A Duke in the Night

by Kelly Bowen

August’s mind was slowly starting to work again. He forced himself to take a deep, steadying breath. Forced himself to think past the betrayal and the fury and the shock because emotion muddled reason and made smart men make stupid choices. His immediate impulse to haul Anne back to London was not in his best interests. She hadn’t run away with a band of traveling gypsies. She hadn’t run off with a man or, God forbid, eloped to Gretna Green. She had fled London to attend a bloody finishing school. Something could be salvaged out of his sister’s impetuous, absurd actions.

  Because those actions had sent her to Dover. Even if he hadn’t been planning on going to Dover before, he certainly was now. He had all the justification he would ever need to go to Avondale.

  First and foremost, August had every right to ascertain that his sister was safe—he needed to see with his own eyes that she was all right. Second, he had every right to demand that Anne explain herself—though he didn’t delude himself into thinking that she would be very forthcoming, given that she had chosen to slink away like a damn thief in the night.

  But he recognized that he would need to proceed with caution if he was to stay. Upon his arrival at Avondale, August would need to be firm but not belligerent. Insistent but not boorish. Assertive but not arrogant. Once he’d established his presence, then he’d need to be charming and clever and convincing. No different from many times before.

  He just needed a reason to stay.

  “Mr. Down, please invite the Earl of Rivers to attend me at his earliest convenience,” August instructed in a tone that was downright civilized.

  Duncan eyed him circumspectly. “The earl is in reduced health, Your Grace. Has been since the death of his son at Waterloo.”

  “I thought Eli Dawes was missing.”

  “And presumed dead, given how much time has passed since Waterloo.” Duncan shrugged. “Regardless, the earl rarely attends any—”

  “Never mind. I’ll go to his Lordship.” August was already striding toward the door.

  “Now, Your Grace? At this hour?”

  “Now,” August confirmed. He was of no mind to wait. “And while I am there, please see to the travel arrangements. I’ll be departing to Dover first thing on the morrow.”

  Chapter 4

  August had chosen to ride as opposed to taking a carriage.

  Not that it got him to Dover much faster, but at the very least, it gave him the illusion of action and control. Riding his own horse had held much more appeal than sitting idle, trapped in a stuffy equipage for hours on end. Though now, as he neared the end of his journey, faint wisps of smoke rising on the horizon to mark the town of Dover, he wondered if perhaps he had been hasty in his decision. He was hungry and weary and dusty and very much looking forward to parting ways with his saddle.

  August was quite sure his gelding felt the same.

  He reined the animal off the main road, guiding the horse down a worn, rutted cart path that would skirt the town proper. He’d taken this route before, and while it was treacherous for carriage axles, the shortcut would save him almost a mile. He urged his gelding into a reluctant trot. Up ahead, a thick copse of trees rolled down from the crest of a ridge, the leaves fluttering in the early-evening breeze. Once he was on the other side of that ridge, the town would come into view, nestled in its cradle of hills and bordered by the sea. Beyond that, the hulking mass of Dover Castle would be visible on the high cliffs. And somewhere past that, Avondale.

  Where August would deal with his wayward, conniving sister and her beautiful, devious headmistress. And then turn his attention to the very real opportunity that dangled, for the moment, just beyond his reach.

  The journey here had given August time to think and develop a tentative plan. He had spent more than fifteen years accumulating his fortune through careful and diverse acquisitions. Most everything he bought had been the victim of ineptitude and mismanagement, and occasionally corruption, though Strathmore Shipping seemed more a casualty of bad luck. Change was coming, and those titled, pompous peers who believed themselves insulated from the world would one day find themselves on the wrong end of that change. The late Baron Strathmore seemed to have recognized that. He’d failed in the end, but that failure was not irreversible. Not in the hands of someone with the right experience. Like August.

  What if he could make it possible for the current baron to concentrate solely on his medical practice? Even with August’s limited knowledge of the baron, he realized doctoring was something Strathmore was committed to and passionate about, given his battlefield experience and the fact that he still practiced. If August could purchase Strathmore Shipping for a fair price, relieving the baron of the grueling responsibility of resurrecting a company with limited means, Strathmore would be free to pursue his first love. And, of course, it would enable the baron to provide handsomely for his sisters at the same time.

  It would make everybody happy.

  The wide copse of trees and brush in front of August had become a portrait of gilded foliage as the sun began its descent, a low fence running just to the north creating shadows the color of dark amethyst across the tall grasses. The sky was now awash in brilliant, almost blinding color, dotted with crimson- and topaz-lined clouds. August reined his horse to a stop, for a moment simply overwhelmed by the sheer beauty of his surroundings and trying to remember the last time he had actually taken the time to notice a sunset.

  He twisted in the saddle, letting his eyes roam over the ocean that he could see stretching out from the far cliffs behind him. So much space, he thought idly. Not at all like London, where roofs and buildings and clouds of coal smoke blocked the sky. Where the noises of the city never stopped, the constant clatter and din and—

  His horse shied at the same time August registered the deafening report that shattered the silence. A flock of birds rose from the trees and wheeled away in fright. He managed to keep his seat as his gelding crow-hopped in panic, its ears pinned, its hindquarters bunched beneath him. Bloody hell. Someone was shooting, though August couldn’t tell where the shot had come from.

  He wrenched the reins, managing to collect the horse, just as something exploded from the trees. No, he realized, not something. Someone. A boy. A mere child, one who couldn’t be more than seven or eight years old. Running directly toward him as if the hounds of hell were on his tail, clutching something in a small burlap sack as though his life depended on it.

  For a horrible, gut-wrenching moment, August was transported back in time. He had been that boy, maybe a little older, but still running for his life, clutching what he had begged, borrowed, or stolen. Willing to risk everything so that he might keep his family alive for another day.

  The gelding snorted. The boy’s head snapped up, and he almost stumbled, and August realized that in his flight, against the blinding sunset, the child probably hadn’t even seen him. From somewhere on the other side of the trees, a rumble was growing, like the distant sound of thunder. Or the pounding of many, many hooves, punctuated by more gunshots. Without thinking what he was doing, August reached down and grabbed a fistful of the child’s ragged coat, hauling him up into the saddle. The boy started to struggle.

  “It’s me or them,” he snapped at the boy, and the child went still.

  August jammed his heels into the gelding’s side and the horse bolted, only too happy to quit the trees, the gunfire, and the unseen threat on the other side of the copse. The boy, whoever he was, clung to August, one skinny hand poking from a threadbare sleeve clutching August’s arm, the other hanging on to his prize.

  August aimed the horse in the direction of a long, thick hedgerow, the wind whipping past him and the ground blurring. He chanced a look behind him, but the trees were now hidden by the hills, and the horizon was empty. The gelding started to slow, and August let it, guiding it into the shadows of the hedgerow. The horse suddenly stumbled, and with a frown August pulled it to a stop altogether. The gelding’s gait was off.

  August swung down, the boy slipping from the sadd
le almost as quickly. The child tried to dart away, but August caught his arm. He twisted, trying to conceal his front, where something bulky had been stuffed down his shirt. Something soft and yellow, a corner of which was trailing out at the edge of his waistband and looked very much like a length of silk.

  August ignored that for the moment. “Who are you?” he asked, staring down into a thin, defiant face. Much, much too thin.

  The boy shrugged in a manner August remembered all too well. He had been this child.

  In dark, weak moments, he still was this child. And it haunted him.

  “Never mind, then,” August said. “Tell me who was chasing you.”

  The boy glanced back in the direction from which they had come, peering through the hedgerow. “Soldiers,” he said, as though that should be obvious.

  “Why?”

  The boy shrugged again and tightened his grip on the bag.

  “What did you steal?” August asked.

  The defiant look became harder.

  “Something worth shooting you for?”

  The boy scuffed a toe in the dirt and remained stubbornly silent.

  August sighed and snatched the bag from the boy’s hands in a lightning-quick move.

  “That’s mine,” the boy cried.

  August ignored him and opened the bag. He peered in to find what looked like salted fish mixed with a few loose apples.

  “That’s mine,” the child repeated.

  August handed the bag back to him. “You got family?” he asked.

  “Maybe.” It was sullen and suspicious.

  “Here.” August reached into the pocket he’d had sewn into the inside of his coat, his fingers finding a handful of coins. He held them out, knowing it wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing.

  The boy eyed him with incredulity.

  “Take them,” August urged. “And the next time you need to…borrow something, I want you to come to the Silver Swan in town.” August had visions of the boy lying dead in a field, a bullet hole in him for the sake of a half dozen salted herring and a length of yellow silk cloth.

  Incredulity turned to bafflement.

  “The tavern and inn near the harbor?” August prompted. “There’s a sign hanging out front.”

  The boy’s face cleared. “Thought that was a dyin’ stork on the sign,” he said. “Never knew it was a swan.”

  August shook his head. “Ask for Charleaux. Tell him Holloway sent you. He’ll see to what you need.”

  “Don’t need no charity.” The suspicion was back.

  “Don’t need your family to starve to death either.”

  Small fingers hesitated and then finally reached for the coins, stuffing them into the bag of food as though the boy was afraid August might change his mind. Slowly he started to back away.

  “Remember what I said,” August told him.

  “Thank you,” the boy mumbled, and then he spun and vanished through the thick hedgerow.

  August stared at the space he had disappeared through, suddenly feeling a hundred years old. The more things changed, the more things stayed the same, no matter how much time had passed. Only back then, it had not been soldiers chasing him, but other boys just like himself, just as desperate to survive. Then there had been no one to come to his rescue. He’d had to do that all by himself.

  August shot another look at the horizon. A half dozen horses and riders had appeared, the red of their coats easily visible in the long rays of the sun even from this distance. They were headed away from where he was concealed in the direction of the cliffs, presumably still hunting a small boy they would no longer find. A small boy with a handful of silk and a bag of dried fish that had been liberated, quite likely, from a larger cache of barrels and crates brought ashore and hidden somewhere.

  August was familiar with the soldiers and blockade men who patrolled the chalky coast, hunting for those who slipped through with all manner of contraband. It wasn’t something new. But desperate people did desperate things, and while some looked to profit, most looked to merely survive. The war had been hard on these communities, the taxes to pay for it even harder.

  August understood survival. He had done and continued to do what he needed to so that he would never have to go back. Back to a time when hunger and cold had been enemies, stalking him with a promise of death just as surely as the wraiths armed with knives and desperation had. Back to a time when he had lacked the power and ability to truly protect and take care of those he loved.

  The appearance of that child had reminded him of that. And renewed his resolve to never rest. To never allow the safety net that he had so carefully woven to come apart.

  August wearily turned his attention back to his horse. And froze. The gelding had settled and was cropping grass, but one of its rear legs was marred by rivulets of blood that trickled down over its hock. August approached the gelding slowly and bent to examine the wound. There was a furrow the length of his palm across the sleek hide, along the hindquarters, just behind the stifle. Murmuring softly, August traced his fingers along the edge, relieved to discover that the wound was more superficial than serious. It wouldn’t require stitches—it had already stopped bleeding for the most part—but there would be bruising, and it would put his horse out of commission while it healed.

  August cursed under his breath and ran a hand over his gelding. He would have a word with the garrison captain at his earliest opportunity. The king’s men might have their orders, but trigger-happy soldiers running down children and firing wild shots at peers of the realm were not acceptable. That he would make clear. Because there were benefits to being a duke, and having a very loud voice was one of them.

  August glanced back at the horizon one last time, but it was deserted. He looped the reins from the gelding’s neck and started the odious walk to Avondale.

  Chapter 5

  The travel was always the most odious part.

  The two-day journey had been long but uneventful, which was always a relief. No surprises on the road meant that they had arrived in good time and that the students had finally been able to settle themselves into the warm comfort of Avondale last night. Clara knew very well that some had slept fitfully, anticipating the first full day of summer term. For many of these girls, it was the first time that they had been on their own, unaccompanied by family or hordes of familiar servants. It was their first taste of freedom.

  Clara smiled to herself and tugged her shawl tighter about her against the breeze, tipping her face up to the sun and letting the tranquility of Avondale settle into her bones. Almost all the girls had returned, having spent their first day discovering that the Haverhall School for Young Ladies was not all that it might seem. And the excitement and the wonder that was invariably stamped across the students’ faces did not disappoint.

  A pang of regret and loss came hard on the heels of that thought, and Clara pushed it ruthlessly aside. She might have lost Haverhall, but it did not mean that she needed to lose this as well. Without the school behind her, organizing and managing terms like this would be a little more difficult, but not impossible. But she’d worry about that later. For now she would enjoy every minute.

  For now she would enjoy the faint tang of the sea carried on the warm breeze. Enjoy the feel of the sun on her back as it descended in the west, setting each pane of glass on the face of Avondale ablaze. There was a peace and sense of belonging here that she had never found in the malodorous, hectic stew that was London. Perhaps it was the sea that promised adventure and inspired imagination. Perhaps it was the history contained in this place—centuries of lives lived and stories to discover. Perhaps it was the wildness of the cliffs or the grandeur of the sky that opened up around them. Whatever it was, it was one of Clara’s favorite places in the world, and it filled her soul as no other place could.

  “Good evening, Miss Hayward.”

  Clara jerked, disbelief making it hard to think. The voice had come from behind her, and if she didn’t know better, she mi
ght say it sounded suspiciously like the Duke of Holloway’s. Which, of course, was impossible. Because she was in Dover set to embark on a wonderful summer term, while August Faulkner was safely in London seeing to whatever needs he or his gleaming duchy might require. He was certainly not standing in the wide, circular walk that led to the rear gardens of Avondale House.

  Ambushing her. Again.

  “Miss Hayward?” The address came again.

  With reluctance, Clara turned to discover that the Duke of Holloway was, regrettably, not a figment of her imagination, and he was, indeed, standing in the walk. The sun hovered low in the west, gilding him in a strange golden light, and Clara took a step sideways so she wasn’t squinting against the angled rays.

  He was dressed casually in a riding coat and breeches that had seen better days. His boots were dusty, his hair windblown, and the lack of polish made him somehow even more attractive than he had been the day he had ambushed her in the museum. Her breath hitched, and butterflies rose again to riot against her ribs, and Clara nearly cringed at the sheer idiocy of her physical reaction to him.

  A reaction that was, thankfully, somewhat tempered by the trepidation that was starting to clamor at his sudden appearance.

  “Your Grace,” she said, aiming for the pleasant, conciliatory tone that she used for handling difficult parents who initially balked at the idea of sending their daughters into the wilds of Kent. “This is a…surprise.”

  “I can imagine.”

  Clara felt her smile threaten to falter.

  “Did you honestly expect me to stay in London, Miss Hayward?”

  Um, yes? Clara tried to make sense of his cryptic comment but got nowhere. “Is there something I might assist you with, Your Grace?”

  “I had hoped to have a conversation with my sister.” The duke’s eyes flickered past her as though he expected his sister to pop up from behind Clara’s skirts. “I think I’m owed that at the very least, don’t you?”

  “Lady Anne is not available at the moment,” she said smoothly. Lady Anne was, in fact, on her way back from a tavern and inn in Dover. Though her brother didn’t need to know that.