Exiled Duke: An Exile Novel

by K. J. Jackson

  Dreading how Strider would hate her after this. But he had to know. Above everything, above how she wanted him—loved him now in ways she never knew she could—this was more important.

  More important than her own fear. More important than his anger.

  Strider had held up his side of the bargain. He’d brought her to her family. Now it was time to return on the promise she’d made.

  One knock and the door opened, Strider stepping into the room with a smile on his face. “Are you ready? The driver has already been waiting an inordinate amount of time this morning for us to finish all that we needed to get in.” He looked to the bed, the grin on his face turning lascivious. “He doesn’t know if we’ll get back to Lo—”

  He stopped in the middle of the room, his stare suddenly locked on her, the smile instantly vanishing from his face. “Pen, what is it?”

  Her mouth opened, nonsensical words blurting out. “Mama June, I think that’s why she did this.” Her right hand clutching the letter waved in front of her belly.

  His eyebrows drew inward. “My mother did what?”

  “This letter. I think she was trying to protect you, so she set this letter into the pocket under my skirt.” Her words tumbled out fast. “Do you remember the pocket she had sewn under my dress—the one that held all the seashells that we always collected? She was tired of all the sand buried into my skirt when I used to just pull up the edges and make a pouch to collect them, so she sewed me that special pocket to put the shells into. At the bottom of my skirt, do you remember?”

  “What are you talking about, Pen?”

  “I had the pocket. I had the secret spot, so she used it.”

  “Pen?” His head slowly shook, to the left, to the right.

  She knew she wasn’t making sense, but there was so much she needed to explain. She forged forth, the words crashing together, landing on top of each other. “Do you remember when the fire started? It was dark, but we hadn’t changed out of our clothes for bedtime because we had been up so late with Mama June on the pianoforte and we just fell asleep in our rooms in our clothes. Then there was the smoke and we were scared and Mama June showed up in our rooms and pulled us out of there.”

  “Yes. I remember.” His fingers twitched like he was about to lift them to calm a person that had drifted into madness.

  Both of her hands went to the letter, clutching it across her belly. “I had my dress on and I saw your father in their room as your mother dragged us out of the house. He had blood all over his chest. He was half on their bed. Half off.”

  Strider stilled, an instant statue. “You saw that too? You never said anything.”

  “You never said anything about it either, Strider. And I never wanted to talk about it—how he looked with the blood. And it was on his face and his eyes were open but not seeing anything. You never said anything and I started to think I made it up in my mind. Made it up because of the horror of that night.”

  He swallowed, the line of his jaw flexing. “I saw it.”

  “It scared me more than the fire. More than anything. Why he was like that. Why he wasn’t the one carrying us out of the house.”

  “I remember.”

  “I didn’t know what to do other than to hide this. Hide this from you after I found it. I didn’t know what to do—not with what happened to your father. Where all that blood came from. I didn’t know.”

  Strider took one step toward her, his right arm lifting waist high, his fingers splayed wide. “What’s in the letter, Pen?”

  “Mama June put it in my pocket—my hidden pocket—as she kissed me before she ran back into the fire to go after your father. I didn’t realize it, not until later when I found it. She pulled it from her apron and slid it into the pocket. It was such a flurry I didn’t realize it until later when I could slow down time in my mind.”

  He took another step toward her, his hand lifting higher, a hard edge creeping into his voice. “What is in the letter?”

  Her hands shaking, she extended both of her arms, still clasping the letter tightly in her fingers. Her body knowing how much she didn’t want to give it to him. “I was scared, Strider. Please just remember that. I was scared. So scared and I didn’t know it meant what it did. I didn’t even know what a solicitor was much less—”

  His fingers whipped out, snatching the letter from her hands.

  She cringed as he unfolded the paper and it crinkled under his touch—harsh—too harsh and fast for how old the vellum was.

  His eyes scanned the letter, his honey-brown irises flipping back and forth on line after line. He got to the end of the letter and turned over the page, searching for more. Finding nothing, he flipped back to the letter, reading the whole of it again. And a third time.

  Then his gaze stopped, frozen in time as he stared at one particular spot on the letter. Probably where his father’s signature and seal—the delicate edges of the red wax starting to crumble with all the years—sat at the bottom of the page.

  “You had this all these years?” His voice was eerily calm.

  Both of her hands lifted, her palms to him with her fingers wide. “Strider, please—”

  “You had this the whole damn time?” His glare whipped up to her, the fury in his eyes a blow to her belly, taking her breath away.

  She nodded. “I did—I did, but I was too scared—”

  “Too scared?” He was to her in two strides, the storm of his fury in her face, his words spitting out at her, brutal. “You were too damn scared to show me this? No—you hid this—hid this for a year and then never tried to give it to me? Even after you were at the Flagtons?” He waved the letter in her face and then threw it onto the table she stood next to as he leaned in at her. “What in the almighty hell were you thinking—but no—no—you weren’t thinking. You were being too bloody stupid and too bloody stubborn. Just a stupid, stupid little girl.”

  Her head snapped back, her hand clasping across her mouth. But she couldn’t take offense. She had been stupid. Stubborn. Hanging on too tightly to what little she had. “Strid—”

  “No—there’s no blasted excuse for this. I don’t care how scared you were. If you had given me this years ago—right when Mama and Papa died—things could have been different—we could have used it to get back to England. All these years without you.” His head shook, his body quivering in rage. “You did this to me—to us. All these years and look at what we’ve become.”

  Her fingers at her mouth dropped to her throat. “I was so scared. Scared someone would do to you what they did to your father. I didn’t know what happened to him and I was so scared it could happen to you.”

  “And what? We were both scared of everything, Pen. Scared of no food. Scared someone would hurt us. Scared someone would take you. Scared someone would beat me. Scared about where we would sleep. Scared you wouldn’t wake up. Scared of the bones poking out of our skin. We were scared all of the bloody…damn…time. So what? How could this letter have scared you any more than all of that?”

  His breath seething, he stared at her, both of his hands curled into fists, scorn pouring from his eyes.

  She closed her eyes to him. To the hatred spiking the air all around her. Her bottom lip quivered, dropping slightly as a whisper left her. “I was scared you would leave me. That you had a life to go to and that you would leave me behind. Abandon me. My heart couldn’t take losing you.”

  A primal growl shook the room as he leaned in, the rage full on his face, the roar of it filling her ears, suffocating her head.

  He didn’t touch her. Not one slap. Not one shake.

  In the next breath, he stepped away from her.

  The paper on the table crinkled and she opened her eyes.

  Strider stood next to the letter, his fingers touching the edge of it as he stared at it for long, agonizing seconds.

  His head shook and he delicately picked up the paper, folding it with the greatest care on the previously creased lines. There wasn’t the slightest tremble
in his hands. Not the slightest hiccup in his breath.

  He gave a slight shake of his head, still looking at the letter. “I didn’t truly think you had anything of my father’s. I thought you were lying and it turns out that you had this all along.”

  Her voice cracked, her insides turning to ice, shattering. “Then why did you help me find my family?”

  His voice had gone back to normal. Calm. Disinterested. Though he didn’t bother to look at her. “I…” His shoulders lifted. “I wanted to be near you again. To remember a different time. A different me.” He tucked the folded letter into a pocket inside his black coat.

  “And now?”

  “Now that boy is dead. For good, this time.” His gaze shifted to her, but his brown eyes were blank. No feeling of any kind in them. Not for her. Not for what she had just given him. Void. “That boy believed in you. In all the good that you were.” He shook his head. “But you weren’t.”

  “Strider…” His name was all she could squeak out with the last of the air in her lungs.

  “You were afraid of being abandoned, Pen? Well, here it is.”

  He turned without another word, without another glance at her, and walked out of the room, taking all of her air with him as he closed the door behind him.

  Not slamming it. Not leaving it ajar.

  Closing it.

  { Chapter 17 }

  Talen Blackstone walked into his office, rolling up the white sleeves of the lawn shirt he’d clearly just thrown on, still loose around his middle and hanging over askew trousers. “This better be worth pulling me out of the naked arms I was just in, Hoppler.”

  Pissed, as he should be.

  Strider couldn’t blame him, for if Blackstone showed up at the Den of Diablo, demanding he be seen immediately, he couldn’t say he’d be as gracious as Blackstone was at the moment.

  Strider stood straight from leaning against Blackstone’s desk, his arms crossed over his chest in an effort to keep his fingers from tapping in impatience. He flipped a hand out to wave in the air. “You could have finished your business. I would have waited another few minutes.”

  Blackstone paused, his light blue eyes slicing Strider in two. “Minutes? Now you truly go too far.”

  Strider hid a smirk. If anything, Blackstone appreciated a good barb when he heard it. He lifted both of his hands in front of him. “Apologies. I meant I could have waited hours.”

  Blackstone nodded, continuing to the opposite side of his desk. “That’s better. Now I might actually listen to whatever wild hair has tickled your arse. What’s sent you to this side of Broad Street?”

  There was a very distinct line on Broad Street. Strider had his streets. Blackstone had his. After a rough start between the two of them years ago when they were both scrapping for control, they’d long since come to an understanding of which streets belonged to the other. And they hadn’t killed each other in the process—something no one would have bet on. The perk of their particular arrangement meant that when one of them was out of London, all of their people knew who to go to—the other man. It kept everyone in line. An odd code of honor amongst cutthroats, but it somehow worked between Strider and Blackstone.

  Blackstone sat and Strider did the same on the opposite side of his desk, leaning back and throwing his right ankle atop his left knee. No need for pleasantries between them, Strider got directly to the point. “I need one of your men—well, not actually one of your men. I need the one that refuses to be your man.”

  Blackstone’s lips pulled to a tight line, his head cocking to the side. Strider had piqued his interest. Blackstone reached to the right side of his desk and picked up a decanter and poured drams of brandy into two glasses.

  He pushed one toward Strider and took the other, swallowing it in one gulp. “Who’s that—not the Bow Street Runner, Gorton?”

  Strider nodded. “Mr. Gorton’s reputation is unimpeachable—never taken a bribe, never even stooped to pick up a lost coin, cannot be blackmailed—he’s exactly what I need.”

  Blackstone’s eyebrows stretched high. “What in the hell could you possibly need him for?”

  “I have an errand I need someone of his station and reputation to do.”

  “Ahhh.” Blackstone poured himself another swallow and then leaned back in his chair, his fingers twirling the glass in his hands. “You need honesty?”

  A half smile came to Strider’s face. “I hate to even think the thought, but in this particular instance, yes, I do. I’ll pay him for his time, of course.”

  “An honest exchange?”

  “The most.” Strider took his glass and swallowed the contents. “Do you think he’ll go for it?”

  “It depends on what it is—and whether he smells something afoul about the request.”

  “He won’t. It’s a simple request. Just one that needs his reputation attached to it.”

  “Then I imagine he’ll do it. Word has it his sister is with child.”

  “She is unmarried?”

  Blackstone nodded.

  “The man?”

  “None fessing to it yet.”

  Strider sighed. “You thinking of using his sister as leverage?”

  Blackstone shrugged. “Maybe. She’s enough of a mess it wouldn’t be hard. But that’s a ticket I don’t want to cash unless it’s something worthy of him.”

  “You admire him?”

  “Respect.” Blackstone lifted his glass to Strider. “That is much different than admiration.”

  “That it is.” Strider set his glass onto the desk. “Let him do this task for me before you corrupt him. Send him to the Willows. I’m leaving for there tonight.”

  “Didn’t you just get back in town an hour ago?”

  Damn, but Blackstone’s men were good.

  “I did.” Strider stood. “And now I need to leave again. You still have south of Broad for me?”

  Blackstone nodded. “Sure. How long?”

  “A few days, maybe a week—it depends. I’ll send word.”

  Blackstone tossed back the rest of his glass. “Are you going to tell me what this is about?”

  “Eventually. Maybe. It depends on how it turns out.”

  “Peculiar—a straight answer from you.”

  “I do have it in me.” With the smallest smile, Strider rapped his knuckles on the desk. “Thank you.”

  ~~~

  Standing, Strider looked out the side window of his study, watching the carriage take Mr. Gorton away from the Willows. The man had accepted his offer. An honest exchange. He would go to Scotland for Strider and then get a sum that would set his sister into a respectable life in a quiet village outside of London.

  A rather generous deal for Mr. Gorton. But Strider wasn’t about to take any chances this time. He had to do this right.

  “That was a stiff one.” Madame Juliet’s voice floated into the air behind him.

  He glanced over his shoulder to make sure she was alone, then turned to the window to watch the carriage roll toward the majestic line of oaks that lined the far end of his drive. “He is. Not the usual sort we deal with. But also worth about ten of the men we usually deal with.”

  The carriage disappeared and Strider spun around, facing Juliet. Dressed to perfection, as usual, the deep blue of her military-inspired carriage dress set off her auburn hair and blue eyes. Juliet didn’t usually just appear randomly at the Willows—she planned out everything—every minute of every day—and adhered to her plan without fail.

  “What are you doing here? Blackstone should be handling any issues—has something happened?”

  She stepped more fully into the room, her kidskin-gloved hand waving in the air. “No, all is fine in London. Jasper is handling things well enough. And he doesn’t overstep his bounds—he knows well enough to go to Blackstone with anything urgent.” She moved over to the sideboard, pulling the stopper on the bottle of Courvoisier cognac. “The real question is what are you doing here? You don’t usually like to spend time here with all the w
omen roaming about.”

  It was true. He usually avoided the Willows for all the women staying there. Once the prostitutes in his houses decided to leave the business in London, most of them stayed at the Willows for a time—either deciding where to move to next or waiting for a cottage to be built in the nearby village of Fifield.

  “Speaking of which, you need to stop the slew of them from redecorating the place—I told you the library, study, and my chambers were off limits.”

  A smirk came to her face as she poured a glass of cognac. “They didn’t touch them, did they?”

  “No. But they’ve been nosing about the library—I saw Melissa in there staring at the walls with a sketch she quickly hid when I walked by.”

  “What did they do that has you irate?”

  “For one, they put mirrors on every speck of space on every wall in the dining hall—no one wants to look at themselves while they’re eating.”

  Juliet chuckled. “Some of them do. Some of them would look at themselves all day long if they were given leave to do so. They would sleep with their eyes open looking at a mirror if it was possible.”

  “Then those are the ones you need to stop.”

  She chuckled and held up the bottle of cognac to him, her eyebrows raised.

  He shook his head.

  She set it down and picked up her glass, taking a sip as she eyed him. “Maybe you shouldn’t have given them carte blanche to the estate.”

  His forehead angled downward as his look bored into her. “Maybe you shouldn’t have given them carte blanche to the estate.”

  She shrugged her shoulders and moved to one of the black leather wingback chairs in front of the fireplace. She sat, smoothing down the front of her carriage dress, her spine straight and far away from the back of the chair. Ever the proper lady. “I repeat the question, what are you doing here, Hoppler?”

  “I didn’t want to be there—in London.”

  “Why not?”

  Strider rethought the cognac and walked to the sideboard. He wasn’t about to tell Juliet what he was doing here. She knew enough about Pen—though only that she was from his past—to be suspicious of why he’d dropped everything after mere hours in London and had escaped to the Willows.