Well, Thea’s astonished expression and the shooting pain of Randolph’s knuckles against his jaw.
Chapter Two
The damp air within the Dowager Duchess of Wynchester’s carriage clung to the insides of Thea’s lungs like wet herbs to an apothecary’s mortar. Emma—the dowager duchess and the stepmother Wynchester derided—held Thea’s hand. Lavinia sat opposite, biting her lip and glancing out the window.
…Not that there was anything to see. The walls surrounding Wynchester’s London residence blocked both light and view. Thea wagered that even from John Coachman’s perch, one would not be able to see over the towering bricks.
“This is a prison,” Thea said, “not a home.”
“Well,” Lavinia hesitated, “the better to confine Eustace, right?”
“There is that,” Thea replied.
The farce of Wynchester’s dramatic departure had not been the worst part of the prior night. After most of the soiree guests had taken their leave, Eustace had appeared. And, as Thea had expected, carnage followed.
As of this morning, Sophia’s house had witnessed not one, but two violent deaths—Sophia’s father three years past and, last night, her half-sister. That both her father and half-sister had been ruthless spies hardly mitigated the horror.
Thea shivered. She’d known Eustace was bad, but just as Sophia’s sister Helena was about to reveal the identity of the mercenary Kasai, Eustace had shot Helena through her heart. According to him, he’d shot her in defense of himself and those present.
“Has anyone told Wynchester that Eustace is alive?” the dowager asked.
Thea exchanged a look with Lavinia. “I am uncertain.”
“Mr. Harrison promised to break the news,” Lavinia explained, “but not until he was certain how the Privy Council wished he and Randolph to proceed with their investigation of Eustace’s past. The majority of the Council is inclined to believe Eustace’s story that Helena—Sophia’s sister—had been his jailer. According to Eustace, Helena had been working with the Under Secretary on a treasonous plot to give East India Company control of Parliament and use the Company’s armies to strip the Monarchy of power.”
“Heavens,” Emma breathed.
“The King,” Lavinia continued, “dissolved Parliament in March, primarily based on the failure of Fox’s East India Bill, so the possibility of a wider conspiracy cannot be dismissed.”
“Conspiracy or none,” Thea said, “last night, Eustace committed murder.” Murder without remorse.
“When I heard the shot, I thought we’d lost Sophia.” Lavinia winced as she curled in her shoulders. “If only Lord Randolph had been a moment sooner, Sophia’s sister would have been able to reveal the identity of the horrible Kasai.”
“I don’t need her proof,” Thea said darkly. “I know Eustace. If he has not been playing the part of the bloodthirsty mercenary, he is intimately involved. Power is Eustace’s passion.”
Lavinia turned to the dowager. “The Privy Council is inclined to believe that the Under Secretary was the one playing the part of Kasai—abetted first by Sophia’s father, then by her sister. Eustace claimed he had been their unwilling accomplice.”
“Was there any proof of his claims?” Emma asked.
“In part,” Thea reluctantly admitted. “Helena carried stolen documents. They indicate the Under Secretary met frequently with Company directors under the cover of a brothel, but there is no mention of Eustace.”
“Did the Under Secretary confess?” Emma asked.
Thea shook her head no. “He is missing.” The image of Sir Bronward Layton collecting her pile of gold coins flashed in Thea’s mind—but the Under Secretary and his nephew were not first in her concern.
“Poor Sophia,” Lavinia added, “Randolph’s superiors have instructed them to act as if another murder in her family was just a terrible accident.”
“Sophia will have her justice,” Thea vowed.
“I hope so,” Lavinia sighed and looked out the window, “but with the Privy Council hesitant to charge the duke’s only heir…”
Thea silenced inward bells of alarm. “I keep hearing Eustace’s warning, ‘Now you are the devoted wife,’” she mimicked Eustace’s tone, “‘Wynchester may have chosen you the last time, but you have since betrayed him. He will choose differently this time.’”
She feared the truth behind Eustace’s words. Wynchester had sent his brother to India after Eustace had accused Thea of theft. His brother’s death had weighed heavily on Wynchester and the joy of discovering Eustace was alive could blind Wynchester to the man’s faults and to her presence. Would Wyn ultimately choose Eustace over her?
She bit down on her lips. It was her responsibility to make certain he did not. If Wynchester remained as passionate as he’d been last night, she had a chance.
…But the infuriating man shunned passion. When he sobered, he’d be mortified by the way he’s acted and would likely withdraw back into his rock-like shell of reserve.
Emma patted Thea’s hand. “Your duke has more of his father’s passion in his veins than he will ever admit. The best of his father, in my opinion.” Emma sat back against the cushions. “Eustace will never understand what drives his brother.”
Thea snorted. “Do you think I understand what drives Wynchester?”
Emma’s eyes softened. “I believe you could, if you put your mind to the task.”
Thea fluffed a ruffle from her petticoat. “And I believe you have misplaced your faith.”
“Remember, my dear, you are not returning to the man you left. You have both changed…for the better and, I hope, the wiser.”
Of all the names Thea could have used for her current state, wise was not one. Was it wise to return to a husband one had left for good reason, even if there could be a plot against his life? Was it wise to have been just the smallest bit deflated after Randolph had rescued her last night? Not at all, but she fortified her resolve none-the-less. Even if she held conflicting feelings for Wynchester the man, she would not allow Eustace to win.
“Well,” Emma sighed, “at least Eustace cannot claim you have returned to Wynchester simply because you bear him malice. You are returning with your pride intact, thanks to the rouse you and your fellow Furies concocted.”
“Yes,” Lavinia agreed. “And should you have need, send word and the Furies will be by your side.”
Thea smiled weakly. “It’s the only thought that gives me strength.” For so long, the Furies had been inseparable—sharing each others triumphs, soothing each other’s pain. Already, she missed Lavinia and Sophia. She would miss Emma, too, since she, Lavinia, and Sophia had been living with Emma since the trouble at Lavinia’s house. “After the way Wynchester acted, I will need all the strength I can muster.”
Emma smothered a smirk. “Lavinia told me Wynchester came to your soiree a few sheets in the wind…”
“A few sheets?” Thea lifted her brows. “Wynchester was dead drunk.”
Lavinia winced. “I daresay the duke will be a bit worse for his wear this afternoon.”
“Really?” Thea replied with intoned sarcasm. “He humiliated himself in front of men he believes beneath him. I sent him home in a coach with orders for all drink to be locked inside the cellar. I will pay for both, I am sure.”
“Do not anticipate the worst,” Emma said, “or you will encourage the worst to happen.”
“So,” Thea quipped, “how do you propose I proceed?”
Emma grinned. “Start with, Good afternoon, Wynchester. Move on from there.”
From there. Memory pressed the ghost impression of Wyn’s hand against her chin. He’d been flushed. A fine sheen of sweat had wet the hair at his temples. Why did he have to be so terribly tall—and intense?
Her heart stopped along with the carriage.
She was no young miss to be dazzled by the presence of a duke. She’d earned her own title after all—Duchess Decadence—even if it was a title of infamy. This time, they would meet as equals
. She would protect him, yes, but the duke would also learn he had met his match.
Show me, will he? Well, I will show him, too.
Two liveried guards opened the massive iron gates. They entered a cobblestoned courtyard anchored at the center by a marble statue of the goddess Diana with bow drawn and aimed at entering guests. Thea shivered. Clearly, the duke’s intent was to awe and terrify…and he had spared no expense.
“Intimidating, no?” Emma asked.
“Almost as much as the man himself,” Thea turned to the dowager. “Are you sure you cannot remain here as well? Clearly, Wynchester has room to spare.”
Emma’s smile was kind, but resolute. “You know my presence can only impede your progress.” She cupped Thea’s cheek. “I see courage in you. Courage that has long been missing.”
“What do you see in him?” she asked.
“Heart,” Emma answered.
Thea frowned. “That, I cannot believe.”
“I loved his father, remember? I was his mistress and a well-known madam, and yet he married me. He risked much to have me by his side.” Emma sighed. “Wynchester would do the same for love, if he believed the sacrifice would be accepted.”
The skin on Thea’s neck tingled. No, you never asked me to sacrifice for you.
“I am,” she said defensively, “not yet convinced he has a heart.”
“Are you not?” Emma asked.
“He was aloof the whole of our marriage,” she said. “And after I left, he forbade his close friends and staff from speaking with me.”
Emma’s expression remained tolerant and kind. “What he did not know could not hurt him. And the farther apart your worlds, the less likely he was to do something shocking or maudlin. Something like he did last night.”
“Ah,” Lavinia murmured with sudden understanding.
Thea pushed aside a flare of hope. “What if you are wrong, Emma?”
“For the sake of your marriage,” Emma asked, “why not believe I am right? Besides, he did not do the one thing that could have shut down the Furies in a day.”
“What was that?” Lavinia asked.
“Thea’s credit, dear. He did not blacken her name with creditors—and he could have.”
“But coverture—” Lavinia started to argue.
“Yes, I know he was legally responsible for her debts. His rank protects him from Bailiffs but if he had let it be known he did not wish credit to be extended to his estranged duchess, who would have challenged him?” Emma angled in her seat to directly address the duchess. “Trust me. You wield more power with the duke than you believe, though you must never let him see how much you know. A man in love is a vulnerable thing.”
Thea had shivered at the word Bailiff, but the word love brought on a scowl. “In love?” She shook her head. “It will be a cold day in hell before I believe Wynchester harbors any true affection for me.”
Emma’s eyes turned sad. “I will admit his actions speak in whispers as opposed to shouts. Yet I believe there is cause to anticipate your future happiness.”
Thea grimaced. “I did not know you were of such a romantic nature, Emma.”
“I knew she was,” Lavinia said. “And I know you have a romantic nature, too.”
Thea snorted. “I haven’t a romantic bone in my body.”
…
The fifth Duke of Wynchester managed to reach the end of his estate account reconciliation despite the incessant pounding in his head. He scratched the final number into his ledger and dusted the page with pounce. A quick twirl in the sand well cleaned the nub and he returned the shaved quill to its box.
His stewards—he had more than one—kept records for various properties, but only he had a master record. He kept that record because there were times when his quill’s soft scratch was his only comfort. Black numbers in neat lines never failed to restore a sense of order and continuity. And today, over all other days, he needed comfort.
He leaned back in his chair and templed his fingers under his chin. As had become his habit in the past few weeks, his gaze settled on Thea Marie’s portrait. Unlike his companion portrait hanging on the wall—and everything else in his pristine mansion—a thick layer of dust coated Thea’s portrait’s frame. No servant had dared touch the thing from the moment he’d ordered the workmen handling the colossus to drop that—now. He’d failed to give further direction, so they’d left her on the floor. And there she had stayed for four years. Duchess Decadence. The beautiful, haughty, infamous gambler who was both his bane and his wife.
He stood, rounded his desk, and leaned in for a closer inspection. Her fathomless eyes—the painter had perfectly matched their ocean-cold hue—stared out from the canvas as if daring him to touch. He put up his hand, letting his fingers hover just a breath away from the line of her chin.
Thea Marie…
He curled his fingers into a fist and pressed his knuckle against his lips. He hated the way his heartbeat tripped at the mere thought of her name. This past winter, he had almost convinced himself the yawing wound she’d ripped open when she left had sealed.
Then, a month or so ago, he’d discovered Harrison, the former MP of one of his districts and his most dependable friend, had been seen with Thea at a Fury soiree. Jealousy had bubbled up in a frothing stew of need and frustration. The mad broth remained, even after Harrison explained that he had gone to the soiree in search of his former love, Lavinia.
Unfortunately, that had been just the start of his current trouble.
Later—after he’d called a militia and rushed with them to disburse an angry crowd trapping Thea Marie in her friend’s home—he had found Thea as coolly aloof as ever and he’d snapped. He’d demanded she come home and then he’d kissed her like no lady should ever be kissed—savage and raw, displaying an utterly contemptible lack of restraint. He’d poured everything they’d lost into that kiss. And to his shock, she’d kissed him back, every bit as angry and demanding.
When they’d broken apart, they’d barely been able to look at one another.
He had agreed to let the Furies stay with the dowager duchess and thought that after such a show, chances of her return were low indeed.
Then, he’d received her wager.
He’d been enraged. He? Go to her den of libertines and dandies so she could openly mock their marriage? He’d downed a drink. He? Decide between a summer-long reunion and divorce—over a toss of dice? He’d been scandalized. He’d had another drink. Then, he’d realized her elegant, fine fingers had actually written the word divorce. He’d been desolate. He’d downed a third. By the time Harrison had arrived, his outrage had muddied to desperate need.
…Need only Thea Marie could answer.
He’d lost control of his sentiments and, right now, the libertines and dandies who frequented her den were snickering at him over their afternoon tipple. He had no one but himself to blame for the outrageous scene sure to be sketched and hung in printer’s windows, preserved for all time like the sketches poking fun at his father’s hasty second marriage.
He rubbed his forehead and returned to his seat. Using the still-feathered tip of his quill, he dusted away the pounce and then he closed his now-dry ledger.
He’d been overcome, that was all. Overcome by lust, and need, and sentiment. Overcome when he should have met her challenge with the single command: enough. Instead, he’d trotted to her side and accepted her wager. He was still uncertain exactly how he had won, but he had and Thea Marie was due to arrive home within the hour.
Before she arrived, he resolved to do away with the sentiment lurking in his heart’s shadowy corners, licking its bloody paws with satisfied glee. If he meant to maintain his dignity—not to mention his reason—they would both have to abide by guidelines. He took a deep breath, withdrew a fresh sheet of paper, dipped quill into inkwell, and began to write.
One, she would treat him with respect.
Two, she would defer to his rules.
Three—he squinted at the portrait until
inspiration dawned—she would not speak unless spoken to. That would ensure she could not twist his wor—
“Ah, the crisp scratch of your quill.” The smooth, feminine voice that interrupted his thoughts was thick with something he could not define. “Dare I ask who you are adding to your list of enemies?”
“Perhaps,” he crumpled up his rules and tossed them into his drawer, “I was crossing off a name.”
He slipped his quill into the sand well. Internally, he brushed away the dark edges of his thoughts in much the same way the sand absorbed the excess ink.
“Indeed?” Her gaze met his, and then flicked to the portrait and back. “I hadn’t thought you capable of reversal.”
“I am glad my talents are not confined to those you imagine.”
A ghost smile hovered on her lips. She sauntered past his desk and to the portrait, studying herself eye-to-eye.
“The painter was in love with me, you know.”
Yes. He remembered.
“Weren’t they all?”
She eyed him askance. “Not all.” She turned back to the portrait. “He was a young man, I believe. Belgian. No, Swiss.”
Dutch. The painter had been lowland Dutch. With delicate features that caused the maids to giggle, a nasal but compelling voice, and an all-too-familiar way of speaking to his duchess.
Breathe.
He watered down the memory of the painter. Instead, he focused on the woman within reach. Thea’s black hair had been coiled into glossy ropes and pinned in piles atop her head. How many pins had it taken to tame her unruly hair? One hundred, maybe? He imagined pulling them out, one by one, and watching those ropes fall well past her slender waist.
“He was so athletic and fine,” she said, “and, she, so very young.”
“Duchess,” he spoke with a rough edge, “can we stop discussing the painter?”
She swiveled. “I had.”
She stood side by side with her younger self. The disparity was a blow to his gut. For the first time, he truly understood just how young she’d been. All it had taken was three years with him and three days alone, in the midst of the riot that had decimated London, to stamp out the innocence depicted in the portrait. He swallowed. Roughly.
Duchess Decadence Page 3