Chapter Seventeen

T he Duke of Holland snored. With the bed a snug fit to begin with, there was no escaping the awful sounds produced by what she'd previously thought of as a rather wonderful face.

He snored when on his back. He snored while sleeping on his side. Sometime in the wee hours of the morning, she wondered if he would still snore if she were to place a pillow over his head and sit on it.

That plan was rejected because it involved sleeping while sitting up. Besides, the courts weren't likely to take pity on her desperate exhaustion if Dorian's snoring ceased altogether because he stopped breathing. After sating themselves on one another for the third time, he'd earned the rest, but so had she. So, despite the threat of a murder charge, smothering the sound with a pillow was damned tempting.

Muted conversation floated up from downstairs, along with the scents of sausages cooking and the heavenly temptation of fresh baked bread. It was morning. Night had finally come to an end. Thank God.

At this rate, she would need an entire pot of tea for herself and would likely bite anyone who tried to make her share. Dorian's arm weighed heavy across her chest, and he didn't stir when she slipped out from under it. Except for the noise, the man slept like the dead. Careful to not shift the mattress too much, she scooted to the foot of the bed, then picked up her chemise from the floor where it had been tossed unceremoniously the night before.

While he was an exceptional bed sport companion, she didn't know if she would ever adjust—or have the opportunity to adjust—to sleeping beside him. Perhaps it was simply the strangeness of sharing a bed with a man. Or of being naked next to someone who radiated body heat equivalent to the sun. Anyone resting next to Dorian would never be cold.

She might be wide awake, exhausted, and grumpy—but she wasn't cold.

The fire had burned low overnight, so she added another log and poked at the embers until the glow became a flame. Yesterday's gown was blessedly dry, as were her stockings. By the time she tied her walking boots, the call of nature was pressing heavily on her bladder. Dorian still hadn't stirred, but it would be just her luck that he'd wake up in the middle of her using the chamber pot. So, she donned her cloak, then stepped into the hall and closed the door quietly behind her.

The sky outside was a steely gray, with bloated clouds threatening more rain. But for the moment, the morning held a feeling of being freshly washed as she picked her way down the path to the privy.

When she entered the public room of the inn a while later, she considered returning upstairs. No, tea and something to fill her belly were the priority. While downstairs, she could inquire about road conditions and order a tea tray for the room. Dorian was likely used to that kind of thing.

She couldn't remember ever having tea or eating in bed. Not once in almost thirty years. What would that be like? Today could be her only chance to snuggle under the covers next to an adorably rumpled man and share a cup of tea.

But not until she'd had several cups by herself.

Thankfully, the inn believed in serving a strong brew, regardless of beverage type. A pleasant zing zapped her brain awake after the first sip. Another cup or two like that, and she might just survive the day on the scant sleep she'd managed.

Sometime around the third cup, the feeling of being watched itched at her shoulders. Raising the cup to her lips, Caro observed the vicinity over the brim.

Dorian stood in the doorway of the public room, scowling. Dark shadowed scruff covered his jaw, and a tuft of hair stood up at the back of his head. Not groomed, but fully dressed and looking disgruntled with the world—that was her duke this morning. Her duke?

The man in question crossed the room in a few long strides, then sat across from her. "You didn't leave."

"Of course I didn't. Why would I?"

His scowl softened into something she'd say was relief on anyone else. "You were gone when I awoke. I thought you'd left."

Caro shook her head. Strange that his first reaction was worry that she'd abandoned him. What that said about him was something to ponder later.

"I didn't sleep well, as my bedmate snored loud enough to scare away nearby wildlife. My plan was to fortify myself with tea, then bring you a tray. If nothing else, you deserve a hearty thank-you for keeping any vermin in our room cowering in fear and away from the bed."

Confusion pinched his brows together. "I snore?"

Caro paused her reach for the pot to pour him a cup. "You didn't know? How could you not know you snore? Was your wife hard of hearing?"

He blinked. "She never mentioned it."

Caro poured him a cup of tea, then pushed it toward him. "I am surprised the duchess never said anything."

Lips that had teased nearly every inch of her body last night pursed as he blew on his drink. "So am I. Or maybe not. Thinking back, I was the only one who brought up minor annoyances. She never complained about living with me. Not once. I'm not arrogant enough to think myself perfect, but I have to wonder what else she simply endured." He took a sip, then sighed. "I'm sorry I ruined your sleep, Caro."

She tilted her head, cradling her cup of tea between her palms and feeling far more pleasant in general toward the concept of facing the day. "Perhaps I'll nap on the drive home."

"Are the roads passable, then?"

"Carriages have been arriving and leaving the courtyard, so I assume so."

One brow rose and the serious expression he'd worn fled. "Are you still willing to let me accompany you on your delivery?"

"Absolutely." A question she'd briefly thought, then forgotten because Dorian was probably doing something remarkable with his mouth, rose in her mind again. "Can I ask? What happened in Tippering?"

Instead of drinking, Dorian seemed content to cradle his cup in his hands. "Your instinct to interview the playwright was sound. Interesting fellow. He didn't have all the answers, and I certainly don't either. But he gave me a name and the man's home village. Sherman Snyder: commoner and swindler. My wife had an affair with a charlatan, and I can't get anyone in that place to talk. Tried bribing them to no avail. They wouldn't even discuss the school Juliet had been building in the village, so I doubt it exists. Which means he stole thousands of pounds from her. Yesterday was beyond frustrating."

Realization dawned alongside a healthy dose of pity. No wonder he'd been a little short-tempered when they met on the road. "If this Sherman person made a habit of defrauding women, and his acquaintances back home knew about it, they likely saw you as a jealous husband and wanted to stay out of it." A thought occurred to her. "Which is a clue in itself, isn't it?"

Intense blue eyes focused on her. "What do you mean?"

"If they want to stay out of it, that means there's something to stay out of. Their silence is a confirmation that you're on the right trail of clues. It also means the man is still alive. Sherman hasn't met his end in the last five years." The way Dorian worked his jaw made her ask, "Have you considered that you might actually meet this Sherman person?"

"That is the plan," he drawled with a steely edge to his voice.

"What will you do? How will you handle facing the duchess's lover?"

"Truth is, I don't know. Scenarios run through my head, and I can't say for sure which will be accurate. I know there are questions only he can answer. And knowing he's committing theft and fraud means I have a responsibility to bring him to justice if I can. Who knows who else he's hurt, and who he might steal from in the future? Not that my motivations are entirely noble. I'd dearly love to break his nose for what he did." A crooked smile tilted his lips, and they shared a look of understanding.

An honest reply, although one that left too much room for potential outcomes like regret and prison.

"Perhaps you should consider those scenarios until you have a plan you can live with. And we should go back to Tippering before we return to London today. This time, using all the tools at your disposal." Excitement hummed under her skin. What would a Blanche Clementine heroine do?

"What tools? I was charming, but they wouldn't be charmed. I offered money, but they couldn't be bribed. What am I missing?"

She smirked. "I bet they'll talk to me. I'll claim to be his latest lover. If they have any heart at all, someone will try to warn me away. We'll need an unmarked carriage and for you to stay out of sight. Should that fail, we'll call on Mr. Lipscomb, the collector who bought your mythology volumes. He's a terrible gossip and will discuss books and his neighbors for as long as you're willing to sit and drink tea. The man doesn't stop talking."

A plan came together in her mind as she spoke. They could absolutely do this.

Dorian's crooked smile made a shallow divot in his cheek. Not deep enough to be a dimple, but enchanting nonetheless. "You're excited about this, aren't you?"

Caro widened her eyes and made her voice breathy. "Pardon me, but have you seen my fiancé, Mr. Sherman Snyder? I have rather urgent news of a most personal nature and must find him immediately!"

"He's your fiancé now? He's been busy over the last five seconds." The line of his shoulders relaxed as he teased her and finally drank his tea.

Caro drained her cup and set it aside. "Yes, and not a moment too soon, as the midwife suspects twins."

He barked a laugh. "Excellent. That will get the local gossips talking."

"That's what we need. If nothing else, it could create a few moments of acute discomfort for the man and his current amour. Would you like to order food, then set off?"

"Perfect plan. Thank you for this, Caro." He reached across the table and squeezed her hand.

"You're very welcome, Your Grace. Just promise me you won't end up in custody if we actually find Sherman. You can't get answers from inside Newgate."

It was his turn to don an innocent expression. "Surely the local magistrate would handle things. I'd end up confined to a well-appointed bedroom at the nearest manor house, not drafty Newgate." He chuckled once more. "I jest. If you could see your face…"

Caro sighed, shaking her head. "Promise."

"Fine. I promise I won't do anything that will warrant legal consequences."

"I'm holding you to that," she warned, then signaled the serving girl for food.

Later that morning, they arrived in the tiny hamlet of Tippering. Although she'd never been there before, the cramped streets and people who'd called the place home for generations were familiar. Dorian's error the day before had been in the way he'd approached the town. First, arriving in a carriage with a ducal crest and shiny brass bits that brought attention to himself. Then, he'd started his inquiries in the pub.

If his ducal-ness had spent any amount of time in a small community like Tippering or her village, he'd have known that while the pub owners and staff knew and saw everything, they wouldn't share information with a stranger. They were guardians of the town's secrets and wouldn't betray those secrets to an outsider without a compelling reason. Information was a sort of social currency, and the locals knew it.

Besides, the majority of the pub's stories would be skewed to the male perspective. Caro didn't have quite enough faith in that sex to trust their version of events. In her experience, men often got away with whatever they could by gravitating to those who would cheer on their misdeeds. Sherman coming home and bragging about his exploits wasn't beyond the realm of possibility, which made the men in the pub accomplices.

Bypassing the pub altogether, she walked down the high street and veered toward a white-paned bow window displaying hats, a rainbow of ribbons, and a rather fine pair of kidskin gloves. Outside the door, she took a moment to compose herself, discreetly adjusting the lump under her gown.

Between her short stays and Dorian's cravat, they'd managed to secure his coat to her waist in a way that would be noticeable to someone looking for it but not so large and burdensome that she would be expected to alter her gait.

Deception was a tricky business when one thought about it.

Caro rubbed at her eyes until her reflection in the window showed they were sufficiently red and shiny.

Overhead, a small bell announced her arrival, and she was relieved to see an older woman shuffle from the back room. Perfect.

"Good day, miss. May I help you find something?"

Caro put a wobble in her smile. "I… I hope so. Do you know where I can find the home of the Snyder family?"

The shopkeeper nodded. "Their place is the stone cottage on the right, just outside town. Pass the blacksmith, then continue straight until there isn't any fencing along the road. Their lane is between two overgrown apple trees. Don't know what you're expecting to find there, though. The family hasn't been in residence in, Lord, about ten years now. Only the son is left, and I haven't heard of him being back in a while."

Caro sighed heavily, resting a hand atop the bulge at her waist. "Sherman hasn't been home recently?" Scrunching her face, she tried to muster tears. Sad thoughts were hard to come by when her body still hummed from delicious bed sport the night before, so she shifted her expression to one of exhaustion. "I don't know what to do, then."

Concern wrinkled the woman's brow. "Miss, are you all right?"

When the woman reached for Caro's arm, she let herself lean into the touch. "May I sit for a moment?" She rubbed at the coat lump once more. "I'm just so tired these days."

The shopkeeper tsked and guided her to a pair of chairs near a looking glass at the back of the shop. "How far along are you?"

Drat. How far along was she? She hadn't thought about that. Caro drew in a calming breath and sent it out as a sigh. "Far enough that I worry about how uncomfortable carrying these babies will be before I finally get to hold them."

"More than one?"

Caro sat in the chair gingerly. "The midwife suspects two. You see now why it's so imperative I find my fiancé as soon as possible."

The shopkeeper made a sound of distress, then sank into the chair beside her. "You're engaged to Mr. Sherman Snyder? Oh, lamb. Terribly upset I am to hear it."

Blinking innocently, Caro asked, "Why do you say that? I confess I don't know my fiancé well. Certainly not as well as someone who watched him grow up. Is… is he the kind of man who would play me false?"

The older woman bit her lips together as if physically holding back words, and Caro tried not to smile in triumph.

"It wouldn't do for me to pass along tales."

"It's hardly passing along tales when people's futures are at stake, Mrs.… I'm sorry. I don't know your name."

"Mrs. Cooke."

"Mrs. Cooke, you may call me Alice." Adopting the name of her first book's heroine, Caro took the woman's hand and squeezed as if it were a lifeline. "Sherman stopped returning my missives two months ago. When I went by his rooms, the landlady told an awful story about him leaving in the middle of the night without paying his rent. He's mentioned growing up here and even talked about building a school for the village. It sounded like he was still involved in Tippering, so I took the mail coach as far as I could, then walked the rest of the way. Please, anything you can tell me would be helpful."

Mrs. Cooke's clamped lips softened somewhat but didn't open, so Caro risked pushing a bit more. Surely the woman would dispense advice, if not gossip. "Should I keep looking for him and insist he marry me as promised, or go home and throw myself on my family's mercy?"

Imagining her father's response if she had shown up at his door unmarried and pregnant with twins was enough to make Caro's shudder of dread convincing. Feeling oddly protective of her faux baby, she covered the curve with her hands and waited for Mrs. Cooke's response.

She didn't have to wait long.

"Alice, if my daughter were in your shoes, I'd rather she come home than be saddled with that man for the rest of her days. Sherman Snyder isn't worth anyone's tears, luv."

"He's that bad? Goodness, I had no idea."

Mrs. Cooke nodded emphatically. "Better to birth a bastard than live with that one. He's the bad apple that ruins all he touches. I don't know what tales that slippery chap spun, but there's no school in Tippering. Our children learn at home, or with the vicar. The ones with real brains foster with families near the closest school an hour away and come home on the weekends."

Caro winced, while internally rejoicing. Once the shopkeeper decided to speak, she really didn't hold back.

The other woman wasn't without compassion, though. "Alice, do you think you're the first to come here looking for that man? This is what he does. Woos women, takes everything he can from them, then walks away and leaves everyone around him to pick up the mess." She ran her gaze over Caro's serviceable gown and worn gloves. "You don't seem as high on the instep as his usual targets. Please tell me you didn't give him money."

"Targets? That's quite the word choice." Remembering her story, Caro hurried to add, "I cleared the debt with his landlady, but that's it."

"I'm sorry you covered a single ha'penny for that man. Especially with the babes on the way."

"To call Sherman's paramours targets makes him sound like a wolf on the hunt."

Mrs. Cooke rose to pull a tin of biscuits from behind the counter, then returned to her seat and offered Caro one. "That Snyder boy has been a problem his entire life. Never wanted to try at anything. Not a single bone in his body was equipped for hard work. If there was a shortcut to be found—no matter the means—he took it. Cheated in school. Pilfered from shops. Ran up his family's debt at the pub. His poor mum made weekly rounds through the village apologizing for his behavior."

The biscuit was delicious, lemony and sweet on her tongue, with the perfect amount of crunch. "This is exceptional—thank you, Mrs. Cooke. Did you make these?"

She preened. "I did. I'll share the receipt if you wish."

"I'd like that, thank you. But you were saying—Sherman has been a scapegrace all his life? Goodness, this is a lot to take in."

"Honestly, the women came as a surprise to all of us. A pretty thing like you, I'm shocked he caught your attention."

That seemed to require a response, as the shopkeeper waited expectantly. Caro cleared her throat of the lemony biscuit and said, "He, ah, writes poetic letters. Turned my head with romantic words."

Before she'd finished speaking, Mrs. Cooke was nodding. "That's what I've heard, but don't believe a word of it. Once, two women were in town looking for him at the same time and compared letters. He writes the same thing to everyone. I'm so sorry, Alice. You should go home and forget you ever met Sherman Snyder."

Caro nodded and rose to her feet, deliberately shaky. The shopkeeper jumped up and offered a hand. She really was a dear. "Do you have any thoughts on where he might be? God knows my family will want to try to find him when I show up looking like this."

"Last I heard, he had rooms on Rupert Street, but you said he's let those go. Perhaps your parents would have some success asking his cousin, Lord Bixby, about his whereabouts. That man probably regrets giving Sherman introductions to the fancy folk. How they didn't throw him out on his ear, I'll never know."

Success. Caro offered a small smile. "Thank you. I appreciate your hospitality, Mrs. Cooke."

"Oh! The biscuits!" The woman scurried back behind the counter to scribble something on a slip of paper, then handed it to Caro. "If you bake them for too long, just cover them in icing. Icing helps everything."

Mrs. Cooke was a woman after her own heart. "I will remember your kindness. Thank you again."

As she wove through the streets toward the mews and the hired carriage, Caro forced herself to stare at the ground. Once she'd reached the carriage and closed the door behind her, she finally let herself grin like the victor she was.

"He keeps rooms on Rupert Street and has an entree to society thanks to his cousin, Lord Bixby. Oh, and I am far from the first woman to show up in town looking for him. Unlike me, they are usually wealthy. The shopkeeper called them targets. Also, the closest school is an hour away. If I had to guess, Sherman pocketed the funds."

Dorian's grin crinkled the skin around his blue eyes. "You did it. They talked to you."

Caro shifted his coat out from under her skirts and handed the rumpled mass to him. "Mrs. Cooke runs the milliner shop and bakes fabulous biscuits. She wrote down the receipt for me. Lovely woman."

He laughed aloud. When the urge to inhale surprised her, Caro realized she'd been holding her breath at the sight of him. The way Dorian's smile lit him from within, how he threw his head back as he laughed—how had she ever thought him humorless and stoic? Those old impressions she'd had of the Duke of Holland were disappearing, replaced by this man. Dorian, who kept her awake with his snoring and laughed easily once he let you behind his walls.

"You are a marvel, Caro." He pressed a kiss to her lips. "I don't know why I tried to do this without you."