Murder in Mayfair

by D. M. Quincy

  “I don’t see why.”

  “For coming to Roslyn’s rescue when she was alone and subject to the whims of that vile husband of hers.”

  “I did what any gentleman would do in the same situation.”

  The duke’s face flushed. “When I think of how she suffered, how she felt she could not come to me . . .”

  “Both of you were practically children when she left. The only person to blame here is Eggleston.”

  The duke settled heavily into the chair Charlton had just abandoned. “About that.”

  “The duel goes forward,” he said. “The bastard deserves to have his day of reckoning.”

  “I agree. But I am Roslyn’s brother—I am the man who should have the privilege of protecting her honor. Even if I am a little late in taking up that duty.”

  “That’s ridiculous. You’re a duke, and I’m an entirely disposable fourth son. Besides, you have no heir as of yet.”

  “An heir?” he said wryly. “You comprehend enough about me to know it is unlikely that I will ever beget a son.”

  Atlas lapsed into silence for a moment. It had not occurred to him that Somerville only bedded men. “I suspect others in your situation have managed it before.”

  “It is dishonest.” His mouth twisted with distaste. “I could not do that to any woman I respected enough to take to wife.”

  “I would think there are many women willing to tolerate such an arrangement in exchange for the opportunity to be your duchess.”

  Somerville gave him a pointed look. “And why would I want such a woman to be the mother of my children?”

  “Charlton mentioned recently that you intended to take a wife in a year or so. Was that designed to keep the gossips at bay?”

  “In part. I used to think I would eventually marry, but that was before I met Kirby. Now I know I could not do that to him.”

  The frank admission startled Atlas, who still found the notion of romantic love between two men to be extraordinary. “You care for Nash.”

  “That surprises you?” The duke’s brows rose. “You think our kind isn’t capable of true attachment?”

  “What of the artist you’ve put up in the house in Kensington?” he asked with genuine curiosity. “Everyone presumes she is your mistress.”

  Somerville shrugged. “I have never lied about Marian. I am a patron of the arts who admires and supports her work. It is not my concern if society chooses to attach an unsavory taint to our association.”

  “One that happens to protect your reputation.”

  “Nash and I . . . since I met him sixteen months ago . . . there have been no others.” Atlas rubbed his chin, still attempting to comprehend the full extent of Somerville’s unusual attachment to Nash. He wondered whether the duke loved his paramour enough to kill for him.

  “In any case,” Somerville continued, “it is my place to defend my sister’s honor.”

  “Lilliana and the boys have little enough family as it is. It would destroy your sister if she were to lose you in a duel fought over her.”

  Somerville cocked his head. “What are you to my sister that you would risk your life to protect her honor?”

  Atlas came to his feet. “As I said, I am merely acting as any gentleman would. I am famished.” He headed toward the dining room. “Deal with your former guardian how you see fit, but I do not intend to withdraw my challenge.”

  * * *

  That evening, Atlas drew a lungful of air through the hookah hose and exhaled long and slow, watching as the sweet, redolent smoke swirled into the air. Fresh from a hot bath, he’d slipped into a comfortable burgundy silk banyan he’d picked up in Lyon years before. After dismissing Jamie for the evening, he’d settled into a stuffed chair with his thoughts.

  Lilliana, the daughter of a duke. It made perfect sense once he considered the proud way she carried herself or the manner in which she could spear a man with a look when she was displeased. Of course she was highborn. He’d suspected it from the first, only he’d never imagined how lofty that birth might be. An insistent rap at the door interrupted his musings.

  “Who the devil?” Setting down the hookah hose, he pushed out of his chair and paddled barefoot through the front hall, wondering who could be calling at this late hour. As he pulled the door open, the rich scent of tobacco drifted up the stairs from the shop down below.

  A feminine figure cloaked in black stood on the landing. Although a hooded cape cast her face in shadows, he immediately recognized his visitor.

  “What are you doing here?” he hissed, pulling her into his front hall and closing the door behind her. “What if someone sees you?”

  Lilliana threw back the hood in a defiant gesture, revealing her face and flashing golden-copper eyes. “Then so be it.” Despite the bold words, her bravado seemed to falter slightly when she registered his state of complete dishabille. Her gaze widened as it swept from the scowl on his face to the open neck of his dressing gown that exposed part of his chest, then down to his bare feet.

  He tugged his banyan more tightly around him, a poor attempt to make himself decent in the presence of a lady. “This is the home of a bachelor. You should not be here.”

  Her nostrils flared. “And you should not be contemplating meeting Eggleston at Hampstead Heath.”

  Ah, so that is why she’d come. “It is a matter of honor,” he said, leading the way into his sitting room. He watched her take in the room’s bright colors. Her survey paused momentarily to rest on the lit coals glowing in a little round saucer perched at the top of his hookah.

  “If you’ve come to try to dissuade me,” he said, “you have risked your reputation for naught.”

  “Someone needs to talk some sense into you.” She pulled off her cape and draped it over one of his stuffed chairs. “It seems my brother and your sister both failed.”

  “This is a matter between gentlemen.”

  “Don’t do that. Don’t you dare pretend this has nothing to do with me.” Emotion clogged her voice. “I grow tired of men telling me I don’t have a say about what goes on around me. This has everything to do with me. Pray do not insult me by telling me not to worry my pretty little head about it.” She stopped, seeming surprised by her own outburst, and he watched as she drew a deep breath to gather herself.

  “Lilliana . . . or should I call you Lady Roslyn now?”

  “It won’t make a whit of difference what you call me if something happens to you.” She crossed her arms tight across her chest. “This compulsion of yours to rescue women in distress has gone too far. I will not have your blood on my hands.”

  His jaw went rigid. “I would not wish that upon anyone,” he said softly. “It is a terrible burden to feel responsible for someone’s death.”

  “Do you—? Whose?” She could barely form the question.

  He forced the words out. “I had a sister once who was badly used by her husband.”

  “Phoebe.”

  “Yes.” He tried to ignore the pain coiling in his chest like a cobra readying to strike. “He abused her badly, and she did not survive it.”

  Her breath caught. “Surely, you cannot mean—?”

  “That he killed her? I believe so, yes, but it was ruled an accident.”

  “I am sorry.”

  He avoided looking at her. “I was in the house when it happened. I had been staying with them.” His hands gripped the back of the chair, his fingers white from the exertion. “I did not protect her, my own sister.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “Phoebe died in eighty-eight.”

  “Eighty-eight?” He could see her adding up the years. “That’s twenty-one years ago. You were how old?”

  “I was eleven. Phoebe was three-and-twenty and my parents’ firstborn. They were never the same after she died.”

  “You were eleven, just a boy. No one would have expected you to defend your sister against a grown man.”

  “They were arguing. I tried to stay in my bedchamber whe
never he yelled at her. And then there was a terrible silence. I’ll never forget it.” He swallowed, his throat aching. “She’d fallen down the stairs. Her body was twisted in such an unnatural way that I knew she was gone.”

  “How awful.” She put a hand to her throat. “For a young boy to witness such a thing.”

  “Vessey, her husband, was at the top of the stairs looking down at her. When he saw me, he claimed that she’d fallen, that she was stupid and clumsy, but I knew he had pushed her. And he knew that I knew and that I wouldn’t do anything about it.”

  “You couldn’t do anything about it because you were just a boy.” She grabbed his arm, as though tugging on it would shake some sense into him. “Meeting Eggleston at dawn will not right the injustice done to your sister.”

  “No, but it will avenge the wrong done to you.”

  “I have survived what Eggleston did to me. I am not like Phoebe. I am alive, and I intend to live a full life. A happy life with my children. But I cannot do so if something happens to you.”

  He pressed a hand against the amulet hanging from the chain around his neck. It felt cool against his skin. “In Carthage, they believe this will protect me against harm.”

  She blinked, looking at the hand-shaped amulet with an eye at the center of its palm. “What is it?”

  “It’s called a hamsa. Carthaginians believe it protects against the evil eye.”

  “I don’t even know where that is.” She took a deep breath and then released it. “All I know is that in England, being on the receiving end of a pistol can result in death. I wouldn’t be able to bear it. Please don’t go through with the duel.”

  He winced at the sight of a single tear rolling down her smooth cheek. He moved closer and cradled her jaw in his hand, using the callused pad of his thumb to swipe away the tear. “Shhh, Lily, all will be well.”

  “Avenging me, however gallant, will not bring your sister back.” Her voice trembled. “Nor will it right the wrong that was done to her. But you could get yourself killed—” Her voice broke.

  “Don’t cry.” He drew her into his embrace. She was soft and warm against him. “Please.”

  She surprised him by wrapping her arms around his waist and laying her head against his partially bare chest. He inhaled the scent of her. Jasmine and cloves. “I am safe and reunited with my brother. He plans to cast Eggleston out. It is enough.” She pulled back and stared into his eyes. “Please let it be. For me.”

  “Lily.” He lowered his face and touched his lips to hers. He brushed his mouth against hers once, then twice, and she surprised him again by parting her lips. He kissed her sweetly, gentling the passion he felt for her.

  She wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed herself closer to him. He widened his mouth over hers, deepening the kiss, brushing his tongue against hers. Stunned by the sensation and need swamping his body, he pulled away before he lost his mind and dragged her off to his bedchamber. “Very well.” His voice was hoarse. “You win.”

  Her delicate cheeks were flushed with color, her breaths coming short and quick. “I do?”

  “Yes, I will allow Charlton to negotiate a way for Eggleston to decline.”

  She put a hand on his arm. “Thank you.”

  He moved away. “You have what you came for.” He put his back to her. “You should leave now before we do something we both will regret later.”

  “I’m not certain I would regret it,” she said softly.

  His entire body stiffened. He forced himself not to turn around. “Nor I.” The words were gentle. “Please go now. I gather you have someone outside waiting to take you back to Thea’s.”

  “Yes, her coachman.” He turned back to her as she reached for her cape. He helped her put it on. “Lily,” she said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You asked what you should call me.” She smiled, and he felt it in his gut. “No one has ever called me Lily, but I should like for you to when we are in private.”

  He walked her to the door, certain he would never be alone with her again, but he did not say so. “Good evening, Lily.” He opened the door and gently ushered her out, closing the door behind her with a gentle click.

  He listened to the soft tread of her footsteps as she went down the stairs, then crossed over to the window overlooking the street in time to see Thea’s coachman help her into the carriage. While he watched, she paused for a moment to look up toward his window over the tobacconist’s shop. His heart beating quickly, he stepped away and stayed out of view until he heard the carriage pull away.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  “Atlas. There you are.” Charlton stood in shirtsleeves behind the massive desk in his study. The room was decorated in soft wood tones and massive stuffed furniture—the creature comforts the earl so enjoyed. “I’m almost done here.”

  “Done with what?”

  “Cleaning the dueling pistols ahead of your dawn engagement with Eggleston.” He held one pistol up, examining the walnut and brass design with its delicate inlays of brass wire. “You need to test its weight, to become accustomed to the feel of the weapon against your palm.”

  Atlas exhaled heavily through his nostrils. “That won’t be necessary.”

  Charlton selected a rod from the mahogany gun box lined with red velvet and inserted it into the pistol’s long barrel. “What won’t be necessary?”

  “The dueling pistols.” He had difficulty forcing the next words out. “As my second, I want you to seek a reconciliation.”

  “A reconciliation?” Charlton’s attention shifted from the Holster pistol to Atlas’s face. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You heard me,” Atlas said gruffly. He paced away, his blood boiling at the idea of allowing Eggleston to escape retribution.

  “Yes, but there must be a problem with my ears because I cannot believe what I am hearing.” He replaced the pistol in its mahogany box. “Just yesterday, you said nothing would stop you from shooting the man.”

  “I said nothing would stop me from satisfying my honor,” he corrected.

  Charlton reached for a linen cloth on the desk and wiped his hands. “Which in this case meant shooting Eggleston between the eyes.”

  “It is a second’s role to attempt a reconciliation,” Atlas said tightly. “I am authorizing you to do so.”

  Charlton studied him with his head tilted to the side. “And what, may I ask, brought on this sudden attack of equanimity?”

  He avoided his friend’s gaze. “Cooler heads have prevailed.”

  “Your temper never cools on its own. I wonder who has wrought this miraculous change on you when Somerville, Thea, and I all failed.”

  “Must you talk so much?” Atlas said irritably.

  “Yes, I rather think that I must.” Charlton smirked. “I can think of only one person who might be able to influence you away from doing violence to Eggleston.”

  There was no use in denying Lilliana’s role. “Mrs. Warwick convinced me a duel would be ill-advised.” Regret swamped him for having given her his word to stop the duel. But once he’d lost himself to the sweet press of her mouth and once he’d tasted passion from her lips, he’d have done anything at all for her. He’d have run naked through Mayfair if she’d asked.

  He’d overstepped with the kiss. Although it had been a mistake, he did not regret it. Now that he knew who she really was—a duke’s daughter so far above his touch that it was laughable—he did not expect to enjoy any further intimacies with her, especially with her brother already taking steps to restore her to her rightful place in society.

  The West End was buzzing with news that the Duke of Somerville not only had thrown his former guardian out on his arse but had also given him the cut direct. Eggleston was ruined. No one in decent society would accept him after his very public and very dramatic falling out with the powerful Duke of Somerville.

  “The lovely Mrs. Warwick convinced you, did she?” He could hear the laughter in Charlton’s voice. “I will not ask wh
at means of persuasion she employed.”

  “Watch yourself.” Atlas gritted his teeth. “You are speaking of a lady.”

  “And well I know it,” he said lightly. “And you are a healthy young man.”

  Atlas struggled to keep his temper under control. “You’ve had your fun, Charlton. Perhaps now you can trouble yourself to arrange a meeting with Eggleston’s second.”

  “You are in luck, my friend.” Charlton closed and latched the gun box. “They are in the drawing room awaiting our pleasure. I sent a note around to Bond Street not an hour ago.”

  “I did not receive it.”

  “Possibly because you came here of your own volition before my missive arrived at your apartments.”

  “What are we waiting for?” Atlas strode for the door. “Let’s get this disagreeable business over with.”

  When they reached the drawing room, they found a pinch-faced Eggleston standing by the window, playing with the gold ring on his fourth finger, repeatedly sliding it up and then back into place. His second, Guy Blackwood, with whom Atlas was only slightly acquainted, sat in one of Charlton’s straight-backed green velvet chairs.

  Blackwood rose and greeted them when they entered. All four men took their seats, Eggleston and Blackwood sitting across from Atlas and Charlton. A pale, perspiring Eggleston continued to fiddle with his ring. It was a swivel bezel ring, with an optional alternate design facing down on the finger, which could be turned upward to provide a different look.

  Impotent rage swamped Atlas. He clamped down hard on his chair’s armrests, battling the urge to launch himself at the whoreson and pummel him senseless.

  Blackwood spoke first. “It is my hope that we can settle this unfortunate matter with an apology.”

  “Mr. Catesby is amenable to that,” Charlton said.

  Eggleston’s head shot up. “He is?”

  The earl didn’t spare a glance for Eggleston. He kept his focus on Blackwood. “Tempers have settled, and Mr. Catesby will accept an apology. However, he has a condition.”

  “And what is that?” Blackwood asked.

  “Eggleston is to leave London, completely withdraw from society, and never return. If he agrees, Mr. Catesby will consider this matter settled.”