Page 16 of The Duke of Deceit

With a chuckle, Lucien wove his way through the crowd toward the steps that led out onto the footpath and beyond into the darkness of Wapping High Street. If he were lucky, he might just beat the dawn home.

Despite his casual confrontation with Miss St Claire in the carriage, he knew the troublemaking woman was slowly inverting his world, and if he wasn’t careful, the truth about him might just be revealed. The dukedom itself could come crashing down around him, with even prison a distant possibility for the crimes his father had committed, crimes in which Lucien was still willfully participating.

“Crewe!”

Lucien stopped and slowly turned back toward the warehouse. A man hurried toward him through the damp shadows. Automatically, Lucien tensed, but he didn’t reach for the knife he carried in his greatcoat pocket. Years of fighting had taught him the difference between a threat and…well, whatever it was this man wanted from him.

The bald man huffed to a stop in front of him, nearly doubled over from the exertion. Recognizing the rotund man from his clubs but not remembering his name, Lucien waited silently while the man caught his breath.

“By gad,” the man puffed out, “itisyou! Couldn’t be sure with all that blood and sweat.”

Lucien touched his split lip with the back of his gloved hand. He should have been glad a blueblood was there to see him fight and spread word of how basely he spent his evenings. But tonight, of all nights, the meeting grated.

“What do you want?” he demanded.

“Right to the point, then, eh?” The man grinned. “You probably want time to swing by a stew or two on your way home.”

Lucien impatiently repeated, “What do you want?”

“Baronet Thompson.” The plump man nodded his bald head in introduction. “I’m sure you’ve heard of me.”

“Not at all,” he drawled. One of the benefits of being a nasty blackguard was that he didn’t have to give empty pleasantries. To anyone. Ever.

The man blinked, then laughed and rocked back on his heels, as if Lucien were joking. “Is it true you own a little property west of Ealing? I’m looking to buy a country box out that way and thought you might be interested in selling.”

Lucien’s heart stopped. No one knew about the Ealing farm…Phillip’s farm.No one.He’d done everything in his power to keep it that way.

“Pardon?” Lucien narrowed his eyes. How the devil did this fop find out about Ealing? The man smiled, oblivious to the icy tone of Lucien’s voice. “I’m looking for a small property, you understand. Only a hundred acres or so. That’s all I need. I’m a rising voice in Whitehall, and I need a property to match my status. As a duke, I’m certain you understand the importance of public image.”

Lucien’s blood ran cold. “You are mistaken.” He bit out each word, emphasizing them so this man would be left with no misunderstanding and could tell whoever had given him the information that he was wrong. Dead wrong. “Ido not own any property in Ealing.”

That was the God’s truth. His disinherited brother possessed every square inch of it, and always would, if Lucien had his way. Giving the farm to Phillip when he’d inherited the dukedom was the least Lucien could do for what their father had done by casting Phillip from the family.

Lucien turned on his heel, flipped up his coat collar, and stalked away without another word. He could almost feel the baronet’s baffled stare on his back as he walked on into the darkcity night along the Thames, but he didn’t stop to give any kind of explanation or look back.

With every long stride, his heart pounded brutally against his ribs, and his muscles knotted as he hurried along the black ribbon of river winding its way through the sleeping city. The tension boiling inside him wasn’t because of the fight or bruises from any lucky punches his opponent managed to land. It was because, for the first time since he was eighteen, he felt exposed. Not even during the years when he fought as a mercenary in Spain and Prussia had he felt his life had been in as much danger as it was now.

And all because of that annoying slip of a meddling miss who had so thoroughly inverted his life.

Damnation.He was in trouble.

Hunching his shoulders against the night, he welcomed the cold and damp as he followed the river past London Bridge along its wide sweep toward Westminster in the distance. He knew he should hire a boatman at the next set of steps to take him upriver, but the miles of walking would do him good and give him time to plan his battle strategy. Besides, he wasn’t afraid that an opportunistic footpad might emerge from the shadows and attempt to rob him—Just try it. I’ll bury you if you do.In fact, he’d welcome it.

Two miles and half an hour later, he reached the Strand where Somerset House stood like a sentinel beside the bend in the river curving away toward Westminster. From here, his path would cut inland to follow the most direct route toward Mayfair. So he jogged across the deserted street to the opposite side.

His eyes landed on the bills posted on the brick wall and the large banner flying overhead, and he halted to a dead stop, stunned. Then he let out a fierce curse.

Everywhere he looked up and down the street, bills and banners announced the annual autumn art and book exhibition,a special event hosted between the end of the season and the winter holidays, whose proceeds went to help the widows and children of men killed in the wars. In the past, Lucien had anonymously donated money to sponsor it, but this…Christ.

Every bill and banner announced in large letters that this year’s exhibition was proudly sponsored by the Duke of Crewe.

His double life had been made public in the most spectacular, grandest way imaginable. He would never be able to claim there had been a mistake, not with something this big. Not with men like the baronet eating into his privacy. God only knew how long it would be before his crimes were revealed.

Enough.He clenched his jaw and ripped one of the bills off the wall, then crumpled it in his fist and shoved it into his coat pocket.

Jessamyn St Claire had finally gone too far.

Chapter Six