A Destitute Duke

by Patricia A. Knight

  Greyson regarded her with compassion. “For your sake, I hope such a point arrives soon.”

  Well into the second week of his attempt to drink himself into forgetfulness, his valet dragged him out of bed by his ankles. Duncan landed on his hip on the floor and pushed up to a sitting position.

  “Damn-it, Stephens. What in the bloody hell?”

  “Your Grace, you must get up. It is four in the afternoon. You stink like ripe Stilton left in the sun. You need a shave, a change of clean clothes and these bed linens should be burned.”

  “None of that reaches the level of urgency that requires I rise,” he mumbled. “If I am awake, I miss her, and it hurts like bloody hell. It is more than I can endure. Damn you for pulling me from my stupor. Order the house to send up more whiskey. I am not near drunk enough.”

  “Your Grace…there is a very disreputable man outside, asking to speak with you. He says his name is…” his valet took a deep breath and said in a tone of disbelief, “…Squinty Fred.”

  Duncan blinked as he swayed then steadied himself and held up a finger. “You should have led with that, Stephens. You will never succeed in life until you learn to prioritize. Where is my razor? Better yet, you shave me. No telling what I’d do to myself. Oh…and get me some coffee and some tooth powder. Not in that order. My mouth feels like the Scotts Greys have ridden through it.”

  Sometime later, dressed as befitting his station in life, Duncan walked down the front steps of Bentley’s and looked around. “Fred” was leaning against a lamp post some feet away.

  “Don’t you look a swell mort, govn’a.”

  Duncan rolled his eyes. “Cut line. I’m half seas over and lacking in patience. The King’s English, please. What have you discovered?”

  ‘Fred’ smirked. “He went to Amsterdam. I have a couple a peepers out trying to run him to ground. He’s lying low. Keeping his head down so as not to attract attention. He’ll make a mistake and surface. They always do. When he goes back to ground, what then?”

  “Note where he is and watch him. Contact me with an address. I want the pleasure of dealing with him myself.”

  Fred gave a half-hearted salute. “Yes, sir, Captain Everleigh.”

  After Fred vanished, Duncan walked down St. James Street and entered a restaurant for dinner. It was the first meal he’d had in many days that wasn’t liquid. When he returned to his club, he went to the saloon, found an unoccupied chair and summoned a footman to him. “A cigar, a newspaper and a glass of christened whiskey.” He made a face. “And christen it well.”

  With little else to do but wait, never his favorite thing, Duncan occupied his days with socializing amongst the members and reading books from the club’s library that were held forth as “improving” literature. He found the reading heavy going—except for the daily newspapers, specifically the gossip columns.

  General Abcock’s soiree was held to be a great success. Among those in attendance was our favorite dark-headed widow who seems to have shrugged off her abandonment at the altar by attaching our most available bachelors to her side. Lady L-S is certainly giving them a reason to smile with her vivacious charm. We wonder how much longer she will stay single? Is there a gentleman up for the challenge?

  It was like ripping open a partially healed wound, but he could not stay away, and as the days went by, he ventured further afield in search of any publication that covered the London social scene. Inevitably, Florence was mentioned, and inevitably he read it, tore it out and stewed over his inability to do One. Single. Thing. About. It.

  The words that sent him over the edge, though, concerned the two men who knew her best and for whom she had admitted having ‘great affection’.

  “The Lady LS has been much in the company of Lord S and Baron A. Both gentlemen have regularly been observed departing from her Mayfair townhouse after a late night’s entertainment. Has love again found our dark-headed widow? Has she ensnared one of these bachelors in the parson’s trap? Upon whom shall she bestow her favors? Our faithful readers will be the first to know.”

  Not them… she could entertain anyone but them. He could easily imagine her turning to them for consolation, and he did. He pictured every sordid detail. It was rather late, but then he scarce knew what he was doing when he tore out the offending column, grabbed the stack of others of a similar nature off his nightstand and stormed out of his rooms at the club. He hailed the first cab and shouted Florence’s address. Pounding on her door, he forced his way in as soon as the footman cracked it open and marched into her drawing room with the growled demand of, “Get her.”

  The astonished footman stammered a reply and disappeared. In his absence, Duncan lit several of the lamps in the room and removed his hat. Those were gentlemanly actions, right?

  A sleepy-eyed Florence, clutching a sheer silk wrapper around her, tottered into the drawing room and stopped. She looked at him as if all hell had opened and she beheld Beelzebub himself.

  “You! Who in the name of all that is holy opened the door to you? I shall sack him on the spot.”

  He hurled the days of gossip columns he’d collected at her. The papers fluttered to the floor about her feet. He’d read and re-read them until the words were branded into his brain. Decades of military discipline and mannerly behavior deserted him, and he bellowed at her as if he were directing troops on the front line.

  “The Lady FLS has been much in the company of Lord S and Baron A. Both gentlemen have been observed departing her Mayfair townhouse after a late night’s entertainment,” he snarled. “Did you entertain these gentlemen as you entertained me? Explain your behavior, madam, else I think you no better than a common whore. Never in my life have I been so mistaken in a person’s character. I thank the good lord on a daily basis I did not make you my duchess. I would never know whose cuckoo’s egg I was raising. I—”

  “You dare! I owe you nothing, least of all an explanation.” She drew erect, her eyes hurling vile, unspoken, epithets at him. “You’re a fine one to talk about honorable behavior, Your Grace, when yours has been decidedly the opposite. If I remember, you enjoyed my favors excessively, and I would be well within my rights to sue you for breach of promise. Get out,” she hissed. “Get out before I summon the help and have you thrown out like the common refuse you are.”

  He jammed his hat back on his head. “With pleasure. It pains me to spend even one more minute with such a duplicitous jade.” He stormed out of her house, hurled the door closed, and stopped. No. No. No. No! If ‘Lord S’ and ‘Baron A’ enjoyed her favors, why shouldn’t he revisit what she had so willingly offered before.

  Florence listened to his footsteps as they pounded down the hall. The front door opened and slammed closed with an enormous, vibrating crash. She clenched her fists and screeched in unchecked fury…and then whirled around as the subject of her wrath re-entered the drawing room, crossed to her and hauled her into his arms for a savage kiss which left her bereft of speech and entirely aroused.

  His infamous actions should have repelled her, should have had her screaming for her servants, but God help her, she’d missed him so much—his touch, his kisses, just the knowledge of his existence in her life. She had no defense against him, and while she hated herself for her easy acquiescence, she melted into him and luxuriated in his physical presence while he bruised her lips with the force of his kisses.

  “I miss you beyond all reason, Florence. Staying away from you has driven me insane. It is my only excuse. Do you grace Lord Seville or Baron Anthony with your favors? Do they lie in your bed replete as I did? Are you going to marry one of them? You cannot. Do you hear me? You cannot.”

  She made no effort to disabuse him of his erroneous beliefs and made no protest when he swept her up in his arms and laid her on the rug, tugging at the sash holding her wrapper closed. He jerked open her robe to reveal her thinly draped form and growled in triumph, rending the sheer nightdress in half. He fell on her, undoing the fall of his trousers as he groped her breast wi
th one hand and continued his punishment of kisses. Her lack of resistance, her eager response, indeed, her assistance in helping him remove the constrictions of his coat, all must have filtered through to his enraged senses for gradually, his hands ceased to grip with painful strength and instead offered the arousing and tender caresses of the man she loved and adored beyond all reason. His mouth no longer punished hers but seduced and beguiled with lingering kisses of carnal sensuality accompanied by hushed pleas for forgiveness, and whispers of desperate need and undying love.

  She demonstrated her forgiveness by answering with equal passion. The grief of the prior weeks was expunged from memory, and her tattered emotions arose whole and flew to the peak of spiritual bliss. He was here. He still loved her. All would be well. The past few weeks had been a nightmare she was now waking from. She became utterly lost in the maelstrom of bodily gratification he wrought from her, indeed so overwhelmed that when he brought her to the pinnacle of physical pleasure, she lay insensate on the Aubusson carpet of her drawing room and gloried in the man who owned her heart. For the longest time, she lay unmoving, her eyes closed, lost in blissful delirium.

  It wasn’t until she roused enough to be aware that she lay in a spot of cold dampness from their joining and ached in that intimate part of her that had so gloriously received him that the crushing devastation and tears began—for when she had propped up on her elbows and looked joyously about her for her lover, she discovered she was alone. As she had lain in the profound ecstasy brought on by his ardent attentions, her soul exalting in the certainty he had returned to her, Duncan had risen, arranged himself and left—without so much as a word.

  Her misery was such that with a soft whimper she hugged her knees to her breasts, curled into a ball and simply rocked until, no doubt summoned by the hall footman, a silent Mr. Greyson found her. He pulled her robe around her to cover her nakedness, gently gathered her into his arms, and climbed the stairs to her room where he returned her to her bed. As he pulled her coverlet up to her shoulders, he murmured, “I must know. Were you willing?”

  She couldn’t meet his gaze. Instead, she turned her head away from him but nodded and whispered. “Yes, I was willing.”

  “Should I send Mistress Greyson to sit with you?”

  She shook her head.

  His hand lingered on her cheek in a paternal gesture of care. “You are surrounded by those who love you, my lady. Things will look better in the morning. They always do.”

  She couldn’t respond verbally as doing so would un-dam a torrent of emotions she did not want freed lest she never stop her tears, but she needed to convey to him the depth of her thanks. As he drew his hand away, she reached out and grasped his wrist, holding his hand to her cheek and then turning her head to place a kiss on his palm.

  After a moment, he laid his other hand over hers with a heavy sigh and a gentle pat. “I know, my lady. Now, promise me you will try to sleep.”

  She nodded as she released her grip, and he slipped his arm from her grasp and quietly left her room. She did try, but the best she could manage was to lie motionless, close her eyes and allow her pillow to absorb the unceasing flow of her tears. Morning was a lifetime coming.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The hired cab bore him toward Bentley’s. There was an ugly name for a man who did what he’d just done. Florence was right to call him common refuse. It didn’t matter that she’d been willing. He’d never given her a choice. He’d like to think he would have stopped if she had resisted. He wasn’t certain, but he had to believe he would have. He had to believe that. He’d done loathsome things in his life. Most soldiers had things in their past they weren’t proud of, but he’d never forced a woman. He’d trod a fine line tonight and then slunk away like the cur he was. All he could see was Lord Seville or Baron Anthony taking her into their arms and kissing her, caressing her…making her love them. She was his. Didn’t she know that? He’d stand back and let her go if she insisted, but not now. Not until he’d put things right. Not until he’d had a chance to explain, to beg her forgiveness. He closed his eyes with a groan. The disgraceful insults he’d shouted at her. The names he’d called her. She was owed an apology for his despicable behavior tonight, and he would give her one. Tomorrow. That’s if she didn’t slam the door in his face as he deserved. He would write an apology. It might be best to both write an apology and offer one in person. That’s what he would do. In the morning.

  He entered the dark club and found the stairs, but only because he was familiar with the layout. The darkness was unrelieved until one got to the upper levels where light filtered in from the undraped windows on the landings. Quietly ascending the stairs on his way to the third story, he heard the sound of male murmurs and quiet gasps indicative of an exchange of physical intimacies, and he paused on the second-floor landing. Curious, he gazed down the hallway in the direction of the sounds. While it was too dark to see facial features, it was not too dark to see profiles, and he’d seen enough of those distinct profiles to identify them quickly. Henry Seville and Julian Anthony stood pressed together in a carnal embrace—and kissed. It was not the “hail fellow well met” sort of kiss, but a kiss of passion, of heated physical desire. They gave no indication they knew he was there, and he meant to keep it that way. Stepping as carefully as possible, he climbed the staircase to the third floor and his chambers. He unlocked the door and sat on his bed, his head in his hands, both repelled by what he’d seen and sickened to his core by the implications.

  She’d reassured him, again and again; he need not worry about Lord Seville or Baron Anthony. She must know of their preferences. It explained why she allowed them a familiarity; an access to her she denied all others but him. It explained why she was so free and easy of spirit with them, her flirting so outrageous and provocative. She knew herself safe in their presence. She protected them, and they protected her—far better than he had. He’d thrown vile accusations at her tonight—all undeserved. He smiled grimly, fighting back a welling of emotion that thickened in his throat and formed pressure behind his eyes. He scrubbed the heel of his palms over his eyes, and they came away wet. Oh, Christ above, what had he done? He moved to the window that looked out over a rear garden and stood there deep in thought until the sun rose.

  “Good morning, Your Grace.”

  “Morning, Stephens.”

  “You have not been to bed, Your Grace?”

  “No.”

  “That strange man is hanging around the entrance to the club, Your Grace.”

  “Really? I will be back shortly.” He trotted down the staircases and out the front door. Stephens had been right. Squinty Fred stood some feet away, holding up a lamppost.

  “You look fagged to death, Capt’n.”

  “Thank you, Fred, and you are your usual handsome self.”

  The man chuckled. “Yeah… that’s what all the ladies say.”

  “Do you have an address for me?”

  Fred fished in a pocket and held out a folded square of paper. “He must be seeing ghosts as he ups and moves every now and again. He’s at that address, been there for the last few days. He’s got his wife with him now so he may be settling in. I’d not let any grass grow beneath my feet, though. The Betty Louise out of Great Yarmouth sails for Amsterdam tomorrow with the morning tide. With a fast horse, you could be on her.”

  He gave a thought to the apology he owed Florence, but if he had a chance to run down Edgar… “Know anyone with a fast horse?”

  Fred grinned. “Might know a prad cove with a rum prancer or two.”

  “Give me an hour.”

  Fred nodded and with a tip of his cap sauntered away.

  Duncan left Bentley’s an hour later. There was no sign of Fred, but a fully-tacked, leggy black thoroughbred stood tethered to the lamp post by his bridle reins. A piece of paper wrapped one of the reins. A string tied it secure. Duncan stripped it off and read the message.

  “I don’t pay you nearly enough, Fred.” Duncan tied his
bags to the saddle, flipped the reins up over the animal’s neck, ran the stirrups down, mounted and was off.

  Amsterdam just before Christmas was cold and wet—a permeating wetness that settled in one’s bones and wouldn’t let go, like a bulldog on the nose of a bull. Edgar would do well to put some extra coal in the fireplace and warm his bedchamber a bit. The adjoining chamber belonging to his wife had a much larger fire by comparison, though he would not have called either fire large. Outside, he could hear the lap of the canal water against the dikes and the shouts of bargemen as they polled up and down the canals. Duncan pulled his heavy wool cape more closely around him and tucked further into the dark corner he’d chosen to hide in. Dim light came in through the windows, but much of the room was in deep shadow. His holster pistols were primed and loaded, though he didn’t expect he would need them. Duncan fully expected Edgar, being the pinch-penny that he was, to enter a cold, dark bedroom, disrobe and climb into bed none the wiser to his nocturnal visitor. Other than a serving girl holding a candle and entering with a warming pan to slip between the sheets, that is what happened. He waited until Edgar’s snores came steadily, then he stood, shook out his stiffness, and readied a pistol. Crossing to the bed, he sat down and made himself comfortable before poking Edgar forcefully in the temple with the end of his pistol.

  The man awoke with a start.

  “I shouldn’t move terribly much were I you, Edgar. This pistol has a devilishly fine trigger. Should hate to splatter your brains all over the room. Would be most upsetting to Lady Edgar.”

  “Duncan,” he croaked.

  “The same,” Duncan replied cheerfully. “I am going to give you a choice about what happens to you, brother. This is how I see it. You will write down every account and financial institution in which you have stashed the money you stole from the Chelsony estate. You will write down every fence and purveyor of used goods to whom you sold our family history and effects. If you do that, and upon verification that the monies are where you say they are, I will give you the sum of £10,000 in the way of a one-time settlement, and I won’t drag your wretched body back to London to be tried for grand larceny. In case you don’t know, Edgar, grand larceny comes with a mandatory death sentence if found guilty.” He traced his brother’s cheekbone with the barrel of his pistol. “I think we both know you will be found guilty.”