However, there was no bloody way he was waiting a week.
Pain ripped through his thigh, radiating down his leg. He gripped his cane, leaning heavily on it, the air rushing from his lungs in one swift exhalation. He was so focused on his forward motion, on causing himself the least amount of pain and injury possible, that he didn’t hear the door to his chamber open until a sardonic voice sounded at his back.
“On the third day, he rose again.”
Kit jolted, turning to find the not-butler glaring at him, unapologetic in his blaspheme. Agony slammed him in the gut, pain so white-hot he nearly cast up his accounts. Instead, he leaned forward, a growl sounding his throat, an oath forced from his lips. “What the hell are you doing in here?”
He was going to kill the bloody bastard with his bare hands. Just as soon as he could walk with a gait that was steadier than a ninety-year-old’s.
The not-butler stared at him with undisguised insolence, seeming to savor Kit’s suffering. “I have come to see what His Grace wishes for breakfast.”
“I gave strict orders that you are not to enter this chamber,” he gritted, making himself take another agonizing step. His leg attempted to buckle and give out. His force of will was stronger. He would not allow it, damn it.
The not-butler’s expression was bland, but the gleam in his eyes spoke to his enjoyment of the situation. “Her Grace requested that I see to you this morning, as she is otherwise occupied.”
That the son-of-a-bitch was still present at Leeds House, upholding the pretense that he was a butler, was solely down to the Duke of Carlisle. He had given his word to Kit that the mountain would stand down, that the mountain—his bastard half brother, if Carlisle was to be believed—was trustworthy and working in some capacity for the League and the Home Office.
But the man’s continued existence at Leeds House wasn’t Kit’s only concern. Each time the not-butler uttered the phrase Her Grace in relation to his wife in that buttery tone that bespoke his undying devotion for her, Kit’s fist longed to connect with the bastard’s teeth.
And knock some of them out.
At least three.
Enough to make him look like an East End costermonger who’d had an unfortunate go with blue ruin and the law.
The thought buoyed his spirits as he took another halting step forward, grimacing when his leg tried to give out once more. He would not fall to his knees before the man who had attempted to slay him, by God. He had survived a French prison camp in his early years with the League during the Franco Prussian War. He could and would survive whatever domestic hostilities befell him. This leg wound was a mere scratch. A tiny impediment on the long road of his life. He would not allow weakness.
His determination was stronger than his body. Always had been. He took another step, recalling now that the not-butler had not only claimed his duchess was otherwise occupied, but that he was intimately aware of her whereabouts when Kit was not.
A growl emerged from him as he moved his injured leg forward. “If you ever touch her again, I will gut you like a fucking fish,” he said conversationally. But he was deadly serious.
He had not wished to wed her, it was true, but he had, and she was his. At some point, he would need to get an heir on her and do his duty to the line, and he would not have his line sullied by a mountain, not-butler bastard. Now that he had returned, he could not deny that the notion of carrying out his obligation held appeal.
All such inclinations were assisted, of course, by her undeniable beauty. And Christ was she riveting. Enough, even, to distract from her unsuitability as his duchess and her disturbing penchant for filling his home with beasts. He had forgotten how magnetic her lure was. How vivid her emerald eyes, particularly when they flashed with anger at him. How glossy and sleek her chestnut mane. How tempting and full her bosom, how narrow her waist, how lush her lips…
Bloody hell. His cock was not twitching to life at such an inopportune time as this, wearing poorly fitted invalid’s trousers, limping his way across his wife’s chamber, in pain, the man who’d been fucking her in his absence watching him with an indolent stare. (No, he did not believe the louse’s protestations to the contrary for an instant.)
“I’ve never touched her at all, Your Grace.” The not-butler stalked toward him. “You do grave insult to the Duchess by suggesting such tripe.”
Yes, of course he would deny an affair. Admitting to it would do him not a speck of good. Hiding their clandestine arrangement, however, meant that the two of them could continue to carry on.
Fucking like March hares. Beneath Kit’s roof. Beneath his nose.
A murderous surge burst through him at the notion of the not-butler kissing his wife’s berry-red lips. Of his massive paw on her creamy throat, of him playing lady’s maid and helping her to disrobe…
Damn it, this vein of thought was not bloody helpful. He forced the resurgence of his inner spy, searching his opponent’s form for a weapon, his gaze trailing down the bulky sod’s black jacket to his jet trousers. No suspicious lumps. But that didn’t mean he hadn’t a blade secreted up a sleeve or hanging at his waist or beneath his trouser leg.
“Do not come a step nearer,” he warned, his tone wrought of ice and iron. “I don’t trust you as far as I can throw you, and while I’m an exceedingly strong bastard, you’re an exceedingly large one. I daresay I couldn’t toss you any farther away than you currently are, which means it is time for you to stop.”
“You’re going to fall.” The not-butler muttered something beneath his breath that sounded suspiciously insulting but nonetheless never halted his stride.
“I’m not going to—” Fuck! The remainder of Kit’s words died as he lost his balance when his injured leg went lame, and he could not compensate with the cane in time to save himself and face both. He pitched forward…
Into a murderous mountain, who caught and steadied him. Who stood on eye level with Kit and stared him down with a ferocity that suggested he was not, nor had he ever previously been, a servant. “Why did you reveal Leprechaun’s identity?” he demanded.
“I did not,” Kit gritted, hating that this behemoth had seen him at his lowest, detesting that he’d needed to accept his aid. He should have been strong enough, determined enough, to continue on his own. It was only his foolish meanderings of thought that had made him vulnerable to losing his balance. His duchess was driving him to distraction, that much was apparent.
And how odd it was that a woman he had regarded as a means to an end, a pretty face to inhabit the role of his duchess, a vault of money to refill his depleted ducal coffers, someone he could leave behind and ignore in his pursuit of ultimate glory with the League…how damned odd it was that she should now be the one who had nursed him to health and yet still undermined him at every literal step of the way.
“I almost believe you.” The not-butler’s voice was bitter, touched by a shade of skepticism.
“Believe me.” Kit met his gaze. “I am a man of my word. Leprechaun’s status amongst the Fenians is what allowed me to infiltrate them with such ease. Why should I want to harm my own bloody informant? What happened in New York was an aberration. I allowed a new source to guide me in the wrong direction, and I have paid the price.” He glanced down at his weak, injured leg for emphasis.
“You were double-crossed, weren’t you?” The not-butler’s eyebrows rose, his voice taking on a new timbre. Understanding? Certainty?
Regardless of the emotion underlying the man’s tone, Kit still didn’t trust him. And yet, he had to admit that the homicidal scoundrel was exhibiting a certain amount of intellect and judgment he would have liked to imagine him incapable of.
Over the last few days as he bided his time in his sickbed, Kit had become convinced that his suspicions were valid. There was no other explanation for what had occurred. Someone had double-crossed him, fed him incorrect information to make him vulnerable. Not just vulnerable, if he were brutally honest. It seemed undeniable that someone had wanted him
dead.
“I told you as much.” He heaved a weary sigh of reluctance. “There was no betrayal, no disloyalty, and I swear on my life that I had no inkling Leprechaun was in the abandoned factory that day. As far as I knew, I was alone until the first shot was fired.”
Ludlow’s expression turned savage. “Leprechaun is like a brother to me. I’ll hunt down whoever is responsible for this and gouge out his sodding eyes.”
No matter how much Kit didn’t want to believe he could have been susceptible to a ruse so simple, it was becoming apparent to him that he had, and that the ubiquitous Leprechaun had as well. That he had been an easy target.
And in that moment, something else occurred to him. Something troubling indeed. “You were assigned to this post by Carlisle, were you not?”
The not-butler inclined his head. “Indeed, I was. Your former butler left his post after my brother offered him sufficient inducement to retire to the countryside. He left with a tale of having inherited a large sum of money from a cousin, enabling him to live his life as he chose. He parted on good terms, recommending a trusted butler as his replacement.”
Damn Carlisle. Part of Kit was furious, but yet another part of him was impressed. The man’s manipulations knew no bounds. “How many days after I’d departed on my mission to New York?” He had to know.
“Three.” The not-butler was focused. His gaze was clear, absent of the omnipresent disdain he had cast in Kit’s direction from the beginning. He paused, his expression twisting, as though he waged an inner struggle. “Hell. I’m not supposed to tell you this, but I respect Her Grace above all else.”
Respect.
Kit’s lip curled. Was that the euphemism now? The man wanted her. Was having her. The notion made him want to retch. Made his blood go cold in his veins. Made his free hand tighten into a fist that tingled with the need to smash through the mountain’s fucking nose.
“She is my wife,” he snarled, feeling inexplicably possessive of her. When had he begun to think of her as his? When had he begun to see her lush mouth and itch to be the one who claimed it? To watch her move about a chamber and imagine his fingers undoing a line of buttons on her bodice, tearing open her corset, freeing her breasts to see if they filled his hands as he suspected they would…
Fucking hell. Perhaps being an invalid had rotted his brain. Why else would he be assailed by such unwanted, unreasonable, unnecessary urges? His sole purpose was to restore his honor and his position in the League. He had married the woman to save the duchy so that he could continue his covert work without the burden of his brother’s staggering debt. He had not married her for her distinctive beauty or her ripe female form.
He stayed that mad course of thought abruptly as his ballocks tightened and his shaft chose that moment to recall he was still a man, pronounced limp and weak body or no. And it really was the devil of a thing to achieve a cockstand when the man who’d attempted to slit his throat—the same man who was fucking the wife he was once more having such ill-timed fantasies about—hovered at his bloody elbow.
Disgust washed over him, quelling the raging lust. (Too long—since long before he’d married the duchess—without bedding a woman. Surely that was the cause. A man’s hand could only suffice for a finite span of time.)
“She’s my wife,” he said again, stupidly, like a lad whose toy had been taken by another. As though he had not been standing there inundated by lustful thoughts about a lady he did not even like. But you can have the troublesome wench, he ought to say. He opened his mouth, but his lips refused to form any other word save one. “Mine.”
Deuced confounding, that.
“I am aware.” The not-butler regarded him with the same searching, icy expression. “Acutely aware. Again, I reveal this to you out of a sense of duty to Her Grace, who is an angel unparalleled on earth.”
Angel unparalleled. Un-bloody believable.
Kit’s knuckles itched. “Spare me the theatrics, Romeo, and tell me what you mean to say.”
“There was a threat against the duchess. Against Her Grace specifically.”
Violence, dark and wild, raged through him. His blood ran cold, and any images he’d been conjuring of beating the man to a bloody pulp dissipated with the ease of an electric light illuminating a darkened chamber. One press of a button was all it took.
His hackles were raised, gooseflesh on his skin, and he was infinitely alert. “A threat?”
The mountain held his gaze. “Someone wants the duchess dead. Carlisle’s sources suggested it was on account of you. My assignment here was necessary, as you were otherwise engaged at the time.”
The bastard made it sound as if Kit had been off plowing his lightskirt in St John’s Wood rather than on the other side of the ocean, putting his life in jeopardy for a highly sensitive mission that involved infiltrating the ranks of the most dangerous and bloodthirsty Fenians in New York City.
His hand gripped the handle of his cane so hard that he swore he’d wear its imprint upon his palm for days. “Tell me everything you know.”
The not-butler exhaled, mouth tightening, the only two tells that the revelation he’d made disturbed him. “I know precious little. Carlisle has his little birds who sing, and he will not reveal them to anyone, not even me. All I do know is that he received information prior to your nuptials that there was a price on her head, and that it would be carried out in the event of your marriage. Carlisle took the threat to pertain to you, and he placed me here so that your mission in New York would go uninterrupted.”
“There is more,” Kit pressed when the man paused, though it was needless, really. He had begun to suspect the ugly truth. Somehow, he needed to hear it. To feel it settle in his bones.
The mountain inclined his head. “There were incidents. Two men. One woman. Some poisoned fruits that made a footman ill before anything tainted ever reached Her Grace. I have warded off each such occasion successfully.”
“These men and woman, what became of them? Were you able to glean any information?” he demanded, knowing that interrogation was a spy’s greatest weapon. If Ludlow was tangentially involved in the League, surely he knew how to extract information…
But the not-butler shook his head, his eyes going hard and flat, and Kit recognized the look all too well before the mountain even confirmed it. “There was not time with any of them. They came in the night, armed, and I did what was necessary.”
Of course. He had protected Kit’s wife, as Kit should have done. As he would have done had he been made aware of the situation. Anger toward his superior officer surged, hard and fierce and bitter. How had Carlisle neglected to tell him that the woman he’d married was in danger? That someone wanted her dead so much that he’d sent a horde of assassins after her? All while Carlisle had blithely sent Kit on a fool’s errand to New York, leaving an innocent behind with only a stranger for protection.
Then again, he had to admit that the not-butler had proven a successful protector if he had dispatched assassins on no less than three separate occasions.
But who would orchestrate such a dastardly deed? Kit was sure that, at least prior to the disaster in New York, his identity had never been compromised. How could anyone have wanted to hurt him? And why would anyone who’d known him—who’d listened to him bemoan his fate of having to wed an American heiress to save his familial estates—think that killing his duchess would impact him?
There was not motivation at all, except…suddenly, an odd contingent in the marriage contract returned to him. The one that stated that if no heirs had been produced and the duchess’s demise occurred within the first year of their union, the remainder of the stupendous dowry his wife’s uncle had wished set aside for her—three hundred thousand pounds, to be precise, along with monies held in trust for her future heirs—would be resettled upon her father.
Comprehension sliced through him, and not a heartbeat later came the accompanying weight of disgust and guilt. “The threat against the duchess doesn’t have anything to
do with the League or me, does it?” he asked the mountain, even though he knew the answer.
Unless he was mistaken, a new light shone in his nemesis’s gaze. “I do not believe it does. Though I have not alerted my brother to the fact, or he would have removed me from my post.”
Leaving Georgiana to be slaughtered. Yes, Carlisle was that heartless of a bastard, and even his own brother did not bother to deny it. Kit stared at the not-butler with new eyes. He could have respected him for his loyalty had not that faithfulness been devoted to Kit’s wife. A wife he had ceased to consider an unwanted liability some time ago, if truth be told.
But precisely when the hell had he begun to think of the woman he’d married by her Christian name? It was somehow more intimate than lusting after her luscious body.
Luscious?
Damnation.
With a sensation of great distaste in his mouth, he forced the not-butler’s name from his lips. “Ludlow.”
“Your Grace?” Though he raised an indolent brow, he was the picture of poised civility.
“The attempts on my wife,” he began, disliking that circumstances necessitated he consult the man who wanted Georgiana for himself regarding her safety. “How recent was the last one?”
Aside from his scar, he could have easily been mistaken for the butler he pretended to be. Until he opened his mouth, of course.
“A month or so before your arrival, Your Grace.” He gave Kit a half smirk that was not at all butlery and certainly not deferential. “Why? Do you fear an assassin will find his way to the chamber where you stay and mistake you for Her Grace before carving up your pretty face? You would be wise to quiver in your coronet, for what comes after is far worse than the initial pain.”
His lip curled. “First, I fear nothing. Second, no one would ever mistake me for a bloody woman. And last, if an assassin should find his way into my chamber, I would be far more concerned for his longevity than mine. By the bye, how did you manage to get your scar, old boy? You never said who carved up your ugly visage.”
Her Deceptive Duke (Wicked Husbands Book 4) Page 8
