Regarding the Duke

by Grace Callaway

  Edward I, Edward II…ah, God…Edward III…

  Fortunately, he didn’t have to go past the House of York. She was writhing beneath him, her fingers gripping the bedsheets, and he knew she was close. He bent, closing his lips around her nipple, sucking rhythmically with his thrusts. With a wild cry, she climaxed again, the ripples of her pussy massaging his shaft…and finally he let go.

  He bit back his groan, shuddering as his seed shot from him, as her spasms sucked him of every pulsing drop.

  Regaining his breath, he withdrew from her. She mumbled something drowsily as he tucked her beneath the bedclothes. From experience, he knew that the aftermath eased her into slumber—and sure enough, a wisp of a snore escaped her. His lips twitched…and then he firmed them.

  He dressed with his usual efficiency. But he didn’t leave right away, his wife’s loveliness holding him as surely as her body had. Making him linger.

  Bathed in golden light, Gabriella looked like an innocent goddess, her auburn lashes fluttering against her creamy, gold-speckled cheeks. He had the urge to stretch out beside her—not to sleep, for he wasn’t one for idle napping—but just to…watch over her. To guard his wife as she dreamed the dreams of the blameless. To vicariously experience the innocence that he, himself, had lost a lifetime ago.

  As his fingers reached to brush the errant red curl from her cheek, his mind chided him.

  Don’t get distracted. Maintain your discipline. You’ve stops to make before the business with Sweeney tonight.

  He dropped his hand. Straightening his lapels, he left the room.

  6

  Adam continued with his regular Friday schedule, making his first stop at his office.

  The building was located in London’s financial hub, close to the Bank of England. The tasteful interior with its wood paneling and elegantly subdued décor told patrons that this was a legitimate business and not some shady, back alley operation. Indeed, Adam considered his trade no different from that of a bank or joint-stock venture. Seated in his opulent suite on the third floor, a view of the bustling city behind him, he was proud of how far he’d come…and knew how hard he’d fight to keep what was his.

  Even when the work was bothersome.

  “Please, sir, you know I wouldn’t ask it of you, but it is a matter of life or death.”

  The dramatic declaration came from Lord Evanston, the rumpled, bleary-eyed lordling who occupied the chair across the desk from Adam’s. Since the cull made a visit at least once a month, the seat probably bore his arse print by now.

  “That’s what you said last month,” Adam said. And the month before that.

  “But it truly is an emergency. Just last night my grandmama died and the poor thing hadn’t a feather to fly with. Being a good grandson, it falls upon me to give her a proper burial.”

  Evanston’s pious look was at odds with the rouge stains on his collar, the alcohol fumes he emitted with every word. Bloody hell, it was three in the afternoon, and the cove was already in his cups. In his early twenties and new to London, Evanston was a feckless but amiable fop. He had a large inheritance waiting in the wings, but for now he had to get by on a stipend…which was where Adam came in.

  “Strange.” Leaning back in his chair, Adam steepled his fingers. “Here I was thinking that a man could only have two grandmothers. This is the third one you’ve killed off.”

  “Did I say grandmama? I meant grand-aunt.” Evanston’s smile was beatific. “One who was like a grandmother to me.”

  “Get out, Evanston, before I have Kerrigan toss you out.”

  Most men were rightly afraid of Adam’s head guard, a nearly seven-foot mountain of muscle whose shaved head and eyepatch added to his aura of intimidation.

  “Kerrigan wouldn’t do that,” Evanston said affably. “He and I are old friends by now.”

  Adam was certain that Kerrigan had fantasies of making a human projectile out of Evanston. And he knew this because the taciturn guard had growled more than once, “Give me the word, sir, and I’ll bounce that cull out of here like a bloody ball.”

  Adam hadn’t given the word because Evanston was a good patron who always paid his debts in the end and with heavy interest. Also, the young lord was so cheerfully annoying that, when tossed, he’d probably bounce off a wall and hit Kerrigan in the face. In truth, the diversification in Adam’s business meant that he didn’t need to take on much risk in the moneylending department. He only worked with the crème de la crème of clients, relying less on muscle to get his due and more on his ability to make a good speculative investment.

  Evanston was such an investment, even if he needed to be reined in on a regular basis.

  “No more credit until you pay off your debt. Entirely,” Adam said sternly. “Now begone.”

  “Thank you for the advice, sir.” Evanston scrambled to his feet and bowed his way out. “See you next month!”

  Shaking his head, Adam skimmed over a report from his man-of-business and dictated a letter to one of the clerks. Then he gathered his things and proceeded to his next stop.

  At five o’clock, Adam’s carriage glided to a stop in front of a large, four-story Italianate building on a tiny lane in Covent Garden. His driver, Thompson, had required no instruction to bring him here for it was part of his routine. For years, he’d made this monthly Friday night visit.

  “Wait here, Thompson,” Adam said as he alighted. “My visit will be short this eve.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Adam headed for the private entrance at the rear of the property. The guard there greeted him deferentially, unhooking the velvet rope barrier to let him in. Adam headed up the stairs reserved for workers; along the way, he passed several whores wearing short sateen robes, their faces painted and hair still tied in rags. He nodded coolly to their cooed hellos.

  Reaching his destination on the third floor, he knocked.

  The door opened, revealing a tall, statuesque blonde, dramatically framed by the scarlet boudoir behind her. She was dressed in a black corset made of leather, her arms encased in black satin gloves and legs in black silk stockings. A coiled leather whip dangled from one hand.

  “Adam,” Jeannette Wilde said in rich, sultry tones. “You’re early tonight.”

  “I can’t stay long,” he replied.

  Her red lips curving, she widened the door. “Then don’t just stand there, love. Come in.”

  7

  That night, the sky was dark and clear above the Thames, the air bearing the crispness of autumn. A constellation of lights winked along the shore, and there was a disorientating seamlessness between water, land, and sky. Due to the lack of fog cover, Adam ordered his men to drop anchor a safe distance away from the warehouse where the battle with Sweeney was to take place.

  As the boat rocked, Adam steadied himself against the railing, memories flooding him.

  Don’t fight it, you li’l bastard. I’m just following your father’s orders. I’ll drown you like a kitten—you won’t feel a thing.

  Wiley’s menacing laughter muffled his own desperate pleas. He felt those icy dark waves closing over his head, the brine gargling his cries. He fought to free his hands and legs from the binding rope, the bricks in the sack dragging him down, down, into the suffocating deep…

  Keep your eyes on the target. You cannot change the past, but you can make sure those who are responsible pay for their sins. Take care of the business at hand.

  Inhaling deeply, he shut out the memories.

  “How many guards, Kerrigan?” he asked.

  Standing at the prow of the lighter, the guard had a telescope aimed at the warehouse. “From the lamps, I’d count maybe a dozen guards doing the rounds.”

  Adam consulted his pocket watch. “There’s half an hour until the exchange. Keep monitoring.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As he was about to close the cover of the watch, Adam paused, seeing the inscription inside.

  On the occasion of our seventh wedding anniversary. Yo
ur loving Gabriella.

  He rubbed his thumb over the script. A familiar warmth unfurled, chasing away some of the chill. He frowned at himself. It wasn’t like him to get distracted, yet his thoughts had grown increasingly unruly. At unexpected times, he found himself ambushed by thoughts of Gabriella…and his old life. If he were honest with himself—and he made it a policy to be—he could trace this phenomenon back to a few months ago, when The Gilded Pearl, an infamous brothel, had gone up in flames, taking with it a piece of his revenge.

  Cold rage rushed into his veins. She got off too easily. She deserved to suffer more.

  He snapped the pocket watch shut. What was done was done. And if the punishment hadn’t quite compensated for the crime, he reminded himself that the most important part of his vengeance was yet to come.

  The moment was nearing when De Villier’s financial jugular would be exposed. The blade was in Adam’s hand, and he couldn’t wait to strike. To have his justice at last…and with it, peace.

  Stay in command. The prize is nearly yours.

  Footsteps sounded on the steps from the lower cabin, and Murray emerged onto the deck. Like Adam, he wore a caped greatcoat. The wool warded off the damp chill, and the pockets were convenient. Adam had a pair of pistols stowed in his and a blade in each boot for good measure.

  You could take a man out of the stews but not the stews out of the man.

  Murray joined him at the side of the boat, looking across the black water. “Any movement?”

  “Not yet. We don’t go in until we see Mrs. Kent’s signal,” Adam said.

  Per the plan, Tessa Kent would send up a firework to let Adam and his men know to row in and charge the dock. Their job was to prevent Sweeney and his gang from escaping via the water—by any means necessary.

  “This could get messy,” Murray commented.

  “We have enough firepower to take on the Royal Navy.” Adam lifted his brows. “If there’s to be a mess tonight, it will not be on our side.”

  A pause. “Do you ever tire of this?”

  “Of what?”

  “The fighting. The bloodshed and mayhem.”

  “It’s life.” All I’ve known. “Success doesn’t come without a price.”

  “So you’ve always said.”

  Silence stretched. Undercurrents of tension bobbed along with the boat. After years of working with Murray, Adam knew the other was brooding over something.

  “If you have something to say, say it.”

  “Many a fellow would envy your wealth.” Murray’s hands closed around the railing as he glanced at Adam. “You know that, don’t you? How lucky you are?”

  Although Adam didn’t know where the non sequitur was leading, he was certain that it wasn’t in a direction he preferred. He did not speak of personal matters with his employees. Indeed, he could count on one hand the men who had the courage to speak to him so freely. He both respected Murray’s familiarity and found it irksome.

  “Luck had naught to do with it,” he said coolly. “But, yes, I’m aware that my hard work has paid off.”

  “How much is enough?”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “When will you decide to simply enjoy what you have?”

  When I look De Villier in the eyes, and he knows that the man who destroyed him is the son he tried to murder. The son of the woman he abandoned to poverty and indignities. Then—and only then—will I be at peace.

  Adam lifted his brows. “What makes you think I do not?”

  Murray straightened from the railing. His shoulders went back, as if he was bracing for something unpleasant. “On the way to the pier tonight, you made a stop.”

  It took an instant for the other’s meaning to sink in. When it did, Adam felt a blast of icy rage.

  How bloody dare he. Who does he think he is questioning my private affairs?

  “And when did it become your business to spy on your employer?” he clipped out.

  “It’s not my business, I know that.” Murray raked a hand through his hair. “Goddamnit, Garrity, I’m the last man who should be telling another how to run his life—”

  “On this, we are in perfect agreement.”

  “But do you know what your wife said to me? Before I left this afternoon?”

  The notion that the other knew something about Gabriella that Adam did not was incensing. Adam flashed back to the way Murray’s tawny head had dipped toward Gabby’s. The way the too-handsome rake had murmured intimate good-byes…to Adam’s wife.

  “I do not enjoy guessing games,” Adam said, his hands curling.

  “Promise me you’ll look after Mr. Garrity. I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to him.”

  The words struck Adam like fists of sunshine. Warmth exploded through his chest, a confounding contrast to his cold rage. He exhaled sharply, reminding himself that what went on between him and his wife was no one’s business. Least of all his employee’s.

  “I am capable of looking after myself,” he said in glacial tones.

  “That’s beside the point.” Murray shook his head. “You’re a lucky bastard to have a wife as devoted as Mrs. Garrity. And to throw that away on—”

  “On what?” Adam said with pounding fury.

  “On whatever it is you do at Mrs. Wilde’s Club,” Murray said flatly.

  Red flashed across Adam’s vision. Not being a fool, he’d realized that his visits to Jeannette’s establishment would not go unnoticed. Although his employees were discreet, gossip always found a way to surface. He didn’t give a damn what others said or thought about his visits to the bawdy house. What he did care about was Murray’s bloody temerity. The bastard had some nerve accusing Adam of infidelity and casting himself in the role of Gabriella’s protector.

  Gabriella is mine.

  “You presume to lecture me on my marriage?” he said with lethal softness.

  “Mrs. Garrity has been kind to me. I don’t want to see her get hurt.”

  As Murray faced him squarely, like some bleeding knight fighting on Gabriella’s behalf, rage decimated Adam’s self-control.

  “My wife’s welfare is none of your damned business.” Adam fought to keep his voice even—and the impulse to plant a facer on the bastard. “The same applies to my private affairs. Remember your place, Murray, or I’ll have to remind you.”

  Before Murray could reply, a blue light streaked like a comet across the sky.

  “The signal,” Kerrigan shouted. “Hoist the anchor, lads! We’re going in!”

  8

  “It’s cold in here,” Curtis Billings grumbled from his cozy seat by the fire. “Is your husband too much of a skinflint to heat this palace of his?”

  Gabby kept her smile patient despite the fact that her father had been complaining about something or other since his arrival to see the children’s play. They were in the spacious sitting room of the nursery, fires roaring in the double hearths. The other guests, the Strathavens and the Actons, whose children would also be performing, were milling about. Being good friends and considerate guests, they were giving Gabby space to deal with her father’s cantankerous mood.

  “Would you like more blankets?” she asked. “I could have some fetched—”

  “I’m already wrapped up tighter than an Egyptian mummy,” her papa said.

  He wasn’t wrong. His thin frame was engulfed by the warm woolen layers. Even though Gabby visited her father at least once a week, she’d been surprised by how gaunt he’d become, the sunken hollows of his cheeks and pallor of his skin. The few remaining strands of his grey hair clung like seaweed to his age-speckled pate.

  With thrumming worry, she said, “Perhaps you’d like something to eat? Chef Pierre has a wonderful soup—”

  “I ate before I came.” He harrumphed. “A good, sturdy English meal.”

  “Something hot to drink, then. I’ll get you a nice cup of the posset—”

  “I don’t need posset,” he said crossly. “I need a minute with you. Sit down.”

 
Flummoxed, Gabriella obeyed. She couldn’t recall the last time her father had voiced a desire to spend time with her. Or if he’d ever done so. Growing up, she’d always longed for his presence, but the bank had demanded most of his time. Now he was finally here…and might soon be taken away from her.

  Sorrow and dread tightening her throat, she placed a hand over his. “I’m here, Father.”

  He pulled his hand away to adjust the blankets, clearing his throat. “Where is your husband?”

  “He had, um, urgent business tonight,” she mumbled.

  Father looked around the nursery, his brows rising as he took in the large, curtained stage at the other end of the room. “Are you certain that he’s not just avoiding the circus?”

  Gabby could see what he meant. Fiona’s play had become quite the production.

  Ever since Gabby, the Strathavens, and the Actons had taken their collective offspring to see a performance at Sadler’s Wells, the children had been bitten by the theatre bug. Fiona, Gabby’s seven-year-old, had been particularly enamored of the experience and had declared her intention to stage her own productions.

  Accordingly, Gabby had gone to the toy shop and returned with one of the popular toy theatres. The shopkeeper had claimed that the miniature stage—the size of a dollhouse and designed to fit upon a tabletop—was all the rage amongst youngsters. Children, he said, adored cutting out characters from printed paperboard and staging plays from various playbooks written for tots.

  Fiona, as it turned out, was not most children. Although she took after Gabby in coloring with her red hair and blue eyes, her precociousness and ambitious nature clearly came from her father.

  “The toy theatre is too small,” she’d decreed when Gabby had presented her with the gift over breakfast, which was the one meal the family usually shared together. “It’s for babes—like Maximillian.”

  Across the table, her younger brother had predictably scowled.