The Duke (48 page)

He walked dazedly to the door. “By the way,” she said with a haughty toss of her head, “wish me happy—I am marrying Mick Braden in a fortnight.”

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Marrying Mick Braden ?

The next morning came and he was still in a state of shock over her announcement. The sick knot in the pit of his stomach had not gone away. He sent his breakfast back to the kitchen, unable to eat it. Presently Hawk marched through the opulent foyer of Knight House, his nerves raw and eyes red from another sleepless night. Hasty and frayed, he hurried outside into the blaring sunshine and waded through the crowd of his tail-wagging, barking dogs, indeed, in a less-than-impeccable state.

He was late for his meeting at the club with the home secretary. White’s was just around the corner and down St. James’s Street, so he always walked there. He did so now, fumbling through his leather folio of documents on the flash houses, cursing under his breath at having to chase one of his pages of notes when the wind took it.

Mick Braden, he thought bitterly as he strode up the front steps of No. 37, absently nodding to the doorman who let him in.

Mick Braden was not fit to tie the ankle ribbons of her sandals! Then the thought of that scurrilous soldier boy anywhere near the vicinity of her ankles darkened his mood even further. Damn it, she was
his.
He knew every inch of her legs and her body like the back of his hand.

God help you,
he said to himself.
You‘re more obsessed than Dolph Breckinridge ever was.

He hurried through the club until he spied the bald pate of the home secretary shining over the back of a rich leather chair. He joined him.

“My lord, sorry I’m late.”

The powerful ex-prime minister peered over the edge of his
Times
and passed a disapproving glance over Hawk’s face. “Hmm,” he replied, lowering his newspaper. “Something the matter, Hawkscliffe? You look a trifle out of sorts.”

“Er, no, sir.” He forced a thin smile. “Things have been a bit hectic, is all, preparing for Vienna and so forth.” Hawk cleared his throat and sat down.

“Ah, of course. Congratulations on your appointment. You will serve with your usual skill, I’m sure. Let me also wish you happy on your nuptials, Your Grace.”

“Thank you,” he mumbled, but the reminder of his impending doom so routed him he lost his train of thought as he took out his notes.

Viscount Sidmouth glanced at his fob watch. “What was it you wished to see me about, Hawkscliffe?”

“Of course, er—let’s see. A situation has come to my attention, which I believe would be of some concern to you as home secretary, my lord.”

Sidmouth folded his hands and regarded him with interest.

He began to explain the plight of the flash-house children, the awful wheel of poverty and crime that led the young wretches straight to the gallows, but he saw within moments that it was no use.

Lord Sidmouth politely heard him out, resting his elbows on the smooth leather arms of his chair, but the expression on his long narrow face was utterly closed.

It was not merely that he botched the presentation. Sidmouth, who was in charge of dealing with matters of social unrest throughout Britain, clearly did not want to hear it. Hawk gave it his best, but Sidmouth shook his head and talked instead about their limited resources, which must needs be spent to deter the constant threat of insurrection.

The whole government was still secretly terrified of an outbreak of mob violence like that which had happened in France, what with the machine-breaking Luddites and the Regent constantly outraging the people with his lavish spending, and now with so many veterans on their way home and no work for them. Unfortunate, of course, but the government’s energies could not be drawn off into trivialities, et cetera. Besides, he said, to turn soft on child thieves would tempt them in even greater numbers to commit crime, with the hope of getting away with naught but a slap on the wrist.

At length Hawk left White’s in sheer defeat, Lord Sidmouth’s refusal ringing in his ears. He was thoroughly disillusioned with his party and his government.

Shoulders slumped, he walked back to Knight House in a fog of misery.

He did not know what to think of his colleagues anymore with their repressive legislation and their phobia of the peasantry and the poor. He happened to know for a fact that Henry Brougham of the Whigs was crusading for the education of poor children, but Hawk’s arrogance had prevented him from joining forces with the man. Disgusted with himself, he decided to send his carefully compiled information to Brougham. Maybe it would do the cause some good, and to hell with the personal glory of having been the savior. “They may make a Whig of you yet,” Belinda had once said to him.

Maybe so, my darling. Maybe so, he thought as he walked slowly down the busy street and turned in at St. James’s Square. He dragged himself into his house, handed off his leather folio and coat to Walsh, ignoring the butler’s solicitous frown, then wandered upstairs, drawn in spite of himself to the bedroom that Belinda had occupied. Heart aching, he lay down on the bed where he had taught her the mysteries of love. Despair throbbed through his body.

He pulled her pillow across his eyes and tried to sleep. Whatever dark fugue that Castlereagh suffered, he thought, it couldn’t be worse than losing the love of one’s life.

As dismal as his day had been, the social event that Hawk faced presently assured him the night was going to be worse. If he had been another sort of man he would have gotten very drunk, but instead he closed himself off and continued going through the motions, donning his formal evening clothes, climbing up into his town coach, and setting off for King Street.

He was scheduled to socialize publicly tonight for the first time with his bride-to-be. Lady Juliet, the earl of Coldfell, and much of the ton awaited him—the new favorite, the bridegroom—at Almack’s. He did not know how he would force himself to go in there, as the coach rolled to a halt and William smartly opened the door for him. Hawk stepped down onto the street and stared up in brooding spite at the elegant building.

This was all wrong.

But in he went. With the weight of the world on his shoulders, he climbed the grand staircase, saw visions of Bel everywhere, her lovely face flushed with love and excitement. He wanted to die, but he donned a hollow smile of cordial reserve and walked into the ballroom.

The assembly rooms were crowded with the elite of Society—peers and their pampered wives and debutante daughters, venerated elders, and wisecracking rakes in studied poses of boredom. Hawk could not think how he had once fit in so perfectly here. He hated everyone he saw, the man coming toward him most of all.

Coldfell walked lightly on his cane, beaming as he showed his daughter off to the world. Juliet looked like a life-sized doll, with huge china blue eyes and porcelain skin against her dark mink curls. She really was a pretty thing in her simple pink dress, but she looked terrified. Hawk realized he was scowling at her and made himself stop.

“Robert, here we are,” Coldfell greeted him.

He gritted his teeth in a strained grimace of a smile. “My lord.” He nodded to him then turned to the girl with a most formal bow. “Lady Juliet.”

She watched his mouth, curtsying carefully.

After a few minutes’ terse chat with her father while Juliet’s gaze kept bouncing worriedly back and forth between them, Coldfell gently placed Juliet’s hand on Hawk’s arm.

“Why don’t you two young people get acquainted?” he said genially.

Hawk fought not to scowl again as Coldfell hobbled off to mingle with his cronies. He stifled a guttural growl and looked askance at Juliet. He thought of asking her to dance, but of course that was impossible. He thought of offering to get her punch, but he didn’t dare leave her alone when she looked so frightened.

Instead, he spied an empty bench by the wall, well out of the way. He led her over to it and they sat down. They looked at each other without hostility, but also without the faintest trace of correlation. He did not know how to communicate with her or if she even had the wherewithal to understand him. She offered him a miserable smile, which he returned. For the next ten minutes they sat there in their own separate worlds. People glanced at them and whispered and no doubt thought them an adorable pair.

Everywhere Hawk looked, he saw visions of Belinda from that spectacular, magical, unforgettable night he had brought her here to free her from her feelings of shame and exclusion. A pensive smile played at his lips to recall her tipsy with champagne, spinning impishly across the crooked dance floor, thumbing her nose at the Patronesses.

How he had underestimated her, undervalued her—so supremely arrogant, handing down his rulings and opinions as if they were God’s own truth on stone tablets. He had been blind, but he could see it all so clearly now— what he had lost. By Jove, she had put him in his place. Obviously trying to lure her back with an offer of material gain had been the perfectly wrong thing to do. His bad judgment had probably driven her all the more gladly into her thoughtless soldier boy’s arms. But when he thought of her throwing his carte blanche in his face, he wanted to applaud the magnificent creature.

No, she could never be any man’s mistress now, he mused. She had recovered her pride entirely and knew now that she was worth more than that. She had healed, and for that, he was grateful.

He suddenly felt Juliet tense beside him. In a mood of utter depression, he realized he was ignoring his fiancée. He turned to her in dutiful resolve only to find her staring across the ballroom. He followed her gaze and found the object of her anxious expression: Clive Griffon, MP, had just walked in.

Oh, hell, thought Hawk as Griffon spotted them and began marching in a straight line toward them, shoving his way amid the dancers with an air of wild tragedy. His boyish face was flushed with anger and, by the look of it, a bit more drink than the lad was accustomed to.

Hawk’s expression turned cool and aloof. He tried to pretend not to notice him while Juliet shifted in her seat, looking trapped. Griffon came and stood before Juliet, trembling with tempestuous romantic emotion. Juliet stared at him in sorrow, then glanced nervously at Hawk.

“You are a fool,” Griffon said to her, enunciating every word clearly as she read his lips. “He loves another, and you love me and I adore you. Juliet, how could you betray me?”

Juliet whimpered and reached for Griffon’s hand, but he pulled away bitterly.

“Never fear—your secrets are safe with me.”

“Secrets?” Hawk knit his brow and turned to Juliet. Another woman with secrets was the last damned thing he needed.

“As for you, sir, even if it costs me my seat I’ll tell you to your face Lady Juliet is only marrying you because her father is forcing her to. Ask her if you don’t believe me!” he shouted as Mr. Willis and his assistants arrived on the scene to eject him.

“What secrets?” Hawk demanded.

They seized Griffon’s arms as Coldfell came hobbling quickly through the crowd. “Get him out of here!”

“Out with you!” Mr. Willis bellowed as Griffon fought him.

“Ow! Juliet, I love you!” he cried as the attendants began pulling and half dragging him away.

“How dare you attack my daughter?” Coldfell thundered.

“How dare you force her into a marriage she doesn’t want?” he roared right back at him.

The whole place stopped. Hawk’s eyes widened. He had never heard anyone dare address the earl of Coldfell that way. Apparently, never had the earl of Coldfell.

His lined face turned a mottled crimson. He jabbed at Griffon with his cane. “I demand this knave be removed! I’ve warned you a dozen times to stay away from my daughter—”

Hawk rose and went to help restore order, reaching the two men just as Coldfell lowered his voice, glaring, inches away from Griffon’s face. “I will see you out of office,” he said in a low tone.

“You, sir, are the last man in the world who should be threatening me,” the lad growled quietly at the earl, “unless, of course, you would like all these people to know the truth about how your wife died.”

Hawk and Coldfell were the only ones close enough to hear his softly uttered words. Hawk stared at Griffon in shock.

Griffon gave his mussed coat a jerk, righting it. “Lucky for you, Lord Coldfell, I am not a man who stoops to blackmail.”

Coldfell was a sickly shade of white as Hawk grasped Griffon’s shoulder. “Come with me,” he ordered, turning the lad toward the exit. “I’ll take it from here,” he said briskly to Mr. Willis and his attendants.

“Hawkscliffe!” Lord Coldfell protested weakly.

Hawk ignored him, steering Griffon out.

People backed out of the way with appalled whispers as they passed. “You knew I love her, Hawkscliffe! How could you betray me? Both of you—”

“Would you shut up until we get outside?” Hawk muttered angrily, his heart pounding. He pulled Griffon out the door and turned left, ducking inside the entrance tunnel to the adjoining livery stable. “Tell me what you know about Lady Coldfell’s death—or were you bluffing?”