The Duke of a Thousand Desires

by Jillian Hunter

  “It proves I am a clod,” he said. “When I saw you coming from the house, I jumped down from the tree and nearly shot off my foot.”

  “And disturbed the entire estate.”

  A clap of thunder rent the air. Isolde and Timpkins glanced skyward simultaneously only to swivel around at an earthly disturbance.

  “Timpkins! Timpkins!” the duke shouted, charging from the house with a pistol in each hand. “What is everyone doing outside? Was that your gun I heard? Why is the staff standing out here? Was there a shooting?”

  Isolde melted back from view, whispering, “I wish I could stay to listen to the rest of this, Timpkins, but I should report to the mistress. Your foolhardy operation has upset the house. Couldn’t you have chosen a better time to experiment?”

  “Then I might have shot someone going about the garden.”

  “Instead, you shot yourself.”

  “Only the tip of his grace’s old boot, which was blessedly too big for me.” He grinned at her. “Say what you like, Isolde, but you would not have looked in my room tonight unless you were worried about me. Admit it.”

  “Admit what?” the duke asked in an irate voice, his appearance on the scene allowing Isolde to make a covert retreat. “Damn. Did I detect gunfire or is a storm moving over the estate?”

  “I misfired, your grace,” Timpkins said. “I could not fall asleep, wondering about the man who was purportedly skulking about last time I was here. So I came outside and I climbed that tree to study the lay of the garden, places that are vulnerable to entry, places to hide. But then who do you suppose comes along when she shouldn’t and gives me the fright of my life? And, yes. I do believe that was thunder we just heard.”

  The steward broke off, realizing he had lost his master’s attention. The duke swept past him, his face frozen in an expression of incredulity. Timpkins turned his head and at once perceived through the mist what had drawn his master’s notice.

  A jet-black carriage with enormous wheels crawled to the top of the drive. The glow of the vehicle’s links revealed the lacquered red dragons emblazoned on the door panel. Simon slipped his pistols into his coat and walked forth in resignation to greet the late-night arrival, a Boscastle brother-in-law. Although not the relative he had been expecting, the nocturnal caller certainly displayed the Welsh family’s flair for dark drama.

  By the time Isolde appeared, Ravenna had changed into a smoke-gray taffeta dress suitable for company. “So the Duke of Thunder has arrived,” she said with a sigh. “Is he alone?”

  “Lord Rhys traveled with him on horseback from what I gathered.” Isolde began to arrange the magical tools of her maid’s trade on the dressing table: combs, pearl-headed pins, silk ribbons, hair pomade, rose water and peppermint breath rinse.

  “The aunts?”

  Isolde shook her head. “No. Only your brothers.”

  “Thank the stars.” She sneezed at Isolde’s generous application of fragrance behind her ears. “I suppose Harriet and the baby stayed with them in London. They must be heartily sick of travel.” She scrutinized her reflection. “Pin my hair back, please. I might be a well-ravished wife, but there is no need for me to look as if I’ve just tumbled out of my husband’s bed.” Especially knowing that her eldest brother had deemed Simon too sinful for her to wed.

  Isolde smiled and deftly secured Ravenna’s heavy hair into a figure eight with a few curls artfully draped down one shoulder.

  “Gracious, what a time for Griff to arrive,” Ravenna murmured, rising in a scented cloud from the stool. “I wonder why he didn’t wait until morning. I hope nothing is amiss. But he would have sent word, wouldn’t he?”

  Isolde lowered her eyes. “I would assume so.”

  36

  Griffin Boscastle, the Duke of Glamorgan, was Ravenna’s beloved monster of a brother. As a second son, he had not expected to inherit. Nor had he wished for or in any fashion caused Liam’s death. He had withstood a massive weight of guilt, unfair murder accusations, and the interference of his aunts in his life. Despite all, he had stepped up to his position and assumed care of his castle and family. His wife was a former street girl who had been painstakingly transformed into a gentlewoman by the Scarfield Academy for Young Ladies in London. Harriet still gave him hell from time to time, but on the whole marriage and the birth of his heir had matured him.

  He was conferring in the library with Simon and Rhys when Ravenna crept into the room. The three men stood at her entrance, assessing her in open concern. Griff looked tired, but otherwise he was a typical Boscastle male, fit, blue-eyed, and too handsome for a woman’s good.

  “I regret that Harriet and I missed your wedding,” he said gruffly as she stepped forward to embrace him. “I regret even more that we missed what led up to it.”

  “Simon didn’t explain?” she asked, disengaging herself from his arms.

  “He did. Grayson gave me an elaborate explanation. Rhys, as usual, has defended you. I am still left confused as to how it came about. This is a shock, even by our customs. I expected you to marry, but – ” His voice drifted off into an uneasy silence.

  “I am happily wed,” she said. “Just not to the weasel. Is Aunt Primrose furious at me?”

  “No,” Griff said. “She’s furious at me for not arriving in time for the ceremony. She is in raptures, truthfully, and so is Harriet, that you and Simon are married. Both of them are disgusted with David, however.”

  “As we all are,” Simon remarked from the sideboard where he had decanted a bottle of brandy.

  “Why did you swoop down on us like a bat in the dark?” Ravenna asked Griffin. “You should have waited. It’s incautious to travel in the dark and arrive at a place where you aren’t recognized on sight.”

  “I sent a messenger ahead hours ago,” Griff said. “I knew he was too young for the job. I hope no mischief has befallen him.”

  “He never arrived,” Simon said. “I’ll have two stableboys ride out to search the detours. It’s easy to get lost once you leave the road.”

  “Is the baby well?” Ravenna asked.

  “We are all well,” Griffin said, returning to his chair. “Everyone is worried about you. I would have waited until tomorrow to travel with Rhys, but then the aunts said they would come if we gave them time to pack. I deemed it better to rush here rather than wait.” He looked up at Simon. “Heath gave me a message to deliver to you.”

  Simon put down the decanter. “And?”

  “He didn’t want to leave his wife by herself at this delicate time, and so I offered to come in his place. That’s the primary reason I am here this late. Well, that and the fact that Glynnis and Primrose are driving me out of my mind. Those women never stop talking. Between them and Harriet, I thought my ears would explode.”

  Simon brought Griff a glass of brandy. Rhys declined a drink.

  “Heath’s message might make more sense to you than it does to me,” Griffin continued. “He said that a person who is a reliable connection has talked in depth to one of the housemaids at Bruxton Manor. She’s revealed one piece of information he believes should be examined.”

  Simon took a swallow of brandy. “Heath knows I’ve spoken at least twice to everyone employed at Bruxton’s estate. Which I suppose doesn’t guarantee that the servants spoke the truth.”

  Griffin shrugged. “Evidently a downstairs housemaid was reluctant to talk until she realized her past of petty larceny had been uncovered. At that point it seems she became a chatterbox. She offered nothing helpful about Susannah’s death. She did mention, however, that Bruxton’s housekeeper passed away while visiting an uncle in another parish, where they are both buried.”

  “I knew Mrs. Littleton had died,” Simon remarked. “Odd timing, though, I suppose.”

  “Convenient, in Heath’s view,” Griffin said. “He isn’t convinced she is even dead. He wondered whether the vicar for Bruxton Manor knows anything about the housekeeper’s passing. Allegedly she died in the parish of Appleburn. Is that a place
familiar to you?”

  Simon’s forehead crinkled in thought. “Yes. It’s an obscure hamlet to the north of Bruxton Manor. It boasts a few cows and cottages and little else. Not even a public inn or a smithy. I’m familiar with it only because my carriage once got stuck thereabouts in a muddy ditch and I had to ride in the rain to the next village.”

  Rhys removed his greatcoat, revealing a rolled document inside the lining. “It shouldn’t be hard to find a grave or a dwelling in a place that small. Heath drew a map detailing the village, including the churchyard. I hope I haven’t crushed his masterpiece. There wasn’t time to slip it in oilcloth. I felt compelled to guard it with my life.”

  “My hero.” Simon grinned. “Thank you.” He unfolded the map and spread it across his desk. “How the blazes was he able to chart out an insignificant hamlet in so short a time?”

  “He collects maps for one thing,” Rhys said. “He is associated with the Home Office for another. With anarchists plotting riots all over England, there is good reason for agents to be knowledgeable about remote locations.”

  Ravenna shook her head in disapproval. “Three men of your imposing stature storming a cottage at this hour are liable to frighten that housekeeper to death, should she still be alive. Perhaps it would be better if I came with you.”

  “It would not,” Simon said without looking up. He traced his fingers across the map to a small red X. “Griff is staying here with you. Ah. Heath has marked the village lanes on his map.” He pulled on the gray riding gauntlets that sat on his chair. “What a clever, accommodating cousin-in-law. Rhys, look at these intriguing landmarks as Heath has written them.”

  Rhys bent over the desk, reading aloud. “’The mill where stray dogs live. The hut of a hostile curmudgeon who owns a musket and will not hesitate to use it on trespassers.’ Well, it’s as useful as any other historical guidebook I’ve consulted.”

  Simon rolled up the map and unlocked the middle drawer of his desk. “My dueling pistols are in here, Griffin. I will leave the keys with you. Timpkins has possession of another set. Help yourself.”

  “I am well-armed,” Griffin said. “You aren’t going to take a meal before you ride out?”

  “It will be daylight if we tarry,” Simon answered.

  Ravenna waited in silence for him to bid her farewell. “Entertain your brother in the house until we are back, in case anyone is watching,” he said in a clear voice. “Griffin, let it appear as though the house is full.”

  Ravenna hurried to the window and waited until she saw Simon and Rhys canter from the stable yard for the coaching road. Evening haze soon blurred their figures. She swallowed and felt Griffin standing at her side.

  “I’d like to have gone with them,” he murmured. “Well, not to worry. Do I understand you have a new horse?”

  “I'll take you upstairs to the stranger's room to wash and then fetch my mantle from the main bedchamber. Then we can talk about children and horses.” She smiled at him to belie the tension that hung over them. “We have cold meat pie and raspberry pudding left from supper. Tell me about Harriet and my nephew while we eat. Fill my mind with light thoughts until they are back. That is, if you are in a mood to talk.”

  “To you, yes. It’s been too long since I’ve seen you, nuisance.”

  A cold draft embraced her as she entered the ducal bedchamber she and Simon shared. Had Isolde opened a window to air out the fragrance of rose water? Her gaze moved slowly across the room.

  The curtains had not been disturbed. Nor had the long sash windows that looked out at the dense parkland.

  She knew she was not alone.

  Another rush of dank air touched her face.

  She had not noticed anything unusual earlier when she had surveyed the room. The air had felt stuffy, overwarm, in fact.

  She saw a reflection glimmer in the looking glass even before she turned and noticed the man standing in front of the fireside panel. He grasped a cap in his hand; his eyes followed hers to the pistol that she had placed at the foot of the bed. She hid her hands in her skirt, stepping back slowly.

  “Please don’t,” he said, his Irish brogue unmistakable now. His face looked beaten and penitent in the firelight. “I’ve a confession to make about the duke’s sister. Hear me out. I’ve nothing to lose.”

  “How did you know about the panel?” she asked, straining her ears for the sound of Griff’s voice.

  “Susannah told me of it. Her father had forbidden her to use it, but his grace and his brother would sneak through down the hidden stairs to the stables to sleep with the horses on summer nights. He let her join them on occasion.”

  “He would,” she said.

  There was no chance of Simon’s intervention now, however. He and Rhys trusted Griff would guard her. They had no reason to hasten back to Caverley.

  His voice startled her from her thoughts. “She was gracious,” he said. “And kind.”

  “But I am not.” Her throat closed as he advanced across the carpet. She noted that he’d neglected to close the panel.

  An oversight? Or deliberate act?

  An appalling vision slid across her mind, that of her husband discovering her body entombed inside their bedchamber wall. He would fall to pieces.

  She would not appreciate such a ghastly end herself. Poor Simon. He did not deserve another lashing of guilt, another cause for remorse. After all, it was her duty to protect his heart as he did her physical person. She would have to take destiny in her hands again.

  37

  Mrs. Littleton was definitely not dead.

  The elderly woman dozed by the fire of her shuttered cottage, her stockinged feet propped on a three-legged stool. Simon approached her with such stealth that the cocker spaniel at her side barely roused until Rhys tossed it his glove. The dog rose to take the offering to the hearth.

  “Dogs like me,” Rhys said smugly. “I have a trustworthy face.”

  The cocker spaniel sprang up and growled.

  In the next instant a gangly young male burst into the room from the kitchen. He brandished a carving knife, which he instantly relinquished as Rhys vaulted over the stool and restrained him in a crushing grip across his windpipe, his back flush to the wall.

  Simon gave a terse nod of thanks. Despite his impression of negligent youth, Rhys had not become a Royal Hussar in a cavalry regiment by chance. Friend and defender, his brother-in-law could take care of an uprising and himself. As he proved again when another man stumbled into the parlor through the front door.

  The newcomer glanced around the room, appraising his odds, and raised his hands in surrender.

  “Take them out of here,” Simon said to Rhys in an undertone.

  “The earl won’t like this at all,” the younger of the two men muttered as Rhys gave him the chance to breathe.

  “We’ll write him a letter of apology, shall we?” Rhys motioned to the kitchen with the carving knife he had confiscated. “In there. Quickly.”

  Rhys and his two prisoners had just disappeared when the housekeeper opened her eyes. Disoriented, she sat forward with a gasp. Recognition slowly dawned across her face as she regarded Simon. “It is you, your grace. I knew you would find me. I told the earl as much. But it took you so long. I thought I’d truly be in the grave before you came.”

  Simon placed his hand on her mottled wrist in reassurance. “Why did you hide from me?”

  “His lordship swore my son would be hunted down if I spoke against him. I was frightened and I’ve lost the use of one arm. I broke several bones, you know.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said. “You must have something damaging to say against Bruxton if he has gone to such lengths to silence you.”

  “His lordship takes care of us,” she said, now uncertain, agitated. “I have my own maid and footmen. He sent the surgeon to my husband during his last days and made him comfortable. I have all the tea I can drink. And cake. I love my cake.”

  “I would have helped you if I’d known.”<
br />
  She nodded vaguely. Her expensive paisley shawl slipped off the back of the chair. Simon retrieved it from the carpet. “Mind you don’t let the dog chew my wrap,” she said. “He’s naughty like that. Oh, I am tired. Why did you not let me sleep? I want my peace.”

  Simon was quiet.

  Mrs. Littleton lived in a snugly thatched cottage. No doubt there was plenty of food on her table. She had a surgeon, and servants at her call. Bribes from the earl -- to keep his secret? Did Bruxton guard her out of guilt, fear, or kindness?

  He waited several moments for her to settle. “I shall take care of you from now on, ma’am.”

  “Do I have your word?” she asked fretfully.

  “Indeed.” He paused. “But you must trust me. Did you witness my sister’s death?”

  She spoke in a hesitant whisper, as if afraid of being overheard. “I went to her that day with my receipt book. I needed to ask her to make selections for his lordship’s midsummer supper. Political men had been invited to the house. It was an important event for the earl. I feared her ladyship had taken ill. She had not been herself for some weeks.”

  “She hadn’t summoned you to her room?”

  “No. I was anxious for her. She and the earl had fought the night before. Her bedchamber door was ajar. I called her name and entered. Lady Bruxton was not a stickler for rules.”

  “There was no one else present?”

  She glanced over her shoulder. The shawl slid again. “The earl came into the chamber a minute or so after I arrived. It was only then I realized she had been weeping. And hiding in her room from him.”

  “Hiding,” he said, his skin prickling at the notion. A countess, his sister, cowering from her own husband. “She did this often?”

  She continued, evading an answer. “She’d pulled a chair to the open window. It was misting heavily and I wondered at first whether that was why her face was wet. It alarmed me to find her in such careless position.”