How the Dukes Stole Christmas Page 31

  Somehow, he doubted it. Which meant the real Mrs. Walker might not be as rigid as the woman from the newspaper column. He contemplated the possibility. All that experience and wisdom combined with an adventurous spirit? Such a woman would prove quite a tempting package.

  You cannot flirt with her. She is married.

  And he was her employer. He never dabbled with women from the company. Not only did it put the employee in an awkward spot, he’d never know if she wanted him for himself or because he was her boss.

  Thankfully, the man on her other side had garnered her attention, so Duke made small talk with Cameron and pushed thoughts of a bold and proficient Mrs. Walker from his mind.

  The first course was served minutes later. “Are you a fan of horseracing?” Mrs. Walker asked, obviously overhearing him discuss plans to visit Sheepshead Bay Race Track.

  Before Duke could answer, Cameron craned his neck toward her. “You could say that. Havermeyer’s got one of the best stables in New York.”

  One of her brows climbed. “Is that so? I am afraid I know nothing about horses.”

  “Do you ride?” Duke asked.

  “No. Never learned how.”

  A memory tugged at him. Hadn’t she written a column with riding tips not long ago? No, he must’ve read that elsewhere. “Was there an incident in your past, such as what caused your fear of dogs?”

  Her mouth opened and closed before she said, “You really do read my column.”

  “Of course. Why would I lie?”

  “I thought you were merely being polite.”

  He resisted the urge to fidget with his collar, like he was a young man caught admiring the teacher. “I’m much too selfish for that. Anyway, I’d happily assist you with riding lessons.” He added, “Along with Mr. Walker, of course.”

  “That is a kind offer. I’m afraid I spend most of my time indoors, however.”

  “Quite understandable,” another guest said. “Considering the topics in your column. Doubtful many ladies would care to hear about tennis or badminton.”

  Her tone remained polite, yet deep grooves appeared between her brows. “On the contrary, many women are interested in physical pursuits—which is an excellent idea for my column. After all, how many recipes and cleaning tips am I able to provide? Perhaps an unexpected, unusual topic would be a refreshing change every now and again.”

  “I thought we were to refrain from speaking business,” Duke said, unable to keep from teasing her.

  He was rewarded when she chuckled. “Touché. A thought for another day.”

  The footmen began bringing in small plates. Cameron rocked back and forth in his seat, the man nearly apoplectic with excitement. One would think he was dining with the Charles Ranhofer in the Delmonico’s kitchens—though Duke supposed that, to many, Mrs. Walker was equally as popular as the renowned chef.

  “These are fresh Blue Point oysters from Long Island Sound,” she announced as the plates were delivered. Each contained five shelled oysters, a lemon wedge, and a sprig of parsley.

  Picking up his seafood fork, Duke loosened an oyster and brought it to his mouth. The shellfish was briny and firm, with a blast of sweetness after the swallow. Utter perfection.

  Conversation died for a moment as the table commenced eating. “These are delicious,” Cameron murmured, already on his third oyster.

  “I agree,” Mrs. Walker said. “Simple and flavorful. Perfect just as nature made them.”

  “We used to buy oysters right off the boats when I was a boy,” Duke said. “Before the boats docked, a line of us would gather there and wait.” Oysters and clams, the Newport cottage, sailing and running with the other lads . . . Those were good memories, the only few he had from childhood.

  His finger automatically went to the scar above his eyebrow, feeling the puckered skin. It served as a reminder of his recklessness.

  “Would you care for more wine, sir?” asked a footman at his elbow.

  He nodded, eager to escape maudlin thoughts of days gone by. When his eyes met Rose’s, there was a question there, as if she were about to start interviewing him. Straightening, he looked away and swallowed a healthy mouthful of wine, irritation slithering over his skin like humid air on a summer afternoon.

  He didn’t need anyone asking about his past. He presided over the largest publishing empire in the nation, dammit. That was all the world was required to know about him. The newspapers were what mattered, not his childhood or his scar.

  He vowed to keep his attention on his agenda this evening—and nothing else.

  Chapter Four

  “What is your background, Mrs. Walker?” the man on her left asked. “How did you become such a talented writer?”

  Rose smothered a grin. Her mother said she’d been born with a pencil in her hand, continuously writing as a small child. Later, she studied the classics and pored over newspapers to soak up as much information as possible. Then she saw an ad in the Gazette for a reporter and applied. Pike balked at hiring a woman reporter, but he had been thinking of starting an advice column. After they had concocted the idea of Mrs. Walker’s Weekly together, Rose relished the challenge. She spent long hours researching answers, as well as using her mother and the other members of the Lowes’ well-trained staff as resources.

  Not that she could share as much with the HPC board.

  Instead, she lifted a casual shoulder. “Oh, I’ve always been writing down my thoughts. Forever scribbling, my mother said. I had some patient teachers and studied hard.”

  “Will you ever branch out and write on some real topics?” Cameron asked as he finished his wine.

  Real topics? Of all the dashed nerve . . . Her right eye began twitching. “I am not certain what you mean, Mr. Cameron. My topics are quite real.”

  Cameron leaned back and clasped his hands over his stomach. “I mean no offense. But they’re filled with just women’s issues. You must admit, stains and recipes are hardly as important as politics or the market—”

  “I believe what Mr. Cameron is trying to say,” Duke broke in with, “is that you’re incredibly talented and should you ever want to explore other stories and issues, you only need let me know. Havermeyer Publishing is happy to support you, regardless of topic.”

  She unclenched her jaw and murmured her gratitude. Duke gave her a short nod, as if to reassure her. She appreciated it. No one had ever disparaged the topics of her column before, at least not to her face—the blessings of anonymity, she supposed. The experience was not one she’d care to repeat.

  Yet she was loath to let the issue drop. If her topics were so frivolous, she wanted to ask Cameron, then why was hers the most popular HPC column? Why did her words sell more papers than other writers’?

  She pressed her lips together and swallowed her argument. She needed her job and antagonizing one of the HPC board members—no matter how much he deserved it—was unwise. Thank goodness Duke had switched placards to put Cameron farther away from her.

  The next course arrived. Soup bowls were distributed while John, one of the Lowes’ footmen hired for the night, rolled in a cart containing the tureen. When all the bowls were full of soup, Rose picked up her soupspoon—only to drop it when an unholy crash resonated from the floor beneath them.

  Good heavens. That had come from the kitchens. Her gaze locked with Henry’s, and her fake husband appeared equally startled.

  Trying to maintain a calm veneer despite her panic, she pushed back from the table and rose. “If you’ll excuse me. Please, continue your dinners.”

  The men all stood, including Duke. His brows were lowered in concern over his precious dinner party.

  She shared that same concern.

  Hurrying into the corridor, she caught up with MacKenzie, the groom they’d recruited to serve as the butler, on his way toward the kitchen. “What was that noise?” she hissed.

  “Canna say, Miss Rose. I hope there weren’t food on those trays that dropped.”

  She pushed through the s
winging door and rushed down the servant staircase. The heat and aromas grew stronger as she descended. In the kitchen, three maids were cleaning soup off the floor. A second tureen had shattered, the porcelain smashing into tiny pieces and its contents now all over the ground.

  “What happened? Is everyone all right?”

  “I am so sorry, Rose,” Ida, one of the maids, said. “There was a rat.” She held out her hands wide, then wider, as if sizing a dog. “It was huge. Ran right across my foot.”

  Rose pinched the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger. “Ida, you’ve seen a rat before. This is New York City, for heaven’s sake.”

  “Yes, but one’s never run across my foot! Gave me the shivers.”

  “We still have a little more soup.” Bridget, Henry’s fiancée, showed Rose a smaller bowl. “I’ll take this up in case someone wants seconds.”

  “Thank you, Bridget.” Rose turned to the other two women. “Should I be worried? The kitchen must be spotless after dinner. The entire group is descending to watch me make those ridiculous cookies.”

  “It will be, I swear.” Ida kept sopping up soup. “Don’t you worry, Rose.”

  “What about the next course? Are we still on time?”

  Ida pointed to the platter, still covered on the counter. “Broiled salmon, ready and waiting.”

  “Thank goodness. Would you like any help cleaning up?”

  The two young women glanced at Rose as if she’d lost her mind. “And ruin your borrowed dress?” Ida said. “No, indeed. Tonight you are the mistress of the house. We’ll deal with this.”

  “I am so grateful to all of you for helping me. Honestly, I haven’t a clue what I would have done without you.”

  Ida grinned. “You are family. We always help family. If this helps you keep your fancy job at that newspaper, then we’ll gladly do it. You’re famous.”

  Rose nearly snorted. Famous was a relative term, especially considering few people knew she and the author of Mrs. Walker’s Weekly were one and the same. “I am grateful nonetheless. I will return to the dining room, if you are settled.”

  “Good as gravy, Rose. Now, you get up there and charm those board members.”

  * * *

  Seconds after Mrs. Walker’s departure, Mr. Walker also pushed away from the table. He excused himself and strode out of the dining room.

  “Hope our food ain’t on the ground,” Cameron murmured at Duke’s side.

  Duke agreed. Tonight’s meal must be perfect. He continued the small talk at the table, acting as host as best he could. Yet his attention kept wandering back toward the corridor. Where were the Walkers? A weight built up in his gut, a growing concern over the lingering absence of their hosts. What had gone wrong?

  “. . . to replace Pike?”

  Duke swung toward the board member who had spoken. “I’m sorry, what?”

  The man’s mustache twitched. “I asked if you have anyone in mind to replace Pike. I was thinking maybe someone from the outside instead of one of the other senior editors. Fresh blood, you know.”

  Duke did not want to have this conversation now. Not at this dinner party, and not while the two hosts were missing, tonight’s other courses possibly scattered on the kitchen floor.

  Perhaps he should follow, see if he could be of any use. Waiting patiently for bad news was not his strong suit. He had to do something.

  He hadn’t expanded his family’s publishing empire tenfold by sitting around.

  Pushing his chair back, he placed his napkin on the table. “Excuse me. I’d like to check on our hosts.”

  A footman stood at the hallway door. “Which way to the kitchens?” Duke asked him.

  The man’s skin turned the color of plaster. “Sir, Mrs. Walker asked that the guests—”

  “Never mind that. Just point me in the direction of the kitchens or I’ll find it myself.”

  The footman pointed a shaky finger to the right. “Stairs are behind the second door.”

  Duke moved into the corridor. He was no idiot; this was overstepping his bounds as a dinner guest. No one should leave the table to wander about the host’s home, especially to wade into a domestic matter.

  However, this was no normal dinner party. This was business, and everything connected to HPC tonight, even Mrs. Walker herself, was his concern.

  Nearing the second door, he heard . . . heavy breathing. The rustle of clothing. A giggle. What in God’s name . . . ?

  He slowed and peered around the doorjamb into the landing. Duke jerked in surprise. At the top of the stairs was Mr. Walker . . . kissing one of the housemaids. Walker had the girl pressed against the wall, his lips locked on hers, hands greedily roaming over her uniform-clad body.

  That bastard.

  Anger flooded Duke’s veins like lightning, quick and fierce, and he shook, fighting the urge to punch Walker in the face. It was not uncommon, unfortunately, for the master of the house to dally with a maid, but Duke was fucking furious to learn that Walker fell into this disreputable group. Mrs. Walker deserved better.

  Had Walker no respect for his wife in her own home, especially tonight of all nights?

  As much as he longed to beat Walker senseless for this, Duke backed off. He had no right to get involved. He marched to the dining room, his head spinning with what he’d witnessed. As he retook his seat, Cameron asked, “Well, did you learn anything?”

  “No.” Duke wasn’t one to gossip, and this was a private matter between husband and wife.

  Perhaps she takes lovers, as well.

  Lust raced along his spine, the possibility causing his skin to grow both hot and cold. Yes, that was a very real possibility. He’d been fascinated with her, yet stifled the interest out of respect for her husband and her position at HPC. Turned out the husband didn’t deserve such consideration.

  Have you forgotten? Married women are not worth the trouble.

  Indeed, he’d learned this fairly early. As a young man, he’d bedded a married woman for a short period of time before her husband found out and tried to blackmail Duke for an obscene amount of money. Duke had hired an investigator, who uncovered many infidelities on the part of the husband, dalliances his wife hadn’t known about. She hadn’t been pleased.

  But Duke hadn’t stopped there. Further digging revealed the husband was stealing funds from several top Wall Street investors, the details of which Duke happily printed in the Gazette. That was the last he’d heard of blackmail.

  From that point on, Duke had sworn off married women and also vowed to remain faithful to his own wife should he ever marry. Otherwise, why bother standing in a church and repeating the vows?

  A man’s only as good as his word.

  What were Mrs. Walker’s views on marriage? Her columns brimmed with joy over a woman’s lot in life. She wasn’t inspiring rebellion or calling for women to join the suffrage movement; rather, she encouraged her readers to run a tidy and efficient household, to please their husbands through good food and well-mannered children.

  Did she know of, or even suspect, her husband’s infidelity? Perhaps she encouraged lovers outside the marriage bed; many married women did, after all. Yet he’d read each of her columns, even the ones that dealt with relationship advice. He could not foresee a situation where Mrs. Walker would approve of such an agreement. She seemed a romantic at heart.

  Though he had to say, meeting her in person, he was having a hard time reconciling her with the woman who wrote the column. She seemed strong-willed and independent. Outspoken. Ready to cosh the unenlightened Cameron over the head with a blunt object.

  While he admired Mrs. Walker the writer, he found himself entertaining other feelings—physical feelings—about the fierce and fiery woman behind the column.

  It was a terrible idea, taking her as a lover. He never mixed business with his personal relationships. Yet he couldn’t help but imagine those clear blue eyes clouded with desire. Her pale skin flushed with pleasure, slim limbs wrapped around his frame . . . He w
as shocked by how much he wanted that.

  Stop. Remember your purpose tonight.

  The Walkers returned just as the soup course was cleared. He shifted closer. “Is everything all right?” he asked under his breath after she settled.

  “Oh yes. Nothing to worry over,” she said, loud enough for everyone to hear. “Just a minor slip with some porcelain.”

  “Good help is impossible to find nowadays.” Cameron shook his head regretfully. “It’s all those middle-class jobs available. The good servants are being wooed by the false promise of independence.”

  Duke frowned at the comment, which smacked of the social entitlement and privilege that he’d come to hate about New York society.

  “And how is that promise false?” Mrs. Walker asked the question innocently enough, but she leaned in, like a fencer awaiting an opponent’s next parry.

  “Putting ideas in their heads,” Cameron said with a wave of his hand. “Tell me, what could be better than working in a household? They have a roof over their heads, meals to eat. Clothing provided for them. There is a sense of security in domestic service not found in other employment.”

  Mrs. Walker’s gaze narrowed on Cameron. “Have you any idea of the hard work that goes into being a footman or a maid? Have you seen the aches and pains, the gnarled fingers? A servant’s life is grueling and unrewarding, with little to show for it except exhaustion at the end of the day. At least with an office or shop position, you retain some semblance of freedom, leaving the job behind when you clock out.”

  An uncomfortable silence descended as the footmen appeared with the next course. Duke lifted his wineglass and drained the contents, all the while contemplating her answer. She seemed intimately aware of the perils of domestic service, as well as unexpectedly progressive in her attitude regarding the status of servants. What would she think if she learned her husband was screwing one of the housemaids?

  Mr. Walker laughed at something down the table, a comment from another guest, and Duke’s jaw clenched. The adulterous bastard . . .