Page 3 of My Secret Duke

I vo had walked to Ashton House, and now he walked home. His family owned a town house in the same exclusive area of London, so it wasn’t far, but he took his time. He found he had a great deal to think about, and none of it filled him with joy.

The memory of Lady Olivia Ashton as she had been a moment ago was lodged in his head. Petite, with unfashionable curves, dark hair arranged simply, and the shadows under her glorious blue eyes. She was suffering from the scandal he had caused, and although Ivo had shrugged it off as he did most of his risky adventures, Olivia could not. It was unfair perhaps, but that was the way in which the society they inhabited worked. Rules were very different for gentlemen, and far more censorious for ladies.

She had been angry with him. More than that, she had been disappointed.

Ivo could not remember the last time he had caused someone to be quite that upset. He tried not to hurt anyone when it came to his wagers. They were harmless enough and useful when it came to diverting attention from his other activities. If anyone was hurt, then it was usually himself. Races and cards and japes with his friends and peers. This matter with Olivia was different, and he should have known he needed to tread carefully.

He had been carried away.

From the moment he had seen Olivia at the ball at Ashton House, he had been intrigued, fascinated, and, yes, very tempted. Ivo never pursued respectable young ladies, but something about the sulky curve of Olivia’s mouth and the fearless gleam in her eyes would not let him forget her. She had become important to him, and when he was with her, he felt as if he might be something more than the debt-ridden, scandalous Duke of Northam.

Unfortunately, it seemed he had not changed all that much. He had damaged her reputation, she was correct in that, but he had wanted to rectify matters. He had been prepared to give up his freedom and marry her.

Surely, for coming to her rescue like he had with that wretched kitten, he should expect her gratitude. One of those genuine smiles she used to give him. There had been none of that. Instead, she had refused him, but not before asking him to change his life for her benefit.

Have you never considered employing more sober habits?

He shook his head, barely noticing the grand town houses he was passing. Viciously, he kicked aside a pebble. Was it so rash and foolish of him to expect her to accept his generous offer?

Ivo was a duke with an estate in Kent, but the family finances had been declining for years. Olivia was the daughter of a duke, but illegitimate, and her family was also in a financial bother. It wasn’t as if Ivo was marrying her for her money, for God’s sake! His mother would probably be horrified, but he didn’t care about that. He had a right to marry the lady of his choosing, and now that the nonsense with Annette was cleared up, he chose Lady Olivia Ashton.

He had thought… dash it, he had known she felt as strongly about him as he did about her. He recognized those looks she sent him. It really would have been a match of two halves of a whole. She was adventurous and audacious, with a spirit almost as daring as his own. They would have had a marvelous time together.

To be rebuffed was not what he had expected. Ivo was the youngest child and only son. He was indulged, and although his mother and two sisters tut-tutted at his “foolish antics,” as they called them, they did not censure him. No one ever had. No one ever stayed cross with him for long. He could “charm the birds out of the trees,” they told him fondly.

Olivia hadn’t been charmed. She had thrown his good intentions back in his face. Ivo tried to tell himself he had had a fortunate escape. Marrying a woman who would have tried to change him into something he was not? A tomcat into a tame house tabby? Impossible!

What should he do now? Well, he would recover, of course he would. He’d soon be himself again. His heart had taken a knock, but it wasn’t as if it was broken—more likely just cracked. But for all his inner bluster, Ivo knew he would not be himself in a week or even a month. Those moments with Olivia had shaken him, forced him to think about things he rarely did. He didn’t like it. He had the ungentlemanly desire to make her sorry that she’d refused him. To punish her in some as yet indefinable manner for hurting him.

It wasn’t pleasant to be thinking that way, but he found he couldn’t help it.

By now, Ivo had reached his town house. Just as he placed the toe of one shiny boot upon the bottom step, a gentleman called a greeting, and jarred him out of his uncomfortable thoughts. For a moment, he thought it was a creditor come to collect on one of his many overdue bills. He had promised his mother and sisters some time in London to enjoy the Season, but it had proven damn expensive. Had his sister taken that ridiculously overpriced bonnet back to the milliner as he’d told her?

But the gentleman wasn’t a debt collector. It was Charles Wickley.

Charles ran Cadieux’s Gambling Club jointly with its owner, the Duke of Grantham, although Ivo had heard that lately, with the duke otherwise occupied, Charles was more or less in complete control.

“Your Grace,” Charles said in a droll voice. “I have news of a private nature.”

“Mr. Wickley.” They exchanged bows. “Walk with me.”

Ivo set off through the square, and Charles fell into step beside him.

“There has been a hitch,” Charles spoke after a moment. “The spirits and wine that were supposed to be delivered to Cadieux’s yesterday did not arrive. I was told by your man Bourne that it was on its way across the channel when a revenue cutter gave chase, and the captain and crew were arrested before they could land the cargo. Which was impounded.”

Ivo stopped to stare at him. They were around the same height and build, both with fair hair, although Charles’s eyes were blue, and Ivo’s were green. If a stranger were to see them together now, they could easily be mistaken for close relatives.

“Arrested?” he repeated. “The cargo impounded?”

“Yes.” Charles’s usual good humor was missing today; he looked tired and irritable. Complete control of the hell must be taking its toll on him.

Ivo trusted his men, but one never knew what inducements might be offered to those who gave up secrets to the revenue officers. “They aren’t aware…?”

“Of your involvement?” That droll mocking note again. “As far as I know, no one else has been arrested, although no doubt the captain and crew are being interrogated as we speak.”

“Polgarth.” Ivo gave the captain a name. “He has a wife and children in the village. He won’t talk.”

Portside was the name of the coastal village near Ivo’s home, and the place that supplied most of the manpower for the smuggling operation. A smuggling operation that required a great deal of planning. The major ports around Britain’s coast were under the close supervision of the government, which made certain the proper amount of tax was paid on imported goods. For those who did not want to pay taxes, it was better to slip in to smaller, unsupervised ports and offload their contraband goods there.

Those goods—brandy and wine, lace and tea, among others—were taken to a safe hiding spot. The next step was to load the goods onto wagons or ponies and deliver them to those who had ordered them. In this case, Charles Wickley at Cadieux’s Gambling Club in London.

“The government seems determined to put a stop to us Free Traders,” Ivo said. “But we have a great many supporters. Name me one member of parliament who doesn’t partake of French brandy in the privacy of his own home.”

Charles snorted.

A gentleman walking by paused to give a deferential bow to Ivo and barely a glance to Charles. Charles waited until they were alone again. “I will need to replenish my supplies at the club quickly. If you think it is too dangerous to arrange for another delivery, I will have to find another supplier.”

It wasn’t a threat, merely a statement of fact. Ivo understood, but he couldn’t allow Charles to switch from himself to some other fellow—the smuggling income was the only thing currently keeping his family from becoming beggars.

Ivo hid his panic as he rested his gaze on that uncannily familiar face. “No need, I will deal with it. Do you have a list of your requirements?”

Charles dug a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket, and Ivo gave it a cursory glance. “I will let you know as soon as the delivery is safely across the channel.”

With a nod, Charles walked away, and Ivo watched him go before turning back the way he had come. That sense of disquiet he often experienced when he met with Wickley filled him now. It was like looking into a mirror with only a few minor variations. Ivo’s father had died when he was fourteen, too long ago to give Ivo answers to his questions, and he didn’t expect to hear the truth from his mother or his two sisters; they would never countenance any suggestion that the late duke was not perfect. And yet the rumors implied he had been far from that. He had enjoyed far too many of the village girls for there not to be consequences, and one in particular, Ivo had traced to St. Ninian’s Foundling Home for Boys in London. Ivo suspected Charles Wickley was his father’s by-blow, but he had never tried to prove it, preferring to simply ignore it.

Why make matters awkward by introducing his suspicions? Theirs was a business arrangement, and it was better to keep it so.

Ivo pushed aside his qualms, and instead turned his mind to the problem of finding someone to fulfill the order for the club. The arrested man—Polgarth—had been reliable, but there were always others keen to make some money even if smuggling was a risky occupation. The government wanted their excise, and the smuggling of items like wine and spirits meant they were missing out on taxes that should rightfully be filling government coffers. And if they were ever to become aware that an important personage such as the Duke of Northam was involved in such an enterprise…

Well, they wouldn’t, he assured himself. Polgarth was unlikely to talk, and even if he did, it was doubtful anyone would believe the Duke of Northam was at the head of a band of smugglers. Ivo had been at this game since he was a boy and his father had sat him down with a group of Portside villagers to discuss the details of the next cargo to be smuggled across from France.

Ivo’s father had informed the villagers—they were his father’s tenants—that his son would be taking over one day, and that it was best he learned the business now. None of them appeared to find anything strange in this, and later Ivo had learned that the smuggling had been going on for centuries, and the Fitzsimmonses had always had a finger in the pie. The Kent coastline and the marshes inland were perfect for hiding and transporting contraband. That the Fitzsimmonses had been raised to ducal status did not appear to hamper them in any way when it came to breaking the law. More importantly, the income the smuggling generated was very much needed.

At first, Ivo had simply wanted to make his father proud, but then the craving for risk and danger had crept into his blood. Ivo had often seen the late duke put his horse over fences that no one else would dare to jump, giving his wife palpitations and then laughing loudly when he reached the other side. He never refused a wager, no matter how rash, and he rarely lost. He was a daredevil, and his son had loved and admired him, and wanted to be just like him. When his father had died, Ivo’s widowed mother and two sisters had looked to him, and all too soon, his life had been full of weighty decisions about the estate, with the dukedom pressing down upon his young shoulders. He had done his duty and done it well, but it was not something he enjoyed. As well as an important source of income, the smuggling sideline had offered him an exciting diversion, and a test of his skill and courage.

Now, at twenty-seven, Ivo had built up the small Free Trading operation into a business that benefited everyone on his estate. In the past, the smuggled goods had gone to the local community and the local gentry. Now the number of customers he dealt with had blossomed, and he supplied hotels and clubs in his home county of Kent, as well as many more on the road to London and in London itself, including Cadieux’s. Yes, it was risky and erratic—he sometimes did not know from one month to the next how much he would be paid—but he was proud of his accomplishment; it was just a pity he could not preen about it to those who thought him a pretty face with little behind it.

He glanced about him at the familiar square, realizing that while he had been lost in his thoughts he’d reached home again. Bourne was probably waiting for him inside and they would need to act immediately if they were to supply the gamblers at Cadieux’s with their tipples.

When Ivo entered his town house, his butler, Carlyon, informed him that “scruffy fellow” from Portside was awaiting his pleasure, but he’d thought it best to keep him out of the better areas of the house. Ivo asked he be shown into his study.

Bourne duly arrived, twisting his cap in his hands under the watchful eye of Carlyon. Once the butler had closed the door, Bourne’s demeanor changed abruptly from a country bumpkin to someone well aware of his importance in the chain of command.

“Sorry to come uninvited, but I had to see you, sir.”

Ivo waved that off. “Charles Wickley was outside. He said Polgarth has been arrested.”

“Yes, sir.” Bourne was a squat man with broad shoulders and an intelligent glint in his blue eyes. “Locked up tight, they say. He won’t talk, or if he does, it will be to lead the revenue astray. As for the crew… I’m hopeful they will take their captain’s lead.”

“Polgarth should know I will do my utmost to keep him from the hangman’s rope or transportation, and in the meantime, I will see that his family is well cared for.” Even if it meant canceling the order for his new jacket.

Bourne promised to share that with the captain, adding, “We’re all aware of the risks we take.”

Ivo offered him brandy from the decanter on his desk, and Bourne accepted the glass. “Why now?” Ivo asked. “Polgarth has been bringing in our goods for two years without anyone the wiser. Who informed?”

Bourne swallowed the nip in one gulp and wiped a hand across his mouth. “There’s always those willing to take a bribe,” he said wryly. “I’m not saying Polgarth would, nor any of our other men, but these are dangerous times, Your Grace. What with the increase in revenue cutters and riding officers, we need eyes in the back of our heads.”

Ivo poured another brandy into the man’s glass and watched him down it. During the war, taxes on imported goods had risen beyond the reach of ordinary British men and women. If they wanted their morning cup of tea, they had to pay. But there was a way around it, and that was where Ivo came in.

Bourne spoke again. “There’s been more than Polgarth arrested over the past months. Word is it’s not safe to set out from France if you’re carrying anything liable to raise suspicion. Might be tricky to find someone willing to take the risk so soon. Might be best to lay low for a time.”

“And yet we have customers who want their orders filled. I have given my word.” And unlike his father, Ivo took pride in keeping his word, and he also couldn’t afford to lose any of his customers.

Bourne finished off his brandy and seemed to come to a decision. “There is someone. A new player in the game. His prices are steeper than most, but he seems to have the knack of being able to slip through the revenue net like a ghost.”

“Where is he based?” Ivo asked.

“I don’t know exactly, but he can be reached through the King’s Head down Worthing way. He might be a Frenchman, or he might not. His name is Mystere, and his ship is The Holly .”

Ivo snorted a laugh. “A mystery Frenchman called Mystere. Are you sure he’s genuine?”

“I’ve heard he gets the job done, and the revenue officers are all running about like headless chickens trying to catch him.”

In the circumstances, it seemed worth the risk. Theirs was an unpredictable profession, and although he would take extra care to keep himself and his men safe, it was not always possible.

“Very well. Find this Mystere and sound him out. Let him know we are in the market for his services. I’ll need him to make a run as soon as possible. Keep our names out of it. Is there someone you can use as a middleman?”

“There is, sir.”

“Thank you, Bourne. Send word as soon as you know anything.”

“I will. I wish you a good day,” Bourne said as he left.

A good day? Ivo stood and stared at the closed door. No, it wasn’t a good day. Apart from the trouble with his men being arrested and his customers not receiving what they’d paid for, he had had a disappointment of the heart. That pain was new and disagreeable to Ivo, but it was a good lesson. He would guard his heart more carefully next time.

As for Olivia, he thought it only fair she regret her refusal of his offer. She hadn’t even fully explained to him why she had said no, apart from his risky character. There must be dozens, no, hundreds, of other girls who would beg for the chance to be leg-shackled to the Duke of Northam, while Olivia would struggle to find even one suitor who lived up to her high ideals.

Her rejection had stung him a great deal. At the same time, beneath his genuine feelings of hurt and anger, there was something else. Something uncomfortable. Something he resolutely refused to examine.

Could some of what Olivia said be true?