The Duchess War (Brothers Sinister #1)(10)

It was only in Minnie’s imagination that the duke’s gaze sliced through the façade that she presented to the rest of the world. He only looked as if he knew everything.

He couldn’t have known anything, because as he looked at her, he smiled in something like pleasure. Just a little curl to his mouth, but there was also a subtle change to his eyes—a shift from the pale blue of ice-water to the slightly-less-pale blue of a light summer sky.

There was something boyish about his good looks: a hint of shyness in his smile, a leanness to his frame. Or maybe it was the way that he looked away from her so quickly and then glanced back.

If she hadn’t heard Packerly, the MP, talking last night, extolling the young duke’s efforts in Parliament, she’d have believed him a fraud. Handsome, young, and unassuming? Far too good to be true. Dukes in reality were paunchy, old, and demanding.

“Miss Pursling,” he said. “This is an unexpected pleasure.”

Unexpected, she believed. Pleasure…well, he’d recant that before they were done.

“Your Grace,” Minnie said.

He briefly took her hand in his—through their gloves, she had a sensation of warmth—and inclined his head to her.

“Miss Charingford.” Clermont bowed over her friend’s hand as if she were the grandest lady. As he did, Lydia cast a sidelong look at Minnie and pressed her lips together as if suppressing the urge to giggle.

“What brings you ladies here?” he asked.

Lydia cast a speaking glance at Minnie, waiting to have all revealed.

“If anyone asks,” Minnie said, “we’ve come to solicit donations for the Workers’ Hygiene Commission.” She held her breath, wondering how astute he was.

The duke pondered this for a few moments. “I consider myself solicited,” he said. “I’ll be sure to make an appropriate donation, if you’ll leave the particulars. As for the rest… If this is about last night, you can rest assured that I am the soul of discretion.”

Astute enough.

Lydia raised an eyebrow at the implication that they’d talked before and Minnie shook her head. “No, Your Grace. There’s something else I must discuss with you. I’m afraid that Miss Charingford has come along as chaperone, but what I must say is not for her ears.”

“True,” Lydia said cheerfully. “I have no idea what any of this is about.”

“I see.” His smile faded to guarded coolness. No doubt he was imagining something lurid and scandalous—some plot to entrap him into marriage. He was a good-looking duke with a reasonable fortune; he likely encountered such plots on a regular basis. But he didn’t throw her out. Instead, he rubbed his chin and looked about the room.

“Well. If you’re capable of conversing quietly, Miss Charingford can sit here.” He gestured to a chair by the door. “We’ll leave the door open, and we can arrange ourselves by the window. She’ll be able to see everything, ensure propriety, and hear nothing.”

He held out the chair for Lydia. He acted the perfect gentleman, his manners so uncontrived that she almost doubted her own instincts. He rang a bell—tea on two trays, he said, when a servant ducked her head in. While they were waiting, he set one hand in the small of Minnie’s back and walked her to the window. It was the tiniest point of contact—just the warmth of his hand against her spine, muted by layers of fabric—yet still she felt it all the way to the pulse that jumped at her throat.

It was so unfair she could scream. He was rich, handsome, and able to set her heart beating with a mere tap of his finger. She was here to blackmail the man, not to flirt with him. Out the front window, she could see the square outside.

Squares were less common in Leicester than London. This one was badly kept. There was one tree, so spindly it was scarcely fit to be called by the name. The grass had long since perished, giving way to gray gravel. But then, this was one of the few neighborhoods in Leicester where there were squares.

The most successful tradesmen made their homes a short ways down the London road in Stoneygate. The gentry lived on great tracts of land on estates in the surrounding countryside. Everyone with real wealth and position made their homes outside the town.

But the duke had not. Minnie fingered the paper in her pocket and added that to the list of strange things about the man. When dukes came to the region, they situated themselves in Quorn or Melton-Mowbray for the fox hunts. He, however, had leased a residence that stood mere blocks from the factories.

“How may I be of assistance?” he asked.

There was too much that didn’t fit. He was lying. He had to be. She just didn’t know why. A chessboard was set up on the side table. She tried not to look at it, tried not to feel the inevitable tug. But…

White was winning. It was six moves to checkmate, maybe only three. She could see the end, the pincer made by rook and bishop, the line of three white pawns slicing the board in two.

“You play chess?” she asked.

“No.” He waved a hand. “I lose at chess. Badly. But my—that is to say, one of the men here with me plays chess by correspondence with his father. This is where he keeps the board. You’re not going to challenge me to a game, are you?” He smiled at that.

Minnie shook her head. “No. An idle question.”

The maids came with the tea. Minnie waited until they left. Then she reached into her skirt pocket and removed the handbill that Stevens had shoved at her on the previous evening. The edges, wetted by last night’s rain, had curled and yellowed as they dried, but she held it out to him anyway.