An Inconvenient Duke

by Anna Harrington

  When he slid his mouth away from hers, to trail kisses along her jaw, she whispered his name. What emerged instead was a low moan, one that made him smile against the fragile skin below her ear.

  She was lost in the spicy, masculine taste of his kisses, the sensitive caresses of his hands over her body, wishing he would dare to touch her in a way no other man had ever attempted before…because she would let him. This man, at this moment, when every touch between them was a healing benediction.

  “Danielle.” Her whispered name reached her through the arousal engulfing her.

  A slow caress of his thumb over her bottom lip made her eyes flutter open. She stared at him, seeing such an expression of desire that she lost whatever breath she’d managed to regain.

  “We’re in Westminster.”

  She blinked, her kiss-fogged brain momentarily confused. But a quick glance out the window at the Queen’s House confirmed his simple statement.

  Alarming clarity washed over her, replacing the confusion with humiliation. Oh, what a fool she was! To be so weak as to capitulate to him, both with her kisses and her secrets.

  Cheeks burning, she slid off his lap and onto the other bench. When he didn’t move to open the door, the urge to flee overwhelmed her. She grabbed for the handle herself—

  “Wait.” His hand clasped her wrist. Even at that innocuous touch, her pulse pounded wildly like a drum. “We need to talk.”

  She refused to look at him. “There’s nothing more to talk about. I’ve told you all that I can.” Please don’t mean the kiss! Please don’t mean you want to talk about that…

  “Are you in danger?”

  The concern with which he said that pierced her. “No,” she answered honestly, “I don’t think so.” No one knew her real name or where she lived. They wouldn’t be able to trace her any further than the Golden Bell. “And Kimball had nothing to do with Elise, I’m certain of it.”

  “You will tell me if anyone threatens you.” Not a question, an order. “If you need my help.”

  His concern might have been genuine, but all the worry in the world wasn’t enough to make her be so foolish as to let down her guard again. Next time, she wasn’t certain her heart could survive it.

  She flung open the door and hurried to the ground so quickly that she surprised the horses. Leaving Marcus to pay the driver, she rushed along the avenue toward the little side street where she’d left her carriage. She didn’t glance behind to see if he was following and tried to convince herself that she didn’t care either way.

  Apparently, now she was even lying to herself.

  Nine

  Gritting his teeth, Marcus slammed his fist into the large leather bag filled with sawdust and grain that dangled on a chain from the overhead beam. Then again. And again.

  The frustration inside him from kissing Danielle was still too hot, too raw, and he needed to purge it completely before he could return home to Charlton Place tonight. Despite the sweat that rolled down his face and bare back, he wasn’t anywhere near reaching that point.

  Around him, the old armory building was dark and silent. Its ten-foot-thick, windowless stone walls and iron doors kept out the noise and confusion of London and provided a place of sanctuary. The only light came from the lamps he’d lit and placed around this part of the central octagonal-shaped room that he’d turned into a training area. The only sounds were the rattling of the chain with each punch or kick to the bag. Exactly how he preferred it.

  That was why he’d kept this property as it was instead of turning it into a warehouse, even though its location just north of the City made it financially valuable. He needed somewhere he could go to get away from Charlton Place and from society, in a way he couldn’t by going to the club or taking a long ride. And that was why he came here tonight after returning to the Strand to fetch his horse once he’d made certain that Danielle was safely back home. Only here could he let out his frustrations and pent-up energies like this.

  Only here could he be himself.

  But if anyone at court or in the Lords ever saw what he’d done with the building—how he’d hung bags from the rafters to practice fisticuffs, how he’d constructed men from sawdust and thick leather coverings that he could attack with swords and axes, how he’d put together a collection of various weights and clubs meant to enhance his agility and build sheer strength—they’d think him mad. But he couldn’t survive without this place to escape to.

  Especially tonight.

  Kissing Danielle like that… What the hell had he been thinking?

  He punched the bag with all the force he could muster. The jolt of contact reverberated up his arm and shuddered painfully through his shoulder.

  He’d been caught up in his grief for his sister, in the shock of watching Danielle being threatened in that alley, in the betrayal he felt that she’d been keeping such dangerous secrets—

  Lies. He’d kissed her because he’d wanted to. No other reason.

  Clenching his jaw, he kicked at the bag, driving his bare heel deep into it. So hard that it went sailing in a wide arc away from him and jounced noisily on its chain.

  He was a damned fool to kiss her.

  When the bag swung back toward him, he pivoted in a circle and kicked at it again with the same foot from behind, sending it arcing high into the air.

  And an even bigger fool to let her run away.

  The large metal door to the outer courtyard clattered loudly as it opened and closed, followed a few seconds later by the creak of rusty hinges on the inner door to the building itself. He didn’t need guards to keep anyone from sneaking inside. The old building announced visitors’ arrivals on its own.

  “We were summoned here by General Braddock,” Merritt called out as he and Pearce walked into the central room from the narrow entry hall. “Looks like we found Gentleman Jackson instead.”

  Marcus grimaced as he grabbed the bag to stop it from swinging.

  “No,” Pearce corrected as his gaze roamed around the room and took in all the training paraphernalia and weaponry. “I’ve been to Jackson’s saloon. It isn’t half as good as this.” Then his attention landed on Marcus, and he arched a brow. “What is this place?”

  My sanctuary. “A former armory.” He reached for a towel lying over a rack of metal weights and wiped off the sweat clinging to his bare chest. He was soaked with perspiration, including his loose-fitting trousers that hung low around his hips and were the only piece of clothing he wore, but the frustrations inside him had barely eased. “I purchased it last winter to turn into a warehouse.”

  “But you turned it into something else.” Merritt muttered with a faint trace of awe as he scrutinized the weapons on the wall, “A fortress.”

  Marcus unwound the long strips of cloth he’d wrapped around his hands as mufflers to protect his knuckles. “A place to escape to.” During the past few months since his return, this place had become a safe haven for him. That he’d turned it into a small arsenal meant nothing. “Some place where I can work my muscles and maintain my fighting edge.” Perhaps almost nothing. Since he’d returned, he’d also felt hunted, and keeping his edge by training here put him at ease. “And Claudia thinks claymores clash with the wallpaper at Charlton Place.”

  “And the rifles over the door with the Aubusson rugs,” Merritt agreed as he pulled a war rapier down from the wall and examined it.

  “Do you often feel the need to escape, General?” Pearce’s somber gaze narrowed on him.

  Marcus answered with brutal honesty, “Don’t you?”

  Before Pearce could reply that purchasing an armory was a damnably unusual way to escape, Merritt called out to Marcus and tossed the rapier to him. He easily caught it and smiled grimly when Merritt took down a second sword.

  Merritt Rivers was one of the best swordsmen His Majesty’s army had ever produced. Normally, Marcus avoided spa
rring with him, to save his pride a certain beating. But tonight, he felt just masochistic enough to engage.

  As Merritt shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it aside, Pearce leaned against the wall and folded his arms over his chest, settling in to watch. “What made you come here tonight?”

  “Undoubtedly a woman.” Merritt pulled off his cravat and tossed it over his jacket, then rolled up his shirtsleeves. “Probably the one he was so enamored of at the party.” He grinned as he came forward, brandishing the sword in quick, slashing arcs through the air to gain the feel of the blade. “Turned you down, did she?”

  “She is the Honorable Danielle Williams, daughter of Baron Mondale, and I am not enamored of her.” No, he just inexplicably turned into a nodcock whenever he was around her. “And I don’t proposition innocent misses.”

  “No,” Pearce agreed dryly. “As a duke, you marry them.”

  He leveled a hard look at the earl, saying nothing. There was no good reply to that.

  When Merritt took his position across from him on the open stretch of floor, Marcus ignored Pearce’s baiting and raised his sword in salute. Merritt did the same.

  “En garde,” Pearce called out, acting as de facto referee. The two men turned their shoulders toward each other, their swords pointed at the floor. “Prêt?” Both men readied their stances, bending their front legs and shifting their weight onto their rear feet. Their swords raised. “Allez!”

  Merritt lunged, immediately gaining the offensive. Marcus parried the thrust and deflected Merritt’s sword. There was no blunt tip on either rapier, but each man had trusted the other with his life on the battlefield, just as they trusted now in each other’s skilled control to keep from injuring the other. Although Marcus would be lucky if he managed to touch Merritt at all, who now advanced and retreated with expert footwork that made getting close to him nearly impossible.

  The metallic ring of blade striking blade echoed off the stone walls and filled the large space that stretched three floors above their heads. When Merritt fended off a thrust with a circle parry, the defensive move separated the two men by several steps, giving Marcus a moment to catch back his wind.

  “So why ask us here tonight, General?” Merritt’s voice was barely winded, his reflexes still as quick and deadly as they’d been when he’d been commissioned.

  “Because I need your help.”

  Pearce called out, “With what problem?”

  A problem, all right. Marcus smiled tightly as the two men engaged once more. “Miss Williams.”

  Merritt thrust again, this time with a circling flick of his wrist as his blade ran down the length of Marcus’s. He easily twisted the sword from Marcus’s hand. It landed on the stone floor at his feet with a clatter. Merritt grinned, retreating to let Marcus pick up his rapier. Had this been a real duel, Marcus would be dead. “You’re losing your touch, General.”

  Doubtful. Merritt was simply that good. Always had been. Still, he acknowledged, “My skills can dull a bit. We’re not reconnoitering the French.”

  “No. A society lady.” Merritt saluted Marcus with his sword. “In my experience, far more dangerous than the French. I’ve seen how they use those parasols. As deadly as bayonets.”

  Pearce made a wry face. “No quarter either. When they capture a man, it’s for life.”

  “Best not let them capture you then.” Despite his grin, there was a low warning in Merritt’s voice.

  But capturing Danielle Williams to wife wasn’t at all why he’d asked Merritt and Pearce to join him here tonight.

  Certainly she was attractive, and the woman she’d become held little in common with the girl he remembered. Like a butterfly from a cocoon, Danielle had transformed into a graceful, lithe, and curvaceous lady, one who possessed a regal air and self-confidence that were simply alluring. When they’d danced, she’d moved in his arms as if she belonged there, matching him step for step and faltering only when he’d challenged her about Elise. And good Lord, how sweet she’d tasted when he’d kissed her…a decadent mix of honey and wine.

  How she’d managed to turn twenty-five and remain unwed he had no idea. Neither was he the man to end that. His concern for Danielle went only as far as gaining justice for his sister’s death.

  “I’m not one to get himself leg-shackled by the enemy,” Marcus countered as they once more took up their bout.

  Merritt’s eyes gleamed knowingly as he deflected a slashing strike. “Even by one in petticoats?”

  He gritted his teeth and shoved Merritt’s blade away with sheer strength, pushing his friend backward several feet. “Especially one in petticoats.”

  “Then why do you need our help?” Pearce called out, still leaning against the wall and safely out of the way.

  Marcus sidestepped Merritt’s slash of the rapier. “Because she has information I need.”

  “About what?”

  “Elise’s murder.”

  Stunned, Merritt halted, his sword hand falling to his side as he stared in disbelief.

  Marcus flicked the tip of his sword across Merritt’s chest in a well-controlled slice that cut through his waistcoat and left a gaping tear in the silk brocade.

  Panting hard to catch his breath, not all of it lost from physical exertion, he tossed away his rapier. It banged against the stone floor in an echoing clatter, the only sound in the armory as his two closest friends continued to stare at him, unable in their shock to find their voices.

  Not wanting to see their startled expressions, Marcus snatched up the towel. He rubbed it over his face to wipe away the rivulets of sweat stinging his eyes, taking this moment’s pause to collect himself. Then he flipped the towel over his shoulder and crossed the room to a little cabinet pushed up against the wall. He kept his attention on the cabinet, still unable to bring himself to look at them.

  “Elise was killed the night before her body was found, I’m certain of it. She didn’t break her neck falling from her horse. Someone murdered her.” His hand trembled as he reached into the cabinet and withdrew three glasses and a bottle of brandy. They would all need a strong drink after this. “When I was packing away her things last month, I came across a note.”

  As he poured brandy into each glass, he told them what he’d found, what the letter had said, how the details that Danielle had shared about Elise’s death simply didn’t fit together. He fixed his gaze to the golden liquid in each glass as he unburdened himself. Gratefully, both men kept their silence.

  When he finished with his story, including what he felt was safe to share about Nightingale, he turned around and held out the glasses.

  Somberly, both men came forward to claim them, then took contemplative swallows, not knowing what to say. Their silence was fine with Marcus, because he didn’t know what he needed to hear. Except…

  “How can we help, General?”

  He warmed with gratitude at Pearce’s quiet question, spoken with no doubt of offering assistance. After all, they considered themselves to be brothers, the bond between them forged by blood and hellfire on muddy battlefields stretching from southern Spain to Belgium.

  “I need to find the man she was supposed to have met with that night.” He took a large swallow of brandy and welcomed the burn down his throat. “John Porter. Miss Williams believes he may be connected to a brothel. And I need to learn more about Scepter.”

  “Is that wise?” Pearce finished his brandy. “From what you’ve said, they sound dangerous.”

  So am I. “If this group had any connection to Elise’s death, I need to discover what it was.” And wouldn’t stop until he did. “Can I count on your help in finding Porter?”

  The two men exchanged dubious glances at the paltry bit of information they had to work with.

  “We’ll ask around, but…” Pearce shook his head at the improbability of finding one specific man in all of London based solely on h
is connection to a brothel.

  “I know.” Marcus’s mouth tightened at the task he was giving them. “But I appreciate whatever help you can offer.” More than he could say.

  “We should call on Clayton,” Merritt suggested, frowning thoughtfully into his glass. “He has the resources of the Home Office at his fingertips.”

  Clayton Elliott had served under Marcus as a major in the last year of the fight against Napoleon. Of all his closest friends from the army, only Clayton seemed to be thriving now that the wars were over. But then, he hadn’t strayed too far from the ranks, simply moving from the governing auspices of the War Office to the Home Office, taking a position as an undersecretary.

  Pearce nodded and took the rapier from Merritt. “Good idea. He can reach out to his contacts while the two of us work through London in person.” He paused. “Unless you don’t want anyone else to know, General.”

  Eventually, all of England would know when he found the person responsible for Elise’s death and had him hanged. But now, it was better to be cautious, especially after how Danielle was nearly attacked tonight. She’d sworn that Kimball’s betrayal had nothing to do with Elise, but a niggling doubt pricked at his gut.

  “Tell Clayton but no one else.” He dropped the towel to the floor. “Until we know what we’re dealing with, we can’t take any chances.”

  Not with Danielle’s safety hanging in the balance.

  “We’ll start first thing in the morning,” Merritt assured him, resting a hand on his shoulder. “We won’t let you down.”

  His throat tightened. This was what he missed about the wars, what he would trade his new title and every penny of his fortune to possess forever—this bond of brotherhood.

  “If we’re all done here, then I’d like to head home.” Pearce hung the rapier and its mate into place on the wall. “It’s been a long night, with the promise of an even longer day tomorrow, and I have a warm bed waiting for me.”