In Bed with the Duke(54)

But then why else would the butler have addressed him as ‘Your Grace’?

‘This is Miss Carstairs, Perkins,’ said Gregory—or whoever he was—to the butler, handing him his valise. ‘My fiancée.’

‘Your—?’ The butler’s face paled. His lips moved soundlessly, his jaw wagging up and down as though words failed him.

She knew how he felt, having just sustained as great a shock herself. Which made her realise her own mouth had sagged open on her hearing Gregory claim to be a duke.

She shut it with a snap.

‘Fiancée,’ Gregory repeated slowly, as though addressing an imbecile.

‘If you say so, Your Grace,’ said the butler, looking distinctly unimpressed. ‘I mean...’ he added swiftly, when Gregory raised one eyebrow in that way he had—a way, she now saw, that was due to his being a duke. A duke who wasn’t used to having butlers, let alone stray females, dare to express a view that ran counter to his own. ‘Congratulations, Your Grace,’ said the butler, inclining his head in the slightest of bows whilst refraining from looking in her direction.

‘Miss Carstairs and I fell among thieves on the road,’ said Gregory. Or whatever she was now supposed to call him.

‘Hence our rather dishevelled appearance.’ He waved his hand in a vague gesture encompassing them both.

‘I shall send for Dr Crabbe at once, Your Grace,’ said the butler, his eyes fixed on the cuts and bruises on his employer’s face.

Marks that she’d come to regard as an integral part of him. But which were not, to judge by the butler’s expression of horror, by any means typical.

‘Oh, no need for that. I am sure Mrs Hoskins can supply a poultice, or some soothing ointment of some sort that will suffice. And, while we are on the subject of ointment, Miss Carstairs will need some for her feet.’

‘Her feet?’ The butler, reduced to repeating his master’s words in a strained manner, glanced down at her feet, and then to the staircase, from the direction of which came the sound of a slamming door.

A slender youth, in very natty dress, appeared on the landing and began to jog down the stairs, whistling cheerfully.

Until he caught sight of the three of them standing by the open front door. Which had him coming to an abrupt halt, mid-whistle.

‘Halstead!’

Since the youth was staring at Gregory, Prudence could only suppose that Halstead must be his real name. Or his title. Aristocrats always had a handful of each.

‘The devil!’

‘Language, Hugo,’ said Gregory—or Halstead—or whoever he was. Though at least she could surmise that this youth was the Hugo with whom Gregory had suspected she’d done some sort of deal when they’d first met.

‘Language be damned,’ said Hugo, reaching for the banister rail to steady himself. ‘You didn’t last the full week. I’ve won.’

Won? Won what?

‘Extenuating circumstances,’ said Gregory, waving a languid hand in her direction. He spoke in a bored drawl. As though he was completely unmoved by the shock afflicting everyone else in the hallway, which he’d caused by strolling through the front door and announcing both his rank and his betrothal.

‘No such thing,’ said the youth, folding his arms across his chest. ‘Ain’t you always telling me that there’s never any excuse for outrunning the constable? That if you only have a little backbone, or willpower, or a modicum of intelligence...’

‘Not here,’ muttered Gregory—she had to think of him by some name, and that was the one she’d grown used to. And if he hadn’t wanted her to use it he should jolly well not have let her do so! ‘We will repair to the morning room,’ he said, taking her elbow firmly to steer her across the hall. ‘While we await refreshments.’ He gave the butler a pointed look.

The butler flinched. ‘Her Ladyship is in the morning room, taking tea,’ he said, glancing at Prudence, then back at Gregory, in ill-concealed horror.

‘Ah,’ said Gregory, coming to a full stop.

‘No point in trying to keep anything from Lady Mixby,’ said Hugo cheerfully, jogging down the rest of the stairs. ‘Since the person she is currently entertaining to tea is a most interesting cove who claims you sent him here. By the name of Bodkin.’

Bodkin? Wasn’t that the name of the man with whom he’d told her he’d broken into a mill? Making it sound as if he was some sort of...Robin Hood, or something. Going about righting wrongs. Now this Hugo person was making it sound as though it was a great jest. Coupled with his first remark, about not lasting a week and not winning, it sounded suspiciously as though Gregory had gone to the factory in the course of trying to win some kind of wager.