The Duke Before Christmas (The Duke Hunters Club), page 5
He knew Niles must have told someone Colin had visited Sir Seymour’s house. Damnation. Colin knew servants of the ton were often friends of other servants of the ton. Servants would never knowingly tell a scandal, at least not trusted ones like Niles, but perhaps Niles had only thought Colin’s visit a curiosity and had mentioned it in innocence.
“You have to leave, Sir Seymour,” Colin said sternly.
“Nonsense. I have to find those papers. I need them.”
“I won’t give them to you.”
“Then they’re here.” Triumph gleamed through Sir Seymour’s eyes, as if he were an explorer who’d happened upon a new section of the Americas.
Colin glanced at Niles. “I’m afraid we’re going to have to toss him out.”
“Very well, Your Grace.”
Colin pushed Sir Seymour from the room and escorted him downstairs.
“Open the door, Niles,” Colin said.
Niles rushed to the door, and in the next moment, Colin pushed Sir Seymour out.
“I’ll come back,” Sir Seymour shouted. “You’ll see. If you could break into my house, I can break into yours.”
“They’re not here.” Colin forced his voice to be firm.
Sir Seymour assessed him, then broke into a wide smile. “You’re lying.”
“I’m not,” Colin lied.
“No, I can always tell a liar,” Sir Seymour said.
“You probably have experience staring in the mirror while you lie,” Niles muttered.
“Excuse me?” Sir Seymour jerked his head toward Niles.
“N-nothing,” Niles said.
“That’s a lie too,” Sir Seymour shouted. “See? I can tell.”
Colin shut the door and locked it quickly.
Niles shifted his feet over the marble floor. “I’m sorry, Your Grace. I’m afraid I mentioned where you were—”
“It’s my fault,” Colin said. “I didn’t tell you not to do so. I—er—didn’t want you to be involved in this.”
Niles nodded.
Colin scratched his head. “But he’s right about those papers. I do have them here.”
“Then might I suggest taking them somewhere else?”
“I need to give them to Sandridge,” Colin said.
“In Cornwall?” Niles swallowed hard.
“We’ll go by water,” Colin said. “It will be quicker than taking a coach.”
“Very well, Your Grace. Then I shall pack.”
“But be quick about it. I want us on the next ship.”
NERVOUSNESS THRUMMED through Portia. She was going to be married. Daisy had arranged a ticket for her onboard The Empress, and she would be in Guernsey in two days. She pulled her trunk from the wardrobe and set it on the bed. She opened the clasps, conscious she would need to pack lightly, despite the ample space available in the trunk, if she wanted to carry the trunk outside with sufficient speed.
This was Jonesie’s and Cranston’s half day, and Portia trusted her guardian would confine himself to his library as customary, perusing tomes and scoffing that the rest of the world didn’t devote equal time to the contemplation of culture and classics.
Portia marched to her wardrobe and stared at her clothes.
“Why is your trunk out?” Jonesie’s voice startled her.
Portia turned around hastily, hoping her guilty conscience had simply created Jonesie’s voice.
But that was Jonesie.
Jonesie with her mouth open, and her blue eyes rounded.
“This is your half day,” Portia stammered. “What are you doing here?”
Jonesie shrugged. “It’s raining, and I finished my book.”
“Indeed?” Portia pushed her hand through her hair, despising how her fingers trembled. She forced herself to remain nonchalant and thought of lakes, the ones devoid of whirlpools, ice or monsters. “Would you like to borrow one of mine?”
Jonesie’s gaze remained focused on the trunk. “Why is your luggage on the bed?”
“I—er—simply wanted to see if I needed to buy a new one,” Portia lied, conscious her voice was wobbling rather too much. “Examine for wears and tears.”
“These trunks last decades,” Jonesie said sternly. “And you shouldn’t have it on the bed.”
“Oh?” Portia averted her gaze.
“It’s good I came back.” Jonesie marched toward the bed, snapped the trunk shut, and hauled it to the wardrobe. She turned to Portia and beamed. “I can assure you the trunk is quite suitable for traveling. No need to worry at all.”
“How lovely,” Portia said faintly.
Jonesie assessed the now open wardrobe. “But perhaps some of these clothes do need to be replaced.”
Having a discussion on her attire would no doubt consume time, and time was what she lacked.
She couldn’t stay here.
She needed to leave. Soon.
What would Mr. Andrews think if she wasn’t on the ship when he arrived? What if he thought Daisy had been jesting?
“Actually, I’d prefer to do it another day,” Portia said.
“Is that so?” There was an odd scrutinizing look in Jonesie’s gaze. Normally, Jonesie didn’t draw her eyebrows together in such fashion. Normally, her brow didn’t wrinkle. Normally—
“You’re running away.” Jonesie beamed, and her blue eyes sparkled with a force Portia was more accustomed to seeing on sapphires. “I knew it.”
“What? That’s nonsense,” Portia lied valiantly.
“Oh?” Jonesie sat down and stretched her legs. She yawned. “In that case, perhaps I’ll stay here.”
“You wouldn’t.”
Jonesie smiled sweetly. “There’s nothing I’d rather do, even on my half-day, than work here. I doubt anyone would mind.”
Portia glanced toward the door. Could people hear their conversation?
“Well, the truth is—” Portia sighed.
“You’re running away.” Jonesie’s voice remained curiously firm. “You’ve been acting odd all week.”
“I often act odd,” Portia protested.
Jonesie seemed to hide a smile.
Heavens.
This was no time to find amusement in anything. Portia placed her arms on her waist and pretended she was much larger and intimidating and important than she truly was.
“Perhaps you often act odd,” Jonesie acquiesced, “what with insisting on going out so often, and heavens knows, no one has ever seen you with any embroidery, but you don’t learn every day that you will not inherit the money promised to you if you don’t marry by the end of the year.”
Portia jerked her head to Jonesie. “You knew that?”
Jonesie sighed. “The servants have been discussing nothing else this week.”
Portia remained silent.
“You know, if you marry Sir Vincent, you might be able to have some of those dinner parties here. You’d be his wife. You’d have influence.” Jonesie’s voice was gentle.
“Perhaps.”
“It’s not a terrible prospect,” Jonesie said.
Portia sighed. “You must think I’m spoiled to not want it.”
Jonesie shook her head. “You’re lucky to even think you have more options. That’s a blessing.”
Porta smiled guiltily. “Are you here to tell me not to leave?”
“No.” Jonesie stood and narrowed the distance between them. “Take me with you.”
“What?”
“I imagine you found another husband?” Jonesie asked. “Because I’m really not up for a life of too much uncertainty.”
“I found another husband.” The tension from Portia’s back eased. She’d done that.
Jonesie gave a relieved sigh. “Oh, good. So I can continue to be paid?”
Portia grinned. “Indeed. I’ll have my fortune, after all.”
“Splendid.” Jonesie smiled, then she narrowed her gaze. “I heard the Duchess of Belmonte sneaked onto a ship bound for the Caribbean before she met the duke. I have no desire to go to the Caribbean.”
“You won’t,” Portia said. “But we will be taking a ship, and the ship leaves soon. So if you want to come—”
“—I’ll help you pack,” Jonesie said with a smile.
The next minutes were a delicious flurry of clothes being flung into the trunk, followed by a brief wait while Jonesie grabbed her small collection of belongings. They absconded from the townhouse and Sir Vincent.
Fortunately, they found a hack quickly and scrambled up the metal steps. Portia told the driver where to go, then the horses moved into a trot.
Soon they would be at the Docks, soon Portia would be married, and soon Portia could forget this temporary unpleasantness had ever happened. Hope surged through her, and she beamed.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“THIS IS MY FAULT,” Niles said mournfully, and his shoulders descended to an uncharacteristic slump as he leaned against the coach’s cushioned interior.
“Nonsense,” Colin said.
Niles’s newfound gloomy expression did not dissipate. “You’re being kind.”
“Well, it’s only partially your fault,” Colin amended.
“I abhor even partial faults.”
“I know.” Colin smiled. “It’s why I hired you. I have exceptional judgment.”
“Judgment that does not extend to cravat tie preferences,” Niles said.
“Just because you can tie a mathematical knot does not mean it has to be my preferred cravat choice,” Colin said.
It was not the first time Colin had expressed this particular argument, and Niles’s nostrils flared, but he did not deign to discuss any of his frequently used points on the benefits of going about in the world with an uncomfortable, if aesthetically appealing and envy-inducing cravat.
Colin supposed he was grateful for that silence.
“So the plan is to go to the London Dockyards and board a ship to Cornwall?” Niles asked.
Colin gave his best patient nod, the avuncular sort practiced by the kindest tutors at Harrow, the ones who’d happily got it into their minds that the best way to impart a love of knowledge in students was by not wielding rulers and whips.
Perhaps Niles’ strengths were really best confined to mending and the occasional fashion advice.
“We’ll be out on the open sea soon.”
“How nice.” Niles’s voice wobbled, and Colin gazed at his valet sharply.
“You have been on the water before?”
Niles nodded. “I had an uncle who used to take us out on rowing boats.” Niles’s face turned a curious shade of gray. “He seemed to think we would find it enjoyable.”
“Well, a ship is far more stable than a rowing boat,” Colin said. He decided not to add that the waters that a ship sailed in were likely to be far rougher than anything a rowboat was bound to reach. This was after all a time for optimism. They’d managed to leave the townhouse with a collection of clothes, a matter Niles insisted was of the utmost importance, as well as the papers. Sandridge’s new bride’s father would be much happier soon. His whole family would be.
“We’re doing a very good thing,” Colin said. “Sandridge didn’t expect the papers yet. He’ll be so pleased to have them.”
“How splendid.” Niles stretched a forced smile on his face.
The carriage jerked, and the carefully manicured townhouses, adorned with tasteful Grecian flourishes and the occasional floral and plant embellishment, disappeared. The curricles and barouches, driven by valiant drivers determined to pretend their carriages withstood any combination of dreck English weather and occupants might throw at them, had also disappeared. Evidently, their owners were content to round the nicer sections of Mayfair and Kensington, listing the superiority of their vehicles without ever truly testing them.
The streets widened, a concession to the heavy wagons that streamed from the docks. The buildings were functional, designed more for their ability to store corn and grain than any aesthetic purpose.
A pungent scent filled the air, perhaps from the waters themselves. Shouts and orders streamed into the carriage, uttered by the sort of brusque types his nannies had always warned him to stay far away from. They were less intimidating now that Colin had grown, though Colin suddenly wished his coachman had been less fastidious in maintaining the carriage. Perhaps the wheels didn’t need to be quite so freshly painted, perhaps the sides did not require such care in polishing, and perhaps the gilded crest, a compilation of lions and unicorns, did not need to sparkle with such magnificence.
Finally, the coach stopped before the Thames.
“Let’s go, Niles.” Colin flung the coach door open and scrambled out.
Niles moved from the carriage more gingerly, clasping hold of the bars, and gazing firmly at the thin set of stairs that led from the coach door, as if to prepare lest the steps suddenly collapsed before him.
“Don’t worry, Niles,” Colin said lightly. “There will be more room on the ship.”
He turned his attention to the large ships that crowded the docklands. Workers scrambled to carry cargo off some of the ships. People shouted and pushed together, each seeming to be headed for a different ship.
Colin headed toward the nearest ship, conscious of Niles behind him, hauling the luggage.
A carriage rumbled quickly over the cobblestones, undeterred by the crowds of sailors, passengers, and workers.
“Carriages shouldn’t speed,” Niles grumbled. “Someone could get hurt.”
A few passers-by yelled at the coach driver, adding various obscenities to underline their conviction, and Colin turned his attention to finding the ship.
Colin approached a sailor standing in a guardlike capacity at the gangway of a ship. “Where’s the ship to Cornwall?”
“There’s no ship to Cornwall today,” the man said.
Oh.
“That’s unfortunate.”
The sailor eyed him oddly. “This is December. Ain’t many people who want to go to Cornwall now.”
“Cornwall is nice at any time,” Colin said defensively.
The sailor raised his eyebrows. “You must not have traveled much.”
“Where does this ship go?” Niles asked.
“Guernsey.”
“Ah.” Colin frowned.
That wouldn’t do. Guernsey was part of the Channel Islands. It was insignificant and nowhere near any civilization. Certainly, France hardly counted after what they’d done in their revolution. Colin suspected visiting an island in December was not an improvement upon visiting Cornwall in December. The wind would bluster with even more effort, as if filled with aggression at the fact of being on this island, and as if it had resigned itself to going about the island toppling trees, breaking off branches, and generally forcing everyone to remain inside their cottages.
Niles nudged him and pointed in the direction of the swerving carriage.
Niles didn’t strike him as a man prone to nudges, but Colin was supremely grateful for the nudge all the same.
People were exiting the carriage. And one of them looked curiously like Sir Seymour.
Well, one of them looked precisely like Sir Seymour.
Blast.
Sir Seymour was looking for him. And unfortunately, this time, he was not alone.
Colin had Sandridge’s papers on his person. He wasn’t going to disappoint his friend. Not after he’d managed to procure them after significant trouble.
Colin turned to the sailor brightly. “Well, this is our ship.”
“You’re going to Guernsey?” The sailor drew his eyebrows together. He eyed Colin and Niles with a scrutiny more commonly reserved for chief inspectors when surveying well-known criminals dressed in fine attire.
“Yes,” Colin said. “We’re going to Guernsey. We love Guernsey.”
“It’s all we speak about,” Niles added, and Colin gave him a grateful nod.
Niles was getting into the spirit of things.
“Hmph. We don’t have any more spaces on the ship.”
“Oh?” Colin prided himself on his baritone, but right now, his voice was entering a higher pitch. He coughed and turned carefully away. Sir Seymour and his ruffians had stopped Colin’s carriage. They were inspecting it with glee, despite the protestations of Colin’s coachman.
Damnation.
This was not going well.
“You have no more tickets?” Colin asked faintly.
Niles cleared his throat. “We are the passengers you have been waiting for.”
The sailor glanced at his passenger list.” “Does that mean you’re Mr. Rupert Andrews?”
Niles gestured toward Colin. “He’s Mr. Rupert Andrews. I’m his manservant.”
The sailor eyed Niles suspiciously. “I don’t have you on the list.”
“He travels in my cabin,” Colin explained.
“Ah. Well, then. Follow me. I thought you wouldn’t show up.”
“How did you know he was waiting for someone else?” Colin whispered to Niles.
Niles gave a smug smile. “That’s why he was on the gangway.”
“Oh. You are wise.”
“I share a similar wisdom in wanting you to have the elegance of a mathematical cravat,” Niles said.
“Too much,” Colin said. “Mustn’t push your good fortune.”
Niles kept a smile on his face though.
Colin allowed himself a gaze at the carriage. Sir Seymour and his men were looking most grumpy. Another glossy carriage approached, and a dark-haired man wearing spectacles, a top hat and tails leaped out. He sprinted toward the ship with flushed cheeks.
“That might be the real Mr. Rupert Andrews,” Niles whispered.
“Then we must hurry,” Colin said, shoving aside the tinge of guilt. Whatever this Mr. Andrews’ eagerness to get on board the ship was, he was unlikely to be fleeing ruffians. No, Mr. Andrews could wait for the next ship. The man had been after all late.
The papers Colin carried would save a man’s family. This might not be the most ethical thing Colin had ever done, but he was not going to surrender a man’s fate for politeness.
Some things in the world were simply more important than being polite, and Colin vowed to dismiss Mr. Andrews and his inconvenient wait from his mind at once.
Colin adopted a quick pace up the gangway.
