The Duke Heist

Book 1: The Wild Wynchesters

by Erica Ridley

Genres: Historical Fiction; Action & Adventure Romance; Regency Romance

Synopsis

A NYT bestselling author kicks off a new Regency series of "irresistible romance and a family of delightful scoundrels" as a woman looking to recover a stolen painting accidentally kidnaps a duke instead. (Eloisa James)

Chloe Wynchester is completely forgettable -- a curse that gives her the ability to blend into any crowd. When the only father she's ever known makes a dying wish for his adopted family of orphans to recover a missing painting, she's the first one her siblings turn to for stealing it back. No one expects that in doing so, she'll also abduct a handsome duke.

Lawrence Gosling, the Duke of Faircliffe, is tortured by his father's mistakes. To repair his estate's ruined reputation, he must wed a highborn heiress. Yet when he finds himself in a carriage being driven hell-for-leather down the cobblestone streets of London by a beautiful woman who refuses to heed his commands, he fears his heart is hers. But how can he sacrifice his family's legacy to follow true love?

"Erica Ridley is a delight!" --Julia Quinn, New York Times bestselling author of the Bridgerton series

Release date: February 9, 2021

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 352

Sample

1

March 1817
London, England

Miss Chloe Wynchester burst through the door of her family’s sprawling residence in semi-fashionable Islington, followed closely behind by her sister Thomasina. Chloe’s pulse raced with excitement. His Arrogance, the Duke of Frosty Disapproval, didn’t have a chance.

Unable to keep her exuberance to herself, she yelled out, “I have news about the painting!”

In a more respectable household, a young lady might expect censure for being so vulgar as to shout, even within the confines of one’s own home. Such a young lady might also be rebuked for donning trousers and strolling about Westminster under an assumed identity.

Chloe was grateful every single day not to have such limitations.

Her roguish brother Graham appeared at the top of the marble stairs, delight and disbelief writ across his handsome face. He was used to being the one with shocking news to share. “Don’t stand about. Come up to the Planning Parlor at once! I’ll ring for tea.”

Exchanging grins, Chloe and Tommy dashed up the marble stairs, their gray cotton trousers allowing them to take the steps two at a time. In seconds they joined Graham in the Planning Parlor, the communal private sitting room the six siblings used for plotting their stratagems.

Chloe and Tommy tossed their matching beaver hats onto the long walnut-and-burl table in the center of the sound-dampened room.

Tommy rubbed a hand over her short brown hair, causing it to spring up at all angles. Graham moved a pile of scandal sheets from the table to the map case to make room for refreshments. Tommy and Graham launched themselves into their favorite needlepoint armchairs, between two large windows outfitted with heavy calico curtains of ruby and gold.

Chloe was far too excited to sit. Instead, she paced the black slate floor, which still contained traces of chalk from the last planning session. She paused before the unlit fireplace and lifted her chin.

For as long as she could remember, two paintings had always hung above the white marble mantel. One of them had been missing for the last eight months.

But it wouldn’t remain missing for much longer.

“The Planning Parlor feels doubly empty without our Puck,” Graham said gruffly.

“Not just the Parlor,” Tommy corrected. “Our entire house.”

Our lives.

No one said the words out loud, but they all knew it to be true. The house had belonged to Baron Vanderbean, but the beloved painting belonged to all of them.

Bean had rescued his motley brood of orphans over the course of a single summer. Six proud, frightened children between the ages of eight and eleven: Chloe, Tommy, Graham, Jacob, Marjorie, and Elizabeth. Life had taught them to be mistrustful and careful. Coming together as a family had been the most pivotal moment in their lives.

Chloe lifted her gaze to the portrait above the left side of the mantel. Bean’s fatherly visage bore a grin that crinkled the edges of his bright blue eyes. It was not at all the thing to smile in one’s portrait, which was probably why Bean had done so. Chloe was glad he did. His smile always made her feel loved.

A maid entered the room and began arranging the tea. Chloe tugged her cravat free, so as not to fill it with crumbs.

Tommy wiggled with excitement. “I can’t wait to hear your plan, Chloe. Once Puck comes home, it will feel like having a part of Bean back. Like being whole again.”

Chloe’s heart pounded in agreement. All six of the siblings would do anything in their power to bring Puck & Family home where it belonged.

Before they’d found each other, most of the siblings had never had anyone they could rely on or possessions to call their own. They’d learned the hard way not to develop emotional attachments to people or things.

Bean had offered permanence. A place to belong. A home. He told them they were the children he’d always wanted but never had. From the moment each had arrived on the doorstep, they’d felt loved and cherished in a way they had never known. The oil painting was their first purchase as a family. Their first decision as a family. For most of them, it was the first time their voices mattered.

The artist’s uncommon skill wasn’t why they’d chosen the unusual painting. It was the subject. A forest scene, featuring Robin Goodfellow—the mischievous demon-fairy sometimes known in folktales as Puck—and six fellow sprites of all sizes and hues, dancing about a fire with absolute freedom and joy.

It was the visual representation of what they’d found in each other. Happiness. Unconditional love. The ability to be oneself and to be bigger than oneself—to be a team, and a family. That was the most magical part of all. That painting was their soul on canvas.

To the Wynchesters, the painting was a family portrait…and their most cherished possession. It belonged to all of them. It was all of them.

“Once Puck comes home, we can get rid of that cherub.”

All three gazes swung to the fireplace. An angel-shaped vase stood on the mantel, right beneath the faded rectangle where Puck & Family should have been.

A blank spot that matched the empty space in their lives where Bean used to be.

Chloe swallowed hard at the injustice. Nineteen years earlier the prior Duke of Faircliffe had sold them the painting to pay one of his many gaming debts. Then, eight months ago, when he suddenly wanted it back, the family refused. Instead of honoring the original transaction, the duke stole the painting and left an ugly vase behind in its stead, as though that could possibly make up for their loss.

Neither they nor the old duke anticipated a carriage accident interrupting his journey home—or that he’d succumb to his injuries.

When Bean visited the heir to politely request the return of their painting, the newly crowned Duke of Faircliffe refused to see him.

Rebuff Baron Vanderbean! Chloe’s blood boiled. But that was hardly the first of the new duke’s endless slights and rejections. He’d always been too lofty and self-important to notice anyone of lesser rank, no matter the justification.

Later, when Bean caught smallpox, he refused to allow the children into his sickroom lest he expose them to the disease. They threw themselves into retrieving the painting, and cursed Faircliffe when Bean slowly slipped away, without the safe return of their heirloom. Then or now, the Wynchester family couldn’t command a single second of the new duke’s time. She ground her teeth.

According to the society papers, the Wynchester children were nothing more than a dead baron’s charity orphans—someone you might toss a coin to out of pity but never deign to speak to on purpose.

She didn’t care what Faircliffe thought of her. Chloe was glad to be a Wynchester. She wouldn’t trade a single moment for the boring, buttoned-up life of the beau monde.

Chloe was used to being invisible. It was her greatest talent and often the reason for the success of their clandestine missions. It had begun as a game.

When the six siblings were children, Bean taught them to play Three Impossible Things to give them skills and confidence. They gathered information, breached barriers, and performed feats of daring.

Later, their team became the specialists to turn to when the justice system failed those in need. The Wynchesters snuck food and medicine into prisons, exposed workhouses and orphanages with draconian practices, tracked down libertines who despoiled for sport, rescued women and children from abusers, delivered aid and supplies to those who needed it most. Bean had taught them nothing was impossible. Everyone deserved their best life.

Their missions gave them purpose and adventure. Chloe loved slipping about unseen, doing good works beneath people’s noses. But being overlooked on purpose was one thing. Being dismissed out of cruelty was far worse.

“We no longer have to beg,” Chloe announced. “We can steal it back from Faircliffe, just as his father did to us.”

Graham added another tea cake to his plate. “How will we infiltrate the duke’s terraced fortress? That town house is as tightly locked down as His Loftiness himself. Do we even know where he’s keeping the painting?”

Chloe grinned at him. “We don’t have to. I know where it’s going to be.”

He set down his cake. “Where? How?”

She leaned back. “I sometimes watch parliamentary proceedings from the peephole in the attic—”

“Sometimes?” Graham rolled his eyes. “When have you missed one? And what does your obsession with politics have to do with getting Puck back?”

“Well, if you would let me finish.” Chloe pilfered her brother’s tea cake and took a bite from the corner, chewing with exaggerated slowness before swallowing. “As I was saying, today Tommy disguised us as journalists and we sneaked into the Strangers’ Gallery, where we sat behind Mr. York—”

“Wait,” Graham interrupted, his brown eyes gleaming. “Mr. York, the MP whose daughter is rumored to have caught the Duke of Faircliffe’s eye?”

“It’s more than a rumor,” Chloe said sourly. “We overheard Faircliffe say he intends to give Puck & Family to Mr. York’s daughter Philippa as a courting gift.”

Graham’s face purpled. “Give away our painting? That knave. It’s not his to give!”

“That’s the bad news,” Chloe agreed. She affected an innocent expression. “The good news is that my ‘Jane Brown’ alias has an invitation to Miss York’s weekly ladies’ reading circle. I met her when I was on that mission at the dreadful school for girls. Philippa was visiting with a charity group and—you know what? It doesn’t matter. The important part is, I have access to the home where the painting will be. It’s our chance!”

Her brother pinned her with his too-perceptive gaze. “You accidentally bumped into the Duke of Faircliffe’s future intended and now have a standing invitation into her household? That’s a bit of good fortune.”

“Er…yes.” Chloe became suddenly enthralled by her tea. “A very lucky, completely random coincidence.”

It was definitely not because she read the same gossip columns as her brother and wanted to see for herself what kind of woman attracted the Duke of Faircliffe’s attention.

Chloe had passed by him any number of times—not that he noticed. He didn’t even acknowledge her when she’d placed herself in his direct path to demand the return of her family portrait. Barely a syllable had escaped her lips before he strode right past her toward something or someone he actually cared about.

Blackguard.

“Now that we know when and where to act, we can play the game and get the painting.” Chloe counted the Impossible Things on her fingers. “First, ingratiate myself with the reading circle. Achieved. Second, retrieve Puck & Family once Faircliffe delivers it. Third, replace it with a forgery so no one suspects a thing. It all happens on Thursday.”

Graham frowned. “Why would Faircliffe wish to interrupt a reading circle?”

“He doesn’t know he’s going to.” Chloe smirked. “The Yorks are surprisingly crafty.”

“Even a stiff, scowling duke like Faircliffe is a catch worth bragging about,” Tommy explained. “Mrs. York will want witnesses.”

“We don’t want witnesses,” Graham pointed out. “Wouldn’t it be safer to bump into Faircliffe on the street and ‘accidentally’ swap his rolled canvas for ours?”

“It would indeed,” Chloe agreed, “if Faircliffe happened to stroll through Grosvenor Square with a rolled-up canvas. But the painting is framed, and the duke will arrive in a carriage where the York butler will be watching.”

Graham lifted his tea. “There aren’t a lighter set of fingers in all of London, so I’ve no doubt you can nick the canvas. And we’ll ask Marjorie to create the forgery.”

All six Wynchester siblings were talented in their own ways. Marjorie was an extraordinary painter who could replicate any artwork to match the original.

Chloe smiled. “Marjorie finished ages ago. I just needed an opportunity to exchange canvases. And some way to smuggle it out without anyone noticing.”

She swapped Graham’s spoon with Tommy’s fork as she thought. Coins and keys were easy objects to palm, but a rolled-up canvas was much too big.

“Could you strap a tube to your leg?” Tommy asked.

“Perhaps if I walked very carefully…” Chloe mused, then shook her head. “I would have to lift up my skirts to strap on the tube, and being caught like that would be worse. What I need is—”

“Kittens.” Their rugged elder brother Jacob strolled into the Planning Parlor with a lopsided basket in his strong arms. “Most ladies love kittens almost as much as a good book. If you were showing off a new pet…”

Chloe tensed. Although hints of fur clung to Jacob’s ripped and patched waistcoat, she’d learned to be wary. The last time her brother had entered a room with a basket, he was trying his hand at snake charming. If she hadn’t been wearing her sturdiest boots… “Do you really have a kitten in there?”

“Ferrets,” he admitted, his dark brown eyes sparkling. “But I have the perfect solution out in the barn. Tiglet is the best of all the messenger kittens.”

“Messenger…kittens?” she echoed faintly.

“Like pigeons, but terrestrial,” Jacob explained earnestly. “More fur, less filth. The perfect cover. He can find his way home from anywhere. He’ll be a splendid distraction. Because where there’s chaos—”

“There’s opportunity,” Tommy finished, eyes gleaming.

Chloe held up a finger. “First rule of Three Impossible Things: No plan without a contingency.”

Graham brightened. “May I suggest—”

“Your acrobatic skills are awe inspiring, brother, but unnecessary in this instance.”

Graham’s shoulders caved. “When will it be my turn?”

“Whilst I don’t anticipate the need for trick riding on the back of a racing stallion,” Chloe assured him, “a driver would not be amiss. Just in case I must flee in too much haste to flag down a hackney.”

“No hack required.” Graham straightened. “We can’t risk one of our carriages being recognized, so I’ll drive a substitute that cannot be traced to the family.”

Tommy cocked her head. “If there is a queue of carriages awaiting their literary-minded mistresses, how will Chloe know which coach is the right one?”

“Mine will have red curtains…and a conspicuously displayed glove for good measure.” Graham’s eyes lit up. “Better yet, I will not only be the first carriage you come to. I’ll be in the coachman’s perch. You shan’t miss me.”

“No plan without a contingency.” Jacob’s curly black hair dipped as he peeked into the basket of ferrets. “What if the Yorks’ staff insist you move the carriage?”

Tommy clapped her hands. “Elizabeth will distract them.”

When Elizabeth threw her voice, no one could tell where it was coming from. Their sister could emulate an entire crowd of distractions. She was also handy with a sword stick. Either skill would do the trick.

Graham turned to Chloe, his eyes serious. “If we get separated for any reason, go somewhere safe. I’ll find you.”

She grinned back at him, exhilarated by the upcoming adventure. Puck was finally coming home. “The reading circle will have a wonderful afternoon. Other than a wee interlude with Tiglet, the most memorable event will be Miss York charming the Duke of Haughtiness.”

Graham lifted a broadsheet. “Their alliance will be the talk of the scandal columns. No one will remember anything else. Which is too bad, because I rather enjoy their wild conjecture about us. One of my favorite columns claims: ‘Such a large, isolated house could contain dozens of them!’”

Chloe wrinkled her nose. “Those gossips make us sound like bats.”

“I like bats.” Jacob scratched beneath the chin of one of the ferrets. “Bats are fascinating. They have navels like humans and clean themselves like cats. I have thirteen of them out in the barn.”

“Please keep them there,” Tommy murmured.

“Or give them to His Iciness,” Chloe suggested.

“Faircliffe deserves as much.” Graham moved the broadsheets in search of his spoon. “No doubt the duke’s interest in Philippa York is monetary. Although she has no title, she does possess the largest dowry on the marriage mart. I’ve been keeping a tally.”

“Poor Philippa.” Tommy’s mouth tightened. “She deserves better.”

Chloe agreed. Faircliffe single-handedly lowered the temperature in every room he entered. The man was all sharp cheekbones and cutting remarks. That is, to everyone but her. She was invisible when right in front of him. Even when she was trying to be seen.

Graham made a face. “Can you imagine being wed to that block of ice?”

Chloe pushed her teacup away. “I cannot fathom a worse fate.”

2

Lawrence Gosling, eighth Duke of Faircliffe, was on the verge of achieving what had once seemed impossible: replenishing the dukedom’s empty coffers and restoring its tattered reputation.

His father had lived a charmed life on credit he had been unable to repay. And now, with the failure of their country estate’s crops, the situation was becoming dire. If Lawrence did not secure a bride with a significant dowry before the end of the season, he would have to send the last of his loyal servants to the streets.

He would not repay them so shabbily.

Lawrence leaned forward in his rented coach and opened the curtain to be able to address his driver. As with all of his father’s grievous missteps, each of Lawrence’s attempts to restore respect and prosperity had been won at great personal cost.

The sacrifice was worth it.

Lawrence’s reputation was spotless, his performance in Parliament impeccable. This season, marriage-minded mamas would have him at the top of their lists. For as long as Lawrence lived, the Gosling name and Faircliffe title would never again be spoken with derision. No heir of his would be dismissed, forced to shoulder ridicule and isolation.

Of course, that was because no one realized his shiny reputation hid a very empty pocketbook. The dukedom didn’t need a dowry. The dukedom needed the dowry to end all dowries. A sum so staggering, Lawrence could restore the half-abandoned entailed country estate, repay the last of his father’s debts, and have a respectable chunk left over to invest in a stable future.

The dukedom needed Miss Philippa York.

“The terrace house at the corner,” Lawrence instructed the driver. “The one with yellow rosebushes.”

“As you please, Your Grace.”

Using a coach to travel from one end of Grosvenor Square to the other was a shameless display of pretension and excess…and the reason Miss York’s parents looked favorably on a courtship between Lawrence and their daughter.

Although he’d sold his last remaining carriage that morning—right down to his prized greys—Lawrence had rented this hack to keep up appearances.

Mr. York was one of the most powerful MPs in the House of Commons. Mrs. York was bosom friends with a patroness of Almack’s. They had wealth, status, everything they could ever want—except a title.

After the wedding, the Yorks’ daughter would be a duchess, their grandson a future duke. To them, such a jaw-dropping coup would be more than worth any dowry required.

For him it meant a new leaf. The Earl of Southerby was seeking partners for an investment opportunity with very attractive interest rates—if Lawrence came up with his portion before the earl quit London at the end of the season. It was not a flashy wager, like the sort his father had made at his gentlemen’s clubs, but the steady interest and future profit would provide a strong foundation for years to come.

To Lawrence, marriage to respectable Miss York meant far more than financial stability. His children could be children, without fear of mockery or poverty. It would give his sons and daughters the chance—no, the right—to be happy.

Everyone deserved as much, including his new bride. Lawrence could not afford to woo Miss York for an entire season, but he could give her a week or two to get to know him before the betrothal.

He reached for the framed canvas on the seat opposite. “Once the traffic clears, I’ll alight at the last house. I shan’t be more than half an hour.”

But the carriages crowding the Yorks’ side of the square did not move. The queue appeared to be idly awaiting passengers. One of the Yorks’ neighbors must be hosting a tea. He grimaced.

Lawrence hated tea. He would rather drink water from the Thames.

“Stop here.” He reached for the door. “Find your way to the front of the queue so I know where to find you when I return.”

The driver nodded and allowed the curtain to fall closed.

Despite residing on opposite sides of Grosvenor Square, this was Lawrence’s first call at the York residence. The warm red brick and painted white columns of the impeccable terrace house were bright and clean. Every window glistened in the sunlight, reflecting the azure spring sky or the trim green grass in the square.

Jaw clenched, he strode down the pavement toward their front walk as elegantly as one could with a heavy, brown-paper-wrapped, framed painting clutched beneath one’s arm.

Lawrence could have brought his last remaining footman along to carry the painting, but he hoped a show of personal effort would add an extra touch of romance to his unusual gift. It was not what he would have picked, but the important thing was giving his future betrothed something she liked.

The finality of marriage prickled his skin with equal parts nervousness and excitement. A fortnight from now, when the contract was signed, he and Miss York would be saddled with each other. His palms felt clammy. Was it foolish to hope their union might be a pleasant one? He drew himself taller.

As with all duties, one did as one must.

The door was answered as soon as he touched the knocker. Lawrence presented his card at once.

“Your Grace,” said the butler. “Do come in. Shall I ring for someone to take your package?”

“I’ll deliver it.” Lawrence stepped over the threshold to wait for his hosts.

He and Mr. York had met in the House of Commons and enjoyed spirited debates for most of a decade. Last year, after the premature death of Lawrence’s father, he had moved from the House of Commons to the House of Lords. A partnership with Mr. York would ensure vital allies across the two Houses.

All he had to do was remain sparklingly unobjectionable until the banns were read. Once Miss York married him, her dowry would save the dukedom and secure a better future for his family and his tenants.

The plan had to work. It was Lawrence’s only shot.

Mrs. York bounded up to him, her hands clasped to her chest as if physically restraining a squeal of excitement. “Your Grace, such a pleasure, I do say!”

The unmistakable sound of female voices trickled from an open door halfway down the corridor straight ahead.

Lawrence’s skin went cold. This was supposed to be a private meeting. He hated surprises and was inept at impromptu conversations. He excelled in Parliament because he prepared his speeches in advance—just as he had done for today’s visit with Miss York and her parents.

Interacting with an unexpected crowd would ensure he made a hash out of his well-rehearsed lines. He stepped no farther.

“Did I mistake the date?” he inquired carefully.

“No, no. Right on time, as always.” Mr. York strode up to join his wife. “You’re a man who cleaves to duty. A fine trait, I daresay. Very little in common with your father.”

“Er…thank you. I should hope I’m nothing like him.”

“Quite right, quite right. Your parliamentary speeches could rival Fox and Pitt. Your father, on the other hand, rarely left his club—or his cups. Indeed, there are many who say—” Mr. York coughed and gave Lawrence a jovial clap on the shoulder. “’Tis no time for gossip, is it, my boy?”

Lawrence affected an affable smile. At least, he hoped that was what his face was doing. He was conscious every day that the Gosling name teetered on the edge of respectability. Mr. York’s unfinished intimation had been clear: there were still those who said Faircliffe dukes were a blight on society.

Duke or not, nothing was certain until the contract was signed.

“It is our honor, Your Grace,” Mrs. York gushed as she fluttered her hands in excitement and impatience. “Is that the special gift for Philippa? Come, you must present it to her at once.”

“I admit I can’t fathom what beauty she sees in that painting,” Mr. York murmured.

Lawrence held the frame a little harder. Dancing hobgoblins were an unusual subject. He did not understand why anyone would want it.

What if, upon second inspection, the young lady realized her error in having expressed admiration for such questionable “art” and laughed in his face when he presented it as a gift? Being able to give an item he already possessed had seemed like serendipity. Now he feared the omen might not be positive. His veins hummed with panic.

“It sounds. . .