Duke of Storm

by Gaelen Foley

  “Oh Lord,” Nestor grumbled, then huffed. “This is not good.”

  “It’s bloody awful,” Connor replied.

  “No wonder they’ve all been so standoffish—well, not all of them,” Will amended. “The Duke and Duchess of Rivenwood have been friendly to you, haven’t they, sir? I mean, he’s an odd one, of course—name like Azrael?—but pleasant enough.”

  “Right…” Nestor nodded at the reminder of their ducal neighbor on the nearest corner. “You’ll have to ask Rivenwood to be your second.”

  “I shall do nothing of the kind,” Connor said, scowling. “You can second for me, Nestor.”

  “Me?” Nestor scoffed and pointed at his eye patch. “There’s no way in hell I could ever fight a duel. I’m blind in one eye, remember?”

  “Oh, come, you’re not going to fight—you’ll just do the talking bit, arranging matters. I’m the one who’ll do the fighting, obviously. Indeed, nothing would please me more at this point.” Glowering at the thought of that golden-haired jackass, Connor pivoted and rubbed his mouth.

  Nestor scoffed. “Major, you know full well you need a fellow aristocrat to second you, at least a real gentleman. Not some lowly limb-chopper like me. Why not ask the Duke of Rivenwood? Will can go and fetch him for you.” The surgeon gestured to the lad. “Go and tell His Grace—”

  “No. Stay,” Connor commanded. Will froze. “Rivenwood’s a newlywed, Nestor. Dragging him into this mess would be poor thanks for the courtesy he’s shown me. It’s been quite a rarity in these parts, if you haven’t noticed.”

  “Believe me, we have,” Will mumbled with a frown.

  “That cocky little bastard,” Connor said under his breath, thinking of his challenger. Pacing over to the umbrella stand in the corner, he took out his favorite sword, which he had stowed there to have it handy in case of another attack.

  Lifting it, he pulled it from its sheath, gazing at the blade. It had seen him through many a scrape. “Aye, I shall make him eat his words. One…bloody bite…at a time.”

  “Look here, Major—” Nestor began.

  “Oh, quit griping,” Connor said, and put the sword away again. “Who gives a damn if the ton’s scandalized that I chose a commoner for a second? I was one myself until December, wasn’t I? Let them choke on their gossip for all I care. Besides, you’ve got to be there, anyway. I’ll need you there to patch me up if I get wounded, so don’t forget to bring your doctorin’ bag.”

  Nestor stared at him with his one good eye, hands propped on his waist, fingers drumming. “Perhaps you should just go and talk to this fellow. Try to reason with him.”

  “What?” Connor retorted. “Hell no. I’m sendin’ that one on to meet his maker. Besides, I haven’t the foggiest notion who the bastard is.”

  “Think, you Irish hothead,” Nestor said without malice. “If some in the ton already suspect that you’re a killer, then shooting this chap in the heart in front of witnesses might not exactly be the best idea.”

  “He insulted my honor! He dies.”

  “Yes, but Major…”

  While Connor and the surgeon continued bickering, Will suddenly glanced at the door. “Did you hear that?” the lad asked.

  Still arguing with Nestor, Connor ignored the low-toned question. “What, are you suggesting I let the bastard off with a warning shot?”

  “A flesh wound, perhaps.”

  “Nestor, that entire ballroom would’ve happily lynched me if I’d stayed a moment longer,” he said. “If I don’t make an example of him, I risk more challenges in the future.”

  “Oh, you’re always blowing things out of proportion,” Nestor said, waving this off.

  “Well, it’s kept me alive, hasn’t it? Plan for the worst, hope for the best, like I always say.”

  “Sirs, I think there’s someone at the door!” Will broke in.

  “Well, answer it, genius.” Nestor smacked the boy on the back of the head, and off he went.

  As Will trotted across the entrance hall, Nestor glanced grimly at Connor. “Your challenger’s second, already?”

  “That was fast.” Connor shrugged, planting his hands on his hips. “Told you he was eager for my blood.”

  Will unlocked the door, but glanced back first to see if they were ready.

  Connor gestured at the surgeon. “Talk to him, doc. Negotiate the time and place as you see fit. It’s all the same to me. But at least find out the blackguard’s name.”

  Nestor sighed and shook his head. “Very well. I’ll speak to him upstairs, Will. Drawing room. And you, sir, had best stay out of sight,” he said to Connor. “Try to keep out of trouble for once in your life.”

  “Who, me?” Connor flashed a wicked grin, retreating to the shadows of the nearby sitting room that adjoined the entrance hall. “Don’t forget to ask which weapon!” he reminded the older man in a stage whisper.

  “Shh!” Nestor replied, then he nodded at their “butler,” and Will opened the door.

  “Good evening,” he started, then: “Oh—! Er, can I help you, miss?”

  Miss? Connor thought.

  “Um, yes, I-I am here to see the Duke o-of Amberley, if I may.” The soft voice coming from the doorway had an accent as elegant as cut crystal, but tones as warm as hearthstones where a cat would like to curl up and sleep away a winter’s day.

  They melted something inside Connor from the moment he first heard the sound.

  Even Nestor was startled. Halfway up the staircase, the surgeon turned so he could see through the open doorway with his good eye.

  “I-I only ask a moment of His Grace’s time, I promise.”

  “Er, Major?” Will turned to face the sitting room, his eyebrows arched high. “There’s a beautiful young lady at your door. Are you at home?”

  Always, Connor thought.

  Filled with equal parts roguery and suspicion at this extremely unusual news, he sauntered forward from the sitting room and leaned toward the doorway to view their caller.

  To his amazement, it was the gray-eyed beauty from the ballroom: the English rose.

  What on earth was she doing here? Alone, no less.

  “Please,” she said with an innocent blink, gazing past Will to Connor, “if you don’t mind, I should be grateful for a moment of Your Grace’s time.” She glanced nervously over her shoulder, as though making sure she had not been followed.

  Then she looked at him again.

  Her heart-shaped face was pale by the dim glow of the lanterns flanking the front door. Her gauzy skirts billowed in the breeze. She wore a lacy white shawl now, draped across her delectable shoulders.

  She pulled it closer around herself as she stood in the doorway. He could see her shaking…probably not from the chill, but from the boldness of her visit here. Even he was startled by it.

  “May I come in?” she asked with a gulp. “We are…neighbors, after all.”

  He blinked out of his daze. “By all means.”

  What she wanted, Connor could not imagine, but he prowled over slowly to brush the lad aside. “I’ll take it from here, Will.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Connor held the door for their fair visitor. The girl stared at Will as she tiptoed in warily, looking a little nonplussed at his unconventional butler.

  Nestor returned to the bottom of the stairs, watching skeptically.

  “I don’t suppose there’s any chance you’re here about the duel?” Connor said, half joking.

  He paused to scan the street before shutting the door, then locked it behind her again.

  “Actually, I am,” she said, wide-eyed.

  “You’re the fellow’s second?” Will exclaimed.

  “N-no, of course not,” she said. She pursed her rosy lips. “I’m his…his…”

  Connor cocked a brow, waiting, hands on hips. “His what?”

  “His…particular lady friend,” she said judiciously.

  “I see.” His smile soured.

  Suspicion promptly won the inner tug of war wi
th roguery. His mood darkened back to normal. “Let me guess. You’ve come here to plead for the blackguard’s life.”

  She blinked. “Well—actually…now that you mention it…”

  He smirked. Her words faltered, and she started turning red, like she had in the ballroom.

  “Um, could we possibly discuss this in private, Your Grace?”

  Connor considered it. Fraternize with the enemy?

  Once again, there was no way of knowing who might be involved with the plot against his family. Indeed, if he were out in the field, running a scouting mission or an intelligence-gathering operation, he would find the most unlikely person to send in to make inquiries for him.

  Someone the enemy would never suspect. Someone who could serve as a distraction, diversion, spread false information…or do even worse.

  Hmm. Connor’s stare homed in on the girl’s dainty gloved hands clutching her reticule.

  For a moment, he studied her little tasseled handbag, determining after a few seconds that it was too diminutive to contain even a small pistol.

  But that didn’t mean this lovely little confection wasn’t perilous to him in other ways.

  Temptation such as this had got Adam and Eve thrown out of the garden, last he’d checked, and this was one alluring red apple, ripe and juicy.

  He wanted a taste.

  She grew flustered at his prolonged silence. “You are the duke, aren’t you? If there’s someone else I should speak to—”

  “Oh yes,” he said absently, curiosity outweighing his caution. He’d hear her out. Why not? “I am Amberley these days, so it would seem. I admit, you’ve come at rather a bad time, but it’s always my pleasure to be of…service to a lady.”

  His double entendre went over her clearly virginal head, but he folded his arms across his chest and stared at her, far more entertained than he cared to let on.

  “How may I be of assistance, mademoiselle?”

  CHAPTER 4

  The Peacemaker

  Every quick, reverberating thump of Maggie’s heart as she held the duke’s stare warned her that she absolutely shouldn’t be here. She was not accustomed to doing rash things, and her current venture, she feared, was nothing short of foolhardy.

  How she had managed to sneak away from Delia, she barely knew. The entire ballroom had been in an uproar after the outbreak of violence.

  But she was here to stop it, if she could.

  And so, Maggie swallowed hard and held on tight to her composure.

  It was not easy, pinned in the gaze of such a man. Amberley had removed his black tailcoat and tugged loose his cravat. The loose, white, billowy sleeves of his shirt cascaded fascinatingly off the rugged breadth of his shoulders, only hinting at the hard, bulging muscles the crisp fabric draped.

  His pale striped waistcoat hugged a powerful chest that tapered toward his lean waist. She gulped silently as her gaze slid lower to the manly regions concealed by his elegant black trousers…

  Margaret Hyacinth Winthrop! Mind your manners and get your eyes back in your head. At once, she whipped a blushing glance back up to his disturbingly handsome face.

  She found the duke looking not at all inclined to believe a word she said, but waiting patiently for her to speak her piece.

  The polite curve of his lips was almost a smile.

  Flustered by her own wayward noticings, Maggie briefly turned her attention to his companions; if they were servants, they’d have left.

  Indeed, she saw no sign of butler, footmen, or maids, and that was very odd—but, clearly, no one was cleaning the place. Her nose twitched in the dust while the homely young beanpole who’d answered the door bathed the entrance hall in the cheery, beaming brightness of his smile.

  He wore a shapeless jacket of rough, workaday brown cloth and trousers to match, though his skinny frame swam in them. The boy needed feeding.

  The scruffy older chap over near the cluttered staircase did not even have on a coat or cravat, merely an unbuttoned vest over a loose, wrinkled shirt, with suspenders holding up his blue trousers.

  His wild gray hair and eye patch made Maggie feel just for a moment as though she had stowed aboard a pirate ship.

  A trifle disoriented, she could almost feel the floor at her feet rocking with the waves.

  But instead of a ship’s deck, the entrance hall had marble floors veined with silver and white, and pale yellow walls.

  A curved cantilevered staircase seemed to float up to the chambers above; a wrought-iron banister of slim proportions ran alongside it, curling its way up to the next floor.

  There were a few pillars here and there, colorful paintings on the walls, mainly landscapes: Venetian canals, Flemish bridges, mountain cataracts beneath brooding alpine skies, Bedouins on camels in the desert. Overhead, a large crystal chandelier wept amethyst teardrops, but most of its candles were not lit.

  To be sure, it looked like a mansion, but the clutter everywhere—and the smell—enhanced the sense that she had fallen in among some all-male band of brigands.

  Muddy riding boots had been left to dry beneath the pier table; atop it, an abandoned serving tray brimmed with dirty plates that still bore the petrified scraps of some bygone meal.

  Here, a large greatcoat slowly enfolded a Chippendale chair like it would eat it whole. There, a top hat dangled from the lithe raised arm of an indignant alabaster goddess in the wall niche.

  What is going on here? she thought, amazed.

  A random collection of odds and ends piled in the corners of the stairs, as though some absent-minded soul had set them there weeks ago and kept forgetting to carry them up: books, maps, newspaper, tinderbox, lint brush, some sort of leather knapsack, spyglass, and—egads!—a long gun, broken down into parts for cleaning.

  The sight of the weapon reminded her of the grim reason why she was here.

  The beanpole, meanwhile, following her gaze, must have suddenly realized how untidy it looked to a visitor. “Oh! Sorry for the mess,” he blurted out, then leapt into motion to begin tidying up.

  The duke winced. “Er, we’ve had a bit of a problem with the staff.”

  “I see,” Maggie murmured, nodding as though she comprehended.

  “We weren’t expecting visitors,” the beanpole added apologetically, but the master of the house did not seem too concerned.

  The duke hooked a thumb toward the older man. “This is Mr. Godwin and that’s Private Will Duffy.”

  She nodded to the men.

  “And you are?” Amberley prompted, arching a brow.

  “Oh, yes, um.” Maggie brushed off her confusion about his friends. Irrelevant right now. Instead, she focused on the duke, but that proved distracting, too. It was hard to think with his full attention fixed on her.

  His presence was potent, elemental, the force of him like standing on a beach at night with a hurricane approaching.

  She cast about for her wits. “I am Lady Margaret Winthrop. I live across the square—well, diagonally from here, more or less—with my sister a-and her husband. On Marquess Row.” She gestured haphazardly toward the closed door in the direction of their terrace house. “Lord and Lady Birdwell?”

  “Ah,” the duke said.

  She could tell by his blank look that he had never heard of them before.

  Delia would be crushed.

  It seemed as though he didn’t even know which street on the square had been nicknamed Marquess Row.

  “I beg your pardon, Lady Margaret,” His Grace said with a flicker of impatience, “this is rather a bad time for a neighborly visit, so…?”

  “Yes, yes, of course.” She nodded briskly. “I saw what happened in the ballroom,” she said. “I thought I might be able to help.”

  “Indeed?” said the duke, lifting his chin.

  “In that case, young lady, you are most welcome,” said Mr. Godwin, sauntering closer. “What on earth did we miss in that ballroom tonight?”

  “Well,” she said with a tentative smile by way of apology,
“I’m afraid Lord Bryce must’ve had one too many rounds of scotch.”

  “So that’s his name,” the duke drawled. “He never did bother to introduce himself before offering to shoot me.”

  “Pardon, my lady,” Mr. Godwin said. “Did you say that this Lord Bryce is your suitor?”

  Maggie nodded.

  “Well, well,” murmured the duke, and a slightly diabolical half-smile stole across his chiseled face. “Follow me, Lady Margaret. You and I can discuss this in private, as you requested. Won’t you step into my…parlor?—or whatever this room is. I still get lost in this place.”

  He pivoted and breezed toward a sitting room to the right of the entrance hall. By the light of just a couple of candles in there, she noted wood paneling and red velvet furniture.

  “Ahem, shall I join you, Your Grace?” Mr. Godwin offered.

  “That won’t be necessary,” the duke replied, beckoning Maggie to follow.

  “Not to you, maybe,” the surgeon mumbled, and when the duke turned around, the older man nodded toward Maggie with discreet insistence.

  It took Amberley a beat longer to catch his meaning—that Mr. Godwin was offering to play chaperone for them.

  Gratitude filled her. Pirate or not, he seemed a very civil fellow.

  “I think that would be wise,” Maggie said primly.

  Amberley shook his head. “No, Nestor. Her Ladyship and I must discuss this in private, clearly.”

  Maggie held up a finger. “I don’t mind if they hear this, Your Grace—that is, now that I see that these fellows are your friends.”

  He flashed a wicked smile. “Perhaps I want you all to myself for a minute or two, my dear Lady Margaret. Don’t quit now; you’ve come this far, haven’t you?”

  Private Duffy chuckled, but Maggie furrowed her brow in alarm, not as confident as the beanpole that her tall, intimidating host was only teasing.

  Mr. Godwin didn’t seem convinced, either. “Ahem, two duels, Your Grace?”

  Amberley smirked. “As many as it takes, ol’ boy. Now run along, you lot. Won’t be but a moment,” he assured them, then shut the door in the pirate’s frowning face.