The Unexpected Duchess (Playful Brides #1)(9)
Garrett gazed at Lucy skeptically. “How do you know Claringdon won’t take no for an answer? I knew him several years ago in the army, long before he was a lieutenant general, of course. He seemed a reasonable chap to me.”
Lucy turned to her cousin and gave him an exasperated look. “You weren’t there last night, Garrett. Tell him, Cass.”
Cass swallowed and peered around Lucy to address Garrett. “He did seem quite determined.”
Jane nodded. “I agree with Lucy. He was rather unwilling to hear the word no. You may just have to be a bit more forceful, Cass.”
Garrett gave Jane a smug smile. “Oh, and I suppose you would memorize such a speech and have no trouble rattling it off.”
Jane turned her attention back to her book. “I don’t need to memorize anything. I’ve become quite proficient telling off pesky gentlemen from dealing with you through the years, Upton.”
Before Garrett had a chance to reply to that barb, Cass grabbed Lucy’s hand. “Oh, Lucy. I cannot memorize those words.”
“Of course you can, Cass,” Lucy said.
Cass bit her lip. Her eyes were wide as inkpots as she stared at Lucy. “Promise me you’ll come over this afternoon and be there when he pays his call.”
Lucy crossed her arms over her chest and tapped her slipper on the carpet. “Oh, I’ll be there all right. Whether the duke likes it or not.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Derek scrubbed his hands through his hair, pushed back his chair, and stood up from the large oak desk in the study of his new town house. He paced over to the large windows that overlooked the street and braced one hand against the wall. Damn it. The reports delivered from the War Office this morning didn’t look good. Not good at all.
Not only was there no news of Swift’s condition—the last Derek had heard, Swift had been taken to a makeshift hospital outside Brussels—but there was no news of Donald or Rafe, either. Donald, Swift’s older brother, was the Earl of Swifdon. He was also a spy for the Crown and had been in Brussels just before the last battle. He and Rafe, Captain Rafferty Cavendish, had been assigned to a highly secret and highly dangerous mission to spy on the French line as it advanced toward Brussels. Neither man had been heard from since. According to this morning’s reports, they were both presumed dead.
Derek clenched his fist against the wall. Damn. Damn. Damn. He was completely bloody useless here, standing in an overly decorated town house in Mayfair. He belonged on the trail on the Continent, searching for his friends, seeing to Swift, helping ease his friend’s last days on earth however he could. But his orders had been clear. Return to London immediately and play the part of the victorious new nobleman. The country needed a celebration, apparently, and Derek’s presence in the ballrooms of London was meant to give them their hero.
And he hated every moment of it. This town house. This life. It wasn’t for him. He’d never aspired to be a duke. And he’d had no preparation for it. Return to London, you’re a duke now had been about the extent of Wellington’s orders.
He might be stuck in London, but he would use his prized decisiveness to do what he could to help his friends. He sat back down at his desk, pulled out a sheaf of parchment, and plucked a quill from the inkpot. He had some ideas. Places where Swifdon and Rafe may be holed up if they’d been injured or forced to hide. Derek had to get someone from the War Office to listen.
He had to find Swifdon and Rafe. That much was certain. If Swift was dying, Derek couldn’t allow Donald and Rafe to die, too. No. He wouldn’t allow it.
He finished writing his list for the War Office and signed and sanded the parchment, then heated his new ducal wax seal over a nearby candle and sealed the paper closed. He rang for a footman to bring the missive round to the War Office posthaste.
He’d done all he could do for his friends for now. In the meantime, he would continue with his pursuit of Lady Cassandra. That was something he could do for Swift. Compared with the horror of war and the torture of not knowing the fate of his friends, how difficult could a bit of courtship be?
CHAPTER SIX
When Derek was ushered into Lady Cassandra’s drawing room, he got the distinct impression that the entire household had lost its collective mind. The butler stammered, the housemaids ran into each other, and the two footmen nearly tripped him in the corridor. Apparently, a duke received a much different level of service than a lieutenant general did. If he was still becoming accustomed to his new title himself, it certainly didn’t help matters to have an entire household staff scurrying about as if the prince regent himself were paying them a visit.
“His Grace, the Duke of Claringdon,” the butler intoned, ushering Derek into the drawing room.
Derek grimaced. How long would it be until he heard that title and actually thought of himself?
“What is your name, my good man?” Derek asked the butler.
“Shakespierre,” the man replied with a completely straight face.
Derek did a double take. “Shakespeare?”
“No, Shakespierre, Your Grace. It’s French.”
The butler took his leave, and Derek shook his head. That wasn’t French. Yes, he was in a strange house to be certain. He turned his attention back to the room at large.
Lady Cassandra sat perched upon a cream-colored settee like a pretty doll. Her blond hair was piled atop her head, and she wore a pink gown that complemented her bright blue eyes. Eyes that watched him carefully, almost fearfully. Good God, the chit was frightened of him. He’d have to overcome that before he asked for her hand.