Deceiving The Duke (Scandals and Spies Book 2) (5 page)

“You aren’t as inconspicuous as you’d like to think you are. If this is family business, I’d like to know about it. I’m almost twenty-four. I’m not a child.”

Morgan released a breath. He raised his hand to fiddle with the lock of white hair at his temple. “It isn’t family business.”

Giddy raised an eyebrow, his mouth set in a stubborn line.

After glancing around to ensure that no servants eavesdropped on the conversation, Morgan reluctantly admitted, “Tristan and I serve the Crown.”

Giddy’s shrewd green eyes gained a calculating look. Morgan could almost see the cogs spinning in his head as he sifted through the information. His lips barely moving, Gideon murmured, “As spies?”

Morgan neither confirmed nor denied this. He didn’t want to bring his family into the danger. Tristan had narrowly missed enough scrapes for Morgan to know exactly how dangerous field work was.

With a gleam in his eye, Giddy stepped closer, blocking Morgan’s path toward the stairs. When the botanist crossed his arms, Morgan was surprised to notice solid muscle shaping the fabric of his tailcoat. At six and a half feet tall, he would likely have frightened any man other than Morgan. Morgan was suddenly struck with the reality that his brother
wasn’t
a boy any more. He was a man.

“I want to take over Tristan’s position. Let me help.”

At twenty-four, Morgan had already been Duke for four years. Granted, he had been young to inherit the position and the responsibility had matured him. But he’d never been able to grasp things as quickly as Gideon, nor had he been as studious. Giddy was likely better able to take care of himself than Morgan had been at his age.

Morgan dropped his hand from his temple. “Tristan is in Tristan’s position. He hasn’t retired.”

“No, but he’s not in London, is he? He’s on his honeymoon, and you need someone to watch your back.”

Tristan was usually the man in the field, with Morgan providing additional support as needed. However, Morgan decided to keep that fact to himself. Even if he was willing to sit idly behind a desk—which he was not—his brother wasn’t properly trained. The training of spies fell under Morgan’s jurisdiction, but with a pivotal mission on the field and Strickland breathing down his neck to finish the job, he didn’t have the time.

Gideon added, “If you won’t accept my help, I’ll tell Lucy about this endeavor.” His voice was light, as if he didn’t care one way or another. He shrugged one shoulder.

He was a terrible liar. He wouldn’t put their sister in danger any more than Morgan would. Even if neither of them were children any longer, Lucy was a thousand times more reckless than Gideon. At least Morgan could count on Giddy to think his actions through before he made them.

With a sigh, Morgan shook his head in disapproval. “Blackmail, Gideon?”

His brother hiked up his chin. Throughout the evening, he’d gathered the deepening shadow of stubble along his jaw. All the Graylocke brothers were thus afflicted; Morgan had to shave twice a day if he hoped to keep his appearance presentable. Some days, he prayed for beards to come back into fashion, just to save him the trouble.

Giddy said, “You need my help. You said so yourself. That’s the price for putting myself in Mother’s matchmaking sights.”

“And Lucy. Don’t forget about her.”

The younger man made a face. “The day she tries to convince me to marry is the day I resume leaving frogs in her bed.”

“She’d probably adopt one as a pet.”

The glimmer of a smile crossed Giddy’s face. He didn’t argue.

Morgan jabbed a finger at his brother. “You will stay out of the field.”

He nodded, more of his hair falling into his eyes. “Done.”

“And do what I say.”

“How is that different from any other day?”

Morgan clenched his jaw. “
Gideon.
”

“Fine, yes.”

The weight started to lift from Morgan’s shoulders as he warmed to the idea. He had been nervous about entering the field without Tristan. He could do it, of that he had no doubt, but the idea of doing it alone left a sour taste in his mouth. However, if Tristan had been in London, he would have taken over the investigation and left Morgan on the sidelines.

Morgan was always left behind. He couldn’t go off to war because he was the duke and needed to beget an heir. His position in the spy network, that of a secondary spymaster to Strickland, had been crafted for that very reason, as well. He was too important, to the family and to England. In reality, it was Morgan’s position as Duke that was important, not him. He compiled reports. He trained spies.

This mission was his chance to prove that he could do more.

Morgan caught and held his brother’s gaze. “If you want to help, you cannot under any circumstances tell Mother or Lucy.” A shudder crawled down Morgan’s spine as he thought of their reactions. Mother would likely worry herself into an early grave. Lucy would march up to Strickland’s house and demand to be included, even though she was the most conspicuous person Morgan knew.

Given the look on Giddy’s face, the same horrifying thoughts crossed his mind. “Agreed.”

“Then let’s continue this conversation in the study.”

Morgan’s study in the Tenwick townhouse was located on the second floor nestled between a sitting room overlooking the street and the formal library. As he and his brother mounted the stairs, their footsteps echoing in the eerily silent house. Most, if not everyone, had gone to sleep.

The second floor was dark, without a single candle to light their path, but Morgan knew the way by rote. He found the right door and let himself in, cocking an ear for anything or anyone out of place. Silence. As he crossed to the mantle, he used a tinderbox to light a pair of candles. Once they cast a rosy glow around the room, he snuffed the tinder and returned the box to its place on the mantle.

Giddy claimed one of the leather chairs in front of Morgan’s desk. Papers stacked neatly, in pile after pile, on the surface. Since his return to London three days ago, the spy reports had been directed to the townhouse instead of the ancestral estate. He tried to skim as many as he could before forwarding them to his assistant, recuperating from a gunshot wound in the country.

As he stretched out his legs in front of him, Gideon laced his fingers behind his head. “So, why are you in London?”

Morgan poured them both a snifter of brandy before he dropped into the chair next to his brother, rather than his usual position behind the desk. He didn’t want this to feel like a formal instruction. They clinked glasses and he took a sip, relishing the warm burn, before he answered.

“It begins with Harker.”

“Elias Harker? The one who died at Tenwick Abbey earlier this month?”

Morgan nodded. He took another sip before he confessed, “Harker was a French spy.”

Gideon’s mouth dropped open. “That weasel? Who would want him?”

“The French, apparently.”

Shaking his head, Giddy shrugged, incredulous. “So you killed him?”

Morgan didn’t flinch. He had killed a man before, in the line of duty. If at all possible, he didn’t want to repeat it, no matter their allegiance. “I didn’t, personally. I tried to arrest him, but he refused to be taken alive.”

Giddy clawed off his cravat, letting it hang loose. His throat worked as he took a sip. After he finished processing the information, he ventured, “Sounds like he was on his way to the hangman’s noose, anyway. What does he have to do with your sudden urge to return to London?”

“Harker’s allegiances were well known, for years. We had someone in place, monitoring him and reporting on his movements.”

His new sister-in-law’s mother, in fact. She and her other daughter, Charlotte, had returned to Harker’s estate to gather what belongings they could before the Crown seized the house. He had extended them his hospitality, given that they had nowhere else to go.

Morgan rubbed the streak in his hair. “We weren’t supposed to interfere with Harker.”

“Ah.”

His brother, usually much more verbose, said nothing more.

Morgan added, “As punishment, I have to uncover his replacement in the
ton.
Strickland—our spymaster—is convinced France will push to have someone fill Harker’s shoes.”

Gideon raised an eyebrow. “You aren’t convinced?”

“I think a spy in the servant class would have more freedom of movement and won’t draw as many rapt gazes, eager to dig up a scandal. But I’ve only been doing this for half a decade. What do I know?” With those bitter words, he gulped another mouthful of brandy. Only a finger remained in the glass. He swirled it, letting it breathe.

“I probably don’t have enough information about France’s tactics to give my opinion,” Giddy said slowly, “but I’m inclined to agree with you. You, of all people, know how nosy the
ton
can be.”

Morgan grinned. “I knew you were my favorite brother for a reason.”

Although he tried to hide the reaction behind a sip of brandy, Morgan noticed his brother’s cheeks turn pink.

“So, where do we start looking?”

Morgan’s chest clenched.
Not ‘we.’ Me.
For all that Giddy was quick of mind, he didn’t have the experience Morgan had, nor the training. He couldn’t condone sending his baby brother out into the field.

Choosing his words carefully, he said, “I’m following a lead from Strickland at the moment that started with the Society for the Advancement of Science. He handles the reports from London, not me, so I’m working on secondhand knowledge.”

Gideon frowned. He rubbed at the stubble on his chin. “That sounds inefficient. Maybe we ought to talk to this Strickland, and have the reports sent here instead.”

Morgan shrugged. “I don’t have the time to attend to the reports I usually do—Keeling is handling those at the moment.”

“Your valet who was shot?”

He raised his eyebrows. “My assistant. Surely you didn’t think Tristan and I were the only spies on the Tenwick estate.”

“But you left him at Tenwick Abbey.”

Morgan shrugged. “I’m borrowing Tristan’s assistant for now.”

“His valet.” Giddy’s voice was flat. After a moment to think about it, he shook his head ruefully. “And here I thought Tristan wanted a private holiday with his new wife, without servants to interrupt.”

A grin pulled at Morgan’s lips. “I’m sure he wants that. He’s quite smitten, you know.”

“I know.” Giddy put his tumbler down on a corner of the desk. He drummed his fingers on the wood. “I could handle the reports, you know. Look for connections. I’m good at that sort of thing. Not as good as you, but a decent second.”

Morgan was flattered that his genius younger brother thought he could do something better. “I’ll send a note to Strickland.”

After draining the contents of his glass, he stood and rounded his desk, fishing out a sheet of foolscap. As he jotted down the request, he added, “I doubt he’ll relinquish the originals, but perhaps he can send us the compiled reports from those in the
ton
or those watching high society.”

Leaning across the desk, Giddy’s eyes gleamed. “What language are you writing in?”

Morgan spared a glance at the words he’d written without thinking. “English. But it’s in code, in case the message is intercepted.” He sprinkled sand onto the page to dry the ink. “Are you tired? I’ll teach you.”

Gideon sat straighter. “I’m wide awake.”

“Good.” Morgan smiled. It was destined to be a long night, but he couldn’t regret it. Sharing this part of spy work with his brother, who seemed as enthusiastic about it as Morgan was, felt good. He didn’t feel quite so much like a useless ornament tonight.

P
hil rapped
on the dark mahogany door hard enough to sting her knuckles. The smooth wood, carved with an intricate scroll pattern in the corners, was nestled between the dusky gray stone walls of a six-story townhouse with a slate roof. The Tenwick townhouse perched on the edge of a square of other lofty homes, separated by a shared mews and dirt alleys leading to spacious gardens behind. In the center of the square was a fenced park of graveled walkways twining between the trees. The square screamed of money and influence. Phil wasn’t surprised at all to discover this was the townhouse of a Duke.

A tall, prim-looking older man opened the door from within, sixty if he was a day. Snowy white hair pulled back in a queue—a wig or his hair?—complemented the silver trim on his azure livery. He raised bushy eyebrows that resembled small snowbanks perched over his clear, blue eyes. His long face ended in a thin-lipped mouth pulled into a neutral line.

“May I help you?”

“That depends if you intend to let me in.” Phil fished a calling card from the reticule hanging off her left wrist. The corner of the card was crinkled, but she hoped it wasn’t too noticeable. She thrust it into his hand. “I’m here to see Lady Lucy Graylocke.”

Liar.
Phil bit the inside of her cheek. She matched the butler’s stare.

Hell’s bells, given his impeccable composure, his pedigree was probably more pristine than hers was! No doubt his family had served the Graylockes since the dawn of time, when the now-lofty ducal house had lived in a cave with their pet dinosaurs. Phil, whose family had literally been turned out of their estate at gunpoint, felt like slime for venturing to the Tenwick townhouse under false pretenses.

Unfortunately, it couldn’t be helped. The Duke of Tenwick had something that she wanted—no,
needed
. Desperately.

In a voice that chilled, the butler informed her, “It’s ten of the morning.”

“Does Lady Lucy like to lay abed?” Phil had been counting on just such a thing. “Perhaps, if you’ll let me wait in the sitting room, you can ask and see if she’ll see me.”

The grizzled man stared at her for what felt like an eternity. Then, with an almost imperceptible sigh, he stepped to the right. “Very well, miss.”

Phil almost dropped to the ground and kissed the chiseled stone stairs. She didn’t know what she would have done if he’d denied her entry. Climbed the wall and snuck in like a cat burglar? That sounded like it would require more finesse than even her inventions could give her.

“This way.”

She followed the butler the few feet to the front parlor. To the left, polished wooden stairs climbed to the upper levels of the townhouse. Although she suspected that the women of the house were still abed, the men likely at White’s or some other male abode, the house bustled with activity. Maids ducked in and out of rooms, their dresses mismatched but for the azure apron. Footmen in full livery stopped to flirt with them at doorways, a pause in completing their own tasks. The servants seemed at ease here, evidence that the duke wasn’t a cruel master.

Lucky for her, because if he discovered what she was about to do, he would not be happy with her.

With a smile, she sailed into the parlor. This one, likely reserved for guests, was a masterpiece in opulence and an odd juxtaposition of masculine and feminine. Sturdy, wing-backed chairs in brown leather were nestled between dark wood tables matching the mantle. The tables held delicate lace doily napkins, a match for the spindly-legged white settee and chairs. The wallpaper was a neutral beige color, which might have been drab if not for the flourish of red roses above the dark-paneled dado. The air smelled sweet with spring flowers stemming from a glazed vase on the largest tables. The vase overflowed with vibrant blooms. Phil expected no different, considering a botanist lived on the premises.

When she snuck a glance over her shoulder, she found the doorway vacant. The butler must have already gone upstairs to wake Lucy. That meant that Phil didn’t have much time. If Lucy was as enthusiastic to question her today as she had been at the ball yesterday, Phil didn’t have much time to do what she’d come to do.

Somewhere in this house, the Duke of Tenwick had the prism she needed to complete her LEGs. And she was going to steal it back.

As she darted back into the hall, a squeal split the air—and it did not come from above stairs. Fully dressed in a sea-green walking dress, Lucy erupted from a room down the hall. “Phil, how lovely to see you!”

The poor, haggard butler followed in her wake. “Forgive me, miss. You should have mentioned you were a particular friend of Lady Lucy’s.”

Speechless, Phil stared at the butler while Lucy squeezed the daylights out of her with a fierce hug. “I didn’t know I was. We only met yesterday.”

Lucy, seeming not to mind the half-hearted conversation going on behind her back, released Phil and stepped back. Phil gulped for air, only to have it flee her lungs in a rush when Lucy latched onto her hand and yanked her into the drawing room. She stumbled, but managed to keep her feet.

“I’m so happy you decided to call. I have so many questions to ask you.” With brisk little pushes, Lucy herded Phil onto the settee. “Stay right there. I jotted my questions down in my notebook, which is in my reticule in my room. I’ll ring for tea. Stay there.”

Phil’s ears rang with the velocity and pitch of her words. Before now, she wouldn’t have thought Lucy’s behavior last night to be restrained. It was charming, if overwhelming. Before she knew it, she found herself alone in a parlor blanketed in blissful silence.

A serene gait broke the silence with a steady
click, click, click.
As Phil raised her gaze, still lost for words, the dowager duchess appeared in the doorway. In the daylight streaming in from the broad window looking out onto the street, the resemblance between her and Lucy was plain. Both had dark hair—Lucy’s a touch darker—and a similarly shaped face. The dowager even resembled her sons, in the shape of her eyes and the proud way she held herself. Her eyes narrowed as she swept her gaze over Phil’s attire.

Phil hadn’t dressed with a mind toward impressing one of the oldest and most powerful families in Britain. She wore an amber riding dress decorated with the barest hint of lace across the dip of the neckline, covered by her modest beige spencer. She wore no jewels and her hair was simply dressed, braided and then pinned to the back of her head. Unruly strands already fought their way free. She hadn’t worn a bonnet, and her gloves were kid leather, made for riding, which she’d done rather than drive. A single horse caused less comment than a carriage.

In short, she didn’t compare to the splendor of a duchess. Although Lucy’s mother wore a simple, dove-gray frock, she had a poise and presence that Phil couldn’t hope to match. Most days, she didn’t even aspire to. She liked who she was, and didn’t care a whit for the fashion standards of the
ton
.

Today, however, a small part of her whispered that with a fraction of the dowager’s grace, Phil could draw any man’s eye.
And whose eye do you hope to draw?
She refused to think of the man currently in possession of her prism.

The woman smiled, and it occurred to Phil that she didn’t even look that old. In her early fifties, at best.

“I hope you won’t take Lucy’s lack of manners to heart. She is unusually rambunctious this morning.”

For some reason, Phil felt disappointed at that statement. Too many of the
ton
spent their lives restraining their true personality and zest for life. The fact that Lucy did not, despite being raised as the sole daughter of one of the most powerful British families, gave Phil a sense of satisfaction.
We don’t all have to be that way.

“Would you care for some tea?”

Faced with an odd urge to defend Lucy, Phil answered, “Thank you, but Lucy has already offered.”

One corner of the dowager’s mouth lifted in a wry smile. “I should hope so. What she neglected to do was order the tea before she stampeded up the stairs.” With the raise of her hand, the woman summoned a young maid, no more than sixteen years old.

The girl curtsied. “Right away, ma’am. Shall I bring a few slices of seed cake as well?”

“Please do.” Without a farewell glance, the dowager glided into the room and claimed a chair across from Phil.

Neat trick.
Phil bit the inside of her mouth to keep from spewing the words aloud. If she raised her hand in her own house, would her servants read her mind? More likely Pickle would land on her arm and insult her.

The patter of footsteps hailed Lucy’s return. She burst into the sitting room with a wide grin on her face. Despite the exertion adding color to her cheeks, not a strand of her hair was out of place. Locks of Phil’s hair tickled her neck. She gritted her teeth, resolutely ignoring the irritation. Some women had all the luck.

As she dropped into one of the masculine armchairs, a leather-bound pocketbook and a graphite pencil in hand, Lucy beamed. “Has Mother told you the good news?”

Wary, Phil glanced toward the dowager, who pressed her lips together in restrained mirth, but didn’t comment. “I’m afraid not. What news?”

“We’re getting a parrot!”

“That’s…wonderful news?”

Leaning forward, Lucy gripped Phil’s forearm hard, unable to contain her glee. “Isn’t it just? I’ve been up all night trying to settle on the right name. How did you choose yours?”

Phil smiled, recalling that chaotic moment. Pearls flying across the tea shop, an old woman screaming profanity, and Pickle flapping out of the reach of the beastly woman’s cane. Phil’s heart had been in her mouth. She’d had a bruise for two weeks on her forearm where she’d taken the blow from that cane in his place.

Gently, Phil pried the young woman’s death grip off her arm. “I rescued him from certain death after his owner got irritated that he broke her necklace. When I told him he was in a pickle, he made that cooing bird giggle that parrots make. He didn’t stop repeating the word for days.”

Lucy canted her head to the side, staring into the air as she tapped her lower lip with her pinky. “Maybe I should see what the bird wants to be named. I had hoped that you would be able to help me find a reputable place to buy a bird, though…”

“I’m afraid I found Pickle by luck alone. I will keep my ear to the ground in case I hear of anything.”

“Thank you. I don’t suppose you’d be willing to help train our parrot when we get one?”

Phil was saved from having to answer as the young maid returned with a tray full of overturned cups, a tea pot, sugar dish, and milk jug, a scrumptious-looking seed cake, and several plates. As the young woman curtsied, miraculously keeping the tray perfectly level, Phil hopped to her feet.

“Could I beg the use of your retiring room for a moment?”

Lucy shrugged. “Certainly. It’s down the hall—”

The dowager leaned forward with a smile. “Why don’t you use the one on the third floor, Miss St. Gobain? The one down here is in disrepair and that one is much nicer. All the way down the hall at the back of the house.”

Phil’s heartbeat quickened. Her mouth dried. Did Lady Graylocke suspect that Phil wasn’t here for a social call? She swallowed, trying to call moisture into her mouth, before she replied as evenly as she could manage.

“Thank you, Lady Graylocke, I will.”

“Please, call me Evelyn.”

Phil’s lips parted. It took her a moment to muster words. “Thank you. And you must call me Phil.”

The dowager waved one hand idly through the air. “If you get lost, call out. Someone will be by to help you in a trice.”

“Thank you. I will.”

Somehow, Phil managed to put one foot in front of the other and vacate the room before her heart clawed its way out from between the bars of her ribcage. In the fresh air of the corridor, her churning thoughts settled. The dowager duchess—Evelyn—had given her the perfect excuse to venture above stairs.

She took it, quickly mounting to the second floor. A pair of maids hummed as they bustled out of a room at the end with feather dusters in hand. With servants nearby, Phil didn’t dare linger to discover what rooms lay beyond the doorways peppering the corridor. She mounted the stairs to the third floor. At least she had an excuse to be here.

When she opened the first door on her right to display a feminine bedchamber—likely Lucy’s, given the books and papers piled on every flat surface—she realized that she’d been directed to the family’s personal quarters.
Excellent.
If she were to find the duke’s room, she could shut the door and search to her heart’s content. This floor was eerily silent compared to the bustle of the last two, with no servants in sight at all.

In succession, Phil opened the door to reveal: the dowager’s chambers, what appeared to be an unused bedchamber given the lack of personal effects, a room in slight disarray with a trunk of feminine clothing in the center, and a dark room that smelled earthy. Phil didn’t see much of the last, aside from the fronds of a potted plant nestled next to the door. The moment a snore rent the air, she shut the door with haste. Given the plant, it must be Lord Gideon’s room—and he must still be abed. With her heart in her throat, Phil tiptoed away, praying that she hadn’t disturbed him. When he didn’t yank the door open to glare at her, she let out a sigh of relief.

The next bedchamber down the line must belong to the duke. Squaring her shoulders, Phil ghosted down the hall. She laid her hand on the latch and tentatively opened the door.

No snoring. The rich azure drapes were partially shut, tickled by the breeze drifting through the open window. Daylight trickled in from the gap to dimly light the room. More thick drapes were pulled across the bed, their silver cords hanging loose. No motion betrayed that the room was occupied. Phil slipped into the room, easing the door shut behind her.

Thanks to the breeze through the window, the air didn’t smell stale. She crept along the plush Persian carpet, a rich array of blues and greens and purples, as she moved to the window to let in more light. When the gray light sifting through the clouds penetrated the room, she studied the panorama, trying to guess where a duke would hide a prism the size of a shilling. Unfortunately, the possibilities were myriad.