A Duke to Remember (A Season for Scandal Book 2) (29 page)

“Good” was all she said.

Ivory yanked the shirt over the corpse’s head, careful not to touch the duke where he had the dead man braced. Alderidge had shed his greatcoat, and beneath the bulky winter garment lay a pair of broad shoulders and an impressive collection of muscles in all the right places. His own shirt and waistcoat hid some of them, but not enough to slow the pulse she could feel pounding at her throat.

It was ridiculous, but it was an effort not to simply stare at him.

He looked a bit untamed, Ivory thought, as she jammed a lifeless arm through the opening of Debarry’s striped waistcoat. Like a lion that had suddenly appeared amid a clutter of domesticated house cats. She diligently attacked the row of waistcoat buttons, wrestling them into their buttonholes, considering further. It was obvious Alderidge was a man used to power and control, yet it would seem his sister’s welfare trumped his disinclination to surrender either. That was certainly a relief—

“Miss Moore?”

Ivory blinked and looked up. “I’m sorry?”

“I asked you if you think I should retie his cravat.”

Good God. This was no time for flights of fancy about untamed pirates. They were dealing with the Earl of Debarry here, and she could not afford any missteps. The man had too many powerful friends. The situation at hand required her undivided attention.

“No,” she said, gathering her wits. “Leave off his cravat. And his evening coat and his shoes. But bring them with us.” She pushed herself off the bed, where she had been kneeling. “Elise, stay here with Mary. Get her to stop sniveling and pick out the appropriate wig from the kit. She’ll know what hairstyle Lady Beatrice was wearing tonight. I also need to know if there is anything missing of Lady Beatrice’s. Clothing, shoes, jewelry.”

Elise, now in nothing but her chemise, nodded, busy examining the rose ball gown. “Of course.”

“There’s water in the basin,” Ivory said, pointing toward the washstand. “I’ll need that. Please leave it just outside the door.”

“Done. Anything else?” Elise asked.

“No, I think that will get us started. His Grace and I will take Debarry to a guest room.” She gestured at the duke to get under one of the corpse’s arms.

Alderidge frowned. “Why are we taking him to a guest room?”

“Because he’s too big to stuff up a chimney.” Ivory pulled a lifeless arm over her shoulder and together they hauled the man off the bed.

The duke’s jaw clenched again. “I don’t appreciate your humor.”

Ivory sighed. “No, I don’t suppose you do.”

They made their way to the door, Ivory puffing under the dead weight. Thank God the duke and his muscles had shown up when they did. She and Elise would have managed it, but it would have been a struggle. She unlocked the door and cracked it open, peering into the hall. It was still deserted.

“Quickly now.”

They made their way down the hall, the duke doing most of the work to support the body. Mercifully, the hallway remained empty, and they shoved their way into a guest room, Ivory pushing the door shut behind them with her foot. The room was dark, the only faint light coming through the window from streetlamps burning below.

She ducked out from under their lifeless load and pulled back the sheets. “Put him into bed,” she whispered.

Alderidge dropped the bundle of clothing he had under his other arm and heaved the corpse onto the mattress. Together they arranged his limbs into a pose of peaceful slumber.

“Now what?” he asked in a clipped voice.

“Debarry was feeling poorly when you ran into him,” Ivory said, pulling up the sheets and tucking them around the earl. “Though you had just returned home and hadn’t even had a chance to change for the ball, you offered to have his carriage brought around. He refused, declaring that he was certain he would feel better with a brief rest. Being a gracious host, you offered him your guest room. You saw to his needs yourself, as the servants were all busy downstairs.”

“Why don’t we just take him back to his own house?” the duke hissed. “I don’t particularly want him found dead in any of my rooms. People will talk.”

“Probably. But Debarry shows no obvious symptoms of anything save a lifetime of overindulgence. His untimely death will be unfortunate but not shocking.” She retrieved the earl’s pumps and set them neatly by the bed. The forgotten evening coat and cravat she laid out over the end of the footboard, as if Debarry had been planning on redressing. “And the risk of taking him back to his own house is too great. Downstairs there’s an army of guests and footmen and coachmen and grooms to get past, and then assuming we arrive safely at our destination, we’d have to navigate Debarry’s own servants. It would be almost impossible.”

“Almost?”

“I’ve done it once or twice when there has simply been no other option.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means I’ve helped others out of worse situations than this.”

“Worse? How could it be worse? This man is dead, and my sister is missing!”

Ivory winced slightly. There was absolutely nothing she could say at this moment that the duke wanted to hear about Lady Beatrice. “I need you to dress for the ball now,” she told him instead. “And you need to hurry.”

“Have you lost your mind? I should be out looking for Bea, not prancing around a ballroom.” His voice was absolute, and Ivory suspected that he was very good at commanding his crew.

Too bad for him she wasn’t one of them.

“And you will look for her. But not right now.” She was careful to keep her tone steady but firm.

“You think this is partly my fault, don’t you?”

“As I said earlier, I am not here to form opinions, Your Grace. I’m here to make sure your sister returns safely to your protection. And to do that, I need you to trust me.”

The duke raked his hands through his hair, creating an impenetrable shadow across his face. Ivory didn’t need to see his features to know that furious indecision would be stamped there.

She took a step forward and placed her hand gently on his shoulder. The man might be a controlling ass, but he was clearly worried about his sister. And she needed his full cooperation if she was going to pull this off. “This is what will happen next. You will dress. Go downstairs. Welcome your guests, regale them with tales of your last voyage. Be visible. You are the perfect distraction, and your presence here will doubtless aid your sister tonight. Somewhere over a card game, mention to at least two people, but no more than four, your regret that Debarry is missing the hand because he was feeling poorly. In one hour you will instruct your butler to check on his lordship. Not a footman, but the butler. Butlers are far more discreet.” Beneath her fingers his muscles were tight.

“What about Bea?”

“Leave her to me. Just for right now. Now let’s get you dressed. Which one is your room?”

Alderidge opened his mouth twice before he managed a response. “You’ve done quite enough, Miss Moore.”

“I will tell you when I’ve done enough,” Ivory said. “You can either tell me which one is your room or I will simply find it myself. But I will remind you again that time is not our friend.”

“I don’t need—”

Ivory blew out a breath of exasperation and tiptoed to the door. She checked the hallway, but it remained empty, the only sound the muted noise of the music and the crowd below their feet. Silently she slipped from the room and started down the hall. She bent to retrieve the basin that Elise had left outside Beatrice’s door, careful not to slop the water on the rug. “Which room, Your Grace? I will open every one of these doors, or you can just tell me.”

“Jesus.” Alderidge was on her heels, and not happy about it. “This one.” He pushed by her and stalked to the end of the hall, opening the last door on the right.

The room was dark, yet the faint musty smell she had expected from a room left unused too long was absent. Though the room was chilled, it would seem the town house enjoyed the attentions of an exceedingly diligent staff. Ivory closed the door behind her and waited for her eyes to adjust, light suddenly flaring as the duke lit two lanterns.

The room was sparsely decorated with the basics, and there was not a personal touch in evidence anywhere. A bed with a Spartan headboard and footboard was covered in a plain white coverlet. A cumbersome wardrobe loomed against one of the walls, and there was a washstand with a porcelain bowl resting empty and cold in the center. A small cheval mirror stood near the washstand, and at the foot of the bed rested a battered trunk, the only indication that this space might belong to somebody.

“No dressing room, Your Grace?” Ivory asked, heading for the washstand. She dumped the water into the bowl and put Lady Beatrice’s basin on the floor. Then she moved to the wardrobe.

“A waste of space.” He was still standing near the cold hearth and the lanterns.

“Spoken like a man who chooses to live on a ship, I suppose,” Ivory replied mildly. “I must assume you have a shaving kit in here somewhere?”

“Of course I do.”

“Then I would advise you to get started.”

“Are you ordering me to shave? Now?”

“Anything that deviates from an expected appearance will be remembered. Remarked upon. Speculated on. You cannot appear like a barbarous, disheveled pirate on the same night that your ball ends because there is a dead man in your guest room.”

“What did you just call me?”

“I didn’t call you anything. I simply commented upon your current appearance.” Ivory had reached the wardrobe and stopped. “Do you need me to shave you?”

Alderidge’s jaw dropped open. “
What?
”

Given his expression, she might as well have suggested she take him on a flying carpet to the moon. “Time, Your Grace, is ticking. I don’t know how many more times I need to stress this to you before you understand that we simply must find a way to get done what needs to be done. Either you shave, and make yourself look presentable to society, or I will do it for you.”

“No, I don’t need you holding a razor to my throat,” Alderidge muttered, but at least he was moving now. He knelt before the battered trunk and released the buckles. He opened the lid and rummaged in its interior, then pulled out a leather case. He stalked over to the washstand and started extracting items.

Satisfied, Ivory turned back to the massive wardrobe, just as a terrible thought struck her. “Do you even have evening clothes?”

“Of course I have evening clothes.” He stopped. “Somewhere. In there, maybe?”

Dear God. Ivory yanked open the two center doors and nearly swooned with relief when she wasn’t met with a swarm of moths. The clothes, like the room, were neat and orderly, folded on shelves, as though the duke had just stepped out for two hours as opposed to two years. When it came to the domestic details, Lady Helen, it would seem, ran a tight ship.

Ivory ran her fingers over a collection of crisply folded linen shirts, waistcoats, breeches, and more formal pantaloons. The drawers below revealed an array of stockings, braces, and pressed cravats, each one separated from the next by a thin piece of tissue. Opening the long door at the side of the wardrobe, she discovered a collection of jackets sorted by function. It had been a very long time since she had had the pleasure of choosing evening wear. Of any sort.

The sharp scent of shaving soap had filled the room, and Ivory could hear the faint swirl of water in the basin, followed by the scrape of a straight blade against stubble. A faint twinge of melancholy struck her, old memories surfacing of the pleasure she had derived from simply watching a man shave. In those memories she sat on the edge of the bed while her husband went about his ablutions, most often preferring to do it himself, as this duke did. In those memories those stolen moments of privacy were always filled with banter and conversation and laughter.

But they were just that. Memories. And they had no place in the present.

Pushing the melancholy and memories aside, Ivory carefully selected a shirt, waistcoat, and tailcoat, draping each over her arm. She stood on her tiptoes and pulled a pair of pantaloons from a shelf. The clothes were all of fine quality and understated in their color, making it easy to coordinate.

“I’ll lay your clothes out on the bed,” she started, turning around. She had the tailcoat and his shirt spread neatly on the coverlet when she made the mistake of looking up. And found herself staring.

The duke had stripped off his worn waistcoat and shirt, and had his back to her, peering into the cheval mirror as he ran the blade over his skin. He’d moved one of the lanterns to the washstand so that he might see better, and the light created an impressive silhouette, putting his torso in stark relief. The muscles in his arms and shoulders flexed each time he lifted the razor to his face—raw, male, physical power sculpted into beautiful lines. His spine created a valley of shadow that started beneath the ends of his long hair and traveled down through the ridges and planes of his back to dip into the waistband of his breeches.

She couldn’t draw enough air into her lungs, and a peculiar light-headedness seemed to have impaired her ability to remember what she was supposed to be doing. He was stunning, and she couldn’t even begin to imagine what that power and strength might feel like beneath her hands or between her—

“Am I not doing this fast enough for your liking?” the duke said irritably, and with some horror, Ivory realized he was watching her in the mirror.

“Are you almost done?” she said, and it was a monumental effort to keep her voice even.

“Yes.” He picked up his discarded shirt and dried his face.

“Good.” She placed the last items of clothing on the bed and turned back to the wardrobe, under the guise of fetching stockings. And while she was fetching him silk stockings, she would try to remember how to breathe normally.

Bloody hell. She needed to pull herself together.

“Get undressed,” she ordered, not turning around. “I need you downstairs in ten minutes.”

“And I don’t need you in here at all.”

Ivory jumped, not having heard the duke come up behind her. She turned and was presented with a view of his broad chest.