by Karen Ranney
“Yet you’ll take a chance with your own.”
“You’re going to be like that, aren’t you?”
“Be like what?” She folded her arms in front of her.
“Protective. Determined. You’re going to worry about me, aren’t you?”
She nodded. “Constantly. Endlessly. You’re my cause, Lennox. You’re my abiding interest.”
“What if I feel the same about you?”
“That would only be fair,” she said.
She had a point. A very good point.
He had already learned as much as he could about acceleration by launching his airship from Ben Uaine. He had given some thought, lately, to stretching wires between the mountain and the tower. It would still be a descent, but a controlled one and certainly less dangerous. He could test the aerodynamic qualities of a design that way and it didn’t even have to be a manned flight.
When he explained what he was considering, Mercy nodded from time to time. Her questions were astute, and he realized that her understanding of his plans was based on her memory of his diagrams.
Perhaps he should show her his newest ideas and get her feedback.
“Connor and I are going to have to drag this down to the bottom of the mountain,” he said, looking at his airship.
“Does that mean that you’re not going to launch it?”
There was such hope in her voice that he realized that she’d truly been afraid for him.
“I can always kick it off the mountain,” he said. “But then I would have to build it again.”
“Whatever is safer for you, Lennox. I don’t think I would want to live if anything happened to you.”
There it was, the knowledge that had been there all along: the burden of love, the depth and breadth of it. It wasn’t a free emotion. It demanded that a price be paid. To care about another was to give of oneself. In his case, to know that his well-being was Mercy’s happiness and vice versa.
He walked back from the edge of the mountain. The airship could wait. He led the way down Ben Uaine, glancing back from time to time to reassure himself of Mercy’s safety. As they reached the bottom and started for home together, Lennox realized something else. He would never be alone again. Instead, Mercy would be with him.
His American. His heiress. His love.
Author’s Note
Lennox’s experiments in flight were based on the work of Sir George Cayley (1773–1857), sometimes called the Father of Aviation. Cayley was the first to identify the four key requirements of successful flight: lift, weight, thrust, and drag. His paper “On Aerial Navigation” changed the then current design of airships from the ornithopter model to fixed-wing aircrafts. Cayley was also the first to build a successful glider (1849) that looked a little like one of Lennox’s airships. The ten-year-old son of a servant became the first person to fly in one of Cayley’s airships. There are no records of Cayley ever piloting one of his own crafts, however.
Seanmhair is the Celtic (and more formal) word for grandmother. It’s pronounced shen-a-var.
The Otis passenger elevator was installed in a New York City department store in 1857. I think, with James Rutherford’s unlimited wealth, that he could have heard of such an invention and had one installed in his own home.
Duddingston Castle was loosely based on the general shape and size of Urquhart Castle. However, Urquhart was a ruin around the end of the seventeenth century.
Some Scottish phrases used in the book:
She’s up to high doh—She’s upset.
Yer bum’s oot the windae—You’re not making any sense. (Your bottom’s out the window.)
Yer aff yer heid—You’re crazy. (You’re off your head.)
Skelping—Thrashing.
An Excerpt from To Love a Duchess
Keep reading for an excerpt from the first book in Karen Ranney’s All for Love series,
TO LOVE A DUCHESS
Undercover as a majordomo, spy Adam Drummond has infiltrated Marsley House with one purpose only—to plunder its mysteries and gather proof that the late Duke of Marsley was an unforgivable traitor to his country. At the same time, Adam is drawn to a more beguiling puzzle: the young and still-grieving duchess—a beauty with impenetrable secrets of her own. For Drummond, uncovering them without exposing his masquerade will require the most challenging and tender moves of his career.
That a servant can arouse such passion in her is too shocking for Suzanne Whitcomb, Duchess of Marsley, to consider. Yet nothing quickens her pulse like Drummond’s touch. It’s been two years since the duke lost his life in a tragic accident—and even longer since she’s been treated like a woman. But when Drummond’s real mission is revealed, and the truth behind Suzanne’s grief comes to light, every secret conspired to tear them apart is nothing compared to the love that can hold them together.
Chapter One
September 1864
Marsley House
London, England
He felt the duke’s stare on him the minute he walked into the room.
Adam Drummond closed the double doors behind him quietly so as not to alert the men at the front door. Tonight Thomas was training one of the young lads new to the house. If they were alerted to his presence in the library, they would investigate.
He had a story prepared for that eventuality. He couldn’t sleep, which wasn’t far from the truth. Nightmares often kept him from resting more than a few hours at a time. A good thing he had years of practice getting by with little sleep.
He’d left his suite attired only in a collarless white shirt and black trousers. Another fact for which he’d have to find an explanation. As the majordomo of Marsley House, he was expected to wear the full uniform of his position at all times, even in the middle of the night. Perhaps not donning the white waistcoat, cravat, and coat was an act of rebellion.
Strange, since he’d never been a rebel before. It was this place, this house, this assignment that was affecting him.
For the first time in seven years he hadn’t borrowed a name or a history carefully concocted by the War Office. He’d taken the position as himself, Adam Drummond, Scot and former soldier with Her Majesty’s army. The staff knew his real name. Some even knew parts of his true history. The housekeeper called him Adam, knew he was a widower, was even aware of his birthdate.
He felt exposed, an uncomfortable position for a man who’d worked in the shadows for years.
He lit one of the lamps hanging from a chain fixed to the ceiling. The oil was perfumed, the scent reminiscent of jasmine. The world of the Whitcombs was unique, separated from the proletariat by two things: the peerage and wealth.
The pale yellow light revealed only the area near the desk. The rest of the huge room was in shadow. The library was ostentatious, a word he’d heard one of the maids try to pronounce.
“And what does it mean, I’m asking you?” She’d been talking to one of the cook’s helpers, but he’d interjected.
“It means fancy.”
She’d made a face before saying, “Well, why couldn’t they just say fancy, then?”
Because everything about Marsley House was ostentatious.
This library certainly qualified. The room had three floors connected by a circular black iron staircase. The third floor was slightly larger than the second, making it possible for a dozen lamps to hang from chains affixed to each level at different heights. If he’d lit them all it would have been bright as day in here, illuminating thousands of books.
He didn’t think the Whitcomb family had read every one of the volumes. Some of them looked as if they were new, the dark green leather and gold spines no doubt as shiny as when they’d arrived from the booksellers. Others were so well-worn that he couldn’t tell what the titles were until he pulled them from the shelves and opened them. There were a great many books on military history and he suspected that was the late duke’s doing.
He turned to look at the portrait over the mantel. George Whitcomb, Tenth Duke of Marsley, wa
s wearing his full military uniform, the scarlet jacket so bright a shade that Adam’s eyes almost watered. The duke’s medals gleamed as if the sun had come out from behind the artist’s window to shine directly on such an exalted personage. He wore a sword tied at his waist and his head was turned slightly to the right, his gaze one that Adam remembered. Contempt shone in his eyes, as if everything the duke witnessed was beneath him, be it people, circumstances, or the scenery of India.
Adam was surprised that the man had allowed himself to be painted with graying hair. Even his muttonchop whiskers were gray and brown. In India, Whitcomb had three native servants whose sole duties were to ensure the duke’s sartorial perfection at all times. He was clipped and coiffed and brushed and shined so that he could parade before his men as the ultimate authority of British might.
His eyes burned out from the portrait, so dark brown that they appeared almost black, narrowed and penetrating.
“Damn fine soldiers, every single one of them. All mongrels, of course, but fighting men.”
At least the voice—surprisingly higher in pitch than Adam had expected—was silent now. He didn’t have to hear himself being called a mongrel again. Whitcomb had been talking about the British regiments assigned to guard the East India Company settlements. He could well imagine the man’s comments about native soldiers.
What a damned shame Whitcomb had been killed in a carriage accident. He deserved a firing squad at the very least. He wished the duke to Hell as he had ever since learning of the man’s death. The approaching storm with its growling thunder seemed to approve of the sentiment.
As if to further remind him of India, his shoulder began to throb. Every time it rained the scar announced its presence, the bullet wound just one more memory to be expunged. It was this house. It brought to mind everything he’d tried to forget for years.
Adam turned away from the portrait, his attention on the massive, heavily tooled mahogany desk. This, too, was larger than it needed to be, raised on a dais, more a throne than a place a man might work. A perfect reflection of the Duke of Marsley’s arrogance.
The maids assigned this room had left the curtains open. If he had been a proper majordomo he would no doubt chastise them for their oversight. But because he’d been a leader of men, not of maids, he decided not to mention it.
Lightning flashed nearby, the strike followed by another shot of thunder. The glass shivered in the mullioned panes.
Maybe the duke’s ghost was annoyed that he was here in the library again.
The careening of the wind around this portion of Marsley House sounded almost like a warning. Adam disregarded it as he glanced up to the third floor. He would have to be looking for a journal. That was tantamount to searching for a piece of coal in a mine or a grain of sand on the beach.
This assignment had been difficult from the beginning. He’d been tasked to find evidence of the duke’s treason. While he believed the man to be responsible for the deaths of hundreds of people, finding the proof had been time consuming and unsuccessful to this point.
He wasn’t going to give up, however. This was more than an assignment for him. It was personal.
One of the double doors opened, startling him.
“Sir?”
Daniel, the newest footman, stood there. The lad was tall, as were all of the young men hired at Marsley House. His shock of red hair was accompanied by a splattering of freckles across his face, almost as if God had wielded a can of paint and tripped when approaching Daniel. His eyes were a clear blue and direct as only the innocent could look.
Adam always felt old and damaged in Daniel’s presence.
“Is there anything I can do for you, sir?” the young footman asked.
“I’ve come to find something to read.” There, as an excuse it should bear scrutiny. He could always claim that he was about to examine the Marsley House ledgers, even though he normally performed that task in his own suite.
“Yes, sir.”
“I think we had a prowler the other night,” Adam said, improvising. “One of the maids mentioned her concern.”
“Sir?”
Daniel was a good lad, the kind who wouldn’t question a direct order.
“I’d like you to watch the outer door to the Tudor garden.”
“Yes, sir,” Daniel said, nodding.
“Tell Thomas that I need you there.”
“Yes, sir,” the young man said again, still nodding.
Once he, too, had been new to a position. In his case, Her Majesty’s army. Yet he’d never been as innocent as Daniel. Still, he remembered feeling uncertain and worried in those first few months, concerned that he wasn’t as competent at his tasks as he should be. For that reason he stopped the young man before he left the library.
“I’ve heard good reports about you, Daniel.”
The young man’s face reddened. “Thank you, sir.”
“I think you’ll fit in well at Marsley House.”
“Thank you, Mr. Drummond.”
A moment later, Daniel was gone, the door closed once again. Adam watched for a minute before turning and staring up at the third floor.
The assignment he’d been given was to find one particular journal. Unfortunately, that was proving to be more difficult than originally thought. The Duke of Marsley had written in a journal since he was a boy. The result was that there were hundreds of books Adam needed to read.
After climbing the circular stairs, he grabbed the next two journals to be examined and brought them back to the first floor. He doubted if the duke would approve of him sitting at his desk, which was why Adam did so, opening the cover of one of the journals and forcing himself to concentrate on the duke’s overly ornate handwriting.
He didn’t look over at the portrait again, but it still seemed as if the duke watched as he read.
At first Adam thought it was the sound of the storm before realizing that thunder didn’t speak in a female voice. He stood and extinguished the lamp, but the darkness wasn’t absolute. The lightning sent bright flashes of light into the library.
Moving to the doors, he opened one of them slightly, expecting to find a maid standing there, or perhaps a footman with his lover. He knew about three dalliances taking place among the staff, but he wasn’t going to reprimand any of them. As long as they did their jobs—which meant that he didn’t garner any attention for the way he did his—he wasn’t concerned about their behavior in their off hours.
It wasn’t a footman or a maid engaged in a forbidden embrace. Instead, it was Marble Marsley, the widowed duchess. She’d recently returned from her house in the country, and he’d expected to be summoned to her presence as the newest servant on the staff and one of the most important. She hadn’t sent for him. She hadn’t addressed him.
He had to hand it to the duke; he’d chosen his duchess well. Suzanne Whitcomb, Duchess of Marsley, was at least thirty years younger than the duke and a beautiful woman. Tonight her dark brown hair was arranged in an upswept style, revealing jet-black earrings adorned with diamonds. Her face was perfect, from the shape to the arrangement of her features. Her mouth was generous, her blue-gray eyes the color of a Scottish winter sky. Her high cheekbones suited her aristocratic manner, and her perfect form was evident even in her many-tiered black cape the footman was removing.
Did she mourn the bastard? Is that why she’d remained in her country home for the past several months?
From his vantage point behind the door, he watched as she removed her gloves and handed them to the footman, shook the skirts of her black silk gown, and walked toward him with an almost ethereal grace.
He stared at her, startled. The duchess was crying. Perfect tears fell down her face as silently as if she were a statue. He waited until she passed, heading for the staircase that swooped like a swallow’s wing through the center of Marsley House, before opening the door a little more.
Glancing toward the vestibule, he was satisfied that Thomas, stationed at the front door, couldn’t s
ee him. He took a few steps toward the staircase, watching.
The duchess placed her hand on the banister and, looking upward, ascended the first flight of steps.
He had a well-developed sense of danger. It had saved his life in India more than once. But he wasn’t at war now. There weren’t bullets flying and, although the thunder might sound like cannon, the only ones were probably at the Tower of London or perhaps Buckingham Palace.
Then why was he getting a prickly feeling on the back of his neck? Why did he suddenly think that the duchess was up to something? She didn’t stop at the second floor landing or walk down the corridor to her suite of rooms. Instead, she took one step after another in a measured way, still looking upward as if she were listening to the summons of an angel.
He glanced over at the doorway, but the footman wasn’t looking in his direction. When he glanced back at the staircase, Adam was momentarily confused because he couldn’t see her. At the top of the staircase, the structure twisted onto itself and then disappeared into the shadows. There were only two places she could have gone: to the attic, a storage area that encompassed this entire wing of Marsley House. Or to the roof.
He no longer cared if Thomas saw him or not. Adam began to run.
Where the hell was the daft woman?
Adam raced up the first flight of stairs, then the second, wondering if he was wrong about Marble Marsley. He’d overheard members of the staff calling her that and had assumed she’d gotten the label because she was cold and pitiless. A woman who never said a kind word to anyone. Someone who didn’t care about another human being.
In that, she and her husband were a perfect pair.
But marble didn’t weep.
He followed the scent of her perfume, a flowery, spicy aroma reminding him of India. At the top of the staircase, he turned to the left, heading for an inconspicuous door, one normally kept closed. It was open now, the wind blowing the rain down the ten steps to lash him in the face.