The Duke's Men [1] What the Duke Desires (10 page)

“Right. Lisette.” He’d forgotten her Christian name. It suited her.

He handed her bag up to the footman, then helped her into the coach. Oh yes, the name
suited her very well. Her French blood showed in the delicate flick of her wrist as
she settled her traveling cloak and her skirts about her, in the way that she didn’t
hurry to cover her ankles or hide the bottom of her petticoat . . . even in the unconsciously
provocative smile she shot Greasley when he drew back his booted foot to keep from
soiling her hem.

Maximilian had seen women in Paris move and smile in such a fashion. It came naturally
to them, was part of who they were. Lisette had that French feminine instinct, too,
though it was mercifully joined to a healthy dose of English pragmatism and good sense.

He liked that about her. But given what she’d said, other men didn’t appreciate that
mixture at all. They must all be daft.

Obviously women recognized her sensual appeal enough to view her as a threat, or Mrs.
Greasley wouldn’t be so catty to her. The old biddy probably couldn’t abide having
a French rose like Lisette growing wild in her neighborhood.

He settled into his seat in the carriage. If that were the case, Mrs. Greasley was
going to have heart failure by the time they reached Brighton. Because this was a
damned small coach, and they were in very close quarters.

Between the ladies’ petticoats, his height, and the small items protruding from every
nook and cranny, he felt like a horse in a hatbox. There was scarcely any room for
his legs, and his head butted up against the ceiling.

It was even worse once they set off, with the body of the coach swaying and lurching
at every rut in the road. Holy God, did people actually travel like this? How did
they stand it?

He couldn’t imagine how
he
was going to stand it. He’d never been in a public coach. Even when he’d been in
school, some servant had always come to fetch him in one of the many family equipages.

Lisette had said he should look on this as an adventure, but clearly her idea of adventure
differed vastly from his. His would never have included having a packet that reeked
of mutton lodged under his arm, or being jabbed in the ankle by an umbrella every
time the coach made a stop.

And there were several stops before they even left the city—to pick up a young woman
from her home,
to intersect with an incoming coach in order to acquire a load of goods, to maneuver
around another carriage blocking the road. He couldn’t believe the number of delays.

By the fourth one, he was chomping at the bit. He glanced over at Lisette, wondering
if she was, too, but she was gazing out the window with an expression of rapt attention.
They were passing Kennington Common now, where some orator was boring the crowd with
his opinions and the nearby Church of St. Mark’s was disgorging its worshippers. Then
came Brixton Road and a long line of moderately pretty terrace houses. Mundane sights,
all.

Yet every one seemed to fascinate her, for she alternated between craning her neck
to see things and pressing her face to the glass. Had she really traveled so little?
She’d spent part of her life in France, after all.

Then again, if she’d been living with her brother all that time and then come straight
to London with her half brother, she might not have had many other chances to travel.

Her enthusiasm made him envious. When he rode in his own coach, he never noticed the
world outside. He was too busy sorting correspondence or reading the papers. But now,
through her eyes, he noticed the beautiful carving on one impressive edifice and the
glistening of sunlight on the River Effra.

An adventure? Perhaps.

They had just reached a more rural stretch of road when Greasley bent down to remove
from his satchel
what looked—and smelled—like a peeled raw onion. He bit into it and, catching Maximilian’s
hard stare on him, explained, “It’s good for the constitution, you know. I eats one
every day.” He thumped his chest. “Keeps me strong and healthy.”

“Put that thing away,” his wife mercifully said. “You’re going to stink up the whole
coach!”

“It’s your mutton pies that’s stinking up the coach,” Greasley retorted.

“Our angel likes my mutton pies, she does. I promised her I’d bring her some.” Mrs.
Greasley turned a flirtatious smile on Maximilian. “So do
you
like mutton pie, Mr. Kale?”

“I don’t eat mutton,” he said hastily.
Unless it’s prepared by my French chef and not by a woman who thinks it improves with
age.

“Then you just haven’t had it cooked right, that’s all,” the woman said. “I warrant
once you taste
my
mutton, you’ll have a right healthy appreciation for it.”

As her husband fell into a coughing fit, Maximilian fought to maintain his composure.
Obviously Greasley knew what his wife did not—that “mutton” was a vulgar term for
something else. And though Maximilian doubted that anyone, even her husband, had ever
tasted the harpy’s mutton, he sure as blazes didn’t want that confirmed or disproved.
Indeed, he would do almost anything to get that image out of his head.

So it was fortunate that Lisette chose that moment to join the conversation. “How
long do you mean to stay with your daughter in Brighton, Mrs. Greasley?”

Sparing a frown for her still coughing husband, Mrs. Greasley let Lisette change the
subject. “A week at least, I expect. She just bore our first grandson—that’s why we’re
going. Mr. Greasley put our son Danny in charge of the drapery shop until we return.”
She shot her husband a dark glance. “I daresay
he
will make it pay.”

“The devil he will,” her husband muttered, having finally stopped coughing. “The lad’s
got bacon for brains. We’ll be lucky if the shop’s still standing when we return.”

“Don’t you listen to Mr. Greasley,” the woman replied with a sniff. “My Danny is a
sharp one, he is. And my younger daughter Sally . . .” She cast Lisette a calculating
glance. “Isn’t it about time Mr. Manton started looking for a wife?”

Lisette snorted. “Dom can barely support
me,
much less a—”

“My wife keeps forgetting that she’s married now.” Grabbing her hand, Maximilian squeezed
it in warning. “Her brother doesn’t have to support her anymore.”

Her hand stilled in his. “Of course. I-I’m not used to having a husband yet, I suppose.”

“I’m sure Mrs. Greasley understands,” he said, trying to smooth over her gaffe. He
flashed the older woman a smile. “I suppose you had the same trouble when you were
newly wed, eh, madam?”

“Not a bit,” Mrs. Greasley said stiffly. “We’d been courting nearly a year by the
time
we
married. I was so eager for it that I’d been calling him ‘husband’ in my
head for months. But in my day, young people didn’t leap into marriage willy-nilly.”

When Lisette stiffened beside him, he squeezed her hand again. “No doubt you were
wise to be cautious. Lisette and I should probably have been more so.” That was an
understatement. “But what could we do when our hearts ran away with us? We had to
follow after.”

He’d probably got that out of some book, but it was apparently one Mrs. Greasley hadn’t
read, for she beamed at him. “Oh my, that’s a lovely sentiment, Mr. Kale. Isn’t it
lovely, my dear?”

The man grunted but didn’t protest when his wife patted his arm affectionately.

Lisette relaxed beside Maximilian, but he kept hold of her hand. At first it was to
be sure he could prevent her from blurting out anything else that might give them
away. Then it was because he couldn’t let go. Now that he had hold of her, he indulged
his urge to explore—running his thumb along the curves of her fingers, stroking the
knuckles, caressing her palm.

And to his surprise, she let him, though her breath seemed to quicken and the rest
of her body go taut. He exulted in that. She had a lovely hand, with slender fingers
and bones more delicate than he’d have expected for a woman of her height.

It suddenly occurred to him that if he moved her hand merely an inch over, it would
be resting firmly on his thigh. The urge to do so was so powerful, he nearly acted
on it. But the thought of her hand on his leg made his mouth go dry and his muscles
go
taut in places they should not, and that was definitely unwise.

Abruptly he released her hand. If he held it any longer, he feared he might want a
wedding night in truth. And considering that they would probably have to share a room
at the inn in Brighton to maintain their masquerade, that would push him over the
edge.

She shuddered so lightly that no one but him would notice, yet it set his blood pumping
higher. Confound it, now he was aware of her thigh pressed against his, her breast
just inches away. This was proving to be worse torture than even Greasley’s onion
eating.

As if she’d read his lustful thoughts, Lisette said brightly, “Do you think we’ll
be stopping for dinner anywhere? Or does the coach go straight through to Brighton?
I confess I’m famished—I had no time to eat this morning, what with preparing for
the trip.”

“I imagine not,” Greasley said with a wink at Maximilian. “Being as you only just
got married yesterday, I’ll wager you didn’t rise early enough to do more than run
for the coach.”

Confound the fellow—now Maximilian had new images to torment him. Lisette as a blushing
bride on her wedding night. Lisette letting down her hair. Lisette in nothing but
a flimsy night rail and a wrapper, climbing the stairs in front of him with her bottom
just close enough to—

“Speaking of getting married,” Mrs. Greasley put in, “isn’t your half brother over
thirty, Mrs. Kale?”

“Yes,” Lisette said in a quiet voice, making
Maximilian wonder if she could sense the rampant urges in him.

“Then that’s more than old enough to be looking for a wife,” Mrs. Greasley said. “I
daresay Mr. Manton makes a good deal of money with his business. And if you’re not
keeping house for your half brother anymore, he’ll need someone to look after him.
You’ve only got the one other brother in France, right?”

“Right,” Lisette said, then went on hastily, “But truly, is there no stop along the
road for luncheon or dinner?”

“There’s a short stop at Crawley if you want to have a bit to eat there,” Greasley
offered, but Maximilian’s mind was now elsewhere. The Greasleys seemed to know a great
deal about Lisette’s family, which she obviously didn’t want him to hear.

Perhaps there was another way to find out where Bonnaud was hiding. Somewhere along
the route, he could take Greasley aside and find out what the older man knew.

If he had to guess from what she’d said about Bonnaud having a government position,
the man’s employer was probably in Paris. Then again, that was only if the man worked
for the national government. Bonnaud might have a regional position in some obscure
town. She’d never said where
she’d
been living in France, so anything was possible. A needle in a haystack, she’d called
it.

Well, he meant to shorten that haystack a bit. He liked to know where he was headed.
And if he
could
learn where Bonnaud had been living and it proved to be some small village, then
he could leave the
meddlesome Lisette in Brighton and put an end to this mad farce.

Not exactly the gentlemanly thing to do, old boy.

He scowled. This expedition hadn’t been
his
idea. Besides, she could head back to London on the next coach and be home in her
own bed by midnight. Maximilian would see to it that the coachman received compensation
for making sure she was let off right at her door.

One way or the other, though, he was going to interrogate Mr. Greasley at the first
opportunity. He deserved
some
reward for being crammed into a coach with the bloody arse and his bloody wife.

He got his chance the next time they stopped to change horses. Lisette and Mrs. Greasley
disembarked in haste, obviously eager to find a necessary, and that left Maximilian
alone with Greasley, who’d already begun lighting a cigar.

“So,” Maximilian said in a casual tone as soon as the women were inside the inn, “have
you ever met Lisette’s brother in France?”

Greasley took a puff or two. “Can’t say as I have. Manton’s a good fellow, though.
Treats his neighbors right, and don’t make too much racket like some young gentlemen.
That’s probably on account of his having Miss Bonnaud around. Though I’ll have to
start calling her Mrs. Kale, eh?”

“Yes.” Maximilian refused to let him change the subject. Taking a stab in the dark,
he said, “I met Mr. Bonnaud in Paris, myself. Seemed like a good enough chap.”

“In Paris?” Greasley tipped some ash from his cigar onto the floor. “I thought the
two of them had lived in Rouen.”

Maximilian bit back a self-satisfied smile. “Well, I’m not sure,” he said, congratulating
himself for obtaining what he needed to know so easily. “I only know where I was introduced
to him.”

Greasley glanced out the window. “Ah, there’s the mistress. I’ll ask her. She ought
to know.”

“That’s all right.” Maximilian suppressed a curse as he glanced over to see Mrs. Greasley
bearing down on the coach. Lisette couldn’t be far behind. “I’ll just ask my wife.”

But Greasley was already shouting out the window, “Where did Miss Bonnaud and Mr.
Bonnaud used to live?” He leapt out to help his wife into the coach. “It was Rouen,
weren’t it?”

“No, you old fool. It was rue Something.” Mrs. Greasley settled into her seat with
a sniff. “
Rue
is the word for
street
in French, you know. Not Rouen at all. It was a
rue
somewhere.”

As Mr. Greasley climbed in beside her, Maximilian leaned forward and lowered his voice.
“It’s as I told you, Greasley. I met him in Paris.”

“But I don’t think he
lives
in Paris,” Mrs. Greasley said. “I could have sworn it was Toulon, where she lived
before. No, wait. She might have mentioned Paris.” Suddenly she eyed him suspiciously.
“Don’t you know where they’d been living? You being married and all?”