Page 5 of My Secret Duke

T he Duke of Northam’s country estate, Whitmont, was in the county of Kent. The coastline was made up of sand and shingle beaches, and inland was a tidal marshland that strangers could wander for days and still not find their way out of. Not Ivo, he had grown up running free in the marsh, learning of its beauties and its dangers. The nearby village of Portside was ideal for receiving imported goods, and the villagers had been doing so for generations. With the high excise on French luxuries, and despite the government’s increasing watchfulness, the lucrative activity didn’t seem likely to cease anytime soon. Ivo liked to think smuggling was in his blood, just as Whitmont was in his blood. He could not imagine living anywhere else.

He missed his home—he always did when he was away from it for any length of time—but it was necessary to remain in London a little longer. There was a wager with one of the members of his club, but for some reason, the thought did not energize him as much as usual. He refused to believe his melancholy had anything to do with Olivia. Definitely not. Once he was back at Whitmont, he would feel more the thing, but before he could return home, he needed to pay a visit to Cadieux’s.

Bourne had sent him a note to say that his “invitations” had been sent. It was their code and meant all was in place for the next cargo of smuggled goods to cross the channel to Portside. This time, the cargo would be aboard The Holly . Several of Ivo’s regular customers had been threatening to move their business elsewhere, and he needed to give the good news to Charles Wickley, in case he was also planning to jump ship to another supplier. He found Charles in the office above the gaming rooms. It was midmorning and the hell was yet to open, but from the shadows under his eyes, it looked as if he had been up for hours.

“So I should expect the delivery in the next few days?” Charles said.

“Yes, after nightfall. The club will be busy, and no one will notice a stray cart or two unloading their wares.”

Charles let out a sigh. “This was the last thing I needed.” The comment seemed to be aimed at himself rather than Ivo. He nodded at the chair in front of his desk, and Ivo lifted the tails of his elegant coat and seated himself. He couldn’t remember ever being invited to linger, and he could only think that Charles must indeed be beleaguered by his new responsibilities to have forgotten their usual formality.

“Gabriel is on his way back from Cornwall.” Charles broke the silence, fiddling with the papers on his desk. “Married.” He frowned. “You can imagine his grandmother’s reaction.”

“He pursued his own happiness. I can’t fault him for that,” Ivo said, pushing aside the thought that not every pursuit of love ended as happily. “I’m sure he was well aware of the consequences.” And perhaps his damned imprudence was catching.

Charles didn’t seem to hear him. “I am going to buy him out,” he said abruptly. “Cadieux’s will be mine. I need capital though. Gabriel won’t dun me, I know that, but I’d feel better if I could pay him the bulk of what I owe. Or even if I take on a partner.” His frown deepened.

“He’s selling the club?” Ivo raised his eyebrows.

That was a surprise. Even after his elevation to the dukedom of Grantham, Gabriel Cadieux had not been willing to give up his gambling hell. He had won it in a game with Sir Hubert Longley, the previous owner, and since then, the club had prospered under Grantham’s clever management. Until now, Ivo had assumed it was a piece of the man’s past he would never let go. Had Gabriel become comfortable enough in his new skin to finally do so? Then again, rumor had it that Grantham was in dire straits when Gabriel took over—the reckless spending of Harry, the fifth duke, and his father had drained the funds needed to keep the family’s holdings in order—so he may have found he didn’t have the time to run his gambling club as he sought to turn matters around.

Charles was watching him curiously. “Are you interested? Or are gambling clubs not quite your thing?”

Ivo shook his head. “They aren’t.” He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. “I really should go.”

But Charles seemed agitated, and Ivo didn’t move, setting himself to wait for the man to say whatever was on his mind.

Charles raked his hands through hair almost the same fair color as his own, while that frown… It was familiar from his looking glass. He could no longer pretend to deny the truth. Charles was a Fitzsimmons. He did not want ironclad proof that his suspicions were correct, so it was better to assume ignorance. Just as well they did not move in the same circles, where the resemblance was likely to be remarked upon and cause all sorts of awkward comments.

“So you wouldn’t be interested in financing me?” Charles spoke in a diffident tone. “Or coming in as a partner in the venture?”

Ivo met his eyes.

Charles frowned at whatever he saw there, as if Ivo had already refused him. “If you need references, I can supply them, but I think we have dealt with each other long enough now for you to know what sort of man I am.”

He did know. Charles was honest and hardworking, and more than capable of running the hell. Ivo did not doubt it. After all, it had been Charles’s idea to bring in the top-notch chef to serve the nightly suppers that attracted guests who usually ended up staying and playing in the gambling area. An innovation that had put Cadieux’s outside the normal run of gambling hells and made it something quite special, as well as lucrative. And his high-quality French wines, rather than the swill served at so many other gambling clubs, brought in even more guests with money to spend.

Charles wasn’t the reason Ivo had hesitated. He knew the hell was profitable, and he would like nothing better than to invest in it. The problem was that to make money, one needed to have money, and he lacked funds. A place like Cadieux’s was probably a whole lot less risky than the smuggling business, and as he supplied the beverages to the club, one might even say it was an extension of said business. The opportunity was too good to pass up; he needed to think of a way he could pull together the necessaries.

“Send me your proposal,” he said, to give himself time, and stood up. “I’ll take a look at it and get back to you.”

Charles nodded, a spark of relief in his weary eyes. “Thank you.”

For an awful moment, the words were on the tip of his tongue. Do you know who your father was? But thankfully, he was sensible enough not to speak them. Things would become very complicated very quickly. Instead, he gave a nod and made his way out of the room and down the stairs. A hurrying servant glanced at him but showed no interest, and a moment later, Ivo was outside, wondering why he had agreed to something it was unlikely he could follow through on. But he knew why. If he wanted to escape his debts, bring his estate back into the black, and stop disappointing his family by denying them things such as extravagant bonnets, then he needed to find a way to make more money. And everyone knew Cadieux’s was a gold mine.

The initial pain would be worth it in the long run… if he could scrape the readies together. He might even be able to support a wife in the style she deserved. Then again, best not to go there.

When he arrived home at the Fitzsimmons town house in Mayfair, he found Lady Annette was paying a visit to his sisters. Upon his entering the room, she looked up, and he was relieved to see that her sweet smile of greeting had not dimmed since their talk about engagements and parental expectations. He now knew that Annette was as reluctant to marry him as he was her, and it was her mother’s determination to see her and Ivo leg-shackled that had caused her so much anxiety.

He also felt a twinge of guilt. The truth was that on some level, he had been aware of the talk about him marrying Annette, and he had ignored it. The whispers had kept the ambitious mothers of marriageable-aged daughters at bay, and hopes of having Annette as a daughter-in-law had kept his mother from nagging at Ivo to find a wife. Something that, until recently, he’d had absolutely no desire to do. Well, he had made a mull of it and hurt his childhood friend in the bargain. An example of his selfishness?

Have you never stopped and thought before you acted, Ivo? Olivia’s words sounded in his head. As much as he wanted to dispute them, he’d come to the uncomfortable conclusion that she may in part have been right.

Ivo looked around for some distraction, and, seeing the cover on the book in his sister Adelina’s hands, he teased, “Not that preposterous book.”

Evidently, the three of them had been discussing their favorite romances, judging from the pile on the table between them. They were all avid readers, and there had been much excitement last year when a new author had penned a novel that was an instant hit. Ivo had been persuaded to read it, and although it certainly had him turning the pages and wondering what incredible event would happen next, he could not say it bore any resemblance to real life.

“Why do you say that?” Annette asked in a hurt voice. “The hero… the prince, he is—”

“An idiot of the first order,” Ivo replied.

There were cries of dissent from the three women, but he refused to be persuaded any sensible man would fall in love so deeply that he would pursue a woman beyond reason. When his cousin Harold arrived to join the fray, he was completely outnumbered, because of course Harold worked for a publishing house and that book was one of theirs.

“Did you know that the Duke of Grantham has married Miss Tremeer?” Harold asked, when things had settled down a bit.

Annette’s blue eyes sparkled at the news. No doubt it was very romantic for a duke to run off with a woman of no fortune and a tarnished reputation, all in the name of love. And of course, Vivienne Tremeer was Annette’s cousin and close friend.

“She sent me a brief letter,” Annette admitted. “She is deliriously happy, and she deserves to be.” She added this decidedly while casting a narrow look at Ivo, as if he might disagree with her. “She is the kindest of cousins, you know, never thinking of herself.”

That was as may be, but the runaway marriage had certainly put the cat among the pigeons for the Ashton family.

His older sister, Alexandrina, or Lexy as she was known among friends and family, seemed to be of the same mind. “That family is certainly scandal prone. I heard Lady Olivia has withdrawn to the country.” She gave Ivo a pointed look, because of course Olivia’s scandal involved him. “I wonder if she will return to London before the end of the Season. Or return at all?”

Annette bit her lip and avoided looking at Ivo. She knew. He had been so careless as to mention to her that he had met someone he liked a great deal, and Annette had put two and two together. She was a softhearted girl; was she feeling sorry for Olivia or for him? He did not want her sympathy, he just wanted to forget all about his momentary madness and move on.

Adelina looked at Harold beseechingly. “Harold, please tell me if the author of The Wicked Prince and His Stolen Bride will pen another book. A sequel, perhaps? I would dearly love to know what happened to the prince’s brother!”

There were cries of encouragement from the women, but Harold held up his hands with a laugh. He was an affable fellow, with a warm smile and fair hair, like most of the Fitzsimmonses. Ivo had always gotten on well with him. “That, sadly, I cannot tell you,” he said. “I have approached a friend of the author’s and suggested a sequel would be welcome, but she seems reluctant to write another novel. I shall keep trying, I assure you. We can but hope,” he added, with a smile around the room, lingering a moment on Annette.

That moment caught Ivo’s attention, and he wondered if there was something between them. The way Annette smiled back, her cheeks pink, made him think there was a partiality. What would the Viscountess Monteith think of Harold as a prospective son-in-law? Sadly, she would probably want a title at the very least, and Harold had none. He may be related to a duke, but his side of the family had inherited neither titles nor fortune, and he worked for his living. While these may be crosses against his suit in the viscountess’s eyes, Ivo could see that in temperament, his cousin and Annette were a perfect match.

He had thought himself and Olivia Ashton a perfect match, right up until the moment she rebuffed him. Now he preferred not to think about her at all.

“Ivo?” Adelina was watching him curiously. “Have you eaten something that disagreed with you? You look quite out of sorts.”

“Not at all,” he replied and shrugged off his mood. “I was just thinking about a wager I made and lost.”

Lexy rolled her eyes. “You and your wagers. When are you going to grow up?”

The words rankled more than they should have. Normally, he would have disregarded them, but he found he could not. He had Olivia to thank for that. “I am grown up,” he reminded her curtly as he rose to his feet. “And now I must meet with my man of business.”

“Boring estate business,” Adelina teased.

“Very boring.”

With a smile and a bow for Annette, he left them to it. His sisters might think he was never serious about anything, but that wasn’t true. Was it? There were times when he played up his role as a pleasure-seeking rascal, just so that people would not look deeper into his affairs. And yes, he admitted that he enjoyed being that man.

But he had his serious side. His secret life. He was a smuggler, and soon, if luck was on his side, someone with shares in a gambling club.

Even if he could scrape together enough money, the imprudence of going into partnership with the man who may be his father’s bastard was not lost on Ivo, and still, he rather thought he was going to do it. He found he was looking forward to this new venture. A sensible fellow might invest in something more mundane than a gambling club. Bonds, for instance, or one of those textile mills in the north. Ivo had neither the temperament nor the experience for such things. He would be throwing away money he didn’t have. But there was something about a gambling hell that sent that familiar spark of excitement bubbling up inside him.

Perhaps his sister was right after all, and he was yet to grow up. But where was the fun in being sensible and serious all the time? Olivia might demand reliability and sobriety from a prospective husband, but Ivo suspected that she would soon grow bored with such a fellow. A pity he had not thought to tell her so at the time.