Page 51 of The Duke of Deceit

God knew it had broken his to utter them.

“Aristocrats should never mix politics and pleasure,” Lucien told Wrexham. “The last time that happened in Europe, Bonaparte came to power, and look how that turned out for France. I wouldn’t want you and me to be responsible forcreating a British republic. We’d never be allowed in White’s again.”

Wrexham blinked, for a moment not knowing how to take that. Then he laughed and slapped Lucien on the back, deciding he was bamming him but clearly not understanding the joke.

“You have significant interests in the corn markets,” Wrexham tried again.

“Trust me.” Lucien tapped his glass of punch against Wrexham’s in a mocking toast. “I have no interest whatsoever in the corn markets.”

From the corner of his eye, he caught sight of the box attendant slipping in through the rear door. He would have given all his Yorkshire properties at that moment if the young man promised to fetch him a bottle of quality port.

“If you’ll excuse me, Wrexham,” he said with a nod toward the attendant, “I need to sell an estate.”

Leaving the bewildered earl to stare after him, he walked away toward the rear of the box and hopefully toward a stiff drink.

When he’d returned yesterday evening from Ealing, he had planned to throw himself into his supposedly rakehell ways to take his mind off his troubles. Gambling, drinking, flirtations, perhaps more—but he’d had no heart for any of it, although why not, exactly, he couldn’t have said. He needed a new distraction.

Which was why he’d been thrilled when that distraction had presented itself in the form of an invitation to Vauxhall from Lord Wrexham. The earl had wrongly assumed Lucien could be won to his side in the corn laws debates. Lucien realized the man’s ulterior motives for inviting him. But he came anyway, seeking anything to take his thoughts away from Jessamyn St Claire, even boring political talk and bland food.

But he’d made a mistake. There weren’t enough dinners, drinks—a pair of men went rolling past the box, both graspingthe other’s ankles and spinning head over heels along the avenue—or acrobats to do that.

He gestured the attendant over to his side and lowered his voice in confidentiality. “Bring me a bottle of good port, and I’ll make certain the king grants you a knighthood.”

The attendant blinked. “Isn’t the king mad?”

Lucien’s lips twisted wryly. “Why do you think he’d give you a knighthood? Do try to keep up, will you?” He slipped the young man a coin. “Port. Now. And lots of it.”

“Aye, sir.” The lad reached inside his jacket and withdraw a folded note. “Can you tell me which gentleman here is the Duke of Crewe? I was asked to deliver this to him.”

“That would be me.” Lucien frowned as he took it, fearing it was yet another summons to Ealing. “From whom?”

“A woman.” He grinned. “A really pretty one, too.”

Well, this certainly made the evening far more interesting. He unfolded the note. Elegant feminine handwriting greeted him. It was an invitation.Come find me. I’ll be waiting for you outside Wrexham’s box…No name, nothing to identify her. Just a deliciously tempting offer.

Yet his foolish heart still yearned for what it couldn’t have. “A blonde?”

“No, sir. Dark hair.”

Disappointment panged in his chest, although God only knew why he’d thought an innocent like Jess might ever send him a note like this. She had probably never even been to Vauxhall, let alone known about the kinds of assignations that occurred in its dark corners, or possessed the daring to send a man a note like that.

Still, he’d wanted to blacken his reputation, and no rake worth his salt would pass up meeting a mysterious woman at Vauxhall.

He left the box without bothering to give his excuses to Lord Wrexham.

He paused in the rear walkway running behind the supper boxes. Filled with attendants and assorted guests coming and going, the way was lit by a handful of dim lamps positioned at the entry to each ground-level box and strung up the wooden steps that led to those on the first and second floors above. Here, the noise from the main avenue was as muted as the shadows, until the din was little more than a distant hum. He cast his gaze languidly down the walk, then paused.

A woman waited alone at the end of the walkway where it joined the main avenue, and his heart skipped when he saw her staring boldly back at him. Even with a demi-mask that covered the upper half of her face and a voluminous cape whose large hood was pulled down low over her head, she couldn’t hide the beauty of her form. Not in that low-cut gown of midnight blue satin with its tight, sleeveless bodice and flowing skirts that swished around her legs as she turned to walk away.

Only a parting glance over her shoulder told him that she was the woman who had sent the note.

“Lead away, my beauty,” he murmured as he trailed after her, keeping his distance as she guided him through the crowds of the main avenue and toward the darker parts of the garden beyond the central bandstand.

She didn’t look back again, as if knowing he was following. But of course he was. How could he not? The invitation was too delicious to refuse, the woman herself far too intriguing not to meet.

They passed into the close walks winding their way through the back of the gardens, where the music from the bandstands was little more than a faint rumble on the evening air and where the only light came from the slant of moonlight falling through the tree branches overhead. There were far fewer guests in thispart of the gardens, and those who were there certainly thought nothing unusual about a man doggedly following a woman into the shadows.

When the narrow path plunged into complete darkness, she stepped off the trail and into the trees. He followed after into a dark grotto where lichen covered the cool stone, and the earthy scents of wood and soil filled his nostrils.