Page 57 of Pursuing a Duke
“The Duke of Blackstone,” announced the butler.
After completing formalities, Andrew sat next to Lady Beatrice on a settee as Lady Hartford poured tea.
“How do you like your tea, Your Grace?” Lady Hartford asked.
“Sugar, no cream.” Andrew took the china cup and saucer from her hands, and took a sip knowing the countess put cream in his tea, no doubt, intentionally. He fought the urge to gag. “Delicious. Just the way I like it.” Never would he give her the satisfaction of thinking her antics bothered him in any way.
“We are attending a dinner party tonight at the Duke and Duchess of Deerfield’s. Are you by any chance attending?” asked Lady Hartford.
Hiding his smile behind his cup, he turned it into a frown. “No. I declined weeks ago. I hope you have an enjoyable evening.”
“Her Grace is a very dear friend of mine. I could send a note and have you added.”
“Please don’t bother on my account. Besides, I have other plans for the evening.”
“I see,” she said, trying to hide her disappointment.
Lady Beatrice said, “Since His Grace is not attending, may I stay home?”
“No, my dear, you must attend. It wouldn’t look right if you bowed out on the day without good reason.”
Andrew felt as though he had witnessed a private conversation between mother and daughter and arrived in the middle of it. It was obvious they had talked about tonight before now and Lady Beatrice didn’t want to attend. After more small talk, Lady Hartford, acting innocent and pleased with herself, had his blood boiling. Leaving quickly would be in his best interest. “Ladies,” he said as he bowed. “As always, a pleasure.”
His feet ate up the distance to the exit, down the stairs, and out the front door, where he could finally breathe for the first time without almost choking. The air inside the salon had been fermented with lies, underhandedness, and deceit.
After he arrived home, he sat in his study nursing a glass of brandy when Winters entered with a dinner tray. “Thank you, Winters. I’m expecting Mr. Whitcomb. Send him in when he arrives.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Half an hour later, Winters opened the door, and Mr. Whitcomb entered. “Blackstone,” said the Bow Street Runner when he entered and bowed. “Have you information for me?”
“Please sit.” He poured the Runner a glass of brandy and handed it over. “No. I was hoping you had something for me.”
Mr. Whitcomb cleared his throat as he cradled the glass in his hands. “Nothing out of the ordinary has happened, Your Grace.”
“Bloody hell, Whitcomb.” He tossed back his drink and put the glass on his desk. “What am I supposed to do in the meantime? I’m not one for patience, and my mind is scrambled. I can’t concentrate on anything else.”
“For what it’s worth, my advice is to keep busy. Go to the docks and your warehouse and work until you’re exhausted.”
“I just told you . . .”
“Yes. I heard you. But you have always found solace in your business endeavors in the past. Perhaps you will now.”
He didn’t want to admit that Whitcomb was right. Working had saved him in the past. A past that belonged to another version of him. He was so far removed from the man he’d been then.Thank God.“You are right. It’s been ages since I burned the midnight oil at the warehouse. And goodness knows I have work piled up. Send word to me there if you find anything out.”
“I will. And rest assured, Mrs. Fitzpatrick is safe at home tonight. And if she so much as sneezes, my men will know.”
His words were both disturbing and reassuring.
Andrew accompanied Mr. Whitcomb to the hall and bid farewell. “Winters, have the carriage brought around.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
As the carriage wheels rolled closer and closer to the docks and the scent of the Thames filled his nostrils, Andrew’s insides eased. It reminded him of his years traveling the high seas. It was hard, lonely, and tremendously satisfying work, even though he’d come perilously close to losing his life several times due to storms and pirates. He was proud of what Langford, Caldwell, and he had accomplished. Most peers would never stoop so low as to do menial work. But it had paid off for all three of them, even if their lives were changing, and they would eventually need to hire other good men to run Mayfair Imports and Exports for them. They already had several honest, intelligent, and hardworking retired navy captains who were worthy of their salaries and the percentage of cargo they transported. Their ships were in good hands. Caldwell had recently hired their new warehouse manager who had come highly recommended by Mr. Whitcomb. Mr. Warner was a retired Runner himself and trustworthy.
“Come back at dawn,” Andrew said to his driver as he took the lamp from inside the carriage and made his way to the door.He unlocked it and entered the quiet warehouse, his footsteps echoing off the wooden floorboards as he made his way to the offices. Once inside, he lit several lanterns and groaned at the pile of paperwork on his desk. He was in charge of the accounts, and he’d been neglecting the invoices and receipts for over a week. Thankfully, Caldwell came daily to keep up with the day-to-day operations, such as the banking and payroll. It was time to find an honest and worthy accountant to replace him. He would ask his banker, next time they met, if he knew of anyone seeking employment.
He poured himself a brandy and opened the inventory ledger to find Caldwell had already recorded their latest shipments and confirmed they tallied with the captain’s log. Next, he sorted the invoices and wrote checks to be delivered tomorrow, recording them in the accounts payable ledger. Since Caldwell had picked up his slack, there was actually less work than the pile on his desk had led him to believe, and before long he lay on the sofa and closed his eyes, hoping to get several hours of sleep.
