Her Mystery Duke

by Blackthorne, Natasha

  “What is it you intend to do?”

  “I shall, in the easiest way, infect you with my disease.” His eyes set at half-mast as his gaze caressed her face, her bosom, her body.

  She quivered with revulsion.

  “You’re not really a beauty but you’ll do. I think I shall keep you here a couple of days, while David is gone. I shall make sure the infection is well set.”

  “But Isabella won’t allow you to do this.”

  He cocked his head. “Won’t she?”

  “No, she won’t.”

  “Ha! It was her idea to lure you here and for me to infect you.”

  Jeanne shook her head. “No, no, no, that can’t be true.”

  “But it is. I told you, I am no strategist, I am an opportunist. But Isabella is a wonderful strategist, among other things. She knows David cares for you. She knows the depth of his feeling probably better than he does himself. She’s like that. He longs to wed you and this she cannot allow to happen. If you give him a son, her son will never be duke.”

  Isabella had worked to gain her trust, to provoke her sympathy. She’d known her very well in order to do that. But she hadn’t come to realize how deeply Jeanne feared the mentally unstable or she would have known that Jeanne would never have come here today to talk with Thérèse without carrying a weapon.

  A small knife.

  Safely sheathed and tucked up her sleeve. She turned toward the window and saw the large tree, its branches swaying slightly in the breeze. The window was just large enough, she might be able to squeeze through it. She ran.

  The sound of his boots thundered on the floor behind her. It almost matched the cadence of her heartbeat.

  He caught her before she could reach the window.

  He dragged her head back. Her neck muscles pulled tight like violin strings and then he was pulling her across the room to a narrow bed that was pushed against the far wall. Her feet bumped along the floor. Involuntarily, she screamed with all her might.

  No, keep your wits.

  She fought back against the panic that clawing inside her skin. The knife. She slid it down her arm, the way she’d taught herself.

  She turned back and reached up, one deliberate if desperate arc, and slid the blade along his vulnerable neck. At the sensation of the sharp blade slicing along flesh, a quivering nausea gripped her.

  He jerked back and his grip slackened.

  Blood gushed from the slash mark. So much it seemed. Stunned at what she had done, she remained frozen.

  He put his hand to his neck then pulled it away and looked at the blood. He gave a small, miserable sounding moan. “God…blood!”

  His eyes jerked back and forth, as though he were giddy. He fell backwards, releasing her. His head hit the footboard of the bed with a hollow thud.

  He had fainted from the sight of his own blood.

  She ran to the door, flung it open, and flew down the corridor to the top of the stairs. She was leaving this house of insanity.

  She ran right into Isabella. The older woman’s face wrinkled with what appeared to be concern. She couldn’t be in collusion with Toovey. To think so was simply too incredible.

  “Toovey was in there—he’s gone insane,” Jeanne managed to say.

  But then, Isabella lunged at her.

  Jeanne stepped back, gripped the knife in her hand, and lifted it. “Don’t come near me.”

  “You little gutter slut! How dare you threaten me?” Isabella’s eyes shone wildly.

  The eyes of a madwoman. A house full of insanity. The only way Jeanne stood a chance of leaving here alive was to fell them, one by one. Fear fueled her blood.

  With a cry, she charged forward with a deadly, self-protective instinct.

  Isabella’s eyes widened, and her face turned alabaster. She jumped back and lifted her hands. “Please, mercy!”

  The terror in the other woman’s eyes froze Jeanne. She stepped back, shaking all over at the realization that of what she’d almost done. What she’d almost become. Red caught her eye. Her gloves splattered with Toovey’s blood.

  “Don’t show her any mercy. She deserves none.”

  Jeanne jerked her head to the left. Thérèse stood there, light from the vestibule window shining through her thin nightdress, revealing the emaciation of her petite frame. Her illness. Her nearness to death.

  In her shaking hand, she held a small pistol.

  “Wherever did you get that?” gasped Isabella

  “I have had it a very long time. Since I first knew I was ill, since I first knew what I would become. You want to hurt David.”

  “I don’t want to hurt David. I want to help him, to save him from making a dreadful mistake.”

  “You want to commit her to same hell I am consigned to, just so David cannot get an heir of her body. You have tried to make my life more of a hell than it already is.”

  “You little harlot! You were always a selfish, unprincipled tramp. You’ve been ungrateful for the things I have done. All my sacrifice.”

  “You’re evil. One less evil person in this world can only be a good thing. I hurt David deeply, and though no fault of my own, I have kept on hurting him, making his life harder than it ought to be. But I can commit one final act of love before I die.” Therese’s features became a hard, deliberate mask. Her hand steadied and she aimed.

  A spark. A flash.

  Bang!

  The sound resonated deep in Jeanne’s bones.

  And kept on vibrating.

  She whirled to look. There was a hole in Isabella’s forehead. A brilliant red splash marred the white wall. Shock made Jeanne’s legs weak. With effort she locked them. She glanced back at Thérèse. The madwoman had dropped the pistol and knelt on the floor. Tears streamed down her cheeks. “I have murdered my sister. My own flesh.”

  “You were protecting me.”

  “They will hang me. I cannot wait.”

  “Thérèse…what have you done?” Toovey was at Thérèse’s side.

  “I have seen justice done. I have protected my protector.”

  “This wasn’t about you. It had nothing to do with you.”

  “I had to do it.” Thérèse touched Toovey’s face. “Charles, do you understand?”

  “No.” He sobbed the word. “You didn’t need him. I would have kept you safe. Always.”

  He was gripping a handkerchief to his throat. It was soaked with bright scarlet blood. Jeanne knew it was a surface wound. Her knife had not gone that deep. Yet it looked horrific. He was clearly avoiding looking at Isabella.

  “We’ll call a physician for you, Lord Toovey.” Jeanne spoke in a calm tone. Calm with an edge of authority. She didn’t recognize her own voice. She didn’t even know where it came from. “I am sure David must know a way this can be kept quiet, if you agree that you’re no longer sane. That you must be confined for your own personal safety. For the safety of others.”

  He looked up at her with eyes full of malice. “There’s a dead noblewoman lying here. That can’t be hushed up.”

  Thérèse caressed Toovey’s cheek. “It is all right, my darling boy, I knew the price when I made my decision.”

  He shook his head, slow and purposeful. “No, no, no.” He stood. “You shall not pay the price. Let the Whitechapel whore take the blame. She shot Isabella, not you.”

  He came at Jeanne.

  Jeanne wielded the knife. “I am not afraid to use this!”

  He touched his neck and laughed. “Are you going to slice at me again?”

  Jeanne walked backwards until her back hit the wall. “I am warning you.” She felt behind her and moved along the wall. “I’ll stab it in your heart!”

  “You vicious little common whore. How dare you threaten me?”

  Her foot slid down. She’d reached the stairs. She took a quick glance down and put her foot on the first step.

  He was leery of her knife for he kept his gaze riveted on it as he moved slowly toward her.

  She kept going down th
e stairs, sideways, like a crab in slow motion. The humor of that registered in some part of her mind that was simply observing the situation. Always observing, even in a moment like this.

  Toovey was gaining.

  Her heartbeat increased, desperate energy charged her legs. She couldn’t help moving faster. Her ankle twisted and her feet crossed over each other. The stairs seemed to be rushing up to meet her. As she threw out her hands to brace herself, the knife flew and went tumbling down. Her hands landed, hard, on the step. But she kept on tumbling, just as the knife had. She saw the polished marble entryway gleaming in the sunlight.

  Clunk!

  Her forehead made hard contact with the floor.

  White shards of pain exploded inside her skull. Her teeth jammed together. She couldn’t see for a moment. Couldn’t move.

  She was caught, lying there, halfway off the stairs.

  Something locked about her ankle.

  “I have you now.” Toovey’s voice was quiet, calm.

  She kicked her legs. Howled with rage.

  He took both ankles. Her skirts fell back, exposing her limbs. He parted her legs.

  “This is as good a place as any to do the deed,” he said.

  “No, no! Don’t do this!” a faint voice cried out from above his head.

  Jeanne’s vision was slowly returning. She saw the ghostly white image of Thérèse at the top of the stairs, still crawling, as though her body was too weak to stand or move very fast. The act of shooting Isabella had apparently drained the invalid woman of all energy.

  “Be silent, Thérèse, I must do this. I will have my revenge on Hartley. Even you can’t stop me.”

  “I’ll hate you forever.” Thérèse sobbed loudly.

  Toovey’s grip slacked. He seemed to slump. “Try to understand my position for a change, my darling.”

  Jeanne kicked harder, more wildly. Her foot broke free. Her next kick hit his face and propelled her backwards, all the way off the stairs.

  He still had one of her legs in his grip. He held firm as his other hand touched the rising red swell on his face. “You bitch! Now you’ll pay!”

  Jeanne took a ragged, panting breath. Glinting metal caught her eye. She glanced to the right. There was her knife. She reached for it. Her fingertips just barely tickled its surface. She tried to inch nearer.

  His hold prevented it.

  She tried to stretch her legs, her body, her arm. Her fingertips made direct contact with the handle. One more stretch—

  Toovey yanked her closer toward him and away from the knife. “Let’s have this over with. It isn’t as though I find you all that appealing.” He took possession of her both her legs again then came down over her, pinning her with his larger, stronger body.

  Dread sank in Jeanne’s guts, desperation made her try to sit halfway up. The scene before her swirled. Dizziness overcame her, a nauseating, crushing pain in her skull. She was forced to lie back.

  She knew with all her being that she wanted to be David’s wife. She would do anything to be what he needed. She wanted to share his life. She wanted bear his children. But if Toovey did this…

  “I’ll have double the revenge now. They’ll sentence you to hang for Isabella’s murder. But the mighty Duke of Hartley will be able to influence them to commute the sentence. You’ll be sent to Australia, that savage land, and he will know that you will suffer all the agony and indignity of the pox in a place where he cannot help you or lessen your suffering in any way.”

  He tore at his clothes, breaking the threads that held the buttons on his outer fall. They popped and fell about the floor.

  “But then a fuck’s a fuck, isn’t it, Miss Darling of Wentworth Street?”

  Revulsion shuddered through her whole body. She couldn’t hold back a miserable moan. It was happening. There was nothing she could do.

  A rasp, like metal against metal sounded. The front door swung open and more light flooded the foot of the stairs.

  She let her head fall back weakly and registered the tall figure in a dark greatcoat.

  “David…” She rolled her head on the marble floor for she feared she was hallucinating.

  A sound of boots. A shadow passed over her. Toovey’s weight lifted off her. A dull thud sounded. She managed to lift her head in time to see David push Toovey to the wall.

  “I’ll break your fucking neck!”

  “Don’t…” She fell back to the floor. Her head hit with a bounce and pain electrified her skull like lightning. “Don’t David, it’s not worth…he’s gone insane. He has the syphilis.”

  Everything went black.

  Chapter Thirteen

  She was in a huge, scary forest. A yellow green miasma of churning nausea and agonizing pain lay on the path behind her. She had struggled to make her way through every clinging branch and jabbing, jagged stone. She had kept falling to her knees and retching on the ground. She tried to arise. Hands held her down. Ruthlessly. Relentlessly. She hadn’t even been able to see. But now she was coming out into the brilliant sunshine. The dirt was soft, warm powder under her feet, soothing all those aches and cuts. She could smile.

  Her eyes fluttered open.

  David looked down at her. His face was ashen and he was unshaved. Were they back in those first days in her garret? Was he ill?

  “My love.”

  My love. My love. My love.

  The words echoed in her mind.

  The bright sunlight made her eyes hurt. She shielded them with her hand at her forehead and wriggled her toes in the cushiony, damp grass. A soft, girlish giggle carried on the breeze. She looked up. Thérèse stood there, still petite and slender but healthy with roses in her cheeks and a wreath of daisies on her head.

  “You’re going to marry me, just as soon as you’re well and able.” David’s voice was part of her dream.

  Yes, she did dream of wedding him. Even if it couldn’t really happen.

  A touch on her arm. Papa was at her side—his gaze was so kind. He handed her a bunch of pretty violets. She put them to her nose and inhaled the haunting scent.

  “Braid them into your hair. For your wedding day,” Papa said, the wrinkles by his eyes making deep crinkles as he smiled.

  Oh, but wait. She had to tell David. First she had to tell him and then she could return to her dreams and frolic in the springtime sun.

  She opened her eyes again. “I will write the stories. The ones to draw attention to the plight of the insane.”

  She slipped down the well…

  * * * *

  David watched Jeanne slip back into unconsciousness with a crushing sensation in the center of his chest. The doctors couldn’t say if she would recover. She had apparently bled beneath her skull.

  On the road for his trip to Scotland, his carriage wheel axel had broken, necessitating a lengthy wait in a crowded coaching inn. Already in a foul mood over his quarrel with Jeanne and the prospect that they might really be at an end, he had sat in the public room, waiting for a private chamber to be readied.

  A young couple had drawn his attention. The man had a pronounced limp and a rather lost, almost dumb look in his eyes. His wife was most solicitous of him as they entered. What had struck him most deeply was her attitude of utter patience as they sat at a table and she spoon-fed him. Not a shade of resentment crossed her face. Not even once.

  A young wife should expect to have a strong husband with a commanding presence. Not someone who required her constant help and guidance.

  When he had asked her about her husband’s health, she had replied in soft, cheerful tones that he’d suffered an apoplexy from the high fever of measles. It had happened recently, only months before. The doctors were hopeful of further recovery. They were headed to his parent’s home in the country where wholesome air and plenty of sunshine might better aid his recovery.

  “And if he doesn’t recover, well, he is not only my husband but the man I love. I must accept and love him as he is now or what good is my love?”

 
; Alone in his private chamber, David had found her words rested on him uneasily.

  He’d prided himself on his own tolerance for others. But what good was his tolerance if it wasn’t great enough to allow him to love and accept Jeanne in the way she needed to be loved and accepted? It didn’t matter if she were to be nothing more than his mistress for the remainder of their days. He had to be happy with what she was capable of giving him. Hadn’t his father broken his mother by refusing to allow her to simply be as she was, to accept her in all her frailty?

  Once a carriage had been ready, he had turned around and returned to Jeanne’s house, ready to apologize. Ready to tell her that it didn’t matter if she wrote simple children’s stories, and it didn’t matter if she never felt strong enough to tour an insane asylum with him. He’d come to see that his tolerance meant nothing if it didn’t apply to the most important woman in his life.

  Improving the world at the personal level was just that. Personal. It meant loving those closest to one in the way they needed to be loved.

  But was it all too late? He would do anything if only she would live. He would give his own life if he could. She had to live. She had to!

  Impotent rage energized him. Just sprung from the chair and began to pace the chamber. He was so damned angry at himself. He should have seen how insane Toovey had become. He should have guarded against Isabella’s envy. He should have taken better care of Jeanne when he had the chance.

  He glanced back at the bed. She looked so pale. The bruise on her forehead was a splash of brilliant color against that pallor.

  Pain sliced through him, as though he’d been knifed in his guts. But no, she was too young to die, wasn’t she? Pressure in his throat nearly gagged him. He swallowed hard.

  Christ. She had suffered so much in her life. He had wanted to change her life. He had only begun to show her his love. To shower her with every luxury he could give her. To try and increase her happiness. Then he had become just as demanding as his father and put a wedge between them. He had left her alone and the wolves had come to tear her to shreds. Oh damn it all. Sweet, caring, giving Jeanne. Nausea gnawed into his stomach. He had hurt her. How could he have hurt her when he loved her more than his own life?