The cold filled Lucien’s mind, the sense of pending death growing ever stronger. He tugged on his gloves, wondering whether his fingers would be too cold to hold the cards. The room seemed to fill with a fog, and he focused his attention on the cards.
This game would be his last living feat.
The letter was written to his solicitor and Philip had instructions to take the deed and ride to London. All would be set to rights.
Lucien thought he felt a draft, as if a door opened. He heard the music of a familiar tune played upon a harpsichord, although that was impossible. Neither of his companions seemed to hear it and he knew that the baron arrived for his due.
Not long now.
Philip acted as dealer, disapproval emanating from him in waves, but Lucien ignored his old friend. He fought the urge to shiver and struggled to draw breath into his lungs. His heart slowed and he felt that he walked in a dream.
He won the first game with a queen and a ten. Lyndenhurst had a jack and a nine.
That man’s expression grew more grim as the cards were dealt again. The baron gripped Lucien’s shoulder then, his bony fingers digging into the flesh as a wave of pure ice coursed through Lucien’s veins.
“I have dug your grave,” the baron whispered in that familiar patois. “Everything is ready, mon petit. The time is near.”
Lucien looked down and could see the baron’s hand on his shoulder. He could feel the cold emanating from that grip to fill his body. He saw a red rose in his buttonhole that hadn’t been there before.
The music was louder, rising and falling in a mad cacophony of sound. The moonlight slanted through the window, making the scene look unreal.
Two more games. Lucien nodded to Philip.
Lyndenhurst was dealt a nine, face up on the table.
Lucien was dealt a king, face up on the table.
Lucien watched Lyndenhurst as he looked at his second card and couldn’t guess what he had been dealt. Lyndenhurst was impassive, as usual. Lucien was dealt a nine. The baron chuckled. Lucien knew that if he took another card, it would be a deuce.
Lyndenhurst took another card.
The baron prodded, but Lucien held. The baron pushed, but Lucien held.
Lyndenhurst held. He then turned over his cards to reveal a nine, a seven and a four. Twenty. Lucien congratulated him and turned over his cards. The baron crowed a protest, his fingers like icicles stabbed into Lucien’s flesh.
“Nineteen!” Lyndenhurst declared with a cold smile. “Then the rumors are false. You can lose!”
“Everyone can lose,” Lucien said mildly. He spoke aloud to remind the baron. “But it’s best of three.” The baron chuckled with glee and Lyndenhurst drummed his fingers on the table in a rare show of impatience.
“My luck has turned just in time,” Lyndenhurst said, eyes shining. His voice could have come from a thousand miles away. Everything glittered to Lucien’s view, like it was coated in frost. His heart slowed and he had a hard time drawing a breath.
The clock struck the half hour, and the chiming made Lucien’s bones rattle.
The tension in the room rose palpably even as the cold increased. Lucien couldn’t feel his feet anymore. They were frigid. He knew he was shivering. Philip stirred up the fire in the grate before he shuffled the cards and Lyndenhurst exhaled in vexation.
“Don’t take all night at it,” he snapped, and Philip returned to the table to deal.
First card to Lucien, face up. It was an eight.
Lyndenhurst’s first card was an ace.
Lucien’s second card was a nine.
Lyndenhurst was pleased with his second card, and Lucien expected it was a ten or a face card.
He indicated that he would have another, his finger shaking with the cold.
A three. He had twenty.
Lyndenhurst took another card, his features implacable. The second card hadn’t been a ten, then.
Philip gave Lucien an expectant look.
The baron’s breath was on Lucien’s ear, his grip tight on Lucien’s shoulders. Lucien could smell the roses in their buttonholes, and the stench of death the blooms failed to disguise. He felt a cold wind in his hair and it took an eternity for his heart to beat again.
Lucien beckoned for another card.
Of course, it was an ace.
Lyndenhurst held.
Lucien held.
Lyndenhurst turned over his cards. The seven was joined by an eight and a five.
Twenty.
He eyed Lucien with expectation and hope.
Lucien turned over his cards, smearing them across the table. “Twenty-one,” he said, his voice no more than a whisper of frost. “St. Maurice is mine.”
Lyndenhurst sat back, his displeasure more than clear. He frowned and seized a satchel, opening it to reveal the documents inside. They were surrendered to Lucien, who gave them to Philip.
His word was kept.
Sophia would have her father’s estate returned to her. It was only a measure of what she had lost, but he had kept his word.
It was over and he should have felt triumphant. Instead, he was so cold that he could feel little at all. He might as well have been dead already. He was shaking to his very marrow.
Lyndenhurst shoved the cards across the table in frustration. “What else do you want?” he demanded. “I haven’t come all this way to go home with an empty purse. I want your secret!”
Lucien parted his lips but couldn’t make a sound. The baron’s arms were closing around him as if he were no more than a child and he didn’t have the strength to fight.
Why should he fight? The price was due.
“How badly do you want it?” a woman demanded.
Lucien looked up to see Sophia by the chamber door. When she remained in the shadows, she might have been no more substantial than a dream. Was he dreaming of her presence? No. He belatedly realized that she wore the dress of the old serving maid, the one they had ignored during their meal. Now that she stood straight and had cast off her cap, he recognized the truth.
When she stepped forward, she seemed to be surrounded by golden light, like an angel come to save him. Lucien knew it couldn’t be so, but his heart skipped at the sight of her, sending heat through his veins.
“Too late, ma chère,” the baron murmured, but Lucien was glad that his dying glance would be of Sophia, resolve shining in her eyes. He drank in the sight of her, then the music rose to a deafening crescendo, the baron’s embrace tightened, and there was only cold and emptiness.
Lucien looked terrible.
He was pale and Sophia could see that he was shaking like an old man. His lips looked slightly blue and she guessed that he was cold.
As cold as the grave.
His eyes were the eyes of a stranger, the blue as frosty as a winter morning.
She could almost see the baron behind him. There was a man’s shadowy silhouette there, and when she averted her gaze, she could see the old Negro man in his fine dinner jacket from the corner of her eye. As she watched, the baron’s arms closed around Lucien, and Lucien sagged against him, as if he had gone to sleep.
Why did Lucien have a red rose in his buttonhole, just like that of his loa?
He could not be lost, not yet!
The clock chimed the third quarter of the hour.
She strode to Lucien’s side and reached into his pocket. She found the charm there and claimed it, even as the loa’s chuckle filled the chamber.
“He is mine, ma chère,” came a whisper that was everywhere and nowhere, but Sophia held fast to the charm.
“No,” she declared. “He is mine.”
“I am owed a soul, ma chère.”
And he would have it.
“What business is it of yours, woman? Get back to your labor and leave us in peace!” Lyndenhurst said, then seized Sophia’s arm, perhaps to hurl her from the room. He caught his breath when Sophia looked up at him and paled. “Sophia Brisbane! I thought you were dead.”
“I am not, sir, and I am once again in possession of my father’s emporium.”
Lyndenhurst’s eyes glittered as he glanced at Lucien. “He gave it to you? He gave it away?”
“And the island,” Philip contributed. “I have the letter to the solicitor.”
Lyndenhurst looked between Sophia and Lucien, his disdain clear. “He won to restore it all to a woman?”
“This one,” Sophia thought with vigor. “I will win this soul for you instead.”
The baron chuckled and she heard the harpsichord music once more. Lucien was pale and still but she could see that he was still breathing.
She had to risk it all to save his life. Sophia leaned closer to Lyndenhurst, her resolve to save Lucien giving her strength. “And I will wager it all, the entire fortune and St. Maurice.”
Lyndenhurst’s eyes lit. “In exchange for what?”
“You don’t seem to have much left,” Sophia observed. “Lucien told me you had lost your fortune.”
Lyndenhurst’s nostrils pinched. “There is no reason to discuss such details, though I suppose the daughter of a tradesman is accustomed to such vulgarity.”
“Even I have heard the extent of your debts,” Philip said.
Sophia pulled up a chair and sat at the table. “Why not wager your soul, sir? Assuming you have one.”
“Such audacity!” Lyndenhurst laughed. “How would you claim it? What would you do with it?” He shook his head, evidently thinking he risked little. “I will take your wager, Miss Brisbane, though do not blame me when you regret it.”
“I will not regret it,” Sophia said and nodded to Philip. “I will see my brother avenged.”
“Charles Brisbane was a fool, who did not understand his own incompetence at cards.”
“Is it incompetent to be cheated?”
Lyndenhurst inhaled sharply. “Do you accuse me?”
“You seduced him at the gaming table. You let him win until he wagered it all. Then you won and he lost his entire inheritance.”
“The follies of indulged young men are not my responsibility.”
“Even though he died, along with his betrothed, as a result of losing his fortune?”
“Every carriage accident is not my concern.” Lyndenhurst glared at Sophia. “I warned you not to break our betrothal, Miss Brisbane. I warned you that I would have it all, with or without you.”
“So you did, but now I have it all once more.” Sophia smiled.
Lyndenhurst’s eyes flashed with annoyance. “Do we play or do we not, Miss Brisbane?”
“We play.” Sophia heard a gleeful chuckle and the faint sound of harpsichord music. Philip crossed himself and dealt the cards.
Lyndenhurst’s first card was a queen.
Sophia’s first card was a ten.
Lyndenhurst looked at his second card and almost smiled.
Sophia looked at her second card and laid her hand over it on the table.
Lyndenhurst beckoned for a third card.
Sophia held.
Lyndenhurst held.
Sophia turned over her cards. She had an ace with her ten. Twenty-one.
Lyndenhurst turned over his cards, his manner wary. He had a queen, a four and a six.
Twenty.
“So you have a beginner’s good fortune.” Lyndenhurst pushed to his feet, scorn curling his lip. “I should like to see you collect your due.”
“Oh, I will,” Sophia said with such conviction that Lyndenhurst paused to study her.
“Not everything can be bought and sold, Miss Brisbane.”
“Not in this world, to be sure.” Sophia flung the charm into the fire and it loosed a cloud of black smoke.
The clock struck midnight.
Sophia heard the baron howl with delight even as an unholy wind rushed through the chamber, like a winter wind bringing a storm. The lanterns were suddenly extinguished and the fire blazed high before it was snuffed out. The curtains whipped, the table was overset, and she closed her eyes against the wind’s chilly fingers. She smelled roses and heard music at a deafening volume.
Lyndenhurst screamed.
The door slammed and the wind stilled as abruptly as it had started.
She opened her eyes to see that Lyndenhurst was gone. There was frost on the inside of the window, on what was left of the glass. Philip ran a hand over his head as he looked about himself in wonder. The moonlight slanted through the broken window to touch Lucien’s face.
Which had lost its pallor.
The rose was gone from his buttonhole and when he opened his eyes, they were the same clear honest blue that Sophia remembered from the first day they had met on the docks. He smiled and opened his arms to her, and she almost fell into his embrace.
“Is he gone?” she whispered, welcoming the warmth of him.
“Both of them are gone,” he replied, his smile as open and admiring as it had ever been. “Because you did what had to be done.”
“Because you gave me a hint.”
“Because we defeated him together.” And Lucien sealed his words with a thorough and most welcome kiss.
Sophia was vaguely aware that Philip cleared his throat. “I shall see you in the morning, my lord, but not too early.”
“No, not too early,” Lucien said, breaking their kiss. He stared down at Sophia. “As much as I would like to make an early start back to London, I was invited to attend the reading of the will.”
“Do you think the earl left you a legacy?” Sophia asked.
Lucien winced. “I can only hope it is not a harpsichord.”
Sophia laughed at his rueful expression.
“So, Philip, we will stay through the second, then depart for London the following morning. It would be best to have legal matters arranged quickly so that we can sail home before the winter seas.”
Home. Sophia smiled up at him. Home with Lucien. It was all she had ever wanted and more.
“Very good, sir.”
“We shall have to restore the inventory of the emporium,” she said.
“Of course. It would be best to oversee it personally.” Lucien held her tightly. “Do you have any objection, Miss Brisbane, with dividing your time between London and St. Maurice?”
Sophia laughed again, more than pleased with the suggestion. “Not the least objection, sir. Our children will have need of English schools and St. Maurice summers.”
Philip cleared his throat again. “I will fetch Miss Brisbane’s belongings for the morning,” he said. “I trust there is nothing else you need this evening?”
“Not one thing. Thank you, Philp.”
Philip retreated, closing the door behind himself. Sophia smiled at the sound of his happy whistle as he left them together.
“A night alone with you in a tavern? I am truly ruined, Mr. de Roye,” she teased.
Lucien slid a fingertip along her cheek. “I don’t think you are totally ruined yet, Miss Brisbane,” he murmured in reply, his eyes glowing. “But we have several nights to remedy that situation.” He brushed his lips across hers. “I mean to leave you no choice but to marry me by special license as soon as we reach London.”
Sophia laughed, unable to resist the opportunity to tease him. “I regret to inform you, sir, that I have no argument with that.”
It was the last thing she said for quite some time, although she did continue to tease him, for that night and many more to come.
A Duke by Any Other Name
The Brides of North Barrows #2
Daphne Goodenham has always been determined to wed a duke—not just because she loves fine dresses and parties, but because she wants to guarantee that she and her sister are never destitute again. When she meets the Duke of Inverfyre, a notorious fop, she immediately notices intriguing inconsistencies. Is there more to the duke than meets the eye? Why would he hide the truth if he were handsome, young, rich and a duke? Alexander, the Duke of Inverfyre, is bent on catching a notorious thief who injured his sister, no matter what the cost. But when the
lovely Miss Goodenham is bent on charming him, Alexander’s disguise proves to be no defense against her curiosity—and he has no resistance to her kiss. Will Daphne inadvertently foil Alexander’s plan? Will he have to sacrifice her interest to avenge his sister? Or can Daphne ensure Alexander’s triumph and make her own Christmas wish come true?
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A Duke by Any Other Name is available in Charmed at Christmas, one of the Christmas at Castle Keyvnor anthologies. It will be available in a solo digital edition in March 2018.
About the Author
Deborah Cooke sold her first book in 1992, a medieval romance called Romance of the Rose published under her pseudonym Claire Delacroix. Since then, she has published over fifty novels in a wide variety of sub-genres, including historical romance, contemporary romance, paranormal romance, fantasy romance, time-travel romance, women’s fiction, paranormal young adult and fantasy with romantic elements. She has published under the names Claire Delacroix, Claire Cross and Deborah Cooke. The Beauty, part of her successful Bride Quest series of historical romances, was her first title to land on the New York Times List of Bestselling Books. Her books routinely appear on other bestseller lists and have won numerous awards. In 2009, she was the writer-in-residence at the Toronto Public Library, the first time the library has hosted a residency focused on the romance genre. In 2012, she was honored to receive the Romance Writers of America’s Mentor of the Year Award.
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Currently, she writes paranormal romances featuring dragon shape shifter heroes under the name Deborah Cooke. She also writes medieval romances as Claire Delacroix. Deborah lives in Canada with her husband and family, as well as far too many unfinished knitting projects.
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Visit Deborah’s Website and Blog
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