The Notorious Scoundrel Page 17

  The man paled.

  It was favorable news, Edmund estimated. Otherwise, the duke would have turned bloodred from rage at the thought that another fraud had entered his midst.

  Amy was his daughter.

  Edmund rejoiced for her…and mourned for himself. A part of him had wanted to keep her as…

  He shrugged at the half-formulated thought.

  “I must thank you, Captain Hawkins,” the duke said quietly, “for bringing Amy home.”

  “It was an honor to serve as the young lady’s chaperone, Your Grace.” He looked at Edmund. “However, the accolades belong to my brother. It was he who first suspected her your daughter.”

  The duke turned toward Edmund, and hardened. “I see. Might I have a private word with you, Mr. Hawkins?”

  The crispness in his voice raised Edmund’s hackles. Slowly he nodded his assent. “Your Grace.”

  The duke departed from the parlor in brisk strides.

  His mood dark, Edmund followed the tall, slim man through the ornate passageway, and into a masculine-looking study with large, dark furniture and thick, leather-bound tomes.

  “Thank you for returning my daughter, Mr. Hawkins.”

  “You’re welcome, Your Grace.”

  The duke rounded the wide writing desk, the papers, the books all neatly positioned across the surface. He lowered himself into a high-back chair and removed a quill from an ivory inkwell. “Will five thousand pounds suffice?”

  Edmund listened to the scratching sound coming from the fine-tipped pen, making strokes across the mysterious paper.

  He frowned. “Pardon me, Your Grace?”

  “For your trouble, Mr. Hawkins.”

  Edmund hardened at the distasteful insinuation. There was a burning feeling at the backs of his eyes as he watched the duke make out the check in the unseemly amount.

  He said tautly, “It was no trouble, Your Grace.”

  The man paused. He eyed Edmund coldly before he rent the paper apart and started anew. “Ten thousand then?”

  “I don’t want your bloody money,” he growled.

  Slowly the duke returned the pen into the inkwell. He placed his hands across his desk and folded his fingers, glaring at the young seaman. “Then what do you want?”

  Edmund curbed his temper, and said with more restraint, “Nothing, Your Grace.”

  The man’s eyes darkened. “My wife and I have suffered sorely these last fifteen years, searching for our daughter, hoping for her return. And you discover her in your brother’s household, working as a maid. Do you expect me to believe that? Do you expect me to allow scandalous tittle-tattle to be spread about Town? Now what do you want for your silence?”

  “I don’t want anything from you, Your Grace. I am honored to return Amy—”

  The duke glowered.

  “—Lady Amy Laetitia Peele to her rightful home. I hope she will be happy.”

  The man narrowed his steely gray eyes on Edmund. “Have you befriended my daughter?”

  “Your Grace?”

  “I know who you are, Mr. Hawkins. I hope the last few years you’ve spent playing gentleman in society has taught you one important lesson.”

  The fire in Edmund’s blood burned with reckless intensity. He pressed his lips together. Tight. He didn’t deign to answer the remark. He’d shout an obscenity, he was sure.

  The duke pressed onward: “A woman of noble blood does not associate with a seaman.”

  The truthful words cut Edmund’s heart with painful precision.

  He offered a curt bow before he vacated the study with long, heavy strides. He returned to the parlor. There, James and Sophia awaited him.

  Edmund said tersely, “Let’s go home.”

  He stalked toward the main hall as if hellhounds dogged his heels.

  James followed him toward the front door, inquiring, “What was that about?”

  “The duke wanted to express his thanks in private, is all,” he gritted.

  The three unwelcome visitors departed from the imperial dwelling and entered the waiting coach, setting off for home. All the while, Edmund mulled over a dismal certainty—he wasn’t good enough for Lady Amy.

  Chapter 15

  “If you dance with a gentleman at a ball, then see him the next afternoon while riding in Hyde Park, are you expected to acknowledge him with a greeting?”

  Amy munched on her bottom lip. “Yes.”

  “No. No. No.” Mr. Hurst pinched his shriveled lips together, making a sour face. “A single dance does not imply an acquaintanceship. You ride past him. Ignore him.”

  Amy sighed and leaned back in her seat, her head throbbing.

  “Why don’t we rest?” suggested Helen, the Duchess of Estabrooke, her voice tender in the heated room.

  Mr. Hurst bowed. “As you wish, Your Grace.”

  As he sauntered from the drawing parlor, murmuring something about “barbarity,” Amy eyed his scrawny figure and imagined snapping it in half.

  She looked at her mother. “I’m sorry, Mama.”

  The woman smiled and poured her a cup of tea. Together at the small round table, the ladies sipped their refreshments without the intrusive presence of the strict tutor.

  “You’re doing fine, my dear.”

  “Not according to Mr. Hurst,” she returned petulantly.

  “Mr. Hurst wants you to shine during the ball tomorrow tonight. We all do.”

  Amy shifted in her chair at the mention of the ball: her debut ball. After three months of endless lessons and preparations for her grand reentrance into society, the time had approached for her fashionable come-out, and her return to posh civilities had to be seamless. If not, there’d be rumors about her character, her reputation. One blunder and her tainted past might come to light and ruin her—and her parents.

  “Are you all right, my dear?”

  “I’m a little nervous about the ball, is all.”

  Amy sipped her tea—without slurping. She still remembered the scoundrel’s lessons in good manners with crisp precision, while her tutor’s lessons flittered away. She still remembered the seaman’s reprimands, his tutelage…in matters beyond etiquette.

  You should learn to have more fun…to be spontaneous.

  She closed her eyes and sensed his firm fingers at her waist, cupping her hip bones in a teasing manner.

  There’s more to life than rules and being in control.

  Such soft, kissable lips, she reflected.

  Stop trying to fight Fate, Amy.

  She tightened as she imagined his mouth pressed warmly over hers. The sensual memory unsettled her nerves, already taut as a result of the approaching festivities, and she dismissed the unwelcome intrusion with a brisk shake of the head. She shouldn’t think about him. Not him. It was improper. She’d have to make a greater effort to heed Mr. Hurst’s shrill-pitched sermons, for she needed him to buff away her rough mannerisms.

  All her rough mannerisms.

  “Don’t be nervous, my dear,” said the duchess in encouragement. “Your dress arrived this morning. We’ll have a fitting soon after our instruction with Mr. Hurst. How are you progressing in your piano lessons?”

  Amy grimaced.

  “I see.” The duchess chortled. “You disliked your music lessons even as a child.”

  “I remember.” She had remembered more and more about her past since her return to the town house in Mayfair. “I also remember a porcelain doll named…Regina. I had a puppy, too.”

  “Sasha. A gift from a Russian diplomat. She died two years after you’d disappeared. I cried for that dog.” She appeared sheepish. “I can get you another pooch, if you’d like.”

  “No, thank you.” She looked at her mother with fondness. The duchess had welcomed her home with exuberance and love, fussed over her like she was still a babe. It’d troubled Amy at first; she’d grown accustomed to her own company, her own way of thinking. But soon she’d sensed their bond, still unbroken after so many years, and the uneasiness had faded fro
m their relationship. “I’ve too much to look after already.”

  Helen set aside her tea. “I don’t mean to upset you, my dear, but I feel I must prepare you for some unfortunate news.” She looked at her hands. “I’ve received a note from Lord Gravenhurst.”

  Amy stiffened. “Oh?”

  “He sends his regrets; he will not be able to attend the ball due to pressing estate matters.”

  “I see.” Amy also set aside her tea, the fine porcelain unsteady in her hands. “How did Father take the news?”

  The duchess eyed her with a half smile. “Well.”

  Amy snorted inwardly. Her father was furious at the report, she was sure. She wasn’t the least bit put off by it, though, content to enjoy the evening without the lord’s presence; however, her father likely considered it the greatest affront that her own fiancé wasn’t going to be in attendance at the ball.

  Amy sighed. Apparently she had been betrothed to the Marquis of Gravenhurst since she was a babe, and her father was determined to see the engagement honored. The gossip surrounding her unexpected return didn’t make her the most eligible female in society, even if she was a duke’s daughter. Her father believed it her only chance at a respectable match—and the only way to save their family name from vicious tittle-tattle.

  “Don’t fret, Mama. It’ll all turn out well.” She mustered a smile. “I’m sure the night will be a smashing success even without the marquis’s presence.”

  “A few more steps, Will.”

  Edmund supported his brother’s cumbersome weight, hooking him around the waist as they exited the hackney coach, keeping the injured captain’s arm slung over his shoulder. He guided him toward the town house as the rain pounded their backsides, banged on the secured door with the tip of his boot.

  James appeared, looking cantankerous.

  “What are you doing here?” demanded Edmund.

  The former brigand hoisted William, wheezing, into the house. “I received word from one of your tars about the accident.”

  Edmund remained rooted in the doorway, the rain pellets slipping off his shoulders and pooling at his feet. There was a bloody spy aboard the Nemesis? He shouldn’t be surprised by his brother’s skullduggery, and yet…

  Edmund balled his fingers. He watched as James steered William’s movements, commanded the staff as if he still resided at the town house and was master of the domain. In a few moments, the party had bustled up the elongated stairway.

  Feeling the fire in his toes, Edmund headed for the study. He entered the dark room and slammed the door closed. He wasn’t needed anymore, so he settled into a wing chair and propped his wet, dirty boots on the table, staring through the window at the raging storm, breathing sharply through his nose.

  “What happened?”

  Edmund detected Quincy’s voice. He glanced toward the corner of the room, where his brother was seated in the shadows, observing the tempest, too.

  “William was shot,” he retuned brusquely.

  “How did it happen?”

  Edmund sighed and rubbed his tired brow, stained with rainwater and sweat. “We had a slaver in our sights.” He paused, the memories welling in his head. “She put up a fight. The captain took a bullet in the chest.”

  Edmund quickly pressed his palms over the gash in his brother’s chest. He watched the dark blood ooze between his fingers, sensed its warmth as it bathed his hands.

  “We almost lost him to the fever and the infection,” he said pensively.

  Quincy shifted from the corner seat and approached the small table peppered with liquor bottles. He filled a glass with spirits, corking the decanter again with the glass stopper.

  He handed Edmund the drink. “Here.”

  Edmund took the offered tonic and downed the fiery liquid in one greedy gulp. He stroked his unruly beard. “We needed your healing hand aboard the Nemesis.”

  His brother had steady fingers with a needle and thread. A sound healer, he had attended many an injured seaman during a pirate battle.

  Quincy returned to the corner seat. “Then you should have taken me with you.”

  He sighed. “You know I tried to convince William to bring you aboard ship.”

  “I know.”

  Edmund looked over his shoulder and eyed him thoughtfully. “How are you, Quincy?”

  It had been three months since he had last seen his younger brother. James had compelled Quincy to reside with him in Mayfair during their voyage at sea. And Quincy’s uncharacteristic reticence told Edmund the rooming hadn’t been pleasant.

  Edmund thumbed the empty glass and looked back out the window. “How is she?”

  The words had escaped his lips before he’d thought too much about them. The warm spirits in his belly aggravated the bile already stirring in the bowel of his soul. He pressed the glass between his fingers with greater vim.

  “I haven’t seen her,” said Quincy, “but I’ve heard there’s a ball in her honor tomorrow night.”

  “I don’t suppose we received an invitation?”

  “No. Belle did, though.”

  Edmund snorted and rolled his thumb and forefinger in the corners of his burning eyes. Of course there wasn’t an invitation in the post for him. He might suspect the duke and duchess privy to his tour at sea, that they hadn’t issued an invitation card because they believed him out of the country, but he doubted Their Graces followed his movements. It was much more likely they believed him in Town—and had simply chosen to snub him.

  “Do you want to go and see her?” wondered Quincy. “Amy, I mean.”

  “I know who you mean.” He scratched his beard. “It’s better if I don’t go and see her.”

  He wasn’t good enough to be in her company, according to Their Graces. The couple had deliberately omitted him from the guest list, and he had found the girl, returned her to her rightful home. But after five years in high society, he was accustomed to the proud and arrogant ways of the ton…and perhaps the duke and duchess were justified in their unfriendly gesture. As a former pirate, he wasn’t proper company for Lady Amy.

  “I can get the invitation from Belle,” suggested the meddlesome pup.

  “No.”

  “You can just look at Amy from across the dance floor.”

  “No.”

  “All right, one waltz.”

  Edmund glared at his brother.

  “I’ll even come with you, Eddie.”

  “No!”

  “Fine.” He shrugged. “I’m off to see Will.” He headed for the door. As he opened the wood, he paused. “It’s just as well you don’t go to the ball, Eddie…James would disapprove.”

  Edmund squared his jaw. He turned his head away from his troublesome brother…but he didn’t reject the suggestion again.

  Chapter 16

  There was a glamorous assortment of high society guests. Floral garlands festooned the many tall windows, the bright blooms bringing natural splendor into the sumptuous interior. The lavish drapery matched the yellow roses and white lilies, fresh from the hothouses. With heaps of elongated candles around the rich ballroom, the circular chamber scintillated under the dappling glow.

  Amy absorbed the lush atmosphere, her senses teeming with delight. It was her first public appearance, and she was giddy with the fanfare in her honor. The flourishing spectacle had an unfortunate side effect that tapered some of her enthusiasm, though.

  “I truly don’t know what happened to our invitation.”

  The Duchess of Wembury frowned. It was really a slight wrinkling of the lips. Otherwise, she maintained her poise. She was a dramatic presence in the bustling ballroom with her striking features and elegant satin dress, shimmering in the light like liquid gold.

  Amy was parched for her company; standing next to the attractive woman deflected some of the attention away from her. That was the unpleasant consequence of her exhibit, the curious stares. The inquisitive looks reminded her of her time at the Pleasure Palace, being showcased on stage, scrutinized, lu
sted after…stared at.

  “The card was sitting on my desk this morning when my brother Quincy came to visit, and then poof, it was gone.”

  Amy half listened to the mystery of the missing invitation card, comforted instead by the duchess’s companionship. She possessed a high rank, yet she didn’t exhibit any of the fussy qualities her contemporaries so often insisted on as proper etiquette. Amy sensed her tight bone corset a little less clinching in the woman’s sociable presence. In truth, she had wanted to meet the duchess for some time. She was Edmund’s sister…and Amy felt closer to Edmund being so near his kin.

  “How is Quincy?” wondered Amy, stifling her other, inappropriate reflections. “I hope he’s well.”

  “Yes, he’s fine.” The woman’s umber eyes narrowed. “Are you suggesting there might be something amiss with my brother?”

  Amy balked. She quickly gathered her thoughts, so unruly even after months of rigorous training. She had studied and memorized countless rules about etiquette, her tutor strict. She had been primped and polished for her grand debut, yet still she possessed the improper tendency to blurt out her innermost thoughts. It was obvious from Mirabelle’s befuddled expression she was ignorant about her brother’s condition.

  “Not a’tall.” Amy rushed to conceal her blunder with “I just haven’t seen him for such a long time.”

  “It’s been three months, I understand.” The duchess looked at her thoughtfully. “You’ve not formed an attachment to Quincy, have you?”

  Amy groaned inside her head. She gathered a deep breath and righted her disorderly thoughts. “I’ve not formed an attachment to Quincy, Your Grace. I mean, he’s very charming, but I’ve only feelings of friendship for him. He was my tutor for a time,” she rambled. “He helped me become a lady.”

  “Quincy?”

  Amy squirmed in her corset, feeling constricted again. “I owe him, I suppose, for his guidance. It was very much appreciated. In truth, I owe all your brothers a great debt of gratitude.”

  Mirabelle smiled. “Think nothing of it, my dear. You protected Edmund from harm when he’d lost his memory, and then my brothers returned you to your family. The debt is paid.”