A Duke to Die for: The Rogues' Dynasty (9 page)

Relief washed through her and she smiled. “I’m glad I was of help. It truly is difficult to know where to begin when there is such a jumble of papers. Order puts things in perspective, don’t you think?”

He laughed. “Ah, that sounds too much like a quote from Lord Chesterfield to me, and I would never agree with that man.”

“Surely you jest. He was a gentleman’s model gentleman.”

“All the more reason not to rely on anything he said. I would much rather be a lady’s model gentleman.”

“But he was a master on how to be the perfect man, was he not?”

“What lady would enjoy a perfect man?”

Henrietta smiled. Was she flirting with the duke? “You are a clever man, Your Grace. Perhaps you should write your own book about men,” she answered honestly.

Blake laughed softly. “You know, Miss Tweed, sometimes you seem so innocent and at other times you seem so…”

“Old?”

“No, not old. Wise. Perhaps, I should try to find my way out of this conversation by simply saying that you seem well read.”

“That is true.”

“Now, you better go. I don’t want to keep Constance waiting for you too long. She might think of more for me to do, and her list is already so long that I’ll need the rest of the morning to accomplish all that she wants done.”

“Your Grace, may I be at liberty to come to your book room again for another book? I’ve been reluctant to enter after our last encounter.”

“Of course, come and borrow whatever you like.”

“Thank you.”

The duke turned his attention back to his desk. Henrietta looked at him for a moment longer before quietly walking out of the room, trying to understand all those strange and wonderful feelings brought on by Blakewell’s touch.

Six

My Dearest Grandson Lucien,

Some of Lord Chesterfield’s wisest words were the following:
“One of the most important points of life is decency; which is
to do what is proper and where it is proper; for many things are
proper at one time, and in one place, that are extremely improper
in another.”

Your loving Grandmother,
Lady Elder

TRUE TO HIS WORD, WITHIN THE HOUR BLAKE HAD sent Ashby out to accomplish the numerous and time-consuming errands ordained by Constance for Miss Tweed. Blake was seated in his carriage, loaded with account books on either side of him, and on his way to deliver them to his solicitor, all thanks to the organized and efficient Miss Tweed. After he finished with his solicitor, he would find Gibby and see what the old man was up to, as he’d promised his cousins a couple of days ago.

Blake propped a booted foot on the opposite seat and laid his head against the cushion as the carriage rolled along the cobbled streets. He had hoped to clear his mind and enjoy the quietness of the ten-minute ride into the heart of the city, but troubled thoughts of Miss Tweed intruded.

He was attracted to her the way a man was fascinated by a woman he wanted to bed. She didn’t flutter her eyelashes at him, hide her smiles behind a fan, or talk in a breathy voice like most of the ladies who tried to gain his attention. What kind of madness was this attraction he had to her? Was he more attracted to her simply because he shouldn’t be?

Blake had carefully read Mr. Milton’s letter and believed Miss Tweed was, indeed, his ward. Because of that, he couldn’t have romantic feelings for her. His only role would be to protect her until she married.

It would be so much easier if she were merely a poor relation. If that were the case, he’d be quite content to bestow a few pounds on her, help her find suitable employment as a governess or a companion, and send her on her way. But Miss Tweed was no mere waif. Not only was she beautiful, she was quite wealthy, too. According to Mr. Milton’s account, her father had been a shipping merchant who had a lucrative trade in the Eastern spice market. He had married late in life and settled in Dover. Henrietta was his only child.

Her father had chosen her guardians well. None of them had pilfered her inheritance and, quite possibly, some of them had increased it. She would be an excellent match for any man—any worthy man.

What twist of fate had brought him to this unexpected turn in his life that he must think about finding a husband for a young lady?

Blake laughed at the irony of it.

The thanks he’d given Miss Tweed earlier were genuine, though. He couldn’t explain it, but seeing his desk in order had given him the incentive to settle down and do the work he’d put off for weeks. Over the past two days he’d read and answered every correspondence on his desk as well as checked the ledgers.

Miss Tweed had only been in his house for two days, and already she had changed his life for the better—and the worse. Yes, his desk was clean of paperwork, but he was also buying horses, carriages, and clothing for a woman who would never be his mistress.

Blake would do what was expected of him and take the position of her guardian seriously. That didn’t mean it would be easy.

His thoughts drifted back to the tempting feel of her lips that morning. He rubbed his thumb and fingers together and remembered the touch of her lips on his skin. He had no idea what in the devil had made him do that, other than the fact he’d simply wanted to. After all, he had never needed further cause than that before.

When Henrietta had walked into his office with the self-confidence of an aging dowager, he’d been mesmerized by her. It wasn’t so much her beauty that attracted him, though she was certainly lovely; it was the way she carried and conducted herself, the way she looked at him, the way she challenged him and tried to bend him to her will. He even found it appealing that she worried about his being in danger from a curse.

Still, he shouldn’t have touched her—and certainly not her lips. They were soft and yielding beneath his touch. They were full, dusky pink, and beautifully shaped. He’d wanted to kiss her, just as he’d wanted to kiss her when he’d found her sitting at his desk sorting his mail. Thankfully, he’d come to his senses before he’d acted on his desire. He had needed all his willpower to put distance between them.

Blake opened his eyes as the carriage rolled to a stop. He needed to find Miss Tweed a fiancé fast. He wanted to get her off his mind and out of his house because the places his thoughts were taking him were dangerous for her reputation and his freedom.

A few hours later, Blake walked into Harbor Lights, the small, private gentlemen’s club where he and his cousins had been members for years. White’s was the most popular club in town, but some titled men belonged to smaller, more elite clubs, where they could go when they wanted more privacy and attention than the larger club afforded.

That wasn’t the reason Blake was walking into the little-known Harbor Lights Club after having spent the better part of the afternoon with his solicitor. He was looking for Sir Randolph Gibson. Blake knew Gibby often came to Harbor Lights for an early supper before making his appearance at the evenings’ parties. The old man loved the Season.

Long ago, Gibby had told the cousins that their grandmother, Lady Elder, was the only woman he had ever loved enough to want to marry. She had turned him down because she wanted to marry a viscount or an earl, and later in life she had. Gibby had remained her friend for the rest of her life, and a bachelor all of his.

Blake couldn’t remember a time Gibby wasn’t in his life. And it wasn’t that Gib didn’t have good and trusted friends other than the three grandsons of Lady Elder. He was extremely well liked among the ton, especially with the widows. They could always count on him for a dance at the balls, afternoon rides in Hyde Park, or much-coveted invitations to sit with him in his opera box.

After a quick look in the billiards, game, and book rooms, Blake found Gibby in the taproom, sitting by a window on the far side, with an empty plate and a glass of port on the table in front of him. A slice of sunlight streaked across his round face and robust shoulders. His full head of silver hair glinted in the late afternoon light, giving him the appearance of a much younger man. As usual, his dress was impeccable and dashing for a man well past his glory days.

Blake remained still for a few moments and watched Gibby smile as he stared out the window. Blake didn’t want to disturb him. Something in the street had caught Gibby’s attention, amusing him. Staring at him, Blake couldn’t help but wonder if he had ever regretted not marrying and having a family. The three cousins were the closest people Gibby had to family, and they had always treated him like a favorite uncle.

Once again Blake was reminded of Miss Tweed and how she had no family to call upon for help of any kind. Blake was all she had.

When Gibby turned from the window, Blake started toward him. The old man’s eyes sparkled and his brow wrinkled as Blake pulled out the chair opposite him and sat down.

“I don’t suppose it would matter to you if I was saving that seat for someone else.”

“It wouldn’t matter at all.”

“That’s what I thought.” With steady hands Gib pushed his empty plate aside and pulled his glass of port closer to him. “Since that’s the case, what are you drinking?” He motioned for a server to come over.

“Ale.”

Gibby mouthed the word to the server and looked back at Blake. “Are you here for something important or to mind my business again?”

“Don’t you think someone needs to?”

“No, I can’t say that I do.”

“If what I’m hearing from Race and Morgan is true, it doesn’t seem as if you know how to manage your affairs without getting yourself into trouble.” “Trouble? You know, every old man should be as damned lucky as I am and have three young fools looking after his business for him. I bet the three of you make London a lot safer for all of us simpleminded people.”

Blake laughed. “You bloody ungrateful bastard.”

He knew Gibby loved the attention he and his cousins always showed him, even if he always acted as if he wanted them to stay out of his business affairs.

Gibby smiled, leaned back in his chair, and puffed out his chest proudly. “I guess we both call them as we see them.”

“If we didn’t look after you, who in the hell do you think would?”

“Might I say again that I would be quite happy to look after myself?”

Blake let out a sound that was half chuckle, half sigh. He enjoyed bantering with the old dandy, whose father had made his wealth in shipping in the 1770s when England was still trying to keep control of its colonies across the Atlantic. The old sea merchant never got to enjoy the fruits of his labor and trade, but Gibby had certainly benefited from his father’s sound business judgments. They had made his son a wealthy man, and by aligning himself with the king, Gibby had been knighted a few years ago. But of late, Gibby had turned his attention to risky business ventures that worried Blake and his cousins.

“Tell me, who the hell is this nasty knave who’s trying to talk you into this half-brained idea of investing in a fleet of hot-air balloons?”

“I don’t believe I will tell you.”

“Don’t get petulant with me, Gib. Damnation, the man must be daft to consider such an ill-conceived plan.”

Gibby held up a finger and, with a glint in his eyes, said, “Ah, ha! Already your story has a flaw in it. I’m glad you and your nosy cousins don’t know everything about my comings and goings.”

Blake eyed him warily. “What do you mean?”

“Curious, are you?”

“You’re damned right I am.”

“That’s comforting.”

“Look, old man, you should appreciate having us watch out for you. We’ve saved your soul from the devil more than once and, for some God-forsaken reason, we’re ready to do it again.”

“Yes, yes, I know,” Gibby grumbled. “I’ve heard the sad, pitiful story before. If not for my three guardian fools, I’d either be in debtors’ prison or the poorhouse by now. Thank you kindly for saving me from riches beyond my wildest dreams.”

Blake grinned. The old fogey was still sharp as an ax. “Guardian fools, are we?”

“It’s one of my favorite titles from Lord Chesterfield.”

Gibby knew that Lady Elder had sent her grandsons quotes from Lord Chesterfield until her death. He also knew how much they hated finding those quotations in her correspondence.

“Go to hell, Gib,” he said good-naturedly.

“All right, perhaps it wasn’t one of his enlightening terms. Who knows? Your grandmother attributed it to the man, and I will, too, since they are both dead and won’t know the difference.”

“Enough of this kind of talk, Gibby. Tell me about this man and his madcap idea of buying a fleet of balloons.”

Gibby picked up his glass and nearly drained it before saying, “As I said, your spies are slacking in their duties. It’s not a man who has asked me to fund the purchase of the balloons. She’s a lady.”

Blake managed to swallow the curse he wanted to utter. His lips twitched slightly at one corner, but he hoped that was all that changed in his facial expression. He didn’t want Gibby to know that he considered a female swindler the worst—and the hardest—kind to deal with. But deal with her he would.

He could only hope the woman didn’t have Gibby thinking she was in love with him, or worse, if Gibby started thinking he was in love with her.

That would be a disaster to have to deal with. Sir Randolph Gibson would be the perfect catch for an unscrupulous woman.

To hide his sudden unease, Blake leaned back in his chair and took his time asking, “A lady? That could mean a lady of Society, a lady of trade, or a lady of the evening.”

“You are so cynical, Blake.”

And worried.

“You give me reason to be.”

“She’s a lady of quality,” Gibby answered as the server placed a tankard of ale in front of Blake.

Blake took a long drink. He didn’t like hearing that Gibby was involved in this crazy scheme with a woman any more than he liked hearing he was Miss Tweed’s guardian. But Blake could only handle one catastrophe at a time, and right now Gibby was sitting in front of him. He had to keep Miss Tweed off his mind.