Her Deceptive Duke (Wicked Husbands Book 4)

by Scarlett Scott

  “Of course, thank you.” She inhaled. Exhaled. Attempted to calm herself. “Will he live, Dr. Gage?”

  The doctor raised a brow, his expression impassive. “There comes a time, Your Grace, when even a man of science must acknowledge he cannot be certain of everything.”

  That was decidedly not the reassurance she had sought. “I see.”

  The doctor’s impassive expression softened, sympathy sparkling in the dark depths of his eyes. “Send for me if you need me, Your Grace. For the moment, we have done the very best for your husband that we can do. The next twenty-four hours ought to be a good indicator.”

  Somehow, that did nothing to assuage her worries either. “Thank you, Dr. Gage. Would you be so kind as to examine Lady Philomena before you leave? Ludlow reports she’s lost her appetite.”

  “Of course.” Dr. Gage took up his satchel and made to leave the chamber. “But fret not on that account at least, Your Grace. A marked decrease in hunger is common in female cats in the days prior to birthing their litters.”

  She watched him leave, the door closing with a funereal quietness at his back, leaving her alone with the duke. Dread tightened into a lead ball in her stomach. She did not like Dr. Gage’s careful selection of words, which made it clear that Leeds could die.

  The sneering, swearing, arrogant, beautiful man who had arrived at her door—every bit of him a mystery—who had seemed so vital and alive despite his injury, may not live. Ludlow’s judgment coupled with the doctor’s cautious air made her mouth go drier than a New York sidewalk on a sweltering July day.

  Her eyes sank to her husband’s immobile, pale form. The sedative had rendered him calm. He was no longer bound to the bed, but his large, brawny body seemed so strong even in his stillness, his chest hard and broad, his shoulders delineated by a clavicle and hewn ropes of muscle. Frowning, she moved the bedclothes over him, covering his body from her curious gaze.

  She did not like him, she reminded herself yet again.

  Would never like him.

  Of course she pitied the man, just as she would any stray, injured creature. But unlike a lost dog or a wounded cat, he was no innocent. It was through his own falsehoods that he had earned the wound on his thigh. Through his own foolishness in crossing the Atlantic with a festering wound that he now lay at death’s door.

  All of it was his fault.

  Ruthlessly, she tamped down the unwanted surge of sympathy. She would not feel a modicum of compassion for him. Nor concern. All such tender emotions would be better delivered to her ever growing menagerie of cats, dogs, mice, and the occasional bird.

  And not to forget the baby squirrel.

  Little Sir Nutkin had rather been a surprise, when she had discovered him in the gardens several days ago, trembling and still, having fallen from his mama’s nest. Of course, she had gathered him up and brought him inside, combing the fleas from him herself.

  Georgiana took up a cloth soaking in cool lavender water and rang the excess back into its bowl. She would do her duty to make certain Leeds didn’t die. She would extend to him the same caring she offered any broken creature who arrived at her door. But beyond that, she owed him nothing. Gently, Georgiana laid the cloth on his feverish brow.

  Nothing at all.

  it woke to sunlight streaming between parted window dressings and the scent of lavender, to find himself lying in a pool of his own sweat, sheets stuck to his skin, a fiery throbbing in his thigh, and a most unexpected sight.

  His duchess. Slumped in a chair at his bedside with her head tilted forward so that her chin rested upon her chest, her eyes were closed. The softest rumble of a snore purred from her throat as if she were a tiny, adorable kitten. He wondered then how long she had been at his bedside, how long he had been unconscious and lost to the world.

  Something warm slid through his chest at the thought of his wife dutifully at his side, attending him. A part of her must care for him, he thought, if she had spent the night at his sickbed.

  Then, lucidity once more reclaimed his senses, and he recalled that she had given his chamber over to a pack of bloody dogs. And that she had likely spent the night at his side because there were no other available alternatives save the servants’ quarters. As if on cue, the muffled sound of barking reached his ears.

  Coming from the duke’s apartments. His territory. The barks were distinctive, different, and he counted no less than four. Good Christ, how many bloody dogs were there?

  What was it the mad American wench had said upon his arrival? That his chamber had been turned into the main dog chamber? Main chamber, which suggested that there was more than one.

  With a groan caused as much by the recollection as by pain, he shifted on the bed, attempting to find a more comfortable position. Unfortunately for him, there was no comfortable position to be had when one was weak as a babe, with an arse that had been confined in a bed for far too long and a leg that felt as if it had been fileted by a butcher.

  Memories returned to him, hazy and indistinct. A dark-eyed, dark-haired man. His wife holding a cloth over his face, the realization he’d been tied to a bed. Damn the woman to perdition. He had requested Dr. Shilling, who had attended his father and grandfather before him, and she had brought him instead a sawbones who had been intent on carving him apart.

  Carving.

  Good God.

  He jerked his head up, hand reaching for his leg, praying he would find it intact. Relief washed over him in palpable waves when his gaze lit on the unmistakable shape of his entire limb beneath the bedclothes at the same time as his palm connected with his knee. Not amputated. Thank fuck.

  A light knock sounded at the door, and he slammed his eyes closed as his wife stirred in her chair. Cowardly of him, perhaps, but he was drained, his body humming with pain, and his mind in no condition to battle wits with the woman. There was also the matter of his training, so ingrained in him that it had become a part of his body, not unlike his flesh and bone. The best time for any spy to glean information—even a failed, wounded, double-crossed spy such as himself—was when his subjects believed they were not being overheard.

  He kept his breathing steady, mimicking the deep inhalations of slumber, and listened as the door to his chamber opened and heavy, masculine footfalls made their way across the carpet to his bedside.

  “Your Grace, you need rest,” came the low rumble of a voice he recognized.

  The insolent mountain pretending to be his butler.

  Far too familiar for Kit’s liking. When the hell did a domestic trouble himself with the intimate details of his mistress’s life? Sleep was a private thing, damn it, and though he had never wished to marry his wife, she was still his. He ought to be the one concerned for her wellbeing. Not some impertinent, scarred cutthroat masquerading as a servant.

  His wife issued a quiet sigh. “Do not fret over me, Ludlow. I can sleep very well in this chair, but I thank you for your concern. It really is quite sweet of you, and do not think for a moment that I haven’t noticed all you’ve been doing for Lady Philomena Whiskers. You are a dear heart.”

  Lady Philomena Whiskers. What a bloody ridiculous appellation for a cat.

  You are a dear heart. An even more bloody ridiculous thing to say to one’s butler.

  What in the hell?

  Her soft tone—familiar, warm—nettled some primitive part of Kit. He clenched his jaw, and it took every bit of his willpower to remain still and feign unconsciousness. An unwanted realization emerged, coalescing with the memory of rumors that had reached him all the way in New York concerning his duchess’s comportment.

  Carrying on with rakes, attending scandalous parties, running with a wild set. He had not consummated their marriage. But it was possible—even likely—that others had bedded her in his stead.

  That the bloody butler was fucking his wife. His fingers clenched the bedclothes before he could stop himself from the motion. But he couldn’t help it. He was out of his mind, so weak he was almost delirious, his bod
y feeling as if it had been marched over by an entire regiment of infantry, and his duchess was cooing at the butler as if they were two sweethearts courting.

  “Respectfully, madam,” the butler intoned, “you cannot continue to rest in a chair. I will not allow it. I’ve instructed the footmen to prepare a bed for you in the guest apartment alongside the dog chamber.”

  The mere mention of the dog chamber had him silently fuming.

  “But that is where we’ve been keeping the kittens,” his duchess protested. “I will not have them displaced.”

  “All fifteen have been relocated to the library.” The butler remained unperturbed.

  Fifteen? The library? His bloody library? Filled with growling, clawing, furred things?

  “But someone must attend to the duke,” his duchess protested next. “Dr. Gage was strict in his orders. We are to watch closely for any sign that the infection has returned.”

  “I will sit with him myself, Your Grace.”

  She was silent for a beat. “He has remained unchanged for two days, Ludlow.”

  “His Grace seems…improved today, Your Grace.” There was an underlying quality to the mountain’s voice that gave Kit pause.

  Had the bastard somehow noticed his weakness-induced lack of control?

  “Do you think?” she asked, hesitant hope entering her tone. “I have begun to fear that he will not improve. That he will not wake.”

  The unmistakable ruffle of fabric filled the air, and Kit wondered if they were embracing. Part of him wanted to throw open his eyes and see the evidence before him. Part of him—an odd, heretofore undiscovered part of him—could not bear it.

  “You require rest, Your Grace, if you please,” said the interfering, far-too-familiar butler. “Go now, and try to sleep for a few hours at least. You have my word that I will not move from His Grace’s side until you return.”

  “Ludlow, what would I do without you?”

  Fucking hell. Sickness warred with the rest of his frenzied senses. She was bedding the goddamn butler. He could not be more certain. The urge to retch assaulted him.

  “I suspect you would carry on as you always have, Your Grace.”

  “I am sure you are wrong, for you are undeniably irreplaceable, Ludlow.” Her husky voice had once again taken on a tenderness that irked him. “You will send for me if there is a change?”

  “Of course, Your Grace.”

  “Very good.”

  More rustling ensued. He hoped like hell that it was the sound of his faithless wife rising from her chair to make her exit and not the sound of her embracing the butler.

  To his eternal relief, footsteps and the undeniable swish of a lady’s silken skirts filled the air next, followed by a door closing. She had gone to get some rest then, as her lover had requested. Which meant he was now alone with the bastard who had somehow infiltrated his household and made a cuckold of him all at once.

  He told himself it should not matter if his duchess had found her pleasures outside the constraints of their marriage. When he’d married her, it had been an act of desperation. He had inherited a dukedom he’d never wanted that was lousy with debt. His elder brother Richard had squandered nearly everything in his quest for fast friends, fast horses, and even faster women. And then, one drunken horse race over a lightskirt had ended it all in the form of a broken neck. Kit had been left with no family, no funds, and no choice but to marry the latest American heiress to grace the ton with her papa’s endless coffers.

  He’d married her to save his future, but he’d also married her so that he could continue his work for the Crown. The League was the only part of his life that had ever been truly his own. It was everything, which was why his abject failure in New York left him bitter, shaken, and aimless.

  “Her Grace is gone now.” The butler’s voice was pure ice.

  Damnation.

  He remained still, continuing his feigned sleep-breathing.

  “Do you care to open your eyes and face me, or would you prefer to lie on your back like the bloody cowardly traitor you are? I have not yet killed an invalid, but I would be more than happy to make you the first.”

  Kit went cold. Colder than he had ever been. No one knew he’d been accused of double crossing the League. No one knew he’d been forced to face the ignominy of being sent back to London, discharged from his duty, excommunicated from the brotherhood that had been his entire life.

  No one.

  Except for his superior, the Duke of Carlisle, and the League itself. But the League was a secret division of the Home Office, composed of men who hailed from England’s most elite families, with the blood of dukes running through their veins, and the rude oaf who threatened and accused him in his own home while in his employ could not possibly be a part of the League. He was no duke. He was not even someone Kit had ever seen before.

  Nothing about him was familiar. He was mistaken, he told himself. Delusional after so many days confined to a sickbed, likely drugged with morphine to keep him sedated. How many had his wife said earlier? Two? Yes, he was sure that was the reason. He had misheard, perhaps imagined it, he thought.

  Until he felt the cold edge of a blade at his throat.

  Until he heard the word that would change everything.

  “Leprechaun.”

  He opened his eyes to find the mountain scowling down at him as if he were offal in the streets. “Who the hell are you?” he demanded, his voice hoarse from disuse and illness, not giving a damn about the knife pressed against his neck with enough pressure to nick if he shifted even an inch.

  “The man who’s going to kill you if I don’t like the answers you’re about to give me.”

  The statement was uttered with such unconcerned simplicity that Kit knew his instinct had been correct. This son-of-a-bitch was no butler. But Kit was no ordinary duke, and this was not the first time he’d stared his certain demise in the face.

  He hadn’t blinked then, and nor would he now. “Kill me, then. End this, with your fucking knife in my throat. I assure you that my life, such as it is, could not possibly be worse. Perhaps going to my reward would be a boon.”

  “You have a death wish, Your Grace?” The scarred blighter raised a brow, standing there in his fine black coat. Looking almost like a gentleman.

  He didn’t bother to respond. His mind spun with ways he could extricate from this untenable situation before reminding himself that he may not even have a reason to. His lack of purpose coupled with the wound in his thigh and the infection that had savaged him the past few days left him somewhat apathetic. “Go to hell.”

  “I daresay I will. One day.” The bastard pressed his blade deeper into Kit’s throat. “You first.”

  “What do you know of Leprechaun?” he asked.

  “You betrayed him,” the mountain growled.

  “On the contrary,” Kit countered. “He betrayed me, and that is how I wound up with a bullet in my leg.”

  “And how did you wind up disgraced and returned to London in secret, Your Grace?” his pseudo butler, who knew far too much, demanded.

  He gritted his teeth. “I was double-crossed. Who the hell are you?”

  The man flashed a smile that made the fiendish scar on his cheek twitch. “Ludlow. Your butler. Caretaker of all Her Grace’s creatures. Caretaker of Her Grace.”

  The emphasis on the last statement was a deliberate taunt. Designed to make him lose his calm, to make him reveal more information than he wished. As an experienced interrogator, he recognized the game.

  And still he could not quell the righteous sword of fury plunging through him at the words. At the notion of this beast taking care of his wife. Intimately. Never mind that he had left her on the day of their wedding, departing for his secret and highly volatile assignment in New York. She was still his.

  “You are a liar,” he countered, preoccupied with inventing a ruse so that he could distract the man before wresting the knife from his grasp. “Do me this one small kindness before you end me
, won’t you, Ludlow? Tell me: are you fucking my wife?”

  The rotter snarled. “Tell me about the submarine.”

  The urge to smash his face in rose to the forefront of Kit’s mind, along with questions. How the hell did the bastard know so much?

  The militant faction of Fenians he’d infiltrated in New York City, Irish Americans determined to gain Home Rule for Ireland by means of any outrage possible, had begun building a submarine to be used upon a transatlantic vessel. They intended to wear down English resistance through a campaign of bombs and violence against the innocent. Of particular interest to them had been passenger ships, which, when sunk would lead to the greatest loss of life and suffering. But the submarine’s existence was only known by a select group of men, Kit included.

  He couldn’t be certain how the man had gained his information, and though Kit may have been excommunicated by the League, he would never divulge a bloody thing to anyone. He remained true to his oaths even if the Duke of Carlisle didn’t believe it.

  He sneered. “I’ll tell you what I owe you: nothing.”

  “You’ve got quite a set of ballocks for a disgraced traitor who’s spent the last few days almost on his death bed,” the mountain observed, his tone as grim as his expression.

  Kit met his assailant’s steely gaze. “I could say the same for the man who has been accepting my coin, bedding my wife, and currently holds a knife to my throat.”

  “Bloody twat.” The mountain’s lip curled. “Have you no will to live?”

  He raised a brow, affecting his best devil-may-care attitude when in truth, he was weary to the bone, drowning in pain, and half out of his mind. “If you were going to kill me, you would have done so. Instead, you hoped that threatening me with a show of force would induce me to reveal information to you. Information I will not divulge at any cost. Therefore, it would seem we are at an impasse. But if it would please you to murder the invalid husband of the woman you’ve been fucking, then I shan’t stop you.”