Deceiving The Duke (Scandals and Spies Book 2) (4 page)

“Are you all right?”

Phil didn’t like the worried look on Meg’s face. She could be worse than a mother bear, given the smallest semblance of cause. Phil feigned a smile.

“I’m fine. Have fun playing loo. Don’t let your brothers cheat you out of your wages this time. If you do, I might as well start paying them instead of you.”

Shaking her head, Meg turned on her heel and strode in the opposite direction. She muttered something under her breath that sounded uncomfortably close to, “Why couldn’t I have chosen a normal mistress who cared more for ribbons and embroidery than beastly birds and machines?”

I inherited you. So there.

The spiteful words didn’t come close to the truth. The O’Neill family was as loyal to Phil as she was to them. She would never turn them out. In fact, she loved them as though they were her own family, even though it wasn’t quite true.

The only family she had was Jared.

Pickle squawked in her ear as he dove to nibble on her earring.

And Pickle, too, of course.

She batted him away with her fingers. “Don’t chew on that. I have to look presentable tonight, and I won’t if you pop the gem out of the setting.”

The parrot stopped his chewing. Leaning very close to her ear, he bumped her with his beak and whispered, “
Pickle.
”

Chuckling, Phil strolled down the corridor. The scattered candelabra lit this portion of the townhouse, which was destined to remain unoccupied for the duration of the evening. Save, of course, for those she accompanied up to her invention room. As she passed by the window, she saw that the sun had disappeared beneath the horizon. The sky was a grayish purple, deepening to inky black overhead as the stars began to wink into being.

As she reached the bannister on the staircase, the babble from below rose upward with a swell and burst like the bubbles in a champagne glass. She descended into the corridor. Although the scattered guests moved to and from the sitting room, where card tables had been set up, the bulk of them were contained behind the open double doors leading to the ballroom. Unlike many in London, Phil’s townhouse was nearly as big as some ancestral mansions. Four years past when the house had fallen to her as Jared’s regent, she had expanded from the original structure, sacrificing the garden out back in order to make room for the ballroom.

The ballroom was a vast rectangular room with wide, costly windows and a vaulting ceiling. Several chandeliers twinkled from the heights, ringing a larger one in the center. The floor was a marble mosaic, bewitching to the eye. Porcelain pots from China decorated the area between neoclassical pillars on the far end of the room. On one side was a line of chairs, for wallflowers, chaperones, and the infirm; on the other, the orchestra sat on a raised dais as they prepared to play.

This early in the evening, the dance floor was vacant, the dozen or two guests who had arrived early chattering around the edges of the floor in little knots. As Phil paused in the doorway, her appearance caused a stir. Two women in their sixties, one tall and thin with a chemisette filling in her neckline to the chin and the other short and plump with a daring cut to her dress and narrowed eyes, twittered to one another. The first, who Phil recognized as Mrs. Biddleford, a notorious gabble-grinder, had to bend nearly double to press her head near her companion, Miss Maize. They squawked nearly as adamantly as Pickle, who reared his head to transfix them with a pugnacious look in his eye.

“Pudding house.”

This, to him, was a grievous insult.

Raising her chin, Phil ignored the busybodies. Let them say what they would. She had only invited them because of Mrs. Biddleford’s connection to the esteemed Lord Strickland, the son of Biddleford’s older sister.

Several others on the guest list tonight had been invited simply because not to do so would be a grievous insult. Phil didn’t care to embroil herself in
ton
politics; she only cared for the revenue opened by the deep pockets of her patrons. Although she craned her neck, she didn’t spot anyone she had invited with an aim of showing one of her inventions. In fact, this early she didn’t spot any of the richer peers. Those who typically showed up at this early hour were those with the most to gain from rubbing shoulders with the titled peers, along with desperate matchmaking mamas. In fact, Jared was ensconced right now with a woman in a golden dress, and he didn’t look happy about it. The back of her brunette head was to Phil.

Pickle whistled provocatively, gaining the attention of several nearby guests. Phil smiled at them, offering a word of greeting to counteract Pickle’s name-calling as she strolled around the perimeter of the ballroom. Where was this duke Meg had announced? Phil made it a point to familiarize herself with the physical appearance of all the highest peers in the country, especially the ones called eccentrics. As she toured the room, her rapid pulse slowed. He wasn’t here—not the Duke of Tenwick or any other duke. Meg must have been mistaken.

“What a charming bird.”

Phil turned with a smile at the young woman’s voice. She was about seventeen, taller than Phil and not as round in the hip and breast. Her inky black hair was coiled atop her head and threaded with pearls that looked real to Phil’s inexpert gaze. A double string of pearls lined the young woman’s throat, following the lace-edged bodice of an embroidered muslin dress over a creamy underdress—an appropriately pale color for a debutante. Phil, who had no designs on marrying, didn’t give a fig’s end whether or not she conformed to the fashion standards of the
ton
. Let the gabble-grinders call her long in the tooth if they wanted.

Without a care for her pristine, white silk gloves, the young woman lifted her hand to stroke Pickle’s feathers. She giggled when he gently took her index finger between his beak and ran his tongue along the length.

“It tickles.” Her cheeks turned rosy. Her deep brown eyes twinkled.

Phil couldn’t help but smile. Anyone charmed by her bird was a good person, in her books. “He’s very gentle, though he likes to pretend to be a bully sometimes.”

As if to prove her point, Pickle released the young woman’s hand and said, “Meg ate the pickle!”

The girl laughed, clapping her hand over her mouth. “Who’s Meg?”

“My maid. She’s a bit afraid of him.”

“Who could be?” The young woman stroked Pickle’s chest. “Does he help you with your inventions?” Several expressions crossed her face, shock and chagrin among them, before she gushed, “Forgive me, that was terribly forward of me. It’s just that I’ve heard you are an inventor. I find it fascinating. I’m Lucy, by the way.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Lucy. Call me Phil.” Normally, Phil wouldn’t be so intimate with a woman she’d just met, but it would feel odd being called ‘Miss St. Gobain’ by a woman whose surname she didn’t know.

Despite Lucy's obvious innocence, a flush of caution swept through Phil. How had Lucy known she was an inventor? Phil liked to keep knowledge of her hobby restricted to certain clientele that could afford to purchase what she created, but the excited gleam in Lucy’s eye made it difficult not to feel at ease around her. Not to mention that if the pearls she was practically enshrouded in were, indeed, real, then the girl had money. Maybe she would be interested in purchasing something.

Beaming, Lucy asked, “Do you find it difficult, being a woman inventor?”

“It can be challenging at times. Men like to think they are the masters at everything, including the ability to generate ideas.”

Lucy rolled her eyes. “I have four older brothers. I know exactly what you mean. I’m a writer and they don’t understand my desire to research.”

Phil smiled. “Yes. Well. I’m sure they mean well.” Not that she knew any such thing, but it seemed like the proper thing to say.

Lucy shrugged. “Yes, I suppose they do. Actually, it’s wonderful that we’ve met.” Lucy reached out, almost as if she meant to take Phil’s arm, but Pickle’s presence on Phil’s shoulder barred her from doing so. After a moment’s hesitation, she let her hand fall and leaned closer instead. “I have so many questions I’d like to ask you. Would you mind if I called on you some time?”

“Not at all.” In that, at least, Phil could be genuine. “If you come sometime in the morning or afternoon, I’ll show you a few of my inventions.”

“Smashing!” Lucy’s wide smile dazzled. “The heroine of my latest book
was
going to be a swashbuckling princess, but now I’m thinking it might be best for her to do some inventing. Perhaps she creates her own guns.”

Phil blinked twice before she found the words to answer. “She sounds like…a very capable woman.” An eccentric woman, to be sure. Being an eccentric herself, Phil could appreciate that.

Smugly, Lucy answered, “All the best women are.”

I agree.
Phil pressed her lips together, though a smile teased at the corners of her mouth.

With unbridled enthusiasm, Lucy asked, “Have you ever created a gun, Phil?”

“I have not.”

“A pity. Perhaps you ought to try.”

If you have the money to invest, I’d be willing to design anything you like.
Phil didn’t dare venture the phrase aloud, not with an acquaintance she’d met five minutes ago. Although her penchant for inventing was well known, the fact that she sold her creations was a well-kept secret. If widely known, she—and her brother’s social statuses would be reduced, much the way the rich men of industry were treated. The indolent
ton
preferred to embrace those who appeared, on the surface at least, to be every bit as unambitious.

“Have you met my brothers?”

Phil’s head spun at the abrupt change in topic. “No, I have not. I hope you don’t mean to ask me to shoot one of them.”

Lucy laughed, a loud, unrestrained sound. “No, of course not.” She half-turned away. “Come with me, and I’ll introduce you. I left them with Mother.”

The young woman left Phil with no choice as she turned her back and sashayed across the room. Phil quickened her step to follow. They approached a group in the corner, consisting of a woman near the age of fifty with chestnut hair threaded through with gray, wearing a ravishing violet dress, and two impossibly tall, broad-shouldered men with black hair who had their backs turned. Lifting her skirt above her ankles with one hand and waving her other through the air, Lucy called, “Giddy!”

Pickle took up the cry, repeating the word over and over again.

The taller man, slightly lankier than his companion, turned. His hair swept over his forehead, his sideburns lining the hinges of his chiseled jaw. The rest of his chin was dark with the shadow of stubble, a beard battling to come to fruition despite his attempt at shaving. His cravat was askew, likely having been tugged on a half-dozen times until it hung off-center. Phil recognized that long nose, slightly turned up at the tip, and the shrewd green eyes that seemed brighter in contrast to his black evening jacket.

Lord Gideon Graylocke.

Phil faltered. Unfortunately, she was too close to the group. Lucy snatched her hand and dragged her across the last pace until she stood between the two men. Lord Gideon, on her right, inclined his head.

“Miss St. Gobain. It’s always a pleasure to see you.”

Shakily, Phil returned the greeting. She kept her face turned away from the man on her left, even though his gaze felt like fire licking at her profile.

Lucy looked disappointed. “So you have met them.”

Phil forced a smile. “Only Lord Gideon, I’m afraid. We’ve attended several lectures and meetings together.” In fact, she had at one point tried to interest him in commissioning a better irrigation system for his plants. He had insisted that he preferred to water them himself, and have that personal touch.

At Phil’s words, Lucy Graylocke brightened. “Then may I introduce you to my oldest brother, the Duke of Tenwick? Morgan, this is—”

“Miss St. Gobain.” Phil blurted her name as she turned, not wanting Lucy to use the same nickname she used at the Society for the Advancement of Science meetings. The smile she tried to fix to her mouth immediately fell away.

It was definitely him. The man who had cornered her at the meeting, who had nearly uncovered her identity. His Brutus haircut was perfectly styled, the kiss of stubble lined his jaw as he inclined his head to her. His gray eyes pierced her, as if rooting through her soul to uncover any other secrets she kept from him.

Her breath caught. Did he recognize her? Would he expose her, have her barred from future meetings? He was a duke; he had the power to do anything he liked.

Something caught the light as he fiddled with something near the pocket of his royal blue jacket. He turned it and for a moment, her heart stopped beating. It was her prism, the piece she needed to complete her LEGs. She must have dropped it at the club. Did he know?

Paralyzed, she raised her gaze to his.

Pickle squawked in her ear. “You’re in a
pickle.
”

Indeed, she was. And she didn’t know how she would get out of it.

“
K
iss
, kiss.”

Miss St. Gobain looked as panicked at the parrot’s words as Morgan was. The color drained from her cheeks. Her thick eyelashes fluttered wildly in front of her stormy blue-gray eyes. Her lips half-pursed, sending an inconvenient tingle through his chest and lower. Surely the bird didn’t mean for him to kiss her!

She bussed the parrot’s beak instead. An odd sweep of mingled relief and disappointment washed through him. With her heart-shaped face, secretive curve of her lips, and curvaceous figure, kissing her would be far from a trial.

He didn’t have the time to succumb to her temptations or that of any other woman. He had a spy to find. Every minute he spent at this ball and others like it was a minute wasted.

Unfortunately, his mother had insisted on his attendance, and he didn’t deny his mother anything.

As if his thoughts of her drew her attention, she laid her hand on his sleeve, every bit as tenaciously as the bird perched on Miss St. Gobain’s shoulder. “What a delightful animal,” Mother exclaimed. “Don’t you think, Morgan, dear?”

Morgan exchanged a glance with his brother, on Miss St. Gobain’s other side. Gideon, a foot-and-a-half taller than the hostess, shrugged as if to say,
Well, don’t you?

Morgan put on his most charming ducal smile, the one he kept reserved for soirees like this one, when he was expected to be a duke first, a man second, and pretend he had no connection to Britain’s spying efforts at all. It chafed.

“He is a charming parrot, Miss St. Gobain.” There. That should absolve him of all obligations to lavish attention on the bird. Although the parrot was charming in his own way, Morgan itched to circulate. Someone in the
ton
had changed their allegiance to side with the French. He didn’t have time to stand here talking about parrots. He had to find that person.

The parrot sidled closer, twisting his head at an odd angle to survey Morgan with an astute golden eye. His claws dimpled the fine silk of her emerald gown, an unfashionably dark color for an unmarried woman. Could she be engaged? An uncomfortable feeling pinched Morgan’s stomach.

Her marital status is none of your concern.
Even so, he couldn’t tear his gaze away from the sweep of her décolletage. The line of lace flirted with the ample swell of her bosom, and the rich color of the dress gave her skin an even creamier cast. A lock of auburn hair had escaped from her coiffure to caress the curve of her neck. He found himself enthralled by the sight.

The parrot squawked, as if he noticed Morgan’s straying gaze. Gathering himself, Morgan chanced a glance at his family to see if they’d noticed his momentary preoccupation. Apparently, mere heartbeats had passed. It felt like an eternity.

All the more reason to make his excuses and circulate. He balled his fist at his side to keep from adjusting his cravat.

“Your nose looks funny.”

Morgan frowned at the parrot. “I beg your pardon?”

The words scarcely left his lips before the bird drew himself up. “Like a
pickle.
”

Lucy sniggered, elbowing Gideon in the side. From the way Mother pressed her fan to her mouth, she attempted to hold back a laugh, too. None of them were any help.

Cocking an eyebrow, Morgan tried to replicate his brother, Tristan’s, usual joking air. “I do believe I’ve been insulted.”

Apparently, he failed. The pert bow of Miss St. Gobain’s pink lips parted. She raised her hands, which only jostled the bird, who squawked in indignation.

“I’m terribly sorry. Your nose does not at all resemble a pickle.”

Lucy and Gideon lost the battle to contain themselves and burst into raucous laughter that had them both clutching their sides as they doubled over.

Miss St. Gobain raised her voice above their interruption as she reached out, laying her hand on his sleeve. “Your nose is attractively shaped, I assure you.” She snatched her hand back, leaving his arm tingling in its absence as she wrung her hands in front of her waist. “I mean, um, Pickle… He didn’t mean anything by it, of course. Pickle, apologize at once.”

Thrashing Miss St. Gobain in the back of the head with his wing, the bird erupted in a ringing cry of, “Funny pickle! Funny pickle!”

Color stained her cheeks. If anything, it added to her allure. “No, Pickle, you are
not
funny. You are rude. Your Grace, please forgive his precociousness.”

Morgan smiled tightly. Her distress leeched the amusement from the moment. “He’s only a bird, Miss St. Gobain. I doubt he understands what he’s saying.”

Relief crossed her face. She stopped wringing her hands in front of her. When she opened her mouth, her bird screeched instead.

“Kiss, kiss!”

With an exasperated look, Miss. St. Gobain puckered her lips and leaned forward.

The ornery bird turned his head. “Not you.”

Was he staring at Morgan? Good God, surely the bird couldn’t be asking for a kiss from him. That would make all the scandal rags, if the Duke of Tenwick was seen kissing a bird.

Puffing out his chest, the parrot flapped his wings, buffeting both his mistress and Morgan. Pickle had a surprising wing span. And strength—the blow stung for a second.

“Kiss, kiss,” he demanded.

“He must be agitated from meeting all these new people. I should stow him away someplace quiet. Your Grace, Lord Gideon, Lady Graylocke, Lady Lucy.” Miss St. Gobain spewed her words in a high, hasty voice as she dipped her knees in a shallow curtsey.

Morgan, who had already bent forward, resigned to his fate, wasn’t prepared for her to flee. His nose brushed the top of her tower of curls and he inhaled a whiff of her perfume. Beneath the ladylike floral scent was something sharper. Was that mineral oil?

Without looking at him, she turned on her heel and marched into the growing crowd. Morgan straightened, dumbfounded. What had just happened? And why hadn’t she looked him in the eye the entire time?

Wiping her eyes but still chuckling, Lucy straightened. “I like her.”

“Of course you do,” Morgan muttered under his breath. Knowing his sister, he would have a devil of a time convincing her not to adopt a bird after a spectacle like that.

Confirming his suspicions, Lucy added, “We should get a parrot.”

“No, we should not.”

Her mouth dropped open at his abrupt tone. He never spoke sharply to her.

Mother smacked him in the arm with her fan. “Morgan! Don’t speak to your sister that way.”

He took a deep breath, and added in a more calm tone, “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to raise my voice. But, Lucy, you don’t have time to devote to a pet. You have research for your novel, remember?”

Heaven help him when he was using that unfortunate habit of hers to get his way. She would never let him live it down.

She pouted. “I suppose you’re right… I am terribly busy. But maybe Giddy could—”

Gideon shook his head, his mouth flattening into a stubborn line. “Not on your life.”

Lucy’s face fell.

Mother laid her hand on Lucy’s sleeve. “I could look after the bird while you’re busy, my dear.”

“Mother.” Morgan groaned.

She met him stare for stare, raising her eyebrow. “Morgan.”

With his index and middle finger, he rubbed circles over his right temple, where his pulse throbbed violently. “Very well, I wish you well with your bird.”

Lucy squealed in delight. Although the soiree hadn’t yet gone into full swing, the noise drew the attention of several nearby gentlemen and ladies. Once they noticed the woman making the sound, the men’s looks grew appreciative. Morgan glared at them. His gaze, he’d been told, pierced like steel. Their grins slipped as they averted their gazes.

Mother laid a hand on his arm, drawing his attention. “Thank you,” she murmured, her voice soft.

Gideon was looking remarkably harried as Lucy latched onto his arm and regaled him with all the fun they would have together with their new pet. In fact, he looked a tad nauseated.

Mother added, “It will be nice to have a pet in the house, to add to the cheer, especially if we can find a bird that speaks as charmingly as the one Miss St. Gobain has.”

“Charming?” He almost choked on the word. “The bird accused me of having a pickle-shaped nose!”

Mother shrugged. “If you do, you get it from your father.”

Morgan didn’t know if he meant to cough or laugh. The strangled noise that issued from his throat was something in between.

Mother tugged him toward the chairs at one end of the ballroom. “Come now, dear. Have you met Miss Mandeville? She trims a darling bonnet.”

As if he cared about a woman’s ability to add ribbon to a bonnet. Unfortunately, now that he was in his mother’s grasp, she refused to let him go. He had no choice but to meet the unsuspecting debutante.

Then, perhaps, he would be able to sneak away and survey the guests for possible traitors.

* * *

M
organ did not get away
. His mother dragged him from one debutante to the next, throwing him into the arms of several in an effort to convince him to dance. The one woman whose dancing skills he wondered about remained resolutely on the edges of the ballroom—when she was in attendance at all. That loud, insulting parrot on her shoulder made her presence abundantly known. Despite her claims, she hadn’t stowed him away in another room for the duration of the ball.

Perhaps it was for the best that she always seemed to be flitting to the next guest, a step ahead of him. There was something about her that made his skin tingle with awareness, his spy senses on high alert. Did he know her from somewhere? If so, he would certainly have remembered her. She wasn’t like any other woman in his acquaintance.

Most, if not all, unmarried women of his acquaintance threw themselves at the Duke of Tenwick. Some of the married ones, too. Miss St. Gobain, on the other hand, made a point never to meet his gaze, let alone cross paths with him. Was she playing a game?

Perhaps it was better if he never found out. It would be blasted difficult to dance with a woman while a parrot perched on her shoulder.

Even so, the moment he and his family stepped foot in the Tenwick townhouse, he resolved never to repeat tonight. As his mother and sister disappeared upstairs to the bedchambers on the third floor to get undressed, he latched onto Gideon’s arm.

“You have to help me with Mother.”

Giddy shook his head, pulling free. “Oh, no. If she doesn’t have you to pair off, she’ll undoubtedly turn to me. This business with Tristan marrying has only encouraged her.”

Morgan swallowed.
I’m only thirty. I’m not ready to marry.
Was he? Marriage was a perfunctory arrangement meant to bring the estate an heir. He knew how to perform in the marriage bed, even if, with this business of the war and the responsibility of maintaining the dukedom’s reputation, he’d abstained for far too long.

You don’t have what Tristan and Freddie have.
Maybe not, but did he need it? Tristan was head over heels in love. It was nauseating to watch. He barely recognized his brother in the devoted, attentive husband he’d become. Before Tristan had met his wife, Morgan hadn’t realized that his brother hadn’t truly been happy.

Am I happy?

It didn’t matter.

“Please,” he begged his brother. “I don’t have time to hunt for a wife right now.”

“You could let Mother make the choice for you. I’m sure everything would be settled inside a week.”

For the first time in his life, Morgan understood how those wilting, delicate debutantes felt when they swooned. “Zeus, anything but that.”

Giddy laughed. “I was only teasing.”

Morgan shook his head. The light of the single candelabra in the foyer blurred. It reflected off the lines of gilt on the large vase next to the door. The white marble floor shimmered in the light. The polished oak bannister gleamed as it rose toward the second story of the house. Shadows swathed the doorways leading away from the foyer.

Gideon gripped Morgan’s shoulder, squeezing. “Are you all right? You look pale.”

“I’m in the pink of health.”

“Is this about Mother’s matchmaking? If you feel so strongly about it, tell her—”

Morgan shrugged off his brother’s hand. “I said I’m fine. But I have important business and Mother and Lucy’s machinations are curtailing my movements. I need your help.”

Giddy narrowed his eyes. A lock of his dark hair fell into his eyes. He didn’t appear to notice. He lowered his voice to a hush. “Is this the kind of business you and Tristan normally have?”

Morgan opened his mouth to answer, but he couldn’t find the right words. How did Gideon learn of his and Tristan’s extracurricular activities? The two brothers had done their damnedest to keep their family away from their business as spies. Lucy was the hardest to keep in the dark, since her curiosity often led her to places she shouldn’t be at inopportune times. But Giddy… He spent the majority of his time in the orangery, away from everyone, including Morgan.

At Morgan’s speechlessness, Giddy drew himself up until he loomed over Morgan, though he wasn’t quite as intimidating with his cheeks still a bit soft with youth, his hair in disarray, and his lankier build. Morgan noticed a glint of Tristan’s rebelliousness in their youngest brother’s eye.