The Duke Heist (The Wild Wynchesters #1) - Erica Ridley Page 0,3
risk one of our carriages being recognized, so I’ll drive a substitute that cannot be traced to the family.”
Tommy cocked her head. “If there is a queue of carriages awaiting their literary-minded mistresses, how will Chloe know which coach is the right one?”
“Mine will have red curtains…and a conspicuously displayed glove for good measure.” Graham’s eyes lit up. “Better yet, I will not only be the first carriage you come to. I’ll be in the coachman’s perch. You shan’t miss me.”
“No plan without a contingency.” Jacob’s curly black hair dipped as he peeked into the basket of ferrets. “What if the Yorks’ staff insist you move the carriage?”
Tommy clapped her hands. “Elizabeth will distract them.”
When Elizabeth threw her voice, no one could tell where it was coming from. Their sister could emulate an entire crowd of distractions. She was also handy with a sword stick. Either skill would do the trick.
Graham turned to Chloe, his eyes serious. “If we get separated for any reason, go somewhere safe. I’ll find you.”
She grinned back at him, exhilarated by the upcoming adventure. Puck was finally coming home. “The reading circle will have a wonderful afternoon. Other than a wee interlude with Tiglet, the most memorable event will be Miss York charming the Duke of Haughtiness.”
Graham lifted a broadsheet. “Their alliance will be the talk of the scandal columns. No one will remember anything else. Which is too bad, because I rather enjoy their wild conjecture about us. One of my favorite columns claims: ‘Such a large, isolated house could contain dozens of them!’”
Chloe wrinkled her nose. “Those gossips make us sound like bats.”
“I like bats.” Jacob scratched beneath the chin of one of the ferrets. “Bats are fascinating. They have navels like humans and clean themselves like cats. I have thirteen of them out in the barn.”
“Please keep them there,” Tommy murmured.
“Or give them to His Iciness,” Chloe suggested.
“Faircliffe deserves as much.” Graham moved the broadsheets in search of his spoon. “No doubt the duke’s interest in Philippa York is monetary. Although she has no title, she does possess the largest dowry on the marriage mart. I’ve been keeping a tally.”
Chloe agreed. Faircliffe single-handedly lowered the temperature in every room he entered. The man was all sharp cheekbones and cutting remarks. That is, to everyone but her. She was invisible when right in front of him. Even when she was trying to be seen.
Graham made a face. “Can you imagine being wed to that block of ice?”
Chloe pushed her teacup away. “I cannot fathom a worse fate.”
2
Lawrence Gosling, eighth Duke of Faircliffe, was on the verge of achieving what had once seemed impossible: replenishing the dukedom’s empty coffers and restoring its tattered reputation.
His father had lived a charmed life on credit he had been unable to repay. And now, with the failure of their country estate’s crops, the situation was becoming dire. If Lawrence did not secure a bride with a significant dowry before the end of the season, he would have to send the last of his loyal servants to the streets.
He would not repay them so shabbily.
Lawrence leaned forward in his rented coach and opened the curtain to be able to address his driver. As with all of his father’s grievous missteps, each of Lawrence’s attempts to restore respect and prosperity had been won at great personal cost.
The sacrifice was worth it.
Lawrence’s reputation was spotless, his performance in Parliament impeccable. This season, marriage-minded mamas would have him at the top of their lists. For as long as Lawrence lived, the Gosling name and Faircliffe title would never again be spoken with derision. No heir of his would be dismissed, forced to shoulder ridicule and isolation.
Of course, that was because no one realized his shiny reputation hid a very empty pocketbook. The dukedom didn’t need a dowry. The dukedom needed the dowry to end all dowries. A sum so staggering, Lawrence could restore the half-abandoned entailed country estate, repay the last of his father’s debts, and have a respectable chunk left over to invest in a stable future.
The dukedom needed Miss Philippa York.
“The terrace house at the corner,” Lawrence instructed the driver. “The one with yellow rosebushes.”
“As you please, Your Grace.”
Using a coach to travel from one end of Grosvenor Square to the other was a shameless display of pretension and excess…and the reason Miss York’s parents looked favorably on a courtship between Lawrence and their daughter.
Although he’d sold his last remaining carriage that morning—right