Rules for Heiresses by Amalie Howard

Eighteen

Courtland studied the man sitting across from him at his club and fought not to grab him by his ostentatious teal lapels, throw him bodily into the street, and then proceed to beat the living spit out of him. Everything about Sommers made Courtland want to resort to violence.

It was a good thing that he had decided to put Sommers up at Claridge’s rather than in his own town house. Cold slithered through him at the thought of the man in any proximity to his wife. Courtland never would have wanted to put any woman in danger, but Ravenna had become…precious to him.

“A man could get used to this,” Sommers said, flinging back his third glass of expensive brandy served by an efficient footman and patting his rotund stomach. “Why would you want to give all this up and live in Antigua?”

Courtland lifted a brow. “I like living there.”

“You’re cracked.” Sommers laughed and shook his head. “Look at this! You are treated like a king. As a duke, people practically fall over to do your bidding. Men want to be you. Women fall into your lap.” He paused, a nauseating smile curling his lips. “Or just one in particular, eh? Where is the lovely duchess?”

Courtland refused to display any emotion, though his fingers clenched in his lap. “Busy being a duchess, I expect. Ladies aren’t allowed in this club.”

“As it should be. A woman’s place is at home.” Sommers grinned, showing crooked and stained teeth that demonstrated his dissipated lifestyle. “Tending the hearth and seeing to my needs. Though I imagine that your spirited wife might require some breaking in. She’s a firecracker. Heard about some of her exploits. She’s as rebellious as they come.” He smacked his lips. “I envy you the task of bringing her to heel.”

Anger spiked in his blood, but once more, Courtland gave no outward reaction. “We seem to have different opinions on women, Sommers. I do not require forced submission.”

Only blind obedience, his irritating mind reminded him.

He bit back a sigh. The man was foul in the most depraved of ways. Courtland wouldn’t even want his breath sullying Ravenna’s air.

Though the idea of using her as bait had merit, there was no chance in hell. Embry had agreed, of course. He knew exactly what kind of man they were dealing with, and he declined to put his sister in any danger. Waterstone had been on the fence—he’d seen the value of what she could offer. A woman could always get closer to a man by appealing to his vanity. It was the reason the Countess of Waterstone was so successful at what she did. Her beauty, her intelligence, and her sensuality were all honed weapons.

Ravenna was a lady, however, and not a trained spy.

“How’s business?” he asked Sommers casually, leaning back in his seat. “You mentioned you had some investments you were working on.”

“Ah, yes, shipping. It’s not as economical as I’d hoped, and the man of business is being difficult. He wants to increase his price because of some asinine bill that just got passed forbidding the taking of bribes. You English are such rule-followers. What’s wrong with bending the rules a little to line one’s pockets?”

“No one wants to go to prison. They’ve been cracking down on trading practices.” Courtland frowned. He dimly recalled hearing about the bill from the Duke of Embry that was passed by the Commons and sent for approval in the House of Lords, aimed at reducing bribes. It was no wonder Sommers was frustrated, and if Rawley had been doing as he’d been asked, Sommers’s contacts would be unforthcoming with the ships he needed.

“You know that I’m here if you need anything,” he said.

Sommers nodded. “I have it in hand, don’t you worry. There are always ways around naysayers. If it’s not money, it’s something else.”

“How so?”

“I have a philosophy about the carrot and the stick. If the carrot doesn’t work, then I’m willing to bring out the stick.”

Courtland’s eyes narrowed. “Physical threats?”

“Tell me you don’t do the same at the Starlight,” he drawled. “You abhor rule-breakers and swindlers in your establishment, and I’ve heard the rumors that you deal with them swiftly and ruthlessly. Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.”

“You’re quoting the Bible?”

Sommers grinned. “It can be quite useful, I find. People have an absurd fear of that tome. I find it enlightening.”

It spoke to the levels of Sommers’s depravity that he would use people’s faith against them or use the teachings of the Bible to justify his own actions. The man was twisted, there was no doubting that. There was a special place in hell for man who condoned abusing humans for his own gain. Courtland’s skin crawled with distaste that he was even insinuating there was any similarity between them. As ruthless as he was, he was nothing like this disgusting swine. He couldn’t wait to get rid of the man, but he forced himself to focus on the task at hand.

“Cheaters and thieves must pay the piper his due.”

“You’re the piper?” Sommers asked.

“When I have to be.”

The man leveled an unruffled stare at him, but didn’t reply. Instead, his eyes darted around the room, taking measure of the gentlemen crowding in, some clustered in groups and some now arriving. It was the hour for luncheon after all. Courtland frowned as he recognized one of the men entering through the massive doors. What was his brother doing here? Apparently, he had the same question because his brows snapped together and Stinson crossed the distance from the foyer to their table in a few swift steps.

“What the devil are you doing here?” Stinson spat out.

Courtland’s brow lifted. “Having a meeting, not that it’s any of your business.”

“This is my club.”

“Is it?” he said softly. “I rather think it’s the club of the Marquess of Borne, now the Duke of Ashvale, neither of whom are you.”

“You are—” Stinson’s voice spluttered and broke off.

“Generous that I’ve ensured my esteemed brother is also a member or you would not have been granted entry? Quite so.” He smiled. “I assume that is what you’d been about to say, is it not? Or perhaps even, thank you, brother dear. I’m not deserving of your charity.”

Stinson turned a dark shade of puce, his eyes spitting his hatred. He didn’t bother to take notice of Sommers, who was intent upon the charged exchange, and turned on his heel to dash away.

“You two don’t get along?” Sommers asked.

Courtland gave a small nod. “Our relationship is strained for reasons I’d rather not go into. That reminds me, how are you acquainted with each other? I noticed you at Lady Borne’s coming-out ball for Bronwyn.”

“That’s your sister? She’s a pretty little thing.”

“Set your interests elsewhere, Sommers,” Courtland said, the threat in his voice clear.

The odious man just smiled. “Maybe I should find myself a demure little English lady and marry into some blue blood. Make myself a spiffy lord like the rest of you nobs.”

“That won’t make you a lord. Titles are hereditary.”

“Is that why your brother is in such a tiff?” Sommers asked. “Because you inherited the title and he didn’t?”

“Something like that.” That was the least of it. His brother despised him. It was a hatred that ran bone-deep, no doubt indoctrinated and nurtured by his mother over a lifetime. Still, he could not change a man’s nature. At the end of it, Stinson was a weak man who wanted the easy way of things. Briefly, Courtland wondered if things might have been different had their father not died. Would Stinson have accepted him then? He clenched his jaw. That didn’t matter.

“Aren’t you worried that he’s going to make a scene with the rest of his friends? Seems to me he was the kingpin here until you arrived and stole all his thunder.”

“It won’t matter because I’m not staying. He can have all the thunder he wants.”

Courtland watched his brother standing across the room with a small frown. He wasn’t worried about what Stinson would do—the man was all bluster and no brains—but he felt an odd twinge in his chest nonetheless. He should have felt nothing when Stinson had been the one to strip everything from him, but he felt only pity. His sometimes sweet wife might be rubbing off on him.

Though she wasn’t remotely sweet at the moment. No, she was exceedingly so, to the point that his teeth ached as if he chewed on a mouthful of sugar. Earlier this morning, she’d acted the part of the demure, biddable wife, bringing him his slippers and fussing over his every need before he’d taken a step out of his bedchamber. Even Peabody had made himself scarce, a suspicious frown marring his normally impassive features. The curtsy worthy of Victoria’s ballroom should have been a warning of the performance that was to come at breakfast.

Was the ducal bacon crispy enough?

Did his eminence have enough coffee?

Were the newssheets pleasing to His Grace?

She’d looked lovely, too, dressed in a stunning rose-colored muslin day gown with white stripes and dainty ribbons. If it weren’t for the occasional sparks of lightning he saw in her copper eyes when she wasn’t pandering to his every demand, he would have fallen for the act.

Because his darling, biddable wife was absolutely furious.

He hadn’t been able to get out of the house fast enough. The brazen little chit had had the audacity to bow to him, every single tooth on display in the biggest mockery of a smile he’d ever seen. In truth, he’d wanted to laugh the minute he got into his carriage. He was tempted to relent, but his mandate was for her own safety. She was much too obstinate and impulsive for her own good. Suddenly, he frowned. She would listen, wouldn’t she? She wouldn’t dare disobey, not when he’d made his position clear. He thought back to her sneaking into the study and bit back a growl.

Courtland stood, nearly kicking over his chair. “Apologies. I have to go.”

“Trouble in paradise?” Sommers asked, drawing him back to the present moment.

“What?”

Sommers laughed. “A man only gets that look on his face for one thing in my experience and that’s a woman.”

“No. You’re mistaken.”

Grabbing his gloves, hat, and coat, Courtland practically ran from the club, summoning his carriage and gritting his teeth all the while.

He’d told Sommers a lie.

His departure had everything to do with one infuriating, meddling, defiant little harpy.

* * *

“Quick, Waterstone,” Ravenna hissed. “You’re supposed to be the greatest spy among spies, and you’re fumbling like the greenest lad of all time.”

“Ashvale will strangle me if he finds out that I’ve involved you.”

“Then hurry up!” she said. “And I involved you, not the other way round, so if anyone’s getting murdered, it’s probably me.”

“I’m the man and I should know better.” He flinched at the look in her eyes. “I meant I’m the operative, that’s all, not that you’re female or don’t know your own mind.” With a sigh, he shook his head and focused back on the keyhole. “Button it, Waterstone.”

Huddled outside Sommers’s rooms at Claridge’s, Ravenna bit back a grin as she watched her husband’s trusted friend carefully working the lock of the hotel room with the key. She was tempted to shove him aside and do it herself, but she didn’t want to aggravate him, considering his reluctance to let her come along in the first place.

Earlier that morning, she’d wheedled Peabody for the information on the duke’s whereabouts, and then followed Courtland herself in a nondescript hackney to see that he did have a luncheon meeting with Sommers. Even though she was concealed by her Mr. Hunt disguise, the American man had made bile churn in her stomach, especially when she’d nearly bumped into him. She’d feel much happier when he was behind bars where he belonged.

And when she’d caught a glimpse of Waterstone exiting the building not a moment later, she’d had a stroke of brilliance. She’d buttoned her thick cloak and tossed her top hat to a street urchin with a grin. He’d sell it for a mint. Feigning sudden illness while running into the earl further down the street had been easy, though she was quite sad she’d lost her bonnet in an unexpected wind gust.

Waterstone had frowned—it was an usually beautiful, windless day, but had nodded nonetheless. Predictably, he’d offered to see her safely home in a hackney, after she made a quick stop to deliver a parcel to a friend that was of the utmost import. It wasn’t until they were on the corner of Brook and Davies Streets that Waterstone had caught on when Claridge’s came into view. It didn’t help that her illness had miraculously abated and that she wore men’s garments beneath her cloak.

“What are you doing, Your Grace?” he’d demanded.

She’d grinned. “Reconnaissance. Are you with me? Sommers is with Ashvale. I nearly crashed into him in front of White’s.” She’d grinned at a narrow-eyed Waterstone.

“This is not a game, Duchess.”

She’d tossed her head. “I can get his key. Trust me.” He’d gaped at her, but she’d surged forward. “What better opportunity is there to search his rooms while he’s with my husband. At least let me try before you dismiss my ideas.”

“Ashvale will have my head.”

“What the duke doesn’t know won’t hurt him.” She’d waggled her eyebrows. “Tick, tock, my lord, or I go in without you.”

“Fine,” he’d capitulated with a sigh. “But if you are successful in retrieving the key, you do exactly as I say when I say.”

Which had led them into the fancy hotel, whereupon Ravenna had tottered in and pretended to be the loud and utterly obnoxious Mrs. Sommers whose husband had gone to some gaudy men’s club called White’s and shuttled her back here like a sad, unwanted lump, and oh, weren’t husbands the absolute worst? It’d been absurdly easy to get the mortified clerk to hand over the key, just to stop her from wailing and causing more of a scene.

Ravenna had hidden her grin. No wonder women made such excellent spies. Tears and vapors made for unbeatable subterfuge. Biting her lip to keep from crowing with victory, she’d handed the iron key to a stunned Waterstone, who wore a suitably astonished expression.

“Where on earth did you pick up an American accent?” he’d asked, once they were out of sight.

“Why, from my husband, darlin’,” she’d drawled. “He’s a real peach.”

Ravenna hadn’t been able to ask the clerk where the room was located as that would have been much too obvious, but finding out the room number had proved remarkably simple after the earl spent a few minutes charming a housemaid. When he’d returned with a triumphant smirk of his own, Ravenna had shot him an admiring look for his persuasiveness, to which he’d rolled his eyes and turned red, while muttering, “Part of the job.” Finally, they’d arrived on the third floor at the requisite suite of rooms, only to have the key not turn properly.

“Maybe it’s the wrong one,” Ravenna said. “Maybe your maid got confused.”

“The maid was not confused and she’s not my maid. She knew exactly who Sommers was because he’s a cur with all the female servants. This is the right room.”

With one hard jostle of the key, the door opened.

The room was a mess, Sommers’s belongings strewn everywhere. Now that they were inside, she had no idea what to do, but obviously Waterstone did because he instantly headed for the desk and started sifting through the papers. Wrinkling her nose, Ravenna stepped around some discarded smallclothes. Horrid.

“What are we looking for?” she asked, her voice loud in the silence.

“Anything. Documents. Plans. Contacts.”

Ravenna peered into a trunk at the base of the bed. “Opiates?”

“What?” Waterstone hurried over to her side, eyes widening at the sight of a dozen or so small tincture bottles packed neatly into a case. Some were empty, others tightly corked.

“Who has need of this much laudanum?”

Waterstone lifted a shoulder. “An addict.”

He moved back to resume his search, and Ravenna wandered the room over to a small table near the small hearth. A crumpled-up piece of parchment caught her attention and she bent to retrieve it. Unrolling it, the first thing that caught her attention was her name. Ravenna frowned, an oily sensation crawling over her skin.

Beside it was Stinson’s name with a question mark. Then mention of a ball, underlined twice, which she realized was the date of her own official wedding ball being hosted by her mother at Embry House. She was certain that Mr. Sommers had not been invited, so did he intend to be there? And why? What was he planning? She pocketed the paper without showing it to Waterstone, who swore under his breath.

“What’s the matter?” she asked.

“There’s nothing of note here. The man’s careful, I’ll give him that. Or he keeps his documents with him, which is what I would do.” His eyes fell on her as though seeing her for the first time. “Come, we should get you home.”

Once they’d slipped out through the servants’ entrance and were ensconced in a coach, Waterstone narrowed his eyes at her disheveled curls. “How did Sommers not recognize you?”

“My earlier ensemble included a hat.” She grinned, sketching her infamous bow and feigning another accent. “Pleasure to meet your acquaintance, sir. Mr. Raven Hunt of Kettering, ne’er-do-well and happiest of chaps. Always up for a laugh, a chit, and a pint of ale.”

Ravenna lifted a brow at his slightly bemused, openly admiring expression. “I might have underestimated you.”

“Most do,” she said.

In short order, they arrived back at the ducal residence. As the coach rolled to a stop, something danced up Ravenna’s spine and she froze. It was the sensation she always got whenever her husband was near…that raw awareness, the elemental connection that existed only between them.

She blinked. No, she had to be imagining it because of nerves. The duke would be enjoying a cigar after luncheon, not that he smoked but Sommers did. Still, her instincts were firing like fireworks over Cremorne Gardens.

And for good reason.

Because the forbidding Duke of Ashvale stood waiting at the top of the stairs, and he looked beyond furious. Ravenna gulped and met Waterstone’s gaze. “Stay put. I dragged you into this. No need for both of us to get into trouble.”

“Your Grace—”

“Don’t you underestimate me now, Waterstone. Go, before I tell him it was your idea.” When he paled, she gave him a small grin. “A jest, you silly man.”

With that, Ravenna hopped from the coach to face her fate.

She watched as it pulled away before turning to her husband who hadn’t moved from his perch, staring down at her like a falcon about to pounce on its meal. She fought back a shiver and mounted the stairs with false cheer. “Good day to you, Your Grace!”

“Get inside, lest you cause me to make a scene in the middle of Mayfair,” he commanded.

Ravenna peered up at him. His face could be carved from granite, though the muscle flexing in that jaw proved that he was indeed human. Eyes the color of an inky lake met hers as she walked past him and into the house.

The servants were mysteriously absent, which only added to her unease. Had he dismissed them because he intended to take her to task? The door snicked shut behind her and she jumped, his intimidating presence crowding her.

“Go into the study, please.”

Her heart quailed. Blast it! She wasn’t some cowering miss! She couldn’t—wouldn’t—let him intimidate her. Thrusting her chin up, she sauntered over toward his study as though she didn’t have a care in the world, even though her soles dragged like lead, whereupon she poured herself a finger of brandy. And took it like a sailor facing the strap.

“Where were you?” the duke asked in a soft voice.

The awful mouthful of brandy gave her liquid, if foolish, courage. “Out.”

“I gave specific instructions for you not to leave this house.”

“You told Lady Ravenna, your dutiful wife, not to leave and she did not.” Affecting indifference, she gestured down at her clothing. “Mr. Hunt did.”

The silence was thunderous, pulsing between them like a living heartbeat. Ravenna moved to pour herself another drink and found herself halted by a fairly seething duke. “You’ve had enough, and I want your mind clear for what comes next.”

Whatcomes next?

Ravenna inhaled his dark, sinful scent and nearly swooned. She was a lunatic! The man wanted to throttle her with his bare hands, and she was struck with the demented urge to kiss him.

Her desires must have been transparent because her husband moved away with a hurried step. If it hadn’t been for the tiny noise escaping his lips, she’d have thought him unaffected. Ravenna swallowed her grin of satisfaction. No, if anything, she and her controlling husband were afflicted by the same extreme lust.

“You disobeyed me.”

“No, I did not,” she tossed back.

He pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “Ravenna, you are trying my patience. You and Hunt are one and the same. Do not try to manipulate the truth. Now, where the fuck did you go?” Those last few words were punctuated with wrath.

Ravenna’s shoulders stiffened in affront. “How dare you speak to me so?”

“What?” he asked, brow arching in a mockery of hers earlier outside. “Like a man?” His smile was easy, trickery, she knew. The tension in his body gave him away. “You can’t have it both ways, Mr. Hunt.”

“I was bored. I needed to get out of the house.”

He stared at her, those glacial eyes boring into her like a pair of ice-shards. “I will find out the truth, Ravenna, and when I do, you will regret lying to me.” The duke turned on his heel and stalked toward the door. “Do not leave this house, Lady Ravenna and Mr. Hunt both.” He paused at the threshold. “Or in any other disguise your clever little mind concocts.”

Unwilling to let him leave without the last word, a seething Ravenna snapped a sailor’s salute. “Yes, sir, yes!”

That gaze drilled into hers, as if he didn’t know whether to bend her over his knee or the desk. Breath hissed through his lips, a thousand emotions flicking through his eyes—anger, desire, impatience, frustration, passion, vexation, fury. Ravenna recognized every single one, because they were the mirror images of hers.

When he finally left, her trembling knees collapsed and she sank to the floor.

If anyone cared to know, she’d have preferred the desk.