What the Duke Wants (16 page)

Again, Harriett wasn’t a concern, for she was sure to be overjoyed at the prospect of sponsoring Grace in London for the season. In fact, though she didn’t yet know it, she'd conveyed as much to the earl in her own note, reinforcing Dansbury’s decision to bring Grace to London. Had he mentioned he was a good forger?

As such, everything would be cleared up and perfectly respectable. Eventually.

Back at Beckett House, after hearing a full report of her uncle’s tirade and knowing the suggestive (yet questionable) evidence against his character—not to mention knowing Ambrose well enough to know he would never have said the things her uncle implied—Cliff had decided it might be detrimental to Grace’s well-being should she remain behind at Beckett House. He had no real evidence to which he could point as justification for his actions, only his gut—which had never led him astray…when it mattered. Thus, his plan to bring Grace and Aunt Harriett with him to Stonebridge Park had been hastily conceived.

He had been cautious with his words so that he purposely led Grace to draw her own conclusions about their intended destination without outright lying to her. Further, he had been vague in response to her numerous questions and had relied primarily on her trust in him to persuade her to make the journey. It hadn’t been easy. She wasn’t inclined to trust him so effortlessly, clever girl—they hadn’t known each other but a few days after all—but in the end, he had been more persuasive than she was wary (one of the many reasons he excelled at his line of work). Besides, her maid, Bessie, liked him and Grace had been willing to forgo her own reservations on account of her faith in her maid’s ability to accurately judge a person’s measure. Thank God. And Aunt Harriett was a perfectly suitable chaperone making the entire trip respectable.

Obviously, he had given neither Grace nor his aunt the real reasons behind his hasty decision—nor had he imparted any information regarding his mission and the role he and Ambrose played for the Home Office.

That was three days ago. Now he was late for his meeting with the team at the Park, but they were almost there. It was a matter of minutes.

Time to pay the piper, as they say…

* * * *

Grace was relieved when the coach made a turn onto an obviously better maintained stretch of road. The road here was shaded by dense trees with a heavy canopy overhead. It was lovely to behold. She could easily imagine she was headed to a secret place and found herself daydreaming about who might be so fortunate as to live here. From what she could tell, they were on the property of this mysterious friend of Dansbury’s, whose name, for some reason, he would not divulge, for the purposes of staying a night there before resuming their journey to Bath. She suspected Cliff was being evasive with his answers. In truth, she was sure Dansbury was being deliberately elusive, and she even wondered if he wasn’t taking her to the duke’s estate on the sly, but maybe that was merely wishful thinking. Besides, there was no help for it now. She had made her decision to leave with him and there was no point dwelling on the wisdom of her choice when it was too late to do anything about it.

For three days, they had travelled the countryside and in some respects her last morning at Beckett House seemed further away than so little time might suggest. She tried to come to terms with the way she and the duke had parted company. But ever since she learned he had not proposed to Beatryce, her heart seemed to beat much faster than normal. She was fidgety and restless and couldn’t understand why. Stonebridge had made it perfectly clear they had no future, and upon further reflection, it was obvious that becoming a duchess, or, more likely his mistress, would be disastrous. Not that she would seriously consider becoming either.

Then why am I so edgy and excited?

That man, Stonebridge, was a cold fish and a—a nincompoop. Yes, a cold nincompoop. She nodded her head in satisfaction at her ability to recognize that behind the handsome exterior, he was nothing to be admired. He was moody, cold, authoritative, hot, passionate…

She should just face it, when he wasn’t cold, authoritative, and moody, he was…he was splendid. He made her insides quiver, and when she was with him…well, he was marvelous. Sometimes.

Then there was her uncle’s explosive tirade followed by Dansbury’s surprising suggestion (and her astonishing agreement) that she disregard her uncle’s orders and venture forth with him, Dansbury, to Bath.

So who was this adventurous and reckless person? She felt outside herself. She wasn’t worried about word getting back to her uncle. The servants at Beckett House were loyal to her and desired her happiness. Her uncle would never know she wasn’t sitting quietly at Beckett House awaiting the family’s return—whenever that might be.

Her musings were interrupted by a change in the scenery as the coach pulled out of the tree canopy and into the quaint little courtyard in front of a welcoming Tudor-styled country home. The front façade and entry was framed by towering trees and shrubs, replete with a flowering garden and myriad pathways darting off from the main courtyard, which encircled a small but impressive two-tiered fountain. The house did not seem imposing or overtly massive, but she suspected there was more here than met the eye judging by the length and careful maintenance of the main drive.

The coach had barely pulled to a stop before Dansbury leaped from the carriage with a sudden burst of energy. For the past few minutes, he had seemed tense, yet calm and thoughtful. Not his usual, easygoing, charming self.

He scanned the door and front windows before barking out a “Wait here.” Then purposefully, with long-legged strides, he made his way to the front door.

How curious!

Dansbury had just put his foot on the first step leading up to the entry, when the door opened, but it was no butler waiting to see him inside.

“It’s about bloody time you arrived. What the hell took you so long?”

Stonebridge, dressed casually sans cravat, waistcoat, and jacket, barked out his question but followed it with a quick smile and a slap on Dansbury’s back, welcoming. That is, until he spotted her.

From across the small courtyard, she could see his demeanor change from friendly and relaxed to forced and stiff. Dansbury didn’t even turn around. The liar.

The duke whispered something brief in the deceiver’s ear before jogging down the steps with a confidence she envied. Dansbury just walked inside, leaving her to the mercy of the duke.

She warily watched his approach. To say she was surprised to see him would be an understatement, but she hid her shock and faced him with a confidence she didn’t feel. Hopefully he would not cause a scene in front of Lady Harriett.

“Miss Radclyffe, welcome to Stonebridge Park. I trust your journey was uneventful.”

So that was how he was going to play it? Calm and polite? Never mind that the last time he had stormed off in anger, putting her firmly in her place beforehand. Never mind that he had betrayed her trust when speaking with her uncle, telling him a load of falsehoods. These men were two of a kind—liars the both of them.

She decided to respond in kind: polite, disinterested responses that encouraged no search for truth nor invited deeper discussion. “Why, yes, Your Grace, we had quite a pleasant drive to your home. Thank you for asking.”

After that, they simply stared at each other, at a loss for further words. A voice from within the carriage broke the awkward silence.

“Oh, Duke, quit flexing your muscles at the lady and help this old girl out of the carriage. I don’t trust your footman to stop me from missing that last step.”

* * * *

Surprised, Stonebridge turned to greet and assist Aunt Harriet. She wasn’t really his aunt, but he was close enough to her that he called her that out of affection. He tried in vain to suppress inappropriate feelings of joy. Grace was here, and more importantly, Cliff and Grace had been well chaperoned and not travelling alone for…Three. Whole. Days.

Once inside the house, he waited in the foyer and watched Grace glide elegantly up the stairs behind his butler until she was out of sight. His mind was disordered. It was odd to see her so composed, and he didn’t like it. He missed the fiery, impish, often awkward woman he'd glimpsed at Beckett House. Her newfound cool formality annoyed him. Further, he was dismayed, knowing her change was likely his fault. And then there was the uncomfortable flare of envy knowing she and Cliff had travelled days together to get here. Even if they were appropriately escorted. He trusted his friend implicitly, yet regardless of that trust, he stormed off in search of his so-called friend, proving the point that too much emotion can wreak havoc on a logical mind.

He found his quarry in the library with the rest of their assembled team; yet regardless of their audience, he grabbed Cliff, who was still standing just inside the door, by the lapels of his jacket and slammed him against the nearest wall.

“What the hell were you thinking bringing her here—especially at a time like this? Did it somehow escape your attention that the entire team would be here and that our identities are meant to be secret, not to mention our activities? No. Don’t answer that. You were the one responsible for sending out the missive gathering everyone here. Good God, Cliff…”

He let go of his friend and stalked away. Cliff just smiled, but said nothing.

In reality, he was frustrated more at himself than at his friend. He had lost confidence in his ability to think logically with Grace anywhere in his vicinity. He was close friends with Cliff and had worked with him long enough to know that he would not have brought Grace here if he didn’t think it was important. Cliff was well aware of the inherent danger of their mission.

He tossed back a finger of brandy and asked without turning around, “What the hell happened?”

“Are the rest of the team up to date?”

“Yes, I briefed them yesterday while we waited for you. We saved the rest of our reports for your arrival.”

Two leather armchairs and a leather camel-back sofa were arranged around a small table. The grouping stood before a large pedestal desk upon which numerous papers were scattered haphazardly about. Two agents, MacLeod and Kelly, sat together on the sofa facing Cliff and the open doorway beyond.

Cliff closed the library door and made his way to one of the chairs opposite the sofa.

“Right. As you know our latest intelligence has placed a questionable, yet damning light on certain people and their possible involvement in the events that occurred seventeen years ago. As I was preparing to depart the earl’s home, I ran into a distraught Miss Grace Radclyffe. After the usual pleasantries, I inquired about catching up with Miss Radclyffe in London in a few weeks’ time.”

Ambrose unhinged his clenched jaw and made his way over to the remaining empty chair. He was sure he wasn’t going to like this.

Cliff continued, “Miss Radclyffe tried to pass off an obviously phony excuse about her need to visit a sick friend in Yorkshire. I was unimpressed with her ability to lie convincingly, so I pressed her further and discovered that her uncle, the earl, had forbade her to journey to London with the family due to a supposed conversation he had with you regarding her conduct toward your person over the week. Swindon claimed you approached him about certain untoward advances. Obviously, I knew this wasn’t true, so, in light of recent events and dare I say it, my gut instinct, I convinced her to leave with me under the guise of travelling with Aunt Harriett to Bath. It wasn’t easy, mind you, to gain her acceptance, but clearly, in the end, she agreed to go.”

Unbelievably, the duke’s first instinct was to inquire as to whether or not Cliff had defended him to Grace. Did Cliff tell her he was not the sort to go running to the earl telling tales—whether true or not? Clearly, that was not the important point of this tale. Swindon’s actions were plainly suspicious. Besides, he was all too sure he’d find out what Miss Radclyffe thought of his character soon enough.

Cliff carried on, “I cannot fathom what his motivations are in preventing her from journeying to London, save that he sees her as a possible threat to your engagement with Lady Beatryce. Regardless of whether or not his actions are so simple or more sinister, I felt it imprudent to put Miss Radclyffe under our protection…for now.”

“Indeed. And we will discuss what to do about Miss Radclyffe after we debrief. In light of her arrival, it is prudent we conclude our business swiftly so the rest of you can return to your assignments.”

“Let me guess…we’re ta leave afore settin’ eyes on the floozy,” said Ciarán Kelly with a lazy grin, in his thick, Irish brogue. Kelly was the team’s Irish contact who could charm the secrets out of anyone, young or old, male or female, despite being bastard born. It was a testament to his skill that so many—especially the ladies—could overlook that fact and spill their secrets so readily. It didn’t hurt that he was handsome as sin, with midnight hair and bright blue eyes.

“Just because you’re a bastard doesn’t give you the right to be crude, Kelly. Miss Radclyffe is a fine lady and I suggest you refrain from making suggestive or disparaging remarks against her character,” said Cliff in his affable way, all the while eyeing the duke and his clenched fists rather than the Irishman. Yes. Ambrose was ready to take Kelly’s head.

“In my experience, all women are floozies given the right incentive. Take my word for it, or you might as well put a leash on your cock and hand the lead to the next woman you see, eh Alaistair?” replied Ciarán as he elbowed the hulking Scot setting next to him in the side—good-naturedly, of course.

“Och, haud yer wheesht. I doona give a damn,” responded said Scot, Lord Alaistair MacLeod. MacLeod was a man of few words, with little patience for small talk. He was just as good at ferreting out secrets as Kelly, though he used his massive strength more than any practiced charm. He wasn’t violent per se, but he knew how to use his immense size to intimidate, quite often without resorting to any violence at all—not many were so stupid as to take the risk of having to dodge his mighty fists. He also listened more than he spoke, which made him good at separating the lies from truth. Despite being bitter toward his estranged family in Scotland, he was dependable and honest. Though he was gruff and said little, when he did speak, he was worth listening to, as his thoughts were keen and well organized, if impatient and borderline rude when his patience was stretched thin, which was often. In all, he was a man of contradictions and very private. The team, save perhaps the duke, knew little about MacLeod’s background and the real man behind the red, bushy beard.