Page 1 of I Never Forget a Duke (The Night Fire Club #1)

H ugh Baxter, the twelfth Duke of Swynford, descended the stairs to the crowded Rutherford ballroom, intending only to perform the minimum social niceties before finding whichever room George Rutherford had set up for cards.

He loved living in London, but he loathed these balls at the height of the Season.

He attended for his mother’s sake; the dowager duchess insisted it was important to the family legacy that he put in appearances at the major social events.

Swynford was one of the oldest dukedoms in England, after all, and although the current duke descended from first duke, created by Charles II shortly after the Restoration, the Baxter family had been peers of the realm since the Hundred Years War and were related to the king via a cousin who had married into the royal family a few generations back. So his name came with some obligations.

Helena Baxter, Hugh’s mother, was not about to let him forget these obligations.

If some trifle with her health had not kept her at home this evening, the dowager duchess likely would have been telling him which eligible debutantes he should dance with tonight in the hopes that one of them proved to be a suitable mother to the thirteenth Duke of Swynford.

Hugh loved beautiful women but did not love dancing and would have been content to let the title die with him on days his mother had not lectured him on the importance of the family legacy.

On those days, he wanted to give his mother what she most wanted in the world, which was a grandchild.

But he couldn’t help but think that, though Helena Baxter was a spitfire, what she wanted for Hugh was a placid broodmare.

He’d compromised with himself that he’d enjoy life to its fullest until forty, at which time he’d choose some willing young miss and make his mother happy.

Aside from the current bout of sniffles, Helena was in the peak of health, so she’d surely be able to wait that long.

Thus he hoped to dodge the simpering young women and their calculating mamas while he made sure he was seen before he relieved his male social peers of a few coins in the card room.

As soon as his foot hit the floor, however, they descended on him.

“Your Grace, I don’t believe I’ve yet introduced you to my daughter…”

“Your Grace, it is an honor to see you again. Do you know…”

“My daughter has a spot on her dance card reserved just for you…”

Hugh pressed his lips together and looked for an exit.

He chose three debutantes at random and took them around the dance floor before seeking out a friendly face and landing on Larkin Woodville.

Lark stood near the refreshments, seeming to be engaged in some sort of internal argument about how gauche he might appear if he drank more of Mrs. Rutherford’s lemonade.

“Please tell me,” Hugh said as he sidled up to Lark, “that George has a card table set up in a room full of whisky and cigars.”

“Ah, the curse of being England’s most eligible bachelor. It must be difficult to have so many lovely women willing to walk over their own mamas to win your affections.”

“Far be it for me to complain about women clamoring over me, although the only difference between me and every other fool here is my name.”

Lark seemed to make a decision and poured himself a ladleful of lemonade. “So if my name were Baxter, I’d be the beau of the ball?”

Hugh stopped himself from saying the first thing that popped into his head, which was that the only thing saving Lark from Hugh’s fate was some ailment or accident overtaking Lark’s father, the Marquess of Beaufort.

But Hugh knew that was cruel and borne of his own sadness when he thought of his father’s passing, so he pushed that aside.

Instead, he said, “I believe if you let it be known that you would very much like to reform your profligate ways and settle down with a gently bred wife, there’d be a stampede of women yearning to be your future marchioness. ”

Lark frowned. “Dear god. All right, you’ve made your point. Let us adjourn to the card room.”

Several hours later, Hugh told his driver to go ahead home, that he needed the walk to clear his head after indulging in a bit too much of George Rutherford’s fine whisky.

Lark was pretty deep in his cups too, but his parents insisted he ride home in their carriage.

Hugh bid him good night and began to walk the short distance to his home on Upper Brook Street.

He considered cutting across Grosvenor Square but saw that the gate was shut.

But that was all right; it was a crisp, cool night, and Hugh already felt all the better for being outside instead of in the crush of the Rutherfords’ ballroom.

He walked around the garden, lost in thought, contemplating what he would do the next day.

He liked these quiet moments at night and often walked after dark, although his friends warned him against the practice, since one never knew who might be about in the shadows.

Hugh wasn’t particularly worried now, though; the only men he might run into in Mayfair were other drunk aristocrats.

Still, as he made the turn onto Upper Brook Street, he thought someone called his name, but dismissed it. No one else was around. He was nearly to his door when he heard a shuffle behind him. As he turned to see what it was, something hit the back of his head.

Then the world went dark.

*

Adele Paulson could not possibly endure the stuffy air in the Sweeney house for another moment.

The old countess did not like open windows and was convinced the London air was responsible for her current poor health.

Adele thought that was likely true, although she thought the next reasonable question was why the countess persisted in staying in London when her country house had much better air.

Adele walked out the front door with Wilton, the butler, on her heels.

“I just need a moment, Wilton,” Adele insisted.

“Yes, Lady Adele, but the neighborhood is not safe for a young lady at this time of night.”

“I do not intend to go far. I want some fresh air is all.”

Wilton retreated but took up a post at the front door with his arms crossed, clearly determined not to let Adele out of his sight.

The countess’s house was modest, a bit of a distance from fashionable Mayfair.

The house did have a little backyard garden, but the last time Adele had walked there after dark, the gardener accused her of stomping on the flowerbeds.

This was an unfair charge, and Adele was pretty sure Cook’s dog had been responsible for ruining the flowerbeds, but she’d had no proof. Thus she avoided the garden at night.

Ever since reading a translation of the stories of the Brothers Grimm, she’d been fancying herself as a bit of a Cinderella, responsible for much of the household work and often the scapegoat for anything wrong in the house.

Although in Adele’s case, there was no handsome prince, she wasn’t related to the family that persecuted her, and she was being paid for these indignities.

Still, if Adele sought fresh air out front instead of in the tiny backyard garden, no one could accuse her of having nefarious plans for the backyard flora.

The countess had been trying Adele’s patience lately.

She’d grown forgetful, which seemed to anger her, and she took out the bulk of that anger on Adele.

Adele tried not to take that personally and understood the countess’s anger was borne of her frustration over her failing health, but Adele was tired of insisting that she was only trying to help.

She sighed and leaned against a lamppost. Not for the first time, she thought about how this was not the life she imagined for herself.

Five years ago, she’d been engaged to Geoffrey MacDowell, Lord Paisley, heir to titles and property in England and Scotland.

She’d loved him deeply and had her whole future planned.

They would split their time between London, his country manor in Kent, and the grand estate in Scotland; they’d have three or four children; and Adele would have time to pursue things like gardening or painting, perhaps, and they’d be happy.

Geoffrey had never told her he’d been sick. And the Lord took him two weeks before their wedding.

Adele’s devastation at the loss had kept her away from London for a season, and by the time she returned at the ripe old age of twenty-two, it seemed she was already on the shelf. No eligible man would send a second glance her way, not when there were so many new, young debutantes on the scene.

So what good was an earl’s daughter so long on the shelf? Her father had been a close friend to the late Earl of Sweeney—the present earl was only a few years older than Adele and preferred the country to London—so here Adele was, the Dowager Countess of Sweeney’s paid companion.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, then pushed off the lamppost, reluctantly taking a step back toward the house.

She heard a noise and turned around, watching as a large carriage rumbled up the street.

A door opened and someone inside tossed something at the sidewalk a few feet from where Adele stood.

Then the carriage sped away before Adele could finish yelling about the man discarding his rubbish in the street.

She glanced at the bundle and was content to leave it… until it moved.

Adele exchanged a glance with Wilton, who walked with her to the bundle. A long sheet of muslin or some other fabric was wrapped around what Adele assumed at first must have been a dog. But if that were the case, it was a huge dog. And then the bundle moaned.

Wilton stepped forward and lifted the edge of the fabric.

There was a man. Adele did not recognize him and assumed he was not one of her neighbors.

He was too well-dressed for the neighborhood, at any rate.

He looked like he’d just come from a ball.

He was tall and young, Adele thought, though his clothes were rumpled and there was a trickle of blood on his forehead.

“Do you know him?” Wilton asked.

“No, but I assume he is nobility of some sort, given his dress.”

When the man moaned again, Adele said, “Sir? Who are you? What is your name?”

Then his whole body went slack.

Wilton touched his neck. “He’s alive, but I believe he’s passed out.”

“We must get him inside.”

“Are you sure?”

“We can’t leave him on the street. We’ll put him in the green bedroom, and I will tend to him.”

“That is quite improper, my lady. Cook and I can see to his wounds. Young master John was quite the young hellion and was forever getting into scraps, so we have some experience with patching up cuts and bruises. Perhaps he will recover his senses by the morning and you and the countess can escort him home.”

“Do you think he may need further medical attention?”

“Doctor Willis is scheduled to come to the house to attend to the countess on the morrow. We’ll have him look after our young man. In the meantime, I will need your assistance, at least to get him to the threshold of the house. Can you carry his feet?”

Together, Wilton and Adele managed to get the man to the door.

Wilton asked Adele to go in and fetch one of the footmen.

Ten minutes later, the man was fast asleep in the green bedroom, the only bedroom in the small house not presently spoken for.

Adele stood at the door and watched him for a long moment, and now that he was in a room with better lighting, she thought him vaguely familiar, but perhaps that was just the trappings of wealth.

She’d traveled in the same circles as this man once, she knew that much, but she could not identify him.

Wilton returned with Cook, who nudged her out of the way. “Get some sleep, Lady Adele. He will still be here in the morning for you to fret over.”

Adele nodded. She gave the mysterious man one last, long look and then went to her room.