Can’t Buy Me a Duke by Bianca Blythe

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

––––––––

HARRISON’S COACH BARRELEDtoward Grosvenor Square, rumbling past the leisurely paced chaises, more designed for being seen in than for actual transport. The coach stopped, and Harrison tumbled out.

“This might take a while,” he told his driver. “Bring my bags to the club. I’m sure you want to rest.”

His driver gave a relieved nod, and Harrison sprinted toward the Banks’s townhouse.

If only Lucy’s family hadn’t disappeared so quickly. If only he’d been able to reach Lucy. Cornwall was far from London, and too late, he’d realized her family must have taken an entirely different route to the capital.

He knocked on the door, and the butler answered. A dismayed look appeared on the butler’s face immediately. Evidently, he knew what had happened.

“I suggest you leave,” the butler said in a low voice. “For your safety.”

“Is that the duke?” Mr. Banks roared.

“Yes!” Harrison shouted.

Her family was home. Thank goodness.

“You should go,” the butler whispered, but Harrison stood his ground. He needed to speak with Lucy. It was absolutely vital.

“She’s not here,” the butler said.

“Oh.” Harrison’s shoulders slumped. “Are you certain?”

The butler’s gaze drifted to the side, but he nodded.

Harrison swallowed hard. “Well, please tell her I was here.”

The butler gave a curt nod, and Harrison headed for his carriage.

“Young man!” A forceful voice called out after Harrison, and Harrison turned slowly.

Mr. Banks stood on the steps to his townhouse in Grosvenor Square.

Carriages continued to glide regally about the square, but a few passersby had halted their strolls and were staring at Mr. Banks. Their mouths parted, and their gazes jerked from Mr. Banks to Harrison as if they were observing a tennis match.

Harrison’s stomach drained. Didn’t the man know people could see them? Didn’t he know he was creating the sort of delicious gossip Lucy would despise?

Mr. Banks threw his briefcase to the side and marched toward Harrison.

Harrison had begun to think the man’s briefcase was a permanent appendage to his body, given he’d never seen them separated. The man marched toward him, and Harrison suddenly felt sympathy for the British officers who’d been stationed in the former colonies and who had discovered that the bland-faced lawyers, stout farmers, and committed family men were willing to fight and to fight with brutality.

He half-expected fiery American companions of Mr. Banks to drop from the chestnut trees that dotted Grosvenor Square.

“Come here, young man,” Mr. Banks hollered. “I’m not finished with you!”

Harrison’s stomach dropped, willing him to stay on the other side of the pavement. His knees trembled, as if someone had exchanged them for the legs of a newborn colt.

Still, he made his way to Mr. Banks, keeping his chin raised. He was not going to act weak. Not at all.

Some well-dressed passersby halted their parade of the square and nudged one another. 

“Mr. Banks,” Harrison said coolly. “I was surprised to learn you left my castle.”

“What?” Mr. Banks thrust his eyebrows together in obvious perplexity. “You know very well why we left. Stop trying to be polite.”

Harrison attempted to roll his eyes subtly, so Mr. Banks would be more discrete. He couldn’t talk about Lucy in front of all these spectators.

“Focus on me, Duke!” Mr. Banks shouted.

Evidently, subtlety was not an art form Mr. Banks had mastered. No doubt, he found it less productive than finding stocks to purchase and building his wealth to an immense degree.

“We can discuss this inside,” Harrison said.

“Inside?” Mr. Banks put his arms on his waist. “You’re not going inside my townhouse, you disgraceful man! You utter venomous being! You huge disappointment.”

Harrison glanced to his side. More people glanced toward them. Some of them cupped their hands over their mouths as if to hide their amusement. Given the amount of gleeful sparkling their eyes were doing, they evidently should not have bothered.

“You compromised my daughter!” Mr. Banks roared.

The crowd halted tittering and gazed at Harrison with open suspicion.

“I didn’t,” Harrison said miserably, glancing at the crowd.

“Her bosom was visible.”

“You’re going to marry my daughter,” Mr. Banks said coolly, and it occurred to Harrison that Mr. Banks might be quite effective in meetings. No doubt, Mr. Banks was able to force mergers to happen. His habit of reading ledgers of various companies in no manner precluded any aggression.

“I-I can’t,” Harrison said finally.

Sweat beaded the back of Harrison’s neck, even though typically he left perspiration incidents for visits to the south of France in the height of summer.

Mr. Banks’s face turned purple, though Harrison doubted he’d consumed too many aubergines. His fists tightened together, and his eyes took on a steely edge.

“I mean,” Harrison said, “it’s—er—impossible.”

“Nothing is impossible,” Mr. Banks roared, as if he were one of those colonialists fighting off a slew of red-coated British officers wielding the fanciest rifles.

But it was impossible.

Harrison had . . . secrets.

Lucy would be better marrying any other man in the ton. Well, the reprehensible men would be unsuitable. The elderly men seeking their second wives after a sudden spurt of lust overtook them would be similarly inadequate. Even Sir Augustus, who was unattached, would be a miserable companion, despite his gifts at rowing. In fact, Harrison couldn’t think of a man offhand to whom she would be suitable.

Still, it wasn’t him.

He knew that.

She deserved everything in this world. She didn’t deserve his secret. She didn’t deserve to always pretend. And she certainly didn’t deserve for any harm to come to their children. Because if people found out . . .  He swallowed back a sour taste in his mouth. No, if people discovered the secret, there would be consequences. The sort of consequences that would prevent their children from ever being welcome in any club or ever securing a place at Eton or Rugby.

Harrison gazed about him, his eyes moving wildly. A crowd had formed around the doorstep. Some people he recognized. A few other women he did not immediately recognize, but their well-tailored dresses, adorned with an abundance of flounces and displaying oversized sleeves, despite the obvious expense of the fabric, spoke to bulging reticules.

A hack rumbled over the tilestones. The black carriage had never looked so appealing before.

“I’m sorry, I can’t.” Harrison bounded toward the hack.

“Stop!” Mr. Banks’s voice barreled toward him with an even greater force than before, but it didn’t matter. Mr. Banks had already revealed to various gossip enthusiasts that Lucy, darling Lucy, was compromised.

Nothing mattered now.

“Halt!” Harrison waved his arms at the hack.

“I have passengers,” a gray-haired driver grumbled, staring at Harrison’s glossy beaver-skin top hat with open distaste. Perhaps he was accustomed to self-important aristocrats demanding rides.

“Stop!” Mr. Banks voice sounded behind Harrison, and he glanced behind him. The man’s voice sounded even louder than before. Mr. Banks ran down the pavement toward Harrison.

“I’ll sit beside you,” Harrison yelled, hurrying toward the hack.

“Nonsense,” the hack driver said.

“Stop!” Mr. Banks shouted again.

Harrison hesitated, then quickly clambered up a horse, wondering how postilion drivers regularly did this.

“What are you doing?” the hack driver asked.

“Just riding postilion style,” Harrison exclaimed. “I’ll pay extra!”

The horses and carriage sped away, though Harrison’s guilt only continued to grow.

*

“FAMILY DISCUSSION!”Papa’s voice thundered from the foyer, and Isabella and Lucy exchanged glances.

Lucy and Isabella had been reading books in Lucy’s room, though in Lucy’s case, that had involved pretending to read, and in Isabella’s case, that had involved murmuring sympathetic phrases.

“Come down!” Papa bellowed again. “Now!”

Right.

Lucy had definitely heard him. Family discussions weren’t anything Papa had ever desired before. Papa had always been determined to spend his time at home reviewing his investments.

But then, from the furious tone of his voice, most likely, he did not desire mere chit-chat.

Lucy and Isabella scrambled to the corridor. They hurried past the dainty sideboards, heavy mirrors that only served to illuminate their creased attire and disheveled appearance, then finally down the stairs to the foyer.

Mama was already there, but given the unconventional tilt of her cap, Lucy suspected she’d also run.

“You should not yell, Mr. Banks,” Mama said.

“This is an emergency.”

Lucy and Isabella exchanged glances again. Had Papa received an unsettling letter from the United States delineating some tragedy?

“Did someone...die?” Isabella ventured finally, and her chin trembled.

“I suspect your father is referring to your sister’s reputation. In fact, one could call it a death.” Mama raised her chin. “I would call it a death.”

Lucy swallowed hard. She’d apologized every day on the uncomfortable journey back to London.

“Your mother is correct,” Papa said. “We must leave.”

“Leave London?” Isabella’s voice squeaked, and Lucy’s heart thudded.

Isabella hadn’t told their parents about her secret betrothal to Lord Brooke.

“Leave the British Isles,” Papa said.

Lucy blinked.

“We can’t stay here,” Papa added.

Isabella, Mama and Lucy were silent.

“I don’t want to go,” Isabella said.

“We don’t have to leave,” Lucy said. “I-I don’t mind staying.”

“My word is final.” Papa’s voice was stern. “We leave tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Mama’s eyes widened. “But that’s—”

“In one day,” Papa finished for her. “I suggest everyone pack.”