Page 7 of One Night for Seduction
Diana indulged a quick grin at the image. It always tickled her to think of herself as a secret agent to the Crown. So secret, even the Crown itself did not realize she labored in its name. Just a humble sleuth, avenging misapplied mathematics every day for the betterment and fair treatment of all England’s citizens.
She slid her journal from the basket and added a quick entry describing the encounter with the wine distributor. When she finished, she flipped to a bookmarked page where she left notes of which establishments required a return visit to ensure honest business dealings were being upheld.
Her threat had not been idle. If the shopkeeper resumed dishonest business practices, she would use every bit of her limited power to see him brought to justice.
She closed the journal. The cover read,If something can be improved, improve it.Diana had penned the phrase herself. It had been her motto for as long as she could remember and her secret vocation ever since she’d become the ward of her cousin Thaddeus.
At first, she’d simply needed something to fill her year of mourning besides staring at empty walls or sobbing into her pillows.Doinginstead of justdreaminghad given her something to live for. A purpose. A small spot of brightness to fill her otherwise bleak days. And a chance to be someone other than a penniless orphan for an hour or two. An opportunity to be…important. To make a difference in people’s lives.
She narrowed her eyes down the snow-covered lane. On the other side of the Theatre Royal stood a far less opulent establishment known as the Wicked Duke.
Although women were allowed in the tavern, Diana had never ventured inside. Partly because to enter the front door as herself would ruin any hope of maintaining the level of reputation required to be accepted amongst the ton. Diana did not seek a high-in-the-instep suitor, but nor did she seek to bring public embarrassment to the cousin whose charity had given her a second chance at life.
The other reason wasalsoThad. No amount of billowing woolen shawl or floppy-brimmed bonnet would prevent her own flesh and blood from seeing through her disguise, if he got a good look at her close up.
Not that Thad was there at the moment. He was at home, expecting to take a meal with Diana in less than an hour. Forty-five minutes was not nearly enough time to spy on the Wicked Duke and return home while the food was hot. She bit her lip.
Ignorance of the Wicked Duke’s goings-on had never bothered her before. It was a public tavern and for all purposes Thad’s “club,” seeing as he lacked the title or the connections to be welcomed into a proper club like White’s or Boodle’s or Brooks’s.
The Wicked Duke’s clientele ranged from the working class to political reformers to indolent poets and infamous bluestockings. Yet the owners were the highest peers of the realm, giving the fashionable-adjacent establishment an air of pomp and legitimacy, attracting second sons and titled bachelors alike. The sort of self-important men Diana had long hoped never to be trapped in conversation with. Whatever antics unfolded within the Wicked Duke’s walls had never piqued her interest.
Until now.
“Don’t do it,” she muttered to her twitching boots. “Do not head in that direction.”
The only reason she was even thinking about the Wicked Duke was because she’d chased one of its namesakes from her front parlor.
Maddeningly, the Duke of Colehaven was not what she had anticipated at all.
Dianapridedherself on her ability to think ten steps ahead of everyone else. If life was a game of chess, she wasn’t a mere player but rather the craftsman designing the game.
The impeccable attention to appearances? Yes, she’d expected that much. Champagne-shined Hessians, buttery soft buckskins, coal black greatcoat, intricately tied neckcloth, closely shorn jaw, dazzling hazel eyes, ridiculously handsome. She’d seen an illustration of His Grace once in a caricature. The artist had got the duke’s unceasing perfection right, but failed to convey the most unnerving aspect of Colehaven’s character.
The confounding man wasnice.
Because Diana had been on her way out for one of her reconnaissance missions, she’d reached the ground floor just in time to overhear the duke greet the butler warmly and by name.
Then, when confined in a parlor with an increasingly insolent housemaid, the duke had unflaggingly continued to treat her like a person and respond to her queries, rather than dismiss her out of hand as a servant beneath his notice.
Inconceivable. And yet it had happened.
Extorting him into a hasty retreat had been a calculated risk. He clearly knew nothing of Diana Middleton, but Diana made it her business to know as much as possible about him. She had an entire journal dedicated to the most important members of the ton. The depth and richness of its contents madeDebrett’s Peeragelook like a lazy extract.
Caleb Sutton, fifth Duke of Colehaven. Hair, black. Eyes, hazel. Birthdate, the twentieth of August, 1787. Two years to the day before Jurij Vega—one of Diana’s mathematical heroes—calculated pi to the 140th place, correcting a computation error made by Thomas Fantet de Lawny almost seventy years earlier.If something can be improved, improve it.Vega was a man after Diana’s own heart. Why, his 1794 comprehensive thesaurus on logarithms—
Diana shook her head. She was analyzing the Duke of Colehaven, not continental mathematicians.
Like many eligible bachelors bearing both title and coin, Colehaven had quite a reputation. Unlike most of his peers, Colehaven’s reputation was neither that of shameless rake or an arrogant prig, but rather of a well-respected, unflaggingly honest, genuinely nice human, whose greatest vices appeared to be a talent for brewing fine ale, open friendliness toward lower classes, and a penchant for accepting silly dares.
Thatmust be what he was doing in her parlor. One of his cronies must have dared him to pay a call on the most uncelebrated wallflower in London. There. Call paid. End of association. They’d crossed paths once in twenty-five years. With luck, another quarter century would pass before they crossed paths again.
After all, Diana did her level best to stay clear of his world. She didn’t want to waltz, didn’t want to flirt behind painted fans, and definitely didn’t want a husband. The only way her good works could continue was if she remained in charge of her own life.
Resolute, she turned her back toward the Wicked Duke and caught the first hackney back to Jermyn Street, where she slipped in the terrace’s rear entrance, deposited her basket and outerwear in her bedchamber, and made it downstairs to the family dining room five minutes before her cousin.
Their great-aunt Ruthmere had moved in when Thaddeus became Diana’s guardian, but due to her age and health, now rarely ventured from her private quarters. Diana brought her fresh books once a fortnight from a traveling library, and knew better than to expect her great-aunt to be awake at such an early hour.
Her cousin entered the dining room with his dark hair unkempt and a guilty smile, as if he’d rolled out of bed a scant moment earlier.
