Anyone But a Duke

by Betina Krahn

  Mazie and Dolly had been waiting to take her straight upstairs when she entered the house earlier, and the women drew her a bath and laid out clean clothes. Sarah was surprised that her mother hadn’t bustled in, taken charge, and insisted she go straight to bed. Instead, when she was dressed properly, Deidre brought word that the duke and her family were waiting for her in the parlor.

  When she arrived, she found not just family, but also Grycel Manse, Sir William, and Steig gathered to hear her version of the failed kidnapping. As soon as she entered, Steig approached her with a grave expression and told her he was furious when the others told him what happened to her.

  “The duke an’ me talked, and from now on, I’ll be sticking closer to home and checkin’ on you regular, to make sure yer safe.”

  “Thank you, Steig,” she said, touching his arm. “But I can’t imagine they would try such a thing again.”

  “Who knows what the bastards’ll try,” Red grumbled.

  Arthur led her to a seat and she explained again what had happened to her, ending with, “It happened so fast, I was caught totally unaware.”

  All present went quiet for a moment.

  “Think hard. Can you remember anything else that might help identify them?” Arthur asked, leaning toward her. “Anything at all? When they spoke, did they have accents or call each other by name?”

  “They just sounded like most country folk, hereabouts,” she said, wetting her lips. “Sorry. Nothing unusual.”

  He took her hand and there was a not-so-subtle intake of breath from the vicinity of her mother.

  Her gaze narrowed as she reached back into her memory to scour those events once again. “Wait.” Events unspooled in her mind and her attention snagged on a detail she hadn’t recalled previously. “There may be one thing. When the dogs attacked, the men were yelling and—” She halted, on the razor’s edge of recall. “I could swear one said, ‘Help me . . . M-Mace.’ I think that’s what it was. Mace. Is that a name?”

  “Yes, and one I’ve heard before.” Arthur released her hand and sat back, looking to Steig.

  “One of the men who hired me to come to the Iron Penny the night we . . . met,” Steig said, meeting Arthur’s gaze. He frowned. “That pair called themselves Gil and Mace.”

  “Then, they’ve been around for a while,” Arthur mused. “And someone—likely this ‘lordship’ fellow—is paying the bill.”

  Sarah looked from one pensive face to another, wondering if they were thinking what she was thinking. Apparently no one wanted to say it.

  “Arthur was never summoned with a writ and seated in the House of Lords, and he didn’t participate in local or London society. What ‘lordship’ would hate Betancourt, or Arthur, enough to pay thieves and bullies to disrupt and destroy them?”

  “There is only one I can think of,” Arthur said. “He’s not strictly a lord, but I can imagine he might style himself as one.”

  “George,” Red declared, nodding.

  “I don’t know why I should be surprised.” Arthur shook his head. “His father was as vicious and corrupt as they come. When he tried to ruin Daisy and I tossed him out of Betancourt, he hired some thugs to kill Ash, and damn near succeeded.”

  Sir William came to the edge of his seat and turned to Elizabeth.

  “Didn’t you say this George fellow mentioned going to the courts?”

  “Well, yes.” Elizabeth caught his train of thought. “But why would he be going to the courts?”

  “The law is full of quirks and odd precedents. Most actions of the civil courts are taken because of a suit one party brings against another.”

  “You think he means to sue me or Betancourt?” Arthur looked baffled. “What for? What have I ever done to him?”

  “I have no idea,” Sir William said, rising. “But I should get back to London and ask a few questions. There is a late train . . . I’ll go now and send word as soon as I learn something.”

  Elizabeth rose with him and followed him out. Steig mentioned he had calls to make at several tenant farms and left. Reynard and Grycel asked Red to take them to the destroyed mill so they could look around. Soon Sarah and Arthur were alone in the parlor.

  “You really believe George is behind all this?” she asked.

  “I can’t afford to ignore the possibility.”

  “But he found Fancy and brought him home to me. Why would he do that if he was trying to ruin Betancourt?”

  “There is no way he could ever claim the Meridian title; he’s too distant now. I don’t have children yet, but Ash does. As it stands, if something should happen to me, the succession would go on through them.” He took on a look of flint striking steel. “If he’s set on becoming a duke, he’s in the wrong family.”

  * * *

  Steig rode hard into the north edge of Betancourt, following the rutted track that led to the tavern where he’d met Gil and Mace. When he entered the taproom he felt a charge in the air that prickled the hair on the back of his neck. The barman jerked a nod over his shoulder toward the back. Steig followed a short hallway to a storeroom filled with barrels, crates, and familiar faces. The men he’d met two nights before still bore traces of soot in their craggy faces. When they looked up, they quickly looked down again.

  Mace was bruised and bore bloody bandages on his hands as he sprawled on the floor against a barrel. Behind him a pair of legs that belonged to his unconscious partner were visible.

  “Where the hell have you been?” His lordship was in a foul mood, and dealing out bruises.

  “At the manor, where somebody tried to kidnap Sarah Bumgarten,” Steig said. “The place was in an uproar. I couldn’t leave—I was hired to make the place secure.”

  George gave Mace a savage kick that made him howl with pain. “It was these two imbeciles. After the mill fire, I told all of you to do nothing and stay out of sight. Then these two go charging into the manor itself and try to kidnap the one person on all Betancourt that I need to keep on my side.”

  “She deserved it . . . broke Gil’s nose, she did,” Mace said, gasping but not repentant. “We swore she’d get hers.”

  Another kick and a slash of that crop made Mace curl into a ball of misery. The baron paced back and forth smacking his leg, his narrowed eyes flitting over a scene none but he could see. “I need her to testify.” He looked to Steig. “Is she hurt?”

  “Shook up bad. And scared.”

  That registered with “his lordship,” Baron Beesock. “She’s scared?”

  “She nearly got taken right out of her own bed,” Steig said. “Hell yeah, she’s scared. You should’ve seen her shakin’ and cryin.’” He narrowed his eyes, looking troubled. “Almost had me in tears . . . poor sweet thing.” The men grinned back, admiring his audacious duplicity. The smile he returned was yet another lie. He was not particularly proud of his performance or his presence here.

  George studied that news. “That might actually be a good thing. The whole basis for my case is that the estates are in peril and no one is safe.”

  Steig picked an apple out of the barrel next to him and took a bite as he sat down on a nearby crate. Behind his apparent geniality, he was conflicted. Why hadn’t he told Arthur what he’d learned during the mill raid? He’d managed to keep them from firing the miller’s house and got the woman and her kids away to safety. Why was he back here, listening to this arrogant peacock? Because he felt comfortable in this company? Because he might have more to gain with them than with the duke and Miss Sarah?

  Truth be told, he didn’t know why Arthur had decided to release him. For his fighting skills? Because he felt some kinship with Steig’s story? He could imagine Arthur as part of a rough ship’s crew more than he could see him as an elegant, entitled nobleman. Despite riding beside him for two long days, learning about his ideas and concern for his people and estate, Steig had a hard time believing that goodness was real. Or that he deserved to be part of it.

  Shaking off his doubts, he took a deep breath.
>
  He had to know what this arse of a baron planned.

  “What next, yer lordship?”

  * * *

  Two constables arrived at Betancourt the next morning to quiz Sarah on her ordeal. Her wrists, shoulder, and hip were sore, but otherwise she was healthy and felt almost embarrassed to be reporting that she was abducted all of thirty or forty yards, for a total of less than ten minutes. Her mother reminded her that if not for timely intervention, her situation could have been disastrous. She sat through the same questions she’d answered several times now, but was rewarded by the news that the county would be assigning additional men to police the area.

  After the constables left, Sarah was desperate for something productive to do. She took Arthur by the hand and headed for the study.

  “You need to learn the estate accounts,” she said, and scowled at his groan. “This is part of your obligation . . . knowing and guiding the finances of Betancourt. You have a large house that takes a good bit of upkeep. Then there is the staff . . . we’re actually short-staffed. Other houses this size have twice the number of servants and three times the groundskeepers.”

  “We have groundskeepers?” Arthur looked surprised. “Who?”

  “We only have two, Carl Morgan and his son David. They used to farm, but Carl’s leg was damaged in an accident and he had to give up farming. Betancourt needed someone to tend the grounds and oversee the seed storage and ‘starts’ for each season’s planting. He was perfect for it—he’s the one who suggested the additional plants for the butterfly garden.”

  “How long did it take you to learn all of this?” he asked.

  “Eight or nine months . . . I’ve lost track. It’s not as hard as it may seem.”

  “Not when you’re a marvel of nature,” he muttered, eyeing her.

  She retrieved ledgers from the desk and joined him on the sofa to explain the bookkeeping. Included were lists of merchants and tradesmen that supplied Betancourt. They were long lists and each vendor had a story that Arthur needed to understand in order to handle the account properly.

  She looked up to find him breathing in the scent of her hair.

  “Are you listening?” she said, more pleased than annoyed. He was staring at her lips as if they were the object of a lifelong quest.

  “Of course. I can adore your hair and listen at the same time. I’m really quite good at it. I’ve had plenty of practice lately.”

  Elizabeth entered the study at that moment, bearing a flat box wrapped in blue paper and tied with a yellow ribbon that had seen better days. Without a word she set the box down on Sarah’s lap, and then sailed out of the study.

  Sarah looked at the box in disbelief that slowly changed to horror—as if she expected it to sprout fangs and rattles. She shoved it off her lap, and when it hit the floor the tinkle of broken glass was unmistakable.

  “What is that?” he asked, surprised by her action. “Did you just break it?”

  “No.” She stared at it, remembering when she’d last seen it and her humiliation at the way the earl’s bride sneered at it.

  “Aren’t you going to open it?”

  “It’s not for me,” she said, feeling anger rising beneath that potent memory. She rose, crossed the entry hall, and walked straight out the front doors. Through the blood pounding in her head she heard his confusion as he called after her.

  “Then who is it for?”

  She kept walking, only half aware of her location and direction. She was shaken and hurt. The blue paper, the perky yellow ribbon she had carefully worked into a bow . . . where had her mother gotten that gift? She had thrown it on the floor that night and had heard the glass break. Her mother had to have picked it up. Why? Why would she do that and keep it all of these months?

  More importantly, why would she give it to her now, in front of Arthur? The exertion of walking kept her focused. As long as she could think and examine her thoughts, she could keep tears and devastating emotions at bay.

  A reminder, she realized. It was meant to be a reminder of what she’d experienced at the hands of a callous and duplicitous young nobleman. If so, it was also meant as a warning that it could happen again . . . with the duke her mother distrusted. And feared. For that was the basis of her distrust—fear. She was afraid her youngest daughter would put her heart and soul into Betancourt and its master, only to be spurned again.

  The longer she walked, the more quickly she walked. Her hands were clenched at her sides and her heart pounded as she waded through tall grass, kicked weeds aside, and made gravel crunch underfoot.

  “How dare she?” With each footfall she repeated it until the house loomed before her, and she realized the path she had walked was taking her right back to Betancourt and a confrontation with her mother.

  * * *

  Arthur sat staring at the gift in his hand, trying to make sense of Sarah’s reaction and finding no starting point that might lead to an explanation. He was missing too many pieces of the puzzle. After several moments, he realized that in his hand lay the most important clue.

  Carefully, he unwrapped the package . . . the yellow ribbon, the bright blue paper so carefully trimmed and tucked . . . and uncovered a sturdy pasteboard box. Inside lay a simple black frame with tiny gilt beading and broken glass. He carefully lifted out the glass to reveal a big blue butterfly—an Adonis blue that had been perfectly preserved and framed for display. The broken glass had marred its luminous wings in two places and he couldn’t help thinking it was a shame that such a fine specimen had been damaged by whatever accident broke the glass.

  A butterfly. The sight of that painstakingly wrapped butterfly . . . or perhaps the fact that it was broken . . . had a devastating impact on her. He needed to find out why.

  He waited, watching the front doors, growing steadily more concerned. Just a day ago she’d almost been abducted out from under their very noses. If their stables weren’t safe, who knew what might be lurking in other parts of the estate. She was out there . . .

  He set the mounted butterfly on the desk and started for the doors.

  She stepped into the entry hall before he could exit, and the set of her face alarmed him. This was not the capable, endearing woman he knew and loved.

  Loved.

  He hadn’t allowed himself to think that before now, but he knew it to be true. Even angry, hurt, or disappointed, she was still the key that opened his heart and freed his passions. He loved her. With everything in him.

  Whatever had upset her about that beautiful, damaged butterfly was important, and he needed to know what it was.

  “Come with me,” he said, snagging her hand to pull her into the study. She planted her feet and wrested free.

  “Right now I have to see my mother.” She opted for the stairs.

  “This won’t take long and it’s important.” He grasped her wrist this time and was prepared for resistance. He clamped an arm around her waist and—in a move she’d once warned him against—tried to pull her with him.

  She stomped on his foot and broke free, glowering at him.

  He looked up in disbelief. “You’re furious and I don’t understand why . . . except that it has to do with that damned butterfly. You don’t owe me an explanation, but I sure as hell could use one right now.” He looked down and flexed his booted foot. “That hurt.”

  * * *

  Sarah put a hand to her mouth, staring at the confusion in Arthur’s face. She had just stomped on his foot because she was angry at someone else. It was a measure of how out of control she was, and a reminder that being in pain or distress didn’t give her the right to hurt someone else. Especially not the man she cared so much for. Was confronting her mother more important than her relationship with Arthur?

  She gave in to her better angels and went to him, reaching tentatively for his hand. The fact that he let her take it said volumes about his heart.

  “I’m sorry. I am angry at Mama and not thinking straight.”

  “Then maybe you’d bette
r come into the study with me and talk it over before you do something you’ll regret.” His voice was deep and had that rasp she knew meant his emotions were running high.

  She entered the study with him, pausing to close the doors behind them. As he took a seat on the leather sofa and patted the seat beside him, she spotted the discarded paper and ribbon on the floor and the open box on the desk. She went to look at the butterfly.

  Interestingly, the first thing to come to mind was that it wasn’t nearly as beautiful as the ones in Arthur’s collection. The memory of placing it in the box and wrapping it carefully produced only sadness, not the wave of loss and humiliation she expected.

  “Who was it intended for?” he asked, watching her reaction, waiting for her answer in her own time.

  “The young earl I thought would be my . . . future. It was his birthday, the night of that ball I told you about. We had often talked about and looked at butterflies and I bought this one to give him. He had said blue was his favorite color, and I expected this would remind him of . . .”

  She took a deep breath and turned away to join Arthur on the sofa. He took her hand, threading his fingers through hers.

  “How did it get broken?” he asked.

  “I threw it on the floor in front of him . . . after his bride called me a ‘sweet child’ in her native tongue . . . which apparently is a dialect of Nastiness known as Sarcasm. I heard the glass break. I wanted him to hear it, too.”

  She placed her hand over their joined hands, amazed by the way he listened and by the way talking to him always lowered her tension. “It’s strange, but I don’t think I’m angry at him anymore. Seeing the butterfly again just made me a little sad. I learned from that betrayal, and it brought me to Betancourt.” She took a deep breath. “You know where my interest in butterflies started?”

  He shook his head.

  “Here. I was fascinated by your collection, and started to read about them when we came to Daisy’s wedding.” She had connected to his passion for nature even then, and couldn’t help thinking it had been with her all along . . . guiding her, protecting her . . . until it had drawn her back to him. “Maybe I should be grateful for that awful scene.”