The Duke's Men [1] What the Duke Desires (7 page)

“So you do think he might have returned to France.”

She shrugged. “It’s possible he never left France. He could have sent that note from
anywhere.”

“He mentioned the messenger and set up an assignation.”

“True.” She worried her plump lower lip with her teeth. “Perhaps the note is forged.”

He narrowed his gaze on her. “You’re grasping at straws, madam.”

She rose. “I know my brother’s character. He would
never coax a duke to meet him unless he had every intention of being there.”

A curse escaped him. It did bother him that Bonnaud hadn’t come to the town house.
A sensible swindler would have come in person, asked for money to bring the impostor
to him, and taken what he could get. And if Bonnaud’s purpose had been to get Maximilian
off where he could demand money easier, why hadn’t he stayed around?

He hated to admit it; she was right—this made no sense. But that didn’t mean he would
stop looking for the man. He couldn’t, not if there was any chance in blazes that
Peter was alive.

“Then I have no choice. I have to find your brother. I cannot sit here doing nothing
in hopes that he seeks me out again. I must have my answers.” He stalked up to the
desk. “You mentioned reaching him through his employer—I can use that, too. I’ll travel
to France myself to speak to his employer if you will but give me the man’s name and
address.”

She stared him down. “Not on your life.”

He stiffened. He couldn’t believe it. The impertinent chit was actually
refusing
to help him! “I don’t think you understand, Miss Bonnaud. I will—”

“Oh, I understand completely. You mean to go to Tristan’s employer and ruin his reputation
by making wild accusations about him, with only a possibly forged letter as proof.
I will not allow it.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Tristan has a good position
working for the
French government, and I’m not sending you off to destroy that over what is probably
some misapprehension.”

“Misapprehension!”

“But having already been worried about his silence of late, I want to know the truth
as much as you. So I will help you find him. Under one condition.”

He glowered at her. He should have known how this would end. “You want money, I suppose.”

“Certainly not!” She drew herself up. “I want you to take me with you.”

I
F CIRCUMSTANCES HAD
been different, Lisette would have laughed at the look of sheer outrage carving deep
lines into the duke’s brow. But much as she would normally enjoy shocking a haughty
English lord, this was not about that.

It was about making sure that Tristan didn’t find himself at the end of a hangman’s
noose. Because if he
were
in London or if the duke made a big to-do over finding him in Paris . . .

It didn’t bear thinking on.

No, she had to avoid having the duke speak to the new head of the Sûreté, who would
use any excuse to dismiss Tristan. She would talk to Vidocq, who was Tristan’s friend.
He might know what this was about.

But that meant she had to be there. The wily Vidocq would never reveal anything to
the duke.

“You have lost your bloody mind,” Lyons said in a low hiss.

She squared her shoulders. “I have not. I know how men like you work. You run roughshod
over whomever you please, simply because you can. Well, you’re not going to run roughshod
over my brother.”

He glowered at her. “And
you
won’t stop me from prosecuting him to the fullest extent of the law if I find he
has attempted to defraud me.”

A chill froze her blood. She ignored it. “And I won’t try, either.
If
he’s guilty of such a horrible thing, I’ll hand you the shackles to secure him, myself.”

Clearly that caught him by surprise. “Is that a promise?”

“It is,” she vowed. “But I’m not doing anything until I determine that you have the
right culprit.”

A muscle ticked in his jaw. “How do you propose to do that?”

“I don’t know,” she said truthfully. “I only know that if I hand you the means to
find him and you muck up his life and future in France, I will never forgive myself.
He and Dom are my only family. I owe them better, for all the years they’ve looked
after me.”

That seemed to give him pause, thank goodness. He scrubbed one hand over his face,
and she realized that he looked quite weary. If he’d been up since yesterday morning . . .

A sudden pang of sympathy made her scowl. Why should she care if he was tired? He
was threatening to hunt Tristan down like some common criminal, with nothing more
to go on than that note.

And Tristan’s inexplicable disappearance.

She suppressed that thought. Tristan couldn’t be guilty of fraud. He could
not
!

“What if I swear to treat your brother fairly?” he said.

She eyed him with suspicion. “Men like you do not—”

“You know nothing about men like me,” he snapped.

“I know more than you think.” She thought of George’s determination to destroy Tristan.
“Besides, I have connections of my own to the authorities in France. If you attempt
to malign Tristan unfairly, I’ll have some recourse. But only if I am
there
when you do it.”

The duke prowled before the desk like, well, a lion . . . all tawny hair and muscular
brute of the forest. He was a rather frightening fellow in a temper. His words and
manner might be cold, but a terrifying anger simmered just beneath the surface, showing
only in the wild glint of his eye and the tautness of his jaw.

So she didn’t wait for more of his protests. “I can be a help to you. I know not only
where Tristan lives, but how he works, how to find him, where his haunts are.” And
Vidocq still had friends in high places. Not to mention a few in low places who might
be useful.

The duke glared at her. “But you cannot travel alone with me, so I’ll lose precious
time finding a chaperone for you.”

Was he joking, for pity’s sake? “I don’t need a chaperone. No one cares about my reputation.
I’m a nobody.”

“You’re a respectable woman.”

She snorted. “That’s not what you said earlier.”

That brought him up short. He stared at her, his gaze unreadable. “That was rude of
me, and I apologize.”

“No need,” she said, though the apology gratified her. She doubted he offered one
very often. “I’ve grown used to people making such assumptions through the years.
What people think of my mother is bound to reflect upon me.”

That was why she was so wary of men. Even Tristan’s soldier friends were only interested
in dallying with her. Her brothers couldn’t see that; they seemed to believe she could
find a husband anywhere if she just tried. She knew better.

“All the same,” he said earnestly, “I won’t ruin any chance you have for a decent
marriage by carrying you off with me unchaperoned to France.”

A bitter laugh burst from her. “I assure you I have few prospects for a ‘decent marriage.’
I’m nearly twenty-seven. I have no connections or fortune. Not to mention that I’m
the daughter of a French actress.”

“And a viscount.”

“Who chose not to marry my mother.” When he looked as if he would say more, she added,
“If the thought of damaging my reputation truly bothers you, just tell people I’m
your relation. Your sister, perhaps.”

He shot her an incredulous glance. “I’m the Duke of Lyons. Everyone knows I don’t
have a sister.”

“Then choose something else, something they would never know was a falsehood. Tell
them I’m your mistress.”

She regretted the flip statement the moment something hot and fierce and raw flared
in his eyes, something distinctly ungentlemanly. It provoked the oddest fluttering
in her belly.

And then it provoked her temper. She braced herself for whatever sly innuendo he was
sure to make, about how he would happily take her along as his mistress if she would
be
his mistress. Or some lecherous comment about her bosom—that one happened a lot.

Instead, the glint in his eye abruptly vanished, and he flashed her his cool, mocking
smile. “As intriguing as that sounds, Miss Bonnaud, that would never work.”

She eyed him warily. “Why not?”

“Because you have no idea of the gossip that attends me wherever I go. The moment
I announce myself—nay, the moment I arrive in my crested coach—the tongues start wagging.
By the end of our first day on the road, whomever we meet will have resolved to find
out your name, your family’s name, your rank, and your personal connection to me.
In under a week, they will know everything about you, and you
will
be ruined.”

Good Lord, he really
was
concerned about her reputation. How astonishing.

He strode up to the desk, his gaze hard upon her. “Not to mention that the world will
no doubt learn that my brother may be alive, and I will be confronted with even more
impostors and defrauders.”

An idea took form in her mind. “Then don’t announce yourself. Don’t travel in your
crested coach. Travel as a regular person. Then you could pretend to be my relation
without comment.” She couldn’t resist a mischievous smile. “We’ll be nobodies together,
and no one will give a fig for my reputation. Or yours. Or the possibility that your
Peter is alive.”

The words echoed in the still room. He stared blankly at her.

She hastened to fill the silence. “It will make everything easier. If you masquerade
as another of my brothers, there will be no attendants to accommodate, no questions
to be answered. We will travel to France, find out what we can, and return without
anyone’s being the wiser.”

“And what about the advantages my rank offers?”

“What advantages? In France you will still be a foreigner, a lord in a world that
recently lopped off the heads of as many lords as it could find.” Her tone turned
arch. “You may discover that being an English duke is actually a disadvantage in France,
Your Grace. All things considered.”

She held her breath, waiting for more protests, but to her surprise, he grew thoughtful.
“A regular person, eh? I’ve never been one of those, to be sure. That would be novel
indeed.” He sounded almost wistful. Then his expression hardened, and he shook his
head. “No, it will not work. I’ll be recognized.”

“Not if you dress and behave appropriately. People notice only what you reveal, and
the key is to reveal only what you want them to see.” Not for nothing had she watched
Vidocq manage his agents, who moved seamlessly through Paris’s underground, uncovering
criminals. “You look about the same height and build as Dom. I can give you some of
his clothing, so you aren’t bedecked in your usual finery. If we travel by mail coach
to Brighton—”

“Why Brighton?” he cut in.

“Because coaches leave frequently for Brighton on Sundays. In fact, there’s one that
leaves from the Golden Cross Inn at two. Since we can’t take a steam packet, we can
still move forward and be ready tomorrow morning for the packet to Dieppe.”

“Ah yes, Dieppe shortens the route to Paris by ninety miles,” he said smoothly.

But she caught the calculating glint in his eye. The sly devil was still trying to
figure out where Tristan was. “It shortens the route to Rouen and Dijon, too. And
any number of French towns.” She wasn’t about to reveal that they were headed for
Paris, not yet. She couldn’t take the chance that Lofty Lyons would abandon her once
he knew their eventual destination.

With a scowl, he crossed his arms over his chest. “You’re really not going to tell
me where Bonnaud has been living or who he’s been working for.”

“No.” She tilted up her chin. “Not unless you take me with you.”

“I could travel to Edinburgh to find your half brother. No doubt
he
would tell me where Bonnaud lives and works.”

“He might. But Edinburgh is only where Dom is disembarking from the ship—he’s traveling
on elsewhere in Scotland, and I’m not going to tell you where that is, either. So
while you’re rambling about Scotland, I’ll be off to France to warn Tristan that you’re
hunting for him, and if you’re right and he’s guilty, he’ll be long gone by the time
you reach him.”

What an idle threat—she couldn’t afford a trip to
Dover, much less a trip to France. But
he
didn’t know that.

Lyons studied her a long moment, the small crease between his eyes deepening until
it mirrored the small crease in his chin. The intensity of his gaze sent tremors of
apprehension down her spine.

Apprehension, yes. That’s what it was. She knew better than to feel tremors of anything
else for an English lord of his consequence. A very attractive, very virile English
lord of the highest consequence in the land.

“So what’s it to be, Your Grace?” she said, as much to remind her of the gulf in their
stations as to stop that intrusive stare. “A masquerade? Or are you going alone to
search for a needle in a haystack in France?”