Historical Romance Boxed Set

by Brenda Novak

  Waiting until her eyes adjusted to the meager moonlight, Alexandra looked around the study a final time. She sorted more carefully through the duke’s correspondence, squinting to make out who had written him, then rifled through his drawers until she encountered a locked metal box.

  Judging from its weight, the box held nothing more valuable than a few legal documents, but the fact that it was locked intrigued her. She padded quietly to the door, which the duke had left standing wide, and closed it. Then she returned to the desk and picked up a marble paperweight to smash the lock.

  She stood close to the window to afford herself what light she could, and glanced through what appeared to be love letters. Fierce protestations of undying devotion and lewd invitations written in torrents of misspelled words and incorrect grammar covered sheet after sheet of cheap foolscap. Only one was written on expensive stationary by a woman who appeared to be educated. It came all the way from Scotland and was signed “Ellyne.” Alexandra soon realized she was reading the words of Lord Clifton and Lady Anne’s mother.

  My children beg me to come back to England and yet I have never received a single letter from you. Not even the apology I so deserve or a thank you for holding my tongue. In my more generous moments, I think guilt keeps you so remote. But that must be the beginning of my dementia speaking. I have lost all of my hair and too much weight, but the sores have gone for now. When I am strong enough to be honest with myself I know you do not care that you brought such a fate home to me. You had to have your doxies, and they had to be of the most common variety, didn’t they?

  Yet I gave you the son you wanted and, for my children’s sake, say nothing of your trips to the Greentree Tavern and others like it. I bet you thought I didn’t know where you went at night. More’s the pity… I didn’t know until it was too late. Still, I want to tell you this: my revenge is knowing that you will soon follow me. We can’t live forever; Your Grace, and so, I hope someday to see you burning in the fiery furnaces of hell. Just as you deserve.

  Alexandra blinked as she absorbed the meaning of the flowing script. Was it syphilis? Had the duke given his wife syphilis? Anger and pity nearly brought tears to her eyes for the women who had been destroyed by Nathaniel’s father, and for Lady Anne and Lord Clifton, and much more poignantly, for Nathaniel.

  Daring to light the lamp again, Alexandra used a sheet of the duke’s own stationary to pen a letter to Trenton. Perhaps it was time Greystone received a measure of his own medicine.

  * * *

  The guards woke Nathaniel at dawn for a breakfast of boiled barley. Though the meal would not have been considered edible anywhere else, Nathaniel hungrily swallowed the tasteless gruel, noting as he did the absence of so much as a crust of bread. Evidently rations aboard the hulks were scantier than he had anticipated. He wondered at the possibility of receiving a second serving, but as he glanced at the empty bowls of the other men, he saw that no one asked.

  “Can we have more?” he asked the prisoner seated next to him.

  Small-boned, with a gray, wispy beard and sunken eyes, the man looked almost like a sage, except for the long scar that disfigured his cheek. He studied Nathaniel dubiously. “You can ask, if you want to go without for the rest of the day. Bloody Sampson spends the government’s money on pig slop—and gives us less than a child’s ration at that—so he can pocket the difference.”

  “Now, that’s a serious charge,” the clerk interrupted, suddenly bearing down on them. “Haven’t you learned to control your tongue yet, Joseph? After five years in this stinkin’ place?”

  Joseph cowered in Sampson’s presence. “I didn’t mean nothin’ by it! I swear.”

  “Perhaps it’s time to show our one-armed man what happens to those who make trouble. Come on, Old Joe. You first.”

  “But you know me, sir,” Joseph cried. “I’m harmless enough. Just an old man, minding his business.”

  “Didn’t sound as though you were minding your business to me.” Sampson motioned to a guard, who grabbed Joseph by the shirt front and hauled him up. “It’s time for a flogging, boys!”

  Everyone poured out of the mess hall behind Nathaniel, Joseph, and those who pulled them both along. Unable to keep up with the quick pace of the guards because of the shackles on his feet, Joseph fell and received a kick in the ribs for his folly.

  “Get up, coward!” Sampson raged, drawing back for a blow to the head.

  Nathaniel grasped Sampson’s fist in his hand. “Give him a minute.”

  The other prisoners stared at them, mouths agape, as silence fell over the room like a blanket.

  “Touch me again and you’re a dead man,” Sampson threatened, spittle wetting his lips.

  Nathaniel’s eyes met those of the clerk, and he refused to look away. Finally Sampson pulled his hand back and turned to the guards. “Give Joseph double the usual for this man’s interference. And give One-arm double as well. He’ll soon learn what I will tolerate and what I won’t.”

  The flogging triangle was connected to what used to be the main mast. Though not particularly large or threatening in looks, it waited ominously while the other prisoners formed a tight circle around Nathaniel, Joseph, Sampson, and a single guard.

  The guard removed Joseph’s shirt and tied his hands and feet to the triangle, then made ready with the cat-o’-nine.

  “No, please!” Joseph jerked as the first lash struck his bare skin, causing several welts to appear.

  Nathaniel cringed at the sight, trying to block the other man’s cries from his mind, but they seemed to echo off the sky.

  Most of the prisoners watched with disinterest, as though a flogging were such a common occurrence as to warrant little or no attention, but others seemed to enjoy the spectacle. Some even encouraged the guard to continue when he finally stopped.

  Only the chaplain showed any empathy for Joseph’s suffering. He stood with a pained expression on his face throughout the ordeal.

  When it was over, Sampson took hold of the whip to administer Nathaniel’s blows himself. “This will teach you some respect, Cripple,” he said. “You think I haven’t noticed your haughty attitude? It certainly won’t last long around here.”

  A guard began to remove Nathaniel’s shirt, but Nathaniel jerked away and took it off himself. A bewhiskered man tied his arm and both feet to the triangle as Sampson shook out the nine thongs of the whip.

  Pain exploded across Nathaniel’s back as the clerk dealt him a hearty blow. But he was ready. He gritted his teeth and focused his thoughts on other things, imagining Alexandra standing beside him, looking on. He would not want her to see them break him. For her, he would not cry out… or beg for mercy. He would endure his punishment like a man, and when it was all over, she would comfort him by kissing his eyelids closed and pressing her small, cool hands to his burning cheeks. Alexandra could ease the pain. Oh God, where was she?

  Soon something trickled down Nathaniel’s back, and he knew it must be blood. Only the thought of Alexandra watching gave him the strength to stand, the will to endure until silence replaced the roar of the crowd. Finally Sampson stopped and threw down the whip, and Nathaniel slumped, letting himself dangle, at last, from the ropes that held him.

  “It’s time for work,” Sampson announced. “Get these animals ashore and stacking shot at the arsenal before they think this man’s some kind of hero. And put One-Arm here in solitary confinement.”

  The clerk stomped away, and Nathaniel felt a small sense of victory. Alexandra would have been proud of him. The flogging hadn’t given Sampson the satisfaction he’d been looking for—and he and the clerk both knew it.

  * * *

  On the surface, Alexandra’s second day went very much the same as her first, except that the duke was about the house. Fear that he would soon discover the broken lock on his metal box left Alexandra edgy. So did her apprehension that the milkman would not deliver her message to Trenton, as he had agreed. What if Mr. Donaldson read her words, or didn’t bother to kee
p his bargain? Worse, what if he betrayed her to the duke?

  She hauled water, beat rugs, blackened the stove, and cut vegetables for Cook before sitting down to a light dinner, but her thoughts were always on Greystone—and Nathaniel. She remembered the pirate captain standing on the deck of his ship, the wind whipping his hair, the smell of his clothes, the warmth of him sleeping beside her, the rich sound of his voice… and feared she’d go mad with worry and longing if she didn’t find him soon. She’d had to break the lock, and she’d had to trust the milkman. For Nathaniel, she’d take the same risks again.

  After dinner Alexandra began to scrub the kitchen floor, only to be interrupted by the robust form of Mrs. Wright.

  “His Grace and Lord Clifton would like to see you,” the housekeeper said, a slight frown on her face. “They’re in the study.”

  Alexandra’s heart felt as though it came to a sudden, skidding stop. The box! Had he discovered her tampering? “Lady Anne mentioned me to them?” she asked hopefully.

  “Must have. A new hire doesn’t warrant much of their attention. They usually leave that sort of thing to me.”

  Alexandra rushed up to the attic to improve her appearance as best she could, then headed to the second floor. The memory of snooping in the duke’s study made her cheeks burn, but she paused to collect herself before knocking timidly at the door.

  “Come in.” The voice belonged to the duke, but it was Lord Clifton who stood and came toward her when she entered.

  “Alexandra.” He gave her a congenial smile.

  “You’re looking fit, my lord,” she replied.

  Greystone sat at his desk, scratching something into a thick black book. He looked up at their exchange, put his pen in its well, and leaned back in his chair. His eyes traveled slowly from her feet to her white mobcap.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  Alexandra blinked in surprise. “You sent for me, Your Grace.”

  “I mean, what are you doing in my house?”

  “I—I’m working off the dress I took from your daughter, Your Grace.”

  His eyes narrowed. “My son tells me you have some connection to Nathaniel.”

  “No connection, Your Grace. I was abducted against my will. The pirate mistook me for your daughter, Lady Anne.”

  Now that they were face-to-face, the duke’s gaze proved more unsettling than Alexandra had anticipated. His eyes were shaped like Nathaniel’s, but where the pirate captain’s were vibrant, filled with unspeakable passion, Greystone’s were devoid of any warmth. Still, the flesh and blood version of the man resembled Nathaniel much more than his picture had. The square cut of his chin, the high cheekbones, even the arch of his brows were all familiar, except that the duke was a much smaller man.

  Alexandra shivered. Greystone had tried to murder his own son. He had succeeded in killing the housekeeper who had saved Nathaniel. And he’d brought syphilis home to his wife. Alexandra’s intuition backed everything she had ever heard about him, and she knew then that the duke’s heart had to be as hard as the flinty look in his eyes.

  He pressed his fingertips together. “What brought you here?”

  “Once Nathaniel released me, I tried to find work as a seamstress. But I had no luck. I had nowhere else to go, and I thought”—she paused and glanced at Lord Clifton—”I thought perhaps I could work off the dress I took from Lady Anne. At least I’d have a roof over my head.”

  The duke stood and positioned his hands on the desk as he leaned forward. “I see. And, of course, you have no contact with Nathaniel Kent or his cohorts now.”

  Alexandra had the uncanny feeling that Greystone could see right through her. “No. But I know where they are,” she said, hoping to improve her credibility.

  Lord Clifton spoke impetuously. “We already have Nath—”

  “Jake!” The duke slammed his fist on the desk and gave his son a silencing glare. Then he turned his attention back to her. “Where?”

  “I overheard them talking. They were going to Newcastle.”

  “See, Father? After everything he did to her, why would she sympathize with him? Though I daresay, I think he was a bit taken with her.”

  “A mere needlewoman? How quaint.” Greystone sat back in his chair and picked up a clean quill, twirling the nib in his mouth. “You can go back to your work,” he told her, “but remember one thing: you’ll be sorry if you’re lying. I shall be watching every move you make. And you do not want to make an enemy of me.”

  Chapter 17

  Trenton patted the pocket that contained Alexandra’s message as he waited for the duke outside the Greentree Tavern. The note had indicated that the duke might come to the tavern alone. After Trenton had spent three nights in the shadow of the pub, only to be disappointed, his luck had finally improved. Tonight the duke had arrived without so much as a valet or a footman to interfere. And Trenton had already made quick work of the coachman. The poor man lay in his underwear, bound and gagged, behind bushes not more than ten feet away.

  It was a cool night for late May, with fog as thin as a watery gruel swirling in the streets. Trenton would have preferred the fog to be thicker, but one couldn’t have everything. At least Greystone was alone.

  As the hour grew late, the tavern began to empty, but there was no sign of the duke. Uncomfortably clad in the ill-fitting blue livery of the duke’s driver, Trenton grew impatient. Now that Greystone had actually come to the tavern, Trenton was eager to put an end to the waiting.

  When the duke finally stepped outside, he was no longer alone. A young woman, dressed like a prostitute, hung on his arm.

  Trenton coughed to hide his surprise, but Greystone and his companion paid him no attention. The woman played with the fur on the collar of the duke’s cloak and giggled when he whispered something in her ear.

  Stepping up to the driver’s box, Trenton pulled the team to the curb, keeping his head averted. Greystone gave the woman’s behind a meaningful grab as he handed her up, then laughed and climbed in.

  “Hurry,” the duke ordered, rapping on the roof.

  Trenton merged the carriage into the street, heading north, away from the city’s lights and people. Silence reigned inside the conveyance, making him wonder what was happening, but he was grateful for whatever kept Nathaniel’s father from noticing where they were going.

  By the time Greystone finally realized they were heading in the wrong direction, only cattle and a few lonely farmhouses dotted the countryside.

  “Bloody idiot!” he cursed, rapping on the roof. “Where are you taking us?”

  Trenton pulled to the side of the road. They’d come far enough. “Get out,” he cried.

  The command proved unnecessary. The duke barreled through the door, still bellowing at Trenton, who he assumed to be his coachman.

  Trenton pulled his knife from his sleeve and jumped to the ground.

  “What’s this?” Greystone’s rage-reddened face gaped in astonishment. “Who are you? What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Never mind me. It’s what you do that counts, if you want to come out of this alive,” Trenton said.

  “See here, if this is some sort of robbery attempt, I carry very little on my person—”

  “I’m not after your money, just a bit of information.”

  The sun’s rays were just creeping over the horizon, and Trenton let the light reflect off the blade of his knife.

  “What do you want?” the duke repeated.

  “I’m going to ask you a few simple questions, and you’re going to answer them. Understood? Now, where’s Nathaniel Kent?”

  Greystone’s face hardened. “I don’t know.”

  Trenton stepped forward, the point of his knife less than a foot away from the older man’s midsection, which was still leaner than most men of his years. “I’ll ask you once more. Where is Nathaniel?”

  The woman poked her head out of the coach and gave a startled cry, but Greystone waved her back inside and she quickly compl
ied.

  The duke’s gaze flicked to the knife, then back to Trenton’s face. “He’s in Liverpool. I had him taken out of London because I have a friend, a magistrate, who agreed to put him in a gaol there for a while.”

  “So Nathaniel is alive.” Trenton tried not to show his relief. His friend was in gaol, but he was alive. “That’s all I needed to know. Now, move over to that tree.”

  Suspicion entered Greystone’s eyes. “What are you going to do now?”

  “Less than you deserve, to be sure. Now move!”

  The duke backed up to the tree and Trenton tied him to it.

  “I’ll take the carriage for now,” Trenton said, “and drop your lady friend near the edge of town. I’m sure she’ll bring help, though it might take a day or two to find you.”

  He gave Nathaniel’s father a mocking salute, then stowed his knife and climbed into the driver’s seat, laughing as he drove away.

  * * *

  Alexandra groaned silently as she dusted yet another small table in the drawing room near the main entrance of Greystone House, a room she hated for its excessive conglomeration of furniture and bric-a-brac. It had been several days since she had sent her message to Trenton, but she’d received no response. Had the milkman not delivered her letter as he had agreed?

  “There you are.” Lord Clifton filled the doorway.

  “Good morning, my lord.” She smiled congenially, pushing her fears for Trenton and Nathaniel to the back of her mind. “Are you finished with breakfast so soon?”

  “Yes. Breakfast was a brief affair. We’ve had some unfortunate business to attend to this morning.”

  Alexandra kept her voice as neutral as possible. “I’m sorry to hear that, my lord. Everything is going to be all right, I hope?”

  He nodded, studying her. “You’ll never believe what happened, though.”