He marched through the crowd, glad to put the boisterous cheer behind him and enjoy the quiet calm of his office.
Theo stole down the corridor. Her thin-soled, booted feet were noiseless against the blood red carpet. Perfect shade for the Devil Duke. She wrinkled her nose. After all, it was likely red because he’d used her family’s ancient weapon and slayed his foes, of which he had many. He must. Granted he was a duke, but by the reports, he was a scarred, foul-tempered beast. She paused at the end of the hall and looked left and right. With the corridors empty of servants and couples stealing away from the festivities, Theodosia then darted across the intersecting hall and came to an abrupt stop.
Then tiptoeing past, one, two, three, and four doors indicated by Herbie, she paused. Before her courage deserted her, she shoved the door open and slipped inside. Her eyes struggled to adjust to the dimly lit space. Theo closed the door quietly behind her with a click that sounded like a shot in the silence.
Her heart hammered, the steady beat of her pulse deafening in her ears. So this was the Devil’s lair. She scanned the massive space, wrinkling her nose. Or was it the Devil’s den?
Den. Lair. He probably had both. As did the Duke of Devlin.
She gave her head a clearing shake. “Focus, Theodosia,” she muttered to herself and did a slow circle about, searching for the broadsword. Nay, her family’s broadsword.
She took in the broad, immaculate, mahogany desk. “Likely because he doesn’t actually see to any real work,” she whispered to herself. A man whose family stole from others and built their successes off those same people he’d trampled upon would likely turn his responsibilities over to hardworking stewards and barristers.
A gold framed painting hung over the fireplace mantel caught her notice. Drawn to the glimmer in the dark, she wandered close. Tilting her head back she stared at the tragic image captured upon the canvas. A chill coursed along her spine. There was nothing romantic or beautiful in the image. A warrior in full armor with his head bowed while a massive weapon was brought down, forever frozen with the edge of steel one sliver away from the end.
What an awful way to be memorialized in time. In spite of herself, she hugged her arms to herself, and her own armor clanged noisily. The shiver of apprehension spread out, filling every corner of her being at the similarity between her and this unknown figure forever a brush-stroke away from death. The implications of her being here at last fully registering. Even as her family knew their rightful ownership of the weapon, the Devil Duke, and the rest of the world, would not see it that way.
Her family wielded little power and influence where Devlin and his kin were concerned.
“The sword, the sword,” she reminded herself, giving her head a shake as she returned to her purpose in stealing into the duke’s home. She scanned his office for a hint of metal.
What if Herbie had been incorrect? What if—
Her breath caught.
The Theodosia sword. With her heart suspended in her breast, she stood transfixed. She’d only heard the legend, but had never before glimpsed the legendary weapon possessed by the great Rayne ancestors many years before. Her namesake. Drawn to it, her feet, of their own volition, carried her across the hardwood floor. Theodosia set down her sword quietly and then removed her helmet. She placed the headpiece beside the fake weapon and paused at the foot of the sideboard. With her heart thumping wildly, she stared up at the massive weapon.
Even in the darkened room, there was an almost mystical quality to the sword. The night shadows reflected off the shimmering, hard steel and glinted in the night.
This was the Theodosia Gladius.
The loss of this is what had brought great strife to her family. The recent history had the weapon stolen and sold by Captain Tobias Ormond, a great shipping rival to her great ancestors. As the rightful owners, when the sword had been in her family’s possession, it had brought great happiness. Since being stolen and sold by Ormond to the Duke of Devlin’s devilish ancestors, her family’s fortune had deteriorated. Eagerness replaced all earlier reservations. It built steadily in her chest and threatened to spill past her lips on a giddy giggle.
But she didn’t giggle.
She was a blinker and a talker. But she’d never been one of those giggling ladies.
A giggle fought past her lips. She slapped a hand over her mouth to stifle the damning sound and stared up at the Theodosia sword once again. Then her mirth faded. She stitched her eyebrows into a single line. However was she to wrestle that massive weapon from its position upon the duke’s wall. She looked about for the time somewhere in this sweeping office and found it under the grim, massacre painting.
Herbie would be here soon. He’d pledged to meet her in the corridor in twenty-three minutes after their arrival, with a loyal friend who owed him a debt. The specific time chosen by Theo, that was no mere coincidence. Twenty-three…the number of words etched upon that legendary weapon.
Still, she’d little time to waste this evening.
Theo eyed the sword a moment and then captured her chin between thumb and forefinger studying it. Nearly eight feet up on the wall, she couldn’t simply reach it with her fingers. Certainly not with her mere five feet and barely one inch of height. She searched around for…She widened her eyes and before her courage deserted her, hoisted herself up onto the duke’s sideboard, grunting as she struggled up with her heavy costume.
Her heart thundered and a haze of fear momentarily clouded her vision. “Do not be silly, Theodosia Tonie Phillipa,” she demanded under her breath, pressing her palms to the wall, as the dizzying spell nearly overtook her. Since she’d been a small girl who’d tumbled from an oak tree, she’d had no business climbing. She’d had a deuced, awful fear of heights. Which defied logic. She forced her eyes open and stole a downward glance at the…“Bloody hell,” she gritted out past her teeth, as the room swayed once more.
It really made little sense. She was not even four feet from the floor and yet…she may as well have been forty feet up. “Focus, Theodosia Tonie Phillipa.” Taking one more deep breath, she inched to the right. Her foot knocked into a crystal decanter and the bottle teetered left, right. Her breath caught as it rocked and then tipped onto its side. It hovered at the edge of the sideboard.
She braced for it to roll off the edge and shatter, but the decanter lay upon its side frozen. Splendid! She’d long ago learned to look for the messages contained within the stars of life. Theo continued tiptoeing along the massive, mahogany sideboard. She stepped over the bottle. This was one of those messages that assured her that what she did was right, and would be all r…
The heel of her slipper caught the edge of the bottle. Her breath caught as it rolled, rolled sideways along the mahogany piece and then, as if in slow motion, tumbled over the edge where it exploded into a thousand shards of crystal. Amber droplets sprayed the floor, splattered her breeches. She blanched and looked to the door bracing for some servants to charge through the door, jab their fingers at her, and yell “Thief”, calling for the constable.
When no discoverers appeared, she breathed again. She continued moving inch by agonizing inch right, onward toward the symbol that had come to represent the reason of her family’s great misfortune, and her hopes for happiness. Theo stilled under the powerful weapon and, for a moment, even the crushing fear of heights to have dogged her all these years slipped away.
Breath suspended, she reached up on the tip of her toes and brushed her finger along the metal hilt. She didn’t know what she expected. A flash of shining light illuminated by the heavens raining down upon the sword? The ancient whispers of the secrets contained within its metal contours breathed into existence.
Not this…this…coldness. She cocked her head, studying it. Then, what had she expected of an ancient Roman gladius? Well, it mattered not what it elicited upon touch, it mattered what it elicited by its presence in her life.
With that, she reached her fingers for the hilt and then closed around the pie
ce. She pulled.
Nothing.
She pulled again and merely served to dislodge a black curl sending it tumbling over her eye. Had the Devil Duke’s ancestor’s anchored the dratted thing to this spot since his family had purchased it from Ormond and committed that great theft, hundreds of years ago?
Theo yanked once more and then it loosed free from its spot with such alacrity, she staggered under the enormous weight of the weapon and the suddenness of the movement. She shrieked, her heart dropping into her stomach and released her hold upon the powerful sword. I’m going to die here, in the Devil’s lair. Theo flung her arms open to keep from toppling to the floor.
Her efforts proved futile. Theo grunted as she sailed over the edge of the sideboard. In her ignoble fall, she took with her a number of decanters and tumblers and landed hard upon the floor, amidst a sea of shattering glass and liquid. She rolled out of the way just as the Theodosia sword came down where her right foot had been. Pain radiated up her hip and sent agony racing up her spine and down her legs.
This is not worth dying for.
Stiff with pain, she shoved herself to her feet, shattered crystal cracking under her slippers. “I am not going to die.” Be thrown into Newgate as a thief, yes. Die. No. She leaned over the weapon, eyeing it a moment.
All the pain and the horrifying terror that she’d be discovered were replaced by the growing sense of victory. She had done it. She, the most unsuspecting of all the Rayne siblings. One brother who’d been lost in battle. Literally, lost. No one had any idea where he’d gone. One brother who spent the better part of his days and nights mourning the loss of a woman, betrothed to one of their enemies. And then, she prone to trouble and mishaps had managed…this!
With a grin, she bent to retrieve the Theodosia sword. Her smile withered and she winced from the soreness of her recent fall. Hilt in hand she straightened and staggered backwards, dragging the gladius with her. “Oomph.” She scraped the giant blade along the immaculate hardwood floor.
Or the once immaculate hardwood floor. Theo paused, halting her retreat. By God, the sword was bloody heavy. By the legend, what did you expect? A child’s toy? “Certainly not this,” she mumbled. It was after all, a gladius. But again, it was a gladius unlike any other.
She took a moment to study the mess she’d made. The damning evidence shattered about the room. The entire collection of spirits upon the Devil’s sideboard. Another black curl tumbled over her brow. With her free hand, she brushed it back, tucking it behind her ear.
Herbie was to meet her in the corridor, and even if she somehow managed to drag it from this room undetected, she’d wager the sword and her family’s safe, happy future that the young viscount wouldn’t be able to hoist the weapon.
The door opened.
She stared at the plaster wall where the gladius had once hung. The door opened? Blinkblinkblink.
“May I help you?” the cool baritone drawled from the doorway.
The sword slipped from her fingers and she spun around to face the dark, towering, muscle-hewn gentleman who’d caught her notice in the hall. The gentleman who’d been watching her. Ah, yes, it all made sense. Herbie had likely realized they’d require help handling the weapon and he’d sent this stranger—which explained why the man had studied her in the ballroom a short while ago.
She smiled. “Herbie sent you.” Theodosia motioned to the sword. “Which is splendid. I desperately require assistance.”
Chapter Three
Damian took in the empty space above the sideboard, the shattered glass throughout the room, the broadsword lying upon the floor. And then slowly, back to the diminutive, yet well-rounded, armor wearing miss who’d caught his attention in the ballroom.
“I do not have much time.” Her voice clear like bells recalled his attention. “If you’d be so good as to pick that up,” she pointed to the sword. “I would be tremendously appreciative. I imagine Herbie realized it was entirely too cumbersome for the both of us.”
Herbie?
“And he surely realized one of your…” Her cheeks blazed red. “Er…he surely realized you could handle it with a good deal more ease than myself.” Or him, he swore she muttered.
The lady was no warrior. Why, she was a thief. The lady was stealing. Nay, correction. The lady was not just stealing. She was stealing from him, the Duke of Devlin. People were subservient and simpering around him, and they most certainly did not filch his personal belongings.
“Hullo?” She waved her hand.
“Yes?” he asked, closing the door behind him and turning the lock.
She cocked her head. Apprehension settled on the delicate planes of her face, and then her eyes brightened. “Oh, splendid idea. It is far safer to close the door in case someone happens to come upon us.” The lady lowered her voice to a hushed whisper. “Especially the Duke of Devlin. They say he is a horrid, odious beast.”
They would be right.
Damian strode over. He should be focused on the fact that some stranger had stolen into his home, invaded his office, and made a proper mess of his sideboard, and… He glanced down at the jagged marks upon his floor.
The lady’s wide, cornflower blue eyes followed his stare. “Oh, that.”
Instead of proper outrage, he stood transfixed by the riot of midnight black curls piled atop her head. He didn’t bother to point out that he’d, in fact, not issued any questions or statements.
“I’m afraid the sword is responsible for that.” She caught her lower lip between her teeth. “Do you suppose the duke will note the damage to his floor?”
“I daresay he will,” he drawled.
The young lady bobbed her head up and down. “Yes, yes I fear you’re right.” She jabbed her finger to the remnants that used to be his collection of brandy and whiskey. “We’d be wise to at least put the space to rights.” She scanned his office and then her eyes lit once more. “I have it!” She bounded across the room, her metal breastplate clanging noisily as she skidded to a stop beside a large urn. The thief held it aloft, as though she’d unearthed James Cook’s treasure and then grunted, staggering back under the weight of it. “Will you carry this for me, sir?”
Damian stalked over and wordlessly accepted his urn. She raced back to the pile of broken decanters and glasses. “Well, come over. We don’t have much time.”
He lowered his brows. By God, the chit was ordering him about. Color bloomed on her cheeks as she added, “Please.”
Damian closed the distance between them. In the course of his nine and twenty years, no one had dared order him about. Not his tutors, his nursemaids. Not his instructors at university. Even his own mother was wise enough to not issue orders to him.
The clink of crystal hitting the metal of the urn echoed. “Are you always this quiet?” she asked, pausing to look up from her efforts.
“Yes.”
Her lips twitched.
He narrowed his eyes, and her smile withered. “Oh, I thought you were making light of me.” She returned to her clean up.
“I do not make light of people.” And people didn’t make light of him.
She wrinkled her nose. “What an odd friendship,” Nor did he have friends. “You and Herbie are an unlikely pairing.”
Who in hell was this Herbie fellow? He ran the name through his mind, the partner to this thief who’d wrestled the great family relic from his wall.
She paused once again. “Do you intend to help?”
“Help?” He sent an eyebrow arching up.
Her color deepened. “I understand you didn’t come to clean the Devil’s den.” Despite himself, his lips twitched. “And of course I know it was my fault, however, I’d be grateful if you helped me tidy this, please.” The armor-clad thief expected him to clean?
Silently, he went to a knee beside her and began picking up shards of glass, setting them into the urn. If a single member of his staff, family, or acquaintance saw him, they’d have him committed to Bedlam. In silence, he and the bold miss p
icked up shard after shard, in a tight, yet companionable silence. He stole a glance at her as she diligently cleaned his floor, dropping the larger shards into the urn. Feeling his gaze, she stopped and looked up.
“What?” She was a fearless, unrepentant thing.
He jerked his chin at her costume. “And what are you supposed to be?”
“A shepherdess.”
He passed a dubious stare over the lady.
She grinned. “I’m merely teasing.” She waved a particularly jagged piece about and he leaned away from the lethal shard, not entirely sure the lady thief didn’t also intend murder that night. “I’m Joan of Arc.”
Of course she was. Except, unlike that honorable, gallant defender, this one was, well, dishonorable. “You have me intrigued,” he said on an icy whisper.
She stilled and picked her head up, with but a handbreadth of space between them. “I do?” And close as they were, he detected the trace of rosemary and sage that clung to her, as though she’d danced through a garden before infiltrating his home.
Damian paused and captured a black curl that had tumbled over her brow. He tucked it behind her ear and the lady’s breath caught. “I gather you’re stealing the sword.”
“Broadsword.”
He looked at her askance.
“I’m stealing the broadsword.” She frowned. “Well, I am not stealing it.”
He’d learned long ago to live life in absolutes. Either she was or she wasn’t. There was no shade of in between. “Aren’t you?” What would the lady call her sneaking into a man’s office and filching a family artifact from his wall?
She bristled with indignation. “I suspect Herbie didn’t take time to explain the situation to you, which is very like him. He was not at all comfortable with this rescue.”
Rescue?
She glanced about, searching for interlopers, seeming to forget he’d turned the lock. “The Devil Duke stole it.” Her soft whisper floated up to his ears.
Dashing Dukes and Romantic Rogues Page 3