One Dance with a Duke (5 page)

“How did Harcliffe die?” the duke asked.

Thank you
, Amelia said silently, scooting away from him until she hugged the outer edge of the seat.
Thank you for reminding me of the gravity of our situation and the utter inappropriateness of my thoughts
.

“Footpads,” said Bellamy. “He was beaten to death in the street, in Whitechapel. It appears to have been a random attack.”

“Good God.”

It was too dark for Amelia to make out the expressions of anyone in the coach. She reckoned, therefore, it was too dark for them to see hers. And so she permitted herself a rush of hot, silent tears.

This wasn’t right. Waterloo was over; the war had ended. Young, handsome men at the peak of vitality were supposed to stop dying. Only a few weeks ago, she’d spied Leo at the theater. He’d taken a box with some of his friends. The lot of them were loud and disruptive in the way only Leo’s friends could be, because Leo was always forgiven everything. Everyone loved him so.

Amelia shuddered. Beaten to death, by footpads. If such a thing could happen to Leo … it could so easily have been Jack.

“It could have been me,” said Bellamy. “God, it
should
have been me. I was supposed to go with him tonight, but I begged off.” His rough voice cracked. “What a damned bloody waste. If I’d been there, I might have prevented it.”

“Or you might have been killed, too.”

“Better me than him. He had a title, responsibilities, a sister to protect.” He swore violently. “What will become of Lily now? This is all my fault. The boxing match was my idea in the first place. And I begged off. I begged off, to spend the evening with that harlot Carnelia.” He leaned forward, burying his face in his hands.

Amelia supposed he must refer to the very scandalous, very
married
Lady Carnelia Hightower. Though her mind reeled, she remained silent. The last thing she wanted was to remind all three men there was a lady in the carriage and cause them to temper their remarks. For Lily’s sake, she wanted to gather all the information she could. For once, the quality of being invisible to men worked in her favor.

The duke cleared his throat. “You called it a random attack. If that is the case … well then, random is random. It might have been anyone.”

“It wouldn’t have been me.” This came from Ashworth, the taciturn giant across from her. “I cannot die.”

“Why would you say such a thing?” Amelia asked, abandoning her intention to remain silent. It was such a shocking statement to make, and something in the low rasp of his voice told her he did not speak from arrogance.

“Because I’ve tried, several times. And as you see, I’ve failed on each occasion.”

She had no response to that.

“Ask your friend Morland,” he continued. “I’m bloody hard to knock down.”

Beside her, the duke tensed. Clearly the two men had some history of enmity.

“Enough.” Mr. Bellamy raised his head, scrubbing at his eyes with his palm. “We’ve no time for this. Leo is
gone. It’s Lily we need to discuss. As Leo died without issue, the Harcliffe title, estate, properties—including the town house—will all pass to some distant cousin. She probably has a legacy due her, but given her condition, she cannot live independently in Town.”

No, she couldn’t, Amelia silently agreed. Poor Lily. She must find some way to help her. “What do you propose, Mr. Bellamy?”

The man looked from Ashworth to Morland. “My lord, Your Grace—one of you must marry her.”

“Marry her?” Spencer blinked. “Did you just say one of us must marry her?”

“Yes.”

Sighing deeply, he raised a hand to his temple. No offense intended to the deceased, nor to Lily Chatwick and her mysterious “condition.” It was just that this situation would clearly require a great deal of discussion, and he’d far exceeded his allotment of civil speech for the evening.

What he wanted to do was to go home, toss back two fingers of brandy, and prostrate himself on the library floor—well, on the carpet; the floor was unforgiving oak, and he wasn’t an ascetic monk, after all—until this damned whirling clamor in his head cleared. Come morning, he’d take Juno out for a rambling canter, probably halfway to Dover and back. She was uneasy in Town, unused to the crowds and noise. A long ride over open country would put them both to rights. Afterward, he’d give the mare a proper grooming himself. She was touchy with these London stablehands, and they were never able to do a thorough job. After all that … perhaps dinner before he went out in search of cards.

That was what he wanted to do. But, as so often happened, what he wanted and what was required of him were disparate things.

“The Stud Club code states,” said Bellamy, “that in the event of a member’s untimely demise, the brotherhood is honor bound to care for his dependents. With her brother gone, Lily will need a protector. She must marry.”

“Then why don’t you do it?” Ashworth asked. “You are obviously well acquainted with her. Weren’t you and Harcliffe friends?”

“The closest of friends, yes. Which is precisely why I cannot do it. Lady Lily Chatwick is the sister of a marquess. Her ancestry includes several royals. I believe Leo once told me she’s thirteenth in line for the Crown. I am …” Bellamy pressed a fist against the seat cushion. “I am no one of consequence.”

Well, on that point he and Spencer were in complete agreement. He despised the vain upstart. From what he heard at the tables, Bellamy had arrived out of nowhere some three years ago. Despite the man’s vague origins, even the veriest snobs invited him to every rout and card party, for his amusement value alone. He was an uncanny mimic.

Spencer had once watched from a doorway as Bellamy regaled an audience of dozens with his bawdy imitations of Byron and Lady Caroline Lamb. He thought the man a pathetic clown, but the young bucks of the
ton
worshipped him. They mimicked the mimic: imitated his style of dress, his manner of walking, his cutting witticisms. Some went so far as to have their valets apply some noxious mixture of soot and egg whites to their scalp, to imitate his riffled black hair.

Spencer had no interest in the man’s hair or fashion, and nothing but contempt for his cheap brand of humor. But he did have a keen interest in one thing of Bellamy’s: the brass token that made him a member of the Stud Club.

“It will have to be Morland,” said Ashworth. “I’m not marrying her.”

“You would be damned lucky to marry her,” Bellamy said. “She’s a lovely, intelligent lady.”

“I’m certain she is. But the last thing I’d do to a woman I admired is marry her.”

Spencer couldn’t resist. “Oh, you’ve a shred of decency now? Where did that come from, I wonder? Perhaps you found it lying around a battlefield.”

“Perhaps I did,” the man said evenly. “I know I didn’t meet with you there.”

Spencer glowered. Just like the bastard, to deal him a low blow. As a youth, there’d been nothing he wanted more than to follow his father’s example and purchase a commission in the Army. But when his father died, Spencer became the late duke’s heir. Suddenly he had a title, duties, responsibilities. He would have been risking hundreds of lives in battle, not merely his own. Farewell, visions of glory.

“Why can’t you marry her, Ashworth?” Bellamy asked. “You’re a lord, aren’t you?”

“I’ve lately inherited a barony. It consists of a worthless expanse of moorland in Devonshire and a house that burnt to the ground fourteen years ago. I had to sell out my commission just to pay the creditors.”

“Forgive me,” Lady Amelia said, “I’m so sorry to interrupt.”

Forgive her? Spencer would have thanked her, profusely. A change in conversation was all too welcome.

“But I knew your name was familiar,” she went on, speaking to Ashworth, “and then you mentioned the commission … Are you by chance Lieutenant Colonel St. Maur?”

“I am. And yes, I knew your brother.”

“I thought so. He mentioned you in his letters, always spoke of your bravery. Were you …” Her voice trailed off. “Were you with him, at Waterloo?”

“No, not at the end. He served in a different battalion.
But I can tell you he was a fine man, and an excellent officer. Admired by those who served under him, well regarded by his superiors. A credit to his family and country.”

“Thank you.”

Lady Amelia seemed satisfied, but to Spencer’s ears, this speech was flat, unconvincing. Rehearsed. As though Ashworth had spoken those exact words many, many times. He probably had. Perhaps to him, tonight’s errand—notifying a young lady of her brother’s untimely death—was nothing but routine. It would explain this new gravity in his demeanor. Spencer didn’t remember him being so solemn, before.

Not that they’d spent much time conversing at Eton. Difficult to chat while throwing punches.

“Where is his body?” Lady Amelia suddenly asked. “Leo’s, I mean.”

“At my home,” Bellamy answered. “My men are keeping watch until he can be brought to the undertaker’s.”

“Lily will want to see him.”

“No, my lady. She won’t.”

“She will, I assure you. No matter what his injuries. I …” Her voice broke. “I would have given much, for the opportunity to see Hugh. His death would have been easier to accept, I think.”

In that moment, Spencer became extremely—there was no better word for it—
aware
of Lady Amelia d’Orsay. His team of blacks hied left, pulling the carriage around a sharp corner, and she fell against him. Soft, warm. Her lavender scent was richer than it had been earlier. As she righted herself, a drop of moisture landed on the strip of exposed skin between his glove and his sleeve.

She was weeping.

Weeping, in absolute silence, presumably too proud to ask for a handkerchief after she’d pressed hers on
Spencer in the garden. His hand strayed to his side pocket, where her precise, cheerful stitches secretly decorated the black satin lining. It was her own fault she was without it—he hadn’t wanted the thing in the first place.

But now, perversely, he didn’t want to give it back.

“That settles it then,” said Bellamy. “Morland will marry her.”

Spencer said, “I refuse.”

“You can’t refuse.”

“I just did.”

Bellamy leaned forward. “It’s in the Stud Club code. Neither Ashworth nor I are suitable prospects, as you’ve heard. If you hadn’t so methodically reduced the number of our members over recent weeks, there might be other candidates. But you did. And as you are now seven-tenths of the club, the burden of responsibility falls on you.”

“I don’t understand,” Lady Amelia said. “How can one man be seven-tenths of a club?”

“It’s the tokens, my lady,” said Bellamy. “You see, Leo purchased an exceptional stallion some years ago. Osiris was once the finest racehorse in England. He’s too old to race anymore, but still valuable as a stud horse. Many gentlemen were asking the favor of breeding rights, and Leo devised the Stud Club scheme as a lark. If you knew Leo, you know how he loved a good joke.”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “When he and my brother were boys, they once stole the clapper from the church bell just so they could sleep in on Sunday morning.”

Bellamy smiled. “Yes, that sounds like Leo. Which brother of yours was this? Lord Beauvale? Or Jack?” When she did not immediately answer, the man added, “Or—God, I’m sorry. Not the one who died in Belgium?”

“No, not Hugh. None of those, actually. This was my brother Michael. He’s an officer in the Navy now.”

“Good Lord. Just how many of you are there?” Spencer regretted the question instantly. What had possessed him to ask it? Why the devil should he care?

The longer Lady Amelia went without answering, the further the accusatory hush spread through the carriage:
Badly done, Morland. Badly done
. Truly, he
was
capable of civil conversation. Just not at any time before, during, or for several hours following a ball.

At last, she answered. “There were six of us, once. Now only five. I am the only daughter.” She paused, perhaps waiting to hear what rude-mannered question would be hurled at her next. When none came, she prompted, “Please continue, Mr. Bellamy.”

“Right. Leo had ten tokens fashioned from brass and distributed them to close friends. Possession of a token entitled a man to send mares to Osiris to be mated. But as a matter of club code, the tokens could never be bartered, purchased, or given away. They could only be won in a game of chance.”

“At cards,” she said.

“Cards, dice, wagers of any sort. That handful of misshapen brass tokens became the most coveted currency in London. Everyone wanted a share of Osiris, of course. But more than that, they wanted to be a part of the club. The fraternity, the camaraderie … there’s a certain cachet now, among gentlemen of our set, to calling oneself a member of the Stud Club. Not many clubs can be so exclusive as to permit only ten members, and winning a token meant that luck or wits, or both, were with you.” Bellamy shot Spencer a cutting look. “Then Morland here came along and ruined the fun. He’s collected seven of the ten tokens now. The remaining three belong to me, Ashworth here, and Leo, of course.”

The seat cushion resettled as Lady Amelia pivoted in Spencer’s direction. “But why would he do that?”

Bellamy said, “Care to answer the lady, Your Grace?”

Spencer stared hard out the carriage window. “Isn’t it obvious? I want the horse.”

“But Mr. Bellamy has said, one token is sufficient for securing breeding privileges. Why insist on obtaining them all? Why such greed?”

Spencer heard the accusation in her voice. She blamed his “greed” for her brother’s debt. “Where Osiris is concerned, I am not interested in breeding privileges. I am interested in possession. I don’t like to share.”

Bellamy shook his head. “There you have it, Lady Amelia. His Grace is uninterested in brotherhood, friendship, the preservation of a fixture in London society. He only cares for the horseflesh involved. I tell you, Morland—you may not like to share, but you’ll have to. You’re not getting my token unless you pry it from my cold, dead hands. The Stud Club was Leo’s creation, and I’ll not allow you to destroy his legacy.”

“But you do want me to marry his sister.”