Page 2 of Love, the Duke (Say I Do #3)

C HAPTER 2

MAN’S PRACTICAL GUIDE TO APPREHENDING A THIEF

SIR BENTLY ASHTON ULLINGSWICK

Disguise yourself so you won’t be recognized.

Something wasn’t as it should be, and Hurst didn’t like surprises.

More than slightly interested, he leaned back into the chair behind his desk at his London townhome and regarded with one sardonically raised brow the woman who had entered the book room of his home.

He was immediately taken with her, and it had nothing to do with her face; she presented herself as a man, but instinctively Hurst knew the person who had insisted upon seeing him about an urgent matter this night was female. No matter how superb her disguise.

The black summer wool coat had been generously padded to cover slim shoulders. A moderately starched neckcloth, elegantly knotted, contrasted beautifully against a red quilted waistcoat seamed with shiny brass buttons. She wore dark trousers that he was certain had been made to fit her tall, slender frame and not hastily altered for her. Well-heeled and highly polished riding boots added to her striking figure and poise. Even the masculine-shaped wig, dark as a raven’s back, that concealed her hair was handsomely styled and becoming.

Yet, expert tailoring, and a dusting of face powder over a slight brush of kohl intended to mimic a shadow of beard, couldn’t obscure the natural pink tint of her lips or hide the deep stirring beauty of delicate-looking, parchment-pale skin. Her arched brows had been darkened to match the wig, but that didn’t matter. Her shapely, rosebud mouth simply couldn’t belong to a man.

Someone had gone to great lengths wanting to dupe him. But who was she, and why was she there?

Hurst slowly rose from the chair as his butler left the room, closing the door behind him. He’d known of women dressing as a male to gain entrance into a gentlemen’s club or private gambling party for a variety of different reasons, including only to satisfy their curiosity about such establishments. Never had he heard of one doing so to enter the sanctity of a man’s home. That took nerves of iron, and he was rather impressed by her gumption.

Keeping his gaze squarely on his guest’s vibrant blue eyes, Hurst asked in a questioning tone, “What can I do for you, Mr.—what was your name again?”

She didn’t immediately respond, appearing indecisive. He had the feeling she struggled with how to best proceed now that she was standing in front of him. Cautiously, she glanced around the room, as if to ascertain there was no one else lurking about. With sharp inquisitiveness, she gave the brown damask draperies, overly crowded bookshelves, and aged painting of his great-grandfather that hung over the fireplace a quick perusal before facing Hurst again.

Now that she was here, whatever it was she wanted, she was suddenly reluctant to voice it. He was in no hurry. He’d give her all the time she needed.

After a long breath and with an air of resolution, she seemed to make a decision, then settle herself. Her shoulders loosened, and she took a few confident steps toward him before pausing. In a serene voice, she said, “Warcliff is the name I gave to your butler, but that doesn’t matter now, Your Grace. You see, I am not a man.”

Having expected her to deny the obvious, he was surprised and quite intrigued by her immediate response of honesty as well as her daring. One thing was sure: If a man was inclined to disguise himself for any reason, Hurst was quite sure he’d never do so as a woman. He wasn’t one to care much for intrigue or drama, but her approach and his reaction to her was too remarkable not to let this play out.

“Go on,” he encouraged, without equivocating as he moved around to the side of his desk.

“I’m Ophelia Stowe.”

Shock jolted through Hurst and shuddered every bone in his body. He forced himself not to physically react too strongly to her astounding revelation. She was the sister Winston had asked him to marry weeks ago. What the devil was she doing in his home? Dressed as a man. And hadn’t his childhood friend said she had a gentle soul? That certainly didn’t fit with the boldness of the lady standing before him now.

“I’m glad you agreed to see me, and sorry I had to use such an elaborate masquerade,” she offered, taking another step farther into the room.

“Wait.” He held up both hands to stop her forward movement while he digested who she was. If she still had hopes he’d marry her, this wasn’t the way to go about looking into that possibility. “First, I didn’t agree to see you. I agreed to see a man. Second, why would you think you required such detailed means to hide who you are in order to talk to me?”

“I need to speak with you privately, and this was the only way I could think to assure my anonymity.” She blinked rapidly a few times. “I wasn’t sure you would agree to meet me.”

Did she consider him an ogre? “Why wouldn’t I see you?” he asked, his commanding voice clipped.

Her shoulders stiffened once again. “Perhaps you have forgotten, sir, but you rebuffed my dear brother’s appeal without so much as a how do you do and wouldn’t even consider the possibility of marrying me. Not that I would have agreed to it anyway either. You didn’t even keep your word and come visit him as you promised in your short response. I think it improbable that a duke such as yourself would make the time to see a lowly vicar’s sister.”

What kind of poppycock was she saying? No one in Winston’s family was of lowly birth.

Maybe she did think of him as an ogre. And maybe he was. It took a lot to raise ire in Hurst, but Miss Stowe’s forthright manner was on a fast racehorse track to do so, whether she knew it or not.

When he returned to London, estate and business matters stood in the way of traveling to see Winston.

The problems were urgent at the time, and frankly still troublesome. Hurst had come home from his aunt’s house to find that his largest and most fertile farmlands had been flooded and frozen most of the winter and early spring rains caused a destructive mold on the already-boggy area. Valuable crops couldn’t be planted for fear the blight on the acreage would spread to neighboring properties and farther. Wanting to be knowledgeable concerning all the issues, Hurst worked alongside his managers, tenants, and specialists to find treatments that would eradicate the mold so the land would be fertile again. Even now they waited to see if the diseased parcels would recover and flourish once again.

Hurst couldn’t expect a sheltered young lady to understand the intricacies of such difficulties, and he’d be damned before he’d offer an explanation to counter her unveiled accusation against his honor.

He set a determined stare on her lovely face, and then folding his arms across his chest he strengthened his stance to match hers. He’d also returned from his aunt’s, and the round of parties she took him to, believing he needed to stop thinking that he should wait until he found the right lady for him before he married. He wasn’t getting any younger and needed an heir. But now, looking at Miss Stowe and feeling the growing interest in her, he knew he ought to wait for the right young lady and not settle until he had.

“There is a huge difference between agreeing to marry someone sight unseen and meeting with them, Miss Stowe. Furthermore, I have every intention of visiting Winston.”

Her expression sagged as she glanced at the recently tended fire for a second or two before responding with, “That’s impossible now. I’m sorry to say my brother passed away shortly after he sent the letter to you.”

The sting of guilt pricked Hurst as sharply as the tip of a footpad’s dagger. “My sympathies. I really wanted to see him again,” he said as honestly and gently as he could. “I believed he would be strong enough to weather his illness. I’m sorry.”

She hesitated and took an unsteady breath before saying, “Thank you. That is some comfort, but I’m here because Winston still needs your help.”

“Of course, I’ll do whatever I can.” It was damned unsettling to talk to a lady who wore the clothing and the look of a man. Especially a quite lovely lady who had very real reasons to pull on his heartstrings and his desires, but he was managing. “We can discuss it tomorrow when you return with proper attire and chaperone so neither of us will be shunned from Society or forced into marriage because of your prank.”

“Ah,” she said after inhaling a deep breath. “You’ve already made your thoughts on marriage to me quite clear.”

“I want to marry, Miss Stowe, but not that way. Rest assured I was only thinking of your reputation. Not my own. I’ll have Gilbert call for my carriage, so I’ll be assured you get back to wherever you’re staying without anyone ever knowing you were here.” Hurst made his way to walk past her. “You can wait in—”

In a surprise move, she took hold of the crook of his arm and stopped him.

Flames leaping from the blazing fire couldn’t have heated him more than the unexpected contact. At her touch, a quiver of sensual awareness pounded through his stomach and settled low. His fascination with her was real and exasperating.

Both glanced down at her hand firmly holding his elbow before their eyes met again. There was a gentle strength in her determined grasp, but more intriguing was an undefinable emotion he felt surging between them as they stood close together. For a moment the room was so quiet he would have sworn to anyone he heard both their hearts beating. For a moment he had the oddest feeling she was the lady for him. That was an odd thought he dismissed quickly.

Slowly, she relaxed her grip one finger at a time as if she wasn’t sure she wanted to let go of him at all. And for one wild second he wasn’t sure he wanted her to. There was such a warmth of loveliness about her that it was easy to forget she had tricked her way into his house.

“Please, wait and hear what I have to say.” Her voice was beseeching, though her gaze never wavered from his determined stare. “I’ve been planning this for a long time.”

That was apparent by her well-fitted costume. “Planning what?” He pulled on the sleeve of his coat and shook his head, wanting to fend off the purely masculine feelings swirling inside him. “No, don’t tell me. I don’t know what kind of trouble you are in, Miss Stowe, but I think you came to the wrong man.”

“I hope that’s not true. I wanted to come to London right away, but I couldn’t risk leaving the village before the proper mourning time was over.”

His gaze flickered over her face again. Unable, for the time being, to shake off his inconceivable attraction to her, he nodded understanding but insisted, “Whatever you have to say can wait until tomorrow.”

She blinked as if she might have truly realized the gravity of her actions for a moment, but then her shoulders rolled back. Her chin lifted again. “There’s good reason I’ve gone to such trouble to see you alone,” she said resolutely.

Hurst stiffened at the tug of her honest plea, but it did nothing to alleviate his worry about her getting safely home before someone else saw her dressed as she was. “No reason could be good enough.”

“You can’t know that until you hear me out.” Her dark velvety lashes fluttered in sudden indignation. “It won’t hurt to at least listen to what I have to say since I am al ready here,” she argued. “I daresay most men would be thrilled a woman had crept into their home cloaked by masquerade.”

He muttered a near soundless oath. “Woman, perhaps yes, Miss Stowe. You are a lady.”

He moved to head for the door. Again, her arm snaked out, but she caught herself and snatched back her hand, clasping it to her chest. The defensive action and the shifting emotions crossing her face was enough to stop him.

No doubt, he did owe it to Winston to keep his sister from being banished from Society, or worse. Nonetheless, that’s not what gave him pause to reconsider and listen to what she had to say.

“Please,” she said. It was the faint sound of desperation mixed with a feminine vulnerability in her voice that pulled on his heartstrings once again. He couldn’t turn away from her or his interest in why she had sought him with such desperation.

Staring into her eyes, he moved his face close to hers and realized straightaway that was a mistake. He wasn’t prepared to be intoxicated by her fresh womanly scent or the hushed sounds of her anxious breathing. They teased his senses with primal thoughts, throwing him out of kilter for a few seconds before he shook them off and snorted with derision at the reality of what was happening. He couldn’t figure out why he was so sensitive to every move she made.

Hurst relented and grudgingly said, “I will give you the courtesy of hearing what the devil brought you here while we wait for my carriage to arrive.” He strode over to the door, called for Gilbert to have it brought around in front, and then walked back and stood before her again.

She may not understand the ramifications of what she had done, but he did. “Tell me why you are here, Miss Stowe, and make it quick.”

Standing her ground and suddenly looking more hopeful, she murmured, “Thank you.” There was a skip in her breath before she stated confidently, “The day after Winston passed, I discovered the door to the room that holds the sacraments of the church where Winston had been vicar slightly ajar. It is always locked. At first glance nothing seemed out of place, but a closer inspection revealed the box that held the Chatham’s chalice wasn’t properly locked and the priceless relic was gone.”

“And?” he asked, impatient for her to move on with the story.

“Someone must have taken the keys to the room and the box from Winston while he was so ill and stolen the chalice.”

“That seems presumptuous, Miss Stowe. Surely it has simply been misplaced. Or sent out to be cleaned or repaired. The chalice may well be on a shelf, waiting for someone to pick it up.”

“No, it is gone. I have handled all nonspiritual matters for Winston the past couple of years. It wouldn’t have been removed from the box without permission from me.”

A skeptical grunt slipped past Hurst’s lips.

Undaunted, she added, “Maman and I searched every nook and cranny in the church and the vicarage.”

“The devil you say. You couldn’t have possibly.”

Her shoulders tightened again. “We did, and perhaps you should watch the words you choose to say , Your Grace.”

Hurst didn’t take well to the slight reprimand for his language. He understood that she was upset and highly passionate about this, but he had limits too.

“Considering your attire, you are lucky I haven’t said worse words that aren’t appropriate for your hearing.”

Undaunted, she dropped her arms loosely by her sides and assumed an air of authority. “We read through Winston’s personal diaries, sermons, and everything he possessed.” She stopped, twitched, and then continued. “It was difficult to do, of course, but necessary.”

That was understandable.

“We left nothing unturned, no piece of furniture unmoved, and everything that could be looked at was.”

He was beginning to believe her about that.

“Anyway, we combed through the recent registries, visitors’ logs, and prayer books. Not a hint of anything revealed what might have happened to the chalice. We knew when the new vicar arrived, he would inventory the treasury and livings of the rectory for the elderly bishop. The priceless chalice would be missing. We had no doubts Winston would be accused of the theft as they were his responsibility. His impeccable name and legacy would be tarnished forever. That thought, along with my mother bearing the shame of the townspeople thinking her son was a thief, has been crushing to both of us.”

It was clear by her expression and the way she held her hands together tightly in front of her that both those possibilities were devastating to her. “Then if it can’t be found, I will make restitution for the theft.” This, he realized, would be a way to repay his debt to his friend and keep the parish happy as well.

Surprise, mixed with apprehension, swept her features and she swallowed hard. “That’s very generous of you but not what I want.”

Hurst furrowed his brow again. “Then what do you want from me?”

“I want you to help me find the chalice and return it to the church before anyone knows it is missing.”