by Jaimey Grant
“Mama, please,” protested Lady Kathryn.
The fat old lady turned a glare on her daughter. “Please, what, Kathryn? I will not oblige this bunch of mushrooms by pretending that they are welcome. They are not.”
“Well, I never!” declared Leandra’s stepmother. “You, madam, are the mushroom. I am the Dowager Countess of Harwood.”
“And I am the Countess of Harwood,” that young lady told them all proudly.
“I don’t care who you are,” retorted Lady St. Clair. “I am Derringer’s beloved aunt and that has more power than any twenty titles.”
“Ladies, if we could have some calm, it would be much appreciated,” inserted Leandra quickly before her stepmother could say another word.
There came a scratch on the door that silenced the ladies more effectively than anything Leandra could have said. “Enter.”
Stark opened the door with such a pained expression on his old face that Leandra stood to ask if he was well. He nodded and swallowed hard. “Your grace, there is a... person… here, requesting entrance.”
“Who is this person, Stark?” Lady St. Clair demanded imperiously, just as if she were still the mistress of the house.
“It is not your place to ask,” snapped the dowager. “It is Merri’s.”
So nonplussed by this about-face on the part of her stepmother, Leandra did not ask the butler who the visitor was. She stared at the dowager until that lady demanded imperiously, “What ails you, child?”
“Who is this person, Stark?” asked Michaella in her soothing tones.
The butler bowed to Lady Michaella but his words were directed at Leandra. “Her name is Nicolette and she says that his grace is expecting her, your grace.”
“Nicolette? My lord has never mentioned her.”
Stark grew noticeably red while his mouth opened and closed several times. Dawning light flashed through Leandra’s brain and she fought the sudden anger and dismay that welled up within her.
She stalked over to the embarrassed old man and whispered. “She is his mistress, is she not?”
“That is what I am given to understand, your grace.”
What was the world coming to? Family converged on her, her husband’s mistress dropped in for all the world like she was welcome, and no one seemed able to find their manners.
Leandra smiled brightly though her eyes glittered dangerously behind her spectacles. “Have her shown into the Egyptian Saloon, Stark. I shall be with her presently.”
13
It should have been much easier to locate him, Derringer fumed as he exited yet another tavern as yet empty-handed. His cousin had proven impossible to run to ground and Derringer was sure the man was not trying to avoid him. Why the devil would he want to?
The duke swung up onto his horse’s back—Lord, how he hated rented nags!—and turned the dark beast to the next tavern he’d been told to search. It proved to be even more rundown than the last. Derringer cursed. Of all the devilish luck. How good were the chances he’d locate his quarry here?
Very good, unbeknownst to Derringer. He entered the tavern, strode to the bar, and casually inquired after a man known as the Dark Devil. When he had first heard that Gabe had been given an appellation that better applied to himself, Derringer had laughed. Whoever would have thought his cousin would bear such a name?
The very large man wiped holes in the bar before him, angry lines marring his wide forehead. He grabbed up a dirty glass, polishing it with the rag, eyeing the duke with no little amount of distrust. “Who be askin’?” he growled in guttural French.
“Heartless,” replied Derringer with nary a blink to betray the very real nervousness the barkeep instilled in him.
The man’s eyes narrowed. Not much; most observers wouldn’t have noticed, but Derringer did. His mind went on the alert. He leaned against the bar with apparent negligence although his every muscle was tensing for a brawl. His eyes scanned the taproom while never fully leaving the man behind the bar.
“‘Eartless, ye say? I’ll be seein’ if ‘is lor’ship be willin’ te see ye.” The man stalked around the bar and disappeared into a dark corridor to his left.
His Lordship?
Derringer passed a casual glance over the few men spread around the tables, relieved they appeared to be paying him not the least attention. He moved as casually as possible in the direction the barkeep had taken but stopped short when the little hairs at the back of his neck prickled alarmingly. Someone watched him.
Derringer leaned against the bar again and wondered aloud if he should have ordered a drink before requesting to see the man. A short man of indeterminate years and foul breath answered his question.
“Ooo do ye be to think ‘is lor’ship’ll see ye?” he demanded.
Derringer smiled at the man. His smile contained no mirth, no hilarity, just dark intent. The scraggly little man beside him sidled a bit to the right until he was just out of Derringer’s reach.
“Well, who be ye?” the man repeated.
Derringer wondered exactly how well known he was in this country. The barkeep had seemed to know him. He was sure D’Arcy had had something to say after their little tussle. But how many of these men were friends of the demented little Frenchman and how many were foes?
“Heartless,” he told the man. He watched as yet another man’s eyes widened and fear took the place of dumb insolence. He stuttered something incomprehensible. Though Derringer possessed an extensive knowledge of French, even to the point of understanding the guttural dialects without actually being able to speak them quite so well, he could not decipher the man’s ramblings. The sound of the man’s voice aroused the rest of the men in the pub and they rose as one and left the building with many furtive glances over their shoulders.
Derringer scratched his head. What had been said about him to cause such unparalleled fear in a roomful of grown men? Much of his reputation was of his own making and quite disturbing, true, but the fear shown this day made no sense.
Perhaps he stood out as a man of wealth and title? No, he couldn’t possibly. He glanced down at his worn and tattered black clothing and decided that he very well looked like a dangerous man. Who would want to tangle with a man who dressed completely in black, as if he were in constant mourning?
Very few, the duke knew from experience. D’Arcy had been one. He suspected Harwood might be another.
The thought of Harwood recalled expressive hazel eyes to his mind’s eye. He wondered how his Merri was handling her family all by herself again. Probably much better than he would, he thought ruefully. He didn’t know what had come over him, but the need to play with those women’s minds had been too tempting to resist. And he had gotten much out of it, he thought, remembering his wife’s response to his later question. Now he just wanted to fetch Gabriel, return home, and take Leandra to bed.
“This way,” the barkeep muttered hoarsely, returning to the taproom about fifteen minutes after having departed it.
Derringer lifted a black brow at the man. He sounded as if he’d been in a chokehold for several minutes. Fifteen, perhaps?
Shoving his hands nonchalantly into his trouser pockets, Derringer sauntered in after the huge man. If the man got it into his head to turn around and thrash him, Derringer would barely stand a chance. Barely.
With a mental shrug, the duke contemplated how long it would take to actually subdue a man who was nearly of a size with Tiny Boy, his giant of a friend who sometimes acted as his bodyguard. He’d managed the feat a time or two in scuffles with Tiny. A few well-placed hits to his neck and temple would do the trick.
He followed the man down a dimly lit corridor until it ended at a door. He had not noticed any doors along the way and he wondered why. The door opened to reveal a room of startling cleanliness and bright colors. He almost squinted in the glare of several oil lamps and gaslights. Was the room a separate building he’d failed to notice?
“Sit down, Heartless,” commanded a voice from the one shadowed co
rner of the room. “I have been waiting for you.”
Nerves jumping at the threat he heard in the voice, Derringer moved cautiously into the room. He was pointed to a chair that sat a few feet away from the shadowed speaker. He felt at a distinct disadvantage and his every instinct was telling him to flee. Despite the urge, he knew any attempt would be swiftly quashed by the barkeep who lingered behind him.
So he sat instead, after flipping the hard wooden chair around and straddling it. He leaned his arms across the back, his gaze insolent.
“Leave, John,” the shadow voice ordered.
John? The barkeep grunted and left the room. Derringer was sure the man was French. Why John?
“Goodbye, Helene,” the voice said next. A willowy redhead rose from her place next to the man in the shadows and made her way out of the room. Derringer watched her leave, watched as she passed him, avarice and cunning shining from her dark green eyes. As quickly as she disappeared into the corridor beyond, Derringer’s thoughts moved from her back to the man in the shadows.
The only ones left in the chamber, besides the shadow man himself, were two men of average height and what appeared to be average intelligence. Derringer was too smart to underestimate them, however, since he could see quite clearly—or discern through practice and firsthand knowledge of low types—that each man had two pistols, five knives, and a pair of brass knuckles on him. He remained cautiously silent and waited for their master to make his next move.
“What did you have to say to me?” he asked in a voice that Derringer now recognized was disguised somehow. And the man was English although he spoke fluent French. The duke was willing to bet his life on it.
“I know who you are,” Derringer replied in a voice devoid of emotion or inflection. While his instincts screamed that he knew exactly who this mysterious man was, part of him, a small part, remained unsure.
Silence stretched. Derringer listened to the rustling of the man he couldn’t see and heard the mutterings of the men who were obviously guards of some sort. He caught a few words he was probably not meant to hear and his lips curled into a sardonic grin.
“I mean you no harm, as I am sure you know, my lord Saint.”
There was a murmur from the shadows, a grunt from the guards, who then left the room, surprising Derringer to no small degree.
“Just who do you think me to be?”
Derringer chuckled low in his throat, leaning back slightly, any doubt as to this man’s identity fading. “Like myself, you are probably whoever you need to be when the moment calls for it. Ragpicker. Servant. Shopkeep. Villain. Aristocrat.” The duke paused, a smile tugging at his lips. “Although, I am quite sure those last two may be one and the same.”
A short laugh came from the other man. “You are as heartless as they say, your grace.”
Derringer slowly stood, setting the chair from him. “At times, cousin, I am the Black Prince himself.”
14
The woman was everything that Leandra was not: tall, blond, voluptuous, confident, and absolutely beautiful. But she was also boorish, uncouth, and gowned in scarlet satin like the whore she was. This was the kind of woman he preferred? Then why would he want to bed his drab little wife? Leandra didn’t know what to think.
“What do you want?” Leandra asked in her best duchess tones.
Nicolette was momentarily taken aback, shock flashing in her arresting blue eyes. But she rallied quickly, drawing herself up to her full height, so as to look down her nose at Leandra. “Hart is expecting me.”
“No, he is not,” Leandra insisted mildly, though she couldn’t be positive of her own claim. She did not offer her unwanted guest a seat or refreshment. She wanted this woman gone. Then she would murder her husband as soon as he returned.
“Who are you?” Nicolette asked with a slight narrowing of her baby blue eyes.
“I am the Duchess of Derringer.”
Those baby blue orbs widened at this statement and Leandra almost laughed. “Who did you expect me to be?” she asked in genuine curiosity.
“When did Hart marry?” the woman asked instead. “He never told me.”
“I expect he didn’t,” Leandra replied evenly. “Would a gentleman tell his mistress such a thing, do you think? I have little knowledge of such matters.”
“He should have told me,” the beauty insisted.
Leandra wearied of the game. “Please leave,” she told her guest coldly. “I need no more unwelcome guests.”
“I can’t leave. My carriage has broken an axle and I can’t go anywhere.”
“Hart is a dead man,” Leandra muttered to herself. “Very well, Miss… Nicolette. You may stay until your carriage is repaired. But you will not be able to join my guests, I am sorry to say. You must understand that their sensibilities must be taken into consideration.”
“Well, I never,” blustered the woman.
“Well, maybe you should,” retorted Leandra irritably as she exited the room.
She met Stark on the stairs, rage simmering just beneath the surface. “Show that woman to a room and have her carriage repaired as speedily as possible. I do not want her here when my lord returns.”
“Very good, your grace.”
She felt threatened. For the first time in her life, Leandra Harcourt-Derringer felt threatened. And she was mad as hornets at the man she’d married. She didn’t know why his mistress was in the house and she didn’t know why she felt so threatened by the woman. Surely, her husband could not prefer that uncouth woman to herself?
But he could. He very well could. With a mistress, he knew exactly where he stood. She existed for his pleasure and nothing more. With a wife he met stranded at an inn and married a few hours later, he was on shaky ground. Even though she’d agreed to be his wife in truth, she couldn’t know if that would satisfy him. And after meeting a woman of his own choosing, she was sure he would be displeased with his bride. Leandra didn’t know what to do. All she knew was that she didn’t want to care about any of it.
Her family was no help, of course. Derringer’s family even less so. When Leandra told Martin of Nicolette’s presence in the castle, he had gotten such a strange look on his face that Leandra had begun to fear for his health. Then he was once again the cool, reserved Martin with nary a suggestion to help rid the Crescent of the harpy’s presence. Leandra was at point non plus.
As if her day could possibly get any worse, the Earl of Harwood arrived. He gave her that look that she had always mistrusted, the one that made her shiver because it was almost predatory, almost…lecherous. She invited him into the drawing room and offered him tea, both of which he accepted with the charm for which he was known. She hated it. She hated him. And she hated that she felt that way about another human being.
His wife seemed pleased to see him, making Leandra smile. Everyone knew that the couple hated each other and a few were well aware that Lady Harwood had threatened her husband’s life if he ever came near her bed again.
Leandra sought comfort with her sister Michaella. She reveled in their pointless conversation and endless reminisces about their father. Michaella was her anchor during turbulent times.
And Christmas was approaching. Leandra knew that these people would try to extend their stay until the holidays. She had no idea if this would please her husband or not. All she could do was await his return so she could lay the problem at his feet.
Then she would murder him.
Leandra offered a tight smile in reply to one of Harwood’s offhand compliments. Then she concentrated all of her energy on not killing Lady St. Clair. That woman still criticized her as though Leandra had no right to make any of the changes she had made to the castle. Indeed, she acted as though Leandra had no right to be the duchess.
And she was probably right, Leandra sighed.
“Is there something wrong, Merri?” Michaella asked, her fingers curling over Leandra’s arm.
Leandra forced her stiff lips into something resembling a smile. “No, dear
est, I was thinking is all.”
“About how much you’d like to see the backs of us,” Michaella joked, releasing her grip on her arm.
That made Leandra laugh. “Some of you, perhaps, but never you, my dearest sister.”
Michaella embraced her warmly. How interesting, Leandra mused, that she could be surrounded by people, family no less, and yet feel so alone. Thank God for sweet Michaella!
Relief shot through Leandra when the clock on the mantle struck the hour of five. It was time to dress for dinner and though she longed to tell Mrs. Stark that she would dine in her room, she knew she could not. It would be most impolite of her to do so.
The guests reluctantly withdrew from the drawing room to ascend to their individual chambers. Leandra parted company with Michaella on the third floor after giving her a hug and assuring her that she would always be welcome at the Crescent.
Another day of endless family bickering and another day of endless annoyance. Leandra was sure she’d lose her mind soon if she hadn’t already. Perhaps she could already lay claim to the title of lunatic, believing all this time that she was perfectly sane. Or she truly was sane, living in an insane situation. It was a conundrum on which she tried not to dwell.
She managed to escape for an hour or so in the afternoon to sit in her little morning room and read or sew or just stare out at the bare garden beyond the window and think. She tried not to think but it was inevitably what she did. And her thoughts always led to her absent husband.
At least they had managed to get Nicolette to leave. She had been a particular thorn in Leandra’s side. After the servants had pleaded with the woman for the better part of an hour, the duke’s mistress had finally been ejected by two of the footmen. Leandra cringed to remember that scene and hated to know what her husband would think when he returned, but it could not be helped now.
The wind outside blew and Leandra watched a bit of dead grass breeze by the window. She stared at it for a moment and then switched her attention to the new statue that had been erected in the center of the garden. It was Aphrodite, the Greek goddess of love.