Duke of Storm

by Gaelen Foley

  When, at last, the shadows of the grove she had entered screened her from view, Maggie blew out a shaky breath, fighting back tears.

  She glanced toward the road and saw Delia’s coach rumbling off around the bend. Her chin trembled, eyes prickling with moisture. Her sister’s words were hurtful, to be sure. Hurtful and false. But that was not what made Maggie give way to a sob. It was the sheer, intolerable powerlessness of her situation.

  That and the specter of a deep, aching loneliness.

  Spinster, Delia had called her. What if she really did end up alone…forever?

  It was too terrifying to contemplate.

  God, it was intolerable sometimes, being a lady, forbidden from making a living of one’s own, forced into being a dependent. If she were a commoner like Penelope, she would’ve at least had more options.

  Ah, and if she were a man, she could’ve forged her own way in the world and lived exactly as she pleased.

  But, of course, that would never be. She was who she was. The daughter of an earl, trained to be a wife and mother and run an upper-class household. Which meant she had to marry someone.

  Quickly.

  For she really couldn’t take this anymore. No doubt Delia would treat her even worse after that debacle. Fear gripped her as she wondered if her sister would even let her back into the house. If not…then what?

  Blast it all, Delia had no right to do this to her! Surely Edward would not stand for it. Frankly, Maggie did not even want to go back to their house, but where else could she go?

  For a while longer, Maggie remained hidden among the trees, leaning against the smooth, whitish trunk of a slender elm until she had managed to calm down and gather her composure.

  When someone drove slowly past the place where she’d gone into hiding, she decided to get out of here before this ordeal became any more embarrassing.

  For now, she had no choice but to return to Birdwell House.

  Blotting away her last couple of tears with the fingertips of her ivory kid gloves, she took a deep breath, pushed away from the tree, and lifted her chin.

  If anyone stopped her, she would simply tell them that she had decided to walk the rest of the way on her own. Yes, she and her sister had bickered. But what sisters in the world didn’t now and then? If anyone knew the true depths of Delia’s cutting comments, it would only bring dishonor on their entire family.

  Delia must be shocked that Maggie had stood up to her for once, though.

  That at least gave Maggie some satisfaction as she squared her shoulders and finally strode out of the other end of the pretty grove of trees.

  Time to start walking. One could always do with a brisk constitutional.

  Unfortunately, she had not gone far when the wind picked up and a few rumbles of thunder rolled across the firmament, coming ever closer.

  Then, before she had even reached Hyde Park Corner, lightning streaked through the air, piercing the dark, heavy clouds.

  Which promptly disgorged a miserable torrent of rain on her head.

  Maggie let out a huge sigh and dropped her chin nearly to her chest.

  Worst…day…ever.

  CHAPTER 16

  Revelations Unfold

  “So, military man, eh?” Gable’s father said, shaking Connor’s hand. A trim fellow in his sixties, the Earl of Sefton had salt-and-pepper hair and a shrewd, searching gaze behind his spectacles. “I was pleased to hear your inclinations lean Tory. Though perhaps not on the Irish question, eh?”

  “Father,” said Gable, “I did not bring Amberley here today to speak about politics. Not yet.” He shut the door to the earl’s wood-paneled office.

  “Oh?” Lord Sefton gestured to a seat in front of his huge oak desk.

  Connor nodded in thanks and flipped the tails of his riding coat out of the way as he took the leather chair on the right. Gable drifted over and dropped into the chair beside him.

  The two of them had made it to the earl’s fine house in St. James’s without incident, though the skies had gone gunmetal gray on the way over. Having secured Hurricane in an extra box-stall, they had no sooner stepped out of the stable into the cobbled mews when the brewing storm broke.

  Then they’d run for the house, pelted by raindrops.

  Gable had laughed, said it helped to wake him up.

  Now the deluge pounded against the wide window behind the earl’s huge oak desk. As Gable glanced over his shoulder in expectation of the tea the butler had offered, Connor supposed it would have been all rather cozy if he were not worried about Maggie.

  Perhaps he was becoming a proper mother hen, but he hoped the ladies had made it back to Moonlight Square safe and sound.

  “No,” Gable said, “I’m afraid the reason Amberley needs to talk to you is a bit more serious than the vote of the day.”

  “Well, that sounds mysterious.” Sefton glanced from his son to Connor. “What can I do for you boys?”

  “Someone’s trying to kill him,” Gable informed his sire, gesturing at Connor.

  “Really?” the earl asked. His eyebrows lifted. “Whatever for?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out, sir,” Connor answered in a hard tone.

  “This needs to remain confidential, Father,” Gable added.

  “Of course,” said Sefton.

  Gable began to explain. Having taken the man’s measure and decided that he trusted the suave, quiet viscount, Connor had explained his situation in full on the way here.

  Gable had been startled, but vowed to assist however he could, and had honored Connor’s injunction against telling anyone else except his father, at least for now.

  “You needn’t worry about him saying anything, either,” Gable had assured him. “Ol’ Sefton’s known to be a very vault. You wouldn’t believe what my father knows about people in this town, actually. You’ll definitely be speaking to the right man. I’m so glad you told me.”

  “Me too,” Connor had said. “I am in your debt.”

  “Nonsense,” Gable had answered. “We’re neighbors.”

  Presently, between the two of them, Gable doing most of the talking, they finished telling the earl about the two attempts on Connor’s life. Sefton asked a few sensible questions, then sat in silence for a moment.

  “Well, I’m sorry to say that positions of power do invite the hatred of the jealous now and then. I’ve had threats made against me, God knows, but thankfully, no one ever tried carrying them out.” He furrowed his brow. “Forgive the obvious question, Your Grace, but do you have any particular enemies?”

  “Not poisoners, to be sure,” Connor said with a snort. “Nor the sort to attack in the dark from behind.” He shook his head. “But looking at the three deaths in my line in the space of a mere eighteen months, I don’t think this is about me. I think someone’s got a grudge against all the men in my family. But I have no earthly idea who or why, or what the cause of it might be, because I barely knew my English relatives.”

  “That is where I told him you might be able to help, Father,” Gable said. “Anything you could tell him about the past three Dukes of Amberley might offer some hint at what’s at the root of this problem.”

  “Any dodgy characters that one of my predecessors might’ve been involved with?” Connor asked.

  “Dodgy characters?” A half-smile tugged at Sefton’s lips. “Well, of course, the First Duchess springs immediately to mind—begging your pardon. But I’m sure you must know about that.”

  Connor looked at him blankly. “Grandaunt Lucinda?”

  Sefton stared at him. “Don’t you know?”

  “Know what?” Connor asked.

  “Oh dear.” Sefton frowned and sat back, briefly tapping his desk with the tip of a pencil. “This is awkward.”

  “It’s quite all right, my lord. Please, enlighten me.”

  “Father?” Gable said.

  “Well…” Sefton cleared his throat and gave them both a rather sheepish look. “I was referring to the lady’s past.�
��

  “Meaning?” Gable prompted.

  The earl glanced from one to the other, hesitating. “I don’t wish to be rude, Your Grace.”

  “Please,” Connor said with a wave of his hand, “you won’t offend me. Speak freely, by all means.”

  Sefton shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Well, I suppose it’s not so strange that you weren’t aware of it. All families have their secrets, and after all this time—it’s been, what, more than fifty years now—the scandal has faded with time. But, you see, ahem, well, many years ago, Lucinda Bly was the toast of the demimonde.”

  “What?” Gable cried.

  “Lucky Lucy Bly, they used to call her. Drove the men mad, until your Granduncle Charles snared her. She was the First Duke’s mistress before they wed.”

  Connor’s jaw was nearly on the floor.

  Gable likewise wore a look of incredulity. “The dragon lady?” he finally exclaimed. “The highest of sticklers?”

  “Oh yes. Compensating for her scarlet past, I should think. Ah, she was magnificent in her day. I was but a boy of nineteen when I first saw her on display in her theater box with the other courtesans. I remember it well…how she leaned over the railing to blow a kiss to her admirers with her gown cut clean down to here.” He gestured at his midriff with a grin.

  “Good God!” Connor whispered, astonished, and feeling a tingle of hilarity.

  Gable was gaping at his father as though he’d never seen him before. Then he and Connor looked at each other in amazement, and—both familiar with the fearsome old dragon that the dowager duchess had become—both burst out laughing.

  * * *

  Maggie was still running through the streets of London in a torrent of rain.

  It came down in sheets at her, this way and that, tossed by the wind. The loud drumming of it everywhere striking the road and the pavement filled her ears. Growls of thunder rolled overhead, but it was the few impressive lightning streaks that urged her on with a slight shriek any time her pace slowed.

  Instinctive fear of nature’s wrath lent an odd touch of exhilaration to her mad dash. But, at least, running kept her warm, for the cold downpour coursed down her back.

  By now, her fine carriage gown of blue striped muslin was ruined beyond all repair. The rain spilled off the brim of her chip bonnet, soaking her hair.

  In the midst of her panicked, bedraggled state, lost and alone, with neither umbrella nor maid, for the final humiliation, who should come driving up Park Lane toward her than Bryce?

  Faint hope of rescue stirred when she saw him approaching.

  Snug and dry beneath the raised hood of his curricle, her jilted suitor was—thank God—alone. The fewer people who saw her like this, the better, Maggie thought, her teeth chattering.

  Considering that she had ended their courtship, she did not expect cordiality, per se—although this would’ve been a perfect opportunity for him to try to change her mind about their match. Show his true worth by playing the role of her rescuer.

  Alas, this was Bryce they were talking about.

  He’d heard of chivalry, of course, but as it turned out, it didn’t much interest him. Maggie could already see the smirk forming on his lips as he slowed his curricle to a halt beside her and took a good, long look at her in all her sopping misery.

  Pausing her sprint, Maggie turned on the pavement, looking up at him with a shiver running through her frame, the rain dripping off her bonnet, and squishing through her shoes.

  “L-Lord Bryce,” she said hopefully over the noisy patter, teeth chattering, as the water trickling down her neck gave her a chill.

  “Tsk, tsk, my dear Lady Margaret.” He shook his head, clearly enjoying this. “A word of advice? Always take an umbrella.”

  “Bryce!”

  “Au revoir, cherie.” Laughing, Bryce cracked the whip over his horses’ backs and splashed off through a huge puddle in the cobbled street, sending a large plume of muddy water fountaining right up into her face.

  Doused all over again, Maggie sputtered with indignation as he drove away.

  “Cad!” she shouted after him.

  But after the row with her sister, feeling the rain dripping down her nose, and splashing through puddles up to her ankles, it was hard to say which was worse: marrying Bryce or living with Delia.

  Putting the whole maddening question out of her mind, she pushed on, running across the next street, and half hoping at that point that she caught the ague. That’ll teach her—Bryce, too! If I catch my death, then they’ll be sorry…

  Amid such woeful thoughts, she clambered on through the rain-scoured streets, the cobblestones slippery under her feet, her cold, sodden skirts clinging to her limbs.

  When she flung around the corner into Moonlight Square, passing the Grand Albion, the rain blew at her from the right now, rather than pelting her in the back.

  Cringing at the prospect of her neighbors seeing her like this, she put her head down, hiding behind the brim of her bonnet. She wished she could’ve cut through the garden park’s acreage to avoid being spotted, but the nearest gate was not in a suitable location. It was easier just to go around till she reached Marquess Row.

  Just get this over with!

  The large, elegant square seemed to have grown even wider, while the wind rocked the plane trees and went riffling through their lush, leafy branches.

  As Maggie hurried toward the corner of the south terrace, she heard another carriage clattering up behind her.

  Her first thought was that Bryce must’ve had a change of heart and decided to come after her. But if that was the case, he was too late now. She was almost home—such as it was.

  Besides, that bounder was dead to her.

  Maggie marched on, her angry stare fixed straight ahead, but it was not Bryce’s haughty tones that reached her just then.

  “Excuse me! Excuse me, miss?” came a gravelly voice over the constant hiss of the rain striking the pavement.

  Maggie turned, startled, shivering in the spring chill, and soaked through to the skin.

  A small black coach built on the narrow lines of an expensive vis-à-vis rolled up beside her. The team of liver bays pulling it had turned nearly black with the rain drenching their coats.

  Then a lean, sinewy young gentleman with a neat, narrow beard jumped down from the shelter of the roofed driver’s box.

  “I say!” he called, holding on to the brim of his top hat to keep it from blowing away. “May I be of assistance, my lady?” He gestured gallantly to his coach, his black greatcoat billowing in the wind. “This is no weather for anyone to be out walking!” He spoke loudly to be heard over the thunder that made Maggie jump once again.

  The stranger offered her a reassuring smile. “It’s all right.” He stepped closer. “Let me assist you. I see you were caught unawares by the weather. Allow me to offer my conveyance to wherever your destination might be.”

  “Oh! How very kind,” she said, managing a startled laugh despite the slight chattering of her teeth. “If only you’d found me a mile ago! Thank you, but that won’t be necessary—”

  “No, I insist,” he interrupted, taking another step toward her. “You’re freezing. You’ll catch your death in this tempest. Climb in.” He held the carriage door open for her. “I’ll take you wherever you need to go. It would be my honor.”

  Maggie studied him for a heartbeat, unsure what to think.

  He had a gentlemanly bearing, and even looked strangely familiar.

  But everyone knew it was unthinkable for an unchaperoned young lady to get into a man’s closed carriage. Not even a thunderstorm was any sort of excuse. Any real gentleman knew that.

  And his smile unsettled her. It did not reach his eyes.

  No doubt, he was only being kind.

  Yet a tickle at the back of her awareness whispered that something here…wasn’t quite right.

  Fortunately, she was too close to her so-called home now to require the stranger’s assistance. So she blinked off th
e unsettling thought and smiled anyway, because she was Maggie Winthrop. Well-bred. Polite.

  Unsuspecting.

  “Thank you so much. I’m thrilled to see chivalry is not dead in Town after all. But I live just here, you see. I’m already home.” She gestured vaguely toward Marquess Row.

  The stranger squinted in the direction she indicated, then looked at her again with an almost predatory stillness.

  With his stare fixed on her, he did not even seem to feel the rain coursing down his face. “Still a bit of a walk yet,” he pointed out. “I don’t mind.”

  His cold tone did not match his courteous words, and the distinct ripple of uneasiness running down her spine intensified as he took yet another step toward her.

  “N-no, thank you.” She shook her head and began backing away, her smile turning brittle. “I’ll be there in a moment. But I-I appreciate your concern. Good day!”

  A flinty hardness flickered in his eyes as she sketched a curtsy, then turned around and ran.

  She did not stop till she reached Edward and Delia’s front door after some fifty yards.

  As she grasped the door handle, she stole another wary glance over her shoulder and found him still standing there.

  Watching her.

  When he saw her look back, he sketched a gentlemanly bow, as though to confirm he had merely waited to make sure she had got in all right. He waved a friendly farewell, then jumped back up into his coach and picked up the reins.

  Maggie made no move to enter the house until she was sure he was gone.

  Not quite tipping his hat, he sent her a little salute as he rolled on by, driving past their house to exit Moonlight Square by the other end.

  It was that slight, unthinking gesture—the salute—that jogged her memory all in a flash after he’d gone.

  Of course! Relief flooded her as she remembered where she had seen him before. Oh, you silly thing, she told herself.

  A shaky laugh escaped her at her own paranoid imaginings. For a moment there, she had thought… Oh, never mind what she’d thought.