The Devilish Pleasures of a Duke (14 page)

“Has Grayson seen that gilded monstrosity of yours?” Heath asked as they walked back to the door that looked upon the street. “I vow he’ll be quite jealous.”

“It arrived from my father only this morning.” Adrian paused. He knew better than to assume Heath would believe he’d wandered into the ballroom by mistake. Or that after only three days he had missed Heath’s company.

Heath confirmed his hunch in the next instant. “I suggest you take a drive over to visit Grayson in the next week or so. I’m sure he would be interested in talking with you.”

And not about carriages, either, if Adrian understood what Heath meant. Grayson Boscastle, the fifth Marquess of Sedgecroft, was the family’s patriarch and former scoundrel himself. He was the man to grant dispensation as well as to issue social death sentences.

Heath’s message could not have been clearer. If Adrian intended to pursue Emma, he would have to ask permission of Grayson first and declare himself.

And he would. He honestly would. Just as soon as he persuaded Emma he was sincere and proved to her that even a ruthless misadventurer could be redeemed.

Perhaps in the course of this endeavor, he might even persuade himself that his redemption was possible.

Sir Gabriel Boscastle glanced back from the entrance of the town house at the ducal carriage that swept down the street. An audience of admiring pedestrians, street vendors, and urchins had congregated to witness its departure. “That wasn’t Adrian, was it?” he asked his cousin Heath a few minutes later, after a housemaid had directed him to the library. “One would think he were a—”

“—duke?” Lord Drake Boscastle said with a cynical smile. He and Gabriel had been at odds in the past, but since Drake’s recent marriage to his governess, their old enmity had begun to fade away. “He and Devon have gone driving. You can probably catch up with them if the crowd lets you through.”

Heath was seated at his massive military desk, his arms folded behind his head. As usual his expression revealed nothing of his thoughts. “Are you coming with us to the opera tonight, Gabriel?”

“Of course,” he said, nodding gratefully at the glass of sherry Drake had poured him. “I never sleep so soundly as during an aria.” He paused. “There is a definite pall over this gathering. Have I done something to offend anyone? I know that in the past, we were not as close as—”

“We have a slight family problem.” Drake glanced at his brother. “Do you think we should tell him?”

Heath laughed shortly. “You damn well have to now, after dangling that tidbit under his nose.”

Gabriel shook his head, his face amused. “Does this mean I’m actually to be included in some Boscastle intrigue—and do I
want
to be?”

“It’s Emma,” Drake said.

“And Wolf.” Heath ran his hand through his thick black hair. “Emma and Adrian. An improbable pairing if ever there was one.”

Gabriel took a long swallow of sherry. “Stranger affairs have occurred throughout English history. Take Nell Gwyn, an orange girl, made a duchess by the king.”

“A duchess. Now there’s a point. Adrian isn’t married. His father will be arranging a suit.” Heath glanced meaningfully at Drake. “I think this calls for a family cabal before Emma is involved beyond our help.”

“Grayson is in Kent until Friday, teaching Rowan how to hunt,” Drake replied.

“The boy can’t even walk yet,” Gabriel exclaimed, choking on his drink. “Isn’t it a bit early for him to be shooting a gun?”

“Not if you’re being groomed as the next marquess,” Heath said with a mordant laugh. “Drake, I say we meet on Friday evening. Will you do the honors of making sure that Devon attends? I would invite Dominic but he and Adrian are too close. It isn’t fair to put him on the spot.”

“So
I
am included?” Gabriel asked, looking pleased.

Drake grinned at him. “It wouldn’t be a complete cabal without your jaded perspective, cousin.”

“A caution.” Heath held up one hand. “The women are
not
to be informed. As dearly as we love them, their interference must be avoided at all costs. We do not want emotion to cloud whatever we decide.”

Gabriel finished his sherry. “My lips are stitched shut.”

“Mine are shackled,” Drake said.

Heath nodded in satisfaction. “None of us can break, not even under the duress of—well, you know their wiles. The women of this family, and I include our sisters and wives, have an uncanny sense for these affairs. If they suspect that we are making a decision without consulting them, our lives will not be worth living.”

Gabriel looked at him in disbelief. “Are you trying to tell me that the pair of you, former spies who did
not
break under torture, are really afraid that your wives will somehow find out about our meeting?”

Heath stared at the map of Egypt mounted on the wall. “You have no idea, Gabriel, what power the women in this family wield.”

Grayson Boscastle’s wife, the former Lady Jane Welsham, sister-in-law to Emma, and present Marchioness of Sedgecroft, lowered her field glasses as the head Boscastle footman, Weed, trudged breathlessly up the grassy knoll of the Kent estate toward her. Her son Rowan lay gurgling upon his blanket while his father and the family gamekeeper attempted to share their hunting knowledge with a child who could not even talk. Jane vowed that if Grayson showed Rowan that crossbow one more time, she would confiscate it.

She felt a flutter of anxiety in her chest. Weed waved a folded missive at her, puffing with exertion from what was apparently a frantic dash from the house.

“Who is it from, Weed?” she asked quietly, imagining that some tragedy had befallen any number of elderly aunts and uncles, her beloved parents, her wastrel brother, her sisters—

“I do not know, madam,” he wheezed, holding his side. “I was told only it was a matter of the gravest importance and that it must reach you posthaste.”

One of the three female attendants sitting at her feet arose with a worried look at Jane. “Please inform my husband that young Orion is in need of his afternoon rest,” she said, her gaze dark.

As the attendant scurried down toward the wooded preserve, Jane carefully broke the letter’s seal and scanned the missive. It was from Julia, Heath’s wife, in London.

And it was an urgent request indeed, tersely worded.

Emma. Adrian Ruxley. I trust you are able to read what discretion forbids me to write. Heath is cognizant of the situation and intends to call a cabal to decide her fate. May I ask you to intervene on behalf of the female contingency?

In the name of true love,

Your sister-in-law and no stranger to scandal,

Julia

Jane whipped around so abruptly that Weed, smiling at the sight of the marquess and young master below, nearly lost his balance. In fact, he might have slipped down the knoll had Jane’s hand not shot out to grasp his sleeve.

“I am a clumsy girl,” she said, hauling him back up beside her.

His gaze flickered to the letter she had unceremoniously stuffed into her bodice. “Not bad news, I pray, madam?”

“It will be if I don’t intervene,” she muttered, then bit her lip.

Weed worshipped the Boscastle family. Jane did not doubt he would lay down his life to save her if she were in danger. But when it came to choosing sides between her and her husband, she suspected that Grayson would win. Weed, after all, was a man and a Boscastle loyalist.

“Shall I order the carriage for immediate departure?” he inquired, gently disengaging himself from her grasp as he regained his dignity.

Jane cast a fond glance in the direction of her husband and child. “There’s no need to spoil my husband’s plans. I shall be leaving for London with Mrs. O’Brien and my son.” Mrs. O’Brien was Rowan’s Irish nursemaid, a woman not afraid to challenge Grayson’s authority when it came to the best interests of her charge.

The senior footman had witnessed too many Boscastle scandals for his suspicions not to be aroused. “Madam?” he asked cautiously in a voice that said everything and yet nothing.

She lowered her voice to a throaty whisper, her green eyes sparkling with mischief. “There’s an adorable shoemaker just arrived from Milan and I mean to engage his exclusive services before any other ladies steal him for their own.”

“Ah.” He nodded knowingly. A passion for fashionable attire he understood.

“You won’t tell, will you?” she asked with a beseeching smile.

“Need you even ask?”

“Good. I will be leaving for London as soon as I have explained the situation to the marquess.”

Grayson suspected something was afoot when his wife informed him of her intention to return to their Park Lane residence. They both knew the shoemaker could be brought to their Kent estate to do her bidding, as had the corsetiere, milliner, and numerous jewelers on several past occasions. An hour later, when the marquess received the missive from his brother Heath apprising him of the startling news about Emma, his suspicions were confirmed.

He did not know what devious plot his wife was hatching, but he deemed it wise to take action before she could gain any advantage on him. He and Jane took delight in outfoxing each other.

She was not at all pleased when she discovered his decision to travel to London with her. “There is no need to spoil your plans on my account,” she said as they met in the entrance hall where a mountain of their mutual luggage had been assembled.

“But my plans are of no account if they do not include you, darling.”

One delicate brow lifted. He gazed steadily into her dark green eyes and felt his heart stir. Marriage had not dimmed his passion for her in the least. Nor had it diminished her clever spirit. At a time when some men might have lapsed into wedded complacency, he was still kept on his toes by the desirable Lady Jane.

“Really, Grayson.” She held still as her maid draped a velvet-lined pelisse over her shoulders. “I don’t need your help to meet a shoemaker.”

He took over the task of fastening the braided frogs of his wife’s wrap. “I’d miss you more than I can bear. You don’t mind, do you?”

Her full mouth firmed. “It’s only a shoemaker.”

He smiled. The shoemaker.

Something was definitely afoot.

Adrian studied Emma Boscastle’s perfect cameo profile from the pair of pearl-inlaid opera glasses that belonged to one of the two gentlemen who sat beside him in his Haymarket opera box. Adrian had been mildly astonished that his appearance at the house tonight had drawn an embarrassing amount of attention. In fact, as the crowded lobby fell silent upon his entrance, he had glanced around curiously in search of the important personage who had sent the young ladies present into such a dither.

Female regard was not exactly a novel experience. He understood his appeal to the opposite sex even if he had not always bothered to take advantage of it. Certainly, he did not celebrate his manhood by how many notches he could carve into his bedpost.

Therefore, he found it absurd that because he was a duke’s son there existed numerous women who judged him so desirable that even before the opera began he received seven invitations to supper, three to breakfast, and two to darker entertainments.

“I wish I had your luck with the ladies,” the baronet who sat at his right commented.

Adrian would have liked to tell his newfound admirers that to pursue an affair with him was a complete waste of time. Instead, he amused himself by fashioning the notes into pointed missiles that he directed at the Boscastle opera box on the opposite side of the house.

He would have really liked to lure Emma into his box, close the curtains, and pay attention to
her
for the rest of the evening. But with her band of brothers looming about, the pleasant fantasy seemed unlikely to be realized tonight, or in the immediate future.

It wasn’t going to end that easily between him and his elusive lioness, however. If Emma imagined for one instant that he was the sort of man who seduced a woman in secret, then sauntered off to other conquests, she had a few surprises coming. Actually, no one could have been more surprised than Adrian himself by his desire to pursue her for a more lasting association.

Yet something in him understood, had recognized from the instant he heard her voice, that she was the woman he’d been waiting for all his life. And he hadn’t even realized he had been waiting, or that true love would be in his future.

He knew many men, soldiers of fortune especially, who did not believe in love. Abandoned by parents, abused at home, they’d taught themselves not to seek anything but instant gratification. Not to feel. But Adrian remembered his mother’s love. And his brother and sister tagging about like hapless puppies, willing to follow him into any mischief.

They had loved him. And he loved them. So he never admitted to his crude-minded cohorts that he did believe in the reality of love.

It had existed once.

Why could it not be his again?

He sat up, his heavy black cloak cascading down his back. Was she leaving? Alone? Just when the head-splitting singing had begun? Ah, what a blessing. “Excuse me,” he muttered to his two acquaintances, one of whom was already asleep. “Don’t wait for me if I don’t come back soon.”

He nearly bowled over every footman and late arrival he encountered in his hurry to intercept her in the entrance vestibule. He would be satisfied if he could convince her to meet him once again to discuss the future she asserted they didn’t even have.

“Goodness gracious!” an ominously familiar voice trilled in his ear. “Is that my Hercules?”

Not her. He stumbled back from the robust older woman blocking his progress. She followed until he stood flush against the wall. Over the top of her peacock-feathered turban he caught sight of Emma fanning herself. Hamm, the footman in Lord Heath’s town house, stood idly by. “Dear Lady Dalrymple,” he said politely, then practically lifted her out of his path. “I should love nothing more than to continue this conversation, but I’ve just seen a friend I cannot ignore.”

“A friend?” She swung around in interest, gasping as she realized whom he meant. “Not Emma? Yes. Emma. She’s—Emma is your
friend
?”