Duchess 02 - Surprising Lord Jack (9 page)

Perhaps he should encourage Shakespeare to use his teeth to advantage on Pettigrew’s person. “Yes, well, it turns out the brother married and moved away. The landlady has no idea where he’s gone.”

“Married, eh?” Pettigrew was
still
looking at Francis with that odd light in his eyes. “Speaking of marriage, my poor friend Littleton, the one who had the shrewish spinster bolt on him—”

Had Francis just flinched? The boy dropped his eyes to stare down at his hands, his face now completely white. He wasn’t going to faint, was he? Jack tried to put a hand on his arm, but Francis leaned away from him.

“—has come to Town to shop the Marriage Mart.”

Ah, well, perhaps it was a good thing they’d encountered Pettigrew. If the man was finally willing to share information about the runaway girl, Jack might be able to find her and offer some help. “Has anyone had word that the girl is safe?”

Pettigrew actually chuckled. Bloody hell, the villain had no heart.

“No, but I’m quite sure she’s landed on her feet—or perhaps her back.”

Jack jerked his head around to look at Francis. The boy had one hand over his mouth and the other clutching his stomach.

“I believe we’d best be going.” He should get Francis to Greycliffe House as soon as he could.

Pettigrew was already backing away. “Yes. Do take good care of the . . . boy.” He waggled his damn brows again and rode off.

If the man wasn’t drunk, he was touched in the head. Perhaps he’d had a fall on the ride up to Town.

Jack encouraged his cattle to pick up their pace. He would prefer not to entertain the
ton
with the spectacle of Francis shooting the cat in his curricle. “That came on suddenly.”

Francis, having hidden his face in his hands, just nodded. At least Shakespeare, after a “good riddance” bark to Pettigrew, had regained his equanimity.

“Are you feeling better now?”

Francis nodded again.

“Maybe you have a touch of travel sickness. Hold on. We’ll be at Greycliffe House shortly.”

“Um.”

It was odd Francis had taken ill so suddenly. The boy hadn’t shown any signs of sickness coming up from the Crowing Cock or on this trip to Bromley. In fact, he’d been fine until they’d encountered Pettigrew.

Hmm. The runaway woman . . . Pettigrew’s odd behavior...

Oh
God
.

Jack’s head snapped round to regard Francis—his long, thin hands and narrow shoulders, his smooth cheeks without even the faintest hint of a beard. He was a pretty boy, or . . .

Of course.

How could he have been so blind? So
stupid
? Back at the Crowing Cock, Francis had looked ill when Pettigrew had mentioned a Frederick Hadley, a man whom Francis apparently resembled and whose only sibling was his twin ginger-haired sister.

Francis—no
Frances
—had some explaining to do.

Lord Jack was angry. Frances glanced at him as they turned off the main road. He didn’t
look
angry, but she could tell he was. There was a tightness about his face that hadn’t been there before. A coldness. He hadn’t said a word since they’d left Mr. Pettigrew.

He had guessed her secret.

No, she would not leap to that conclusion. He’d been in her company—she flushed—in her bed, and he’d given no indication that he suspected she was anything other than a grubby schoolboy.

If he had guessed, he’d probably have tried to seduce her. That was what rakes did with women, and one only need read the newspapers to know Lord Jack was a rake of the worst sort: his exploits were recorded in print regularly. Lord J—seen escorting
two
ladies onto the dark terrace at Lady So-and-So’s ball. Lord J—glimpsed driving down Rotten Row with the fair proprietress of the Gilded G—.

And she’d seen with her own eyes on what easy terms he was with all manner of light-skirts. He was likely as irresponsible as her father, taking his pleasure wherever he wished, not thinking twice about the women and children he left behind.

Well, no, he wasn’t as bad as her father. There was the house in Bromley, and the children who clearly loved him—and for whom he just as clearly cared deeply.

He was probably just annoyed by Mr. Pettigrew, who was certainly an extremely annoying man. Even Shakespeare, who’d been perfectly behaved with the children, had taken Mr. Pettigrew in sudden and extreme dislike.

She must remain calm and keep acting her part. She’d have to stay the night at his family’s house, unchaperoned; she didn’t wish to be ravished in her bed.

Her stomach shivered.

With
anxiety
. Of course she didn’t wish to be ravished. It sounded like a very uncomfortable experience, not that she perfectly understood what was involved.

She would persuade Lord Jack to take her to Puddington’s offices in the morning—no, she would ask him to send her in a hackney. Of course! That was the perfect solution; he’d never discover her gender that way. And surely Puddington’s offices weren’t in a dangerous section of London, so there would be no need for him to escort her.

Now all she had to do was keep up her masquerade for a little while longer, and then she’d retire early and take dinner on a tray in her room. In the morning she’d go off to see Puddington, and that would be the end of Lord Jack’s involvement in her life.

She felt an odd twinge of sadness, but she repressed it. The sooner she was free of the rake, the better. His animal magnetism, or whatever it was, was clearly affecting her thinking.

They’d reached a broad square with a lovely fenced garden—more of a park, really—in its center. Jack brought his horses to a stop in front of the largest house, and a footman ran out to hold them, as if he’d been watching for Jack to arrive.

“Welcome back, milord.”

“Thank you, Jacob.”

Frances started to climb down, but Jack’s hand clamped around her wrist like iron. She met his eyes. They were as cold as the day, flat and hard.

“A moment,
Miss
Hadley, and I will assist you.”

Oh God! Her heart lurched into her throat. He
had
guessed. What the devil was she going to do now?

He released her and swung himself down to the pavement, Shakespeare on his heels.

She could defy him. She
should
defy him. She was quite capable of getting down by herself, as he well knew. Except her legs seemed to have turned to jelly.

He wouldn’t abuse her. She was relatively certain of that, though not completely certain. If she’d had any hope of fleeing—if she could have slid across the seat, picked up the reins, and stolen his curricle—she would have. But she had no idea how to drive a curricle—not that the footman would let go of the horses—and she had no place to flee to.

She was trapped, so she would cooperate for now. She did not care to stoke his anger to any hotter a flame.

He came to her side and extended his hand, his face a pleasant mask. Anyone observing them from a distance wouldn’t think twice about the scene—unless they wondered why Lord Jack would be helping a boy descend from his curricle. But if they could see the man’s eyes . . .

His eyes promised a very unpleasant interview ahead.

The moment her foot touched the ground, he dropped her fingers and turned to lead the way inside.

She scowled at his back. He had no cause to be in such a pet. Yes, she’d hoodwinked him, but she’d cozened the Findleys, Mrs. Understadt, and any number of other people as well.

But he was a man, and men hated to be made fools of. He was likely berating himself for not seeing through her disguise instead of admitting that she’d done a good job of pretending to be a boy. So she would assuage his male pride. She would apologize profusely, grovel if she had to.

If only she had somewhere else to stay tonight. If she could avoid crossing his threshold at all, she would. There
was
her mother’s family. Lord Jack was a friend of her cousin. He would know how to reach them . . .

No. She’d rather risk being ravished in her bed than knock on their door and face their disdain.

She followed Shakespeare through Greycliffe House’s front door, and her jaw dropped.

She snapped it shut immediately, but the fact remained she’d never seen such an impressive house, with its high ceilings, broad staircase, and imposing artwork—statues and urns and paintings. A larger-than-life portrait of a Greycliffe ancestor glared at her from the first landing.

Landsford wasn’t a cottage, but this house had been built to an entirely different scale.

The butler greeted them with what she would have thought a very unbutler-like grin. “Lord Jack, it is so good to have you home.”

Jack grinned back, and she felt a momentary pang. He wouldn’t be smiling at her like that again.

“It’s good to be here, Braxton.”

“And how was Her Grace’s party?”

“Painful as always for me, but Mama got one of her dearest wishes. Ned is betrothed to Miss Bowman.”

Mr. Braxton’s grin widened and his eyes lit. “That is capital news, milord! Her Grace must be beside herself with joy, and of course we are all delighted for Lord Ned.” He cleared his throat. “You know, of course, that Her Grace must have already turned her thoughts to your unmarried state.”

Jack glanced at Frances and nodded. “Yes, I’m afraid you’re right.”

Mr. Braxton raised his brows. “I see you have brought along a young person and a dog, milord?”

“Yes. The dog’s name is Shakespeare, and he is in desperate need of a bath, as you may be able to tell. I was hoping . . . ah, Richard.”

A tall footman, having just come in from the back of the house, stopped. He looked at Shakespeare with a resigned expression. “Yes, milord?”

“Please take this animal off and bathe him.”

Richard looked at Jack. “Does he like water, milord?”

“Unfortunately, I have no idea, but I’m sure you’ll be able to manage splendidly. He’s relatively well behaved and rather talented.” He looked down at the dog. “Will you shake hands, Shakespeare?”

Shakespeare offered his paw to Richard and then to Mr. Braxton.

“He’s a very bright animal, milord,” Richard said, looking somewhat more enthusiastic.

“Yes. Now please take him away and make him a clean animal. You may bring him to my study once he’s presentable.”

“Yes, milord.”

Shakespeare was at first reluctant to depart, but once Richard thought to bribe him with a bit of cheese from the kitchen, he left with good grace.

Mr. Braxton inclined his head toward Frances. “And the young person, milord?”

“Yes.” Jack looked at her and then at his butler. “This is Miss Hadley, Braxton. I’m sure I don’t need to point out the need for discretion?”

The only sign of Mr. Braxton’s surprise was the slight widening of his eyes. “Of course not, milord. I’m offended you should ask.”

Jack smiled. “I inquired mostly to put Miss Hadley’s mind at ease, Braxton. We’ll be in the study. Could you send some refreshments up at once and then Mrs. Watson in about fifteen”—he looked at Frances—“no, twenty minutes?”

“Very good, milord.”

“Thank you. This way, Miss Hadley.”

Would Lord Jack offer her a piece of cheese or some other enticement to come with him if she proved as recalcitrant as Shakespeare?

She repressed a slightly hysterical giggle and followed him down the grand corridor. Perhaps she should be worried, going off alone with a rake, but suddenly that seemed rather silly. This was the Duke of Greycliffe’s London house, after all. It was nothing like the house on Hart Street with the garish red walls and obscene wall sconces. And the butler, Mr. Braxton, did not strike her as the sort who would put up with any ravishment on the premises. A footman would be coming with refreshments almost immediately and perhaps Richard with Shakespeare soon thereafter, and then in twenty minutes this Mrs. Watson. Surely even a skilled rake couldn’t conduct a seduction in such a short time and with so many interruptions.

And
Lord Jack was far too angry to have any interest in seducing her.

So they would have this discussion in private—not that there need be any real discussion. She would apologize, ask him to procure her a hackney in the morning, and retire to whatever room he’d given her—and barricade her door just in case his rakish tendencies came out with the moon.

She followed him into a huge, wood-paneled study that had to be at least four times the size of hers back at Landsford.

No, not hers—Frederick’s.

“Please have a seat, Miss Hadley.” Lord Jack gestured to an uncomfortable-looking straight-backed wooden chair in front of a massive mahogany desk.

“You may as well keep calling me Frances.” She sat on the edge of the chair. It was just as uncomfortable as it looked.

“Is that your name?” Jack took the upholstered chair behind the desk, of course.

“Yes. With an
e
instead of an i.”

A different footman brought in the tea cart.

“Just leave it, will you, William?”

“Yes, milord.”

The man scrupulously avoided looking at her. She was beginning to feel invisible, damn it.

“Help yourself to some tea, Miss Hadley,” Lord Jack said as the door closed behind the footman. He, of course, picked up the brandy decanter.

“
Will
you call me Frances?” She might like some brandy, too, not that she’d ever had any, but the current situation seemed to call for something stronger than tea. “You’ve been calling me that since we—”

Perhaps she shouldn’t point out exactly when their acquaintance had begun.

Jack had no such compunction. “Yes. I’ve been calling you by your Christian name since we woke up in bed together.”

That sounded very bad. Perhaps she
would
have some tea. She reached for the pot. “It wasn’t like that, and you know it.”

He just raised his damn eyebrows.

“It was perfectly innocent!”

He poured himself some brandy. “You know that and I know that, but no one else will believe it.”

“Because of your reputation as a rake.” It was a rude thing to say, but she was suddenly feeling trapped. She tried pouring and splashed a good bit of tea in her saucer, blast it.

His lips twisted into a harsh sort of smile, and his voice sounded slightly sarcastic. “Oh yes, my reputation. Of course I’m a rake. I’m a duke’s son. I must be reckless, careless, wild—and definitely dangerous. And I’m well known to frequent London’s worst stews. So, yes, no one will believe I’d spend five minutes in bed with a female without having my wicked way with her.”

Damn. Her stomach suddenly felt as if she’d swallowed a cannonball. She put her cup down; she couldn’t manage even a sip of tea. Oh, why, if she’d had to share a bed with a man, couldn’t the fellow have been an anonymous old curate?

“But the hard truth is no one would believe any man could spend the night in bed with a woman without far more than sleep occurring, Miss Hadley. My being Lord Jack just means the story will spread like wildfire.”

“But
nothing
happened.” Blast it, if she was going to be pilloried, she should at least have committed the sin.

Her treacherous body stirred with interest . . .

No! She did not want to have anything to do with men . . . with a man . . . with Jack.

“That is immaterial. What’s important is what everyone
thinks
happened.”

“But—”

“Come, Miss Hadley—
Frances
—I can’t believe that’s not the case even in whatever little hamlet you call home.”

“Er . . .” Of course the annoying man was right. When Squire Adams’s youngest daughter had been found at night in a gazebo, her dress disarranged and the arms of the second son of a baronet around her, Aunt Viola had begun speculating at once about how soon after the wedding the baby would arrive.

“You see? You are well and truly ruined, unless . . .” His eyes brightened. “I don’t suppose by some miracle you really are twelve?”

“N-no.” For a moment, she was tempted to lie, but that would be foolish. Now that he knew her identity, there was no hope of concealing anything from him. He was just the sort to ferret out every last detail of her life.

“Damn.” He frowned. “My pardon.”

“Oh, don’t stand on ceremony at this late date, my lord.” She was impressed that he’d limited himself to
damn
.

He glared at her. “I would never have treated you with such familiarity if I’d known your gender, Miss Hadley.”