"You wanted to see me . . . alone?"
Nicholas asked, a wicked smile spreading across his face.
Kate took an involuntary step back.
"Close the door, please."
He complied and came farther into the room, his expression becoming serious. "Any reason in particular? You're not in trouble, are you?"
"No. But you are." She lifted the pistol in the air.
"Good God!" he exclaimed, a look of complete astonishment on his face. "What are you-"
"Damn you, sir! I won't let you steal my home away from me!"
"Steal—? Crestley Hall. I should have realized." Nicholas took a step closer, and she leveled the pistol at him. He paused,a grim smile coming to his :face.
"Don't smile," she hissed angrily' "I mean to do this."
SUZANNE ENOCH
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as "unsold and destroyed" to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this "stripped book."
THE BLACK DUKE'S PRIZE is an original publication of Avon Books. This work has never before appeared in book form. This work is a novel. Any similarity to actual persons or events is purely coincidental.
AVONBOOKS A division of
The Hearst Corporation
I350 Avenue of the Americas
New York, New York I00I9
Copyright @ I995 by Suzanne Enoch Published by arrangement with the author
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 94-96572
ISBN: 0-380-78052-6
All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever except as provided by the U.S. Copyright Law. For information address Barbara Lowenstein Associates, Inc., I2I West 27th Street, Suite 60I, New York, New York I000I.
First Avon Books Printing: May I995
AVON TRADEMARK REO. U.S. PAT. OFF. AND IN other COUNTRIES, MARCA REGISTRAA, HECHO EN U.S.A.
Printed in the U.S.A.
CLS I0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 I
To my sisters, Nancy and Cheryl,
for endless reading and for
laughing at all the right places—
I owe you each a quarter.
1
It was one thing to dream about being a lady in distress, Katherine Ralston had recently realized, and quite another entirely to be one. Particularly troubling was that a white knight, who never failed to make a timely appearance in fictional realms, was in this instance nowhere to be found. She would have to make do on her own, and though she was becoming accustomed to that idea, it did not make the circumstance any more pleasant or comforting.
". . . so, you see, it's already done, m'dear. The passage was purchased a week ago." Simon Ralston looked up briefly from the papers he was shuffling across his late brother's dark-mahogany business desk and then lowered his head again when Kate made no reply. "All taken care of," he went on after a moment.
"I'm not leaving," Kate grumbled, her eyes focused on the rose-patterned carpet that she had played on as a child and her fists clenched so that she wouldn't be tempted to do any of the unladylike things she was contemplating. ''This is my home."
"Well, m'dear, me being your guardian, as named by your dear father, it's mine for the next two years, and I'll run it as I see fit, thank you very much. And you won't have any say anyway, young miss, because you are going to London, at the kind invitation of your godparents."
Kind and convenient, more like, Katherine thought bitterly. As soon as she was out the door Uncle Simon would likely sell off Crestley Hall piecemeal and pocket the profits. She had never liked her father's younger brother, and in the months since her mother's death her aversion had deepened to hatred. What had possessed her father to name Simon her guardian until her twenty-second birthday she couldn't imagine, though at the time the will had been drawn up the idea that Sir Richard Ralston would be killed in a carriage accident and his wife, Anne, would die of pneumonia two years later had seemed absurd. Now, however, Katherine found her home and her life in the hands of a man who would sell either for a good gambling stake.
He didn't even look like a Ralston, she decided as she stared at the wiry brown hair on top of his head, the only part of his face she could see now that his shuffling of papers had resumed. Both Kate and her father had the same fair complexion and wavy black hair as all the other Ralstons she had ever heard of. Her own tresses cascaded down to her waist when she brushed them out.
The one feature that her father and Simon did share was their brown eyes, so gentle and good-humored in her father and so stony in his brother. She herself, she thought thankfully, took after her mother's blue-eyed Irish ancestors, and the lack of resemblance between her and Uncle Simon had lately become something of a comfort. The less she had in common with him the better she liked it.
"You'd best take your sulks upstairs and finish packing, because I won't have another outburst of that damned temper of yours. Coach leaves first thing in the morning." Simon Ralston didn't even glance up this time.
After a moment of deliberate disobedience she stood and left the room. They had argued over her leaving several times during the past week, and she had known that nothing she said was going to change his mind. She had therefore completed what little of her packing there was to do. She was being sent away with what she could carry, and she more than doubted her uncle's word that the rest of her "necessities". would follow her to London.
Most of the servants had been let go during the course of the nine months since her uncle's arrival, a forced exodus that had begun as soon as her mother had become too ill to notice and Katherine too concerned over the Lady Anne's failing health to inform her of the doings. That night the house seemed even quieter than had become usual, and she wondered if its dead emptiness pressed on her uncle as it did on her. She dearly hoped so, but after a moment's reflection she doubted he would notice such a thing.
She had been to London only once before, when she had begun her Season two years earlier. The death of her father had ended the festivities after only a fortnight, and she didn't care if she ever went back again. Her current reason for going, as her uncle had made clear, was to get her away from Crestley. She wondered fleetingly if he had somehow arranged the invitation that had arrived a month ago from the Baron and Baroness of Clarey, her mother's dearest friends and her godparents, but swiftly brushed the thought away. The idea that Lord Neville or Lady Alison could be manipulated for even one moment by the likes of Uncle Simon was unthinkable, even to someone of her rather fanciful imagination.
It was Timms, one of the few remaining members of the staff, who scratched at her door the next morning to carry her baggage downstairs. The old butler lifted the two valises and turned toward the doorway, then stopped and cleared his throat. "Miss Kate?"
"Yes, Timms?" she responded, looking away reluctantly from what might be her last view out of her window at the failing gardens and the meadow and woods beyond.
"Take care, milady."
"Thank you, Timms," she responded, forcing a smile. Downstairs she found her uncle waiting by the front door, and her spirits sank even further. She had hoped that he wouldn't bother to rise. She did not want her last sight of Crestley Hall to include him. There seemed to be no avoiding it, however, for though she passed by him without a word, he turned and followed her outside and down the front steps to the waiting hack.
She stopped and turned to face him, wishing she had inherited some of her father's height. "If one piece of furniture, one candlestick. one teacup is removed from Crestley Hall in my absence, I will carve the value of it out of your hide with my father's sword."
"You mind the
Baron and Baroness like a good girl, Kate, and I might even inquire as to their working on trying to find you a husband, if anyone'd have a shrew like you." He pointed a finger at her. "Crestley Hall's a long way from London, and London's a bad place to be all on your own. You watch yourself."
Katherine stared at him for a moment, sudden uneasiness vying with her indignation and anger at his insult. If he meant his concluding words as a threat, it was the first time he had handed her one openly. He was up to something.
Timms handed her into the carriage. The hack would take her to the Red Boar Inn, where she would meet the mail stage to London. As they left the long drive she looked back at Crestley, already showing signs of the neglect her uncle had forced on it. And standing at the foot of the front steps, watching her out of sight, was Simon Ralston. Whatever he was planning, she would be back, and she would claim what was hers.
2
"Another hand, Sommesby," Francis DuPres deAmanded, leaning forward and digging the pads of his fingers into the wood table.
Unmoved by the plea, Nicholas Varon, Duke of Sommesby, continued his push away from the gaming table and stood. "Sorry, gentlemen, but despite rumors to the contrary, occasionally even I need sleep."
"Sleep has nothing to do with your taking your winnings and leaving."
"No, I don't believe it does." His gray eyes holding DuPres's close-set brown ones; he plucked a chip out of the pile and flipped it at the other man without bothering to check its value. "My compliments."
Beside him Thomas Elder, the Viscount of Sheresford, chuckled. "Quit complaining, DuPres. That chip's worth more than you won all evening." He scooped what remained of his evening's losses into his own hand. "Any of those for me?" he asked, gesturing at the substantial pile before Nicholas.
Stifling a yawn that wasn't entirely feigned, Nicholas summoned one of the clerks to cash him in. "Not a chance, Thomas," he retorted with a smile. "And I'm hoping this will serve to dissuade you from wasting your blunt on that brown nag you've been eyeing." He straightened his cravat with its black onyx pin, then flicked an imaginary speck of dust off the sleeve of his black jacket.
"I think not a chance' is a rather accurate description of the evening," DuPres commented.
Nicholas stiffened. "Care to explain that remark?" he said quietly, wondering if he was on his way to setting a record for trouble this Season. Two days before, he had rather spectacularly parted ways with the exquisitely devious Josette Bettreaux, and now this. The Season was new, the nights at White's still slow and lazy. DuPres had been an unwelcome participant in what had been a friendly game of faro, and now for some reason it appeared that he wished to test the rumors about the Varon black temper. Nicholas was more than willing to oblige.
"You know what I'm talking about." Francis DuPres got to his feet, apparently overconfident, or drunk, enough to press the issue.
''Don't be a fool." Captain Reg Hillary, second of four sons in the prolific Hillary family, placed a hand on DuPres's shoulder and tried to push him back into his seat.
When DuPres remained standing, Nicholas set his gloves down again and leaned his knuckles into the table. "Make the accusation, then," he murmured. Those who knew him would have recognized the danger signs of the quiet voice and the gray eyes that now flashed with emerald highlights. Thomas did, for he stepped back from the table. Reg likewise removed himself from Francis's side. The sound in the crowded gaming hall died as the other patrons turned to view the excitement. DuPres paled, but held his ground.
"You've lost barely a hand all evening, Sommesby," the small man whined. He glanced about, to find everyone staring at him. "I don't see why anyone should be surprised." He looked back at Nicholas. "Everyone knows your. Repu―"
The rest of his sentence was lost as Nicholas planted a fist full into his face. DuPres went backward over his chair, crashed into the table behind that, and ended up sprawled on the floor with the contents of several drinks doing various degrees of damage to his jacket and garish gold waistcoat. He likely wasn't aware of the results of his fall, for he was plainly unconscious, blood welling from his lip and making his already pasty features look even more pale.
"Damn me," Thomas muttered with something like awe in his voice as he looked down at DuPres's crumpled form. "One punch."
Nicholas looked around the room, his eyes narrowed.
No one else came forward to confront him. As he watched his fellow patrons eyeing him warily, a dark, cynical smile touched his lips. Unless he misjudged badly, which he rarely did, no one would be accusing him of anything for a while.
He flipped a chip of excessive value at the club's nervous manager, watching the man's expression ease, and then another onto DuPres's chest. "Should cover the cost of replacing that rag," he murmured. When he turned to leave, Thomas followed.
The other patrons of White's stepped aside, and then he and Thomas were out in the cold predawn air. His residence was only a short walk away and so he waved his coach on, preferring to walk off his mood and the considerable amount of liquor he had consumed. The viscount hesitated a moment before he followed.
"You shouldn't have done that," Sheresford commented, tucking his hands into the armpits of his dark brown jacket.
"Shouldn't I have?" Nicholas responded.
"DuPres might act like a fool, Nick, but he's a cunning sort. Now you've insulted him twice over."
"Didn't look so cunning lying there on the floor." Nicholas looked over at the younger man. "And I was not going to let him get away with saying that about me."
"He fancies himself a nonesuch. Now everyone'll be laughing at him."
"He's a fop with about as much fashion sense as I have skill with a needle."
Grinning, Thomas placed a hand on Nicholas's shoulder.
"I've heard you've mended a tear or two in an emergency." He glanced down at Nicholas's splendid superfine jacket. "We can't all be you," he said ruefully.
This time Nicholas laughed aloud, though he deliberately chose to misread the viscount's remark. ''Thank Lucifer for that."
"Bah," Thomas spat out, scowling. "I don't know why I bother."
"Neither do I," Nicholas returned, and resumed his long-strided walk. "I don't recall ever encouraging you."
"Why don't you listen to me once in a while?" Thomas continued, though he made no move to follow.
"I'm not hiring for a conscience at the moment, Thomas, but I'll let you know if I do," he said over his shoulder, not bothering to slow his pace.
"You've made an enemy of DuPres, Nick. Be careful." This time Nicholas ignored him completely.
"Damn you, Varon," Thomas called out, and turned back to his own coach.
''Too late," Nicholas retorted under his breath, and continued on alone in the dark.
Nicholas arose earlier than he would have liked the next morning, driven from sleep both by the pounding of his skull and by the loud squabbling of a pair of carriage drivers who had apparently collided in the street below. He summoned his valet and dressed, then made his way downstairs for a cup of tea.
The sound of the front door opening came to his ears as he settled into the chair in his study to go through the previous day's mail and write his regrets to most of the invitations he had received. Briefly he wondered how many hostesses would wish they had not sent them out after hearing of the second scandal he had caused. It seemed, though, that the worse the spectacle the more invitations he received. With a sigh he glanced up at the clock on the mantel. Nine o'clock in the morning on the fifth day of the Season, and he was again a disgrace to the family name.
"Nicky, you're a disgrace."
Nicholas turned to look at the petite, dark-haired woman standing in the doorway. Julia Varon was, as always, beautifully attired, this morning in a light-green muslin that served to bring out the emerald highlights in her dark-gray eyes. "You look fetching, Mama," he responded, rising.
She waved a hand at him. "Fetching is for those pretty young things you cause so much misery. I belie
ve I have matured to the point of being what is called 'elegant.' "
"You look elegant, Mama," Nicholas amended, grinning in the way that had become famous for setting fetching hearts fluttering.
"Mon dieu, Nicky, will you never outgrow this desire to cause trouble?" She poured herself a cup of tea from the tray that had magically appeared almost simultaneously with her arrival, and sat in one of the chairs before the fire.
"I didn't cause the trouble this time," he retorted, leaning over the back of the chair to kiss her on the cheek. "I was merely defending the family name."
"And Josette Bettreaux?"
Nicholas straightened, and turned toward the window. "That wasn't my fault either."
"No?"
"No. I didn't send her out to find some schoolboy and encourage him to shoot me. That was all her idea." In fact, if he had known what kind of plot that devious female would cook up to try to arouse his jealousy that night, he would have stayed at home.
His mother frowned at him and added a small teaspoon of sugar to her tea. "A little early to be drinking, yes?"
He glanced down to see that he was fiddling with the decanter of brandy at his elbow. Misreading him was unusual for her, but she was likely furious at him to begin with. "Anything else?" he asked quietly, annoyed, and deliberately lifted the decanter to pour himself a drink. He took a swallow, gazing at her over the snifter's rim and daring her to comment further.
"That DuPres, now that you've humiliated him, you aren't going to call him out and kill him, are you?" Though Julia Varon spoke English flawlessly, she still tended to arrange her sentences in the manner of her native France. That did not mean that she couldn't be as direct and to the point as anyone Nicholas had ever cared to meet.
"I' remember when you would have been concerned over my well-being," he answered.
"That was when you were concerned," she responded with deceptive mildness, sipping at her tea.
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