by Jaimey Grant
It was amazing, Leandra thought later, how one could actually fear something that could turn out so completely wonderful.
But then, her husband had looked anything but gentle when he forced her back into the room a few hours prior. He had seemed determined and perhaps a little angry. For that, she really couldn’t blame him. She had pushed him too far, she knew, with her complaints about the consequences of their actions and leaving him. It was her desire for him that made her goad him into taking her and her fear that had kept her from admitting that she was deeply in love with him.
She turned slightly to gaze at her sleeping husband. His black hair was spread out on the pillow, his breathing deep and even. She stared at him for a long moment, content, happy. While she missed her father a great deal, she knew that had he lived, she would have ended her days in spinsterhood if she hadn’t married some man who was willing to take her on for the dowry her father was willing to pay.
Reaching out a hand, Leandra gently brushed a lock of hair from her husband’s brow. He came awake, every muscle tensing as if waiting for attack. His hand trapped hers where she touched him and she bit back a startled cry of pain.
Derringer released her, dragging her up with him as he sat, holding her close. He said nothing and just held her until the initial fear subsided. Her own tension faded, her body easing against his.
“What has happened to you, my dear,” she murmured into his chest, “to cause such fear?”
Derringer stiffened. “I am afraid of nothing, Merri,” he growled.
Leandra sat back and looked up into his dark eyes. “You fear many things, Hart. Everyone, man, woman, and child, has fears, worries, and anxieties. It is normal. The strength is in letting someone share those with you.”
He stared at her. “You make it sound so simple.”
“I didn’t mean to,” she said. “It is most difficult, I assure you.”
Derringer released her and pushed one hand through his hair, frowning as he did so. He was completely fed up with wondering when the next attack on his life would take place. He was not afraid for himself anymore, and that scared him more than anything else did. Leandra needed him and he realized that life without her was not worth living.
But there was no way, despite her entreaties, that he could confide in her. He looked at her, watched the emotions flit through her hazel eyes and at that moment, he smiled with a trace of genuine happiness.
“What?”
“I just realized,” he murmured, drawing her back into his arms, “when you are completely incoherent with passion, your eyes turn the most beautiful shade of blue.”
Derringer emerged from another steamy session of lovemaking strangely restless. His wife knew no such restlessness, having dropped off to sleep almost before he’d rolled away from her. His body screamed for a respite, just a bit of rest, but his mind refused to calm.
He, of course, knew why. He wanted an end to the madness that plagued him. It was very nearly over, he knew, and all he had to do was put himself out there where he could once again be vulnerable to attack. Then, he’d either have the villains responsible or he would die like his father had—young and under suspicious circumstances.
He looked down at his sleeping wife and thought he had never seen anyone quite so beautiful. Her long brown curls lay in disarray over her naked shoulders, partially masking her face. Her beauty wasn’t of the obvious or of the popular sort. Her clear skin, honest, open features, and acceptance of her own strengths and flaws made her something out of the ordinary. To Derringer, the obvious and the popular beauties paled in comparison.
Desire flared, the desire to love her again, to show her how much a part of him she’d become. Consideration for her held him back. He’d made demands on her innocent body that she barely understood and, he realized now, she’d complied with innocent desire and complete trust. In him.
His desire of a moment before died, fear taking over. Trusting in him for any reason could get her killed.
The duke pressed a kiss to Leandra’s brow. She murmured something in her sleep, a smile curving her kiss-swollen lips. Derringer felt a painful lurch in his heart. He silently rose from the bed and dressed, his movements hurried. Returning to the bedside, he stared down at her for a long moment. Leandra sighed in her sleep. He pulled the blankets up over her tenderly.
“I love you, my heart,” he whispered.
Then, the Duke of Derringer disappeared.
29
Leandra didn’t wake until the following morning, her stomach making its dissatisfaction known. The rest of her body remained satiated, memories of the previous day warming her from head to toe.
She stretched like a cat, reaching for her husband. Her hands encountered nothing but air. Heart lurching, she opened her eyes. He was not there. In fact, the bedsheet’s cold caress on her fingertips revealed it had been some time since he’d been there.
The duchess sat up, forehead creasing in deep thought. She reached for her spectacles, losing her grip on the bedclothes. A blush climbed her cheeks though no one was there to see. She jerked them back into place over her naked chest. Then she plopped her spectacles on her nose and got out of bed.
If she was to find out what had become of her husband, she couldn’t loll about in bed all day reliving the glorious night in his arms.
She paused as a smile of remembrance curved her lips. Then she went to her dressing room and rang for Liza.
Unease crawled Leandra’s spine at the sight that met her eyes in the breakfast room. The sensation increased at the noticeable absence of Derringer and Gabriel. Michaella, who’d decided to stay after her family’s ejection from the premises, bit her lip as if fighting back tears, her features unnaturally pale. Lord Greville had a worried look on his face and Sir Adam appeared almost angry. The other two ladies stared at Leandra with carefully blank expressions, the most suspicious of the expressions she beheld.
Leandra motioned for the gentlemen to return to their seats and sat in her customary spot at the right of the head. She looked expectantly at Greville. “Well, sir? Why all the long faces?”
The earl flushed and looked down at his empty plate. Aurora placed a tiny hand on his arm and whispered something Leandra couldn’t catch.
Leandra turned her gaze to Adam Prestwich. “Where is Gabriel?”
Michaella burst into tears and fled the room.
The duchess rose as if to follow, but Lady Prestwich restrained her. “Gabriel is missing, Lady Derringer. He didn’t come home last night and one of the gamekeepers said there was blood near the cliffs.”
“Which cliffs?” Leandra asked blankly.
“The ones overlooking the Strait,” answered Adam. “Harwood has been seen creeping around there and I am afraid he is suspect.”
“Well, of course he is,” Leandra asserted. “He is, after all, in need of my father’s will and Hart happens to have it.”
This little piece of information silenced her companions. Wordlessly, the duchess signaled a footman to bring her breakfast and ate with all the absorption of a starving waif. Everyone waited until she was finished and had risen to leave before they erupted with questions.
“When did he find it?” asked Greville.
“Where was it?” asked Bri, Lady Prestwich.
“How did he get it?” asked Aurora.
“And how did he manage to keep it a secret?” asked Prestwich. He paused. “Wait, never mind,” he said, shaking his head. “I must have forgotten for a moment who we were discussing.”
Leandra smiled. “I believe he has had it for a few days at least, Levi. He has yet to tell me where he found it, Lady Prestwich. And I think you know him well enough to know how he got it, Rory.” Her gaze fell on Prestwich. “I realize you spoke before thought, Sir Adam, but I will answer anyway. He said nothing because he was hoping to torment my brother with it.”
Nothing was said to this revelation. Then, “The more I get to know you, Leandra,” inserted Greville, “the more I belie
ve you and Hart were made for each other. I wonder, could you tell us where your brother, or whomever is responsible, has taken Gabriel St. Clair?”
As her husband was still very much the heedless man he had been when she first met him, Leandra did not overly worry about him until dinner that night. She would not have worried even then but for the disappearance of Gabriel just after she had discovered that note penned by Derringer’s mother. There were far too many pieces falling into place for any of the recent happenings to be mere coincidence.
It was not until two days later that Leandra realized her husband might not return. She was near the study when she overheard Greville discussing the duke with Prestwich.
“I know it is something Hart would do, Adam, but I can’t see him not saying anything to Leandra. He’s in love with her, you know.”
Leandra’s heart picked up at this, hope warring with common sense. As much as she wanted her husband’s love, she was not going to assume she had it, no matter who happened to think it was true.
In Prestwich’s reply she could almost hear his look of disbelief. “Derringer? Is he actually capable of love, Vi? And even if he was, why would feeling that tender emotion suddenly change his manners?”
Leandra nodded her head. It was true and she was actually fascinated to realize that she didn’t expect him to change. She loved him and that was all there was to it.
A thread of annoyance entered Greville’s voice. “I would normally agree with you, but hasn’t your own experience with love made you realize that things are not always so simple?”
Prestwich grunted. “This really has nothing to do with a missing duke, has it?”
“No, but I think even Hart, as callous and unfeeling a monster as he is,”—Leandra had to stop herself from marching in and boxing Greville’s ears—“would never send this. Even as a jest.”
Leandra wanted very badly to push open the door a little more so she could see what it was they had. Something in their manner alerted her that they were not going to tell her what was happening, so she did just that. Except, she threw open the door, catching the gentlemen unawares. She gasped when she saw what the earl held.
“Oh, dear God!” Her huge eyes flashed from one man to the other. “What happened? Where is he?”
“Leandra—” began Greville, rising from his chair.
“No! Do not Leandra me, Lord Greville. I will know what has happened or I will flail you both alive!”
Prestwich’s eyes lit with an unholy glee much like Derringer’s would have done, while Greville took a hasty step back. The duchess glared at both of them for a moment, then, reasserting her usual unruffled calm, she sighed. “I think you both know that I will not simply walk away without some explanation. I can be quite as stubborn as Hart, I assure you.”
Prestwich took the object from the earl’s grasp and held it out. “I’m sure you know what this is, your grace?”
Leandra took it from him, tears forming. Her husband’s hair, the long hank tied with a black riband. The silky black strands slipped through her fingers, the same silky strands she’d slipped her fingers through only days ago. Why had it been cut off?
Prestwich appeared to read her mind. “There was no note with it, Lady Derringer. We do not know if someone else sent it or Hart himself.”
“Why,” Leandra began in a dangerously soft tone, “would my husband do something so reprehensible?”
Greville chose to intervene. “You know Hart, Leandra. I do not think he would do this to you but he has been known to do some fairly… well, despicable things in his lifetime. I just can’t think what he thinks to gain by this.”
“He will gain nothing, gentlemen, because he didn’t do it,” stated the duchess with confidence. She moved across the room and sat behind the large desk still strewn with paperwork. She stared down blindly at a piece of vellum as she continued. “Hart was very adamant about his appearance. I’ve yet to discover why exactly, but he would not do anything to mar it.” She looked up at Greville as if for confirmation. He nodded in agreement since it was quite true. Looking down again, her eye was caught by something in a paper on top of the desk.
“What is this?” she asked.
Prestwich stepped closer. “It appears to be a normal order for the departure of a ship.”
“But who ordered the departure?”
“If it is one of Hart’s, Leandra, it had to be him,” offered Greville. “I know he is the only one with the authority to do so.”
Leandra studied it with the gentlemen looking over her shoulder. “It appears someone is trying to set sail and according to this, it should be right now.”
“Captain Taverner will not leave without this order,” remarked Greville.
“Would he realize it is forged, do you think?” inquired the duchess with a grim look.
“Is it?” Prestwich peered closer. “How do you know?”
Leandra smiled. “I have seen enough messages from my husband to know how he signs them.” She pointed at the D in Derringer. “He does not make that little tail there. He always starts his signature with a wicked slash. This was done by an amateur,” she remarked meditatively.
Brushing a few other documents aside, she discovered two more such orders, the signature on each closer to the duke’s than the previous, as though someone practiced until they got it right. That could only mean an order went out on which the forgery was close enough to remain undetected by the captain.
“So what does all this mean?” asked Greville. “Someone wants to set sail enough to forge Hart’s command. What has that to do with Gabriel and Hart disappearing?”
Leandra went very still, heart stuttering in her chest. She remembered the words of a certain letter word for word, the words of Derringer’s mama. In a voice devoid of expression, she asked, “Where is Martin St. Clair?”
30
In the following weeks, Leandra began to lose hope. Her worry increased with each passing day. They had no news of her husband, nothing to lead them to his whereabouts or even if he still lived. Each morning she woke, as wearied as if she’d only just dropped off to sleep.
Then one morning she woke, clutched her stomach, and cast up her accounts in the chamberpot. Logic might have suggested she was simply sickening for something but instinct declared otherwise. She was increasing.
While she prayed for her husband’s safe return, she rejoiced in the knowledge that she carried his child. She threw herself into planning for the child’s arrival, adding in the preparations for the many holiday celebrations in the not-to-distant future.
It was in the midst of her planning that Leandra found a moment to wonder over Martin St. Clair’s disappearance. From what she could tell he’d not been at Derringer Crescent for some time. Leandra would have pondered the situation sooner had she not been so caught up in her own problems.
Prestwich and Greville returned to London to see if perhaps they could find more information. Leandra heard nothing from them for some time. And when she did, it was only more mystery added to the conundrum that already was her life.
Sir Adam Prestwich strode into Greville’s townhouse in Berkley Square exactly three months after the Duke of Derringer’s disappearance. He strode to the bookroom in the back of the residence, not even bothering to knock. Greville didn’t look up as Prestwich entered and sat in a leather armchair opposite the desk behind which the earl sat.
“What have you found?” inquired Greville. He frowned at the letter he held as he waited for Prestwich’s response.
“Tiny,” Prestwich said, referring to a friend of Derringer’s. “Ran into the giant while scouring the East End for clues. He gave me this.” Leaning forward, he tossed a folded sheet of foolscap at Greville. “Said we’re not to worry about the missing duke and he added that we keep the duchess safe. Oh, Tiny also sends his regards to your lady wife.”
Greville grunted and accepted the paper. “What else?”
“Big John Hancock heard a rumor about a black devil being
sent back to hell but I attributed that story to his flair for the dramatic.”
“Do not be so sure. You read this?”
“I did but the Captain’s writing is not easily understood. I surmise whoever took Gabriel also took Derringer. You think they still live?”
“I hope so, based on Taverner’s convoluted mutterings, but I don’t think they will be for long. Look at this.”
Greville searched his desk for a moment, locating what he sought in a copy of Debrett’s Peerage. A folded sheet of vellum fell out, settling on the desk before him. He handed it to his companion.
“Tracing your lineage?” quipped Prestwich as he took the sheet of vellum. His smile disappeared when he read the rather shaky handwriting on the sheet. “Where did you get this?”
“Leandra. She found it in Lady Derringer’s journal, hidden in the flyleaf. What do you want to wager Martin St. Clair and his mama know about that?”
“I thought you had given up gaming?” Prestwich remarked in an offhand manner, his attention almost entirely focused the paper he held.
“Only when it’s not a sure thing.”
“What I want to know,” Prestwich said, ignoring Greville’s assurance, “is why either one of them are still alive.”
“I wondered that as well. It certainly would have been in their best interest to kill them both, dispose of the bodies, and claim the title and inheritance.”
“You are positive Martin and Lady St. Clair are behind this, aren’t you?”
“Absolutely. They are the only ones who stand to benefit by their deaths.”
“What about our new king?” Everyone knew how the royal family felt about the Dukes of Derringer, past and present.
Greville thought about it for a moment. “No, this doesn’t have Prinny’s feel to it. Cutting off Hart’s hair was not his style and we would have found the bodies by now. Prinny would make sure they were dead and make sure everyone knew it. And our recently passed monarch was never really in the right frame of mind to properly despise Hart. It is suspected he disposed of the previous duke, though.”