Duke and Duplicity (Rogues and Gentlemen Book 15) Read online

  Archie watched him at the bar. He looked incongruous in this grubby little tavern. Dressed for a ball, his evening clothes were immaculate. His hair gleamed. Everything about him screamed wealth and privilege, from the cut of his perfectly tailored coat to the gold signet ring that glinted on the little finger of his left hand. Archie sighed with longing, and then thanked Ranleigh’s foresight in stationing two footmen outside the tavern as she watched him return to his seat with a bottle of brandy and two glasses. He’d be a ripe pigeon for the plucking for any one of the rogues drinking here, once he was in his cups, which appeared to be his intention.

  “What have you got there?” she asked with foreboding. This would not end well.

  Ranleigh poured two large measures and slid one across the table towards her.

  “Brandy. One bottle of,” he said, his eyes glinting merrily. “We’re going to drink it.”

  “All of it?” Archie demanded, aghast.

  Ranleigh shrugged. “Let’s see.”

  Archie raised the glass to her lips and took a sip. It was good. Very good. She sighed.

  “I may as well tell you now, I can’t hold my liquor. I’ll likely pass out before you’re even a little foxed.” She hoped to God that was all she’d do. Keeping her hands to herself was hard enough sober.

  “It’s of no matter. My carriage is outside to take you home. You need only give the driver your address. Think you can manage that?”

  Archie returned a crooked smile. “Probably,” she said.

  ***

  Archie groaned and clutched at her head. Oh, God. Oh, God. She was going to die. For a moment she kept perfectly still, the certainty absolute that her head would roll from her neck if she moved even an inch. Breathing in and out was something she focused on with determination as she woke by painful increments. Her pillow was comfortable, at least. Firm but warm, and it smelled delicious: spicy and woody and….

  Archie froze.

  Forcing her eyelids open might have been the hardest thing she’d ever done, but she managed it, to find she had an up close and detailed view of the buttons on Ranleigh’s waistcoat.

  She moved, flinging herself away from him to the far end of the sofa they had both fallen asleep on. The sudden motion made her head explode with pain and her guts roil, and Ranleigh woke up.

  “Christ,” he muttered, one hand going to cover his eyes as his expression darkened with pain.

  Fighting the very real possibility she might throw up on Ranleigh’s Aubusson rug, Archie searched her soused brain for everything she could remember of the previous night. What had happened? What had she said? What had she done?

  To her relief, nothing more revealing or scandalous than a game of cards and—her stomach lurched—more brandy. A vague recollection of discovering that Ranleigh snored just a little reassured her further. He’d fallen asleep first. Thank God. She must have passed out shortly after he had, but not before cuddling up to him and hanging on like a limpet. Good Christ, what had she been thinking?

  Ranleigh sat forward with a groan and peered across the sofa at Archie.

  “You alive?” he demanded, clutching at his head with both hands.

  “Barely,” Archie replied, her breathing shallow as she fought not to throw up.

  “That makes one of us,” Ranleigh replied, grinning a little.

  Archie rolled her eyes. “This is your fault,” she said, wishing she dared shake her head at him. “I told you we’d had enough. I certainly had.”

  “You stopped drinking before we even got home. Lightweight,” the duke muttered under his breath, though the expression in his somewhat bloodshot eyes showed he was teasing.

  “I told you that,” Archie muttered, staring in horror as Ranleigh reached forward and poured a small measure into a glass.

  “You can’t be serious?” she demanded as the duke lifted the glass to his lips with an expression of determined distaste. “Hair of the dog that bit you,” he said, before swallowing the measure with a grimace and a shudder. Horrified, Archie watched him pour another measure and turn to hand it to her.

  Archie looked from Ranleigh to the glass and back again. Her stomach twisted.

  “Excuse me,” she managed, and ran from the room.

  It was after noon before Archie was in a fit state to leave Ranleigh’s town house. Unsurprisingly situated in Mayfair, it was rather too close to Will’s residence for comfort. To her relief, Ranleigh was still indisposed when she reached the front door, so she was saved from questions about her address or anything else she didn’t want to answer. Unwilling to disappear on him once again and hurt his feelings further, she left him a brief note, promising to be in touch before the end of the week. Refusing the offer of a carriage home, Archie walked outside and squinted into the unrelenting daylight. With a sigh and the gait of a very elderly man, she made her way home with care.

  ***

  Ranleigh rubbed his face and grimaced, scratching at his unshaven chin with irritation. Whilst he wouldn’t go so far as to say he felt human, he at least felt a little less inhuman than he had on waking. Good Lord, what had he been thinking? He hadn’t drunk like that in years. Was that Archie’s influence, he wondered? Though, Archie had been disapproving, and had stopped drinking long before he had, so he couldn’t really say that. Except that he saw something of the young man he’d once been in the lad and felt an unaccountable desire to recapture something he’d lost. Damn it, he was getting old.

  He wondered how old Archie was. He looked very young, barely twenty, but his experience and the way he spoke made Ranleigh think that was deceptive. Of course, he’d never actually said. Archie said nothing about himself if he could help it, which was rather infuriating, not to mention worrying. Ranleigh felt an unaccountable sense of responsibility for him and couldn’t shake the idea that the boy was in some kind of trouble. Why the lad had gotten under his skin so he didn’t know, except… he was very easy to talk to. There had been an immediate rapport, a sense of kinship he hadn’t known before. Not that they agreed on everything, not by any means, but even arguing with the fellow was entertaining. He had an uncommon mind, lightning quick and quirky too. You never knew what the devil would say next. Ranleigh smiled, feeling a strange well of affection for him. Like the little brother he’d never had, perhaps?

  Perhaps he was just tired, bored, and alone. He’d begun to mistrust everyone he knew, second guessing their motives, and that way lay madness and paranoia. He had been holed up at Highgate House before this excursion, just as his dreadful cousin had heard, and he had been blue devilled, though not bilious. He was damned lonely, as lowering as it was to admit to such a thing. It had been happening for some time.

  One by one his contemporaries had married and set up their nurseries, culminating in one of his closest friends, and the most determined of bachelors. The Earl of Falmouth had married a few years back: a love match, to put it mildly. The fellow was head over heels and utterly besotted with his beautiful wife. She was a ravishing French emigrée almost half the earl’s age, and Ranleigh could hardly blame him. He’d been happy for him. He had. Truly. He’d also been dismayed to discover jealousy was something of which he was well capable.

  Rancid, bitter jealousy.

  Ranleigh had wanted that closeness and companionship, that love and affection in his life. Watching the two of them together, seeing the depth of the love and devotion between them, had made something jagged and ugly open up in his heart. When they’d started producing offspring, too, Ranleigh had made himself scarce, too afraid his jealousy would make him say something cutting and offend the earl. He didn’t want that. Hurting his friend was the last thing he wanted, save perhaps having that friend know just how badly he envied him.

  Everyone knew he’d have to marry sooner or later. He was never going to let Jeremiah Bagshot inherit. Not if he could stop it. The fool would run through the estate funds in short order, let the place run to wrack and ruin, and turn the tenants out the moment they became too difficult
to handle. Besides which, Ranleigh wanted a family of his own. His had died out, leaving just him and Jeremiah, and he was tired of feeling adrift with only the weight of his name keeping him tethered to the ground. He wanted to see his homes filled with his sons and daughters. Despite everything, he still harboured the dream of a loving wife, of warmth and welcome and happy ever afters and, by God, wasn’t he biggest bloody fool in Christendom?

  A marriage of convenience. An heir and a spare. That would be his lot. If he was lucky.

  So, he had begun to look about him in earnest. Trying to forget his desire for love and focusing instead on someone who could at least be a friend to him was to no avail either. Finding one of his friends had helped the ambitious Lady Lydia Fanshaw’s attempt to trap him into marriage had been the last straw. Desperation and disappointment had sent him scurrying home to brood in the countryside.

  He’d resolved never to trust anyone ever again, and then Archie had turned up with his cheek and his secrets and his complete disregard for Ranleigh’s title. He was a breath of fresh air. For whatever reason, he wanted nothing from Ranleigh… and wasn’t that a first?

  Ranleigh grinned and wondered when he’d see his mysterious friend again. He wasn’t certain it would be soon. In fact, he had the disquieting feeling Archie would disappear again, but he hoped not for good.

  ***

  It was three days before Will appeared, glowing with happiness and unable to keep his good mood to himself. Archie, however, was distracted. She needed to get in touch with Ranleigh again, but she had no idea what to say to him. The problem occupied her mind so much she discovered herself staring into space, only realising when Will addressed her. The wry expression he was sending her way suggested it wasn’t for the first time either.

  “Penny for them?” Will said.

  Archie rubbed a hand over her face and then squinted through her fingers at him.

  Will pursed his lips. “You never told me about the man.”

  “Man?” Archie repeated, wary now.

  “The man you are fond of,” Will reminded her. “The man you will tell me about, as I assume he is the man giving you cause to ignore me when I address you.”

  “Oh,” she said, her tone dry. “That man.”

  “It is him making you so distracted, I assume?” Will pressed, a little concerned now. “There’s nothing else worrying you?”

  “No, nothing else,” she agreed, wishing she hadn’t admitted to Ranleigh’s existence. Will would want to know everything and, as he’d invited Ranleigh to the blasted ball, the duke was an acquaintance of his, if not a friend. This would be awkward. Still, Will had told her his darkest secrets, as he’d reminded her. She supposed she ought to trust him with hers. Though she didn’t think they could be counted as dark so much as… hopeless.

  Preposterous.

  Doomed.

  “So, you’ve met someone,” Will persevered, waving a hand at her in a go on then motion.

  Archie groaned. “It was accidental, I swear it,” she said, knowing she sounded defensive, and then… she told him everything.

  ***

  “Ranleigh?”

  Predictably, Will was aghast.

  “It’s not like I did it on purpose,” Archie muttered, folding her arms and sinking down into the armchair in Will’s study. “At what point should I have piped up and said, oh, by the way, I’m a girl?”

  Will frowned a little at that but didn’t say anything.

  “I tried, Will. I disappeared from his life, but you went and invited him to the blasted ball!”

  It was perhaps a bit much to blame Will for knowing the fellow, but Archie was feeling a little aggrieved by Will’s obvious concern over her deception.

  “If you’d have told me from the start what a fix you were in, I wouldn’t have done,” he threw back, tugging at his cuffs and glowering at her.

  “Oh, yes, and offended one of the most powerful men in the country? I think not.” she sniped back, wondering why on earth she was cross with Will, it was hardly his fault.

  “Bloody hell,” Will muttered, staring at her. “I knew being your friend would cause complications but, I admit, I didn’t realise just how quickly, or how bloody complicated those complications would be.”

  Archie snorted and Will shook his head at her, though there was sympathy in his eyes.

  He sat down in the chair opposite and put his head in his hands. “The duke is a powerful man, Archie. You’re courting disaster. If he discovers your secret, as I did, it may not go well for you.”

  Fear, regret, and longing coiled in her stomach. “I know that.” Archie didn’t meet his eyes. She traced a finger around and around one of the leather buttons on her chair. “I… I just don’t know what to do. If I tell him, it still might go badly for me. He still might be angry and want to punish me for it. If I disappear again, he’ll be dreadfully hurt and it’s only a matter of time before we bump into each other again, if I remain in your employ, and if I say nothing….”

  She spread out her hands, wishing he had an answer for her, a way to fix it.

  “It isn’t just that though, is it?” Will said, making her raise her eyebrows.

  Wasn’t that enough?

  Will sighed, giving her a hard look. “You have feelings for him.”

  Archie felt the colour rise from beneath her cravat. She shrugged, as though that was hardly important. “He’s a duke, Will, and I’m not an idiot. Mostly,” she added, rubbing at the back of her neck. “I’ll keep my distance. I’ll be busy. He’ll drop the acquaintance soon enough, I’m sure. I don’t see what else I can do.”

  Will nodded. “For now, I suppose that’s best, but you must stay away from him as far as you are able. One way or another he’ll hurt you, even if he doesn’t know he’s doing it.”

  Archie nodded, and watched as Will’s face darkened. He didn’t like this. Didn’t like another man being deceived by her as he had been. She could see that, and she understood it. The guilt of it wormed under her skin, making her feel wretched.

  “Whatever happens, I’ll protect you as best I can. You do know that?”

  Archie’s chest tightened and she shook her head. Even as uncomfortable as he was with this ridiculous situation, he would protect her. She knew what the scandal would cost him, and she was beyond touched that he would face it for her. “You mustn’t, Will. I know you would, and… and that means the world to me, but it would damage you too. You must cast me off if it ever happens. I won’t blame you for it.”

  Will glared at her, surging to his feet and stalking towards her, the force of anger in his expression quite breath-taking.

  “Don’t,” he said, the word dangerously quiet. “Don’t ever repeat that again. You are my closest friend. If you think me the kind of man that would see you torn apart by wolves and do nothing—”

  “No!” Archie rose too, cutting off his words as she ran to him, putting a hand on his arm. “No,” she said again, softer now, shaking her head. “I know you would never do that, but I couldn’t bear to see you and Selina hurt because of me.”

  “Then be careful,” he said, his expression grave. “Stay as far away from Ranleigh as you can until he drops this friendship.”

  A knot formed in Archie’s throat and her heart ached, but she nodded because there was no other option.

  “Yes,” she said. It was the only way. “I will.”

  ***

  Archie kept her word and out of Ranleigh’s path. The following months she was kept busy with Will and, though Ranleigh was often in her thoughts, she did her best to keep him from her heart. Everyone’s hearts were touched during that time, though, filled with another kind of sorrow.

  The Peterloo Massacre on the 16th of August sent ripples of shock around the entire country. It was beyond belief. A cavalry charge into a sea of eighty thousand unarmed people. A peaceful demonstration gathered to demand the reform of parliamentary representation: the weak and the powerless, gathering what strength they had to protest
against those who had wealth and power in abundance, and cut down for their audacity. It was impossible to be certain of the true numbers killed, as each side inflated or deflated the figures to their own advantage, and others were too afraid to admit their involvement, but perhaps twenty were dead, both men and women, and hundreds more injured.

  The government’s reaction was to sanction both the magistrate’s and the yeomanry’s actions that day. The passing of the Six Acts followed in the wake of government paranoia. It wasn’t so long since the French had beheaded their nobility, after all and the American Revolution was still too recent for comfort. It comprised a crackdown on the freedoms of the public and press. Among this new legislation, any public meeting on church or state matters of more than fifty people would be legally obliged to obtain the permission of a sheriff or magistrate. The laws that punished authors of blasphemous or seditious material became increasingly severe.

  There were voices of reason, both Will and Ranleigh tried to calm the toxic, whiplash reaction, but there were too many powerful men, too many vested interests. It was a grim time, wearying and frustrating on all sides, and beneath it all a fear of what might happen next. What had happened in France and America made for an uneasy backdrop, and Britain seemed to be holding its collective breath.

  For Archie, things settled into an uneasy routine. Ranleigh would invite her to attend events or to come for dinner and cards, and Archie would plead an existing arrangement. She always wrote back with care: amusing, chatty letters that expressed her regret, and left Ranleigh in no doubt of the value she placed on his friendship, and the esteem in which she held him. It was a delicate balancing act, and knew that, sooner or later, she would have to give a little.

  It happened in October. The autumnal day was fine, the sun shining and full of promise, and Archie, having risen early after yet another fitful night’s sleep, elected to walk to work. It was a good hour from Hampstead Heath—where she had rented a room in Erasmus’ house—to Mayfair, but her limbs seemed in need of the exercise. She was aware of a sense of repression within herself, of having spent too long holding herself tightly contained.