When You Give a Duke a Diamond (8 page)

“Stop calling me that.”

“I heard her—before he killed her. They were arguing. He was incensed because she lied to him about the diamonds. I don’t know what she told him or when, but I have to assume she told him I had them and that was the reason he sought me out.” She stepped forward again, but this time he didn’t retreat. She almost wished he would. She was too close for her own comfort. She could smell the mint soap he used.

“That makes no sense.”

“It does if you read the
Morning
Chronicle.
All of London thinks we are having a romantic liaison. Your fiancée obviously stole these diamonds and told Lucifer she gave them to you, and you, in turn, gave them to me.”

“Rubbish. That’s the most far-fetched—”

“But Lucifer came after me and his diamonds. He’s not a fool—like some”—she poked Pelham in the chest—“and realized I had no notion of any diamonds. And so he went back to Eliza and asked again where they were. She was frantic, trying to save herself, and said something about you. That means you are involved in this, like it or not. And when Lucifer can’t find the diamonds, he will come after you. That’s why I’m here. You’re a duke. I thought you, of all people, could protect me. Perhaps I was wrong.”

“Eliza,” he murmured.

She frowned. “What?”

“You called her
Eliza
.”

“I—I did? I suppose that’s because he called her Eliza.”

Pelham sank into a blue silk armchair, his expression puzzled. “No one calls her that. No one but her parents and her closest friends.
I
don’t even call her
Eliza
.”

Had she finally gotten through to him? She’d at least made him pause to
consider
she could be telling the truth. “No offense, Your Grace, but I don’t think you knew her very well.” Juliette sat opposite him on a cream settee. She realized her legs were shaking with fatigue, and sitting felt wonderful.

“At least you called me
Your
Grace
before offending me.”

“Don’t become accustomed to it.”

He gave her what she thought might be a small—a very small—smile. Then he raked his hands through his hair, further disordering it. “I cannot believe I am doing this,” he said.

Juliette sat forward. “Doing what?”

“If I allow you to stay the night—
one
night—you will not argue about leaving on the morrow?”

“Will you allow me to stay tonight?” She did not answer his question, and that was not an accident.

“Devil take it. Yes! The last thing I need is your blood on my conscience.”

“I feel so… grateful,” she drawled.

“Is your coach waiting?”

“No. I thought it too risky. I took a hansom cab.”

He stood and leaned one arm against the fireplace, staring absently at a painting of an old castle.

“Is the likelihood of my death all that changed your mind?” she asked in an effort to distract herself from his fine form, displayed to advantage when he stood. How did he manage to wear such tight breeches? And that coat all but strained over his shoulders. She wondered what his bare chest looked like…

“I have questions I need answered,” he replied, not looking away from the painting. “I believe you might have some of the answers.”

“That and you want me present when you speak to the magistrate.”

There was that whisper of a smile again—gone so quickly it might have been a wisp of smoke. “The possibility that you are a flight risk did occur to me.” He pushed away from the mantel and rang the bell for a servant. “I’ll have my housekeeper show you to the red room.”

“The red room?”

“Yes, it’s where I put all the courtesans who stay for the night.”

She thought he was joking, but with him, she couldn’t be certain.

The bedroom was indeed accented with silk and velvets in crimson, but as with everything else in the house, it was tastefully done. The bedroom was neither large nor small, which meant the duke did not consider her overly important or unworthy of space. The bed was large with crimson drapes, also in luxurious velvet. The housekeeper pulled them back and set Juliette’s valise on the bed.

“I will send a maid to assist you with your toilette, madam.”

“Thank you,” Juliette said absently. She had gone to the window, parted the red-and-white damask drapes, and stared at the street below. Mayfair was quiet at this time of night—rather, morning—everyone was finally snug in their beds after a long evening of soirees and balls. She yawned. It must have been close to four.

“Before you retire, the duke wanted me to inform you of the rules.”

Juliette turned, letting the drapes fall closed behind her. “Rules?”

“Yes. His Grace is very particular.”

“What a surprise.” Juliette wondered if the woman was weary. She did not look it. Her clothing looked fresh and clean, her cap starched, her hair perfectly coiffed in a simple bun. Juliette was also in a clean, pressed gown, but she’d had Rosie pull her hair into a simple tail tied with a blue ribbon to match her gown.

“Breakfast is at eight, precisely, and lasts thirty minutes,” the housekeeper informed her. “Followed by a thirty-minute walk in the gardens. Next, the duke prefers to work in his library, but I have been informed the magistrate will arrive at nine, so the duke will have to put off his work for a quarter hour.”

Juliette raised a brow. “How do you know the magistrate will finish his questions in a quarter hour?”

The housekeeper frowned at the question, her expression indicating it was impertinent. “Because he will be shown out at quarter past nine. The duke can hardly be expected to tolerate more than a fifteen-minute change to his routine. The duke prefers to eat a midday meal at—”

“It’s past four now,” Juliette interrupted. “Surely His Grace cannot expect me to be at the breakfast table at eight, an ungodly hour by most anyone’s standards. I will breakfast in my room while I complete my toilette in preparation for seeing the magistrate.”

The housekeeper shook her head vehemently. “That is unacceptable, madam. The duke requires all guests to keep to his schedule and to dine in the dining room unless a dire illness prevents it.”

Juliette crossed her arms. “Why?”

“Why? Because that is how it has always been done, and because His Grace is a duke and he says it should be so. I will send in a maid. Good night, madam.”

“Good night. Not that I’m going to get much sleep.” She opened her valise, without waiting for the maid, and found the simple, white-linen nightshift she’d had Rosie pack. Next she loosened her hair and shook it out. Her head ached, and it felt good to run her fingers through her hair and massage her scalp.

“Oh, miss! You should allow me to do that!”

Juliette turned as a young girl rushed into the room. She wore a starched uniform, bobbed an equally starched curtsey, and set about fussing over Juliette’s hair. “I really only need help with this gown,” Juliette told her. “I can do the rest myself.”

“Oh, no, miss. His Grace wouldn’t hear of that.”

“Well, then we shan’t tell His Grace.”

The girl shook her head, her curly brown hair bouncing as she did so. “But he’ll know, miss. He always knows everything.”

“I highly doubt that, but I’m too fatigued to argue. And there’s no need to call me
miss
. I haven’t been a
miss
for some time.”

“Yes, madam.”

“And what is your name?”

“Jane, madam.”

She began unfastening Juliette’s gown. “May I ask you an impertinent question, madam?”

Juliette smiled. “Is there any other kind, Jane? Go ahead.”

“Is it true? Are you really a courtesan?”

“It’s true. They call me the Duchess of Dalliance.”

“And did the Prince Regent really give you that name?”

“Oh, Jane, I can’t tell you all my secrets. At least, not on our first night together.”

Jane laughed, the sound like a bell tinkling.

“Now, Jane, might I ask you a somewhat impertinent question?”

In the mirror above the dressing table, Juliette saw Jane bite her lips. “I suppose it’s only fair.”

“Why is the duke so particular about his routine? The housekeeper acted as though it were akin to treason not to dine with His Grace.”

Jane helped Juliette don her nightshift and began brushing her hair. “I don’t think I should speak of it, madam.”

Juliette raised a brow. A secret? The Duke of Pelham had a secret? How utterly unexpected. “I promise to be the soul of discretion.”

“That’s not it, madam. It’s just… I suppose… I feel sorry for His Grace.”

Juliette spun around, knocking the brush from Jane’s hand. “Why?” She could not imagine anyone less worthy of pity than the Duke of Pelham.

“It’s not his fault, you see,” Jane said, bending to lift the brush. “He doesn’t want to be so… so…” She waved a hand.

“Regimented?” Juliette offered.

“Yes.” Jane nodded. “That’s it. Regimented. But His Grace can’t help it.”

Juliette did not think she had ever been so intrigued. She did have a weakness for secrets, but she had not lied when she told Jane she would be discreet. She never told a secret not hers to tell. “Why can’t he help it?” Juliette asked. She could see in Jane’s face that the maid had already gone past what was comfortable for her. Juliette knew she should not push—that was not the way to unearth a secret. But she couldn’t help it. She
had
to know. If the duke had some vulnerability, some Achilles’ heel that would mean he was actually human, she wanted to know it.

Jane shook her head. “I’ve said too much, madam. Far too much.”

“No,” Juliette tried to reassure her. “You haven’t. I promise you—”

“Is there anything else you require, madam?”

Juliette sighed, knowing when to admit defeat. “No.”

“Then I shall see you in the morning, madam.”

Juliette climbed into the bed with the velvet drapes and grasped one in each hand. “Jane?”

“Yes, madam?” The maid turned back.

“It’s already morning.” And she closed the drapes and fell back against the pillows. She expected to be assailed by images from the horrors she’d witnessed this evening. She expected to shiver in fear.

Instead, Juliette felt safe. The duke’s house seemed an impenetrable fortress against the terrors of the outside world. Even the street noise was muted. London seemed far away here inside the duke’s crimson room, behind his crimson drapes, under his crimson coverlet.

She closed her eyes and felt the weight of exhaustion press down on her. And for the first time in years, she fell asleep in peace.

Pelham paced his long, rectangular dining room and checked his pocket watch again. Where the devil was she? He whirled on his housekeeper, who was standing at attention near the full sideboard, fidgeting with the frilly white apron she usually wore in the morning. “You told her breakfast was at eight sharp?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“You informed her we have a schedule to keep?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Pelham looked at his watch again. “It is five past eight, and she is not here. This is unacceptable.”

“Yes, Your Grace. Shall I fetch her, Your Grace?”

Pelham let the question hang in the air for a moment while he surveyed his dining table. Everything was as it should be. His plate and teacup were in their usual place. His copy of the
Times
was folded in half and placed to the right of his plate. The correspondence he had asked to review the night before was stacked neatly to the left of his plate.

At the other end of the table, another place setting had been laid. He did not often have guests, and the anomaly of the extra plate drew his eye. He had requested a copy of the
Morning
Chronicle
be placed to the right of that plate and a small vase of roses from his garden placed to the left. By God, he had thought of everything a good host ought. So where was his guest?

“I’ll fetch her,” he informed the line of servants waiting to serve him.

“Your Grace?” The housekeeper followed him out of the dining room and scurried up the marble stairs after him. The sound of his boots on the marble echoed through the house.

“You heard me.”

“I did, Your Grace. Are you certain you wish to do this? She may not be dressed.”

“Then I’ll close my eyes.” He’d do no such thing. He’d drag her stark naked to the table if need be. He quickened his stride—past busts of kings, portraits of former dukes, and tapestries from keeps long gone—and finally left his housekeeper to catch her breath.

When he reached the door of the red room, he knocked loudly. He did not need to knock. This was his door and his room, but he reminded himself he was a gentleman.

Behind the door, all was silent, and Pelham, growing increasingly impatient, knocked again.

Inside, he thought he heard a voice. He turned his good ear to the door and… nothing.

He rapped on the door a third time then tried the handle.

It was locked.

“Go away!” came a groggy voice from within.

“Open this door immediately,” he roared.

Behind him he heard the scurry of footsteps and turned to see his housekeeper and a young maid approaching. “What’s the meaning of this?” He pointed accusingly to the door.

The maid bobbed up and down like a marionette. “I’m terribly sorry, Your Grace. Please, please forgive me.”

He looked to his housekeeper for an explanation. “Jane tried to wake the guest, Your Grace, but the lady was uncooperative. Jane was coming to fetch me in the hopes I could be of assistance.”

Pelham pulled out his pocket watch. “It is now ten past eight. The time for assistance and cooperation is long past. Move aside.” He prepared to kick the door down.

“Wait! Your Grace.”

Pelham glanced at the young maid. She held a key out to him. Glowering, he took it. But just as he made to use it, the door opened.

Pelham was looking down, and the first thing he noticed was her feet were small, bare, and slightly pink against the reds and blues of the plush carpet. His eyes traveled upwards, noting the simple white shift she wore, until he reached the tangle of her hair falling over her shoulders. It was a cascade of moonlight over her porcelain skin. He tried not to stare at that bare flesh too long, tried not to notice how her sleeve was slipping farther, but his eyes lingered.

And when he finally looked at her face, he found he fared little better. Her heavy-lidded eyes, rosy cheeks, and plump mouth gave her a childlike appearance. She looked so young and innocent, without the icy expression she usually wore.

Pelham had the strangest thought. He wanted to sweep her into his arms and carry her back to bed. He wanted to hold her, tell her everything would be well. He would never allow any harm to come to her.

She had obviously driven him to the depths of madness. She was no kitten to be cuddled and petted. This cat had claws.

As if to prove his point, she said, “What is the cause of that infernal pounding?”

He glowered at her. In response, she yawned.

“Madam, it is”—he glanced at the pocket watch he still held ready in his hand—“eleven minutes past eight o’clock. You are late.”

“Late?” She ran a hand through her hair. The nightshift she wore was voluminous, but the action outlined the curve of her breast. “Is the magistrate here?”

Pelham glared at the maid. “Did you not inform her of my schedule?”

She nodded furiously. “I did, Your Grace. I swear it.”

He turned back to the courtesan and gave her an expectant look. She merely slid her errant sleeve back onto her shoulder and moved away from the door. “She’s a good girl. Your Jane did tell me, but I’m afraid I am too fatigued to eat breakfast this morning.”

From the doorway, Pelham watched in stupefaction as she padded back to the bed. She parted the curtains. “Wake me when the magistrate arrives.”

The curtains closed, and all was silent.

Pelham stood rooted in place for three ticks of the clock. He shook his head, half expecting to wake at any moment. But this was no nightmare.

Fortunately, he knew how to deal with defiance.

He marched into the bedchamber, threw the bed curtains open, and stared down at the courtesan. She was lying on her back, her blonde hair fanned out on her pillow. She gazed up at him. “I don’t recall inviting you to my bed.”

“This is
my
bed,” he said, punching the drapes with his finger. “And I have no intention of sharing it with you. I wouldn’t touch you if you were the last woman on earth.”

Her brows rose. “That’s a bit drastic.”

“Get up,” he ordered.

“Why?”

“Get up and come to breakfast.”

She didn’t move. “Why? What is so important about breakfast?”

“It’s how things are done. Now get up before I pick you up.”

“I thought you didn’t want to touch me.”

“Devil take it!” he roared. “You are the most exasperating woman I have ever met.”

“That’s not the usual compliment I receive in my bedchamber, but I know you are out of practice.”

“That’s it.” He reached down and lifted her, bedclothes and all, into his arms. She was a tall woman, and he was surprised she felt so light.

And so soft.

Even with the bedclothes between them, he could feel the curves of her body.

“Put me down,” she demanded.

He marched toward the door, ignoring the startled stares of the servants standing there.

“You cannot really mean to carry me downstairs in this state.”

“You brought it upon yourself,” he replied.

“I am not a child, Will.”

“Don’t call me that.” He started down the stairs.

“Put me down.”

“No.”

“This is beyond the pale,” she seethed. “You do realize that, don’t you?”

He did. He knew he was acting in the most ridiculous manner imaginable, and yet he seemed unable to stop himself. She had tested the limits of his patience, and she had won. He’d snapped. He deserved to be carted off to Bedlam. That was the only explanation for his present conduct.

He marched past the row of servants on the ground floor, all of them pretending to be quite busy with their dusting. Since when did footmen dust? He kicked the door of the dining room open, stomped to the far end of the table, and glared at the footman looking as though he wanted to melt into the wall.

“Chair,” Pelham growled.

The footman jumped into action, pulling the courtesan’s chair out. Without ceremony, Pelham deposited her into it then walked, calmly, to his own place, opened the
Times
and began to read.

A footman filled his teacup with hot tea—black as he liked it. He heard another footman offering the courtesan an assortment of refreshments. In a pleasant voice, she asked for chocolate. Of course she would want something decadent.

He continued reading his paper—or at least pretending to. A moment later, the footman retreated to his spot against the wall, and the courtesan rose. He eyed her above his paper. She perused the contents of the sideboard, dragging the bedclothes behind her as though they were a train and she a queen. It did not matter that her feet were bare; it did not matter that her hair tumbled in an unruly mass down her back; it did not matter that that damned sleeve had fallen off her shoulder again. She acted as though being dragged out of bed, carried down the stairs, and dumped into a chair in the dining room were an everyday occurrence.

Perhaps it was.

He eyed his pocket watch. “It is now a quarter past eight,” he informed her. “You have precisely fifteen minutes to eat.”

He thought she would argue with him, but instead she said—without even glancing his way—“Do you ever cease looking at that watch of yours? I think it must be permanently affixed to your hand.”

“Some of us must live our lives on a schedule,” he answered.

She lifted a plate. “Eat on a schedule, sleep on a schedule, walk on a schedule. Tell me, do you visit the privy on a schedule, as well?”

He rose. “An inappropriate comment. I expect nothing less.”

Now she did look at him, those blue eyes frigid. “You are the one who dragged me out of bed, Will. I expected quite a bit more.”

He went to the sideboard and began to fill a plate without even looking at his choices. He piled food on the plate, sat, and ate mechanically. He couldn’t say why this last barb stabbed him when so many of her others completely missed their mark. He did not want to care what this fallen woman thought of him. He didn’t owe her anything. She had come to him. He should have turned her out.

He’d let her think he allowed her to stay because he wanted her present for the magistrate’s visit this morning, but that was not the whole truth. He’d seen something in her eyes as she stood in his parlor—something he very much believed to be fear. How could he turn a frightened woman out on the street?

That would make him too much like…

He clenched his fist around his fork. He wasn’t like him. He was nothing like
him
!

Except when Pelham thought of his behavior toward her—toward Juliette—this morning, he was reminded of his father. Not that his father would ever do something so outrageous as to carry an undressed woman down the stairs. In fact, his father would be appalled at Pelham’s behavior. He would have berated him severely had he witnessed it.

But the lack of hospitality—that was not something his father had cared about overly much. Pelham looked down the long table at the woman sitting across from him. And wasn’t that what had bothered him about her statement? She had called him out on his lack of hospitality. She—
a
courtesan
!

She was frowning at the
Morning
Chronicle
, and for a moment her face lost some of its icy veneer.

“What is it?” he asked.

Her head jerked up, and she hastily closed the paper. “Is it time for a walk in the garden?”

“No.” But he wasn’t certain. He resisted the urge to check his watch and eyed the paper. “What were you reading?”

“An article about fashion.” She lied very smoothly, but somehow he knew it was a fabrication.

“Give me the paper.” He spoke to one of the scarlet-and-gold-attired footmen, who immediately approached the courtesan. She snatched the paper out of reach and hugged it close.

“You don’t want to do that, Your Grace.”

“Your Grace? Since when did I become
Your
Grace
?”

“That’s right. Your name is Will. And I shall keep calling you
Will
.”

“Give the footman the paper.”

“But doesn’t it anger you that I call you
Will,
Will? Don’t you wish I would stop?” She was so obviously—and so desperately—trying to pick a fight.

“I wish you would give my man that paper.”

She rose, still hugging the paper. “No, you don’t, Will. You do not want to read what’s in this paper.”

He rose. “Why not?”

“Just trust me.”

He pushed his chair back and marched to stand before her. Her bedclothes were still on the chair, and in the bright morning light of the dining room, her nightshift appeared very thin indeed. He tried not to look, but he could see the contours of her body outlined through the thin linen. “Give. Me. The. Paper.”

“Very well.” She handed it to him. “But don’t blame me for this.”

He opened the paper and perused the first page. He saw nothing of interest. He turned to the second page and skimmed it. It was complete fluff but nothing to make a fuss about.

He looked up at her. “Is this some kind of joke?”

“I wish it were.” She took the paper, found the page she wanted, and handed it back. “Read the Cytherian Intelligence column.”

“There’s a Cytherian Intelligence column?” He looked down and saw it there in black print. He read quickly, passing an item about a courtesan’s ball, one about Harriette Wilson, and another about the prince’s latest ladybird. And then he stopped breathing.

Last night, dear Reader, the Duchess of Dalliance and her Duke were finally seen together publicly at the Prince of Wales’s ball at Carlton House. But the rendezvous was not what was to be expected. The Duke of P– cut his lady in a most cruel fashion. Though our valiant Duchess held her head high in the face of such outright cruelty, it was clear the arrow pierced her heart.

“Oh, good God!” Pelham exclaimed, looking up at Juliette. “This is the worst sort of exaggeration and melodrama.”

“Keep reading.”

“I—” He looked down. “There’s
more
?”

The whisper at the ball was that the Duke was smitten with his newly betrothed, Lady E–, but if this is true, dear Reader, then why was the Duke of P– seen leaving the ball with the Duchess of Dalliance in his conveyance?