A Duke to Die for: The Rogues' Dynasty (10 page)

“That tells me she’s better known in trade than in High Society. Am I right?”

Gibby nodded and smiled with good humor. “You’re not only right; I bet you’re intelligent, too.”

Blake chuckled. Gibby was difficult to beat. “I am, not that it matters in this instance. Now tell me about this lady who is looking for a business partner among Society.”

“She believes, and I’ve decided I agree with her, that hot-air balloons will be the next mass mode of travel, especially for ladies. They would much rather travel in the weightless, softly floating basket of a balloon than a stuffy, bumpy carriage that can so easily get stuck in the mud, lose a wheel, or fall prey to highwaymen and thieves. And with a good strong wind, a balloon can get to Kent in half the time of a coach because it can fly over clusters of trees rather than having to go through or around them.”

Blake’s thoughts of settling this matter with mere conversation were fading fast. He could just see a woman batting her eyelashes and feeding that line to Gibby and then him lapping it up like a puppy tasting warm milk for the first time.

“What about the perils of ballooning? Did she mention those? High winds can send a balloon hundreds of miles off course; the basket can tip over or crash into buildings, trees, water, or whatever.”

Gibby’s old eyes sparkled. “Certainly. She’s intelligent, just as you are, and she’s already thought of all that. Balloons don’t fly if the wind’s too strong or in bad weather, unlike carriages and coaches that take off even if it’s raining like a winter gale off the northern coast of Scotland.”

“There are other hazards,” Blake insisted. “The flame that creates the hot air could go out. The balloon could come crashing to the ground, killing all on board, or the worst and most likely possibility is that the flames could catch the envelope on fire and the whole thing would burn up, as has happened on many occasions in the past.”

“Not many occasions. Some. At the first sign of trouble, the operator of the balloon would start a hasty descent and land it safely, as you know has happened on many occasions in the past,” Gibby said using some of Blake’s exact words.

Blake decided against a condescending remark and instead asked, “Do you mind telling me the lady’s name?”

“I doubt you’ve ever heard of her, but her name is Mrs. Beverly Simple.”

“And it’s my guess that Mrs. Simple is a widow, correct?”

“Yes. She’s a lovely young widow and has been for a couple of years now.”

“One last question, Gibby; have you given her any money yet?”

Gibby’s face turned serious for the first time that afternoon. He remained silent.

“Gibby?”

“No. Not yet, but I have promised her my help. Breaking your word is folly because nobody will trust you afterwards.”

Blake knew that was a variation on one of Lord Chesterfield’s quotes, but Gibby had the decency not to reference it this time.

“I’m sure you know that a gentleman is only as good as his word.”

And everyone in London knew Gibby was a gentleman. Blake decided to forgo asking if Gibby had agreed to give the woman a certain amount of money yet.

“I’m assuming you won’t mind if I make a few inquiries about Mrs. Simple for you?”

“For
me
? Oh, you don’t have to do it for me, Blake. I’ve already made all the necessary inquiries. But, if you want to spend some of your money and do it for
you
, go right ahead. You won’t find anything in her background to suggest she’s anything other than the fine lady she is, with a splendid idea. This is not like one of those schemes in the past to get money from me. This lady really wants to make this business happen.”

“You’re probably right,” Blake said with more ease than he was feeling.

Suddenly Gibby’s eyes brightened, all the seriousness was gone. “I have the perfect idea, Blake. Why don’t we both go see her on Saturday? She has a barn on the outskirts of London where she keeps two balloons. She’ll take you up for a ride and answer all your questions.”

Blake hesitated. He didn’t like being up in a balloon. He had taken a ride a few years ago, and it wasn’t a pleasant experience. When he’d looked over the side of the basket, he had the sudden feeling that he was going to fall out of the basket. His two cousins had laughed, drunk champagne, and enjoyed the ride. Blake had only been able to stay in the basket by looking straight ahead and not down at the ground.

“What about it?”

“All right, Gib,” Blake reluctantly agreed. “Arrange it, and I’ll go with you.”

“Good. The best time to go up is early in the morning. The winds are usually calm then. Because you get such joy out of taking care of me, pick me up in your carriage at four o’clock Saturday morning.”

“Four? Damnation, Gibby, I’m usually just getting to bed at that time.”

“So just stay up and don’t go to bed. I’ll send word to Mrs. Simple to expect us by sunrise. And don’t forget to have Cook pack some of those fruit tarts she makes.”

Gibby sat back in his chair and gave Blake a satisfied smile. Blake couldn’t help but wonder if, somehow, the old man knew exactly why Blake didn’t want to go up in the balloon.

Seven

Dearest Lucien,

“What is one man’s meat is another man’s poison.” Think
about this as you make all your decisions in life.

Your loving Grandmother,

Lady Elder

BLAKE WALKED INTO THE FOYER OF THE GREAT HALL and stood at the entrance to the ballroom. Finding his cousins was not going to be easy, considering the bevy of lavishly gowned ladies and expertly dressed gentlemen, all drenched in the glow of candlelight. The opulent ballroom, with its crystal chandeliers, gilt fretwork, and carved moldings, was London’s most famous hall, and every duchess and countess wanted to have at least one party in the grand building.

The crowd must be at over three hundred, Blake guessed. From corner to corner, he saw people dancing and laughing, smiling behind fans, and whispering behind hands. As he searched the faces in the crowd, he saw friendly smiles, loving looks, longing glances, and jealous stares flash across the ballroom, but there was no sight of Race or Morgan.

He was about to head into the middle of the crowd when, all of a sudden, Lady Pauline, Lady Windham, and the Dowager Duchess of Beaufort appeared before him, all talking at one time.

“We have just heard you have a ward,” the old duchess said breathlessly.

“How did this happen, and is it really true or just a nasty rumor?” Lady Windham asked.

“When will we meet her?” Lady Pauline chimed in quickly with her question.

“We were told she’s the most beautiful young lady in all of England. We can’t believe you’ve kept her a secret. Is it true?”

“If it is true, Your Grace, her first appearance should be at my party next Thursday,” Lady Windham said. “Remember, Blakewell, you owe me.”

He owed her? Ah, yes, for that minor, compromising indiscretion a few months ago.

“Your Grace, please tell us who she is and where she came from.”

“Why have we never heard of her before now?”

“We must be the first to know.”

All Blake could think was that he was going to strangle whichever cousin had let it slip to the ton about Miss Tweed.

He waited silently and let the women wind down from all their questions. He then held up his hand and said, “I’m not spoiling the surprise. All in good time, ladies, all in good time.” He stepped down into the ballroom and quickly melted into the large crowd.

Blake couldn’t help but smile when he heard the shocked gasps from the women behind him.

Several more ladies and even a few men tried to approach him to ask questions, but Blake didn’t stop for any of them. Being a duke had a few benefits, and one of them was the fact that no one pushed him to answer anything he didn’t want to answer.

After a couple of passes around the ballroom, Blake finally found Race on the terrace talking with a young widow who was about to end her period of mourning. No doubt, if Race had his way, sooner than Society expected.

He waited for Race to acknowledge him and then gave him a right nod, which all the cousins knew meant they needed to assemble outside on the right portico for a discussion. He then searched through the crowd again and found Morgan chatting with a couple of men about horses. Blake gave his oldest cousin the same sign and then turned to head outside to wait for them. Instead, he came face to face with the Duke of Rockcliffe and his brother, Lord Waldo.

“You missed a good card game at your cousin’s house,” Rockcliffe said.

“Is that right?”

“It was a good evening for me and Waldo. Your cousins don’t play any better than you do.”

“Too bad you couldn’t make it,” Lord Waldo said, his pale brown eyes seeming to bulge more than usual. “We won plenty of their money and lined our pockets quite nicely before we left.”

Blake looked at the younger Rockcliffe. Lord Waldo was a little taller than his brother and much leaner. He had a sharp nose and big round eyes that always looked as if they were about to pop out of his head. Blake didn’t have anything against Lord Waldo. In truth, Blake had always felt sorry for the man because, rather than making his own way in life, he lived in his brother’s shadow.

Turning his attention back to Rockcliffe, Blake said, “It’s difficult to play cards with a snake. You can’t see his hands.”

Rockcliffe’s victory grin turned sour. “Are you accusing me of something, Blakewell?”

Blake remained silent, letting his contemptuous expression speak for him.

“If you don’t have any proof to back up your accusations, those are fighting words.”

“Name the place and time whenever you are ready, and I’ll be there.”

Rockcliffe merely sneered and walked away with his brother following. Rockcliffe was no fighter, and every man in the ton knew it.

On his way outside, Blake walked past a buffet table filled with food. A tray of mushrooms topped with slices of figs looked good, so he picked one up and popped it in his mouth as he strode by, thinking he’d eat more later in the evening.

The night air was cool and damp when Blake stepped onto the stone portico to wait for his cousins. Rain was on the way. He could feel it. A slice of moon broke from behind a dark cloud to shed a little light on the misty evening. In the hazy distance, Blake could see smoke from the fire the carriage drivers had built to stay warm while their employers enjoyed the inviting merriment inside.

Within a couple of minutes, Race and Morgan walked up together—a sure sign to Blake that the two had begun their discussion before arriving.

When they stopped in front of him, Blake asked, “Which one of you gets the bloody nose for letting it slip that I now have a ward?”

“Why would we do that?” Morgan asked, looking at Race as if to make sure he hadn’t said anything to anyone.

Race looked puzzled. “You have a ward?”

Blake didn’t appreciate Race’s humor. “Perhaps I should bloody both your noses. That way I’ll be sure to get the right one.”

“Damnation, Blake, don’t be so riled,” Morgan said. “We haven’t told anyone anything about you or Miss Tweed. What could we say anyway? You told us very little about her.”

“Though we are ready to hear more,” Race said with a gleam in his eyes.

“I was asked questions about her tonight, but all I’ve said is that I can’t speak for the duke,” Morgan said, remaining serious.

Race held up his hand. “Wait a minute. You mean she really exists?”

“Most definitely,” Blake said, “And well you know it.”

“Quite frankly, old chap, I considered the idea that you made up the story to have an excuse to miss the horse race and card game. You have to agree that you have used outlandish excuses in the past for being late or completely missing appointments or events.”

“He’s right about that, Blake. You are known for failing to show on time—if at all.”

Blake nodded agreement. He wasn’t ever intentionally late or absent on purpose, and he believed them both when they said they hadn’t told anyone about Miss Tweed.

“Sorry, Cousins. I didn’t expect to be hammered with questions about her the minute I arrived tonight.”

“Who, other than us, knew about her?” Morgan asked.

“Just Constance.”

“And I assume your staff knows she’s at your town house,” Morgan added.

“Yes.” Blake had forgotten about the staff.

“Well, there’s your gossipmonger.”

”Morgan’s right, Blake. You know there are no secrets among servants. They have such a network that they can move gossip along the streets of London faster than one of Morgan’s thoroughbreds runs.”

“You’re probably right. Now that I think about it, there are any number of people who could be the culprit. It could even have been one of the shopkeepers where Constance and Miss Tweed have been all week.”

“Anyone, but not us; we stick together, right?” Race said.

Blake smiled and clapped both Race and Morgan on the shoulder. “Of course. I’m still trying to get used to the idea that I’m responsible for someone’s welfare.

I would rather have had a little more time to get used to the idea of being a guardian before the ton knew about her.”

“What fun would that have been?” Race quipped.

“What do you intend to do with her?” Morgan asked.

“She’s nineteen. The only thing I can do is find her a suitable match.”

“If she’s fair to look at, that should be easy enough. If not, you can bestow a large dowry on her, and then you’ll have plenty of blokes who’ll vie for her hand.”

For some reason, Blake was suddenly uncomfortable talking about Miss Tweed and matchmaking with his cousins.

“She’s quite lovely and intelligent, too.”
Not to
mention sassy and bold.
“And her inheritance is more than enough to satisfy any man I’d allow her to marry. But talk about Miss Tweed can wait for another time. There’s another reason I’m here. Gibby. We have some work to do concerning this insane balloon idea.”

“Did he tell you who wants his money?” Race asked.

“Yes. Mrs. Beverly Simple.”

Race and Morgan said in unison, “A woman?”

Blake nodded. “It has always been my thought that there is usually a scoundrel of a man behind every treacherous woman.”

Race grimaced. “Are you quoting Lord Chesterfield?”

“Blast it, I hope not.”

“Does Gibby fancy himself in love with her?”

Blake shrugged. “You know Gibby as well as I. He’s had his mistresses over the years, but I’ve never known him to be serious about any lady other than our grandmother.”

“It will be nothing but trouble if some woman has finally laid hooks into him.”

“Hence our jobs,” Blake said. “Race, see what you can turn up on Mrs. Simple. Find out where she came from and anyone who’s remotely connected to her by business or family relation.”

Morgan held up his hand. “I know my job. You want me to find out all I can about anyone with interest in balloons—from who sells them to who’s buying them. Consider it done. What are you going to do?”

“We can’t let you off just because you are a guardian now,” Race said with a smile.

Blake took a deep breath. “I’m going up for a balloon ride with Gibby and Mrs. Simple Saturday morning at daybreak.”

“But I thought you didn’t like ballooning.”

“I don’t.”

“That’s right,” Race said. “I remember that it made you sick.”

“It made me dizzy. There’s a difference.”

Morgan and Race looked at each other, and then at Blake. Suddenly they both started laughing.

“You two are bastards,” Blake muttered.

“But amusing bastards,” Race said. He clapped Blake on the back. “Let’s quit this party and go to White’s for a game of cards and a drink.”

Later in the evening, Blake quietly opened his front door and stepped inside the dark house. It had taken him a few months, but he’d finally stopped Ashby from waiting up for him every evening. The last thing Blake wanted after a night of dancing, drinking, and cards was to have anyone other than a lady helping him undress.

Blake took off his hat, cloak, and gloves and laid them on a table. He paused as his stomach rumbled uncomfortably. Maybe he’d had too much to drink and not enough to eat. He shook his head. That couldn’t be right. He couldn’t have consumed much more than a tankard of ale and a glass or two of wine.

He turned to head up the stairs but stopped when he noticed a faint light coming from his book room. For a fleeting moment, he thought Ashby might have finally had a crack in his armor and left a lamp burning, but almost as quickly he remembered Miss Tweed was in the house. That’s where he had found her a few nights ago. No doubt she was looking for a book or perhaps arranging his desk again.

Quietly he walked down the corridor and stood just outside the doorway to see if he could hear the rustle of papers. What he heard was humming. A flash of arousal streaked through his loins. She was humming a slow melody that he found not only enticing but soothing. He closed his eyes and listened to her soft, lilting voice drifting out of the room.

Somehow he knew she was walking toward the door, and he opened his eyes just before her head appeared around the corner.