by Jaimey Grant
“Open it and look, half-wit,” the duke commanded with a smug grin.
The solicitor opened the paper and gasped. His reaction was all Derringer could have hoped for. It could only get better when he told the man that his bride was baseborn.
“You did it?” Grimsby said breathlessly. “You are wed?” He sat down with a thump, astonishment writ plain across his thin face.
“You doubted me?”
“No, your grace, not at all,” the little man was quick to assure him. “It’s just that the chances of your succeeding were not well to your favor.”
“Were they not?” Derringer’s voice was deceptively polite. “I have to disagree with you for the following reasons. One,” he said as he ticked them off on the fingers of one long hand, “I am attractive to the point of pain or so I am told. Two, I am wealthy beyond anyone’s wildest dreams. Three, I have the power of royalty without actually being related to that blighted family. And four, I’m a bloody duke. How were the odds not in my favor of acquiring a bride?” His voice ended on a cynical note. He waited patiently for the solicitor to speak.
“Well?” he finally asked after several moments of uncomfortable silence on Grimsby’s part.
“Ah, yes, your grace, quite right, I’m sure,” the man muttered expectedly. He was staring at the paper in his hand with an expression of dawning realization mixed with confusion and some horror.
“She’s a Harcourt,” he said finally.
“So?”
Grimsby looked up at Derringer suspiciously. “I know Debrett’s Peerage by heart, your grace. There is no Leandra Harcourt.”
Of course there wasn’t. Bastards were not recorded in the peerage. “She is real, I assure you. And she is a Harcourt. Harwood is her brother.”
“But, that means she’s a…her parents…”
“Her parents were not married. She’s a bastard, Grimsby,” the duke growled. He was irritated that the solicitor’s shock didn’t give him quite the pleasurable feeling he had anticipated.
“Quite,” Grimsby mouthed nervously.
“Do I get my fortune or not?”
“Everything appears in order, your grace,” was the solicitor’s reassuring reply. He flushed uneasily. “That is, I mean, provided you have, ah…”
“Spit it out, man. I have other places to be,” the duke snapped.
“The marriage has been consummated,” the unfortunate man blurted out.
Derringer had no words. He just stared at Grimsby, once again deciding the man had no sense of humor, thus he could not be attempting a joke at Derringer’s expense
“Explain.”
“Your father’s instructions specified that there be no legal way for you to dissolve the marriage after you receive access to the money,” the lawyer explained hastily. He sighed in relief when Derringer sank into the chair before the desk.
The duke stared at the man without really seeing him. There was nothing he could do about it at the moment. A part of him had actually considered seeking an annulment and settling a yearly stipend on the girl for her trouble. Clearly, that wasn’t an option now.
“Do you not think that was something to mention before?” he inquired, voice deceptively calm.
“In all the excitement, your grace, I am very much afraid I simply forgot to tell you.” He gulped and scooted further back in his chair when Derringer’s black eyes narrowed. “And I assumed it would not be an issue.”
The duke fixed a minatory glare on the spindly-shanked little man across the desk from him. “What kind of proof do you require?” he asked silkily. “Do you want to see the bloody sheets or is my word enough?” His tone was dangerously mocking.
“I will accept your word, of course, your grace,” Mr. Grimsby was quick to reassure him. “When would you like me to send the announcement to the papers?”
“Announcement? Why the hell does anyone have to know about it?”
“If everyone knows, your grace, it will make it impossible for you to dissolve the marriage without the most shocking of scandals,” the lawyer explained reasonably. “Of course, once it is announced there will be the most shocking of scandals anyway since everyone will know that…” he muttered to himself. “Shall I send it?” he asked louder.
Derringer glared at him for a full five seconds until the solicitor began to squirm again. “No,” he answered finally. “I will take care of it myself.”
He stood up and snatched the marriage lines from the desk, restoring them to his pocket. Then he turned on his heel and walked out.
He had, of course, heard every word the solicitor had mumbled. He had not even thought about what it would do to his bride when everyone discovered who and what she was.
And he was uncertain as to why he said he would take care of the announcement. The words had slipped out before they had actually formed in his mind. If he had just let Grimsby take care of it, he wouldn’t now be on his way to the office of the London Gazette. He could be on his way to Nicolette’s instead.
Bloody hell.
Nicolette was a beautiful woman of low birth and lower morals. She made her living in trade to the wealthy gentlemen of the ton. Her trade, of course, being that of a courtesan. She was the current mistress of the Duke of Derringer. He was supposed to be her sole protector.
Too greedy to be satisfied with the generosity of the duke, however, she enjoyed the protection of five different men. The danger of discovery was erotic to her and she reveled in the thought that at any moment, one of her lovers might burst through the door and demand satisfaction from the man in her arms. It was her secret desire to have a duel fought over her honor and she hoped the duke would be one of those gentlemen.
Nicolette would have been shocked to know that the duke knew every one of her lovers; who they were, what they were worth, where they lived, and any number of other things that a normal man would not have found the least bit useful to know and not even interesting to learn. The duke, however, owed his life several times over to knowing many little facts that one would have thought completely useless. Derringer rarely missed things.
After dropping the notice at the newspaper office and enduring the stares of shock and amazement, Derringer entered the outskirts of London and headed for the his house in Kensington. It was a charming little domicile of red brick with trellises that were covered with morning glories and roses in the warmer months. He pulled to a stop before the door and handed the reins to a footman who had come running from the house.
Derringer climbed down and stared at the painfully nervous footman. He almost smiled. “How is your mistress, Jem?” he asked casually, removing his black driving gloves one finger at a time.
The footman stuttered and stammered and the duke could tell he wished to be anywhere but where he was. “Never mind,” the duke replied. “Wait here for my return. I won’t be long.” He moved toward the house. “Your position is safe,” he called over his shoulder. He heard the young man sigh in relief and smiled to himself at Jem’s transparency.
Sheffield, the butler, was almost as transparent. He took the duke’s gloves and coat and informed his grace that Miss Nicolette was busy at the moment and would his grace care to wait in the morning room?
“No, Sheffield, his grace would not,” Derringer retorted. The butler bowed and waited for Derringer’s further instructions. He knew they were coming. “Bar all the doors, Sheffield. Lock the windows and set armed footmen outside the balcony of Nicki’s chamber. Tell them to stop anyone attempting to leave in any way necessary. But be sure they know not to kill anyone. I have not the inclination to save anyone from a hanging today.”
“Very good, your grace.” Sheffield deposited the duke’s things on a chair in the hall and departed to do the tall lord’s will.
Derringer glanced toward the stairs. He would give Sheffield a few minutes to get his instructions well underway before he went up to catch her. He was finally going to catch her. The thought gave him a thrill that threatened to have him running up the
stairs and in his haste giving his unknown nemesis a chance to escape out her window.
The duke heard the unmistakable murmurings of men surrounding the house. He could hear the little maids running through the rooms, locking the windows and securing the back door. He smiled grimly.
Determining enough time had indeed passed, Derringer mounted the stairs. He moved silently like a wraith and listened for any strange sounds. He heard some as soon as he stood outside his mistress’s bedchamber. A door shut. The armoire, unless he missed his guess.
He turned the handle and walked in. “Good afternoon, Nicki,” he greeted softly, seductively.
He had trouble keeping the smile from his face. The blond-haired, blue-eyed goddess had the look of a woman just tumbled. She held the bedsheets against her chest in a semblance of modesty, false modesty, as he knew all too well.
Derringer approached the bed and stood staring down at the beauty. She smiled up at him and darted one nervous look in the direction of the armoire.
Deciding her lover was safe, Nicolette smiled, revealing startlingly even white teeth, and held out her hand. “Darling, I have been waiting for you,” she said in a husky whisper. She allowed the sheet to slip, revealing the rosy peaks of two very excellent breasts.
Derringer did smile then. Leave it to a whore to try to use her body to cajole her way out of a deserved punishment. “Have you indeed?” he murmured, not completely unaffected by her little ploy. He was only a man, after all. He nodded, reaching up to undo his neckcloth. “I see you are exactly how I like you, love. Naked.” His reply came out with just the right amount of sensual promise, his actions fanning the flames he hoped to ignite.
“Hart, darling, join me,” she implored with a tiny moan, apparently forgetting her guest in the armoire.
The duke sat down on the bed and reached out to touch her breast. She arched into his hand and he wondered if she realized that despite any sexual attraction he might feel for her, even now, he could wring her neck without the least compunction.
Derringer leaned closer, gliding his fingers up and over her shoulder, pretending a fascination with her silken skin that he did not feel. He leaned in until his lips almost touched hers, murmuring softly, “You have been very, very naughty, my pretty little whore.”
The words did not penetrate the sensual fog in Nicolette’s brain. Taking advantage, as was his wont, he placed one hand behind her head and held her immobile, his fingers gently caressing the nape of her neck.
“Where is he?” he asked just to give her a chance to tell him the truth; never let it be said he wasn’t a fair man.
Derringer’s voice was low, seductive…and very dangerous.
“Who?” Nicolette asked, a tiny thread of confusion coloring her tone. Her eyes flew open as the words and their implication sunk in.
“The man who was in this room, enjoying your favors, just before I entered,” he reminded her in that same low tone. He shook her gently.
She swallowed hard. “There was no man, Hart,” she assured him, the slight quiver in her voice giving the lie to her words. “There has only been you.”
His hand tightened painfully on her neck. “One more chance, Nicki,” he said with deadly quiet. “You know how I feel about lies.”
She gasped at the pain that shot into her head. She had thought it would be titillating to have the duke discover one of her other lovers and challenge the man to meet him at dawn. She realized her mistake now. If he didn’t know that Gerald was still here, she might be able to save both their lives.
“He left, Hart, I swear,” she said desperately.
His grip tightened some more and she grasped his arm in an attempt to relieve some of the pressure that was threatening to send her into unconsciousness.
“Wrong answer,” the duke whispered savagely. He threw her from him, sending her reeling into the pillows behind her. She rubbed at the back of her neck to ease the ache and pulled the sheet back over herself.
Derringer sat back and stared at her through half lowered lids. “Who is he, I wonder,” he murmured almost to himself. He watched her. He wanted to know which man he was dealing with before he murdered him.
Derringer did not tolerate unfaithfulness in his mistress. He’d never been married before now but he was sure he wouldn’t tolerate it in his wife either. He saw red at the mere thought of Leandra taking a lover. Rather than wonder at the whys of such a feeling, he ignored it.
“Perhaps it is Lord Sotherby.” Her expression didn’t change. She was controlling her reaction, he thought with some amusement. Very well.
“Maybe Viscount Meiers,” he suggested calmly. He crossed his arms over his chest and continued to study her lovely face. “Archie Haverford?” Still no reaction. That was three. The last he knew she had only four other lovers beside himself.
“Hmm,” he said thoughtfully, rubbing his chin. “That only leaves Gerald Greaves, the young Earl of Cheshire.” Ah-ha, he thought in satisfaction. Her hand clutched the sheet tighter and she held her breath. Cheshire it is.
Derringer stood and took a turn about the room. “So, young Cheshire is in this room somewhere. I wonder where. He couldn’t be such a coward as to hide from a thrashing he deserves, would he?” He again faced the woman on the bed, assuming an inquiring expression as if he might actually care about her opinion.
Nicolette remained silent. She knew that if she said anything he might actually kill her along with Gerald. Lord Derringer was a monster. He was... heartless.
Derringer grew tired of the game. He crossed the room in three long strides and threw open the door of the armoire. Huddled inside was the very young Earl of Cheshire. How the lad had managed to catch Nicolette’s eye was a mystery to Derringer. The boy was under twenty with dull sandy hair and a skinny body. He stood taller than Derringer, though, which was unusual.
“Get out,” the duke commanded harshly.
The boy swiftly complied with Derringer’s orders. He stood before him in nothing but his pantaloons and an expression of terror on his long face.
“I must have been misinformed. How much are you worth?” Derringer asked more out of curiosity than any real reason to have that particular piece of information.
Cheshire’s eyes widened at the question. He opened his mouth and stuttered something but Derringer waved him to silence. “Never mind,” he said. “You do realize I have to hit you now? My reputation and all that rot?”
The earl closed his eyes briefly then opened them again and nodded. Nicolette got up from the bed with the sheet wrapped around her naked body. “Hart, he didn’t know I was with you,” she tried to explain.
“I did,” the young man answered. “I knew about the others, too.” He seemed quite calm now, Derringer mused.
“You all knew?” the woman demanded in outrage.
Derringer laughed. “You are a terrible liar, my dear.”
A second later, the earl lay on the floor with blood pouring from his nose and mouth and the duke was on his way out the door. He paused next to Sheffield where he waited like a statue in the foyer and told him to call off the guard.
“Have Nicki’s maid pack all her belongings. I want her out of this house by tomorrow morning.”
The butler bowed. “Very good, your grace.”
5
Golden sunlight poured through the east facing windows, streaming over the thick Aubusson carpet and Leandra’s still fingers. She sat in a little used morning room, situated on the castle’s east side to allow the most from the early morning sun. Staring out into the bare gardens, her eyes focused on nothing, her fingers not nimble enough to embroider without looking.
This room was Leandra’s haven, her sanctuary. She’d instructed the new indoor servants to remove the heavy, dark furnishings and replace them with light and airy Hepplewhite. With Stark’s help, she’d replaced the barbaric hunt scenes with bright tapestries of nymphs and sprites. The room that was once dark with red and brown was now bright with blue and gold, earthy browns an
d greens, with warm golden threads woven into the tapestries and the carpet.
This was the room she retreated to when the odds of her circumstances threatened to overwhelm her. This was where she went when she needed to think, or not think at all. And this was where she went when thoughts of her husband threatened to overwhelm her.
She’d tried to immerse herself into Folkestone Society but Folkestone Society refused to accept her. She assumed they’d somehow heard of her illegitimacy. She had no way of knowing that her husband had managed to alienate local Society the same way he’d alienated high Society. They didn’t believe she was really his wife. But there was no way she could know that.
Instead of trying to gain that which she’d never had—a place in Society—she instead focused on establishing relationships with each and every one of her husband’s servants, old and new. Her first conquest was Liza.
Liza had always wanted to be a lady’s maid, she confided to her mistress. After a brief discussion with Mrs. Stark, Leandra promoted her to the post, confident the girl would prove her worth. It was through Liza that the new duchess learned of the other servants and of others who needed work. Leandra felt no compunctions about hiring additional help and saw no reason to inform her husband of any changes she made. It was due to her that he had his inheritance so it was only fair she decide how to spend that money. She had no idea how to contact him, so seeking his permission was moot.
Righteous indignation wore off rather quickly, especially when the object of one’s wrath was not present to witness it. Leandra settled into a routine, thoughts of Lord Derringer little more than an uncomfortable reminder of her lack of style.
Liza replaced her mistress’s wardrobe with all the frills and stylish garments Leandra could ever wish for. Or her husband could wish for, rather. For Leandra, despite having been raised in a home where the latest London fashions were regularly bestowed upon the daughters of the house, fashion had never been an interest for her. She was content to wear clothes that covered her, allowed her to move, and didn’t require much forethought.