The Duke Redemption

by Grace Callaway

  “What does it say?”

  She pushed the letter toward her friend. “Why don’t you give it a go?”

  Despite Fancy’s many talents, there were a few skills she hadn’t mastered. Reading and writing weren’t considered important to the tinkering life, especially for the womenfolk. Lately, however, she’d expressed an interest in learning her letters, and Bea had taken it upon herself to teach her friend. She thought it a fair exchange for Fancy, being a proud sort, refused to take any more than a seamstress’s wages for the clothing she sewed for Bea, no matter how hard Bea tried to give her more.

  Fancy bent over the letter, her index finger following the words as she read them aloud. “Con… con…”

  “Try sounding it out, dear,” Bea encouraged.

  “Con-si-der…you—no yourself…warn…warned. Leave your es…estate. Or you will re…regret it.”

  “Well done.”

  Fancy raised wide eyes. “Sweet Mary, Mother o’ God. You will regret it? What does that mean?”

  “One cannot be certain, but it does sound rather like a threat, doesn’t it?” Bea said baldly.

  “If Murray didn’t send this, then who did?”

  Unfortunately, the industrialist was but one of Bea’s problems. For years after her accident, she’d wondered what it was about her that drew bullies and gossips. Now, she no longer cared. She answered to herself and her conscience and didn’t give a damn what others thought or said about her.

  “You know how popular I am,” she said sardonically. “How some feel about me…and my tenants.”

  Having been a social outcast herself, Bea did not turn away others in a similar predicament. It had begun innocently enough, when she’d given shelter to Sarah Johnson—now Mrs. George Haller—a former prostitute who couldn’t find any place that would accept her and her bastard babe. Word had spread that Bea would take in anyone who worked hard and wanted to better themselves, and people who’d been shunned by society flocked to her estate.

  Since Bea had land that needed farming and these good folk needed work, she thought it was a match made in Heaven. Others disagreed…or they had different bones to pick with her. Her most vociferous detractors were Squire Crombie, who owned the neighboring estate, and Reverend Wright, the rector of the nearby village. Thomas McGillivray, who headed a coalition of pottery manufactory owners in the northern part of the county, was also a foe. Then there was Randall Perkins, a troublemaking former tenant whom Bea had ejected from her property one month prior.

  All the men had their reasons for wanting Bea gone. Would any of them stoop to sending a threatening note?

  Fancy gnawed on her lower lip. “We need to do something ’bout this.”

  “Yes, but what?” Bea drummed her fingers against the table. “Ordinarily, one could enlist the help of the magistrate but…”

  “Squire Crombie is the magistrate.”

  “Precisely. And you know what kind of assistance he’d like to provide me.”

  Fancy snorted. “A boot to the backside, perhaps?”

  “He’s never forgiven me for outbidding him on Camden Manor,” Bea acknowledged with a wry grin. “It is possible, however, that I’m making a mountain out of a molehill. The note could be harmless. Someone’s idea of a practical joke.”

  “It don’t sound like no laughing matter to me.” Fancy hesitated. “’Ave you thought about contacting your brother? ’E’s a duke, ain’t ’e? Surely ’e could do something.”

  Bea’s throat constricted as she thought of the last time she’d seen Benedict, now the Duke of Hadleigh. Over five years ago, standing at their parents’ graves. They’d fought, both saying things that couldn’t be taken back. And the wounds they’d inflicted hadn’t just been done with words. Benedict’s obsession with revenge had caused untold suffering...

  She didn’t know how to heal the breach with him. Didn’t know if she wanted to. Too much had happened: she and her brother were not the same people they once were.

  Benedict continued to send her letters now and again. Since they all had the same message, she didn’t bother replying. He couldn’t convince her that she was still Lady Beatrice Wodehouse…any more than she could change the path he’d chosen.

  Or whom he’d chosen to take it with.

  “Involving my brother is more trouble than it’s worth,” she said starkly.

  Fancy knew her too well to argue. “You being alone in that manor gives me a worry.”

  “I’m not alone. I have Zeus…and Gentleman Henderson.” What her butler lacked in the conventional skills expected of a servant, such as politeness, he more than made up for with his talents as a former prizefighter. “If anyone dares to trespass, he’ll dispatch them forthwith.”

  “Even so, I’ll ask me da and the boys to make sure all the locks are in working order—”

  Zeus shot up, startling both women. The hairs stood upon his neck as he let out a low growl.

  “What is it, boy?” Bea said tersely.

  The bull terrier let out two fierce barks, dashing out of the gazebo and toward the far wall of the garden. It was then she noticed the waving of the tall brush on the other side…as if something—or someone—was disturbing it.

  “Sweet heavens.” Her heart punched against her chest. “There’s an intruder!”

  5

  As Wick battled through tall, prickly brush to assess the stone wall that surrounded Miss Brown’s rustic fortress, he was not in the best of moods. Last night, he’d experienced the most profound pleasure of his life. Pleasure that hadn’t just been about sinking his cock in an available cunny (albeit the tightest, wettest, most addictive cunny he’d ever had).

  He’d experienced a…connection. One deeper than lust. One that had felt rare, so undeniably real that he’d thought his masked lady felt the same way.

  Damnit, she’d cuddled with him while he fell into a deep post-coital slumber. Before that, she’d come at least three times that he’d counted and possibly more than that, given the way her sheath kept squeezing him so tightly (hence, the most addictive cunny).

  Despite all that, he’d awakened in the study alone.

  She didn’t even bother to leave a note goodbye. He glared at the unsympathetic, and rather high, wall. Had he been nothing more to her than a convenient cock? A way to scratch an itch?

  Devil take it, he felt…used.

  Cursing himself for an idiot, he found a foothold and began his ascent. They’d made each other no promises: she hadn’t even given him her name, for God’s sake. She was a one-night diversion like so many before her. If he felt disappointed, then it was his own bloody fault.

  Shaking off his displeasure at waking up alone, he’d made the journey to Miss Brown’s; the front gate of her estate had been locked. With no one there to open it, he’d had to pick the lock—a trick he’d learned not in the underworld but at Eton (who said boarding school didn’t impart useful skills?). Then he’d ridden up the graceful drive.

  He had to admit that the recalcitrant Miss Brown knew what she was doing when it came to land management. He’d passed thriving farms on the way over to the manor, cattle dotting the lush grazing lands and farmers at work scything the hayfields. The lawns around the drive were well-tended, with natural clumps of trees here and there and smooth sweeping grass leading up to the ivy-covered mansion.

  The large, three-story house had an elegant, balanced design, with sparkling arched windows that promised excellent light and two wings flanking the main structure. It was the sort of house Wick could imagine himself living in if he ever settled down. Ready to do business, he’d knocked on the door and been greeted by her mountain of a butler, whose missing teeth and scarred fists better suited a prizefighter than a man in service. And Wick was using the term “greeted” loosely.

  “No invitation, no entry,” the giant had boomed.

  He’d slammed the door in Wick’s face.

  Despite Wick’s persistent ringing of the bell, the impertinent bastard would not open it
again. Wick had thought about giving up…for approximately half a minute. Backing down was simply not in his nature. He’d gone to look for another way in and found another wall surrounding the garden behind the house.

  Which led to his present precarious position half-way up said wall that, he now suspected, was designed not to be scaled. The sole of his boot slipped on the smooth rock, and he gritted his teeth, holding on by his fingertips until he could get a secure foothold again.

  To motivate himself, he recalled the latest correspondence that he and Miss Brown had exchanged. He’d sent her a courteous missive containing a princely offer.

  Her reply?

  Perhaps a certain thickness of the skull affects your comprehension, sir, so I shall repeat myself once more: my land is not for sale. Accept that fact or don’t, but the result will be the same. Kindly refrain from wasting my time. Any further contact from you will be construed as harassment.

  Harassment? When all he’d done was offer her twice as much money as her bloody estate was worth? Nonetheless, he’d maintained a polite tone in his next note, inviting her to London at the expense of GLNR.

  Her response had been succinct:

  I’d rather meet with the devil himself.

  * * *

  Sincerely,

  Beatrice Brown

  She was sincere all right…a sincere pain in his arse.

  As determined as she was, he was more so. Inch by inch, he climbed her wall. At one point, he made the mistake of looking down; his hat slipped off, tumbling into the brush before hitting the ground with a thud. Clenching his jaw, he trained his gaze upward again, grasping onto stone and mortar until his hand closed around the iron railing at the top. Avoiding the spiked metal tips, he swung himself over to the other side.

  “Hold it right there!” a female voice demanded.

  Startled, he lost his grip. He cursed as he fell through the air. Muscles braced for impact, he grunted when his back hit bushes. He tried to catch his breath whilst disentangling himself from leaves and branches. Rolling inelegantly to the ground, he stumbled to his feet…and found himself staring at the barrel of a pistol.

  His gaze travelled past the firm grip of the slender fingers. Past the billowing blue sleeves. Up to the face of the blonde staring at him.

  Dear heavens, it’s the stranger…from the masquerade.

  Astonished, Bea lowered her pistol, waving down Zeus who was growling, ready to attack. She gawked at the man who’d scaled her wall. What in God’s name was he doing here?

  Shock and some strange, giddy emotion coalesced, fueling the mad thumping of her heart.

  He was even more magnificent in the sunlight. The dimness of the study had hidden the richness of his chestnut hair, the sun-kissed gilt threaded through its thick waves. His impossibly handsome face looked as if it had been chiseled by a master hand, and his eyes…they weren’t brown, but an extraordinary shade of hazel. A bronze starburst surrounded his pupils, melding into irises of a deep forest green.

  His beauty was…mesmerizing.

  Then his gaze strayed from hers, shifting to her right cheek—to her scar. His heavy eyelids lifted, his pupils darkening, his expression turning into one of shock.

  The spell shattered, shards of anguish lodging inside her.

  How could I have forgotten…?

  Her pain and humiliation deepened as she saw the lines that creased his perfect face. Disgust, no doubt. Her fingers twitched to pull her ringlets over her cheek. But she refused to give into the instinct to cover herself. To give into shame. It was too late, anyway. What was seen could not be unseen, and the light of day revealed everything. Now he knew what lay behind the mask—

  Then the realization struck her. He might not know who I am.

  The mask she’d worn had concealed her face. And the bold, loose red curls of her wig had been nothing like her own white-gold hair, at present secured in a top knot, with dangling ringlets in the front. Last night, she’d worn a loose black gown designed to facilitate amorous activities; it bore no resemblance to her current blue frock, with its fitted bodice, full Bishop’s sleeves, and skirts that draped over several layers of petticoats.

  She was not the same woman she’d been last night. She clung to that thought like a drowning person to a piece of driftwood. To the fervent hope that her lover would not recognize that he’d slept with her. With Lady Beastly.

  She drew up her shoulders. “Who are you, sir, and what are you doing here?”

  She was proud of how detached and imperious she sounded. Exactly as one would sound when encountering a stranger trespassing upon one’s land. And not the way a woman would address the man who’d taken her virginity during a steamy night of pleasure.

  His gaze met hers. “I might ask the same of you.”

  She prayed that the candlelight had hidden the color of her eyes as it had his.

  “This is my estate. I live here,” she said.

  “You are Miss Beatrice Brown?”

  Surprise lanced through her. How does he know my name? There was a sudden edge to his tone that she didn’t like.

  Fancy didn’t like it either, apparently. She stepped forward, a determined look on her heart-shaped face. Despite her natural shyness in social situations, the tinker’s daughter knew how to deal with troublemakers, having encountered her fair share on her travels.

  “It’s no business o’ yours who she is.” Fancy pulled herself up to her full height…which, unfortunately, was a full foot shorter than the gentleman’s. “You be trespassing on private property. Best you climb back o’er that wall afore we ’ave Gentleman Henderson throw you out!”

  The stranger didn’t look intimidated. Instead, he quirked a brow. “Would Gentleman Henderson be the giant who slammed the manor door in my face?”

  “He’s the butler,” Bea informed him. “He was doing his job.”

  “From the looks of him, his job is pounding men to a fare-thee-well in the ring.”

  “We don’t judge by appearances here,” she said curtly.

  “How commendable.”

  She studied the stranger through narrowed eyes. He’d schooled his features, his bland expression hiding his reaction as well as any mask. She didn’t know if he recognized her…didn’t know what his motivations were in coming here. Yet all her instincts were telling her that this man, with his too-good looks and smooth-as-cream manners, was as dangerous as any cutthroat.

  “State your name and your business, sir.” Her tone made it clear that this was not a request.

  For some reason, his lips twitched. Then he swept her an elegant bow.

  “Wickham Murray, at your service,” he said.

  Oh, dash it all.

  “You’re Mr. Murray of the Great London Northern Railway company?” she asked sharply.

  He flashed a dazzling white smile. “In the flesh.”

  Dear God, she’d seen far, far too much of his flesh. Why, oh why, had she ended up sleeping with the blasted enemy?

  At the same time, recognizing the folly of what she’d done helped to stem her pain. She didn’t miss the way his gaze flitted to her scar, knew that a man with his beauty must find her imperfection disgusting. Resentment surged that her night of ecstasy—what was supposed to be the memory of a lifetime—was now ruined.

  When will you learn? Happiness never lasts. In this instance, not even for a few hours.

  Keeping her frustration and anger in check, she said, “You’ve wasted your time coming to Staffordshire, sir. As I wrote you repeatedly, I have no intention of selling my property and nothing you can say or do will change my mind.”

  Not even taking me to bed—or upon a desk, rather—and making me come.

  Thrice, an irksome voice in her head reminded her. As if she needed reminding.

  She folded her arms over her bosom and gave Murray a get-thee-gone look.

  “As I wrote you repeatedly, Miss Brown, my job is changing minds.” Before she could reply to that arrogant statement, he turned to Fancy
and smiled. “Beg pardon for my rudeness, miss. I don’t believe we’ve been introduced?”

  Fancy blinked, looking confused. She was no doubt torn between what she knew about Murray and what now faced her: a swoon-worthy Adonis who was returning her outburst with uncommon courtesy. As the daughter of a travelling tinker, Fancy wasn’t used to being treated with respect. Yet Murray addressed her the same way he might a duchess in a drawing room.

  “I’m Fancy Sheridan,” she said uncertainly. “Miss Beatrice’s friend.”

  “How fortunate Miss Brown is to have such a devoted companion.” Murray bowed to Fancy, whose cheeks turned rosy. “Or, I should say, two loyal companions.”

  He crouched and crooked his fingers at Zeus. With a stab of annoyance, Bea watched as her dog trotted over. After sniffing Murray’s hand, the brindle bull terrier licked it.

  Murray gave Zeus a few pats before rising.

  “I do apologize for dropping in, Miss Brown,” he said. “Trust me, I was as startled as you were by the precipitousness of my arrival.”

  Good-natured humor lit his eyes, which irritated Bea further. Rare was the man who was confident enough to laugh at himself; her papa, brother, even Croydon, had never mastered the art of not taking oneself too seriously.

  That Murray looked the way he did and possessed a charming personality was simply unfair.

  “As long as your departure is equally precipitous, I’ll have no complaints,” Bea snapped.

  Oh, perfect. Juxtaposed against his charm, she came off like an ill-tempered fishwife.

  He seemed unperturbed. “May I ask a more convenient time to return?”

  “When hell freezes over would be suitable.”

  He looked at her. His mouth did that odd twitching thing again.

  “Tomorrow then. Noon?” he asked.

  “I won’t be at home.”

  “Generally…or just to me?”

  She gave him a look that would have made a lesser man run for the hills.