Duke of Storm

by Gaelen Foley

  Dismayed, Maggie lowered her head, while across the grove, the dragoons also seemed to find her unthinking response to the bloodshed quite diverting.

  Some of them were chuckling as they studied her and her family, though one of their number, a sinewy, narrow-faced man with dark brown hair, neatly trimmed side-whiskers, moustache, and goatee, leaned against a carriage, staring at her with a motionless intensity that gave her a chill.

  She almost preferred the other dragoons’ mockery to that man’s watchful detachment.

  She quickly forgot about him, though, when she noticed Bryce headed her way—and, ugh, her suitor did not look amused.

  Maggie braced herself when she saw him marching through the wet grass toward their carriage in high dudgeon.

  “Lady Margaret! A word, please!”

  The spectators paused from getting back into their carriages and turned to look. Hearing his bellow, they realized—no doubt with delight—that the morning’s entertainment was not yet over.

  “Why were you over there talking to him?” Bryce demanded. “That man has no decency!”

  “Because I thought you’d killed him, that’s why!” she burst out, much to her own shock, then quickly reined in her temper. “The surgeon said his wound isn’t serious, if you were wondering,” she coldly informed him.

  “Pity,” said Bryce.

  “My lord!” she said in startled reproach.

  “What?”

  She shook her head, speechless.

  First, her suitor had made a fool of himself, accusing Amberley without proof. Then he’d shot the man and refused to acknowledge—despite the expertly placed hole in his hat—that he had been deliberately spared by a superior marksman.

  After all, that bullet could have easily been placed two inches lower and dropped him dead to the ground like a mallard in hunting season.

  But did he show the slightest gratitude?

  Of course not. On the contrary. Unaware that she was the one who had bargained to procure his continued existence, now the little coxcomb dared to come over here and scold her.

  “Well?” he demanded.

  “You, sir, are quite beyond the pale.”

  Bryce frowned at her. “Me? What did I do?”

  Unable to stomach another minute of his company, Maggie simply held up her hand, shook her head, and climbed back into the coach.

  “What’s wrong with her?” Bryce asked Delia.

  “Who knows,” said her sister with a shrug.

  Edward was distressed. “I should never have allowed you two to come here. Obviously, such things are too upsetting for a young lady’s sensibilities,” he said stiffly. “Now, if you don’t mind, I daresay my sister-in-law does not wish to speak with you any further at the moment, ol’ boy.”

  “Women,” said Bryce.

  “La, she’s always been temperamental. Moody,” said Delia, clearly unfazed by the bloodshed. “That was quite something, though! Lucky you came out of it unscathed. You were very brave.”

  “Why thank you, Lady Birdwell…”

  As Bryce chatted with her sister for another moment or two, Maggie stared out the opposite window, facing away from the grove.

  She shook her head, furious in ways she could not even put into words.

  The worst part was her grim new understanding of her suitor’s nature. Perhaps she had known all along. But after this whole obnoxious display, she could no longer ignore it.

  All of a sudden, out of nowhere, she wanted nothing more to do with him, ever. She did not give one fig in that moment if she never even spoke to him again.

  Maybe this anger would pass, but she did not see how she could possibly marry such a vain, reckless fool. Her heart sank as she realized there was no point in pretending.

  Their courtship was over.

  * * *

  As a garish red sunrise crept across the grove, Seth Darrow leaned watchfully against a friend’s carriage, camouflaging himself amongst his fellow dragoons.

  His heart still pounded from his fleeting, bloodthirsty hope that the pampered rakehell, Bryce, might get rid of his problem for him, without Seth having to lift a finger this time.

  But no such luck.

  Word swept around the grove that it was just a flesh wound—that the bullet had only grazed the duke. Once again, Amberley Number Four had proven irritatingly hard to kill.

  Seth gritted his teeth. Damn.

  His mates from the regiment seemed relieved by the news. A few decided to go over and congratulate the major on his fine shooting.

  Seth declined to join them. It was enough of a risk just being here.

  They had all been out drinking last night at the Officers’ Club when news had arrived that some marquess’s son called Lord Bryce had just challenged the Duke of Amberley to a duel.

  Since some in the club had heard stories of the major and his supposed prowess, many had jumped at the chance to see “the legend” in action.

  Everyone was sure he would murder Lord Bryce.

  Seth had never heard these tales himself, but he certainly wished he had before he’d tried attacking the savage on those docks.

  From what they had said at the club, the reason not everyone knew about it was because he had served in intelligence.

  Bloody hell, Seth had thought, hearing this.

  In any case, he had joined his companions so he might observe his enemy unnoticed.

  But while his mates were firmly on the side of their fellow veteran, he, for one, throbbed with unholy hope that Bryce would shoot the Irish son of a bitch in the heart. Drop the bleeder like a stone.

  For his part, Seth had failed twice now to expunge the last Duke of Amberley from the face of the earth.

  Indeed, the first time, the bastard had nearly killed him. It had taken weeks for his broken nose and sprained wrist to heal after that debacle on the docks.

  In hindsight, it was abundantly clear that he’d made the near-fatal mistake of underestimating his enemy. But that night, to be sure, he’d learned his lesson.

  Namely, that Duke Number Four was nothing like his weakling forebears.

  Those three had been easily dispatched. For Number One, a pillow over the face had sufficed. He was old. It was easy. For Seth, a matter of choosing his timing and picking a lock.

  Duke Number Two really should have been more careful when out taking his daily constitutional. An older gent really ought to watch his footing, maybe use a walking stick so he wouldn’t lose his balance near those high precipices around the West Country…

  Most unfortunate, and him so well regarded by his parishioners.

  Yes, Duke Number Two had enjoyed wandering out across the moors, and finishing his daily walks with a meditative visit to that soaring promontory on the edge of his estate, overlooking a wild river in a deep, rocky gully.

  No doubt the vicar-duke had felt inspired there, thinking his deep thoughts and praying his holy prayers.

  Seth had soon sent him on to his eternal glory. He still smiled in amusement to recall the yelp the vicar-duke made when he’d been shoved off the cliff.

  Rupert’s son, Duke Number Three, called Richard, had taken nothing but a bit of tinkering with the axle of his dainty curricle to bring him low.

  Ah, Richard. Bryce’s friend. Spoiled young hellion, with his flawless clothes and perfect hair.

  He seemed to enjoy being naughty as much as his father, the reverend, had striven to be virtuous. Between a few turns of Seth’s stealthy wrench and his own wayward habits, Amberley Number Three had practically killed himself, which had been convenient.

  But now came Number Four, and for the life of him, Seth could not figure out how to get to the mean, giant bastard.

  He might as well try smashing Gibraltar.

  Worse, if he was honest, this Amberley had rather shaken Seth’s nerve after their first meeting.

  He still could not comprehend how the duke had so fully trounced him. The whole experience had been humiliating, not to mention painful.<
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  But the task of killing him remained Seth’s duty. After all, his younger brother was still dead, and Father was still disgusted that it was he who lived on, instead of his darling Francis.

  Seth still wasn’t sure how to do the thing, and after two failures, he was in no hurry to risk a third. The third time simply had to be the charm.

  After receiving the thrashing of his life from the duke, unable to use his weapon hand properly, Seth had begrudgingly resorted to the woman’s weapon: poison.

  Of that, he was not proud. If his regiment ever found out, they’d shun him for certain. But not even that had gone as planned. The duke’s fat, loud hog of a friend had gobbled down the dish meant for Amberley.

  Both failures had only managed to put the blackguard on his guard.

  So here he was, and frankly, Seth had no idea what to try next… Until the moment the lovely little debutante had sprinted across the grove to the duke’s side, her face stamped with panic.

  Well, well, he’d thought as he’d watched her skid to a halt and anxiously ask how serious the wound was. What have we here?

  Does His Grace have himself a sweetheart?

  Seth had stared, observing the whole scene with hawklike intensity, while his friends had chuckled at her reaction.

  Neophytes who had never seen violence before could have all kinds of unexpected responses to their first look at bloodshed. Hell, they’d all been there. They’d seen it in countless new recruits.

  Some fainted the first time they witnessed a man being shot in front of them. Others threw up; many fled, some froze like frightened rabbits, a few counterattacked, but a fair number rushed to the side of the wounded to see if they could help.

  This chit must be one of the latter sort, Seth mused as he watched with all due vigilance.

  Then Bryce boomed at “Lady Margaret” to get away from the duke, and Seth realized it was the curly-headed fop who was her suitor, not the major.

  His fellow dragoons also figured this out. They began laughing.

  “Aha, now I see why he spared him!” they said.

  “Hell, I wouldn’t have the heart to make that angel cry.”

  “Bryce is courting her?”

  “Looks that way. Sweet little thing. Wasted on that ponce, you ask me.”

  “Maybe the major will steal her away from him,” one of his friends jested.

  “Maybe I will,” another replied.

  “Not with that face, mate. You’ll need a dukedom first.”

  “What? Your mother didn’t mind my face when she was riding it last night.”

  “Fuck off, you’re disgusting.”

  Halfhearted punches were traded, and then, amid laughter, questions exchanged about where to eat breakfast, “speaking of eating.”

  Seth ignored the soldierly banter, watching the girl.

  His stare tracked her like a prey as she returned to the couple she’d come with. He’d elbowed one of his mates. “Who are those people?”

  “Ah, that’s Lady Birdwell and her husband, the marquess. Good chap.”

  “And the girl?”

  His friend shrugged. “I believe that’s Her Ladyship’s unmarried younger sister.”

  “I see,” Seth replied.

  He knew then that he’d keep an eye on her, this Lady Margaret, for he’d seen the soft way that Amberley had smiled at the girl.

  And everybody knew that even a legend had an Achilles’ heel.

  CHAPTER 8

  Pay the Piper

  Connor awoke hours later in the small, ordinary bedchamber he’d chosen for himself on the third floor of the mansion, at least until he got used to this place.

  The master suite was opulent beyond belief. He’d never fall asleep in there. But this simple room reminded him of his chamber back at his seaside cottage in Ireland, though he sorely missed the view and the sound of the ocean.

  Lying motionless, his eyes still stubbornly closed, he could admit that at least the four-poster bed was fairly comfortable.

  He did his best to continue dozing, ignoring as best he could the clatter of carriages passing on the street below, the barking of a dog somewhere in the neighborhood.

  But it was no use. His side hurt. His head ached, too, from the whiskey he’d drunk to chase away the pain of the gunshot wound—and his disgust with his entire situation.

  Peacetime.

  He couldn’t believe he had been shot. He’d truly thought that part of his life was over, that there’d be no more bullet holes in him, that he’d never have to fight again. Swords into ploughshares.

  Pipe dream.

  Ah well. Food would help his headache. But more than the torn flesh at his side, his pride stung from those little bastards’ mockery of him, Bryce’s friends. His fists curled at his sides when he thought of their jeering.

  He’d like to call out every last damn one of them and teach the surly whelps some respect.

  But beneath his ire, the truth was, he was just so damned disappointed.

  He was a simple man, really. He didn’t need any of this, and with the war’s end, all he’d wanted was a chance to be happy.

  Inheriting the dukedom had struck him as the most hilarious windfall raining down on him like a leprechaun’s gold. Rank, power, wealth beyond imagining. Happy? Hell, he should’ve been ecstatic.

  Except that everybody here seemed to hate him before he ever opened his mouth. Well, perhaps that was a wee exaggeration, for plenty of ladies here seemed eager to give him a go. He’d seen them ogling him.

  But twenty paces at dawn against the likes of Lord Bryce had made it quite clear that he would never be accepted here, and since it was all down to his Irish blood, there was not a thing that he could do about it.

  Aye, not a thing he wanted to do about it, either. If they didn’t like it, let them go hang. The Irish were good enough to go and fight for England, eh? The cannon-fodder boys who relished a fight, they and their fellow tribe, the Scots.

  God forbid the purebred English should get their own hands dirty when it could be avoided.

  But these were dangerous thoughts.

  Opening his bleary eyes at last, Connor stared at one of the posts at the foot of the bed. Feeling too lazy to get up and check the clock, he wondered if he could use it as a sundial to guess the time.

  The duel had cost him a good night’s sleep. Judging by the sunshine trying to get in around the edges of the curtains, he supposed it must be nearly noon.

  Was that damn dog ever going to stop barking?

  He shut his eyes again, annoyed.

  It was hard enough getting used to civilian life again. Now with his radical change in circumstances, he felt like he didn’t belong anywhere.

  At least a gunshot wound was familiar, though.

  With wry pleasure, he imagined the thing going differently at dawn if he had not listened to Lady Margaret Winthrop.

  He pondered the far more pleasant subject of the girl for a moment, she of the lovely ankles. A roguish smile tugged at his lips.

  The thought of her helped him cast aside his torpor. It was time to go collect on their bargain.

  Taking a deep breath, he sat up, still dressed in his linen long drawers, held up by suspenders.

  The bandaging around his waist hugged him like a tubby gent’s corset.

  Whispering a curse at the pang when he sat up, Connor glanced down at it. A copper stain of blood marred its ivory expanse, but it wasn’t fresh.

  The stuffy room stank of sleep, mingled with the astringent odor of the comfrey salve Nestor had given him to smear over his stitches.

  Head pounding, Connor wanted to eat, to bathe—though getting a wound wet was always tricky. He also needed a shave, he noticed, glimpsing his jaw’s dark scruff in the mirror.

  But first, he went to the window, pushed the curtains aside, and opened the sash, letting the fresh air in.

  The cool breeze waving into the room helped bring him fully to awareness.

  He began removing his band
age, sauntering over toward the chest of drawers as he unwound it from his waist. He wanted to see how the injury was looking. As he put the length of linen on the chest of drawers and peered down at his side, he found the skin still inflamed around the stitches, but that was to be expected, he knew from long experience.

  Just then, Will came racing into his room, barely bothering to knock. “Major, Major!” The skinny lad skidded to a halt over the hardwood floor. “Oh, good, you’re up.”

  “Morning,” Connor said serenely, pouring water from the pitcher into the white washbasin.

  “Noon’s more like it, sir,” Will said, striding in.

  “Ah. Well, what are you on about, then?”

  “This!” Will marched toward him holding up a small, leather-bound book. “Remember how you told me and Nestor to search your cousin’s room again for any clues?”

  “Did you find something?”

  “His diary! We just discovered it a few minutes ago. It was wedged in a secret compartment built into the underside of that big canopy bed. I didn’t mean to read about your cousin’s private business, sir, but I wasn’t sure what it was, so I looked at a few pages.”

  “Ah, no matter, Will. He won’t mind at this point. Give it here.”

  “Yes, sir. Take a look at the last entry.” Will handed the book to Connor, who quickly dried his hands, having barely had a chance to splash his face. “Duke Richard was scared, sir. Seems he had suspicions, just like you, about the other dukes’ deaths. It seems like he started investigating it.”

  “Hmm.” While Connor flipped through the neatly scrawled pages his dead cousin had penned—well, first cousin once removed, actually—Will marched back to the doorway and bellowed: “Nestor, he’s up!”

  Connor scanned the page in fascination, reading what the Third Duke had written:

  First Grandfather, and now Papa both dying within six months of each other? This cannot be a coincidence. I feel it in my bones that some unseen enemy wishes the destruction of my lineage, and I live in dread that if I cannot stop them soon, I may be next.