Beguiled by a Baron (The Heart of a Duke Book 14) Read online

  Maintaining the façade, he angled her head and pressed his lips to her throat. “Any company?”

  She arched her head back and emitted an exaggerated moan. “None. Has a bag under his table. A pistol in his breeches that he keeps flashing when he checks his timepiece,” the whore, Tabitha, said, barely parting her lips as she spoke.

  To anyone observing them, they were no different than every other lord with wandering hands and an eager whore. Since the first time he’d taken Tabitha to the rooms abovestairs nearly four years earlier, however, they’d struck an unexpected-to-Society relationship. One devoid of any carnality, despite Tabitha’s occasional offer to bed him. Theirs was strictly a business arrangement. She was his eyes and ears inside this club and when word needed to reach him, she found a way.

  Feeling Lord Derby’s stare on them, Vail cupped Tabitha about the nape of her neck. He dragged her mouth close and kissed her for the other man’s benefit.

  Tabitha instantly melted against him. This time, there was nothing false in her breathy moan.

  Vail broke the kiss. “Mayhap later,” he said loud enough for the gentlemen passing by them. He swatted her once on the buttocks and turned to go.

  “Vail?” she called out, staying him.

  Pausing, he looked back.

  She drifted closer. “There can be a later,” she murmured, fiddling with the lapels of his cloak. “I can…”

  He pressed his fingertips to her lips, staying those words. She’d grown too close. Wanted more. Hoped for something he could not give her. Something he could not give any woman. He’d loved once and lost hard…a young woman who’d rejected him because he hadn’t a coin to his name. From that betrayal, he’d learned to keep his guard up and let no one in.

  Tabitha sighed. “You’re the only bloody nob who’s uninterested in a place in my bed, Vail Basingstoke,” she muttered, though he detected the flash of regret in her eyes.

  “I don’t bed the women in my employ,” he said to soften the blow of his rejection. Resuming his march to Derby’s table, Vail didn’t wait for an invitation and simply tugged out a chair.

  The bald nobleman swallowed; that audible evidence of his nervousness stretched across the din of the room. “Ch-Chilton,” he greeted, pushing an empty glass and bottle of brandy across the table. “A brandy.”

  Vail reclined in his seat and then steepled his fingertips together. He proceeded to tap them in a deliberate, silent staccato. “I’m displeased with you, Derby,” he said in a frosty tone.

  All the color leeched from the earl’s cheeks. “W-with me?” he yanked frantically at his cravat, rumpling the perfectly tied gastronome knot. “C-Can’t imagine why. I’ve done nothing.”

  Abandoning his casual pose, Vail leaned forward and placed his elbows on the surface of the table. “Haven’t you?” he asked in a menacing whisper. “I don’t take well to liars,”—the earl trembled, his legs shaking so hard, he knocked the table and his glass splattered droplets upon the scarred surface—“nor do I deal with men who break their word once an agreement has been reached. Why, those men, I won’t even sell to.” It was the ultimate trump for these men obsessed with their books and manuscripts. Some of the leading peers of Society would cull and hunt down first edition works and rare copies at the cost of their own names and reputations.

  Derby lifted his palms in supplication. “Haven’t broken anything. I wouldn’t—”

  Vail narrowed his eyes. “Think carefully before you finish that sentence,” he warned.

  The earl’s shoulders sank. The book in question was Sir William Dugdale’s first edition work of The Baronage of England. Having discovered it was in Derby’s possession, Vail had taken advantage of the other man’s desperate need for finances to win the script at a favorable price.

  The pale nobleman matched Vail’s pose and leaned across the table. “I’ve an explanation. One you can appreciate.”

  “Do not tell me what I can, will, or will never appreciate,” he said, coating that warning in ice.

  “Of course, of course. Forgive me.” Derby spoke so quickly his words rolled together.

  Vail would lay down his life for his siblings and the one person he called friend. But where members of the peerage were concerned, He’d fleece them of their fortunes with a smile and sleep at night all the better for it.

  “I was trying to fetch more for it. Surely you can app…?” At Vail’s pointed look, the man’s throat muscles moved. “I want that Chaucer,” he said, giving Vail the first honest truth since he’d joined him. “If I can fetch more, I can pay you more.”

  “And if you’d deny my payment for a spoken contract, then you’ll never even set foot inside the auction house when bidding commences,” Vail said flatly. “Are we clear?”

  The other man had the look of one who’d imbibed too much and was about to toss the contents of his stomach up for it. “W-we are.”

  Vail motioned for Tabitha. The young woman instantly rushed over. “Can oi be of service,” she purred, playing her part to such perfection a Drury Lane actress couldn’t manage.

  “If you’ll clear the table?”

  Pouting, she made quick work of putting the barely touched bottle of brandy and two glasses onto her tray. Expertly balancing that burden, she withdrew a clean rag from her bodice. Had Derby been cleverer—at all clever—he’d have noted the fabric was of a quality and cleanliness at odds with the establishment they now frequented. After Tabitha dusted the surface and sauntered off, Vail reached inside his jacket and fished out a specific pair of gloves. Carefully pulling on the white cotton articles, he peered down his nose at the earl. “The book.”

  “Yes. Yes. Here. I have it.” The older nobleman leaned under the table and fiddled with his valise. He straightened and handed it over.

  Collecting it, Vail proceeded to the front page. With the same expert eye that had shaped him into one of the most successful and most ruthless booksellers in England, he took in every detail of the volume in his possession. He noted the coloring and quality of the page and the vibrancy of the ink. Vail paused, lingering his perusal on the author’s name marked on those pages. With his gaze, he traced the specific loops and turns of Dugdale’s flourishing signature. With careful movements, he closed the book.

  Wordlessly, he pulled out two items. First, he slid a one hundred pound note across the table. Then he fingered a special cloth sack he’d had made to shield and protect items he acquired. Vail stood. “Do not ever attempt to renege on a deal with me.” He spoke those words as a lethal threat. “I do not take to being made a fool.”

  “My apologies, Chilton,” Derby stammered, scrambling to his feet. “I-I’m still able to come bid, then? I’ve more items to sell you in the meantime. If you’d care to—”

  “This is all I’ve a need for now.” Never let a person know one’s interest or eagerness. Let a person present the item for bid, then feign disinterest, and walk away…and then later strike the terms of an agreement that fit one’s own desiring. Not bothering with another glance for the man, Vail marched the same path he’d traveled a short while ago and took his leave.

  Once outside, he searched the streets, looking not for his mount, but—

  His gaze landed on his black lacquer carriage emblazoned with the gold Chilton falcon. With its wings spread and talons curled, he was a predator about to pounce. It was an ideal symbol he’d inherited that perfectly matched the role of hunter he’d adopted. Vail stalked over to that conveyance. Everything about his meetings in King Street was perfectly orchestrated: from Jeremy who collected his reins, to the guards, attired as a driver and footman who returned and traded out Vail’s mount for the carriage to escort him home.

  “My lord,” Ernest greeted, a question in his eyes.

  Vail inclined his head in the silent, universal statement they’d adopted which confirmed everything had been met without conflict. Book in one arm, Vail climbed inside the carriage and, as the conveyance rolled away from the Coaxing Tom, he leaned bac
k and relished his thrilling triumph over the nobility.

  Chapter 3

  “Oh, Lady Bridget, I do not like this. I still don’t like it at all,” Nettie repeated, wringing her hands.

  There was something frustrating in going through life banished by one’s parents, spurned by one’s siblings, and not known by anyone in Society. Yet, to have the one woman who’d cared for you since your birth unable to, all these years later, refer to you with only your name went beyond that frustration.

  Lady Bridget.

  “I know that, Nettie,” she said softly, surveying the rooms she’d rented in London. Bridget didn’t like any of it. From the scheme her brother demanded she play part in, to the accommodations they’d call home for the next…however long it took her to obtain that book.

  She studied the dirt-stained lead windows, the water stains upon the ceiling, and the discolored furnishings, and sighed. In all the times she’d dreamed of leaving the countryside and exploring the city of London, she’d never expected this would be where she and Virgil would reside. Only it wasn’t her. It would just be her son and Nettie. Her heart constricted at the thought of being parted from him.

  Tucked away on the outskirts of Piccadilly, in a townhouse that was dark, dank, and damp, there was no other place she wished to be but back in their small, familiar cottage.

  “A waste of resources this one is,” the graying, lifelong nursemaid muttered.

  “Yes.” But at the end of this deception, there would be coin enough to free her of the manipulation at Archibald’s hands. And there’d be enough money to last her, Virgil, and Nettie well into the future. “It is just for a short while.”

  Nettie tightened her mouth. “I don’t understand what manner of man would expect you to take up residence in his household, all to evaluate books.”

  A dull blade of guilt twisted inside. For that was the lie she’d given this woman who’d made her entire life—hers and then Virgil’s.

  “It’s not natural, I say,” the woman said in hushed tones. “I don’t care if he’s one of those bookish scholars you deal with. They’re wicked ones, too.”

  Warmth suffused her breast. The older woman might only ever refer to her as Lady Bridget, but Bridget had been invisible to her parents. Nettie had been far more a mother than had she given Bridget life. It was a bond she appreciated even more since she’d become a parent to Virgil. She wrapped her arms about the other woman’s shoulders and squeezed. “I daresay there’s no scholarly scoundrel with wicked intentions for a partially deaf, scarred widow,” she said pragmatically. She was a woman of logic and reason. As such, she’d never given much worrying or regret to her appearance. It was a thing that could not be changed and certainly not a reason she’d ever want one to notice her.

  Nettie swatted at her hand. “Don’t speak ill of yourself.”

  Bridget bussed her nursemaid on a wrinkled cheek. “You know I only ever speak the truth. I hardly have any vanity where things such as my looks should ever matter.”

  “Humph, the only reason some gent hasn’t absconded with you is because you’ve been hidden away for your whole life.”

  Repressing a smile, Bridget gave Nettie’s shoulders another light squeeze. The nursemaid may as well be a proud mama for how she’d always spoken of her. “Well, I promise, I shan’t run off anywhere unless I have you and Virgil with me.”

  “Where are we going?”

  They both looked up as Virgil skidded into the room.

  Both women spoke in unison. “Slow.”

  Cheeks flushed red with excitement and his eyes glowing, Virgil wore his joy tangibly like a mark upon his face.

  “We are not going anywhere,” Bridget said, walking over. She ruffled the top of his chocolate brown tresses. When his face fell, she added, “You and Nettie, however, will be exploring London.” As much as they could afford. All their resources had gone to rent these rooms for the next two months. She’d not proffered coin for any additional ones. That was the time she’d set for herself to see this through.

  “Why can’t you stay?” And with the faint pleading there, Virgil was very much the tiny babe she’d cradled in her arms, and not this little person who wavered between babe and boy.

  “I will be busy shut away evaluating old books.”

  “And you’ll love it all the while,” he groused, though his lips pulled slightly at the corners. For all his protestations to the contrary, Virgil had an equal love and skill with antiquated texts.

  But how well he knew her. And yes, normally she would have traded the slim material possessions to their name to examine some of the most prized first edition books and tomes of Lord Chilton’s collection. From this point forward, she’d never look upon another without seeing Archibald’s evil and her own complicity. Ravaged with guilt at taking part in this scheme and leaving her son behind, she dropped to a knee so she could look him squarely in the eyes. “I’ll return every Sunday,” she vowed. As housekeeper there were many benefits that came with the post. Not only would she acquire thirty pounds each month she served in the baron’s household but she also had the freedom of movement one day each week.

  “And we’ll do something wonderful on those days?” he pressed.

  Bridget caught him to her, knocking him off-kilter. “Are you daring to suggest it’s not just wonderful being with me?” She tickled him in his sides until peals of laughter rang from his lips.

  “S-stop. S-stop,” he pleaded, fighting against her hold.

  Tickling him once more for good measure, she leaned up and kissed his cheek. “Something wonderful,” she hedged. For the truth remained, she could not be caught out in the fashionable ends of London and risk being spied by her employer in Virgil’s company.

  At her back, Nettie cleared her throat and pain lanced through her. “’Tis time, Lady Bridget.”

  It had been inevitable, that pronouncement. And yet, hearing it somehow cemented the finality of her decision and her departure. Biting the inside of her cheek, she forced herself to stand slowly. She’d not have Virgil see her pain and trepidation in leaving. Her son’s lower lip quivered and the sight of his quiet suffering ravaged her. From behind her, Nettie’s crying filled the small parlor. I’m going to splinter apart right in front of them. “Until Sunday,” she said hoarsely. And before she dissolved into a puddle of tears at his feet, Bridget grabbed her valise and rushed from the room.

  Virgil’s soft weeping followed behind her and she quickened her footsteps, fighting the urge to return. If she did so, she’d be useless to him. He’d see her break down and would only find greater misery. With every step, Nettie’s hushed reassurances grew fainter and fainter until they dissolved altogether. Her muslin cloak whipped noisily about her ankles and, shifting her cumbersome valise to her other hand, she rushed down the hall to the foyer.

  Lords and ladies had housekeepers and butlers. But even as Bridget’s own family had been in possession of a once plentiful staff, she herself had forever been without that luxury. In time, after she’d been scuttled off to the country with Archibald’s son, she’d opened her own doors and brewed her own teas. She let herself out the front door.

  An overcast London morn greeted her; the dreary day a perfect match to her mood. Shoving aside such maudlin sentiments, she scanned the streets of Piccadilly. No good had ever come in wallowing in regrets. She located a hack. Shifting the burden of her valise to her other hand, she started over. “To Lord Chilton’s Mayfair residence. Number Fifteen.”

  The young man eyed her a moment and then, jumping down, he drew the door open. He collected her bag. First, he helped Bridget up and then tossed her valise inside after her. It landed with an unceremonious thump at her feet. “Thank—” The silent driver slammed the door shut. “—you,” she muttered under her breath. The carriage lurched forward and she gasped. Grabbing the edge of the seat to keep from flying forward, she held tight.

  The torn, faded, velvet curtains whipped wildly. The passing streets of London danced in a
nd out of focus like the kaleidoscope she’d gifted Virgil years earlier. Bridget stared absently out at the foreign streets and used the remaining time to prepare for her introduction to the baron’s household. As the senior member of Lord Chilton’s staff, she’d be permitted freedom of movement within the household which should make her task of finding the Chaucer and—

  She pressed her eyes closed. “I’ve become a common thief,” she whispered into the carriage. For the first time, Bridget forced herself to utter those words aloud and own them. She was sacrificing her honor to save Virgil. If she were being truthful with herself at last in this instant, she was saving herself, too. Because she’d witnessed over the years the evil Archibald was capable of. She knew what he did to those who’d thwarted him. And she did not doubt he’d have her committed as he’d vowed if she didn’t do this.

  Fueled by that, she set her shoulders and shifted her thoughts to something safer—her upcoming meeting.

  My name is Bridget Hamlet.

  Given that she’d spent her childhood days in one of her family’s far-flung country estates and then chose self-exile so she might raise Virgil, none either knew or remembered a third Hamilton child.

  Bridget silently mouthed all the details she’d worked out for her fictional existence. …I’m a widow. My late husband was a bookseller. My family landed gentry…

  Having read every book inside her family’s once well-stocked Yorkshire estate, she’d read enough gothic tales of ladies sneaking inside a powerful nobleman’s household. Every last one included surprise that the employer should ask probing questions and so commenced the stammering. Bridget, however, was too logical to make that mistake.

  The carriage rolled to a stop and a peculiar still gripped her. Where were the lurching stomach and the panicky thoughts? But then, mayhap this calm was just further testament that her blood was as evil as that of Archibald and Marianne.

  “Here we are, miss,” the driver called, yanking the door open.

  Gathering her valise by the worn leather handle, she held on to it with one hand. With the other, she accepted the hackney driver’s offer of help. Bridget reached inside her cloak and withdrew coin for the fare, and the young man grabbed it with quick fingers. He tucked the coin inside his jacket, scrambled back atop his box, and drove off.