The Demon Duke

by Margaret Locke

  If anyone is possessed, ’tis you. Grace remained quiet, rubbing at the painful spots on her neck. What should her next move be? She glanced out the window, but it was still dark. She had no clue what time it was or where they were.

  “We are traveling to Bath,” he announced, as if she’d asked. “My gout pains me something fierce. I need the waters.” He took another swig from his flask. “I have sent a messenger to Damon, telling him to meet me there. He will bring me the money I need, and I will let you go.”

  Surely he couldn’t think that’s all that would happen? He couldn’t think Damon would simply hand over the money and that would be that?

  Fillmore wiped his mouth daintily with a handkerchief he’d pulled out of his other pocket. “Do not fear, Lady Grace; you will be well tended to.”

  She wanted to scream. Being well tended to did not include being rendered senseless at a ball, thrown into a carriage, and forced to go with a monster such as him. And what did he think would happen to her after this, assuming he did, indeed, let her go? Her reputation would be in ruins. She’d be shunned, all marriage prospects gone. She’d seen it happen to her sister. Amara had never fully recovered.

  Not that Grace had wanted to marry, but it had been her presumed course. Truth be told, the idea had crossed her mind more and more since meeting the Duke of Malford, not nearly as repugnant as before.

  But now? Damon had never spoken of marriage. Of courting, yes, for which marriage was the understood outcome should they prove suitable. It was far too soon, however—their association of too short duration. No formal promises had been made, no proposals accepted.

  Would—could he want her after this? A woman whose honor was in shreds? It would taint his sisters’ opportunities. Mar his own tenuous standing in Society. Her head throbbed. It was too hard to think. Her eyelids fluttered shut.

  “Yes, rest now. It is a long trip. You and I have plenty of time to get better acquainted.”

  Bile rose in her throat and she fought not to cast up her accounts. She kept her eyes closed so as not to have to see the lunatic across from her, not to have to see the pistol, not to have to face the reality that this was a terrifying situation with a very uncertain outcome.

  Damon. Tread carefully. The man is not in his right mind. Don’t let him hurt you, Damon. Don’t let him.

  After a few more miles, she fell into a troubled sleep, her mind still groggy from her bout of unconsciousness. Her last thoughts were of Damon’s blue eyes, the fear in them mirroring her own.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Blackbourne House, London – Mid-May, 1814

  The note arrived at dawn the next morning, delivered by a street urchin who claimed no knowledge of who’d paid him to bring it. However, the instant Damon opened it and spied the flowery, uneven script, he knew.

  * * *

  Dearest Nephew,

  You took what was to be my greatest treasure, so I have returned the favor. Rest assured, I shall keep your lady friend safe and unharmed.

  You may retrieve her in Bath, a city to which I have lamentably had to return. I need the healing waters. My gout has flared, as it does in times of stress. Such as having to deal with a demonic upstart who’s usurped one’s rightful place in the world.

  Bring me £30,000 to clear my debts and the girl is yours.

  — F.

  * * *

  Damon roared with rage, balling up the note and throwing it against the wall.

  How dared he? How dared his uncle snatch a lady of the ton and subject her to this harrowing ordeal, all for the sake of money? Had Fillmore come to him and explained the full direness of his situation, surely they could have worked something out. Now the only thing of which Damon was certain was that he wanted to kill the man.

  And thirty thousand pounds? The sum was unheard of. How on God’s earth had Fillmore run up such debt? Not that that was important now.

  Damon bellowed for Hobbes, who scurried into the hall not two minutes later, Cerberus at the servant’s heels. “I must go to Bath, Hobbes. My uncle has taken Lady Grace.”

  “I shall ready the carriage and our travel bags,” Hobbes answered, unperturbed by Damon’s foul temper.

  “No. I’m going alone. I’ll take my horse.”

  “Your Grace. I understand the delicate nature of the situation and the need for urgency. But you cannot ride to Bath on your own. It is two days’ journey, perhaps a day and a half at breakneck speed, but you would have to stop to change horses often. And it would not be wise to encounter your uncle completely alone.”

  Damon paced, running his fingers through his hair. Cerberus loped along with him, meowing at his master’s obvious distress. Damon stopped, scooping up the cat. “I must get to her, Hobbes. I must get to her now!”

  Cassie ran into the hall, her eyes sleepy, wearing only her nightgown and wrapper. Hobbes discreetly cast his eyes elsewhere. “What has happened, Damon? I could hear you from my chamber. Have you news?”

  “Fillmore has taken Grace, that’s what’s wrong,” he bellowed. Cerberus butted his head against his chin.

  “But that makes no sense. Why would he do that?”

  “Because he is mad. A lunatic.” Damon gave Hobbes a curt nod. “Have the carriage readied. We leave at once.”

  With a dip of his head, Hobbes left the room.

  Cassie clutched her wrapper against her lean frame, her face pinched and troubled. “Should you not alert Grace’s family? Perhaps wait for Claremont? You sent word to him last night, did you not?”

  “There is no time. I do not trust that bastard to keep his word and not harm Grace. I don’t trust him at all.”

  “Please, Damon.” Cassie walked over and set a hand on his arm. “I understand your concern. I am concerned, too. But you must slow down, must plan.”

  “What is there to plan, for God’s sake?” he yelled again, pointing a finger at the crumpled paper on the floor. “He’s demanding thirty thousand pounds, Cassie. Should I summon the solicitors so that we may deliver it to him on a velvet pillow?”

  “Certainly not. But should you show up alone and empty-handed, what do you think he will do? Hand her over sweetly with apologies? If our uncle is insane enough to take Grace in the first place, he’s insane enough to kill her.”

  At that, the blood drained from Damon’s face. “No. No, no, no.” He sagged against the wall, sliding down into a heap against the baseboards. Cerberus pawed at his face.

  Cassie crouched next to him. “I am sorry, brother. But we shall find a solution. We shall save her.”

  Damon had held the tics back as long as he could, but now they exploded, his head whipping back and slamming into the wall behind him. Cerberus hissed in displeasure and scampered away. Cassie gasped and then tried to tug him away to stop the battering. “What is happening, Damon?”

  He pushed at her arms, letting his head hit the wall again. “This—is me,” he bit out after a moment. Slowly, painfully, he rose. His shoulders jerked as if he were sobbing, but there were no tears in his eyes. “This is why he took her, sister. Why Father rejected me. Why you all abandoned me. Because of this! The demon inside me!”

  Cassie threw her arms around him. “We would never abandon you, Damon. Never. Do you know how many times Mother fought to go see you? Father never agreed, but nevertheless, she persisted. She tried to keep it discreet from Sephe and me. I heard her tell Adam once she hoped we’d forgotten you, because she’d failed you. She’d lost you. But I didn’t. I never did.” Tears seeped out of her eyes as she clutched her brother, whose shoulders still spasmed.

  “I am a beast,” he whispered, the fight going out of him. “I bring pain and sorrow wherever I go. He’s right; it would be better if I were dead.”

  Cassie gasped. She grabbed hold of his chin and forced him to look into her eyes, blue reflecting back on blue. “Don’t you say that. Don’t you ever say that.”

  “But it’s true, Cass. If I hadn’t paid so much attention to Grace Mattersley, she’d b
e here now, safe and protected. Not being hauled all over England by a madman.”

  “Damon, you’re talking nonsense. The fault lies not with you, but with Fillmore. With our father. Not with you.”

  “But you’ve seen me now. What kind of man can’t control his body? Not exactly acceptable behavior in polite circles. I’m not acceptable. I never have been.”

  Hobbes popped his head in again. “The carriage is ready and waiting out front, Your Grace.”

  Damon fought to hide his pain and remorse and despair. But it was no use. Every inch of him felt hollow. Defeated. Ice cold. No tears fell, but it wasn’t for lack of sorrow. He simply had nothing left to give.

  Cassie squared her shoulders. “You can do this. I have faith in you. You will get her back. You are an honorable man, a good man. You will rescue her, Damon. You will. But you need to get Claremont first. His family will want to help their sister. You need him.”

  He stared at her blankly before giving a short nod. Then he stalked out the door.

  The carriage rumbled through the streets of London, which were increasingly cluttered with mail coaches, delivery wagons, and men of business milling about, setting up for the day’s trade. It was not far to Claremont House, though Damon did not wish to stop there. He didn’t want to lose time, but in all honesty, he also didn’t want to face Grace’s family. He had let them down. He had brought their daughter and sister into harm’s way.

  Still, Cassie was right. He owed them the information he had.

  When he arrived at Claremont House, Emmeline answered his knock, instead of the butler. Her red eyes and disheveled hair revealed her frazzled state of mind—a state matching his. Upon seeing him, she burst out, “Any news?”

  He nodded tersely.

  “Do come in.” She backed up a few steps. “Mama will want to hear this, too.”

  “With all respect, Lady Emmeline, time is of the essence. My uncle has taken Grace. To Bath. He is waiting for me there, or soon will be. Honor dictated I owed you the details in person, but now I must set out at once.”

  “Wait!” she cried as he turned to go. “My brother. He will arrive shortly, I know it. The messenger will have ridden all night, and Deveric would have set out as soon as he knew.”

  Damon frowned.

  “Please,” Emmeline pleaded. “I know she means a great deal to you, Your Grace, but she means the world to us. Deveric will want to go with you. Please.”

  Damon closed his eyes. He wanted nothing more than to race off after Grace this instant. But it was this family from which his uncle had stolen her. Damon could not in good faith go against their wishes, seeing as how it was his fault in the first place that Grace was in danger. He signaled to the carriage driver. Hobbes emerged and ascended the steps, nodding to Lady Emmeline.

  “Come,” she said, motioning to them. “Rebecca and Mother are in the breakfast room. Let us plan.”

  Grace stared out the coach window, awake again now that the sun was high in the sky. On any other day, under any other circumstances, she would have admired the gorgeous English countryside. Now she sat, her back rigid, stewing in anger. How dare this heathen steal her, as if she were some medieval princess he wished to shut up in a tower? Her family was undoubtedly sick with worry. The dastardly, onion-eyed, villainous, toad-spotted, milk-livered, weaselly clotpole of a blackguard!

  Satisfaction filled her over the Shakespearean insults—the bard had always been the master of creative epithets—but it quickly disappeared in the face of her fury. If only she knew stronger words!

  Damon would come for her. His honor would demand it, regardless of whatever attachment may or may not lie between them. Somehow she did not doubt she would get out of this. She also had no doubt she would kill Fillmore Blackbourne if she could.

  The vehemence of her emotions startled her. Normally, Grace loathed harming even a spider, though they frightened her. But as Fillmore Blackbourne droned on and on about how Damon had wronged him, about how Damon was an evil man whom they should have rid themselves of years ago, about how Blackbourne had never got the respect owed to him, she was seriously contemplating murder.

  The man was delusional. He sipped from the silver flask long after she was sure it must be empty. Was it the drink or true lunacy that kept him raving? Once, he picked up the pistol and waved it at her. Her heart had nearly stopped. A drunk man with a gun was like pouring oil on a fire. Luckily, he’d set it down again. He’d also stayed on his side of the coach, thank heavens. Had the man tried to touch her in any way, weapon or not, she would have gone for blood.

  She schooled her features into a placid, nonchalant expression in hopes that Blackbourne wouldn’t suspect the calculations going on in her mind. It normally took a good two days to reach Bath from London. Though the horses had slowed from their gallop—“It’s too painful for my cursed foot,” Blackbourne had bemoaned—the middle-of-the-night start might mean only a day and a half of full travel, since roads were less congested.

  They had stopped at several coaching inns along the way to change teams. At each one, Grace had sought a chance to leave the coach, perhaps signal someone for help if she could, but Blackbourne had remained inside the coach every time and thus so had she.

  The carriage swayed to and fro, its familiar rocking motion almost soothing. Maybe the rascal would fall asleep. Not that she knew what she’d do if he did. Would she fling herself out of a moving coach in the middle of nowhere? Painful as it was to admit, that would be a foolhardy move. It didn’t matter, because the man hadn’t slept a wink in spite of the length of time they’d already been traveling. His eyes remained wildly alert, attuned to everything. Damn.

  “I have to use the necessities,” she said at one point.

  “We shall stop in another few miles to switch horses. I will take you. Should you try to escape, should you try to get anyone to help you or alert them to this situation, I will first shoot you, and then them.”

  She swallowed, her throat going dry. She might be willing to risk her own life, but she couldn’t harm another person. She was well and truly trapped. Perhaps it was better to wait for help. Damon would come and likely her family, too, and woe betide Fillmore Blackbourne when they did. If the Mattersley family was one thing, it was fiercely loyal to each other.

  The miles rolled by excruciatingly slowly. It was preferable to travel by coach with friends or family; the jostling might be uncomfortable, but at least the company was good, which couldn’t be said for now.

  Surely they would stop for dinner, perhaps even for the night? Blackbourne’s discomfort grew with each hour that passed. But although their pace slowed, the coach continued on as evening crept in. Still the odious man opposite her did not sleep.

  Finally giving in to her own exhaustion, Grace nestled as best she could into the coach’s seat. She would escape him. Escape this. She would.

  Fantasies of a vengeful Damon, blue eyes blazing as he swooped into the coach to rescue her, lulled her into a fitful sleep.

  Your Demon is coming for you was her final cognizant thought.

  But did she mean for Fillmore, or herself?

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Claremont House, London, - Mid-May, 1814

  Damon paced the front parlor of Claremont House, waiting impatiently for Claremont. It was a good fifty miles to Clarehaven. Though the messenger had set out yesterday night, the time it would take for him to arrive and then for Claremont to make it back to London was not insignificant. The waiting chafed.

  Emmeline and Rebecca took turns looking out of the window. The dowager duchess sat in an uncomfortable-looking chair, never once moving a muscle. She’d not said much to Damon, but she watched him like a hawk did its prey. Or a dragon.

  Was she waiting for him to break out into convulsions, to explode into flames, to do something to show he was the demon his uncle claimed him to be? Was she merely thinking of her daughter, determining the odds as to whether Damon and her son could bring her back? He didn’t know.
He didn’t care. All of his thoughts were on Grace.

  Matilda had initially protested Fillmore Blackbourne could not have done this. “Though not a peer, he is a man of honor. We have been long acquainted. My brother and he attended Oxford together.”

  However, after perusing the crumpled note Damon had brought with him from his own residence, she said no more.

  Emmeline and Rebecca vacillated between talking of Grace and chatting about more mundane matters. He didn’t blame them. If his mind could go to anything else, he would let it, just to ease the pain. Controlling his body gave him something on which to focus; the urge was still strong to move, to tic, as if somehow his mind thought that would give him release. He longed to run. Even running in circles would be better than nothing, and the room was large. But that would raise eyebrows even further, so he settled for pacing.

  Suddenly, a door burst open. Seconds later, a tall, imposing figure strode into the parlor, marching like a man on a mission.

  “Mother,” he said, nodding in greeting to the dowager before turning to Emmeline and Rebecca. “Sisters.”

  Familial greetings out of the way, he walked over to Damon. “You must be Malford,” the Duke of Claremont said, extending a hand. “I would say it is a pleasure, but under these circumstances...”

  Damon eyed the proffered hand warily. He’d half expected Claremont to club him. It was Damon’s fault, after all, that the man’s sister was missing. Kidnapped. He shook hands, then pulled the crumpled note once more out of his pocket and handed it to Claremont.

  Claremont scanned the missive, then raised startlingly green eyes to Damon. “I never cared for your uncle,” he said. “There was always something … not right … about him.”