But then, what should she expect of an organization who’d use a man as they had her father and let him perish in the cruelest way possible at the hands of an enemy?
“Miss Allenby?” His Grace demanded impatiently.
“I suppose it is no different than one earning one’s reputation from a title one was born with,” she shot back. Elsie rocked back on her heels as all the hatred, pain, and horror this man and his organization had caused consumed her. It eradicated the inherent need to help, the curiosity to meet the once-great leader of the Brethren. All the suffering he knew was deserved. “You are correct. I cannot help you.” Elsie turned to leave. She’d done all that she’d promised she would. She’d met with the gentleman and evaluated him. She owed neither him, nor his brother, nor the Brethren, another blasted thing.
Elsie made it no farther than three steps.
The duke slid himself before her, blocking her path to the door.
Run, poppet… Run…
The warning bells screamed as the past merged with the present, jumbling it all in her mind, melding the Duke of Aubrey’s face with that of another.
Crying out, Elsie let her fist fly.
The duke instantly caught it.
The unexpected human touch, firm yet hot, seared her skin and snapped her from the reverie. Shivers radiated from her hand, tingling up her arm. This hold, also as unrelenting as another’s had been, was yet so very different. There was a gentleness to the grip at odds with the one that haunted her still five years later.
Elsie blinked wildly.
I am safe. I am safe. I am safe.
She let the mantra envelop her in a steadying calm.
She was safe.
Or as safe as one could be in this man’s presence.
The Duke of Aubrey released her.
Elsie brought her shoulders back and braced for an interrogation or chastisement.
After all, one did not lift a finger to a duke, and certainly not the Sovereign.
His Grace spoke. “I have not dismissed you.”
Yet.
That single, unspoken syllable hung there.
And still, the innate understanding she’d always possessed of battle-worn creatures hinted at one who wouldn’t dismiss her. He’d keep her here… regardless of what she wished or didn’t wish.
“You worked alongside your father,” he murmured. And a half-mad laugh gurgled in her throat. Any other nobleman would have railed at her for having dared to lift a hand with even the threat of violence. This gentleman carried on like they merely resumed a pleasant discourse over tea. “Was he a man of some skill?”
Skill enough that he’d been entrusted with the most wounded, broken men in the Brethren. “He was,” she said, her voice thick.
The capacity in which her father had served, however, was a detail she kept close. By his own valuable reminder of moments ago, one should be careful with what information one dispensed. Or mayhap he merely toyed with her. Mayhap this was as much a test as the one they’d put to her late papa, and the Duke of Aubrey well knew who her father was and of what he’d been accused.
Elsie peered at him, searching his breathtakingly chiseled features.
And finding… nothing. No guilt. No understanding. No larger game he played.
And that absolute lack of knowing was somehow worse. It left her bereft and aching. Her father had given of his services, tending men within the Brethren, and this man, their great, fearless, vaunted leader had no recollection.
“And some of those skills have transferred to you, the daughter.”
Elsie didn’t wish to remain here, caring for a dissolute lord who’d lost himself in drink and sorrow. She weighed her response. “That is what your brother presumes.” And pain. He’d lost himself in pain.
Never turn your back on those who are suffering, poppet.
The reminder, given to her by her father with the arrival of each midnight patient, pinged around her mind, sending guilt through her.
“What about you?” His Grace pressed. “What is your assessment of your own abilities?” There was a faint thread underlying his words. One tinged with… hope that the gentleman himself likely couldn’t hear and didn’t know. And she despised with every fiber of her being the heightened attunement her father had called a gift, but now proved very much to be a curse.
Elsie contemplated the doorway, yearning to put the heavy oak panel between her… and this world of treachery and darkness she’d vowed to never again be part of. She briefly closed her eyes, damning the lessons ingrained into her by her father. She opened her eyes and looked up at the towering gentleman. “There is no proper reply I can give to that question.” At his questioning look, Elsie lifted her shoulders in a little shrug. “To proclaim myself my father’s equal in skill”—which would be false in every way—“would mark me conceited, and that level of conceit would diminish any capabilities I might otherwise possess. But to insist none of his talents transferred would suggest I was inadequate.”
He pierced her with his obsidian gaze, that probing stare capable of stealing secrets that he had no right to but would command at a whim if he so wished.
“You are correct,” he said at last, the admission unexpected. “It’s my jaw. I broke it a year ago.”
Elsie waited for him to say more on it, but he shared nothing else. “I… see.” And yet, she didn’t. Questions remained about how he’d sustained the wound, details she’d wager he’d tell her to go to hell if she dared ask about. “I venture your…” Pain. She called the word back. All animals took umbrage with the world witnessing or knowing of their suffering. “…mouth and head are also afflicted by the previous injury.”
A muscle ticked at the corner of his right eye. He gave a tight, infinitesimal nod. “You have three weeks,” he said flatly, striding past her and stopping at the door. “Let us hope you are as skilled as they say, Miss Allenby,” he murmured as he drew the door open.
Gooseflesh climbed along her arms, and as Elsie took her leave, she could not dispel the sense that she’d just made the same deal with the Devil her father had all those years ago.
Chapter 5
Later that night, the house long abed and sleep still his enemy, William sprawled on the too-small-for-his-frame leather button sofa in his office.
This marked the one space that had proven safe this past year, for it was the one place she’d never stepped foot within. He’d given the command, in gentle tones, that she not visit him when he was overseeing matters of business, and she’d simply accepted that directive. Because that was who his late wife had been. She’d been demure and obedient, relegating herself to the cheerful sunlit parlors, where she tended her needlepoint and entertained Society’s leading hostesses.
No, Adeline had been nothing like the spitfire who’d invaded William’s chambers that morning. A woman who couldn’t be bothered with a polite form of address or a curtsy and, had his understanding of her intentions been correct, had wanted nothing to do with overseeing his “care,” as she’d humiliatingly put it.
For the first time in a year, it was not guilt or the memory of a wife whose face was losing its clarity in his mind that occupied his thoughts… but rather, Miss Allenby.
Miss Allenby, whose first name he still did not know.
It felt like a betrayal of sorts, comparing the two and finding the woman he’d loved and promised to care for second in any regard. Because his wife had not possessed the skills most needed to survive. She’d been delicate. A refined lady in every way, such that she’d been horrified on the rare occasions that silverware was slightly askew before a household of guests.
She’d been all golden perfection, and he’d been completely entranced by her beauty. And then he’d courted her, against his own best judgment as the Sovereign. Delicately blushing and given to discourse about mundane matters on which the security of the Crown and its subjects weren’t dependent, she’d been so unlike any other in his world that he’d been bewitched from their first
meeting.
That moment and the subsequent ones to follow with Adeline had been so very much like the first time he, as an eight-year-old boy, had stepped inside The Pot and Pineapple. As a ducal heir whose father was friend to the king, the world had been laid out before him. One morning, a private appointment had been granted whereby William, accompanied by his nursemaid, had received a personal showing and tasting of the exotic wet sweetmeats, ices, and custards. Foreign. Unique. He’d been confused and entranced, at the same time, by each dessert presented.
The selfishness on his part, the taste he’d had and enjoyed of her innocence, had left Adeline vulnerable.
He’d allowed her to live in a fictitious world as though she and William were any other proper lord and lady, when in truth they’d never been that. It had been a secret she’d not been privy to, and she’d not pressed him on details about business or life outside of social events and house décor.
“I believe you mean ‘unfailingly.’ Either way, I’m one who speaks only the truth.”
The lilting, singsong quality of Miss Allenby’s voice had not erased the layer of steel and strength to it, and William had been shockingly enticed by it—and haunted ever since. She’d displayed a mix of authority and womanly softness, a seeming contradiction that had emerged more as an erotic melding.
A knock sounded at the door. Rap-rap-rap.
That one-two-three quick signal of Home Office business.
All enticing thoughts of Miss Allenby faded.
Bloody, bloody hell.
William scrubbed a hand over eyes that were dry from days of sleeplessness.
They would not leave him be. But then, that was what happened when one sold one’s life and soul to the devil. In this case, the devil had proven to be the king himself, and William had traded all in service to that great liege.
What had once filled him with honor and excitement was met with a now familiar annoyance.
The four o’clock hour had long been the hour of the Brethren. It was the time at which members of Polite Society abandoned their inane revelries and sought out their elegant townhouses. Those who did not—the rogues, rakes, and rapscallions—could be found at their clubs, or wandering the streets drunken and unknowing that their very safety and security was owed them by lords who were alert and always working.
Rap-rap-rap.
They’d enter anyway. Oh, they’d put on a display, honoring time-old respect shown a duke. But William’s rank of Sovereign superseded even that.
After one more of those staccato announcements, Stone let himself inside and bowed. “You’ve company, Your Grace.”
Wordlessly, Cedric Bennett, the Delegator of the Brethren, entered. Second only to William in position and power within the organization, Bennett was responsible for evaluating missions and handing assignments out to men best suited. “Your Grace,” he greeted as the other man took his leave and closed the door behind him. A familiar folder in hand, Bennett rooted himself at the door, waiting for the command.
Because that was what their world was based on: rank and orders.
William shoved himself upright, his muscles screaming in protest of the abrupt shift after hours of a prone state.
He strode across the room, taking up a seat at his desk. His desk, once tidy, had over the year become overrun with papers that no servant could touch and that William didn’t care one way or the other about.
Using his action as an invitation, Bennett strode forward, his black cloak whipping angrily about his ankles. He stopped before William’s desk. His gaze crept along first the cluttered space and then the thick growth covering William’s cheeks. The other man’s distaste for both untidy states was reflected in his sneer. “I require your seal,” he finally said, settling himself onto the leather winged chair across from William.
That was one thing William still appreciated about those who served in the Brethren. They did not bother with formalities or pleasantries. All that compelled them in any matter was their business on behalf of the Crown. Even the attempts to find one who’d help rid William of his debilitating pain was driven by the need for William to assume the responsibilities for which he’d taken an oath. His own brother was included in those ranks.
Wordlessly, William tugged open the center desk drawer. His fingers found the clever latch inside in an act made rote for the decade of service he’d served in this role, and it gave way with a quiet click. Fishing out the ink and seal, he set them atop a stack of ledgers.
William continued through the motions. He leaned over, and with the taper held between his thumb and forefinger, he held it above the lamp stand precariously situated at the edge of his desk. He held the wax above the candle, so it barely touched the point of the flame. When it was soft on all sides, he drew his arm back too quickly, and crimson droplets splashed several of his leather folios.
He felt Bennett’s stare taking in every movement. “You’ve no questions about the assignment you’ve just put your seal to?”
“I don’t give a damn.” William turned through the pages written in Bennett’s hand, finding the next place requiring the Brethren seal. He set the page aside where it might cool and continued on to the next.
“You have to give a damn. It is your role.”
“It’s a role I don’t want,” he gritted out.
Bennett abandoned his negligent pose. Uncrossing his knee, the broader man sat forward. “Regardless, the terms are clear. Only death or madness can sever your role.”
Madness.
He let that word roll around his brain.
He’d witnessed all number of men and women reduced to that very state. Miserable souls locked away in Bedlam, destroyed by a disease of their mind.
He was not vastly different from those pitiable bastards, incapable of feeling, caring. Ruled by pain and the reminders of his own failings.
“You are not mad,” Bennett said coolly, correctly following the path William’s thoughts had traversed. With his flinty stare and life-hardened eyes, Bennett would never, ever be mistaken for offering any kind of assurance meant to calm. It was given as a matter-of-fact, from one fixed not on William’s well-being but on his status within the organization. “As such, your role and service… continue.”
A vise clenched, tightened, and squeezed, over and over. This was to be his hell. A prison he could not be free of. A role he could not separate himself from. Instead, he’d be forced to serve at the mercy of a king who honored the time-old history of the Brethren.
Returning to his task, William grabbed the puce and sprinkled the powder upon his marks, lightly blowing on them. “Now get out,” he ordered in gravelly tones when he’d finished.
*
Run, poppet… Run…
Gasping for breath, Elsie sprang up. Her chest moving fast and hard, she struggled with the sheets tangled about her. She did a frantic sweep of the darkened chambers, searching out the one who’d hunted her.
She blinked, struggling to make sense of the surroundings.
A quiet whine cut through her panic. “Bear,” she whispered, solely to hear the sound of her own voice as reality came trickling in. It wasn’t her father’s assailants after her, but rather, a different threat. No less dangerous territory she’d willingly stepped foot into.
Bear rested his enormous head on the edge of her mattress and lapped at her fingers. She immediately stroked the place between his ears until a low rumble of appreciation met her efforts. “What time is it?” she asked her faithful, aging companion.
He nuzzled his wet nose into her palm.
“That’s hardly a response,” she chided. Squinting, she attempted to bring the silver and colorful enamel clock atop the mantel into focus. She blinked several times. “Surely not.”
Not even eighteen minutes had passed since she’d closed her eyes and at last managed to sleep.
Elsie collapsed back into the folds of the feather mattress and stared at the mural overhead, the clouds, trellises, and pink roses vivid enough on
e might actually believe oneself tucked away in a far-flung, forgotten corner of the English countryside.
The sleeplessness that had plagued her these past five years reared its head once more, robbing her of desperately needed rest and leaving her only nightmares and horror-laden memories for company. And when they came, nothing could shake them free.
But here, there were no animals awaiting her care whom she could visit and see to in the dead of night. Nor herb gardens to tend, with the moon illuminating her works and allowing an illusory vision of daylight.
No, there was no hint of English countryside or calming ease to be found in this household.
The Duke of Aubrey’s visage flashed forward.
Elsie shivered, and huddling deeper into the blankets, she allowed herself to think of her patient.
He’d not been as she’d expected.
The man his brother had made him out to be was one bed-bound and physically incapacitated.
The Duke of Aubrey, despite the tangible pain caused by wounds he’d not speak of, possessed an aura of strength. A power that made it too easy for one seeing to his care to fix on. But who was he? This duke who served the secretive division within the Home Office? Those peers, by the very nature of their titles, didn’t see to anything beyond their own comforts and pleasures, and yet, not only had he joined the Brethren, but he served as a leader.
He was a man with secrets, and though he’d insisted she remain and oversee his recovery, Elsie could not manage such a feat unless she knew more about him. And his past and everything that had brought him to this point.
And then she would be free of this place and, God willing, these people and their all-powerful organization.
Her vision now adjusted to the dark, Elsie stole another, clearer glance at the clock.
Four o’clock is when the world sleeps and the sheep cease bleating.
It is the time that birds fall silent and the earth gives way to quiet.
The hour of…
“Peace.” She whispered the nighttime poem her father had murmured to her as a small girl when dark dreams had awakened her. Back when those darkest dreams had been made up only of pretend monsters and imagined demons. Before life had invariably shown her what real nightmares were made of.
Her Duke of Secrets Page 6
