Don't Tempt Me

by Loretta Chase

  As the gloom receded, Harrison made a small movement and moaned. The candlelight showed no pool of blood about his head.

  Marchmont breathed a quick sigh of relief and eased his iron grip on the candlestick. His heart was pounding, as though he’d run for miles and miles.

  If Zoe had been in the bed…if he’d been an instant too slow…

  But she hadn’t been in the bed.

  He’d agreed to use her as bait, making a great show in the square of leaving her behind while he went on his long journey, but he had refused to let her actually lie in her bed to await a would-be assassin.

  She came out from behind the door, another candlestick in her hand. “Just in case,” she’d said.

  Tonight, as had been the case since Tuesday night, they’d had servants under the bed and in every possible hiding place, all ready to come to his aid.

  She had insisted on being there, too.

  The best Marchmont could do was persuade her to stand behind the door, while he hoped there wouldn’t be a scuffle and she wouldn’t hit him by accident.

  “Somebody tie his hands and get him out of this room,” he said. “I can’t bear the sight of him. Hubert, find the hackney and make haste to Bow Street. Tell them we’ve got him.”

  Not knowing where Harrison was or when he was watching, they hadn’t kept one of the duke’s carriages ready. Harrison would have noticed and become suspicious. Instead, Marchmont had paid a hackney to make a circuit of a few nearby streets, over and over, while waiting to be summoned to the house.

  Harrison said nothing while they tied his hands and hauled him up onto his feet. But when they tried to lead him to the door, he refused to move.

  “Oh, that is a fine trick, Your Grace, a fine one indeed,” he said. “You took me in completely. I watched you drive away myself, and had word from a friend at Barnet, who’d seen you stop to change horses. But it wasn’t you in the carriage, I see.”

  Marchmont had changed places with Roderick, the tallest of Zoe’s brothers. Along the road, people would notice only the ducal crest. How many people outside of London knew exactly what the Duke of Marchmont looked like? They’d see a tall, fair-haired gentleman and the crest on the carriage, and that would be sufficient.

  He didn’t explain any of this. Harrison deserved no explanations.

  “I should have anticipated a trick,” Harrison said. “I mistook that show in the square before your departure, too. That I, of all people, should underestimate my master’s cleverness is a sorry state of affairs, indeed.”

  “Come along, Mr. Harrison,” Joseph said. “Please don’t make a greater spectacle of yourself than you have already.”

  “Yes, a spectacle, certainly,” said Harrison. “Well, well, how we shall laugh about this tomorrow, when we read it in the newspapers. Another one of His Grace’s jokes, eh? I told you all, did I not, that there wasn’t another master as amusing as His Grace.”

  The house steward’s gaze shifted to the new butler. “So, Thomas, you’ve been put in charge, I hear. Like the work, I daresay. Fancy yourself His Grace’s house steward next, no doubt. Twenty years, you give your best. Do without sleep and without thanks, and it comes to this.”

  Harrison’s shoulders slumped and he began to weep. “Twenty years. All my work. Ruined, ruined, ruined. ‘I’ll see those books,’ says she. Oh, yes, she must see the books. What’s books, to twenty years’ devoted service?”

  “I should have given you credit for the twenty years’ devoted service,” said Marchmont, “had you not tried to kill my wife. Twice. I owe you nothing. Our account is balanced.” He gave the little wave of his hand. “Take him away. If he gives trouble, do what you must, but keep him alive. I want to see him hang.”

  After they left, Zoe saw the change in her husband. The exhaustion he’d hidden from the others was plain to her. All these days of waiting, unsure exactly what Harrison would do. And all the while Marchmont couldn’t be sure he was doing the right thing and the best thing.

  Zoe had told him, “Harrison knows this house better than any of us do. He knows it better than he knows his own body. If I don’t go out, he’ll come here to get me, and he’ll think he’s safe, because he knows everything about us and about the house.”

  She’d been right, and Marchmont’s plan had worked.

  Harrison had been caught, in the act.

  And his master was so unhappy.

  Zoe put her arms about her husband, but he gently disengaged himself.

  “I beg your pardon,” he said. “I need a moment. You’re accustomed to being almost murdered. This is a novel experience for me.”

  He moved away and drew a chair nearer to the fire and sat. He put his head in his hands.

  She sat on the rug, cross-legged at his feet. She waited until she heard his breathing slow and she knew he was calming.

  “Twenty years,” she said. “A long time. Your parents were alive when he began to work here.”

  “Yes.” He did not look up. “He started as a footboy. His father was a footman here but died young.”

  “He was like a member of the family, then,” she said. “No wonder you grieve.”

  “I’m not grieving,” he said. “I want him to hang.”

  “He was here when your parents were alive, and when Gerard was alive. He was here all the time I was gone. He was a part of your life—”

  “And I trusted him. Implicitly. And he betrayed my trust. Yes, yes. I know.” He looked up. “He was, in so many ways, the perfect servant. I can’t help thinking he would have been altogether the perfect servant had I paid attention.”

  “Perhaps,” she said. “Whatever happens, the Mohammedans say it’s the will of God. They would say it was the will of God that your servant became corrupt and stole from you. They would say it was the will of God that, when he was caught, instead of repenting, he turned to violence. And so I wonder if maybe you think you are God. You think that because you looked the other way, it’s your fault this man turned bad. Well, perhaps that’s what happens when one is a duke and everyone defers to him. He thinks he’s God.”

  “I don’t think…” He trailed off.

  She said nothing.

  He regarded her for a long time. “You told me you could dance and sing and compose poetry. You told me you knew all the arts of pleasing a man. You told me you could manage a household—even eunuchs. You never mentioned you could argue philosophy, too.”

  “Being in the harem gives a woman plenty of time to think,” she said. “I think about these things. Especially I think about the way men think. And most important to me is the way my man thinks.”

  “Or doesn’t.”

  She smiled and leaned back and rested her head against his leg. “I’m glad I married you, because your heart is kind and generous. You’re so angry with this servant, and you hate him, yet you grieve for him and think of the ways you could have prevented what’s happened. While you’re thinking this, I’m thinking of how cruel fate has been to you, taking your mother and father and your brother. I know you’ve tried to close your heart. But you didn’t close it to me, and you don’t even close it to a man who has so cruelly betrayed you. I don’t mind anymore that I love you.”

  She felt his body go still then. She was aware of the atmosphere changing.

  She felt his fingers threading through her hair.

  He cleared his throat. “Zoe, I think you said you love me.”

  “I did say it. I do love you. With all my heart.”

  “I see.” There was a long pause, then he said, “For how long has this been going on?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Sometimes I think it started a long, long time ago.”

  “You might have mentioned it.”

  “I didn’t want to encourage it,” she said. “I thought it was a bad idea.”

  He laughed.

  She looked up.

  “I feel the same way,” he said. “Exactly.”

  She took his hand from her head and bro
ught it to her mouth and kissed each knuckle. She would have done more, but a servant appeared and said, apologetically, that a Bow Street officer was downstairs and wishing to speak to His Grace.

  It was a long night and a long fortnight for the Duke of Marchmont.

  Harrison was one responsibility one couldn’t pass to others. Marchmont went to Bow Street and gave evidence at the preliminary hearing. Harrison was bound over for trial and sent to Newgate Prison. The trial took place swiftly, as was usual, and the jury swiftly found Harrison guilty. The question of his sanity was raised, but his demeanor was what it had always been. Judge and jury observed the speech and behavior of the perfect servant. The judge sentenced him to be hanged alongside Mrs. Dunstan.

  It was what Marchmont had said he wanted. It was what the man deserved.

  And yet…

  And yet…

  And yet there was Shakespeare again.

  The duke explained it to his duchess after they supped together in his room that evening. After days spent at the trial and days dealing with the trial’s aftermath, he was in no mood for socializing.

  The servants had taken away the small table and the remains of their supper. Master and mistress sat together companionably by the fire, their chairs close together.

  “So there was Shakespeare in my head again,” he said, “and that damnable speech from The Merchant of Venice. ‘The quality of mercy is not strained’ and so forth.”

  “I don’t remember,” she said. “Tell it to me.”

  He recited Portia’s speech.

  Zoe’s eyes filled with tears. “Oh, Lucien.” She put out her hand and he took it in his, and he was grateful he’d married a woman who understood.

  “What could I do?” he said. “I said I wanted him to hang, but when it came to it, when I saw the judge put on his black cap, I was heartsick. I know you believe that Harrison chose to do what he did—but I’ll never know if he would have behaved differently had I chosen to truly be the Duke of Marchmont, instead of acting as though it weren’t true.”

  “If, if, if,” she said softly. “Who knows the answer to ‘What if?’”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Since I don’t know, I must give Harrison the benefit of the doubt. I called on the Prince Regent and asked for mercy for my servants. The sentence is to be commuted to transportation.”

  She eased her hand from his, and for a moment he thought that perhaps, after all, she didn’t understand.

  But she only let go to leave her chair and climb into his lap. She tucked her head into the crook of his neck. He put his arms about her and nuzzled her hair and drank in her scent with silent thanks. She was alive and warm in his arms. She was his, and she understood.

  “It’s good to be a duke,” she said softly. “It’s good to have the Prince Regent’s ear. With a word you can save the life of a man and a woman and give them another chance.”

  He lifted his head and gazed at her.

  She tipped her head back and looked at him. “What?” she said.

  “What you said,” he said. “It’s good to be a duke. Do you know, Zoe, it is.”

  It was. For the first time, and at last and thanks to her, it truly was.

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks to:

  Myretta Robens for pointing the way to the fabulous diamond ring.

  Sue Stewart for aid in carriage crashing.

  Sherrie Holmes for assorted search and rescue missions.

  And, as always, family and friends: with special thanks to Walter, Nancy, Susan, and, yes, my sisters.

  About the Author

  LORETTA CHASE holds a B.A. from Clark University, where she majored in English and minored unofficially in visual art. Her past lives include clerical, administrative, and part-time teaching at Clark and a Dickensian six-month experience as a meter maid. In the course of moonlighting as a corporate video scriptwriter, she fell under the spell of a producer who lured her into writing novels…and marrying him. The union has resulted in more than a dozen books and a number of awards, including the Romance Writers of America’s RITA® Award. You can talk to Loretta via her e-mail address, Author@LorettaChase.com, visit her website at www.LorettaChase.com, and blog with her occasionally at WordWenches.com.

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  By Loretta Chase

  DON’T TEMPT ME

  YOUR SCANDALOUS WAYS

  NOT QUITE A LADY

  THE LAST HELLION

  LORD OF SCOUNDRELS

  CAPTIVES OF THE NIGHT

  THE LION’S DAUGHTER

  Copyright

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  DON’T TEMPT ME. Copyright © 2009 by Loretta Chekani. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

  Adobe Digital Edition May 2009 ISBN 978-0-06-193315-8

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