Would I Lie to the Duke Read online

  Noel ducked to avoid McCameron’s right cross, but just barely. He countered with a hook to the body—which his friend blocked before quickly firing a counter jab to Noel’s jaw. This time, the punch connected, and stars erupted.

  “Go gentle on the bloke,” Curtis called from beside the ring. “Dukes have porridge for muscles.”

  “Not . . . this . . . sodding duke,” Noel managed to gasp as he struggled to keep his feet.

  Blast him, McCameron was barely winded, but then he’d always had a ridiculous amount of athletic prowess, and while Noel sparred with his friend thrice weekly, McCameron would always be the better sportsman. It hardly seemed fair—except Noel was a duke with no fewer than eight homes, was a trusted confidant to Lord Liverpool, and possessed more wealth than three archbishops combined, while McCameron drew a second son’s modest allowance along with a pension from years of service in His Majesty’s army. So, there was a measure of balance.

  Still, when Noel attempted to throw a left cross, the punch went wide.

  McCameron took a step back and held up his wrapped hands. “You’re fit to be knocked on your arse,” he said in his burr. “Time for a rest. At the very least,” he added when Noel began to argue, “it will give me a moment’s pause so I can collect myself before you give me the drubbing I deserve.”

  “Don’t . . . flatter me.”

  Yet Noel had to bend down and rest his hands on his thighs to make his head stop spinning.

  “I’m not,” McCameron replied easily. “You receive plenty of flattery from the droves that follow you hither and yon across London.”

  True enough. “Just ten minutes,” Noel said. “Then we’re back at it.”

  “Whatever you wish, Your Grace,” McCameron said with a smirk.

  “If I could move,” Noel replied, “I’d make a very rude hand gesture right now.”

  “Like this?” Curtis demonstrated, throwing up two fingers, proving that when he wasn’t in court, defending his clients, he was still as rowdy as he’d been back at Eton.

  “The very one,” Noel said.

  He and McCameron climbed out of the ring to join Curtis, who offered them each a wet towel. Noel tugged the wrappings off his wrists, letting them fall to the ground, before taking the towel and running it across his forehead. He then draped it over his neck. Water seeped down Noel’s back, but he barely noticed, with his loose shirt sticking to his sweat-slicked flesh.

  “A glutton for punishment today.” McCameron pulled off his wrappings to push his damp hair from his forehead. “You’re usually in and out of the ring in three quarters of an hour, not two.”

  “Have to. It’ll be at least a week before I can return here.” Noel glanced around the pugilism academy, which at this hour of the day was full of gentlemen sparring with each other or else using weighted clubs to condition themselves. The air was sour with sweat, proving that even aristocrats stank. “I need to get my exercise in advance of what will be an almost motionless five days at the Bazaar.”

  Curtis tilted his head to one side. “What’s this Bazaar?”

  “I tell you every year,” Noel said with exasperation.

  “And every year I forget.”

  “This from the man who represents two dozen clients at a time.” Noel shook his head. “The Bazaar is five days where select people of gentle birth and deep coffers gather at the Marquess of Trask’s home to discuss investment opportunities. Trask brings in a highly curated group of ambitious men—and a few women—of business, who seek capital to fund the growth of their enterprises.”

  “Why go?” Curtis asked. “You can’t need the blunt. You’re rich as the sodding Pope.”

  “Only a portion of my wealth comes from my land,” Noel answered. “The rest is tied up in investments, stocks, and futures. I like to keep an eye on the fiscal health of my title, and the nation. Don’t snigger, Curtis,” he added when his friend did just that.

  “Can’t help it. I doubt there’s a bigger rake in all of London.”

  “Of course there isn’t,” Noel answered testily.

  “And yet you’re rubbing elbows with the country’s sharpest financial players.”

  “I can be both, you know,” Noel snapped. “And I’m not the sort to sit back and just watch my money pile up, regardless of its origin. The Bazaar tells me what I need to know, which enterprises are the most profitable, and which utilize unscrupulous practices. I’m a man of influence—”

  “So you keep telling us,” McCameron said drily.

  “And other powerful people look to me for direction,” Noel plowed on. “So I take what I learn at the Bazaar and pass it on to trusted colleagues.”

  “Here I thought we were your trusted colleagues,” Curtis said. “Now we learn there are others you value more? Shameful.” He appeared to sulk, but he spoiled the effect with a smirk.

  “Don’t be an ass,” Noel retorted. “To you lot, I’ll always be that spoilt boy in the Eton library.”

  “Not entirely a spoilt boy,” McCameron said. “More like a spoilt nob.”

  “You are cordially invited to go fuck yourself,” Noel said cheerfully.

  McCameron made a rude noise. “Just the same, you’re going to the Bazaar, aren’t you? Being the virtuous duke—to a point.”

  “Only moderately virtuous,” Noel said. “And as Curtis so eloquently put it twenty years ago, everybody’s got their noses up my arse. Might as well do some goddamned good with the power I’ve been given.”

  His friends had helped him learn that lesson at the age of fourteen, and he’d carried it with him in the two decades that had followed. When he’d become the Duke of Rotherby at the age of twenty-three, he had two intentions: enjoy the hell out of himself, and don’t abuse his privilege.

  He’d been remarkably good at both of those.

  And in the midst of his whirlwind life, he had the friendship of four men—blokes who would never see him as a means to an end, never play him false, and, above all, be truthful to him and to each other. They kept him sane and anchored when the rest of his existence reeled as quickly as a spinning globe.

  He’d never say as much, of course. Just the same, they knew how he felt about them, and their feelings for him.

  “Now,” he said with a grin, “it’s time to get back in the ring and pummel each other. That’s what friends do.”

  Energy hummed through Jess, echoed in the buzzing traffic all around. Stylish pedestrians crowded the pavement and the street itself was thick with glossy carriages and equally glossy horseflesh. It was a shame Cynthia could not be here to see this, for Cyn always had a love of fashion and the doings of Society.

  Jess walked up Bond Street, keeping her stride even but brisk. Much as she wanted to linger in front of the shops’ windows and marvel at the sparkling merchandise within, she had an objective here.

  Each elegant person here represented Opportunity. And in her reticule, the bars of McGale & McGale soap represented the keys to that opportunity, and keeping her family together.

  A sign painted in regal white letters over a navy background proclaimed Daley’s Emporium—she’d reached her first destination. Her heart thumped with a combination of excitement and nervousness as the bell on the shop door chimed upon her entrance.

  Inside, glass-fronted cases held artfully arranged displays of products, including bottles of toilet water, ceramic pots containing the most refined cosmetics, cunning scissors and blades for trimming hair and whiskers, and the complete equipage anyone might need to maintain their fingernails.

  Carpet muffled Jess’s steps as she moved deeper into the shop. A lone gentleman wearing the shiniest top hat she’d ever seen browsed the cases, while two women wearing shawls that must have come from India murmured to each other as they contemplated a hair-curling iron.

  “Might I assist you, madam?”

  She turned to face a gentleman with hair so pale as to be almost colorless. As expected, his dress was subdued and neat, precisely what a shop clerk caterin
g to the elite would wear.

  “I would like to speak to the individual responsible for selecting and purchasing stock for this emporium.”

  “That would be myself. Charles Daley, at your service.” He bowed.

  She held out her hand. “Miss Jessica McGale. A pleasure, Mr. Daley.” When he shook her hand, she continued, her voice even but direct as she spoke. “When I came to London, I knew you were the first person I had to meet. You see, sir, I’m here to present you and your shop with a marvelous opportunity.”

  “What opportunity might that be?” He lifted an eyebrow.

  “To be the first shop in all of London to supply its patrons with England’s finest soap.” From a small pack, she produced a wrapped bar. The scent of honey surrounded her and Mr. Daley as she lifted it up. “This, Mr. Daley, is McGale & McGale soap. Manufactured in Wiltshire, and of a quality so superior as to make French soap seem coarse in comparison.”

  She held the soap out to Mr. Daley, and he took it gingerly. “I’ve never heard of McGale & McGale.”

  “The scope of our operation has been limited,” she said. “But we are known locally for the excellent quality of our product. Examine it for yourself, and you’ll see I speak the truth. I invite you to experience its fragrance.”

  The shopkeeper brought the bar of soap to his nose and inhaled. His expression turned from wary to pleased. “Honey.”

  “Our soap is made using honey harvested from our own bees. Not only does it provide a delightful scent that both men and women can enjoy, honey also keeps the skin supple and soft, as well as helps to provide exceptional lathering ability.” She pulled from her pack a flagon and a small bowl, which she set on top of a cabinet. “Will you permit me a minor liberty?”

  She unwrapped the soap, then poured a splash of water into the bowl, then gestured for Mr. Daley to make use of them both.

  His expression had turned dubious, but then, as he washed using the soap, he looked agreeably surprised. “It does lather nicely.”

  “And your hands will feel soft, not dry, after use. Observe.” She tugged off her glove and held out her palm. “I wash with McGale & McGale soap, several times a day, and yet there’s no roughness to my skin.”

  He peered closely at her hand. “Indeed, that’s true. The cost?”

  “We sell to you a ha’penny per bar.”

  “Reasonable.”

  “And as good as but less expensive than French soap.”

  He nodded, so she knew it was time to continue in her pitch. Though she dreaded the next part, she had to speak it. “I will be frank, Mr. Daley. There was a fire several months ago, and we’re in need of repairs, but with a small outlay of capital, I’ve no doubt that not only will we be back to our original operational standards, we will outpace them. We can supply all the soap your customers will demand—and there will be a demand.”

  “Meaning, you’d require me to advance the money if you’re to fill our orders.”

  She didn’t like his wry tone, but kept her expression bright and open. “It won’t require much—”

  “I’m sorry, miss,” he said. “That is simply not possible. Daley’s Emporium is not in the habit of paying for products that have not yet been manufactured. This soap is exceptional, and I’ve no doubt that we would be able to sell a goodly amount, but ’tis not our policy to pay up front in the hope that our supplier might potentially meet our demand.”

  Before Jess could offer a counterargument, Mr. Daley went on. “Nearly all of the goods we sell here are recommended by some of the most esteemed individuals in England. The Earl of Blakemere exclusively uses shaving soap he purchases in my shop. The Countess of Pembroke sends her maid here monthly to obtain Mayfair Flower Essence perfume, which is only sold here.”

  “An aristocratic patron isn’t a necessity for a successful product,” Jess said calmly. On the inside, she felt herself grasping desperately for a handhold.

  “True, but with an unknown manufacturer, such as yours, it would make a substantial difference.” Mr. Daley sent her a sympathetic look as he handed her the bar of soap. “Again, my apologies. McGale & McGale soap is indeed exceptional, but until you can meet demand, and without a notable figure endorsing your product, we’ve nothing more to discuss.”

  “I see.” She handed him a little towel to dry his hands, then wrapped the soap in the towel. Efficiently, she packed up the flagon and bowl, but heaviness sank in her chest. “Might I return if I can fulfill both of those requirements?”

  “Of course. I look forward to it.” He glanced toward the door.

  It was time for her to leave. She gave him a curtsy. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Daley.”

  “Best of luck, Miss McGale.”

  She nodded, fixing a smile to her face, before stepping back out onto Bond Street.

  This wasn’t the outcome she’d hoped for, but it was unlikely that she’d secure a spot in one of London’s most celebrated shops on her very first try. It was early in the day. With Lady Catherton still in the country, Jess could keep her attention focused on this task. She’d go into every single shop if that was what it took. She would find a way to salvage McGale & McGale.

  Chapter 3

  Hours later, the bell on yet another shop door chimed as it shut behind Jess, tolling the death of her hope. For a moment, she could only stand on the curb and stare blankly at the fashionable traffic parading up and down Bond Street.

  No one here knew or cared that she’d spent the whole day walking this elegant stretch of road, trying to convince merchants that they ought to stock McGale & McGale Honey Soap for their esteemed customers—only to face rejection again and again.

  What Mr. Daley had said was repeated to her by countless shop owners. No one would supply funds to help rebuild, and without elite customers or enough financial backing to make her soap a countrywide phenomenon, her family’s business would wither and die.

  Jess tried to take a steadying breath, but it sounded like a shed rattling in a storm. She blinked rapidly, trying to force her tears back. She would not cry on Bond Street, not in view of the country’s most wealthy and sophisticated citizens. But all the men’s tall-crowned beaver hats and women’s braid-trimmed spencers only reinforced how she would not, could not, ever succeed.

  What would she say to Fred and Cynthia?

  Someone on the street said in an insistent voice, “But, Your Grace—”

  “A moment, Your Grace—”

  Her thoughts broke apart as she became aware of a small crowd moving down the sidewalk, consisting of four more tastefully dressed men revolving like planets around the sun as they fought to gain the sun’s attention.

  Catching sight of the man at the center of their solar system, she understood why.

  Some men possessed a quiet handsomeness that stole upon you gradually. It took a look and then another look before you could appreciate the angle of his jaw or the shape of his lips. You felt comfortable around a chap like that, as if easing into warm bathwater.

  Not this man. There was nothing subtle about his looks. He was spectacularly handsome, so much so that Jess felt faintly annoyed, as if he’d made himself beautiful strictly to let everyone know how good life was to him.

  He possessed a faultless jawline, and his lips were ripe as a summer fruit one had to bite. His nose was perfectly proportioned to his masculine face, and thick dark eyebrows arched above equally dark eyes that shone with intellect and a flash of wicked wit. He didn’t have the height of a colossus, but he did have a long, lean body that surely made his tailor weep with gratitude to have such an impeccable canvas to display the exquisitely fitted clothing he wore now.

  Energy and vitality radiated from him, along with the kind of health and polish that could only come from having whatever he desired whenever he desired it. This man had money. He had power. With every long stride he took—though his strides were hampered by the people crowding around him—he declared silently, All of this belongs to me.

  It was strange, J
ess realized, to desire someone whilst simultaneously resenting them.

  “Excuse me,” she said to a passing lady. “Who is that?”

  The middle-aged woman in pearls sniffed as if offended that not only had Jess been importune enough to ask her a question, but also because Jess was ignorant of the spectacular man’s identity.

  “That,” the woman said haughtily, “is His Grace, the Duke of Rotherby. Take a good eyeful, gel, because looking from a distance is as close as you’ll ever get.” Seemingly pleased with the set-down she’d given Jess, the lady walked away, trailed by her footman, who carried an armful of ribbon-tied boxes.

  Jess was too astonished to care that she’d been insulted. Naturally, she knew who the Duke of Rotherby was. Or rather, she’d read about him for years in periodicals and newspapers. He was always mentioned in breathless prose, cutting a dashing figure through the ton, admired by all and sundry, and his presence at a social gathering ensured that it was declared a success. She had known that he’d inherited his dukedom at a relatively young age, but the fact that he was an extremely attractive man in his prime had never occurred to her.

  The men circling the duke all clamored for his attention, their voices overlapping and creating a cacophony of well-bred syllables. He answered the questions, but that gleam of roguish—nay, rakish—humor in his eyes captivated Jess’s attention. He seemed the possessor of some naughty secret, and damn if she didn’t want to know what it was.

  As he and his followers drew closer, she heard one of the men say, “Will you be at Viscount Marwood’s ball tonight?”

  “That depends,” the duke answered, and of course he had a deliciously low voice that sounded like gravel on velvet. “We’ll see if married life has dampened Marwood’s wilder impulses.”

  “So, you’ll go if he’s tamed?”

  The duke raised a brow. “God, no. Then again, if he’s grown complacent in his married state, an intercession might be in order.”

  “What do you think of Buxton’s silver plate manufactory, Your Grace? A sound investment, I believe.”