What the Duke Wants (4 page)

“Ha! Not likely. And I find it difficult to believe he can resist persuasion with MacLeod around; that’s one big Scot.”

“We haven’t used the Scot. Yet.”

“This man might have murdered my father and you’re going easy on him?”

“We don’t yet know he’s the one that pulled the trigger, so to speak. But I admit the evidence is damning. The problem is, well, the problem is the man is elderly and quite emaciated and somehow it just doesn’t seem right to use physical force on someone in his pitiful condition. He’s sharp, though, and strong willed. I’ll give him that.”

“You sound admiring, my friend. Has he indicated why he’s been in hiding all these years? And why is he contacting me now? After all this time? And for that matter, who hired him to begin with?”

“No and no, and we don’t know. We suspect he’s been in hiding because he failed in his job to kill Prime Minister Pitt. We think he’s coming out now due to the current conditions in Ireland—disease and famine is widespread there, as you well know. I think it’s simply a matter of survival. He’s gaunt and hunger is a powerful motivator. As far as who might have hired him, besides the United Irishmen? The only other group with the strongest motivation is the Secret Society for the Purification of England.”

“Ah, yes. The aristocracy and their secret societies.”

“Well, they certainly weren’t in favor of the PM’s politics seeing as how they wanted all immigrants out of England full stop. As far as I know, we still don’t have a lot of concrete information about that group, only suspicions. Anyway, I’ve sent off a note to the Home Office asking our contact there to forward anything we have on Paddy Murphy and the assassination attempt on Pitt around that time. I’ve also asked him to send anything we have on the Society. I expect to hear something in the next day or two.”

“Good thinking. Let me know what you find out. You are coming to Beckett House, aren’t you?”

“Of course. I wouldn’t miss seeing my best friend get engaged, even if…”

The duke merely lifted his brow. He didn’t need words to remind Cliff that the topic was strictly off limits. And he was well aware of Cliff’s thoughts regarding his fiancée and their engagement.

Cliff chuckled as he left, via the door this time.

* * * *

The next morning…

On the road to Beckett House…

Amberley, West Sussex…

Stonebridge leaned against the carriage window and perused the walking stick in his hand. The body was polished black with a silver handle and complementary tip, its handle fashioned in the shape of a lion’s head. He held up the stick to the sunlight streaming in through the carriage window and rolled it back and forth in his hand, watching the light catch on the two emeralds that made up the lion’s eyes. The emeralds were a bright, deep green, and the exact shade of his own eyes. It was the sole reason he had splurged on its purchase—a little vain perhaps, but he was, in a way, quite proud of his unique eye color because it represented a family trait that had been passed down through many generations of former dukes.

They had left behind the horrid inn at the first light of dawn. The innkeeper was less sycophantic, so perhaps the man had finally got the message that he was overdoing his subservience the night before. Stonebridge was relieved to be away, regardless.

Today, he would finish the last leg of his journey to a society house party in his honor being held at Beckett House in West Sussex. Everyone knew he was to announce his engagement there. He wasn’t looking forward to it, which was probably one reason he had been more impatient than usual yesterday. He would much rather be discussing this year’s wool production with his foreman than partaking of mindless flirtation with the latest crop of debutantes and their mothers. Hell, he’d rather watch the grass in the back garden grow. Then, there was the renewed hunt for his father’s murderer. He was anxious to be doing something—anything—toward that end, not wasting time socializing with pompous nobility.

He really had no choice to attend, though; it was time he marry, and if he wanted to keep his good standing in society, he could not be a recluse. He needed his social contacts to keep his estates running efficiently, information flowing smoothly, and his political allies in line. Most importantly, though, if they were right, and the Secret Society for the Purification of England was behind his father’s murder, he couldn’t let on to anyone in the
haut ton
that the investigation was active again, and he certainly couldn’t do anything that would hint at where his suspicions lay. Therefore, he had to do the pretty and practice good ton.

He laid his stick down to rest on the seat beside him and turned his gaze to the scenery passing by as his thoughts returned to the primary reason he was heading to Beckett House: to propose marriage to Lady Beatryce Beckett.

He tapped his fingers in a staccato rhythm atop his knee as his reflected on his soon-to-be betrothed. He had known Lady Beatryce and her family for many years; her father, the Earl of Swindon, had been a particular friend of his late father’s. Though he had not kept in touch with the family until recently, Lady Beatryce was the first person he considered when he decided it was time for him to marry.

She had all the necessary background credentials: she had a traceable lineage that was appropriately matched to his own with no glaring scandals in its history. Her family’s current standings, both financially and socially, were in good order. She was the classic English beauty with her pale blonde hair, light complexion, and deep blue eyes; together they would produce exceptional children…and the begetting of heirs would certainly be no hardship. Additionally, her family had unentailed property that bordered his favorite estate, Stonebridge Park, and was offered as part of her dowry. It would make a nice addition to his property there.

He had watched from afar Lady Beatryce’s attendance at various society events in the little season, and he knew she was graceful and poised. She didn’t appear to be silly and giggly as most debutantes could be. In fact, she appeared to be rather intelligent for the typical society woman. She had been schooled specifically to fill the role of duchess with ease; therefore, she was the perfect candidate to become his duchess in truth.

Thus, all things considered, he made the decision to marry with a logical mind, not a foolish heart as so many society misses and poets waxed on about. When one had doubts, even if rare, a man could always rely on the logic of facts to reaffirm the rightness of his decision.

Within days of reacquainting himself with Lady Beatryce and her family, he had spoken to her father, and as expected, the earl was enthusiastic in his acceptance of Stonebridge’s request to court his daughter. Of course he was; Stonebridge was a duke with plenty of money in his coffers to keep him and his duchess comfortable for several lifetimes over. He was also young and handsome, with no prior marriages and no direct descendants in line for the title. In all, he was the catch of the season, and yet sometimes he actually despised that fact because he had no peace when going about in society. But such was his lot in life and he wouldn’t really complain, for the benefits greatly outweighed the inconveniences.

And it wasn’t completely by chance that he was considered quite the catch. It had taken years to re-establish the Stonebridge name following the scandal surrounding his father’s death. Ever since that fateful fight at Eton when he was thirteen years old, the duke had been forced to lead an exemplary life—there had been zero room for error—in order to overcome public prejudice. And if they were successful in proving his father was murdered? Well, then the Stonebridge name would be completely and forever reinstated in the eyes of society.

Slowly, he let out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Now began the public ritual of courtship, and he was on track toward making the anticipated proposal. In fact, everyone was expecting one to be forthcoming this week; it was the reason for the house party, after all.

His silent musings were interrupted as he caught sight of two young boys playing at the side of the road. They were laughing and carrying on with sticks and a small, round ball. Both boys were in well-worn overalls, with numerous patches on the knees and the arms of their homespun shirts. Despite their obvious lack of wealth, the joy on their faces was easy to recognize and struck him poignantly as he realized how much time had passed since he had lived so carefree. How quickly life changed, and sometimes you didn’t even recognize it had happened—the change—until you reflected back on a time long gone.

And it seemed a lifetime ago in which he'd felt so untroubled; certainly before his father’s accident, and now, at thirty, with all he had seen and experienced, Stonebridge knew he would never be able to reclaim that blithe existence. Regardless, his memory of that time was still strong in his mind, and it was those memories that drove him to find his father’s murderer.

His thoughts were jerked back to present day with the changing sound of the carriage wheels as his coach slowed to make the turn to Beckett House. The impulse to pull on his cravat was nearly overwhelming, but he refrained and forced his pulse to slow. He slammed his disturbing memories away in his mental box. He was nearly there, at Beckett House, and the time for inward reflection was at an end; his public face need be secured.

Damn, but he hated dealing with the sycophants he knew would be there, and house parties were the worst venue with so few opportunities to escape all the groveling. He knew he would do what he must, though, and on that thought, he grabbed his walking stick and hat as he prepared to exit the carriage, for it had just stopped on the cobbles in front of the house proper.

A footman jumped from his perch and opened the door for him to disembark. Stonebridge could clearly make out the earl and countess on the front steps, lying in wait to greet him. As he made his way to the door, he started at the image that flashed across his mind: that of a lion and lioness on the plains of Africa, lying in wait for some unknowing prey to pass within reach. And he felt like prey, despite his self-confidence. He tamped down the stray thought, surprised it so easily interrupted his focus.

“Swindon, it is an honor to see you again.”

He nodded his head as he approached and shook the earl’s hand, who responded, “Your Grace, welcome to our home.”

The duke turned to the countess. “Lady Swindon, you are as beautiful as ever. Thank you for graciously opening your home for my pleasure.” He bowed and kissed the air above her hand.

“Your Grace, may I join my husband in offering you our most gracious welcome? Thank you for gifting us with your presence. We are honored and humbled by Your Grace. I do hope your stay is most comfortable and memorable, and if there is anything you need, please do not hesitate to inform us at once.

“Your Grace,” she continued without taking a breath, “our butler is on hand to show you directly to your room so you can refresh. I do hope you find your accommodations satisfactory.”

“Lady Swindon, thank you. I am sure the rooms will be agreeable. My valet, Bryans, is here to direct the unpacking of my carriage; however, before retiring, I should like to take a walk about your gardens to stretch my legs. If your butler would direct me there first, I would be grateful.”

He desperately needed to stretch his legs after sitting for too long in the confined carriage. Even though the travelling coach was larger than his town conveyance, he felt cramped after so many hours inside, and with it still being before noon of the day, he thought the best time to take a turn about the garden would be now, when there was little chance of him encountering another guest.

Chapter 3

An Unfortunately Placed Mud Puddle in the rear gardens of Beckett House…

A knowledgeable lady understands that, typically, the best way to make a good first impression is not to fall bottom first into a puddle of mud. Alas, Grace Radclyffe, with her inclination towards unfortunate mishaps, found this knowledge to be generally useless in the reality of her everyday life.

Therefore, despite the uncomfortable feeling of wetness seeping through her gown and the faint-though-nearby sound of dripping mud, she did what any sensible lady of good upbringing would do in less than ideal circumstances. She cursed. With conviction.

“Bloody hell. Not again.”

So maybe she didn’t say
that
. But it was something she occasionally thought in her mind, though only in her mind.

In actuality, she chuckled lightheartedly (because it’s always best to set yourself and any potential rescuers at ease in awkward situations) and graciously procured the proffered handkerchief dangling over her left shoulder. Then, after clearing the mud from her face so she could actually see and with cheeks tinged only slightly from embarrassment (because, really, that kerchief hadn’t been dangling over her shoulder on its own), she peered up to thank her would-be rescuer and…

Gasped. Out loud.

For staring down at her with one eyebrow lifted in question, were a pair of eyes—emerald green eyes, to be more precise. The most deeply penetrating emerald green eyes she had ever seen in all of her near twenty-one years.

No longer did she feel slightly tinged with embarrassment—of course not, that would be far too easy. No, now the heat from extreme humiliation spread up from her neck and behind her ears as she drank in the handsome sight of the dream—er, man—standing over her and witnessing what should have been her own private humiliation. Though why the sight of this man should make her more embarrassed than before was a mystery. It’s not like she wasn’t used to public embarrassment. Though admittedly it wasn’t something one ever really got used to either.

So maybe gasping aloud was not the recommended method of laughing off an acutely embarrassing demonstration of inelegance either, but then it was not every day that one encounters eyes. Er, or green eyes. Or. Oh, this was definitely turning out to be one of her finer moments. She couldn’t even talk to herself with any semblance of sanity.