Page 67 of The Duke Undone

“Discipline? He’s lucky he wasn’t executed.” Mr. Yardley’s eyes bored through her. “He was jailed for drink in Afghanistan. Did he tell you that? He stole liquor from the brigadier general on the retreat from Maiwand and collapsed. They left him like a dog in the road, but he managed to crawl to Kandahar. If his father hadn’t humbled himself before Her Majesty, the court-martial would have returned a different verdict.”

Court-martial.

She was silent. She could feel her face flaming. Why had she tried to believe him when all the evidence was stacked against him? He was a drunkard, and he was a liar. The innocent, worshipful little brother. Her lips curled.

“That story is not whispered in London, because I did everything in my power to suppress it. His Grace doesn’t thank me for my help. In fact, he thwarts my efforts at every opportunity. His first order of business when he returned was to visit the very brothel best loved by his brother. He assaulted a man on the steps. Did you see that column? I assure you his father did. He had to pay the damages. Then there was the window at All Saints.”

Mr. Yardley’s smile twisted.

“The will forbids scandal. One article in the gossip column recording another such incident, public drunkenness, a brawl, and I can delay His Grace’s inheriting to prolong his life. He needs a heavy yoke.”

The coach was pulling to the right, stopping alongside the curb on Charlotte Road.

“When he bankrupts the estates, he’s not the only one who will suffer. There are tenants, Miss Coover. Farms. Schools.”

She put out her hand and watched her fingers close around the door handle. She took a deep breath.

“You want me to set him up.”

Mr. Yardley considered gravely, as though it were a question. “I don’t want more publicity. I don’t want the Weston name selling papers. But I want his behavior witnessed, by men who can testify to what they see. If he is capable of behaving with sober dependability, then, of course, he should govern himself and discharge his responsibilities. But if he isn’t . . .”

He wasn’t. She knew he wasn’t. Why did she feel as though she were betraying him? Her betrayal was immaterial.

Weston betrayed himself.

I seem to care. That’s what he’d said. He did care, she felt certain. It wasn’t an act, his kindness, his easy warmth. But she knew what it was like to put her faith in a kind, warm man who cared, then disappeared into a bottle.

“This special committee,” she said, trying to smooth the quaver in her voice. “The special committee to investigate the evictions, you will see that it’s appointed.”

“I will.” Mr. Yardley sat up straighter. He was looking at her expectantly. She nodded. Here was another agreement, less friendly, more likely to bear fruit. Odd that she felt something withering inside her. She spoke in a voice she didn’t recognize.

“Send your witnesses to look for him tomorrow night.”

She knew how to ensure that Weston met her in public where temptation abounded. All she had to do was pick the theater and name the time.

“Ten o’clock,” she said. “The Albion Theatre.”

Chapter Eleven

The crowd crushing into the Albion made it difficult to chart a course. Anthony stood to the side, letting people flow past. His heart, which had raced since he’d received Miss Coover’s note, now skipped a beat.

His sister sang here.

The building was vast, blue smoke hanging in the gaslights. The pit was already packed with rowdy men and grinning urchins. As he scanned the galleries, the audience surged to its feet, applauding wildly. He was tall enough to see the source of their wonder. Cleopatra’s barge had just appeared on the main stage in a mist of perfume. By what vaporizing mechanism was the perfume dispersed? He couldn’t determine the source. The perfume rolled over the audience like a cloud, its sweetness mingled with the odors of smoke and grease. Cheers, boos, and some bottles rained down from the highest gallery.

With his field glasses, Anthony scrutinized Cleopatra, black-haired, voluptuous, but pert-nosed with a mouth like a bud. An English rose with kohl on her eyes and a wig on her head, doused in jasmine. He swung the glasses. On the other stages, chorus girls kicking, comic ballerinas mincing. No and no. Effie was not among them.

He turned, sweeping the crowd. Magnified, Lucy Coover’s face filled the field of vision. She was looking toward the entrance. Looking for him. Several men in caps and shabby jackets interposed themselves between his lenses and the object of interest. Then he could see her again, the wiry strands in the locks snaking down from her high twist of hair, the red and auburn tints. Detail was revelatory. He picked out the patterns of golden and cinnamon freckles on her cheeks. A darker freckle lay near the left peak of her lip. Dear God, he’d neglected that freckle, a mistake he’d like to remedy. The field glasses were revealing his errors, his oversights. Her lips were parted, the bottom lip plumped out. He studied the faint line where the plush of it divided.

His breathing constricted.

As though she could hear his thoughts, her eyes turned and focused. The warm amber irises reduced to twin slivers.

He lowered the glasses. Miss Coover stood yards away. Detail had made him miss the larger picture. Her ruby gown was a column of pleated silk that stretched around the curves of her breasts and hips. Free of corsetry. Free even—he swallowed—of all but the bare minimum of undergarments.

A fine figure, she’d said.

Had her aunt made that dress? And let her walk out the door in it? He watched as she wove her way toward him. She had to pause again and again to let streams of people flow past, many of the men—and a few of the women—craning their necks to gawk. Even so, she made good progress. Not afraid to use her elbows.