by Gaelen Foley
For weeks, he had believed it was just what it appeared—some common thief’s attempt to steal his purse. He’d shrugged it off.
But the poisoning on Twelfth Night had changed the entire situation, removed all doubt.
In the days before Christmas, he had summoned his longtime band of Army mates to come and celebrate the holidays with him. After all, he’d won a kind of lottery, hadn’t he? Becoming a duke, inheriting houses, lands, first-rate stables.
He had to tell them. He knew they’d laugh their heads off right along with him. Besides, the lot of them had nothing else to do, now that the war was well and truly won.
And being home was difficult, made them itchy. Connor knew. He’d felt it, too, back in Ireland in those few months between returning from the Continent and coming here.
So, a dozen of his regimental mates had swarmed into Town to drink and feast with him and buy themselves whatever the hell they wanted for Christmas, on the major. Why not? Connor had just inherited more money than he could ever spend if he had a cat’s nine lives. What else was money for? He and the lads had been through hell together.
Upon arriving, they’d each chosen hotel rooms, as it were, inside the ridiculous, giant mansion he’d inherited in Moonlight Square, and there, they had proceeded to feast and drink and live it up like they’d gone to Valhalla.
But then came Twelfth Night.
Thank God that McFeatheridge still had that vulgar habit from the mess tent of delving into everybody’s food prematurely.
The portly sergeant’s greater (much greater) girth had allowed his rotund body to absorb the poison meant for Connor. It had made poor Rory sick as a dog, but if Connor had consumed it, as intended, he’d be dead.
It was disturbing to ponder how it could have got into his food. That was why Connor had immediately sacked all his servants and hired a few of the boys to stay on, taking their places as best they were able.
For it had become abundantly clear then that someone was indeed trying to kill him, had probably killed his predecessors, too. God only knew why. But until he figured it out, he only wanted people around him that he knew would watch his back.
Of course, you couldn’t bring that ragtag lot into a place like this, he thought with a roguish twitch about his lips, scanning the opulent ballroom.
But one thing was certain.
If some unseen foe lurking about held some sort of vendetta against his family line, Connor would suss them out and stomp the bleeders into oblivion before they ever got to him.
A man could not be all business, however. Not a three-quarters Irishman, anyway.
Which was why he’d ventured out tonight.
Here in his new home, it seemed sensible to try to meet the neighbors, especially now that the Season had begun.
Throughout the winter, many of the elegant houses on Moonlight Square had stood empty, the families ensconced at their country estates in the snowy English countryside.
Now everyone was back, and the fourth Duke of Amberley could no longer avoid presenting himself to the ton. Oh, he could guess how some of them already felt about him.
Apparently, Cousin Richard, the third duke, had been a popular young man. Not many here looked pleased to meet his replacement.
But…that one smile from the pretty thing back there made Connor hopeful that maybe, just maybe, London wouldn’t be entirely awful.
When he glanced back over his shoulder at her again, he caught the sweet creature watching him, as well, but she quickly looked away, her creamy cheeks turning pinker.
Adorable, he thought, stifling a chuckle.
His rascally humor faded, though, when he suddenly spotted trouble ahead.
Up by the doorway of the refreshments room, near the exit of the ballroom, a group of haughty-looking fellows a few years younger than himself had clustered, leaning here and there, watching him, as though lying in wait.
Instantly, Connor went on his guard, and his eyes narrowed. Well. What have we here? He sized them up in a glance; what he most assuredly did not do was slow his pace or alter his path by one single fraction of a degree.
No.
Instead, he gave the hostile welcoming party a level look—fair warning—and sauntered on, keeping to his course like an iron-hulled frigate sailing straight toward a sleek, lazy pod of sunning seals.
A blond, curly-haired fellow in the center of the group glared at him.
Connor had seen the chap eyeing him earlier. Had not liked the way the man had looked at him from the moment he’d walked in the door.
Like he was planning something. Guess he was.
Time to find out what that might be.
The insolent fellow just stood there, arms folded across his chest, as though waiting to confront him. Connor smirked, though he had no idea who the blackguard was.
Didn’t matter. If these soft Town chaps wanted a fight, they’d come to the right place.
But if any one of them had something to do with the threat against his family, then God help them.
Because the fact was, he had run out of mercy years ago. Somewhere between Austerlitz and Badajoz.
CHAPTER 2
A Duke’s Honor
Maggie looked around for Bryce when the intermission music stopped shortly after the handsome stranger had vanished. The caller announced the next set, and the couples who meant to join the country dance hurried toward the center of the ballroom, while she was left gritting her teeth.
Still no sign of her scheduled partner.
She glanced down at her dance card in dismay. Was she mistaken, confused—had she erred somehow? No. There was his name, plainly written in—he’d put it there himself—yet her supposed suitor failed to appear. She glanced about, brow furrowed, searching the crowd for him, but when she happened to catch the smile playing about Delia’s thin lips, a wave of dread filled her.
Maggie narrowed her eyes at her sister with instant suspicion. What did you say to him?
“Weren’t you going to dance this set, Mags?” the marchioness asked with a gleam in her eyes as the dancers got into position, forming up two long lines, gents on one side, ladies on the other.
Soon there wouldn’t be any room left to join them.
“Yes,” Maggie answered, eyeing her sister with a wary frown. “I-I thought I was supposed to.”
Delia let out a bray of a laugh. “Maybe he forgot you!”
“Oh, goodness no! I-I’m sure that’s quite impossible,” Delia’s followers protested, looking anxiously at Maggie.
They knew from personal experience, after all, what a bully her sister could be.
“H-he’s probably just…delayed,” one offered, giving Maggie a pitying look.
“How embarrassing for you, dear,” Delia purred over her glass of punch, clearly enjoying her latest defeat of her younger sibling.
Maggie bunched up her fists by her sides and fought to keep her taut smile pasted in place, determined to appear nonchalant.
“No matter,” she said lightly, but, in fact, she wanted to scream.
It seemed inevitable: somehow Delia must have got to Bryce, too. Blast it! It really was the greatest mystery.
As much as Delia complained about having to house Maggie under her roof, at the same time, she also undermined her every chance of moving out, as though she could not bear for Maggie to find her own happiness.
Spite seemed the only explanation for why Delia had gone out of her way to quell any interest that different bachelors had taken in Maggie since she’d come to London.
Her sister seemed to think it all a game. To one fellow, Delia had hinted that Maggie suffered from some dreaded, undisclosed disease. She’d left it to his imagination to wonder what that might be.
He hadn’t called on her again.
To another, she’d implied Maggie found him repulsive, which wasn’t true in the least. He was just a little hairy. But a third, Delia sent away by arrogantly looking down her nose at him, giving the timid young man the impressio
n he would never be found worthy of a daughter of the Earl of Halford.
Delia had always been quite toplofty about Papa’s rank.
Now Maggie could only wonder what sort of disinformation she’d fed to Lord Bryce to scare him away, too.
“But, Mags,” Delia was fond of saying, “the right sort of fellow can’t be scared away. Don’t you see? I’m your big sister. I’m only doing this to protect you!”
Of course you are, Maggie thought, gritting her teeth.
As for Bryce, she’d wring his neck for this. She couldn’t believe he’d snubbed her. How ineffably lowering.
The music began. Delia smirked; Maggie fumed.
At least, upon scanning the line of male dancers now bowing to their partners, she did not see him dancing with anybody else.
Perhaps there was still hope. Although, in truth, she would not have put it past him. She had noticed that her self-important suitor could be a wee bit impulsive. If he had become briefly enchanted with some other young lady, she could easily see him forgetting about his promise to dance with her and prancing off to sport a toe with the girl.
They weren’t married yet, after all, nor even promised to each other.
Indeed, it was possible Bryce would even do a thing like that just to test her. Merely to see, like Delia would, how much ill-treatment good ol’ Mags would take before she snapped.
Little did they know, however, she was made for endurance. Patient as the Rock of Gibraltar. Just like Mama. For her to give voice to temper was very rare indeed.
As an amiable soul who dearly valued peace, she’d long become an expert at keeping her mouth shut and simply doing what needed to be done, in English fashion. Admittedly, it was not always a very pleasant way to go about. But it kept life simple, avoiding fights, avoiding conflict.
Moods passed, after all, and it was so much more reasonable not to make mountains out of molehills.
Admittedly, some molehills did sting a lady’s pride.
She let out a disappointed sigh and brushed a stray ringlet back behind her ear, turning to gaze wistfully at the line of dancers now promenading down the center aisle. She loved dancing. The girls skipped and the men paraded along with a bounce in their strides.
Her heart sank to the depths. Where on earth did he go, then?
Perhaps he left, she thought with a frisson of worry. Perhaps he’d drunk enough to make himself ill.
She glanced down again at her dance billet, tempted to crumple the useless thing into a ball and throw it out the window.
Why a girl of good family with a pleasant face and a sizable dowry should have so few names on her dance card in the first place was a mystery even to her.
But it was all Delia’s doing. The bully had always delighted in tormenting Maggie in small ways, lording it over her.
Just like she was lording it over her followers right now.
“So I told her, ‘You must come over for tea tomorrow first thing,’” Delia was saying. “‘Tell me everything, and I shall soon have the whole matter sorted for you…’”
Don’t you ever shut up? God, only a saintly fellow like Edward could’ve borne the woman.
Perhaps Maggie should speak to her longsuffering brother-in-law about Delia’s meddling in her attempts to snare a husband. The two of them got along well, and he was so kind. Edward hated to fight with Delia, but when it came down to it, as her husband, he really was the only one who could rein her in.
Honestly, thought Maggie, if somebody didn’t do something, she might be trapped forever as her sister’s lady-in-waiting, her captive audience—literally. The pitiable spinster of the family, maiden aunt to Delia’s future children.
For all she knew, her sister might force her to serve as governess to her brats, as well, rather than allowing Maggie ever to have a family of her own.
At that moment, as she stood there brooding, a great crash resounded at the far end of the ballroom, breaking into her dire ruminations.
It had come from the refreshments area, and sounded as though a table of dishes had just been knocked over.
A shout followed and then a clamor of voices erupted.
The music jangled to a haphazard halt, the players distracted. Several dancers let out startled exclamations, bumping into each other as everyone turned to see what was going on.
Startled, Maggie did the same. She whirled around and searched the crowd, wondering in alarm if some elderly person present had fallen, like that poor old lady had, fainting in church last week.
But that did not appear to be the case. The whole gathering began turning in a wave toward a location not far from the grand entrance at the top of the stairs.
Then Maggie’s eyes widened as she spotted Lord Bryce’s curly golden head, there in the thick of the kerfuffle. His hand was up, his finger poking aggressively into the chest of…the large black-haired man she’d seen before.
Who was staring at Bryce rather incredulously.
Oh dear God!
She could see both men in profile, could hear only the muffled, angry tones of Bryce’s raised voice. The stranger heard out his apparent rant, then laughed.
It was not the merry sort of laughter.
“You should learn to mind your tongue, whelp,” the stranger warned her suitor in a deep, commanding baritone tinged with an Irish brogue.
That voice, unlike Bryce’s, carried over the ballroom in the resonating tones of a man used to barking orders over the roar of cannon-fire and musket volleys.
The entire room went absolutely quiet.
“I demand an answer!” Bryce yelled, his voice slightly shrill.
The stranger stared at him for a heartbeat. “Tell you what,” he replied. “You take back your foolhardy accusations and apologize, and I might just let you live.”
“I will not, you Irish dog,” Bryce answered in withering disdain. “Who’s to say that you yourself weren’t the one who killed him, eh? You might’ve killed them all—one by one—just so you could seize the title!”
“Oh my God,” Maggie said under her breath, her stomach plunging, nearly falling though the floor.
Bryce and his pack of friends slowly surrounded the black-haired stranger; he glanced around at them from the corner of one eye, then the other.
“So that’s the way of it, then?” he asked as Maggie abruptly jolted into motion, fighting her way through the crowd to try to reach Bryce before he did anything even more feckless.
“Very well, coxcomb,” said the stranger. “You leave me no choice: I demand satisfaction. Have your second call on me at Amberley House, and state your choice of weapons. I suggest you choose swords.”
Bryce scoffed as Maggie elbowed people aside, hurrying closer.
“Nobody duels with swords anymore, Irishman.”
“You will, if you want to live. Or hadn’t you heard I qualified as an expert marksman when I was but a beardless ensign, age sixteen? Had a lot o’ practice since then, too,” the stranger added with an icy smile. “But do as you please, fella.” He shrugged. “It’s your funeral.”
The stranger started to turn away, then noticed the crowd of gaping onlookers. His handsome lips twisted in a slight, feral sneer, and he bowed politely to the gathering.
Several gasped.
Then he straightened up to his full height, pivoted, and marched out of the ballroom alone.
Instantly, Bryce’s friends huddled around him, while Maggie stood there for a moment with her jaw hanging open.
As the entire Grand Albion began to buzz with talk of the impending duel, Maggie snapped out of her horrified daze, and rushed over to her suitor on legs that shook beneath her.
“My lord! Lord Bryce!” Disregarded, she elbowed her way between Bryce’s friends, finally laying hold of his lapels to get his attention.
“My lord,” she cried in a panic, “what have you done?”
He finally looked down his nose and noticed her. “Ah, Lady Margaret. Don’t fret, my dear, it’s a small thing.” Then he f
urrowed his brow. “Oh, right—we were supposed to dance, weren’t we? Sorry. This was more important.”
The stray comment pained her, but she ignored it.
“Never mind that! Did you not hear what he said? An expert marksman in the Army from the age of sixteen?”
Bryce finally looked fully at her, angry turmoil in his eyes. “I must avenge my friend.” He tugged at his waistcoat and glanced around at his followers. “We all know there’s something not right about that fellow.”
She searched his face, at a loss. “What are you talking about?”
“I’ll explain later. No time now.”
“But, my lord, you’re not thinking clearly.” She could not hold her tongue: “You’re drunk!”
“Oho!” His friends jeered merrily at her statement of the obvious—one in the back let out a pointed cat’s meow—but Bryce laughed.
“Nonsense, my pet, a gentleman doesn’t get drunk. Just a trifle foxed.”
“Whatever the case may be, you are in no shape to handle a loaded weapon.” Setting her hands on her waist, Maggie planted herself in the middle of his path, blocking his exit.
He frowned at her, annoyed.
She did not move, but at least willed a softer tone of voice, still determined to drag him to the altar. Obviously, she couldn’t do that if he was dead.
“Lord Bryce, please. This man is dangerous. I am concerned for your wellbeing. You heard what he said; he’ll kill you. If you’ve given offense, you must apologize.”
“To that fellow? Hardly.” He snorted and tugged at his waistcoat. “He’s a bounder. And he’s not one of us. My only apologies are to you, Lady Margaret, for missing the contra-dance.” He executed a beautiful bow to her to show his sincerity.
She managed a sad half-smile. “So you didn’t forget, then.”
“Of course not. I merely had to take him down a peg. Now, I must beg your pardon, dear lady. I have matters to attend to.”
“Bryce. Don’t do this.”
“Fret not, child. I’ll call on you in a day or two. Perhaps take you for a drive, hmm?” He was already strutting away, on a mission now, as though his inborn sense of English superiority had somehow convinced him that breeding alone could help him kill a mere Irishman.
