The Dutiful Duke

by Joan Overfield

  Shapes and details were finally becoming clear, and Wyatt could see a few pieces of shattered furniture laying on the dirt-packed floor. There was a crude pallet of sorts just behind Elliott, and on the pallet was . . .

  "Amanda!" Wyatt leapt forward.

  "Ah, ah, Your Grace." Elliott cocked the weapon with his thumb. "No sudden moves, now. I should hate to kill you before I am ready."

  "You bastard!" Wyatt spat the word with murderous fury, his body trembling with the need for violence. "You black-hearted bastard, I'll see you swing for this!"

  "Will you?" the expression on Elliott's face was one of gloating triumph. "That is a distinct possibility, I suppose."

  "What have you done to her?" Sweat beaded Wyatt's forehead as his anguished eyes rested on the tiny figure lying so ominously still. "If you've hurt her, I'll—"

  "You'll what? You're no more in a position to utter threats than you are to make demands. There is nothing wrong with the child. She took a healthy dose of laudanum, that's all. Or should I say an unhealthy dose?" His thin lips curled in an evil smile. "I'm really not certain how much I gave the little imp."

  "What do you want?" Wyatt roared, fearing he wouldn't be able to hold himself in check much longer. He knew Ambrose and the others would be arriving soon, and that all he had to do was to keep Elliott distracted long enough for them to rescue Amanda. It had sounded so simple at the time, but now he wondered if he would be able to do it. He was literally aching with the need to get his hands around Elliott's throat, and it took everything in him to remain where he was, passively listening to the other man's taunts.

  "What do I want?" Elliott repeated thoughtfully, the pistol still trained on Wyatt's heart. "An interesting question. I want what I have always wanted, Your Grace. Revenge."

  "Revenge?" Wyatt was genuinely puzzled. "Why the devil should you desire revenge against me? What have I ever done to you?"

  "You?" Elliott gave a negligent shrug. "Nothing. But your family is another matter."

  "I know you were once my mother's secretary, and were very probably her lover," Wyatt said, and was pleased to note the information surprised the other man. "But I fail to see what that has to do with any of this."

  "Don't you?" Elliott's expression was smug. "Ah, but I was more than your mother's lover. Much, much more."

  Wyatt managed to hide his shock and revulsion at this confirmation of his worst suspicions. "Half the world was my mother's lover," he said, shrugging his shoulders to indicate his indifference. "She was never known for either her discretion or her taste."

  "It wasn't her fault!" Elliott shouted, displaying emotion for the first time. "She was a loving, giving woman, but that cold fish she was married to was incapable of giving her what she needed! He was off on one of his precious diplomatic missions when I was first hired, and in all the months I was there he never even bothered to return. It was obvious he didn't give a feather for her!"

  Wyatt caught a shadowy movement behind them, and knew the others were taking their positions. Just a little longer, he thought, bracing himself for action. Just a little longer.

  "We were like innocents in paradise," Elliott was saying, his eyes closing as he lost himself in memory. "She was my first woman, and we loved each other without guile or guilt." His eyes opened, and in their dark depths Wyatt could see a wild madness burning. "Then your uncle arrived at the house unexpectedly."

  "I take it he objected to his brother's wife dallying with the help?" Wyatt said, risking a glance toward the door.

  "He beat me with his horsewhip!" Elliott shouted, leaping to his feet and sending his chair tumbling to the floor. "She tried to stop him, and then begged me to leave before he killed me. I implored her to come with me, but she refused, saying he was too powerful . . . too dangerous. I vowed I would protect her, but she was too frightened to try."

  Wyatt, who had vivid memories of his grasping, selfish mother, gave a bitter smile. "More like she didn't want to give up her silks and diamonds," he sneered, hoping to make the man see reason. "Face it, Elliott. She used you, just as she used every man unfortunate enough to cross her path."

  "No!" Elliott pointed the gun at Wyatt again. "She loved me! We could have been happy together. Instead I was left alone, with no family, no love. Your uncle took all that from me, but I got even . . . I got even."

  "You kept the breach open between Christopher and me," Wyatt accused with fury. "He died because of your machinations, but even that didn't satisfy you."

  There was triumph in Elliott's eyes. "Why should you have a family when I did not?"

  "You—" Wyatt started forward impulsively.

  "Hold there!" Ambrose leapt through the doorway, his pistol in his hand. "Throw down your weapon or I'll fire!"

  A look of absolute rage crossed Elliott's face. "No!" he screamed. "I won't let you win! You may kill me, but I'll have my revenge first!" And he whirled, pointing his gun at the pallet where Amanda lay.

  There was no time to think. Wyatt pulled the trigger, and the sound of the shot roared in the tiny cottage. Elliott staggered and then fell to the floor, the pistol slipping from his fingers.

  Wyatt stepped over him without so much as a glance, his attention focused on Amanda. He gathered her up in his arms, his hands shaking as he brushed a piece of dirty straw from her tangled hair. "Amanda," he crooned, his voice hoarse with emotion. "My poppet. Are you hurt?"

  Then Nia was there, kneeling at his side. "Let me see," she said gently, laying a hand on the little girl's throat. The pulse was slow but steady, and she bowed her head in relief. "She's alive," she whispered, tears in her eyes as she met Wyatt's gaze. "She's alive."

  He reached out, his arm snagging Nia's as he dragged her against him. He closed his eyes and breathed a silent prayer of thanks that the two people he loved most were safe in his arms. He would have been content to remain there indefinitely, but the sound of someone clearing his throat brought him reluctantly to his senses. He glanced up to find Ambrose standing beside them.

  "I hate to intrude," he said apologetically, "but what do you want us to do with our friend?"

  "Is he alive?" Wyatt gently transferred Amanda to Nia's arms.

  "Barely." Like Wyatt, Ambrose was indifferent to the other man's fate. "However, he does seem to want to talk to you."

  Wyatt was strongly tempted to say to hell with Elliott, but he wouldn't leave even a dog to die alone. Sighing wearily, he pushed himself to his feet and walked over to where Elliott lay in a bright pool of blood.

  "What is it you wish?" he asked, making no effort to hide his revulsion as he stared down at the man. "If it's forgiveness you're after, I am afraid I cannot grant it. Because of your machinations my brother went to his death thinking I wanted nothing to do with him."

  A sickly smile crossed Elliott's pale lips. "Forgiveness?" He laughed, foamy blood appearing on his lips. " 'Tis not me who will be needing forgiveness, my lord. It is you."

  "Because I shot you in the back?" Wyatt demanded, knowing his actions could well be deemed cowardly. "What other choice did I have? You would have killed an innocent child."

  A film was covering Elliott's eyes, but it didn't mask his obvious hate. "Oh, 'tis much worse than that, Your Grace," he said, his voice so faint Wyatt could scarcely hear him. "My crimes may be great, but not so great as yours. You have committed the worst sin there is." His eyes drifted shut as the life slipped from him. "You have just killed your own father."

  And then he was dead.

  "Miss Pringle, will my uncle come today?" Amanda asked, her favorite doll clutched in her arms as she regarded Nia with solemn eyes.

  Nia glanced up from the book she'd been pretending to read. "I don't know, dearest," she admitted, struggling to keep her tears from falling. "As I said, he is very busy with important matters, but I'm sure he'll come as soon as he is able. You must be patient."

  Amanda's bottom lip quivered. She had been patient, but she wanted to see her uncle. It had been two days since the bad man
had pulled her from her horse and taken her to the dirty cottage. He'd made her drink some perfectly awful tasting tea, and the next thing she knew she was in her own bed, her uncle and Miss Pringle sitting beside her.

  Since then she hadn't seen her uncle for more than a few minutes, and when he did come he was so distant that she wondered if he was angry with her. Maybe he was mad because the man had taken her, she thought, her heart sinking to the toes of her slippers.

  Nia saw the unhappy look on Amanda's face and drew her onto her lap. "It's all right," she soothed, running a hand through the child's soft hair. "I know you're worried about your uncle, but it will be all right, I promise."

  Tears overflowed Amanda's eyes as she buried her face against Nia's neck. "I'm s-sorry, Miss Pringle," she cried, her shoulders shaking with grief. "I didn't mean to let the man take me away. I tried, I really tried, but he was so b-big . . ."

  "Amanda!" Nia was horrified by her apology. "Darling, no one blames you for what happened! You must never think that!"

  "Then why won't Uncle come?" Amanda refused to be placated. "He stays in his room all day, and he comes to see me only because he has to. He doesn't love me anymore!" And she sobbed as if her heart would break.

  Nia held her tighter, wishing there was some way she could relieve her anxiety. Since the moment he'd heard Elliott's dying declaration, Wyatt had retreated behind an icy wall, and there was nothing she or Amanda could do to breach it. Nia had heard from the servants that he'd moved out of the master suite into one of the guest rooms, and she wondered what his next step would be. Lord knew he hadn't been forthcoming with her, she thought, her smile bitter. Like Amanda, she'd scarcely exchanged more than a dozen words with Wyatt in the past few days.

  Amanda continued crying, her fingers clutching the front of Nia's gown. "I don't want Uncle Wyatt to go away." She sniffed, rubbing at her eyes with her fists. "You won't let him go away, will you?"

  "Oh, Amanda." Nia sighed, her heart breaking at the plea. As much as she longed to reassure the little girl, she didn't want to make promises she couldn't keep. "I wish I could help, but—" Her voice broke off abruptly.

  Blast Wyatt! she thought, her eyes kindling as her grief flamed into anger. She knew he was going through hell at the moment, but what about Amanda? She was just a little girl, and she needed the reassurance only her uncle could give her. It was time he stopped dilly-dallying and resumed his duties, she decided, her jaw clenching with determination as she gently set Amanda to one side.

  "Where are you going?" Amanda asked, wiping her nose with the sleeve of her dress.

  "To get your uncle," Nia said, straightening her glasses and stuffing her hair back under her cap. She'd started wearing caps again, and she felt invulnerable in her prim blue gown and starched apron. She pulled her shoulders back, and with her chin thrust out at a militant angle, she stalked off to fulfill her promise to Amanda.

  "So you see, Your Grace"—the newly hired solicitor's voice was firm but apologetic—"there is no way you can renounce the title in your niece's favor. The laws of primogeniture would never allow it."

  Wyatt rubbed a hand across his face, wishing he could say to hell with everything and simply walk away. In the past two days he'd gone through so many emotions he felt drained and empty. The only thing he cared about was setting matters to right; he didn't have the energy for anything else.

  "What about my fortune?" he asked wearily, dropping his hand as he met the other man's gaze. "Can I at least sign that over to her without Amberstroke's permission?"

  "Certainly, Your Grace," the solicitor replied, shuffling his papers nervously. "But I do not understand why you would wish to do so. You are a young man, and you will doubtlessly want to pass on your wealth and your title to your heirs."

  The words were like a lance through his heart. The mention of heirs brought Nia's face to mind, and the enormity of his love lay heavy on his heart. Thank God he hadn't told her of that love, he thought bleakly. Now at least she wouldn't have to feel obligated to a bastard . . . the son of a whore and a man who had kidnapped a helpless child to serve his own evil purposes.

  The solicitor shuffled the papers on his desk and nervously cleared his throat. "If you will forgive my asking, Lord Tilton," he began diffidently, "why do you wish to renounce your title? It is among the oldest and most honored in the country."

  Wyatt rose from behind his desk and began to restlessly prowl the room. This was the hardest part of his decision, but after careful consideration he knew it was his only choice. "I have decided to leave England," he said, his calm voice giving no indication of the wrenching pain inside him. "And since an absentee landowner would be the death of Perryvale, I've decided it would be in the best interests of the estate if I surrendered complete control to my heirs."

  "I can understand that, Your Grace," the solicitor conceded with a frown, "but why give that control to a child? And a girl at that? Would it not make more sense to—"

  The door to the study was suddenly flung open and Nia stormed inside, her eyes glittering with challenge as she marched over to where Wyatt was standing. "There you are," she said, bending her most formidable look on him. "Amanda is in her room sobbing because she thinks you blame her for Elliott's atta—" Her voice broke off as she became aware that Wyatt was not alone. "Who the devil are you?" she demanded, whirling around to glare at the stranger sitting at Wyatt's desk.

  The solicitor drew himself up haughtily, his plump form fairly quivering with indignation. "I am Mr. Cranshaw, His Grace's solicitor," he announced, glaring at Nia down the length of his nose, "and I will thank you to leave at once. We are in the midst of some highly confidential negotiations."

  Nia's snort was eloquent. "A solicitor, are you?" she asked, her eyes moving over him with obvious disdain. "Well, I hope you're better than the last one. He was one of the vilest creatures I have yet to meet. In the meanwhile, your meeting will simply have to wait. His Grace is required elsewhere."

  Wyatt gave a weary sigh, his eyes closing as he pinched the bridge of his nose. He'd known a confrontation with her was inevitable, but he'd hoped to avoid it until he was in better control of himself. "Nia, I haven't time for this right now," he said, his tone heavy. "Go back to Amanda and tell her—"

  "No," Nia interrupted, refusing to grant him any quarter despite the anguish on his face. "You tell her. The poor child is beside herself because you've been so busy licking your wounds you've forgotten she exists! I insist you leave off this maudlin behavior, and resume your duties as her uncle."

  Mr. Cranshaw appeared about to swoon at such brazen behavior. "How dare you address His Grace in that overly familiar manner you . . . you jade!" he accused, his chins quivering. "You deserve to be dismissed . . ."

  "Oh, do be quiet," Nia grumbled. She didn't have either the time or the patience to soothe the man's outraged sensibilities. She felt she was on a dangerous precipice, and that one wrong step could send her plummeting over the edge. As she always did when she was afraid, she grew even more bellicose, her eyes sparkling with determination as she continued her attack.

  "Well?" she snapped, jabbing her finger against Wyatt's chest. "Are you going to do you duty, or are you not? Everything else aside, you are still Amanda's uncle, and she loves you."

  "His Grace hasn't time for these unbecoming melodramatics," Mr. Cranshaw said before Wyatt could reply. "He will be leaving the country soon, and we have a great deal—"

  "You're leaving?" Nia gasped.

  "Nia, I was going to tell you—"

  She had heard enough. Unmindful of Mr. Cranshaw's presence, she lashed her hand against Wyatt's cheek. "You . . . you coward!" she accused, tears streaming down her face as her heart shattered. "I wish I never loved you!" And with that she turned and fled out into the garden.

  She ran without direction, her one thought to put as much distance between herself and Wyatt as possible. When she reached a stone bench, she collapsed onto it, burying her face in her hands as she gave vent to the an
guish that was tearing her apart.

  "Nia, are you all right?" Wyatt was suddenly kneeling before her, his touch gentle as he reached out to take her hands in his. "Don't cry, my love, please. It is more than I can bear."

  She brought her head up, her face wet with tears as she studied him. "How can you do it?" she asked, her voice shaking with emotion. "How can you turn and run rather than stay and fight for what is yours?"

  Wyatt flinched at her words. "It's not mine," he said, forcing the words past his clenched teeth as shame overwhelmed him. "You heard what Elliott said. He was my father. I don't deserve Perryvale."

  His obtuseness infuriated Nia. "Elliott was a scoundrel and a liar!" she snapped, pulling her hands from his and surging to her feet. "He hated your family and did everything in his power to destroy you. What the devil makes you think he was telling the truth?"

  Wyatt, rising to his feet, froze at her furious demand. He gave her a startled look. "But—but he was dying," he protested, lowering himself to the bench. "He wouldn't have lied at such a time."

  Nia had seen too much of death to put much faith in Elliott's dying declaration. "Why not?" she demanded crossly, hands on her hips as she faced him. "He knew he was dying, saw his last chance for revenge, and grabbed it with both hands. You have only his word he is your father. Are you going to give up everything on the basis of that?"

  Wyatt stared at her, his heart and mind in turmoil. When he'd heard Elliott's dying taunt, it had shattered his world, but he'd never thought to question the veracity of the words. Now . . . he rubbed an hand over his face, unable to think what he should do next.

  Seeing his pain and confusion, Nia's anger dissolved. She returned to his side, reaching out and turning his face toward her. "Even if by some horrible twist he is telling the truth, nothing changes," she said softly, willing his eyes to meet hers. "You are still Amanda's uncle, and you are still the man I love. What does it matter who your father was?"

  Wyatt lay a shaking hand on her cheek. "But if I'm not the duke . . ."