The ruthless man who’d ruined the Duke of Westbury, and countless other noblemen.
If anyone had seen them kissing, she was ruined, too. More than ruined.
“Ah, I see now that you’re fully aware of who you waltzed with, Lady Henrietta. I told you to expect danger.”
More than a waltz. She touched her lips, still swollen and warm from his kisses.
“What are you doing at my ball, Ellis?” asked the duke. His gray whiskers trembled. “And what was that I saw you doing with my daughter?”
Chapter Three
Damn it all! Ash scrambled for a plausible explanation. If he didn’t come up with something quickly he could be facing the duke’s pistol at dawn. Not the outcome he’d planned.
He hadn’t fought his way up from the cutthroat alleyways of Seven Dials without learning how to think on his feet.
“Oh, that?” he said. “Lady Henrietta was explaining to me the process she uses for creating the excellent sparkling wine I tasted this evening.”
“It looked like you were tasting more than the wine, m’boy.”
“It’s a dark night, Your Grace. There’s only a sliver of moon. She was divulging her secret recipe, whispering it in my ear. I have an interest in spirits, you know. My business partner, Jacques Smith, has invented a new gin still that produces a much cleaner and more pure spirit that he infuses with botanical extracts.”
“Hetty,” said the duke, turning to his daughter. “Is this true?”
Lady Henrietta had been standing, frozen, her face set in a rictus of horrified shock. The exact expression he’d imagined she’d have when she learned his true identity.
She recovered in swift fashion, turning to her father with a sweet, innocent smile. “Of course, Papa. What else could it have been? I was whispering the measures of sugar I add, or, as the French call it, the dosage.” She glanced at Ash from under thick, dark lashes. “Mr. Ellis may wish to invest in my wine venture, isn’t that right, sir?”
“After a fashion.” He cleared his throat. Things were getting complicated. Best to come out with what he had to say. “Your Grace, I’ve been attempting to speak with you, but you’re a difficult man to pin down.”
“Here I am, Ellis. I don’t suppose you have a second flask?” the duke asked hopefully.
“No, but we could go to 20 Ryder Street and I’d serve you an excellent Glenlivet I’m quite fond of.”
The duke perked up. “Then what are we waiting for? Lead the way, good sir. Lead the way.”
“Just one moment,” Lady Henrietta broke in. “Papa—you have a duty to perform. You’re not going anywhere.”
“I’m going down The Devil’s Staircase,” said the duke gleefully. “With Mr. Ellis.”
Lady Henrietta placed her fists on her full hips. “It’s past midnight. You must select a bride before you go.” She wasn’t one to deviate from her schedule.
Ash leaned toward the duke. “You don’t have to marry, Your Grace,” he said in a conspiratorial tone.
“I don’t?”
“And just what do you mean by that, Mr. Ellis?” Lady Henrietta asked sharply.
“I mean that he has no need to marry any of the assembled ladies and sire another heir.” Ash straightened to his full, considerable height. He spread his hands, pausing for dramatic emphasis. “Because I am the long-lost heir to the dukedom of Granville.”
“Hetty, it’s a midnight miracle!” her father cried.
“What did you just say, Mr. Ellis?” Hetty asked.
“I said that I’m the long-lost heir to the dukedom.” His expression was unreadable in the dark, but Hetty was certain that she heard a predatory, wolfish tone in his voice.
“Are you making a joke, sir?” she asked.
“I’m in earnest.”
“Well, you could have made this shocking announcement a little earlier, I must say.”
Before he’d tempted her into kissing him.
“We’re saved, Hetty!” cried the duke, practically dancing a jig. “I don’t have to marry any of those desperate duchess candidates.”
Hetty’s mind scrabbled for a foothold in the treacherous mire of this disastrous evening.
The man she’d danced with, the man she’d kissed, was making a preposterous claim to her father’s title. He must be lying. A gaming hell owner who brazened his way into a private event with no invitation couldn’t possibly be a legitimate heir presumptive.
“Papa.” Hetty pulled her father away a few steps, whispering urgently. “We don’t know Mr. Ellis from Adam. He may very well be a pretender, a swindler. Why did he come to the ball uninvited? Why not contact your solicitor like an honest claimant would do?”
“Nonsense.” Her father brushed away her words and turned back to Mr. Ellis. “Anyone can see the family resemblance. Look at that strong chin and those steely gray eyes. Now, why don’t we go inside, and I’ll introduce you to everyone. Won’t they be disappointed.”
Over Hetty’s dead body. “We certainly won’t be introducing him to anyone, Papa, not unless ironclad proof of his claim is presented.”
“Of course, of course,” said the duke. “You have evidence of your claim, Mr. Ellis?”
“Ironclad.”
“And . . .” The duke squinted at him. “Who are you claiming to be, exactly?”
“A descendant of the Honorable Ashbrook Prince. A branch of the family that split off long ago.”
“Of course! The lost baby. The secret marriage to a scullery maid from Spain.”
“I arrived at an orphanage at the age of three,” Mr. Ellis said. “My mother was dead and my father unknown. I told the matrons that my name was Ash. I have only vague memories of my mother, but I know she used to sing to me in Spanish. And she told me never to forget that I was a prince. I thought she meant that I was a prince among men, but now I know the truth. I am a Prince. I’m your heir, Your Grace, and I’ll gladly present further proof at a time of your choosing.”
“Splendid, m’boy, simply splendid. My solicitor is Higginbottom, of Pall Mall. He’s a good sort. Extricated me from plenty of scrapes, I can assure you.”
Mr. Ellis nodded. “I’ll contact him right away.”
This was all happening too quickly. Hetty didn’t approve of Higginbottom. His card should have read Solicitor of Mayhem, for he was a very bad influence on her father.
“You could be a fraud, Mr. Ellis,” she said. “An opportunist.”
“It’s been known to happen.”
“You could be engaged in skullduggery of the highest order.”
Mr. Ellis made a snorting noise, as if attempting to restrain a laugh.
“Hetty,” her father remonstrated. “Don’t insult your cousin.”
“Seventh cousin, actually,” drawled Mr. Ellis, all ease and affability. “Once removed.”
“We’ll see about that,” Hetty muttered.
Mr. Ellis’s gaze raked across her bodice, lingering on the swell of her bosom. It was rising and falling rather rapidly, given the mixture of dread and fury coursing through her veins.