St. Raven (25 page)

He laughed at the sheer impudence of the woman. “Why did you get that statue from Crofton?”

She regarded him, then smiled. “Because you tried to buy it, which showed that your little houri was taken with it. I
do
know the ways of men in their first ardor, and I hoped for this visit. There, that’s the plain truth.”

And it probably was. He silently cursed the action that had led to this, but it wasn’t too bad. He hated having his hand forced, but to escort Miranda to Finksburg’s would be bearable. The danger here was that she suspect some importance in the statue. How would he react if his story were true?

“I intended to take Roxelana to Finksburg’s.”

She simply waited. If she gambled, she was doubtless excellent at it.

“Very well. It will teach the girl not to be so demanding, and by the weekend I might welcome a break from her. However, I promise nothing but that we arrive together. I may leave shortly after if I wish.”

“I don’t think that would do my reputation any good at all, Your Grace.”

He made himself smile. “Your audacity is amusing, Miranda, but don’t test my tolerance. Very well. I will stay at least one night.”

How should he behave? How? By demanding more.

He let his eyes assess her charms. “It might be worth your while to make your skills available to me gratis. I might become besotted. That should crown you queen.”

Her lids lowered, though she was still looking at him. Despite himself, his body reacted just to that.

“A consideration.” She ran her tongue along the inner edge of her upper lip, smiling. “We shall see, shan’t we, Your Grace.”

She was playing him like a fish, damn her. He matched her smile. “Apparently we will. Now, the statue?”

Her eyes widened—with shock? “I will give it to you at the weekend, Your Grace.”

“You dare to doubt my word?”

If there’d been shock, it had been shielded so quickly he couldn’t be sure. Now she looked hard, and her age.

“I’m a whore, Your Grace. Men do not seem to consider their word binding to me.”

Tris remembered Cressida’s astonishment and pleasure at being asked for her word and having it believed. It touched him when he needed to be untouchable. What now? He could push for the statue, but he shouldn’t seem to care so much.

He shrugged. “As you wish. It will do the girl no harm to wait. Five o’clock on Friday?”

She dropped a graceful curtsy. “You are all kindness, Your Grace.”

Tris bowed and left, and didn’t allow himself to suck in the deep breath he needed until he was back in the coach. Damn the woman’s bloody impudence!

Should he have told her to go to hell? Had he convinced her that this was a whim rather than a necessity? Mistakes, mistakes. He’d made a whole string of mistakes. Was this another one?

What’s more, his pride rebelled at being used like this.

Bought!

Almost as bad as being a whore.

Perhaps, he thought, stretching his legs, it was time for a little larceny.

Miranda Coop let out a breath. Now, why had she done that?

Because she wanted the glory of having the Duke of St. Raven on her arm in front of her rivals. American Indians apparently displayed the scalps of defeated enemies on a spear to prove their prowess. She wanted St. Raven’s escort on her spear. That alone would be enough, but given the chance, perhaps she could have him at her feet, as well. Or rather, in her bed.

“One of these days,” she said to the empty room, “your impulses will get you into trouble, Miranda.” And that day could be soon if she didn’t get that bloody statue back!

She could find Crofton and get one of the others. But he’d probably given them away as prizes as he’d planned. So she’d have to find out who’d won them, and who’d won the ones that looked the same.

It could take forever, and she couldn’t be sure St. Raven and his Turkish bint wouldn’t spot the difference. She blew out a breath and paced the room.

There was only one sure way. She had to find Le Corbeau and get that statue from him. Getting it shouldn’t be difficult if she could only find the man. Half London was trying to catch him.

Then she paused. She knew someone who could be of use. Peter Spike of St. Albans. Ostensibly he was a prosperous merchant, but he also dealt in stolen property on the side.

She sat down to write him a letter, then sent Mary with it to the post office. For what she’d promised, Peter would find Le Corbeau for her. She laughed dryly. For what she’d promised, he’d find the devil himself.

“Ho, Tris!”

Tris winced. The rain had stopped, so he’d abandoned the coach to walk home. Now he was paid for such eccentricity by an encounter with Lord Uffham, heir to the Duke of Arran.

Uffham was a handsome, robust, but increasingly tiresome fellow. Tris suppressed another wince at the sight of a virulent green waistcoat and so many fobs that his foster brother jangled as he strode over. It reminded him distressingly of Gilchrist’s bells.

Tris had enjoyed some good times with Uffham in his youth, but their differing tastes and natures became more obvious every day. In addition, Uffham seemed put out that Tris was now a duke, whereas he must wait until his healthy father died.

Tris thought Uffham should count his blessings and enjoy his freedom. What’s more, he admired the Duke of Arran and didn’t think Uffham ready to administer such great responsibilities. He was finding his own duties a strain, and he knew he was more ahead of the game than poor old Uffham would ever be.

“Didn’t know you was in town,” Uffham said. “Been in a fight?”

Tris had forgotten his bruises. “A minor disagreement.”

“On your way to White’s?”

“On my way home.” There was no way to avoid it. “Care to come along? I dashed up to town today and scarcely broke my fast. I intend to eat.”

“I’m game.” Uffham fell into step, swinging a gold-topped cane. “Emergency?”

“Paperwork. What brings you here in the summer?”

“Invitation to a saucy do at Crofton’s. Misread it. Thought it was at his London house. Fellow should make things like that clearer.”

Tris didn’t remember the invitation being particularly obscure. “It was not a well-run affair.”

“No? When are you going to have another prancing party at Nun’s Chase?”

Tris was astonished by an impulse to say,
Never
. “Not for a while.” They turned into Upper Jasper Street. “Summer, after all.”

“Summer’s just the time for a house party. Everyone’s drifting about with nothing to do.”

“Speak for yourself. Or be grateful you don’t have a dukedom to run yet.” He planted the seed deliberately.

Uffham shrugged and followed Tris into the dark-paneled hall of the St. Raven town house. “Bit gloomy, this. Should have it painted.”

Tris handed his hat and gloves to a studiously impassive footman. “Interior decoration? You’ll be falling into the parson’s mousetrap next.”

That was enough to turn Uffham’s eyes wide with panic. “Don’t even say that! The ball-bitches are even worse this year. I think you’ve set ‘em off. That and Arden marrying that damn governess. Now any of ’em thinks they have a chance!”

“Arden married a governess?” Tris absorbed that as he gave instructions for simple but substantial food. The Marquess of Arden was heir to the Duke of Belcraven, and if he’d married a woman of low birth without disaster…

Tris led the way up to the small drawing room he’d made his own.

“Talk of the town a year or so ago,” Uffham said. “Suppose it was about the time you inherited and went abroad. Just hatched a son, so I suppose that’s something to be said for peasant stock.”

“Peasant?” Tris queried as they entered the room, which was furnished with comfortable chairs and plenty of books. Arden was an arrogant bastard, as high in the instep as they came.

Uffham had grace enough to blush. “Not exactly. Daughter of a sea captain or such, but no money. Employed at a ladies’ seminary in Cheltenham! Not much to look at, either. Turned his back on the Swinamer filly for that.”

“That, at least, shows some sense.”

At Uffham’s blank look, Tris decided to try to plant another seed. Phoebe Swinamer was exquisitely beautiful if one cared for china dolls. And as heartless as one. Uffham’s marriage to her would cut up the peace of the whole Peckworth family.

“Miss Swinamer is an ice queen in pursuit of a coronet, preferably a ducal one. Any man who marries her will feel her claws all his life. She’s coquetted around me, but I know that if I were plain Mr. Tregallows she wouldn’t spare me a smile. Nor would she notice you if you were plain George Peckworth.”

Uffham pouted, looking like a child who’d been forbidden a sugared treat, but perhaps that meant the words had sunk home. Tris decided to add to it.

“Men like us,” he said, settling into his favorite chair, “need to choose a wife with care. It’s demanding work being a duchess, so she needs to be raised to it, and be robust and intelligent.”

“Like a good hunter.”

Tris managed not to roll his eyes. “Quite. On the other hand, high rank tempts some people to arrogance and cruelty. We owe it to our family and our dependents to choose a duchess with a kind heart. And of course, with Devonshire as an example, one who can be depended upon not to game away our fortune.”

Uffham dropped into the opposite chair, legs sprawled out. “You’re turning into a prosy bore, Tris. I suppose there’s always a tasty mistress for the other.”

“Exactly.” If that was the way to get Uffham to take a comfortable wife into the Peckworth household, so be it.

“It’s what m‘ father did in his younger days. M’ mother didn’t kick up a fuss. That’s what you mean about a duchess being raised to it, I suppose.”

“My uncle had three that I know of. One for Cornwall, one for London, and one for France before the Revolution.”

Uffham laughed. “As bad as a sailor, with a whore in every port! Not a bad idea, though.”

Tris suddenly regretted this whole conversation. Would this be any better for the Peckworths than Phoebe Swinamer as duchess?

Yes, sadly, it would. Infidelity would be preferable to a cold, heartless woman ruling over them.

He had no intention of marrying a cold, heartless woman, but he’d always assumed he’d marry one who was suitable rather than delightful, and keep mistresses for pleasure. It was part of the way he’d been trained to be duke.

The Duke of Arran had started the process, and his uncle had coldly continued it. He’d been taught to drink without passing out, game without getting fleeced, and rut without getting the pox or too many bothersome bastards—and to do so without embarrassing decent women.

And, of course, to always remember that a duke ranked only a couple of steps below God, and everyone had damn well better remember it.

He hoped his uncle was rolling in his ornate vault.

The footman arrived with a tray laden with beer, bread, cheese, pickles, and pies. Tris thanked him.

Uffham grabbed a wedge of pork pie and a tankard of ale and half of each disappeared with a slurp. “Wish I had a place of my own. Could get food like this, then, instead of the fiddly stuff m‘ mother’s chef turns out.”

“Order what you want.”

“It’s all right for you…”

Tris took a bite of crusty bread and ripe cheese and let Uffham ramble though his complaints. That was Uffham’s line these days—that he was hard-done-to.

“So why are you here?” Uffham asked, swabbing his mouth with a napkin, then belching.

“Some routine business. My secretary is here.”

“Can’t be much to do in summer.”

“The work never stops, I assure you. Where will you be off to next?”

“Thought I’d pop down to Lea Park. Haven’t seen the parents in a while. Then nip down to Brighton. Caroline and Anne are there, you know.”

Tris drank more beer to hide his expression. Uffham’s sister Lady Anne was not, in fact, in Brighton. With Tris’s aid, Anne was on her way to Gretna Green with an upstart her family would not think suitable.

She could end up cut off from her family for life. At the moment of decision, with love shining between the two of them, it had seemed a worthwhile risk. But if that was the case, why had he not fought to win Cressida?

“Why don’t you come?” Uffham asked.

Tris had to pick up the thread of the conversation. “I don’t care for Brighton.”

“You could come to Lea Park.”

“My business will keep me here a few days. Perhaps later.”

Anne was prepared for loss and scandal, and thought it all worthwhile. Could he and Cressida be the same?

But no. Unlike Anne and Race, he and his duchess would never live far from the world’s attention.

“I’ll be back in town on the weekend,” Uffham said. “Do at Finksburg’s down in Richmond. You’ll have an invitation.”

“I haven’t checked. I may be gone by then.”

Uffham refilled his tankard. “Dining with Berresford tonight, then we’re off to Violet Vane’s. They say she’s some new tender morsels. Care to come?”

Tris almost shuddered.
Poudre de Violettes
and giggling girls. He’d always avoided the woman’s place, but now he wondered about her business. She specialized in young-looking whores, but just how young were they?

Lord above, London was awash with abandoned, feral children willing to do anything for a penny. If they didn’t thieve or whore, they’d starve. Trying to change that would be like trying to make the Thames flow upstream.

Tris rose, hoping Uffham would take the hint. “I was at Crofton’s until the early hours. Tonight I need to sleep.”

“Were you, by gad! What was it like?”

His earlier comment had clearly passed Uffham by.

He worried about the dukedom of Arran, indeed he did. However, he obliged with a lascivious description that had Uffham drooling.

Of course, he didn’t mention Cressida. How was she? Had her return been accepted without question? Damn. She would be waiting for news, and he here was nattering with Uffham!

“Naughty statues, eh?” chortled Uffham. “Wonder who won ‘em. Wouldn’t mind a peep.”

“I’m sure if you ask around, you can find out. Pugh was there, and Tiverton. Hopewell, Gilchrist, Bayne…” Tris moved toward the door. “Now I must go to my taskmaster. Leatherhulme insists that I actually read documents before signing them.”