The Duke's Men [1] What the Duke Desires (4 page)

“Not this time, but perhaps one day—”

“That’s what Tristan always said.” She sniffed. “Meanwhile, he was plotting behind
my back to get me married, and when that didn’t work, he packed me off to London with
you.”

“For which I’m profoundly grateful,” Dom said with a faint smile.

“Don’t try to distract me with compliments. I’m not going to marry any of
your
choices for husband, either.”

“Good,” he said cheerily. “Because I don’t have any. I’m too selfish to want to lose
you to a husband. I need you here.”

She eyed him uncertainly. “You’re just saying that.”

“No, dear girl, I’m not. You’ve got a wealth of information about Vidocq’s methods
stored up in that clever head. I’d be mad to marry you off and lose all that.”

Lisette softened. Dom
had
been much more accommodating about her learning his business than she’d expected.
Perhaps it was because he’d struggled so hard to gain it, after George had cut him
off entirely. Or perhaps it was because he remembered their childhood together fondly.

Whatever the case, she would allow him some time. Perhaps eventually he would consider
giving her broader duties. More exciting duties. She might finally get to travel,
to satisfy the wanderlust she’d inherited from Papa. It was a measure of how much
Dom trusted her that he was leaving her here for a week with only the servants for
company. This was the first time he’d done so.

“So you think I’m clever, do you?” she said.

“And managing and opinionated and a pain in the arse—” At her frown, he softened his
tone. “But yes, also very clever. You have many good qualities, dear girl, and I do
appreciate them. I’m not Tristan, you know.”

“I know.” She thumbed through the letters spread out on the desk. “Speaking of our
rapscallion brother, I
haven’t heard from him in months. It’s not like him to be so silent. Generally he
writes once a week.”

Dom strode up to the desk to collect some papers for his trip. “He’s probably on a
case for Vidocq.”

“But Vidocq was forced to resign as head of the Sûreté last year.”

After Vidocq had left, Tristan had retained his position as an agent by the skin of
his teeth. Because she hadn’t been an agent, she’d lost her position entirely. So
her brother had decided it was time that she find a husband, even an English one.
And since he dared not return to England because of the theft warrant against him,
it had been left to Dom to take her to London.

“Then he’s probably on a case for the new fellow,” Dom said as he shoved documents
into his satchel.

“I doubt that.” She rose to wander toward the window. “The new head of the Sûreté
doesn’t exactly like Tristan.”

“That’s because Tristan is damned good at what he does. That new fellow couldn’t investigate
a fruit seller for bruising an apple, so he resents anyone who shows him up.” He shot
her a side glance. “Although, to be fair, our brother can try any employer’s patience.
He makes his own rules, keeps odd hours, and has a tendency not to tell anyone what
he’s up to.”

“You’ve just described yourself,” she said dryly.

A laugh sputtered out of him. “All right, I’ll concede that. But I work for myself,
so I can act that way—he has superiors who expect regular reports.”

“True,” she said absently as she gazed out the
window, her attention caught by a man in a gray surtout across the street, who was
staring at the town house most intently. He looked familiar. He looked like . . .

She moved closer to the glass, and the man disappeared into the fog. A chill skittered
down her spine that she forced herself to ignore. It couldn’t be Hucker. He wouldn’t
be in London; he’d be in Yorkshire with the rest of George’s minions. If he even still
worked for George.

Dom walked toward her. “There’s also the fact that he has an annoying tendency to
land himself in trouble without even trying.”

“Who?” she asked, startled into turning from the window.

“Tristan.” He steadied a curious gaze on her. “That
is
who we’re discussing, isn’t it?”

“Yes, of course.” She forced herself to forget about Hucker. “His penchant for getting
into scrapes is precisely why I’m worried. Even Vidocq used to say that Tristan purposely
courts danger.”

“True, but he always manages to extricate himself from it, too. He doesn’t need you
for that.” Dom’s gaze on her softened. “I, on the other hand, need you for lots of
things.” Holding his gloved hand out to her, he pointed to a rip in the palm. “You
see? I did that just this morning. Can you fix it?”

He was trying to distract her from her worries, which was sweet of him, though completely
transparent. Wordlessly, she drew off his glove, took out her mending box, and began
sewing the rip closed.

As she worked, her mind wandered to the man she’d seen outside. Should she mention
him to Dom? No, that would be foolish. He might decide to stay in London, which they
could ill afford. His business was growing by the day, but he still couldn’t pass
up a case as lucrative as the one in Scotland.

Besides, she wasn’t even sure it was anything to be concerned about. It had been years
since she’d left the estate—the man might not be Hucker at all. No point in alarming
Dom for no reason.

She’d nearly finished repairing his glove when Dom’s lone manservant—butler, valet,
and footman all in one—entered the room. “It is nearly nine, sir. You have only half
an hour to make it to the docks.”

“Thank you, Skrimshaw,” Dom drawled. “I know how to read a clock.”

The florid-faced fellow stiffened. “Begging your pardon, sir, but ‘Like as the waves
make towards the pebbled shore, So do our minutes hasten to their end.’ ”

When Dom began to scowl, Lisette smothered a laugh and said hastily, “I’ll make sure
he gets off in time, Shaw. He’ll be along soon.”

Skrimshaw looked unconvinced but turned and left.

“I swear, if that man quotes any more Shakespeare to me, I’ll turn him off,” Dom complained.

“No, you won’t. You’ll never find another who’ll do what he does for so little salary.”
She tied off the thread and handed the glove to Dom. “Besides, you provoked him by
using his real name.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” he said as he jerked his glove
on, “I’m not going to call my servant by a stage name, no matter how he spends most
of his evenings.”

“You should be kinder to him, you know,” she chided. “Because of your insistence that
he stay here to look after me at night while you’re gone, he gave up his minor role
that begins rehearsals this week. And in any case, he’s right. It’s time for you to
leave.” She fought a smile. “All those minutes are hastening away.”

With a muttered oath, Dom turned for the door, then paused to glance back at her.
“About Tristan. If you haven’t heard from him by the time I return from Scotland,
I’ll see what I can find out.”

“Thank you, Dom,” she said softly, knowing what a concession that was.

“But don’t think I’ll be running off to France after the rascal,” he grumbled. “Not
unless someone pays me for it.”

“Perhaps while you’re in Edinburgh I’ll solve a case or two,” she said lightly. “Then
I
can pay you.”

He scowled. “That’s not remotely amusing. Promise me you won’t try any such fool thing.”

Casting him an enigmatic smile, she glanced at the clock. “You’ll miss your ship if
you don’t leave.”

“So help me, Lisette, if you—”

“Go, go,” she cried as she pushed him toward the door. “You know perfectly well I’m
teasing you. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”

At last he left, muttering about insolent servants and troublesome sisters. With a
laugh, she returned to dealing with the mail, sorting each letter by the case it
involved, then putting the inquiries for new cases into a pile to go through last.

She spent the day responding to the correspondence, making notes on the cases she
thought Dom might take, and dealing with household matters. It was nearly midnight
before she got to bed. There was no point in retiring before then—crowds of theatergoers
thronged the streets most evenings. She enjoyed the noise and the bustle, which reminded
her of the theaters where Maman had acted in Toulon.

The streets were a bit quieter once she did go to bed and they generally stayed that
way until midday, at least at their little end of Bow Street.

So when a pounding on the door downstairs awakened her just past dawn, she nearly
had heart failure. Who could be coming here so early? Oh dear, had something happened
to delay Dom’s ship to Edinburgh?

Hastily donning her dressing gown over her night rail, she hurried into the hall just
in time to hear Skrimshaw grumbling to himself as he headed for the door downstairs.
He’d scarcely gotten it open when a male voice snapped, “I demand to see Mr. Manton.”

“I beg your pardon, sir,” Skrimshaw said, donning his butler role with great aplomb.
“Mr. Manton does not see clients at this early hour.”

“I’m not a client. I’m the Duke of Lyons,” the man countered, his tone iced with the
sort of anger only the aristocracy could manage. “And he’ll see me if he knows what’s
good for him.”

The bold statement sent Lisette rushing forward in a panic.

“Otherwise,” the duke went on, “I will be back with officers of the law to search
every inch of this house for him and his—”

“He’s not here,” she said as she flew down the stairs, heedless of how she was dressed.
The last thing Manton Investigations needed was an officious duke barging in with
a crowd of officers merely because he was up in the boughs over some foolish matter.
The gossip alone would ruin them.

But as she reached the bottom of the stairs and caught sight of the man, she skidded
to a halt. Because the fellow looming in the doorway beyond Skrimshaw did not
look
like a duke.

Oh, he wore the clothing of a duke—a top hat of expensive silk, a coat of exquisitely
tailored cashmere, and a perfectly tied cravat. But every duke she’d seen depicted
in the papers or in satirical prints was gray-haired and stooped.

This duke was neither. Tall and broad-shouldered, he was the most striking man she’d
ever seen. Not handsome, no. His features were too bold for that—his jaw too sharply
chiseled, his eyes too deeply set—and his golden-brown hair was a touch too straight
to be fashionable. But attractive, oh yes. It annoyed her that she noticed just how
attractive.

“Dom’s not here,” she said again.

“Then tell me where he is.”

The expectation that she would just march to his
tune raised her hackles. She was used to dealing with his sort—the worst thing she
could do was let him bully her into revealing too much. After all, she still didn’t
know what this was about. “He’s on a case out of town, Your Grace. That’s all I’m
at liberty to say.”

Eyes the color of finest jade sliced down, ripping away whatever flimsy pretensions
she might have. In one savage glance he unveiled her age, family connections, and
station in life, making her feel all that she was . . . and was not.

Those all-seeing eyes snapped back to her. “And who are you? Manton’s mistress?”

His words, spoken in a tone of studied contempt, had Skrimshaw turning positively
scarlet, but before the servant could speak, she touched his arm. “I’ll handle this,
Shaw.”

Though the older man tensed, he knew her well enough to recognize the tone that presaged
an epic set-down. Reluctantly, he stepped back.

She met the duke’s gaze coldly. “How do you know I’m not Manton’s wife?”

“Manton doesn’t have a wife.”

Supercilious oaf. Or, as Maman would have called him . . .
English
. He might not look like a duke, but he certainly acted like one. “No, but he does
have a sister.”

That seemed to give the duke pause. Then he caught himself and cast her a haughty
stare. “None that I know of.”

That
really
sparked her temper. She forgot about his threat, forgot about the early hour or what
she was
wearing. All she could see was another George, full of himself and his consequence.

“I see.” She marched forward to thrust her face right up to his. “Well, since you
know so much about Mr. Manton already, you obviously don’t need us to tell you when
he’s returning or how you can reach him. So, good day, Your Grace.”

She started to close the door, but he pushed forward to block the motion. When she
lifted her livid gaze, she found him staring at her with the merest hint of respect.
“Forgive me, madam, it appears that you and I got off on the wrong foot.”

“
You
got off on the wrong foot. I merely watched you shove it into your mouth.”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly unused to having people of her inconsequence speak to
him in such a fashion. Then he nodded. “A colorful way to put it. And perhaps apt.
But I have good reason for my rudeness. If you will allow me in to explain, I promise
to behave like a gentleman.”

When she eyed him skeptically, Skrimshaw stepped forward to murmur, “At the very least,
miss, come away from the open door before someone sees you dressed as . . .”

It suddenly hit her that she was standing here practically in view of the street wearing
only her night rail and dressing gown. No wonder the duke thought her a mistress.
“Yes, of course,” she mumbled and backed away, allowing him to enter.

The duke closed the door behind him. “Thank you, Miss . . . Miss . . .”

“Bonnaud,” she finished.

Before she could even explain why her name was different from Dom’s, the duke said
in a strained voice, “Ah. You’re
that
sister.”

The wealth of meaning in his words made heat rise in her cheeks. “The bastard one?”
she said tightly.

“The one who’s also a sister to Tristan Bonnaud.” His hard gaze flicked down her again.

Alarm rose in her chest. “You know my other brother?”