Mending the Duke’s Pride

by Admirand, C. H.

She sighed, wondering if she should have married a more biddable husband.

  As if he’d read her mind, he leaned close and whispered, “I hear two of your favorite gentlemen will be in attendance tonight. Lord Yarmouth and Lord Harkwell.”

  She elbowed him, pleased when he let out a huff of air. “You know very well I detest Lord Harkwell.”

  “True, but your mother seems quite fond of Yarmouth.”

  She had to agree. “Why do you think she invited Harkwell?”

  “He is good ton and looking for a bride, but not on my list of suitors,” the duke replied. “Do not worry, I shall keep you on one side of me and Phoebe on the other where Harkwell is concerned.”

  “Unless you receive another late-night visitor or missive?” she countered.

  His eyes met hers, the gravity in his gaze soothed a bit of the worry she’d begun to feel as the hour of the ball drew closer. “Do you anticipate something happening tonight?”

  “King’s sources lead him to believe things will come to a head—tonight.”

  “He is certain?”

  Jared nodded.

  “Will you have to leave the ball to meet Mr. King?”

  “I won’t know until I receive word. If I have to leave, promise me you’ll stay close to Phoebe.”

  “Of course. If you must leave,” she rasped, “know that I love you and shall be praying God keeps you safe until you return.”

  “I depend upon your love, Persephone.” He kissed her briefly and tugged on her hand until she voluntarily walked beside him to the top of the stairs, ready to do their part as host and hostess of their first official ball as duke and duchess.

  While their servants lined up in their finest livery, Lady Farnsworth and Earl Lippincott stood side by side, waiting for Jared and Persephone to join them in the receiving line.

  “I thought perhaps we would have to send Jenkins to see that you didn’t leave the greeting of guests to me and Lady Farnsworth,” Edward grumbled.

  “We wouldn’t miss it, would we, my duchess?”

  Persephone smiled. “Not for the world. Are you ready to greet our guests? They are due to begin arriving at any time.”

  A short time later, their guests arrived, and Jenkins opened the door with his usual flourish. Their guests were announced, shown to the upper ballroom, and greeted.

  Persephone sensed they were quite impressed. She smiled and nodded to some, showed delight and appropriate respect to others at or above their station. Through it all, the duke remained at her side until the musicians began to play, signaling the end to their duty receiving their guests, as one by one guests moved out onto the dance floor.

  At the very center, his sister laughed gaily as she danced with one of his contemporaries. Persephone let her husband have his way choosing his sister’s dance partners ahead of time. He’d deemed it necessary, given the threat looming over his family.

  At half eleven, one of their footmen delivered a folded slip of paper to the duke. She tried not to cringe. As promised, she did as he’d bid, squeezed his gloved hand and sought out Phoebe. Edward’s gaze met hers as he moved to join her. From the intense look on his face, she realized Edward must have seen the footman deliver the note to his brother. He would be on his guard against a possible threat.

  To her relief, Phoebe was happily dancing, unaware of the impending threat.

  “Edward, I am worried. Should we move closer to Phoebe?”

  “And have her ruin the ball with one of her tantrums? I think not,” he said. “Walk with me. I’ll fetch us a glass of champagne. My brother’s guards have been stationed outside at the four corners of the house. They will protect the family.”

  She confessed, “I feel so helpless.”

  He inclined his head, acknowledging her fear and setting it aside, as he handed her a crystal flute. “Have a sip and relax,” he told her. “The O’Malleys have arrived in force.”

  She did as he bid, seeing the tall rather fierce-looking men clad in black take their places along the perimeter of the ballroom. Relieved, she said, “At least Phoebe is enjoying the ball.”

  He smiled. “If Jared has not told you recently, I would have you know how much you have added to his life…and ours, Persephone.”

  Tears threatened at his words, but she held them at bay, sipping from her glass. “The pleasure is all mine. You have a wonderful family, and I’m honored to be a part of it.”

  A movement out of the corners of her eyes and her sharp intake of breath, were the only warning Edward had before a brute of a man rushed toward them, with two of the duke’s guards hot on his heels.

  “Look out!” she warned, pushing the earl out of range, leaving her shoulder in the path of the blow meant for her brother-in-law.

  She moaned but managed to remain standing. The earl grappled with the intruder until, a few moments later, the duke’s guards arrived, removing the intruder from the ballroom.

  Her heart in her throat, Persephone searched for her sister-in-law. She had to shout to be heard above the voices and music swelling in the vast ballroom. Did they not notice the intruder? “Phoebe!”

  Persephone dashed back to where her sister-in-law should have been. Fear building as she watched the duke’s men move in and out of the guests, searching. Persephone only had a moment to wonder who they were searching for before her heart sank to the very pit of her stomach.

  “Phoebe!” she rushed forward only to stop. Phoebe was held in the grasp of a familiar-looking gentleman—but not the one she’d been dancing with.

  Phyllida rushed forward. “That’s him!” She pointed. “The man who followed us when we sought refuge in Mr. Grimsby’s shop! The one responsible for…” she could not continue, burying her face in her hands and dissolving into tears.

  The gentleman escorting her moved to stand in front of Phyllida. As if taking their cues, other gentlemen in their vicinity followed suit, protecting the ladies, tucked safely behind them.

  A whisper of sound had her gaze sliding to the left where Patrick slowly advanced, only to halt when the man holding Phoebe captive brandished the knife he’d hidden in his frockcoat.

  “Do not move,” the man ordered, placing the flat of the blade against Lady Phoebe’s cheek.

  “Ye cannot escape, Hollingford,” Patrick ground out, signaling to another of his men who moved forward from the right.

  The viscount slowly smiled. “Ah, but my plans have already been put into place and do not require my presence.”

  When two more of the duke’s guards advanced, he tightened his grip on Phoebe and she cried out.

  The viscount’s smile twisted until the man’s visage changed, revealing what was in the man’s heart. Evil. “I see His Grace has been called elsewhere.”

  The duke’s guard surrounded him. Not one of them carried a weapon, Persephone noted, but the identical grim expressions on their faces promised retribution. She let go of the breath she’d been holding.

  “The duke has met the end he so richly deserves,” Hollingford crowed.

  Persephone’s heart sank to her knees. “No!” A glance in Patrick’s direction reassured her the man holding Phoebe captive had not succeeded in that regard.

  She found her courage and her voice. “The duke is above reproach and has done nothing to deserve whatever you planned for him.”

  “On the contrary,” the viscount replied, “he is the reason my wife is dead.”

  The whispering rose to a crescendo. “He has not been to London in years,” she blurted out. “He divided his time between Sussex, the Lake District and Cornwall, running the ducal estates.”

  “Do not be obtuse,” Hollingford ground out. “He is the Duke of Wyndmere, and it was the Duke of Wyndmere who caused my wife to end her life when he ended their affair.”

  “That was the fifth duke,” Edward said, his voice calm and even. “Jared is the sixth.”

  “Fifth, sixth, seventh,” the viscount bit out. “I do not care which duke pays. But as I live and breathe, one
of them will!”

  Persephone kept her gaze locked on Phoebe’s, sending her a silent message not to worry and that all would be well. When her sister-in-law briefly closed her eyes and opened them, Persephone noted the change. Phoebe was braced for whatever would come.

  She would never think her spoiled again. Lady Phoebe was stout of heart and far braver than anyone realized.

  A sound behind him had the viscount glancing over his shoulder in time to note two of the duke’s guards were right behind him. Edward nodded to Persephone, who braced herself to spring into action. Edward rushed the viscount who let go of Phoebe in order to defend himself.

  Persephone lunged forward and pulled Phoebe to safety.

  Patrick and two more of the duke’s men joined in the fray, pummeling the viscount until the man stopped fighting, accepting the inevitable.

  Persephone was about to ask Patrick what they were going to do with the man, but waited, watching Edward remove his cravat, using it to tie the viscount’s hands behind his back.

  “Drag this horse shite outside,” Patrick ordered, “and let the Watch handle it.”

  Edward stumbled as he moved to let the duke’s guards haul the man away.

  “Persephone,” Phoebe rasped, “Edward’s hurt.” The brave front the young woman demonstrated crumbled as she fell against Persephone weeping.

  Needing another pair of hands to handle the overwhelming situation, she nodded to the earl Phoebe had been dancing with. He gently guided Phoebe to a seat and offered a linen square to mop her tears. As Persephone had hoped, the gentleman stood guard beside her sister-in-law.

  Jenkins arrived in time to lend a hand, his expression grim, noting the blood where Edward had been slashed. “I’ve got him, Your Grace,” he reassured her.

  Persephone’s hands shook as she tore a strip of sheer fabric from her gown. The overlay had been beyond lovely but served a far better purpose. She wrapped it around her brother-in-law’s arm.

  Worry for her mother filled her as she searched the crowd for a glimpse of her. She finally found her mother in the crowd. Lady Farnsworth was guiding Phyllida over to where her mother, Lady Ipswitch, stood devoid of color. A nod was all she needed to be reassured her mother was unharmed and in charge. Relief swept through her noting Lord Yarmouth stood at her mother’s side guarding her. The two had been quite close since that afternoon he’d been invited to take tea with them.

  Suddenly, the terrace doors burst open. Persephone braced herself, but it was not another threat. It was the duke! His eyes wild, searching the crowd…for his sister, his brother…and for her.

  “Jared,” she called out. “All is well, you see?” she said, walking slowly toward him. “Phoebe is unharmed, and Edward—”

  Before she could utter another word, the duke swept her into his arms and carried her from the ballroom. “You’re bleeding! Good God, you must have lost enough blood that you do not realize it, my love. Please let me take care of you.”

  “But—”

  The sound of her husband shouting for Jenkins would have her head ringing for a few hours more. Had she not been in his arms, she would have been quaking in fear from his ferocious bellows.

  He kicked the door to the servants’ quarters open and strode into the kitchen. “Fetch Dr. McIntyre,” he commanded. “And someone bloody well boil some water!”

  She giggled, unable to help herself.

  “Help is on the way, love, hold on. You’ve lost so much blood you are out of your head.”

  She finally wiggled enough to free one hand to place it against his cheek. “Jared, I am fine. The blood is not mine.”

  He dropped onto one of the kitchen chairs and buried his head against her. “You are certain?”

  “Edward was injured subduing the viscount. I tore of a wide strip of my gown, the sheer fabric is quite strong you know,” she soothed, holding his head against her breast. “It stanched the flow of blood. I didn’t realize it had soaked into my gown.”

  He finally lifted his head, his gaze locking on hers, “When I first saw you, all I could think was you could not die. Do you hear me?” He grabbed her upper arms and shook her, repeating, “You cannot die!”

  Her heart swelled as she sought to soothe the sharpest edge off his worry for her. She’d felt the same hearing Hollingford say that her husband had already died. She sighed, “As you can see, I have not. Do ease up your hold, Husband, else I am sure to have bruises that will add to those I have already acquired.”

  “Where are you hurt?”

  “It’s nothing really, just a smidge of a bruise from when—”

  “Where. Are. You. Hurt?”

  “Botheration, just a bit of a blow to my left shoulder.”

  “Where in the bloody hell is Dr. McIntyre?” he bellowed while she covered her ears.

  “Ah, I see my brother has returned safely,” Edward called out as he was helped into the room. “How is your shoulder, Persephone?”

  “Sore,” she told him. “How is your arm?”

  He shrugged. “I’ll live, or so Dr. McIntyre informed me just now. He’ll patch me up—quite handy with a needle and thread, you know.”

  “I am most grateful for the praise, milord,” a deep voice rumbled from just behind Edward.

  Jared eased Persephone closer into his embrace and slowly stood. “When you’ve finished with my brother, Doctor, I believe my duchess and sister will require your attention.”

  Dr. McIntyre looked from the duke to Persephone before asking, “And where is Lady Phoebe?”

  “Under guard in the ballroom, unharmed,” Edward replied, “but she may require a dose of laudanum. Poor girl must have suffered a great shock being held at knifepoint.”

  “It is best that you look at her,” Persephone said, “but you should know she’s made of sterner stuff than you know.” Persephone proceeded to tell the duke and the doctor about Phoebe’s bravery.

  “How did you injure your shoulder, Your Grace?” the doctor inquired.

  Before Persephone could answer, Edward filled him in.

  In the silence that followed, Persephone asked, “What happened to you, Jared, after you left the ball?”

  “It was a ruse,” he told her, his eyes oddly bright with a sheen of moisture that had not been there moments before. “To lure me away from the ball, so that Hollingford could exact his revenge upon the house of Wyndmere.”

  “He is not quite right in the brainbox,” she whispered, “is he?”

  The duke agreed.

  The earl’s arm had been stitched back together and Persephone’s shoulder had been put back in the socket and immobilized. Then the doctor examined Phoebe, advising she be put to bed with a dose of brandy, leaving the laudanum to be administered per the instructions he left with Persephone.

  Carefully tucking his wife’s uninjured shoulder against him, he confided, “I could do with a shot of whiskey.”

  “I still have that bottle you gave me for my birthday, Your Grace,” Mrs. O’Toole said.

  “If you wouldn’t mind parting with a bit of it,” he said, “I’d be most grateful.”

  Mrs. O’Toole opened a cabinet to retrieve the bottle, and asked, “Did all of your guards accompany that horrible man and his henchman to the constable?”

  “Patrick and Sean did. The rest of the O’Malleys are standing guard at the four corners of our home.”

  Persephone knew then what she’d suspected all along, her husband shared her thoughts and placed value on those of his employ as did she when he intimated to his cook that it was their home.

  She smiled and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

  “Here now,” Mrs. O’Toole said, “let the man have his whiskey, then you can take him upstairs and soothe the worries from his soul.”

  “Aye, that she will,” the duke told his cook, though he never let his gaze leave Persephone’s.

  “Will I?” Persephone smiled, more than pleased that her duke had regained his equilibrium and was more himself.

&nb
sp; While she leaned against her husband, her mother and Lord Yarmouth walked into the kitchen with Phoebe. Persephone noted her sister-in-law appeared subdued, but seemed to be holding herself together, standing quietly by the door.

  She stifled her laughter when she heard Lord Yarmouth tell her mother, “Should I ever want to host a ball that would be the talk of the ton for years to come, I shall certainly enlist your aid, Lady Farnsworth.”

  The look on her mother’s face was quite comical and a relief to Persephone, thankful she could feel something other than swift, sharp shards of pain that had immobilized her at the thought of her husband’s death.

  “I do not see the humor in all of this, Lord Yarmouth,” her mother grumbled.

  Yarmouth took her mother’s hand and brought it to his lips, “I meant no offense.” When she sighed, he asked, “Would you accompany me for a drive tomorrow?”

  Her mother beamed at him. “That would be lovely.”

  Yarmouth turned to the duke, saying, “I must take my leave, Your Grace.”

  The duke inclined his head. “My thanks for stepping in as host, Yarmouth. Between you and Lady Farnsworth, our guests remained relatively calm. You ensured no one was hurt in their rush to leave the ball.”

  “It was my pleasure,” Yarmouth said, although Persephone noted the lord was looking at her mother again and not the duke when he spoke.

  “I’ll show you out,” Lady Farnsworth said.

  Before following behind Lord Yarmouth, her mother walked over to place a kiss on the duke’s cheek and then Persephone’s. She held out her hand to Phoebe. “Why don’t you come with us, Phoebe? I’d be happy to accompany you to your room and see you settled.”

  When Phoebe let herself be led, Lady Farnsworth added, “You’ll need your rest to deal with the onslaught of invitations you’ll undoubtedly receive on the morrow. So many balls, musicales, and the like to choose from.”

  “Who would invite me after tonight’s disaster?”

  Lady Farnsworth smiled. “The cream of society do so love a diversion—the more disastrous, the better. You’ll be the talk of the ton,” she reassured Phoebe. “Best get plenty of rest, you’ll have your Season, never fear.”