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At about the same time that Juliet Paige was settling down to sleep, and a soaked and streaming Gareth de Montforte was charging out of the Hare and Horses, the Duke of Blackheath was calmly finishing his evening meal.
He was not alone. His closest friend, who had dropped by for an impromptu visit several hours after Lord Gareth had stormed off and set the house in an uproar, sat across the table from him. Sir Roger Foxcote, Esquire, had first met the duke in '74, just after the barrister had been knighted for his brilliant defense of a prominent Whig MP accused of murdering his wife. Lady Chessington had been found in the bedroom of their London town house with a knife through her heart, and, as everyone knew she and her husband were estranged, a hangman's noose had seemed quite imminent for poor old Sir Alan. No barrister in the land would defend him. He was a good friend of the king, and if Chessington went to the gallows, so would any royal favors for the man who failed to save him. But Foxcote, twenty-five years old at the time and eager to prove himself, had accepted the case. On the stand, he had dramatically exposed Lady Chessington's lover as the murderer, and the news had swept the country. When the tumult had died down, the grateful king, beside himself with elation, had wasted no time in bestowing upon his "Clever Fox" a knighthood for his efforts.
The nickname had stuck. And so had the reputation.
Fox, the second son of an aristocratic Oxfordshire family, was not a diffident man. Nor was he particularly restrained, either in his opinions or his dress. He was handsome, something of a dandy. But those who knew him, or knew of him, were not deceived by appearances. Fox and his friend the Duke of Blackheath were two of the most dangerous men in England.
Tonight he and Blackheath lingered over their port in the duke's immense dining room while his private quartet struck up an after-dinner violin concerto. It was a glorious room, with ornate plaster columns, Italian art, and scenes of Bacchus and the gods painted on the high, friezed ceiling. Fox liked this room well, but not because of its rich ambience; he was in love with one of the portraits just over the doorway and enjoyed looking at the beauty's mischievous eyes as he ate. It didn't matter that Lady Margaret Seaford had lived and died nearly two centuries past. Fox still liked to look at her.
And he was looking now as the footmen cleared away the remains of their meal. Pity that only he and Lucien had been there to dine on the roast pheasant stuffed with currants and apricots and finished in red wine. It had been exquisite. Divine. But Gareth was gone, and Andrew and Nerissa, who weren't speaking to His Grace, had taken their meals in their rooms.
Nothing out of the ordinary at Blackheath Castle.
"I say, Lucien, this whole situation is most complicated," Fox mused, selecting a wedge of Stilton from the cheese plate the footman offered and studying it absently before popping it into his mouth. "You allowed the girl to stay just long enough to ensure that Gareth would become enchanted with her — then, when he annoyed you, as he inevitably would, you sent her away. How very cruel, my friend! To use the poor girl to punish your brother! But no. That is not like you to be so heartless. Thus, I can only conclude that you are up to something, though what it could be, I have yet to fathom." He shot Lucien a sideways glance. "Are you certain she's the one Charles was so smitten with?"
Lucien was sitting back, smiling and idly watching the musicians. "Dead certain."
"And the child?"
"The spitting image of her father."
"And yet you sent them away." Fox shook his head. "What were you thinking of?"
The duke turned his head, raising his brows in feigned surprise. "My dear Roger. You know me better than that. Do you think I would actually banish them?"
"'Tis what your sister told me when I arrived."
'Ah, but 'tis what I want my sister to believe," he countered, smoothly. "And my two brothers — especially, Gareth." He sipped his port, then swirled the liquid in the glass, studying it reflectively. "Besides, Roger, if you must know, I did not send the girl away — I merely made her feel so awkward that she had no desire to remain."
"Is there a difference?"
"But of course. She made the decision to leave, which means she maintains both her pride and a small modicum of respect, if not liking for me — which I may find useful at a future date. Gareth thinks I sent her away, which means he is perfectly furious with me. The result? She leaves, and he chases after her, which is exactly what I wanted him to do." He chuckled. "Oh, to be a fly on the wall when he finds her and the two of them discover my hand in all this..."
"Lucien, your eyes are gleaming with that cunning amusement that tells me you're up to something especially Machiavellian."
"Is that so? Then I fear I must work harder at concealing the obvious."
Fox gave him a shrewd look. "This is most confusing, as I'm sure you intend it to be. You know the child is Charles's and yet you will not acknowledge her ... and this after Charles expressly asked you to make her your ward?"
"Really, Roger. There is no need to make the child my ward when Gareth, in all likelihood, will adopt her as his daughter."
The barrister narrowed his eyes. "You have some superior, ulterior motive that evades us mere mortals."
"But of course," Lucien murmured yet again, lifting his glass and idly sipping its dark liquid.
"And perhaps you can explain it to this mere mortal?"
"My dear Fox. It is quite simple, really. Drastic problems call for drastic solutions. By sending the girl away, I have set in motion my plan for Gareth's salvation. If things go as I expect, he will stay so furious with me that he will not only charge headlong to her rescue — but headlong into marriage with her."
"Bloody hell! Lucien, the girl's completely ill-suited for him!"
"On the contrary. I have observed them together, Fox. They compliment each other perfectly. As for the girl, what she lacks in wealth and social standing she more than makes up for in courage, resolve, common sense, and maturity. Gareth, whether he knows it or not, needs someone just like her. It is my hope that she will — shall I say — reform him."
Fox shook his head and bit into a fine piece of Cheshire. "You're taking a risk in assuming Gareth will even find her."
"Oh, he'll find her. I have no doubt about that." Lucien gestured for a footman, who promptly stepped forward and refilled his glass. "He's already half in love with her as it is. Gareth is nothing if not persistent."
"Yes, and he is also given to rashness, poor judgment, and an unhealthy appetite for dissolute living."
"Indeed. And that, my dear Fox, is exactly what I believe the girl will cure him of." The duke sipped his port and smiled, completely in control of the situation. "You see, I knew perfectly well that Gareth, having got a taste of heroics with the highwaymen, would be keen to play the gallant rescuer once again. By provoking both the girl — and him — I have created the perfect opportunity for him to do so. The fact that he is furious with me will ensure that he does not come crawling back to me when things begin to grow difficult for him." The duke leaned back, swirled his port again, and let a pensive little smile move over his face as he gazed into the depths of the glass. "And grow difficult, they shall."
"Oh?" Fox raised an inquiring brow.
"Gareth charged out of here with nothing but the clothes on his back. He has nothing with which to support himself and Miss Paige except for what he's wearing — and, regrettably, riding. He has some money, yes, and there is that which I gave the girl, but I can assure you he'll be through that before the week is out. But he will not come crawling back to me. Not this time."
Fox lifted a brow.
"It is time my brother learns to grow up," Blackheath mused, still gazing thoughtfully into his port. "A damsel in distress, a baby to look after, and limited funds with which to support his new family. Ah, yes. I daresay, nothing will mature him faster than a bit of responsibility, eh, Roger?"
"What about the girl? The child? What if Gareth gets in over his head and someone's life b
ecomes imperiled? For God's sake, that baby's only six months old!"
"My dear Roger. Do you think I would allow anything of the sort to happen? Tsk, tsk. Thanks to my trusty informer, I am well aware of my brother's destination and what he will soon get up to. Nothing will happen to his little family. I am, as you know, completely in control of the situation."
"As always."
Lucien inclined his head, smiling. "As always."
"I've got to hand it to you." Fox grinned, then saluted his wily friend with his glass. "You, Lucien, are a master manipulator. And too damned clever by half."
"And you, my dear Fox, have bread crumbs in your cravat. Whatever will the world think?"