Chapter One

Guy glanced over his shoulder and caught a glimpse of the reporter barreling down the London road with all the subtlety of an express coach. She darted behind a wall and his lips twitched with a grin. If she were not such a pain in the rear, he'd find her amusing, but he couldn't afford to have her witnessing the clandestine meeting he was due at, or worse still, linking him to The Kidnap Club.

However, this was tantamount of persecution and it was becoming tiresome.

He picked up the pace, taking long strides down the pavement, keeping his attention fixed ahead. The sun lingered behind the buildings, dipping their squared-off tops in amber frosting. Before long, the streets of the city would be swallowed by darkness, but he had a suspicion even that wouldn't rid himself of her.

He damn well needed to, though. He couldn't very well have a clandestine meeting with a duchess in the park if this nosy London Chronicle reporter continued to follow him.

Guy allowed himself a smirk. Reporter gave her too much credit. Miss Haversham, he had discovered, was the lady behind the gossip column for the Chronicle.

He could count on one hand the amount of times he'd been featured in that very column but even once or twice was enough, especially when the gossip had been about him and Lady A.

Amelia.

Another woman who had done a fine job of being a pain in the rear.

No, he supposed it was more like a pain in the heart. He blew out a breath. The bloody woman still had some sort of hold over him. Whenever he recalled her name, it twisted in his heart, digging the knife of frustration deeper. He'd been so close...had thought just maybe, this was it—he'd finally found a woman who wanted him. All of him.

But, alas, it was not to be.

The pain had eased perhaps over the past few years but it still damn well hurt, and he didn't need a woman like Miss Haversham lapping up all the details of his failed engagement, so eager to expose the heartbreak of the Earl of Henleigh to all of England.

Whatever she wanted with him, he did not want to know. As far as he was concerned, gossip columns were the lowest form of journalism and he would give her no tinder for the godawful fire that was her job.

He stilled once more and feigned glancing up at one of the three-story buildings that blocked out the waning sun—a tall, dark silhouette with windows only lit on the second floor. A shadow moved about in one window, and he spied a gentleman clasping a glass and moving toward the fireplace. Golden light flickered and danced. Guy pulled his coat closer at the neck and gave a shiver.

A warm fire and drop of brandy while seated in his favorite armchair would be wholly welcome at present. Far more appealing than scurrying through the streets of London like a damp rat to a secret meeting. It would have been nice to at least have his carriage, but the crest emblazoned on the side wouldn't help with the whole clandestine nature of it.

Well, he would have that brandy as soon as this was over, he vowed. And as soon as he'd rid himself of Miss Haversham. She currently peeked out from the side of an alleyway.

He exhaled and pinched the bridge of his nose. The woman would not cease. He knew that already. She'd been demanding audiences with him for several months—all of which he'd declined. He had little idea what she wanted with him but given his association and leadership of The Kidnap Club, the less she poked around in his life, the better. Too many women relied on his life remaining a mystery for him to even consider having a conversation with her.

The chances were, of course, she wanted comment on something silly. Like the fact Amelia had married recently.

Why Miss Haversham found amusement in poking about his wounds, he could not say. He didn't know her nor did he want to. After the Amelia debacle, he had resigned himself to the fact that he and women did not mix, nor would they ever. His duties as an earl be damned, he would stay a bachelor forever and ensure his half-brother was legitimized.

Russell might have a thing or two to say about that but there was not much else that could be done. The man would inherit the title and no doubt he and Rosie would have children before long and the line of succession would be safe.

Guy took a few more steps. The streets were quiet, a few pedestrians moving at pace before night swallowed London. A carriage rolled by and a cart soon followed. He darted between the two vehicles, pausing briefly so that he was hidden behind. Then he looped swiftly around.

Miss Haversham moved out of her hiding place and paused, glancing around with her hands to her hips. "Where on earth—" she muttered to herself.

"Looking for me?" Guy came up behind her.

She whirled, her eyes wide, her pale hair warmed a little by the streetlight. "Bugger."

He'd be amused by her bad language if he didn't loathe reporters like her so much. He kept his expression firm, allowing his jaw to harden. He'd intimidated many a man with such an expression.

She lifted her pointed chin, fixed him with her pale blue gaze, and folded her arms.

"Actually, yes, I am."

***

IF THE EARL wished her to be scared, he'd have to try harder. She hadn't survived a year in what was still a man's job only to be cowed by intense eyes, a hard jawline, and furrowed brows.

Her heart did pick up a little, though.

Traitor.

No doubt many a man and woman, perhaps even animal, had cowed at such a look. But not her. He might have about the strongest jaw Freya had ever seen, finished off with a dip in the middle of his chin, or the darkest, thickest brows, complete with permanent furrows between them that made her feel as though she were mightily disapproved of. He might be tall too, with wide shoulders. And of course, all his clothes fit him perfectly, made of the finest fabrics.

But none of that mattered. Not his acceptable looks—because they were merely that—not his coat that would likely cost her a lifetime of earnings, not his dark scowl, not his rather thick lips.

She scowled to herself. Thick lips? Who cared if he had thick lips? Why was that even worthy of note? She shook her head and peered up at him from beneath the brim of her hat.

He glared down at her, the shadows of his own hat making him appear more dark and intimidating than ever.

It wouldn't deter her, though.

She had a story to chase down and she'd be damned if she would let him scare her away from it. This could be her chance to move away from those wretched, insipid gossip columns that she so loathed. Gosh, she could just imagine it. Writing a story about the missing noblewomen and finally getting the respect she craved for her writing. Finally being something in the man's world that was newspapers.

Oh yes, and finally earning enough money to actually keep her parents comfortable in their old age.

So, there it was. A dark look from a titled gentleman was not going to veer her off this path, no matter how much he made her heart race.

"You really should cease following me about, Miss Haversham. It is hardly appropriate behavior."

She resisted the desire to roll her eyes. Appropriate behavior was for ladies of genteel breeding and not working women like her. For as long as she could remember, she had roamed the streets of London, finding vaguely respectable work where she could until she had finally persuaded the editor of the Chronicle to take her on. She had learned to look after herself and she hardly had the time for appropriate behavior.

"Lord Huntingdon, all I need is a moment of your time."

He shook his head. "I do not have a moment."

"You've refused all of my audiences."

"Well, yes. When one is an earl, one does tend to be quite busy."

"I just have a few questions—"

He pivoted away. "You should return home, Miss Haversham. It's growing dark."

She moved hastily in front of him, blocking his path. It was a little laughable to think that she, with her average stature and her average looks, average hair, average, well, everything apart from her mind, could hold the rich, entitled, slightly more than acceptable-looking man at bay, but she had never given up easily on anything and she would not start now. Goodness, it had taken months of thrusting her work at her editor and standing outside his office for him to finally look at her writing.

"Miss Haversham, is stalking my footsteps every day really the right way about this?"

She pursed her lips at his condescending tone. "You have refused all of my requests for an audience, my lord, and I really only have a few questions—"

"I have nothing to say about Miss Jenkins." He frowned and rubbed his forehead. "I mean, Mrs. King."

Freya hesitated. "Mrs. King?" She let her lips round. He meant the woman with whom he was to be married. She recalled writing about the broken engagement a few years ago. "Oh no, I do not care about your failed engagement."

Lord Huntingdon winced slightly, the quickest flash of pain.

She cursed inwardly. Most marriages between the upper classes were arranged so she had assumed it had not bothered him when Miss Jenkins ended their agreement but perhaps he had really cared for her. Stranger things had happened after all.

It was rather hard to imagine this stony-faced, glowering man with all his privilege and wealth being able to love anyone but himself, however.

"That is to say, I have questions about another matter."

"Whatever it is, I have no comment on it. I do not care if Lady W is having an affair with a Sir S or if the patrons of Almacks are threatening to bar a certain devious rake from the hallowed dance floor." He locked his gaze to hers. "I, Miss Haversham, have no inclination for gossip."

She didn't normally care if people derided her work. It was merely a means to an end after all. But for some reason it stung, like she'd rolled into a cluster of nettles and now her skin was heated and painful. It shouldn't. Why should she care for the opinion of a man who had never worked a day in his life?

Lifting her shoulders, Freya maintained eye contact with him. "I am not looking for gossip. I am looking for facts. On a particularly important matter."

"Oh yes," he drawled.

"The disappearance of Lady Steele."

Something flickered in his gaze. It might have been a trick of the light streaming from the nearby building, but she didn't think so. Her instincts were rarely wrong, especially when she came across a story, and right now, her instincts were aflame.

He knew something.

"You were one of the last people to be seen with her after all," Freya probed. "Right before she vanished," she added. "That was over four years ago now."

He shrugged. "She was a member of the ton. We titled folk do tend to spend some time together, Miss Haversham, as you may have noticed."

"So she did not say anything to you? Did not infer that she was in trouble of any kind? Because you must admit, it is odd. There has been rather a rash of disappearances and kidnappings of wealthy women of late. In fact, there has been at least four that I have—"

He held up a hand. "Miss Haversham, it seems you have quite the fevered imagination. As much as I would like to say that I keep company with many of the beautiful women of the ton, I do not. I am a busy man with little time for socializing and frivolities. I'm sorry if that does not feed your column but there you have it." He waved a hand behind her, and she scowled and turned. A carriage rolled up and he jumped in, swiftly tapping the roof.

"Good evening, Miss Haversham," he said as he slammed shut the door of the hack and leaned out of the window. "With haste," he barked at the driver before she could quite fathom what had occurred.

The carriage moved off, leaving her no time to react or grab the door. She dropped her hand and watched the vehicle vanish around the corner. What would she have done had she managed to snatch the door? Hang off the vehicle like a madwoman?

Perhaps.

Well, he might have escaped her tonight, but this would not be the last he saw of her. There was a story behind the quite handsome earl's eyes, and nothing would dissuade her from finding out what it was.

Find TAKING THE SPINSTER on Amazon and in Kindle Unlimited.

What the Duke Wants

Agents of Change, Book 1

Amy Quinton

Published 2015

Copyright ? Published 2015, Amy Quinton. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Manufactured in the United States of America

This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

Dedication

To my mother-in-law, Hilary Quinton, for the many months listening to me talk about plot points, for reading and rereading work outside your preferred genre, and for your advice. I've picked up your brains from the porch floor and will hold on to them for you until your next visit to the States.

And to my friends and family for your support and encouragement.

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank Jessica Cale for the wonderful cover art. I would also like to thank Joanne Soper-Cook and Terri Schaefer for the editorial work. Thank you!

Prologue

Eton College…

September 1798…

Thirteen-year-old Ambrose Langtry, 10th Duke of Stonebridge, touched his fingers to his lips as the taste of blood flooded his mouth. He had been walking across School Yard, minding his own business, when the fist appeared out of nowhere, striking him square in the mouth. The force of it knocked him to the ground; his books scattered across the cobbles, loosened papers swirled away with the wind.

He felt around for his split lip. Ouch. Yea, it was split, it stung. And to make matters worse, he was sprawled on his arse where any boy walking by could see. Still, he sat there, bemoaning his bruised tail bone as he poked around inside his mouth with his tongue, searching for loosened teeth. Phew. They all appeared to be intact.

A shadow fell over him, blocking the meager morning sun. Despite his disadvantaged position upon terra firma, he halted his personal inspection, looked up, and locked eyes with the boy standing over him, presumably the boy attached to said fist. Ambrose arranged his face into his fiercest scowl while noting that the bully had brought along a friend. Typical. They always did attack in pairs. He was scared, but these tyrants definitely didn't need to know that. Oh, and his tongue smarted; he must have bitten it.

"Say, what do we have here? Looks like we have a first year who thinks he can look his betters in the eye?"

The boy was huge and a House Captain: one of a thousand thugs charged with meting out ‘discipline'. They always seemed to be everywhere you didn't want them to be. Like ants.

"Do you know who we are, boy?"

The hammer-fisted giant smirked at his crony: another typical pimple-faced fourth year who, despite missing a surprising amount of teeth, grinned and stared daggers at Ambrose while punching his fist into his hand—definitely a bully.

A third assailant pushed his way between the other two.

"Well, well, well, if it isn't the Duke of Stonebridge," mocked the new arrival. The other two blockheads chuckled their contempt.

Lord Richard Middlebury. Ugh.

"I'd suggest we birch him now, but he might like having us pull his trousers down…Like father, like son, eh, Stonebridge?"

The boys sniggered again, then began to argue amongst themselves as they fought to decide how best to handle the ‘situation'. Idiots, the lot of them. Middlebury probably'd be considered the ‘brains' if one had to decide such a thing. That wasn't saying much.

He was unsurprised by their taunts. Vile rumors about his family spilled from everyone's lips since Father died. They said Father had been riding in his carriage with another man, a bare-arsed-naked-as-the-day-he-was-born other man. They said the pair of them had been cavorting at a molly house the whole night through. They said a God awful lot of things. Bollocks. All of it.

It had been a year, yet the pain was ever present. Not a sore-tooth type of ache, but a throbbing-twinge-in-the-chest, knife-to-the-gut kind of ache. Excruciating. Agonizing.

Unbearable. Sometimes, he forgot. In fact, he scarcely thought on the scandal anymore. Yeah, he lied sometimes, too.

His three tormentors, fleetingly forgotten, drew his attention back to the moment at hand. They had come to an accord. Great.

"Is it true, little Ambrose? Would you like us to pull your trousers down?"

They sniggered again. All three of them, the loudmouthed boors. He tried to ignore them as he stood and brushed the dirt from his trousers. They allowed him to gain his feet and restore his garments without incident. Which was odd. And a bit alarming.

Father had not been prone to violence, and he, normally, was the same. Why this time was different, he didn't know, but for some reason, today the pain would not be denied, and with a strength he never suspected he possessed, he unexpectedly retaliated.

He bared a full year of built-up emotions through his arms and legs as he swung, kicked and bit at everything within reach. He saw red, and his eyes burned from the tears that threatened to fall. He blinked rapidly; a recent habit, for the tears were always hiding just beneath the surface. He became a mythical berserker, all but blinded by his anguish and no longer in control of his body. His hands ached from the repeated impact of fist to flesh. He didn't stop. He ignored his conscience. He wouldn't stop.

Occasionally, a word pierced his emotional storm: Bastard. He punched someone's face. Suicide. He kicked someone's shin. Weak. He elbowed someone's nose. Sodomy. He kneed someone's gut. They were only words all jumbled together and fuzzy, but too reminiscent of past hecklings. The rage drove him indefinitely before silence pricked his awareness. His mind struggled to make sense of the disquiet while his fists continued to fly.

Then he heard a sound; one so soft, he might have imagined it, yet so compelling it seized his attention through his haze of anger:

"Ambrose…"

He ceased his attack, and with wild eyes, searched the crowd for its source, but he felt sluggish, as if he moved about in slow motion, his arms and head burdened with heavy weights. The pain in his knuckles was a distant throb. His bottom lip felt swollen and fat as he absentmindedly tongued his bloody split. Reluctantly, he let go his desperate search.

A mob of students had gathered to gawk, yet he heard nothing. Time crawled, yet it was over in minutes. He caught sight of a peculiar fluttering out the corner of his eye, and he twisted to get a better look. It was a bloody cravat flapping about in the breeze. He started to become further aware of his surroundings.

He was on his knees, straddling Middlebury, his hands squeezing the boy's neck. And the blood…it was everywhere. He looked about with increased anxiety, as reality— and with it panic—crept in. On reflex, he released his hold on Middlebury, whose head hit the cobbles with a wet, sickening thud. His other tormentors lay motionless nearby, as life reverted to full speed and the silence was shattered.

What have I done?

Cool air blew through the school yard, raising goose bumps across his clammy, overheated skin. An occasional gasp or whispered comment tickled his ears. He caught sight of onlookers eyeing him with disgust before turning their backs. Some help they were. The air smelled fresh and crisp and cold in his nose and birds chirped in nearby trees as if today were just an ordinary autumn day, oblivious to the humans and their discord. It was surreal. One of the boys moaned, but not Middlebury. Ambrose took this all in on a glance, his senses now hyper aware. And he was ashamed.

He had just reached down to check Middlebury's injuries, when he was jerked to his feet and spun about to face Head Master Smith. Ah, bloody hell, I'm in deep shite now.

Head Master Smith was tall and gaunt, but impeccably dressed in unrelieved black from his boots to his cravat. Even his hair was black. By contrast, his skin was so pale as to appear luminescent, the whiteness only marred by prominent blue veins at his temples. He resembled death. Or what Ambrose thought death would look like if it took human form.

Ambrose trembled with frayed nerves, chilled to the bone at the sight, and his heart leapt in his chest. God, please don't let them notice. He thrust aside wild thoughts of every possible sentence he might face. At least he tried to. An eternity passed while he waited; thirty years at the very least. He would be an old man by the end, decrepit and scarred. Head Master would probably look the same. Preserved.

Ambrose was held in place by a guard, his arms clamped behind his back and his head held steady by his hair. The. Entire. Time. His scalp stung and had lost numerous strands of hair in the process while he waited. A few were caught in his guard's waistcoat. He was forced by this position to stare into Head Master's emotionless grey eyes. It was unnecessary, for he did not intend to look away. He wanted Head Master to believe he wasn't afraid. He wasn't afraid. At all. Surely.

No words were spoken before Head Master broke eye contact. It was all so anticlimactic. He nodded once at his guard before walking away without a word.

In response, the guard released his hair minus a few more strands, but not his arms. He was shoved forward down the path toward the Block, and he stumbled, often, over the uneven cobbles, his legs unsteady and fatigued. At the very last minute, before they turned out of sight, he looked back, but the throng had closed in, surrounding the fallen boys. He could see nothing but the dark jackets and hats of his fellow students, black marks in a landscape of green and blue and stone. He turned back around and plodded on to meet his fate.

The wind ruffled his remaining hair. Huh. He had lost his hat at some point during the melee. And with that thought, a memory surfaced: Father had just gifted him with his first hat, a bicorne. He was six years old, or thereabouts. He marched about the house and grounds all afternoon showing it off and brandishing a wooden sword. That evening, he sat with Father on an old bench under a grand English oak and talked about what it meant to be a gentleman. He had sworn never to forget.

Had he been alive to witness today's events, Father would have been disappointed and ashamed. His actions today had not been what Father would have considered appropriate behavior for a gentleman, surely, and that bothered him more than any of the suggestive taunts from earlier. Ah, God…Father, I'm so, so sorry. It was at that precise moment when Ambrose, recently named Duke of Stonebridge with no small amount of means at his disposal, realized…no, vowed…he would do everything in his power to clear the Stonebridge name, his family's name, of scandal.