The Wicked Duke

by Madeline Hunter

  * * *

  Marianne did not sleep that night. There was no time. When she spoke of everything, he had taken her at her word. Three times, then four they explored erotic games, the last time with her spread-eagle at the fireplace, her arms wide and grasping the mantel and her body bowed to him.

  Between each time, while they embraced each other in rest, she memorized all that she could of what had happened. The sensations, his body, her ecstasy—she made new memories so she might keep the night alive forever. She savored the love filling her all night. It changed the pleasure and made it better. It wrung more intensity from the intimacy by wrapping it in emotions more blissful than any physical release could express on its own. She even grasped at the poignant ache beneath it all, the burgeoning nostalgia and the danger of pain.

  She thought he was with her in some of that, at times. She could not tell. He was with her otherwise, however. In the pleasure and the bliss. He had brought all of himself to her tonight. No shadows burdened his spirit and no anger made him dangerous. After her initial game of control, his full spirit took command, and she thrilled at how he handled her with both dominance and care.

  When the barest light showed out her windows, she turned in his arms so she faced him and his breath tickled her face. He had been sleeping, but her movements woke him. He pulled her closer as he stirred. She kissed his face, then his shoulders with a heart so full she could not contain it.

  His lids rose. “Is it your intention to kill me with pleasure tonight, Marianne?”

  “I do not seek to impose on you again. I think we have tried everything.”

  He smiled. “Hardly, but perhaps enough for now.”

  She studied his face hard. His mouth and his scar and the dark eyes watching her. “What will you do today?”

  “We will settle some of those details. Without you, in case you thought to come with us.”

  “I did not think to do that. I will be glad when it is all over, though.”

  “I am already glad, because it is all over in my mind. And damn, it feels good.”

  She laughed and kissed his chest. “I know.”

  “Was it that obvious?”

  “Oh, yes.” She kissed again. “You are probably planning on how to raise some hell.”

  He laughed. “How did you know?”

  “That is who you are, isn’t it?”

  He grabbed her and playfully threw her down on her back. A different joy entered him.

  It had not been enough for now, after all.

  CHAPTER 23

  The next day, Lance, Ives, and Gareth called on Thaddeus Peterson while he took his coffee. Lance let Ives do the talking.

  Ives used a most reasonable tone of voice. One that lured and cajoled, that even flattered and dissembled. By the time he was done, Peterson’s face had turned to stone.

  Lance assumed that Ives’s several uses of the words slander and criminal libel had something to do with Peterson’s expression. Ives had neither threatened nor accused. He had merely expressed profound sympathy for the difficulties in Peterson’s duties, and the vulnerabilities it created if he, through inaction or false judgment, smeared a good man’s name.

  His brothers chose to ride on to Cheltenham for a few hours after that. Lance returned home in high spirits. Once Radley pressed Peterson more directly—and after the letter Lance had sent Radley this morning, some hard pressing should transpire very soon—Percy’s death would be ruled as by natural causes.

  Heady with a rare intoxication, he went looking for Marianne so he could share his joy with her again. In a few days they would go back up to London. There were still many things he wanted to show her there. She should be thinking about her wardrobe for the coronation too.

  She had left her apartment, and her maid only shrugged when he asked where she had gone. Down below, he learned that once more she had visited her cousin, this time in the coach. While the butler explained this, a footman nearby began looking as guilty as hell and nervous about something. Lance called him over.

  “Is there something about the lady’s visit that I should know?” he asked.

  “She departed soon after you did, Your Grace,” the footman said. An unmistakable defensive note rang in his voice. “Called for the coach and came out at once.”

  “Then why are you all but shitting in your breeches, boy?”

  The footman wiped his nose. His gaze darted left and right, like he sought an escape path. “She gave me a command, she did.”

  “What was it?”

  “That was the command. To tell no one about—” He broke off.

  “I now command you to tell me what she commanded you not to tell me,” Lance said. “When there are two such commands, I win.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  “Tell him,” the butler snapped.

  “She took a trunk, Your Grace. And the coach is not likely to return today either, from what I heard. She is having it take her someplace after she visits her family.”

  The butler’s face turned red. “You knew this, and did not inform me?”

  “She commanded my silence,” he pleaded.

  Lance walked away, and back up the stairs, while the two of them bickered. He did not want to understand what he had just heard, but he did. All too well.

  She had left. Gone. After a night when he felt her essence inside him, touching his own, she had abandoned him.

  He returned to her apartment. The maid Katy was nowhere to be found. Of course not. She did not want to betray her mistress either.

  In the dressing room he found the duchess clothes, but none of the others. In her sitting room, propped on her writing desk, he saw the letter with Aylesbury scrawled large on it. He tore it open.

  My dear Lancelot,

  How does one address a man who is both duke and husband? Not like this, I suspect. However, as I began this letter, writing Aylesbury felt too formal, especially this morning. I do not pen a state document, do I?

  I think you know why I have left. Not because of anything you said or did. Not because I lack affection for you. Rather you were terribly used by my uncle, blackmailed into the marriage for all intents and purposes, and that is wrong.

  Yesterday, Ives toasted to your having your life back, the one you were intended to live. I am not a part of that life. I never can be, not really. I too want you to have your full legacy, and sons by a woman whose stature is worthy of you and them. The truth is, except for my uncle’s scheme, you would have never married me.

  You were defrauded by him. Surely Ives can find a way to argue the marriage was a fraud too. Do not worry about my uncle’s reputation, or mine, as you pursue your freedom. I am an insignificant person in your world, and none of those people will even remember my name in five years.

  I am sure I will see you again. I will look forward to that, and in the meantime I will cherish many memories.

  Marianne Radley

  It was a sensible letter, well thought out and rational. Anyone who knew their situation would agree with her in all that she said.

  She assumed he would be grateful for her understanding, and glad she was so noble and good. She took it for granted that he wanted this too. She thought he would be happy.

  Instead he was furious, and wounded more deeply than he had thought ever possible.

  CHAPTER 24

  To the editor of the Times of London, from Cheltenham, Gloucestershire:

  The recent coroner’s final verdict regarding the cause of death of the last duke of Aylesbury has no doubt been reported in your paper. I write, however, with details unlikely to reach London by other means.

  Mr. Thaddeus Peterson made verbal comments after issuing his findings, words that did not make it into the official document. He expressed heartfelt regret at the length of time he had deliberated the matter, and further regrets for any unfound
ed and disgraceful suspicions that his delay may have visited on innocent persons. Although he partly blamed the physician’s initial letter for the long consideration, he admitted he had perhaps been too diligent when in fact no evidence existed of anything other than a natural death.

  He then made a most unexpected statement, to the effect that he has issued the verdict in light of all evidence, and that he was in no way influenced by individuals either in the county or outside it, and that should outsiders interfere with this county matter, he would feel obligated to be forthcoming regarding a letter sent to him that did in fact seek to interfere to the detriment of fair and timely justice.

  The citizens of the county are all talking about this last part of the day’s events, and much speculation has spread on just who dared such interference, and in what way and to what reason. The general belief is that politics raised its hot and irrational head at some point, with the coroner being pressed to act in one way or another.

  There having been at least one innocent victim who suffered much unfounded suspicion, there are those who have advised talk simply cease, and the last duke be left to rest in peace, lest this much aggrieved individual now decide to clear his name of the remnants of slanderous musings the old-fashioned way, on the field of honor.

  With this I finish my last letter from Gloucestershire, as I end my visit here soon, the waters at Cheltenham spa having done wonders for my health, far more than I hear they ever did for our recently departed and much-loved monarch.

  Elijah Tewkberry, Gloucestershire

  Ives tossed aside the paper after reading the letter. “He writes well. If I ever meet that man, I will both compliment and thank him.”

  “He is probably trying to make amends for that letter that set the stew boiling again,” Lance muttered. “Maybe now I will not call for his head on a platter, though.”

  “I liked the subtle threat at the end,” Gareth said. “Good of him to report that advice, if indeed there is any such advice abroad. It will make men think twice.”

  “I expect we will still have to thrash one or two,” Lance said.

  He sat playing a lazy few hands of vingt-et-un in his favorite gaming hall. Ives and Gareth, unaccustomed to allowing him out on the town without nursemaids, had followed in his wake by habit. It was his first visit to London since the denouement of the Percival Mystery, as he had come to think of it. The first since Marianne left ten days ago. Not that he was counting.

  The last three days had been filled with trying to indeed pick up his old life. He was coming to the conclusion that it no longer fit him well. Every morning he donned its coats and went on his way, trying to ignore that the sleeves were too short and the shoulders too tight.

  Ives watched his handling of the cards from where he sat beside him, his back to the table. “You do not seem to be enjoying yourself much.”

  “Nonsense. If you were not here, I would be burning up the town.”

  “He is still snarling,” Ives said to Gareth. “Surly.”

  “I wonder why?” Gareth said.

  “You two are boring me, that is why.”

  Ives sighed dramatically. “Why don’t you just admit that you miss her? In fact, why don’t you go and get her? She is your wife, damn it.”

  “She chooses to have some time away. Can you blame her, after learning the truth about our marriage? Her pride is hurt, and she needs to retreat while she—does whatever women do when their pride is hurt. As for getting her, or missing her, you are wrong. Unlike you two, I was not sewn to my wife’s side on my wedding day, nor she to mine.”

  That was a lie. He did miss her. She had been foisted on him, only to make him grow accustomed to her brightness, her smile, her passion. Nor did he think she intended merely some time away, much as he lied to himself about that too.

  He managed to distract himself, until alone at night. Then thoughts and memories would haunt him, of Marianne, of things said and done, of Percy and of the revelations of the last few weeks. The next day he would pursue escape from it all again.

  He had fenced with Ives and boxed with Gareth. He had ridden too fast in all directions. He had visited a brothel for five minutes, only to depart in disgust. He had even gotten roaring drunk with some old friends last night.

  A mistake, that. On returning home, and missing her badly, and too drunk to have any dignity, he had staggered to her bed and slept there, as if some remnant of her might be with him. The servants had found him there this morning, to his eternal embarrassment.

  She had ruined him. Made him unfit for the life he knew. She was why the damned sleeves were too short. Worse, she had turned him into a sentimental idiot, then left him.

  “There is nothing wrong with missing her.” Gareth used a soothing voice one would employ with a child. “It is very normal.”

  “Not for me.”

  “Only because you have never loved before.”

  Normally if a man accused him of such a thing, he would make very clear that man was in error. This time he just called for another card because, from the looks of it, Gareth might be right.

  He did not warm to that possibility. Love turned men into asses. That he was far along in that metamorphosis was evidence enough that maybe Gareth was correct.

  “Did Peterson hear from anyone in Whitehall since he issued his determination?” Ives asked, changing the subject pointedly.

  “You would know better than I would,” Lance said. “I am not the one who is a friend of the new king.”

  “I did ask around about that, discreetly.”

  “Discretion is your name. It is why you are so useful.”

  “I am not at liberty to say what I learned, unfortunately, since I am so discreet. I have reason to think the undue attention that whole matter garnered was the work of one man, who has stood down.”

  “You must mean Sidmouth.” Lance looked over from his cards to see Ives’s surprise. “He is the only one with a score to settle. Plus, he is a snake.”

  “I do not know why I spend days ferreting out information on your behalf if you already have it,” Ives said. “In the future, could you spare me the courtesy of telling me you figured it all out?”

  “If you insist, but you so like ferreting that I will do you a disservice.”

  Ives and Gareth turned the conversation to a horse auction, a topic that bored Lance. Except that Marianne liked to ride, so that started him thinking about her. He continued his play, his mind wandering through memories. Those images and loose thoughts began to nudge at him. Rather suddenly, as he received a card that gave his current hand exactly twenty-one, several of them lined up in a new way.

  He called for a new hand. “He was murdered, by the way.”

  Ives and Gareth stopped talking. He felt them looking at him.

  “What makes you say so?” Gareth asked.

  “Mostly because he deserved being murdered. Trust me, he really did.” He threw in the cards and turned to them.

  Ives reached over and grasped his arm. He leaned toward him. “Let it lie, Lance. No matter what you think you know, leave it alone.”

  Ives looked so serious and earnest. So worried and, as always, so loyal.

  “Of course, Ives. I will be sure to follow your advice on that.”

  * * *

  The smallest dusting of snow showed on the shaded side of the house, the remnants of a winter storm that had blown through the night before. Lance walked his horse up to the door, dismounted, and rapped on the wooden panels.

  A girl opened the door. Fifteen, maybe sixteen years old, she was a lovely child with golden hair and big brown eyes.

  “Your Grace!” A man’s voice boomed behind her.

  Lance looked past the girl to where Mr. Payne had entered the sitting room from a chamber beyond. Fixing his spectacles better on his nose, Payne came over. “You go to your mother now,” he
said to the girl. “Tell her I have a visitor and must be left alone here.”

  The girl skipped off. Payne invited Lance in. “Too cold to chat outside today, Your Grace. It makes my bones ache.”

  Cozy and domestic, the cottage offered comfortable chairs near the fireplace. Lance and Payne sat there. Payne first dug into a cupboard and produced an old bottle. He offered some of the sweet sherry it held.

  Lance accepted to be polite, and to encourage Payne to have some, so maybe he would not mind too much the conversation coming.

  “The matter of my brother’s death is finally settled,” he said. “Death by natural causes.”

  “So I read. Took that coroner long enough to decide the truth of it.”

  “Well, now, he decided the official truth. Not the real truth. I think you know that.”

  Payne’s expression turned stoical. He stared at the low flames licking the fuel in front of him.

  “I have learned what you meant that day, when you said he was not a good man. I know about his worst sins, at least, and exactly where his taste for sweet girls led him. I found the evidence of it, and know of one particular case. If one of his victims sought justice, or a member of her family did, I am not inclined to pass judgment.”

  Payne tried to maintain his composure, but his lips trembled and his lids lowered. “Do you have someone in mind, Your Grace?”

  “As you said, he settled an uncommonly large amount on you in his testament. Was he perhaps not bribing you for your silence, but instead paying reparations for a crime?”

  “That is bold of you, Your Grace. Bold, but possibly true. It was not something he explained, or told me about.”

  “What was the crime?”

  “You will be thinking I killed him if I tell you. I did not. I wanted to, however. I thought about it a very long time.” He shook his head. “I came close.”