In Bed With the Duke

by Christina Dodd

  And he had personal reason to know those same stairways twisted their way down to the dungeons, deep into the murky caverns beneath the ground.

  The palace had been constructed, dungeons and all, by Moricadia’s long-dead kings, but when the de Guignards had dispossessed and killed them, the building had taken on a sinister aspect. At night, the cooks banked the fires and fled the kitchens, but occasionally visitors stumbled down in search of hot water or food or a toothache remedy, and even the most pragmatic whispered of ghosts drifting up from the dark depths, their mouths perpetually open to scream in agony.

  The postern gate, a small entrance where the servants came and went with supplies for the kitchens, was accessed by a steep, winding path treacherous even in daylight, and there Old Nelson could not go. Slipping from the saddle, Michael took his companion of so many missions into the woods and tied him to a branch. “Wait here. It’ll take as long as it takes, but then we’ll need you. So, patience, my friend.” He looked up through the fluttering leaves at the palace. “I promise I will not linger any longer than I have to.” He loosened the reins a little. Just in case.

  He climbed the postern path with a loaded pistol in each of his coat pockets, a sword strapped to his belt, one knife in his boot and another up his sleeve. Yet nothing he could carry—no firearm, no blade—could make him secure enough for the task ahead. All he truly had was this plan and the knowledge that he should have been dead a thousand times before. What matter if he died today, as long as Emma lived?

  He had been promised that any guards would be otherwise occupied, and it appeared they were. He had been promised the postern door would be left unlocked, and it was. He walked into an empty chamber filled with the deliveries of the day. A crate of fresh strawberries. A dozen sacks of white flour. A crate of live chickens, squawking in protest of their fate. Through the open door, he heard the hum of the kitchen staff as they prepared tea and cakes. He listened to the cook shout at the footman, “For the prince. At once. At once! Else you go the way of the others.” She stomped her foot on the floor and indicated the dungeon, then wrapped her hands around her neck and bugged out her eyes.

  Lovely female, but at least she had provided Michael with an easy way to find where Prince Sandre was spending his evening.

  Michael followed the footman up the stairs; then, in a swift move, he removed the tray from his hands, thrust him into a closet, and pushed a chair under the door handle. The tea steamed in the ceramic pot, the buttercream frosting roses decorated the cakes, the footman thumped and shouted, and Michael balanced the silver tray with a sure hand as he strode toward his destiny.

  The de Guignard shield decorated the double doors at the center of the corridor; he gave a brief knock, then entered at Sandre’s call.

  The office looked different in the candlelight, all polished walnut wood, gilded plaster, fringed oriental rugs, and velvet drapes closed against the night: a hushed, luxurious den where the prince could work and relax . . . alone.

  Sandre was indeed alone, sitting at his antique desk in a pool of light provided by a candelabrum of lit beeswax candles. He dipped his pen into his ornate silver inkwell, then wrote studiously on some official document. An Italian glass bowl filled with candy sat at his right hand. A brass sculpture of a noble eagle posed on one corner as if to remind the visitor—or perhaps Sandre—that here was royalty.

  Without looking up, he said, “Put the tray on the table.”

  Michael shut the door behind him, turned the key in the lock, and walked to the desk. With a thump, he deposited the tray at Sandre’s elbow.

  Sandre stiffened, then slowly ran his gaze from Michael’s boots all the way to the brim of his black hat. He sighed. Fixing his eyes on Michael’s, he leaned back in a show of careless disregard, and smiled. “You English are so predictable. You’ve come to save the girl.”

  “More than that, I’ve come to confess my crimes. I am the Reaper.”

  “Of course you are.” Sandre’s tone was disbelieving.

  “And I do know the true heir to the throne of Moricadia, where he is, and how he intends to bring about a revolution.”

  “Of course you do,” Sandre drawled, and casually moved his hand toward the drawer where he kept the loaded pistol.

  Michael pulled his own pistol and cocked it. “I don’t think so, Your Highness.”

  With equal casualness, Sandre moved his hand away. Still pleasant and disbelieving, he said, “This is a rather sweet effort on your part. Sweet . . . and worthless. What do you think you’re going to accomplish by this except another, permanent visit to my dungeons? You may have gotten into the palace, but you’ll never get out again. You can’t take Emma away; she’s grown fond of me. And what’s more pathetic, no one would ever believe you have the intelligence to nightly escape your house arrest at the Fancheres’, much less the guts to defy me, kill my cousin, and ride through the night dressed as the ghost of Reynaldo.”

  Michael smiled at him with genuine amusement.

  Sandre jerked his head back as if he’d been slapped. “You don’t . . . You haven’t . . .”

  With one hand, Michael untied the black cravat, pushed his shirt off his shoulder, and showed Sandre the red, puckered, painful gunshot wound. “If Jean-Pierre were a better shot, you would be rid of the Reaper. Better yet, no one would ever know it was the cowardly, broken Englishman whom you dismissed so casually. Now everyone will discover the truth—that Prince Sandre is an overconfident imbecile.”

  Sandre sprang up and lunged at Michael.

  Michael met him with a fist to the chin.

  Sandre fell backward into his chair.

  Michael stepped out of reach, leveled the pistol between Sandre’s eyes. “You left her in the dungeon, day and night, hoping to break her spirit, make her yield to you.”

  “How do you know that?” Sandre snarled.

  “The true king of Moricadia has returned, and he has spies everywhere. In your bedroom. In your kitchen. Among your guard.”

  A bruise was forming along Sandre’s jaw, but he laughed unworriedly. “If that were true, I would have been dead yesterday.”

  “No, they want you in place. There’s no reason for a coup d’état against a just monarch.”

  Sandre still smiled, but where he grasped the chair arms, his knuckles were white. “Are you so jealous of me and my darling Emma that you must try to tear us apart?”

  With exaggerated patience, Michael said, “Sandre, you’re keeping her in the dungeon. If that’s what you do with a woman you love, what do you do with a woman you hate?” When Sandre would have answered, Michael held up his hand. “Don’t tell me. You hang her on Sunday morning as a lesson to any person who dares defy you.”

  “I am willing to show clemency.”

  In a staggering moment of clarity, Michael realized Sandre really did love her, or as much as a creature like him could love.

  Sandre continued. “Emma can save herself if she will. All she has to do is marry me.”

  “She doesn’t have to save herself. I’m going to save her.” Michael pushed a sheet of paper toward Sandre. “Write out a pardon and stamp it with your seal.”

  “No.”

  “I was hoping you would say that.” Michael grabbed Sandre by the shirtfront and pulled until he stood. “For over two years, I’ve been waiting for this, and I intend to enjoy every moment.”

  “I will die bravely.” Sandre fixed his gaze on the gun still trained on his head.

  “This? No.” Michael slipped the pistol back into his pocket. “Nothing so easy for you.”

  “Fencing? A duel?” Sandre sounded hopeful. Superior.

  “I’m going to beat the hell out of you.” Michael lifted his fists. “Somebody had better.”

  Before Michael had finished speaking, Sandre grabbed his silver inkwell and threw it at him. The heavy metal smacked him on the cheek; ink splashed his eyes and hair; the tarlike smell filled his nose. Leaping up, Sandre grabbed Michael at the site of his wound and
brutally twisted.

  The still-healing flesh tore. Pain ripped through his nerves. Michael’s vision swam with red dots. He fell to his knees.

  Through the buzzing in his ears, he heard Sandre say, “You Englishmen with your fair rules of boxing. So easy to defeat!”

  Lowering his head, Michael rammed it into Sandre’s belly.

  Sandre fell backward against the desk, gaping like a hooked fish.

  Papers flew.

  Hours of torture had taught Michael one lesson—he could endure anything. He got his feet under him and body-tackled Sandre, bringing him to the floor with a thump that shook the glass windows.

  Sandre gasped painfully.

  For one moment, they were face-to-face, and Sandre’s blue eyes blazed with maniacal fire. Then Sandre’s elbow slashed up, catching Michael in the ribs.

  Michael doubled over.

  Sandre rolled.

  Michael grabbed for that carefully coiffed head of silver-touched hair, and rammed Sandre’s head into the floor.

  Sandre’s eyes swam. He closed them as if too dazed to focus.

  Michael asked, “How’s that for fair rules of boxing?” Panting, he allowed himself a moment of recovery—for himself and Sandre.

  He wanted to feel the crunch of Sandre’s bones beneath his fists. He wanted to savor Sandre’s pain and frustration.

  Maybe that made him as twisted as Sandre. He didn’t care. Through the endless days in the dungeon, dreaming of this moment had kept him alive.

  Still holding Sandre by the hair, he dragged him to his feet.

  Sandre’s eyes sprang open, full of sly cunning and desperate intelligence. Grabbing the ends of Michael’s cravat, he wrapped it around Michael’s neck, cutting off his air, crushing his already damaged windpipe.

  Michael grabbed for his throat, gagging, choking, while Sandre laughed with pleasure, shoved him, got behind him, and pulled. Michael slammed himself backward, knocking Sandre off his feet. He landed on top of Sandre, and when the cravat loosened, he slid out from its deadly grasp.

  He tried to recover, but his trachea spasmed, fighting the all-too-familiar sensation of being hanged.

  Vicious and intent, Sandre put his knee into Michael’s belly and again wrapped the cravat around his neck.

  Michael punched blindly, and felt Sandre’s nose break.

  Blood sprayed them both.

  Immediately, Michael caught his breath and felt better.

  Sandre grabbed for his own face. “Curse you!” he said, muffled behind his hand. He was finished playing. He spun away, skidded across his desk flat on his belly, and groped for the drawer. Pulling it open, he extracted the pistol.

  Michael lunged for Sandre, landed atop him, and grabbed his arm. They slid across the desk, grappling for the weapon.

  The glass bowl flew across the room, shattering against the wall, candy taking temporary wing. The heavy gold candelabrum smashed into the carpet, extinguishing the candles and plunging Michael into a dim, surreal cavern where blood and violence reigned and the only sound was the panting of their breath.

  Sandre slithered out from underneath him and free-fell toward the floor, his tumble broken by the open drawer. The wood snapped and splintered. Sandre yelled unintelligibly, whether from pain or the desecration of his desk, Michael didn’t know.

  Rolling onto his back, Sandre pointed the pistol up at Michael.

  Michael grabbed the brass eagle and swung. The eagle connected with Sandre’s head.

  The shot shattered the quiet.

  Michael flinched.

  Sandre went limp.

  Plaster showered from the ceiling, filling the air with dust, covering Michael with chunks of pure white and glittering gilt.

  He opened his eyes. He was alive. The eagle had knocked Sandre out and his aim askew at the same time. Michael was alive . . . and he’d won.

  Opening the desk drawer, Michael retrieved the keys to the dungeon and put them in the inner pocket of his cloak.

  Now he had only to free Emma and, finally, to finish his revenge and force Sandre to face the thing he feared most.

  Humiliation.

  He went to work on Sandre.

  Chapter Forty-five

  “What do you imagine you are doing?” the delegate from Spain bellowed so loudly his round belly quivered.

  Jean-Pierre brushed the road’s dust off his riding breeches and said, for the fourth time, “I’m sorry, my lord, but you were dressed as the Reaper.”

  “I have never been treated so badly in my life!”

  “Yes, my lord.” Jean-Pierre took the reins, mounted his horse, and tried again to take command of the situation. “I’m sorry, but why are you dressed as the Reaper?”

  Lord Torres-Martez was having nothing of Jean-Pierre’s apologies. “I’m going to tell Prince Sandre what you’ve done and he will take appropriate steps to discipline you, you . . . you . . . son of a whore!”

  Jean-Pierre stiffened. He wanted so badly to take the pompous bastard down onto the road again, shove his face into a pile of horse shit, make him sorry he’d ever dared to make derogatory comments to Jean-Pierre de Guignard about his whore of a mother. He wanted to—

  One of his men said, “My lord!”

  This time Jean-Pierre wasn’t so imprudent as to dismiss that urgent tone of voice. He looked up to the top of the hill behind them . . . and there, chasing a noble carriage, rode the Reaper.

  This time the Reaper would pay.

  Everyone was invited.

  As Jean-Pierre galloped at the head of his troop, whipping his horse up the rise, Durant’s words echoed mockingly in his ears.

  How is it you don’t know about this party?

  Jean-Pierre cursed smug Michael Durant and deceitful Prince Sandre, who had so artfully not told Jean-Pierre of the event tonight. He cursed whoever had planned a masquerade party this night, and every blasted nobleman in the country.

  You can invite yourself. It’s a masquerade. No one will ever know you slipped in without an invitation.

  Someday they would all pay for their neglect and prejudice against Jean-Pierre. He would make them pay.

  Like a bullet, he aimed his ire at the pale, masked Reaper. Shouting, he spurred his horse onward.

  The Reaper made a squawking noise. He tried to turn his mount, aim the creature back down the road.

  With a roar of fury, Jean- Pierre launched himself out of the saddle, tackling the Reaper, knocking him to the ground. The two tumbled end over end, and when they stopped, Jean-Pierre tore off the villain’s white mask—and found himself on top of and staring at a terrified Lord Nesbitt. “My lord. What are you doing here?”

  Lady Nesbitt’s sharp, high voice sounded behind his left shoulder. “What is he doing? What are you doing, you upstart excuse of a de Guignard peasant?”

  Jean-Pierre turned and snarled.

  “Don’t you dare speak to me in such a manner.” Her face was covered in pale powder, and she, too, wore tattered white lace similar to a shroud, but there was no mistaking Lady Nesbitt’s finger as she shook it in his face. “You attacked my husband!”

  “What is he doing dressed like this? What are you doing dressed like this?”

  “We’re going to the prince’s party.”

  “What?” Jean-Pierre loosened his grip on Lord Nesbitt’s cravat.

  “The prince’s party. His masquerade party. Tonight. I thought you were Prince Sandre’s cousin and body-guard, but obviously you know nothing.”

  “The invitation. Do you have the invitation?”

  “Why? Do we need it to get into the palace?” Lord Nesbitt’s voice quavered.

  “No, we do not!” Lady Nesbitt’s voice rose. “We are Lord and Lady Nesbitt. Even the prince knows that!”

  “I want to see the invitation,” Jean-Pierre repeated. “Do you have it with you?”

  Something of his urgency must have penetrated Lady Nesbitt’s righteous anger, for she observed him more closely, then nodded regally. “I do. Come wit
h me.”

  Jean-Pierre stood and gestured to his men. “Get Lord Nesbitt cleaned up and on his feet.” He followed Lady Nesbitt to the carriage.

  She reached inside, pulled out her reticule, and found a stiff piece of paper. Jean-Pierre tried to take it, but she pulled it away, gestured to her outrunners to come close, and by the light of their torches, read, “ ‘To celebrate the success of our pursuit and capture of the Reaper, by the order of Prince Sandre, come to the palace for a masquerade, and wear your rendition of the Reaper’s costume. Stamped with the royal seal, this eighteenth day of September, 1849.’ ” When she was finished reading, she extended the invitation to him.

  Taking it, he reviewed the words with disbelief. This party . . . the prince was giving it? Without a word to Jean-Pierre, Prince Sandre had invited every nobleman in the entire country to come to the palace? To come dressed as the Reaper? Then he sent Jean-Pierre out onto the roads to apprehend them?

  No. That didn’t make sense.

  But the royal seal looked authentic.

  And what about Michael Durant? He had mentioned a party, a masquerade, but he was dressed in a buccaneer’s clothing. He carried a weapon. He . . . Jean-Pierre looked over the countryside, to the road where he’d apprehended Durant . . . the road that went to the palace. Realization of the truth overwhelmed his rage, and he saw his mistake.

  “My lady, I suggest you go home. The invitation is a fake, and if you go to the palace tonight, all you’ll see is horror and bloodshed.”

  Her mouth dropped open.

  With a bow, he handed her the invitation, mounted his horse, and rode to the palace—where he intended to kill Michael Durant.

  As Lady Nesbitt stepped into the carriage, she told the driver, “Whip up the horses. We’re going to the palace. This should be very interesting indeed.”

  Chapter Forty-six

  Michael stood at the gaping black entrance to the dungeon . . . at the entrance to the abyss. The exhilaration of defeating Sandre and leaving him to his fate was subsiding, and in its place came a creeping paralysis, a fear of darkness and cold, of slime and rats and a death so gradual a man could pass from this life to the next and never realize he had changed domains.