Page 7 of My Secret Duke
Olivia hadn’t been charmed. She had thrown his good intentions back in his face. Ivo tried to tell himself he had had a fortunate escape. Marrying a woman who would have tried to change him into something he was not? A tomcat into a tame house tabby? Impossible!
What should he do now? Well, he would recover, of course he would. He’d soon be himself again. His heart had taken a knock, but it wasn’t as if it was broken—more likely just cracked. But for all his inner bluster, Ivo knew he would not be himself in a week or even a month. Those moments with Olivia had shaken him, forced him to think about things he rarely did. He didn’t like it. He had the ungentlemanly desire to make her sorry that she’d refused him. To punish her in some as yet indefinable manner for hurting him.
It wasn’t pleasant to be thinking that way, but he found he couldn’t help it.
By now, Ivo had reached his town house. Just as he placed the toe of one shiny boot upon the bottom step, a gentleman called a greeting, and jarred him out of his uncomfortable thoughts. For a moment, he thought it was a creditor come to collect on one of his many overdue bills. He had promised his mother and sisters some timein London to enjoy the Season, but it had proven damn expensive. Had his sister taken that ridiculously overpriced bonnet back to the milliner as he’d told her?
But the gentleman wasn’t a debt collector. It was Charles Wickley.
Charles ran Cadieux’s Gambling Club jointly with its owner, the Duke of Grantham, although Ivo had heard that lately, with the duke otherwise occupied, Charles was more or less in complete control.
“Your Grace,” Charles said in a droll voice. “I have news of a private nature.”
“Mr. Wickley.” They exchanged bows. “Walk with me.”
Ivo set off through the square, and Charles fell into step beside him.
“There has been a hitch,” Charles spoke after a moment. “The spirits and wine that were supposed to be delivered to Cadieux’s yesterday did not arrive. I was told by your man Bourne that it was on its way across the channel when a revenue cutter gave chase, and the captain and crew were arrested before they could land the cargo. Which was impounded.”
Ivo stopped to stare at him. They were around the same height and build, both with fair hair, although Charles’s eyes were blue, and Ivo’s were green. If a stranger were to see them together now, they could easily be mistaken for close relatives.
“Arrested?” he repeated. “The cargo impounded?”
“Yes.” Charles’s usual good humor was missing today; he looked tired and irritable. Complete control of the hell must be taking its toll on him.
Ivo trusted his men, but one never knew what inducements might be offered to those who gave up secrets tothe revenue officers. “They aren’t aware…?”
“Of your involvement?” That droll mocking note again. “As far as I know, no one else has been arrested, although no doubt the captain and crew are being interrogated as we speak.”
“Polgarth.” Ivo gave the captain a name. “He has a wife and children in the village. He won’t talk.”
Portside was the name of the coastal village near Ivo’s home, and the place that supplied most of the manpower for the smuggling operation. A smuggling operation that required a great deal of planning. The major ports around Britain’s coast were under the close supervision of the government, which made certain the proper amount of tax was paid on imported goods. For those who did not want to pay taxes, it was better to slip in to smaller, unsupervised ports and offload their contraband goods there.
Those goods—brandy and wine, lace and tea, among others—were taken to a safe hiding spot. The next step was to load the goods onto wagons or ponies and deliver them to those who had ordered them. In this case, Charles Wickley at Cadieux’s Gambling Club in London.
“The government seems determined to put a stop to us Free Traders,” Ivo said. “But we have a great many supporters. Name me one member of parliament who doesn’t partake of French brandy in the privacy of his own home.”
Charles snorted.
A gentleman walking by paused to give a deferential bow to Ivo and barely a glance to Charles. Charles waited until they were alone again. “I will need to replenish my supplies at the club quickly. If you think it is too dangerous to arrange for another delivery, I will have to findanother supplier.”
It wasn’t a threat, merely a statement of fact. Ivo understood, but he couldn’t allow Charles to switch from himself to some other fellow—the smuggling income was the only thing currently keeping his family from becoming beggars.
Ivo hid his panic as he rested his gaze on that uncannily familiar face. “No need, I will deal with it. Do you have a list of your requirements?”
Charles dug a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket, and Ivo gave it a cursory glance. “I will let you know as soon as the delivery is safely across the channel.”
With a nod, Charles walked away, and Ivo watched him go before turning back the way he had come. That sense of disquiet he often experienced when he met with Wickley filled him now. It was like looking into a mirror with only a few minor variations. Ivo’s father had died when he was fourteen, too long ago to give Ivo answers to his questions, and he didn’t expect to hear the truth from his mother or his two sisters; they would never countenance any suggestion that the late duke was not perfect. And yet the rumors implied he had been far from that. He had enjoyed far too many of the village girls for there not to be consequences, and one in particular, Ivo had traced to St. Ninian’s Foundling Home for Boys in London. Ivo suspected Charles Wickley was his father’s by-blow, but he had never tried to prove it, preferring to simply ignore it.
Why make matters awkward by introducing his suspicions? Theirs was a business arrangement, and it was better to keep it so.
Ivo pushed aside his qualms, and instead turned his mind to the problem of finding someone to fulfill theorder for the club. The arrested man—Polgarth—had been reliable, but there were always others keen to make some money even if smuggling was a risky occupation. The government wanted their excise, and the smuggling of items like wine and spirits meant they were missing out on taxes that should rightfully be filling government coffers. And if they were ever to become aware that an important personage such as the Duke of Northam was involved in such an enterprise…
Well, they wouldn’t, he assured himself. Polgarth was unlikely to talk, and even if he did, it was doubtful anyone would believe the Duke of Northam was at the head of a band of smugglers. Ivo had been at this game since he was a boy and his father had sat him down with a group of Portside villagers to discuss the details of the next cargo to be smuggled across from France.
Ivo’s father had informed the villagers—they were his father’s tenants—that his son would be taking over one day, and that it was best he learned the business now. None of them appeared to find anything strange in this, and later Ivo had learned that the smuggling had been going on for centuries, and the Fitzsimmonses had always had a finger in the pie. The Kent coastline and the marshes inland were perfect for hiding and transporting contraband. That the Fitzsimmonses had been raised to ducal status did not appear to hamper them in any way when it came to breaking the law. More importantly, the income the smuggling generated was very much needed.
At first, Ivo had simply wanted to make his father proud, but then the craving for risk and danger had crept into his blood. Ivo had often seen the late duke put his horse over fences that no one else would dare to jump,giving his wife palpitations and then laughing loudly when he reached the other side. He never refused a wager, no matter how rash, and he rarely lost. He was a daredevil, and his son had loved and admired him, and wanted to be just like him. When his father had died, Ivo’s widowed mother and two sisters had looked to him, and all too soon, his life had been full of weighty decisions about the estate, with the dukedom pressing down upon his young shoulders. He had done his duty and done it well, but it was not something he enjoyed. As well as an important source of income, the smuggling sideline had offered him an exciting diversion, and a test of his skill and courage.
