Historical Romance: How to Keep a Knight A Duke's Game Regency Romance: Wardington Park, #10

chapter 1

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July 1828

Oh, look at this! Lady Matilda St. Clair said as she spread the paper out on the table in the sitting room. Blackheart has returned! How marvelous. I wonder what sort of new adventures he will be getting into. She brought up her cool gray eyes to stare at her friend, Lady Jane Lawson, the Countess of Cartridge, who simply gazed up at her as though she’d made comment on the weather.

Jane returned to her needlework and said, Leave him alone.

As her small fingers worked the fine thread, Matilda’s mind was taken to the past. Jane, who sat barely animated in her chair, had once been one of the greatest thieves in London. She’d worked for a Captain named Gore, who’d returned from war only to find himself without a job. Gore had started a network of thieves and Jane, who’d been a daughter of the gentry, had been his prized larcenist. Jane, because of her family’s substantial wealth, had always been able to mingle with the Ton, yet all the while, she’d robbed them blind.

Matilda had always looked up to her.

Admittedly, Jane had never wanted to work for Gore. She’d been blackmailed into her position, but that hadn’t meant that Jane wasn’t good at it. She had been wonderful at it, at least until the day she’d been caught. The Earl of Cartridge had found her stealing from his library, and she’d knocked him in the head with a candlestick before traipsing out of the house. Matilda had heard Jane tell the story so many times, she felt as though she’d been there, had watched the earl and the thief fall in love and eventually take down the true villain of the tale. Gore.

Matilda sighed and wondered if Jane still had it in her. Her shiny brown hair was pinned up into a lovely fashion. Her dress was a shade of white that made it impossible for anyone to do more than sit or walk slowly if they planned to keep it clean. And there was that blasted needle in her hands.

Jane was now the mother of two and a devoted wife. She took evening tea with marchionesses and duchesses, and while Matilda had accompanied her on more than a few occasions, she never fully fit into the world of the peerage. She only pretended to.

But when no one else was around, when it was just her and Jane, she knew she could be herself.

Elf, she whispered, addressing her by her nickname.

Jane looked up. Yes?

I would very much like to meet this Blackheart. Her stomach grew warm at the thought. The paper said the notorious thief had been pardoned by the king after it was discovered he’d not been the one to steal the king’s jeweled cup. John Abrams, as was his true name, had spent time in prison, before being sent to Australia for his crime years ago, but somehow, he’d managed to escape the hull that had been taking him there. Some stories even claimed that he’d taken over the hull, freed the men, and became captain of the ship.

Blackheart.

The paper told a bland story of forgiveness and good-natured men, but Matilda read through the lines. In the end, the story was about Blackheart, the pirate, the confidence man, the adventurer, and he was once again free to walk the streets of London. How glorious.

You must have a dinner and invite him over, Matilda said.

Jane asked, And I suppose you will be at this dinner as well?

Of course!

As who, Dorie? Jane asked with another glance. Lady Matilda St. Clair or Eudora Gore, the daughter of Captain James Gore?

Dorie turned away from the table and went to the window that overlooked the street. As Lady St. Clair, of course, she whispered. No one knew of her true origins, only Jane, and she would fight to keep it that way.

You might just be the last person he wishes to see, Dorie. You look much like your father. That was true. She did look like her father, or the Captain, as she’d called him. She shared his pale skin and cool gray eyes. She had the same straight nose and small mouth, but her father’s skin had been marred by age and his insistence on smoking cheroots. His hair, during his legendary years, had been gray, but she could imagine that people recalled the time when it had been just as blond as hers. There had been moments at parties where people had stared at her as though they’d recognized her. Captain James Gore’s face had been illustrated in the papers during his arrest, printed for those who lived in England and abroad. There were those who still hated Gore even after his death. He’d ruined many lives.

Dorie turned around. But you forgave me. You didn’t make me pay for the sins of my father. I would never blackmail someone into doing something they didn’t wish to do.

I know, Jane said with a gentle smile. Which is the reason why I am helping you. As Lady St. Clair, no one will know who you are. However, you must not give yourself away by seeming too interested in the darker sides of Mr. Abrams. It would also help if you didn’t refer to him as Blackheart either. Just Mr. Abrams.

Mr. Abrams? That name could never adequately describe the glorious man whose image had also been drawn in the papers. Even in print, he was beautiful. She remembered him as a younger lad when he’d gone to visit the Captain. She’d watched from a hole in her bedchamber wall and thought him the most handsome man in the world. His dark eyes had always held the gleam of humor, and his hair had been such a richer tone of gold than her own blond, like looking at the sun. The warm color of wheat.

His skin had also been golden, as if it ignored the clouds over London and drew sun from somewhere else. He had glowed, and Dorie had fallen in love. She’d been heartbroken when he’d been sentenced to die in captivity. One as beautiful as him should never suffer such a fate, but then she’d rejoiced when he’d escaped. Oftentimes, she’d dreamt about them running off together.

She laughed now. She’d been about nine when she’d fallen for the sixteen-year-old, so she’d known he’d never looked at her that way. But, now she was twenty and nine and he was thirty and six.

And again, she was simply the wrong age for him. If Abrams were allowed back into Society, he’d probably marry and if he married, it would not be her. Dorie knew she was someone men considered pretty, but men like him didn’t marry women who were past their prime.

So, no, she didn’t dream of her and Blackheart standing up at St. George’s, but she would like to meet the man who’d often haunted her mind... and her dreams. Was that so much to ask? And what was the harm in a little flirting?

You do know that you are playing the part of a married woman, yes? Jane asked.

Dorie cursed and turned around. I remember. Though, for a moment, she had forgotten. Her mind had only seen her and Blackheart.

Lady St. Clair’s husband is in Italy, Jane said. As he has been since a month after your wedding in Gretna Green four years ago.

Dorie dropped into the chair across from Jane. Yes, I do recall, but perhaps we could lay Lord St. Clair to rest. After all, he is dead. It was the truth. Lord St. Clair had married a woman by the name of Matilda in Gretna Green, and they’d gone to Italy after that. However, they’d both died on that trip. She’d sent a letter to his remaining brothers, telling them that their sibling was dead, but never heard anything back. She blamed their silence on the fact that she was a part of Society and never ventured to the country, while they seemed to avoid every Season and stayed in the country. Their paths never crossed.

Eudora Gore, as was her real name, had been living in Italy and had witnessed the pickpockets steal and leave the St. Clairs in a bloody mess. She’d tried to help them, had fought off the ruffians herself, but it had been too late. The couple had quickly been buried in unmarked graves. Enraged, Dorie had gone on the hunt for the ruffians. She’d found them and also found Lord St. Clair’s papers. She’d then found one man who knew St. Clair and had been surprised when he’d asked Eudora if she was Matilda, for no one had met Lord St. Clair’s wife.

Matilda, being the daughter of a criminal, had seen the opportunity and had declared herself Lady St. Clair, but then foolishly had decided to not also mention that her husband was dead. Instead, she’d claimed him to be off in Africa on an adventure, and strangely, everyone had believed her.

It had been easy to play the part of Lady Matilda St. Clair when she’d returned to London. The banks had opened their doors to her, and she’d went on to run the small estate that the late Lord St. Clair left behind. She’d continued to say his lordship was in Africa and no one questioned her.

Until she’d attended her first ball and had seen Lady Jane. Elf had recognized her immediately, and Eudora had been forced to tell the whole bloody truth. Thankfully, Jane had not outed her after the story and had further managed to help Dorie become a member of the peerage.

This meant that Jane was the only active member of Society who knew that Dorie’s pretend husband was dead. His brothers were not active, so they did not count, but it was only a matter of time before that changed. 

But four years had passed, and now it was time to move on.

Let’s have a funeral, Dorie said.

Wonderful idea, Jane told her. But if we do that, you will have to be in mourning for a year. You’ll be forced to wear only black and not be allowed to attend any parties, dinners, or balls.

Dorie cursed and banged her fist on the table. How horribly unfair!

Jane smiled, rose, and started for the door. Indeed, so if you wish to meet Mr. Abrams, then your husband will have to live on.

Fine, Dorie agreed and rose from the chair. Where are you going?

To select stationary for the invitations, Jane said with a smile as she put her needlework away. If we’re to invite Mr. Abrams, then I want us to be the very first to host him.

Glorious, Dorie said as she rushed over to Jane’s side.

With parasols in hand, the women were out the door in no time.

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chapter 2

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John Abrams sat in the chair outside of Wardington’s office. He’d been summoned to the residence the day after his friend the Duke of Oakley’s wedding. He’d been given the privilege of standing at his friend’s side during the ceremony before Wardington had seen to remind him that he was not a free man.

According to His Majesty, John would be no better than a ship’s sailing, hanging by the end of a ropeknot be three sheets in the wind for escaping his sentence years ago. All the king had wanted was his Holy Grail, a cup that was decked out in rubies and gems. John hadn’t stolen it to begin with, but had known that with his past, no one would believe him, so he did what he had to do and found the cup before presenting himself to the king.

He’d been pardoned from death, pardoned from the Crown, but not pardoned from all his sins. There were still those he’d taken from and good old George had placed John in Wardington’s care until all the goods were returned.

And so, there he sat, waiting to hold audience with the man who thought himself the King of London, though with good reason. It seemed nothing happened without Wardington’s knowledge or say so.

The duke had been called every nefarious name under the sun, while others whispered that he was an angel of light. He’d even been dubbed a matchmaker among the ton, and though John wasn’t sure if Wardington had a hand in every love match of recent years, he did admit that he wasn’t sure London was ready for such a romantic group of leaders. He looked forward to seeing exactly where Society was heading.

Wardington’s dealings were rarely within the confines of the law, but as the king’s cousin and close friend, Wardington feared no man but was feared by everyone who knew him. John admitted to being nervous around the gentleman.

John, Blackheart, the pirate, the thief, the swindler, a man who’d done things that could never be whispered about, not even in the darkest, filthiest corners of the East End, was afraid of a man who dressed in a suit? A member of the peerage? A gentleman of good breeding?

John quivered in his boots.

But the day was one of those rare sunny ones. The morning rays bounced off the dark wooden floors and the surface of the gold fixtures. The sound of birds came through the open window down the cool yellow hall, and John felt the urge to investigate. 

He rose, only to have a guard push him back into the chair.

He looked at the hulk of a man by the door and said, I was only stretching my legs.

The guard glowered darkly at him. Wardington told me to keep an eye on you. He wants everything to be as it was after you leave.

John frowned. I’m not foolish enough to steal from Wardington. Again.

The guard grunted, as if he’d heard what John had not added at the end. You were foolish before. Did you truly think Wardington wouldn’t find out? You’re a fool.

John knew that. At one time in life, Martin Dawnton, the Duke of Wardington, and Sir John Abrams had been friends. After escaping Gore, John had been knighted for his efforts in Russia, and many of the peers had welcomed John into their home, ignoring most of his dark past and respecting him as an educated knight... until His Majesty’s cup had gone missing. Then everyone had looked at the only known thief, but they’d all been wrong. John would never steal from the king and before the dark days and long trials that followed, he’d never stolen from a friend. John had only stolen from the duke because he’d needed the money to escape the hull. He’d paid the guards to free him, and that was how he’d escaped.

The door to Wardington’s office opened and a dark-haired young boy came out. His green eyes matched those of his grandfather’s, and the superior look he gave John made him sure that Wardington would be pleased. The four-year-old, Bradley Dawnton, was the Earl of Denbrook, but one day he would be the Duke of Wardington.

He began walking down the opposite hall when Wardington stuck his head out the door. Bradley, he called.

The earl turned to look up at his grandfather.

Remember what I said. Play nicely.

Bradley gave his grandfather a nod, gave John another passive glance, and then proceeded down the hall like a boy who knew the weight of his birth and the position he would one day hold.

Wardington looked over at John and grinned. Come in, Mr. Abrams.

John rose and moved quickly in order to keep out of reach from the guard, who gave a low chuckle as he entered the office. 

He distracted himself from the knowledge that Wardington had chosen to distance himself from John by calling him Mr. Abrams and looked around the dark office, before thinking it a bad idea. He didn’t want Wardington to think he was looking for something to steal later, so instead he focused on the man.

Almost ten years had passed since they’d drank and laughed together, but the duke still had the physique of a young man and seemed just as agile. He had to be in his early fifties now. John hoped death was not near the man and prayed they were friends before the end took either of them.

Wardington was rounding his desk when he said, My grandson seems to believe himself to be lord over his friends and not simply a small estate in the country.

John fell into his own chair before saying, I wonder where he gets that from.

Wardington laughed and leaned back in his chair. His green eyes shined with admiration. I suppose you’re right. His father obviously.

John laughed as well. The Marquess of Clariant, Bradley’s father, while seeming different on the outside with his brooding and consideration of all matters, liked authority just as much as his father. He was a strong voice in parliament and never backed away from giving his opinion on a matter.

John had not been in England in years, but he had kept up with its affairs, always dreaming that one day he’d come back. John had only returned to London because of the duke’s wedding to the Dowager Countess of Cartridge. He’d thought that receiving the invite meant that Wardington had forgiven him, but he’d soon realized that was not the case. A month later, he found himself in a cell underneath Wardington’s London residence and had found the humor in it, for John had built one of his own in his townhouse in France. He’d done so after seeing the very one that Wardington had built.

It had been Oakley who’d freed John. Oakley was Wardington’s nephew, and at his nephew’s request, John had seen the sun again and was allowed to walk the streets of London once more, but only after promising to find the king’s cup.

Wardington sobered after a few moments and then his look became serious. Let’s get straight to it. He handed John a note.

John took it, read it, and felt his heart sink to his stomach. What is this?

A list of stolen goods from the peerage. Return all these items to their owners, and you will gain your freedom.

John looked at the list again and then to Wardington. I didn’t take half these things.

I know that, Wardington said with a grin. And, of course, he knew; he knew everything. Nevertheless, it will be your job to find them and return them to their rightful owners. Only then will you be completely free from worry.

And my respect? John asked. When I return these items, especially the ones I did not take, what will those people think of me?

Wardington leaned back. Who says they must know who returned their items? They don’t even know their names and lost items have been added to that list or of the list’s existence. I compiled the list all by myself. This is solely between you and I.

John narrowed his eyes. Are these people even your friends? Some of the names were people John knew Wardington hadn’t liked in the past and for good reason. So, it didn’t make sense that Wardington would be doing an act of kindness for them now.

Not friends, Wardington said. But something was taken from them, and I’m seeing that it is returned.

So, what is this? You’ve gone soft in the heart and decided these people deserve their things back?

Wardington shrugged. I’ve been known to do small kind gestures.

Not for free and never for someone you didn’t like. Then John’s eyes narrowed further on the older gentleman’s face. "You’re going to make them owe you, aren’t you?