Along Came a Duke (33 page)

Even as she was pulled past Lady Ancil, who drew in her skirts, and Barkworth, who gave his former nearly intended the cut direct, she mouthed to him and him alone two words. “
Thank you
.”

He tipped his head slightly in acknowledgement. He'd saved her.

Oh, but had he?

Meanwhile, Hen caught up her skirts and turned her back to him, taking advantage of the wake left by Sir Mauris and his disgraced party. She hadn't said a word.

Then again, she didn't need to.

This left only him, and all eyes turned in his direction. Gazes filled with disgust, dismay and outright anger.

He'd laughed and dismissed his tenuous place in society for months. Gadded about Town as if it were his private circus, as Hen had once said.

But no longer. He'd ruined an innocent vicar's daughter—was there no end to his vile conduct?

It isn't like that,
he wanted to tell them.
It is different this time. She is different
.

Very different. Up ahead, Tabby was being pushed into her uncle's carriage, and as it wheeled quickly away, Preston felt as if it was taking a part of him with it.

His heart. With that carriage went the only chance he'd ever had to regain what he'd lost all those years ago.

Owle Park as it should be. Open and filled with laughter. A life spent squabbling over the last piece of Yorkshire pudding and apple tart. Spending days riding, and walking, and keeping Mr. Muggins in line.

And nights . . . nights in the most heavenly ways possible.

He wanted her always and in every way. He wanted her because . . . because . . .

Egads, because he'd fallen in love with her!

Preston came to a sudden stop, the notion knocking the wind out of his chest.
He loved Tabby
. He loved her because she'd made him believe again.

Lady Essex took full advantage of his halted progress and stepped into his path. Leave it to Roxley's formidable old aunt to say what everyone else was thinking. “You horrid man! You've ruined the girl. Now no one will ever marry her.”

No one save me
.

The realization left Preston grinning at the old girl. Then he caught her by the shoulders, leaned close and bussed her on both cheeks. “I know. Isn't that the most perfect solution!”

Chapter 15

P
reston spent three days waiting for someone to call. Three days! Usually it only took one before an outraged father, a furious brother, a guardian with a grudge arrived—seconds or witnesses in tow—and demanded satisfaction.

Or more to the point, that Preston marry the flirt and make an honest woman of her. What they really wanted was for him to elevate this reckless chit to the rank of duchess. His duchess.

Which, of course, being him, he'd refuse. Refuse to duel, refuse to marry their wayward, all-too-forward slip-o-muslin, refuse to be blackmailed by their complaints and impotent threats. Then he'd have Benley show the entire party to the door.

That was how it was supposed to be done. On this, one could be assured that the Duke of Preston could be considered an expert.

But not this time. No one came.

Not Barkworth, not Sir Mauris, not even Grately had found his way to Preston's prominent address. Not one of them had come to Harley Street demanding satisfaction for Tabby's ruined honor.

He'd woken up this morning, exasperated with the entirety of Tabby's family, though he'd held out a small hope of finding Miss Dale and Miss Hathaway outside his address, tossing rotten eggs at his front door.

Much to his disappointment, not even that plucky pair had deigned to visit.

“Good God, I am going to have to do this all myself,” he muttered to no one in particular over a nuncheon in the Red Room that had yet to be interrupted. That was because there was no one to interrupt it. No one at the door, no one in the house.

Save Preston and the servants.

The emptiness made the duke's residence a veritable tomb. Not that he'd noticed overly much. He'd been too busy: hunting down his mother's jewels, issuing orders and letters to have Owle Park reopened, servants hired. Making all sorts of plans that he would be able to put in motion if only Sir Mauris would show up.

Leave it to a mere baronet to get this all wrong.

Preston heaved a sigh, pushed aside his cold cup of tea and ordered Benley to fetch his carriage as another possibility came to him: Sir Mauris, having never caused any bit of a dustup, least of all a ruination, might not have any notion as to how these things were done.

If only Preston had realized this sooner.

Dashing off to his carriage, Preston wondered if he shouldn't enlist Roxley to go over and set Tabitha's uncle to rights. No, no, that would never do. First, he hadn't seen the earl in days, and secondly, he'd get it all mixed up.

So as it was, Preston went over to the house on Hertford Street, only to be informed that his lordship was out and then have the door slammed in his face.

Coming to White's had seemed the logical next step, but much to his chagrin, he discovered that Sir Mauris wasn't even a member—a Boodles man, of all things!—and was about to leave the hallowed halls of White's to ferret the baronet out on his turf when he spied Roxley.

As he got closer, he could see the earl had finally found his man—the ever-elusive Nelson Dillamore. Slippery eel that he was.

“You owe me, my good man!” Roxley complained. “I have the vowel here, and I expect payment. No more of your excuses.”

“I don't recall any vowel or wager, Roxley,” the fellow bluffed. Crossing his arms over his chest, he continued his brazen denial. “Produce it.”

Preston groaned. Roxley and his vowels. He was forever collecting them and nearly always losing them.

As it was, the earl was digging into the pocket inside his coat and producing a veritable litter of notes and vowels, which began fluttering down around him like errant petals in a summer breeze.

“Need some help?” Preston asked, reaching over to retrieve the ones that lay on the floor.

The earl turned around. “Preston? Is that you? Thought you'd left Town.”

“I never leave Town.”

Roxley thought about this for a moment, then nodded in acknowledgement. “No, I suppose not. Forgot that. Devil of a week,” he complained. Then without even looking, he caught hold of Dillamore, who had taken the opportunity of Preston's arrival to try and skulk away. Having caught the man by the back of his collar, the earl hauled him back to the table and shoved him into a seat. “Don't press your luck, Dillamore. I've enough of your excuses. About time you owned up to your obligations. Isn't like you haven't got the blunt.”

Preston resisted the urge to smile, instead crossing his arms over his chest and glowering down at the other man.

Roxley's words were true enough. Dillamore's father had been a second son who'd been sent to the West Indies to make his fortune and had shocked his family to no end by doing just that. Now the wretched little weasel, having inherited his father's wealth, was as rich as Midas and lived an elevated life his more lofty relations could barely afford.

Nor was he inclined to share his wealth, not even when obligated by honor or duty.

“Come now, Roxley, you had better produce a vowel to back up this high-handed treatment,” the haughty man taunted. “Or I will complain to the membership committee.”

Roxley's gaze narrowed into a murderous scowl. You could insult the earl on a number of issues, but he held his place at White's, nay his standing as a gentleman of honor, in high regard. “Did you hear that insult, Preston?”

“Aye, I did, Roxley. But I've better things to do than stand second to you over this fool.” He held out the papers he'd gathered up. “Find the demmed vowel and I'll hold him while you clean out his pockets. And next time—” Preston blundered to a halt, his gaze falling to the back of one of the papers he held, where an odd handwriting caught his eye.

“Pick my pockets?” Dillamore squawked in complaint. He tried to clamber his way up, but Roxley shoved him back down in his seat.

“Got to be here somewhere,” Roxley was saying, reaching for the papers Preston held, but the duke pulled them back.

“Preston!” Roxley protested, reaching for them yet again.

The duke swatted the earl's hand aside, plucking one paper free from the clutch of notes and vowels. He handed the remainders to Roxley but stared in shock at the one he held.

“Owe him, do you?” Dillamore smirked.

“Shut up,” Preston told him with a firm tone and enough ducal air that the fellow clamped his mouth shut and sank into his chair.

His gaze danced over the hastily written words, adding them up as he went. This was a vowel of another sort.

Article 3, Section 2 In the event that my niece reaches her majority without the benefit of marriage and inherits my entire estate, the money shall be co-managed by her uncles, Sir Mauris Timmons, Bt. and the Revd. Bernard Timmons, who shall oversee the investments, and provide an allowance to her that is deemed proper and necessary for her care and upkeep until such time as she marries. They shall also be fairly compensated for these obligations and duties.

Preston stared down at the paper in shock. There was more to Winston Ludlow's will than the one page Roxley had given him.

He saw all too clearly what had probably happened—Hathaway in a rush had given the pages to Roxley to pass along. And the earl being, well, the earl, had stuffed them into his collection of vowels and forgotten that there was more than one page.

Oh, good God! He'd plucked Tabby from one fire only to drop her into another. With her uncles' talons wrapped around that fortune, they'd hie her away and never let her marry.

Or provide for her in any way other than how they already had: as a poor servant at their beck and call.

“What day is it?” he shouted at Dillamore.

The man nearly fell backward out of his chair. “What day?”

Preston caught him by the collar and hauled him up. “What day is it?”

“Friday,” Dillamore managed, clawing at Preston's grasp.

“No. What day of the month is it?”

“The twenty-second,” the man gasped.

“Then I have ‘til Sunday,” Preston muttered.

Less than two days before Tabitha's uncles would make sure she was far from any man's reach. Save theirs.

Preston would see about that. He shoved Dillamore aside and caught hold of Roxley, shaking him out of his distracted sorting of notes. “We need to find Miss Timmons. Is she still at her uncle's house?”

“Hardly,” Roxley told him, staring down at the way Preston's hold was creasing his sleeve. Preston released him, and the earl smoothed the wool back into place. “Back in Kempton. Lady Essex took her, with Sir Mauris bringing up the rear. Poor chit. Probably took a wigging the entire way.”

“We have to go,” Preston told him. “We have to follow them.”

“What? To Kempton?” Roxley shook his head. “Not when I've got . . . Demmit, Preston. Now look what you've done!”

Distracted by his own churning thoughts, Preston glanced up at his friend. “Whatever have I done?”

Roxley pointed at the empty chair. “Gone and let Dillamore escape.”

“I'll help you track him down the moment we get back from Kempton.”

“I've heard that promise before,” Roxley complained.

“This time I mean it,” Preston told him as they went to dash down the stairs. “Come along. We have to get to Kempton.”

Roxley dug in his heels. “Do you recall that is how all this started?”

“Yes, and now it must end there. Look at this.” He held up the rest of Hathaway's note.

“Good God! Those uncles of hers will empty those accounts in no time.” He glanced up. “But she's already reached her majority, hasn't she?”

“No.” Almost, but not quite.

“Truly? I thought her a bit long in the tooth myself,” Roxley said, rubbing his jaw.

“Not in the least,” Preston told him. “And if my suspicions run true, once she turns five and twenty, they will hide her away.”

He caught hold of Roxley's arm again and all but dragged the fellow along, that is until they reached the main staircase, where he found his way blocked by none other than the Marquess of Grately.

“Preston! How dare you show your face in public.”

“Not now, Grately,” Preston told him, trying to sidestep the older man, but the codger caught hold of his arm and hung on.

“I have a few words for you, you feckless devil! Put my family in the suds you did! Got my nephew running off, determined to marry that light skirt. I'll not have your by-blow inheriting my title. I won't!”

Preston turned a murderous gaze at the marquess. “Miss Timmons is not to be spoken of that way.” He shook off the man's grasp and was about to push past him when the rest of what Grately had said came to roost.

“Got my nephew running off, determined to marry . . .”

Oh, good God, no!

Grately snorted, stamping his cane to the floor in an impatient gesture. “Yes, that's right. She won't be Miss Timmons for long. Cut that idiot nephew off without a farthing, and his solution? Marry the gel anyway!”

“Never!”

The marquess shook one of his bony fingers at Preston. “I blame you first and then that mother of his. Greedy bitch that she is. Never content with her lot in life, always wanting more. And that Timmons gel offers them all the blunt she could ever spend.” He snorted again. “Rapacious pair of vultures. Well, he'll marry that gel and then they can see the shame she brings on them.”

“It won't matter,” Preston told the man. “If Miss Timmons reaches her majority—which will happen Sunday—her uncles will control her fortune.”

The old man's eyes widened. “How the devil—”

“How did I discover the truth? I got my hands on a copy of Winston Ludlow's will.”

“But I told those fools never to let anyone—” Grately began and then clamped his lips shut tight.

Preston eyed him. “I suppose you thought keeping a tight rein on Pennyman and his partners would prevent anyone else—especially Sir Mauris or Miss Timmons— from seeing all of the provisions in Winston Ludlow's will. I fear your trust in Pennyman was misplaced. I've read it, and I'd wager Sir Mauris has by now gained a copy as well.”

The old man's jaw worked back and forth, but he didn't admit a thing. Not that he had to. “What do you intend to do?” he finally demanded.

“I plan on putting an end to all this. Stop your nephew and Miss Timmons's uncles from using Tabitha as a pawn.” He nodded to Roxley, and the two them pushed past Grately.

But the marquess wasn't done. “I might forgive you, Preston, if you stop that nephew of mine. I won't have him marrying your leavings.”

Preston nearly turned around and flattened the old man for saying such a thing, but he hadn't time.

Nevertheless, Grately continued after them. “Barkworth left hours ago. He'll be to Kempton and have that gel as his bride if you don't stop him. Don't see how you'll do it.”

Preston's gaze narrowed. “He hasn't my cattle.”

As they hurried out the doors, Roxley tucked his hat down atop his head. “Truly do not like that man.”

“Agreed.”

“Did I hear him correctly? Barkworth is going to press his case.”

“Yes.” Preston stood at the corner and whistled loud and clear for his tiger. “I know I've put you in suds of late, and I have no room to presume, but could you . . . that is, would you mind . . .”

“Help you stop a wedding?” Roxley grinned. “Be my pleasure. Probably leave my aunt so vexed with me she won't come to Town for at least two, maybe three, Seasons.”

Preston grinned back.

“What do you have in mind?”

“Ride that chestnut of yours ahead and find Barkworth.”

Roxley nodded. “Find Barkworth. Got it. Stop him?”

“Yes. Any way possible,” Preston advised as his friend climbed up onto his horse. “Do you think you can manage?”

Roxley tipped his hat. “Never fear. I shall improvise.”