How to Deceive a Duke

Sitting on the cold stone, the hard metal bars of the prison cell pressing against her head, Fiona inhaled and exhaled with shallow breaths trying not to notice the smell of vomit or give any sign that she was not exactly who she was pretending to be—Finley McTavish, country lad.

She’d lost her cap in the chaos of the protest as well as her right shoe. But somehow, despite being roughly shoved into a wagon with fifteen men, her wig had remained in place and the binding around her breasts hadn’t shifted. The thin layer of coal dust she’d put on her jaw that morning to give a hint of stubble was now covered in mud and a constable’s spit. She supposed the dried blood that ran in a trail from her hairline across her brow and into her eyes probably helped with the disguise.

“Ye mongrels,” a man standing next to her yelled, banging on the bars and causing reverberations to travel through her skull and into her teeth. They had been in the cell for three hours, and her headache, which had started with an elbow to the temple before the authorities had even shown up, was intensifying with every minute.

Three feet away from her, another cellmate turned to face the wall, reached into his trousers, and pulled out his cock, a steady stream of urine hitting the bricks and splashing. As disgusting as the sight of a wrinkled, limp member was, it was nothing compared to the sudden urge to pee let loose by the sound of the trickle.

Fiona pulled her knees into her chest, drawing herself in tightly. Even if she was inclined to piss in public, which she would never do, there was no way of doing it without revealing herself as a woman. That was neither smart nor safe.

Neither of the trusted friends whom she would normally turn to were in any position to help her.

Benedict was in Abingdale with his very pregnant wife.

John was in the Americas.

Talking to the jailers had accomplished nothing. All she could do was hope she was dragged in front of a magistrate soon, so she could convince him that while she had attended the protest against the current inequalities in the parliamentary system and the lack of fair representation, she’d had no involvement in the rotten fruit being thrown at Palace of Westminster guards. The tomato she’d thrown had been directed at someone else entirely. It was bad luck that her elbow had been knocked at just the wrong time.

And she had to hope she appeared credible enough to be released, because she had a meeting with the patent office in roughly eighteen hours. Years of work developing a tool that could change society was being held up by some clerk and his tangle of impenetrable paperwork.

It had taken two months to get this appointment and there was no guarantee she’d be able to get another soon.

She silently cursed herself for being fool enough to go to New Palace Yard. But when she’d heard exactly who was leading today’s protest, who would be speaking at it, she’d been unable to stop herself.

Charles Tucker had been responsible for inciting the riot in her village last year. He was responsible for that, and the boiler explosion, and the death of her friend. The bastard had cleared out before the watch arrived and avoided any form of consequence for the damage he’d done.

So she’d thrown a blasted vegetable, and here she was while he, presumably, was free. Yet another example of how iniquitous the world was.

She shook her head, trying to put aside the anger and concentrate on what mattered now—the single focus of her past five years. The plan that got her up each morning and kept the fire inside her burning late into the night as she worked. She was going to change the world—shift the scales of disparity just a smidgen—and in the process, earn enough money to buy herself some independence. To purchase a home that no man could take from her. To earn a living that relied on nothing but her own hard work.

She would never again find herself without fire, food, and shelter because a man had let her down.

It was the thought of her matches—an invention that would make fire accessible to all—that filled her with a stubborn determination that settled in her stomach and straightened her spine. She’d come to London with the express purpose of finding a distributor. She needed to be in her laboratory, not in a cell.

Andrew, the sixteen-year-old footman she’d brought with her from Abingdale, had tagged along to the protest. He’d seemed like the best choice when leaving their small country village. She needed an escort around London—as ridiculous as that societal expectation was—and the wide-eyed country boy would not protest her choices. She had all the semblance of an escort without any of the hassle an actual chaperone might pose.

But now her freedom hinged on the scrawny lad’s ability to get out of the riot and send word to Ben that she’d been arrested. Surely, he’d manage that. He was innocent, not daft.

It would take three days to reach Abingdale to deliver the message and three days back. Worst case scenario, she’d be looking at seven days in prison.

She shivered. There was no way she was getting through seven days in here without revealing her sex to the rest of the inmates, and this was no place for a woman. It would be a gamble to even trust the guards.

Think, Fiona. Think.

The cold from the stone floor began to seep past the thick fabric of her coat and breeches. As the temperature dropped, her heartbeat quickened the way it always did when she got cold. She fell into deep steady breathing to ward off the shivers and began her usual mantra.

The warmth will return, like day follows night. It will return.

She was in Old Bailey, for goodness’ sakes. They wouldn’t let anyone freeze to death in here, would they? Next to her, her cellmate shifted. The sound of piss on bricks trickled off. The smell didn’t.

Edward stared down his younger brother. William sat with his ankles crossed, slouched back in the chair, scratching at the wooden arm. He shifted every thirty seconds or so, as though the two-hundred-year-old, perfectly polished chair had splinters.

Good. Will should be uncomfortable, given the number of times this scene had played out in the eighteen years since their father’s death.

Edward drummed the tips of his fingers against the mahogany wood of his desk. He already knew how the conversation would go. He would express his disappointment. William would make a sarcastic quip. He’d deliver the required lecture, and nothing would change.

Because nothing ever did.

But what are the alternatives?

“You’re home early. School’s not out for another week.”

William shifted his gaze to the window before looking back. “They’re changing tack. Shorter terms. Longer breaks. Cutting down on the rhetoric.” He tugged on the cuff of his jacket.

“After six-hundred-and-fifty-odd years, Oxford has suddenly decided to change their approach? I assume your exam results should be arriving soon, then.”

William rubbed at his jaw. “Well, about that—they decided not to do exams this term. Trialing different assessment methods.”

“How progressive of them.” One would think that given the never-ending string of predicaments William found himself in, he’d be better at lying.

The silence stretched. Edward had long ago made friends with stillness. It was one of the most effective weapons in his arsenal.

Finally, William sighed. “I got caught breaking into the dean’s office. With a pig.”

“Of course you did.” It would almost have been preferable for Will to be tossed out for fighting or sneaking a woman into his rooms. Anything, really, other than these idiotic, childish pranks.

At twenty-one Will should be a man, not a boy still getting into scrape after scrape.

“I’ll send word to the vice chancellor. He can send an examiner to London and you can take your exams here.”

“That’s not necessary,” Will mumbled, staring into his lap.

Edward leaned over his desk, hand curled into a fist, eyes level with his brother’s.

“It is necessary because you will take your exams. You will graduate, and you will take a career. I don’t care if it’s the clergy or the military. You will grow up, William.”

His censure was met with sullen silence, his brother’s typical response. “Start studying. Someone will be here to supervise your assessments next week.”

Finally, Will looked him straight in the eye. “Because you say so? The university is just going to pack a professor onto the mail coach and send him to London to supervise one student?”

Edward raised a brow.

“Of course they will. You’re the Duke of Wildeforde. People do what you say.” Will shook his head. “Do you ever get bored of being so bloody perfect all the time? Always correct. Always doing the right thing.”

Edward had long ago hardened himself against that particular blow. His heart had formed a necessary callus. It barely felt the hit.

“Perfection is our duty. Family must come first. What you do reflects on all of us. It’s time to stop thinking about having a moment of fun and instead think about how your actions impact others. It’s time to stop being so selfish.”

William’s face twisted at the insult. His eyes—such a bright blue when he was born; the most wonderful thing Edward had seen—darkened. “Has it ever occurred to you that the line our mother fed us our entire lives—family above all else—is wrong? That there’s more to life than duty and honor?”

Any patience Edward had for this conversation vanished, driven out by the bitter cold of their past and the reminder of what he had given up. “You were too young to understand what she went through.”

“Please, she’s been shoving it down our throats our entire lives. I may not remember Father, but I know more about his faults than I would if he’d lived longer.”

“Be glad you don’t remember him. You’ll never know the grave disappointment he was.”

Because of everything that had happened, that was what hurt the most. Not the shock of his father’s death or the relentless bullying he’d taken from his peers afterward. Not the way his mother, already cold, had become sharp and brittle as they left London to escape from the scandal.

No, it was discovering the good, kind man he’d thought he’d known had been willing to put the health and happiness of everyone he loved in jeopardy so he could indulge in his affair.

Their entire relationship had been a lie.

That was the disappointment that cut deepest—the wound that had never healed.

There was a discreet knock at the door. Simmons entered.

Taking the butler’s interruption as a chance to escape, Will jumped up from his seat. “Well, I’m off then. You’re clearly busy.”

“Will, let’s talk tonight.” They’d never managed to have a proper conversation about the events of their childhood. It was a subject matter on which they couldn’t see eye to eye, and the conversation quickly became an argument each time. But with Charlotte coming out this season, and the increased scrutiny their family would endure as a result, it was time for his brother to see reason. He had to toe the line, for his sister’s sake, at least.

“I’m going to stay with Pulfrey for a few days,” Will said, neatly avoiding the confrontation. Again.

That his brother found it so difficult for them to be under the same roof hurt. But it had always been that way. Nothing he did could change it. “Your sister will be home on Friday. I’d like you to be here.”

“Of course I’ll be here. You didn’t need to ask.”

And he probably didn’t. Charlotte-Rose and William shared a bond that Edward didn’t—couldn’t. Being head of the family came with responsibilities they didn’t understand. Those responsibilities had always held him slightly apart, never quite one of them.

Simmons’s expression didn’t change a whit as William passed him, even though Edward suspected the butler’s opinion of his brother was even worse than his own. “I’m sorry to bother you, Your Grace, but there is a footman here to see you.”

“A footman? One of our footmen?”

“No, my lord.”

“What does he want?” Simmons was head of staff and had full authority to hire, fire, reward, and reprimand as he wished. There was no need for Edward to be involved in the day-to-day of the household. Off-loading that burden was why he paid his butler and housekeeper a king’s ransom.

“He said he’s here with information about a Fiona McTavish.”

Fiona?

He hadn’t seen or spoken to Fi in almost a year. Not since the night of the Abingdale riots when, in a moment of fear and weakness, he’d told her that she would always own his heart. Then he’d taken her hands in his and kissed them.

That moment had stirred up all the longing, passion, and love that he’d worked so hard to smother.

That moment had almost been enough for him to throw caution to the wind. To take what he wanted and damn the consequences. To put everyone he loved—including Fiona—at risk so he could have her near.

Which was why he’d left Abingdale the next day, as soon as the watch arrived, and he knew the village was safe. It was best. It was the only way to keep her safe.

A fish out of water dies gasping.

Every time he let his mind turn to Fiona, his mother’s words slithered their way through his thoughts and down into his gut where they sat, their poison leaching into him, making him nauseous.

He wanted to tell Simmons to send this footman away—nothing good would come of entangling the two of them again—but his gut couldn’t do it.