Fearless Duke

Fearless Duke
League of Dukes Book Six
By
Scarlett Scott


Miss Isabella Hilgrove, proprietress of the Ladies’ Typewriting School, prides herself on the quality of her staff. After the Duke of Westmorland sacks the third typist she has sent him in as many days, she’s not just outraged, she’s determined to put the arrogant bully in his place.
Benedict Manning, Duke of Westmorland, is having the worst few weeks of his life. A bomb has exploded on London Bridge, the Special League is unraveling, and he cannot seem to find a secretary who is not a spineless watering pot. When the prim and proper Miss Hilgrove arrives on his doorstep, calling him everything but a gentleman, he can’t resist toying with her.
Their mutual attempts to teach each other a lesson quickly turn into something more. But danger is in the air, and the brooding duke and the self-avowed spinster are about to become targets of the most lethal menace London has faced…


Dedication
Dedicated to my husband and our beautiful girls. Thank you for suffering through my deadlines!


Table of Contents
Title Page
About the Book
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Note on Historical Accuracy
Excerpt from Lady Ruthless
Don’t miss Scarlett’s other romances!
About the Author
Copyright Page


Chapter One
London, January 1885
“I beg your pardon, Your Grace, but there is a Miss Isabella Hilgrove demanding an audience.”
Benedict looked up from the reports of Scotland Yard’s Criminal Investigation Department he had been poring over. According to investigators, it would appear the only good thing about the attempt to bomb London Bridge was that the dynamitards responsible had unintentionally detonated their infernal machine too soon.
They had blown themselves to bits in the process.
Some three weeks thereafter, another band of dynamitards had thrown an infernal machine from a carriage near the Gower Street Station. The resulting clouds of billowing smoke and screams of terrified passengers emerging from the twisted wreckage had caused pandemonium. Worse, intelligence gathered by Special League double agents back in New York suggested more outrages were being planned.
He frowned at his butler, the grim prospect of additional bombings infecting him like an ailment. “I am not at home.”
Young’s countenance was implacable as ever. “I informed Miss Hilgrove as much. However, she claims she has been sent by the Ladies’ Typewriting School.”
“Not another one,” he grumbled.
Three typists had been sent to him by the school. Since he had undertaken the duty of managing the Special League, he required a seemingly endless amount of reports for the Home Office. Hiring a typist had seemed an excellent decision, especially since the Home Secretary himself had suggested it and recommended the school.
The decision had proved a dreadful error of judgment on Benedict’s part.
The first had hummed to herself as she completed a task. When he had pointed out how disturbing such a habit was, she burst into tears and fled.
The second had been dreadfully slow, her fingers hunting about the keys in plodding fashion so that she had accomplished frightfully little in the course of three hours. He had told her to leave and not return.
The third had been sniffling and coughing. He had taken one look at her red nose and watery eyes and sent her on her merry way. Illness aggrieved him mightily. Indeed, he could not afford to contract something catching in his current position.
There was far too much at stake.
But he became aware that Young still lingered at the threshold of Benedict’s study, looming like a wraith.
“What is it?” he snapped at the butler.
“I am afraid the lady in question has informed me she will not be denied an audience with Your Grace. She has indicated she will remain all day if necessary.”
Devil take it.
He had no doubt the fourth offering from the school would not be any better than her three predecessors had been.
“Tell the lady in question her services are no longer required, if you please,” he informed his butler.
His butler’s countenance had never been more aggrieved. “I will try, Your Grace.”
“Try?” he asked, for Young was ordinarily an exemplary domestic.
Benedict had expectations of his staff. Obeying his edicts and performing their tasks well and promptly were strict requirements. In addition to not being an irritant or a walking ailment, of course. He was not too stern, he felt certain. He merely expected from all those in his employ the same standards to which he held himself.
Namely, excellence.
Young cleared his throat, apparently seeing his mistake. “I will explain it as you require, Your Grace. Thank you.”
He bowed and then took his leave.
Benedict exhaled slowly as the door clicked closed. He listened for the staccato of the butler’s shoes on the marble hall. Solitude pleased him. Disruption irked him. He was a beast of habit, it was certain. But upon his shoulders, he bore a great weight of responsibility.
He bowed his head and resumed reading the reports awaiting him, assured Young would dismiss the creature at the front door and he would be done with the Ladies’ Typewriting School for eternity.
He had scarcely read two sentences when the indignant squawking began.
Truly, there was no other means of describing the sound reaching his ears. It was feminine and outraged. Followed by two sets of footsteps echoing down the marble hall.
“Madam, I beg you,” said Young.
“Beg as you wish,” responded the angry hen who had caused the initial squawking and unrest, “but I shall see the Duke of Westmorland, and I shall see him now.”
What cheek.
What daring.
The effrontery of the baggage…why, it was unprecedented.
The fourth would not last any longer than the prior three, it was certain. Nettled, he rose from his desk, before skirting it and stalking toward the door. The door opened. And there stood a female.
The female.
Behind her hovered an anxious-looking Young, eyebrows raised. A waterfall of protestations rained down upon the moment.
“Miss Hilgrove, I must insist you go. This is quite improper. You cannot disrupt His Grace.”
The last assertion appeared to spur the creature hovering on the threshold