Duke of Sin

by Elizabeth Hoyt

  “No,” he agreed, rummaging in the provisions basket, “but I’m paying them and I’m a bloody duke besides, so I needn’t be polite, either. Apple?”

  He held out the piece of fruit with a smile that was both innocent and faintly derisive.

  She set her hands on her hips. “You’ll find that you’ll have better service if you treat your servants as human beings, capable of both thought and feeling.”

  He threw himself into a chair, one leg over the arm, swinging lazily. “If a servant’s service displeases me in any way I have them dismissed. The remaining servants see this and act accordingly. I have the best service money can buy.”

  He took a large bite of the red apple, chewing as he watched her.

  She came to him and knelt by his side. “It isn’t right to treat other people as things that you can buy and sell.”

  He smirked. “What is right and wrong?”

  “Would you like to be treated that way?” She didn’t know why this argument, so late at night after three days of constant, exhausting travel, meant so much to her, but it did.

  It did.

  He pointed a finger at her, beautiful, confident in his wealth and rank, his gold thumb ring winking in the firelight. “If anyone were to treat me in such a way I’d cut his nose off and make him eat it.”

  He took another bite of the apple.

  “Would you like others to treat me in this way?” she whispered. “As a thing to be ordered about, without regard to my feelings or thoughts?”

  He froze, looking at her.

  Her eyes never leaving his, she took the apple from his hand and bit into it.

  Chewing, she rose and left the room.

  VAL WOKE TO a freezing room and the sight of a ginger cat sitting at the foot of his bed. It had a white blaze on its chest and was washing itself quite unconcernedly.

  The cat paused and looked up at him and he saw that it had green eyes, like Pretty, his first cat, the one that Father had strangled.

  He’d had terrible taste in cat names at the age of five.

  Val sneezed.

  The cat was off like a shot and gone before he could blink.

  And then he wondered: had it been there at all?

  He sat up and looked at the spot on the dusty coverlet where the cat had been. It had left no impression.

  Madness.

  The room, in the light of day, still smelled like death and decay.

  He got up, dragging the dusty coverlet from the bed, and wrapped it about himself. It trailed on the floor as he crossed to the diamond-paned window. It overlooked the inner keep, barren save for a gnarled oak tree at the center. Everything was mantled in the night’s frost. He remembered men in masks, gamboling by firelight around that tree. Laughter and screeching.

  Whimpering and soft crying.

  Those masked men had terrified him as a young boy. Had once sent him running from his spying place, high in the widow’s tower, back to his room, to hide under his bed. The nursery maid had found him only late the next morning.

  Now he saw those masked revelers for what they really were: opportunities pure and simple. Nothing more. And like any opportunity’s their benefits and their risks must be assessed.

  He’d put that process into motion when he’d written the Duke of Dyemore before they’d left London. Whether the old man had gotten the letter, whether he was interested enough to come to Yorkshire and meet him, wasn’t certain, of course. But Val would be very surprised indeed if he hadn’t heard from the duke by next week.

  A harsh cawing drew his eye upward and Val caught sight of a flock of jackdaws taking wing over the castellated walls.

  He’d been created here, the result of as careful breeding as any Arabian stallion’s. A dam from bloodlines that came from the Norman invasion and wealth to boot. A sire with a title, land, and beauty.

  And he’d been formed here, drop by frozen crystalline drop, until he gleamed, translucent like a diamond, sharp and pure, and without any softness.

  That had been frozen clean away.

  Those who professed shock, disbelief, nay, even horror at the result, had not been paying sufficient attention to the depth of the ice.

  Act not surprised when frozen ground yields naught but death.

  And now he was returned to the seat of his ancestors. Ah, but it was past time he took his rightful place.

  Val turned away from the window and strode to the door, opening it and sticking his head out into the hallway.

  To his surprise a footman was actually without, apparently awaiting his appearance.

  The man jerked nervously. “Your Grace?”

  “Bring hot water and plenty of it,” Val said. “A maid to make my fire. Tea, milk, sugar, eggs, ham, kippered herring, sausages, cheese, bread, butter, and jam. Oh, and Mrs. Crumb.” He remembered the conversation of the night before. “Please.”

  “I’m sorry, Your Grace?” the footman said, looking dazed. “Who?”

  “Mrs. Crumb,” Val repeated. “The woman I came in with last night. About this high”—he placed the side of hand at his chin—“wears dreadfully ugly mobcaps and is probably someplace ordering someone about.”

  “Oh,” said the footman with dawning comprehension. “Her.”

  BRIDGET HAD WAKED earlier that morning to the stink of mildew and a damp coverlet in a cold, dark room.

  She was of two minds about the matter.

  One was sympathetic. It was never nice to be the servant in charge of a country house who was expected to be ready with no notice for the whims of a feckless master turning up in the middle of the night. The aristocracy seemed to think that beds made themselves, pantries were magically stocked, and staff could be hired at the snap of one’s fingers.

  On the other hand, mildew, dust, and damp denoted incompetence and that was another matter entirely—one that rather scandalized the housekeeper within her.

  Right, then.

  Bridget rose, shivering in her chemise. This disturbed Pip, who, despite his wiry fur, had been forced to seek warmth beneath the covers. He bumbled about, searching for a way out of the covers, until he found the edge and emerged, looking like some medieval cowled monk.

  The dog stretched and then sat, watching as Bridget dressed.

  She felt grimy, irritably aware that there was no water to wash in. Nevertheless she tied her mobcap firmly beneath her chin, hung her chatelaine at her waist, and snapped her fingers. She and the terrier ventured forth into the hall outside her room.

  She’d been given a little room on one of the upper floors, not a servant’s room, but certainly not a guest room, either.

  Betwixt and between.

  She marched down the unlit hall, noting the finely carved dark woodwork of the walls—and the dust above eye level and on the ceiling. Down the stairs—the carpet needed taking up, beating, and sponging, and the banister a good polishing with beeswax. Paused on the landing—smoke stains from years of candles on the upper walls, definite signs of damp on the lower. Down another flight of stairs—shaky banister. Dangerous, that. Must get in a carpenter at once. The lower hall was flanked by a row of gorgeous high Gothic windows looking out on the inner courtyard, all of which were dusty and smudged.

  Bridget tutted under her breath.

  Farther back she found the servants’ passage and another, much narrower flight of stairs leading to the kitchens.

  Great groined ceilings met her gaze, stained a tea brown from decades of smoky fires. Taking up one entire wall was the hearth, big enough to roast a side of beef. Since this was a castle, no doubt it had been used for that very purpose in its time. A venerable table stood to one side of the hearth, wide and battered. Around it were gathered what must be nearly all the castle staff, with varying shades of belligerence, curiosity, and fear on their faces. To one side, huddled in a little defensive group, the obvious outsiders, were the footmen who had traveled from Hermes House: Bob, Bill, Will, and Sam. Presumably their coachman was either still in the stables or had
fled, screaming, from the hostile atmosphere.

  Bridget let Pip outside by means of a back door and then turned and folded her hands at her waist. “Good morning. I am Mrs. Crumb. Where is Mrs. Ives?”

  Mr. Dwight, the butler, stood, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously in his thin throat. “My aunt went home to her cottage this morning. Said she was too old for midnight comings and goings.” He gulped as if swallowing more that his aunt might’ve said.

  Well, that might be easier anyway.

  “Whom do you use as washerwomen?” she asked Mr. Dwight.

  But a tall, thin woman with brown hair pulled tight against her skull interrupted aggressively, “Who are you?”

  Bridget affixed a small, firm smile to her lips. “Mrs. Crumb, as I’ve said. And you are…?”

  “Madge Smithers.” The woman folded her arms across her thin chest. “The cook.”

  “Ah. Then I presume you’ll want to start preparations for the duke’s breakfast. I know he’s particularly fond of eggs in the morning.”

  The cook didn’t move—nor did anyone else.

  Bridget sighed regretfully. “You see, the thing is, the duke will need to make decisions about his staff in the coming days: who will remain and who will have to find other places of employment.”

  “He’s a devil, everyone hereabouts knows it,” one of the footmen said. His words were over-loud and seemed to echo off the ceiling of the kitchens.

  Bridget studied the footman. He didn’t look more than five and twenty and she wondered how much personal experience he might have of the duke. “What is your name?”

  “Conners.”

  “Well, Conners, if you think His Grace is a devil then why are you working here?”

  “What d’you mean?” Conners scowled. “Only work hereabouts, innit?”

  Bridget nodded. “Then I suggest you think on it. If you truly hold the duke in such contempt and fear I suggest you leave. If you wish to remain, then reconcile yourself to the fact that you have made a pact with a man you consider the Devil—and treat the Duke of Montgomery with respect.”

  She paused, waiting while that thought sank in. She understood working from necessity—didn’t they all do that?—but she didn’t allow ill talk of their master.

  Or mutiny, for that matter.

  “Now.” She glanced brightly at the cook. “Breakfast, I think?”

  Mrs. Smithers didn’t exactly skip to her duties but she did start her preparations, with the help of two of the scullery maids.

  “We have some women who come from the village,” Mr. Dwight said when Bridget again asked him about washerwomen. “But my aunt was in charge of them. I’m not sure…”

  “Do you have their names?” Bridget asked.

  “Yes?”

  “Then please ask them to come today.”

  “But…” Mr. Dwight looked helplessly around the bustling kitchens. “Today isn’t washday. It’s not for several days. Are you sure there will be things that need washing?”

  “Oh, yes,” Bridget said. “In fact, tell the washerwomen that we’ll need them for at least a week.”

  “Very—”

  “Now, maids,” Bridget said briskly.

  “Maids?” Mr. Dwight sounded as if he’d never heard of the creatures.

  “Yes, I’ll need at least another dozen more,” Bridget said. “And I expect you’ll want at least a half-dozen footmen.” She nodded to herself. “Maids, footmen, washerwomen, carpenters, stoneworkers… really, I think you ought to just send word to the village that we’re hiring workers of all types. We’ll set up in the hall this afternoon so as not to be in the way of Mrs. Smithers in the kitchens and do the interviewing and hiring together. This morning after breakfast we’ll walk through the entire castle, you and I, and make note of what needs to be done. But first, tea. I really can’t do anything without tea in the morning,” she confessed to Mr. Dwight. He seemed like such a nice young man.

  But a little scatterbrained.

  He gazed wide-eyed at her. “Tea…?”

  One of the brutish-looking men from the second carriage entered the kitchens from a door Bridget hadn’t even realized was there. “She needs ’er breakfast.”

  “Who?”

  At Bridget’s query everyone stilled.

  Bridget’s eyes narrowed and she addressed the man, who was short, but with a barrel chest and a flattened, scarred face. “Who needs their breakfast?”

  He sneered. “None of your business.”

  “It’s a lady.” The dark-haired little maid from the night before spoke up bravely. “Down in th’ dungeons.”

  But Bridget was already crossing the kitchens and ducking through the door the strange manservant had entered through.

  Behind her someone yelled, “Oi!”

  There was a narrow passage back here. She hurried along it, ignoring doors that obviously led to storage rooms, until she came to an arched opening with a flight of bare stone steps that led downward in a spiral.

  These she took.

  The walls were moist and cool and she could see light below her. The circular steps spilled out into an open flagstone floor with a small, cozy fire on one end. Three crude wooden doors were set into the walls, all with small holes cut at roughly the height of a man’s head. Four bedrolls were laid out on the floor and a table was next to the fire with four chairs around it.

  Bridget was almost relieved. Dungeons had sounded quite horrific.

  Three men were sitting beside the fire, and all three looked up at the sight of her, although none seemed particularly alarmed.

  Behind her the man from the kitchens ran out of the spiral staircase, panting. “Tried to stop ’er.”

  Bridget drew herself up. “Where is she?”

  One of the men sighed, pushing out his chair. “Now, look ’ere, miss.”

  “Mrs. Crumb! Mrs. Crumb, is that you?”

  The man standing behind her made a grab for her.

  Bridget dodged and ran to the middle door, the one from which she’d heard the woman’s voice. She stood on tiptoe and peered through the little cutout hole and saw Hippolyta Royle.

  Chapter Eleven

  But King Heartless still nodded to his guards, indicating that the sentence should be carried out.

  That was when the magician cleared his throat. “My liege, I can prove my magic is real.”

  King Heartless frowned—he frowned a lot—and said, “How?”

  “I can help you find your heart.”

  Well, at that everyone froze, save for Prue, who hissed under her breath, “Father, what are you about?”…

  —From King Heartless

  Val was lying in his dusty bed, clad in a shirt, waistcoat, and banyan, munching an apple and wondering if the footman he’d sent for breakfast and Mrs. Crumb had perhaps fallen down the stairs and broken his neck, when heaven’s gates opened and an avenging archangel descended upon him in full fury.

  The door to his room was flung open, crashing against the far wall and marring what was no doubt some very fine carved oak paneling. She flew in, all fiery flashing eyes and flushed cheeks, her bosom heaving beneath black wool.

  She was magnificent.

  “Tell them to let her go!” Séraphine ordered him imperiously. “Tell them to let her go right now.”

  She stood over him, her lips wet, her body shaking with her rage, and he wanted to take her and roll her beneath him and fuck her into the mattress.

  But no matter what she thought he wasn’t entirely insane—he had some small sense of self-preservation.

  “Am I to understand that you’ve discovered Miss Royle?” he asked, keeping his apple prudently out of reach.

  She flung out her hand, pointing presumably toward his dungeons. “Those… those apes that you hired will not listen to me. They won’t let her out. What possible reason can you have to keep Miss Royle locked in your dungeons? Do you hate her so very much?”

  “No,” he replied, surprised. “Why would I hate Miss Royle? I i
ntend to marry her.”

  For a moment she stared at him, panting, breathless and wordless, it seemed, with rage.

  He’d had no idea she would respond to his capture of her queen so very violently.

  It was rather arousing.

  “Hippolyta Royle loathes you,” Séraphine said at last, her voice a little lower. “She’ll never marry you willingly.”

  “No,” he agreed, “but she’ll not have much choice once she’s ruined.”

  Her eyes widened and her face went white. “You intend to rape her?”

  He flinched, remembering a childish face, pale with fear. “I didn’t say that. As it happens I find rape and rapists disgusting. No. A week or so in the dungeons should do the job for me quite handily with Miss Royle none the worse for wear. By now all of London society knows that she’s gone. Once it’s discovered where she’s been staying and with whom…” He shrugged. “She’ll have no choice, as I’ve said. Even if she won’t admit it, her father certainly will. I expect to be affianced within a fortnight. “

  “But…” She was looking at him oddly. “If you marry a woman who hates you and you don’t intend to rape her, how exactly do you plan to consummate the marriage?”

  He arched his eyebrow and spread wide his arms, indicating his own incredible beauty. “She can’t hate me forever. Once married I give her a week. A month at the outside.”

  He shrugged and resumed eating his apple.

  “You really are the vainest man in the world,” she said wonderingly.

  He stopped chewing. “This is the first you’ve noticed?”

  She looked down on him, an angel in judgment. Her eyes burned at him. “Val, you can’t do this, don’t you see? It’s not right.”

  Her words splashed against him like acid.

  He tossed aside the apple and rolled off the bed. He stalked to her, barefoot, and took her by her upper arms, thrusting his face at hers, feeling her heat, seeing the flames licking the rims of her irises, and said, “What is right? What is wrong? Tell me now, Séraphine. Who makes these rules that others know so well?”