One Dance with a Duke (Stud Club #1)(98)

“Jack, Lord Ashworth is Lieutenant Colonel St. Maur,” she said, clearing the emotion from her throat. “He served with Hugh in the army.”

“Then I’m doubly glad to make your acquaintance, my lord. Your courage was legend, from my brother’s letters.” Jack bowed, then drew a sheaf of papers from the bag slung over his arm. “Your Grace, shall we discuss these in the library?”

“Whatever are you talking about?” Amelia said, inwardly pleased with her brother’s sudden formality. She gave Spencer a merry look, as if to say, See? He’s already reforming. “Dinner will be ready soon. Whatever you need to discuss, it can wait until after we’ve eaten.”

And by then, she would have pulled Spencer aside to learn just what these papers were all about.

“Besides,” she continued, “you’re all of you men in desperate need of a bath. Go on, get out of my kitchen. Go bathe and dress for dinner, and let me finish here.” She briskly shooed them through the door.

Lily rose, too. “If you don’t mind, I’ll rest for a bit. I’m fatigued from traveling.”

“But of course you are. Shall I show you upstairs?”

“No, thank you. I know the way.”

Once she was left alone, Amelia braced her hands on the tabletop. She drew a deep, slow breath. And then she began to weep uncontrollably. Great, racking sobs left her cheeks wet and her throat aching. What was wrong with her? She just couldn’t stop crying, and she had no idea why. Jack was here, Spencer hadn’t thrown him out, and this was her chance to set everything right between them. She ought to be rejoicing, not crying.

From the basin, a salmon accused her with one round, glassy eye. Actually, what she ought to be doing was preparing fillets for dinner. But as she reached for the fish, her stomach gave a wild lurch. Tears forgotten, she grabbed the nearest empty bowl and retched into it.

Oh, dear. Though her head spun, she performed a hasty calculation on her fingertips. Suddenly it all made sense. Her helpless tears, her sudden nausea, her cravings over the past few days—for baked goods and Spencer. All thoughts of her house guests, her husband, even bedraggled Jack and his mysterious papers fled her mind.

She was with child.

When dinner came, Spencer found himself seated across the table from Claudia. He didn’t appreciate the childish manner in which she picked at her food. But he truly hated the way in which she shifted her fascinated gaze from one egregiously inappropriate man to the next: Ashworth, Bellamy, Jack d’Orsay. The last passed Claudia a debonair grin along with the bowl of parsnips, and Spencer began to question the wisdom of placing his ward in close society with three men who could be called his enemies.

He tried to catch Amelia’s eye, but she’d taken quite an interest in her water goblet. It wasn’t like her to be so distracted.

“God’s truth, this room is quiet,” Jack said. “Tell us a joke, Bellamy. Or one of those amusing stories. You’re always the life of the party in Town.”

“We’re not in Town,” Bellamy said. “And I don’t feel so amusing, of late.”

That was an understatement. From the looks of them, Jack and Bellamy were having a competition to see who could closest resemble a wraith. First man to waste to vapor wins.

Amelia took the nudge, rousing herself to make conversation. “Lord Ashworth,” she said, “how do you find the scenery?”

Thick eyebrows knitted in a frown. “I’m not a man inclined to flowery description, but if pressed … I think I might use the word ‘charming.’”

“I understand you have an estate in Devonshire,” she said.

“Yes, in the heart of Dartmoor. The countryside cannot be called charming. Forbidding is probably the word.”

“Oh, yes. I’ve passed that way, when visiting cousins in Plymouth. What a study in contrasts the area is. Such beauty and such desolation.” Amelia turned to Bellamy. “And you, Mr. Bellamy? Where were you raised?”

Bellamy took a slow draught of wine. When he put down the glass, he looked dismayed to see Amelia patiently awaiting a response, fork poised in midair.

“Farthest reaches of Northumberland,” he said. “Middle of nowhere. Don’t suppose you’ve any cousins there.”

Spencer put in, “Actually, I’ve land in Northumberland.”

“Really.” Bellamy’s tone was bored.

“Yes, really. Mines. Did your people work in mining?”

Bellamy said, “What else is there to do, in Northumberland?”

“Coal, I suppose?”

Bellamy gave him a cold, slashing look, and Spencer leaned forward in anticipation. He’d been waiting to catch this fraud in the act.

“No. Copper.”

“Bollocks. There’s not a vein of copper in all Northumberland.” Spencer’s knife clanged the edge of his plate. “And if yours is a Northumberland accent, then I speak like an Ottoman King. Where do you get off, accusing me of crimes? You’re nothing but a petty swindler and a fraud.”

Bellamy’s eyes went to Lily.

Spencer repeated his words, making sure the dark-haired woman could read his lips clearly. “You are a lying bastard, Bellamy.”

“Now look here—”

“Just how have you been spending my money?” Spencer asked. “That massive investigation I’m funding has yielded precious little in the way of results.”