An Unlikely Duchess (8 page)

“Yes.” Her eyes kindled suddenly and her nostrils flared. “The villain!” she cried, leaping to her feet and almost colliding with the duke’s chest. “The black-hearted, conscienceless villain! He is a thief as well as a...as well as a...an abductor. He has stolen my jewels.”

“I’m afraid it appears to be so,” the duke said.

“Well.” She began to pace the room, no mean accomplishment in such confined space. “I was prepared to let him off lightly. I was prepared to consider your fisticuffs punishment enough even though he deserved worse. But he has gone too far. If he thinks I am going to ignore the loss of my jewels, then he will be sadly disappointed. Oh, just wait until I get my hands on him. He will be sorry he was ever born.”

“It is likely that he will head for London if he is carrying stolen property,” the duke said, “a two-day journey at the very least. I shall convey you with all speed to your aunt’s house, ma’am, since it is closer than your home, and inform your uncle of your loss.”

“What?” she said, turning to frown at him with such ferocious incredulity that any stranger would have thought he was the one who had mortally offended her. “You think I would sit quietly at my Aunt Ermingford’s while a villain for whom a noose is too good makes off with my jewels? You do not know me, sir. I thank you for your assistance. Now, if you will excuse me, I have to inquire after the hiring of a carriage and horses.”

The duke rocked on his heels and scratched his head. “And doubtless tear off all alone to London,” he said. “It is madness, ma’am. I cannot allow it.”

He had once watched a hot air balloon filling with air in preparation for taking its owners up into the sky. Miss Middleton bore a distinct resemblance to that balloon for a few moments as she inhaled audibly through her nose. “
You
cannot allow it?” she said. “I must remind you, sir, that you have no responsibility whatsoever for my actions.”

“But having rescued you from one decidedly perilous situation,” he. said, “I feel a certain vested interest in keeping you rescued.”

She was stuffing her belongings back inside the valise with even less care than before. “I am not going to my aunt’s,” she said, “and I am not going back home. I am going in pursuit of Mr. Porterhouse and my jewels. And I shall find them, too, even if I have to circle the globe in order to do so.”

The duke was standing beside the bed, blowing out his cheeks. “Tell me,” he said, after watching her struggle with the clasp of her valise for a few silent moments, “do you know anyone in London?”

She looked up at him and thought for a moment. “Grandmama,” she said. “Mama’s mother, that is. And Aunt Elsie.”

“Very well,” he said with sudden decision. “Highly improper as it is, I shall convey you that far, ma’am, since you seem determined to go anyway. And I don’t believe you will find a faster vehicle here than my curricle or a faster set of horses than my own.”

She looked full into his eyes, not very far above the level of her own, and favored him with a wide smile. “You are going to take me?” she said. “Oh, I knew you would. You are a very kind gentleman.”

He rocked on his heels. His hair, she was pleased to notice, had already escaped from the taming he had given it earlier. It was looking nicely unruly again. He looked very pleasant and dependable. But it was a comfort to know that the coat covering his slender frame hid some very impressive muscles.

“I think,” the Duke of Mitford said mildly, “I am a very mad gentleman, ma’am.”

Chapter 5

He was even more convinced of the truth of his judgment on himself before they drove out of the innyard. It was a sad and sudden insanity. He had always led a proper and exemplary life. He was known as a dull dog—certainly as no one who would be likely to involve himself in any activity that was remotely daring or improper.

What was he doing, then at nine o’clock in the morning, tooling out to the king’s highway in his curricle, a flushed and rumpled young lady at his side, and nary a maid or groom or maiden aunt in sight?

He was turning north with her, that was what he was doing. Turning north toward an unknown destination, not south in the direction of London and her grandmother and aunt as he had planned to do.

He had left the inn room ahead of her. “Give me ten minutes,” he had said. “By that time the curricle will be ready and we can be off with the minimum of fuss.”

“Yes, sir,” she had said, still flushed and agitated from her discovery of the loss of her jewels. “Ten minutes it is. But please make them a fast ten minutes.”

He had gone downstairs, puzzling over that last sentence and wondering if the bride his grandfather had chosen as so suitable to his position had any brains at all. It was rather disconcerting to think he had almost married a girl who had no brains.

At least she was shorter than he. The top of her head reached barely to his chin. That was some consolation, at least, though totally irrelevant to the present situation.

She had waited seven minutes. He could have forgiven her the three since all was ready for departure by that time, anyway. Unfortunately he had forgotten when he left the room that she was brainless. The only strict instruction he had given was that she must wait ten minutes. He had not thought it necessary to spell out for her again the importance of slipping quietly from the inn, stepping up quietly into the curricle with his assistance, and sitting quietly beside him until they were out in open country so that only a few grooms would witness the impropriety of a young lady making off alone with a young gentleman. A young lady and gentleman who had not registered at the inn as husband and wife.

He had forgotten to give those instructions. Or rather, he had not thought it necessary to give them. Any properly brought up young lady with half a brain would have known for herself. She would have kept her head lowered and her chin tucked against her chest.

Lord, why had he not traveled in his closed carriage? And with Henry and his baggage and numerous coachmen and footmen? And by a different route?

When she came, she paused in the doorway of the inn, looked all about her with bright and curious eyes, picked out the head ostler, and hailed him in a voice that was accustomed to be both heard and obeyed.

The Duke of Mitford closed his eyes and offered up a brief prayer that no one he knew would ever hear of this scene.

“I arrived here last night with a gentleman,” Josephine Middleton announced to the head ostler, every other ostler in the innyard, every servant and guest at the inn, and every inhabitant of the village beyond. “A tall, handsome dark-haired gentleman. Did you by any chance see him leave?”

The ostler lifted his cap and scratched his head. He shifted his weight from one leg to the other. “That be the gruff and grim gent what was in such a hurry to get on his way at first light?” he said.

“Oh,” the girl sang out for all the world to enjoy, “that would have been Papa, who was in pursuit of me. No, this was a young man, who left last night.”

The head ostler had not been on duty last night after nine o’clock. He would have to go and consult with someone called Sam.

The Duke of Mitford did not grab her by the scruff of the neck and deposit her in his curricle. He did not make off alone and leave her to her fate. He did not do any of the things he might and should have done. He waited meekly beside the horses, waiting for the world to take note that he was about to abscond with a very young lady with whom he had not arrived the night before.

He knew of no other way of dealing with the matter. He had no experience in handling embarrassing and improper situations.

Sam—a totally bald giant whom one would certainly not want to meet in a dark alley at night—emerged from the inn with the innkeeper and two unidentified maids in tow. And Sam was quite insistent that the handsome gent had traveled north, not south.

Josephine Middleton was skeptical. The Duke of Mitford was skeptical too, though he did not open his mouth to say so, or anything else for that matter. But Sam was adamant. And ultimately convincing. He was the gent who had the bright blue and yellow carriage, was he not?

“Yes, indeed,” Miss Middleton answered. “A very bright blue and yellow.”

“And ‘e was the gent who looked dazed in ’is eyes and what chucked up ’is vittles in the corner there where there is now a pile of straw?” The huge bald head nodded in the direction of one comer of the innyard.

“Yes,” Miss Middleton said, eyes kindling, “he was the gentleman.”

Sam spat and ground his heel into the foaming patch. “ ’e went north,” he said.

And who was to argue with someone of Sam’s conviction and physique?

“Actually,” Miss Middleton said, settling herself into the seat beside the duke as he took his horses through the gateway of the inn into the street beyond, “it makes sense. I don’t believe Mr. Porterhouse is a stupid man, and it would be rather stupid to head for London, where pursuit was bound to follow him. It makes sense for him to turn north.” She turned to wave to the innkeeper and Sam and the head ostler and the unidentified maids and anyone else who cared to raise a hand in farewell. They were all smiling in sympathy—she had told them about the stolen jewels.

“That rascal will never spend another night in this hostelry, mum,” the innkeeper had assured her.

“Not unless ’e wants ‘is ears to meet in the middle of ’is ’ead, mum,” Sam had added with menace in his voice.

The head ostler had winked and grinned at the Duke of Mitford, and identical grins had been painted on the faces of all the other grooms, every one of whom had lost interest in the task at hand; they were all leaning on their pitchforks to witness the indecorous departure.

They might as well have had flags attached to the curricle and strings of bells to pull behind, the duke reflected.

So here they were, headed north instead of south, for all the world as if they were making a dash for Gretna Green. He supposed that he should keep a wary eye over his shoulder for ferocious looking older gentlemen brandishing pistols.

“Perhaps it would have been as well,” he suggested, “if we had left quietly, drawing as little attention to ourselves as we possibly could.”

“But then,” she said reasonably, “we would not have known, would we, that Mr. Porterhouse came north instead of going south. We would have been going in entirely the wrong direction. Had you made any inquiries of your own, sir?”

“No, I’m afraid not,” he had to admit. “I assumed he must be heading in the direction of London.”

“And there,” she said. “You would have taken me all that way and doubtless spent days there searching for him with me, and it would all have been in vain. I would have wasted all that time for you.”

“And so you would,” he said.

“And now,” she said, “if he decides to play a trick and turn back again and we do not see him, that Sam will have an eye out for him and do nasty things to him, no doubt. And his carriage is very distinctive. I secretly thought it rather tasteless, to be honest with you. Though I would not have said so for worlds while I thought Mr. Porterhouse to be a kind man. But now I do not mind speaking my mind on the subject.”

“I suppose you realize, do you,” he said, “that you have now blazed a very clear trail for your father to follow if he returns to that inn?”

“Perhaps it is just as well,” she said. “For Papa will be very severe with Mr. Porterhouse. Papa cannot abide thieves. Of course, he will insist that I go back home again and marry that obnoxious Duke of Mitford, but perhaps by that time his grace will be tired of waiting for me and will have taken himself off home again. You should just see his valet, sir.”

“Should I?” the duke asked, noting that she was clinging to a fistful of his coat sleeve with one hand and the rail on the outside of the seat with the other. “Am I driving too fast for you?”

“Oh, no,” she said. “I wish you would spring the horses, for Mr. Porterhouse has a great start on us. It is just that I have never ridden in a curricle, and I feel as if I am suspended over space. It is rather exciting actually. Oh. Do you mind my holding on to you?”

“Not at all,” he said. “You may link your arm through mine if you wish. Why should I have seen Mitford’s valet?”

“Oh,” she said with the greatest scorn, “he is just what one would expect of the servant of a duke, sir. His nose sniffs at the air as if it is not clean enough to be breathed by such an exalted personage.”

Mitford repressed a chuckle. Yes, the description did rather fit Henry.

“You can just imagine what his grace must be like,” the girl beside him said, her scorn intensified.

“Yes,” he said. “Earth is doubtless far too lowly a planet for him.”

“Exactly,” she said with enthusiasm. “And Papa and Grandpapa think I should marry him! I would rather marry a toad.”

“An admirable sentiment,” he said. They were passing a southbound stagecoach; on top of which a merry band of dandies were grinning and whooping and raising their hats in greeting. The duke waited for her response and was not disappointed. His companion smiled and raised one hand.

One of these times they were going to pass someone he knew. Oh, Lord.

“What I should have done,” he said, “was gone out and talked to your father last night, Miss Middleton. I cannot now imagine why I did not. Perhaps he would have been angry with you, but at least no major impropriety had been committed at that point.”

“But,” she said, “he would have killed you.”

“I think not,” he said, “once I had explained. Then he would have been with you when you discovered the loss of your jewels, and he would have been able to make this journey with you.”

“Oh,” she said, her voice crestfallen. Her face matched it, he saw when he looked. “You did not wish to come with me, did you?”

“It is not that,” he said. “It is just that this is all so very improper, ma’am.”

“But I would have had to marry the Duke of Mitford,” she said, gazing at him with soulful eyes.

“Your father could not have forced you,” he said. “Besides, perhaps the duke would not want to marry you when he saw you and knew you reluctant. Have you thought of that?”