The Wayward Duke by Katrina Kendrick

Author:Katrina Kendrick [Kendrick, Katrina]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781837931538
Publisher: Head of Zeus

18

Julian surveyed the glittering ballroom. Around him, the cream of London society mingled and laughed, resplendent in their silks and feathers. Liveried footmen wove through the crowds, bearing trays laden with fluted champagne glasses. An orchestra occupied the minstrel gallery above, sawing away at their strings to provide a sonorous backdrop to the mingling aristocrats below.

But Julian only watched one man.

Edgar Kellerman.

Even in this crush, the financier stood out with a calculating gleam in his eyes as he scanned the room. Cloying charm oozed from every word as he bent his listeners to his will.

Julian recognised more than a few eager faces in the crowd surrounding him – second sons and ambitious heirs greedy for easy fortune.

He could not confront Kellerman directly, not yet. Despite his suspicions, Julian lacked definitive proof. He needed Kellerman to lower his guard first. To believe Julian an easy mark ripe for manipulation.

An unpleasant role but a necessary one.

Julian took a glass of champagne from a passing footman and leaned with bored indolence against a nearby pillar.

“If you were going to brood alone, you ought to have told me,” came an amused voice at his shoulder.

Julian glanced over to see Caroline approaching. He let his gaze trace over her, drinking in the sight. She had swept her blonde hair up in an elegant coiffure, with a few artful curls left loose to caress her neck and shoulders. Her ivory silk gown was overlaid with intricate black Chantilly lace, the scalloped neckline accentuating the graceful arch of her throat. She’d chosen a dress to bring men to their knees while still appearing a proper duchess.

His duchess.

“Just observing,” he said.

“You do realise you’re glowering at our gracious host as though you’d like to skewer him with an olive fork?”

“Can you blame me?”

“No, but we need him to believe he’s lured you in. Which will prove difficult if you insist on mentally eviscerating him all night.” She took another sip of champagne. “Now stop looking so murderous before someone thinks to call you out.”

“You know I only save my best behaviour for you. But I promise to glower more politely moving forward,” he said. “How are you getting on with the wives?”

“I could fill a hundred scandal sheets with the idle chatter I’ve endured tonight over lukewarm lemonade, but none relating to Kellerman. I spied you over here, brooding in the corner, and thought I’d offer my sympathies. How fares our host this evening? Still reeling in his besotted fortune-hunting lambs?”

“One by one. With promises of fifty per cent returns within months. Probably streets paved with silver and diamonds growing on trees to be hand-delivered by next Tuesday or some nonsense.”

Her laugh was more like a snort. “Ah, practically reckless fraud. He’s desperate, then.”

“Desperate men are dangerous men. I have a friend who’s traded as far as Argentina, and he told me the ports are undeveloped and the terrain is inhospitable. Any investments would be sunk.”

The Portuguese had held those colonies for centuries – if profitable ventures existed, they would have been seized long ago.

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