Ten Things I Hate About the Duke - Loretta Chase Page 0,92

nerves couldn’t take it anymore.

Architectural changes being easier than replacing Sommers, Ashmont rebuilt this side of the first floor, creating a light closet between his bedroom and the dressing room. His clothes were now stored there, and nobody except Sommers was allowed to touch them. He had been touching them for some hours today, because he was packing for an extended journey.

A moment ago, he’d stepped out of the closet in order to deal with a footman hovering at the door. Ashmont was only partly dressed, and in no hurry to complete the process. He sat at the small table before the fireplace, where a cold collation had been laid out for him. He was about to pour a glass of wine when Sommers came back.

“A gentleman has called, Your Grace,” the valet said.

“Told you I wasn’t to be disturbed, unless it’s an attorney.”

He had told the servants he was not at home to anybody but Morris, and wasn’t to be bothered with messages unless they came from his solicitor.

The Pooleys’ problems were simple enough, on the face of it. Ashmont had carried out more intricate pranks. However, getting to the bottom of matters had turned out to be slow work.

Yesterday he’d gone back to learn the name of Mr. Pooley’s previous employer. Then he had to find the employer, who turned out to be working for somebody else. Before long it became clear that lawyers and agents were needed, if the business was to be settled in a satisfactory way, preferably not in Chancery. As much as one wished to, one couldn’t grab these fellows by the lapels and lift them off their feet and give them a good shaking. Actually, one could, and one had done so, but the technique didn’t seem to clarify matters.

It had taken his mind off Cassandra Pomfret for a time, though. It had distracted him from the distress he’d heard in her voice.

. . . wish I’d left you lying in Putney Heath . . . I go from joy to despair and back again . . . I’ve become a woman I despise.

“Your Grace?”

“No exceptions. Except Morris. Wasn’t Morris, was it? Or one of my friends?” Not that Blackwood was likely to turn up. Still at Camberley Place. And Ripley and his new bride were busy transforming a bachelor household into one for a family.

“No, Your Grace. But the gentleman said the matter was urgent.”

“They always say that. Tell the porter to send him about his business. I should like to dine in peace.”

Sommers went out. Ashmont returned to his meal and tried to find his appetite.

Perhaps, after all, this wasn’t the best plan, Cassandra decided after the third rebuff from Ashmont’s porter, but it was the only plan she had. Furthermore, when did Ashmont ever allow himself to be kept out when he wanted to get in?

She adjusted her top hat, smoothed her gloves, and set out to reconnoiter. He owned most of this part of London, and his house and grounds occupied no small portion. Eventually, though, she found a set of gates between the stable yard and the walled garden. Keeping to the shadows, she was able to approach the gate without attracting attention. Then, it was a matter of lock picking without getting caught or scaling it without breaking her neck. Odds decidedly not in her favor.

She was lurking in a gloomy corner, watching for the right moment, when a man emerged from one of the outbuildings, went to the gate, and unlocked it. The gate was heavy, and opened slowly. Holding her breath, she slipped in behind him and quickly concealed herself in the shrubbery. He glanced back, but this wall faced east, out of reach of the setting sun and concealed by mature plantings. He went on making a circuit—patrolling the grounds, apparently, though not as thoroughly as he ought to do. Had he been Keeffe, he’d have caught her before she was through the gate.

Ashmont’s security measures needed improvement. Some irate husband or abandoned mistress could break in and cut his throat and slip away again without raising any hue and cry.

First things first. The duke’s watchman was making his rounds, and she needed to concentrate on getting in. A few of the first-floor windows overlooking the garden were lit and open to the warm July night air. She drew closer.

The stables and houses surrounding the property made a buffer against the bustling streets bordering this part of Ashmont’s estate. While they wouldn’t completely mute