Worth of a Duke

by K. J. Jackson

  They had only crossed paths that once when Rowen tried to buy his horse, but Vutton clearly did not remember Rowen from those many years ago.

  “Your lordship, we apologize for the intrusion on your evening,” Luhaunt said. “I am Lord Luhaunt. We have not met, but I believe you chatted with my sister at the Vaudhill ball two nights ago, a Miss Emily Rallager?”

  Vutton shook his head, slightly confused. He refused to open the door more than a crack. “Miss Rallager? I am not sure.”

  Luhaunt feigned embarrassment. “Oh, I apologize. My sister led me to believe there was a deeper connection between the two of you. But I understand there was quite the crush there and you may not remember her. In which case, that answers my question.”

  Vutton slipped the door a bit more open. “Possibly. Possibly I remember our conversation. What was it you wanted to speak with me about?”

  Rowen hid a smirk. Luhaunt’s imaginary sister had come in handy more than once throughout the years. And she was still as useful as always.

  “Frankly, Lord Vutton, I am here to appraise you. My sister is attached to an enviable dowry, and I am very protective of her. There have been attempts to compromise her by some unscrupulous men, so I am here to judge your worth. My sister can be…flighty in her choice of men.” Luhaunt solemnly shook his head. “But I fear if you do not even recall her I am wasting your time. I apologize for the disruption. But as an honorable man of society, I am sure you can understand my concern over my sister. Good eve.”

  Luhaunt nodded to Rowen, and they both turned to the stairs.

  The door swung open. “Please, Lord Luhaunt, wait. I do recall your sister, and I will be happy to answer your questions. I apologize that it took me a moment to remember her. There was indeed, quite the crush there. She is rather charming, if I remember correctly?”

  Luhaunt turned back to Vutton, wry smile on his face. “She is indeed.” He motioned to Rowen. “This is Mr. Hallton. We were on our way to the club and he graciously agreed to stop off on this meeting with me.”

  “Of course, enter.” Vutton stepped back into the entryway, ushering them in. “I apologize for the unusual welcome. I gave the staff the night off, as I was not expecting visitors this eve. Let us go to the drawing room.”

  Vutton showed them into the dark room, quickly fluttering about to light several lamps. There was little furniture—a sofa, a wingback chair, and a sideboard hosting a set of short glasses and a carafe. “Brandy?”

  “No, that will not be necessary,” Luhaunt said. “We do not have a great amount of time. A few quick questions should do.”

  “Please, sit,” Vutton said. “What is it you would like to know of me?”

  Rowen and Luhaunt sat on the sofa as Vutton went to the chair, perched on the edge in uncontrolled eagerness.

  “I will ask it outright, Lord Vutton,” Luhaunt said. “First, your estate, is it self-supporting, or are you in the market for an infusion of money by way of a wife?”

  Vutton coughed, stumbling at the question as he looked quickly back and forth between the two men. “The estate…the estate is self-supporting. The land does that.”

  Luhaunt gave him a reassuring smile. “Excellent. And you, would there be any untoward passions that you indulge in? Wine, women, gaming?”

  Vutton waved his hands exuberantly in front of him. “No, no. Nothing like that. I live a quiet life.”

  Luhaunt nodded, satisfied. “My sister, she said she spoke to you of art and you were very knowledgeable. It is a passion of hers.” Luhaunt made a show of looking around the room at the empty walls. “But I see no art here. Are you a collector?”

  “Art? Oh, why yes—”

  Vutton stopped as a woman in a simple dress, dazed, appeared in the doorway of the study. He jumped to his feet, going to her.

  “Vutton, I heard voices,” the woman said, her eyes focusing on Vutton.

  Rowen stood.

  The woman looked just like Wynne.

  Rowen moved to the side to gain a view of her past Vutton’s back.

  It was unmistakable. Wynne, twenty years from now.

  “Just some visitors.” Vutton grabbed the woman’s elbow, guiding her into the hallway. “Go upstairs and wait, and I will be up shortly.”

  Shock waning, Rowen followed them. The woman had turned, walking away to the stairs.

  Vutton looked at Rowen, a pitying look on his face. “You must forgive my cousin; she is slightly addled.”

  Rowen pushed past him. “Violet?”

  The woman stopped, turning to Rowen. It took a moment for her glassy eyes to focus on him.

  “Violet?” Rowen asked again.

  She nodded, a sweet smile on her face. “I am Violet.”

  A hard board slammed into the back of Rowen’s head, sending him sprawling, hitting the wall below the staircase. He slid down the wall, hearing a scream and a sudden scuffle.

  Forcing his eyes open against the sucking blackness, Rowen fought to keep consciousness. Landing on the floor, he managed to turn, only to see Luhaunt struggling against Vutton in the drawing room. Blades were flashing, and Rowen could not tell which blade belonged to which hand.

  Scampering forward into the room, Rowen grabbed Vutton’s ankle, yanking it and sending Vutton flailing. Through the blackness still threatening to overtake him, Rowen saw a blade slice through Luhaunt’s arm. Luhaunt unfurled a string of expletives.

  Vutton hit the floor, and Luhaunt’s fist flew into his face, knocking him out cold before Rowen could find his own feet.

  Luhaunt stepped over Vutton, getting to Rowen in the doorway and grabbing his arm.

  “Are you going down?” Luhaunt asked.

  Bent over, hands on his knees, Rowen lifted his fingers to the back of his bloody head. “No, it was hard, but not that hard. I will be fine now that I am upright.” Rowen nodded to Luhaunt’s bloody forearm. “Is that deep?”

  “No. Rope? You have this while I find some?”

  “I do.” Rowen nodded, looking into the drawing room. “Shit—no.”

  Violet was standing over Vutton’s head, lit oil lamp clasped in her hands. She lifted the lamp up above her forehead, same sweet smile on her face.

  Seeing her intention, Rowen started toward her, but before he even got a step, Violet smashed the lamp down onto Vutton’s head.

  Flames exploded.

  Rowen skirted the blazes coming from the scattered oil, grabbing and dragging Violet out of the room. He got her to the front door while Luhaunt pounded out the flames on her skirt.

  The sweet smile remained on her face, eyes vacant.

  Rowen grabbed her shoulders, shaking her. “Violet. Listen to me. Wynne—your daughter—is she here?”

  Violet’s eyes drifted up to Rowen’s face. “Wynne?”

  “Yes. Wynne. Is she here?”

  For a second, it did not look like Violet understood a word Rowen was saying. But then she nodded. “Yes.”

  Rowen sucked in air, relieved, only to have to cough out the smoke that came in with it. The drawing room was quickly going up in flames. “Where? Where? I need to know right now.”

  She nodded again. “Upstairs. It is locked.”

  Rowen passed Violet to Luhaunt. “Get her out of here. Keep her safe from the house.”

  Luhaunt grabbed Violet around the waist. “Be quick. This place will not last long.”

  Rowen was bounding up the stairs before Luhaunt finished his words.

  The second level, Rowen tore through. Five rooms, all empty. And the smoke thickened in the hall.

  Seconds later, he kicked in door after door on the third level, all of them locked. Empty.

  That only left the servants’ quarters.

  Up a skinny staircase, his eyes stinging, the smoke was even thicker on this level. Rowen pulled his linen shirt up over his nose. The first door he got to was locked, and Rowen braced himself on the opposite wall, kicking it in.

  He dove forward, bending down below the cover of smoke to see into t
he room. Only slight light from the street lamps made it in through the window.

  Movement.

  He ran forward. “Wynne.”

  She sat in a huddle on the floor, her head coming up at his voice.

  “Rowe?”

  “Wynne, come. We have to get out of here.” He grabbed her arm, pulling her to her feet.

  “Rowe. Oh, God, Rowe. No.” Her hands clamped onto his arm. “I can’t. I can’t get out of here. It is a fire? You have to go. You have to leave me.”

  “What?” He dragged her toward the doorway, ignoring her words.

  A sudden painful scream, and she yanked from his hand, dropping.

  He flew back to her, sliding to his knees and gripping her shoulders. “Wynne? What? What is it?”

  “I am chained to the floor.” She coughed. “You have to go. You have to get out of here.”

  Rowen’s hands went down her body, down her legs to her ankles. His fingers found the cold metal clamping her in place. Quickly, he followed the heavy chain to the plate bolted to the floor.

  “Fuck.” His hand slammed onto the floor.

  Flames were starting to lick the hallway wall opposite the door.

  Rowen ran to the opening, slamming the door shut. Ducking the smoke, he ran back to the plate on the floor, pulling a blade.

  Wynne grabbed his upper arm, tugging.

  “Rowe. Please. You need to go. This place is burning. You need to get out of here.”

  “Hell, no, Wynne.”

  He slid to his knees by the plate on the floor, digging the blade into the wood next to it. He tried to wedge the plate upward. It didn’t move.

  “Fuck.”

  “Rowe—go. Leave, dammit. Go.”

  Tip of the steel digging in, he started scraping his way through the wooden plank, tearing it, splinter by splinter.

  Wynne crawled across the room away from him, coughing. “Rowe, you need to get out of here.” She dragged herself back to him, holding a glass jar. Stopping next to him, she smashed the glass on the floor. Hacking from the smoke, she picked up a chunk of glass and started to saw the best she could on the wood intersecting the line Rowen worked on.

  The glass squeezed out from Wynne’s hand several times, too slippery with blood and paint to hold.

  “Dammit, Wynne.” Rowen stopped his sawing for a moment, pulling out another knife and putting it in her hand.

  Both sawed at the wood, desperate.

  The thick smoke closed in on them, suffocating them closer to the floor.

  Furiously, they both hacked at the wooden planks, trying to break the plate free. But it was going too slow.

  “Rowe, you have to go.” Wynne’s sobs and coughing overtook her words. “Please. Do not die here. Do not die because of me.”

  Rowen grabbed her face, yelling over the crackling wood, the heat around them. “I am not leaving you, Wynne. Never. Do not waste your breath.”

  He dropped his hands, going back to the floor.

  Sawing. His muscles ripping. And then he felt the tip of his blade clear the plank.

  Covering his face with his shirt, Rowen stood, kicking downward with all his strength. The plank loosened, wood tearing.

  He dropped back to the floor. Wynne had collapsed, prone on the floor next to the plate, knife still in her hand.

  Dammit.

  He went to the next plank of wood. Sawing with a fury.

  With what Wynne had started, he got through the skinnier plank in short order.

  Standing, he kicked at it, and it broke free. Rowen went to his knees, wedging his hands under the wood attached to the plate, and yanked the planks, twisting them upward.

  Finally, luck. The wood, brittle, tore. Within a minute, he worked loose the clump of the two planks attached to the iron plate.

  Wynne free, Rowen looped the chain and plate over his arm and picked her up. The flames from the hall had already engulfed the door.

  He spun, going to the window. Shifting Wynne into one arm, he took his elbow to the window, breaking through the glass and middle pane. Tucking Wynne along his body, he ducked through the opening, landing on the slight slope of the roof.

  It took him precious seconds to orientate himself in the fog-smothered smoke that enveloped the house. He edged along cautiously, Wynne in his arms.

  Vutton’s house was on the corner, but Rowen knew it butted up tightly to the next townhouse on the block. He could tell by the dip when he got to the edge.

  Throwing Wynne over his shoulder, he jumped to the next roof. Feet sliding, he caught himself once his hand hit the roof’s clay tiles. He moved up to the nearest window, kicking it in.

  Within seconds, Rowen had Wynne down through the adjoining house and to the sidewalk by his carriage.

  Rowen laid her on the ground, stretching her flat on her back in the light of the flames consuming Vutton’s house. She was still limp.

  “Wynne, wake up.” Both of his hands went to her face, slapping her cheeks. It did nothing. “Wake up, Wynne. Wake up.”

  His hands ran down her body, desperate, checking for injuries he didn’t know of. Other than her bloody hand, she wasn’t bleeding anywhere else.

  Hell.

  He went back up to her head, capturing her face in his hands, pulling her limp body from the ground. “God—do not leave me, Wynne. Do not. You swore you never would. So wake the hell up, Wynne. Wake up.”

  Luhaunt’s hand landed on Rowen’s back, his voice soft. “Rowe. The smoke—it happens. I think…I think she is gone.”

  Hands shaking, Rowen set her head gently back to the ground, turning to slap Luhaunt’s hand away. “Shut the hell up—she’s not gone, Seb. She is not gone.”

  Luhaunt took a step backward.

  Rowen’s head went on Wynne’s chest, searching for a heartbeat. “Just wake the hell up, Wynne. Wake up. Please.” His voice cracked, broken. “You cannot leave me now, Wynne. Not when I just found you. I need you to wake up, Wynne.”

  “He is right.”

  Rowen looked up.

  Violet knelt, looking at Rowen, her hand going to Wynne’s forehead. “You are right. My daughter is not gone. Not yet. She will fight. She has always known how to fight, this one. She has her grandfather’s spirit.”

  The same smile as earlier still lined Violet’s face. But her eyes looked focused.

  Violet stood, looking down at her daughter’s prone body. “She will fight. She just needs a guide.”

  Rowen dragged his mouth to Wynne’s ear, his hand cradling her head as he pulled her up from the ground, crushing her to him. His voice went harsh, demanding. “Listen to me, Wynne, listen. You can do this. Just follow my voice. I am right here. Wake the hell up, Wynne. Take a breath. It does not need to be big. Small. Just a little breath. Tiny. That is all.”

  His palm pushed on her back. Hit her lungs. “Get these working. You can do this. Just a little breath, Wynne. One to start with. Just one. And then you can open your eyes.”

  Hand moving between them to her heart, Rowen pressed. “Your heart will beat. Your breath will come. Just fight it, Wynne, fight it. You can do this. You need to come back to me. You need to fight for me.”

  Rowen gripped her body even harder. “God, Wynne, please. You need to be in this life. You need to come back to me. To marry me. To bear our children. To die when we are old and you are in my arms. Not now, Wynne. God, not now. You need to do all of that in this life. This is where you need to do it, Wynne. This life. This one.”

  The tiniest shudder.

  He felt the breath start before Wynne’s body jerked. She sucked in air over his shoulder, only to be consumed by a fit of vicious coughing.

  It racked her body, her spasms fighting Rowen until he set her on the ground. She curled onto her side. For every breath she gasped, five soot-filled coughs heaved back out of her body.

  Minutes went on, but Rowen didn’t care. Wynne was moving. Her body convulsing in pain against the suffocating smoke in her lungs. But moving. Alive.

 
; Rowen patted her back through it, one hand on her shoulder, holding her as steady as he could against her body jerking to clear her lungs.

  When the hacking eased, her breath raspy, Rowen pulled her torso upright. Holding her shoulders for stability, he went in front of her to see her face.

  Still fighting against the wheeze in her breath, Wynne cracked her eyes at him. The whites of her eyes were stark against the soot covering her face.

  “My mother?”

  “She is here. Safe.”

  It took her dazed look several seconds to focus on Rowen.

  “You found me.” She had to hack the stilted words out.

  Rowen’s face broke into a wide smile. “I did. I got your message.”

  “You should have—” Her words stopped, her head dropping as a set of coughs overwhelmed. When she caught her breath, she looked up at him. “You should have left.”

  “I could not.” He slipped one arm around her back to hold her up, moving the other to her face. His thumb dragged across her cheek, smearing a clear line through the black soot. “Life or death, I am not leaving your side, Wynne.”

  She stared at him a long moment. So long, that fear suddenly clamped onto Rowen’s chest. What if she would not have him? What if he was too late? Her eyes—he could always read what was in her mind, her heart, but in that moment, he saw nothing. Could read nothing.

  The yelling, the fire across the street drew her attention, and her head swung, looking past the carriage at the fiery destruction. The fire now consumed the adjacent house as well.

  Her eyes went to her leg with the shackle. “The clamp…off.”

  Rowen’s head fell. “Yes. We need to leave this place.” He picked her up, going to the carriage.

  Luhaunt and Violet followed.

  { Chapter 28 }

  The dowager had made a huge fuss, demanding Wynne get into a bath—even before Rowen had a chance to get the clamp off her ankle.

  So Wynne was dunked, clamp and all, into a tub. Rowen hadn’t had the energy to fight the duchess, even though he knew Wynne needed the clamp off her leg.

  Waiting in the hallway, leaning on the wall, Rowen had heard her coughing through the ordeal, still hacking out all of the soot in her lungs. He had taken a moment to wash his own face and arms at a basin in the room across the hall, and had poked around until he found a simple white linen shirt to change into. As long as he heard Wynne’s coughs, he wasn’t overly worried.