The Duke Before Christmas (The Duke Hunters Club), page 4
That was better for him. He didn’t need anyone to know he was here.
“You don’t have to,” she said. “My reputation will be ruined by the end of the year anyway.”
“You’re planning to bed some man in the middle of Leicester Square?” Colin asked casually, moving toward Sir Seymour’s desk.
She gave a harsh laugh. “You’re funny.”
He shrugged.
“I wish peers were funny,” she said mournfully.
He stifled a chuckle. “They’re not?”
“They’re the most dreaded bores. You’re lucky you don’t have to converse with them. Pigs this, pigs that.”
He ducked his head below the bureau, hiding his smile. Clearly, the poor woman had been speaking with Mr. Daniels recently. That would compel any person to scramble toward the punch table.
“I shouldn’t tell you this.”
“I expect not,” Colin said carefully, opening Sir Seymour’s drawer quickly.
He glanced toward the door, lest some angry chaperon appear, shouting compromised or some such nonsense. The more distance between them, the better, and the quicker he left the room...
Genevieve’s father’s name appeared on a file, and he beamed. He scanned the documents, then folded them carefully. He tucked the documents in his breast pocket, closed the drawer, and rose.
The woman stared at him. “Is it customary for footmen to go through their employers’ bureaus?”
Colin resisted the urge to freeze or blink at her guiltily. Instead, he shrugged. “I’m cleaning his desk.”
“Late at night?”
He nodded solemnly. “Sir Seymour can’t abide an unpolished desk.” He took out his handkerchief and scrubbed the desk carefully. “He’s going to see it first thing.”
“I would have thought you would be serving drinks at the ball.”
“It takes many servants to take care of this townhouse,” Colin said solemnly.
“I can tell.” The woman’s eyes remained wider than previously, and Colin knew he should feel guilty. Instead, his lips curled. This was turning into the most amusing ball he’d attended in some time, and he wasn’t even jumping to the joyful beats of a reel.
He smiled and rose from Sir Seymour’s desk.
“My father wanted to make sure I married. Didn’t become one of those independently wealthy bluestockings causing chaos in society.”
Colin sputtered.
She shrugged, moving her shoulders in that intriguing manner again. “Well, that’s what he would say. I think. He’s dead.”
Colin nodded. “The talk of a will was the clue.”
“I suppose so. But the problem is—I need to find a husband at once.”
“Perhaps you would be more likely to find one in the ball,” Colin suggested.
She shook her head. “I tried that. Didn’t work. I’m not pretty enough.”
He blinked. The woman was mad. “I assure you, you’re plenty pretty.”
THE ROOM FILLED WITH an odd heat. Perhaps the exertion of rising rapidly had been more strenuous than she’d imagined. She stepped away from the footman and smoothed her dress. Suddenly, it was important that the fabric was not beset by wrinkles and creases.
There was something familiar about the man, and for a moment, Portia stared at him.
But of course the man was familiar. He’d probably been handing her drinks at Sir Seymour’s townhouse for the past year. A man like that was noticeable, even if he was a footman and probably hadn’t said anything more to her than “Ratafia, miss?”
“I-I’m sorry,” she stammered. “I’ve kept you from your work.”
“I can polish a desk with you in the room,” he said. “Just a pleasant distraction.”
She nodded, deciding not to tell him he had only polished a small portion of the surface and had even forgotten to move the few books and papers on the desk to the side so as to achieve a better polish.
“There must be something you can do to find a husband,” the man said. “I’m sure plenty of men would want to marry you.”
“None have proposed.”
He gazed at her thoughtfully. “Then perhaps you could ask someone for help. In my experience mothers are a most aggressive force. There is a reason they’re called matchmaking mamas.”
“I hadn’t realized that terminology had entered servants’ vocabulary.”
His smile wobbled momentarily, then it grew wider than before. “Oh, everyone knows about matchmaking mamas.”
Portia scrunched her lips. “I don’t have a mother, but...” An idea occurred to her, and she beamed. “Thank you. That was good advice.”
Puzzlement spread over his face. The fact didn’t render him less handsome. Footmen were often chosen for their looks, and his must have made his employer offer him the job at once.
Perhaps Portia didn’t have a mother or a string of female relatives. She did though have friends. One friend, in particular, Daisy, might be helpful.
“Farewell!” Portia raised her hand to the footman, then nearly sprinted from the room.
Daisy.
Daisy was her best friend. Perhaps she knew of someone who might be willing to elope with her. Someone poor who might find Portia’s heiress status attractive, someone of not too intolerable a personality. Sir Vincent wouldn’t do, but there must be other options.
The footman was correct: she couldn’t give up. If she couldn’t find a husband on her own, she shouldn’t assume it was impossible to do so with help.
She marched through the ballroom door. Sir Vincent regarded her with a concerned expression, but this time, it did not take much effort to keep her chin raised.
“Do you want to stay longer?” he asked.
Portia surveyed the dance floor. She’d already stood around waiting for someone to ask her to dance. She turned to her guardian. “We can leave.”
Relief spread across his face. “Very well, my dear.”
Earlier Portia might have been disconcerted, but now she simply considered the words of the kind footman. There was hope. Perhaps not at this very ball, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t find a solution.
She had to.
CHAPTER SIX
“I TRUST YOU HAD A SATISFACTORY time at Sir Seymour’s?” Niles asked when Colin returned.
“Yes,” Colin said, and his mind mused on the odd woman he’d discovered in the library. Their conversation had been most unanticipated. Then he remembered the papers Sandridge had asked him to find. “In fact, it was most satisfactory.”
“Sir Seymour must have improved his hosting abilities,” Niles said.
“The guest list makes a difference,” Colin said.
Niles gazed at him oddly. “You wouldn’t want me to look into procuring new attire?”
“Nonsense, I have quite enough. Whatever gave you that idea?”
“I’ve found that some gentlemen prefer to get married in new suits,” Niles said.
“Married?” Colin drew his eyebrows together. “Whatever gave you that impression?”
“Just an instinct,” Niles said.
“Hmph.” Colin decided not to tell Niles about his encounter with the woman in the library. His manservant might come to the oddest conclusions. “Obviously your instincts need additional fine-tuning.”
Niles shot him an aggrieved look and continued undressing him in silence.
Sandridge would be thrilled to learn that he had the papers. Now he only needed to deliver them.
Colin could certainly manage to do that.
“Very well, Your Grace.” Niles folded Colin’s clothes. “I think tomorrow I shall do a full wash.”
“But they’re not good for the clothes.”
Niles shrugged. “And yet, on occasion, they must still be done.”
Niles swept the clothes together, and Colin gasped. “One moment.”
“Yes, Your Grace?”
“I believe I left some papers in my breast pocket.” Colin removed the papers smoothly.
“Those weren’t there before.”
Colin shrugged. “Reading material.”
“You anticipated being bored at the ball?”
“Preparation is everything,” Colin said.
Niles nodded slowly. “I’m much gratified you’re adopting that phrase.”
“Oh, yes,” Colin said. “It’s quite wise.” He tucked the papers in his desk, away from Niles’s eyes.
He did trust Niles, but Sandridge had impressed upon him the importance of secrecy. Curiosity was a state that might befall even the most morally stringent. Certainly, Colin was always falling victim to that.
He rather wished he’d had the good sense to take the name of the woman he’d spoken to tonight.
IF DAISY’S BUTLER THOUGHT it odd when Portia arrived at the early hour of ten o’clock, he did not say anything. Instead, he led her to the parlor. Shortly after, Daisy arrived and rolled her chair toward Portia. Her blonde curls glinted in the light that streamed from the picture window, hindered only by a thin lace curtain.
“I require a husband,” Portia declared.
Daisy’s eyebrows didn’t jolt up. “That is a refrain every woman says.”
“In my case it’s true.”
Her friend’s gaze softened. “Did your guardian say something?”
“Why would you say that?”
“Then he did,” Daisy said smugly.
“Er—yes.”
“I thought you weren’t feeling pressured to find a husband.”
“I wasn’t,” Portia said miserably, regretting her feeling of superiority over harder working debutantes who researched every eligible man carefully, so as to be careful to impress them with their immaculate taste. They expressed passions for Florence and Venice to the men who’d done grand tours. To the men who were wary of traveling from the comforts of their manor houses and castles, they expressed similarly strong laudations for remote portions of the country.
Portia had done no such thing.
She’d told men her opinion of the musical quality of certain musicians without first ascertaining whether the man in question had a particular attachment to the musicians.
“I was naive,” Portia said.
Daisy chuckled. “That sounds unlike you.”
“Father wrote in his will I would lose my money if I didn’t marry by the end of this year,” Portia said flatly.
Daisy’s eyes widened. “Can he do that?”
“It’s his will.” Portia sighed. “He did it.”
“Who will get the money?”
“His old school in Scotland.”
“The one famous for making boys trample through mud for miles?” Daisy asked. “The one that was in the broadsheets for making the boys build fences in the rain?”
“He said the school formed character.”
“I’m so sorry.” Daisy tilted her head sympathetically.
“You’re not the only one,” Portia said.
“And you didn’t know beforehand?”
“Of course not.” Portia drew back. “Had I done so, I would have found somebody. I think.”
“Naturally you would have,” Daisy said in a soothing tone.
“And to be fair, Sir Vincent has offered to marry me.”
“How self-sacrificing of him,” Daisy said. Her tone was sarcastic, and Portia stared at her friend.
“I suppose I could find a position as a companion,” Portia said. “Or a governess.”
Daisy waved her hand dismissively. “Nonsense. You can do anything. If I were you—” Daisy’s voice had an odd longing quality to it, and Portia flushed.
Daisy’s eyes lit up, and she tapped her fingers against her chair. “The Honorable Rupert Andrews.”
“What about him?”
“He would make you an ideal husband.”
Portia blinked. Evidently, her friends were correct when they’d lauded Daisy’s matchmaking abilities. Daisy hadn’t needed to ponder much.
“Truly?” Portia pressed. “And he desires a prompt marriage?”
“Money issues.” Daisy shrugged nonchalantly. “Such is life.”
“How do you know him?”
“He was a neighbor back in Staffordshire. Have you met him before?”
Portia nodded. Rupert Andrews had been an amicable man who’d danced with her sporadically, presumably on those occasions when he couldn’t justify standing about the punch table with his friends. It seemed odd to think of him being her future husband.
“He’s rather nice,” Daisy said, then frowned. “At least for a man. What was your impression?”
“I thought he was courting Mathilda.”
“So did he.” Daisy leaned closer, and her eyes sparkled with that peculiar force that descended during particularly excellent gossip. “But she eloped with a Frenchman. All quite scandalous, and now he truly requires coin. And he no longer trusts his judgment.”
“Which makes him perfect for a husband?”
“Perfect to make a suggestion of marriage,” Daisy said. “Quite different.”
“I see,” Portia said, even though clarity wasn’t her current emotion.
Daisy seemed certain though, for she beamed. “Leave it to me, my dear. Now, where do you want to elope?”
“Elope?” Portia sputtered. She’d anticipated a normal wedding, in a church.
“Well, your guardian might put up protestations otherwise. He might claim Mr. Andrews is imperfect. All nonsense, of course, but the banns process is sufficiently long. I doubt a delay would be in your interest.”
“You’re right,” Portia said miserably.
“You have two options,” Daisy said in the matter-of-fact manner that had caused her to receive the best grades at their finishing school. “Gretna Green—that’s the traditional option, or the Channel Islands. The Duke and Duchess of Vernon eloped there. It’s en vogue.”
“Which is closer?”
“The Channel Islands.” Daisy’s smile grew less pronounced. “Though I imagine the voyage is choppy this time of year.”
Portia shrugged. “I have sea legs.” She leaned nearer her friend. “Does Mr. Andrews?”
“Mr. Andrews is a man. They all claim to have sea legs.” Daisy’s eyes shimmered, and her lips moved into something approximating a smirk. “Guernsey it is. I’ll write you once I learn the time of the next ship departure.”
“And I’ll just meet him then.”
“Yes.” Daisy nodded decidedly, then scrunched her forehead. “Of course, it’s not the best thing to do for your reputation.”
“Neither is being poor.”
“I suspect Mr. Andrews will feel the same way.”
Portia turned the conversation to other things, but an odd excitement moved through her. She was going to be married.
CHAPTER SEVEN
BANGING SOUNDED ON the door, and Colin rolled over in his bed. His head ached, as it normally did these days after long days of visiting a gaming hell, and he buried his head under a pillow. Somehow, gaming hells had seemed more intriguing when he’d first moved to London. The banging continued, and he frowned. Was today a delivery day? Was there a driver who was concerned about parking his carriage outside?
Voices sounded. Colin could swear one of the voices belonged to the butler. Was somebody attempting to enter the main door? Dashed odd.
Then footsteps moved upstairs. Heavy footsteps. Trampling footsteps.
Damnation.
Niles never attacked the steps with such ferocity. His footsteps glided, tiptoed, and strode.
Colin scrambled up, casting his pillow to the side.
The deafening footsteps continued to thud. Since a charging rhinoceros was unlikely to have gained entry to the townhouse, Colin suspected the intruder might desire to speak to him. He grabbed his dressing gown, pulled it over his nightshirt, and tied it.
In the next moment, the door swung open. A red-faced Sir Seymour entered the room and pointed a finger at Colin. “Thief.”
Dash it.
“Sir Seymour,” Colin said in his most consolatory voice. “I didn’t expect to see you.”
“I’m sorry, Your Grace,” Niles said. “I tried to stop him.”
Colin surveyed Sir Seymour. The man’s cravat was loose, as if he’d abandoned his manservant’s attempts to tie it midway, and his tailcoat billowed in an unbecoming fashion.
“I suspect nothing could have stopped him,” Colin said generously. “With the possible exception of three rugby players.”
“Three good rugby players,” Niles qualified.
“Quite.”
“You’re not supposed to be talking about damned rugby players.” Sir Seymour banged his fist on a conveniently placed bookcase. “I’m your guest. You’re supposed to speak about me.”
“You’re not an invited guest,” Niles said.
“This is no time for etiquette,” Sir Seymour bellowed. “Etiquette followers do not steal. They are not criminals. They are not vile beings.”
“Sir Seymour,” Niles said. “I must insist you speak with more decorum to the duke. Your behavior is most unacceptable.”
“Balderdash.” Sir Seymour waved his hand in a dismissive fashion.
“Should I fetch the kitchen servants?” Niles suggested. “Perhaps with their help, I could toss Sir Seymour out.”
“I am right here, and I do not like this conversation,” Sir Seymour said staunchly.
“It seems you don’t like much of anything right now.” A frosty note emanated through Niles’s voice.
“That’s true.” Sir Seymour whirled around and faced Colin again. “You stole from me.”
“Nonsense,” Niles said. “The duke has plenty of money. That is an absurd accusation.”
“I’m not talking about money. I’m talking about papers.”
Niles’s already pale face turned a whiter shade, as if this were February, and it had been even more months since Niles’s complexion had properly seen the sun.
“My valet told me you were in the house last Friday. And you weren’t at the ball.” He glanced at Niles. “I find that suspicious.”
Niles gave a nervous laugh but tiptoed away from Sir Seymour. His gaze was focused on the floorboards.
And Colin knew.
