The Duke’s Impetuous Darling: Christmas Belles, Book 3 Read online

  "I thought so." He kissed her forehead, then pulled back to look down at her. "So then. Tell me. Would you marry Lord Carlson?"

  She snorted and shook her head. "Never."

  "What of Hallerton?"

  "No."

  "Huzzah, my darling," he whispered. "And I presume that means you would not leave me to Eliza Kent?"

  "Absolutely not!"

  "Thank god." He urged her close and seized her mouth. She opened for him, all that he was, heroic, charming, wounded, and she reveled in his claim of her lips and tongue.

  This was madness and temptation. She pushed at his chest. "I cannot have you."

  He turned stiff, cold. This man, so strong, so adamant was a fierce stranger. Fired in battle, forged by injury, he loomed over her. "You can. I did not spend the last ten years of my life outsmarting my enemies not to find a way to gain the one prize I desire most."

  She gave him her own resolve. "I won't ruin you."

  "You can't. Do you know why?"

  She shook her head.

  "You love me."

  "You must go."

  He straightened his frock coat and shot his cuffs. Running one hand through his disheveled hair, he stepped back. "I will hear you say it. Before this damned party is done. I swear you will be mine."

  * * *

  The next morning at eleven, Alastair stepped out onto the front portico of the house, took one glance of Bee talking with Carlson and revisited the subject he'd pondered through his sleepless night. How to prove to her she could not ruin him?

  Hell. He cursed beneath his breath and cast about the frozen landscape for some serenity. Truth was, ironic as it seemed, he might damn well ruin her! His brain did not work well. Not when he was sad or angry. And he was both since coming here, his hope to marry her fled like a feather on the wind. And if he allowed his anger to possess him, he could make a nasty scene and shame her. Not anything he wished to do. Ever.

  He buttoned his new superfine cape against the winter chill and joined twelve other house guests who milled about on the pebbled court. They awaited their turn to pile into the manor carriages that one-by-one drew up to the door. Their mission was to cut fresh greenery to bring home to decorate the dining room.

  Bee with Carlson was ordering the line of carriages. Her eyes met his once, then slid away. The gentleman beside her acknowledged him with a nod that was more triumph than pleasantry.

  Alastair snorted. He'd dispense with this suitor, like the toy soldier he was. At once, he whirled away to consider his battlefield.

  At the edge of the copse, the footmen had erected a tent where hot chocolate and full tea was to be served, brandy too, for a chaser. Alastair loathed this greenery search, having frozen in winter too often on the march to find the prospect of frostbite fun.

  He needed to be gone from here, Bee by his side, enjoying kisses in a hot bed, making merry and frankly, making heirs. Not watching her smile, as she did now, at that prig Carlson.

  This morning, she was a beauty in a royal blue woolen redingote trimmed in silver fox. Her little hat secured with a big silver bow, she stole glances at him when she thought he might not be looking. But he was. Constantly. She was the sight he'd wished for, called for in the dark of his despair. She was so lovely. Her back straight, her cheeks pink, her mouth firm but her eyes, her long-lashed cerulean blue eyes, were red-rimmed. Oh, my darling. Had she been awake all night? He ached to hold her.

  If he carried her off, she'd not object. But then, she'd be ruined all over again. Then she'd hate him, berate him for treating her so. She wanted restitution. And he couldn't give it to her. She wanted a fine reputation. And he had no means to grant it. She wanted the respect she'd enjoyed as a child of a good family, and he could not snap his fingers like a genie to award it. He sagged against a pillar, filled with the helplessness that assailed him when he'd not known his name or his family or his country.

  Marjorie and Griff appeared before him.

  "Come join us, Alastair!" Marjorie looped her arm in his. Griff took his other and led him toward a landau. "Or must I say, Your Grace?"

  "You should," Griff told her with a lop-sided smile. Unlike Bee and Alastair, these two had not become friends until two years ago when Griff was home soon after the death of the girls' brother, George. Their relationship, however, seemed as warm and as close as Bee's and his.

  "Tomorrow is as good a time as any," replied Alastair. "I might be used to it by then."

  "I'll sit between you," Marjorie said as Griff took her hand to lead her up and settle in the cab. "Here, stay warm. Put this blanket over your lap."

  "Shouldn’t we take another of the ladies?" Alastair said.

  "On the way home we will," said Griff, giving notice to the groom to walk on with the horses.

  "Wonderful,” said Marjorie. “I must talk to you."

  "Oh? What about?"

  Marjorie inhaled as if girding herself for battle. "You won't like this."

  "I gather." He crossed his arms.

  "I know what Bee's been doing these past months."

  He froze. "What do you mean?"

  "She discovered a smuggler. I'm right, aren't I?" Marjorie pinned him with her resolve.

  "She discovered him, yes." How had Marjorie learned this? "She had information for Customs and they were able to stop a few of his landings."

  "But they never caught him," she said.

  "Always the goal is to catch the gang members. But it’s tough to do. How do you know this?"

  She met him eye-to-eye. "I'm in the Lanes often."

  "She means she takes card games with ruffians," Griff said with a wince.

  She sniffed. "I have friends there who tell me about events in the town."

  Griff snorted. "That means she mixes with those whom she shouldn't."

  "Stop!" She elbowed him.

  Griff caught her hand, his eyes hot blue anger. "I told you two years ago, I wanted you to end this foolishness with cards, but you didn't stop."

  "If I had, I wouldn't know this about Bee, would I?"

  Griff wanted to stop her mixing in questionable company. That Alastair understood. But the ferocity of Griff's demands told Alastair his friend cared for Marjorie in more affectionate ways than he expected.

  He stared at Marjorie. "You know about Hawker. What else?"

  "Hawker. That's what you call him?"

  "Blue Hawker." Alastair wrinkled his nose. "She gave him that name. For his nose. His bad looks."

  Marjorie chuckled, then stopped. "She still searches for him."

  Oh hell. He would carry her off now, before Hawker got to her, hurt her or worse. "She promised me she wouldn't. How does she search? When?"

  "I followed her myself a few times these past weeks. She volunteers to do the marketing. Insists on it. Even if Cook sends her kitchen maid."

  "And so she returns to the fish market," Alastair said, horrified she'd put herself in danger.

  "Yes. At the foot of the Steyne, she dallies while she's buying fish, which she is, of course, but she takes her sweet time. And Hawker's fancy gentleman hasn't come either."

  Alastair clenched his fists.

  "Alastair?" Griff appealed to him. "Are you well?"

  "Well as can be." He'd confided in Griff about his bouts of fury. How he tried to control his ire and often failed. But here and now, he would not frighten Marjorie. Would not. So he forced a benevolent smile. "I need to know it all. Please."

  "Last week, I told her what I suspected. She confided in me that if she can't find him or she cannot identify his fancy man—”

  "The man who arranges for toffs to purchase Hawker's contraband?"

  She nodded.

  Damn. "I told her he was dangerous. He has friends, powerful friends who buy his stolen goods. She mustn't look for him. Or even appear to search for him."

  "Well, she has, Alastair. I cannot talk her out of it."

  "Not surprising." Griff said with a helpless tone. "Stubbornness is a Craymore family
trait."

  Marjorie gazed upon Griff with a sigh of resignation. "I cannot stop her, Griff."

  "Can anyone stop a Craymore girl?”

  Whatever Griff deemed Marjorie's misdemeanor, Alastair could not deal with two Craymore women. He'd have to leave Marjorie to his friend. "Today she’s occupied with this greenery business. So she can't go to market. But before I leave here...I will stop her." To do that, he would have to have married her and taken her away.

  Marjorie faced him. "I hope so.”

  “I’ve proposed."

  Marjorie blinked, her violet eyes twinkling. "And?"

  "She claims she's not good enough for me."

  "You must convince her."

  "I will find a way," he said, but even to his own ears, he didn't sound convincing.

  Marjorie wrung her hands. "I mean very quickly."

  "Why?" Her urgency alarmed him.

  "If she cannot find Hawker or this other man by the New Year, she'll take a position as a governess and leave Aunt Gertrude, Del and me."

  "She'd take employment?"

  "She would."

  For a young woman with education, the role of governess was noble employment. For a young lady of breeding, it was a step down in station. Risky, it was fraught with challenges of disreputable employers who did not pay or who expected other intimate services for the recompense of salary.

  "She wants to hold her head up, Alastair. She craves a good reputation and hates the charity."

  "I know. She's told me. But I never thought she'd go so far to reestablish herself."

  "We'll do many things to gain back our good name, Alastair."

  Griff grumbled to himself. "You mean a good name or a full purse, don't you, Marjorie?"

  She scowled at Griff and tossed her head high. "I can walk home, you know."

  "The devil you will," his friend told her.

  Alastair sat back, his gaze drifting to the carriage in front and the lady who sat there with some man she cared naught for.

  How could he help her restore her good name? Find Hawker and his agent. That was the key.

  Certainly the special marriage license he'd brought with him from the archbishop would not be enough. To elevate her to duchess would not suffice for her pride. She wanted a victory, her own, not one by default.

  Today, he'd cut greenery, take some small joy in the act of a season of peace. Then he's escape.

  This party offered the chance to court Bee, but it was filled with endless chatter. That was nothing he relished. In truth, he was not accustomed to social niceties. The hum of conversation like the buzz of bees made his mind swim. His thoughts blur. He needed solitude—and he'd learned when to seek it during months in hospital. This afternoon, he'd indulge himself and take one of Griff's fine horses to ride south to the Crown's Customs offices. He had business there. All the better to learn if or how or when Belinda Craymore might consent to marry him.

  Chapter 5

  Carlson, Bee noted as he fumbled with the strings on the garlands, was not skilled with his hands. Nor was he alone. The party of house guests sat in the ballroom assembling—or trying to—branches of pine trees and holly. Pushing all the formal cushioned chairs against the walls, staff had brought up old wooden chairs from the servants hall. These, the guests sat upon trying to weave prickly bits together for the grand decorations. They uttered more cries of injury than of delight.

  Whether summoned by Simms or by instinct, Aunt Gertrude appeared in the ballroom to commiserate and announced that the footmen would tend to the finishing touches. 'Finishing' was more the polite way to say that the guests were all thumbs at this task.

  "A light supper,” she said, “is be served. Might you wish to follow me in, please?"

  They all but jumped to their feet.

  Bee noted with curiosity that among the guests she saw no sign of Alastair.

  "Where is he?" She stepped to Marjorie's side as they walked toward the dining room.

  "Gone to town."

  "Oh? Why?"

  "Why would you ask?" Marjorie looked a bit too innocent as she inquired.

  "Because the three of you had your heads together earlier. He appeared distressed or ill. What did you discuss?"

  "Your refusal to marry him."

  "He told you," she mourned.

  "Did you think he'd keep it secret?" she snapped.

  Bee had never seen her sister so cross with her.

  "Oh, Bee. You care for him. You always have. Do you realize what you give up in the name of pride?"

  Nettled, she shot back. "You do not bear our disgrace any better than I."

  Marjorie bristled. "If you mean—?"

  "Your gambling," Bee whispered to her ear. "I fear you take chances, too many. Why?"

  "Cards are one skill I learned from our father. He lost. I win."

  "And pocket the money."

  "And why not?"

  "I worry, Marjorie. You seem to choose opponents who won against our father."

  Marjorie turned quiet and sly as a cat. "You've noticed."

  "Have they?"

  "I doubt it. I've told you before I’m attentive, skilled. I'm not merely lucky. I'm strategic."

  Bee sucked in air. "Father lost so much. We've suffered for it. Our friends made fun of us. Cut us cold."

  "Our former friends, you mean? I cannot value them."

  Bee grasped her sister's wrist. "Your game is dangerous."

  "And your's isn't?"

  Marjorie knew about her search for Blue Hawker. She’d revealed it just last week. But Del knew nothing. Bee was grateful she’d not divulged any hint of it.

  “Be careful, will you?” Marjorie nodded toward the dining table. "Now excuse me, I must take my place."

  Marjorie sailed off to her chair. To one side of Marjorie sat Del's dashing former beau Major Lord Bromley, Alastair and Griff's friend who'd come from Paris with them. And to the other sat Lord Carlson.

  For her own freedom from Carlson tonight, Bee thanked her dear Lord.

  * * *

  The ride south into Brighton cleared Alastair’s head, gave him purpose and optimism. The mount Griff had authorized from the stable was a handsome beast, fifteen hands high and fast. Within the hour, Alastair walked into the Brighton Town House where all government offices were located. One of the men standing about inside was a Royal Horse Artillery officer whom he'd met years ago in Spain.

  "Colonel Reade!" Alastair hailed the man whose silver-streaked hair told the tale of how the man had prematurely aged during his years in wartime service. "I'm delighted to see you again!"

  Beaming at him, Francis Reade grabbed his hand and noted his civilian attire. "I've heard you are now Kingston. Congratulations, Your Grace. How are you?"

  Noting Francis' concerned tone implied he'd learned of Alastair's battlefield injuries, he did not wish to focus on his infirmities. "I recover as best I can. I'm thrilled to see you whole and here. Are you on assignment?"

  "I'm posted here temporarily to Preston Barracks."

  "North of town. Yes, I know of it."

  "We've got word of a situation that concerns smuggled goods. Army supplies that have been stolen and are sold for a pittance."

  "I see. So you're here to report this to the Customs officials?"

  "I'm here to learn what they know. I've come from Ostend where a month ago the Navy tracked an English sloop with contraband that put in at Shoreham."

  Shoreham was a natural port west of Brighton where smugglers could tack in easily cloaked by thick foliage of natural terrain. Revenue officials stationed their cutters there because it was easier and quicker to get in and out, as opposed to rockier Brighton shore. "I'm here, Reade, to discuss smugglers into these ports as well."

  "I'm to ask if the Customs men have found the smugglers."

  "Intriguing." Alastair removed his gloves, eager to speak with the Customs officer in charge of Brighton and Shoreham. "There must be new information, I gather?"

  "Wellington has
intelligence that some well-connected citizens in Brighton run the operations."

  "Oh? Any reason why he thinks that?"

  Francis leaned closer. "An informant here in town spied the gang leader and his broker months ago."

  An informant. Bee.

  "She gave them information that described him. The description the Navy gave of the smuggler and the man he met on the beach in Shoreham matches this lady's."

  "I see." Alastair stilled as his blood ran cold. "So you know who this agent is?"

  "We have an idea. We must obtain evidence to arrest him."

  The Customs man, Sire Henry Torrens, an older gentleman, shorter and very bald, approached the two. "Colonel Reade, I presume?"

  "I am, sir." His friend offered a perfunctory smile.

  "And you, sir?" the older man asked.

  "I am now known as Kingston, Sir Henry. You may remember I spoke with you last spring when a friend of mine had valuable information for you about a certain matter of contraband?" The little man blinked, attempting to recall Alastair. "I was then in uniform, sir. Captain Alastair Demerest of His Majesty's Royal Dragoons.”

  "Of course! I do remember now." He pointed a finger in the air in punctuation. "Come in to my office. Both of you. I think we have news you will both enjoy!"

  * * *

  The next morning, snow fell in lacy white flakes over the meadows. With the skies grey and forbidding, the temperature freezing and the wind howling around the eaves, Aunt Gertrude decreed that skating was struck from the festivities this afternoon.

  Once more Bee felt relief wash through her. She didn't have to pretend that she liked her promised partner, Lord Hallerton. In fact, since last night before supper, when he'd cornered her in the upstairs hall, she preferred not to be near him at all. He'd attempted to kiss her and she'd rebuffed him with haste.

  Today, said her aunt at luncheon—though Griff frowned at her announcement—the guests would adjourn to the card room for games.

  Marjorie stole a glance at Bee, then led the way into the room.