Page 7 of Hazardous to a Duke’s Heart (Lords of Hazard #1)

H ave fun with our lessons? We begin our lessons in the art room at nine AM ?

Jon stood confounded after the woman he’d just crossed swords with swept from the room with infinite grace and a hint of . . . arrogance? Yes, that would be the word for challenging a duke with supreme confidence that she would win, then giving him no chance to retort.

They were certainly making English women different these days, something else that would take getting used to.

And where was the bloody art room? They’d never had one before. More importantly, how was he supposed to start “lessons” tomorrow , for God’s sake? He had far more important things to deal with than indulging Miss Morris’s fancy that she could run an art school.

“Well?” asked his mother’s voice from the doorway. “What in creation were you two discussing for so long?”

Devil take it, he’d have to tell his mother some of the truth or she’d ask Miss Morris about it herself.

“I was informing Chloe’s governess that I’m executor of her father’s estate. And he left her a tidy inheritance.” But he wasn’t about to reveal where the money was coming from. He doubted his mother would approve.

She entered the dining room, her brow wrinkling in a frown. “How much is ‘tidy’?”

“Five thousand pounds.”

It was her turn to stand there slack-jawed. “Dr. Morris had that much money? Why didn’t his wife know about it? I suspect she could have used those funds. Especially since she was too proud to take any from me.”

“He acquired it at Verdun, so there was no way of sending it to her safely. Until I returned, of course.” Now he was lying to his mother, too, but it couldn’t be helped.

His mother snapped open her fan. “He earned more money abroad than your father paid him to take you on the grand tour?”

“Some of it came from what Father paid him. Since Dr. Morris was only in Verdun because of my grand tour, I told him he could keep whatever was left of what we spent.” Which had petered out sometime in early 1809. “Wait, you know how much Father paid Dr. Morris initially?”

“Well . . . I mean, your father didn’t say exactly , but I know how much such things cost. My friend Angela told me what her son’s bear leader . . . forgive me, his tutor, was paid. It was only half that sum.”

“Father was more generous to Morris. Who, by the way, hated the term bear leader . He had more respect for those he tutored than that.” Although in Jon’s case, the term had been close to the truth.

“I’m glad to hear it,” his mother said. “And equally happy your father was generous. Although given how much difficulty Dr. Morris left his wife in, I’m rather surprised. One would think the man would have been generous with his wife as a result.”

Jon winced. Another crime lay on his shoulders now, of portraying Morris as less than honorable. Although the truth was somewhere in the middle.

Flicking her fan back and forth, Mother circled the dining table. “What does Victoria intend to do with five thousand pounds? Lord knows, with that amount of money she needn’t stay in any position here.”

“It’s complicated.” He told her about the “requirement” that Miss Morris use it for a dowry.

“Well, her father was right to limit it so. A dowry would be the best use for her inheritance. She is gently bred, after all.”

He had no idea how gently she was bred, but she was certainly beautifully bred, with her dancing blue eyes and their silver flecks, her golden hair with tendrils escaping her coiffure, and her curvy figure that he ached to explore. She would certainly have no trouble finding a husband . . . and then getting around the man with one blown kiss from those perfect pink lips.

Yet she hadn’t tried using her attractions to get around him. How surprising. More than one woman in France had attempted it, though they’d mostly failed.

Miss Morris might have succeeded. Her subtle smile, somehow both coy and innocent, raised his pulse to a fever pitch every time she offered it. That was decidedly annoying. Immune to women’s usual blatant manipulations, he’d found her slipping under his guard with her unwitting ones.

Why else would he have agreed to that cursed bargain with her, instead of merely telling her how things were going to be?

That bargain would surely blow back into his face no matter how hard he tried to escape her potent attractions. For one thing, how was he to be with her in such close quarters without being tempted to kiss her . . . caress her . . . seduce her? None of which was acceptable, of course, especially given how he’d ruined her father’s life and thus hers.

Damn it all. He’d been too long without a woman if he was salivating over his sister’s governess.

His sister’s fetching, clever, and completely forbidden-to-him governess.

He forced himself to return to the matter at hand. “I’m pleased, Mother, that you see the advantages to Miss Morris of using the money as a dowry. She wasn’t quite as happy about her father’s requirement, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, pish, I will make her see the wisdom of it. Just leave that to me.”

“Actually, I was hoping you’d do more than that.”

His mother raised one gray eyebrow.

“I’d like you to present her in Society.”

Mother looked bewildered. “Present her as what?”

“An eligible female on the marriage mart, of course.”

She blinked at him. “At the same time I’m showing off your sister?”

“Ah, but that’s the beauty of my plan. If they are both being championed by you, then both will be asked to dance, and given Miss Morris’s current situation, she’d be a fool not to take the opportunity to find a husband. That means Chloe will have no choice but to accept dances herself.”

“Oh! I take your meaning now.” Mother wandered over to the fireplace, stared into it a moment, then whirled to face him. “Did Miss Morris agree to be presented?”

“She did.” With certain conditions attached. He definitely shouldn’t mention those to Mother.

His mother eyed him suspiciously. “Even though she didn’t like the idea of using the money for a dowry.”

“As I said, her father didn’t give her a choice. It’s in a codicil to his will.” The slightly forged version of it that Jon meant to produce somehow. “I’m executor of his estate, you know.” Such as it really was.

“Well then. It’s all settled, isn’t it?”

To his relief, Mother didn’t seem to balk at the idea of Miss Morris joining Chloe in the Season.

Then she started pacing. “Of course, there’s not much time left in the social calendar.”

“I believe you told me earlier there was plenty of time left in the social calendar,” he said with a hard stare.

She colored. “For you , my dear, not for Chloe and especially not for Victoria, given her age. She will have trouble finding a husband even with her dowry.”

He somehow doubted that, unless all the men in Society had been struck blind and deaf while he’d been away. Anyone could see that Miss Morris was quality, no matter how remote her connection to nobility.

“So, we must ensure her success by putting her forth properly.” His mother halted to place her hands on her hips. “Will you be able to use some of her inheritance for gowns and shoes and such? Because she will need those things.”

Damn, he hadn’t thought of that. “I will have to speak with her father’s solicitor. I plan to do that right away.” He would have to pay for them himself, in secret, of course. “But I’m sure there are funds for that, too.”

“Are you? Because such things aren’t cheap. And we’ll have to include her in my soiree, which means adjusting the focus a bit.”

His plan grew more complicated by the moment.

His mother started pacing again. “We could begin by consulting the Duchess of Grenwood when we’re at the theater. She’s always been kind enough to invite Victoria to her own affairs. The duchess likes to solicit advice from Victoria about her sketches.”

“Does she?”

Mother waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, you know how young women are. They fancy themselves artists and such. I can’t imagine why. But Victoria does have good sense when it comes to color and line. I have solicited her advice myself about the renovations from time to time.” She stopped. “Have you told Chloe about this idea of presenting Victoria?”

“For God’s sake, Mother, I just now told you . How the devil could I have told Chloe?”

She sniffed. “No need to be so grouchy. I was merely asking.” She paused. “Although, come to think of it, she’s probably told Chloe herself by now anyway, so that’s done. Those two are quick as thieves.”

“I believe you mean ‘thick as thieves,’ Mother.”

“I do not.” She eyed him askance. “I mean that they’re quick to tell each other everything. You know, like thieves when they plan their crimes. How would thieves be thick? That makes no sense.”

“All right.” His mother had butchered popular sayings for as long as he could remember. Father had ignored it, so the rest of them had. Perhaps it was a sign of Jon’s cantankerous mood tonight that he no longer tolerated it easily. She quite clearly meant that Chloe and Miss Morris were “thick” as thieves.

He groaned. Which meant his sister probably already knew he was having “lessons” with her governess. He didn’t even want to consider what Chloe would make of that.

“Anyway, we can’t give Victoria a real debut,” Mother said, “because the queen has already hosted her only drawing room for this year. Her Majesty says she’s getting too old for them. In truth, these days she looks rather ill.”

“I’ll leave to you the business of figuring out how best to present Miss Morris. Just let me know what services I can provide, either accompanying you three to events or wrangling invitations, though I daresay people are more likely to listen to you in that regard than to me.”

His mother shook her head. “You’re the duke now, son. Everyone will listen to you.” She approached to take him by the arm. “But at present, you appear to be exhausted, and it’s been a long day, I’m sure, so perhaps we’d both best retire.”

Gently, he extricated himself from her arm. “I will, I promise. But first I have a few things to do in Father’s . . . in my study, after I finish one more glass of port. I’ll see you at breakfast.”

“As you wish.” She kissed him on the cheek. “Sleep well, my darling. I am so happy to have you back.”

He watched until she left and gave himself ten more minutes for good measure. Then he was out the door and down the hall, asking the drowsy footman for his greatcoat. “I assume that Kershaw made arrangements for my carriage to be brought round.”

The footman nodded. “It’s waiting outside, Your Grace.”

“Thank you.”

Within moments, Jon was on his way to the Traveler’s Inn and Tavern, which he’d earlier determined was still in existence in Eastcheap. He pulled out his father’s old pocket watch, now his, and noted the time. He should be there with time to spare. Heathbrook and Scovell were meeting him there—they’d both sent notes agreeing to the assignation.

To his surprise, when he arrived, he was shown into a private room, where his friends were already waiting, obviously well into their first tankards of ale.

Scovell rose to shake his hand. “It took you long enough.”

“According to my watch,” Jon said, “I’m right on time.”

Heathbrook remained sprawled in his armchair. “I believe Scovell means that it took you long enough to arrive home .”

“Oh. I suppose it did.” Jon ordered a tankard of ale from the servant standing just outside the door. “You two seem to have fallen right into step with the new London.”

“To the extent that I could,” Scovell said. “I’ve been promoted to captain. There’s talk of shipping me off to Portsmouth to train new recruits. Although why we need them when the war is over is anyone’s guess.”

“The war in America is still going on, isn’t it?” Jon pointed out.

“True. But I’m damned well not going to accompany a lot of raw recruits to America if I can help it. I just now got my new uniform back from the tailor, and I have no desire to put any holes in it.”

Jon could tell from his tone he was only half-joking.

“We both purchased fresh clothing,” Heathbrook quipped. “Meanwhile, you look like you stepped right out of 1802.”

“And you look as if you’ve been stuffing yourself with too many pork pies.”

Which was stretching things, to be honest. Heathbrook might appear more hale and hearty than he had in years, but there still wasn’t an ounce of fat on him. While Jon had spent his captivity soaking up knowledge, Heathbrook had spent his taking advantage of his enforced close contact with British military men to learn every method of fighting there was. The earl had said he was determined not to be caught unawares again.

“At least my old clothes fit me now.” Heathbrook rose with studied nonchalance to shake Jon’s hand. “You’re a skeleton in a coat . . . Your Grace .”

“Enough of that,” Jon said with one eyebrow raised. “People have been lobbing ‘Your Grace’ at me every five minutes since my arrival.”

“What do you expect?” Scovell chuckled. “You’re the duke now.”

“Good God, we’ll have to start calling him Falconridge, won’t we?” Heathbrook said with a smirk.

“I don’t care what you call me,” Jon said, “as long as it’s not ‘Your Grace.’ ”

“Better get used to it,” Scovell said. “That will be happening all over London for the rest of your life.”

“Or the next few days, anyway,” Heathbrook put in, “since it looks as if you’ll soon perish of hunger.” Gesturing to Jon to take a seat, Heathbrook dropped back into his own comfy chair.

“There’s a reason for that.” Jon sat down and told them of his complicated and tortuous route back to England.

Scovell crossed his arms over his chest. “At least that explains why it took you so long to get here.”

“Also,” Jon added, “I stopped in Verdun to pick up whatever items I’d been forced to leave behind when we were sent to Bitche and to ask questions.”

“About?” Scovell prompted.

“Mademoiselle Bernard, of course. I also took a few days in Paris to look for her.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Heathbrook muttered as he straightened in his chair. “She is not the one who—”

“Wait,” Scovell broke in, pausing to scan outside the room with that vigilant awareness of his surroundings only military men seemed to possess. When the servant appeared with Jon’s tankard, Scovell waited until the man left. Then Scovell closed the door and leaned against it to stare at Heathbrook. “Go on.”

With a roll of his eyes, Heathbrook scowled at Jon. “Mademoiselle Bernard didn’t reveal our escape plans to Commandant Courcelles at Verdun. I don’t know why you persist in thinking she did.”

Jon snorted. “You do agree she was probably Morris’s mistress.”

“Hard to be sure, honestly,” Scovell put in. “Just because they spent time together doesn’t mean they were lovers. She did have a post, after all, working for our landlady. But I’ll admit Morris was quite secretive about her, and whenever they were together, they seemed very cozy.”

“ Seemed being the operative word,” Heathbrook muttered. “Did you find her in Paris, Jon?”

“I didn’t find her anywhere. I was told she left Verdun at the same time we were hauled off to Bitche, but I couldn’t locate her in Paris. That alone is suspicious.”

“Perhaps, but Paris is a big city,” Scovell pointed out. “And in the turmoil of the war’s end, it would be damned hard to find anyone.”

“I found some neighbors of her mother, who told me both ladies left France as soon as the abdication happened, which was all the neighbor would say. That spoke volumes.”

Heathbrook snorted. “Perhaps one volume, if that.”

Jon stared at the earl. “Why do you always defend her?”

“Why do you always blame her?” Heathbrook shot back.

“Because someone bloody well betrayed us,” Jon bit out, “and she’s the most likely suspect.”

Heathbrook cocked one black brow. “You merely dislike her for ruining your hero worship of Morris.”

“And you merely can’t believe a woman that beautiful could be a villainess.”

Scovell stepped forward. “This gets us nowhere, gentlemen. We have other suspects, some of whom we can’t even investigate without returning to France.”

“I don’t know about you,” Heathbrook said, “but I’m not returning to France until Napoleon dies on Elba.”

Jon eyed Scovell consideringly. “I thought you said you could find out more information from your cousin, the major, once we were in England.”

“He hasn’t come back from the war yet. I’ll continue to keep my ear to the ground, though.”

“Why would he even know anything about our villain?” Heathbrook asked.

When Scovell remained silent, Jon said, “Because he was involved in intelligence during the war, so he might have heard things concerning Napoleon’s spies.”

“I’m more concerned about Courcelles’s spies,” Scovell said, “since one of those told him our plans. If not for that person, male or female, we would never have ended up in Bitche.”

“We don’t know for sure that Mademoiselle Bernard was one of Courcelles’ regular spies,” Jon said uneasily. “She might just have reported on us because she overheard talk of the escape, either from us or from Morris himself.”

“Yes, but why would she report on us, if she was Morris’s lover?” Heathbrook snapped.

“Because Courcelles trained his spies to get close to their subjects any way they could,” Scovell said.

“Now see here,” Heathbrook said. “You told us you overheard that gendarme saying that a fellow Englishman was the one who informed on us to the commandant.”

Scovell’s French was fluent, though he’d hidden the fact from their jailors from his first day of captivity. He’d said it allowed him to hear things they thought he couldn’t understand—another way in which he was a military man to the core.

“I didn’t say that exactly,” Scovell retorted. “I said that the gendarme joked about how one of our own people had it in for us. He didn’t say an ‘Englishman.’ He didn’t even say it was a man.”

“Still,” Heathbrook countered, “ ‘one of our own people’ could include the owners of the house we were renting, the owners of the shops we frequented—”

“Or Mademoiselle Bernard, who would have been considered part of our circle,” Jon said, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Or another détenu,” Scovell pointed out. “That’s not off the table as far as I’m concerned. The commandant excelled at playing on our fellow captives’ weaknesses, as you both well know.”

That theory had always made Jon uneasy. “If it was another détenu, then that person is probably back in England now. That would really be a betrayal, wouldn’t it? I can’t bear to think one of our own kind turned us in for money or special privileges or anything else.”

“It happened to others before us, so it’s not inconceivable.” Heathbrook’s voice hardened. “Though if I do find out it’s a détenu, I’ll take great pleasure in putting my hands around the bastard’s neck and squeezing the life out of—”

“Stop with the bloodthirsty threats, Heathbrook,” Scovell said. “We agreed we would turn the person in to the authorities if we discovered he’s British.”

“For myself,” Jon said, “as long as justice is meted out to him or her , I am content.”

“But to be honest,” Scovell said, “we still don’t know enough right now to move forward.”

He was right. Scovell was invariably right when it came to strategy.

“Then we must find things out, mustn’t we?” Jon said. “Here’s what I suggest. Scovell, you should continue to explore your connections in the Navy, and in the Army, too, if you have them. Especially among the intelligence chaps. Despite what the government says about its lack of spies, we all know it has them.”

Jon turned to Heathbrook. “You and I should root out the other détenus in London who spent at least eight years at Verdun. Between us, we might be able to learn more about who could have betrayed us and why. The others might know something we couldn’t possibly know, given that we never returned to Verdun after we were caught escaping.”

“There are a number of books written by détenus and published here in London,” Heathbrook said. “We should read those as well. You never know when a random comment might point toward something else the author isn’t aware of.”

“Good idea. And we should meet whenever you both are in town to compare notes.” Jon rose. “One other thing. Do any of you know if that engraver, Beasley, who forged our French passports for our attempted escape, made it back to England? I’d like to ask him about something.”

“He’s living in Cheapside with his family at this address.” Scovell jotted it on a piece of notepaper and handed it to Jon. “Heathbrook and I encountered him in a tavern not long ago and spent a pleasant two hours learning everything that happened in Verdun after we were sent off to Bitche. He said Sir Percy Tindale was rumored to have died in Arras, more’s the pity.”

“Damn,” Jon said. “I hope rumor has it wrong.” The baronet had been planning to escape with them until he’d been caught in an infraction by Courcelles two weeks beforehand and packed off to Arras as his punishment. “He might have overheard something from the gendarmes along his way.”

“Beasley says they got rid of Courcelles not long after we left,” Heathbrook added, “and the new fellow proved quite honorable.”

“Yes, I heard that when I stopped there on my way to Paris.” Jon tried not to show his chagrin. “We should have listened to Morris and just stayed where we were instead of attempting an escape.”

“We didn’t know that the war would end in three years,” Heathbrook said. “No one did.”

Heathbrook had a point, but it didn’t assuage Jon’s guilt. If they hadn’t been sent to Bitche . . .

No point crying over spilled milk. “Well, gentlemen,” he said, tucking the address in his pocket, “I must return to the house before I’m missed.”

“You should,” Heathbrook said. “You’re starting to look peaked, old man.”

“I’m starting to feel a bit peaked, to be honest.” Jon paused to gaze at the two men. “But once I’m more myself and have had time to get some decent attire, I’d like to introduce you both to my family. You could come for dinner. I’m sure my mother would be delighted to meet you.”

Heathbrook grinned. “I already met your charming mother when I delivered your letter. I also met your lovely and equally charming sister.”

“Great!” Jon said, hiding his consternation at the idea of Heathbrook attracted to Chloe. The man had already been a budding rakehell when they’d arrived at Verdun. “She could use a decent suitor.”

“Suitor!” Heathbrook said, clearly alarmed. “Bite your tongue. I’ve got some living to do before I get leg-shackled.” When both Jon and Scovell laughed, Heathbrook scowled. “Well, I do.”

“Don’t worry,” Jon said, not bothering to hide his relief. “She’s dragging her feet a bit herself, so you’re probably safe from Chloe.”

He ought to tell them about Miss Morris, too, and his bargain with her. But something held him back. It seemed . . . private somehow.

Private? No, indeed. That sort of thinking would get him into trouble. He should just tell them. Be nonchalant. Explain the situation emotionlessly.

Yet, a while later when he and his friends parted, he had somehow not found a way to mention her after all.