Love Letters From a Duke (12 page)

He stepped back from her. “You stole a house?”

“Sssh!” she warned him. “‘Borrowed,’ is how Felicity likes to explain it.”

Dash let out a low whistle. “You stole a house? And here I thought myself a fine pirate.” Then he cocked his head and studied her. “But what do you mean, no money? You’re still an earl’s daughter.”

Apparently stealing—er, borrowing—a house wasn’t such a grievous transgression in his world. But then something else struck Pippin.

You’re still an earl’s daughter.
He knew who she was? “How did you—”

“I asked. Tremont told me. Last time I saw him. Just before this war broke out. Threatened me with a bullet through my heart if I ever came near you again.” He chuckled at the memory, as if it was fondly held. “I think he thought your lofty state would frighten me away.”

“Apparently it did,” she said, “for it has been four years and naught a word from you…Not one word, ’cept what one reads in the papers.” She paused again, feeling a bit tossed about. “Not that I’ve looked.”

He laughed, loud and clear. “You little minx. You almost had me convinced you didn’t care—but you do. Not looked, have you? I’d wager you’ve scoured the columns for me. And tell me, little Circe, how was I supposed to come calling when our two countries are at war—that, and there’s been the sea and a good part of the British navy between the two
of us, or are these facts that you’ve gone and ignored?”

“Hasn’t stopped you from coming to London,” she pointed out. “And selling chestnuts like some beggar.”

He grinned again, stepping back to doff his ridiculous hat at her. “’Tis a fine cover, lass,” he told her, nodding at his little cart. “Gives me a chance to hear all kinds of talk. The merchants can’t get their wares out to sea, so they come down here and, well, wagging tongues…” He shrugged, then drew closer, lowering his voice to say, “When this ice breaks up, I’ll be sitting off Shoebury Ness waiting for them like flies to honey.”

“But you can’t do that, ’tis wrong.”

He laughed again. “Care to come with me and see just how wrong I can be?”

Oh yes! Please take me
, she nearly said.

But somehow, Felicity’s practical voice invaded her thoughts.
How can you trust this bounder
,
Pippin? He’s a pirate. An American.
To her cousin’s way of thinking, the latter was equal to the former.

Yet, what he was offering was far too tempting, tugging at her very soul. Panicked by the realization, she drew on every lesson in deportment she’d ever learned from Miss Porter at Miss Emery’s school and took a firm and decisive step back. “Come with you? Why, you aren’t even a proper gentleman, and I shouldn’t even be—”

He moved much as he had four years earlier, sweeping her into his arms and hauling her up against him. Pippin struggled, but only a little and only to avoid a scene. Oh heavens, if Felicity saw her thusly, she’d have her hide for a wall hanging.

But oh, the devil take her, Dash was warm, and still smelled of the sea, and this time she wasn’t some wide-eyed girl on the beach. Her body thrilled to be so close to him, to let her breasts press up against him, her legs and hips drift of their own volition up against him.

And just as he had the first time she spied him, walking up out of the surf on that beach near Hastings, he reminded her of Neptune’s own temptation.

Her temptation.

And he knew it. The sparkle in his eyes and the wry twist of his lips said more than his brash American manners could.

“Now tell me you haven’t thought of that kiss in all this time,” he whispered in her ear. “Tell me you haven’t wished for me to come ashore and steal you away?”

“I—I—I—” she managed to stammer, before there was a shriek from nearby.

“My purse! My purse!…Someone has stolen my reticule!”

Pippin’s stomach lurched. “Aunt Minty!” she gasped, wrenching free of him—the chill racing across where he’d warmed her, the cold air hitting her like a slap in the face.

She turned toward where she’d last left Tally and their chaperone, only to find a strident matron shrieking, “Summon the watch! Call a constable!”

“Oh, no,” Pippin said at the same time Dash cursed from behind her, “Demmit, not the watch.”

She spun around, only to find the spot where Captain Dashwell had been standing was now empty, his cart abandoned.

But on a wisp of wind she swore she heard him say, “I’ll find you, Circe. Mark my words, I’ll find you again.”

Thatcher followed behind Miss Langley as quickly as he could. For a miss so preoccupied with propriety, decorum seemed to be the last thing on her mind as she vaulted her way through the crowd at a tight clip.

What the devil had her petticoats in such a knot? So someone had pinched a purse—it wasn’t her aunt’s reticule that had gone astray. Really, given her reaction, one would think—

He slid to a thundering, skidding halt on the ice as one damning thought tumbled atop the other.

No! It couldn’t be. Aunt Minty?

Bah! It was a ridiculous notion. Some aged chaperone who preferred dozing before the fire a pickpocket? Now he was the one going mad.

He glanced up to find that one of the city’s officers had made his way to the matron’s side. The only bit of Miss Langley he could still see was her bright blue bonnet bounding up and down as she made her frantic way through the knot of curious onlookers.

“That woman took my reticule!” the elderly lady trilled, one gloved hand pointing an accusing finger at Aunt Minty, while the other remained firmly tucked into an expensive ermine muff. “I’ll have it back and see you hang for this effrontery!”

Tall enough to see over the crowd, Thatcher continued to push his way toward Miss Langley. She’d managed to gain her chaperone’s side, while Miss Thalia stood nose-to-nose with their accuser.

Lady Philippa wasn’t immediately visible, but as he drew closer, her lithe figure appeared on the other side of Aunt Minty, completing the triangle of support.

No, he had to be wrong. Their respectable chaperone couldn’t be a thief. Whatever was he thinking? But that said, he wasn’t so out of Society that he didn’t know the ruin that even the merest hint of impropriety could cause, leaving the Langley sisters and their cousin far beyond the pale.

Then it occurred to him there was another way to save Miss Langley—
save all of them,
he corrected.

He could announce himself and reveal his identity.

That was it. All he had to do was announce himself. Then calm this matron with the veriest and most handsome apologies, followed by an invitation to Hollindrake House for the soiree or ball or whatever nonsense his aunt was determined
to throw, and the promise of patronage to whatever charity she favored. That alone would no doubt curry enough goodwill to get her to overlook this obvious case of mistaken accusations.

“
I
am Hollindrake. I am
Hollindrake
,” he practiced, muttering in a low voice to himself, still unwilling to make the loud and lofty public statement and leave his freewheeling life as Thatcher behind.

It would mean saying farewell to Miss Langley, he thought, taking one last glance into her lovely eyes. For once he uttered those words there would be no turning back. And despite her assurances that Hollindrake would never cry off, he would.

For while she was an intriguing minx, with all her contradictions and naive notions of inclinations, he wasn’t ready to throw himself into the parson’s trap just yet.

Taking a deep breath, he tried to remember how his grandfather had reduced any and all with the most withering of glances. Something with the brows and a flare of the nostrils, he thought.

“Do you realize who I am?” the aggrieved matron was saying to the constable who’d arrived to take charge of the situation. “My good man, I am Countess Lumby, and I will not be trifled with! And that woman—” She pointed at Aunt Minty. “—stole my reticule.”

“I did no such thing!” Aunt Minty shot back. “She’s half-crocked, is what she is! I’m a respectable lady, I am.”

Lady Philippa’s fair face turned even paler, and she waded in to try and smooth things over. “Dear sir, I am Lady Philippa Knolles, and this is my great-aunt, Miss Aramintha Follifoot. I believe there must be some sort of mistake, for my dear Aunt Minty could never have done anything such as this kind lady is suggesting.”

“No mistake, not in the least,” Lady Lumby cried out. “I daresay I know when my purse has gone missing. It was
there, and then
she
bumped into me and then it was gone. Your aunt is a thief!”

“Why you old—” Aunt Minty started to say, her fists balling at her sides.

If he didn’t know better, Thatcher would have sworn the old girl was ready to launch herself at the other woman.

Lady Philippa caught her by the arm and stopped her. “Auntie, please, this isn’t helping. If you would just remain calm—”

But the old lady wouldn’t be coddled. “Don’t shush me! I won’t be called a thief by some bird in paste!”

Lady Lumby’s face turned such a dark shade of red, Thatcher thought she was going to fall over with apoplexy at the very suggestion that her jewelry wasn’t real, never mind being referred to as “some bird.” She turned to the constable and demanded, “Search her! Search her immediately! You’ll find my reticule and see that I am telling the truth. ’Tis yellow velvet with gold trim and inside is a miniature of my dear, departed husband, Earl Lumby. God bless his soul, good and lawful man that he was.” She followed this with a great sniffling bellow into her handkerchief.

Thatcher drew himself up and was about to press past Miss Langley and into the middle of this fray when he caught a look pass between Miss Langley and her sister. The twins shared an unspoken language, that much was obvious, and even though they were different in temperaments and nature, they were of one accord in that moment—a sense of determination—that let loose a chill of foreboding down Thatcher’s spine.

What the devil were they up to now?

Miss Thalia stepped forward and began to weep…wail, really. “Oh, this is a tragedy! Your husband’s miniature? Such a terrible loss for you, my dear lady! No wonder you are so distraught! So mistaken!”

The diversion was enough to give her sister the time to rectify the situation.

Now if Thatcher hadn’t seen the glance between the twins, he too may have been mislaid by Thalia’s dramatic performance. But his gaze stayed focused on Miss Langley with an instinct that had saved his life in Spain on more than one occasion.

If he’d blinked he would have missed it entirely, for in a flash Miss Langley’s hand shot into Aunt Minty’s cloak and whipped back out—bringing with it something he couldn’t believe he was seeing.

A bright yellow purse. Gold trim and all.

The countess’s reticule! Just as the woman had said.

And here he’d been ready to cast forth his name, title, and very reputation based on the assumption that this was all a mistake. Thatcher reeled back as the last few minutes took on an entirely new light. Miss Langley hadn’t set off at a dead run because she feared her aunt had been robbed, but because she feared her aunt had been up to some mischief.

But that wasn’t the worst of it. His almost betrothed wouldn’t have reached into her chaperone’s cloak and plucked out the countess’s purse if she hadn’t known exactly where to look—and done so with the skill that would leave a Seven Dials cove envious—if she hadn’t known that the countess’s claims were entirely true.

Thatcher doffed his hat and raked his fingers through his hair. Oh, this was the devil’s own tangle. He glanced from the bellicose Lady Lumby to the constable who looked annoyed enough to cast them all into Newgate and let his superiors deal with it. And if the purse was found in Miss Langley’s possession, she’d end up—right along with her aunt—on the next ship to Botany Bay.

Of course
,
that would end all your problems
, a niggle of
a voice whispered in his ear, one that sounded suspiciously like Aunt Geneva’s.

Here he’d thought his aunt’s protests about Miss Langley’s character had been just more of her top-lofty nonsense, her Sterling sense of greater worth. Yet somehow she’d seen through Miss Langley’s proper veneer.

But what about his grandfather—the most Sterling of them all? Had he known?

Of course not
, Thatcher told himself, dismissing such an idea outright. His grandfather would never have wanted the family linked with such scandal.

So if the old duke hadn’t known—which was the only likely conclusion—that meant Miss Felicity Langley had conned the formidable Duke of Hollindrake like the veriest of rubes.

She’d gammoned my grandfather?

Thatcher knew he should be outraged, but for the life of him, such a skillfully wrought deception only left him looking at Miss Langley in a new light.

And he knew exactly what he needed to do.

Felicity nearly had the purse beneath her own cloak when a solid hand clapped down on her wrist.

“I think not, Miss Langley,” ordered a dark, dangerous voice that barely rose above the angry din around them. “Give it to me. Now!”

Much to her chagrin, Thatcher held her fast, despite her attempts to wrench her hand free.

“Give it to me,” he repeated, quietly but firmly as he moved closer to her, so that now not only did he have her in his grasp, but his body pressed up against hers.

Instead of being furious at his overbearing intrusion, Felicity trembled with a different emotion. One more dangerous than the fear of being caught holding Lady Lumby’s missing reticule.

“Don’t be a little fool,” he whispered. “You’ll find yourself on the next transport if you are caught with that reticule.”

She cast a glance over her shoulder and immediately wished she hadn’t. Thatcher’s eyes held an unholy fury. She’d never seen a man so irate in her life. With the possible exception of her papa when Nanny Jamilla had contrived to have him arrested in Paris so they’d be unable to leave for their next posting.

She dared another glance back. No, her footman was entirely past fury, and if the fire in his eyes ever reached his grasp on her hand, she had to imagine he’d pull her hand from her wrist.

But whatever was he doing wading into her tangle like some knight errant? Like a gentleman of honor come to save her reputation?

Like she might expect Hollindrake would.

“I won’t be alone before the magistrate if you don’t let go,” she shot back under her breath, making another last desperate tug at his hold. Well, she might as well have tried to stop the tides. “Leave this to me,” she told him. “I’ve the perfect plan to fix all this.”

“I will see her hanged!” Lady Lumby bellowed.

“My lady,” Tally was saying, using every bit of Langley charm she possessed to cosset the outraged woman. “If only we could all go get some tea and—”

“Search that woman!” Lady Lumby demanded of the constable, pointing a long, accusing finger at Aunt Minty. “Search her immediately or I will see you brought up on charges as well!”

“Miss Langley, give it to me right now.” Thatcher’s order held a threat worse than the countess’s screeching.

Give it to him? Bah! She didn’t know him, didn’t trust him. Couldn’t trust her feelings when it came to this unexpected man.

She spun around and pulled at his fingers. “Leave this to me,” she ground out as she tried to pry his hand from her wrist.

“Miss Langley, be reasonable—”

“You’ve no business to be—”

“If you’d just let me handle this—”

“
My purse!
”

Felicity stilled as the words cut through her distracted rage. Her glance turned toward the countess who was pointing a thick finger at the tug-o’-war over the lady’s reticule. And then she looked up at Thatcher, who had the temerity to glare at her.

At her?
Oh
,
the devil take him
. It wasn’t as if she’d gone and ruined everything. She, after all, had possessed a plan.

“Arrest them all!” the countess cried out. “Why, these people are a veritable gang of cutpurses.”

A murmur ran through the crowd.

“This is not what it looks like,” Felicity said. “If only you would—”

Much to her dismay, in her distraction she found the purse finally wrenched from her grasp.

“Madame, if I can just explain,” Thatcher began, holding out the reticule. “I am—”

“A blackguard!” the lady declared, recoiling in horror from him. “You’re probably the leader of this gang! Your kind are all the same!”

Louder whispers of agreement rippled around them, and Felicity’s blood ran cold—but that didn’t stop her from continuing her defense. “My lady, I’ll have you know that would be a terrible mistake,” she argued. “This man is our footman, and—”

“Footman! Bah! How dare you speak to me, you devilish little tart. Arrest them, sir, or I will call on Mr. Stafford myself.”

The constable nodded to the other officers who’d since arrived to start moving in, for none of them wanted the countess ringing a peal over their superior.

That is until a voice called out from behind them, “What the devil are you thinking? You’ll be making the worst mistake of your life iffen you arrest the cap’n.”

All heads turned at this interruption, and the crowd parted as a large man pushed his way forward. “I’m a telling ye this man no more stole that there purse than I’m the rightful King of France.” He shouldered his way up to the constable and planted his feet in a wide stance. “Do you know who ’e is? Well if you did, you wouldn’t be listening to this yapping crow here!”

“Mr. Mudgett, please,” Thatcher warned him.

The man ignored him. “This here is Cap’n Thatcher, late of His Majesty’s Rifles. A real war hero he is, saved an entire brigade at Salamanca, not to mention what he done at Badajoz. Arrest me good cap’n,” he said, jerking his thumb at Thatcher, “and you’ll have Wellington himself at your door.”

Felicity wasn’t the only one to turn an astonished gaze toward her footman.
Wellington?
Her footman knew Wellington?

Oh
,
this was going to make Miss Browne green with envy.

Then she shook off that wayward thought and considered the rest of what this uninvited stranger was saying. Thatcher was a war hero?

Her words from earlier came back to haunt her.
A duke is heroic and noble
,
a knight errant, if you will…
But Thatcher?

The constable repeated the question poised on every lip. “Is this true?”

Her footman jerked his head quickly.

“So how is it, sir, that you came by the lady’s reticule?” the constable asked Thatcher.

“Well he found it,” Mudgett huffed. “How else would the
cap’n come by it? Most likely he’s about to return it, but being the modest sort that ’e is, he probably wanted the miss here to do it for him.” The man thrust up his chest, his pride evident in the wide smile on his lips and the admiring light in his eyes. “This man would no more be dishonest than I would kiss a crow.” He shot a hot glance at Lady Lumby. “I’ll have you know, milady, you were about to accuse the—”

“The wrong man,” Thatcher said, stopping the soldier’s words with a sharp glance before the man could say anything more.

Whatever had just passed between the two, Felicity hadn’t a clue, but she had every intention of ferreting out the truth the first chance she got.

“Madame,” Thatcher said with all the grace and dignity of a gentleman to the manor born. “Your reticule. As my good batman said, I did indeed find it—your brave cries most likely scared off the villain who dared steal it.”

The countess stood in stony silence while everyone awaited her verdict. But as quickly as she’d been willing to toss out her accusations, her forgiveness arrived just as readily. “You served with Wellington?” she stammered like a schoolgirl.

“Yes, madam, it was my honor,” he said as he placed the reticule in her hand and curled her fingers gently around it to ensure its safekeeping. He held her hand for a moment longer, but then found she wasn’t ready to relinquish him, latching onto his sleeve and holding him fast.

“I daresay, if Wellington depended on you,” she twittered, “I can as well. Perhaps you could remember me to him, if you chance to meet him again. I was introduced to him once myself and it was a most memorable night.”

“I’m sure it was,” he demurred, trying to pull his arm free.

“Whatever are you doing working as a footman, good sir?” Lady Lumby cooed. “I daresay you should come work
for me. ’Twould be a fine sight more respectable company, I daresay. The Lumbys are an old and respectable family. Why, my dear son, Hubert, is the 14th Earl Lumby.” She shot a narrowed glance in Felicity’s direction.

Felicity bristled and was about to open her mouth to give this woman a regular recitation of her very respectable and lofty lineage when suddenly the lady’s words echoed through her ire.

Why, my dear son
,
Hubert, is the 14th Earl Lumby.

Her very single son, Felicity recalled. Then just as urgently, Thatcher’s suggestion to use her
Bachelor Chronicles
to help their coffers—and the Misses Hodges—came hurling to the forefront of her thoughts.

She took a deep breath. Perhaps this encounter could have some fortuitous benefits. Why, if she could match…Oh, it was brilliant. Inspired! And it would be if she weren’t too modest to confess, the best solution to their immediate problems, short of seeing Miss Browne packed off on the nearest merchant ship headed to the farthest tip of Africa.

Striking what she hoped was a contrite and convincing pose, she took hold of the countess’s hand and said, “Dear Lady Lumby, how can you ever forgive us for all that has been said these past few moments?” The sincerity of her statement left her cousin and sister, and even Thatcher, gaping at her. “We are unused to Town ways, and when this terrible misunderstanding unfolded, I fear we behaved wretchedly, an embarrassment to our dear teacher, the esteemed
Miss Emery.
”

“Miss Emery, you say? Miss Emery’s Establishment in Bath?” the lady asked. Felicity nodded. “Well, why didn’t you say so before, gel? I was an Emery’s girl myself!”

“You were?” Felicity replied, having known when she’d dropped the name that the lady was a graduate of the school. “Such gracious happenstance! How lucky we are to find you. Especially when we’ve come for the Season.” Felicity knew
from her
Chronicles
that the Lumby title was indeed an old and respected one, but one in need of cash, and she knew just how to make that happen.

And then they’d have the patronage of Lady Lumby, as well as the Hodges undying gratitude, to tide them over.

The lady preened for a moment longer. “I always said if I had a daughter, she would have gone to Miss Emery’s. Alas, I have only my dear Hubert.”

Felicity smiled and moved in to separate the lady from Thatcher before he caught a whiff of what she was about to do. “’Twas my mother’s dying wish to see my sister and I attend her beloved school,” she told her, eking out a small tear to add to her performance. When she glanced up she spied Tally’s astonished features and shot her sister a look of patience.
She can help us.

I’d like to help her into a crack in the ice
, Tally seemed to be saying with her pursed lips and tight expression.

“And you’re here for your Season without a mother’s guidance?” Lady Lumby asked, casting a glance at the others.

Thankfully, Pippin and Tally caught on and both made appropriately woefully lost expressions over their motherless state.

“Only our aged aunt, who I fear,” Felicity said, casting a small, sad glance over in that direction, “hasn’t had the many benefits of Society as you seem to exemplify.”

“Dear heavens, this is terrible!” Lady Lumby declared. “No guidance! And just think what could have happened if your dear footman hadn’t found my reticule! I could have ruined your chances with my reckless accusations.” The lady paused and once again sniffed loudly into her lacy handkerchief. “And here you are being so kind, so understanding. Then again I would expect no less from graduates of Miss Emery’s Establishment.” She paused to stow her handkerchief and pull her reticule strings tight. “I owe you a favor, I believe. You have but to ask and I shall grant you any boon.”

Felicity let out a deep breath and smiled, linking her arm into the crook of the countess’s. “I believe you mentioned a son, my lady. Might he be in need of a wife? Say, a wealthy one?”

Now what was the chit doing? Thatcher wondered as he followed the party off the ice. He couldn’t quite hear what the suddenly mollified matron and Miss Langley were discussing, what with their heads bent together and studied looks on both their faces.

Plotting the demise of some helpless bachelor, he had to imagine.

At the quay, her ladyship’s carriage awaited and the countess wouldn’t hear of them waiting for a passing hackney to take them home, since the Stanbrook carriage had only been theirs for the trip to the river.

So the ladies were all bundled inside and Thatcher found himself outside with Mudgett on the tiger’s perch at the back.

“What the devil are you doing here?” he asked his batman. “I thought I told you to keep to the house.”

“Seems a good thing I was. Fine sight it would have been if I hadn’t arrived when I did.”

“That doesn’t answer my question,” Thatcher said.

“I told you I couldn’t stay in that house. All that fancy gold and such.” The man shuddered.

Thatcher laughed. “So you followed me. Disobeyed a direct order and came sneaking after me.”

“You ain’t me cap’n any longer,” Mudgett shot back. “’Sides, I can’t see that a duke needs a batman. You’ve got that fancy valet to lay out your clothes and do things up proper.”

“That may be, but I prefer your honesty, my good man,” he said. “And your company.” He paused. “And your reinforcement, as well. I thank you.”

Mudgett snorted. “But why didn’t you just tell them all who you were? I’m thinkin’ being a duke would have smoothed over that crow’s feathers.”

“That is exactly why I didn’t,” Thatcher replied.

His batman shook his head. “I don’t see that at all. If you told that countess and those gels who you were, they’d be bowin’ and scrapin’ at your feet—and we’d be inside this here carriage instead of riding about on the outside. In this cold wind, I might add.”

“So you do like a bit of luxury on occasion?” Thatcher teased.

“I ain’t opposed to being warm, iffen that’s what yer askin’. ’Tis a far sight colder here than I remembered and me bones ain’t used to it.” True enough. Mudgett had served in India before arriving in Spain—it had probably been twenty years since the man had set foot in his native land. “I still say you should have told them.”

Thatcher shook his head. “Not yet. I’ve too many questions left unanswered.”

Such as why didn’t the Langley sisters and Lady Philippa have any money? Or what was so secret about their house on Brook Street? And most importantly, what was the woman his grandfather had chosen doing with a pickpocket for a chaperone?