The Dangerous Duke of Dinnisfree

by Julie Johnstone

  “You are exquisite. And young. Are you untouched?”

  She flinched away from his words, and what they suggested. Yet, did she have a choice any longer? She curled her toes downward against the desire to flee. “I’m an innocent, yes.”

  “I knew you would be!”

  She furrowed her brow. He didn’t know her, therefore could not know such a thing, but she supposed his suggestion that she looked like an innocent was far better than Lady Conyngham’s declaration that Arabella looked like she should be in a brothel. Even if at this point the cruel words did foretell her future.

  “Go on,” she whispered hoarsely.

  “You could make a fortune selling yourself. I know a woman who could arrange a showing for you.”

  The way he watched her made her feel as if he was trying to judge something. Maybe he wanted to be sure she had the nerve to do such a thing?

  She forced her cold lips to form words. “A showing?”

  His posture relaxed suddenly and an almost imperceptible smile came to his face for the briefest moment before it disappeared. He nodded, his gaze darting to the door. He produced a cream-colored calling card and handed it to her. “Call on me here. Tomorrow.”

  Arabella took the card, looked at it, and froze. She knew this address: number six, Golden Square. It was the townhome directly across from Madame Sullyard’s hotel, which was not really a hotel but a rather infamous brothel.

  “I’ll set up the appointment,” he said, interrupting her recollections. “And I’ll have someone near during the meeting and after to ensure all goes as planned. Don’t worry. I am going to look out for you.” His gaze moved away for a moment, then settled on her once again. “Bring the box when you come to see me tomorrow.”

  “But you said Mr. Winston was not in Town.”

  “Bring the box,” he repeated.

  “That’s silly. Why don’t you just take it, and you can help me sell it when Mr. Winston returns?”

  He looked momentarily angry but then shook his head. “Better for you to carry it away from here than for me to do so. Elizabeth and I have, um, shall we say, unfinished business, and just because she no longer wants the box I gave her does not mean she wants me to have it.”

  She supposed that made sense, yet she felt as if he was holding something back. “Why are you helping me? Really.”

  His eyes held an almost secretive look, yet his smile was gentle. “Truthfully, I’ve no choice.”

  What an odd thing to say. Of course he had a choice.

  They stood in silence staring at each other until he spoke once more. “You… you remind me of my sister. She would have been your age. One and twenty, are you?”

  Arabella nodded. There must be a profit involved for him if he helped her, yet she had precious few other choices. In fact, unless a miracle occurred, she had none. She glanced quickly down at the card again and looked at his name: J.I. DEVINE.

  “What does J.I. stand for?” To trust a man, one needed to know his full name. Her father had always said that names told a great deal about a man, and thanks to her father, she knew the origin of most names.

  “Judas Iscariot, but don’t you dare ever tell a soul.”

  Her mouth dropped open.

  “You’re gawking,” he chided.

  She snapped her jaw shut. “Who the devil wouldn’t when told the person they just met is named after the apostle who betrayed Jesus for thirty pieces of silver?”

  Judas—heaven above!—shrugged.

  She narrowed her eyes. “You are not serious, are you?” It was a hopeful statement as much as a question.

  “Completely. You know, I’m offended.” He scowled down at her.

  “You’re offended?” she heard herself ask in disbelief.

  “Yes, indeed. You are the very first stranger I have ever told my real name to, and you are acting as if I’m the very apostle who did the dirty deed.”

  Heat warmed her cheeks. “I’m sorry. Truly, I am, but why would your parents name you Judas Iscariot?”

  His gaze bore into her. “Because I was born of betrayal, I suppose. In fact, my mother has never even met me, but I’ve seen her portrait. I have her eyes. And my father’s lips.” She stared at his eyes. They were the color of a chestnut and had an interesting shape. They rounded near the nose and slanted on the outer part. And his lips were thin on top but shaped like a bow on the bottom.

  “Are you always this honest?” she asked incredulously.

  “No,” he retorted with a chuckle. “I feel peculiar today.”

  She had no idea what to think of this man. “Were you not raised by your father?”

  He shook his head. “I was raised by a witch.” He frowned. “My sister was, too, but her witch flew away. Mine still lurks around.”

  Sadness flickered across his gaze and dissipated as quickly as it appeared. The man was odd indeed and spoke in strange riddles, but she was too desperate to care.

  “Now, Miss Carthright, you may call me Jude, never Judas. I’m sure you can understand why.”

  She nodded. “Jude is not a name, though.”

  “I know,” he said, his voice suddenly intense. “Which makes it very fitting for me.”

  She cocked her brows. “Meaning?”

  “I am not who I seem. Do you see?”

  She wasn’t entirely confident she did. “As in you are no Judas?”

  He inclined his head. “Something like that. Now, I told you my secret because I believe we shall be friends.”

  She really didn’t have any friends. Work and caring for her parents didn’t permit the luxury. She prayed she didn’t regret this, especially given his name. Her father would tell her to run in the opposite direction, yet the man could not help with what his father had branded him.

  “Friends only,” she said sternly.

  He chuckled. “Yes. I told you that you remind me of my sister. I shudder to think of you as anything but a comrade.”

  “Excellent,” she murmured and tugged on the box, which he relinquished easily.

  “Come find me at the address on that card tomorrow at precisely four in the afternoon. Now, run along, Miss Carthright. The tigress will return shortly, and she’ll eat you alive if you’re still here.”

  Arabella didn’t like the way he thought of her as helpless to defend herself, but after depositing the jewelry box in her seamstress bag and gathering her things, she quickly obliged. When she reached the front entrance, the butler gave her a suspicious look, and she inadvertently clutched the bag to her that contained the box. He opened his mouth, as if to say something, but another gentleman stumbled into the foyer at that moment, also heading for the exit, and the butler pressed his lips together and showed them out.

  The man held an easel in his hands and had a bag that appeared to be full of supplies slung over his shoulder. As the door closed behind them, he turned to her and bowed. “I am Mr. Fitzherald, formerly Lady Conyngham’s portrait painter as of a few short minutes ago,” he fairly snarled.

  By his angry tone, Arabella would say that Mr. Fitzherald had gotten a dose of Lady Conyngham’s temper today, the same as Arabella had received. “I’m Miss Carthright. Formerly the seamstress. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  He smiled as they descended the steps and swept his arm toward the curricle that the stable master was leading toward them. “Would you care for a ride to your home?”

  She eyed the curricle wistfully. It got awfully tedious walking everywhere, but riding in a curricle with a man—a stranger at that—was not the done thing, even if she was on the verge of selling herself. She shook her head. “I prefer to walk, thank you.”

  “But it’s not safe!” he exclaimed. “A woman as lovely as you walking alone…”

  “Oh, I’ve managed to stay safe all my life,” she replied. When he looked as if he would protest again, she quickly added a firm, “But I thank you. Good-bye.” She moved to stride ahead of him but stopped when he called her name. “Yes?” she said, facing him onc
e more.

  “I insist you let me follow you to ensure you get there safely. I do not feel right letting you walk alone.”

  She shrugged. “If you’d like.” She did not have the time or inclination to argue with this man.

  She went straight home to check on her father and drop off the jewelry box. The idea of carrying such an expensive case out on the streets made her feel tense. And what if Madame Chauvin saw the box? Arabella didn’t want anyone to know she’d taken it, even though Jude had given her permission. She felt a bit like a thief. As she neared her home, she turned to wave good-bye to Mr. Fitzherald and offer him her thanks for his unnecessary but kind gesture.

  She entered her house and called, “I’m home!” while maneuvering through the tiny door with the garment boxes and her seamstress bag. She deposited the packages on the floor by the entrance and paused a moment to stare at the little dark square of wood that contrasted so greatly with the lighter wood that surrounded it. The entrance table previously sat over that square, which was why the wood had not been bleached by the sun that filtered in through the small windows on either side of the door. The table was gone, and soon her innocence would be, too, she thought sourly.

  “Are you done for the day, daughter?” came her father’s low, crackly voice from the kitchen at the back of the townhome.

  “Just stopping in before I go to Madame Chauvin’s,” she replied as she hurried down the hall and into the kitchen. She offered Alice, her father’s caretaker, a smile. Alice grinned back, her blue eyes twinkling and her soft, wrinkly skin turning a slight rosy color. Arabella set the bag containing the jewelry box on the counter and then bent down to kiss her father on the cheek. He smelled clean like soap today, not like the strong-smelling mixture of horseradish juice, mustard, turpentine, and goose grease that so often lingered on him.

  Arabella stood and saw the still-full bottle of the rheumatism lotion on the counter, which explained why her father smelled good. Alice must have made it but not had time to rub it on him yet. Alice reached for the bottle, but Arabella got there first.

  “Go rest, Alice. You look a bit peaked.”

  Alice fanned herself, making a few strands of her silver hair move with each burst of air. “It’s hot in here today.”

  “It’s hot outside, as well,” Arabella said. “I’ll rub the concoction on, but then I have to go to Madame Chauvin’s. I won’t return late,” Arabella promised.

  Alice nodded. “I’ll sit for just a minute.”

  “Sit for twenty. Then I have to depart.”

  Alice patted Arabella on the shoulder as she kneeled in front of her father and began rolling up his pant legs to put the pain-easing ointment on him. He had a dollop of noodle stuck on his chin. She smiled up at him as she took the napkin Alice held out and cleaned his chin. “You missed a spot.”

  He chuckled. “I always do. Tell me of Lady Conyngham’s.”

  Arabella made a show of opening the lotion and pouring it into her hands. Really, she didn’t want her father to see her face because she knew he’d see through her lies. He was very observant, and he didn’t need to worry.

  “It went splendidly.” Was her voice high? Brittle? It sounded false to her own ears.

  “Splendidly,” he echoed as she began to rub the white lotion onto his misshapen legs. Lack of use had done this to her poor father.

  “Mm-hmm,” she responded, not wanting to compound one lie with another. The less she said, the better.

  He reached down and caught her hands, his big one enveloping hers. His grip was still strong from years of blacksmithing and wielding heavy tools at Buckingham Palace. She knew how much he missed the job he’d lost after he’d had his stroke. He rarely spoke of his time there, but when any of his close friends came to visit and mentioned the king or queen, her papa always tensed. It made her think he harbored anger over being dismissed, but really, what could they have done? He could not do the work that was required of the lead blacksmith.

  His brow furrowed. “Are you certain it went splendidly? You’re usually bursting to tell me all the details of your day and what you accomplished.”

  She bit her lip. Well, all she’d managed to do today was lose an important client, take something that didn’t belong to her, and agree to sell her body. She most definitely would not be telling her father any of that. He’d have another stroke if he knew what she planning, and this one would possibly be the thing that killed him.

  She forced a smile to her face, her cheeks aching, and she looked up. “I’m sorry, Papa. I’m preoccupied with having to see Madame Chauvin. In truth, Lady Conyngham didn’t react exactly as I had expected, but things still turned out well.”

  Lies, lies, lies.

  Her nose twitched with her deceitfulness. She quickly put the cap back on the bottle and stood. “I better be going. As I said, I’ll be home early.”

  She gave him a kiss on the cheek and then moved to the counter to get her bag so she could hide the box in her room. As she picked it up, she lost her grip and the bag fell to the floor with a clank. From where she stood, she could see the box inside the bag. Her heart jerked that her father might have seen it, too. She scooped the bag up, but as she did, he spoke.

  “What’s that in your bag?”

  “It’s for Madame Chauvin from Lady Conyngham,” she instantly replied, hating to lie again but feeling she must protect him. She didn’t wait for him to speak. She scrambled out of the kitchen and to her room where she hid the bag in the only piece of furniture she had left—her wardrobe. Then she dashed out the door, calling her good-byes.

  The distance between her home and Madame Chauvin’s dress shop was not great, but it seemed to take forever as her guilt and worry made her progress slow. Her mind turned. What would she say to Madame Chauvin about what had happened, and how was she going to persuade the seamstress to keep her as an employee?

  As soon as she walked into the shop, Madame Chauvin gave her a pitying look, and Arabella’s heart sank. Lady Conyngham must have already sent word. How bad of a picture had the woman painted? She opened her mouth to explain, but Madame Chauvin shook her head and held a note—it had to be the note—toward Arabella. “This was delivered to me only moments ago by Lady Conyngham’s footman.”

  Arabella set down the packages she had been holding and took the note with her trembling fingers. She stared at it. What nastiness had Lady Conyngham written? She bit her lip. “Will you let me tell you my side?”

  The compassionate look on Madame Chauvin’s face became even more pronounced. “Of course, my dear, but it will not make a difference. I cannot keep you as an employee. To do so will cost me Lady Conyngham’s business, and that of all her friends. Unfortunately, the lady has a great many influential acquaintances. As much as I want you to stay, and as sure as I am that you truly don’t deserve this, it would destroy my business. I have my children to think of. The loss of income from the dresses you made for the lady will set me back significantly as it is.”

  Arabella’s heart squeezed as she pictured Madame Chauvin’s three children hungry. The seamstress offered Arabella the money that was owed her for the previous week’s work, but Arabella shook her head. “I cannot take it.”

  Madame Chauvin’s mouth dropped open. “Come. You need it just as much as I do.”

  It was true, but she did have a way to make the money she needed, even though her skin crawled when she thought about selling her body. But sell it she would, rather than cause three children to go hungry or her mother to be sent to Bedlam. “I’ll be all right.”

  Madame Chauvin hugged Arabella to her and when she withdrew, she grasped her by the shoulders and stared into her eyes. “You may tell me your side now if you wish, but there is no need. I know Lady Conyngham is vain, and no doubt you somehow pricked her vanity.”

  Arabella nodded. “’Twas something like that. She had a man there, not her husband, and I think she became jealous of his greeting me.”

  Madame Chauvin clucked her tongue. �
��That woman plays a dangerous game.”

  “Do you mean because her husband might discover she’s unfaithful?” Arabella asked.

  A momentary look of discomfort crossed Madame Chauvin’s face. “No. I mean because it’s whispered that she’s the king’s mistress and seeks to make him jealous.”

  Shock took Arabella’s breath for a moment. “Well”—her memories of today tumbled over one another—“it was certainly not the king I met today, nor was it her husband.”

  Madame Chauvin nodded. “As I said, the lady plays a dangerous game, and whoever is bedding her is either a fool or has a treacherous agenda himself.”

  Unease fluttered in Arabella’s stomach. Did Jude have some sort of agenda? Was she a fool to trust him? Wanting to be alone with her thoughts, she bade Madame Chauvin a hasty farewell and set out toward her home and very uncertain future. Though the June day was still rather warm, it could have been the dead of winter for the chill that had taken hold of her.

  London, England

  The Sainted Order Hellfire Club

  The Next Day

  Justin’s father had always said that what defined a man was not how much power he possessed but how he wielded his authority. By the age of eight, Justin had recognized that his father was a cold, hard man who exercised great power with stony calculation. Yet, he was an honorable man due respect. The same could not be said of the king. He exerted his power like a fool and was, thus, known as one.

  With much grunting and maneuvering of his enormous purple-silk-clad stomach, Prinny, King George IV, settled back in his velvet chair, clutching a snifter with his beefy fingers. Despite the breeze that constantly ran through the Sainted Order’s private underground room, beads of sweat rolled over the lumps of flesh that concealed Prinny’s cheekbones. As he raised his glass to his fat, cracked lips, they dropped—one, two, three—to join the dark splotches of brandy that sloshed over the snifter onto the king’s lavish shirt.

  The young page, Thomas, scurried from the corner with a napkin in hand. He started to blot at Prinny’s shirt, but Prinny swatted his hand away. “I’ll have your hand cut off next time you touch me without asking my permission first,” Prinny snarled.