The Duke Goes Down (The Duke Hunt #1) by Sophie Jordan

Emily fluttered her hand in dismissal, still staring dreamily after Mr. Butler.

It really was too much. What would it take for others to realize he was no grand catch anymore?

“And there is his other . . . affliction,” Imogen heard herself declaring.

Emily glanced at Imogen sharply, proving she was not completely oblivious of her remarks. “What affliction?”

“Yes, what affliction?” Mercy seconded, her expression rightly wary. She knew me only too well.

“I should not speak of it . . .” Imogen hedged, her mind working feverishly, wondering if she dared say what was even teasing at her mind.

Now both the Blankenship sisters were looking at her expectantly, waiting.

Imogen cleared her throat and glanced around as though to make certain there were no eavesdroppers . . . although she knew once she uttered the words, they would be the tattle of Shropshire. The girls, like their mother and brother, could not keep a secret, but that would be the point of what she was about to do.

“Well . . . the man is stark bald. He wears a wig,” she rushed to whisper. “It’s quite unfortunate. Oh, they’ve done their best to conceal it with a very realistic-looking wig. The best money can buy, but he’s been bald ever since he was a lad.”

The girls gasped, swinging their gazes to rest on the former duke. “No! His hair seems so very real.”

“Doesn’t it?” Mercy murmured. Imogen shot her a quelling look.

“Indeed. It is very convincing.” Imogen nodded with feigned grimness. “However, if you were to give it a hearty tug it would pop clean off his head.” She made a popping sound with her tongue against her cheek and the girls’ eyes widened even further.

The sisters exchanged looks and with a quick farewell, they beat a hasty line for their mother, doubtlessly to fill her ears.

“What have you done?” Mercy asked with a chuckle and rueful shake of her head.

“I’m simply protecting the unsuspecting females of Shropshire from a grasping and disingenuous man.”

“By starting a rumor? And when this reaches his ears, which you know it will, and he finds out you are the source . . . what then?” Mercy arched an eyebrow.

Imogen felt a flicker of misgiving . . . until she once again caught sight of the man in question, escorting the baroness and her daughter to their waiting carriage.

Young sweet Annis had settled her hand on his arm and blinked up at him worshipfully. Imogen blinked, suddenly seeing herself as she had once been, so much like Annis, young and hungry for the love and attention of a handsome young man. Susceptible.

No. It would not be. The girl must be saved.

No fabrication was too wild—or wrong—if it saved a vulnerable girl from making a mistake she would regret all her life.

“I’ve done no harm, and I’m not afraid of him.” Imogen crossed her arms. “Mr. Butler has no power over me.”

Mercy made a skeptical noise in her throat. “I hope you’re right.”





Chapter Three




The day following Perry’s uncharacteristic attendance at church, he was hiding in the wine cellar, three sheets to the wind, when Thurman found him.

“Your Grace,” Thurman intoned with all the disappointment only an ancient butler could wield. “Dinner is served.”

Perry understood his disappointment. He was disappointed, too. His booted foot slid out in front of him. He kicked at nothing in particular.

He lifted the paper his mother had given him earlier in the day and waved it wildly in the air. “It’s official, Thurman. The banns are posted. Lady Circe is betrothed to that sod, the Earl of Westborough. Can you believe it? She will marry that oaf? When we were at Eton he liked to jump off the roof of the conservatory and see if he could land in the rhododendron hedges. More oft than not he missed, and landed on his head. He’s a stellar grade arsehole.”

Just another disappointment. Another one of the many things he had thought to have for himself but did not. Propped against the wall between racks of wine, Perry turned an eye to the myriad bottles, contemplating which vintage to crack into next. If ever there was a time to get foxed, this was it.

“Forgive me, but it must be said. Do you really think it advisable to wed someone named after the goddess Circe? She was a necromancer known to seduce men and change them into swine.”

Perry peered up at the steely-eyed retainer from where he sat on the ground. The man had served his parents faithfully since his predecessor had retired in Perry’s infancy. He stuck by them, moving into the dower house with Perry’s mother rather than remain at Penning Hall to await the new duke. Loyalty like that could not be bought.

“She was beautiful and could carry an intelligent conversation,” Perry countered.

Thurman’s lips twisted as though he tasted something tart. “And also vain and short-tempered. Word has it she treats her staff abominably.”

Perry sent Thurman a sharp look. “You never mentioned that before.”

“A vain and short-tempered noblewoman bears mentioning?”

“She was not any noblewoman. I was considering marrying her,” he reminded reproachfully. He was damned close to asking for her hand when the bottom had fallen out from his world.

“It was not my place to interfere.”

“But now you don’t mind telling me of my near miss?” He snorted.