Not Quite A Duke (Dukes' Club Book 6) (6 page)

“That good, is he?” Patience asked.

Elizabeth stared at her for a moment then started to laugh. A rich, bemused sound.

For some reason, Patience found herself shifting from one slippered foot to the other.
Why was she laughing
?

“My dear, Lord Charles is much beloved by women of all classes.”

“Why?” He was dratted infuriating. How could he be so beloved, aside from that incredible beauty of his and indescribable magnetism?

Mrs. Barton sighed then put her glass of champagne down. “He’s a guarantee of pleasure. Many men are not capable of ensuring a lady’s peak. Lord Charles? Let’s just say he’s been known to have more than one woman in his bed at a time and send them all home with silly smiles upon their face.”

More than one?

Silly smiles?

Patience frowned. She wasn’t certain if she should consider this praise. Surely, such a thing was no compliment. But silly smiles. . .

After several conversations, Patience had finally had the courage to ask her what a
peak
was. Elizabeth had explained without condescension. Now, she contemplated Lord Charles sliding his hands to the hem of her skirt.

She blinked and quickly shook the fascinating thought away.

She cleared her throat. “Has he put a silly smile upon your face?”

Elizabeth’s brows rose. “What a question. I know we have no secrets, but you’ve never asked me about my lovers so specifically before. You say you wish to know about him for research? Are you certain?”

Patience squared her shoulders. “Indeed.”

“Then, no dear. No. Not
my
face. But his exploits in the bedroom are legendary. . . Not just because of that but because he is not cruel to women. In fact, he is always exceptionally kind. Men? Men he’ll slaughter on the dueling field without a backward glance. But ladies? He’s always kind.”

The claim matched her own experience because while Lord Charles had been shocking, he had clearly made every attempt to be kind in the revelation that her house no longer belonged to her. Even in his attempt to wheedle her secret, he’d been kind. Maddening, but kind.

It didn’t match her usual assumptions about rakes.

And she felt a shocking degree of relief that her friend had not been in Lord Charles’ bed. She shouldn’t care. It was alarming that she did and completely without sense.

“Do you wish to meet him?” Elizabeth asked with a wicked grin.

She looked away.

“You have
already
met him!” Elizabeth exclaimed.

Patience coughed. “Yes.”

“And? Do tell!”

“He now owns my house.”

“Barring House?”

“Exactly so.”

Mrs. Barton’s eyes grew round as saucers. “Oh my.”

“I think I was quite a surprise to him.”

A laugh peeled from Mrs. Barton’s throat. “I can only imagine and Lord Charles isn’t easily surprised.”

“I gathered as much.”

“You find him to be fascinating, don’t you?”

“I hate to admit it, but yes.”

A sly smile tilted Mrs. Barton’s rosy lips. “Would you like to see his natural habitat?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I’d be happy to take you to his hunting grounds.”

“I don’t wish to encounter him,” she replied quickly.

“My dear! It’s for your research. We’d mask of course.”

One of the things that Patience had been surprised to find was the selection of
ton
members who liked to attend events incognito. She’d attended many of these ensembles for research.

So few people had ever met Lady Patience that she’d never been concerned someone might guess who was behind her black silk mask.

“I’m not certain,” she replied. And she wasn’t which was highly unusual for her. “Though I’m sure P. Auden would find it rather useful.”

“Well, if you don’t wish it, there are many other places to go this evening for your book’s information.”

“Well, I must finish this book. The last was such a success. I can’t wait too long between releases, you know.”

“I do know,” sighed Mrs. Barton. “Actresses are the same, my dear. P. Auden cannot be too far from the public eye, so to speak, just as I cannot or I shall be forgotten.”

Madame Celeste bustled towards the door, fabrics in hand. “Mademoiselle Barton, may I do anything else, tout suite?”

Mrs. Barton shook her head. “Non merci, Madame Celeste.”

With that, with a long backward glance, Madame Celeste departed.

Patience eyed her champagne. Likely Lord Charles had stayed at Barring House. No doubt, he was assessing the value of the property and deciding how best to transfer it to his keeping without her presence.

This would be the best chance she had to see what world he inhabited without chancing his presence.

Allowing herself to smile, Patience nodded. “Why not? Let’s do it.”

“Marvelous. I’ve long wished to take you to the next level of debauchery.”

“Next level?” she exclaimed. “Surely you mean lower?”

“It all depends on your view, my dear.” Mrs. Barton fluffed her black curls. “It all depends.”

Well, her view had been considerably widened in the last years. Widening it a trifle more couldn’t hurt, now could it?

Especially, if Lord Charles was nowhere in sight.

Chapter 6

Charles strode into Edmund Tormund’s book-strewn office and felt a swelling of anticipation that he hadn’t felt in years.

He was about to do something very good.

The tall windows overlooking Fleet Street, though closed, let in the wild racket of hundreds of vehicles, their horses, and the shouts of city life.

It was a mad melee and he loved it.

The added benefit of the smell of ink coming up from the printing floor only invigorated him further.

The printed word had always given him an escape from the darker aspects of life. When he couldn’t bear the pain of his own soul, he’d disappeared into books. 

And he’d certainly disappeared into Lady Patience’s world. My God, he’d devoured her book.

He’d read it in mere hours and had thought no further before he’d found himself on his horse and heading straight back to the city with one purpose and one purpose only.

He was damned well going to see to it that Lady Patience’s book was put into print.

The world deserved to know her and her work.

Her gift shouldn’t be shored up and hoarded. Oh no. He could only imagine the amount of people she would help with her stories. Such books would help countless escape the drudgery and pain of their lives.

Without books, he never would have survived the crueler moments of his youth or the death of his father. She might be angry with him for taking the manuscript without her permission, but he felt confident that she would see how vital her contribution to the world was once he had framed his purpose to her accompanied by a contract.

Mr. Tormund looked up from his desk as Charles charged across the long hall filled with bookcases that served as the man’s office.

A man in his early forties, his black hair was barely touched with silver, his face, barely worn with lines. There were just a few about his eyes from long hours squinting at small print and typeface.

With a pleasant smile, Tormund stood. “Charles! A pleasure.”

Charles nodded and sat in the leather chair studded with brass before the publisher’s massive desk covered with heaps of papers and more books. 

“Good to see you,” Charles said. “It’s been too long.”

“Indeed.”

“How does your cousin fare?” Charles asked casually.

“Very well, I thank you.” Tormund’s cousin was a French aristocrat who had barely escaped the Reign of Terror.

Even Tormund didn’t know that the escape had been facilitated by Charles during those terrifying years.

“Now, what can I do for you?” he asked, eyeing the bundle of papers in Charles hands.

“I’ve made a remarkable discovery.”

Torment pulled out a pipe and began filling it with tobacco. “Have you?”

“Yes,” Charles effused. He never effused. But it was impossible to be understated regarding Patience’s manuscript. “A master work of fiction that will dazzle the masses.”

“Bold words.” Tormund leaned back and puffed on his pipe. “But I’m aware of your devotion to the written word. You wouldn’t claim such a thing idly.”

“So, you will look.”

Tormund laughed jovially. “I will, though this is not the way I usually go about things.”

“I read the manuscript this morning and brought it to you posthaste.”

“That passionate about it, are you?”

“Yes.”

Suddenly Tormund leaned forward and propped an elbow on his desk. “It’s not written by a relative is it?”

Charles arched an offended brow.

Tormund raised his hands. “Now. Now. I’ve no wish to face you over a pistol. I meant no offense but you’d be surprised the amount of acquaintances I have peddling their mother or auntie’s laborious and ponderous attempts at novel writing.”

“Your life must be very troublesome,” Charles drawled.

Tormund chortled. “Hand it over then.”

Charles reverently placed the manuscript in the publisher’s skilled hands.

The older man sat and to Charles’ surprise began flipping pages immediately. A strange smile slowly twisted Tormund’s firm lips.

“I didn’t expect you to read it now,” Charles said, leaning back in his chair, certain they’d be here for a while. Once started, it was impossible to put the book down and Charles wouldn’t be able to leave until knowing Tormund’s thoughts.

“You’re a man who can face facts, but this might be shocking to you.”

An odd, unpleasant feeling lodged in Charles’ stomach. Was he about to be told the book wasn’t worth publication? Impossible, surely?

Tormund tapped the bundle. “In truth, I can ascertain if an author has any talent by the end of the first paragraph on the first page.”

Charles leaned forward, his body tensing. “And?”

Tormund placed the pages carefully back and settled in his chair. He puffed several times on his pipe.

“Is it bad?” Charles asked, barely believing he was asking at all. “I could have sworn—“

Torment’s grin turned positively gleeful. “Old boy, it’s already published.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“It’s published.”

“It can’t be,” Charles protested. “I found it just this morning. Are you certain?”

“Oh, I’m certain,” Tormund said pleasantly. “Not only is it published, it is one of the most successful books published in the last five years.” 

Charles stared, feeling as if he’d been punched. “Is it?”

“Oh yes. Remarkable writer. I’m surprised you haven’t read it.”

“Who?”

“Who wrote it? Well, really it’s obvious. The style alone—”

Charles lifted a hand, stopping the other man. “Let me guess. P. Auden.”

“Exactly so. Did you meet him? He’s a recluse you know. No one, not even his publisher has met him.”

It was on the tip of Charles’ tongue to correct the pronoun. He stopped himself. “Yes. I met him.”

“Is there anything else I can help you with?” Tormund asked. “Now that you know the manuscript you so longed to assist has already reached the pinnacle of success?”

“No. But you have been very helpful in any case.”

“Good. We must have a brandy soon.”

Charles stood and extended his hand. “That would be most agreeable.”

They shook hands and Charles took the manuscript.

He headed down the hall then out to the busy street, a bemused smile upon his face.

No wonder she’d offered to buy the house.

Lady Patience could no doubt afford to buy Barring House thrice over.

And he, the poor fool, had thought her in need of his help.

No wonder she’d acted so strangely.

As he headed down the thickly packed street, weaving his way through the loud mass, he couldn’t help a rueful sigh. What an arse he must have sounded when he offered to assist her in publishing her book.

She’d already published several.

So, this was her secret. She was a scandalous lady authoress.

As he walked, he considered.

No. That couldn’t be her only secret. It had felt larger than that, even if being employed was a rather scandalous thing for her to be.

There was something more. Something more salacious.

And he suddenly had a feeling that it lay in the subject matter of her novels.

How the devil had she gained such thorough knowledge of the world he traversed on such a frequent basis?

Mayhap she had someone who confided to her the intimacies of the demimonde and yet her writing had been far too accurate to merely be second-hand recounting.

My God, he had nearly smelt the cigar smoke, tasted the wine, and felt the desperation of the gamblers as he’d read her work. Then there had been the women. The ladies of the night in her story. They’d been far too real. Far too human.

There was no caricature of a bawd in those pages.

Lady Patience wrote as if she had witnessed first-hand the lives of those ladies.

Could it be possible that she had gone amongst them?

There was only one way to find out.

He was going to have to ask Lady Patience herself.

After he’d bought copies of her other books, of course.

***

T
he private party was different than the gambling halls that Mrs. Barton had taken her to before. The room wasn’t full of glittering ladies of the first water gambling away the estates of their husbands and sons or young men casting their inheritance to ruin on the turn of a card.

Oh no, this was no ivory-walled, shining land dedicated to the bored and debauched.

The room was alive with the sound of those glorying in the moment.

Rough men in colorful coats boomed with laughter and declarations of victory as they gambled.

The high pitch of female laughter accompanied them as women strode about in gowns that looked like they might fall off at any moment.

Masks of every hue and variety were upon every face.

Brandy and champagne flowed.

Music filled the room, played by a wild band in the corner.

Dim light gave the room a mysterious, decadent air.