The Dangerous Duke of Dinnisfree

by Julie Johnstone

  “Might I see the paper?” Arabella said, her voice cracking. Madame Chauvin handed it to her. Arabella glanced immediately at the drawing of the queen and—

  Her stomach clenched as she stared at the sketch of the man. She knew him! And not because she’d ever seen a picture of Mr. Canning. She had come face-to-face with him.

  She studied the picture again to be sure. His name was printed above the sketch: George Canning. Her skin tingled. Canning was Mr. Winston. Except Mr. Winston didn’t really exist. The president of the Board of Trade had been at Jude’s house posing as someone else, and now she knew why. It had been to secure the letters Jude had thought she’d had. What did those letters say?

  Arabella’s heart thumped as she stared at the sketch of the queen. She’d seen those same chestnut-colored eyes when she looked at Jude, and Mr. Canning’s mouth, the thin upper lip and bow-shaped bottom one, was Jude’s mouth. Canning and the queen were Jude’s parents. She was sure of it. And she’d use the knowledge to get out of this mess.

  Justin realigned the gleaming daggers on the table and set the targets upright once more. He wiped the sweat off his brow. Damnable sweat. It kept rolling down his bare arms to dampen his palms. He grabbed the rag he’d discarded earlier from where he’d tossed it on his bed and used it to soak up the perspiration on his arms, stomach, and upper shoulders.

  Dagger-throwing practice usually helped to clear his mind, but he’d been at it for several hours and his thoughts were still muddled. He wanted Arabella, and it wasn’t simply physical. It would be so much easier to deal with if it were, because he’d known by the soft mewling sounds she’d made in her throat and the way she’d wiggled against him that she’d wanted him out there on that carriage just as much as he’d desired her.

  Yet she’d turned away from that desire and asked him to take her home, and he’d done it. Without protest and despite the fact that to do so had made his body ache, not to mention made his chest hurt where his once-unflappable heart had constricted.

  She didn’t even know what he truly was and she’d sensed to keep her distance from him. It was a wise choice on her part. A good one. A perfectly sane one. However, he’d wanted her to make the opposite choice.

  The revelation still shocked him. Never had he brought a woman into his home, into his head, and into his heart, and he’d been on the precipice of doing all three. He hadn’t intended to throw the door of his soul wide open, but he’d been willing to crack the door. If she’d said the word, he would have brought her here and spent all night worshiping her body and learning how she’d become this woman he could not help but admire, to want to trust.

  With a growl, he picked up a dagger, closed his eyes, and threw it. The steel whooshed through the air and sunk into the wooden target with a dull thud. He slit his eyes open and stared at the target. He’d missed the bull’s-eye by half an inch. That was the difference between life and death. He’d not missed a bull’s-eye since his father had beaten his arse bloody at the age of eleven with a switch for missing one. It had been his last miss. Until now. Arabella had stolen his concentration along with his composure. It was unacceptable.

  He whipped another dagger through the air with a curse. The blade hit hard and the hilt moved back and forth, filling the silence with a hum.

  There. Bull’s-eye.

  He took a deep breath and searched through his swirling emotions for the calm he prized.

  He was a spy, for Christ’s sake, dedicated to king and country and nothing else. He should be glad she had walked away from what burned between them, even if it did make the very air crackle when she was near. He should damn well rejoice. Because if she hadn’t left, if she’d come back here, he couldn’t say what he might have revealed. He could not promise that he would not have told her something personal and that would be an enormous error in the world of detachment in which he lived. That would mean he wanted her to care. That would mean he cared for her.

  His gut clenched, and he scrubbed a hand across his face. Did he care for her? Truly?

  When she was near it was hard to think straight and unemotionally, but being unemotional had always saved him. Hadn’t it?

  “Damn, damn, damn.” He flung eight more daggers in a row, the clunking of the metal sliding into wood like a muted chorus of deadly bullets. No pleasure came. No triumph. No calm. A tempest swirled in his head and, devil take it, the woman in his heart had opened the secret chest where he kept the pain his parents had caused. Now, somehow, he had to shut it again.

  He stalked to the sidebar, poured four fingers of Scotch, and threw back the contents. The liquor slid down his throat and into his belly, burning almost as fiercely as the confusion in his mind.

  He picked up the decanter, poured two more fingers, and took a long sip before setting the glass down. He was a spy. Spies trusted no one. His father had taught him that with words and deeds. He’d treated him as a comrade and never a son. Hell, his mother had taught him not to trust when she’d walked away from him without a backward glance. And damn it all, hadn’t he learned through the years how incredibly scheming people were? He trusted no one implicitly—only Davenport came close. What a damned foolish thing it would have been to start something with a woman he barely knew!

  A knock came at his door. “Your Grace,” Mumford, his butler, intoned in his typically dull voice. “You have a visitor.”

  Justin looked around for his shirt, couldn’t immediately find it, and decided he didn’t give a good goddamn if he was bare-chested or not. He was expecting Davenport, as his friend had sent him a note earlier telling him he had something most interesting to impart. It wasn’t as if Davenport had never seen him in such a state before. They’d been bloodying each other in the boxing arena at Gritton’s for years. He wouldn’t be surprised if his friend could recollect every scar on Justin’s chest and back on command.

  “Coming,” Justin growled. He strode to the door and threw it open. There, standing as if it were the most normal thing in the world for her to be there, inside his home, was Arabella. A sickening, unreasonable amount of happiness filled him, followed by irritation at Mumford.

  “Mumford,” he clipped.

  The butler turned his gaze away from Arabella to Justin. The man’s once-blue eyes were clouded with a white film that had set in some years ago when he’d still served as Justin’s father’s butler. “Your Grace?” he said in a cracked, weathered voice as he squinted at Justin.

  Whatever annoyance Justin had felt slipped away.

  “Do try to remember that I’ve told you to make all guests wait in the library.” In actuality, it would be only one guest, Davenport. He was the only person Justin had allowed in his home in ten years.

  Mumford nodded, his head looking like it might roll off his stooped, thin shoulders. “I recalled, Your Grace, but—”

  Arabella placed a hand—by God, it looked protective—on Mumford’s arm. Surely, she didn’t think she needed to protect his ancient butler from him? Then again, Arabella had been protecting people for so long it was probably a natural reaction. Justin jerked with a realization. In that way, they were exactly alike.

  Arabella gave him a chastising look that made him want to smile. “I insisted he bring me straight back to you, propriety be damned,” she blurted, her cheeks turning scarlet with her attempted boldness.

  “I’ve always been one to damn propriety,” he said lazily. “So please, do enter my domain and we will banish it to the dark cell it deserves.” Her eyes widened considerably, but much to his satisfaction, she released her hold on Mumford’s arm and stepped through the entrance of his bedchamber.

  “Miss Carthright!” Mumford gasped at the impropriety of Arabella entering his bedchamber, Justin supposed.

  Justin blinked in surprise. His butler, stoic to the point that Justin had wondered before if the man had stopped breathing, had just displayed an astounding amount of emotion. Amazing. He stared at the bewitching woman before him. It seemed she had the ability to ignite pa
ssion in not just him.

  She patted Mumford on the arm. “I’ll be fine, Hugh.”

  Justin frowned as he looked between Arabella and Mumford. He allowed his gaze to bore into his butler. “In all the years I’ve known you, you never told me your Christian name was Hugh.”

  The butler scowled. “You never asked, Your Grace,” he said in a surly tone. “Nor did your father, for that matter. Miss Carthright asked me immediately. Seems she needed to know it to decide whether I was trustworthy.”

  “Of course she did,” he said, trying not to laugh. It became increasingly difficult when Mumford smiled. Justin hadn’t seen his butler smile in years. The old, deeply creased face looked strange with happiness shining from it. Justin drew his attention back to Arabella who offered Mumford—he’d be damned if he could think of Mumford as Hugh—a sweet smile that made his chest squeeze.

  Arabella set her hand on her hips and narrowed her eyes at Justin. “Hugh is an excellent name. It means heart, mind, spirit. Any man with a name like that cannot be bad.”

  Mumford beamed like a schoolboy with an infatuation, and devil take it, Justin realized he was grinning, as well. He scrubbed a hand across his face and motioned to Mumford. “You may go.”

  Mumford gave him a beady-eyed look. “You’re in need of a shirt, Your Grace.”

  This was certainly a day for firsts. A woman not only in his house but also in his bedchamber. A smiling butler. Then a chastising butler. “I am the employer and you the employee,” he growled good-naturedly.

  “Yes, Your Grace. I recall. I see your shirt at the foot of your bed. Shall I retrieve it for you?”

  Justin glanced behind him, spotted his garment, and turned back to his suddenly bold butler. “You may go, Mumford.”

  “Shall I bring tea?”

  “You know I don’t damn well drink tea.”

  “I do,” Arabella piped up. “Mumford, you may bring me some tea. Thank you.”

  “A pleasure, Miss Carthright.”

  Once Mumford left, Justin strolled over to his shirt and shrugged into it. He faced Arabella once more. “Not that your visit doesn’t please me”—because it did, too damn much—“but what the devil are you doing here?” As she opened her mouth to answer him, Justin was hit with a thought. He held up a staying hand as his pulse ticked up a notch. “I never told you where I lived.”

  “No,” she whispered, as if someone might hear them, “you didn’t.”

  His survival instincts leaped to life. With a sweeping glance, he took in her expression, position of her hands, any bulges for weapons, sensible shoes for running or slippers of an innocent. Slippers. Delicate and pink. He relaxed a fraction. He swept his gaze around his room, but all was as it should be. Though, he knew something was wrong.

  “Yet, here you are,” he replied in a slow tone. One meant to calm her. He could see that her breathing had quickened. Her eyes darted about, and she clutched at her sides. She’d been holding herself together until, what? She got to him?

  “Tell me,” he said softly.

  She nodded, reached out, and closed his bedchamber door. When she faced him again, she was nibbling at her lip. “I would hate for Hugh to overhear and inadvertently become entangled in this mess. Though”—she tilted her head—“I suppose if he’s been your butler since you were nine—”

  “Eight,” Justin corrected, struggling to hide the shock coursing through him that she’d learned so much about Mumford in the short time she’d talked to him. It was because she truly cared about people. “He’s old and forgets things,” he said as he closed the distance between them.

  “Yes, of course.” She swallowed audibly. Nervously. As someone in trouble would.

  “Do continue.” He’d found long ago it was better to know the worst as quickly as possible.

  “I suppose,” she said, her words halting, “that he knows who you are.”

  “Yes,” he said carefully, counting the beats of her pulsing neck. Hers doubled his, though his had most definitely increased. “I’m the Duke of Dinnisfree. Mumford is well aware.”

  “Not your title, but the man you truly are.”

  She could not know. There was not a chance he’d slipped. Was there? “And who am I?”

  Dismay painted her face. “I was hoping you’d tell me and show the same trust in me that I’m about to give you. It would be better that way.”

  Justin counted to five in French in his head. He didn’t feel one iota calmer. “I’m afraid, Arabella, you’ll be waiting an eternity if you’re waiting on me to reveal secrets. I’m an open book, so I’ve no secrets to reveal.”

  “You’re a liar,” she said matter-of-factly. “But then again, so am I. The difference between us is that I was forced into my lies by necessity of survival.” She gasped suddenly as she stared at him. “I only just realized perhaps you were, too! I mean, with your mother leaving you and your father such a cold man. You must have told yourself that you didn’t need anyone.”

  “Arabella.” He made his voice purposely forceful and menacing.

  “Oh. Yes… I’m sorry. I’m terribly nervous, but time is of the essence. I know you’re a spy for the king.”

  He tensed instantly, his thoughts widening, then focusing in on a single one. He was relieved that she knew. Relieved. And speechless. He didn’t know how to talk with the truth out in the open. It was foreign to him.

  She nodded. “It’s good you’re not denying it,” she said, misinterpreting his silence for confirmation. “We really don’t have time to argue back and forth if we are going to come up with a plan.”

  He may be relieved that she knew, but that didn’t mean his reaction was wise. He struggled to sort his thoughts and put them in the damnable order they required. He had a duty to protect the king, and that could not be forgotten. He was still a spy for the man, after all. “What makes you think I’m a spy, Arabella?”

  “Oh.” Her shoulders drooped. “You are going to deny it. All right, then. I do understand. The thing is that I know because Jude told me.”

  “Your cousin?”

  Her brow furrowed. “What? Oh…no. Jude is not my cousin. I don’t have any cousins. I had to tell you that. Jude is, well…” She bit her lip. “I honestly am not sure if I even know his real name. He said it was J.I. Devine, but when I asked him to tell me what the J.I. stood for he said Judas Iscariot. You know, the man who—”

  “I know,” he growled. His patience—had he any more?—snapped. He grabbed Arabella by the arm and dragged her toward one of the large, matching leather chairs in his adjoining reading room. “Sit,” he said, gently pressing her down as he took the seat opposite of her. “Start from what you perceive is the very beginning of your tale, but skip all unnecessary details.”

  She scowled but took a deep breath. “It all started with Lady Conyngham refusing to buy the dresses she commissioned, and then ensuring Madame Chauvin had to let me go.”

  She knew Elizabeth? His gut clenched at the thought and the implications that came with it.

  Arabella paused and frowned. “I suppose it actually started the day the king and queen married, but of course, I was not drawn into it until years later.”

  “Arabella, the facts as they occurred in chronological order, please.”

  She nodded, took a deep breath, and spilled her tale. His mind turned over each thing she said and examined it as she spoke. Jude—true name unknown—was the probable bastard of Queen Caroline and Canning, as Arabella had already hypothesized. That went along with what Justin already knew, though he’d not had so much as an alias for the child’s name.

  The way Justin understood it, this Jude had set Arabella up to ensure Justin did not find the king’s letters, which Jude obviously knew about. Jude was working for someone. Who? The Whigs, or Canning, or the queen? Ruby Rose and Fitzherald were part of Jude’s plot, but they were simply being used as distractions. An expertly planned false lead.

  Arabella had pilfered the box; therefore she had stolen from the ki
ng, even if she had not known it. She claimed to have never seen the letters, though she had seen the queen’s necklace—again, that she had not known was the queen’s—which the king had stupidly given to Elizabeth. Canning, posing as a collector, had taken the necklace, and Arabella assumed he was still in possession of it. Likely correct.

  Justin took a deep breath. It was a lot to take in, but the first thing he needed to determine if she was even telling him the truth. His gut said yes, but the greater question was, could he trust himself when it came to her?

  “And then,” she wailed, snapping Justin’s focus back to her completely, “Jude threatened to kill my father if I did not do as he said.” She looked him straight in the eyes. “I’m supposed to seduce you. That’s why I’m here.”

  “Well, by all means, then,” he teased, even as desire gripped him in its iron hold.

  Her mouth parted, and she stared at him for a long moment. She inhaled slowly, her chest rising tantalizingly. “I’m also supposed to search your home for the letters.”

  He cocked an eyebrow. Anger pumped through his veins that she, an innocent, had been drawn into such corruption.

  “Justin, I don’t intend to seduce you.”

  “How utterly disappointing,” he murmured. He had to take a deep inhalation to try to return his heartbeat to a normal rhythm. If she’d attempted to seduce him at this moment, he would have let her with no hesitation at all. He would have compromised his mission to touch her, kiss her, and hold her in his arms.

  Hellfire. He swallowed the lump of longing lodged in his throat. “I assume by your coming here and telling me all this that you are entrusting me to help you.”

  She nodded. “I have not relied on anyone in years, but I know I can count on you. I’m certain of it. I am betting my father’s life on it. I’ll stay here long enough that Jude believes I have done what he demanded. I’m to meet him at midnight tonight near the corner by my house and give him the letters or any information I’ve discovered.”