Page 9 of A Deviant Spinster for the Duke (The Gentlemen’s Club #3)

CHAPTER NINE

“ W retched man,” Valeria muttered, jostled this way and that by the carriage as it wended through the dark. “Utterly wretched man.”

Had she been in the illuminated streets of London, the journey would have had its own perils, but out in the countryside, swathed in shadow, the poor driver doing his best to avoid ruts and ditches, her journey held a very different set of dangers. Namely, of the physical, rather than reputational, kind.

I should have joined my friends in the city when I had the chance, she scolded herself. I should have gone with them, carving my own path to marriage.

The letter had arrived that morning in Duncan’s elegant cursive, detailing what her evening’s exploits would look like:

My Dark Angel,

Come to my manor after the sun has set. Thornhill Grange. I believe you know it—you were at my ball a few years ago.

Leave the carriage at the gates. My driver knows where.

You will find the servants’ entrance to the west of the manor, through a courtyard with an apple tree in the middle, past the stables. I will leave the door unlocked. I will leave every door unlocked. But you are not, under any circumstances, to knock. See if you can make me flinch, this time.

Yours,

Lockie

She had not forgotten that ball, where Amelia had worn a gown of garnet red that had shocked everyone in the most glorious way, but she had forgotten whose ball it was. Try as she might, she could not remember seeing Duncan that night, though that should not have surprised her; he had probably been hidden away with some lady or other.

She hissed rude things with every bump in the road, cursing Duncan’s name… and herself too, for playing along with his game.

All it would have taken was a penned reply, saying that she was quite finished with his ‘help’ and would no longer require his services. A firm ‘thank you’ and an insistence that the debt was cleared, and she would not have been journeying through the dark to a rake’s manor with no chaperone and no idea what she could expect.

Papa would be beside himself if he knew what I was doing. She pressed her palm to her chest, thinking of him. His last letter had arrived with Duncan’s, informing her that he would be away a while longer, apologizing profusely for his extended absence.

He had not said why he was away and where he was, exactly, but she had filled in the blanks herself. He was trying to find another way to fix the situation. But the longer he was absent, the more she knew that he was failing to find that alternative.

“We’re here, miss!” the driver called down from the box, the carriage rattling to a standstill.

Valeria peered out of the window, unable to see much. What she certainly could not see were the towering gates she recalled from Duncan’s ball, three or so years ago. Indeed, what lay ahead of her seemed to be nothing but hedgerow.

Hesitant, wrapping her cloak tighter around herself and putting up her hood, she grabbed a lantern and clambered out. Surely, you could have sent a footman to help me down? Wretched man.

“Here?” she asked the driver. “You are certain?”

The driver pointed to the hedge. “There’s a small gate there. Bit of a path after that ought to take you to the manor.”

“Could you not just take me to the front doors?” She hated the note of pleading in her voice, but it was late, it was dark, this was strange territory, and she did not want to sneak around like a weasel if she did not have to.

Who would see her, other than staff? If he was half the duke he thought he was, they would not breathe a word if they happened to notice an unfamiliar woman wandering around.

The driver pulled an apologetic face. “I would, miss, but His Grace told me not to. You’ll be safe enough. Naught ‘round here but foxes, just don’t lose your way and end up in the field with the bull.”

Valeria gulped. “Very well. Thank you.”

With a steadying breath, she approached the hedge and found the tiny, ancient gate hidden among blackberries and thorns.

Something scratched her arm as she pushed through the gate, holding the lantern as far ahead of her as she could to illuminate the ‘path.’ A barely discernible scratch in the grass would have been a better description.

Trudging through seemingly endless fields, startled by every night sound, praying she had not strayed into the bull’s meadow by accident, she was in a foul temper by the time she arrived at civilization.

The manor was as grand and beautiful as she remembered, soft orange light spilling from a couple of casement windows, suggesting that not everyone in the household was asleep. It was older than her own residence, emulating a Tudor style, crafted from red brick, interspersed with white walls that were patterned by dark beams. It was only three stories, but longer to make up for the lack of height.

Now, where are the stables?

A nicker in the darkness guided her way, the sweet animal scent of the horses and their hay filling her nostrils as she passed by. Another thirty paces took her to a low brick wall and, behind it, a courtyard with an apple tree in the center.

Nerves began to claw up from her fluttering stomach as she crossed the courtyard to what she hoped was the servants’ entrance. Her hand moved to test the handle, only to find that the door was not only unlocked but had been left ajar.

How many women turn back before this point, I wonder? And she did wonder, her mind swarming with visions of ladies—every age, appearance, station—creeping across that courtyard to push on the same door. She imagined all those who had worn that infuriatingly faint path through the fields, contemplating whether or not the fact that it had been so overgrown meant anything.

Through the servants’ entrance, she found silence: kitchens in shadow, empty corridors, closed doors with no sliver of light beneath, not a single sound other than the ticking of an unseen clock. Her own footsteps were too loud, though she tiptoed through.

But Duncan had not given any instruction about what to do once she was actually inside the manor. Where was she supposed to go? She had assumed he would meet her, but he was nowhere to be seen.

Blast him! Blast that… oaf! She grumbled to herself until a narrow corridor and another unlocked door threw her out into the entrance hall. Most infuriatingly of all, the front entrance was right there, ahead of her. Apparently, the only locked door in the entire house.

“I was praying, and you have answered,” a pleased voice purred from somewhere nearby. His voice. “I am in the drawing room. Come to me.”

She nearly turned on her heel and slammed out of the front doors, to prove the point that she would not be toyed with. But she had come all that way and she was tired; at least she could rest her legs for a while before she made her dramatic exit.

Muttering, she pursued his voice to a nearby door, where the sound of a crackling fire marked the right room, and pushed it open.

Duncan lounged across an armchair by the fireplace, a snifter of brandy in hand, an irreverent grin on his face. “What took you so long?”

The irritation that had been building within Valeria since the moment she got into the carriage he had sent, fermenting with every step across unknown fields, bubbling up and up with the heat of her embarrassment, promptly exploded.

“Do any of your conquests enjoy this or is this just for your childish entertainment?” she snarked. “Do you watch, giddy as a schoolboy, out the windows while they traipse through your grounds? It is a wonder to me that they do not all get back in the carriage and return home. You are hardly worth all that effort. Indeed, you are not worth walking down a short, paved, illuminated street for.”

Rather than retaliating, or showing any hint of insult, he laughed softly: a rumble in the back of his throat, his eyes darkening so there could be no mistaking him for any childish schoolboy. “With respect, Miss Maxwell, how would you know? You could have found out my ‘worth,’ but all you asked for was my help.”

“I ought to fetch a bar of soap and scrub your mouth with it!” she shot back, flustered. “Do not speak to me so… so familiarly. Do not speak to me as if I am one of your pursuits. In fact, do not speak to me at all until I have decided whether to smack you or smack myself for not burning up your letter and putting an end to this silliness.”

He put up a hand of mock surrender and pretended to lock his mouth with an invisible key. But his intense gaze remained fixed on her, making some silent measure of her, that exasperating smirk upon his lips. As if he knew something she did not. Truly, she could not bear it.

“What?” she snapped.

He shrugged, pointing to his mouth.

“I did not come here to play your games,” she muttered, arms folded across her chest. “What are you staring at me like that for?”

He unlocked his mouth again. “I was reminiscing.”

“Pardon?”

“Reminiscing about that gown last night,” he elaborated, pinching his lip between his teeth for a moment. “You really were the most beautiful woman in attendance, Miss Maxwell, but that, of course is not your problem.”

He jumped up, circling her slowly as he had done in the library. She, in turn, stayed perfectly still, uncertain of what he might do if she moved so much as a muscle. Pull her to him again? Kiss her? Make her wonder even more what it was he was so famed for, and why those ladies endured so much to get to him?

That lady in the gardens was ready to throw her life away for him…

“This is all a game to you,” she said thickly. “I do not care for it, creeping through the shadows like a common thief.”

He paused in front of her, tilting his head as his striking eyes drifted from the tips of her shoes to the green of her own eyes. A slow observation that left her feeling as if he had physically peeled away her cloak.

“If you have a better alternative for a meeting place, do tell me,” he said in that deep voice of his.

She racked her brain. Her own residence might work, considering its emptiness, but that was almost as bad. And if her father suddenly returned, that would be very bad indeed. The Maxwells no longer had property in London, so that was out of the question, and all the cottages on her father’s land were rented out.

“I thought not.” He smiled. “You wanted my help, Valeria. This is what it takes. Secrecy, discretion, and privacy.”

She turned her gaze away. “At the very least, you could have let me come in through the main entrance.”

“Where countless little rats from the papers have been known to hide, lying in wait for my next indiscretion?” he challenged, his jaw tensing for a moment. “I made that mistake just once. It almost cost a friend everything.”

Valeria resisted the desire to look at him as she retorted, “Yes, well, perhaps if your ‘friend’ had more sense, she would not have come sneaking to your manor in the middle of the night.”

“I am aware that you are an intelligent woman who evidently knows a great deal about a great many things,” he replied in a tone she had not heard before: a warning. “But do not be so quick to judge the actions of others. Do not proclaim to know things of which you are ignorant.”

Her head snapped toward him. “Ignorant? How dare you.”

“How dare I? You are the one making assumptions.” His eyes hardened. “My friend was fleeing cruelty, and came to this house for sanctuary. She was seen, and had her driver not caught the wretch who would have ruined her life in the scandal sheets, I fear she would still be in the clutches of that cruelty. Instead, she is happy and alive and flourishing in Spain.”

Valeria hesitated, surprised by his words. “And… the man from the papers?”

“I can be very persuasive,” Duncan replied, a slight smile lifting the corner of his lips.

“He is not… buried in one of your meadows, is he?”

A warmer laugh slipped from his lips. “He, too, is still alive and the comfortable owner of a bookshop. Although, I suspect he shall always be looking over his shoulder, just in case.”

Wringing her hands, Valeria stared down at the floor in thought. Amelia kept popping into her head—the cruelty she had experienced from her father and brother, before she had Lionel to protect her. If Lionel had not come to his senses in time, Amelia would be in the Americas by now.

Happy? Perhaps. Alive? Certainly. Flourishing? Hard to say.

Uneasiness prickled up the back of Valeria’s neck, but it was not the kind she should have been feeling, considering she was alone with a rake. It was the discomfort of realizing that there might be more to Duncan than met the eye. And, more than that, that he might be right—she was too quick to judge the actions of others, particularly men.

“Was… this ‘friend’ a… um…” Her cheeks warmed, her throat too tight to squeeze out the words.

He shook his head. “No, she was not. She was more like a sister.”

She squinted at him, certain she had heard his voice catch for a moment, but he had begun circling again. Maybe, she had imagined it.

“Now, what do you say to a drink?” He peeled away to a side-table, laden with carafes of liquor and cut-crystal glasses.

She sniffed. “No, thank you. I do not think it would be wise to imbibe with you.”

“Afraid you might relax too much and lower that guard?” he teased, pouring a small measure of brandy for himself. “Afraid you might decide to change the terms of my debt?”

There he was again, covering up his hidden layers, playing his flirtatious games, becoming the man it was easy to be annoyed by. She groaned inwardly; it was going to be a very long night and, now that she thought about, she had no idea what she was there for.

And yet, I still came… She hastily swallowed the thought, unwilling to consider the weighted question of ‘why?’