The Duchess Diaries: The Bridal Pleasures Series (7 page)

He glanced at the younger woman in the droopy maid’s cap who sat slumped next to the miserable bat; Millie was his current lover, and he ought to have known that she wasn’t quick enough on her feet to send into a fancy mansion. “I ’eard. I don’t need a sermon to apprise me of the situation.”

“The situation?” she said, her voice quavering. “This is much more than a situation.”

“Calm down, lady. Let’s go over it one more time. Millie missed a chance to collect a certain object that, for reasons that are none of my never mind, you wish to acquire.”

Lady Clipstone muttered under her breath.

“My old friend the duchess appears to be in possession of this object,” Nick continued. “And the duchess was last seen in the Duke of Wynfield’s carriage, which was witnessed coming and going from a famous place of pleasure.”

“It was the footman who threw me off,” Millie said from out of nowhere. “And then ’arriet and that Lady Jane.”

“Millie,” he chided, leaning forward. “I’ll take care of this.”

“What do you intend to do?” Lady Clipstone inquired, shrinking into the corner as if he were an infectious agent.

“That’s easy,” he said. “I’m gonna track down my old business partner and dig straight to the root of this matter. What is at the root of this, by the way?”

“Revenge,” Lady Clipstone said.

“Revenge? No? Between you and ’arriet?”

“Not Harriet, you…” She composed herself. “It is between me and Harriet’s mentor.”

“And this mentor wrote the diary?”

“No, no.”

“Well, then, who did and what’s it to you?”

Lady Clipstone’s face pinched. “Why should I trust you with my reasons?”

He laughed. “Lady, you shoulda asked yourself that question before you commissioned me for this crime.”

She sighed. “I have no one else to enlist. Do you want to know why?”

Nick winked at Millie. Information was always useful, and oftentimes it came in handy for a little game known as blackmail. “Tell me,” he said somberly. “If you’ve been mistreated I might be able to avenge you.

“I don’t want anyone’s throat slit.”

“Course you don’t. That would be murder.”

“And that costs a fortune,” Millie said.

Lady Clipstone wavered. He waited.

“I have no husband,” she said.

He shook his head in sympathy.

“That…that pretender of pretense stole him from me!”

“You poor thing,” Millie said, actually sounding as if she understood.

Lady Clipstone gave a sniff. “You have no idea how important that diary is to me.”

He nodded agreeably. The silly bat wasn’t bad-looking when she closed her trap. “I do understand, madam,” he lied, feeling a passing twinge of curiosity about the contents of the diary. “This is a delicate matter.”

“You see,” Lady Clipstone explained, twisting her hands over and over until Nick wanted to smack her. “Charlotte’s cousin, Emma Boscastle, stole my one true love from me when we were in boarding school together.”

Nick sat up. “Your lover was another woman?”

“No, you half— No. Viscount Lyons lived nearby at our school. I saw him first, and then he saw Emma.”

“Who’s Emma?” Millie asked.

“She is the lady who founded the academy,” Lady Clipstone said bitterly. “She was my best friend. We planned to open a school for young ladies together. And now look how things have turned out for me.”

“What did this viscount of vice ’ave that made both of you into enemies?” Nick asked, frowning as if he gave a toss.

“Manners,” she snapped. “But he’s dead now.”

“That’s good,” Millie said.

Lady Clipstone glowered at her. “No. It isn’t. Emma went on to marry a duke. And what do I have?”

Nick blew out a breath. “Revenge?”

“Not yet. No. All I have is a struggling academy and a useless lummox of a nephew who sprawls across my receiving couch in a food-stained shirt and wrinkled trousers, begging me to give him a few pounds, which I do to get rid of him.”

“Bloodsucker,” Nick said. “I know the type. But what I don’t know is ’ow you came to think this diary makes a damn bit of difference, if you’ll pardon the
parlez-vous
.”

“I’m clever. Like you.”

Nick nodded. “I got that right off.”

“One of Emma’s students defected. She told of the shocking liberties taken at her academy. She thought it might be recorded in Charlotte Boscastle’s diary. Emma had trained Charlotte to assume the responsibility for the academy before she left. And she’s always seen writing in that confounded diary.”

“Liberties? Of what nature, may I be so brash as to inquire?”

“Secrets of sexual misbehavior that would paint the school in shame.”

He blinked. “Secrets, eh?”

She lifted the curtain, looking nervous. “Wicked things,” she whispered. “Improper. The Boscastles are worshiped like demigods. It seems the lower they stoop, the higher they rise in social estimation.”

Nick nodded. He supposed he could blame them for taking Harriet from him.

“I want to bring the academy to ruin!” she cried in a quavering voice. “I’m a desperate woman. That diary is the key to it all.”

“I see that.”

“They steal pupils from my door every month. I don’t know how much longer I can make a living. Do you understand how unfair it is that they prosper while I know their sins and must hold my tongue?”

“Let me take care of this,” Nick said.

Three hours later he penned a message and had one of his boys take it to her.

Fond regards,
N. Rydell

O
ld habits died hard. The Duchess of Glenmorgan appeared to be in her element as she plotted out how she and Charlotte would break into the duke’s house to retrieve the diary. To her credit Harriet had accepted full responsibility for the part she had played in the evening’s debacle.

“If I weren’t desperate,” Charlotte said as she stared at Harriet across the swaying carriage, “I would never have agreed to this. Jane will be furious.”

“We’ll be home before Jane even knows we’re missing.”

“How do you know?”

Harriet sighed. “I’ve broken into more houses than you have attended teas. Charlotte?”

“What?”

“Trust me,” she said, the two words now sending a chill of foreboding down Charlotte’s back, when earlier they had reassured her.

“What choice do I have?”

“None.”

“What if he didn’t take the diary into the house? What if it isn’t there or in the carriage?”

“I need to concentrate,” Harriet said. “Would you please stop worrying?”

“How can I help it? It’s bad enough that you instructed your coachman to drive to Mrs. Watson’s house to make sure the duke was still inside. Imagine being caught, two ladies of our position, sneaking around a brothel.”

“I did work there once,” Harriet murmured, closing her eyes.

“I’ll be mortified if anyone recognized us.”

“Perhaps you should have stayed behind the curtains instead of peeking out at the place.”

“The house certainly does a brisk business,” Charlotte said. “I lost count of the gentlemen who arrived in the short time we circled ’round.”

“One of those gentlemen is you-know-who.”

“Don’t remind me.” She had already tortured herself with the thought. It wasn’t difficult to picture him surrounded by women eager to satisfy his every disgraceful whim.

“We’re in Belgravia,” Harriet said, opening her eyes.

“How can you tell?”

“The sound of the wheels on the cobbles.” Harriet frowned at her. “If you can’t stay calm, then stay in the carriage.”

“No,” Charlotte said resolutely. “That isn’t fair.”

Twenty minutes later Charlotte wished she could change her mind. In all her secret yearnings she hadn’t once imagined that she would be skulking behind the shrubbery to break into Gideon’s house. A lady was
never to pay a call on a gentleman unless she wished to be considered fast.

Harriet pulled her skirt free from a thorn-laden branch. “He would have to plant rosebushes right under the window.”

“It seems a reasonable place to plant them,” Charlotte replied, biting her thumb.

“Not when you climb through them in a gauze ball gown.”

“I’m sure the duke’s gardener didn’t grow them there to ruin your wardrobe.”

“No chattering. Someone could be listening.”

Charlotte stared past the dark rows of trees in the garden. “From where?”

“From the servants’ quarters. Or the house next door. There’s a window looking down at us. And don’t answer if someone asks who goes there. Just hoist yourself over the sill and close the window. Pass me the chisel, please.”

Charlotte reached into Harriet’s beaded reticule. “I don’t believe this.”

“What?”

“‘Pass me the chisel, please.’ We were sitting at the breakfast table only this morning and you asked me to pass the sugar tongs. This is housebreaking, Harriet.”

“Well, it isn’t a night at the opera. Did you find it yet?”

“No. Hold my fan for a moment.”

“Why on earth did you bring a fan?”

“I feel naked without it. Here.” She handed Harriet the tool. “How long do you think the duke will be gone?”

“This is his first official night with his mistress. I don’t think he’ll come home before dawn. I saw her at a rout once. She’s very beautiful. Small and dark.” Harriet
worked the chisel under the windowsill. “There. You go in first.”

Once they had climbed into the kitchen, they waited a few more minutes before Harriet repeated the instructions she’d given Charlotte in the carriage. “We’ll start upstairs first. If he came home to change, he would have done so in his bedroom. You go there. I’ll search the upstairs drawing room.”

“What if we’re caught?”

“Make up something. Say you were sleepwalking.”

“All the way from Park Lane?”

“Say that we…we’re on the treasure hunt and that we broke up into groups after he left.”

“A treasure hunt.”

“Yes. He knows it was planned earlier. The beau monde is always off on one escapade or another. Haven’t you ever done anything adventurous?”

“Only in my imagination.”

“Well, here’s your chance to be a little daring.”

Charlotte didn’t move.

“You’re as white as chalk,” Harriet whispered. “If you can’t be useful, then do us both a favor and sit in a chair until I’m finished.”

“Useful? I feel like I’m made of iron. I can’t breathe properly, and my legs are too heavy to lift. I think I’m losing the sensation in all my limbs. I don’t think I have the temperament to make a good criminal.”

“There’s no crime in taking back what belongs to you.”

“I hope the duke sees it that way.”

“I hope he doesn’t see us at all.”

G
ideon had been on edge the entire evening. First there had been the challenging encounter with Miss Boscastle at the ball. Now he couldn’t help wondering what would have happened between them if he’d read her diary first. He might not have teased her unmercifully if he had known she secretly desired him.

Devon would have killed him if he’d suggested anything impolite to her. Of course, Devon had not read his cousin’s diary. The damned thing had ruined Gideon’s chance for a gratifying night. Furthermore, he had to go about the complicated business of finding another mistress.

He felt his nerves prickle as he entered the house. The servants had been advised to retire early in case he brought Gabrielle home. The only light came from the coals glowing in the grate in his study. He walked past the open door and stood at the bottom of the stairs.

Just when he thought he was imagining things, he heard the creak of his wardrobe door.

There was a rustle of…it might have been the rustle of bedcovers being turned down. Did he have a surprise waiting? Could Gabrielle have rushed here before him to make amends? Just in case he was wrong, he returned to the entry hall and drew his walking stick from the stand. By the time he reached his bedroom door, he realized that he would not have to subdue this intruder with a sword stick. It was Gabrielle, making herself quite at home.

A swat across the rump should get her attention.

He rested his shoulder against the doorjamb and waited for her to notice him. Her arse rose in the air at an intriguing angle, one that afforded him a view of several inches of petticoat and cotton-stockinged calves. He frowned. Plain white stockings. Unadorned white gown.

How had she had time to change her clothes and sneak into the house before he did?

In fact, she had not only changed her clothes. She had altered her entire appearance—height, hair color, her face—

Her
face.

Good heavens.
It was the schoolmistress, searching through his drawers, for what he could only guess: his pocket watch, cash, old love letters?

He retracted the sword blade into the walking stick. “Excuse me. Would it help if I lit a lamp behind you? I wouldn’t want you to strain your”—he looked up from the lower portion of her body—“eyes.”

She went still, like a small animal suddenly aware it has been marked by a predator. Carefully she lifted her hands from the drawer and straightened, her eyes wide and anxious.

His gaze traveled over her. “Miss Boscastle. What an unexpected pleasure.”

“Your Grace?” she said, as if they were sitting down to tea.

He shook his head in disbelief. “What on earth are you doing in my bedchamber?”

The look of shock on her face must have mirrored his. “I’m…I’m”—she glanced around, studying the bed, his washstand, the chair by the window—“sleepwalking.”

“
Sleepwalking?
”

She nodded slowly.

“Sleepwalking?” he said again, pushing off the doorjamb. “You mean for me to believe that you walked from the academy to my house, and climbed the stairs to my bedroom
asleep?
”

“Yes.”

“You aren’t sleeping now, are you?”

“I don’t think so.”

He swore softly. “Do I look like the type of man who believes in mesmerism or messages from the otherworld that come to us while we sleep?”