Heartless

by Jaimey Grant

  “‘Tis heaven up here, so high above the rest of the world.” She released the reins and threw her hands up in the air. “I feel so free!” she shouted joyously. “I feel like I could fly!”

  Both of Lady’s front feet left the ground briefly and Leandra grabbed up the reins to keep from tumbling off, laughing. “Careful, my pet, or you will lose me. And I have no desire to take a tumble off this cliff.”

  Lady shook her head and twisted around to nibble at Leandra’s skirts, one great black eye watching her closely. Leandra marveled that the creature could so resemble her master with her black coat and black, expressionless eyes. She gave herself a mental shake and leaned down to pat the horse’s silky neck.

  As she resumed her straight-backed position, Leandra caught sight of an object far off in the distance bobbing along in the water. She squinted her eyes, trying to decipher what it was but it was still too far away.

  “Come, Lady, let us investigate.”

  She urged the horse into a canter toward a cliff path that led down to the shore below. She let her arms fall slack on the reins and Lady picked her way down the rocky path. It was quite a distance and the object Leandra had seen from the cliff top was much closer by the time horse and rider reached the bottom. The wind was not so fierce down here and Leandra’s hair fell in damp strands around her shoulders and down her back. Her cloak was thrown back over her shoulders due to the wind and all the elegance of her deep brown habit was visible.

  She should have been cold. But curiosity and excitement fired her blood and she did not feel the cold bite of the wind or the stinging spray of the surf. She was too intent on what she now recognized as a ship.

  She could make out the sails and saw that it was moving quickly in her direction. The little bay by which she stood was where her husband docked his boat, she knew. So thinking, she assumed it must be Derringer returning from France.

  She suppressed a shiver. He was coming home.

  She hoped he had his cousin with him. When Derringer had spoken of Gabriel St. Clair, pain echoed in his voice. She knew how important it was for him to restore his cousin to his family and recapture some of the innocence they had shared as boys.

  As these thoughts ran through Leandra’s mind, Lady stomped and snorted almost as if she knew the ship in the distance. Leandra patted her neck and murmured, “Yes, my beautiful Lady, he is returned.”

  After watching the ship for a few minutes, Leandra turned Lady and began the treacherous climb back up the cliff path. Lady stumbled once, setting Leandra’s heart to beating wildly, but the nimble creature regained her footing and carried her mistress to safety.

  Once more upon the cliff top, Leandra gazed out to sea, the wind whipping her hair in every direction. She could make out the shape of a man on deck of the ship, staring up at her. She waved once and galloped back to the castle, her cloak flying behind her like the wings of a raven.

  Derringer stood with his arms folded and his feet spread on the dipping and swaying deck of his ship. He looked like a storybook pirate with his black hair whipping around his shoulders, his black shirt open at the throat, and his thigh-hugging black breeches tucked into his black boots. His black cloak flew behind him in much the same way the horsewoman’s did.

  He watched the woman ride away, the wind nipping at the horse’s hooves. Was it Leandra? It had to be. Who else would it be? And that had to be Lucifer’s Lady that she rode. As far as Derringer knew, Lady would not allow anyone but him, and now his wife, to ride her. He would recognize Lady anywhere.

  So it had to have been Leandra on that cliff top watching him. Why? What possible reason could she have for anticipating his arrival?

  But perhaps it was simple coincidence. She may have been out riding along the cliff and happened to see the ship. She probably decided to watch in an effort to determine whether or not it was he. Yes, that was it. It was the only logical explanation.

  He was surprised to feel disappointment at this likely explanation. He would much rather believe that she had ridden out just to see if he was returning. He wanted her to anxiously await his return with bated breath. He wanted her to…

  He shook his head and frowned awfully at his own sentimental thoughts. Why the devil did he care, all of a sudden? He wasn’t in love with the chit no matter what Gabriel said. He couldn’t be. He didn’t even know her.

  Besides, he swore he’d never fall in love. It was imperative that he did not. People in love tend to reveal their secrets and fears and Derringer had no desire to tell anyone anything. His secrets and fears were best left in the back of his subconscious mind where they could harm no one.

  Where they could not harm him.

  Leandra rushed back into the castle, eyes shining and lips smiling. She handed her cloak to Stark who gaped at the sight of his mistress without her hat and her hair loose about her shoulders. In her excitement, Leandra had completely forgotten her scandalous appearance.

  Oh, well, as long as no one else saw her, no harm was done.

  All her guests seemed to pour from the upper stories at one time, intent on converging in the drawing room for afternoon tea. Her face crinkled in dismay as one by one each person stopped and stared at her with varying degrees of surprise. She could feel the heat start up her neck but she fought it down and pasted on a bright smile instead. She stifled the urge to smooth out her curls and lifted her chin.

  “Disgraceful!” exclaimed the Dowager Countess of Harwood and Lady St. Clair in unison. They looked at each other as if surprised that the one could ever agree with the other on anything.

  Michaella stood beside Martin St. Clair, wide-eyed but silent. Contempt and disgust emanated from the younger Lady Harwood and Lady Schuster. Lady Kathryn and her husband stared at Leandra as if she had two heads. The Grevilles exchanged amused glances.

  Greville leaned down to whisper in his wife’s ear, she grinned and sailed forward, laughter shining in her turquoise eyes. Linking Leandra’s arm with hers, she said, “My dear, you appear to have enjoyed your ride immensely.”

  Leandra admitted this was true and waited. What would Aurora say next?

  Leaning forward so they would not be overheard, Aurora whispered, “Is he home?”

  Leandra exhaled in a rush and had to restrain herself from bouncing up and down. “Yes, I saw his ship. He should be in the castle by dinner.”

  “Splendid,” Aurora enthused, squeezing Leandra’s hand. “It has been so very long since I have seen Hart and I have to admit I miss him. Even with all his megrims, he is ever amusing.”

  Amusing? Hart? “Are we speaking of the same person, Rory? Hartley St. Clair? The Duke of Derringer? Tall man with black hair usually tied back at the nape and piercing black eyes like a starless night? That Hart?”

  Aurora giggled. “Yes, my dear, your husband. He is amusing. Levi assures me it is true and he never lies.” A shadow crossed her face but it was gone almost before it ever was so Leandra thought she must have imagined it.

  “Let us go up to your room and I will help you change into something very flattering. Then we will join the rest of the guests in the drawing room and dazzle them with our witty repartee.”

  Leandra allowed herself to be led away while Greville ushered everyone else into the drawing room. He winked outrageously as they passed and Leandra couldn’t suppress a giggle.

  18

  Derringer stumbled into the castle, Gabriel leaning heavily on him. He had tried to tidy his and Gabriel’s appearances as much as possible before leaving the ship but the wind was still blowing fiercely outside. The duke was afraid his efforts had all been for naught.

  In fact, he knew they were. His hair, which he had tied back with a leather thong, hung loose about his shoulders. There was nothing he could do about it now.

  “Are we home, Hart?”

  “Yes, Gabe.” He paused in the act of carrying his cousin up the stairs. There was no way he could get the man up the back stairs and Derringer was unsure he’d be able to face the mai
n stairs. He could always take him to the other staircase in the other wing but it would add close to a mile on his journey.

  “Stark,” called the duke. “Take Gabriel up to the Green Chamber on the third floor. I don’t know if the duchess has given it away but if she has, evict them.”

  At the butler’s raised hand, a large footman stepped forward and lifted the duke’s cousin, no visible strain in his massive shoulders.

  “I can walk,” protested Gabriel. The footman ignored him.

  Derringer turned to Stark and gestured to the departing pair. “Other than his size, what’s wrong with that one?”

  “Deaf, your grace.”

  “Wonderful.”

  Derringer strode into his bedchamber and shrugged out of his coat as he made his way to his dressing room. He would have to dig out some clothes for Gabriel, he thought as he untied the black cloth around his throat. He sat down and removed his boots, placing them neatly side-by-side on the floor by the chair. He remembered his wife’s greeting the last time he had returned home and he was alarmed at the intense disappointment he felt that she did not rush out to greet him this time.

  He moved into his bedchamber and glanced at the clock on the mantle. That would explain it, he thought with a weary sigh. They were all at dinner.

  Moving back into his dressing room, Derringer divested himself of the rest of his tattered and travel-stained clothing, donned a clean pair of trousers and a robe of black silk, and padded barefoot from the room. He walked down the corridor, passing three doors before he came to the Green Chamber. He knocked once, then pushed the door open.

  Gabriel was lying on the bed in a white nightshirt, buried under a mound of blankets. A fire roared in the grate and the wind howled at the floor-to-ceiling windows. The footman was doing something over on the table by the window, his back turned to the rest of the room.

  Derringer cocked an eyebrow in the direction of the busy footman. Gabriel laughed. “He said he has something that will help the pain in my… well, lack of arm.”

  “Really,” drawled Derringer, his gaze swinging once more to the footman. “Did you learn his name, by any chance?”

  “You’ll laugh,” grinned Gabriel.

  “Indeed.”

  “His name, or so he told me, is Hartley St. Clair Hughes.”

  Gabriel had the duke’s full attention. “What tomfoolery is this?”

  “Sure as I’m standing… no, lying here, God as my witness, s’truth.”

  “How did that come about, do you think?” queried Derringer as he sat down on the edge of the bed, facing his cousin.

  “I asked, believe me. Apparently, his mama had a tendre for a daring young duke by that name. She named her firstborn after that duke, much to the chagrin of the boy’s papa.”

  “Who is she?” He ran the name of Hughes through his vast store of useless knowledge but came up blank.

  “Remember Clara Smythe? She started on here when we were off at Eton. We came home and she was the new housemaid, very pretty, and very willing. I had thought to make a go at her but she wanted no one but you.”

  Derringer remembered the maid. She had been quite a taking thing with strawberry blond curls and dimpled cheeks. She’d had a way of moving around a room that made a man think inappropriate thoughts.

  The duke cast a sidelong look at the footman. His eyes narrowed. No, it wasn’t possible. He looked at Gabriel, who was laughing at him. “Is it possible?” he finally asked his cousin.

  Gabriel grinned. “No, it is not possible, Hart, you clunch.”

  “So what am I supposed to call him? I can’t go around calling him Hart. People will think I’m mad, talking to myself and all that.”

  “Hughes, I suppose.”

  Derringer threw another suspicious look at the footman before putting the whole thing from his mind. “I suppose you’ll be needing clothes.”

  “Naw, I think I’ll go around naked,” teased Gabriel. “Any ladies in the house? Other than your Merri, I mean.”

  “Unless they took their leave—which I very much doubt despite my threats—Merri’s family is here. There is the unhappy Lady Harwood, wife of the current earl, her mother-in-law the dowager, a widowed sister-in-law by the name of Lady Schuster, and a young beauty named Michaella. And I believe the nursery is overflowing with little Harwoods and Schusters of all ages and sizes. Dear God in heaven, I hope they’ve left! Michaella was the only tolerable one in the bunch.”

  Gabriel smiled. “Bad as all that, are they? Why don’t you toss them out on their collective ears? That would be like you from what I hear.”

  “What have you heard?”

  His cousin yawned before saying, “Lord Heartless, they call you. I’ve known all along where you were and what you were up to, you know. I couldn’t seek you out because… well, I just couldn’t. Are you really as heartless as they say?”

  “How did I become that well-known in France? Every pub and tavern I went in seemed to be filled with men quaking at the mere sight of me.”

  “You are legendary, cousin. You have no conscience, no sensibilities, no morals, no heart. I laughed when they said you were worse than Satan himself. I know you better than that. I did at one time anyway.”

  For some unexplainable reason, Gabriel’s assessment of his character hurt Derringer. He had heard it all before so it shouldn’t cause this ache in his chest.

  “Do you believe all that rot?”

  Hughes approached the bed and forestalled Gabriel’s answer. He handed the patient a glass and Gabriel gulped it down without even asking what was in it. His face twisted into a grimace, he shook his head slightly as if trying to get rid of the taste, and then he grinned.

  “Sleep now,” mumbled the footman in a guttural voice that made Derringer shiver.

  The duke rose to his feet, bid his cousin goodnight, and left the room after promising to look out some clothes for him.

  As Derringer settled himself into his high bed, the thought did cross his mind to seek out his wife and settle a few important matters between them. But his eyes refused to stay open and he was soon deeply asleep.

  He came awake a few hours later with the feeling that he was being watched. Darkness coated the chamber, the only light a sliver of moonlight coming from a crack in the drapes.

  Someone—or something—watched him, but he couldn’t tell exactly where it crouched in the vast chamber. Lids half-lowered, even breaths, forced calm, Derringer waited for he knew not what.

  Whoever was there was not his friend. They were probably there to dispatch him to his maker. One too many incidents in the past left the duke attacked, injured, the clear goal to end his life. He wasn’t about to let that happen until he at least determined who went to such trouble to see him dead.

  His dark eyes shot to the window where a shadow momentarily blocked the thread of moonlight. So he could expect the attack to come from his left. Every muscle in his tall form tensed with anticipation. He would know who wanted him dead, once and for all.

  The attack took him by surprise. It came from his right and he narrowly missed being skewered to his mattress. He rolled to the side, throwing the blankets off him as he did so. He heard a muffled grunt and surmised that the bedclothes had caught at least one of his assailants. There was still the man near the windows. His eyes adjusted to the dark and he could make out the man’s dim outline.

  Derringer headed right for him. A sharp pain sliced through his left shoulder—the same shoulder he injured two years previous in an attempt to rescue Aurora Greville—but he ignored it and slammed his fist into what he hoped was the man’s face. The man retaliated with an uppercut that slammed Derringer across the room. He landed on his back, his injured shoulder protesting the impact, and fought to regain his breath.

  With the agility of a cat, the duke regained his feet. Arms outstretched, his eyes searched the Stygian gloom.

  A muffled sound came from his right and his eyes darted in that direction. A blade glinted in the shaft of m
oonlight. He twisted his body to avoid the weapon. His arm shot out, caught something very human, and he twisted until he had the man in his arms with the knife at the man’s throat.

  “Show yourself or your friend dies,” he told the other man in that silky tone that most men knew indicated blind fury.

  The other shadow detached itself from the wall and sauntered toward the duke. Just before he would have been in arm’s reach, he darted around Derringer and escaped through the door and out into the winding, labyrinth-style passages of the castle.

  “It seems your friend has deserted you,” the duke drawled.

  Much to the duke’s surprise and horror, the man in his arms jerked his body convulsively. His arm, imprisoned by Derringer in a death grip, gave a sickening crack. The man groaned, Derringer relaxed his hold an infinitesimal degree, and in that split second of surprise, the man twisted and jabbed his fist into the duke’s ribs. He disappeared in the same direction as his accomplice.

  The duke went after them. He left his chamber, shouting for help, and ran in the direction of the stairs leading to the second floor. He stopped short of descending them and stared down for about three seconds before his eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped to the floor in a dead faint.

  19

  Leandra rushed from her room at the first bellow for help. She witnessed her husband’s appearance on the landing, clothed in nothing but his breeches, blood running from his shoulder, over his chest and down his arm. He stopped short, wavered, and collapsed in a heap. Was he dead?

  She stopped next to Derringer’s inert form, but her head whipped around at a sound behind her. Eyes widening, she beheld the sudden appearance of another man, one who possessed an uncanny resemblance to her husband. Same dark hair, tall, muscular form and angular features, but this man lacked one arm, the sleeve of his nightshirt rolled up and pinned at the shoulder.