When You Give a Duke a Diamond Read online

  It was Pelham.

  Go away. Go away.

  He stepped onto the stone floor.

  Go away!

  “What the bloody damn hell are you doing here?”

  Juliette started. How had Pelham seen her? “I—”

  “Why are you crouching behind that door?” He pulled it closed and stared down at her, frowning. “What’s going on?”

  “I have to leave,” she whispered. “I must go.”

  He moved aside. “I won’t stand in your way.”

  But she stumbled when she tried to walk. She would have fallen if Pelham hadn’t caught her. This was not the time to notice that he smelled like mint or that his chest was wonderfully broad. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled, pushing away from him.

  “Wait a moment.” He caught her arm, holding her still and—though she wouldn’t admit it—keeping her steady. “You’re trembling, and you’re too pale. Are you ill?”

  “No.” She didn’t want to tell him what she’d seen. She didn’t want to be the one to give him the news his fiancée was dead, to tell him his betrothed’s blood was seeping onto the ground just beneath them. “I saw—”

  A shot boomed through the night, and Juliette felt something hot zing past her cheek. Little chinks of stone scattered on the balcony at her feet. She blinked and gazed up at the sky. “Fireworks?”

  Pelham grabbed her and pushed her down, crouching beside her. Inside the ballroom, the strings in the orchestra rose in a blazing crescendo.

  “What are you doing?”

  “That was a shot from a pistol, and if my guess is correct, it narrowly missed your head.”

  Juliette’s trembling turned to violent shaking. “But—”

  “Look.”

  She did. His finger indicated the side of Carlton House. A small lead ball was lodged in the stone.

  “You’re bleeding.”

  “What?” She touched her head, but he removed his handkerchief and wound it about her upper arm, just where her gloves ended. A few chinks of stone had embedded in her flesh, and tiny drops of blood marred her silver gown.

  “We have to get out of here.” She began scooting toward the ballroom. “Someone is shooting at me.”

  He glanced into the darkness beyond the balcony. “Why would someone be shooting at you?”

  She blinked, having trouble concentrating.

  “Who is shooting and why?” he said slowly, as though speaking to a small child.

  “Oh. It’s Lucifer. He must know what I saw.” She would have dashed into the ballroom, but he held her good arm.

  “The devil? Have you hit your head?”

  “No. Not the devil, though I’m beginning to think he’s a not so distant relation. Lucifer—the man who killed your fiancée.”

  Pelham’s jaw dropped, and his hand on her arm opened.

  Now free, she plunged into the crowds in the ballroom.

  Six

  Pelham stood completely still for several moments. His ears rang with the duchess’s last words.

  Lucifer—the man who killed your fiancée.

  He shook his head. Had his hearing failed him? It made no sense. Lady Elizabeth was alive and well. He’d left her no more than a quarter of an hour ago. Left her right here in this very spot. He glanced around the empty balcony.

  So where was she?

  She wasn’t dead. Pelham didn’t believe that for even a moment.

  But the girl—courtesan—had looked quite frightened. And there was that pistol shot. He glanced at the stone wall, where the lead ball was still embedded. Certainly there was a reasonable explanation for all of this. Courtesans were notoriously dramatic. He would find Lady Elizabeth, and that would answer one question.

  He bent to gather Lady Elizabeth’s fallen pelisse and strode through the ballroom. The crowds were as thick as the locusts in an Egyptian plague, but they parted easily for him. No one wanted to be in the way of the Dangerous Duke. Not when he had a purpose so clearly in mind.

  He scanned the ballroom, did not see his fiancée, and made his way to her mother. “Have you seen Lady Elizabeth?” he asked without preamble.

  The marchioness’s expression grew concerned, and she put a hand on her bosom. “Eliza? No, I thought she was with you. Oh, dear. I hope she hasn’t run off again.”

  “Run off?” Pelham narrowed his eyes.

  “I—oh—” The marchioness flapped her arms.

  This would not do. Pelham couldn’t conceive how the Cyprian might convince Lady Elizabeth to disappear, but he would not be trifled with. The woman needed to be shown exactly whom she was dealing with.

  “I’ll be right back.” Pelham dumped the pelisse he still had strewn over one arm into the marchioness’s hands and marched through the ballroom until he reached the hall. A footman in the prince’s livery bowed to him, and Pelham demanded, “Have you seen the duchess?”

  “Which duchess, Your Grace?”

  Pelham clenched his fists impatiently. “The one they call Duchess,” he ground out. “The courtesan.”

  “Ah.” The footman smiled. “The Duchess of Dalliance.”

  Was that her sobriquet? Devil take her.

  “Yes, Your Grace. She just took her leave.”

  Pelham was already striding for the doors. “Did she call for her carriage?” he called over his shoulder.

  “I don’t believe so, Your Grace. She arrived in the countess’s carriage.”

  Pelham stopped. “Which countess?”

  “The Countess of Charm.”

  Of course. Pelham stepped under the portico of Carlton House and ordered a groom to fetch his coach. “And be quick about it,” he demanded. “If you can’t be quick, bring me one of my horses.”

  Pelham paced while he waited, grunting out greetings to the ball’s late arrivals. The duchess couldn’t have gotten far on foot. He could easily catch her, if the damn groom didn’t observe all the niceties of Society and allow every other carriage to go ahead of him. He would catch the courtesan and teach her to manipulate him as though he were one of the fools fawning over her.

  Just as he was about to start off on foot, his coach thundered onto the drive. His coachman reined the horses in, but at Pelham’s gesture, held them only long enough for the duke to jump in. “Drive to the gates. Slowly. I’m looking for a woman on foot.”

  “Yes, Your Grace!”

  They reached Pall Mall without spotting her, and Pelham was about to instruct the groom to head for the park when he noticed members of the crowd outside the gates of Carlton House, craning their necks to stare along the street. Pelham followed the direction of their gazes and saw a figure in shimmering silver.

  “Found you.” He stuck his head out the window. “Fetch her.” He ordered his footman and pointed at the duchess.

  “Your Grace?” The footman looked horrified and understandably so. It was not every day his employer asked him to kidnap a woman off the street.

  “Never mind.” Pelham shoved the door open, not even waiting for the coachman to fully stop the carriage. He jumped out, landed easily, and went after her. The crowds outside Carlton House didn’t part quite as easily as those inside the ballroom, and he had to shoulder his way through.

  Until he was recognized.

  “It’s the Duke of Pelham!” someone shouted.

  “The Dangerous Duke!”

  And then everyone moved aside, and he had a clear shot at the duchess.

  And an audience.

  Several long strides later, he reached her. He grasped the flesh of her arm between her glove and the sleeve of her gown and released her just as quickly. Her skin was amazingly soft—a fact he wished he could erase from his mind. And where were his bloody gloves? He’d misplaced them somewhere, another indication the night
was going to hell.

  “You!” The duchess was staring at him. “Did you follow me?”

  “You tell me my fiancée has been”—he lowered his voice—“murdered, and don’t expect me to follow you?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t have time to discuss this. If he sees me, if he catches me…” She began walking away.

  Pelham grasped her arm again and hissed. Devil take it if he didn’t touch that velvet skin again. But he didn’t release her this time. Only because he didn’t want her to get away. Not because he enjoyed touching that silky skin.

  And oh, what an accomplished liar he was becoming.

  “You’re coming with me,” he told her. “I don’t know what’s frightening you, but you can explain in my coach.”

  “I’m not…” But she looked over her shoulder and seemed to reconsider. “Very well. You do realize, Your Grace”—somehow she made the title sound like an epithet—“that your actions tonight only confirm the rumors about us and incite new ones.”

  Reluctantly, Pelham looked over his own shoulder. A crowd of onlookers was watching them, most of them murmuring and whispering behind their hands. He scowled at them, and several scurried away. Others took a step back.

  “I’ll squash any further rumors,” Pelham said between clenched teeth.

  “Wonderful,” she muttered.

  He signaled to his coachman, and his carriage was beside them in mere moments. A footman opened the door and handed the duchess up. He was right beside her. Once inside, he closed the curtains and instructed his coachman to wait.

  He turned his attention to the woman across from him and tried not to stare. The color was high in her cheeks, and her eyes were bright. He did not think it possible, but she was even lovelier than when he’d first seen her tonight.

  His gaze—completely of its own accord—flicked to her mouth. She’d rouged it, because it was far too perfectly red to be natural. It reminded him of some exotic fruit, and he desperately wanted to sample it. One kiss…

  He tightened his hands on his knees. What was wrong with him? He couldn’t kiss her. She wasn’t an acceptable kissing partner in the least. She was a courtesan—a whore. She seduced men for money, and he was falling under her spell.

  She narrowed her icy blue eyes at him. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  He blinked. “I…” He couldn’t think of an answer. What was happening to him? He was no schoolboy, falling over his feet or his tongue around a pretty girl. Come to think of it, even when he had been a schoolboy, he hadn’t fallen over his feet or his tongue. Such behavior wouldn’t have been tolerated.

  She was still looking at him, so he blurted out the first thing that came to his, admittedly, befuddled mind. “What is your name?” Darlington had told him, but he couldn’t seem to remember at the moment.

  She shook her head slightly. “That’s what you want to know? At a time like this? Lucifer is going to kill me. I saw—I saw—” She clenched her fist and took a deep breath. “Why are we sitting here? Let’s get away. While we still can!”

  “We are sitting here until you explain precisely what it is you think you saw. I will not be trifled with, madam. Now, I’d like to refer to you by some type of name, and I have an objection—I’m sure you understand why—to calling you Duchess. So what is your surname?”

  She massaged her temples. “You are a vexing man, but if this is the game you want to play, I can play, too. Tell me your name, and I shall tell you mine.”

  “You know my name. I’m the Duke of Pelham.” He moved slightly, put his hand on the coach’s squabs, and felt the fine kid leather of his gloves. Thank God something was going right.

  “Oh, no. If we are going to sit in a dark carriage and exchange secrets—”

  He paused in the act of pulling on his gloves. “I didn’t say anything about secrets.” But suddenly he was wondering about them, wondering what hers might be and how he might discover them.

  “Then the very least you can do is reveal your Christian name.”

  He stared at her. “I am a duke. The sixth Duke of Pelham. That means you call me Your Grace or, if you are one of my familiars—which you are not—Pelham, or if you are a social equal—which you are not—Duke. I do not have a Christian name.”

  She raised a thin brow at him. “I cannot believe your fiancée’s dead body grows cold by the moment, and you sit here and argue etiquette with me.”

  “Then tell me your name.”

  “No! If I have to call you Duke—”

  “I already explained—”

  “—then you may call me Duchess.”

  She had cut him off! The nerve of the chit—to interrupt him! He was of a mind to throw her back out onto the street, but a tiny part of him rebelled against the idea. What if what she said was true? He hadn’t been able to find Lady Elizabeth in the ballroom. And his ears were still ringing from the pistol shot.

  He clenched his fists and steeled himself. His association with this Cyprian would not be long-lived. He could tolerate her insolence for a few more minutes.

  “I am William Henry Charles Arthur Cavington, Viscount Southerby, Marquess of Rothingham, and sixth Duke of Pelham.”

  She clapped. “Bravo! What a lovely recitation of your numerous names and titles. I think I shall call you Will.”

  He started, tried to stand, and bumped his head on the roof of the carriage. “No, you most certainly will not!”

  She held out her gloved hand. “Hello, Will. I’m Juliette.”

  He gave her hand a scornful look. “I shall call you Mrs…?”

  Her ice-blue eyes darkened to sapphire. “I’m afraid I can’t tolerate my former husband’s surname. If you wish to address me, you’ll have to call me Duchess or Juliette.”

  She was divorced. He should have realized as much. He could not conceive what man, who once in possession of this Juliette, would ever divorce her—unless she drove him mad, which she was obviously quite capable of—but that was beside the point.

  Divorced women were not accepted into Polite Society. A courtesan and a divorced woman. He shook his head. He must be rid of her quickly.

  He cleared his throat. “Very well, madam. Tell me what you think you saw this evening.”

  “You keep saying that.”

  “Because you haven’t answered the question yet.”

  “No.” She shook her head as though he were the dimwit. “You keep implying I imagined what I saw. I did not imagine it, Will. I wish to God that I had.”

  He bristled at her use of the familiar address. In his whole life, no one had ever called him Will. Even his own father called him William, when he had called him at all.

  “But I did not imagine it.” She raised a hand, her gloved fingers playing with the velvet curtains. He wanted to tell her to let them be. They were tightly closed to keep the prying eyes of the crowds at bay. And he rather liked sitting here in the dim glow of the lamps with her. He liked the play of the candlelight on her pale, delicate skin.

  Perhaps he should allow her to open those curtains. But she didn’t. Instead, she caressed them, the action making him suck in a slow breath as he watched the path of her fingers and imagined she were touching him. He shook his head. He must find Lady Elizabeth and be rid of this bewitching courtesan.

  “I was taking some air on the balcony when you and your fiancée approached. I heard you tell her you would fetch her pelisse.”

  “Eavesdropping.”

  She scowled at him, but somehow the gesture didn’t mar the beauty of her face. “I was there before you, and I would not have been there at all had you not cut me.” She held up a hand before he could reply. “But that is not the point.”

  She began to say something about a man jumping onto the balcony, kissing Lady Elizabeth, and asking about diamonds. Pelham
tried to concentrate, but she wasn’t quite making sense. Lady Elizabeth kissing Lucifer? And had this courtesan, this Juliette, really held up her hand a moment ago to cut him off?

  “Mrs.—madam,” he finally interrupted. “If my fiancée has been murdered, as you say, where is her body?”

  She frowned. “I told you. He dumped it over the balustrade.”

  “Then it should still be there.”

  “I suppose. I don’t know. I just want to get away. Please drive me home or allow me to get out.” She put her hand on the door, and he covered it.

  “Now wait just a moment, madam. You cannot leave the scene of a crime. You are a witness. We must call the magistrate.” If she was lying, that threat ought to frighten her. But she only looked more tired.

  “Rules.” She shook her head. “You may call the magistrate and go back to the scene and do whatever you like. I am leaving.”

  He tightened his grip. “No, you are not. You will accompany me back to the balcony so I can see this body for myself. If there is indeed a body, then we will discuss our next step.”

  Though Pelham did not think any discussion was called for. Obviously the magistrate would have to be called.

  Juliette blinked at him. “You expect me to go back? To look at a dead body? No. I will not do it. And if you had any sense, you would not go back either. He was shooting at us!”

  “Who?”

  She threw her arms into the air. “Have you not been listening? Lucifer! He must have seen me and realized I was a witness. That was why he was shooting. He doesn’t want witnesses.”

  Pelham nodded. That would make sense—if the remainder of her story were true. But he was not convinced. “That might have been a shot fired from a pistol,” he conceded.

  “You said yourself it was. You showed me the ball.” The color in her cheeks was exceedingly high now. She looked quite flushed.

  “That doesn’t mean you were the target.”

  She gaped at him. “You cannot be serious.”

  “We overlooked the park. It could have been poachers.”