by Gaelen Foley
Even a veteran of a long and bloody war.
No doubt, his favorite scotch had helped in the way of liquid courage. Maggie shook her head, halfway between terror and exasperation. Fool. You’re a dead man.
Her heart was pounding as Bryce shrugged to adjust his coat across his shoulders, like a peacock smoothing out his ruffled feathers. He sent his followers a commanding glance. “Shall we, boys? Now then. Who wants to second for me?”
Without looking back, Lord Bryce strode out with his chin in the air, held at an even higher notch than usual.
Maggie pressed her hand to her brow, her brain reeling, her heart pounding, her stomach in knots.
“Send your second to Amberley House.”
At least that answered the question of who the blue-eyed stranger was.
Amberley House was the name of one of the big corner mansions on Moonlight Square, each one occupied by a duke.
Though the latest Duke of Amberley had moved in about four months ago—around Christmastime—he’d kept very much to himself. It was only now that the Season had begun that he seemed to have ventured out into Society.
Slowly, she started putting it all together in her mind.
From what she’d heard, there had been several deaths in that family over the past couple of years, though she did not know the details.
The last duke before this one had been a great friend of Bryce’s, but Maggie had never met the infamous Richard. He had died before she’d ever met Bryce.
All she knew was that for her suitor to have publicly accused the new duke of killing his own kin to steal the title was absolutely ludicrous.
Bryce had not even claimed to have any proof. He had just decided who the culprit was, it seemed, based on prejudice and grief for his friend.
But not for all the world could Maggie see that blue-eyed stranger as a murderer. He might be a trained killer, but only for his country. Unsettling but true, she supposed. However, if the new duke had indeed been a soldier from the age of sixteen—and it hadn’t looked to her like he’d been lying—then that really meant Bryce was, indeed, about to die. Shed his blue blood all over some stupid dueling field for nothing. Mere false accusations.
Of course Amberley had challenged him for this outrageous insult. What would any man do? What else did Bryce expect?
But one thing was clear. If Bryce went and got himself killed, he wouldn’t be marrying her any time soon. Blast it, there had to be a way to stop this duel from happening! But how?
Think.
She swallowed hard then, for the only answer that came to mind was for her to go personally, secretly—now—and throw herself upon the duke’s mercy, for Bryce’s sake.
Her pulse raced at the prospect. It was exceedingly reckless even to contemplate, and not proper in the least—Mama would turn over in her grave.
But was it really so dangerous? He seemed friendly enough. The man had smiled at her, hadn’t he? Surely she could reason with him. What was there to fear? They were neighbors. He was a duke, for heaven’s sake. He dressed, looked, sounded like a gentleman. He’d clearly been an officer in the British Army, and everybody knew that the heroes of Waterloo understood chivalry.
Besides, she thought with a wide-eyed gulp, even an Irish scoundrel wouldn’t hurt a lady…
She hoped.
CHAPTER 3
The Warrior
Connor’s first reaction as he stalked out of the Grand Albion was fury.
Some gratitude. Aye, that is truly some gratitude, he couldn’t stop thinking, over and over again, his jaw clenched. Bloody useless civilians.
You risk your life a thousand times—for that lot?
He marched across the landing outside of the ballroom, and then jogged down the long, opulent staircase, ignoring the old knee injury that tended to ache when the weather changed.
All he’d wanted to do was have a look around, try to acclimate himself a bit more to his ridiculous new life as a duke, and even that had turned to bollocks.
God, if only Napoleon hadn’t surrendered.
Connor would rather be in battle. But no—that ballroom was a battlefield, one he did not understand, one where he did not know the rules, and where every person present was apparently an enemy of some sort. He stood alone against an army of haughty English toffs, stiff as the undead, every one.
His cheeks burned with the humiliation of how it had been made very clear to him just now that he would never be accepted here, never mind his authentic ducal lineage, let alone a decade and a half of loyal service to the Crown.
Fool. Why should he care? These people weren’t worth it. So what if they judged him unworthy? He would never apologize for who and what he was.
The lot of them could go to hell.
Connor shook his head to himself as he marched across the entrance hall at the bottom of the marble staircase, then blasted out through the front doors of the expensive hotel and out into the black, windy night, which was threatening rain.
The lanterns on either side of the stately building cast a gleam into the inky shadows. Liveried footmen on both sides of the entrance glanced at him in surprise; he had beaten them to the task of getting the door.
One stepped nearer with a look of chagrin. “Shall I call your carriage for you, sir?”
“No thanks, I’ll walk.” Connor nodded toward his nearby house, and the footman bowed to him.
Easing a bit now that he was away from that smug crowd, Connor descended the few stairs outside the hotel to the pavement. He turned left and began striding homeward at a fast clip.
Well, bloody what now? he wondered with a curse under his breath as he peeled off his fancy white gloves.
Truly, he was going to enjoy shooting a hole in that young piece of arrogance, if that was what it took to stop this shocking, ugly rumor before it got started. Kill his own relatives?
Ridiculous.
Connor tugged his cravat loose with an irked growl. Every day in this new life of his truly got more absurd. Yet one question loomed: did that fellow have something to do with the plot against his family? Connor knew he could not afford to take anything or anyone at face value. He was surrounded by strangers in this place, and who his true enemy was, he had no idea—yet.
But he would find them in due time, each and every one who might be connected to all this. And as for that haughty chap, well, one way or the other, he would not be a problem for much longer.
Connor strode through the darkness, hoping that maybe, once he dealt with this bastard, others around here might start to get the message. They might view him as an Irish mongrel, but to dare speak those sentiments aloud, well, that was insulting his mother, aye, and his Irish granny, too.
So there was that.
Moreover, he would damn well be treated with the same respect due to any man of his rank. If they did not wish to befriend him, well and good; as one of his former commanding officers liked to say, it was better to be feared than loved, anyway.
Yet the whole prospect disgusted and rather depressed him. This was not the peacetime existence he had envisioned for so long.
It all felt like a cynical jest and a damned shame.
The only person back there who had seemed remotely friendly was the gray-eyed girl. Well, she had probably realized by now that he was persona non grata. No doubt, she would keep a safe distance.
Connor sighed. Battle-hardened warriors did not generally admit to being lonely. But deep in his heart, he knew he was, and that annoyed him, too.
Weakness.
Marching along the pavement, he passed feeble gold pools of light where quaint black wrought-iron streetlamps lined the lane. Across the cobbled avenue was a matching swath of pavement, and the wrought-iron fence that girded the garden park in the center of Moonlight Square.
It was a pleasant green refuge in the hubbub of London. He’d taken to strolling its graveled walks, now that spring had come. Each day showed the many flowers planted throughout the park in new stages of develop
ment.
This interested him. Perhaps the flowers’ progress seemed a silly thing for a trained killer to want to follow and watch with such anticipation. But after all he’d seen, all he’d survived, all the ugliness, horror, and pain, he had learned to take whatever small joys and beauties life offered where he found them.
Tomorrow, after all, was promised to no man.
Particularly one who’d just inherited a dukedom that some hidden foe seemed determined to destroy.
All the more reason to show this fop no mercy when dawn came.
Connor clenched his jaw, itching to feel a weapon in his grip—not that he needed one to send an enemy to his grave.
Ahead, the gigantic house he’d inherited hulked astride the corner.
To be sure, it was beautiful, but Connor still felt a sense of unreality every time he walked in, considering his main residence for years had been a leaky, smelly tent shared with other officers, and that most of his essential items for everyday life could fit on the back of a horse.
This opulence was all just bizarre.
Adorned by a grand, porticoed entrance, Amberley House stood four stories high, with various layers of windows in classical designs, the second being the tallest, what with the drawing room and so forth. The third contained a maze of bedchambers where he still tended to get lost. The fourth was where the servants lived—or had, before he’d sacked the whole treacherous lot.
As he reached the bottom of the few stairs leading up to the front door, which was illuminated by flickering lamps on either side, Connor glanced down warily into the dark exterior stairwell that led to the service entrance, for merchants and deliveries and so forth.
There, a few feet below street level, a plain wooden door was tucked away in the shadows. Behind it lay the working regions of the house: kitchens, pantries, wine cellar, silver vault, butler’s quarters, as well as bins for coal storage.
Connor had always thought that that dark, half-underground stairwell looked like a good place for a murderer to hide and lie in wait.
Tonight, once again, however, it was clear.
He harrumphed. Truthfully, he’d have rather fought it out now with his unknown enemy and got the whole thing over with, but no such luck.
He continued up the few front steps to the grand main entrance of Amberley House, unlocked the door, and let himself in without ceremony.
Inside, the mansion was dim and drafty, and though he noticed it was getting a bit messy around here without a proper staff, it was magnificently decorated to suit the taste of one of the previous dukes—or his duchess, more likely.
The floors were marble, the ceilings painted, with touches of gilt. The art adorning the walls was unthinkably expensive, the furnishings so splendid that Connor often still hesitated before sitting down on some of the chairs. Likewise, the canopy bed up in the master chamber seemed vast…and much too empty.
He supposed one of these days he’d have to find himself a mistress. Lord knew, a good daily romp would help dispel the jitters of peacetime and this bizarre change in his station, and all the unanswered questions of who was trying to kill him and why.
Unfortunately, in his current state of well-justified paranoia, Connor doubted he could’ve found a bedmate who wouldn’t have left him wondering if she’d stab him in his sleep, should he doze off after their sport. Bit of a problem there. Thus, he’d become a monk in recent weeks.
But so be it. He had bigger matters to worry about these days than relieving his want.
As he tossed the door shut behind him then locked it, he could already hear Will and Nestor squabbling somewhere in the cavernous depths of the house.
He smirked at the familiar sound. Those two.
Of course, as footmen and butlers, his trusty regimentals were generally useless, but they’d have followed him to the gates of hell itself, and had.
Their bickering stopped at the sound of the front door’s slam, and a moment later, Will came jogging out onto the landing at the top of the steps, looking more dusty and rumpled than usual from the task Connor had given the men.
Namely, searching each room of the fifty-some rooms of Amberley House for any possible clues about these deaths in the family.
“Major! You’re back! Nestor, the major’s back!” the skinny lad called over his shoulder.
It comforted Connor immensely to know he would always be the major to his men, rather than the duke.
Little did his humble band of merry men know what a balm their presence here was. This disorienting change in his duties, routine, expectations, command structure—frankly, everything he’d ever known—sometimes made him feel like he was losing himself. But through their eyes, he remembered who he was.
The leader.
Who always knew what to do. Who’d get them out of any scrape alive.
They trusted him, and that reminded him to trust himself.
Then Will looked at him again, furrowing his brow. “Why are you back so soon, sir?” His grin flashed. “Didn’t you have fun sportin’ a toe with the ton?”
“Not exactly,” Connor said dryly. He stalked across the decorative medallion of the foyer’s marble floor, practically ripping off his stupid fine coat.
“You need anything, sir?” Will offered, sensing his dark mood.
Connor grunted, and Will frowned, studying him uncertainly.
Private Will Duffy was twenty, but looked younger because of his thin build. His joints seemed oversized on his bony frame. He had a big nose but thoughtful eyes, and wore a gregarious smile on his homely face most of the time.
He couldn’t really fight, and indeed, looked like a good breeze could blow him away, but he was entirely goodhearted, and though Connor would never admit it aloud, he credited the lad with preserving whatever was left of his humanity—along with Nestor, who presently joined them in the entrance hall.
The regiment’s weathered surgeon took one look at Connor and stopped, resting his hands on his waist. “Ah, bloody hell,” the older man muttered. “What’s happened now?”
For a man with only one eye, Nestor Godwin always seemed to see everything clearly in a glance.
He was a short, stocky fellow in his fifties, with a wild mass of wiry gray hair and an eye patch.
Nestor had served as the regiment’s chief medic until a piece of shrapnel had cost him the use of an eye. Though he could no longer judge distances, he could still set bones and make stitches—more by instinct than sight. He also had wide apothecary knowledge—not to mention nerves of steel.
You’d have to, to amputate limbs, Connor had always thought.
As it happened, Nestor was also—like many old bachelors—a fairly good cook. So he’d become the kitchen staff at Amberley House, while Will was more Connor’s valet, butler, footman.
As for everybody’s favorite jolly fat man, Sergeant Rory McFeatheridge had gone a-rambling after he’d gobbled down the poison intended for Connor, but he’d be back.
Privately, they’d agreed that once Rory had spent some time recovering from the poison’s effects at the home of some cousins near Portsmouth, he’d do some sleuthing hither and yon to see what he might be able to dig up on the Amberley deaths.
That was the thing about McFeatheridge. For all his faults and vulgarities, the bearded sarge was so damned likable, he could get nearly anyone to talk.
He also had a fist like a hammer; Will liked to call him Friar Tuck.
Presently, Will was glancing from Nestor to Connor and back again, alarmed. “Is Nestor right, sir? Did somebody try to kill you again?”
“In a sense, I suppose.” Connor let out a huge sigh and scratched his eyebrow. “Seems I’ve been challenged to a duel.”
“What?” both men burst out.
“Major!” cried Will. “You can’t be serious! A duel? But it’s peacetime!”
“I know. I know, believe me.” Connor shook his head.
Nestor planted his fists on his waist, his good eye homing in on Connor with knowing disa
pproval. “What did you do?” he asked sternly.
“What? Me? It wasn’t my fault!” Connor retorted. “I was minding my own bloody business, I assure you.”
“It’s a ballroom, not an alehouse, Your Grace,” Nestor said wryly. “People are generally on their best behavior in such locations. Which tells me you must’ve provoked the challenge somehow.”
“I’m innocent this time, I swear,” Connor said with a frown, unbuttoning his cufflinks. These Bond Street clothes were too damned restrictive.
“Ohh,” said Will in a tone of understanding. “Was it ’cause you’re Irish?” The lad leaned against the newel post, hooking a pointy elbow around the base of the carved marble urn that topped it.
“I’m afraid it’s even worse than that,” Connor admitted. “If I expected these people to look on me with sympathy over the deaths in my family, or at least to view me with a whit of appreciation on account of the war, it appears I was highly deluded.”
“Why? What do you mean?” Nestor demanded.
“Well…” Connor’s tone turned grim. “The young jackanapes who challenged me offered a theory that I’m the one who killed my predecessors.”
“What, the dead dukes?” Will exclaimed.
“To get the title, aye,” Connor muttered in disgust. He rubbed the back of his neck while Nestor and Will looked at each other in shock.
Connor began pacing back and forth across the entrance hall. “This challenge might be connected to all that’s happened—or not. I really couldn’t say for certain whether this chap’s involved in it or what his true motives might be. Hell, I don’t even know his name. Either way, I admit, I did not see this coming.”
“Of course not, how could you?” Nestor looked outraged at the sheer absurdity of the accusation. “You? Kill your own relatives? You never even wanted the title!”
“Plus, how could you have done it?” Will cried. “I mean, you’ve been a bit busy!”
“I have no idea!” Connor threw his hands up, bewildered. “The idiot seemed to be suggesting I could’ve engineered the whole thing from a distance somehow to lay hold of the dukedom, the fortune, the power. This might be the rumor going around now, I hardly know.”
