Page 5 of Libby's London Merchant
The duke stared at the gleaming lump of chocolate, which nestled on a bed of white satin. “God bless us,” he breathed, his tone reverent. “Is that the one with a nougat center and just the hint of cherry?”
“The very same,” Copley said proudly. He opened another drawer. “And for those what like nuts, here is St. Thomas’s Temptation.”
“I know that one well,” murmured the duke. “Ate a whole box once on bivouac, and wasn’t I sick?”
Copley clucked his tongue. “Moderation in all things, your grace,” he said.
The salesman opened drawer after drawer, displaying his wares, some chocolate, but more hard candies. “This would have been my last sales trip with any chocolate,” he explained as he lovingly patted each piece. “I don’t sell chocolate in summer because it melts too fast. When Lord Wiltmore said he wanted to borrow my sample case, I was only too glad to oblige him.” He permitted himself a giggle behind his hand. “Lord Wiltmore said something about a prank you are playing in Kent involving a lady?” He tittered again and then closed all the little drawers.
The duke groaned as the conversation of last night came back to him finally. I am supposed to disguise myself as a London merchant and travel to God-help-me Kent, where I will conveniently meet with an accident. I will survey the lady in question and give Eustace Wiltmore, formerly my best friend, a report.
He directed his attention again to the little salesman. “Yes, Mr. Copley, he did mention a prank. Leave your case, and I will consider the issue.”
Ignatius L. Copley got to his feet. “To complete the disguise, you have merely to drop in on the occasional sweet shop and emporium that you pass in Kent. We are well known.” He fumbled in his vest pocket and gave the duke a handmade card. “Lord Wiltmore told me that he is having these cards made up for you. You may stop at Adams in Fleet Street this very afternoon.”
“I have never known Lord Wiltmore to act on any matter with such promptness,” the duke murmured.
He looked at the proffered card, wavered for another instance between cowardice and duty, sighed, and took it. He looked closer and chuckled, despite his roaring headache. “Nesbitt Duke, merchant for Copley Confections, et cetera, et cetera,” he read, and pressed his fingers to his temple. “So be it, Mr. Copley. I suppose you have... Goodness, what are they called? An order sheet?”
“Certainly, sir. In the top drawer of the case. Fill them out three times, your excellence.”
“How would you recommend I transport myself to Kent?” asked the duke, dreading the answer almost before he finished the question.
“A gig is best, sir,” was the expected reply, and Mr. Copley did not fail him. “Of course, this is slow going to one of your equestrian fame, but it would never do for a London merchant to jaunt about in a high-perch phaeton.”
His own wit sent Ignatius L. Copley into a coughing fit. The duke did not trust himself to render aid and pat the man on the back. Nez went instead to the window, looked out, and then leapt back, his heart pounding in rhythm with his head.
His sister, Augusta, and his mother were stepping down from a barouche outside his front door, business written all across their faces.
He fingered the mock-up card. “Nesbitt Duke, is it?” he mused out loud.
“Yes, your grace,” said the merchant. “And don’t you know that Lord Wiltmore was pleased with his own cleverness!”
“Scylla and Charybdis,” muttered the duke as his sister rang the doorbell with that vigor typical of all Nesbitts.
“Beg your pardon, sir? Might that be a new sweet I don’t know of?”
“It should be,” said the duke grimly. “Those cards are ready this afternoon, did you say?”
The bell rang again, more insistent this time. Likely Augusta would tell him about the latest matrimonial prize and insist that he accompany her and this paragon driving in the park, punting on some river or other, or dining al fresco amid ants and wasps. There would be another unexceptionable face to admire, more small talk to suffer through, and another day wasted in the company of a female he couldn’t care less about.
“I could pick up the cards on my way out of town, couldn’t I?” he murmured, more for himself than the merchant’s benefit.
“Indubitably. Think what a diversion this will be, your grace!”
The door opened and Luster peered inside. “Your grace, your sister, Lady Wogan, and the dowager await below.”
The duke looked from the merchant to the butler, and back to the card in his hand. He contemplated the ruin of his summer and the obligation of friendship and smiled at his butler.
“Luster, show this gentleman out. Tell my sister that you don’t know how this comes about, but I have already left the house and have taken myself off to the ... oh, the Lake District.”
“They will never believe me,” Luster declared. “You know perfectly well that Lady Wogan will come storming up here.”
“Then I will hide myself in the dumbwaiter until she is gone,” said the Duke of Knaresborough, who had held off a whole company of Imperial Guards with only ten survivors of his brigade at Waterloo. “This is no time for heroics. Or hysterics. Stand back, Luster.”
“Very well, your grace,” said his butler as Nez opened the door to the dumbwaiter and tugged on the rope.
The duke winced as he ducked his pounding head through the little opening. “A tighter fit since the last time I tried this ten years ago,” he said.
