Not Quite A Duke (Dukes' Club Book 6) (13 page)

Aston emulated then poured out two more glasses.

She gaped. “How do you manage it?”

Charles gave her a grin. “Practice, of course.”

“Which you clearly don’t have,” teased Aston.

“Yes, well, I usually do drink beer,” she said quickly.

Aston nodded then doffed his big hat. “Of course.”

“Still, you’d best start practicing,” said Charles with a wink. She wished to research? He was happy to assist.

She frowned then gave a smile through teary eyes. “Too true.”

She stared at them, then with the courage of a man facing a firing squad at dawn, she downed her own glass in one drink.

For a moment, Charles was certain she’d have it all back out again in a moment.

But, tough thing that she was, she grinned and slammed her glass down. “Another, if you. . . Please.”

“A woman after my heart,” Aston declared and poured again. “Now, why don’t you tell me how you lost your wings, my angel?”

Charles felt a growl forming in the back of his throat. Aston was marvelous with women. Women adored him. Much the same as they adored Charles but Patience had her suspicions of him. . . Which he supposed was in his favor.

If she disliked his reputation as a rake, she couldn’t like Aston any further, except he was a duke. A married duke, but a duke who knew how to distribute compliments with sincerity. Something that was difficult for women to resist.

Except. . . Lady P raised her glass and gave a canny smile. “Oh, Your Grace, ’tis a boring tale.”

“Nothing about you could be boring, my dear.”

“Not true!” she cried passionately. “It is the same as any tale. A girl comes to London, is picked up by a bawd, and descends from the glory of a mistress to a girl of the streets.”

Charles coughed to cover his laugh. Had she truly just used Hogarth’s engravings of
A Harlot’s Progress
as her tale of woe?

Aston gave a pitying shake of his head. “Cruel, cruel world. What a country mouse you must have been.”

“Oh, I was. I was.” Then she downed her glass again. “Another.”

Aston and Charles both gave her a wary glance.

Where was her gasp? Her choke? Her cough? Her look of dismay?

“But you know, Your Grace, and you, too, Lord Charles, I should rather hear your tales. Tales which cannot be boring at all. How is it that you come to be here when both of you come from such wealth? Why do you like ladies of the street when you could have Cyprians?”

She knew what a Cyprian was?

Charles narrowed his eyes. . . Who was having who on?

As she swallowed her glass of gin with shocking ease, he began to wonder who was in charge of this particular exchange. Or who was deceiving who exactly?

Aston gave her a wolfish look. “My dear girl, I’m retired from such pursuits. You’ll have to ask Charles.”

“But you were a rake, Your Grace.”

“What an insipid word,” Aston said with distaste. “I suppose one could have called me a rake. I prefer a lover of women. I did no harm and none was done to me and times were merry for all.”

“So,” she began lightly, “you’d agree with the rather ludicrous statement that reformed rakes make the best husbands.”

Aston leaned back. “Given your profession, my dear, I’m not sure why it interests you.”

She fiddled with her glass but didn’t back down. “Grant me your humor.”

“Then yes,” Aston confessed. “But only, and this is very significant only, if he is truly in love. Otherwise, he shall be wandering within weeks of the wedding.”

“I appreciate your honesty. “

Aston gave an exaggerated twirl of his wrist and a mock bow. “But I’ve no reason to lie. . . Do you?”

“You’ve said why I must tell lies.”

Charles leaned on his elbow and poured more gin. “Because you’re a doxie?”

She gave a pained smile then raised her glass.

“Oh, my dear angel,” Aston said, his voice deep with mischief. “I think you a better masker than my friend and I combined.”

“Do you?” she asked.

Charles shifted uncomfortably. He wasn’t sure he cared for the familiarity with which Aston and she were speaking. “I think we should go soon.”

“Pfffft,” she said, her smile slightly lopsided. “I am nowhere near ready to leave, Charles. . . And besides, my pimp has yet to show his face.”

“And when he does, we shall bloody him, my angel,” Aston boasted.

Charles leaned back in his chair wondering where this research trip was heading. Certainly not where he had hoped. He certainly wouldn’t be taking a gin-soaked woman to bed.

That wasn’t his style. He loathed men who did.

Bliss should only be attempted when both parties were still capable of reason.

He lifted his own glass in salute. “To liars.”

She stared at him for a long moment then lifted her glass. “To storytellers.”

“To women!” added Aston. “God bless them, every one.”

And as they all drank, Charles had a sinking feeling that for all she’d claimed he belonged to her, Lady P had very little interest in anything but the stories inside her head.

Chapter 13

The banging on the front door shook the house and Patience’s head. She let out a low wail, clutched her hair and buried her face in her pillow.

“Go away,” she groaned.

The door knocker slammed passionately.

Whoever it was, clearly wished to be seen.

She heard the door open followed by the soft mumblings of her butler then the strong tones of a woman.

She blinked. Who the devil could be calling so early?

She sat up then winced.

Last night had been marvelous.

In a few hours, she’d learned more about men than she had in years by Mrs. Barton’s side.

Lord Charles had certainly been correct. He had skills that no one else could share with her. They weren’t just bedroom skills, either.

Lord Charles and the Duke of Aston were the type of male she’d never truly encountered before.

All the rakes she’d met in gambling halls were simpering poodles compared to them.

And Charles. . . Charles, by far, was the most exciting and mysterious of the two.

Oh, Aston was wonderful fodder for her stories but it was the elusive Charles that she wanted to study. To know.

The knock on her bedroom door shook her reverie. “My lady, you have a visitor.”

She winced anew. “Tell them it’s too early.”

“They’re most insistent.”

“Insist it’s too early.”

There was a long silence then the butler said, “I would but. . . But. . .”

“Yes?”

“I didn’t think you’d wish to offend a duchess.”

Her heart slammed. “A what?”

“The Duchess of Hunt is in the morning room.”

She hesitated for a moment then vaulted out of bed. It was far too early for a spontaneous call. Something was amiss.

Something terrible. It had to be. Duchesses didn’t pay calls in such haphazard fashion.

Without awaiting her maid, she pulled on a simple black gown and pinned up her hair. She glanced in the mirror.

Oh dear. What a fright.

She glanced at her clock. It was not yet nine and she had not gotten in until almost five.

There was nothing for it.

Quickly, she cleaned her teeth then headed down the stairs.

Remembering she was meant to be Lady Patience, she slowed her step and entered the morning room with as much dignity as possible.

The Duchess of Hunt whirled around, her beautiful sapphire silk skirt shining in the early light, a news sheet clutched in her hand.

“Good morning, Your Grace. Would you care for coff—“

“You’re ruined,” the duchess said firmly.

“Coffee?” her voice died and her gaze dropped to the newspaper. Word of her sojourn with Aston and Charles could not have gotten out and not quickly enough to be in the papers.

“You need my help,” the duchess kept on. “And badly.”

“I don’t follow, Your Grace.” And she didn’t. She felt totally at sea.

“Call me Cordelia. I think we are going to have to be very close. Very quickly.”

Her mouth dried. “Could you make yourself plain, C-Cordelia? You’re giving me great unease.”

The Duchess of Hunt drew in a deep breath. “I will not apologize for it. You’ve reason to feel as you do.”

Coming from the blunt, yet optimistic, duchess such a proclamation felt dire, indeed.

The butler lingered in the doorway.

Patience glanced back. “Coffee, immediately. And toast.”

She needed sustenance if she was to face her undoing with a head to match the goings-on of the night before.

It was perhaps fortunate that she did, indeed, have practice with drink. . . If not gin. 

The gin was pounding away at her with undue relish. She gestured to one of the delicate chairs before the fire. “Do sit down.”

“I will, thank you.” Cordelia sat perfunctorily, her skirts spreading easily over the chair, and she snapped the newspaper open in one determined go.

Drawing in a steadying breath, Patience sat across from the duchess trying not to let the room spin with immediate and intense fear. “Is the newspaper necessary?”

“I think you should hear directly,” Cordelia returned before burying her face in the paper. “
It is with great interest that you, dear reader, shall be informed that Mr. P. Auden is no Mr. P. Auden at all
.
This, in itself, is no great surprise given the use of pseudonyms by the modern day author. However, there is something that will shock you, dear reader, to the core
.”

Patience’s stomach dropped and she dug her fingers into the damask-covered chair.

“For, in
fact, the only thing genuine about Mr. P. Auden is the P which belongs not to a mister but rather to Lady Patience, daughter of the deceased Baron of Montbank, who perhaps is no lady at all for she is an unmarried young woman engaging in the trade of novels.
“

The use of the word woman was very bad. Very bad, indeed. There was a vast difference between a woman and a lady when used in such an official way.

Cordelia looked over the edge of the paper for a moment before snapping it and continuing, “
Lady Patience is also the niece of Lord Reginald Penshurst who so recently died in a mysterious drowning accident after losing his fortune and home in a hand of cards. We cannot conceive how a lady should be the author of such salacious and popular works but it is undeniable from our source that Lady Patience is, indeed, P. Auden.
”

Patience swallowed. She’d been so careful. So careful. Until just the last few days when she’d trusted Lord Charles.

He’d discovered her identity but she’d trusted him to keep it secret. Mrs. Barton, her publisher, and Uncle Reginald were the only people who knew. Her uncle, of course, was gone.

Mrs. Barton would never betray her and had no reason to. She was certain of it.

Her publisher would be a fool to give up her identity.

That left only one person, did it not? Lord Charles.

For all that she was drawn to him, he was a man not to be trusted. And she had. Could he have done something so foul?

She grimaced and looked to the window.

As she did so, Cordelia lowered the paper.

The butler entered quickly and left the silver tray bearing coffee, cream and sugar as well as toast with butter.

Patience stared at it as she listened to her butler retreat quickly.

No doubt, the man couldn’t wait to eavesdrop at the door.

If Cordelia knew, her entire staff knew.

By now, all London knew.

The news sheet was a remarkable thing, read out in coffee shops for those who could not pay to have one delivered.

Her fate was sealed. Lady Patience was. . . Ruined.

“What am I going to do?” she whispered, at a loss. It was such a strange feeling. Not knowing what to do. She
always
knew what to do. It was only recently she’d begun to feel as though on unfamiliar footing.

“Do you have any idea who might have betrayed your secret?” Cordelia asked.

She licked her lips. Dare she say it? Well, in for a penny in for a pound as the saying went. “Your brother-in-law.”

“Charles?” Cordelia frowned. “He knows?”

“Indeed. He is very savvy.”

Cordelia smiled tightly. “He is that. But you think he betrayed your secret? He’s a devil to be sure but this doesn’t strike me as his sort of work.

That heartened her. “Does it not?”

“No,” Cordelia replied confidently. “You know him only as the taker of your home?”

Here was the moment. Did she keep lying to Duchess Cordelia? Or did she allow the Duchess to know the truth? What was the point of lying? Now? None.

“Duchess, I know your brother-in-law a trifle better than you think.”

Cordelia’s mouth dropped open for a good moment before she said, “Do you, by God?”

“Yes,” Patience continued, unwilling to go back now. “I’ve met with him twice since coming to London and after we met in the country.”

Cordelia studied her then smiled ruefully. “My, you are the dark horse. May I ask in what capacity? Of course, you needn’t divulge such a thing.”

“You know, I’m not sure,” Patience replied. And she wasn’t. Her relationship with Charles seemed to have no definition. Was he a consultant? At last, she managed, “He was assisting me with my research.”

Cordelia arched a skeptical brow then gave a cheeky smile. “Is that what you call it?”

“Perhaps, there is a little more, but we have not done anything I regret.”

“Good for you,” Cordelia said firmly, folding the paper. “Regrets are for the weak.”

“Then you don’t consider my writing a cause for regret?”

“No!” Cordelia scooted forward in her chair, her cheeks blooming with her determination and sincerity. “I adore your books. They’re quite exceptional. I’ve devoured them. But that is neither here nor there. As it is, you’re going to have to go to Italy and, while I quite like it there for short stays, it is not the place for an English lady to live a lifetime in exile.”

“Byron is there.”

“Byron is an insufferable arse,” Cordelia said with no hint of remorse. “I invited him to one dinner party and by God, the man, genius or no, is beyond silly. Nothing but potatoes and vinegar, indeed. I hear he eats meat in secret.”