The Duke's Perfect Wife

Yes, Eleanor would believe it. That Mrs. Whitaker was a courtesan did not surprise her in the least. That she was a very successful one showed in her expensive furs, elegant carriage, and high-stepping horses.

Eleanor hid her dismay by unfolding the paper that wrapped the cake and nibbling a corner. “Gracious,” she said.

“I do mean the highest,” the vendor said. “The things I could tell you. Princes go in there. And dukes, like that Scots one, what always wears his kilt. Why a man wants to wear a skirt, I couldn’t say. I’d think the cold would go right up his jacksie, wouldn’t you? Oh, begging your pardon, miss. I forget my tongue.”

“Not at all.” Eleanor smiled at him and took another bite of cake.

Curiosity certainly killed the cat. Mrs. Whitaker was a courtesan, and Hart Mackenzie had sent her a thousand guineas. For the photographs? Or for the usual reason a gentleman paid a courtesan?

Well, Hart was a man, his longtime mistress was dead, and gentlemen did have bodily needs. That was a scientific fact. Their gently born wives could neither understand these bodily needs nor were able to endure them, the scientists went on to say, because gently born ladies did not have the same needs.

Absolute nonsense. Eleanor scoffed at this fiction, and so did her father. The truth was that gentlemen visited courtesans because they enjoyed it. Ladies stayed home and endured their husbands straying because they had no choice.

Hart had never been a saint, and he was dedicated to no one at the moment. Eleanor should not condemn him.

And yet. Eleanor’s heart burned, and for a moment, the street blurred. Another conveyance came toward her while she stood unable to move, a dark square in her clouded vision.

The carriage solidified as it pulled to a stop in front of the house. “Speak of the devil,” the vendor said. “That’s his crest. The Scots duke’s, I mean.”

Eleanor’s vision cleared. There was no time to run and nowhere to hide. Eleanor scuttled to the nearest lamppost and put her shoulder against it, hiding her face to eat another bite of seedcake.

She saw square, polished boots stop in front of her, saw the hem of blue and green Mackenzie plaid above them. Her gaze moved from the kilt that hugged his hips to his crisp shirt under his open greatcoat to Hart’s granite face under the brim of his hat.

Hart said not one word. He’d know perfectly well why Eleanor lurked outside the house of a courtesan called Mrs. Whitaker—he had no need to ask. Eleanor could claim it coincidence that she’d chosen to purchase a seedcake three feet from the woman’s door, but Hart would know better.

Eleanor met his gaze and refused to feel remorse. After all, she wasn’t the one visiting a courtesan or paying her a thousand guineas.

They might have stood on the cold street, staring at one another the rest of the day, if the door of the house hadn’t burst open again. The same beefy footman emerged, this time carrying a man out over his shoulder. Hart barely paid any mind as the footman made straight for Hart’s carriage and put the man inside.

Eleanor’s astonishment mounted as David Fleming came out of the house, looked up at the cloudy sky, put on his hat, and climbed into Hart’s carriage as well.

Eleanor swung back to Hart, questions on her lips.

Hart pointed at the carriage. “Get in.”

Eleanor started, and the cake vendor, who’d been watching with evident enjoyment, looked worried. “No need,” Eleanor said to Hart. “I’ll find a hansom. I’ve brought Maigdlin, and I have so many parcels.”

“Get into the carriage, El, or I’ll strap you to the top of it.”

Eleanor rolled her eyes and took another bite of seedcake. She waved at Maigdlin, who was at another vendor’s cart a little way down the street. “Come along, Maigdlin. We’re going.”

The maid, looking relieved, trotted back toward Eleanor and the familiar coach, set down the parcels, and let Mrs. Whitaker’s footman boost her up beside the coachman. The cake vendor watched the proceedings, arrested in the act of lifting another cake off his tiny coal stove.

“It is quite all right,” Eleanor told the cake seller. “His Grace can’t help being rude.” She turned and made for the carriage. “Hart, give the man a crown for his trouble, won’t you?”

Chapter 9

Inside the coach, Eleanor sank onto the seat opposite the two gentlemen already there—David Fleming and an unconscious, white-faced Englishman Eleanor had never seen before.

“Who is that?” she asked. The footman started handing in her parcels, and Eleanor leaned to tuck them beneath David’s seat. “Excuse me. Could you just push that under? Be careful; it’s breakable.”

David obeyed, regarding Eleanor with bloodshot eyes. He was in evening dress and smelled strongly of cigar smoke, brandy, perfume, and something else it took Eleanor a moment to identify. It had been a very long time since she’d encountered such a scent, but she soon realized what it was—that of a man who has been with a woman.

David saw Eleanor’s assessment, grew red in the face, jerked out his flask, and took a long drink.

“Hart, don’t sit on that,” Eleanor said as Hart hauled himself into the carriage. “It’s for Beth. Could you, please…?”

Hart growled, took the parcel, and shoved it onto the shelf above the seat. “Couldn’t you have put these in the back?”

“Good heavens, no. Some of the things are fragile, and I don’t want to give a lucky thief the chance to relieve me of them. Thieves climb onto the backboards and rifle the baggage, you know.”