Duke of Pleasure

  So she crept along the grand hallway toward Kyle’s library, where she’d kissed him last night.

  Where he’d put his hot hands on her body so frankly, as if he had every right, and reminded her what she was beneath her layers of disguise.

  As she neared she could hear what the yelling was about.

  “Your own flesh and blood!” one man was saying in a working man’s London accent. “We’re only asking for what your ma would’ve wanted you to give us were she still alive.”

  “Now don’t bellow so at ’Is Grace,” another voice said, this one slower and with a cringing tone to it. “’E’s a good lad, ’e is. Won’t let ’is poor old Uncle Jack starve without roof nor food for the winter, will ’e?”

  “I’ve given both you and my cousins ample funds in the past year, Uncle,” Kyle replied in a clipped voice.

  “Do you see, Da?” the first voice scoffed. “’E’s forgotten where ’is ma came from. I’ll not grovel for pennies thrown in the muck.”

  A burly man with black hair and wide shoulders burst from the library, nearly knocking Alf down as he brushed roughly past her.

  Alf stared after him. The man’s gait and size reminded her of Kyle… save for the fact that he was dressed in worn brown breeches and coat and a wide-brimmed black hat.

  She turned back to the library door and peered inside.

  Kyle was standing by the fireplace in a white wig. He wore dark-blue breeches and coat over a dove-gray waistcoat, his shirt a snowy white. In front of him was a gray-haired man, almost as tall as he, but standing with his shoulders bowed, his head submissively bent. Beside the older man was another black-haired man, as large as the one who’d brushed past her in the hallway. He was staring rather vacantly into the fireplace, a carved dog clutched in both hands.

  The older man leaned closer to Kyle. “I’m that sorry, Your Grace, that sorry indeed. You know Thaddeus ’as a temper on ’im and ’e’s right proud—prouder than a butcher should be, truth be told. But if’n you could just see yer way to providing me and the boys with a small loan—a pound or two only. Why, I’d be that grateful. Just enough to patch the roof on the shop.” He ducked his head again, his eyes a tiny bit too innocent as they swept the room. “Why, you’d hardly miss it, rich as you are.”

  There was a short silence, and then Alf saw Kyle’s gaze move to the big, silent man. “How are you, Billy?”

  Billy smiled at his name and lifted his toy without meeting Kyle’s eyes. “Dog.”

  Kyle stared a moment longer at him and then glanced back at his uncle. “He seems well fed at least.”

  The older man straightened, looking indignant. “Of course ’e’s well fed. Clothed well, too. ’E’s my son.”

  Kyle nodded. “I’ll make you a gift of one hundred pounds to put a new roof on the shop and to do whatever else you might need.”

  Alf inhaled. A hundred pounds was a lot of money—a fortune for people like her.

  For people like these relatives of Kyle’s.

  But Kyle was already shaking his uncle’s hand while the older man thanked him profusely.

  Kyle turned toward his fireplace as his uncle went to the door. She wasn’t surprised that the gray-haired man hurried away with Billy as soon as he could, now that he’d gotten what he’d come for.

  That left her standing in the doorway, staring at Kyle with her lips pursed.

  He was gazing into the flames, his face expressionless now. “Have you eaten yet?”

  He must be aware that she’d overheard at least the last part of the conversation.

  “How did you become a duke?” she asked.

  He looked up at that, surprised. “I thought you knew. I’m the son of the King.”

  “Oh, I understand that,” she said softly as she entered the library, “but ’oo was your mother?”

  He chuckled.

  She raised her eyebrows.

  He shook his head. “I’m sorry. You’re such a strange little thing. You seem to know so much, and then you tell me you don’t know who my mother was when I thought all of London knew—certainly those who read the scandal sheets.”

  “You’ve caught me out, then, guv,” she said. “I don’t read ’em.”

  “Don’t you?” he cocked his head, examining her as if he truly did think her a strange little thing. What did he mean by that anyway? Was it because she dressed as a boy? She supposed that would seem odd to such as he. Still, she couldn’t help a twinge of hurt at the comment. “Do you know how to read?”

  “Of course,” she said, feeling vaguely insulted. “I couldn’t do my work otherwise—a lot of it is in notes and letters.”

  “I’d like to know how you learned someday.” He nodded. “As to your question: my mother was an actress, born into a family of butchers, as you heard. Her name was Judith Dwyer. She caught the eye of His Majesty, and I was born as a result.”

  She frowned. “But ’ow… that is, ’ow are you a duke?”

  “Ah.” He shrugged. “The King formally acknowledged me, created the title the Duke of Kyle, and granted it to me along with quite a lot of land and money. I was given tutors and sent to an expensive school. Brought up to be a duke, in fact.” His lips twisted. “Such is the way aristocrats are made. Of course my mother never changed. Her accent was very similar to yours when she was tired or forgetful.” He smiled humorlessly. “My uncle and cousin have followed the family trade. She ran away at twelve and joined a theater. Apparently she was an accomplished actress, though I doubt that was why she caught the King’s eye. She was also, unfortunately, very beautiful. My mother never had another lover after the King—though many offered. It seems she made the rather naive mistake of falling in love with him. So while I benefited from her liaison, she, she was crushed.” He glanced up at her, his black eyes pained. “She died when I was seventeen. Of a fever. I was away at school.”

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  “Why should you be?” he asked, his beautiful mouth twisting down. “It happened years ago. Besides, I have the title, the lands, the money. Is that not a fair exchange for a woman’s affections?”

  She didn’t dare answer that. “And the men who just left?”

  “Her brother and his sons,” he replied. “I only see them when they want money.”

  “You shouldn’t give in to beggars,” she said abruptly, her voice sounding loud in the quiet library. “They’ll just be back for more.”

  He turned, looking at her curiously. “I thought you’d be sympathetic to their cause. I have a lot of money and they do not. And they are my blood relations.”

  She lifted her chin, her eyes narrowed, her words heated, though she wasn’t entirely sure why. “Why should I sympathize with those men? I don’t know them. Besides, it’s the way of the world that some are born with money and some are not. Their pleading and your guilt won’t change that. You could give all your money to them, bit by bit, and they’d not be satisfied until they’d ’ad your last penny.”

  His eyebrows rose. “Then you don’t think I should help those in need?”

  She shook her head, her lips curving at the clear trap. “Didn’t say that, guv. ’Elp all you want. But keep your eyes open to those ’oo will drain you dry and walk away without a second thought. They don’t deserve your pity or ’elp, no matter their blood or your money.”

  For a moment his black eyes watched her without expression, and then he said, “You’re very cynical for one so young, Alf.”

  “I’m not cynical, I’m practical.” She frowned, feeling insulted. “And ’ow old do you ’ave to be to become cynical in your world anyway, guv? I’m one and twenty. In my world that’s plenty.” She looked him in the eye. “I was born and bred in St Giles, after all. Comes with the air we breathe there.”

  “I suppose, then,” he said slowly, his voice deepening, “that the wonder is that you have a spark of innocence about you at all.”

  Her breath caught as he held her gaze. She’d been innocent last night before
he’d touched her. Had he known? Was that what he was talking about now?

  He took a step toward her, and she was poised, waiting. He looked every inch the duke today—despite the story of his mother’s origins. He was dark and imposing, his black eyes heavy lidded, and she wanted… she wanted…

  The air moved behind her, and Alf turned to see Lady Jordan in the hallway, peering into the library.

  Looking between her and Kyle with a tiny line knit into her brow.

  “Well?” Lady Jordan said. “What happened with Sir Aaron?”

  “SIR AARON CREWE is dead,” Hugh said, and for a moment Iris actually felt her heart freeze in horror.

  Her hand covered her mouth as she stared at him. He looked very stern and unapproachable standing before the fire in his library. And once again he was with that odd lad, Alf. “You didn’t…”

  “No,” he snapped. “He was dead when we found him at his house.”

  “’Ung ’imself, ’e did,” Alf elaborated, belatedly adding, “my lady,” when Iris looked at him, wide eyed. “At least that’s what it was meant to look like.”

  “My God.” She glanced back at Hugh. “What does he mean?”

  Hugh sighed as if her questions—perhaps her mere presence—was an imposition, and for a moment she was hurt.

  Then she drew herself up. Katherine had been her most intimate friend from childhood. She’d loved Katherine—more than anyone in this room. Certainly more than Hugh had at the end. She owed it to Katherine to make sure that her death was properly investigated.

  So she looked Hugh Fitzroy, the Duke of Kyle in the eye and said, “Tell me.”

  “Come,” he said. “Let us go into the red sitting room where you can be more comfortable, and I’ll have tea sent in.”

  He held out his arm to her and escorted her to the sitting room down the hall, and Alf followed.

  The boy always seemed to be about these days.

  The red sitting room had been Katherine’s favorite place to take afternoon tea and gossip—when she wasn’t shopping or attending salons and the like. Iris felt a pang in her chest as she entered the room with Hugh. She’d spent so many happy afternoons lazing here with Katherine.

  She glanced at him, wondering if he had any idea how Katherine had spent months picking out the crimson fabric that lined the walls or that she’d changed her mind three times over the legs of the pink silk chairs she’d had specially made.

  No, she thought, as he ushered her to the dark gold settee Katherine had talked about having replaced just before she’d died, he had no idea. He’d left before Katherine had decorated this room. And at the end she wouldn’t be surprised if Hugh hated his wife.

  He’d certainly had cause.

  Iris frowned sadly.

  Hugh was murmuring to a footman now, no doubt ordering the tea. Alf took a seat opposite her on one of Katherine’s pink silk chairs, and Iris surreptitiously studied him. The boy was wearing an old, worn coat, much too big for him, his hair pulled back in a messy tail. He turned his head to watch Hugh as he finished with the footman and strode over. Iris caught her breath as she saw the boy’s profile.

  Because that wasn’t a boy’s profile.

  She knew it all at once. The neck was too tender, there was no Adam’s apple; the movement of Alf’s hips, even her gait that had seemed oddly off, was explained. Oh, she was very, very good in her male disguise, but now that Iris could see, it was impossible to miss.

  She watched as Hugh sat down in a chair next to Alf’s, the both of them across from Iris.

  Almost as if they were in league together.

  Her eyes narrowed. Did he know of Alf’s deception?

  But he began speaking, and her mind was immediately diverted to other matters. “We think that Crewe was murdered.”

  “We?” she couldn’t help asking, her voice sharper than she’d have liked.

  He looked a little surprised. “I went with my men and Alf, as you know. Jenkins examined the body. There were indications that the death wasn’t a suicide.”

  “What indications?” she asked.

  He frowned, and she could tell he was trying to find a way to delicately tell her without offending her sensibilities. She was a lady, after all, and needed protecting.

  Alf obviously felt no such worry. “There was no chair under Crewe where ’e was ’anging. ’E couldn’t ’ave gotten strung up without someone putting ’im up there.”

  Hugh winced. “Yes. Also, Jenkins informed us later, after we’d left, that he’d observed bruising on the body—bruising that wasn’t from the hanging.”

  She cocked her head, her mouth opening on a question just as the maids entered with the trays of tea. They’d also brought fresh scones—still hot from the oven—with butter and jam, and it was several minutes before they were done setting up everything on a low table.

  She waited until the servants had closed the doors behind them before she leaned forward. “Why didn’t Jenkins tell you about the bruising while you were at Crewe’s house?”

  Hugh scowled. “Because a friend of Crewe’s, the Earl of Exley, arrived at the house before he could.”

  “Exley? I don’t—”

  “He’s a member of the Lords of Chaos.” Hugh shrugged. “One of the men on the list the Duke of Montgomery gave me. Perhaps it was a coincidence that he showed up so soon after Crewe’s death, but I don’t think so.”

  She blinked at that. “You think the earl killed him?”

  “Or had him killed.”

  “Good Lord,” she said slowly, truly shocked. “What shall you do next?”

  He looked away. “I’ll have to begin anew. Investigate the remaining names on the list—especially Exley.”

  She frowned and poured them all tea as she thought the matter over. “Can you not simply have Exley and the others arrested? After all, you know that they are members of this society.”

  He accepted a teacup from her. “On what charges, exactly? That his name is on a list given me by the Duke of Montgomery? That we suspect him of being part of a secret society? No one has agreed to talk about what they’ve seen at any of the Lords gatherings, nor about what the Lords do to influence the government. We have no witnesses. The victims of the revels—those who have survived and whom I’ve discovered—are far too fearful to speak, and besides, the Lords wear masks.” He set the tea down abruptly, looking frustrated. “I don’t think most of the members even know who the other members are.”

  “But some do.” Alf had taken a cup of tea and was busy munching on a scone, careless of the crumbs falling to her lap. She gestured with the half-eaten pastry. “Montgomery told you so in that letter.”

  Iris frowned. “What letter?”

  “The Duke of Montgomery has been corresponding with me,” Hugh said. “Most of his letters are filled with either gossip, tall tales, or riddles, but once in a while he lets slip a real bit of information. In his last letter he said that he had heard that the Lords of Chaos kept a list of its members. If we can find that list, or one of the leaders who knows the other members, then we may be able to break the society open.”

  “I see.” Iris sipped her tea. “So Crewe and Exley were two of the names you received from Montgomery?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the other names?”

  “Lord Chase and Viscount Dowling,” he replied.

  “Oh.” Her eyes widened.

  His brows drew together. “What is it?”

  “Viscount Dowling,” she said, excitement rising in her breast. “He’s a business acquaintance of Henry’s.” She glanced at Alf. “My elder brother, Henry Radcliffe. I live with him and his wife, Harriet.” She looked at Hugh again. “I’ve even met Lord Dowling. He often attends Harriet’s dinners.”

  “How long have Henry and Lord Dowling known each other?” Hugh asked, his voice calm.

  “Why, years, I think.” She frowned, trying to remember when she’d first heard Henry mention the viscount, but shook her head in frustration. “I d
on’t know exactly. Before my husband died, at least—Henry has socialized with Lord Dowling ever since I’ve lived with him.”

  “Over five years, then,” Hugh said, his eyes half-hooded.

  Her fingers clenched around the delicate handle of the teacup in her hand on a sudden terrible thought. “You don’t think Henry is…”

  “Does ’e ’ave a dolphin tattoo?” Alf asked, and Iris might’ve felt resentful at the interruption except that the other woman was so pragmatic.

  She exhaled. “Not to my knowledge.”

  “Just because ’e knows this viscount don’t mean your brother is one o’ them, does it?” Alf asked earnestly.

  Iris nodded, taking another fortifying sip of her tea. “Of course. You’re right.”

  Hugh was tapping a finger against his knee. “Iris, do you think it possible that you could arrange a dinner with Harriet? One to which both I and Dowling were invited?”

  “I could,” she replied slowly. “But I think there may be a more useful way for you to meet him. We received an invitation to Lord Dowling’s masquerade ball in a fortnight.” She bit her lip and leaned forward, a rush of excitement in her breast at her daring thought. “Both my brother and his wife are leaving for a trip to the country tomorrow. They’ll be gone for at least three weeks’ time, but since the ball is masked…”

  Hugh’s lips slowly curved into a triumphant smile. “I could go in your brother’s stead.”

  Chapter Ten

  When the Golden Falcon was at last well, the Black Prince hooded her and put jesses on her legs. Tiny jeweled bells were sewn to the jesses, and they sang when the bird moved. The boy put on a cloak and hid the Golden Falcon beneath it. He rode with her away from Castle Black until they were quite alone and no prying eyes could see them.

  He uncovered the bird then and whispered in her ear, “I shall call you Longing.”…

  —From The Black Prince and the Golden Falcon

  Hugh felt his muscles tighten as he caught the scent of the hunt. He leaned forward in the delicate sitting room chair and placed his elbows on his knees. “If we can get into Dowling’s house, I can search it during the ball.”