A Heart of a Duke Regency Collection : Volume 2--A Regency Bundle

by Christi Caldwell

  On a hiss, Bridget wrenched away from him, drew her arm back, and slapped his cheek. The crack of flesh hitting flesh echoed around the room, as the force of her blow jerked his head back.

  She braced for the roar of outrage. Instead, her brother ran a distracted palm over the imprint left by her palm. “I see you understand, then.”

  Terror gripped her. Those dangerous words he’d uttered could shatter her and Virgil’s very existence and happiness. It would see Virgil stripped from her care and turned over to this monster, for no one would dare believe the word of a scarred spinster, deaf in one ear and without a husband or gainful employment. “You’d risk your…my son’s life.” She may have not given birth to Virgil, but he was hers in every way. She’d loved him, cared for him when he was ill, held him when he’d fallen.

  Archibald plucked a speck of dust from his sleeve and flicked it to the floor. “Without hesitation…and yours? I’ll tell the world, a lonely, miserable, deaf spinster, you stole my child and passed it off as your own and invented a world for yourself. Why, I expect Society would even applaud me when I committed such a woman to Bedlam.” He laughed uproariously.

  “What do you want?” she entreated, hating the desperate plea there. She’d given up everything for Virgil. The threat her brother made now against her only brought a fear for what that would mean for her son.

  “You know,” he said coolly.

  Bridget ran her hands over her face. When Virgil’s mother had arrived at one of her family’s country estates and abandoned her newborn babe in Bridget’s arms—only after she’d revealed the depth of Archibald’s treachery—Bridget had taken the babe to London. She’d demanded her brother do right by him. Doing right had involved him promising to turn the boy over to a foundling hospital.

  And so, Bridget had taken on the babe as her own and disappeared into one of their family’s small, run-down properties where she’d been ever since. She knew what kind of ugliness Archibald was capable of. She had borne the sting of his hateful words and his ruthless blows. He would do this. Virgil meant nothing to him. He never had nor would he ever. “Please, do not ask me to do this,” she begged, hating that he’d reduced her to this. But she’d have laid herself down prone at his feet and offered her own life to protect Virgil.

  “His name is Chilton,” her brother said, ignoring her entreaty. “Lord Chilton.”

  Lord Chilton. Lord Chilton. She searched her mind. How did she recognize that—

  “He has one of the vastest antiquities collections. Brings his items to auction and makes an obscene fortune.”

  Of course. That was how she knew of him. Referred to as the Bastard Baron in the papers that found their way to the country, she’d cared less about those personal details and more focused on whichever collection he was purported to have acquired or sold. If life had turned out differently for her, and followed an altered path, she would have paid a visit to the halls where he kept those cherished treasures. Mayhap, she would have plied him with questions and begged for a look, even as she could never have afforded even a scrap of parchment in his establishment.

  “He’s out a housekeeper. I’ve coordinated with the hiring agency responsible for staffing his London townhouse for you to fill the respective post.”

  “A servant,” she repeated back.

  He nodded.

  Restless, Bridget wandered over to the small window that overlooked the overgrown front gardens. She stared blankly out, contemplating what her brother put to her. He’d have her serve on Lord Chilton’s staff. Granted, a housekeeper, alongside the butler, was the most respected of the household positions. Nor had she truly been born for more than that. Having been shunned by her family for the birthmark that covered her left cheek, and being deaf in one ear, she’d been an outcast among their kin. It had never even been expected that she’d have a Season or marry. As she’d once read her parents’ lips and heard them talking of the empty future awaiting her, she’d found her value deemed of little worth even by the people who’d sired her. She’d finally found a family, in Virgil and Miss Nettie…the one person who’d ever offered her kindness. And she’d do anything to protect them.

  In the lead windowpane, she spied the guilt ravaging her features. “Just this once,” her voice was a barely-there whisper. “I’ll never steal for you again.”

  At his silence, she spun back. “I want a promise.” Do you truly believe your brother’s word means anything? She held a hand up when he opened his mouth and opted for a language he understood. “I want ten thousand pounds,” she said bluntly, her skin crawling at the stolen monies she’d accept. “I’ll not turn over that book until you give me those funds.”

  He eyed her with an appreciation that turned her stomach. “I never thought I’d see the day I was proud of you, Bridget. Until now.”

  I’m going to be ill.

  “Five thousand,” he said flatly.

  “Eight.”

  “Seven and not a pence more,” he said with a finality that marked the end of his bargaining.

  She gave a tight nod.

  “You begin in a week’s time.”

  As he rambled through the perfunctory details of her assignment, a loud humming filled her ears. I am complicit in this crime. I am sacrificing my honor… for my son’s life. That reminder brought her back from the precipice of despair.

  “While you’re gone, I’ll remain here with the boy.”

  A denial burst from her lips and she sprang forward on the balls of her feet. “You’ll not.” She’d rather dance with the Devil on Sunday than leave Virgil alone in her brother’s company.

  He frowned. “Come, you hurt my feelings, Bridget.” Archibald made a tsking sound. “Surely you don’t think I’d hurt my own—” Her breath caught. “—nephew.”

  She’d conceded enough this day. She’d not allow him this. “No. I’ve agreed to help you and you have my word I’ll do so. But I’ll not have you staying with my son.”

  He pursed his lips and glanced around the room. He sighed. “Very well. It would be rather hideous living here.” He eyed the paintings pinned to the wall; those precious gifts made by Virgil three years earlier. Her brother sneered.

  “We are done here, Archibald,” she said tightly and marched to the door.

  Her brother lifted his head. “I say, you’ve hurt my feelings again, Bridget.”

  “You don’t have any feelings to be hurt,” she shot back.

  “No.” He grinned. “You are correct there. But you share my blood. And for all your failings and flaws, you have parts of the Hamilton determination inside you.”

  “Evil.” Archibald cocked his head. “The Hamilton evil.” Her parents had been a coldhearted pair who’d spawned even colder children. Was it a wonder she could so easily agree to help Archibald in this?

  “Call it what you wish, but it will see me—and now you—survive.”

  Seething, Bridget yanked open the door. Her heart dropped to her stomach as Virgil stumbled into the room. Cheeks flushed and eyes downcast, he demonstrated the same lack of skill with subterfuge as she herself.

  With the same crescent-shaped birthmark on his wrist and the same shade of brown hair as Bridget and her brother, he was very much a Hamilton—in appearance. Not in any other way, however. “Mum,” he mumbled, scuffing the tip of his shoe along the floor.

  “Virgil.” She damned her reduced hearing that allowed him to sneak up on her. And then her stomach lurched. How much had he heard? She searched him for any indications. “His Lordship was just leaving,” she said tightly.

  “U-uncle Archibald,” her son greeted.

  With barely a glance for this boy he’d sired, Archibald stalked out of the room.

  She instantly closed the door behind him. “I told you not to lurk at doorways, ever,” she said sharply.

  Virgil wrinkled his nose. “Why is he always so miserable?”

  “Because he was born miserable,” she said without thinking. And merciless and cutting. She winced.
Regardless of the truths about that vile reprobate that was her brother, she’d no place interjecting her feelings about Archibald or anything. She gathered Virgil close, needing the soft, reassuring weight of his small frame. “Some people are just happy and some are—”

  “Miserable,” he finished and struggled away.

  Her heart pulled. How often he drew back from those expressions of warmth. As a babe, he’d always been ready with a hug. As a young boy, he desperately craved and required a gentleman’s influence. She steeled her jaw. Never one like Archibald. Which brought her back to Virgil’s presence here before her now. “What were you doing listening at the door?” she asked in even tones. What did you hear? How long were you there?

  “I went out to feed the sheep and saw his carriage.”

  So, he’d sneaked free of Miss Nettie. Nearing fifty, the older woman was growing more lax. And she’d be all Virgil had when Bridget went off to London. Suddenly, the wisdom in that course gave her pause.

  “What did he want?” Virgil asked, with a surprising amount of world wariness in his eyes.

  To destroy our future: yours and mine.

  Opting to give him as much truth as she was able, she explained: “There are books in London. I’ve been asked to evaluate them.”

  Her son’s eyes lit. For his earlier standoffishness, he threw himself at her, tugging at her sleeve the way he had as a young babe. “We’re going to London? When do we leave?”

  “We’re not…” As soon as those two words left her lips, she froze. Her gaze locked on Virgil’s dipping smile. He can’t remain here. I need him close. Archibald would expect Bridget to comply and he’d know precisely where Virgil was at all times. “We’re not set to leave for another week,” she adjusted and, just like that, her son brightened. “However, I’ll be required to live in the center where I’ll be working.”

  Mayhap in a handful of more years, Virgil would possess the maturity to question that peculiarity. As it was, he peppered her with questions about where he’d be residing and what he’d be doing while he was there.

  The sight of his enthusiasm: his wide, even-toothed smile, his dancing eyes briefly lessened her fear. And for a sliver of an instant, she could almost believe they were any other mother and son bound for an exciting journey to that great metropolis for Virgil’s first trip. She gathered him into her arms again and squeezed hard. He grunted but, this time, folded his arms around her, returning that embrace. “What’s that for?” he asked the usual question.

  “Just because I love you.” Her throat worked painfully as she gave him that familiar reply. I’m going to crumple before him. She fought desperately for a rapidly slipping control. “Run along,” she urged, setting him aside. “I’ve to return to my work. Miss Nettie will be looking for you.”

  He nodded. “I love you,” he said so easily. Growing up, there had been a dearth of those words shared in the Hamilton household. When she’d first held Virgil, that babe without a name, she’d vowed he’d know everything she’d been without.

  “I love you, too,” she said softly, staring after him as he darted from the room.

  She loved him. It was why she’d barter her honor and sell her soul to deceive Lord Chilton and steal that coveted tome.

  Chapter 2

  Vail Basingstoke, Baron Chilton, had learned early on that passions and vices came in all forms.

  Some gentlemen had scandalous bedroom proclivities that could only be carried out in the darkest streets of London. Others craved fine spirits that ultimately drowned them in their own weakness.

  Everyone was generally of the opinion that a learned man was a respectable one; a man who favored literature and books embodied self-restraint, logic, and reason. Vail, however, a bastard-born son of a whore only titled through battlefield actions at Waterloo, had seen the darkest, depraved actions of men of all stations. From his late mother’s keepers to the soldiers who’d cut down men in war to London’s most learned scholars—all were rotted to the core.

  It was that understanding that had allowed him to build himself a fortune and rule the world of his making. It was also what saw him riding down the dangerous cobblestones of King Street with night falling.

  He guided his mount, Atlas, down the noisy, overflowing streets. Whores lingered on corners and dandies seeking a thrill on the wild side stumbled drunkenly along. Vail narrowed his eyes on the establishment at the end of King Street. It was not, however, whores, drink, or wagering that brought him here.

  He brought Atlas to a stop outside Jack Spiggot’s. Dismounting, he did a quick sweep, searching, and then finding. A small boy came bounding over. “Sorry, guv’nor,” Jeremy Jon said in his coarse Cockney accent. “Oi was tied up.” He collected the reins from Vail.

  Having first met the lad one year earlier when Jeremy had attempted—unsuccessfully—to pick his pocket, Vail could wager his entire fortune, and win, just what had occupied him. “I just paid you,” Vail said without recrimination. “Has it been lifted?”

  Any of the drunken lords, sailors, and merchants stumbling about would assume they haggled over the fare…or something far more nefarious. That is if they weren’t too deep in their cups to notice something outside their own lust for drink.

  A ruddy flush stained the boy’s cheeks. “No one lifts anything from me, guv’nor.”

  No, with the child’s fleet feet and ability to wind his way like a specter through the streets of St. Giles, no constable could even come close to nabbing him. And yet, Vail had put Jeremy in his employ. “I don’t want you picking pockets,” he said in a hushed tone. He’d too much need for him and the truth was he’d come to care for the child.

  Jeremy nudged his chin up at a belligerent angle. “Sister’s having a baby, guv’nor.”

  Another one. The boy had revealed offhandedly some months ago that his sister was married to a cruel bruiser who kept her pregnant and beat her in equal measure. His own mother had been a well-cared for whore, but she’d still been knocked around enough times that Vail had developed a burning loathing for men who’d brutalize a woman. “Here.” Reaching inside his jacket front, he withdrew a small purse and slipped it to the boy. “For watching my mount,” he said from the corner of his mouth when the lad made to reject it. Jeremy Jon had more pride than most grown men combined.

  The boy hesitated another moment and then pocketed the purse. Too many lords thinking to help a street urchin tossed those bags over without proper consideration that doing so in a public manner marked them instead…and invariably those coins would prove stolen by the leaders of London’s underbelly. “I don’t want you picking pockets,” he said for the boy’s ears alone. “You’re too valuable.” Those matter-of-fact words weren’t ones he used to inflate the boy’s self-confidence or sense of self-worth. Jeremy proved to be one set of eyes and ears Vail relied on in the Dials who found out the information Vail sought as a book buyer and seller. “If you need more, you tell me.”

  Stubborn as the day was long, Jeremy tightened his mouth and met that order with silence.

  Vail lowered his head. “Are we clear?”

  “Aye, guv’nor.” Jeremy touched the brim of his cap in a smart salute. Vail, however, had told enough lies in his life to recognize them even now in this boy. Jeremy Jon was too proud to ask him for a pence more than he was paid. He’d rather rob and steal than humble himself.

  “What have you heard?” he asked from the side of his mouth, as he tugged free his gloves and stuffed them in his jacket.

  “Stanwicke was meetin’ wit someone about that book.” Whatever given assignment he doled out for the child, no titles, authors, or specifics were mentioned beyond the first time.

  “And?”

  “He was asking if he’d the funds to beat yar offer.”

  Beat his offer. Vail smiled coolly. The Earl of Stanwicke, notorious collector who’d beggared his family and estates to grow his obsession. Crazed as too many lords often were and all the while Vail profited. “Who was the gentleman?”


  “A Lord Derby, sir.” Jeremy adjusted the brim of his cap. “Tall. Bald. But he was dressed loike ’e wasn’t a lord.”

  Vail glanced to the doorway of the Coaxing Tom. Like every other Black Legs, the door hung agape as it did morn through night, inviting the weakest of passersby to come sit at the tables and toss down their fortunes. “When did they meet?”

  “Two in St. James’ Street, guv’nor.”

  Of course. Two lords choosing to meet in the respectable ends of the Dials, they’d not think Vail, ruthless in his business pursuits, would deal on the proper side of London. What they’d miscalculated were the people he had all over London who brought him information just like that shared by Jeremy. “You’ve done well,” he murmured. For the valuably obtained information, he slipped Jeremy another purse.

  His informant hesitated, but then shot greedy fingers out and gathered the velvet sack. “Do yar need anything else, guv’nor?”

  “Watch Atlas for now.” He glanced about. “I’ll also need you to monitor Derby when he comes ’round. See who he talks to.” The Earl of Derby didn’t deal directly or indirectly with Vail for his purchases and sales. As such, he wanted to know precisely who that nobleman’s connections were.

  “Aye, sir.”

  Angling his head slightly in that unspoken command he’d given Jeremy at the onset of their partnership, the boy bustled off with Atlas. A carriage rumbled by and Vail waited for it to pass. Then he made his way through the crowded streets. Where the fashionable end of London would be quiet in preparation for the upcoming balls and soirees, this hour was when the seediest hells and streets came to life. Senses alert for the hint of threat, he skimmed his gaze over his surroundings.

  Where most every other titled gentleman saw in this area a place for inanity and wicked pursuits, Vail recognized the danger here. And he thrilled in it. His stare alighted on Mr. Andrew Barrett. Brother-in-law to his best friend, Nick Tallings, the Duke of Huntly, the young man had acquired a reputation for being a reprobate like his nearly impoverished father. The younger man wound his way through the streets and then entered through the open doors of The Pill Gilder. Vail gave his head a disgusted shake at the gentleman’s lack of awareness of his surroundings. These areas would see a man, regardless of station, with a blade in his belly.