Duke of Storm

by Gaelen Foley

“Why not?” Will asked.

  “Because I promised I wouldn’t! Besides, if I do, you’ll try to hurt him, and I can’t have that, seein’ as how he’s goin’ to be my husband.”

  Connor stared at her, shocked.

  “Is that right?” Rory asked, his jovial smile pasted in place.

  Saffie nodded eagerly. “Just as soon as he finishes up some errands for his father, he’s taking me to Gretna Green. I’m to wait here until he’s ready. Earn my keep.”

  Even Rory’s smile thinned upon his hearing that. “Riiight.”

  Connor couldn’t even speak upon hearing such colossal lies. Rage boomed through his veins.

  Will looked flabbergasted.

  Nestor took a long drink of ale, then glanced darkly at Connor with a look that said, This chap needs killin’.

  Aye. Connor gave him the barest of nods.

  “Well now,” Rory finally said. “Congratulations on your impending nuptials. That is happy news indeed, Miss Saffie. But it won’t be miss for long, now, will it? Tell me, when you marry this lucky fellow, what will your name become then?”

  She beamed at the question. “Mrs. John Smith,” she said proudly.

  Connor shot up from his barstool and turned his back on them, clenching his fists.

  “What’s wrong with him?” Saffie asked.

  “Oh—nothing.” Will sounded slightly strangled.

  Perfect. A fake name, to boot. Half the men who ever went to brothels were called John Smith, as everyone knew.

  Everyone but Saffie, unfortunately.

  Rory cleared his throat. “My dear, doesn’t it bother your fiancé that you’re here diddlin’ other men before the wedding?”

  “They don’t make me do that,” Saffie retorted. “My Johnny says it’s fine, and he’s the one that got me this job. It’s a sight better than scrubbin’ pots and pans, I can tell you.”

  Connor turned back around in astonishment.

  “I get to wear pretty gowns like this one and just sit around, talk to folk, listen to music. I mean…it’s not so much fun sometimes. You see things. And sometimes, people grab you.” A dark shadow passed behind her empty eyes. “But Johnny said he’s leavin’ me here so he’ll always know where to find me when he needs me. Ain’t that sweet? People say I’m not very clever, but he knows there’s one thing I’m good at. So what do you say to that?” She cocked a hand on her hip and smirked at them, pleased with herself.

  “I want to kill this piece of filth,” Nestor murmured.

  Thankfully, Saffie didn’t hear the comment, for just then, one of the other women tapped her on the shoulder and asked her whether she had finished straightening the rooms on the third floor for the night.

  While Saffie paused to answer her, Will marched over to Connor with an air of desperation. “We can’t leave her here, sir.”

  “Aye,” Connor said. “Not the least because she’ll tell this son of a bitch that I was here. We need to keep the element of surprise.”

  “Are you sure?” Rory glanced at him as the four of them formed a huddle. “We could use her as bait,” he suggested. “Set a trap for him here. Next time he comes to see her, we take him down.”

  “No, we’re on his turf. This is his father’s establishment.” Connor shook his head, then indicated the room with a discreet nod. “Look at all the security on duty, as well. If they work for his father, they’ll be under his command. Too risky, especially with so many women and customers around. We don’t want anyone getting hurt. I’m with Will. Let’s just get the girl out of here somehow.”

  “Thank you, Major,” the boy said. “I couldn’t live with myself if we abandoned her in this hellhole.”

  Nestor frowned. “But what are we going to do with her?”

  “We can’t take her back to her brother,” Will said. “That ogre. He beats her.”

  “Plus, that’s the first place her ‘Johnny’ will likely look for her, once he comes back and finds her missing,” Connor said. “He’ll kill her for certain if he realizes we’re onto him. I’m surprised he left her alive this long—but thank God he did.”

  “Ugh, I could throw up to think how he’s used her,” Will said, clutching his stomach and glancing at her again.

  “Don’t worry, lad. We’ll keep her safe,” Connor said. “Actually, I think our only solution right now is take her to Trumbull.”

  “The butler?” Nestor asked, taken aback.

  Connor nodded. “He seemed to have a soft spot for the poor creature. She knows him. Besides, she’s already been taught to obey his authority. He’ll keep her in line while we finish off her dragoon.”

  Nestor arched a brow. “Good thing you hired him back, then. And not a moment too soon.”

  “Thanks to Maggie,” Connor said wryly.

  “All well and good,” Nestor said with a nod. “Just one problem. The girl doesn’t seem inclined to be rescued. She thinks this blackguard’s prince charming.”

  Connor looked grimly at them. “Leave this to me.”

  When they turned back to the bar, Saffie was nodding in answer to some household task the older harlot was giving her for later. Then the haggard woman swished away to go and greet more men coming in, and Connor looked at Saffie.

  So young and fresh. She did not belong here. Therefore, lying to her to save her did not trouble his conscience in the least. He should hope he had the brains to outsmart her, and besides, getting her to leave of her own free will would avoid them drawing the wrath of the guards by hauling her out kicking and screaming.

  “Saffie,” he said as gently as possibly, leaning on the bar. “There’s actually a particular reason we came.”

  She gazed at him with round, somber eyes. “To take me to Newgate?”

  “No—”

  “I didn’t want to do it! He made me.”

  “I know that. Don’t be afraid.” Connor smiled tenderly. “Will’s right. You needn’t worry about any of that. I shouldn’t want you to do it again, of course—”

  “I won’t!” She looked relieved.

  “Good. The main reason we’re here… Well, I’m afraid it’s rather bad news.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. It’s about poor old Mr. Trumbull, the butler. You remember him?”

  This got her full attention. “Ol’ Trumby? Well, of course. He was always kind to me,” she said. “What about him?”

  “I’m afraid he’s fallen ill.”

  She gasped, popping her hand up over her lips for a second. “Oh no! He’s not going to die, is he?” she asked. “He was like a grandfather to me! He and Cook. Like the grandparents that I never had.”

  Will took her hand and squeezed it, giving her a heartfelt gaze.

  “Please, tell me he’s not going to die!”

  “His physician isn’t sure,” Nestor said gravely, catching on to the ruse.

  “Fond of you as Mr. Trumbull is, Saffie, he was asking for you,” Connor said.

  “He was? Why?” she asked.

  “He has no children of his own, remember? He’s just been a butler all his life.” Connor shrugged. “He’s all alone now in his hour of need.”

  “Oh, no!” Her eyes welled up with tears.

  “So, we were wondering, would you go and sit with him for a couple of hours? It would be a great comfort to him, and we could take you there right away.”

  “Oh, of course,” Saffie said. “Let me just get my wrap… Oh, but wait.” Her shoulders slumped. “Johnny said I’m not allowed to leave. Not unless I have permission.”

  “It is an emergency, though,” Will pointed out.

  “Besides, if he loves you, Mr. Smith will understand,” Connor said.

  “Yes… Right.” Saffie mulled this. “That is true.”

  Will patted her hand. “We can take you there.”

  “Will you be going, too, William?”

  He nodded. “If you wish me to.”

  “I do!” She had only one more question—a surprisingly sensible one, at that. “Is it
catching? Whatever Mr. Trumbull has?”

  “No, dear, just old age,” Nestor said, startled.

  “But he could die at any moment,” Connor added. “Best hurry.”

  “Very well,” Saffie said. “I’ll tell the guards I’m leaving and go fetch my wrap. Be right back!”

  When she rushed off, Will turned to them with fury which he could apparently no longer contain.

  “That poor girl!” he burst out as loudly as he dared. “He’s ruined her! Cast her off in this vile place. And she doesn’t even realize how she’s been used… What a devil!”

  Connor had never seen the mild-mannered private in such an agitated state. Nestor stared at him, then sent Connor a puzzled sideways glance.

  “What’s the plan, then?” asked Rory.

  “Right,” said Connor while Will kept watch for Saffie’s return. “You three take her out to Trumbull’s cottage. Nestor, you remember the way?”

  “Of course.”

  “You’ll drive. When you get there, apprize Trumbull first of our ruse so he plays along.”

  “This should be interesting,” the surgeon mumbled.

  “Rory, you guard the cottage until you hear from me in the off chance this bastard figures out where she is,” Connor continued. “He’d have no reason to look for her at the butler’s house, but stay sharp, just in case. After all, now that we know he’d do this to her with so little regard, there’s no doubt in my mind that he’d kill her to shut her up.”

  “But she’s barely told us anything,” Will said.

  “Yes, but she still might. In fact, maybe Trumbull can coax more information out of her once she’s away from this place,” Connor added.

  “What should I do, Major?” Will asked.

  “You’re in charge of keeping Saffie entertained. Clearly, she trusts you. Don’t let her wander off. Keep her busy. Whatever it takes.”

  Will eyed him skeptically, then Rory slung an arm around his shoulder. “Hear that, Willy? You might get lucky yet. I think she fancies you.”

  Will huffed, blushed, and shoved Rory away.

  Nestor shrugged. “The lad would be a damned sight better for her than whatever soulless blackguard brought her here.”

  Ignoring them both, Will stared fiercely at Connor. “You kill him if you find him, sir.”

  “Oh, believe me, I will,” Connor said.

  “What’ll you be doing in the meanwhile, maje?” Rory asked discreetly as Saffie came hurrying out of the back again, clutching her wrap.

  “I’m going to pay a visit to the Guards’ Club and have a chat with some of the dragoons there,” Connor murmured as Saffie made her way toward them through the gathering crowd. “Someone there might have information about our John Smith.”

  “Watch yourself. You have no idea which one of them he is,” Rory warned.

  Connor shrugged. “He means to kill me anyway. Maybe I can get him to tip his hand. Besides, I’ll be in a room full of armed men who think I’m a bloody hero.”

  Rory quirked a knowing smile. “Where did they ever get a fool notion like that? Still, be careful, mate.”

  “You too. You lot take my coach. I’ll flag down a hackney.”

  They wished each other luck and, when Saffie rejoined them, parted ways.

  Connor paid their tab and watched the others drive off, making sure they got away safely. Then he stepped to the pavement and hailed a hackney, hungry for blood.

  I’ll find you yet, you son of a bitch.

  * * *

  If there was one place where Seth was able to muster a genuine sense of belonging, and a feeling of contentment—other than between Saffie’s legs—it was at the Guards’ Club on King Street, established expressly for military men.

  Founded some years ago by Wellington himself as a place for veterans to congregate, the Guards’ Club was known for surprisingly good suppers, restraint in gambling, and, above all, the easy sport of making fun of the dandies who displayed themselves in White’s bow window across the street.

  Seth was there now, enjoying the familiar sights, sounds, and smells of this haven of men. The light of sunset slanting in through the high windows cast a mellow glow over the patina on the long wooden tables, where countless former soldiers—some in uniform, some not—were digging into a hearty beef supper.

  Steam curled upward from roasted chickens, shepherd’s pie, and vegetables. Men eagerly helped themselves to the food, while the aproned waiters brought around wine and ale.

  All the while, the high-ceilinged hall reverberated with the lulling chatter of males laughing and arguing good-naturedly, while the sound of plates and silverware clanked as the meal was served.

  Seth soaked it all in as he sat on a long bench, eating in the company of his regimental mates, just watching, listening. The atmosphere of camaraderie warmed his normally cold heart—until the moment Amberley walked in.

  Seth froze as his gaze clamped on the man he wanted to kill. The shepherd’s pie promptly turned to ashes in his mouth.

  Shock, fear, and stomach-churning dread curdled the half-eaten meal in his belly as he sat there, unmoving.

  Why he should be surprised to see Amberley here, though, he did not know.

  Amberley belonged here, in truth, even more than he did, but this was the first time that Seth was aware of that the man had walked through the door.

  There was no mistaking him, though. The big, fierce-eyed warrior paused in the doorway, tall and formidable, dressed down in decidedly informal clothes. Brown coat, nankeen breeches, black boots.

  No, to be sure, Seth thought cynically, the legendary major did not need to rely on the uniform for swagger. A third-generation soldier, the blackguard had military prowess rising from his bone marrow.

  Across the club’s vast hall, Seth watched his enemy speak to a few men, one of whom soon pointed him in the dragoons’ direction.

  Then any hope that Seth might’ve harbored that he was in the clear dissolved as Amberley marched toward them, his square face grim, murder in his blazing blue eyes.

  Seth’s heart began to pound. In that moment, he had no idea how to handle this. He was about to be exposed, he was quite sure. But how?

  That he could not answer, too panicked to think. Here in the critical moment, he sat paralyzed with dread. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end; his hands went ice-cold.

  At least he managed not to let them shake when he reached for his ale and took a swig to wash down the suddenly nauseating mouthful of food.

  He feigned ignorance, mild-mannered uninterest when his friends reacted eagerly to the hero’s arrival. Several of them stood to greet the man.

  “Major!”

  “Welcome, Your Grace! It’s good to see you here at last!”

  “We’ve been wondering when you’d turn up.”

  The duke swept their company with a glance like a saber stroke. “I am not here on a social call, gentlemen.” He planted his hands on the edge of the table and leaned down a bit, scrutinizing each and every one of them.

  Seth held perfectly motionless, heartbeat booming.

  His friends were puzzled.

  “Is something wrong, sir?” Daniels asked.

  “Yes, actually. I’m looking for one of your men.”

  “Who, Your Grace?” Thurnow asked cheerfully.

  “The son of Elias Flynn.”

  Seth managed not to choke at his father’s name.

  Amberley took a brass button out of his waistcoat pocket and tossed it down on the table in their midst like he was rolling the dice. “Tell him he left this in my coach house.”

  Seth’s comrades were confused.

  It was then that Amberley’s gaze wandered around the table and found him. His stare lingered on Seth for a moment, until Phillips spoke up, drawing the duke’s steely stare.

  “But, sir, we don’t have anyone called Flynn in the regiment.”

  “Not openly, you don’t. But he knows who he is and what he’s done.” The duke looked around at
them with hellfire in his glance. “Just spread the word that I’m looking for him, would you? Tell him I’m ready to settle the matter between us any time he’s ready to quit hidin’ like a coward and show his goddam face.”

  Seth did not move a muscle, as if stillness could render him invisible.

  His friends seemed dumbfounded at the savagery in the duke’s tone.

  With that, Amberley straightened up and walked away, leaving Seth’s missing uniform button spinning on the table.

  For his part, Seth uttered not a word, but kept his stare pinned on his enemy’s back as Amberley strode out, shoulders squared, head high.

  Meanwhile, all around the table, his friends began discussing what had just occurred, confused and alarmed.

  Coming from any other source, such claims would be found ludicrous, but the major was so well respected…

  Seth listened but could not quite absorb the men’s heated exchange. Angry questions about who the imposter might be, protests, oaths, and bewildered denials flew back and forth across the table.

  Right before his eyes, he saw how his secret actions had fractured his tight-knit squad into chaos. Seth had no answers to give them, however, wrapped up in his guilt.

  His mind was spinning, a whirlwind whipping around and around inside his brain—terror that Amberley was on his trail, relief that he hadn’t been found out entirely yet. Seth looked down at his plate, unable even to think about finishing the meal. Thank God, he was still in the clear—at least for the moment. His heart slammed inside his ribcage.

  It was not Amberley he was afraid of, exactly. It was exposure. Complete ruination before his friends. And, most of all, dread of his underworld father.

  Oh God, Amberley had now connected Father to this thing…

  Plunged into his own private hell, Seth felt in that moment as though he was being torn in half, all for trying to stand with one foot in two different worlds. Father’s fortune; Mother’s name. Had he really expected this to work?

  But a more important question loomed in the foreground: how had this happened? He had a sickening feeling he knew.

  Saffie.

  God damn it, he should have got rid of her weeks ago. This had to be her fault. She was the only loose thread he’d left untied.