Page 61 of Disciplined by the Duke
Why can’t you have what you want?a little voice whispered.You’re a bloody duke, powerful enough to withstand scandal, to force acceptance of her.A sharp bark of laughter erupted from his throat. Being a duke wasn’t the solution; it was the problem. If he’d been a clerk, or an apple seller, he could have asked for her hand, lived a happy little life with her by his side. As duke, he wouldn’t be by her side. She would be in the wings. They would spend every second they could together, but never openly. A shadow companion.
He thought about his decision to release inside of her, not pull out and spill his seed on her stomach as he was accustomed. In the moment it had felt right. Primal. He’d wanted to mark her. Planting his seed within her still felt right. And if children came of their union they would have all of his love.
But not his acknowledgment. A shadow family.
The liquor turned bitter in his stomach. What kind of life was he asking Liz to lead? Being the mistress of a duke had to be better than a life of service. He clenched the empty tumbler. He would make sure her life was better.
A scratching at the door interrupted his thoughts. “Yes?” he called out.
Mr. Todd entered, his face as reserved as usual. If his eyes didn’t quite meet the duke’s it could be accounted for in a myriad of ways. Disapproval of the duke’s recent actions didn’t have to be its cause. “Your Grace, there is a man here to see you. A Mr. Harding. He says it’s important.” His steward’s tone sounded doubtful, but Todd had always been leery of the rougher crowd Marcus kept company with in service to the Crown.
“Show him in. We won’t need refreshments.” Settling himself behind his desk, Marcus waited for the spy. A distraction from his love life was welcome. Even if the distraction came in the form of treason. He’d spent too much time thinking of his maid and not enough on who was responsible for leaking England’s secrets.
Todd showed Mr. Harding into the room, his lip curling faintly as one of the spy’s unsewn trouser cuffs dragged on the floor. Marcus had to admit that the man’s hygiene left much to be improved upon, but his ragged appearance allowed entry into a class of citizens the duke could never access. The man was efficient and trustworthy, and that was more than could be asked of most spies.
Marcus heaved a breath. Perhaps a new suit would not go amiss as a Boxing Day present this year, however.
“Harding, please have a seat.” When the man dropped into the sturdy chair across from him, Marcus nodded to Todd, who bowed and left the room, closing the door behind him. He turned back to the spy. “What have you learned?”
“Bloody hell, what haven’t I learned. There’s a skeleton in each of you aristos’ closets. It’s a wonder the House o’ Lords gets any work done, what with the way you lot run on.” Harding shook his head in wonderment.
“And I’m sure the lower classes are morally pristine,” Marcus said dryly.
Harding smiled. “Nah, I guess people are people, no matter how deep their pockets.” He cleared his throat and pulled out a folded piece of paper from his trousers. “I found out that the Viscount of Kent has entered into a marriage contract with a wealthy American to wed his sister. All his debts will shortly be a thing of the past. He’s been working on this marriage business for months and was spending before the ink was dry.”
Marcus nodded, relieved. He liked the gregarious little viscount who always had a quick smile or a kind word for those he met.
Harding poked at the next line on his paper. “The Marquis of Stanwick got himself a nice loan from one of his compatriots to cover his debts. Nice friend he’s got there,” the spy muttered to himself. “Now this one”—he flicked the page with his middle finger—“this one here is interesting.”
“Who?”
“The Earl of Westmore. Before I told you he was spending more than his income.” Harding scratched his head. “That wasn’t quite right.”
Marcus leaned forward, put his elbows on the desk. Liz had clutched that spot when he’d bent her over it, smacked her ass until it was a lovely pink. Shifting in his seat, Marcus silently cursed. He had to stop thinking about her. “His finances are in order?”
“Not hardly.” The spy snorted. “His spending isn’t just more than his income. He’s trying to outspend Prinny.”
At the man’s pause, Marcus swirled his hand, impatient for him to proceed.
Harding scooted forward to the edge of the chair. “Right. Well, aside from six Hanoverians bred from the king’s own horse stock, six horses that he bought at a cool ten thousand pounds, he’s also bought himselffiveruby and diamond necklaces”—the man held up five fingers to emphasize the amount—“and three gold statuettes.” Placing the piece of paper on his lap, he held one hand over the other, palms facing, about ten inches apart. “They aren’t that big, about yea high or so, but still.Gold.”
Marcus steepled his fingers. Five necklaces, three gold statuettes. He couldn’t imagine one man having four mistresses, assuming Westmore would even give his wife one of those necklaces. But jewels and gold made your wealth awfully portable. Even the horses could be loaded onto a ship easily enough, and their stud fees would be enormous.
“Anything else?” he asked the spy.
“Yeah, and here’s the kicker.” Harding scratched his head, a tuft of greasy hair standing straight up. “I’ve found title documents showing that Westmore bought some property two months ago using a middleman.”
“That’s not unusual for an earl.”
“No. But where he bought it is.” He paused for dramatic effect. Marcus gritted his teeth and reminded himself this man was a valued asset. He was allowed a bit of pomp. Harding waggled his bushy eyebrows. “A large villa. In the south of France.”
Marcus sat back and narrowed his eyes. Not definitive proof, but definitely suspicious. And combine that with . . .
“What about Miss Smith? Did you find out anything about her?” His heart galloped in his chest, but he kept his face impassive. Of course the man had found out nothing. His Liz would never—
“I sure did. That one ain’t no maid.”
Marcus couldn’t draw air. It felt like an anvil sat on his chest.