One Dance with a Duke (Stud Club #1)(8)

If he were unwell, to simply desert him … it would be to abandon every good principle her dear parents had taught her. She would be selling her conscience and good breeding for four hundred pounds.

And there were some things on which one could not put a price.

She took a step toward him. “Truly, you look very ill. Why don’t you allow me to get you some—”

“No. I’m perfectly well.” He pushed off the marble pillar and paced the terrace perimeter, taking deep draughts of night air. “My sole affliction is a plaguing female in blue silk.”

“There’s no need to be rude. I’m trying to be helpful.”

“I don’t need your help.” He swiped impatiently at his damp temple with his cuff. “I’m not ill.”

“Then why are you so pale?” Amelia shook her head. “Why is it a man would rather swallow nails than accept a lady’s assistance? And for pity’s sake, can’t a duke afford handkerchiefs?”

She unlaced the reticule cinched around her wrist. Now emptied of coin, it was so light she’d nearly forgotten the thing altogether. She loosened the string and withdrew the sole item remaining within: a meticulously embroidered linen square.

She took a moment to admire the stitching she’d finished just a few days ago. Her initials, in dark purple script. Twining around and through the open spaces of the letters, she’d embroidered vines and, in a lighter green, a few curled ferns. A stroke of pure whimsy had spurred her to add a tiny black-and-gold honeybee, buzzing around the apex of the A.

It was, perhaps, her best work yet. And now this treasured, labored-over bit of linen would go to wipe His Grace’s noble brow? Just how much would she be forced to surrender on this terrace? Her brother, her home, her last small accomplishment. What was left? She half expected Napoleon to pop out from the hedges and demand her allegiance.

“Morland.” The curt baritone sounded from the shadows.

Amelia jumped.

The voice spoke again: low, rough. To her relief, most definitely English. “Morland, is that you?”

The duke straightened. “Who goes there?”

A rustling of greenery indicated the stranger’s approach. Impetuously, Amelia went to the duke’s side and pressed her handkerchief into his hand. He looked from her to the square of linen, and then back to her again.

She shrugged. Perhaps it was silly, but … it was simply that he was one of England’s great men, and she did come from one of England’s historically great families, and she just couldn’t allow him to face an unknown challenge looking as if he’d succumbed to malaria. Not when she clutched a perfectly clean handkerchief in her hand.

“Thank you,” he said, hastily wiping his brow and jamming the linen square into his coat pocket as not one, but two men emerged from behind the hedge and vaulted the low rail at the edge of the terrace. The duke edged between her and the strange men. It was a chivalrous, reassuring gesture. She did not regret the handkerchief now.

The strangers stood outside the half-circle of available light, so that Amelia could not make out their features. She saw only two silhouettes: one fashionable, one fearsome.

“Morland. It’s Bellamy.” This came from the fashionable one. “And I know you’ve met Ashworth,” he said, indicating the giant at his side.

The duke stiffened. “Certainly. We’re old school chums, aren’t we, Rhys?”

No answer from the hulking shadow.

“We’ve been waiting for you to make your escape,” Bellamy said, “but we can’t delay any longer. You must come with us at once.”

“Come with you? Why?”

“We’ll tell you in the carriage.”

“Tell me now, and I shall decide if I join you in any carriage.”

“Club business,” Bellamy said.

He eased into the light, and Amelia peered at him. Ah, now she understood why his name was familiar. His face was familiar to her, too. And there was no mistaking the shock of artfully disheveled hair. He was that infamous hell-raiser, the ringleader of that fast group of young bucks Jack would give his eyeteeth to join. The group he’d lost four hundred pounds trying to keep pace with. Was Bellamy involved in that token nonsense, too?

“Club business?” Morland said. “Do you mean the Stud Club?”

Amelia barely checked an unladylike snort of laughter. Stud Club, indeed. Men and their ridiculous societies.

“Yes, we’re calling an urgent meeting,” Bellamy said. “And since you’re now seven-tenths of the membership, you’re required to attend.”

“Is it Osiris?” the duke asked, his voice suddenly grave. “If something’s happened to that horse, I—”

The tower called Ashworth broke his silence. “It’s not the horse. Harcliffe’s dead.”

The bottom dropped out of Amelia’s stomach.

“For Christ’s sake, Ashworth,” said Bellamy. “There’s a lady present.”

“Harcliffe?” she echoed. “Dead? As in Leopold Chatwick, the Marquess of Harcliffe?” As in, the boy who’d been raised a half-day’s ride from Beauvale Castle and gone to school with her older brothers? The golden-haired, fine-featured, good-humored, and universally admired young man who’d been so kind as to dance with her at her come-out ball? Not just once, as the obligation of friendship warranted, but two full sets? “Surely you don’t mean Leo?”