by Jaimey Grant
Derringer turned his black gaze on his opponent, stripping off his tattered black shirt. The light was fading fast and a chill wind kicked up from the north giving him goose flesh. The loss of weight made his ribs stand out, giving him the look of a weak, enfeebled vagrant—a misleading image to anyone who didn’t know him. Cuts and welts crisscrossed his torso, front and back, some of them seeping blood as he moved.
He stretched his neck, his eyes never leaving D’Arcy’s. Derringer hunched his shoulders the slightest bit, wanting his opponent to think there was extra weakness there. If D’Arcy underestimated the duke’s stamina and threshold for pain, Derringer could prolong the beating until Tiny could subdue the crew, maybe even win.
“What are you waiting for, frog?” Derringer taunted. “Did you learn some honor somewhere?”
The Frenchman growled and made a lunge that the duke easily sidestepped even in his weakened state. Just as Derringer suspected, D’Arcy was laboring under the misapprehension that his victory was guaranteed. His overconfidence was Derringer’s asset.
He continued to taunt the volatile Frenchman as they circled each other like jungle cats. “Are you so much a coward you think you can only best me when I am half starved?”
He lunged again. Derringer nearly missed avoiding a blow that would have killed him. He saw the unmistakable glint of a knife blade in the meager light thrown by the setting sun. A fleeting thought went through his mind that D’Arcy had cheated in every possible way, but it was nothing more than he’d expected.
“You will die this night, Heartless,” growled the angry Frenchman. He lunged again, half expecting the duke to sidestep him as he’d been doing and was unpleasantly surprised when he didn’t.
Derringer shifted just enough to get an arm around D’Arcy’s throat, squeezing until he felt the smaller man gasping for breath. He caught D’Arcy’s flailing arm and wrenched it savagely behind him, the knife D’Arcy clutched falling to the deck. The snap of the bone and the agonized scream of the injured man echoed over the water. Derringer tightened the arm around D’Arcy’s neck until the Frenchman slumped unconscious on the deck.
No one was more surprised than the duke that it was over, that he had won, and so quickly. One never should underestimate an opponent, even one so weakened from abuse that he appeared close to death. Derringer could only imagine how he looked, emaciated, wan, trembling in his bare feet. Anyone would have thought he’d lose, anyone would have expected Derringer’s body to fall to the deck instead of D’Arcy’s. Derringer himself had expected no less.
The deck dipped on a wave, sending Derringer stumbling to his left. His head spun. He tried to look around, tried to see the faces of those surrounding him. Instead his eyes rolled back in his head and he joined D’Arcy on the deck.
Prestwich and his band of intrepid rescuers returned to Portsmouth mere days after their departure. Leandra’s condition was to blame, her stomach unable to endure the constant motion of a ship.
They journeyed straight from Portsmouth to Folkestone, a certain urgency not allowing for a stop in London to apprise Aurora and Bri of new developments.
After several days of uncomfortable travel, they finally drove under the raised portcullis of Derringer Crescent. The front gardens flowered with early spring blooms, two fountains filling the air with the constant splash of water meeting water.
Leandra gazed about her in rapt wonder. Such drastic changes had occurred in the time since she’d taken up residence. Her heart filled with joy at the sight.
The loss of her husband had occupied her mind to the point that she noticed nothing around her. Now, tired, ill with worry and despair, and so close to giving up she could taste it, she saw the changes her servants had made, saw the instructions she’d given carried out. It gladdened her heart even if that gladness was tinged with sorrow.
Her husband should see his estate returned to its former glory. But she doubted he would. Her faith in his return had waned. All that kept her hanging onto the future was the child under her heart, a small piece of the husband she’d learned to love.
Leandra put on her best gown, an ivory silk trimmed with Brussels lace, tiny seed pearls sewn all over the bodice. Such a beautiful gown, she thought, stroking the soft fabric with a shaking hand. She’d never worn it, having taken one look at it and deciding to save it for something special. Liza had taken an hour to let it out a bit, allowing extra room for her pregnancy.
What made her decide to wear it now?
Liza wound her heavy tresses into a loose cluster of curls, pinning them securely and placing a seed pearl and diamond encrusted comb within the dark locks. A matching necklace of diamonds and pearls went around her neck and bracelets of gold around her gloved wrists. Her maid tried to convince her to carry a lorgnette, a beautiful eyeglass boasting diamonds and pearls, but Leandra declined, settling her spectacles firmly on her nose. After looking in the mirror, she had Liza put a dab of rouge on her wan cheeks to give her some much needed color.
Liza stood back, her pretty face a picture of awe. “You are so beautiful,” she whispered.
Leandra laughed. It felt good to laugh. “Hardly that, Liza.” Tears started to her eyes and she pulled her maid into an impulsive embrace. “But thank you.”
She swept from the room but a sharp pain halted her at the door, nearly sending her to her knees. Breathing deep, she gripped the doorpost, fingers whitening, and stifled a groan. It soon passed. She straightened, smoothing her hands over her belly, then continued on down to the family dining room. She told no one of the cramping in her abdomen and as it was not repeated, she soon forgot about it.
After a satisfying meal of no less than four courses with innumerable side courses and a final course of chocolate trifle, the gentlemen decided to forgo their port in favor of joining Leandra in the drawing room. As Leandra left the room, smiling at something Greville said, she caught sight of an arriving party. She paused, curiosity and unease tingling along her skin. Who would drop in on her without warning, well after the dinner hour? Greville and Prestwich halted beside her, their faces mirroring her concern.
The party shifted, parting to allow someone to fall to the front. Leandra’s smile faded, falling away as this person approached with the help of a very large man.
She dared not believe her eyes as she beheld the beloved countenance of her husband, his cheekbones protruding unnaturally over his sunken cheeks, one side of his face crusted with dried blood. His harsh features wavered, her vision blurring before the onslaught of tears.
He stood before her. She stared up into his battered features, her heart aching at the sight of cuts and bruises, his dark eyes probing hers. Then he spoke. It was a pain-filled whisper that tugged at her heart, her pooled tears overflowing.
“Merri, my angel, goddess of my heart, you are beautiful.”
After everything that had happened, Leandra Derringer could finally take no more. For the first time in her life, she fainted, falling gracefully at the duke’s feet.
33
Derringer knew hell but nothing prepared him for the long, frightful night ahead. Nightmares plagued his sleep, his younger self watching his mother die, then his adult self watching Gabriel die, and finally his future self watching his wife die. He awoke, covered in sweat, heart slamming against his ribs.
A quick glance around the room reassured him. He was safe. His ambitious relatives could no longer harm him. Tiny had assured him they would plague him no more and Tiny was very thorough when it came to taking care of things.
A cold feeling of dread assailed him even as this comforting thought occurred. The clock by his bed, illuminated in a shaft of moonlight, stared back at him, informing him of the time but giving him no reason as to his unease. What woke him? Was it the nightmare alone? Or some other disturbance, something outside his unconscious mind?
A muffled sound caught his ear. Two doors and a sitting room separated him from his wife. He’d gone against his instincts, allowing his wife to sleep alo
ne, in her own bed, convincing himself that she would rest better without his haggard presence at her side.
His eye was drawn to the connecting door, senses alert. He eased to the edge of the high bed, straining his ears for a repeat of the muffled sound. When it came again, it was louder, barely muffled at all.
He streaked across the room, thankful he’d been put to bed in his breeches. Two doors and a sitting room later, he strode into his wife’s bedchamber.
Her scream rent the air just as he reached her side, a keening, agony-filled howl that froze his blood. Her arms pressed into the feather mattress, her back arching with the pain. The metallic tang of blood filled the air, Derringer’s stomach clenching at the scent.
He found himself beside her before he even realized it, sitting on the bed. He gathered her in his arms. Terror clenched at his heart while he cursed his ignorance. He knew what was happening, the dim light of a fire allowing his eyes to see the dark stain spreading over her lower limbs. But he didn’t know how to help her through it, how to ease the pain that threatened to tear her in two.
Would a physician know what to do? Possibly, but Derringer would have to leave her side, venture into the corridor, shout the castle down in an attempt to get help. Would it be too late by then?
Confused, frightened, and a little angry, he just held her. He held her until she stopped crying, stopped struggling. He held her when she stopped moving at all and the only sound that could be heard was the sound of his own convulsive sobs.
Liza entered her mistress’s room cautiously. She’d heard her mistress’s screams and gone to Mrs. Stark immediately so that lady could send for the doctor. Liza had too many younger brothers and sisters, had seen too many difficult pregnancies to not be aware of what was happening as soon as Leandra screamed in the night. The housekeeper agreed with Liza’s assessment of the situation and sent up a sleeping draft should Leandra need it. Then she roused a footman and sent him to order a groom to ride for the doctor.
As Liza looked around, she saw his grace in the bed with the duchess and her heart nearly broke. She clapped a hand to her mouth to stifle the sobs that tried to escape and knocked the tray she carried out of her own hand. It clattered to the floor, shattering the early-morning peace.
The noise woke Derringer, who had fallen asleep only minutes before the maid’s entrance. He looked up at Liza, down at his wife, and couldn’t stop a fresh torrent of grief. He buried his face in Leandra’s neck and wept bitterly for the loss of his wife and child.
He wasn’t aware of Liza’s leaving the room. Indeed, he was aware of nothing but the agony that threatened to tear him apart. He didn’t even hear his name whispered over and over until someone rudely shook him.
“What?” he roared at this hapless person. He opened his eyes and stared into hazel eyes turned dusky green with pain and a shared sorrow.
Scarcely daring to believe, Derringer sat up, touching his wife’s ashen cheek with one long finger. She smiled wanly at him and opened her mouth to speak. But the duke forestalled her by covering her mouth with his in a kiss that spoke of love, passion, heartbreak, and relief. And somewhere in the depths was a profound grief over the loss of their child.
Leandra recovered slowly, which was no great surprise to anyone. She had just lost a child, a child she had for so long thought of as her only link to a man she loved more than life itself. Her grief consumed her and Derringer tried to help her through it as best he could. But he was grieving, too, and had little experience with helping others to heal.
Greville departed shortly after Derringer’s return. Prestwich remained for a few weeks, determined to stay until he knew the duchess was out of danger. He knew his wife would never forgive him if he left too soon. But he was next to useless when trying to help a grieving female, a failing he openly acknowledged, and in so doing, was oddly more comforting than not. Mostly, he kept the duke from going stark-staring mad.
But the duke was at his wit’s end regardless. He stalked the castle corridors, talking to himself, trying to work out a solution, one that would resurrect the lively beauty that was his wife. Something had to get through to her, wake her up from her sorrow, help her move forward.
Derringer sent for Michaella. He hoped his wife’s sister would be able to help her. Besides, he had some very bad news that should only be delivered in person.
Lady Michaella arrived a few days after she was summoned. Derringer greeted her, taking her to his study. She sat down, pretty face blank, waiting. After ordering a servant to fetch the duchess, he paced before his sister-by-marriage.
The duke wondered how much this young lady had been made privy to during his absence. He’d been aware of a certain attachment between her and the man the world thought of as his cousin, Gabriel St. Clair. He did not look forward to telling her of his demise but he hoped that she and Leandra might be able to help each other.
“Thank you for coming so promptly, Lady Michaella,” he began formally.
“Please, call me Michaella,” she inserted quickly, a sweet smile curving her lips. Derringer could understand Gabriel’s having fallen for this rose. She was completely unspoiled.
He bowed. “Michaella, then. And you will call me Hart, I hope. We are brother and sister, after all.” Michaella smiled and nodded.
Derringer stared down at her. He felt like pacing but he knew this would not soften the blow she was about to receive. So he sat beside her instead. “Michaella, I wonder if you would permit me to ask you something very impertinent before Merri arrives.”
Brows lifting in surprise, she replied, “If you wish.”
“Are you in love with Gabriel?”
Her blush was answer enough but to his surprise she didn’t hesitate in replying in the affirmative.
Leandra must not have been far when the servant found her. It was then that the door opened to admit Lady Derringer.
Doubt curled in Derringer’s chest. He hoped the sisters could help each other through their grief. Neither lady had yet learned of Gabriel’s death and Michaella was as yet unaware of her sister’s loss. His loss.
He had no other ideas to try to help his wife and he was beginning to feel rather helpless—an emotion he quite simply could not countenance.
Standing as she entered, he offered her his seat beside her sister. A taut smile briefly curved her lips as she acknowledged his unwonted courtesy. He felt his own lips twitch in response. His Merri was still in there somewhere, beneath all that mind-numbing grief.
Assuming bad news was best delivered while all, including the bearer, were seated, he dragged the chair from before his desk and placed it near the settee upon which the ladies perched.
Derringer opened his mouth, then closed it and shook his head. “First, have you heard any rumors of my cousin, Michaella?”
Michaella blushed quite becomingly, darting a look at her sister. “No. I was rushed home soon after you… left.”
He smiled. “No need to feel shy about mentioning that. It was a difficult time for us all,” he remarked in the single biggest understatement of the century.
“Yes,” she murmured. “I was sorry to leave Merri at such a time but I felt she was in capable hands with Rory and Bri. Much more capable.” A smile trembled on her lips when Leandra reached over and squeezed her hand.
“Quite. You have not heard then that Gabriel is not my cousin?”
“Whatever do you mean?” she asked.
He sighed, clenching his fingers in an unusual display of uncertainty. “Gabriel was taken from our mother just after his birth and raised by my aunt and uncle. Gabe is my twin.” He paused, drawing in a deep, rather unsteady breath. “Gabe was my twin.”
It took but a moment for his listeners to digest what he was saying. Leandra gasped, a tear sliding down her pale cheek. Her sister released a shaky breath but did not cry.
“He is… dead?”
Derringer was very much affected by the empty look in Michaella’s eyes but he did not show it. “Yes, he is.�
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The young lady’s lips curved upward a bit but it was not a smile. It was more a grimace of acceptance, a look of acute awareness of life. Somehow, this was far worse than if she had screamed and wailed against the unfairness of fate. But at the same time, he had to admire her strength.
“Thank you for telling me, Hart,” she said, her voice hollow, dead. She rose in one graceful movement. “I know how difficult it must be for you right now. Please accept my condolences on your loss.”
“Lady Michaella—Michaella—he was as much your loss as mine. More so yours, I think,” the duke observed, his voice barely above a whisper.
Michaella did smile then, a soft, heartbroken little twisting of her lips that slammed Derringer in the stomach. “We all lost something wonderful, Hart. The key is to live on with his memory strong in our hearts and minds. To wake up each day, thankful we are alive, and thankful we had the pleasure of knowing him. I am thankful for that pleasure, Hart, and I know I owe that to you.” She went forward and bent to kiss him on the cheek. “Thank you.”
Derringer watched her leave, unsure what to say to that. He’d neglected to tell her of Leandra’s misery, too stunned by her words to do anything other than stare at her.
And ignore the memories clamoring for attention. His mother, his father, his brother and the added horror of his child’s death fought for dominance, threatening to drive him mad. His wife sat silently watching him, tears streaking her cheeks. He had nothing he could say to her, nothing to ease the agony in her eyes, heal the ache in her heart. How could he help her? He couldn’t even help himself.
The duke left her alone with her misery. Leandra closed her eyes, willing the tears to cease. She felt powerless against all the grief and even more so against the hurt she saw in her husband’s dark eyes—hurt that she’d caused.