Deceiving The Duke (Scandals and Spies Book 2) (6 page)

The duke’s room was neither messy nor devoid of personality, but a curious mix in between. The four-poster bed, the poles carved with the likenesses of dragons, devoured the majority of the space in the room, relegating the massive wardrobe, a chest topped with various books stacked neatly, a blue stuffed armchair, and twin night tables to the perimeter of the room. A spacious marble fireplace, intricately carved in a neoclassical style, faced the bed. The hearth was now cold, though a few logs had been stacked in the grate. Flanking the fireplace were two doorways, one without a door that presumably led into the dressing room, and a second with the door closed. At a guess, Phil imagined it led into unused, adjoining chambers for the future duchess. Over the mantle of the hearth was a breathtaking painting of Grecian shores. The colors popped in contrast to the white-and-blue damask wallpaper.

Where to begin? Phil stripped off her gloves, tossing them on the armchair as she surveyed the room. The duke didn’t keep a writing desk in his bedchamber, though he might have stuffed the prism in one of the drawers of his wardrobe. It was as good a place as any to start.

Despite the cool air, by the time she rummaged through the cravats and gloves in the top drawer, Phil’s spencer clung to the back of her neck. She shucked it, tossing it atop the gloves on the chair. She toed off her ankle-high riding boots, for good measure. For some unfathomable reason, she could always find things faster when in her stocking feet.

She pulled out the second drawer and found herself gifted with neat row upon row of folded smallclothes and socks. She felt along the inside of the drawer for a telltale lump. Empty-handed, she shut the drawer with vigor. It met the frame with a small
thump
.

Someone stirred on the bed behind her. Her heart skipped a beat. She whirled, pressing her hand to her chest. A gasp escaped her lips, unbidden.

A second later, the bed curtains rustled as a man shot out of bed. Daylight glinted off the metal barrel of a pistol aimed at Phil’s chest. But it wasn’t the gun that held her immobile. The Duke of Tenwick was completely, gloriously naked.

And by Jove, it was a pleasing sight. His skin was naturally golden, as if sun-kissed. His broad shoulders tapered down to a washboard-flat abdomen and lean hips. His arms, legs, and chest were dusted with hair to match the dark stubble lining his cheeks. The stubble, coupled with the disarray of his black hair and that distinctive white streak, gave him a wild look. And his manhood… Well, suffice it to say that the gun wasn’t the only thing he pointed at her, and his manhood was by far more impressive.

He cleared his throat, drawing her attention back to his snapping gray gaze. Phil’s cheeks flamed. She’d forgotten for a moment that she wasn’t staring at an art exhibit in a book, but was in fact standing before the unclothed tenth Duke of Tenwick at gunpoint.

She didn’t have any excuse for infiltrating his bedchamber and he looked bent on exacting punishment for her transgression.

I
f this was a dream
, it was the most bizarre dream Morgan had ever had. For one thing, if he didn’t have a stitch on, he would have thanked his subconscious to ensure that Miss St. Gobain didn’t have anything on, either. She’d already started in that mien, given the spencer and boots in the corner of the room by his armchair. The barest ruffle of lace teased the swell of her breasts, encased in amber-hued muslin. The dress gave her skin a rosy cast—or perhaps that was due to the blush mantling her cheeks and upper chest.

Zeus, she was lovely, her blue-gray eyes sparkling with life. She was also very real. This couldn’t possibly be a dream.

His gaze darted to the discarded clothing in the corner. Was she trying to trap him into marriage?

He waited for the wash of horror to envelop him at the notion. Instead, his body reacted with a swift, undeniable burn. If he was going to be forced into the parson’s noose, it might as well be for a transgression he’d made. He almost took a step forward before he caught himself, the cold metal of the pistol he’d grabbed from beneath his pillow to ward against the unknown intruder cutting into his palm.

What are you thinking?
He wasn’t. The ache in his loins nearly overwhelmed all reason. For him to have
that
strenuous a reaction to the thought of bedding the alluring, eccentric Miss St. Gobain—

Yes, yes, yes.

—he must be starved for female companionship. How long had it been since he’d appeased that particular ache? Too long. He rarely took even a temporary mistress, for fear of the repercussions against his family name. In fact, he might not have spent the night with a woman since before he’d joined the war as a British spy.

At the moment, the thought of some nameless, faceless woman didn’t draw near the appeal of the woman standing in front of him. Her chest heaved with her breaths. Her tongue darted out, teasing a line across her upper lip. He bit back a groan.
Lawks.
He’d never wanted a woman more. Her hot gaze was locked on his cock as she ran her tongue back and forth, back and forth. He felt the force of her stare almost like a touch. It was not at all the demure, scandalized expression he expected to find on a gently-bred young virgin.

He cleared his throat, unable to take the heat of her gaze for a moment longer without acting on it. The pistol in his hand was the one thing that anchored him to the situation, to the fact that she had infiltrated his house, his bedchamber, and reduced him to this.

As she raised her gaze to his, something akin to trepidation entered her eyes. It reminded him that he stood here with a gentlewoman.

Damn it all, he shouldn’t be unclothed in front of her! He flung the pistol on the bed in favor of yanking off the sheet and wrapping it haphazardly around his waist. An emotion resembling disappointment flashed across her face for a second before she smoothed it. It did nothing to ease the fierce throb of his desire. The sheet tented over his erection.

He swallowed hard, counting down his last minutes of freedom. “If you intend to trap me into marriage, you might as well have at it. We’re not getting any younger.” His voice emerged gravelly and aroused, yet more evidence of her puzzling allure. He’d encountered plenty of beautiful women.

Though none quite like her.

Her lips parted. At that moment, it would have been altogether too easy to cross to her and kiss her senseless.

“I beg your pardon?”

Her voice was a little sharp, considering the situation was of her making. She should have considered that he might sleep in the nude.

He started to cross his arms, only to have to juggle the sheet once more so it didn’t drop to the floor. “Go ahead. Scream. The servants will arrive in seconds to discover that you and I are very much alone, and I am unclothed.”

She took a step—away from him, not toward him. Bald horror crossed her face, chased by panic. She made a strangled sound and whirled to yank open the drawers to his wardrobe. Several strands of her thick auburn hair escaped her pins to caress her neck or shoulders. With frantic, jerky movements, she grabbed garments from the drawers and flung them blindly behind her.

He caught a pair of knee breeches as they hit him in the chest. His grip slipped and the sheet nearly pooled around his ankles once more.

Miss St. Gobain stared at him with a tempest in her wide eyes. “Dress yourself,” she demanded, her voice little more than a hiss.

She hadn’t thrown any smallclothes at him. Not to mention, how was he supposed to dress himself without dropping the sheet? He sidled closer to the bed, intending to perch on the edge, when he realized that she wasn’t screaming for the servants to pound down his door. In fact, she had snatched her spencer and was now buttoning it to her chin, covering her bare upper chest.

Shame.

“You aren’t trying to trap me into marriage?”

Her mouth dropped open. Her hands balled into fists. Given the appalled look on her face, if he’d been standing closer, she might have slapped him. “No!”

He dropped to the edge of the bed and fought to bare his ankles from beneath the folds of the sheet. “But…I’m a duke.”

She rolled her eyes. “And an arrogant one, apparently.”

I am not.
Her words cut him deeper than he let on. Her disgust at the thought of marrying him tempered his arousal, at least. With a surly shrug, he shoved his feet into the breeches. “Aren’t all dukes?”

“Quite possibly.” Her voice was clipped. She dropped onto the edge of the armchair to fight with the laces on her ankle boots, pulling them farther apart before she squeezed her small foot inside.

He couldn’t hold both the sheet and his breeches at once as he pulled them up, so in a swift movement he stood, pulling up the breeches and turning his back to tuck in his softening manhood and carefully button the fall. The cloth was scratchy against his bare rump. He turned, bending to retrieve the shirt that had fluttered to the ground between them.

Her gaze lit on the hollow of his throat and moved down over his bare chest in a slow, agonizing sweep. His cock reacted to her again, a swift ache that turned painful. He shielded his groin with the shirt.

“If you aren’t here to trap me into marriage, why were you undressing?”

Her cheeks turned a hot, plum shade as she jumped to her feet. “I was not undressing. And I didn’t know you were in the room.”

Liar.
She avoided his gaze. Instead, her eyes were fixed straight ahead, which, given the difference in their height, wound up somewhere in the middle of his chest, over his pounding heart.

He fought the urge to roll his eyes. When it came to interrogations, he’d been told the piercing, unwavering shade of his gray eyes often yielded the quickest results. He took advantage, staring her down until she hazarded a glance at him again. She averted her gaze just as quickly.

“Do you expect me to believe that you entered my bedchamber intending to take a nap?”

The only reason she could have for entering his bedchamber and starting to remove her clothes would be to trap him into marriage. She must have had second thoughts. Unless…

Could she be the enemy spy?

The thought hit him like a chunk of ice sliding down his back. It doused his arousal just as quickly. She couldn’t be working for the French…could she? He didn’t know anything about her at all.

He stepped closer, hoping to intimidate her with his size as well as his gaze. “What’s your Christian name, Miss St. Gobain?”

She worried her lower lip with her teeth, leaving enticing crescents in the plump flesh. His lips burned in response, aching to kiss her.

No. She is the enemy.

He mustered a smile. Leaning his head closer, he said in a conspiratorial voice, “My Christian name is Morgan, as you must know. Tell me yours. You’ve seen me naked. I believe that warrants more familiar terms.”

Something sparked in her gaze a moment before she turned her face away, an emotion too quick for him to identify. Softly, she murmured, “Philomena.”

A lovely name that flowed off the tip of the tongue. Uncommon but beautiful, like she was.

Then she added, “Phil.”

He fought not to make a face. The masculine nickname didn’t fit someone so obviously female. When she was nearby, his body responded to her in the most primal way a man could a woman.

“Not Mena?” It would fit her better.

She raised her chin. “No. Phil.”

“Philly?” Even as he spoke, the word felt wrong.

She scrunched her nose. “I’m not a horse. My name is Phil.”

When he pictured someone named Phil, he did
not
picture her. “Doesn’t it bother you to answer to a man’s name?” Lucy would kill him if he called her Luc.

Her hands fisted again. He took a small step back, fearing that he might get slapped, after all. He held the shirt between them like a shield.

“It isn’t a man’s name. It’s
my
name.”

She advanced on him. He retreated from the wild, furious look in her eye.

“Are you trying to say that I’m somehow less worthy of the name than a man?”

“What? No—”

She spoke over top of him, raising her voice as she chased him across the room. “I assure you, I can do anything a man can do.”

“I—I don’t doubt that you can. I didn’t mean to imply—” Blast, but he felt exposed, dressed only in knee breeches without a stitch of clothing otherwise. Quickly, he pulled the shirt over his head, letting the open collar hang loose. When the white linen no longer obscured his gaze, he found the room vacant.

Philomena had walked him right to the door and slipped out. He dashed to the ajar door and stumbled into the hall in time to see her whisk out of sight down the stairs. The cool feeling of the wooden floorboards seeped into his bare feet as he stared after her, rooted in place.

Down the hall, another door opened and Gideon poked his head out. His hair stuck up on end. Stubble outlined his face and drew attention to the dark bags under his eyes. They had both been up until sunrise as Morgan explained the various forms of code currently employed by the British spy network.

“What’s going on?” Giddy rubbed at his eyes. “Was that Miss St. Gobain?”

Yes. She’s a French spy.

Morgan brought the words to the tip of his tongue as he stared after her, but he couldn’t speak them. “I didn’t catch a good glimpse of her,” he lied, his voice wooden. “It must have been nothing.”

Until he knew for sure, he didn’t want to confess her treachery to anyone, even the brother he was closest to. He retreated into his bedchamber to prepare for the day. He had some inquiries to make.

“
A
re
you hiding from Mother or Lucy?”

Morgan fought a groan at the reminder as his brother dropped into the armchair across from him. Seeking a moment of privacy, Morgan had ensconced himself in the farthest corner of the club. The wood-paneled walls muffled some of the sound pouring from the other patrons, of which there were myriad. At eight of the morning, the club catered to carousers who hadn’t yet given up their love affairs with their cups, as well as the early-rising scholars and businessmen who hoped to make their mark on the day. The latter sat quietly alone or in pairs in the leather-upholstered chairs ringing the low mahogany tables, perusing the news rags and their correspondence or talking about markets and investments. The former stumbled around the club from the wooden bar in the center housing the betting book to the uniformed maids disappearing through the various doors into hallways leading away from the common room, slurring their words and stirring up mischief.

Morgan got enough mischief at home. He hadn’t seen Philomena since she’d rushed out of his bedchamber two days ago. Gideon was helping to mitigate Mother and Lucy’s matchmaking attempts, but it helped not a whit once one of their candidates moved into his house. Miss Charlotte Vale, whose sister was newly married to Morgan’s brother, had accepted the Graylockes’ hospitality upon the seizure of the late Lord Harker’s holdings yesterday. Morgan had tried to establish Miss Vale and her mother in the guest quarters on the fourth floor, but his mother and sister had flat out refused the accommodations. Since the Vales were now family, his female relatives wanted to keep them on the same floor as the family. Mrs. Vale was now ensconced in Anthony’s old room, as he wouldn’t be using it while he still held his position as Captain in the Royal Navy. Miss Vale had been given the vacant duchess’s quarters next to Morgan.

Thank Zeus
for locking doors.

With a sigh, Morgan sipped at his coffee. Cold. He rubbed at the white streak in his hair. “Put on a blindfold and point. If she’s female, I’m probably avoiding her.”

Giddy laughed. He stretched out his legs and accepted a steaming cup of coffee and a news rag from a footman, liveried in black and green to match the maids. Gideon shook out the sheet and skimmed it with his gaze as he answered. “The house is a little full, but I think you’re over-reacting. Mrs. Vale hasn’t done anything to you at all.”

“Mrs. Vale shot Harker and embroiled us in this mess.”

The paper slipped from Giddy’s fingers as his mouth dropped open. He fiddled with his cravat, already askew. “You’re jesting.”

“I am not.” Morgan sighed. He lowered his voice to the barest whisper. “She’s one of us.”

“A spy?”

Giddy was the genius of the family for a reason. Morgan nodded.

His brother let out a long breath. He leaned his head back against the chair. The top of the chair rested just above his shoulders. The position must have been deuced uncomfortable. Giddy straightened a moment later.

“Then can we use her to help our hunt?”

Morgan pressed his lips together as he hesitated. “I don’t think so. Given what she told me, she was drafted specifically to keep an eye on Harker. Without him, her talents are obsolete.”

Giddy narrowed his eyes. “She sounds like a capable woman. I’m sure if she wanted—”

“That’s just it. I’m not sure that she wants to be involved in the spy business.”

The younger man raised his eyebrows. “Have you asked her directly?”

“No. That’s Strickland’s place, not mine.”

Averting his gaze from the disappointment in his brother’s shrewd green eyes, he took a gulp of coffee. Still cold. Making a face, Morgan hailed a footman and turned over the offending cup.

Gideon waited for the man to step out of earshot before he replied, “One more thing for Strickland to do. I’m still waiting on those London reports.”

He was more eager for paperwork than any newly-drafted spy Morgan had ever trained. A smile teased at the duke’s lips. “With luck, we’ll have them today. I’ll send a note to him about Mrs. Vale.”

“Have the footman wait for a reply this time.”

Gideon sipped from his cup, letting out a sigh of delight. Morgan glared at his younger brother. Giddy didn’t even care for coffee; he preferred tea. He was teasing Morgan on purpose.

With a grin, the younger man asked, “Grumpy?”

Morgan didn’t deign to answer.

“Have trouble sleeping last night?”

“I slept fine.” Morgan’s voice was surly.

Mostly because it was a lie. He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about his encounter with Philomena—or the implications of her presence in his bedroom—since that morning. In his dreams, that altercation went very different.

Shoving his hand into the pocket of his waistcoat, he fiddled with the glass ring he’d confiscated from the spy nearly a week ago. It reminded him of his mission, his priorities.

“You aren’t dreaming about the lovely Miss Charlotte, are you?”

Morgan groaned. “Not you, too. I don’t care a whit for Miss Charlotte’s pretty face. Sticking her in the room next to me won’t change that.” Thank Zeus Miss Charlotte wasn’t like the other
ton
debutantes. She was a fast friend of Lucy’s, but didn’t seem to aspire to marry anyone, let alone Morgan.

Gideon’s smile widened. “Miss St. Gobain, by chance?”

Morgan schooled his expression into a neutral mask. “Who?”

His brother cocked an eyebrow. “You know to whom I’m referring.”

“I’m afraid I don’t recall much more about her except for her parrot,” he lied.

Gideon sniggered. “There’s a matchmaking pairing Mother hasn’t tried yet. Maybe Lucy will adopt a nice lady parrot for you.”

“Are you looking for a new profession? You’re a regular court jester.”

Giddy grinned. He opened his mouth to retort, but a ruckus at the bar counter, in front of the betting book, cut him short.

“You’re daft, man!” A young dandy, his blond hair in disarray as it fell over his forehead and his cheeks ruddy, reflecting his foxed state, clapped a second young man on the back. The friendly contact nearly sent the poor man teetering into the betting book. The two men gathered a crowd of young fops. “His brother is a notorious rake!”

Morgan gritted his teeth, pretending not to notice the way the group glanced in his direction.
Please, let them be gossiping about someone else.

“If
he
succumbed to the parson’s mousetrap, you can bet that the duke will be next.”

Bloody hell.
They were talking about Morgan. He clenched his fists and shifted in his seat, uncomfortable.

“Two hundred pounds says that he’ll be married inside the month.”

Was that all that his bachelor state was worth, two hundred pounds? He fought the mad urge to laugh. Any number of debutantes would be throwing money at his feet for the opportunity to marry him.

“Ridiculous.” The word slipped out on a growl.

After draining his cup, Giddy set it down on the table beside him with a clink. “What’s ridiculous?”

Morgan jerked his chin toward the young, bacon-brained dandies, who were now scribbling down amounts and signatures in the betting book. “These bets. Don’t people have better things to do?”

His younger brother shrugged. His hair flopped down in front of his eyes as he turned over the news rag to read the other side in depth. In an absent voice, he answered, “It distracts them from the war. I have my money on two weeks.”

“You’re betting against me, too?”

Giddy raised his eyebrows. “Well, I’m certainly not going to bet against Mother or Lucy. I have more sense than that.”

Morgan rolled his eyes. “Your confidence in me is astounding.”

Grinning, Giddy said, “What are brothers for?”

Thankfully, his teasing was cut short as a footman approached with a scandal rag in hand. He set it next to Morgan with a pointed apology for making him wait. As the man bowed and left, Gideon burst, “Don’t tell me you actually read those things?”

“Don’t you want to hear what they’re saying about our dear brother now?”

Giddy made a face, a rich response, considering that he was laying money on Morgan’s downfall.

With a sigh, the duke lowered his voice, “It’s a message I’ve been waiting on.” In fact, this information was the only reason he had remained in White’s for so long.

He unfolded the scandal rag in his lap to reveal a sheet of paper stuffed into the crease. With the aid of a graphite pencil he kept tucked into his pocket, he swiftly decoded the message.

Gideon leaned closer, trying to read it upside-down. “What does it say?”

Morgan swallowed, reading it twice more to ensure that the translation was correct. His stomach sank further with each sentence.
There it is. The confirmation I needed.

Unfortunately, now that he had it, he wished it had said something different.

“Morgan?”

He glanced up into his brother’s concerned eyes. Reluctantly, he forced himself to say, “Miss St. Gobain was born Miss Plaisance D’Aubigny of France.”

Gideon’s mouth dropped. “She’s French?”

“So it seems.”

“Then the spy—”

“It must be her.” Lord, how Morgan had prayed otherwise. He still hoped that if only he read the missive again, the information would change. His reaction to her—

It didn’t matter. If she was a French spy, she was the enemy, and he would treat her as such.

The silence stretched on between the brothers, broken only by the rowdy gibes as a few of the dandies gave up drinking and left the club to seek their beds.

Finally, Giddy ventured, “What now? Do we turn her in to the Crown?”

Morgan tensed. Every muscle in his body rebelled at the thought.
She’s the enemy.

Slowly, he said, “Strickland will want proof.”

Giddy gestured to the missive. “Her heritage isn’t proof enough?”

“No. We’ll have to catch her in an act of treason.”

The younger man raised his eyebrows. “And how do you propose to do that?”

Morgan fingered the last sentence of the coded message. “There is another exchange tomorrow. Strickland has included the time and place in this message. I’ll attend and intercept her there.”

If she showed up, she was guilty. It was as simple as that.

Gideon suggested, “Lucy seems to be quite fond of her. I’m sure we could convince her and mother to pay a visit to her tomorrow morning. If we join them, we can search the house for coded correspondence, find our proof that way.”

Morgan shook his head. He slipped his hand into his pocket, fingering the glass piece he couldn’t bring himself to part with. It represented a mystery. Had Philomena’s man been at that inventor’s meeting in her stead? Did the glass piece mean something to her? When he arrested her, he would find out and put to rest all these questions about her accumulating in his mind.

“Not tomorrow. I have to sit in Parliament tomorrow morning.”

As Morgan stood, so did his brother. Giddy caught him by the arm. “Is Parliament really more important than the war?”

Morgan gritted his teeth. He nodded. “Tomorrow is the abolitionist vote. How can I fight the tyranny of another country if I turn a blind eye to the oppression riddling mine?”

Giddy’s gaze glinted. Whether or not he agreed with Morgan, at the very least he knew better than to press the subject. The Graylockes hadn’t owned slaves for well over a century. Morgan’s father had been an abolitionist, as had his father before him. Morgan was proud to carry on that tradition, whatever it took.

Keeping his voice even, he added, “We’ll get this spy, Giddy. Don’t worry on that account.”