The Devil in the Duke

by K. J. Jackson

  “I’m seven, Miss Vivian.” Logan braved five steps forward and clutched the side of her bed. “Please, just don’t hit Sienny when you see her. We didn’t mean to be late. If you need someone to hit, hit me. Just not Sienny no more. Please.”

  She slapped him. “I said don’t tell me what to do, boy.”

  The sting of the ruby ring she always turned inward on her finger drew blood. He could taste it on the corner of his lip. No matter. It was nothing compared to the beating there would be if she saw that they had accidently dyed Sienny’s arm purple at the textile factory. He wasn’t sure how much more Sienny could take.

  Her head jerked to the side, looking out the door. “Where’s my girl? She was supposed to be with you, boy—where is she?”

  “She’s coming up, soon, Miss Vivian. She’s in the kitchens with Robby, then she’ll be up.”

  “Good.” She flipped her fingers out, her long nails motioning toward the variety of jars atop her bureau. “Be a dear and get my medicine for me, boy.”

  Logan went to the jars, pulling open the stopper on the pink glass one that held the laudanum. He picked up a spoon and brought the jar to her.

  She hadn’t moved from the incline of her pillows. “Pour me my two spoonfuls, boy.”

  Logan did, and brought them carefully to her lips. He couldn’t afford to spill any on her red silk chemise and rankle up her ire before Sienny showed up with her purple arm.

  Miss Vivian’s head fell back against her blue satin pillows. Her eyes closed. With any luck, she would be asleep before Sienny crawled into bed with her.

  Logan started to shuffle his feet backward, but then tripped on a red slipper half stuck out from the bed. He stumbled, his feet thudding on the floorboards.

  Miss Vivian’s eyes popped open. “What are you doing in here, boy?” She spied the jar and spoon in his hands. “Oh, that, you’re a good boy. Pour me my two spoonfuls and then be gone with you. Find Sienna and send her up—tell her quickly or I’ll whip her.”

  Logan looked down at the pink bottle of laudanum. Sienny couldn’t take another whipping. Not after her one this morning.

  He looked at Miss Vivian, her eyes wide open and expectantly staring at him.

  Another two spoonfuls and Sienna’s mother would be asleep for certain—dead to the world until morning when Sienny could slip away before her mother saw her purple arm. Then they could scrub it more tomorrow—they’d had to stop earlier because the lye was rubbing her skin bloody and he couldn’t watch her tears anymore.

  His hands shaking, he poured Miss Vivian another spoonful. Then another.

  Sienny needed her to sleep. So he would make sure of it.

  They just needed more time to scrub the purple off Sienny’s arm. They had been so stupid to go inside the textile factory—they should have just picked up the fabric for Bournestein’s new purple coat and come home straight away.

  He watched Miss Vivian for an hour. Watched to make sure she would stay asleep. And then he realized that he hadn’t seen her chest move in some time.

  His hand lifted to shake her, but he lost his nerve. He ran to fetch Bournestein.

  Following him into Miss Vivian’s room, Bournestein closed the door and pushed Logan to the side as he walked to the bed. He lifted Miss Vivian’s arm.

  It fell with a thud back to the bed.

  He slapped her face. Nothing.

  He set his ear to her chest.

  Slowly, he lifted his head, looking to Logan. “She’s dead, boy. What were you even doing in here?”

  Horrified, his world imploding, Logan’s words flew. Sienny would hate him. Hate him. “I—I gave her too much. She was confused and asked for more of the pink bottle and I gave her too much. I just wanted her to sleep. I didn’t mean to, Mr. Bournestein. Honest. I didn’t mean to. I have to tell Sienny. I have to go find Sienny, Mr. Bournestein.” Logan stumbled toward the door.

  “Wait, boy.”

  Logan spun around, his arms and limbs on fire, trying to escape his own body. How could he have killed her—how? Sienny would hate him. Hate him forever.

  Bournestein turned from him, stepping back to Miss Vivian and drawing the sheet over her head. He leaned down, kissing her forehead through the sheet. “Sleep well, beautiful princess.”

  Logan’s fingers pressed into his gut, grasping at the vomit churning in his stomach as tears started to stream down his face. “Sienny—Sienny, Mr. Bournestein. I was going to tell her but I don’t think I can tell her, if she knows I—”

  Bournestein moved to Logan and put his thick hand on Logan’s shoulder, squeezing it. “Sienna doesn’t need to know what ye did, boy. She loves ye too much for that. Her mother died. That is all she ever need know.”

  { Chapter 15 }

  “You look like a man that’s lost everything, Logan.”

  Cassandra’s gentle voice reached him through the pounding in his ears, though he couldn’t look up at the sound.

  “Logan.”

  Sitting on a charred beam of the collapsed building, he lifted his dazed eyes from the smoldering remains surrounding him.

  Dawn had come—chased away the fiery darkness of the night to take over the land with an unusually bright sky. The rain had long since stopped, though without it, the whole street would’ve been engulfed in flames.

  A peaceful morning, brutal in its beauty.

  Cassandra stood on the top stone step of what used to be the entrance to the Revelry’s Tempest, kicking aside charred chunks of stones with the toes of her boots. Portland Stones that had once glowed in whiteness, now blackened.

  Bedecked in a functional deep blue walking gown with a matching Spencer jacket, Cassandra stared at him in the middle of the rubble. He couldn’t meet her eyes.

  His look dropped down to the pile of ash one of the gaming tables had been reduced to, only the twisted copper rim from the edge of the table recognizable.

  He heard her exaggerated sigh and she muttered something incomprehensible as she started forth slowly, her toes testing her steps on the rubble for solid footing. With her reticule swinging from her wrist, it took her an inordinate amount of time to pick her way through the destruction to the center of the building.

  He didn’t move, didn’t look up in her direction until she had tiptoed her way through the debris to him. Silently, she drew her skirts together and moved to sit next to him, balancing herself on the thick, heavy timber that had once held up the structure, now askew in the stones and ash.

  He glanced at her. “Where’s Rorrick?”

  “He’s waiting for me in the carriage.” She lifted her right kidskin-gloved hand and pointed to the end of the lane. The golden Vandestile coat of arms on the side of the coach gleamed in the gentle morning sunlight.

  His eyes stayed riveted on the coach. “He saw me?”

  “He did.”

  “And he let you come over here? Generous of him.”

  Her honey-brown eyes went to the sky and she sighed. “He saw you and chose to stay in the carriage. While he understands the severity of this situation, you cannot just expect for him to forget what happened to his brother—”

  “I know, Cass.” He kicked at a blackened stone brick by his boot. “I know.”

  She nodded, silent. For all that had happened between them in the past, Logan knew Cassandra’s loyalty was torn. Her husband would always take precedence, as he should, yet Logan recognized what a fine line Cassandra balanced upon when it came to him and her husband.

  She peeled off her gloves and she leaned forward, her fingers digging into the ashes. Picking up a handful, she let it sift away through her fingers. “It must have burned hot. Deeply hot. Did you see it collapse? When we heard, Rorrick wouldn’t let me come. He thought it too dangerous.”

  “I did. No one was inside, thank the heavens.”

  “Indeed.” She exhaled a long breath, almost as though she didn’t know how to proceed. “We already sent word to Adalia at Dellon Castle. And Violet and I were together last night w
hen we learned the news it had started. Violet heard word that it was intentional—Bournestein?”

  Logan nodded. “Yes.”

  Her head shook, her bottom lip tightening. “Bastard.”

  “Exactly.” His one word exhaled in a beaten sigh.

  “Violet believed it right away, but I didn’t want to even consider someone would do this intentionally.” Her head still shaking, she leaned forward again, digging through the rubble with her fingers until she sat upright, a small prize in her hand. She flipped the small round clump in her hands, brushing away the soot and sludge of ash on it. A gold marker in the middle of the muck soon appeared—not charred—not marred—and the more she rubbed it clean, the more it glowed in the pink rays of dawn. She held it up. “Look, one of the third anniversary souvenir markers. This, I best keep for Violet.”

  Logan watched her tuck it away in her reticule, sadness like he’d never seen casting a shadow over her honey-brown eyes. “She’ll like that.”

  Cassandra bent over once more, her fingers curling into the debris. She sat upright, staring down at her hand clamping around the ashes in her palm for a long moment, her knuckles turning white.

  A long breath passed, and she unclenched her fingers, letting the ash fall next to her skirts.

  Her look travelled about her, at the destruction, then her gaze travelled upward to where the upper floors used to be. “Do you remember, it was never meant to last more than the first months, then the first years, the Revelry’s Tempest.” She looked at Logan. “This place became so much more, to so many people, but it has served its purpose, and now we—you must find a new way, Logan.”

  His soot-blackened fingers lifted to rub his eyes before he could look at her. “Which is?”

  “Well, for a start, I know you are beyond adept at running a gaming house. So you can rebuild the Revelry’s Tempest—or a new house, call it something else entirely. Rebuild it for your men. And you will have Adalia’s support and mine at your call. Violet’s as much as she is able to with her babe due soon. And you will be more than successful at it. I know how important this place is for your men. For you. It has been their home, their salvation just as much as ours. You need this place, Logan.”

  His look veered from her to the open space between two townhouses across the street—the remnants of an abandoned building project. Early morning birds were flitting to and from their nests high in the eaves of the adjoining buildings. “Actually, I don’t, Cass.”

  “What?” Her hands slapped onto her lap. “You don’t need the Revelry’s Tempest?”

  His right cheek lifted in a slight cringe and he looked at her. “I have been waiting for the right moment to tell you.”

  “Tell me what?”

  “I am a duke.”

  Her jaw dropped and she looked away from him for a long moment, the flabbergasted expression on her face the complete opposite of her usual porcelain poise. Comical, almost, if he could laugh at the moment.

  Her gaze darted back to him, her jaw still gaping. “What? This is not the moment for comedy, Logan.”

  “It happened a number of years ago.”

  “A number of years ago? A duke? You’re a true duke, and you were waiting for the right moment?” It was as close to a shriek as he’d ever heard her soft voice.

  He shrugged, dutifully chided. “It was a bizarre set of circumstance. Three older half-brothers could not hold onto the title, all of them died, and so it fell to me. I’m the Duke of Culland.”

  Her hand flattened on the slope of her chest, her reticule swinging and hitting her stomach. “You’re the recluse duke? The one that refused the title for years and then has never been seen in parliament—in London, for that matter?”

  “I am.”

  Her still gaping jaw closed after a long moment of staring at him, her eyes searching his face. “But, why? Why did you not tell us?”

  “I didn’t want the title.” He paused, sighing. “I didn’t want to become something I wasn’t sure I could control. You’ve seen them here at the Revelry’s Tempest. The worst of the peerage.”

  She nodded, her jaw finally set firmly back in place as her look left him and searched the rubble around her. Her gaze landed on him, sharp. “Yes, and I have also seen the best of the ton here. Little old dowagers asking that all of their winnings be delivered to the asylum for orphans or the leper colony. People falling in love. People staying in love. Outcasts finding a place where they are welcome. We weren’t always accepted by all in society, but for those that showed up, the Revelry’s Tempest was a magical place. And the people, the ones that refused to make or take judgements—they were magical. And they loved it here.”

  A crooked smile came to Logan’s face. “They did, didn’t they?” His eyes turned dark. “And I ruined it. I ruined it all.”

  Her forehead furrowed. “Whatever Bournestein did—it was his choice to destroy this place, not yours, Logan.”

  “No, he did it to punish me. It was all about making me pay. Taking Sienna wasn’t enough for him—he needed to make me suffer, and aside from Sienna, this was the only thing he could destroy that mattered to me and he knew it.”

  “Is it true she is back in Yorkshire?”

  His eyebrows shot upward. “How do you know that?”

  “Rorrick was here last night. He came directly when we heard and he said he was making his way to you when you bumped into Bournestein’s carriage. There were pistols to your head, Logan?”

  He nodded.

  She visibly shivered, her eyes closing for a long breath. “By the time Rorrick pushed through the crowd and near you, he overheard what Bournestein said about Sienna.”

  “I didn’t see him.”

  “I don’t believe you would have seen much between hearing that and the Revelry’s Tempest burning.” Cassandra’s gaze fell to her lap and she brushed some splotches of ash from her skirt. “So Sienna is in the north?”

  “She is.” His answer was curt, meant to cut Cassandra from a conversation on Sienna. He hoped she took the hint. He wasn’t ready to talk about Sienna yet. Probably never.

  “Is it true what Bournestein said? You are dead to her?”

  She didn’t take the hint.

  He nodded, silent.

  “She won’t even see you again?”

  He shook his head, his mouth clamped tight.

  Nodding, she bent over and picked up a shard of charred stone. She turned it over and over in her hands as she stared at it. “Amazing it could crumble apart like this,” she muttered to herself.

  Taking a deep breath, she dropped the brick to the ground and her gaze locked onto him. “I just have one question for you, Logan.”

  He looked to her with his eyebrow cocked in question.

  “If you’re a duke, why on earth have I been paying you for these past five years?”

  He burst out laughing.

  She joined in, her soft laughter magical and light in the morning sun.

  His belly straining against the laughter rolling through his body, he gasped a breath, holding his hand up. “I will have you know that you’ve been supporting the Cranesbill Hospital since it opened. It serves the women and children in St. Giles. And all those funds you’ve paid me during the years have been quite helpful in building and running the place.”

  “That is the hospital that Mr. Crawford’s wife opened—the one they visit every year from Northumberland?”

  “You knew about that?”

  “The guards’ room is directly next to the kitchens, Logan. Mr. Crawford always comes back to visit with his old friends in the guard when he is in town.” She grinned. “I do tend to hear things while passing to talk to Cook.”

  He inclined his head to her astuteness. Cassandra was so quiet, he forgot sometimes that she saw and heard everything here at the Revelry’s Tempest. “Well, know that the hospital is more than pleased with your patronage. You have a golden patron’s plaque in the entrance.”

  She chuckled. “Then I will be happy to
continue that patronage.” Her laughter drifted off as she looked around her. Melancholy touched her eyes. “For all that this place was for all of us—it was just that—a place, a building, a means to an end. It filled our time, filled our coffers, gave us means for survival, gave us purpose. But it is the life beyond the Revelry’s Tempest that is the important thing. The people we have become. And you have salvaged life for so many of us. Your men, me, Violet. For all you have helped others, Logan, you need to do the same now for yourself. You need to take your own life into control.”

  “And do what, Cass? What? Everything is gone.” He motioned around him. “What’s left?”

  Her jaw shifted to the side. “Well, start by living your life in a way that makes you happy—or at least with as much grace as possible.” She paused, her eyebrows drawing together as she studied him. “But I’ve only seen you happy once—truly happy—only once, Logan.”

  Logan drew away from her, shifting on the askew beam. “Don’t say it, Cass.”

  “With Sienna. That one day she was at the Revelry’s Tempest with you, it was as though you were an entirely different man with her. You were…complete. There wasn’t that piece of you that has always been missing—for as long as I’ve known you—you have always been missing something. A silent darkness that had a hold of your soul. And it was her. She was what had been missing. It was so evident that day.”

  “There are things you don’t know, Cass.”

  “Such as?”

  His hand swung around him again. “Such as this. Such as I have spent my life sacrificing others for her—for us. It is the devil in me that I cannot deny. I love her too much, no matter what it destroys. And I do it—destroy things, people—again and again and again because I cannot stop. But this…”

  His gaze left Cassandra and swept around him. His look landed on the bones of the fireplace in the lower drawing room, still half standing, poking up from the rubble. His hand lifted, his fingers rubbing his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. “This is too much. I need to be done. I need to let her go. I cannot keep destroying everything around me to have her.”

  “Bournestein did this, Logan, not you.”