Along Came a Duke (29 page)

Preston, ever the helpful rake, leaned over and said loud enough for all to hear, “How do you know it hasn't been already?” He waggled his brows and winked up at Lady Ancil.

“Your Grace is no gentleman!” Barkworth declared.

The two men glared at each other until Tabitha grew weary of both of them. Wretched Preston for implying that he'd ruined her and Barkworth for being so . . . well, Barkworth!

She swatted Barkworth's hand aside and went to climb down from the carriage, until she got to the curb and sidewalk and her ankle protested. She cried out and caught hold of the carriage. Mr. Muggins leapt down from his spot and took up watch by her side.

Harriet pushed past the crowd on the steps and came to her aid. “Tabitha! Whatever happened?”

“I twisted my ankle in the park,” she explained as Harriet helped her up the steps.

“Barkworth said nothing of you being injured,” her friend said loudly, sending censorious gazes at both Lord and Lady Timmons, as well as Lady Ancil.

Lady Timmons eyed her niece. “What has
he
done to you?”

“Nothing,” Tabitha told her. “The duke merely brought me home from the park after I fell. He was there with his carriage, and since it seemed improbable that Mr. Barkworth could carry me home—”

There was a loud sniff from Lady Ancil at this suggestion.

“—His Grace offered to bring me home.” She glanced at Harriet, who looked ready to murder someone.

“Mr. Barkworth arrived with a wild tale that the duke had spirited you away. That Mr. Muggins had attacked some lady or another, and that he—I mean Barkworth—had been injured saving her.” Harriet huffed an exasperated sigh. “It all sounded like a great bouncer to me, though no one would believe me.”

“Oh, how ridiculous!” Tabitha replied. “I fell and the duke gave me a ride home. Truly, I do not understand how anyone could find anything amiss in his kindness or why there is this need to invent such tales.”

Something Preston had said, about making her own choices, had lit a fire inside Tabitha. Or perhaps she was more than a little annoyed at having lost the opportunity to kiss him again.

Her heart still hammered a bit unevenly, and when she realized how close he'd been to stealing that kiss if it hadn't been for Barkworth's interruption, she clenched her teeth in frustration.

Lady Ancil, having also grown weary—or perhaps worried that Barkworth would grow rash and issue some insult grievous enough to warrant seconds and an early morning meeting on some grassy knoll—called over to her son, “Reginald, we are leaving.” Then she turned to Tabitha's aunt. “This is unforgivable. I will not have my son ridiculed for some hoyden's lack of modesty. All Barkworths possess an exacting standard of decorum, and your niece . . .” Her nose wrinkled up and she shuddered.

“Lady Ancil, you cannot mean—”

That she would insist her son cry off? Tabitha glanced from one to the other, her fingers crossed. Oh, if only it was that simple.

“I do indeed!” Lady Ancil declared. “Hear me clearly on this: keep that gel under lock and key until they are wed or I shall hold you personally responsible, Lady Timmons.”

Lady Timmons blanched but then held her own, saying, “My niece is naught but an innocent in all this.”

Her staunch defense surprised Tabitha, until she realized it wasn't just her reputation her aunt was defending but those of her daughters as well.

Her unmarried daughters.

“Inside,” Lady Timmons instructed, pointing the way. She turned to the carriage before her house and said to the duke, “Your Grace, my husband and I are indebted for the help you provided our niece, but please understand that your assistance is no longer required.”

Harriet smiled over at Tabitha. “I do believe your aunt just told the Duke of Preston to shove off.”

Her aunt didn't know Preston very well. He wasn't one to “shove off” in the least. Rather, such a threat would only make him more of a rapscallion.

Tabitha caught one last glimpse of him before her uncle slammed the door shut. While the sight of his solid jaw, upturned handsome lips and the bright light in his eyes stole her heart, utterly and completely, when she looked over at her aunt and uncle's stony, furious expressions, Preston made her wish—yet again—that he'd never come along.

“H
athaway! There you are!”

Mr. Chauncey Hathaway opened one eye and peered up at the young man standing in front of the chair where he'd been dozing. The eager, grinning fellow had probably only been with the Home Office for a few months.

Or else he wouldn't be grinning over his discovery.

For Chaunce was in no mood to be found. He'd spent a good part of the night breaking into the offices of Kimball, Dunnington, and Pennyman. And even so, he'd only managed to catch—he glanced up at the grand clock just down the way—an hour's worth of sleep before he'd hied himself off to White's to find the Duke of Preston.

Yes, yes, he'd told Preston he had a friend in the office, but that had only been to hold off the man from doing something stupid.

Oh, he knew Preston's sort. The duke would go blustering over to the solicitor's offices, all high-handed titles and demands, and the next thing you knew, one of the clerks would be dispatched to Grately, and then Barkworth, and finally Sir Mauris, alerting them all that the jig was up.

In an hour's time, one, or all of them, would have Tabitha bundled up in a carriage on the way to Gretna Green.

No, that would never work, and Chaunce knew well enough that Harry would hold him personally responsible for such a travesty. “A dreadful tragedy,” she would call it. Then she'd spend the next ten years lamenting that he should have “done something” to prevent it all.

Rather like she still blamed him for losing her best fishing rod in the pond when he was fourteen and she only ten.

So he had done something. He'd lied. And then done what he did best. Gone to the source.

Still, it had been no easy feat getting in, discovering where Winston Ludlow's will was filed, copying down the extensive points, and then escaping Temple's Inn before being caught. He'd nearly broken his neck getting out of the second-story offices, and then he'd been chased by one of the guards at Temple's Inn for farther than even he would like to admit.

Shifting from one foot to another, the fellow eyed him quizzically. “Sir, you are required at the Home Office. Immediately.”

Chaunce eyed the fellow and didn't even bother to get up. Not that he would have been overly impressed and sprung into immediate action if it had been a more senior fellow.

He rubbed the back of his head and groaned. Next time he'd find a source on the ground floor.

“Mr. Hathaway? Sir?” the man before him repeated, reaching out and giving him a shake. “The minister has had us all looking for you since past midnight. He wants to know where you've been.” And apparently so did this fellow. Likely so he would have something to nudge about the office.

Found Hathaway at White's looking as drunk as David's sow, and you'll never believe what he'd been doing. . .

“Here,” he replied. “Must have fallen asleep. Quite a night.” Wouldn't do for the minister to find out he'd been moonlighting for an addle-pated duke who just didn't realize he was in love.

“Yes, if you say so, sir.” The young man cleared his throat and eyed him suspiciously. “If you are ready, I have a carriage downstairs—”

“I can't go yet,” Chaunce told the anxious fellow. “I have something I must do first.”

And as luck would have it, down the hall a commotion began to brew and Chaunce leaned forward to eye the gathering storm. Ah, in the middle of it all stood Roxley. Not surprising and perfectly well-timed.

Roxley would know where Preston could be found.

“The minister said—” the young man badgered before Chaunce glared at him again. Clearly this fellow was well on his way into management.

“Yes, yes, I'm sure old Iron Drawers said to haul me in, even if you had to clap me in chains.” He pinned a piercing stare on the younger man as he got up. It helped that he was a good head taller than this underling. “Did you bring any manacles with you?”

The fellow stepped back and glanced around. “Certainly not,” he said in a hushed, reserved voice. “This is White's.”

“Just as I thought. A moment then, Mr. —?”

“Mr. Hotchkin.”

“Yes, well, Hotchkin, I've a bit of business I need to tidy up and then you can haul me before the minister, your mission a success.” Pushing past the junior clerk and heading toward the knot where Roxley stood facing down another man, Chaunce paused for a moment to gauge the tide before him.

“A vowel?” Roxley was complaining. “Poggs, you lost—fair and square—and you never once said you were going to pay your winnings with a vowel!” The earl stood nose to nose with the other man.

A baron, Chaunce recalled.

Lord Poggs appeared hardly concerned by the earl's ire. “ 'Tis all I can do at the moment, my lord. 'Tis an honorable offer. I've got a horse running this afternoon, and when I collect—”

“When you collect! I've got pockets of promises like that and no one ever pays them,” Roxley complained, plucking several out of his coat and holding them out as evidence.

“Ought to find plumper pockets to pick, eh, Roxley,” a lounger nearby tossed out.

Roxley looked ready to kick up a dust, so Chaunce shouldered his way into the fray before it did turn into something more. “My lord, a moment of your time.”

“Eh?” Roxley looked around and blinked. The man always had the appearance of being half-seas over, but Chaunce knew better. “Ah, Hathaway! You devil! What are you doing here?”

“I wondered if you knew when Preston was going to come by. I have that information for him.” Chaunce held up the sheets of paper he'd jotted the notes down on.

“Information for Preston?” Roxley shook his head. Then the light dawned in his eyes. “Oh!
That
information.” He nodded. “Give it to me.”

Chaunce snorted and took a step back.

“Good God, man. I'll make sure he gets it. I'm staying with Preston. At least until my aunt returns to Kempton.” The earl held out his hand, and when Chaunce paused, Roxley shook it, as if to emphasize his point.

“Mr. Hathaway, will you be much longer?” The young fellow from the ministry was back at his elbow adding to Chaunce's already present headache. This fellow was going to end up the prime minister one day, or found in the Thames drowned by his subordinates.

So, pressured from all sides, Chaunce—against his better judgment—surrendered the pages. “If you can't get them to Preston, tell Harry that ‘the lady in question must get that gentleman to cry off.'”

“Cry off?” Roxley asked, blinking.

“Yes, yes,” Chaunce told him. “Tell Harry that they must find a way to get him to cry off. She'll know what to do.”

“Harry always does,” Roxley replied as he stuffed the papers Chaunce had given him into the inside pocket of his jacket, along with the rest of the vowels and nonsense he kept tucked away in there. “Give the papers to Preston and call on Harry. Get ‘im to cry off. Yes. Yes. I've got it.”

This did little to assuage Chaunce's misgivings, but what else could he do? He could hardly waste another hour or so hunting down either his sister or the duke.

Besides, the fellow they'd sent to herd him back to Whitehall looked as persistent as a sheepdog. And willing to bite if necessary.

“Now, Hotchkin, you have the honor of having found me,” Hathaway told the younger fellow. “Take me in.”

“Oh sir, thank you,” Hotchkin enthused.

Chaunce smiled. Fool. Obviously a Cambridge man, or he'd remember the old adage about shooting the messenger. Old Iron Drawers would probably give them both a thorough wigging.

Guilty by association, and all.

As Chaunce strode toward the stairs, Hotchkin at his heels, he could distinctly hear Roxley saying, “If it must be a vowel, then summon the man to fetch a pen and ink. I've got a piece of paper here—”

And for once in his life, Chaunce ignored the ripple of warning that ran down his spine.

As it turned out, Harry never did let him forget it.

Chapter 13

B
 anished to her bedchamber, Tabitha wanted nothing more than to pace the floor in frustration. However, her ankle prevented her from even that bit of relief. With it propped on a pillow, she looked out over her prison and frowned.

While Daphne was there to keep her company, she sat bent over the desk, writing a letter that held all her interest, her arm curved around it. She wrote quickly and avidly, unlike her usually carefully crafted compositions.

Though she could hear the occasional sound of the bell ringing or her uncle stomping about below, no one ventured upstairs to see them. Not even Eloisa, who was prone to gloating and would probably see this as a perfect opportunity.

Though it was good that she hadn't, because Daphne had sworn that if Tabitha's pert cousin rapped on the door, she would personally sew feathers into every bonnet the girl owned.

The only diversion had been from Harriet, who had spotted Roxley lounging against the streetlight across the way and had snuck downstairs to meet him, despite Lady Timmons's threat that if one of them set foot outside their room, she would pack the lot of them home to Kempton in disgrace.

Tabitha sighed, for her thoughts were awash with everything that had transpired with Preston—his rescue, the drive, the way he'd held her hands, his confession.

He'd stolen her heart anew, and she felt the fresh sting of tears in her eyes. When she glanced up and found Daphne watching her, she dashed them away.

She hadn't even noticed that her friend's letter was now carefully blotted and folded.

“I'm afraid I owe you an apology,” Daphne said.

“How so?”

“Barkworth is not the man for you,” she replied.

“Even if he is a gentleman?” Tabitha posed in a teasing voice. “And in line to inherit a fine title?”

Daphne waved her off as she tucked the now-folded missive she'd been answering into a packet of similar letters all bound up in a red ribbon.

Before Tabitha could get to the bottom of this change of heart, Harriet came rushing in. “I have the best news, and I think this is even better news,” she said, holding up a crisp white letter closed with a fancy seal. “I stole it off the salver before your cousins caught wind of it.”

Tabitha glanced at the note. “Is it from Preston?”

Harriet shook her head. “No, Barkworth.”

Sinking back into her pillow, Tabitha didn't want anything to do with what could only be a lecture on her general lack of decorum.

“Tabitha, this could be excellent news,” Harriet insisted, thrusting the note into her hands. “Read it. Quickly! I am dying to know—”

Sighing, Tabitha slid a finger under the wax and broke the seal. Unfolding the letter, she skipped the superfluous portions and got to the most salient point.

She looked up at Harriet. “He still intends to marry me.” For a man who took such great pride in his family's sterling reputation, whatever was it about her that had him overlooking every trial she laid at his doorstep?

She could guess that it had everything to do with Uncle Winston's fortune.

“He does?” Harriet shook her head. “That will never do!”

“You think?!” Tabitha snapped and immediately regretted it.

Harriet paid it little heed, waving her off. “No, no, you are right to be vexed, especially when I tell you what Roxley had to say—he brought good news from my brother.”

Tabitha's eyes lit up. “About my uncle's will?”

“Yes!”

Daphne sat up. “What is this?”

“Preston . . . I mean . . . His Grace believes that my uncle's will more than likely has provisions that allow me to inherit without marrying Barkworth.”

Daphne's eyes widened. “Whyever didn't we think of that?”

Harriet nodded. “Chaunce procured a copy for the duke, and just in case the duke couldn't get to you in time, he sent Roxley over with a simple instruction.”

Getting to her feet, Daphne came over to stand next to Tabitha, taking her hand and holding it fast. “Which is?”

Taking a deep breath, Harriet conveyed her message. “Get Barkworth to cry off.”

“Cry off?” Daphne said. “Oh, that is an excellent notion.”

It was. But there was only one problem.

Tabitha sank onto her narrow bed. “That will never happen.”

Harriet's brow furrowed. “He looked ready to cry off this afternoon. His mother threatened just that when she gave your aunt that wigging.”

“She can threaten all she wants,” Tabitha said, having looked back down at the letter she still held and scanned a few more lines. “Despite my ‘general lack of understanding of the propriety that is expected of the future Marchioness of Grately'”—she shook her head—“he says he and his mother will endeavor to see that I am fit for the task and have a clear understanding of ‘my duties' before the unfortunate day arrives when I shall rise so far above my station.”

Even Daphne shuddered. Tabitha suspected it had to do with the word “duties.”

Frankly the notion of “duties” with Barkworth didn't leave her shuddering so much as ill right down to her toes.

“I cannot marry him,” Tabitha told them. “I cannot!”

“I agree,” Daphne said.

Harriet's gaze swiveled at this. “You do?” Especially since Daphne had been one of Barkworth's most ardent supporters.

“What? I don't have the right to change my mind?” Daphne poked her nose in the air. “Upon a closer acquaintance, I have decided he is an insufferable boor.”

“That is self-evident,” Harriet muttered.

After sending a pained glance at her friend and issuing a large sigh, Daphne laid out her list. “That he would continue to insist on your marriage even after your disgraceful behavior—”

“My—” Tabitha protested, but she was cut off by a pinning glance that was the Dale hallmark.

“Yes, your scandalous behavior,” Daphne repeated. “His acceptance indicates he is only marrying you for your money.” She shook her head, for such a notion was repellent to someone even as practical as Daphne. “Therefore he is not a gentleman.”

“He's a boody-witted nobcock,” Harriet corrected.

“That as well,” Daphne agreed, which was a momentous concession in itself.

“Preston promised to help me send him packing, but what am I to do? Barkworth writes that his uncle will announce our engagement tomorrow night!” Tabitha shuddered. There would be no turning back once that announcement was made.

Harriet and Daphne sat down on the small sofa and frowned at this turn of events.

Then Harriet perked up. “There is always the Kempton Curse. Barkworth may go mad on your wedding night and then you will have your freedom—as a lovely widow.”

Daphne shook her head, as if she'd never heard such foolishness. “Harriet, it is the bride who goes mad. Barkworth just ends up dead. That will never do. Even for a nobcock like Barkworth.”

“I think I might go mad at the very thought of having to marry him,” Tabitha confessed.

“Refuse,” Daphne told her. “They cannot force you.”

“Yes, I fear they can,” Harriet said. “I overheard your cousins when I went downstairs. Your Uncle Bernard has been summoned up from Kempton to perform the ceremony, since he will have no qualms about marrying you even if you protest. I fear you may have no choice in the matter.”

No choice in the matter. . .

“Oh, dear,” Daphne said. “Whatever is to be done?”

Not what
, Tabitha realized,
who
.

“There is always Preston,” she said more to herself.

“The duke?” Daphne asked, her head turning toward her friend. “Whatever would he do?”

Tabitha slid her hand into her pocket and felt the familiar knick of his penny. “Hopefully something unforgivably scandalous.”

Yet even as she thought of asking him to help her, quite possibly ruin her, she knew she couldn't.

Oh, the consequences for her would be dire, but for him? She couldn't ask him to help her—not if it meant his aunt and uncle would move out and leave him all alone.

Not when it would cost him so much.

T
he next evening Preston bounded up the front steps of his town house in a jubilant mood.

Tabby. The little minx. She'd caused quite a stir in society. He'd spent most of the past twenty-four hours being quizzed about her.

However had he found such a creature?

Was it true her dog had chased Lady Gudgeon up a tree in the park?
No, just a bench, he'd corrected.

Did she have a sister or two about?

Where could I get a hound like hers?

Preston had done his best to overlook the remarks about her being nearly betrothed to another.

Well, the man didn't deserve her.

Nor would he have her now, Preston would wager, thinking of Barkworth's furious expression when he'd set Tabby down at her uncle's house and the excellent news Roxley had passed onto him when they'd crossed paths at White's several hours earlier.

If Barkworth cried off, Tabby would be free. Free to inherit, free to choose her own path.

Most likely her house in the country, with its comfortable rooms, cozy fires, where she could surround herself with friends and family, he supposed.

And he'd be . . . Preston paused halfway up the steps as he considered his place in this perfect scenario.

He'd still be in London. No, that wouldn't do.

“Welcome home, Your Grace,” Benley, his butler, intoned with all the proper respect of a London servant as he opened the front door, interrupting Preston's plans.

“Good to see you, Benley! Where the devil is everyone?”

“In the Red Room, Your Grace.”

Preston paused and glanced over at the table where the salver sat. Since it had been empty of late, he'd given it little notice, but today it overflowed with letters. In fact, the entire side table was littered in notes. “More lonely hearts for Lord Henry?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Benley replied with his usual brevity.

Preston suppressed a laugh. “With who? Looks like half of London has written.”

“The female half, Your Grace.” Benley shuddered.

Heaven help poor Henry now that Hen had taken it in her mind to make him sort through them.

Preston continued past with only the slightest twinge of guilt, taking the stairs two at a time. When he rounded the landing, he heard voices coming from the Red Room, and when he entered, he found Hen looking particularly splendid, dressed to the nines—obviously on her way out.

“I told you this morning over breakfast that I wanted you to escort me there tonight,” she was complaining to Henry.

“Good God, Hen, you natter on at breakfast every morning,” his uncle was replying. “However do you expect me to remember everything you want me to do?”

This was familiar territory. Hen loved going out, and Henry deplored it. And despite having the advantage of being a widow and being able to choose her own entertainments, Hen clung to propriety and refused to go out without a respectable escort (Henry, or, if all else failed, Preston) or a suitable chaperone—one of her mother's old cronies.

“Have Roxley take you,” Henry said, nodding over at the earl, who sat in a large chair before the fire, his long legs stuck out in front of him.

“Me?” the earl said. “Demmed if I want to spend the night at Grately's! The supper will be inedible.” The earl glanced up and spotted Preston. “Ho, there's your reprobate nephew. Make him pay the piper.”

“Ah, Preston. Finally come home to roost,” she remarked, glancing down with a critical eye at her gloves.

“I do live here,” he said, crossing to the sidebar and pouring himself a brandy.

“Yes, but it seems I will not be. Truly, Preston, did you have to wade into that scandal in the park yesterday?”

“Why wouldn't I?” he said, nudging Henry out of the way as he made his way to the other end of the settee. Settling down, he crossed his arms over his chest. “I thought you wanted me to be an example to society.”

Hen let out a loud, huffy sigh. “If that were the case, you would have lent aid to Lady Gudgeon.”

“Whyever would I do that?” he asked, glancing over at Henry for support. “She isn't anywhere near as pretty as Miss Timmons.”

“Miss Timmons!” Hen shook her head. “Whoever is this lady? Her name is on every tongue! A vicar's daughter . . .” She paused, then looked again at Preston. “The same vicar's daughter you danced with the other night, isn't she?”

This was no mere question from Hen; it had all the ominous air of the beginnings of an interrogation.

“Yes,” he answered warily, shifting in his seat.

“And you carried her across the park?”

“Yes, but she was—”

“
Tut, tut
—” Hen warned. “I don't want to know. Not that it matters now, for by tomorrow she will be beyond even your reach. You should come with me instead of Henry—”

“Please, Preston, take her to Grately's for me—” Henry begged.

“Yes, save us both,” Roxley intoned.

“I daresay not,” Hen replied, as if that settled the matter. “He wasn't invited.”

“Grately's? That dull old skinflint.” Preston shook his head and settled further into his seat. “What entertainment could he be offering that would interest me?” Or Hen, for that matter, he wondered, eyeing her resplendent gown and jewels.

The gown was new—not black, but mauve—a declaration by Hen that she was leaving off her widow's weeds and moving into half-mourning. Which was one short step from venturing back into the Marriage Mart.

Heaven help them, Preston nearly groaned.

“He's throwing an engagement party,” Hen replied, glancing inside her reticule.

This stopped Preston cold. Barkworth wasn't crying off? Good God, that meant—