A Duke, the Lady, and a Baby

by Vanessa Riley

  He snuggled my waist as my fingers skirted his scars, smoothed his skin.

  There was no denying it. He was my beloved, and I was his.

  I hoped I was.

  “Patience, my plan will draw Markham out. Gantry’s made a fuss of me being in Town. Inviting my mother to a dinner for her friends at the end of the week at my town house should get ears buzzing. Everyone will think I’m there with Lionel, not here with a goddess at my beck and call.”

  Such words while I was on his lap, but I loved it. For the first time in a long time, I was me, just me. This me was for him.

  Those pretty eyes, clever and clear—I think he knew.

  “You still talk in your sleep, but this time I heard my name.”

  My cheeks were on fire. “Sorry. I hate that I’m such a talker.”

  “On the contrary. I’m rather happy you’re chatty. It helps me to know I’m doing things right, since you can’t bake bread and get that smoky hearth signaling the family is here, not until this is over.”

  He planted a kiss at the base of my throat, then his lips skimmed the sensitive skin of my neck that my chignon often covered.

  “See, I’d never know how that entices you, I think you whispered toes curl. I can’t think of more pleasurable interrogation to find secrets. No, I think I can.”

  I was wasting away, caught up in my fears, and he made fun. Trying to get up from the chair, I couldn’t. His hands had shifted, tickling me, touching me, driving me mad. I’d slipped down that steep banister of the heart, but I’d flown. I loved Busick.

  “Tell me. Wide awake, looking at me. What you think of us?”

  I wanted to confess and let him know I wanted his love, but I kissed him instead. My actions should confirm all he needed to know.

  His mouth took mine, which mirrored my hunger, a matching sense to please and to show the lessons we’d learned, the things we’d practiced. I knew he liked my hands on his chest, never on his shoulder or thigh.

  Surely, he knew I liked him holding me tight, so much so that I breathe Busick—a little sandalwood, a little sweet starch, and a tinge sassy rum.

  “I feel strong, Patience. I think we need to discuss some of the legal clauses in our marriage.”

  What? Lady Shrewsbury’s warning about reading paperwork stung the pit of my stomach.

  A screeching, whining noise sounded below.

  Busick put his hand to my lips.

  Then we heard a curse. A loud, foul Markham-said expletive.

  Running.

  Loud booming commands.

  Busick set me on my feet and pointed to his sword.

  I grabbed the weapon and showed him my father’s knife. It was a permanent fixture in my pocket.

  “Keep it. You stay here with Lionel.”

  “But I should go with you.”

  “I married you to keep you protected, not to risk your safety. Now, that’s an order. Stay put.”

  I wasn’t in agreement, but I saluted.

  “Oh. I intend to come back to finish this conversation. A man needs to let his wife know how much he loves her, but after he slays her dragon.”

  He tugged his shirt from the bedpost and slipped it on. Then, he took his sword and pushed his chair to the door.

  His crutch remained by the bed table.

  My son.

  Lionel was in the other room. I blew open the compartment door, scooped him up, and put him in the basket. Then we went back into the master bedchamber.

  At the side of our bed, I prayed like Busick to Jove, that my husband would be safe, that Markham wouldn’t hurt us anymore.

  I stared at the latch, forcing my mind to repeat what Busick said about loving me as I chastised my cowardly lips for not saying the same.

  CHAPTER 33

  THE DIARY TELLS ALL

  Patience had said she loved Busick as she slept by his side last night. It was something she murmured between her well-wishes for Lionel and ingredients for a bread recipe.

  Well, it sounded like bread.

  Obviously, he was very high in importance to be ranked with her delightful baking. The woman was everything he needed, and she wanted Busick as he was, standing or not. Once he slayed this ugly dragon, nothing would stop them.

  Their love was just beginning.

  Curses and marching sounded below.

  He looked over the balcony and saw the devil, old Markham, with flintlocks pointed at him. Busick rolled closer to the railing and clasped the newel post.

  “Bring the skunk up here.”

  “Repington, have your goons unhand me.”

  “That is a colonel and a lieutenant. The only goon in Hamlin is you. You’re trespassing.”

  Mrs. St. Maur came down from the third level halfway on those steep steps. “I heard noises.”

  “We have a burglar, ma’am. Go back to your quarters.”

  She curtsied and fled.

  “You’ve rid the place of Mrs. Jordan and already have a new wench. You’re so predictable.”

  “Well, I’ve always been popular. Unlike you, I don’t have to drug my women for friendship.”

  Half up the stairs, Markham struggled but couldn’t tug free. “What are you talking about?”

  “The belladonna you used on Nanny Kelly and on Mrs. Jordan. My friend Gantry had a long discussion with the butler-gardener fellow in the village. Seems the night Mrs. Jordan was sent to Bedlam, her eyes were yellow. A strange color for lovely topaz eyes. Did you think you could seduce her before locking her into Bedlam?”

  “I admit to nothing. Have these men release me. I came to get something I left.”

  Taking Colin’s diary from under his seat cushion, Busick held it high. “You mean this book?” He flipped the pages. “What is in this thing that causes you to burglarize Hamlin? You know trespassers can be shot on the spot.”

  Busick made an exaggerated show of dangling the diary. “This is Colin’s hand. It belongs to my ward. Bring the fool up here so I can show him why he’ll be jailed for trespassing, all for naught.”

  Jerking and pulling at the soldiers, Markham stomped onto the second-floor landing.

  Rolling backward so that the fiend would be led closer to the master’s bedchamber, Busick pushed at the wheels of his chair. He needed Patience to hear the next part of his plan. This was for her freedom.

  “You are an invalid. Lady Bodonel’s blather was right.”

  “A little back strain. I’ve been a little busy with my cousin’s widow.”

  “Disgusting. Colin would hate you for that, bedding his wife. The fool actually loved her. Was set to ruin what we worked for over a daft letter she wrote him. I know you are onto my scheme. You were at Piccadilly. You figured out the extortion plot from my diary.”

  The door to the master chamber was cracked open. Stay put, my girl. This is almost over.

  “The book is Colin’s.” He held the diary up at a distance Markham couldn’t grab. “See his handwriting?”

  “Some of the notations are Colin’s, but the rest is mine. It’s my book.”

  “Well, my cousin’s not here to say it’s yours. My statement stands. You burglarized for nothing.”

  “You know very well I’m telling the truth. You know I taught Colin to write when he was a lad. You should’ve told me you were light in your funds. That daft mother has bled you dry. I know you and your partner LaCroy are trying to weasel your way into my scheme.”

  Yes, she was his partner, his life. Busick turned the wheels a little more. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “You figured out Colin and I were extorting the gaming hell operator Sullivan. He’s been cheating the club, charging patrons a fee for shaving a few guineas here or there off their debts. That diary is the record of over a year’s worth of cheats summing to over thirty thousand pounds.”

  “Thirty thousand four hundred and twenty-six, to be exact.”

  Mrs. St. Maur’s voice boomed. She must be like Patience, loathe to follow orders.

  “Thank y
ou, ma’am, but I ordered you to withdraw into your room.”

  Markham sneered. “Belladonna makes women compliant. You should try it.”

  “And suicidal. Men, too. We both know Colin didn’t commit suicide. You killed him.”

  “What are you talking about? I loved him like a son.”

  “Colin wanted to end this gambling scheme. He wanted to be a better man for Mrs. Jordan and their babe to come. Her letter shook him, but it set him on a better path.”

  Markham shrugged, but the smirk on his face was proud, as if he relished his exploits being said aloud. “Repington, you don’t know what you are talking about.”

  “Mrs. Jordan interrupted a meeting with you, Sullivan, and Colin. She heard your threats and those of Sullivan’s but focused on Sullivan’s. She believed that you loved Colin too much to be serious that you’d kill him if he quit your scheme. But you and I know the truth. Colin was your pawn, and you murdered him.”

  “He was compliant. Then she started to control him. That foreign voodoo did it.”

  Holding his sword out, Busick moved closer. “You knew that if she ever repeated your threats, everyone would suspect you of murder, particularly since you claimed Colin died in the Thames in December, when it was frozen over. The handwriting changes to yours in July. July is when her last letter is dated. July is when you killed him.”

  “All we worked for. He was going to toss it for her. You’re here defending the woman from an invalid’s chair. Did the witch get to you, too?”

  “She did. She broke me wide open. I love her for it.”

  The door to the master chamber swung wide. Patience ran out waving her knife. “You, repugnant fool. Colin trusted you. You must’ve forged that suicide note. You troll.”

  “What is she doing here? Do you like bedding a crazed wh—?”

  The point of his blade sliced at Markham’s throat. He’d not use disgraceful language about Busick’s lady. “Yes, I do. Every minute of her rashness, her never following orders, her wonderful heart. Yes, she makes a very good wife.”

  Markham grasped at his neck and stepped backward. “You married the witch?”

  Hearing her advance, Busick moved in front of Patience, lowered his sword, and blocked her advance.

  “He killed Colin!”

  Markham broke free of the distracted guards. He started to run but then stopped midstep. “I’m on my last nickel. I’ve nothing.”

  He turned back. “Yes, the tea worked well on him. He walked right into the Thames searching for you and your boat to Demerara. The belladonna-laced tea just made you run and scream. Foul woman, you can’t even be drugged right.”

  Patience lunged again, Busick dropped his sword and caught her about the waist.

  “Another slap. It’s the least he deserves. Let me at him.”

  “He’s not worth it, Patience.”

  “I did enjoy you suffering with that suicidal letter. You’d just had his baby. I thought it’d break you.”

  She swung over Busick’s head, but he held her back. “Patience, he’s going to swing on the gallows. We’ve heard his confession.”

  Lionel cried out.

  “The mongrel’s down here, not on the third level.” Markham ran toward the master bedroom. “Maybe he should join his father, then you two can be free.”

  Dumping Patience to the floor, Busick caught Markham’s coat and the two began to tussle.

  Markham’s erratic swings made the wheels move.

  The heavy chair rolled backward, but Busick locked his arm about Markham’s neck.

  They fought, slugging at each other.

  Both were dangerously close to the rail. A push the wrong way could send either of them through the stair posts and fall to the statues below.

  The guards lifted guns, but no one would take a shot at this close range.

  “Stop it, Markham! Let the duke alone.” Patience came forward. She’d dropped her tiny knife and had picked up Busick’s heavy sword and jabbed it against Markham’s shoulder. “Back away, or I’ll finish you now.”

  “Wench, you don’t have the strength to kill, so step away. This is a man’s fight.”

  Busick lunged backward, grasped her hand, and drove the sword forward, straight into Markham’s chest.

  “She may not, but together we do.”

  He gave Markham a final push.

  The gasping man fell over the rail.

  A gurgled scream released and then silence.

  Busick spun Patience to him. He’d seen enough death. She shouldn’t have to witness the fiend’s crash onto the statues below.

  But she turned again and witnessed Markham’s body impaled on the sharp spear of the tallest Roman soldier.

  “Maybe Agassou is not lifeless, Duke.”

  “Well, dear, those statues of Grandfather’s have served a purpose.” He put his hands to her face and drew her near. “The worst enemy to my family is no more. You’re free. We’re free.”

  He held on to Patience, and she latched her arms about his shoulders, immovable like a shield. She was a shield, a shelter to keep his heart safe. He loved her so. “Men, send for the magistrate and coroner. Then, we’ll take care of the aftermath.”

  Looking over Patience’s head, he saw Mrs. St. Maur sitting on the stairs. The poor woman had stayed. Surely, she’d seen Markham’s fall, but the approving grimace on her face foretold that she’d known other tragedies.

  “Ma’am, come down to my wife. Patience, go into the bedchamber with Lionel while I dispose of the trash. That’s an order, ladies.”

  The women did as he requested. With arms entwined, they went inside.

  Busick closed his eyes for a moment, thankful that Markham’s threat to his family was over, but he wondered if Patience had been freed completely of the guilt gripping her heart.

  * * *

  In the large bedroom of Hamlin Hall, I settled my son. His appetite was as big as ever. Maybe more so. He was free, finally, truly free.

  With him tucked in the bread basket, secure, dry, and warm, he eased off to sleep.

  Jemina sat on the floor with her back to the footboard. She’d seen the fight, but she had no duke to comfort her.

  I knelt beside her as I did when we were in rags at Bedlam.

  She clasped my hand. “He deserved to die, Patience. Markham surely did. Some people die but don’t deserve it.”

  Jemina’s voice sounded low but held a sense of assurance. Then I realized that it wasn’t the first time she’d seen someone die.

  “My Colin was murdered in July. I didn’t know. I thought he was mad because of my letter. Staying away because of it.”

  “Markham knew you bore a boy and thought he could get your father’s payment without anyone asking questions. Good thing the duke became involved.”

  “A very good thing.” I was so grateful this was over. I stood up and grasped Jemina’s hand. “We are free.”

  Her eyes had that soft, distant look she had sometimes. “You’re free. And I’m so happy for that. I will be free someday, too.”

  “You have me, the Widow’s Grace, and I suspect the Duke of Repington to aid you.”

  The door opened, and inside came my duke.

  His motion was slow in his wheeled chair, and I feared he’d injured his back again. “Everything has been handled in the hall. Mrs. St. Maur, I wish that you hadn’t witnessed—”

  “Your Grace, all is well. I’ll return to my room.”

  I saw my knife, cleaned and shining in Busick’s hand. Taking it, I placed it in Jemina’s fingers. “Good night, my friend.”

  Jemina held my knife, nodded, then left the room.

  Part of me wanted to give chase, but the look on the duke’s countenance said, No. Don’t even think to move or breathe without my permission.

  I wasn’t one to follow orders, but this time I’d make the exception.

  “Are you much hurt, Busick?”

  “If thinking you’d actually honor a request could cause pain, I am in
agony.”

  “But words you knew I couldn’t keep means nothing.”

  “You have a point. I’m a man of disappointed hopes.”

  I knelt at his side. “I’m not disappointed. How could I be when Colin’s killer is no more, and you and Lionel are alive and safe?”

  He tugged me onto his lap and held me. The strength in his arms was everything. His beating pulse next to mine told my heart I’d found home.

  “Patience, I could not have borne you being hurt. How would Lionel stand to lose you? You know he hates pap milk,” he said with a chuckle.

  I swatted his arm. “I wasn’t hurt, and I know I helped.”

  “It would be helpful if just once you listened.”

  “I have listened, but I hear first with the ears of my heart.”

  “Well, that’s a good place to seek guidance. Your heart is honest, and it holds my happiness right behind that lace.”

  He put his hand to my jaw and lifted my lips to his.

  I was moving. I thought I was, but I could be wrong. I couldn’t tell anything when he kissed me like this, like I was air or coconut bread or water.

  “Let’s put Lionel in his crib.”

  He’d picked up the bread basket and set it in my hands.

  The kissing began again, me to the duke, me to my Lionel.

  Busick pushed us into the adjoining room, and I settled my snoring baby into his crib.

  “I love you, Lionel,” he said.

  Placing his hand on my babe’s forehead, he offered a blessing. I heard Colin’s name in his whisper. Busick promised Lionel and me to keep us in safety and health.

  Our boy’s whistle snores sounded so sweet.

  Then he turned to me. “I love you, too.”

  His voice was direct, like a command, weighty and forceful.

  My heart obeyed. I loved him.

  “You’re nothing of what Markham said. You’re good and trustworthy. You’re beautiful. And mine.”

  We’d moved again. He’d crept right up to the edge of the bed.

  “I am yours. Busick, I love you so very deeply. I trust you, and I always will honor you.”

  His lips on mine weren’t searching, they were telling—telling me I was his and he was mine and the happiness and security I longed for, that I’d missed for so long was all mine.