Dead Dukes Tell No Tales

by Catherine Stein

  Sabine stirred her tea, though she hadn’t poured anything into it. “Why not pay the debts, then, and avoid the marriage issue?”

  “The money I already have is for Lola and no one else. And I don’t want to sell the business yet. Not until…” Pain filled his eyes and he looked away. “Not until I’m one hundred percent certain I can never go home again.”

  Sabine pushed the plate of cookies toward him. “Fleeing to California and taking on a new identity sounds awfully certain to me. Is that why you’re still on this treasure hunt? You can’t bring yourself to sever all those ties, can you?”

  He shrugged and picked up a cookie. “That’s part of it, I guess.”

  A knock at the door made them both look up. “Papers for you, Your Grace.”

  “Excellent. You can bring them here. Thank you.” Hartleigh accepted the papers and spread them across the table. “Let’s see what the Mad Duke had to say, shall we?”

  Sabine grabbed a few of the papers and began to read. The duchess was correct. Very little of it made sense. Lists of antiquities bought and sold were mingled with random scribblings such as, “Tea’s gone cold. Must request new pot.”

  “Do you think he was trying to catalogue his collection?” Hartleigh asked.

  “Could be. Or at least make some attempt at leaving you a list of his possessions. He must have realized too late what a mess he was leaving behind.”

  “And both his memory and his health were failing.”

  “It looks that way to me.” She flipped to the next paper, munching on a biscuit as she read. “Oh!” A few crumbs fell from her mouth, and she dusted them from the document.

  Hartleigh leaned in, his nearness causing that increasingly familiar shivery sensation. “What have you found?”

  “I think this is the note about the treasure chest. He apologizes for any confusion, then says, ‘The directions for the Sphinx were written at a time when I was in better health.’”

  Hartleigh slid his chair around beside hers, bumping shoulders with her once again and not seeming to notice. “It’s quite rambling, isn’t it? Something about how he constructed the machine and the precise tooling of the rotors. Oh, look there. ‘The etched note on the device is a false clue. Don’t trust the box.’ That’s his warning.”

  “And then several lines later he says, ‘Doesn’t everyone keep their treasures in a treasure chest?’ And then he promptly goes back to listing things he’s purchased. Well. No wonder his wife didn’t know to warn you. I wouldn’t have known what any of that meant, either.”

  “I never thought she was malicious,” Hartleigh said. “She’s a good-hearted woman. She truly cares for everyone in this entire household. It’s not only her old way of life she’s fighting for.”

  “So you intend for the Heart of Ra to pay off all the debts and solve both her problems and yours?”

  “I already told you I have no desire to sell it.”

  “Yes.” Sabine tapped a finger on the table, her lips twisting as she thought. “And you don’t seem like a talented liar. Yet you must want something. Something more than delaying the inevitable end of your old life and completing all projects you start.”

  He moved away from her, scooping up the papers. “I’ll read these over again this evening and let you know if I come up with anything new. I doubt it, but best to be thorough. Let’s go, Lo.”

  The girl scampered over to him, depositing her empty teacup on the table and snatching up another cookie.

  Sabine shook her head. “I’m going to figure you out, Duke. It’s only a matter of time. I’ve been a thief since birth, and I’ll find a way to steal your secrets.”

  Hartleigh rose from his seat, the papers in hand, and regarded her silently for a moment. “Or perhaps you could share some of your own secrets in exchange for mine. A fair business deal. A partnership, even.”

  “Pirates don’t have partners, Duke. Save your business deals for Miss Willingham. You get a wife, she gets a title.”

  He put a hand to his temple. “I really should have killed him.”

  13

  “His Grace, the Duke of Hartleigh.”

  Excited whispers buzzed through the room, setting Cliff’s teeth on edge.

  Not again.

  His stomach churned with the need to flee. Bright electric lights glittered overhead, illuminating him for the entire ballroom to see. Heads of men and women alike turned toward him. Even the musicians in the orchestra had glanced in his direction. He was a curiosity. A shiny bauble in the center of this shiny room.

  A pair of stalwart women flanked him, cutting off any escape route.

  “Keep smiling,” the duchess urged.

  “Remember the quest,” Sabine hissed.

  The quest. The Heart of Ra. He could do this. He’d do it for Lola. Anything for Lola. He forced a smile and allowed the duchess to lead him around the room, meeting so many people that faces began to blur together.

  “Hartleigh. Good to see you again.”

  Cliff nodded at the man who had spoken. Blond, perfect suit, drinking brandy. “Barton, right?”

  “Indeed.” Barton lifted his drink. “Ready for that game of billiards yet?”

  “Afraid not. I’m supposed to be mingling.” I need to be mingling. Sabine needs time to find the pot. And smash it open, if it’s anything like last time.

  Barton laughed. “You’re not seriously wife-hunting, are you? Have you given up on the pirate mistress? I thought I saw her walk in with you.”

  “Miss Diebin isn’t my mistress and I don’t keep track of her whereabouts.”

  Barton’s hand clamped down on Cliff’s shoulder. “You’re a terrible liar, old chap. Anyone can see you’re smitten with her.”

  “She’s a friend,” Cliff said. Again. “Excuse me. I should go, uh, wife-hunt. As one does. You know, duke and all that.”

  Barton only laughed.

  Cliff did his best to throw himself into the role of heiress-hungry nobleman. He spoke as little as possible. Taciturn duke was better than mad duke, and as long as he was polite and didn’t try to dance, he thought perhaps he could pull this off. He had only two goals: don’t make a scene and give Sabine enough time to find the next clue.

  He wished he knew where she was right now. She’d vanished during the agonizingly long introductions, and he’d been watching for her reappearance ever since. He couldn’t understand how the rest of the party wasn’t murmuring about her absence. An image of the fantastic, bright green dress she’d worn tonight was burned in his mind, and he’d yet to see any other gown in the room that could compare. Long-sleeved and high-necked like all her clothing, it molded to her athletic torso, and the snug, black breeches underneath the short skirt had him once again fantasizing about having those legs wrapped around him.

  “Shall we take a tour of the conservatory instead?”

  Cliff’s attention snapped back to his companion. “Uh…”

  “We don’t have to,” Miss Willingham said. “But I noticed that a look of panic flashed across your face when more dancing was announced.”

  “Yes.” He crooked his arm to escort her. “The conservatory sounds nice.”

  She was, as everyone had said, an astonishingly beautiful woman. More than that, she was amiable, unpretentious, and intelligent. An absolutely perfect duchess. A good stepmother for Lola, even. Marrying her would be entirely logical and could potentially solve all of his problems.

  And he felt nothing. Her hand on his arm was just a hand. Her smile didn’t cause a flutter in his chest. He had no interest in finding out her favorite things, hearing about her childhood, or even discovering what her perfect lips tasted like. He wanted to hand her off to whatever titled man was next in line and go back to treasure hunting. Maybe he had gone mad.

  The conservatory door swung closed behind them. Miss Willingham released him and began to walk on her own through the greenery.

  Tropical plants Cliff had never seen before hung from the ceiling and sprang up from
the ground, their leaves and branches tangling together and clogging up all but the narrowest paths. The heat was oppressive. Cliff tugged his necktie loose before remembering that he was supposed to look formal and aristocratic tonight. Oh well.

  He followed Miss Willingham, for lack of anything better to do. They were deep in the bowels of the massive greenhouse when she whirled around suddenly.

  “Will you compromise me?”

  “What?” Cliff took an involuntary step backward.

  “Oh, you don’t have to do anything too terrible. Being caught alone here with me might be enough. Perhaps we could fake a torrid embrace?” She tugged on the top two buttons of her bodice. “I can rumple my clothing enough that it looks as though we were kissing madly.”

  “Look, Miss, uh, Willingham, you’re a lovely girl, but, um, I really…”

  “You don’t have to marry me.”

  Cliff’s brows drew together. “What?”

  “You compromise me. Or propose, if you like. We let people think that we have been inappropriate together. News will go out that we intend to marry. Then you jilt me or I refuse you. Either one. The scandal is immense and I beg my parents to send me to India where no one will have heard of my disgrace.”

  “O-kay. Why India?”

  “For this.” She gestured at a rather ordinary-looking green bush. “Tea. I want to grow tea. I’ve been studying tea processing and cultivation since I was thirteen years old.”

  “Oh.” He took another step backwards, caught his foot on a plant, and toppled into the foliage. “Look, I, uh…” He staggered to his feet, brushing dirt from his trousers. “I applaud your desire to strike out on your own, but I really can’t…”

  The conservatory door banged open. Cliff turned in that direction, even though he couldn’t see the door through the tangle of plant life.

  “I’m certain they went this way.”

  The duchess. Fuck. He started for the door, Miss Willingham close on his heels.

  “I know he’s a bit unrefined, being an American and all,” the duchess continued, “but he truly ought to know better than to go off alone with a young lady.”

  Cliff turned sharply, hoping to veer into a corner and hide until he could slip behind the newcomers and escape, but as he turned down the next path, he came face-to-face with Lord Barton.

  Barton’s laughing eyes surveyed Cliff from head to toe. He saluted Cliff with his drinking glass. “Well, well, well. Dirt on your trousers, necktie unfastened, a bit of something green in your hair. Having a tumble in the jungle, were you?” He looked past Cliff to Miss Willingham. “And with an heiress, too. You don’t waste any time, do you?” He shook his head and made a tutting noise. “What will your pirate friend think, I wonder?”

  Cliff’s hands balled into fists. He would punch Barton in his smug-mouthed face if that was the only way out of this greenhouse. Let Miss Willingham deal with the repercussions of her own ridiculous plan.

  “What on earth is going—” The duchess’ words were cut short by an ear-splitting crack.

  An instant later, one of the glass panels in the conservatory roof erupted in a shower of tiny shards. Without a second thought, Cliff flung himself atop Miss Willingham, shielding her from the falling pieces.

  Men and women alike screamed as a group of black-clad burglars dropped from the sky, their eyes hidden behind bulbous goggles. Barton took a swing at one of them, missing entirely and nearly knocking himself down.

  “Dammit, you made me spill my brandy,” he grumbled, gulping whatever was left in the glass.

  Cliff nudged Miss Willingham toward the door. “Run,” he whispered. “Stay low. I’ll try to keep them occupied.” He climbed to his feet, looking for something—anything—he might use as a weapon.

  Barton threw another ineffective punch, though this one at least landed. “A little help here, Hartleigh!”

  Three of the invaders whirled to look at Cliff. With their matching clothing and dark lenses hiding their expressions, they looked like mechanical monsters stomping toward him.

  “That one’s the duke!” one exclaimed in an entirely human voice.

  They leapt at him, crushing him between them and twisting his arms until he cried out in pain.

  “We got him! Let’s go!”

  One of the side windows exploded, and the men dragged Cliff toward the sudden opening. He twisted and kicked, trying to free himself, or at least hurt one of them, but they were built of solid muscle, and each small blow he landed earned him twice what he had dealt.

  “Hartleigh!” The duchess’ panicked voice rang out behind him. “No!”

  Cliff got his head around just enough to see her racing toward him, a potted plant in hand. She hurled it at one of his assailants, then jabbed at another with a garden spade.

  “Let him go, you bastards!”

  “That must be the pirate wench!” one of the kidnappers declared. “Grab her, too!”

  Another man dropped from above, landing behind the duchess and seizing her.

  “No! Help!” she shrieked, thrashing in his grasp. “Luella!”

  The thug clamped a hand over her mouth and dragged her toward the shattered window. Cliff and the duchess locked eyes. He was certain the terror he saw in hers would be reflected in his own.

  Lola! My baby!

  What if he never made it back to her? What if they killed him? What would happen to her?

  As his unknown enemies dragged him out into the darkness, he offered up a final plea.

  “Sabine! Help me!”

  14

  Hartleigh would love this.

  Sabine turned the probably-not-ancient-Greek pot on its pedestal, examining it from all sides. The images were hilariously gruesome. On one side, a surgeon held up a severed leg with enormous, stylized drops of blood dripping from the end. Opposite, a teacher stood behind a sliced-open corpse, his arms lifted in a gesture of oration. She could understand why the hospital patients may have found it unpleasant, but the affected poses and unrealistic gore simply made her laugh.

  Maybe once I find the note I can bring Hartleigh here to take a look. He’ll get a good laugh.

  She let her hands fall from the pot. Why was she thinking about the duke instead of doing her job? He had his task, she had hers. This was about the treasure. It wasn’t some lark and she wasn’t here to laugh with a friend. Business.

  Pirates don’t have partners.

  He’d gotten under her skin with his blunt words and his pretty smile and that bit of mystery she couldn’t quite puzzle out. Did he really think he could run away from everything? Why did he want to help her? Who was he, really?

  Sabine had always liked a good mystery. It was thanks to Sherlock Holmes, after all, that she could read, write, and speak fluent English.

  She lifted the krater from the pedestal and set it on the floor, reaching inside and feeling for paper, debris, or irregularities in the vessel itself. The very bottom of the pot had a spongy texture and was softer than the walls around it. She found a crack with her fingernail and pried. A section of the bottom shifted slightly. Perfect.

  Pointing her torch into the interior and using her dagger, she removed the soft covering to expose the true bottom of the pot. A folded slip of paper lay waiting for her. She opened it up and read it.

  Second slot receives wheel number one. The next step can be found inside the Helmet of Einar, which I have donated to the Illyrian Institute for the Education of Exceptional Young Women in the Swiss Alps.

  Switzerland. Dangerously close to Redbeard’s territory. It couldn’t be helped, though. She’d sit down with Nicole and make a plan for getting in and out. If necessary, they could take a wide path and come up from the south.

  Sabine returned the pot to its place and adjusted it until it looked more-or-less as it had when she had found it. She would have to say thank you to Dr. Willingham. His confiscation of the artifact had made her job remarkably easy. She started back toward the ballroom, her step light and a smile on her
face. Hartleigh would be pleased when she arrived to rescue him from his duties. Perhaps they would dance again after all.

  An unexpected noise made her slow, cocking her ear to listen. A commotion rumbled in the distance. The high scream of a woman cut through the jumble of sounds.

  “Dammit!” Sabine swore in English. She should never have termed this mission “easy.”

  She broke into a run, flying into the ballroom to find the guests standing like statues, looks of fear and confusion on their faces. Hartleigh was not among them. Sabine slalomed through the flabbergasted crowd, heading for the screams and shouts beyond.

  The conservatory was a riot of confusion. Men and women pushed and shoved, trying to get through the doors as goggle-faced robbers tore valuables from their persons and their clothing. Sabine yanked one man out of the way, threw an elbow up to crush an intruder’s nose, and forced her way into the greenhouse.

  “Hartleigh!” Good God, how was she supposed to find him in this mess of vegetation? “Cliff! Where are you?”

  She kicked another robber and plowed through a bed of ferns, aiming for the center of the room where the glass roof had been destroyed.

  “Cliff!” she shouted again.

  Goddammit, why did he always seem to stumble into danger? This should have been easier and safer than looting the convent in France. Instead, they’d run smack into a well-organized gang of house-breakers.

  A blond man holding an empty drinking glass and weaving slightly stepped into her path. Sabine skidded to a stop. “I recognize you. Where’s Hartleigh?”

  He waved a hand. “Dukenapped. I tried to fight them off, but…” He shrugged. “You want to pay his ransom, Pirate Girl?”

  “Pirate?” One of the robbers raced toward her. “If you’re the pirate, who did they take?”

  Sabine grabbed the arm of the drunken lord, spinning him into the grasping hands of her pursuer. He hollered, but she didn’t bother trying to make sense of his cry. She had a duke to rescue.

  A rush of chilly air revealed the shattered wall before Sabine’s eyes found it through the maze of flora. She leaped a bush, running for the manufactured exit.