A Duchess by Midnight, page 23
Imogene made a face. “You play dirty.”
“It runs in the family,” he said. “Obviously.”
Ian and Imogene returned to Pollen Street just before three o’clock in the morning.
The night had been as much of a success as one could expect from stalking known smugglers through the London docks with an uninvited niece. To her credit, Imogene had been (mostly) the picture of biddability. She’d kept back, she’d said very little, and she’d done what Ian bade.
Because someone had to keep back with her, Ian had dispatched Loring to approach the smugglers. This was likely for the best, as Ian had already failed once in pretending to be a peasant. Meantime, Imogene had identified an errant spy while they waited. Smugglers, apparently, were wary of uninvited callers, and they sent out a man to canvass the area as soon as Loring approached them.
Imogene had spotted the spy, and Ian had managed to get off his horse and pretend to examine the hooves of her mare. They transformed themselves into two riders with a lame horse, and the spy left them undisturbed.
An hour later, they’d met Loring back in Whitechapel, and the man had confirmed—yes, these were the smugglers engaged by Avenelle weavers. They would sail for the Dorset coast when their boat was repaired, they would collect a season’s worth of lace, they would set course for France, and sell it to the highest bidder.
Or so they’d claimed.
“I don’t believe it for a second, Your Grace,” Loring had said.
“Why not?” Imogene had asked, cutting in before Ian.
“Ahhh,” Loring had said, uncertain how to address his employer’s uninvited niece.
Ian sighed. “Why not, Mr. Loring?” he repeated, shooting Imogene a look.
The young steward had looked back and forth between Ian and Imogene, clearly unsettled. He cleared his throat. “Gut feeling,” he finally said. “A very bad, very uneasy feeling. You’ve heard of a man who won’t look you in the eye? In my opinion, the same goes for a man who stares too direct-like, who holds your gaze and won’t let go. They pinned me to the wall, Your Grace, with their hard, greedy eyes. I know when I’m being sized up for a fleecing. They were too interested, and ‘doin’ business’ with them was made to sound too easy. The profits sounded too ready. I know a liar when I meet one.”
Ian had considered this. “So you told them you’d come from Avenelle, like we discussed? You said you wanted in on the shipment?”
Loring nodded. “They believed me too. Barely controlled zeal at the notion of adding raw wool to the shipment. They were practically chomping at the bit. But I’d not trust that lot with a sack of grain, let alone a year’s worth of sweat and toil. The weavers will lose everything. Mark my words. I’ve suspected this from the beginning, and now I’ve seen it. I’d not have sought you out in London if I didn’t believe this would come to a very bad end.”
Ian nodded gravely and reached into his purse. He provisioned Loring for another week’s stay in London, bade him to carry on with surveillance of the smugglers and keep in touch.
“Now what?” asked Imogene when they parted ways with the steward. They rode side by side toward Pollen Street.
“Now,” he sighed, “I cannot say. Now I . . . make certain about the smugglers. I’m unsettled by surprises. We’ll continue to watch them. I want to know everything I can learn about their plan.”
They rode the length of one street in silence, Ian regretting his honesty. Imogene had enough about which to worry without adding the weight of estate management, smugglers, and desperate tenants to her life.
Hastily, he added, “You need not wrestle with it, Imogene. I’m the duke, I’ll sort it out. Ignorance is a very great enemy, and it’s fought with careful study. I’ll determine exactly what the tenants intend. When I understand their motives, I’ll think of something else.”
“Right,” dismissed Imogene, sounding not worried at all, “what I meant was, what will you do when we’ve reached home? To Pollen Street?”
“Oh,” said Ian. And now he felt steeped in ignorance. “Now I will . . . go to bed?”
“You will return to Miss Trelayne, you mean?”
“Ah . . . I’d not given it a great deal of thought,” he said. Although that was a lie. In between managing smugglers and Imogene herself, he’d given his new wife a very great deal of thought. Their wedding night had been an odd mixture of unplanned and explosive, and he had very little idea how Drewsmina felt about it. He’d been forced to leave in such a hurry. He knew only that she’d been quiet and watchful afterward, responsive and glorious during.
None of this, of course, would be discussed with his niece; in fact, he’d prefer not to discuss any part of his marriage with Imogene. He glanced at her. He was curious, however, about why she’d asked about Drewsmina. Of all things. After all they’d seen and done.
“Are you worried I’ll tell Miss Trelayne that you’ve snuck out of the house?” he guessed.
“Oh, but you mustn’t,” she scolded impatiently. Her expression said, After all we’ve been through?
“Mustn’t I?” he said, laughing at how entitled she sounded.
“I beg you, Uncle. Please do not.” An exasperated statement.
“Beg me, do you?” he said, considering. To his knowledge, Imogene had never begged for anything. Even on the night the three of them turned up on his doorstep, she’d simply said, “Don’t you want to invite us in?”
Now she said nothing more, and he worried he’d somehow embarrassed her. “If Miss Trelayne knew you’d snuck out, Imogene, she would be concerned and alarmed, but I’m doubtful she would be vicious or petty about it. She’s hardly a tyrant.”
“I don’t care about her tyranny,” she said. “I . . . I am a private sort of girl, in case you haven’t noticed. I should hate for anyone to make any assumptions about me. Or my motives.”
“What assumptions or motives?” he asked, chuckling. “What care have you if Miss Trelayne assumes you are bold and wild and do as you please, even in the middle of the night?”
Imogene refused to answer and Ian was left to translate what she was, in her own way, telling him.
Imogene had followed him because his moonlit “errand” looked and felt like a secret—or, more accurately, like a betrayal of some kind.
His plans for his return—whether he went to Drew or didn’t—concerned her because . . . ?
But was she worried about him betraying Drewsmina?
Did she protect her new aunt? And herself, of course, by asking Ian not to reveal it.
Imogene didn’t want Drew to know she cared about her.
“Perhaps I don’t mention your involvement tonight,” Ian ventured. “Perhaps I won’t elaborate on anything that’s happened tonight. Perhaps neither of us says anything at all.”
“You’re not going to tell her where you’ve been,” Imogene said, a statement.
“Well, I’ve told her I had an errand pertaining to the upkeep of Avenelle.”
“Secrets.”
“Not a secret,” he countered. “I’m simply protecting her from the worry of it.”
“You should include her,” Imogene said, “in everything.”
“Everything but your unnecessary riding lessons. And your foray into the streets of London this night. And—let’s be honest—God knows what else. You’re to keep secrets and I cannot? Even for a good cause?”
“What good cause?” Imogene asked.
They turned the corner onto Oxford Street, but he barely noticed. He was warming to this topic. “Not burdening my new wife with the highly complicated conflicts related to estate business. She agreed to become Duchess of Lachlan under very odd circumstances, no one knows this better than you. I should like to shield her, at least for a time, from my struggles as duke. She needn’t know immediately that I’ve yet another mutiny afoot. Not literally on her second day as duchess. Can you allow that? It’s less of a secret and more like something with which I’ve no wish to plague her. And for good reason; you and your sister are plague enough. If you’re so very concerned about your new aunt, let us think of ways to entice her, not alarm her.”
“Yes,” Imogene said, her voice far peppier than before. She seemed cheered by his answer.
Well, hooray, Ian thought darkly. At least Imogene was satisfied. Meanwhile, giving voice to his fears aloud only made them seem more real. In his head, his tirade continued.
I cannot lose Drewsmina before I’ve actually won her, he thought.
I cannot lose any of them. Not the tenants, the girls, my sister.
But especially not her.
The next quarter hour was spent in relative silence. When they reached the mews behind Pollen Street, they stabled their horses and slipped inside. Ian made a point of witnessing his sleepy niece enter her bedchamber and pull the door shut. Next, he crept to Drewsmina’s room. For a long moment, he hovered, his hand over the knob. He wanted her—her body, yes, but he’d also simply wanted to see her face and hear the sound of her voice.
But what of his own face? he thought. He was damp and grimy and smelled like smoke and exhaustion. His mind was a riot of smugglers and tenants and how Imogene had learned to ride.
Considering all these, Ian knew any contribution to his wife’s night would be uneasy silence, a frustrated scowl, and, if they were lucky, loud, restless snoring.
He moved away and fell into his own bed instead, vowing to wake in time to speak to Drew tomorrow. He would seek her out before she began work with the twins. He would apologize for leaving her bed after their first night together.
He would make amends.
He would not lose her.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Eight hours later, long after the household had awakened and embarked upon their day, Ian roused from a dead sleep. He cursed his sloth, dressed quickly, and trooped downstairs.
Breakfast, he learned, had been cleared an hour ago and Miss Trelayne was in the ballroom, converting French verbs with Ivy while Imogene took a tennis lesson.
Ian pilfered an apple and a piece of honey cake from the kitchens and, heartbeat kicking up, sought out his family.
When, he marveled, clipping up the stairs to the ballroom, did I acquire a family?
Only “family,” surely, could compel him to erect a tennis court in his ballroom.
Imogene’s first two lessons had convened in the garden but Miss Trelayne had quickly seen the very great limits of the uneven paving stones and balls swatted over the stone wall. When she pointed out that tennis in general, and the tennis lessons in particular, seemed to represent Imogene’s first-ever true passion—an activity to which she’d committed fully, no complaints or criticism, no cynicism—some solution was in order.
Miss Trelayne had hired a robust instructor called Mrs. Chutterbuck, or Bucky, as was her preference, who tromped about in men’s battle boots and could easily palm three tennis balls in one hand. Bucky saw immediate potential—whether in Imogene or his purse, Ian was never sure—and suggested daily lessons for the girl at the tennis club in James Street.
Miss Trelayne promised to take this into consideration—daily lessons in Haymarket would involve various logistical challenges, not the least of which included transport, chaperone, and wardrobe (Imogene had taken to wearing a skirt that fell just below the knee and long pantaloons for her lessons). In the meantime, Miss Trelayne suggested they make use of the expansive second-floor ballroom. Bucky saw the genius of the notion and cordoned off an approximated court in the center and strung up a net.
Imogene had been so very thrilled that Ian sent out inquiries about constructing a proper clay court on the grounds of Avenelle. He’d not played in years but had been fond of the game at Oxford, and Imogene would need someone against whom to play.
He ambled into the ballroom now, crunching the apple. Imogene was bouncing a ball on her racquet and frowning at Greenly, the butler, while Miss Trelayne and Ivy leaned over a book. Across the room, Bucky made adjustments to her makeshift tennis net.
“Your Grace,” Greenly was saying, extending a silver tray over her head.
Miss Trelayne and Ivy did not look up.
“I believe he means you,” Imogene said, still bouncing the ball. “Aunt. Duchess. Your Grace.”
“Oh,” said Drew, looking up, “forgive me, Greenly. I’m not accustomed to the, er—That is, it will take some time to answer to the title.”
Greenly bowed graciously.
“But what is this?” she went on. An ivory card rested in the center of the butler’s tray. “I’m expecting no one. But are you certain the caller is for me?”
“Quite, Your Grace,” droned Greenly. “She is ever so insistent.”
“She?” asked Miss Trelayne, eyeing the card. “Well, it couldn’t be Princess Cynde, she doesn’t bother with cards. Ana will make me come to her.”
“We could run through every female in your acquaintance,” said Ian, stepping to the tray, “or we could simply read the card.”
At the sound of his voice, Miss Trelayne looked up. Their eyes met, and the cream of her cheeks and throat warmed to pink. Ian winked at her, enjoying the oddest surge of gratification. But perhaps she was not damaged from last night.
He took up the card and flipped it. “Mrs. Betina Covington-Leeds,” he read. “Lady Blicken. Who the devil—?”
Ian, who’d paid a small fortune to acquire a rushed special marriage license, suddenly remembered the name from the stack of documents.
Drew’s mother.
Betina Covington-Leeds, Lady Blicken, was his new mother-in-law.
“Oh no,” Drew said. She took two steps back and stared at the card like it was a severed limb.
“Drewsmina?” Ian asked carefully. He studied the card again. “Should we tell her—”
Drew spun to the collected group. “Everyone, listen very carefully. If ever you’ve held me in even the slightest regard, if your feelings for me extend even one notch above hate, I implore you—I beg you—listen very carefully and do as exactly as I say.”
Ian frowned at her. What the devil?
Ivy closed the book. Imogene snatched the ball from the air and raised an eyebrow.
“Who is Lady Blicken?” Imogene demanded. “The woman on the soap label, isn’t she?”
“That’s Lady Lichen,” corrected Ivy.
“Quiet, please,” said Miss Trelayne, placing a hand to her forehead, closing her eyes. “Lady Blicken is married to Viscount Blicken—at least at present—and she is . . .” a deep sigh, “. . . my mother. More importantly, she is no one with whom to be trifled.”
She took another deep breath. Ian had never seen her so agitated. Even after being discovered with him in the gallery, she’d not appeared so distraught. He took a step closer. Would it be appropriate to touch her? He wanted to take her hand.
“Let us all endeavor to do everything exactly as I say,” Drew went on, “and perhaps she will . . . we will—Perhaps the day will not be ruined.”
“Ruined?” said Imogene.
“What am I saying,” muttered Drew. “We would be very lucky indeed, if she restricted ruination to only one day.”
“You exaggerate,” said Ian.
She’d not wanted him to meet her family prior to the wedding—it had been her very strong preference—and Ian had complied. He was annoyed by most people and generally considered it a small triumph to make the acquaintance of fewer, rather than more.
Drew’s dire warning continued. “If we are too inviting, she will linger; if we are too dismissive, she will scurry away and espouse our rudeness far and wide. If we are proud, she will deflate us. If we are humble, she will exploit us. If we are—”
“What if we are simply not home,” Ian suggested, “to callers?”
“No. The least-damaging thing to do is to receive her for a short time and get it over with. Greenly, where did you put her?”
“The pink salon, Your Grace.”
“The pink salon, the pink salon . . .” Drew repeated.
“It’s the one with all of the pink,” provided Imogene.
“Yes, that will do as good as any,” Drew said, thinking out loud. “Is she alone, Greenly, or is the viscount with her?”
“Alone, Your Grace.”
“Right. Very well.” She turned to the girls. “Imogene, Ivy, do yourselves this favor and stay entirely out of view. Ivy, take your French studies upstairs and finish in your bedchamber. Imogene, carry on with your lesson and do not leave the ballroom until I come for you.”
“Surely you do not expect me to hide away without even a peek,” complained Imogene. “Not after this preamble.”
“Surely I do,” Drew said absently. She was patting her hair, smoothing her skirts. She recovered gloves from her pockets and worked her hands into the soft leather.
“And miss out on meeting Lady Lichen?” complained Imogene. “You’re basically suggesting that we’ve been paid a visit by a right demon. How often does this happen? I should like to see a demon.”
“Remember all of the demons pointed out by Reverend Sagg?” Ivy reminded.
“Those were not actual demons, Ivy, those were simply women he did not like.”
“Well, my mother is not a demon,” said Drew, “but she is someone that I do not like. We needn’t stoop to name-calling; believe me, it has no effect except to make her more beastly. And anyway, there is nothing to see, Imogene, I assure you. She looks like any other woman of a certain age. In fact, she’s rather pretty. But heed my warning, young women far shrewder than yourselves have been taken in. Her innocent features are deceptive and she can reduce you to tears with a word.”
“Challenge accepted,” laughed Imogene, cocking the tennis ball behind her head, tossing it up, and serving it across the ballroom in the direction of Bucky.
The large woman caught the serve on an upswing and lobbed it back. Imogene darted to the net and returned the volley, laughing as she went.
“Do not leave this ballroom,” Drew called to the girl. “Imogene, please, I beg you!”
