When You Wish Upon a Duke by Charis Michaels

Isobel scrawled the word Alley on a scrap of parchment and tacked it beneath the knob of her door. Northumberland would understand.

How ambitious she’d been to believe the public street would be an acceptable place to meet him at ten o’clock. She’d come to think of Lumley Street as a safe haven, secure and comfortable, a place she could do as she wished, even after dark. All corners of her new life had felt so very haven-like that she’d forgotten she did not have the freedom to be reckless or imprudent or to meet strange men. How thorough of Mr. Hooke to remind her of all that was at stake.

The sun had only just set when Drummond Hooke had delivered her home and made his ultimatum. She prayed no neighbors had seen. The fact that Northumberland had seen her was an outrage for which she was still trying to find the correct words. Inappropriate, for one. Intrusive, for another. Interesting, for a—No. No, not interesting. Unacceptable.

“You’re late,” she said ten minutes later. These words took no effort. He emerged from the alley gloom as she waited on her back stoop, her emerald cloak pulled tight.

“Would you believe,” he asked lightly, “I’ve been standing just out of view, watching you?”

Isobel felt an annoying tingle in her tailbone. Cursed stone step, cold even in August. She shoved up. “I would believe you’ve been watching, but out of view? Your boast is misplaced. An hour ago, I saw you clearly lurking about.”

He stepped closer, making no response. Just like that, she could see his face. Her first thought was that she had not misremembered. He was—

Well, he was far too much for her already complicated life. A handsome man with a direct, interested gaze and some pressing business that could only be discussed in dark alleys? Too much. The very last complication she needed at the moment. Or ever.

She clipped down the steps. “What were you thinking, turning up in my street when I was . . . was meeting with my employer?”

“Oh, is that what was happening? I had no idea the idiot was going to propose to you.”

“He didn’t propose, he—” She couldn’t finish. Explaining Drummond Hooke’s extortion was not part of her civic duty.

“It makes no difference about my conversation with Mr. Hooke,” she finished. “I’ve agreed to your interview, and so now here I am. Are we meant to talk in the alley? The rats take over after dark, I’m afraid.”

“Indeed. I don’t suppose you would invite me inside?”

“Ah, no. I do not entertain men alone inside my house.”

“Quite so. Which is why . . .” and now he sounded like he was improvising, “. . . I’ve scouted Grosvenor Square. You’d suggested this, did you not? If we clear the fence and take a side path to the center, we should be out of sight and undisturbed. Well chosen. Very sensible.”

“I’m always sensible,” Isobel muttered, more to herself. A reminder. She’d taught herself to be sensible. Since returning to England, sensibility had been her guiding force.

Pulling her hood around her face, she picked her way to Duke Street. Northumberland fell in beside her, a large, silent presence over her left shoulder. Before she could stop herself, Isobel asked, “You heard every word, then? With Hooke?”

“I’m a spy, Miss Tinker. Hearing every word is part of my job. It’s why I came early to Lumley Street. It’s why I was late to the alley.”

She glanced at him. He was neither gloating nor threatening, simply stating a fact. She watched him scan the street like a wolf hunting in a dark wood.

Isobel felt the tingling again, this time on the back of her neck. If she hadn’t sworn off men—which, absolutely, she had—she might have wondered why her body always conjured tingles for the wrong men. Why not tingle for someone like . . . a Boring Rule Follower or Dependable Office Hack? Why not tingle for Drummond Hooke and make life simple for everyone?

Isobel recoiled at the thought. Anyone but Drummond Hooke.

She knew the way to Grosvenor Square and he allowed her to take the lead. She kept to the shadows, head down, cloak barely fluttering. They reached Grosvenor Street, and the square loomed like a black void in the center of torchlit Mayfair.

Northumberland stepped around her, gesturing for her to stay back, but she’d already tucked herself into the recess of a building. She knew how to navigate a dark street, for God’s sake.

Go on, she said with a nod of her head.

He considered her a long moment and went, a silent shadow darting into the abyss. The gate to the square was locked at sunset, and the duke didn’t try it. He chose the most overgrown stretch of fence and vaulted over it with a swift bounce, disappearing into the trees.

He’d not suggested her next course of action. Isobel had been surprised by this—surprised and a little bit thrilled. She knew well how to slip into a locked park but this would be a secret skill to him.

Shrugging deeper into her cloak, she followed his path to the fence. She detoured slightly to retrieve an empty crate on the corner and propped it against the black iron. Working quickly, her movements small, she climbed first the crate and then the fence, balancing a booted foot between the spiked iron slats. With one hand, she clasped the top of the fence, and gathered her skirts with the other. She was just about to bring her second foot to the fence when giant hands caught her around the waist, lifted, and whirled her over the fence in a smooth arc.

She made only the slightest yelp.

“Shhhh,” he warned.

This is not exciting, Isobel lectured herself as the duke plunked her down beside a rosebush.

This is not diverting.

He is not exhilarating.

I’ve been sacked from my job and will be evicted from my home. This man wants to know too much about things I’ve vowed never to discuss.

I’m having no fun at all.

When she was steady on the ground, the duke ducked between two bushes, signaling her to follow into the foliage. Isobel returned to the crate, reached between the slats of the fence, and tipped it gently away. Without waiting for the crack of wood against stone, she hurried after the duke.

When it rains, it pours, she thought unhelpfully, pushing through leafy fronds and low-hanging boughs.

If one trouble comes, wait for the other.

Didn’t respectable ladies spout wise-but-baseless idioms during trying times?

Isobel endeavored to do the thing that respectable ladies did, especially if her own instinct was to swear profusely.

How had she managed to imperil her beloved job and be interrogated by a handsome foreign agent on the same day?

In theory, she could have dodged Hooke’s proposal and bought more time, but she’d lost her temper instead.

She could have told the Duke of Northumberland she had nothing to contribute, but she was following him into a dark, secluded park.

Agues come on horseback, but go away on foot, she recited, although she really had no idea what this one meant.

“Bollocks,” she muttered, tripping over a root. Northumberland came to a stop at that same moment and Isobel collided with his back.

“Oof,” he said, taking a step to brace himself. Isobel let out a little yelp, arms flying. The duke half spun and caught her at the waist.

“Careful,” he said, rocking her against him. He was as hard and solid as a tree. For a fleeting moment, she settled her hands on his biceps, pressing her fingers into the fine wool of his greatcoat. The muscle beneath was contoured steel.

“Why are you stopping?” she whispered, snatching her hands away.

“We’ll be safe here, I think,” he said, watching her. A smile quirked the corner of his mouth.

The path had opened up into a clearing. Two benches sat adjacent in a beam of silver moonlight. A birdbath pooled black water that reflected the stars. Night sounds of the city could barely be heard through the dense vegetation of the square.

Isobel bit her lip. Mayfair was not meant to offer up secluded moonlit gardens inhabited by handsome men with mysterious half smiles. Mayfair supplied honest work, a cozy flat, and a peaceful new life. How cunningly Mayfair had misled her. Likely, it was all her fault—her past, stalking her to the ends of the earth. How foolish to believe it would not.

The duke, in no way betrayed by Mayfair, drifted away and dropped onto a bench. He leaned back and a low-hanging rhododendron knocked his head and dislodged his hat. Now the brim extended at an angle, low-slung and rakish. He smiled again, and the expression actually stopped Isobel in place. She felt the very first stirrings of a kind of . . . shimmering inside her chest.

He whipped off the hat and dropped it on the bench, running his hand through his hair.

“Do you think he’ll really sack you?” he asked, sitting back.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Hooke,” he prompted. “Do you really think he’ll sack you?”

“Yes—No.” She thought a moment more. “I cannot say what he will do. I’ll not marry him. If he sacks me for refusing, he will have no wife and no business. At the end of the day, he is self-serving. He may keep me on for sheer sloth. He fancies himself a gentleman and does not enjoy work.”

“Oh, to trade places,” Northumberland sighed. He stretched his legs on the crushed gravel, crossing his Hessians at the ankle. “I’d rather work than be a gentleman.”

Isobel was not prepared for the duke to reveal personal details about his situation. But this was a large part of charm, wasn’t it? Openness and honesty were like currency for charming men.

In no way was she intrigued by his preference for work over a life of gentlemanly ease. But better to indulge his musings than not discuss her future with Drummond Hooke.

“Perhaps,” she ventured, “you are a gentleman with the freedom to also work.”

“I’m a gentleman, I suppose.” A beleaguered sigh. “But the missions I lead for the Foreign Office have been my life’s work. There’ll be no time for spy craft when I return to Syon Hall. I would never be able to do both—not properly. Who has time to meet informants in dark London squares when they are in Middlesex, minding the smelter?”

“Am I an informant?” Isobel asked. The designation of informant sounded impersonal, almost tactical. Maybe, possibly, she could tolerate being something like an informant. An informant did not confess their misspent youth to unknown dukes or relive horrible memories. They spoke about harbors and climate and what the locals eat for lunch.

“It is my great hope that you’re an informant,” the duke said. “Will you sit?” He patted the bench beside him.

“I prefer to stand, thank you very much.”

There, she thought. Some good sense prevailed. She would not sit. She would not say more than was strictly necessary. She would not complicate her life more than it already was. She would be a marginally helpful bystander . . . possibly an informant, but no more than that.

“Right,” he said. “So . . .”

He shot her that half smile again, and Isobel felt the shimmers toss about inside her.

He’s just a man, she told herself.

He’s just a very handsome, very confident, very charming man. And this is not my first trip around the moon.

He said, “So, you’ve spent time in Iceland.”

“Yes.” Denying this was obviously not an option.

“Do you speak Icelandic?”

Isobel weighed her answer. She’d decided in advance not to lie. Withhold, if necessary, but not lie.

“Some,” she said. “Before I left the country, I could get by. Now, of course, it will be rusty.”

“And when was that exactly? Your years there?”

“When I was younger.”

“A child? You are hardly old now.”

“I am twenty-seven,” she said, giving him something he already knew. “My time in Iceland was . . . years ago. I was younger than I am now, obviously, but not a child.”

“But were you in the company of your parents? The file, which I admit is very thin, suggested that an uncle made arrangements to bring you back to England—alone, was it?”

“I would rather not discuss my specific, personal experience in Iceland, if you please. It was some time ago, and the memories are part of a difficult history that I have worked very hard to overcome. My business in Iceland has no bearing on your work, I feel sure.”

There, she thought, I’ve said it. She’d alluded to pain and overcoming it. Any gentleman would abandon the topic.

“Was it ’08?” he asked gently, abandoning nothing.

She narrowed her eyes. How beguiling he’d endeavored to be. His relaxed sort of lean on the bench and his reasonable tone, light and curious. But Isobel was not born yesterday. She’d been born seven and twenty hard-fought years ago, as they’d already established. And on the topic of when she was in Iceland, “several years ago” would be all she’d say.

The duke went on. “My notes say that your uncle arranged to have you returned to England in October 1808. That would have made you twenty at the time. Can I assume that voyage, which involved prodigious pulled strings in government—enough to warrant a file in my office—means you were not in Iceland in the company of your parents?”

“Ask repeatedly if you must, Your Grace, but my answers to personal questions will remain brief and vague. My time in Iceland is entirely irrelevant to these Englishmen who are currently stranded.”

“Held captive,” he corrected. “The Englishmen are being held captive. But forgive me, I was hoping for some frame of reference. Authentication is a large part of working with informants. Your personal experiences will inform how current and reliable your information may be.”

“And what if I say my information is wholly unreliable and inauthentic? What if I say that I remember virtually nothing about Iceland except how wretched it is? Would we be finished here?”

The duke sighed. “You’re aware, I hope, that your denials only make me want to know more, Miss Tinker? Evasive, elusive informants are far more intriguing than people who gush.”

“I am not evasive or elusive,” she said. “I am private and discreet. I haven’t anything to hide; I simply do not relish talking about . . .” here she faltered, as there was so much she had no wish to discuss, “. . . my youth. In any country.”

He took a deep breath and nodded. He reached into the pocket of his waistcoat and pulled out a coin; he examined it in his hand and then flicked it into the air and caught it. Isobel had a moment of anxiety, certain his easy manner would now turn nasty and demanding. She’d seen this before—men who reversed their charm into cruelty like the flip of a coin.

But Northumberland did not reverse. He launched the coin again and said, “Would you consider this? You tell me five things you may know about Iceland—not including your personal experience there. Just five things that you believe that I might find useful. I will not interrupt, I will not pursue any given point; I will simply listen. After you finish, I will ask you three following questions. These will be questions that you may answer or not answer as you see fit. Could you abide this exchange?”

No, Isobel said in her head, but that wasn’t true, not really. It was a perfectly reasonable proposal. She hesitated. She was unprepared for reasonability from a man as attractive as the duke. Attractive men didn’t have to be reasonable. The world allowed them to behave in whatever selfish, petulant way they wished simply because they looked as if they were in charge.

Isobel chewed on her bottom lip. Eventually, he would become this man, selfish or petulant or worse.

Carefully, she said, “What if I don’t have five useful things to reveal?”

“I believe,” he said, flipping the coin again, “you do have five useful things. You wouldn’t have agreed to this meeting if you didn’t have anything useful to say.”

Again, Isobel hesitated. Was that why she’d agreed? So far, she’d not identified a reason, save madness.

He was correct, of course; she had plenty to say. She’d made a list of what she would tell him and what she would not. She’d scrawled it out during the anxiety-ridden hour between Hooke’s departure and the duke’s arrival. Five things would be no effort.

Isobel took a deep breath and settled on the adjacent bench. She folded her hands in her lap. Speaking to the toes of her boots, she said, “Fine. Here are five things.

“If you intend to travel to Iceland, you must embark very soon. It is exceedingly dangerous in winter. Even the Danes do not sail the North Sea between October and April.”

She glanced up, hoping this was an acceptable first thing. It was common knowledge among sailors, but it was useful.

Northumberland stared back with a bland, patient half smile. He looked . . . indulgent. He looked as if he was indulging this first answer. He flicked the coin into the air.

Isobel gritted her teeth and added, “I sailed to England in early October, and it was harrowing to say the least. The sooner you go and return, the better.”

Without waiting for his comment, she forged ahead. “Despite this, the country itself is not a frozen tundra. Only the highlands see snowfall and it’s not much colder than Scotland. Even so, do not underestimate its remoteness, and provision accordingly. And by provision, I would suggest bringing anything you may require, including food, in your kit. There is no guarantee of sustenance once you venture beyond the port cities, and even in port, storehouses and merchants may be low on supplies or refuse to trade with foreigners.”

Northumberland nodded slowly. He didn’t dismiss this advice but he was hardly writing any of it down.

Fine, she thought. Flick your coin and pay me no mind.

“A third thing,” she recited, “is that Icelandic ‘society’ is comprised of ruling families who operate lowland farms. They control the country in an uneasy alliance with politicians in Denmark. If you wish for something to happen in Iceland, you’ll want the backing of at least a few of these families. Iceland is like England in this. The landed families are in charge.”

Another nod, almost as if he was a professor and she was his pupil. Annoyance began to burn the back of her shoulders, and she was compelled, suddenly, to tell him something he would absolutely not know. Something that would wipe the indulgent expression from his face.

“Ah . . . you mentioned pirates?” she ventured. This had been the very last item on her list, a detail she’d not intended to mention.

“There is only one pirate band with which I’m familiar,” she mused casually, “and they conceal their ships in the ice caves of Vatnajökull, a glacier field to the east. So if your plan is to sail to Reykjavík and take them by surprise, you’ll be on the wrong side of the island.”

She said it calmly, the way she’d said the North Sea was stormy in winter. But she raised her eyebrows when she’d finished—There, I’ve said it—and cocked her head. What have you to say to this?

The duke had gone still and now blinked rapidly, a man with a bug in his eye. The coin fell to the ground.

That’s more like it, she thought.

Then she remembered it was not her purpose to astound or impress the duke; she’d come to be forgettable and disposable.

“How many things was that?” she asked lightly.

“Four,” he said.

“Right. Well, the only other thing I can think of is a sort of attitudinal quality you may encounter among the people there. They can be distrustful of outsiders. I’m not sure what manner of diplomacy you plan to employ, but they do not enjoy ‘collaboration’ with foreigners, even allies who come in peace. So, prepare yourself for incalcitrant locals at best, hostility at worst.”

And that was it. Five things.

Isobel took a deep breath. She patted both knees with her hands, a gesture of My work here is done.She tightened her gloves.

“That is five,” he stated.

“Yes, that’s five.”

By design, she’d gone soft on the fifth thing. Really, what more was there to say? Telling him about Iceland’s naturally heated pools, the lava flows, or the aurora borealis was a waste of time. These could be gleaned from any geography book and ultimately made no difference to pirate rescue or diplomacy. He didn’t need to know the magical parts of Iceland. She was not selling him a holiday. She’d only met him to reveal a few things and make him go away.

“And now my questions,” he said.

“Which I may answer or may not answer.”

“Right,” he said, “but that I hope you will answer.”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees—the pose of a man conspiring with a trusted confidant.

We are not conspiring nor confidants, she reminded in her head.

“The pirates . . .” Northumberland said, refocusing her attention. “Are you saying that you know these pirates?”

“Ah . . .” said Isobel, immediately recognizing her mistake. Too much—she’d said too much. “I beg your pardon?”

“I’ve made no secret of my purpose, Miss Tinker. From the beginning, I’ve said that I’ve been charged with rescuing Englishmen from pirates—my own cousin is among their group. And now you’re suggesting that you actually know them?”

Her very first, entirely unhelpful thought was, Well, of course I know them.

In her previous life, Isobel Tinker had been interesting. She had not planned the journeys of other girls; she’d forged a journey all her own. It had been so very long since she had shocked anyone, and it felt . . . it felt—

Well, it made no difference how it felt. Now, more than ever, she was meant to be boring and expected.

She asked, “Is that your first question?”

“No, no, no . . .” he was shaking his head, “. . . only a fool would ask a yes-or-no question. Allow me to rephrase.” He cleared his throat. “Tell me everything you know about the pirates. And how you know it. Including how they are connected to the ruling families you mentioned. And how I might use the connection to my advantage.” He patted around on his greatcoat, and pulled out a small notebook and graphite pencil. He flipped open the book and tapped the point of the pencil against a blank page. He looked to her expectantly.

Isobel stared at the pencil, her heart pounding. She’d been careless. She’d been selfish and vain—trying to impress him. Of course he would home in on the pirates.

“Miss Tinker?” he prompted. “If you please?”

“That’s five questions in one,” she said. “You’re making a general inquiry about a broad range of topics, which is nothing like we agreed.”

“I’m amending what we agreed, Miss Tinker.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

“I thought you’d be telling me things like which inns to avoid—”

“There are no inns in Iceland,” she mumbled.

“—or to wear a woolly hat.”

“Your existing hat will be sufficient.”

“Stop,” he said, holding up his hands in surrender. “Please. Miss Tinker. You may not know this, but I could cultivate and cajole you into telling me. I could finesse the answers from you. I respect you and your cleverness. Not to mention, there’s no time. So . . .” He stood up and patted his greatcoat again, producing a bulging leather pouch. “Instead, to speed the process along, I am willing to payyou. Fifty pounds. A sum that would do most anybody good. Especially you.”

Isobel gaped at him.

“May we dispense with the scorekeeping about the number of questions and get down to these pirates? In exchange for this lovely bundle of money?”

Isobel stared at the pouch. Her heart began to boom in her ears as if it was knocking to escape.

“You would pay me?” she asked breathlessly.

He rolled from the bench and ambled to the birdbath. “Forgive me for thinking that a tidy sum would be useful in your current situation.”

“Now I know why you were lurking about. You were listening to my private conversations, searching for some weakness to exploit.”

“To be perfectly clear, in no way do you appear ‘weak,’ Miss Tinker.”

“That’s because I am not weak,” she shot back. “I am . . . backed against a wall.”

“You won’t take the money?”

“I’ve no choice but to take the bloody money.” She threw up her hands. She took a deep breath. “I regret that it’s come to this. I regret needing money. I regret being sacked from my job. I regret the painful personal circumstances that keep me from being more useful to you.”

It was all true. So many regrets. She detested regret. For years, she’d outpaced it. It was always there, but if she worked hard enough and said and did enough of the correct things, it did not hound her. But now?

Now she did not feel hounded so much as . . . tempted.

She began shaking her head. In a firm but wistful voice, she said, “I was so very contented just twelve hours ago. I had a pleasant job, doing work at which I excelled, with a snug flat above the shop. And without a single thought of Iceland.” She enunciated the word in the way one might say, purgatory.

The duke sniggered. “Ah. A sentiment I understand. I had a life I loved, traveling the world, working for the Foreign Office. I’ve served in India. In the palace courts of Europe. Spain during the war.”

Before she could stop herself, she asked, “You loved the war?”

He was staring into the birdbath, seemingly lost in thought. He looked up but did not answer.

“Forgive me,” she said quickly, “I presume too much. I did not mean to inqui—”

“Well, not the death and devastation of war obviously. But the action? Absolutely. The urgency, yes. The struggle suited me. I cannot abide idleness . . . sitting behind a desk . . . waiting. I haven’t the patience for it. I lack patience in general.”

“I can see that,” she said. “In the twelve hours since I made your acquaintance, I’ve scaled fences, thrashed about in the bushes, and tramped through alleyways. You’ve occasioned yourself in a position to ‘overhear’ not one but two conversations with my employer. If I was a poetic sort of girl, I would characterize our interactions as ‘breathless.’ ”

“No fault in breathlessness, Miss Tinker.”

She felt herself smile. “I am not poetic. Just to be clear.”

This conversation has run away with itself, she thought.

I’m very close to earning fifty pounds, she thought.

She thought and thought, but her brain wanted only to hear more of his story.

“What happened?” she asked quietly, raptly.

“I beg your pardon?”

“To put an end to this work that you loved?”

He didn’t answer immediately, and she rushed to add, “Forgive me, I do not mean to—”

“Well, my father died,” he said flatly. “After that, not five years on, my oldest brother died.”

He paused, staring up at the stars.

Isobel felt her eyes grow large. She’d not expected an answer so devastating or personal.

“Oh y-yes,” she stammered. “The whole country has heard of the tragedies in your family. I was so sorry for the terrible . . . sort of, one-two punch of it all. The grief must have been . . . relentless.”

“It is not ideal. It’s very . . . sedentary—grief. In other words, not for me. The only mental state for which I have less tolerance than idleness is grief. Much as I tried, I couldn’t loll around Middlesex, stewing in it. I was already a foreign agent when my father died, and I threw myself into my work with even greater fervor. America. The British West Indies. Spain again.

“And then . . .” he took a deep breath, “. . . my last brother died. And suddenly there were no more Beckett brothers in line before me. I was duke. And all of that grief, and the yawning fields of Middlesex, and a lifetime of idleness, was thrust upon me. I would be a foreign agent no more. I would be none other than a festering, immovable, sheep-counting duke.”

“Oh,” she said—because she must say something. His easy manner had slipped; there was an edge to his voice. He looked for a moment as if he might wrest the birdbath from its platform and heave it into the brush. “I’m . . . I’m so very sorry, Your Grace.”

He let out a bitter laugh. “That is the very great irony, isn’t it? Who can be sorry for a duke? It is a rare and precious privilege, is it not? The wealth, the power, the . . .”

“Sheep?” she provided.

Another laugh, less bitter but very sad. “Yes, the great many sheep. Life is not a contest obviously, Miss Tinker, but given your circumstance with odious Mr. Hooke versus my circumstances as the Duke of Northumberland, you have it far worse. Your lot is more hopeless—everyone would agree.”

“Thank you?” She fought another smile. It couldn’t be helped.

“Your lot is so bad,” he continued, “I’m trading on your desperation to extract this Iceland information from your unwilling lips.”

“Is that what you’re doing?” Why was she smiling? Stop smiling, Isobel. Have you learned nothing at all?

“Forgive me,” he said. “It was not my intention to add to your frustration.”

“Yes, I have been puzzling through exactly what your intention might be.”

With exaggerated enunciation, he added, “Woe is me, the wealthy duke with the palatial estate and all the . . . the . . .”

“Sheep,” she provided. “I believe we have identified sheep among your many assets.”

“Right,” he said on a sad exhale. “I’m sorry. It’s not a joke, I know. None of this resembles a joke.”

“Well, don’t look to me to trivialize your struggle. In my experience, we are all too quick to dismiss or diminish the pain of others. Whether you are ‘trading on my desperation’ or simply being sympathetic, I do believe that you understand my plight. Life can be rather pleasant. Also, it can be . . . less so. Significantly. For all of us.

“Given the choice,” she continued, “I’d rather not have my unpleasantness used as leverage against me, but perhaps that is not a choice.”

“That remains to be seen,” the duke said speculatively. He gave the pouch of coins in his hand a little toss, rattling the money inside. “Will you take the fifty pounds?”