When he rose, Iris smiled warmly. “A pleasure to meet you, Murdock.”
A reddish tinge crept up the man’s craggy cheekbones. His wife could enthrall a badger, Raphael thought a bit sourly.
He cleared his throat. “Is Donna Pieri home?”
Murdock snapped to attention. “My lady is in the Styx sitting room, Your Grace.”
“Good.”
He felt his duchess’s sharp gaze as he led her to the staircase at the back of the hall. Red marble imported from somewhere exotic made up the treads and the heavy sweeping railings. The walls were lined with his unsmiling ancestors—they had a tendency to be dark and draped in an excessive number of jewels.
On the upper level the stairs ended in a long gallery, running the width of the landing. He brought her to tall double doors painted pale gray and opened them.
Inside was a petite woman, her dark hair streaked with white. A neat little lacy cap covered the top of her head. She sat at the edge of a chair upholstered in gold brocade, her back straight, her shoulders level, her hands held before her as she pulled a thread through an embroidery hoop, peering through small gold spectacles.
His chest warmed at the sight of her.
She glanced up at their entrance, raised an eyebrow, and said with only a hint of an Italian accent, “Ah, Nephew, I am glad to see you alive.”
Iris blinked, rather alarmed at the woman’s greeting. She’d never thought about Raphael’s possessing living relatives, yet here was his aunt.
And apparently she thought it was notable that Raphael was still alive.
Iris turned quickly to look at her husband, but he’d regained his icy reserve. Damn it. What exactly had he intended to do at the Lords of Chaos’s revel if she’d not been there? Had he planned something that would’ve gotten him killed?
She knit her brows at that appalling thought and glanced back at the petite elderly woman, sitting in profile.
Donna Pieri was all alone in the enormous sitting room done in shades of black and gold: white-painted walls were divided by black marble pilasters topped with gold Corinthian capitals. The delicate chairs, scattered here and there, were upholstered in gold brocade, and at one end of the room was an elaborate black marble fireplace mantel.
The ceiling was painted. But instead of the usual gods or cherubs cavorting in clouds, this was a scene of the River Styx with a rather muscular Charon ferrying the newly dead into Hades. Iris couldn’t quite repress a shiver. The artist had been quite fond of vermilion.
Though she supposed this room fit with her initial impression of Raphael—it was an appropriate setting for Hades.
She brought her gaze back to Raphael and watched as he bent and kissed his aunt’s cheek. It was a show of affection all the more astounding from a man who hardly ever displayed emotion.
He straightened. “There’s no need for dramatics, Zia. Of course I’m alive.”
She peered at him shrewdly. “I truly did not know if you would return alive from your trip north. If my worry is dramatic, then so be it.”
Raphael frowned. “Zia.”
“We will not talk about your obsession with these Lords now.” She waved her hand. “Tell me instead who this lady is.”
“This is my wife.” He turned to Iris, his crystal eyes glinting in the candlelight. “My dear, may I introduce you to my late mother’s elder sister, Donna Paulina Pieri. Aunt, my wife, Iris.”
The older woman stood, and as she did so she turned and Iris saw her face in full for the first time. Donna Pieri’s upper lip was split on the left side. A harelip.
Iris made sure that her own smile didn’t falter as she sank into a curtsy. “Donna, I’m so glad to meet you.”
“The pleasure is mine,” Donna Pieri said in her lovely accent as she rose from her own curtsy. She came only to Iris’s chin. Donna Pieri arched a fine eyebrow at her nephew. “I confess myself surprised—both by the suddenness of your marriage and because I never thought to see the day Raphael would wed.”
Something passed between them, a communication that Iris was unable to decipher, before Raphael bowed again. “I beg your pardon, but I fear I must leave again. I have to see an old … friend.”
Iris’s eyes narrowed. He must be going to investigate something about the Lords of Chaos. Perhaps Dockery? She’d hoped that they’d settled the matter when she’d expressed her dismay at his “business” in the carriage.
She should have known better. Raphael was obsessed with the Lords. He let nothing stand in the way of his revenge.
“Really, Raphael?” Donna Pieri tutted. “Why, you’ve just arrived. You haven’t even taken off your cloak. Your poor wife must think you a savage. At least stay long enough for supper.”
“I’m sorry, but my business cannot wait.” Raphael’s gaze flickered to Iris’s, confirming to her that his meeting had to be about the Lords of Chaos. “If the hour is not too late when I return, I shall join you. If not, I shall see you again in the morn. Ladies, farewell.”
And with that he strode out of the room.
Iris fought to keep a pleasant expression on her face.
“Tch.” Donna Pieri shook her head as she gathered her embroidery silks into a little box inlaid with mother-of-pearl. She took off her gold spectacles and hooked them onto a fine chain at her waist. “He has terrible manners, my nephew. But then I suppose it is my own fault. After all, I raised him after his mother died. The poor boy was only ten years old.”
“I hadn’t realized his mother died so young,” Iris murmured.
“Oh yes.” The older woman looked up at Iris, her tea-brown eyes inquisitive. “My sister was delicate both in health and in mind. But come. You must be tired and famished from your journey. Let us sup and you can tell me how you met my nephew and how you came to be married to him in such a scandalously short time. Would you like to be shown to your rooms first to wash?”
“Yes, my lady, that would be lovely,” Iris said with real gratitude. They’d stopped for luncheon, but that had been hours ago. She felt rumpled and not a little grimy.
“Of course.” Donna Pieri picked up a small bell on the table by her golden chair and rang it.
A maid appeared at the door almost at once. “My lady?”
“Bessy, please take Her Grace to the ducal chambers.” Donna Pieri turned, her brows knit. “I hope that meets your approval? I can have the duchess’s rooms aired during dinner.”
“Thank you, but I prefer the ducal chamber.” Iris smiled and followed Bessy out into the hall.
They climbed the stairs to the third level of the mansion, the maid leading her down a wide hall lined with ornate mirrors and more portraits. At the end was a set of double doors.
The maid opened one and curtsied. “His Grace’s rooms, Your Grace.”
Iris walked in, gazing about curiously. The bedroom was wide, with several windows that must overlook a back garden, though they were covered now by long dark-gold curtains. A tall four-poster stood in the center of the room, draped in heavy black textured velvet. The walls were paneled in carved dark wood, as was the massive fireplace. Several chairs sat before the hearth, upholstered in red velvet, their arms and legs gilded. Under one window was a beautiful table, the top a deep bloodred marble with cream veins running throughout.
She turned and nearly started. On the wall by the door was another portrait of Raphael’s father. In this one he wore a pale blue suit. His hand was raised, gesturing to a scene in the background. It looked like the ruined cathedral at Dyemore Abbey.
Iris shuddered and looked away.
By the bed, on the wall, hung a small framed sketch.
Iris wandered over to peer at it, thinking it might be one of Raphael’s drawings. She caught her breath, however, when she looked closer. The sketch was done in red chalk and showed the head of a woman in profile, her features strong and classic, her eyes downcast, her hair merely a few strokes and the hint of a wrap about her head. The small artwork was obviously a preliminary sketch for a pa
inting—and also obviously the work of a master.
It occurred to her suddenly that this was her new home. She was the duchess here.
It was an odd thought—that the grandeur was the right and proper setting for her.
“There’s fresh water on the stand, Your Grace.” Bessy’s voice came from behind her. Iris turned to see the maid readying a washbasin. “I can act as your lady’s maid if it’s your wish.”
Iris cleared her throat, smiling. “Thank you, that would be lovely.” She had a lady’s maid, of course—left behind in the carriage when Iris had been kidnapped—but Parks never dressed as grandly as Bessy.
Iris took off the cloak she’d found in Raphael’s mother’s trunk. Bessy was well trained—she didn’t even blink at the state of the new duchess’s clothes, but helped her to wash her face and neck and comb out her hair and then gather it into a loose chignon.
“Might I have some writing materials?” Iris asked when she was dressed.
“Certainly, Your Grace.” Bessy showed her how a small table inlaid with multicolored wood unfolded into a desk with paper, quills, ink, and sand.
“Thank you,” Iris said. “If you wait a minute, can you take my letters to a footman to be delivered?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Iris sat and thought a moment before writing short notes to both Henry and Hugh with an identical story of how she came to be married to Dyemore. The story differed from the truth in several key points, but it would have to do for now. Iris was aware that neither man would be content until she could see him herself and explain where she had been for a fortnight.
She folded, sealed, and addressed both notes before rising and handing them to Bessy.
“Shall I show you the small dining room, Your Grace, before I give these to the footmen?” Bessy asked.
“Please.”
The small dining room turned out to be on the level below and was not small at all, which made one wonder about the large dining room. Donna Pieri sat at one end of a wide, dark wood table with huge squat legs, her back to a roaring fire.
She looked up as Iris entered, and beckoned. “Come, sit by me so that we can converse.”
A footman held a chair out for Iris at Donna Pieri’s right hand, where a place setting was already laid.
As soon as Iris sat, a footman appeared at her elbow and offered her a tureen of soup.
She inhaled gratefully as she ladled the broth into the bowl in front of her.
“Now then,” the older woman said after the soup was served, “how did you meet my nephew, eh?”
Iris carefully swallowed her spoonful of soup before she began the story she and Raphael had worked out between the two of them in the carriage today. “It was quite exciting, actually. I was returning from the wedding of the Duke of Kyle when my carriage was attacked by highwaymen.”
“Is this so?” Donna Pieri straightened, looking appalled, and Iris felt terribly guilty for lying to the woman.
Although the truth was far worse.
Iris inhaled, some of the memories of her real kidnapping coming back to her—the shouting of her men, the gunshots, the horrible feeling of helplessness and fear.
She tried a smile, but found it didn’t quite work. “They put a hood on me and one took me onto his horse and they all started galloping. Naturally I was quite frightened. I have no notion how long they rode with me, but then … then Raphael’s carriage came upon us, from the other direction.” She took a sip of her wine to steady herself. “He and his men fought the highwaymen off, but I confess to being shaken. Dyemore Abbey was close and Raphael kindly offered us refuge. The rest … Well, I think you can guess. After staying several days with him in his house, recovering, Raphael said it was only right that he discourage any rumors that might arise. He sent for the local vicar and we were married.”
She glanced down, biting her lip. The problem was—and she really couldn’t help thinking this wasn’t a fault of personality—she had always been a dreadful liar.
“How very romantic,” Donna Pieri said.
Iris made the mistake of looking up.
The little woman next to her was watching her with narrowed eyes.
Iris swallowed. For the life of her she couldn’t think how to answer. “Erm …”
“And you say my nephew was worried about propriety?” Donna Pieri sipped her wine.
Iris winced. Actually, Raphael didn’t seem the sort to worry about propriety. “Yes?”
“Hmm.”
Iris had never been so grateful for the sudden removal of a soup bowl. A second footman placed a platter of buttered fish fillets on the table.
She cleared her throat as she watched the older woman select a filet. “Raphael told me he grew up on Corsica?”
Donna Pieri merely looked at her, and for a long moment Iris thought she wouldn’t respond to the change of subject. Then the older woman’s lips twitched as if she found Iris’s ploy amusing. “Not grew up there. Not exactly, you understand, for he only came to live on Corsica when he was twelve years of age. Before that we lived in England, at Dyemore Abbey.”
Raphael’s father had sent his heir away at twelve? How very odd. Most aristocrats wanted to have some say in the education of their sons.
“Why—” Iris began, but the older woman shot her a stern glare and continued speaking.
“Corsica is a beautiful island. A paradise. England is so cold and dreary, but when Raphael said he must return I knew it was my duty to come with him.” She shuddered delicately. “But now I think we will not be here for very long. My nephew is too obsessed with revenge. It is not at all healthy.”
“Revenge?” Iris laid down her knife and spoke delicately. “You are aware of Raphael’s plans for … revenge?”
“Tch!” Donna Pieri looked scornful. “You know as well, then, about these Lords of Chaos?”
Iris nodded.
The older woman shook her head. “When we received word that Leonard had died, I told Raphael that he must return and claim the dukedom. This was his right, after all. But then we landed in London and he found out almost immediately that the Lords were still using the abbey’s cathedral for their revelry. He realized that they were still alive.”
“He thought they’d disbanded?”
“Indeed.” Donna Pieri took a sip of wine. “And now he thinks he must destroy the Lords—all the Lords. That this is his duty.” Her lips twisted. “It is nonsense, that. He has suffered enough from the Lords—from his beast of a father. He should forget all this and come with me back to Corsica.”
Iris raised her eyebrows. Donna Pieri must know how unlikely that was; Raphael had set his course and was determined.
She cleared her throat and decided to change the subject. “You lived in Corsica with Raphael?”
“Yes, of course,” Donna Pieri said. “I am after all his closest living relative. In Corsica the ocean is the color of turquoise—a bird’s wing—not the dull gray it is here. We have mountains and beaches, skies kissed by the sun. When he was a boy Raphael used to ride horses bareback like a wild savage. He’d disappear into the hills for weeks at a time and I’d despair of him ever returning to our home, ever becoming the aristocrat he was born to be. He was so angry. So very angry.” Her voice had dropped to a whisper, as if she spoke to herself—or maybe to her memories.
Iris contemplated that revelation. What had made Raphael so angry as a child? She frowned, feeling a sort of dread as if she didn’t want to know the answer.
She took a sip of the wine and asked, “You said you were Raphael’s closest living relative?”
Donna Pieri blinked and straightened again, her bearing proud. “I am the daughter of a conte. He ruled lands in Genoa. My estates in Corsica were given to me by my mother. My sister, Maria Anna, was also given land in Corsica. So you see Maria Anna had no need to marry Raphael’s father. No need at all. She could have come to Corsica with me and lived there. We would have been very happy.” She shook her head, reaching for her w
ineglass.
“How did your sister meet the Duke of Dyemore?” Iris asked. Genoa seemed a very long way away to hunt for a bride.
“He said he was on his grand tour.” The older woman shrugged expressively. “Leonard came and courted my poor sister and she was won over by his elegance and his foreign ways. My family knew nothing of him. Of his reputation. Of why he did not seek a bride amongst his own people. She should have never married him. Never. He was truly a monster.”
Iris felt her heart beating faster at Donna Pieri’s words. At the hatred there. The shame and grief.
She thought about the portrait of the old duke that she’d seen—the handsome, ordinary face—and the sketchbook of naked children.
And that last drawing—the one that resembled Raphael.
She shuddered.
Then Iris asked the question that hadn’t left her mind since the first night she’d seen Raphael de Chartres, the Duke of Dyemore: “Who scarred Raphael?”
But the older woman shook her head. “That isn’t my story to tell. You must ask Raphael himself.”
A half hour later Raphael lifted the brass knocker on the Grant town house and let it fall. He glanced around the darkened neighborhood as he waited for an answer. The Grant brothers lived on a semifashionable street, but in a rather small house in an older style. If they were profiting from their association with the Lords of Chaos, they weren’t showing it.
At least not yet.
The door drew open and a butler with watery, bloodshot eyes looked at him. “Yes?”
“The Duke of Dyemore to see Viscount Royce.”
The butler straightened on hearing his title. “I’m sorry, Your Grace, but my lord is not in.”
“Then Mr. Grant.”
“This way.”
The butler led him back through a dark corridor and up a narrow, barely lit staircase. On the upper level was a dining room.
Andrew Grant was seated by himself at the long table, eating a dinner of roast beef. The fire was down to embers in the grate and the room was lit only by two candlesticks.
Parsimony or apathy?
Duke of Desire Page 17