Page 14 of Love, the Duke (Say I Do #3)

C HAPTER 14

MAN’S PRACTICAL GUIDE TO APPREHENDING A THIEF

SIR BENTLY ASHTON ULLINGSWICK

Look, repeat, look again for what’s missing.

After an unexpected rolling tidal wave of events and emotions occurred the next day, by late afternoon Ophelia found herself standing in front of the duke’s front door, shoring up her weakening courage while once again dressed as a man .

The early post had brought the shattering news from her mother’s friend in Wickenhamden that the new vicar had been selected, he was healthy, and would arrive within the week. After Maman read the distressing news, her face had gone pale and drawn. Her voice inflected with a slight tremble, she mumbled that she would spend the rest of the day in her bedchamber and didn’t want to be disturbed until a tray was sent up for supper.

It was at that action a couple of tears slid free from Ophelia’s eyes before she could stop them. Only a week before the new vicar arrived hit Ophelia harshly with worry too. A sobering reality chilled her bones. For the first time, she truly felt as if she might fail in her quest to save her brother’s unblemished life and her mother’s health. She couldn’t possibly have time to look in the book rooms of all the homes that were left on her list.

She had to do something drastic. And she knew only one person who could help. If she wasn’t too late. She sent Mr. Mallord to deliver a note to the duke asking him to come see her. The footman reported back the duke wasn’t home, but the butler had insisted he’d give the note to him as soon as he returned.

By early afternoon no answer from Hurst had arrived. Was it because she’d rejected him? He’d made it clear he wanted to marry and have a son. Maybe he had already asked another to be his bride. As much as that idea caused an emptiness in her chest, she had to put it aside. She had to swallow her pride and admit she needed the duke’s help.

Ophelia went up to get her mother. She couldn’t go to see the duke without a companion and Maman was the only viable option. They must go to the duke’s house and wait for his return so they could speak to him in person. That idea hadn’t worked either. Her mother had developed a blinding headache and had taken a tonic that put her to sleep. There was no getting her up and dressed. Ophelia had no one else to turn to. Time was running out and she needed the duke’s support. And as much as she hated to admit it, his comfort too. Even if it meant incurring his ire.

Ignoring the gnawing fear in her stomach that wanted to turn her into a weak-kneed ninny, she reached up to make sure her top hat was straight and then clanked the horse door knocker twice, just as she had the last time she’d visited the duke. She remembered Gilbert, the formidable butler, but wondered if he would remember her. And would it be good or bad if he did? The man would certainly recognize her if the duke had told him after she left that first night, Never let that man back in my house again.

She had to put thoughts like that aside and not let fear thwart her. There were no other choices available.

While waiting, she looked around the prestigious neighborhood. There were more carriages waiting in front of the houses than she remembered from her last visit, but it had been later in the day. It stood to reason gentlemen such as the duke who lived in homes as fine as the ones within her sight would want their conveyances ready at the front of the house rather than having to wait for them to be brought around from the stables or mews.

Ophelia had rehearsed what she would say after the butler opened the door, but after she was greeted by the stalwart man with bushy eyebrows, he set her off course. His hairy right brow rose midway up his forehead, throwing her off-kilter as he took a step backward to draw in the full picture of her standing on the Duke of Hurstbourne’s stoop. For a moment she didn’t know if he was the butler or a gatekeeper.

Lifting her kohl-brushed chin, she lowered her voice and offered, “Mr. Warcliff to see the Duke of Hurstbourne.” She feigned impatience for good measure and because she was actually shaking. Formal and spoken in octaves lower than her natural voice, she hoped her reply would set her back on track.

Not surprisingly, the butler gave her a peculiar stare. No wonder. The late afternoon sun heightened her brazen male costume, giving the rich colors of her waistcoat an audacious, dandified sheen.

The butler seemed out of sorts too. The skin at the corners of his small eyes wrinkled tightly when he asked, “Are you in the sporting club?”

From within the house, Ophelia could hear the undertones of male voices and elevated conversations, and she remembered the unusual number of carriages on the street. Her stomach knotted. The duke had guests. That could be the reason she hadn’t received a reply from him. Though she tried to think of every conceivable reason, the possibility he might be having a party had never crossed her mind.

However, taking the opportunity where it landed, she instantly regrouped her intent. Formal and clipped once again, she returned, “Yes.” She would worry about guilt for doing so later.

The butler’s other brow arched to meet its predecessor. Ophelia remained stiff and worried. He doubted her; she could sense it. He was about to throw her out, even though she’d never made it inside. If her plan went awry, she’d have no choice but to accept defeat and try a different tactic.

The possibility of surrender softened her shoulders, but then, thinking quickly, she blinked herself back to order and said, “You might recall I was here not long ago to see the duke.” If that didn’t help her gain some ground against the butler’s seeming stone wall, nothing would.

“I remember you,” he finally said in a pleasant tone. “Some of the Brass Deck members are already here, and His Grace is already entertaining. Follow me.”

The butler turned so abruptly and started marching away, concern at what she’d accomplished turned to instant panic, but she forced it down. Making a quick decision, she stepped inside and followed him. She had to stop second-guessing herself and what she was doing. Yes, no matter the disguise, the fibbing, she was doing the right thing.

She’d heard of the Brass Deck club. The group of gentlemen competed in tournaments playing cards, fencing, racing horses, playing cricket, and other manly pursuits to see which club was the best. And, of course, for men to put down their wager on the outcome of the games, which was probably more important than watching the skilled men play the matches.

Feeling her courage bump up a notch or two, Ophelia stomped behind the butler down the corridor toward the deep rumbling sound of male talking bracketed by laughter. Now that she was in Hurst’s house once again her courage felt stronger. If there was a chance she could win him over to help her on her terms, even though she had at one time vowed she never would again, she had to try. Dressing as a man was a sure way to, at least, get him to talk to her. She hoped, anyway. He’d been rather adamant that she never don the clothing again, so he probably wouldn’t miss another opportunity to tell her one more time how she should never wear it again. Now that she thought about it, that was another reason she wasn’t sure she could trust him. He very much liked to tell her what to do.

The butler paused at the drawing room and stepped aside, allowing her to enter the room with a silent nod; he then disappeared. Somehow, she managed to take in the whole of the drawing room at a glance before immediately easing toward the shadowy wall. Surprisingly, the duke didn’t seem to be present.

A low-burning fire, and the delicious aroma of baking pastry dough drifting in from somewhere in the house, gave warmth and a welcoming ambiance to the room. There were eight to ten men gathered. Each held a drink and chatted with someone. No loners like she was. That wasn’t good.

Ophelia didn’t want to be observed too closely while she was trying to find the duke. It looked as if every one of the men obviously knew at least one other person in the room. Except her. Most of them were of the same age and had a physique much like the duke: young, tall, and powerfully built. Sporting men for sure. Handsome too. With her far smaller size, she would stand out like a daisy among a bouquet of red roses if anyone by chance caught notice of her trying to unobtrusively hide in the folds of the heavy velvet draperies for any length of time.

Where was the duke? All she wanted to do was ask if his offer to marry her was still a possibility. That shouldn’t take more than two minutes of his time. If she could find him.

From the corner of her eye, she saw movement in the doorway and quickly looked. It wasn’t Hurst, but it might be trouble. What rotten luck. The man was Mr. Wilbur Sawyer, and he was looking around the room much in the same way she had upon entering, wondering who he was going to talk to. None of the chatty group seemed to notice him any more than they had noticed her. But then, as bad luck would have it, before she could glance away, he caught her looking at him. Obviously discerning she was the only one not talking to someone else, he headed her way.

“Merciful angels,” she whispered under her breath. Was there any chance the man would recognize her? Or her voice? There had only been the width of a table between the two of them at the garden card party they’d attended. At the time, it seemed Mr. Sawyer was more interested in Miss Georgina Bristol. Ophelia wasn’t intimidated by him and his arrogant ways, but she would be foolish not to be wary that he might recognize her and tell everyone who she was.

Her stomach tightened to the point of hurting, but she would do her best not to spend much time with him—just in case something about her tweaked a memory or two. She didn’t have many choices until the duke appeared.

“Good afternoon,” he said, stopping in front of her. “My apologies for introducing myself, but I feel I’m among friends. I am Wilbur Sawyer, one of the gentlemen selected to be vetted and considered for membership in the Brass Deck. Are you under consideration too?”

She already knew from the card party that the man wasn’t shy and was barely tactful. “Thad Warcliff,” she responded with a nod, and keeping her lids low over her blue eyes so they wouldn’t convey her inner turmoil or feminine qualities. “Very recently under consideration.”

“What is your expertise, Mr. Warcliff? Marksman? Fencing?”

“Both.” The response left her lips before she could reconsider saying it. That comment certainly wasn’t in her best interest, considering the situation she was in. All this did was muddy her already-churning thoughts.

What would she do if he started asking her questions about the sport of shooting? She didn’t know anything about it. In fact, had never picked up a blunderbuss, a musket, or even a pistol. She had seldom even seen one that wasn’t mounted on a wall as an ornament of decoration.

“How about you?” she asked, quickly following her ill-stated answer with a question of her own and assuming he was waiting for her to ask. “Are you a pugilist?”

Shaking his head, he responded, “Cricket and cards.” He looked her up and down rather doubtfully but, thankfully, not too closely. “Will you be playing matches with us?”

“Quite sure I won’t,” she answered, and then gruffly cleared her throat. Even with the two and a half inches of heel on her boots, she was still quite small compared to the size of all the men in the room. She had no doubt Mr. Sawyer was thinking she’d be squashed like a grasshopper underfoot in the summer grass on the first play of the match. “Cards for sure.”

She glanced around the room again, doing her best not to show just how nervous she was. Where could the duke be?

A burst of laughter from someone caught Sawyer’s attention. Thank goodness he was too busy looking as if to see who else might be available to talk to than to pay too close attention to her. That bought her a little time to try to figure out what to do since the duke wasn’t in the room.

Going in search of the missing host seemed the most logical thing for her to do, but that idea bothered her a little. The duke was very particular that looking around rooms in the privacy of someone’s home without invitation, no matter how saintly the reason, was wrong. She had a very clear feeling he would be especially displeased to find her rambling around by herself in his house.

A server approached them carrying a tray of glasses with a little amber liquid poured into the bottom of them. Mr. Sawyer took one and, because all the other men held a drink, Ophelia felt compelled to take a glass too.

“To the Brass Deck,” Mr. Sawyer said.

After toasting him, Ophelia took a generous sip of the drink. Not used to such a strong, burning concentration of manly vises, she downed too much with the first swallow and dove into an unplanned coughing spree. Trying to quell the strong and very real reaction in her throat, she quickly pressed her man’s handkerchief over her mouth to stanch the spasms. She occasionally enjoyed a glass of claret with her mother in the evenings, and champagne when available at parties, but she’d never tried anything as stout as brandy.

She gasped and managed to say, “Terribly sorry, Mr. Sawyer. Swallowed wrong. Excuse me, if you please.” She turned away from him and allowed her chest to heave in a deep clearing breath while remaining as quiet as possible so she wouldn’t attract the attention of the other men in the room. She didn’t need any of them to come over to ask if she was all right.

One thing was clear: Continuing to stand in this room wasn’t the best course of action for her. She was getting nowhere and had had enough of waiting around for the duke to show while she played the part of a man without much success. She had two choices: go looking on her own or seek help. That was easy. She would rather find the staunch butler and take her chances with him again. All he could do was say no when she asked him where the duke was and if he could take her to His Grace.

While stuffing her handkerchief back into her coat pocket, she had the oddest sensation that her world was suddenly tilting and immediately knew why. She sensed Hurst’s presence in the room. It was as if she felt the heat of his eyes upon her. She remembered the sweet passion of their kisses in the chill of the afternoon and how his body had seemed to warm her all the way down to her soul.

Without thinking, she turned toward the doorway, and their gazes met and for an instant she thought their heartbeats had too. He stood in the entranceway and she looked straight into the vivid green eyes of the impeccably dressed duke. All the other men in the room seemed to fade away as if they had disappeared from the room.

Her spirits lifted and she started to smile until she saw Hurst striding toward her as if with a life-or-death mission on his mind. One he didn’t intend to fail at accomplishing. Even so, his stern stare as he approached with a menacing glare reminded her how immensely attracted she was to him even when his annoyance with her was flowing like a fast-moving current through him. There was something about him that made her know she’d rather be with him than anyone else.

Her heartbeat raced with thunderous pounding in her ears. She could feel his senses were alive and on alert.

In the next instant, she shivered with growing anticipation and fear for what he might say or do. In front of all these men he could call her out on her disguise. What would she do then?

He glowered at her with his jaw tightly clenched. She could almost hear his deep inhaling breath whistle through his white teeth. The closer he came the more she wilted.