Duke of Storm

by Gaelen Foley

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “If you die, nearly everything we have reverts to the Crown. Is that what you want?”

  “No. Nor do I fancy an early grave, for my part.” He dared to lay a reassuring hand on her arm. “Come now, Your Grace. Try not to worry. I have no intention of dying.”

  She stared at him. “That’s what they all said.”

  “Mark my words, ma’am, I’ll soon have it sorted. After all, there’s a chance that you’re right. That it’s been a heart problem and mishaps. But if someone has done this, you’ll have your revenge. I promise you that.”

  “Humph.” She flicked his hand away and marched on, yet he suspected she felt comforted by his assurance.

  Connor stepped out of her way and escorted the ladies back out to the top of the staircase. After gesturing to Aunt Florence to support herself on the banister, he took hold of Aunt Lucinda’s elbow to steady her down the stairs.

  She scowled at him but did not argue; Florence went ahead, as bidden, and they began their slow descent. Connor pondered their exchange while he braced the dragon’s elbow.

  Though he was stung by her general rudeness, he was not as offended as he might have been, all things considered.

  She was a hard one, probably by nature, but on top of that, she was the ruling matriarch of a great house that had watched its heirs drop like flies for the past two years, starting with her own husband.

  Connor had served in the military long enough to have seen a similar effect come over soldiers from regiments who’d suffered heavy casualties. They simply stopped letting themselves care about others, at least openly, refused to learn the names of new recruits, withdrew from their friends.

  It was just a way of coping so that one could carry on.

  Either that, or the woman was genuinely evil, and, given her sharp tongue, there was always that, he thought with sardonic humor.

  When they reached the bottom of the stairs, Will ducked out the door and sent for the ladies’ carriage.

  Lucinda’s walking stick made a slow, steady thump over the marble floor.

  “No more duels,” she repeated, pausing in the doorway as her carriage glided up in front of the house.

  “I’m not going to let some fool insult my honor,” he replied, folding his arms across his chest.

  “Pigheaded man!” She seemed amazed at his quiet, steady defiance.

  But he’d be damned if he was going to be pushed around by an old lady.

  He got the feeling the dowager herself was starting to realize that too, as he assisted her down the few front stairs of his house, ignoring her fussy, ill-tempered attempts to brush him off every step of the way.

  While the dragon thumped over to her barouche, where a footman cowered, Connor turned to assist her frail, wide-eyed companion.

  Aunt Florence looked awed that he had not caved in to Lucinda’s fire-breathing. Since she probably bore the brunt of it, he felt truly sorry for the dear little thing.

  Taking pains to be solicitous, he helped her into her side of the ladies’ carriage, then shut the door gently for her.

  “Your Grace?” Aunt Florence said hesitantly through the open window. “I mean Connor.”

  “Yes, Aunt Florence?”

  “I hope you will reconsider hiring Trumbull back someday. He could never… Poison?”

  “Perhaps,” he conceded, finding himself unable to disappoint her out of hand. “I will think on it.”

  “Oh, thank you!” She beamed. “Good day.”

  He bowed to her, then retreated to the pavement outside his house.

  On that side of the carriage, Lucinda looked at him through her window. “We will see you in a fortnight. Come ready to choose a wife.”

  Connor gave no reply.

  He had no bloody intention of marrying yet, let alone having his wife picked out for him from a preapproved stable of highborn broodmares.

  There was no point in saying so, however. Not yet.

  If the dragon sensed he was willing to at least heed her guidance on this matter, he stood a better chance of getting on her good side—provided she had one. That was probably the only way he’d ever get her to share with him whatever information he was already sure she was hiding.

  “Good day, Connor!” Aunt Florence called again, leaning forward to be seen.

  “Good day to you both. Thank you for calling on me, ladies. It was a pleasure meeting you.”

  “Humph.” Lucinda glared at him out the window, as though she did not believe that for one second.

  “Come back again soon,” he said gallantly, tongue-in-cheek.

  “Hang your Irish charm,” she mumbled, then barked at her coachman: “Drive on!”

  The carriage trundled off and drove to the corner, where it turned left, leaving Moonlight Square.

  Connor stood there for a moment, pondering their exchange, as Will crept out onto the pavement toward him.

  “Is she gone?”

  “Aye. You can come out now.”

  “What a terrifying woman,” he whispered.

  Connor glanced wryly at him. “Cousin Richard was right. She knows more than she’s letting on.”

  Will frowned. “But, Major, if the duchess has information that could help solve murders in her own family, then…why wouldn’t she share it?”

  “Indeed,” Connor murmured, nodding as he stared down the street. “That is the question.”

  CHAPTER 11

  A Model Husband

  When Maggie, her sister and maid returned from their shopping excursion, Delia marched off with her copy of La Belle Assemblee. “Lord, I’m exhausted! Think I’ll lie down for a spell. Don’t mind if I take this with me, do you, Mags?”

  It was more a statement than a question, as she was already halfway up the stairs, but Maggie didn’t object. “Just don’t tear out any of the pages this time, please. I’d like to see them all first!” she called as her sister walked away.

  Maggie and Penelope exchanged an arch look in the entrance hall, then Maggie gave her maid leave to go about her duties, and retired to her own room, ostensibly to relax.

  Both she and Delia had no further social activities scheduled for the day, which left her afternoon free for getting started on her mission for Amberley.

  Once she reached her room, a spacious chamber with pale blue wallpaper inspired by a Wedgwood design, Maggie set her reticule down on her dressing table, then took off her bonnet and set it on the wicker head form atop her chest of drawers. Next, she drew off her gloves, glad to be rid of them. She loosened her simple round gown, unbuttoned the lace collar, and then kicked off her shoes.

  Finally, at her leisure, she returned to her dressing table and sat down on the cushioned stool, then picked up her reticule with an ominous feeling.

  The time had come to memorize the duke’s list of names.

  And then burn it.

  She shook her head at such peculiar instructions, but so be it.

  It was all rather exciting. She opened her reticule with a momentous feeling, then drew out the piece of paper Amberley had given her and unfolded it, trembling a little to find out whose names would be written on there.

  It was hard to imagine that anyone in Society could be so diabolical… Was it possible that someone she knew might turn out to be a murderer?

  The first thing that struck her as she gazed at the list was Amberley’s bold, decisive handwriting. He made his letters small and square, each deeply pressed into the paper, scrawled with force and certainty. She ran her fingertip over his writing, then turned her full attention to the names:

  Lord Clayton Bexley

  Gideon, Earl of Curnow

  Mr. Benedict Dewitt

  Bishop David, Baron Humphries

  Mr. Barnaby Lynch

  Oh, not Mr. Lynch. That’s just silly, she thought at once, thinking of the kindly old man known to the ton as the Christmas elf. But the others? Hmm.

  So these were the last men who’d met with Duke Rupert before s
omeone had pushed him off that cliff. The other four names looked familiar, but she’d have to do some checking to find out who was who.

  Of course, Amberley wanted more than what he could’ve easily learned for himself in any copy of Debrett’s.

  Some might be trickier than others, but as she began sinking her teeth into the task, she certainly felt equal to the challenge. She was just relieved there were no names listed that would give her an instant alarm. She resolved to provide her ally with a simple background sketch of each suspect.

  But first she had to get them memorized.

  As she worked on drilling the names into her brain in order, she was distracted by the sound of an argument that broke out a few minutes later one floor below her bedchamber.

  Maggie rolled her eyes to realize Delia was badgering poor Edward again.

  What is the matter this time, Your Majesty? she wondered.

  In between her sister’s shrill rasping came the lower, muffled tones of Edward’s attempts to reason with her. God, why did the woman agitate herself so? Whatever anyone did for her, it was never enough.

  Maggie did not understand why her sister was like this, but as usual, all she could do was shake her head and try to mind her own business.

  Thankfully, the marital spat was short-lived. As usual, Edward must have surrendered or capitulated in one way or another, for that was the only way anyone could satisfy the redhead.

  Delia had to win.

  Maggie really did not know how her brother-in-law put up with it. The man was a saint. In any case, quiet was restored.

  When Maggie was confident she’d memorized the names, she took the list and held it over a candle until the little flame consumed it. Holding it between her fingers, she set it on the wide brass base of her candleholder.

  Then she carried it over to her bedroom window and opened the panes, letting the smoke escape and the ashes blow away.

  While she stood there, she scanned Amberley House, wondering which window he would choose for their exchange of signals. There were so many to choose from, large as the house was.

  With that thought, Maggie left her window and made sure she had two lanterns of her own on hand that she could use, should the need arise.

  Soon she would start her research on each suspect, but with the first part of her assignment completed—the names memorized, the list burned—the next order of business was securing a proper introduction to the Duke of Amberley.

  Edward.

  The prospect of speaking to her brother-in-law about their handsome new neighbor admittedly made her feel a little embarrassed—and nervous, as well. As much as she adored Edward, she could not tell him the full truth. Amberley had bound her to secrecy.

  Maggie gave herself a hard look in the mirror, then went to find Edward.

  She followed the sound of his pianoforte all the way to the music room, where she found the marquess immersed in his playing.

  Edward always practiced his music when he was annoyed. He was a very skilled player, quite fond of dreamy études.

  Pale and pudgy as he was, Maggie sometimes suspected that her unassuming brother-in-law had a bit of a poet’s soul.

  She drifted in, enjoying the music and the glimmer of the late day sunshine reflecting off the pianoforte’s glossy surface. A luxurious bouquet of spring flowers in a vase on a round table nearby perfumed the room.

  Maggie leaned her hip against the scrolled arm of the striped satin couch and folded her arms across her chest, listening with pleasure.

  Edward stopped practicing abruptly, glancing over at her in surprise.

  “How now, sister,” he said pleasantly. “Have you been there long? I only just noticed you.”

  “Only for a moment.” She smiled.

  “Ah. And how is our dear Mags this afternoon?”

  “Very well. You needn’t stop on my account. I was quite enjoying listening to that. You really are so talented.”

  “Nonsense,” he said with a shine of pleasure in his eyes at her compliment. “I merely amuse myself.”

  “Well, I like it,” she declared.

  “Was there something you required?” he asked as he turned to her on the bench and stretched his fingers, cracking his knuckles.

  She opened her mouth, ready to launch into her request, but she remembered the couple’s spat and gave a sympathetic wince. “Are you all right?” she asked tactfully.

  “Of course,” he said. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “Oh, I, er… I don’t mean to pry. I heard—a bit of a commotion earlier. I hope Delia wasn’t too awful to you.”

  He laughed. “I don’t let these things concern me overmuch.”

  Still, Maggie couldn’t help but wince. “I know. Still, I’m sorry if she was hurtful to you. I love my sister, but I know she can be…difficult at times.”

  Edward slid her a conspiratorial smile and tinkled the high keys with one hand. “She is fiery,” he admitted, but that was all.

  Maggie studied him, intrigued.

  “What is it, Mags?” he asked. “You look perplexed.”

  “How in the world are you so patient with her? Doesn’t she drive you absolutely mad?”

  He laughed. “I’m good at forgiving,” he said, unruffled.

  Maggie nodded. “Apparently so.” She stopped herself from saying more, though. She did not wish to overstep her bounds.

  “Ah, don’t worry, you see, I have a strategy.” Edward ran one hand over the keys, serene as ever.

  “You do?”

  “Mmm.” He nodded. “Back when we were courting, and I first realized your sister’s…mercurial nature, I decided to forgive her in advance for whatever she might do. With a few specified exceptions, of which she is well aware. Beyond that, I simply let it go.”

  “That is admirable, I suppose.”

  “Love doesn’t hold a grudge.”

  “How sweet,” she murmured, and meant it. “She’s fortunate to have so devoted a mate.”

  “To be honest, Mags, I think she’s harder on you than she is on me.” He glanced at her as the tune he was playing shifted keys. “You must be awfully ready to marry Lord Bryce and be on your way from here.”

  She lowered her gaze, a little chagrined that he’d noticed her unhappiness. “Please don’t think me ungrateful. You’ve given me such a lovely home here. Your house is beautiful, and you and your staff could not be kinder. It’s just—”

  “Now, now. You should know better than that. You never have to explain yourself to me, my dear. Our home is your home. You are Delia’s flesh and blood. I can only imagine the disruption you’ve experienced since your father died and left you with no choice but to pack up your things and move out of the only home you’d ever known. Trust me, you will always be welcome here.”

  She smiled tenderly at him. He was such a rock, this man.

  “Thank you, Edward, but…” She sighed. “I’m not sure Delia would agree.”

  He sent her a twinkling glance, then played a few formidable chords in the low keys, as though dramatizing Delia’s wrath. “Oh, but you are mistaken. Her Ladyship loves having someone else to boss around besides just me. And I, for my part, appreciate having a fellow prisoner to commiserate with.”

  He sent her a wink, and Maggie laughed with affection.

  “So, what is on your mind, then?” he asked as he played more slowly.

  “Actually, it has to do with Lord Bryce.”

  He looked askance at her, then turned the page of his music book. “I trust you are well recovered from the duel? It was quite upsetting. I was not in favor of going, but of course, the redhead insisted.”

  “Edward, may I be frank with you?”

  “Always.”

  Maggie went over and propped an elbow on the pianoforte, gazing at him earnestly. “After Lord Bryce’s behavior, calling out the duke and making such outrageous accusations against him, I suddenly find myself wanting nothing more to do with him.” She shook her head. “I don’t want to be courted b
y him anymore, and I certainly don’t want to marry him. It was awful, how he treated Amberley. To make such accusations against a newcomer to town without the slightest proof. I could simply never marry such a lug-head.”

  He laughed, glancing up at her. “Well, Mags, if I may be frank with you, in turn, I always thought that Bryce was a bit of a horse’s ass, m’self. Sorry.”

  She lifted her eyebrows. This was the strongest condemnation of anyone she had ever heard Edward utter.

  “If he is a hothead, to boot, starting duels like that, then I fully agree. He is not for you. As a husband, he could really leave you in a lurch if he went out and got himself killed. But, of course, the heart does what it wills, so if you love him—”

  “I don’t,” she interrupted.

  He scanned her face. “You sound very sure.”

  “I am. I’m sorry if I sound like a fickle female, but after the way he acted today, I find myself suddenly and completely indifferent to his existence. I’m not even angry.” She shook her head. “I just want to be done with him.”

  Edward winced. “That is bad.”

  “I know.” Maggie nodded. “Our courtship…is over. I just have to inform him of that—which I am not looking forward to—but there’s no point in pretending. I only wonder how such a coxcomb will take the rejection.”

  “Probably not very well,” Edward admitted. He paused. “Do you want me to speak to him for you?”

  “Thanks, but I couldn’t live with myself if I took the cowardly way out.” She sighed. “He deserves to hear it from me. Or read it, perhaps… Yes, that’s better. I think I’ll just write it out in a note.”

  Edward swallowed any comment he might’ve made about that.

  “In the meanwhile,” Maggie continued, “I am troubled by the damage he’s done to the Duke of Amberley’s reputation, all for no reason. This man is our neighbor. Bryce not only shot him, he also cast aspersions on His Grace’s honor before anyone else even had a chance to get to know him. It’s really not fair.”

  “I don’t disagree. I daresay that whole debacle at the Grand Albion reflected poorly on all of Moonlight Square. Made all of us look arrogant and inhospitable. Amberley does seem to keep to himself. Still.”