What a Duke Wants

by Lavinia Kent

  “I’ve been searching for Miss Masters for over a year now. I should have grabbed her the other day. I would have taken her sooner, but she was doing the work for me, heading to London. Masters will only pay if we actually produce the girl. Let’s try another mile or two and then visit the nearby farms. She won’t get away from me now.” Blue Coat kicked his heels and was off. His companion followed.

  Isabella stayed on the ground, her arms wrapped about her knees.

  “What do you mean she’s not here?” Mark questioned the innkeeper.

  “She left sometime just after full dark. That is really all I know. I would suggest that you speak to Mrs. Wattington,” the innkeeper replied, his brow coated with sweat.

  “I will do just that.” Mark turned and pounded up the stairs. He had been very specific last night in his talk with Mrs. Wattington. Nothing was to happen to Isabella until he’d had a chance to make his offer. He would be most displeased if his instructions had been disregarded.

  He passed his own chamber and swept up another flight of stairs. Standing before Mrs. Wattington’s door, he paused.

  He had never felt as much the duke as he did at this moment. Displeasure, indeed. He swore his glance would freeze said lady where she stood. He raised his hand, dropped it, and strode more softly back down the stairs.

  The duke did not pound. He sent someone else to do it for him.

  It took the barest of moments to have Divers heading back to Mrs. Wattington’s door. As he glanced about his own chamber, his eyes fell upon the table that had caused so much trouble. He set his chair beside it deliberately, moving all the other chairs to the side of the room.

  He sat and waited.

  There was a light tap on the door.

  He waited. This time nobody would enter without his call.

  The tap repeated and he bid his guest enter.

  Mrs. Wattington entered the room, back stiff. “You wished to see me, Your Grace.”

  Mark stared at her, lifted one brow, made it clear she should have waited to be addressed. His uncle had always used a monocle at such a moment. He would have to have Divers procure one. “I have been told that Miss Smith has left the inn.”

  Mrs. Wattington raised her gaze to his face and then quickly dropped it again. “I believe that is correct, Your Grace.”

  “I thought I was quite specific that I wished her to remain.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  “And did you not understand me?”

  “I am sorry. She left on her own.”

  “So you did not dismiss her?”

  Mrs. Wattington looked at him again. “What else was I to do? I could not let her continue to care for my innocent child.”

  “So you disobeyed me?” He rested an arm on the table, tapping his fingers slowly.

  The woman did not answer for a moment. He could feel the consideration in her gaze. Finally she ventured, “You seemed quite emotional when you spoke. I believed you would have reconsidered by morning. A gentleman does not wish to be confronted by his mistakes. I thought it wise to remove her.”

  He stopped tapping. “You thought to choose for me how I would feel in the light of day? You trusted your own judgment over my very clear words?”

  Mrs. Wattington swallowed, visibly. “I was merely trying to do what was best.”

  Mark stared back at her, letting his gaze wander from her toes to her hurriedly brushed hair. He made no bones that he found her wanting, somebody to be easily dismissed. “So you deliberately chose to ignore me? That is what you are saying, yes?”

  Her glance fell to her hands, hands that were very tightly clenched. “It is just that you seemed so—so overwrought, not rational, not befitting a duke at all.”

  “Not befitting a duke. Hmm. Tell me, Mrs. Wattington,” he asked, “does your husband like London? Was he looking forward to attending events around the coronation, making contacts? It is such pity that he received no invitations.”

  “Oh, but he did. My husband wrote and told me that—”

  “I am sure when you arrive, you’ll find that you were quite mistaken. I don’t believe he will be received anywhere—at least not if you are accompanying him.” Mark had no idea if he actually had such power. His uncle would have, but he was not his uncle. Still, he imagined that the eligible Duke of Strattington would be quite desired by those with unmarried daughters, and that was power in itself. Divers certainly went on endlessly about the choice of bride he’d have once he put his mourning aside.

  “What do you . . .” Mrs. Wattington’s voice trailed off as her understanding caught up with his words.

  “You had best hope that she is unharmed when I find her or you will find yourself unwelcome anywhere outside of your own home and perhaps even there—I do not know how understanding your husband is.”

  “I, well, I—that is . . .” Mrs. Wattington did not know what to say. She turned to leave, but the slightest of coughs had her feet frozen in place.

  There was a bee buzzing outside the window. Mark turned his glance and watched it throw itself against the glass before heading off in another direction. He pushed himself to his feet and walked to the door leading to his bedchamber. Not befitting a duke, indeed. He stopped for a moment, without looking at Mrs. Wattington, who stood frigid. “I will trust you can find the door—that I do not need to have you shown out.”

  Divers stood just inside the bedroom door. He did not even pretend he had not been listening. “So it is true then?”

  “Yes, it is true. I was caught at an indelicate moment with Mrs. Wattington’s companion.”

  “I heard it was her baby nurse.”

  “I believe Miss Smith has served in both capacities.”

  Divers did not say anything, but continued to pack neck cloths into a trunk.

  “You have something further to say? Please speak freely,” Mark said.

  Divers pressed his lips tight, but then turned and spoke. “It is simply not fitting to your station to be seducing the servants. You need a wife and an heir. If you need more, you should take a proper mistress and be discreet about it. There is a house near St. James.”

  He pushed aside the reminder that his behavior was not fitting for the mighty Duke of Strattington. He never wanted to hear that again.

  The information about the house, now that was good to know. He had planned to buy Isabella a house, but if there was one waiting, so much the better. “Did my uncle . . . ?”

  “It is not my place to discuss what happens in private. I am sure you would not wish me talking about your affairs.” Divers turned back to the packing.

  Mark could only snort. “At this moment I am sure you would only be one of many—but yes, I value my privacy.”

  “Then you should learn to lock the damn door.” Douglas strode in.

  “I was wondering when you’d arrive and say your piece.” Mark turned to Douglas.

  “I’ll hold my counsel for the moment. I imagine you’re itching to be off after the girl.”

  “You’re not . . .” Divers let his words trail off.

  “You just said I should acquire a mistress.” Mark didn’t know why he felt the need to answer.

  “But you don’t know anything about her. She might be a criminal for all you know.” Divers gave up all pretense of work. “I heard a man making inquiries about her, about Miss Smith. There is clearly something going on. And the way she ran—that can only mean one thing.”

  “Oh be quiet, man.” Douglas turned on him before Mark could. “She’s a young girl who’s lost her employment and has every man for three miles wondering if her titties could possibly be as wondrous as described. I don’t blame her for leaving as fast as she could.”

  “Are they really wondering . . . ?” Mark could hardly bring himself to ask.

  “Yes. But that is not why I am here. I need to leave you. The more I ask Mr. Downs about those leases in Wales, the stranger the answers become. I am off to do some investigating of my own. I’ll rejoin you in London.
Unless you don’t think you can track the lass on your own.”

  Mark had been about to question Douglas further, but the last stopped him. “Don’t worry, I’ll find her. She’ll be with me again by nightfall.”

  She was still shaking. Even after she’d been sitting in the mud for half an hour in the ever-increasing heat, Isabella’s hands would not be still. And the knot in her belly . . . She would not even think of that—it had arrived long before the man in the blue coat. From the moment she’d realized who Mark was it had sat there, eating away at her innards.

  It was hard to believe she had been such a fool, on so many fronts.

  Forcing her mind to the more immediate, she blew out a long, slow sigh, slowly rising to her feet. Her gaze scanned the countryside in all directions.

  The man in the blue coat worked for her brother. At least she knew now. She was not as scared of her brother as she was of the law. Being returned to him would be unpleasant, but he would not have her proclaimed a murderess. At least she didn’t think he would.

  She rose partway, stretching the cramp from her legs.

  If she did let Blue Coat take her, it would not be the end of the world. Masters’s only hold on her was monetary. Although it must be admitted that standing in the mud, wearing one of the only two dresses she owned, with only a few coins in her pocket, she’d do quite a lot for a little money. And Masters would take advantage of that. Masters took advantage of everything. It brought chills to her stomach to think of the things he might make her do—the men he might make her marry.

  But what if it wasn’t only Masters looking? That thought was an icy breeze sucking the breath from her body.

  Her gut told her that the man who had grabbed her on the stairs at the inn was not the man in the blue coat. The man in the blue coat spoke only of her brother, not of the mysterious “it” he demanded she give to him.

  The mud squished beneath her shoes as she sat back down, resting on her heels.

  The man who’d grabbed her knew about Foxworthy.

  He had threatened her with a noose.

  She could be tried for murder if she didn’t deliver him the mysterious “it.” And soon he would know she was running from London, not acting as directed. What would he do if he did catch her?

  And what was the “it”? She ran through the list of papers she’d taken again. IOU. Love letters. Bills. Meaningless scribbles. It still made no sense.

  The knot in her belly grew larger, filling her chest. It was hard to breathe.

  There was so little she could do.

  Hooves sounded again. There was another horse coming down the road.

  She tried to shrink herself even farther behind the hedge.

  Her fears that it was her mystery pursuer grew as she realized that the rider was coming from the direction of the inn.

  It was not the man in blue returning.

  She couldn’t see much beyond the fact that it was a single rider in a dark coat. As with the man in blue, he paused on the rise and looked about. He muttered to himself, the words almost indistinguishable. “Slut . . . duke . . . have my head . . . London . . .”

  Had Mark sent him to find her? She held her breath until he pounded off down the road.

  No, it was more probable that he’d heard about her and Strattington. The whole inn had been abuzz when she’d left. Several men had made her offers as she’d crept out into the night. She pushed that thought away, as she had so many others.

  Her last pursuer was the whisperer. She was sure of it.

  Tightening her fists until nails ground into flesh she tried to breathe, tried to make the knot loosen enough to pull in a single gulp of air. And then another. And another.

  One breath at a time, she would survive.

  Finally, when she was sure he was gone, she gave herself a shake and stood. She was being silly again. Well, not so silly given that she was clearly being pursued by not one but two groups and at least one of them knew about Foxworthy.

  Brushing at the mud on her skirts, she told herself to be sensible. She had no money and no place to go, more immediate worries at this moment than whether she might be sought in Foxworthy’s death.

  She didn’t even know which direction to head—to continue away from London and risk running into Blue Coat or to turn around and head toward Town? Looking one way and then the other, she hesitated.

  There was no right answer.

  Maybe if she just sat here for an hour or two an answer would come.

  As if her thoughts were heard, the pound and rattle of a carriage echoed in her ears. Her knees ached as she tucked back down, heart pounding. She peered through the leaves.

  Her heart missed a full beat; the knot eased—slightly.

  It was the duke’s. Mark had come.

  No, not Mark. Strattington.

  Even before she finished the thought she stood and began to walk back toward the road.

  It was the sensible thing to do, the only possible choice, she told herself. The duke you knew was better than the stranger you didn’t.

  Mark sighed with relief as he saw Isabella suddenly emerge from the brush and walk down the ridge to the road. She had been hiding from something, but apparently it was not he.

  So why had she left without telling him? Did she not trust him? He had told her he would care for her.

  She had found out that he was Strattington. He could see it in her unforgiving posture; her rigid shoulders and drawn lips spoke of great anger.

  Damn, he should have told her. He would have told her if they had not been interrupted.

  What woman would not be happy to find her lover was a duke?

  Judging by the way she was stomping down the hill he had found the one.

  Fury rose off her in almost visible waves.

  Stopping about ten feet from the carriage Isabella waited, glaring at the open window. It was dark in the carriage and he doubted she could see in clearly, but she knew he was here.

  The bruise still marked her cheek. He should not have let Mrs. Wattington off so easily.

  Mark ran his fingers through his hair, messing the neatly combed waves. Divers would have a fit. He stared back at Isabella as she stood there waiting. She was not coming any closer.

  He pushed the door open. She did not move.

  With a sigh, he swung out of the carriage.

  Still, she came no closer. She stared at him, measured him. He could feel her considering him as a duke and not merely a man.

  He stepped forward. “Are you coming?”

  Startled at the abruptness of his question. Her lips drew tight, but she nodded. “I have no choice, do I?”

  Did she? He didn’t know. He could give her money, but that would not assure her safety—and he needed her safe almost as much as he needed her.

  She took a step forward, coming nearer. “You came back. This is not the way to London and the king.”

  It was his time to purse his lip, unsure how to respond to her hostility. “No, it is not. Come.”

  He stepped back, placing a foot on the step to the carriage. He waved her forward.

  She looked straight into his face, but he could see her judge his whole appearance. “I’ll ride on the box with the driver. It is more fitting.”

  Chapter 13

  It was a lovely day. Lush green fields sped by on either side. Lazy cows strolled up to stone fences, their mooing lost beneath the rattle of the wheels. The sun was bright, but not too hot. Sitting on top of the speeding carriage, Isabella found the breeze most refreshing. She raised her face into the wind and let it whip by her.

  It kept her from crying—or screaming. It was hard to be sure which emotion would win out.

  She’d turned her fear to anger when she’d faced Strattington before getting on the carriage, but now. . .

  Now she felt like she’d put her whole self in a basket and set it upon the waters only to have it sink.

  And it was all his fault.

  Her eyes began to water again, and s
he turned even more directly into the wind. If her eyes teared it was only because there was grit from the road. It had nothing to do with Mark—Strattington. Nothing to do with her fears for the future.

  Damn him. Damn him. She would not be reduced to acting like this. She searched for the fury again, and wrapped it about herself like a cloak. Anger was strength—and she would be strong.

  Not that anyone would care anyway, not the driver, not Divers, and not—not Strattington. It was all too clear what they thought. If Douglas had been here he might at least have given her a smile. He’d seemed to like her.

  That sounded like self-pity. She pulled in one deep breath, and then another. It was time to show him just what she was made of.

  A sudden knock from below startled her. Without so much as a glance in her direction, the driver slowed the horses and pulled to the side of the road. The door swung wide before the groom could climb down and open it.

  Strattington stepped into the sunlight. He blinked as the bright light hit his face, but then stared straight up at her.

  She stared back, letting the anger build within her, preparing to show him just how she felt.

  Strattington pointed into the carriage. “Divers, out,” he addressed the interior.

  Then he pointed up at Isabella. “You, get down and get in. We need to talk.” Without saying another word he stepped away and waited. He really was a duke.

  Divers was out of the coach and climbing up to the seat before Isabella could even blink. “Don’t think too highly of yourself,” the valet whispered as he slipped beside her.

  Damn Strattington. Did Mark think he could order her about this way? Yes, he did, and the problem was that he could. And they did need to talk, to settle things between them.

  She suppressed her feelings of powerlessness and somewhat slowly, being clear that she was unwilling, she climbed down. She did not immediately get into the carriage but walked back and forth stretching her legs. She did not look at Strattington. He would see that two could play these silly games.

  He coughed but she paid no attention.

  Snorting his understanding of her actions, he climbed back in himself—and waited.