How to Deceive a Duke Read online

  She shivered. There was no way she was getting through seven days in here without revealing her sex to the rest of the inmates, and this was no place for a woman. It would be a gamble to even trust the guards.

  Think, Fiona. Think.

  The cold from the stone floor began to seep past the thick fabric of her coat and breeches. As the temperature dropped, her heartbeat quickened the way it always did when she got cold. She fell into deep steady breathing to ward off the shivers and began her usual mantra.

  The warmth will return, like day follows night. It will return.

  She was in Old Bailey, for goodness’ sakes. They wouldn’t let anyone freeze to death in here, would they? Next to her, her cellmate shifted. The sound of piss on bricks trickled off. The smell didn’t.

  * * *

  Edward stared down his younger brother. William sat with his ankles crossed, slouched back in the chair, scratching at the wooden arm. He shifted every thirty seconds or so, as though the two-hundred-year-old, perfectly polished chair had splinters.

  Good. Will should be uncomfortable, given the number of times this scene had played out in the eighteen years since their father’s death.

  Edward drummed the tips of his fingers against the mahogany wood of his desk. He already knew how the conversation would go. He would express his disappointment. William would make a sarcastic quip. He’d deliver the required lecture, and nothing would change.

  Because nothing ever did.

  But what are the alternatives?

  “You’re home early. School’s not out for another week.”

  William shifted his gaze to the window before looking back. “They’re changing tack. Shorter terms. Longer breaks. Cutting down on the rhetoric.” He tugged on the cuff of his jacket.

  “After six-hundred-and-fifty-odd years, Oxford has suddenly decided to change their approach? I assume your exam results should be arriving soon, then.”

  William rubbed at his jaw. “Well, about that—they decided not to do exams this term. Trialing different assessment methods.”

  “How progressive of them.” One would think that given the never-ending string of predicaments William found himself in, he’d be better at lying.

  The silence stretched. Edward had long ago made friends with stillness. It was one of the most effective weapons in his arsenal.

  Finally, William sighed. “I got caught breaking into the dean’s office. With a pig.”

  “Of course you did.” It would almost have been preferable for Will to be tossed out for fighting or sneaking a woman into his rooms. Anything, really, other than these idiotic, childish pranks.

  At twenty-one Will should be a man, not a boy still getting into scrape after scrape.

  “I’ll send word to the vice chancellor. He can send an examiner to London and you can take your exams here.”

  “That’s not necessary,” Will mumbled, staring into his lap.

  Edward leaned over his desk, hand curled into a fist, eyes level with his brother’s.

  “It is necessary because you will take your exams. You will graduate, and you will take a career. I don’t care if it’s the clergy or the military. You will grow up, William.”

  His censure was met with sullen silence, his brother’s typical response. “Start studying. Someone will be here to supervise your assessments next week.”

  Finally, Will looked him straight in the eye. “Because you say so? The university is just going to pack a professor onto the mail coach and send him to London to supervise one student?”

  Edward raised a brow.

  “Of course they will. You’re the Duke of Wildeforde. People do what you say.” Will shook his head. “Do you ever get bored of being so bloody perfect all the time? Always correct. Always doing the right thing.”

  Edward had long ago hardened himself against that particular blow. His heart had formed a necessary callus. It barely felt the hit.

  “Perfection is our duty. Family must come first. What you do reflects on all of us. It’s time to stop thinking about having a moment of fun and instead think about how your actions impact others. It’s time to stop being so selfish.”

  William’s face twisted at the insult. His eyes—such a bright blue when he was born; the most wonderful thing Edward had seen—darkened. “Has it ever occurred to you that the line our mother fed us our entire lives—family above all else—is wrong? That there’s more to life than duty and honor?”

  Any patience Edward had for this conversation vanished, driven out by the bitter cold of their past and the reminder of what he had given up. “You were too young to understand what she went through.”

  “Please, she’s been shoving it down our throats our entire lives. I may not remember Father, but I know more about his faults than I would if he’d lived longer.”

  “Be glad you don’t remember him. You’ll never know the grave disappointment he was.”

  Because of everything that had happened, that was what hurt the most. Not the shock of his father’s death or the relentless bullying he’d taken from his peers afterward. Not the way his mother, already cold, had become sharp and brittle as they left London to escape from the scandal.

  No, it was discovering the good, kind man he’d thought he’d known had been willing to put the health and happiness of everyone he loved in jeopardy so he could indulge in his affair.

  Their entire relationship had been a lie.

  That was the disappointment that cut deepest—the wound that had never healed.

  There was a discreet knock at the door. Simmons entered.

  Taking the butler’s interruption as a chance to escape, Will jumped up from his seat. “Well, I’m off then. You’re clearly busy.”

  “Will, let’s talk tonight.” They’d never managed to have a proper conversation about the events of their childhood. It was a subject matter on which they couldn’t see eye to eye, and the conversation quickly became an argument each time. But with Charlotte coming out this season, and the increased scrutiny their family would endure as a result, it was time for his brother to see reason. He had to toe the line, for his sister’s sake, at least.

  “I’m going to stay with Pulfrey for a few days,” Will said, neatly avoiding the confrontation. Again.

  That his brother found it so difficult for them to be under the same roof hurt. But it had always been that way. Nothing he did could change it. “Your sister will be home on Friday. I’d like you to be here.”

  “Of course I’ll be here. You didn’t need to ask.”

  And he probably didn’t. Charlotte-Rose and William shared a bond that Edward didn’t—couldn’t. Being head of the family came with responsibilities they didn’t understand. Those responsibilities had always held him slightly apart, never quite one of them.

  Simmons’s expression didn’t change a whit as William passed him, even though Edward suspected the butler’s opinion of his brother was even worse than his own. “I’m sorry to bother you, Your Grace, but there is a footman here to see you.”

  “A footman? One of our footmen?”

  “No, my lord.”

  “What does he want?” Simmons was head of staff and had full authority to hire, fire, reward, and reprimand as he wished. There was no need for Edward to be involved in the day-to-day of the household. Off-loading that burden was why he paid his butler and housekeeper a king’s ransom.

  “He said he’s here with information about a Fiona McTavish.”

  Fiona?

  He hadn’t seen or spoken to Fi in almost a year. Not since the night of the Abingdale riots when, in a moment of fear and weakness, he’d told her that she would always own his heart. Then he’d taken her hands in his and kissed them.

  That moment had stirred up all the longing, passion, and love that he’d worked so hard to smother.

  That moment had almost been enough for him to throw caution to the wind. To take what he wanted and damn the consequences. To put everyone he loved—including Fiona—at risk so he could h
ave her near.

  Which was why he’d left Abingdale the next day, as soon as the watch arrived, and he knew the village was safe. It was best. It was the only way to keep her safe.

  A fish out of water dies gasping.

  Every time he let his mind turn to Fiona, his mother’s words slithered their way through his thoughts and down into his gut where they sat, their poison leaching into him, making him nauseous.

  He wanted to tell Simmons to send this footman away—nothing good would come of entangling the two of them again—but his gut couldn’t do it.

  “Send him in.”

  The scrawny lad who entered was covered in mud, his hair wild, his eyes frantic. “Your Grace.” His bow was hurried, as though he was running out of minutes. “It’s Miss McTavish, Your Grace. She’s in trouble.”

  Chapter 3

  The day had stretched out and the fragment of light that crept through the window at the end of the hall had dimmed. A guard, completely deaf to the calls of the inmates, had lit the gasoline-soaked wall sconces with a torch. The curling stream of sooty, oily smoke now hung over her head, filling her nostrils with an acrid smell that she should be used to.

  The need to urinate was becoming unbearable.

  Fiona, sitting in the front corner of the cell, her back against the brick wall, and her shoulder against the bars so that no cellmate could creep up on her, tried to focus on her plan for the week—tomorrow’s meeting with the patent office and then a list of distributors to approach—but the increasing pressure on her bladder stole her focus. She shifted, looking for a more comfortable position, but the sudden redistribution of weight made it worse.

  To hell with this.

  Wrapping her hand around a bar, she levered herself up.

  “Excuse me,” she called.

  There was no answer. The one guard sitting down at the end of the corridor didn’t even look up.

  She banged on the bars with her fist, a pointless movement that did nothing but hurt her hand.

  “Excuse me. Sir? I need the privy!”

  Behind her the men in the cell snickered.

  “Wot? You shy?”

  “Embarrassed about the size of your cock?”

  Heat crept up the back of her neck and beneath the edge of her wig, which felt heavier and less well-fitting with every minute.

  Ignoring the comments of the group behind her, she pressed against the bars. “Mister! Kin ye hear me?” She leaned into the Scottish side of her heritage, hoping it would strengthen her disguise. The bloody guard didn’t even look in her direction.

  A man approached from behind, the hairs on the back of her neck rising as he leaned against the bars beside her. Close. Too close.

  Her heart beat double time as he murmured in her ear. “Pr’haps you got a reason not to drop your drawers in front of us, eh lad?”

  She swallowed. “I dunnae ken what ye’r talking about.” The words felt tight and forced.

  “Remembered to drop your voice, have you, lad? Coulda sworn it was higher a second ago.”

  She faced him, arms crossed in a way she hoped looked confident while hiding her chest. “Ye got a problem?” she asked, trying to ignore the smell of stale beer emanating from him and his hot, putrid breath that mingled with hers on her lips. She pushed back the urge to vomit and managed to cock one eyebrow.

  He grinned down at her. “I got somethin’.” He ran a finger across her temple, brushing against the edge of her wig. “Mebee I should explore that more.”

  Her racing heart abruptly stalled and she reflexively reached to her hairline—holding the wig to her head firmly. In her periphery she saw some of her other cellmates straighten, attention firmly on her. One dropped his gaze to her backside and began to run his hands together.

  Her throat closed completely.

  This is bad. This is very, very bad.

  Her only possible savior was the guard determined not to hear her. “Sir?” She looked over her shoulder, praying to see him coming in her direction—and she saw something else entirely.

  Edward, strolling down the cold, dark corridor as casually as though he were walking down a busy street. Edward, looking like the devil himself. He was taller than most men, six feet something of furious, tightly held violence. His pale blue eyes were ice cold, and they were fixated on the man whose breath she could still smell.

  All the tension drained from her, and she sagged into the bars, forehead resting on the frigid metal.

  She was safe.

  At least, safer than she’d been a second ago.

  But despite the relief, a pit of nausea formed in her stomach. Edward. Of all people to come to her rescue, it had to be Edward. Her throat tightened and hot tears pricked at her eyes as she looked up at him. He was harder than the man she’d known years ago. His lips, once soft to kiss and quick to smile, were pressed thin. There was a deep furrow between his brows, the groove accentuated by the severe, fluctuating flame from the torches.

  He was mere feet away now, his arms crossed. When his stare shifted to her, it lost none of its anger. It didn’t soften a whit.

  She swallowed.

  “Finley,” he said in a loud voice with a razor’s edge to it. The cretin next to her dropped his hand and stepped backward. The other men in the cell found somewhere else to look. Edward had that effect. He expected to be respected, feared, obeyed, and he was.

  The man next to her didn’t need to know Edward was a duke. The royal power rolled off him.

  How had she not noticed? How had she not picked him for what he was? It was so damn clear just looking at him that he was a man of actual influence. Clearly a lord with a title and estates and a whole damn society that yielded to him.

  How had he fooled her for two entire weeks?

  She prided herself on her intelligence. She might be an “odd” creature, completely incapable of behaving like a young lady should, but she was smart. Smarter than most men. Educated—if not traditionally. She should have spotted his ruse from a mile away. That she hadn’t was humiliating, and she didn’t really want to examine why she’d missed it, because then she might need to admit that it was because she’d wanted to. She’d been so taken with him, so utterly besotted by his attention and his confidence and the way he filled a room with his presence, that she’d willingly overlooked the clues that he was more than what he said.

  And that deliberate obtuseness had been her undoing. Her broken heart was her own fault.

  “Your sister sent me, Finley. You’re a troublesome lad.”

  The arrogance in his voice rubbed raw. It was the oxygen needed to fuel her burning anger. What she wanted was to tell him to go jump into a pigs’ wallow, but she’d keep her mouth shut until she was out of this mess.

  She looked away, avoiding his gaze. Just behind him was the guard who had steadfastly ignored her. He held the best-looking ring of keys Fiona had ever seen.

  With a rattle and heavy click, the guard unlocked the cell door. The squeal of non-lubricated metal on metal was as welcome as it was jarring. She brushed past Edward as she escaped and didn’t turn around as the door clanged shut behind her, or as the men in the cell started to shout, or as Edward’s steps sounded behind her. She held her head high and walked as quickly as she could down that corridor, and to her freedom.

  Chapter 4

  Fiona stared out the window of the Wildeforde carriage. Grey cobblestones, grey buildings, grey sky. The people they passed were almost as colorless—clothes worn, faded until they almost blended into a muddy sea.

  Every face turned as the ornate carriage with its gold-leaf crest passed—each face gaunt, expressionless. It was a look she was only too familiar with. She swallowed the lump that formed in her throat.

  You haven’t been starving in years.

  Across from her, Edward—a man who’d never wanted for anything—stared at her, his expression grim. He was waiting for her to speak. It was a power game. The great Duke of Wildeforde flexing his might.

  “What
?” she snapped. The disguise she’d donned that morning to attend the rally itched. The wig, the breast bindings, the boot she’d stuffed with newspaper to give her extra height—it was all irritating. “What are you looking at?”

  “Why are you in London?” He crossed his ankle over his knee, folding his hands on his thigh in a paternalistic manner, as if she were an errant child who needed scolding. But the aloof posture belied the anger in his voice.

  “It’s nae of your concern.” Because it wasn’t. He had no claim on her. He’d made that clear five years ago when he ended their betrothal in a letter.

  He cocked his head—it was a minuscule movement that carried more censure than physics would warrant.

  “It’s business. You wouldn’t want to sully your pretty gloves with it.”

  “Your business is my business, remember? I have a ten percent stake in whatever you’re up to.”

  Aye. She remembered.

  Last year, when Lord Karstark announced he was evicting all the tenants on his land to make way for better hunting grounds, she’d been forced to turn to the only other significant landholder in the area for help.

  Edward—or rather—the Duke of Wildeforde.

  Asking him to provide land and homes for the twenty-three families that had been displaced had been the single most humiliating moment of her life. While she may have been compelled to plead with him, she would not accept charity, so she’d made it a business deal, despite knowing he would have leased the land gladly.

  He would provide land for new homes to house all those who had been booted from Karstark farms—including her and her father—for a ten percent share in her work. Ten percent that would come off the top of her earnings because she refused to tell her business partners, Benedict and John. They would do something good and noble like insist on the business covering it.

  And she wasn’t about to let anyone fight her battles.

  “Then if you must know, I’m seeking a distributor for my matches.”

  “Why isn’t Asterly doing it? Why is he risking your safety by sending you to London on your own? Curse it, Fi. Do you know what could have happened to you in there?” Edward’s voice grew progressively louder.