisted the urge to roll her eyes. The duke was in so far over his head that he couldn’t even begin to see the surface. Instead she adopted her most neutral tone. “I’m not here to fix your problems, Your Grace, I’m here to fix those of Lady Beatrice.”

Lady Helen swayed slightly before straightening her shoulders with resolve. “Don’t be a fool. We need help. Neither you nor I can make this all disappear.”

The duke was shaking his head. “I can handle this.”

“Can you really?” his aunt asked. “How?”

Alderidge blinked, and Ivory suspected the duke was finally getting over his initial shock and was now considering the magnitude of the problem before him.

Helen continued on, relentless. “How will you make certain the honor of the Alderidge family is preserved? How will you prevent this, this…scene from becoming known to everyone? Do you intend to let malicious gossip and baseless slander ruin poor Beatrice’s life?”

Ivory rather suspected Lady Beatrice was doing a fine job of ruining things all on her own. But it was not for her to judge. Especially since a little ruin was always good for business.

“You’re supposed to be her guardian,” Lady Helen said bitterly. “A lady should have the protection of her brother. If you had ever once thought of anyone but yourself, we would not now find ourselves here, in this sordid and disgusting position.”

“My lady,” Ivory snapped, sensing that this conversation was in danger of veering badly off track. “Now is not the time to point fingers. If you must lay blame, I would suggest you conduct that useless exercise tomorrow over tea, when your guests are gone and there is no longer a body tied to your niece’s bed.”

Whatever color had been left in Lady Helen’s stoic face fled, and her mouth gaped slightly. Ivory noticed Alderidge’s was similarly hanging open.

She put her hands on her hips. “Now, what is it going to be? Do you require our services on behalf of Lady Beatrice or not? Make a decision. Time is running out.”

The duke swore again, his expression black. “Very well. Consider yourself hired. My sister can’t…” He trailed off, as if searching for words.

Ivory pounced. “You must agree to defer to my instruction and trust in my expertise, Your Grace.”

Icy grey eyes snapped back to her. “I will agree to no such thing. I don’t even know you.”

“And I don’t know you, which is irrelevant. But I will not be able to do my job if you get in my way. Dissent will cost your sister everything.”

The duke muttered something vile under his breath. “Do what you must.” It sounded strained.

“Do I have your word?”

“You heard me the first time, Miss Moore. I do not need to repeat myself.”

“A wise choice then, Your Grace.” She produced a small card from a pocket sewn into her cloak and handed it to the duke. “In the event you need to find me in the future.”

Alderidge shoved the card in the pocket of his coat without even looking at it. “After tonight, Miss Moore, I hope to never see you again.”

That stung a little, though Ivory had no idea why it should. No one in their right mind
wanted
to see her. Her presence in someone’s home meant the parallel presence of some sort of acute social or family disaster.

She sniffed. “The feeling is quite mutual, Your Grace. The sooner we conclude this unfortunate bit of business, the better it will be for all involved. But I must warn you before I begin, if I may be so gauche, that the services provided by Chegarre and Associates are expensive.”

“Are they worth it?” Alderidge asked in a harsh voice.

Ivory held his gaze. “Always.”

Maximus Harcourt, tenth Duke of Alderidge, couldn’t remember ever having felt so helpless—or so furious. He had stepped into a nightmare that defied comprehension, and making it worse was the knowledge that he was not the person most qualified to handle it.

Unruly crews could be reformed. He could deal with tropical storms and raging seas. Pirates and smugglers could be summarily dispatched. Max had rarely met a problem he couldn’t best. He’d rarely met a problem with the power to confuse him. But this? Well, this was an altogether different sort of beast.

Which meant he was now at the mercy of Miss Moore. A woman who treated the discovery of a dead, naked earl tied to a missing virgin’s bed as though it were no more serious than a cup of spilled tea on an expensive rug. As though this sort of thing happened every day.

He’d never in all his life met a woman with such nerve. Or maybe it wasn’t nerve at all but simply arrogance. It was difficult to tell how old she was, though certainly she wasn’t any older than he. Even beneath her plain clothing and mundane cap, she was striking, in a most extraordinarily unconventional way. Her skin glowed like unblemished satin, framed by tendrils of hair the color of rich chestnut, shot through with mahogany. Her dark eyes were too wide, her mouth was too full, her cheekbones too sharp. Yet all of that together was somehow…flawless.

“Was that the ball gown your niece was wearing tonight?” Miss Moore was asking his aunt, pointing at a pile of abandoned lace and rose silk draped over a chair.

Max wrenched his gaze away from her face and, with a jolt, recognized the embroidered silk that he’d shipped to Bea the last time he’d been in China. He’d been sure his sister would love the detail.

“Yes.” Lady Helen pressed a hand to her lips, her face a peculiar ashen color.

“Then she’ll not be downstairs,” the dark-haired woman who had been introduced as Miss DeVries murmured. “Nor does she have any intention of returning to the ball.” She plucked the gown from the chair and held it up to her body with consideration.

Miss Moore nodded. “Let’s hope she has the good sense to stay away until we have a chance to speak with her.” She paused, eyeing the gown critically. “Can you make it work?”

“Most certainly,” said Miss DeVries, replacing the gown and then inexplicably loosening the ties on her own shapeless woolen dress. Max frowned, perplexed, then horrified, as the top half of her chemise was revealed. It slipped over a shoulder, revealing smooth skin puckered by scar tissue from what looked like an old bullet wound. He gaped before hastily averting his eyes. What kind of woman stripped in the middle of a room full of people? What kind of woman had cause to have been
shot
?

“Excellent.” Miss Moore turned to his aunt. “If you wish to preserve your niece’s reputation, and your own, you need to return downstairs. Your absence may have been noted by now, so I need you to circulate, smile pleasantly, and ensure everyone is having a marvelous time. If anyone comments on your absence, cite your nephew’s unexpected, yet welcome, return. I can’t stress enough the value of a good distraction, and the duke’s arrival will be splendid.”

“My sister is missing and you’re telling my aunt she should go and dance a quadrille?” Max could feel a vein throbbing at his temple.

Miss Moore glared at him and then turned her attention back to his aunt. She didn’t even give him the courtesy of a response. Bloody, bloody hell.

“Can you do that?” she was asking Helen.

Lady Helen nodded stiffly.

“If anyone asks about the whereabouts of Lady Beatrice, mention you just saw her at the refreshment table. Or near the ballroom doors. Somewhere that cannot be immediately verified.” Miss Moore put a hand on the older woman’s arm. “Your behavior is critical right now. No one must suspect you are anything but pleased with how successful the ball is. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“In thirty minutes you will visibly exit the ballroom and make your way to the bottom of the main staircase.”

“Why—”

“Thirty minutes. Can you do that?”

“Yes.”

He’d never heard Helen so tractable in his life.

Despite himself, Max was grudgingly impressed that Miss Moore had managed to handle his battle-ax of an aunt with a deft touch. That was something he hadn’t mastered, nor did he suspect he ever would. She was a good woman, but also a mighty annoyance. She delighted in repeating to him just how much she had sacrificed for
his
family, and it wore sorely on his nerves.

Miss Moore led her over to the door and cracked it open, peering out into the empty hallway. She turned back and softened her voice. “This will turn out all right, my lady. I suspect your niece is rather terrified right now. She’ll need you, and your forgiveness, when she comes home.”

Helen nodded and met Max’s eyes, her expression stony. “Your parents would be turning in their graves,” she said coldly. “If you have any regard for your sister, you will help Miss Moore do whatever it takes to find her and fix this.”

Max fought the acerbic response that jumped into his throat. As if he were incapable of recognizing that Bea’s future was hanging by a perilous thread. He became aware that Miss Moore was glaring at him again with those impenetrable dark eyes, and he swallowed his retort, nodding instead. Arguing with his aunt would get them nowhere.

“Arguing will get us nowhere.” Miss Moore stole his thought as soon as his aunt had departed and she’d locked the door behind her. “She’s upset, and I need everyone to keep a clear head.”

Resentment rose hard and fast. How dare this chit lecture him on maintaining composure in difficult circumstances? He was a sea captain, for God’s sake. Every day of his life brought difficult circumstances. The only difference being that he knew what to do with those.

Miss Moore had returned to the bed and was diligently working on the knots that bound the dead man’s wrists. Max strode to the footboard and began working on the bindings at his ankles.

“I refuse to believe my sister had anything to do with this,” Max said. He wondered for whose benefit he’d made that statement.

Miss Moore straightened slightly, brushing an errant strand of hair out of her eyes. “Your Grace, there is one thing you must understand. I do not get paid to form opinions or pass judgments.” She bent to retrieve a cloth bag by her feet and began stuffing the silk ribbons into it. “Frankly, I don’t really care if Debarry was your sister’s lover or not. What I do care about is ensuring she is not ruined, or worse, because of it.”

“Worse?”

“The earl is dead.” She was now collecting feathers and rose petals, and they too disappeared into the bag. The wine bottles followed with a loud clink.

Max felt his skin prickle with unease. “You can’t be serious. You think she
killed
him?”

“If she did, he went out a happy man,” Miss Moore remarked.

Max recoiled. “Bea is barely eighteen. She is beautiful and innocent and—”

Miss Moore had stopped and now turned to meet his eyes. He hated the sympathy that was in them, yet somehow he couldn’t bring himself to look away.

“My apologies. My comment was insensitive.” She approached him, searching his face. “How long have you been away, Your Grace?”

“What?”

Miss Moore remained silent, simply waiting for his answer.

Despite himself, he couldn’t think of a reason not to answer. “I own and captain Indiamen, Miss Moore. I am rarely in England. The last time was two years ago.”

“Ah.” She nodded, as if this bit of information somehow explained the situation in which they currently found themselves.

“I may not know my sister as well as you think I should, but I know she wouldn’t have an earl tied to her bed,” Maximus said, ignoring the tiny voice in the back of his head that was telling him he knew no such thing. “And I resent any implication otherwise.”

Miss Moore was still studying him carefully, and for the life of him, he couldn’t tell what she was thinking. Though he had the inexplicable feeling she was somehow seeing more than he cared for her to see.

“Is there a guest room on this floor?” she asked abruptly.

Max frowned, caught off guard. “There are two of them. At the end of the hall.”

“I’ll need your help to move his lordship.” She left him at the bed, discarding her own cloak, and bent to collect the abandoned clothing strewn about the room. A pair of trousers, then a shirt and a waistcoat. “We’ll need to redress him first to stage this properly.”

Maximus stared at her. Bloody hell, but this woman was unnerving.

She returned, the clothes draped over an arm, a faint look of annoyance across her face. “Quickly. Time is of the essence, Your Grace.” She plucked the ribbons from his unfeeling hands.

Max scowled. “If we’re going to dress a corpse together, then at least give me Debarry’s trousers.”

Miss Moore gazed at him with shrewd speculation.

“I have my limits, Miss Moore.”

“A gentleman,” she murmured, and he wasn’t sure at all that she wasn’t laughing at him.

“A poor assumption on your part,” Max muttered, but the woman’s only response was to toss the trousers in his direction.