Dead Dukes Tell No Tales

by Catherine Stein

  “I see.”

  “My mother was Irish Catholic. I know all about saints.”

  “Ah.” Sabine could count on her fingers the number of times she’d been in a church during her adult life. As a child, churches had been nothing more than easy places to snatch a few coins. “Whatever they’re doing, we need to approach cautiously. We will climb through a window here, and I will lead the way to the chapel. You must be absolutely silent.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “If we need a distraction to draw the nun away from the relic, I will signal you. Be your usual self. A man in the convent should cause plenty of fuss. You can run, or chat at her, or whatever you wish while I retrieve the information from the reliquary. Once I have what we came for and have climbed back out the window, you are free to follow any way you wish.”

  “I’m not certain I like this plan. What if the nuns overwhelm me and I end up in a French prison?”

  “Don’t underestimate yourself, Duke.” Sabine patted his chest, then immediately wished she hadn’t. He had a warm, solid, pleasant body, and she didn’t need that sort of distraction. She jerked her hand away. “Let’s go.”

  Sabine worked a window open with little difficulty and hauled herself up and over the sill, dropping into the long, dark corridor. Hartleigh climbed after her, sliding through the narrow opening with ease. As they walked the hall, however, he continually drifted off to the right, nearly ruining everything when he banged his elbow on a statue and had to swallow a yelp.

  Sabine couldn’t understand him. He had a strong, athletic body, and displayed moments of agility. Yet he couldn’t walk in a straight line? She took hold of his arm and steered him along.

  A sudden snort from up ahead made them both jump. Pushing Harleigh against the wall, Sabine crept up to the doorway and peeked into the candle-lit chapel. A gnarled, old woman sat in a pew, beads clutched in her hands and her head tipped forward, sound asleep. She gave another noisy snore, barely twitching.

  Sabine slipped back to Hartleigh’s side. “The nun is asleep,” she whispered in his ear. “Stay close and don’t bump into anything. No noise.”

  He nodded and followed, keeping one hand pressed to her back. Sabine applauded his good sense, but his touch and the nearness of his body sent prickles of awareness dancing across the surface of her skin. She fought the desire to turn around and burrow against him. She needed to do something about her recent lack of intimate contact as soon as possible.

  The reliquary sat in the center of a recessed nook, cut off from access by a row of stark, wooden kneelers. Sabine paused, considering the best way to climb over without upsetting anything. Before she could move, Hartleigh grasped her about the waist and lifted her over the top, then stepped over himself, his long legs easily clearing the barrier.

  Sabine stared at him, turning her hands palm-up in a silent, What was that?

  He frowned at her in puzzlement, clearly not understanding. He pointed outside the nook, then to where they were standing.

  We were there. Now we’re here.

  That was the logic of a man whose only companion was his seven-year-old daughter. She imagined he picked up Lola all the time, boosting her over fences and into trees. They would have to have a “don’t pick up a woman without permission” talk.

  Shaking her head, Sabine turned to the reliquary, opening it and examining the contents. An old bone, perhaps from an arm, sat wrapped in a moldering piece of cloth. She lifted it out, unwrapping it, looking for a slip of paper or any other sort of writing. Nothing.

  Hartleigh swore under his breath.

  Sabine thrust the bone into his hands. He made a strangled noise and fumbled with the relic. She gave him a hard look.

  You. She pointed at him, tapped the bridge of her glasses, and pointed at the snoring nun. Watch her.

  He nodded, grimacing and holding the bone as if it were about to explode. Superstitious nonsense. It had probably come from a sheep.

  Sabine reached inside the reliquary, feeling for cracks, loose panels, or hidden latches. The box was smooth and solid. Where were the damned instructions? She closed the door, feeling around the edges, then moving on to the outside of the box. Still her fingers found nothing. No unusual bumps or hollows, nothing that shifted beneath her touch. If it had a hidden compartment, she could see no way in but to smash the thing.

  A tap on her shoulder made her whirl around. Hartleigh gestured frantically at the elderly nun. The woman shifted in her seat, her head lifting. She mumbled something.

  Scheiße! Sabine shoved Hartleigh to the floor and dropped down on top of him.

  11

  He was going to hell.

  Cliff wasn’t particularly religious, despite his mother’s best efforts. The afterlife wasn’t something he usually contemplated. Tonight, however, he was pretty sure he’d earned himself a ticket to everlasting damnation.

  Breaking into a convent was one thing. Even opening a reliquary to search for clues was something he could get behind. But desecrating a holy relic?

  The bit of cloth was gone somewhere, and pieces of the bone had already snapped off during his dive to the floor. Now he lay on top of the thing, feeling it dig painfully into his side, and what did his brain keep drifting to? The pair of shapely legs wrapped around his thigh and the inconvenient erection they were causing.

  He was going to hell.

  “Ave Maria,” the nun intoned in a voice as stentorian as her snoring.

  Dear God, he was going to be trapped here, pulverizing poor Saint Felicula into the dust from whence she came and fending off thoughts of carnal pleasures with a pirate captain, while a little old lady shouted the entire rosary.

  Sabine shifted slightly atop him, and he sucked in a sudden breath. Every bit of him hummed with awareness of her. The contrast of the cold floor against his right side and her warm body against his left. The brush of her arms against his chest and his back, as she braced herself to avoid toppling off him and banging into something. The heat of her breath on his neck.

  She shifted again, her chest pressing into his arm. Instead of soft, yielding flesh, he felt something hard and inflexible. Was she wearing armor?

  “Give me that bone,” she whispered.

  Cliff squirmed, trying to free Felicula’s fragile remains while concealing the other bone that he was aching to give Sabine. His arm wrenched and his head banged against the floor. His gasp of pain was blessedly drowned out by a booming, “Amen!” from the praying nun.

  At least the discomfort helped squelch his lust. No mixing business with pleasure. And certainly no sexual entanglements with anyone who might possibly be a friend. He knew better than that, after the fool he’d made of himself with Miranda.

  “Ave Maria,” the nun began again.

  Sabine’s hand wormed its way beneath him, found St. Felicula’s bone, and worked it free. “Got it,” she whispered. She carefully rolled off of Cliff, grasped the bone with both hands, and snapped it in half.

  As he gaped in horror, she calmly tugged a tightly-rolled paper from inside the bone. She opened it up and scanned it, nodding.

  “This is it. We can go. You distract the nun while I escape, then follow when you can. I’ll have the ship ready.”

  “You… you…” He couldn’t take his eyes off the ruined relic.

  “It’s a fake. Now get ready to—” She froze, listening. The nun’s prayers were fading, her words becoming slurred. A few moments later, she began to snore again.

  “That’s our chance,” Sabine hissed. “Go. Now.”

  Cliff scrambled to his feet and over the kneelers. Sabine pocketed the note and shoved the broken bits of bone back into the reliquary before climbing after him. Together, they hurried back to the unlocked window and out into the relative safety of the night air. They jogged across the grounds and climbed aboard the ship, where they sagged against the rail, catching their breath.

  “I think we’d best depart at once,” Sabine said.

  “I agr
ee. We’ll have a whole convent out for our heads the moment anyone sees what we did to their holy relic.”

  “Their holy hoax. Obviously the duke agreed with me, because either he hollowed it out to hide the paper, or he replaced the original bone entirely.”

  “I agree it’s not from an ancient Roman saint, but we were still disrespecting the dead.”

  “What do they care? They’re dead. It’s probably not even a human bone. Unless he took it from one of his mummies.”

  Cliff winced. “Oh, God.”

  “You make a terrible pirate. Much too sensitive. Thank you, though, for your assistance. You performed your lookout duties well. I have the instructions for the first rotor and the location of the next clue, and I’m ready to uphold my end of our bargain. Where would you like me to drop you and Lola, and what shall I tell the world about your sudden and tragic demise? I jotted down a few ideas if you don’t have any.”

  “Actually, if you don’t mind, I’d like to help you complete your quest first. It doesn’t feel right, leaving after solving only one small portion of the puzzle.”

  Sabine folded her arms across her chest. “You want the Heart of Ra for yourself, is that it?”

  “No,” he answered, immediately and truthfully.

  “To sell, then.”

  “Nor that.”

  “Hmph. Well, you must want something, Duke.”

  “I don’t like leaving jobs half-done.”

  She took her time before answering. “Fine. You can come along. Your help will be useful in obtaining the next clue.”

  “Why? Where are we going?”

  “St. Berhtwald’s Hospital, in Brighton. Time to go home, Hartleigh.”

  Cliff sighed. “Wonderful.”

  12

  “Welcome to St. Berhtwald’s,” said the smiling woman who greeted Sabine and the duke as they stepped into the bizarrely glittering foyer. What kind of hospital was this? Electric chandeliers? Gilt-framed mirrors? Footmen in matching livery? “How can we be of assistance…” She glanced at the calling card where Hartleigh had hastily scrawled his title. “Your Grace?”

  “Only a few questions,” he replied.

  Hopefully a very few. Lola and the crew waited on Die Fledermaus, ready to fly back home, or wherever the treasure hunt sent them next. With luck, Sabine would have the next clue in her hands in minutes.

  “Of course.” The woman’s smile grew even wider. “I’m sure you’ve heard that we are the foremost center for recuperation from nervous complaints as well as physical ailments that benefit from our healthy sea air. The strain of your sudden inheritance must be immense, I’m certain, but we will do all we can to see that you receive the absolute best care.”

  Hartleigh winced. “Uh… Actually, we’re not here for a medical issue. We’re looking for a vase.”

  The woman’s eyebrows rose into pointed arches. “A vase. I see.” Poor Hartleigh. Apparently rumors of hereditary madness had reached Brighton.

  “Or maybe a pot?” He glanced to Sabine for help.

  “I’m Sonja Cain,” she said, offering a hand to the woman. “I am here on behalf of His Grace as an antiquities expert. We are cataloging the artifacts collected by the previous duke, and part of that process involves a thorough check into the provenance and current locations of any donated items. The late duke was not in the best of health when many of these items were sent out, and it is vital that we ensure the correct pieces were sent to the correct places.”

  The woman’s expression didn’t change. “I see.”

  “We’re looking for a big Greek pot,” Hartleigh told her.

  “The Krater of Hippocrates,” Sabine clarified.

  “We have no Greek antiquities here,” the woman replied. “But I can take you to a man who might be able to help you. Follow me, please.”

  As they walked through the opulent halls, Hartleigh moved close enough to Sabine that their arms brushed together. “She thinks I’m insane,” he whispered.

  “You’re in a mental health facility, asking after ancient pots in order to help a pirate track down a treasure hidden by a dead man who invented bizarre machines.”

  “Excellent point. Perhaps I should check myself in here. Very restful, I understand.”

  “If it helps us find that vase, Duke, I’m willing to vouch for the depths of your madness.”

  “How kind of you.”

  They paused outside a small office, and the woman waved them through the door. “Dr. Standish should be able to answer your questions. Good day to you, Your Grace, Miss Cain.”

  Sabine walked straight to the desk and offered her hand to the gray-haired man who sat behind it. “Hello. I’m Sonja Cain, antiquities expert. His Grace has brought me to your facility to inquire after a Greek artifact donated by the late Duke of Hartleigh. It’s a large vase or pot known as the Krater of Hippocrates.”

  The doctor rose and shook her hand. “Yes, I remember the piece. It’s no longer here, I’m afraid. The images painted on it of surgeries and other medical procedures were upsetting to our patients, unfortunately.”

  “Where is it, then?” Hartleigh asked.

  “Dr. Willingham took it home for safekeeping. He has a large and well-respected collection himself, so it is in good hands.”

  “Can we see it? Where does he live?”

  Standish frowned. “What? A duke is in town and hasn’t yet been invited to Willingham’s home?”

  “Er, I did only just arrive.”

  “Of course, of course. He hosts regular parties, you see. Always the very best of society. And, of course, now he’s looking for a husband for Miss Willingham. Beautiful, beautiful girl. Certain to marry well. I haven’t gone to a party in years, being too much devoted to my work. I’m certain he will show you the artifact if you request, and if you inquire he is likely to even provide an invitation for Miss, uh, Cale, was it?”

  Sabine nodded, not caring whether he remembered her false name. “Thank you so much, Doctor. You’ve been a great help. We’ll show ourselves out.”

  “Yes, of course. I have work to return to. And if you fill out the paperwork that our clerks will provide for you, Your Grace, we will review all your symptoms and come up with a personalized plan for your rest and recuperation.”

  Hartleigh looked up at the ceiling. “For the love of… I’m not insane, okay? I don’t need a beach-side hospital holiday, especially not in January!”

  “Of course,” Standish replied. “Good day, Your Grace.”

  “I should have killed him,” the duke muttered, once he and Sabine were alone in the hall.

  “The doctor?”

  “Hartleigh. I should have killed him off and gone to San Francisco and never come back here.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “The quest isn’t over. We haven’t found the treasure. But do you have any idea how annoying it is to have everyone think you’re mad?”

  “Some idea, yes.” People made all sorts of assumptions about her, based on everything from the word “pirate” to the fact that she sometimes wore trousers. Occasionally those assumptions were true, but more often than not they were both incorrect and insulting. “Don’t worry about it. You’ll go to one of this Dr. Willingham’s famous parties and behave exactly as a duke should and everyone will forget the rest. I, in the meantime, will find the Krater and retrieve the next note.”

  “And if he won’t invite a madman, no matter the rank?”

  Sabine waved a hand. “Don’t be silly. We know someone who will make certain you get into that house.”

  “Willingham?” The duchess sighed in delight. She waved Sabine, Hartleigh, and Lola into the parlor, where tea and snacks sat waiting for them. “Oh, Hartleigh, did you see Miss Willingham in Brighton and fall madly in love at first sight? Isn’t she a beauty?” She fanned herself. “Truly blessed, that girl, and her father has money by the boatload. Owns hospitals all across England. Oh, Hartleigh, she’s perfect!”

  The duke stared back at her, ston
e-faced. “I have no intention of marrying Miss Willingham, whoever she is.”

  “Oh, nonsense. You’ll take one look at her and fall at her feet. Everyone does. Really, you couldn’t do better, Hartleigh. Her father has been holding out for a duke, and you’re the first one available.”

  “Because every father wants a madman for his daughter.”

  “Oh, no one will care about that, even if it were true. My family didn’t care that my duke was odd, any more than they cared that he was so very old, and about as likely to give me a child as… well, never mind that. He had the title and the social prestige, you see, and that is what matters. Come, sit down. Have some tea. I’ll make all the arrangements. No dancing, this time, except perhaps a very simple waltz with Miss Willingham. Or a walk in the garden, if you can’t manage that.” Her gaze flicked to Sabine. “I assume you will be attending as well, Miss Diebin? Perhaps you might refrain from dancing with His Grace on this occasion.”

  “My dancing days are ended, I’m afraid,” Sabine replied. She’d be much too busy treasure hunting.

  “Perfect. This is just marvelous! Oh, and I have those papers you mentioned, Hartleigh. The ones my husband left for you. Although, I’m warning you, they don’t make any sense. I’ll have them sent down. Please excuse me, I’m going to tell Luella the news. We’ll all get dressed up and go together and have a grand time!” She rushed from the room with a decided spring in her step.

  Sabine took a seat at the table and poured herself some tea. Lola scrambled up onto a couch, arranging her skirts as if she were a princess. Hartleigh fetched her a cup of tea and two cookies, then returned to the table to sit beside Sabine.

  “Perhaps you should marry this Miss Willingham,” Sabine jested. “You’d make the whole world happy, apparently.”

  “Except myself, Lola, and Miss Willingham.”

  “Ah, but how do you know that Miss Willingham hasn’t been sitting at home longing for an American husband who can’t dance and comes loaded with debt?”

  “The dukedom came loaded with debt. I have a perfectly respectable and financially solvent business.”