The Art of Duke Hunting (10 page)

“You know,” she said. “I like you.”

He swiveled his head toward her. “Yes, well, your taste in gentlemen is . . . oh hell. Forget it. I can’t be trusted to say or do a bloody honorable thing right now.”

She ignored him. “I like you because you don’t shy away from the truth and you don’t offer up excuses.” She turned on her heel, her head high, and her back straight. Without looking at him again, she left him alone.

R
oman was not proud of what he did. But a man had to do the only thing he could do to accomplish an end result. In this case it was the last thing the Countess of Derby would have liked. This would take her respect for him down a peg or two.

He had not a doubt that the captain of
The
Drake
would secure a berth in the ship to take him to Town. He was so certain that within a quarter of an hour he had accomplished two key tasks. The first was to make Jem, the captain’s doltish, coltish, and trustworthyish cabin boy an offer that would leave the young man crying in gratitude. The second was to offer the innkeeper the same amount for an entirely different reason. Both sums were to ensure that they kept their word upon striking hands on the bargain, and more important, that they kept their mouths shut. The men were eager to comply.

The innkeeper supplied Roman with the finest whiskey the Isle of Wight possessed, with a few bottles of fine wine thrown in. Once they were on the vessel, Jem watched Roman as he steadily plowed through the bottles. The cabin boy knew the second part of his job was to stand guard over him all the way to the London docks, and then deliver him to the massive townhouse in Wyndam Square.

If they made it.

It was a large if.

A large percentage of the list of Jem’s duties also included keeping the Countess of Derby away from him. Roman wanted no part of any of the solutions she might offer—even if they included a repeat performance of the last time they were stuck in a cabin together. He didn’t need a managing female now. He needed complete and total oblivion. And short of having Jem punch his lights out, this—this glass of whiskey he held in his hand—was the only sensible solution.

The only problem was that it was not doing the job. No matter how much he consumed, he remained stone cold sober. He was methodical in his efforts. He could not drink too quickly as he would become ill. He could not drink too slowly for then there would be no effect. And he could not offer a drop to Jem to act as a drinking companion for then he would not be able to carry through with the rest of the damn plans.

“Yer Majesty,” the young man said with deference befitting a crowned head of Europe. “Does you wants me to open the wine?”

“Perhaps that will finish me off. Have at it, Jem.” He watched with amusement as the boy attacked the cork with vigor. But his gut clenched as he felt the pitch and sway of the ship as they departed the harbor.

For the third time in an hour a knock sounded at the door. A muffled female voice seeped into the room. “Montagu. I would have a word with you.” Silence. “Don’t think I don’t know you’re in there. And I know what you’re doing. Let me in.” More silence. He was sure he heard an exasperated sigh. “You owe me, remember?”

Of course she would throw that in.

“I have the key and I’m not afraid to use it,” she finally said, her voice very clear.

“Lean against the door,” Roman whispered and pointed to the threshold. The first threads of silken oblivion were finally taking hold.

“But—” Jem began.

“Do it,” Roman insisted.

The young deckhand shook his head and mumbled something but did as he was bid.

The sound of a key being inserted in the lock was quite clear. Jem leaned against the door and rolled his eyes.

A moment later Jem was flat on his bottom, the door open. “I tried to tell yew, Yer Majesty. Them doors here open outwards.”

“I don’t think you told me that precisely Jem. But that’s all right. Never been able to keep a lady away when she had her heart set on finding me.” He slurred the last two words. “Well, now that you’re here, my dear, make yourself useful, will you? Would you like to go on as we did before or would you prefer to uncork the wine?”

“Jem,” she directed to the young man, “you may take your leave. I’ll call you if we need you.”

“Well, I like that, undermining my
authority
with the
shervants
now, are you?” he said it with as much dignity as a man about to pass out could muster.

Jem knew when he was outgunned. He did the right thing by tucking his tail between his legs and getting the hell out of the way. “I’ll be right outside the door, Yer Majesty.” He backed out of the cabin, in the manner of a commoner taking his leave of his sovereign.

“You should be ashamed of yourself,” she said quietly as she turned to lock the door and slid the key into her half boot.

“Is that the best you can do?” he asked, pleased he did not slur. “A goddamned platitude?”

“At least it’s far more polite than you can manage in this state.”

“And you don’t even
possessesss
(why were there so many bloody esses in that word?) the, the originality to hide the key in a different place than the last time, do you?”

“You want originality?” She said it so softly it masked the anger in her voice. “I’ll show you bloody originality if you don’t apologize.”

“For what?” His head was spinning as he ground out the words.

“For suggesting I would ever offer to you again what I was kind enough to share with you once.”

He would have apologized. Really he would have. It was just that the entire bottle of whiskey chose at that precise moment to alter the delicate alchemy of his brainbox and he passed out cold on the bunk beside him.

Chapter 6

E
sme wondered under which star she had been born to anoint her the Patron Saint of All Drunkards. At least this time, she did not have to talk, or cajole, or even comfort.

In this tiny cabin on some ship the name of which she was not even certain, there would be no repeat performance of the events on
The Drake
. The Duke of Norwich was so deep in his cups that his lips were resting on the bottom of the glass, or bunk as it were. She sat beside his prone form.

Well, after this voyage, she would never see him again. It was a promise she made to herself here and now. She forced away all her old romantic dreams she had formed the first time she had seen him in that ballroom all those years ago. No man would haunt her dreams ever again. Her only passion would be her art.

The voyage wasn’t long. And so she sat watching him the entire journey, after she had dismissed Jem from his post with the promise that she would not breathe a word to His Grace.

When they docked, she watched Jem put him in a common hack carriage and give directions to his famed townhouse.

Esme turned from the sight and allowed one of the ship’s officers to hail another hack for her. She was going to the lovely Derby townhouse in a less prominent address in Mayfair. Oh, it was still very fashionable, but it was not Number 1, Wyndam Square. The new earl was a kindly relation who always welcomed her and, indeed, had invited her to reside at any of his estates at any time she wished. Peter March was of the mind that dowager cottages were frightful things and he would brook every argument on her side to remove from Derby residences to live with her mother, the Dowager Countess of Gilchrist. And so Esme had chosen to reside on Derby property. There was the added benefit that her mother often came to stay for long visits.

When Esme laid her head on a pillow at Derby Hall after a surprised yet delighted greeting by the new earl that night, a list formed in her head of all the things she had to accomplish on the morrow to resume as soon as possible her trip to see the vast, marbled art museums in Prague and Vienna. Never in her wildest imaginings would she have guessed that she would wake only a few short hours later to meet her future husband.

I
t began with a discreet royal summons. An anomaly if ever there was one. A royal summons was usually accomplished with much fanfare. Not that she knew much about royal summonses, but she could imagine them. Peter March, dressed in proper nightclothes since it was three o’clock in the morning when they were awakened, was vastly impressed, though left stuttering by the request that she should wait on the Prince Regent that instant. He wanted to accompany her, but the summons clearly stated that she was to come alone. Reassuring Peter with a promise to return or send a note, she took her leave, with haste.

Bewigged coachmen in light blue satin livery nearly threw down a roll of carpeting as they escorted her into the gold dipped carriage fit for a queen. Indeed, it looked very much like the Queen’s favorite barouche, if Esme was to hazard a guess.

The only problem was that Esme looked nothing like a queen. She feared she looked very much like a dairymaid. The Prince Regent’s messenger had insisted they depart without a minute to spare. Esme had been roused from her bed, her hair in rolling rags no less, with nothing more than a thin, pale lavender robe covering her fine lawn nightclothes. There was nary a scrap of lace or ruffle in sight. Not even Betsy, her very young maid, was allowed to accompany her wherever they were taking her.

Within a quarter hour they drew into the mews of Carleton House, and Esme’s spirits sank. She supposed she had known the minute she had seen the coat of arms on the side of the carriage what might be the cause of Prinny’s demand.

A dozen servants hurried her through the vast, elegant tunnels to His Majesty’s chambers; their footsteps echoed off the walls, magnificently decorated with portraits of eight hundred years of royalty.

She was pushed over the threshold of the royal chambers and a light click proved a lock had been engaged behind her. There were three people there—and only two did she know.

Roman inhaled sharply when he saw her and stepped back. A man dressed in the ways of the church stayed rooted to his spot but gazed skyward as if asking for a miracle.

She could have told him it was a useless cause. She had been praying for various miracles for nearly two decades without a single response. First she had prayed that beauty would creep up on her in her second decade. In her next decade she prayed that she possessed the sort of raw talent necessary to succeed at the highest levels of her craft. In her—

“Good evening, Lady Derby,” the Prince Regent said, his fat hands beckoning her forward.

“Sire,” she said, curtsying deeply. “Please excuse my appearance. I was told there was not a moment to lose and that it did not matter how I was garbed. I would never—”

“Never mind that, my dear,” Prinny said. “I will see to it that you are gowned befitting your station shortly. Now then, please do stand next to your good friend Norwich, will you?”

“Of course, Your Majesty.” She walked to Roman and nodded to him under her lashes.

He appeared dead on his feet, but he did not sway.

“Hello, again,” he said simply.

“Hello, to you, too.”

The prince clapped his hands. “You see, I knew it. You both will do very well together I am certain. You even speak to each other like an old married couple. You are to be—”

Esme’s mind stuttered. Yes, her mind. And she did the unpardonable. She interrupted the ruler of Christendom. “I beg your pardon? Did Your Majesty just suggest we will do well together? In what fashion could you mean, sire?”

The prince gestured wildly with his hands, but said not a word. Roman spoke clearly. “You heard correctly. He means to marry us off.” He paused. “
To each other
.”

A chill down her spine chased away the heat from her nerves. “What?” She whispered much louder than she had meant to do. People did not interrupt the Prince Regent nor did they exclude him from the conversation. “I-I don’t understand.” She was dreaming. Having a nightmare.

“You understood, March.” Roman scratched the back of his head restlessly. “It’s that bloody Mr. King’s doing. He came to His Majesty straightaway yesterday with a host of half-cooked suggestions and innuendos.”

Prinny cleared his throat. “Are you two finished? Did not your parents teach you it is unforgivable to interrupt your sovereign and then continue the conversation in a manner that speaks of indifference to my being right before you?” The older man’s wig slipped and a half-shaved head was revealed.

Esme bit her tongue to keep from laughing.

“Now, then. You are to be married in an hour’s time.”

She bit her tongue harder so she would not start to cry.

The prince’s voice turned sour. “And I’m certain that vulgar little columnist, whoever he may be—and I fear it’s a very rude woman, I do—will eventually report your marriage with great pride, which will be a balm for our nation. Of course I will choose the best moment to impart the news as we are all of us balancing—balancing, I tell you—on a very, very high bundle of twigs which could collapse at any time given the gravity of the moment.”

Esme didn’t bother to try to dissuade the Prince Regent from his silly ideas. She knew when a man was at his maximum limit, unable to see anything clearly. She knew the best course was to say not a word.

“Your Highness,” Roman said rubbing his forehead with one hand. “This is impossible. I am certainly not the man for Lady Derby. And she does not want to marry me.”

“And what does it matter what anyone wants these days? Do you think I want rotten potatoes thrown at my head every single morning? Do you think I want talk of revolution spreading through the country like a wildfire on a summer afternoon? You are to be married, I say. Right this blooming moment, sod it all.”

Esme’s heart was pounding so hard she could swear she could see it beating on her breastbone. She looked up to see the prince staring at her.

“Have you nothing to say about this, Countess?”

“May I be so bold as to ask if there is any other possible recourse? May I ask what happened precisely?” She tried to remain cool despite the fact that it was the first time she had spoken directly to the future king.