The Devil in Disguise: A Regency Rogues Novel

by Stefanie Sloane

  She put her eye to the keyhole and peered out. The outer room was lit, blinding her for a moment.

  She squinted until her vision adjusted, then looked again. The room beyond was dingy, its dirty windows shabbily hung with torn curtains. Sagging furniture was arranged haphazardly. And Garenne bent over a large desk, humming a haunting tune while busily writing.

  Lucinda pressed her hand tightly over her mouth to hold back a scream. She had no memory beyond the attack in the retiring room that ended with the foul-smelling handkerchief over her nose. Clearly he’d managed to spirit her away. But to where?

  The musty smell of her prison wasn’t that of a salt-encrusted sailing vessel, so she felt sure the Frenchman hadn’t brought her aboard a ship. The reassurance that she was still on English soil gave her reason to believe that Will would come for her. But she could hardly sit and wait for his arrival, the little she’d been told of Garenne having indicated that he was not to be underestimated.

  She reached for the hem of her dress and lifted it, fingers searching her inner thigh for the small knife that she’d strapped there when dressing for the ball.

  The sounds of Garenne’s approaching footsteps startled her, nearly causing her to drop the knife. She caught the weapon with her other hand and quickly jammed it into the keyhole.

  “Lady Lucinda,” Garenne called in a disturbingly calm voice. “It is time to rise and meet your destiny.”

  Lucinda tightened her grip on the knife and held her breath.

  He put the key in the hole and turned the knob, jiggling it forcefully in rapid succession. “Come now, do you really think that a wooden door will keep you safe?” He let go of the knob and threw his body toward the door, the wooden slats absorbing the blows with audible cracks. “You stupid chienne. You’ve tried my patience for the very last time.”

  Lucinda bit the inside of her cheek, panic rising in her throat. He rammed the door again and a horrified scream escaped from her lips.

  “Come out, Garenne. You’re surrounded.”

  The booming voice from outside the house startled Lucinda, sending her jerking back and away from the door. She landed against the far wall with a thud and dropped the knife. She scrambled forward on her hands and knees, desperately searching for the weapon. Her fingers closed over the haft and she gasped with relief. Clutching the knife, she looked out the keyhole, searching for Garenne. He was back at the desk once again, hastily stuffing papers into a leather satchel.

  “Do not be concerned, Lady Lucinda,” he said over his shoulder, the malevolence in his voice making Lucinda’s blood run cold. “We will be leaving here together. Whether you will be alive or dead, well”—he closed the clasp on the bag and turning to cross the room—“that is up to your duke.”

  Another shout from outside was followed by a loud crack. Garenne’s footsteps stopped and Lucinda held her breath, waiting.

  The sound of Garenne’s retreating footsteps and the low creak of stairs reached Lucinda’s ears. She knelt and peered out the keyhole. He was nowhere to be seen, the dingy room empty once more. Fearing what the French madman planned for those who waited outside, she set to work on the lock and prayed that she would escape in time to warn them.

  Carmichael had offered Garenne’s decoy passage to Canada if she gave them the Frenchman’s location. She’d acquiesced, the loyalty between thieves and murderers was evidently as expendable as their consciences.

  The late night ride had been pure torture, images of Garenne with his hands on Lucinda flashing in Will’s head. He’d urged Sol on at breakneck speed, the entire contingent of Corinthian agents hard on the stallion’s heels. They’d slowed to a walk once the hovel had been spied, Will using hand signals to tell his men where to deploy.

  He’d taken the lead position, dropping from Sol’s back and picking his way through the heavy brush that surrounded the cottage. He walked the perimeter of the house, crouching down at each window to carefully conceal his presence. When Weston signaled that the men were in place, Will had pounded on the door and demanded that Garenne give himself up.

  Silence greeted him. Will was hardly surprised, but what little patience he possessed had been used up long ago. He pounded on the door again and yelled for the Frenchman to come out, punctuating his request with a savage kick that left the door split near the bottom.

  He was readying himself to kick it in when one of his men shouted for him to stand clear. Will spun, assuming the threat came from behind, but instead he found himself pinned to the ground under Garenne, the man’s pistol poised at Will’s temple.

  “Your Grace, we meet again.”

  It took all of Lucinda’s remaining mental fortitude to hold fear at bay while she picked the lock. She grunted with relief as the lock gave and opened the door slowly, not entirely sure of what she might find on the other side. She narrowed her eyes and glanced quickly around the room. Male voices shouted just beyond the front door.

  Frantically, she peered through the darkness, looking for another door. Finding one at the back of the cottage, she pulled on it, prying it open a crack so she could peer out.

  Suddenly, the doorknob was yanked from her grip as someone pushed the door wide. Hands grabbed her and pulled her roughly outside; a man rolled with her onto the ground. The scream building in her throat was stopped by a large hand clapped over her mouth. She kicked and struggled against the heavy weight on top of her. He rolled her onto her back with one swift motion. Lucinda flailed her arms and desperately wished for her knife, but it had been knocked free from her in the melee.

  “Lucinda?” Lord Chilson whispered gruffly, taking his hand from her mouth and looking at her as if attempting to memorize her face. “Is that you?”

  Lucinda nodded her head frantically. “Where is Will?”

  Chilson climbed off of Lucinda and stood, offering his hand to her. “Are you all right?” he demanded.

  “Garenne is loose, we must find him.” Lucinda pushed her tangled hair out of her eyes. “Now,” she implored, though Chilson only looked to the other Corinthians, standing behind her.

  “Why are you not moving?” she demanded, her entire body shaking.

  Chilson took her by the arm and pulled her toward a grassy outcropping where King Solomon’s Mine stood, pushing her down onto a large boulder. “Garenne captured Clairemont near the front of the cottage. You must wait here—where it’s safe.”

  His words froze Lucinda’s heart, seizing her breath. She could not lose Will, not now.

  She wasn’t about to sit idly by and allow him to be killed, even if it meant defying the Corinthians. She scrambled to a standing position on the boulder and grabbed Sol’s reins, hoisting herself onto his back in one smooth motion. She kicked her leg over and settled into the large saddle, yanking the voluminous skirts of her gown free to allow her to sit astride.

  Too late, Chilson realized what she was doing and lunged for the horse. His hand just missed the Thoroughbred’s hindquarters as Lucinda kneed King Solomon into motion. She trotted him to the corner of the house, stopping at the sight of several Corinthian officers.

  Garenne and Will stood with their backs to her, the Frenchman’s pistol cocked and held at Will’s temple while he shouted his demands to Lord Weston.

  Fear gripped Lucinda as she took in the sight. She would have only one chance to save Will. She looked to Lord Weston and captured his attention with a wave. Swiftly gesturing with her hands and indicating her plan of attack, she shook off his clear refusal. He looked back to the two men, gesturing to Will to be ready.

  Lucinda gripped Sol’s reins with one hand and wound her other into his mane. Then she kicked her heels hard into his ribs and the Thoroughbred exploded, moving forward in a blur of speed. Despite her scream and the thunder of hooves, Garenne had only just turned when Solomon reached him.

  Cursing, he lifted his pistol and aimed at the horse. Will grabbed his arm and the gun went off. King Sol reared, whinnying with fear at the sound of the shot. Will savagely lashed
out at Garenne, landing a blow to his jaw that sent the man to the ground. Sol reared again, this time crushing Garenne beneath the force of his massive, slicing hooves as he came back down to earth.

  Lucinda’s hold on his reins and mane was jolted loose. She threw her arms around the stallion’s neck, hanging on desperately as he bolted toward the edge of the clearing. It took seconds to catch the reins and pull herself upright, tugging Sol to a stop. He stood, shuddering and wild-eyed as she slid off his back. She looped the reins around a tree branchthen ran back to Will.

  She threw herself into his arms, burying her face in his neck.

  “What the bloody hell did you think you were doing?” he began, pushing her to stand at arm’s length. “You could have been killed!” he yelled, then pulled her back in, crushing her lips with a soul-searing kiss.

  He broke the kiss abruptly and stared down into her eyes. “You saved my life,” he said, his voice hoarse.

  “And you saved mine,” Lucinda replied, her hands reaching to cup his face. “You brave, bloody fool!”

  “You are the brave one, Lucinda, you,” he began, looking at her with such love and devotion. “I was a coward. I couldn’t see my way clear—I was afraid of what I felt, afraid of what it would mean to admit such a thing—”

  He stopped abruptly and swallowed hard. “I love you, Lucinda. I have all along.”

  Lucinda’s heart felt ready to burst with joy as she pulled his face to hers, their lips nearly touching. “It is about time, Your Grace.”

  He closed the distance between them and kissed her again, a tender lingering touch that filled Lucinda’s heart with hope anew.

  “Promise me you will never attempt such a dangerous act again,” he said as he gathered her more closely to himself.

  All around them was chaos, Corinthians descending on Garenne’s body while others tended to the nervously dancing King Solomon’s Mine. Carmichael aided Lord Weston, who had been grazed in the leg by Garenne’s haphazardly fired bullet.

  But here, with Will by her side, all was quiet, the world finally as it should be.

  “You’ll need to make an honest woman of me to earn such a promise, Your Grace.”

  “Bloody hell, woman, is that all?”

  “Hardly.”

  “Good,” he replied, a crooked smile capturing his mouth. “I would hate to think that love had softened your self-possession.”

  Lucinda laughed knowingly as she looked up into the dark canopy of trees overhead, the moonlit sky peeking through here and there. “Oh, Your Grace. You’ve no idea. No idea at all.

  CASTLE CLAIREMONT

  DERBYSHIRE

  1812

  Will rubbed Lucinda’s lower back gently, causing his beautiful wife to emit small sighs of relief. “Shall I fetch a chair?” he asked, looking with concern at her sizeable belly where it just skimmed the wood fencing.

  Lucinda raised a hand to her brow, shadowing her eyes from the bright sun in order to see the new stallion as he romped in the pasture. “Will, I’m perfectly fine,” she answered reassuringly. “Now tell me, what do you think of Thor?”

  Will’s gaze followed Lucinda’s, catching sight of the majestic bay Thoroughbred as he pranced about in the lush green field. The horse had arrived only the day before, yet he’d settled in with ease. “I think my opinion is of no consequence. It’s what you see that matters.”

  “Smart man,” Lucinda confirmed, turning to Will and smiling beatifically. “His legs are as straight as they come and his eyes—oh, so kind, yet the sheer, unadulterated pleasure in them when he runs? Yes, I think he’ll serve your mares well.”

  “Better than Sol, then?” Will asked wistfully.

  Lucinda reached out and cupped his face in her hands. “I miss him as much as you, my love. But I fear Cleopatra would perish if we were to separate the two—never mind my aunts.”

  Will knew she was right, of course, the aunts having taken control of the Grey breeding program with iron—and quite expert—fists. In little more than a year the first of Sol’s offspring would race, and anyone worth his spurs was sure that it would be the moment to see. He would not stir up trouble between Lucinda and her aunts simply because he missed his horse.

  He couldn’t.

  He wouldn’t.

  Will turned his attention back to his wife, her growing belly making him smile once more. So much had happened in the last year that Will wondered at times if it was all a dream. He’d allowed himself to love and be loved, something he thought was not possible. And surprisingly enough, his world had not ended, but rather expanded in a way that he could have never imagined.

  His involvement with the Corinthians had changed drastically, which had surprisingly suited Will perfectly. His life was so full now that he was no longer the angry Iron Will of old, who’d run from his demons while lacking a true path.

  He’d found that true path, and blessed peace, at Lucinda’s side.

  His wife dropped her hands to her hips and breathed deeply.

  “Are you quite sure you wouldn’t like a chair?” Will pressed.

  “No,” Lucinda replied, turning back to watch Thor. “Your mother and Lord Pinehurst are due to arrive any moment. I hardly want to be found dusty and smelling of horses when they do.”

  It had taken time. A lot of time, actually, but Will and his mother were slowly reclaiming the love that had been lost between them. Will could not say that he’d let go of the past entirely, but he’d made a start. They’d made a start, together.

  “Will they marry?”

  Lucinda eyed Will hesitantly. “Do you want them to?”

  “I do, actually,” Will replied, rather surprised at his answer. “Do not misunderstand me. All this family needs is another pigheaded male. But they do seem to care for each other. Quite a bit, from what I’ve seen—though I’m hardly a judge of such things.”

  “You have the softest of hearts—”

  “Speaking of pigheaded men,” Will interrupted, sure that his wife would dissolve into a puddle of tears if he did not, “where is that brother of mine?”

  “Practicing his proposal on Serendipity.”

  Will came to stand next to Lucinda at the fence line, capturing her with an unabashedly confused stare. “What could my prized mare have to do with a proposal? And, more importantly, what could Michael have to do with either?”

  “He’s intent on asking Lady Mariah for her hand—but not before he’s spoken to you first,” Lucinda replied, her eyes glistening. “He’ll leave for London straightaway after the baby is born, so please, do make yourself available. You’ve been so caught up in the harvest I fear he hasn’t had the opportunity to broach the topic.”

  “Why on earth would the man want to talk to me? What do I know about proper courtship and proposals?”

  Lucinda looked at him full in the face and Will knew they’d not escape the day without one more good cry. “Because you’re his brother—a true and proper one, now that you’ve taken back the ducal responsibilities.”

  “Don’t cry, Lucinda. I’ll talk to Mich—”

  “It’s just that I’m so proud of all you’ve done. For Michael, and for your mother. But especially for yourself,” she said, the tears slowly beginning to slide down her full cheeks.

  Lucinda turned to look at Thor, who had stretched his long neck over the fence and was now nudging his nose up against Lucinda’s belly. “Tell me that you’re as happy as I am, my love.”

  Will reached out and patted the giant horse softly on the head. “Indeed. And more, my love. So much more.”

  Acknowledgments

  They say that it take a village to raise a child. Oddly enough, I found the same to be true of writing and producing a book.

  Randall. You are mine, and I am yours. I’m pretty sure that I got the better end of the bargain, but I’ll take it. Thank you for loving me far better than I could ever love myself.

  The Girls. You challenge me to be a better person every single day. No, really. Every. Si
ngle. Day. And I love you all the more for it. XO to infinity.

  Wallace Dyer Jr. Thank you for Bob Dylan and Diet Sprite, for Christmas trees and deliciously crude humor. You left us too soon.

  Michael Dyer. You rolled me down a hill in a box when we were young and told me whatever didn’t kill me would make me stronger. You were right.

  Julie Pottinger. You picked me up and brushed me off when I needed you to, laughed and cried with me, and convinced me that the impossible was possible if tackled one step at a time. Thank you for walking the road with me.

  Jennifer Schober. One. Awesome. Agent. Thank you for reminnding me that it’s all in the journeey, not the destination.

  Junessa Viloria. Best. Editor. Ever. Your professionalism, editorial skills, and keen reader’s eye made this book what it is. It’s that simple.

  Jennifer McCord. You shared your expertise and insight at no cost, encouraged me to follow my heart, and became a dear friend. For all of this and more, I thank you.

  Franzeca Drouin. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Your brain, it is an impressive thing. Thank you for your mad research skills, ability to meet ridiculous deadlines, and coolness in general.

  Read on for an exciting sneak peek at

  The Angel in My Arms

  Stefanie Sloane’s next Regency Rogues novel

  Coming from Ballantine Books

  Available wherever books are sold

  SUMMER; DORSET

  1811

  Marcus MacInnes, the Earl of Weston, looked out over Lulworth Cove and chuckled. “Well now, Sully, you’ve seen it for yourself. Aye, it’s my own personal Jericho. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  The valet’s swarthy face remained unreadable, the lines around his eyes deepening as he squinted, his gaze focused on what lay below them. The cove’s blue water lapped at the hulls of fishing boats. On the shore, the village dozed sleepily in the warm sunshine.

  Exactly the sort of spot a gentleman might just be sent to rusticate after a gunshot wound. Especially if the gentleman happened to be a spy.