How to Find a Duke in Ten Days Read online

  “Not a response per se,” Pinckney said, tidying tea cups and saucers onto a tray. “There is a gentleman below stairs who said he’d wait rather than make an appointment. Tidy young chap, relatively speaking.”

  “Tidy and skinny, I’ve no doubt.”

  The afternoon was gone and so was Ramsdale’s patience. “Send him up, but don’t bother with another tray. I doubt he’ll be staying long.”

  Pinckney used a small brush to dust the crumbs from the table onto a linen serviette. “And will you be going out this evening, my lord?”

  Ramsdale had been ruralizing in Berkshire for the past month, being a doting godfather to a friend’s infant daughter. Had a fine set of lungs on her, did his goddaughter.

  “I might renew acquaintances around the corner,” he said. “If there’s anything to miss about Town, it’s the company of the ladies.” Though the women who dwelled at the odd St. James address didn’t consider themselves ladies.

  Ramsdale had spent many a pleasant hour in their company, nonetheless. His favorite chess partner was a madam of no little repute, and he delighted in the linguistic variety her employees brought to an evening. French, Italian, and German were all to be heard in the main parlor, along with a smattering of more exotic languages.

  Pinckney withdrew, and Ramsdale gathered up what passed for his patience as a slim young fellow was admitted by the footman.

  “My lord.” The scholar bowed. He had a scraping, raspy voice. He also wore blue-tinted spectacles that must have made navigating after dark difficult, and in the dim light of the sconces, his countenance was very smooth.

  Too smooth. “Have you a card?” Ramsdale asked.

  The scholar’s clothes were loose—probably second- or third-hand castoffs—and his hair was queued back and tucked under his collar. He passed over a plain card.

  Phillip Peebleshire. Ah, well, then.

  “You look familiar,” Ramsdale said.

  “We are not acquainted, my lord, though I have tutored younger sons from time to time.”

  Probably true. “Well, have a seat, and lest you think to impress me with your vast qualifications, let’s begin by having you transcribe a few lines from this document.”

  Of the two seats opposite Ramsdale’s desk, Peebleshire took the one farther from the candles. Ramsdale passed over Uncle Hephaestus’s first codicil—there were nine in total—and Mr. Peebleshire took out a quizzing glass.

  “I have paper and pencil, or pen and ink if you prefer,” Ramsdale said.

  “This codicil,” Peebleshire read slowly, “is made by me, the undersigned testator, Hephaestus George Louis Algernon Avery, being of sound mind and composed spirit, as witnessed in triplicate hereto, and does hereby revoke any previous codicils, but not my will, which document is dated—”

  Ramsdale plucked the document from Peebleshire’s pale hands. “You can translate at sight?”

  “The legal documents all tend to follow certain forms, my lord. The vocabulary is limited, until you reach the specific bequests and conditions of inheritance. A modern holographic will written in such arcane language is unusual, though.”

  “My uncle was an unusual man.” Generous, vindictive, devious, and merry. In life, Ramsdale hadn’t known what to make of him. In death, Uncle had become purely vexatious.

  Ramsdale repeated the exercise with the second codicil—the only one he himself had muddled through in full—and again, Peebleshire translated accurately at sight.

  Bollocks. Ramsdale rose and took a candle from the branch on his desk. “What compensation do you seek for your services?”

  Peebleshire named a sum per page—shrewd, that—as Ramsdale lit several more branches of candles around the room. The wages sought were substantial, but not exorbitant for a true scholar.

  “How quickly can you complete the work?” Ramsdale asked.

  “That depends on how much of it there is.”

  Uncle’s will ran on for thirty pages, and the codicils for another sixty. As near as Ramsdale could fathom, seven of the codicils were rants against the established orders at Oxford and Cambridge, with much ink spilled on the reputation of one Professor Peebles.

  “Nearly a hundred pages,” Ramsdale said, “and I also have correspondence Uncle wrote to various scholar friends. Can you translate French?”

  “Of course, my lord.”

  “German, Italian, Spanish?”

  “German, and all of the romance languages, Greek, Aramaic, Hebrew, Latin. My Coptic is less reliable, and I am not confident of the Norse languages. I’m gaining proficiency in spoken Arabic, but the written language is a challenge.”

  If that recitation were true, Ramsdale would have to admit to surprise. “Then you are clearly qualified to meet my needs,” he said, “but before we discuss the rest of the terms, I have one more question for you.”

  Because Ramsdale had lit every blessed candle in the room, he could see his guest well. Peebleshire sat forward, apparently eager for the work.

  “What is your question, sir?”

  “How will I explain to your dear papa, that his darling offspring has taken to parading about London after dark in men’s clothing, Miss Peebles?”

  *

  Linguistic instruction for young ladies seldom included curse words, but Philomena’s father had educated her as if she’d been one of his university students, and thus she could wax profane in a dozen languages.

  In Ramsdale’s rented parlor, she remained outwardly composed, while mentally insulting his lordship’s antecedents in Low German.

  In very Low German.

  “If I’m to parade about London with anything approaching freedom or safety, I dare not wear a lady’s garb,” she said, rising.

  Ramsdale stood across the room, looking broody—which he did well—and amused, which made Philomena uneasy.

  Uneasier. While waiting downstairs, she’d almost risen to leave a hundred times. A hundred and one times, she’d reminded herself that Papa’s reputation hung in the balance, and if he was to have private students to keep his retirement comfortable, if his monographs were to receive a respectful reception, then finding the Duke—any part of the Duke—had become imperative.

  “Come now, madam,” Ramsdale said, sauntering closer. “All you need to assure your safety is a common fashion accessory.”

  “Firearms are noisy and unwieldy,” Philomena said. “Knives are messy and can easily be turned against one.”

  Ramsdale peered down at her. “What a violent imagination you have. Merely drape an escort upon your arm and your troubles are solved. I will see you home, for example, and you’ll find we traverse the streets entirely undisturbed.”

  His lordship smelled good, of leather and bayberry soap, and with his height and muscle, he’d doubtless scare off the footpads as easily as he attracted the ladies. Jane had intimated that Ramsdale had a reputation among the demimonde, suggesting his skills in the bedroom compensated for a lack of appeal in all other regards.

  Thanks to the bawdy inclinations of the Greeks and Romans, Philomena’s literary grasp of amatory pursuits was well informed to an unladylike degree.

  “Thank you, no,” Philomena said. “I will see myself home. Shall I take your uncle’s will with me?”

  Ramsdale stepped away and began blowing out the candles he’d just lit. “You recognized the signature?”

  “Your uncle accounted himself my father’s nemesis. I’ve seen that signature often enough. Every time Papa published an article regarding The Duke’s Book of Knowledge, Hephaestus contradicted him, usually with no evidence whatsoever.”

  Ramsdale pinched out a flame with his bare fingers. “How does one prove a manuscript does not exist?”

  Smoke wafted about him in the shadows, giving him a diabolical air—which he probably cultivated. His voice was a dark growl that carried even when he spoke softly.

  “One cannot prove a book doesn’t exist,” Philomena said. “A brilliant scholar wouldn’t attempt that logical conundrum, wh
ich is why Hephaestus Avery, otherwise accounted an intelligent—if eccentric—man, must have been motivated by something other than a passion for the truth.”

  Ramsdale’s gaze followed the smoke trailing upward. “They collaborated, you know, once upon a time. Traveled the Continent together. Co-authored a review of Parisian restaurants.”

  Philomena sank back into her chair. “You’re daft. They hated each other.” And Papa would as soon eat shoe leather as he would breaded sole with truffle garnish.

  “Which is why your father attended Uncle’s funeral? Why he helped draft the eulogy?”

  Papa hadn’t told her that. He was often forgetful. “One can respect an opponent.”

  “One can, but as a gentleman, I am also bound to respect you, madam, and that means you should not be alone with me, in my rooms, at a staid and respected gentleman’s club. Your presence risks my reputation and yours, so let’s continue this delightful argument while I walk you home.”

  Philomena ought not to be alone with Ramsdale anywhere. He was an earl, and thus all but impervious to gossip, while she was the spinster daughter of an academic one step above obscurity.

  “I’ve known you for ages,” she said. “Seen you wolfing down jam and bread in my father’s kitchen and watched him send you on your way with biscuits to hoard until your next tutoring session.”

  The earl had been a quiet boy—a large, quiet boy. Ramsdale was not academic in the usual sense, but he’d had an ear for languages that had deserved advanced instruction. He’d been among many students whom Papa had taught over the years. They’d all been hungrier for food than for knowledge, and most of them had been easy to forget.

  “And here I thought you never even noticed the boys coming and going from your papa’s study. I account myself flattered, Miss Peebles. Shall we be on our way?”

  Not until Philomena had achieved her objective. “I can’t stop you from wandering where you will, my lord, but I am well qualified for the translation work you need. Do we have an agreement regarding your uncle’s will?”

  Ramsdale leaned back against the desk, a mere two feet from where Philomena sat. She didn’t want to look up at him, and she certainly didn’t want to gaze at what was immediately in her line of sight.

  “You want to see Uncle’s will because you’re afraid his testament discredits your father once and for all.”

  Well, yes. Now that Philomena knew the daft old man had left such a lengthy will, she did want to read it.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, my lord. I came here today not knowing who sought a translation of what document or for what purpose. You doubtless seek to support your uncle’s criticisms of my father’s work.”

  Ramsdale settled into the chair beside hers. The furniture was dark and sturdy, like the man occupying it, and yet, the impression he made was one of leisure and grace.

  “Your father was the only instructor who saw any potential in me, Miss Peebles, and the main reason I didn’t starve my first term. Why would I seek to impugn the reputation of a man I esteem? I’m more inclined to believe that you seek to discredit Hephaestus. He was a thorn in your papa’s side, and you want posthumous revenge on him for demanding proof of a text no living soul has seen.”

  “We are back to the impossibility of proving something in the negative, my lord, for you ask me to establish what my motives are not. Your uncle has been gone these two years. I wish for him only the reward his Maker sees fit to bestow on him.”

  Philomena rose rather than admit that bickering with Ramsdale was invigorating—debating with him, rather.

  Ramsdale rose, yanked a bell-pull, and met Philomena at the door. He prevented her immediate departure by virtue of leaning upon the jamb.

  “My preference for the Albion is well known,” he said. “You saw the advertisement I’ve been running in The Times, and in a flight of female intuition, the likes of which inspire sane men to tremble, considered that I, who have a known interest in languages, had placed the notice.”

  Philomena put a hand on the door latch. “As far as I know, the owner of Ramsdale House dwells at that location. Perhaps the Albion is closer to your preferred entertainments, my lord, but that is no concern of mine. If we’re not to transact business, I’ll be on my way.”

  He straightened as a servant brought in a greatcoat that could have made a tent for a family of six.

  “Shall I wait up for you, my lord?”

  “No need, Pinckney.”

  The older man bowed and withdrew, his gaze barely brushing over Philomena.

  The earl shrugged into his coat, one long arm at a time. When he drew the second sleeve up, he got one side of the collar tucked under itself.

  “Hold still,” Philomena said. “You’ll go out in public looking half dressed, and your poor valet will have an apoplexy, and the next thing you know, you’ll be a caricature in shop windows with your breeches on backward and your watch fob dangling from your hat brim.”

  She sorted out his coat, passed him the hat sitting on the sideboard and then a walking stick that weighed more than her father’s family Bible.

  “I suppose you’ve had to develop managing tendencies,” Ramsdale said. “You have no mama, and the professor grows easily distracted. Shall we be on our way?”

  He gestured toward the door, and had Philomena not been so desperate for coin, she might have let his polite suggestion see her right out into the corridor.

  “I want the work, your lordship. I can bring that will home with me and start on the translation this very evening.”

  “That is my only copy, Miss Peebles. Meaning no disrespect for your motives or your abilities, I’m not about to let it out of my sight.”

  This was merely prudent, also deuced inconvenient. “Then I’ll simply wear my disguise, and nobody will be the—”

  His lordship laughed, a booming, merry cascade of derision. “Your disguise didn’t fool me for two minutes, my dear. In broad daylight, it likely fooled no one.”

  Philomena wanted to smack him. “I sat downstairs in the foyer for two hours, my lord. Nobody gave me a second glance.”

  He tapped his hat onto his head, then paused before pulling on his gloves. “For two hours?”

  “Perhaps longer, and may I say, the chairs are not as comfortable as they look.”

  Too late, Philomena realized that he was no longer having a laugh at her wardrobe. He stared past her shoulder for a moment, and she could feel him parsing evidence and testing hypotheses.

  “You will tutor my sister in French,” he said, “starting tomorrow at nine of the clock at Ramsdale House.”

  “No earl’s daughter will be out of bed at that hour.”

  “Precisely, but my uncle’s last will and testament will be available for your perusal in the library. My sister’s French is in want of polish, and she intends a trip to Paris later this year.”

  “I see.”

  Philomena did not see. His lordship was making it possible for her to translate a long document without risking any harm to her person or her reputation. He must be desperate to know what was hidden in the details of his uncle’s will.

  The only other explanation—that he’d realized a woman who’d wait two hours for an appointment must be badly in need of—attributed to him both accurate intuition and a generous spirit.

  Neither of which Lord Ramsdale possessed.

  But he did make Philomena feel safer on London’s dark streets. That much, even she could admit.

  Chapter Two

  ‡

  “I shall begin with the will,” Miss Peebles said.

  This morning, she was dressed as a female, barely. Her round gown had probably begun life as flour sacking, each finger of her gloves had been mended, and she wore not even a watch on her bodice for decoration.

  But the intelligence snapping in her blue eyes sparkled like sapphires, and she moved about the library with radiant confidence. When faced with a linguistic challenge, she was not the drab Miss Peebles of Ramsdale’s memory,
but rather, some mythical creature who combined intellect, determination, and—confound it, when had this happened?—curves.

  “There is no need for you to read the will,” Ramsdale retorted. He’d ridden in the park before breaking his fast and should have felt more prepared for this encounter.

  This argument. Everything with Miss Peebles had been an argument. She’d debated the best route to take homeward the previous evening, how long she would work per day, and whether her compensation should be paid at the end of the day or the end of each week.

  Ramsdale didn’t have weeks. He had days to find his assigned portion of The Duke’s Book of Knowledge, only nine days now.

  For every position Miss Peebles put forth, she had reasons by the dozen, in addition to corollaries, theses, supporting statements, and evidence. When on a flight of logic, she used her hands to punctuate her lectures, and twice while strolling down the street, Ramsdale had had to grab her arm lest she march across an intersection in the midst of traffic.

  “If I’m reading the codicils,” she said in patient tones, “then I must know the substance of the document they refer to.”

  “Chancery found the will quite valid,” Ramsdale said. “The estate has been distributed, and the will itself holds nothing of any import.” Except some specific bequests, that made Uncle seem more than half-daft.

  Miss Peebles strode across his library, her heels beating a tattoo against the carpets. “The settling of the estate was doubtless uncontested. Chancery waved this document under the nose of one elderly, overworked clerk and took a year to do that much. Let me see the will.”

  Chancery had taken a mere year and ten months, actually, which meant Ramsdale had seen the will in its entirety only a fortnight ago, when the document had been couriered to him in Berkshire.

  And now he was wasting time arguing. “You will not write out a translation of the will,” he said. “You will read it for your own reference.”

  Miss Peebles gave him the sort of look Ramsdale’s friend, the Duke of Lavelle, gave his infant daughter. As if His Grace hoped that someday the little mite would speak in intelligible sentences, or at least refrain from bashing about the nursery heedless of her own well-being.