A Duchess to Remember (3 page)

He’d leave Freddy to stew in his resentment and growing fear for a few days. After that, he’d undoubtedly come to the boy’s rescue. But he would exact his own pound of flesh in exchange for such beneficence. These days, he gave nothing away freely. Not even to his favorite relative.

That Freddy
was
his favorite relative said a lot about his family, didn’t it?

“Forget the carriage,” he told a hovering footman. “I’ll walk.”

Before he could make his escape, someone hailed him. He turned to see the Duke of Montford reach his side. The duke had already donned his coat and stood with his chapeau bras and cane in hand.

“Evening,” said Rand with a slight bow. He respected Montford as a worthy adversary in the House of Lords, but he didn’t altogether like him.

The man was perceptive and intelligent, but like so many of his ilk, his thinking was hampered by the desire to arrest the march of progress. Or, at least, stall it for as long as humanly possible.

Change was coming. You could smell it in the air, but the old guard wanted to ignore it, suppress it, stamp it out before it could flourish and threaten their comfort. Rand was too curious to be afraid of innovation. He embraced it. He wanted to explore its potential, to harness it, not smother it into oblivion—or rebellion.

Montford sent a significant glance after Frederick. “A troublesome age.”

Rand nodded curtly. “Well, you would know.”

Montford was famed for the unusual step of taking six of his wards under his own roof and bringing them up together. Rand suspected it hadn’t been an easy road to choose. Any other man in Montford’s position would have farmed the children out to other households in the family and concerned himself only with their financial welfare. He wondered why Montford had taken them under his wing.

“May I walk with you?” asked Montford as Rand received his hat and coat from a footman.

With a gesture that said
be my guest,
Rand allowed Montford to precede him into the night air. They descended the steps and turned in the direction of Rand’s house.

The pavement gleamed wetly, washed by recent rain. The air was crisp and cold. Spring had not yet breathed warmth into London.

“He’ll come about, I’m sure,” said Montford, picking up the subject of Freddy where Rand would have preferred to leave it.

“I don’t doubt.” Despite his harsh reaction to the news of this latest debt, Rand would not discuss Freddy’s affairs with anyone.

“A wife can be a steadying influence, even on one so young,” remarked Montford.

Oh, no, you don’t.

Montford was head of an organization nicknamed the Ministry of Marriage, in which the heads of various aristocratic families negotiated and approved marriages between members of their respective dynasties. Technically, Rand was entitled to a seat in that illustrious circle. He’d never taken it up, however, and he didn’t intend to allow either Freddy or himself to be caught in the ministry’s clutches.

Rand flicked a sideways glance at the duke, who sauntered along, swinging his cane with his habitual elegant nonchalance. “Luring me to your precious Ministry of Marriage to bargain with my ward’s future, Your Grace? Not a chance in hell.”

“Your vehemence does you credit,” murmured Montford, not in the least perturbed by the summary rejection of his overture. “But it was mere friendly advice. I dared not hope you would consider appealing to the ministry after such a longstanding and adamant opposition to our practices.”

Rand made no answer.

“One wonders what
your
matrimonial plans might be, Your Grace.”

Rand clenched his teeth. Montford was nothing if not persistent. And impertinent. No other man in England would dare ask Rand such a question. Only one woman would.

Montford continued. “Lady Arden seems desperate to find you a suitable wife this season. And yet, there are those with equal experience and expertise in arranging such matters.”

Rand decided to play along for the moment. “What could your precious ministry do for me that I can’t do very well for myself?”

Montford waved a gloved hand. “Oh, all manner of things, I should imagine. We can select a young lady for you who has been brought up knowing how to conduct herself as a duke’s wife should, one who entertains no romantic notions of love or any nonsense of that nature. The unmarried ladies of our families know how such marriages should be conducted.”

“Indeed?” Rand injected a wealth of indifference into the comment.

In spite of himself, he acknowledged the idea had much to recommend it. Oh, he wasn’t about to become involved in the complicated marital negotiations facilitated by the Ministry of Marriage—that group of power-hungry nobles bent on arranging the most advantageous marriages for their families. He most certainly would not subject anyone in his family to their rule. He believed young people should marry for love if they possibly could.

But for himself … He had never fallen in love, as the saying went. Perhaps he did not have the capacity for such violent, all-encompassing emotion. Freddy’s words had struck true. Rand was, indeed, cold at heart.

He needed a wife soon, if only to nip in the bud any expectations Freddy might harbor of inheriting the dukedom.

Perhaps it was time to put away self-indulgent leanings and make a practical marriage. He was a duke, after all, and he owed it to his name and to his family to make a brilliant match. He owed it to Freddy to father sons before Freddy became one of those pathetic idlers who lived on expectations that would never be fulfilled.

However, it wouldn’t do to let Montford gain the slightest whiff of his interest.

Abruptly, he said, “I’m obliged to you for your, er, concern. But if and when I decide to marry, I’ll do it without assistance—either from Lady Arden or your precious Ministry of Marriage.”

Chapter Three

Cecily shrank into the shadows outside the Duke of Ashburn’s house as another carriage rolled to a stop.

She peered from behind a stone pillar that supported the grand steps to the house, wishing she could see better in the dark. Impossible to identify the duke’s guests in this light as they traveled the short distance from their carriages to the foot of the stone staircase.

She could hear them, though. Cecily strained for snippets of information she might gather from the gentlemen’s conversation as they passed. Anything that would give her the smallest clue about the purpose of the club, who its members were, anything that would help her make some sense of Ashburn’s connection to her brother.

She couldn’t distinguish much from the general murmur of voices. What she could make out seemed to range from philosophical debate to political gossip to astronomy. Fascinating, but of little practical use in her investigation and none at all in identifying the speakers themselves.

What sort of a club was this? Prometheus was the Greek who’d stolen fire from the gods and was tortured for his impudence for eternity. The name suggested a drive for advancement, new discovery, perhaps in a manner that was highly subversive.

That sounded exactly like Jonathon.

An unwelcome thought occurred: Perhaps the club had been founded for more illicit purposes than scientific advancement. Perhaps the fire to which the name alluded was
hellfire,
and the club was some offshoot or resurrection of Dashwood’s scandalous Hellfire Club. Black masses and depravity.

No, she could not see Jonathon as a party to activities like that. Nor did tonight’s host, the Duke of Ashburn, have the reputation of a satyr. Much as the ladies might whisper behind their fans of his prowess in the bedchamber.

The steady stream of arrivals slowed to a trickle. She’d not discovered nearly enough for her purposes. She needed to know more.

Cecily turned to slip inside but stopped short when she heard a distinctive, loud bray of a laugh.

The hairs on the back of her neck raised. She’d know that laugh anywhere. In fact, it was the one thing about him she absolutely could not abide.

That laugh was the sole property of her betrothed, the Duke of Norland.

What on earth was
he
doing here?

She thought it over and realized his presence was not such a strange coincidence as one might suppose. Norland was a notable scholar and he’d become something of a mentor to Jonathon after their father died. Perhaps he was the reason Jon had joined the club in the first place.

Any lingering suspicion that the Prometheans traced their origins to the Hellfire Club vanished. Her betrothed was far too mild-mannered and staid for that kind of thing.

Norland went inside and the wheels of his carriage crunched on the drive as it rolled away. Under cover of the sound, Cecily edged around to the back of the house.

She passed a kitchen garden redolent of herbs and the earthy scent of newly turned soil. Her courage wavered as she approached the kitchen door, but she steeled her nerves to go on.

She’d expended too much thought and preparation over what she was about to do to turn back now. It had taken weeks of careful planning, reconnaissance, and the dispensation of a considerable amount of money to reach this crucial point. Her next opportunity to spy on a meeting of the Promethean Club wouldn’t come for another month.

Pressing her hand to the doorframe, she listened intently for any sound from within. She’d paid a footman an exorbitant bribe to leave this door on the latch.

The footman had assured her there’d be no one to see her slip inside the Duke of Ashburn’s mansion at this hour. When the Promethean Club gathered, the duke invariably instructed his staff to prepare a sumptuous buffet in the dining room and make themselves scarce.

What did that suggest? That the society was secret—illicit, perhaps? That the duke’s guests wished to remain anonymous?

Her heart pounding, Cecily tried the door.

It
was
unlocked, just as the footman had promised. With a rush of relief that spiraled into anticipation, she eased it open. The big, heavy door swung inward, silent on well-oiled hinges.

For some reason, that silence struck her as more ominous than an eerie creak would have done.

Oh, she was as jittery as a cat on hot bricks! But then, why shouldn’t she be? Not only was she housebreaking, she was entering the Duke of Ashburn’s domain.

Ashburn was renowned as hard and uncompromising, with a sharp intelligence that bordered on omniscience. His friends numbered among the most powerful leaders, the brightest wits, the greatest talents of the day. He was a true Renaissance man, accomplished at a vast array of pursuits, most notoriously amorous ones. One mistress of the duke’s—a famous courtesan—had claimed
she
ought to pay
him
for his services in the bedroom.

Everyone knew who he was but no one seemed to know much about the man himself. Upon learning that the Promethean Club met here, Cecily had inquired about Ashburn. But when she tried to delve deeper into his character, she was stymied at every turn. The duke was a private man, it seemed, known to many but intimate with few.

Ashburn was an enigma. He was fast becoming an obsession with her—and not only because he and his colleagues might hold the key to her brother’s death.

And here she was, stealing into his house at dead of night.

With excitement pulsing through her veins, Cecily crept inside.

She found herself in a kind of mudroom filled with pattens and boots and cloaks, umbrellas and walking sticks and other outdoor wear. She hadn’t dared bring a lantern with her, but her luck held. A faint wash of light from the kitchens beyond this room allowed her to see well enough to avoid obstacles in her path.

She listened until she was satisfied no one stirred. Then she moved carefully through to the narrow passageway.

She’d memorized the rough map the footman drew for her and found the servants’ stair without difficulty. Once on the first floor, she quickly located the saloon where the footman had told her the meeting would be held. There was a vestibule leading to the dining room, he’d said. There, she might conceal herself and spy on the proceedings.

The door to the vestibule stood slightly ajar. Cecily darted a glance around her, then stole up to the door to listen.

She couldn’t hear anything. No murmur of voices or clink of cutlery on plate. Cautiously, she peered into the room.

A large hand gripped her shoulder. Another hand covered her mouth. With a muffled shriek, she struggled to free herself.

She was clamped against a hard male chest. A deep, cultured voice murmured in her ear, “At last. I’ve been expecting you.”

*   *   *

Cecily froze. Confound that blasted footman! He’d betrayed her.

It had all been too easy, hadn’t it? But good God, how could she have guessed he’d tell the duke of her plans? How many servants would remain loyal to their masters when offered the kind of bribe she’d intended to pay?

Or perhaps the footman hadn’t informed on her, and the rumors were true. Perhaps the Duke of Ashburn
was
omniscient.

He was certainly exceedingly strong.

All this passed through her mind in an instant. She fought him, twisting ineffectually in his iron grip, jabbing with her elbows, kicking back with her heels. If she could get free, she’d make a dash for it. She was fast when she needed to be and tonight, garbed as a footman, she didn’t have skirts to hamper her.

His hold was not vicious but it was implacable. Seeming not to notice her struggles, her captor swept her into a room that was not a vestibule, as the footman had informed her, but a library. With not a member of the Promethean Club in sight.

Once inside, he released her. She whipped around to face him, her lungs straining for air.

Ashburn.

He was very dark and very tall and he had the most uncompromising mouth she’d ever seen. His strange eyes regarded her intently, sending an unwelcome chill through her body. Then he moved to close the door and lock it.