Page 3 of I Never Forget a Duke (The Night Fire Club #1)

L arkin Woodville, Earl of Waring, heir to the Duke of Beaufort, loved gossip.

He supposed he could feel fairly secure of his place in society, which allowed him to indulge in the sort of frivolity printed in the scandal sheets.

He handed a few coins to a paperboy and started to unfold the paper as he walked to Hugh’s house on Upper Brook Street.

Most of today’s tittering was about various people who were seen and heard at the Rutherford ball two nights before.

Lark chuckled at the mention of his own name in connection to a young lady he’d danced with, but that was a nothing story; she was the sister of one of his schoolmates, not a prospective wife.

There was an interesting article about the Earl of Canbury being spotted in women’s clothing again.

That was an old story and Lark had long pondered the truth of it.

Canbury was an especially loud voice in the House of Lords and was angling for a diplomatic position, so his political rivals were working hard to tear him down.

Canbury was not especially well liked on a good day, and now that he’d been all been licking the Hessian boots of the Prince Regent in the hopes of gaining a government job, he had enemies coming out of the woodwork.

Lark had always assumed the rumors that he liked to dress as a woman in public were just bad actors trying to embarrass him.

Not to mention, the earl and his sister bore an uncanny resemblance to each other, so it might have just been a case of mistaken identity.

Not that Lark cared a whit about what people did with their idle time.

If a man wanted to wear a dress in public, Lark took no issue with it.

Women’s clothing seemed so complicated, though, almost not worth the effort.

And Lark himself had not exactly been a paragon of Christian virtue, so unless someone was doing something that harmed another person, he was content to let it be. Judge lest not ye be judged, right?

He certainly was not anxious to let it be known that he’d recently spent a few glorious nights in the bed of the Marquess of Beresford.

He arrived at Hugh’s house, tucked the paper under his arm, and knocked on the door.

Hodges, the Swynford butler, opened the door with a concerned expression on his face.

“Is Swynford in to callers?” Lark asked.

“He is not in, my lord, but I believe Her Grace would like to speak with you.”

This seemed like bad news. Lark stepped into the house. Hodges escorted him to the red sitting room, where the dowager duchess sat with a book in her lap.

“Good afternoon, Your Grace,” Lark said.

“My goodness. Oh, Lord Waring, it is good to see you.” She set the book aside and braced her arms on the chair as if standing would require substantial effort.

“Please don’t get up on my account. What has happened? Is something wrong?”

She sighed and sank back into the chair. “It’s Hugh. He… he did not come home after the Rutherford ball.”

“He… what?” Hugh hadn’t made it home? In more than a day? How could that be?

“The carriage returned without him. When did you last see him?”

Lark’s knees felt a little wobbly, so he sat in the settee near the dowager.

“We left the Rutherford ball together. But then Father insisted I ride in the family carriage because I’d…

well, let us just say, Lord Rutherford has an excellent store of whisky.

Hugh told me he intended to walk home to clear his head.

Last I saw him, he was headed here on foot. ”

The dowager shook her head. “London is not safe at night. He thinks because he is a duke that no harm will come to him, but even in Mayfair, dangerous men lurk in the shadows.”

Lark’s heart pounded. It was very unlike Hugh to simply disappear; there were few men who understood their place in the world and their responsibilities better than Hugh Baxter.

But more than that, Hugh had clearly intended to walk home, and he wasn’t that drunk.

Something must have happened to him en route.

“Have you told anyone?” Lark asked. “Alerted Bow Street?”

“No, not yet. Hodges and a few of the footmen did a thorough search of the area yesterday. So I know that he is not lying dead in a rose bush in Grosvenor Square. But where else could he have gone?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know, but I will do everything in my capacity to find him.”

The dowager gave Lark a watery smile. “I know you will. You and Hugh have always been like brothers.”

Lark was about to get up when the dowager added, “Speaking of family, Collingswood is in town.”

Lark had to work to keep his face from wrinkling with distaste.

Lord Collingswood was Hugh’s cousin. He was a small, petty man who, although he’d made a fortune from the family plantation in Jamaica, had the misfortune of not being born into the Baxter line destined to inherit the dukedom.

Lark suspected this was why the dowager had been pestering Hugh about marriage lately; she wanted a grandson and heir to ensure Collingswood never got his hands on that title.

“Has he been to see you?” Lark asked.

“Yes, three days ago. He came by while Hugh was out meeting with his solicitor. He wanted to speak to Hugh directly and would not share the topic of his meeting with me, so we exchanged pleasantries and then he left. I was supposed to pass the message on to Hugh but did not get a chance before…”

Lark blew out a breath. “Collingswood should have stayed in Jamaica.”

“Indeed, but I suspect he has business here in town.”

The dowager reminded Lark quite a bit of his own mother, so he understood that she was implying that, in addition to trying to track down Hugh, Lark should try to learn why Collingswood was in town. He nodded. “It appears I have quite a bit of work to do.”

“I recommend speaking with Hugh’s solicitor. Matthew Hogarth. He has an office on Broad Street.”

That seemed like a reasonable suggestion, so Lark nodded and stood up. “I will call on him as soon as practicable and report back when I learn anything.”

“Much appreciated, my dear.”

*

The memories in his brain might have gone missing, but the memories in his body were clearly still there. His body knew, for example, that when a man was on a walk with a beautiful woman, that man should offer her his arm.

Although “walk” was relative. They were slowly taking steps around the garden behind the house. It was a small garden, but it was well-tended, and he was content enough to take a few steps with Lady Adele at his side.

He still had a headache, though it had diminished to a dull ache instead of the incessant pounding of the day before.

He still got dizzy if he moved too fast, so walking in the park seemed ill-advised.

Still, it had felt good to get out of bed and put on clothing that morning.

The earl’s clothes were a little snug, but not obscenely so.

He wanted to shave, but Adele had not yet been able to locate a razor, so that would have to wait for now.

Still, his face itched, and he knew enough to understand that the easiest solution was to remove the stubble from his jaw.

He wondered if he looked handsome and rakish with such beard growth, or if he just looked tired and haggard.

Did Adele think him handsome? Was he handsome? What did he look like?

He stopped walking as he realized he could not recall the contours of his own face.

These moments of panic had been hitting him at regular intervals for the last day and a half, since he’d woken up in the countess’s house.

Things he didn’t know kept occurring to him, or he’d feel confused or lost, and fear would begin creeping in.

How could he not know what he looked like?

How could his memories still be locked away?

How would he ever find his family and his home again?

“Are you all right?” asked Adele.

He swallowed and tried to speak calmly. “I just realized I do not know what I look like.”

Adele looked him up and down. “Well, my lord, you are quite tall. You have dark hair, which I imagine you’ve gleaned for yourself. Blue eyes.”

He wanted to ask if she found him handsome, but that seemed quite forward. So he rephrased the question. “How old do you think I am?”

“Five and thirty, I think. Maybe a little younger or older.”

“Perhaps when we go inside there is a mirror I could look at.”

“Yes, there is one above the fireplace in the gold salon.”

“Maybe seeing myself will jog something in my memory.”

“Doctor Willis implied that seeing familiar things could help bring your memory back. I would like to be able to do more of that, but we are presented with the enduring mystery of where you came from and what might be familiar.”

He nodded. He wished he could remember… anything. Feeling a little dizzy with the effort of just trying to recall his name, he sat on a stone bench in the garden. “Perhaps we should focus on my health first.”

“I will admit, it is strange to see a man of your… stature feel so weak. But head injuries can be quite serious.”

“Let us go back in when this dizzy spell passes.”

“Please take all the time you need.”

She sat beside him, so he took a moment to take her in.

Her dress was off-white and unadorned. Her hair was pinned up away from her face, and the style was simple, but it gave him the opportunity to admire her.

She had long eyelashes and high cheekbones.

Her skin was like porcelain, and her lips looked…

But no. He should not admire her. Not like that. She was taking care of him and probably not very open to his advances.

“You really have never met me?”

“Not before a few nights ago. If we have met before, I don’t remember you.”

“But I feel like… that is, social rank matters, does it not?”

“In some circles it does.”

“And if you are the daughter of an earl, I may rank beneath you.”

“Perhaps. I honestly do not know. I don’t believe it matters.”