Duke of Storm

by Gaelen Foley

  And yet, half an hour later, she was still contemplating the wicked notion of getting such sweet revenge on her sister, who had already ruined so many matches for her. It was bad of her, she knew, and she did not normally think this way. But somehow, today, the temptation of a match with this wild Irish duke tasted even more delicious than the glazed apricot scone that Maggie nibbled at the teashop with her lemony cup of Ceylon blend.

  What a catch he would be. Rich and powerful, a war hero, handsome as sin?

  Maybe it wasn’t the maddest idea. He was unattached, after all, and they had already forged this unlikely alliance. The Duchess of Amberley…

  It had rather a nice ring to it.

  Of course, the man was a bit of a lunatic. She’d have to take him firmly in hand, try to tame him just a little.

  As if that were even remotely possible.

  A smile twitched at her lips with the thought.

  But then she abruptly remembered that someone was killing off members of his family. And she wished to risk becoming one?

  Was she mad, too?

  Lud. A cold chill ran down her spine. Perhaps not my best idea ever.

  In truth, being Amberley’s friend seemed dangerous enough. She did not care to attract the attention of a killer, to boot.

  Not that she’d be backing down from their bargain, of course. They had a deal. And although her hand might tremble a bit as she lifted her teacup to her lips, whatever her faults, Maggie Winthrop always kept her word.

  CHAPTER 10

  Dragon Lady

  After Lady Margaret had gone, Connor ambled down the lane, pleased at his good fortune in securing her help, and still mulling over their exchange. But near the corner, the wafting smell of food reached his nostrils from the pub he’d noted earlier.

  He decided to stop in for a bite to eat and a tankard of ale before returning home. No man could live continuously on Nestor’s cooking, after all.

  He got to chatting with some of the fellows there, ordinary men who had no inkling of his ducal station. He played a round of darts with some, then the serving girl brought him a highly agreeable roast beef sandwich.

  But when his side began to hurt, he remembered it was probably time to change his bandages, wash the wound, and reapply the ointment. So he bade his new mates goodbye, bought them a round of drinks on the way out, then hied himself home.

  “Will? Nestor?” he called when he stepped into the entrance hall.

  At once, Will came speeding out with a finger to his lips, hushing Connor with a wide-eyed look of consternation.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked.

  “You have a visitor, Major,” the boy whispered.

  Connor’s eyebrows shot upward. “Who?”

  “One of your relatives,” Will said. “The old duchess, sir. She’s upstairs waiting for you in the drawing room. And be warned, she’s not happy.”

  “Which old duchess, lad? There are two.”

  “I don’t know!” Will exclaimed in a hush. “She nearly bit my head off when I asked her. Somehow I was supposed to know this already, who she was. She has a second lady with her, but that one’s not as scary.”

  “Hmm,” said Connor. “Sounds like she might be ‘the mean old bird’ from my cousin’s diary. The dowager duchess? Grandaunt Lucinda?”

  Will nodded with a blank, rattled look. “That’d be a safe guess, sir.”

  “Right,” Connor said, lifting his head, squaring his shoulders, and feeling altogether intrigued. “I take it she heard about the duel.”

  “Afraid so, Major.”

  “Well, this should be interesting.” Though he’d never met the matriarch of the Amberley clan before, Connor gathered he should expect a scolding. He pressed his hand to his torn side as he marched up the staircase to the drawing room. Tending to his wound would just have to wait a little longer.

  It felt uncomfortable as hell, but he could not have asked for a better opportunity to interrogate the very woman whom Cousin Richard had mentioned in his journal.

  Richard had said that Her Grace seemed to know more than she cared to say about the deaths of his predecessors.

  But when Connor stepped into the drawing room, he saw with a glance that the formidable First Duchess of Amberley would be the one asking the questions, thank you very much.

  Grandaunt Lucinda was a great, scowling mound of a woman dressed all in black, but for a ruby in the shape of a teardrop that hung from her black satin turban. Her hand was braced atop an ivory-handled walking stick.

  She had the hanging jowls and pugnacious stare of an aging bulldog.

  “Finally!” she said with an impatient huff when Connor stepped into the doorway of the drawing room. “At last you show your face.”

  He stifled his surprise at the greeting. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace, I was not expecting you.”

  She humphed in knowing disapproval. “No doubt.”

  “Ma’am.” Connor bowed to the second old lady in the room.

  Standing near the dowager duchess, as though ready to leap to attend her—being slightly younger and rather more spry—was a second old lady, a slim, cringing creature, frail as a bird, with white hair in a bun and papery skin.

  She, too, was dressed in widow’s weeds, but at least this one offered Connor a slight, anxious smile.

  “Since I see you are not in the habit of conducting yourself in a formal fashion, Major, I will do the introductions, and let us get it over with,” the grand, seated woman said tersely. “I am Lucinda, the First Duchess of Amberley. This is Florence, Lady Walstead, your kinswoman, though God alone knows how exactly you’re related.”

  “Oh!” said the little bird lady, startled. “I am your aunt twice removed, Your Grace…or is it third cousin? I get so confused about such things.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” said Lucinda, rolling her eyes.

  “The family simply calls me Aunt Florence,” the woman offered. She glanced nervously at Lucinda. “Y-you may do the same, i-if you wish.”

  “Thank you. Aunt Florence, then.” He smiled at her. “I am honored by your visit, ladies. May I offer you refreshments?”

  Grandaunt Lucinda was sizing him up. “Your man has already brought us tea which is too strong, so no.”

  “My humblest apologies it was not to your taste.”

  “Why do you not have proper servants?” Lucinda demanded. “This house was a proper ducal residence under my domain. But now you’ve turned it into an army camp. Where are your butler, footmen, maids?”

  “Oh, yes, do please tell us nothing unfortunate has happened to dear old Trumbull,” Aunt Florence chimed in. “He’s been the butler here for ages.”

  “Do sit down, Florence! You so irritate one with all your nervous hoverings.”

  “Sorry,” Aunt Florence whispered, and obeyed, flitting down into an armchair.

  Connor remained standing, still digesting Lucinda’s terse bark. Mother Mary, he’d met brigadier generals who were less formidable that this beastly ol’ gal. But, as Her Grace was clearly a woman not to be trifled with, he decided to tell her the truth.

  “I dismissed them,” he said.

  Aunt Florence gasped in horror. “Even Trumbull?”

  “Whatever for?” the dragon demanded.

  “Because someone tried to poison me, dear aunts, and since most of the food that evening came from my own kitchens, I could not be certain the staff was not involved.”

  “Never!” Aunt Florence whispered, aghast, then glanced anxiously at Lucinda, who sat stone-faced. Lucinda didn’t move, staring back skeptically at Connor, while Florence perched on the edge of her seat, clutching her chest and looking like she might have an apoplectic fit.

  Good thing Nestor was available, just in case.

  “Poison?” Aunt Florence squeaked. “B-but Trumbull has always been a model butler! He would never let this happen! He started with the family as a pageboy! O-oh, my nerves, my nerves can’t take it.”

  “Becalm yourself, you ni
nny,” said Lucinda.

  Connor arched a brow. “You don’t look too surprised to hear of this, Your Grace.”

  “Why should I be, after all our misfortunes?” she retorted. “This family is cursed.”

  “Don’t say that!” Aunt Florence pleaded. “It was probably just a-a case of spoiled milk or tainted meat, or some passing illness. Yes, that’s it!”

  Connor shrugged and sat down across from the pair. “I have my doubts.”

  “Well, then? What happened?” The dowager looked him over from head to toe, her beady eyes guarded. “This poisoner of yours obviously failed.”

  “Thankfully, yes.” He decided not to elaborate, for fear of Aunt Florence dropping dead of sheer terror. “All’s well that ends well.”

  “Not for poor old Trumbull, though, I fear,” Aunt Florence whispered with a shake of her head. “To end a life of exemplary service in such humiliation! Poor man. Poor, poor man.”

  “Never mind about the butler!” Lucinda snapped. “I, for one, had to remind that conceited little rooster far too often of his place. Got above himself, you ask me. I cannot abide impertinence.” With that, Grandaunt Lucinda’s eagle-eyed stare homed in on him.

  “Now then,” she said, gripping the head of her walking stick, as though she was considering beating him with it if he acted up. “Explain yourself, sir.”

  Connor blinked. “Pardon?”

  “’Tis all very well that you survived this alleged poisoning. But am I to understand you survived one attempt on your life, only to go out this morning and nearly get yourself killed in a duel? I will not stand for it!” Aunt Lucinda bellowed at him. “It’s not the done thing. Moreover, ’tis against the law.”

  “Hmm. Well…at least I won,” he said serenely.

  She glared at his cheeky response. “How did this come about?”

  He was silent for a beat, frankly puzzled at how to deal with her. He was used to giving orders and taking no lip.

  But apparently, so was she.

  “Well? Speak, man! I am getting old, sitting here waiting for you to find your tongue. Unless you are busy concocting some lie in that twisty Celtic brain of yours, eh?” she goaded him with a gleam in her eyes.

  Connor’s lips twitched. He let the Irish jab pass for once, though, since she was an old lady and his kin.

  “The Marquess of Dover’s heir challenged me last night at the Grand Albion, quite out of the blue,” he told her. “I never saw the man before in my life. But he accused me of involvement in Richard’s death, so I had no choice but to defend my honor.”

  “Did you wound him? Is he dead?”

  Connor smiled patiently at her. “I suspect Your Grace knows full well that I did the fool no harm. I merely shot a hole through his hat to teach him a lesson, that is all. He did not do me the same courtesy,” he added.

  “Yes. I’d heard you were wounded,” she grumbled. “If you die before producing issue, I shall be most displeased. That, in fact, is why I am here.” She lifted both of her double chins. “What are your plans regarding marriage, Your Grace?”

  He blinked. “Marriage? I, er, hadn’t really thought about it yet—”

  “Men,” she muttered. “Of course you didn’t.”

  He frowned. “I am not opposed to the married state, aunt. It merely seems wise to find out who’s trying to kill me and eliminate the threat before I take a wife, don’t you think? I should not wish to endanger my duchess.”

  “No, no, you are looking at it backwards,” she said. “You must marry and have a son, post-haste, lest the enemy succeed.”

  It was not lost on him that, with those words, the dragon had all but admitted that, contrary to her prior words, she, too, believed deep down that there was foul play afoot.

  But before he could respond, she forged on with a shocking announcement.

  “To guide you in making a proper alliance, I have prepared a list of a few acceptable gels from approved families, from whom you may choose the next Duchess of Amberley. Florence, give him the list.”

  Lucinda handed Florence a small piece of paper, and she started to rise to bring it to him, but Connor quickly left his chair and spared her the trouble.

  Aunt Florence offered him a tepid smile for his courtesy, but she still seemed distraught over his dismissal of longtime family domestics.

  As Connor took the folded slip of paper from her bony hand, he could not help but notice the unexpected echo of how he, himself, had just handed another list of names to Lady Maggie.

  Wouldn’t it be something if she was on here? He unfolded the list and read the names, but hers did not appear.

  “Now then,” Lucinda continued. “In order for you to meet your prospective brides, Florence and I will be hosting a soirée at our house in Mayfair to complete the introductions. Once you’ve seen these few ladies, I am sure ’twill not take long for you to decide which one will suit you best. Then, ’pon my word, you must get to breeding! The family line must be replenished, and quickly.”

  “Well, that part sounds fun, anyway.”

  At his low-toned quip, Lucinda pinned him in a withering glower. “Does something amuse you, Your Grace?”

  He cleared his throat and dropped his gaze. “No ma’am.”

  “Good.” She pursed her lips. “For these are serious matters. In the meanwhile, you cannot continue to live in this house without a proper staff. Though it pains me to part with them, I shall send over some of my most trusted servants to work here temporarily for you. They shall soon put everything back in order, and I can certainly guarantee that none of them will try to murder you. Unless, of course, you give them cause.” She sent him the evil eye.

  Did she just make a joke? Connor wondered in astonishment. He hoped so. Indeed, he quite believed she had, though there was no smile to confirm it.

  Still, he had no intention of accepting her offer.

  “I appreciate your generosity, Your Grace, but you may keep your staff. They’re not needed.”

  “But I insist. You have no choice in the matter,” she answered, annoyed.

  “Of course I do.” Connor gave her his most winning smile. “Come now, ma’am, I won’t have you filling my household with your spies.”

  Her jaw dropped. “Spies? What are you imply—”

  “I wasn’t born yesterday, Your Grace. Your offer’s very kind, I’m sure. Let’s just leave it at that. I can staff me own household as I set fit.”

  “I very much doubt that,” she muttered.

  Unwilling to argue over trivia, Connor changed direction on her without warning. “What can Your Grace tell me about young Richard’s death?”

  She blinked, visibly taken off guard. “You read the reports. You spoke to the solicitor. I’m sure Mr. Rollins apprised you of all the unpleasant details.”

  “Yes, but all the same, I should like to hear what happened to the last three dukes from those who knew them best. People who were there. Their wives, their kinswomen. Starting…with you.”

  Lucinda eyed him warily. “I have nothing further to add to the information you’ve already seen. My husband died in his bed of natural causes, and Rupert died of clumsiness. Tell the duke, Florence.”

  “It’s true, Your Grace.” Aunt Florence nodded, wide-eyed. “Charles died of his heart ailment, his brother of misadventure, and young Richard of that dreadful accident.”

  “I see,” Connor said. “And by the way, never mind the formalities. None of this ‘Your Grace’ business, dear ladies. Call me Connor. We are family, after all.”

  Lucinda glared at him, as though irked to be reminded of that fact. Florence offered a wan, uncertain smile.

  Connor turned to the duchess. “May I say, Aunt Lucinda, that I am truly sorry for your loss. After fifty years of marriage, it must be dreadful for you.” Her eyebrow shot up. “I only met Granduncle Charles once, but he seemed very…dignified.”

  The dragon let out a sudden huff and looked away. “This conversation grows tedious. Come, Florence. We must go.�
�

  “So soon?” Connor rose in chagrin, feeling awful. “I’m sorry. I did not mean to upset you.”

  “Pfft! Don’t be absurd.”

  Her glower bewildered him. Was this grief?

  The woman was so hard to read, cloaking herself in ill-temper.

  “We were here waiting for you for half an hour before Your Grace condescended to join us.”

  “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were coming,” he stammered, entirely routed to think he’d upset a grieving old lady.

  “Besides, your Aunt Florence has yet another appointment with her physician.”

  “Oh no.” More cause for family concern. “Are you unwell, aunt?”

  “Look at her!” Lucinda snapped before Florence could reply. “The little mouse has always been anemic, if you ask me. Thin as a rail, and prone to the vapors.”

  “It’s…my nerves,” Aunt Florence said in a small voice, and looked at him apologetically.

  Connor suspected he knew the source of her problem; Grandaunt Lucinda now heaved herself up from her seat, one gnarled hand gripping her walking stick.

  Aunt Florence scurried around to the other side to help lift the dragon by her other elbow. The duchess brushed her off impatiently once she had gained her feet. Then she stared down her nose at Connor.

  He wasn’t sure how she accomplished that, since he was over a foot taller than her. But, blueblood that she was, she had probably learned that look from her cradle.

  “Now then,” she said. “The date for the soirée is in a fortnight. May the ninth. Please do be on time, try to dress like a gentleman, and avoid acting too…Irish,” she said with another goading glint in her eyes.

  Connor grinned at her tiresome attempt to needle him, playing up his brogue. “I’ll do me best, ma’am.”

  Oh, she did not like his stubborn refusal to let her get under his skin.

  “You listen here, young man.” She poked him in the chest with her cane. “You may find your change of fortune all very droll, but I am here because, for good or ill, you are this family’s last hope.

  “Which just goes to show how far our lot has fallen,” she continued before he could speak. “But you’re all we’ve got. And if you foolishly permit yourself to die before producing male issue, our line goes extinct. Do you understand? No. More. Duels.”