Regency 05 - Intrigue

by Jaimey Grant

  His lips brushed over her fingertips. “No amount of logic can overcome guilt. I wish I could have saved him.”

  The pain in his words sent agony through Malvina’s chest, stealing her breath. This man loved her despite her sins, despite the sins of her son or husband. He loved her, loved her son, and his joy at the impending child told her he already loved it. She would take his pain from him, if she could, and he’d proven he’d take hers.

  “You did save him. He admired you. You were what he needed in his life, a father who cared more for him than he cared for himself.” She raised up on her toes in an attempt to better meet his gaze, willing him to accept her assurances. “Never feel otherwise.”

  It was a long moment that the two stared at each other. Gideon’s smile went straight to her heart. “I love you, Lady Holt.” He kissed her softly, the chaste salute sending warmth through her.

  Malvina smiled against his lips and pulled away just enough to assure him, “I love you, Lord Holt.”

  Several minutes later, Malvina sighed, lifting her head to look at her husband. “With Deverell gone, one can’t help but wonder what happened to all that money he stole.”

  “It was never found. I couldn’t begin to guess where he might have been hiding it. Now, no more talk of Deverell.”

  Several years later…

  The Indian sun blazed down on Lord Delwyn Deverell’s back. Hooking his cane over his arm, he swept his hat from his head and wiped the perspiration from his brow, eyes squinting into the sky. How he hated this Godforsaken country with its insects and heat! Surely it was hell itself, risen to the surface.

  It mattered naught. He’d endured India’s heat in the years since Holt nearly caught him with his hand in the government’s cookie jar, but that was over now.

  His gaze swept the port, landing on the ship that would take him back to England. He leaned heavily on his cane, dark thoughts swirling. His leg didn’t heal properly after his last run-in with the Duke of Derringer. That madman would pay for what he did.

  Rage swept through Deverell’s veins. He’d not even known Derringer was in London until the man attacked him in the rookeries. Several unconscious hours later, he’d awakened to a vagrant going through his pockets. Dispatching that blighter to his maker had taken nothing more than a flick of the wrist on Deverell’s part. It was when he struggled to stand that he realized that black devil had done more than just beat him. He’d broken his leg. A painful limp would forever remind him of his hatred for the Duke of Derringer.

  A soft breeze ruffled his hair. Replacing his hat, he boarded the boat. England—no, vengeance beckoned.

  Page forward for

  an excerpt from

  Jaimey Grant’s

  Heartless

  featuring the

  Duke of Derringer

  1

  London

  October 1820

  The third Duke of Derringer slammed his fist on the solicitor’s desk. An inkwell, a pen, a tea cup and Mr. Grimsby jumped.

  The black-haired, black-eyed duke gave him a searching look. Did the little man jest? If so, he was less intelligent than Derringer had thought. But Mr. Grimsby looked more terrified than amused so he decided that the bespectacled gentleman was not lying.

  “Indeed?”

  “Just so, your grace. I can only apologize that we did not find this until recently,” he added with a nervous swallow. His large Adam’s apple bobbed and Derringer found himself distracted. The man was not blessed with any amount of good looks, the duke thought. He pushed his thoughts back to his present problem.

  The Duke of Derringer had just been informed that he could not have his inheritance unless he married by a certain date. He’d always had whatever money he wanted, been given free rein with his finances. Then, after the death of the senior member of the solicitor’s office, a clause to the late duke’s will was discovered.

  Now Derringer sat across from this spindly-legged little man awaiting the date of his life sentence.

  “How long do I have?” Derringer snapped.

  The solicitor looked down his long nose at the papers before him, squinted once, sniffed twice, and squinted again before answering. “By your thirtieth birthday, your grace.”

  Before the last word had left the man’s mouth, Derringer was on his feet and leaning over the desk. With one hand braced for leverage, the duke held the other man aloft by his jacket lapels.

  “What did you say?” he demanded in silky tones.

  The man of business gulped. “By the time you’re thirty?” he squeaked.

  Derringer shook the whiny little creature like a terrier shaking a rat. “Do you realize what day this is?” he barked at the frightened little man.

  The lawyer managed to croak, “The twenty-second?”

  “It’s the twenty-second of October, you bloody clunch! My birthday is a sennight from now. Seven days! How the bloody hell do you suppose I can marry in a sennight, you mangy whoreson? It takes that long just to get a special license!”

  The solicitor released a petrified squeak and the duke dropped him in disgust. He paced about the tiny chamber. Seven days. He had seven days to find, woo, and marry some chit just so he could have complete access to his rightful inheritance. He hoped his father was burning in a particularly painful corner of hell for this one.

  And what had possessed the late duke to draft such a codicil when his son was still in leading strings?

  He turned his dark gaze on the cowering little man. “Is there anything else?”

  The solicitor shook his head vigorously. He cowered even lower when the duke approached the desk and leaned toward him. “I will marry before the twenty-ninth, Grimsby, even if I have to ask the first girl I come across to be my duchess.” He stood up straight, still glaring down at the solicitor from his superior height of six-foot-three. “Prepare yourself, Grimsby. I trust you won’t be disappointed in my choice.”

  Derringer left the office of Lehman, Grimsby, and Bimm with a determined stride. He would find a damned female and drag her to the altar if he had to.

  As if his day could possibly get worse, Derringer thought as he entered the inn near Maidstone. He wasn’t even sure why he had decided to return to Derringer Crescent after nearly two years. He hated the drafty castle and preferred to avoid servants who had known him since he was in leading strings. They had a way of knowing things about a body that one would rather not have commonly known.

  Logic insisted that London was the place to find his bride. But he had avoided London for nearly two years as well. The last time he’d graced the capital with his august presence, he’d been shot helping Lord Levi, Earl of Greville. He’d fled the country just as soon as he could stand, leaving Levi to take care of an injured wife by himself—Lady Greville had thrown herself in the path of a bullet to save her husband in the single most brainless act of selfless courage Derringer had ever witnessed.

  Those events and his already dangerous reputation would prevent even the most daring of females from marrying him, however.

  So now he was on his way to Folkestone to take a look at his childhood home—and any young woman who may have not heard that he was the devil’s right hand. He didn’t want to stay there; the place had too many horrible memories for comfort. But he should at least check in to see if there was anything that required his personal attention. And perhaps he should send his cousin Martin to look after the place, he thought with an inner sigh. He didn’t particularly like the other man but he was willing to give him a position since their grandfather had not seen fit to leave any of his vast wealth to his second son, Martin’s father.

  And how the devil did the wheel of his curricle break? He was fortunate he wasn’t killed in the resulting accident. Thankfully, he’d been traveling at a relatively slow pace due to the poor quality of the roads and the growing dusk—an unusual circumstance since he had a habit of racing along the English countryside at breakneck speeds regardless of weather or road conditions. It was said he h
ad the devil’s favor; hence, his amazing good health after a lifetime of near-death experiences not all due to his own negligence.

  But now, mere hours from home, he was stranded at the Black Bear hostelry late enough that he probably couldn’t get the blacksmith there for a good few hours. Damn it all to hell if he had to stay the night there!

  Derringer slapped his leather driving gloves against his buckskin-clad thigh and surveyed the taproom, taking in the number of men watching him surreptitiously over the rims of mugs. Did they realize how transparent they were in their curiosity?

  A commotion near the door distracted him from his inspection of the locals. He turned to see a very small, very plain, and very young woman in a drab brown cloak and ugly black bonnet arguing with the landlord.

  “We don’t serve yer kind ‘ere, girl, so git,” the man ordered gruffly.

  Her kind? Derringer’s lips twitched. Was the man blind?

  “But you don’t understand,” the girl pleaded, her soft voice rife with sincerity. “I’m not one of those kind. I have a little money, so I can pay, I assure you. And it’s only for one night. I have nowhere else to go.” A note of desperation trembled on her final word.

  “No, now off with you,” was the innkeeper’s implacable reply.

  The girl stared at the landlord through a pair of hideous spectacles and somehow managed to look down her nose at the man while looking up at him. The duke found himself admiring her tenacity. The sensation surprised him.

  As she turned to leave, Derringer called her back, his mind racing with possibilities even as he opened his mouth. Despite her hideous clothing and plain features, he wasn’t appalled at the idea of her in his bed. Quite the opposite, actually. Strange thought, that.

  And she was desperate. Desperate women were known for all kinds of unusual actions, such as marrying a complete stranger. He almost smiled.

  She eyed him warily, spine straight and fingers clenched before her. “Yes, sir?”

  “A moment, if you will.” Derringer turned away, catching the landlord’s eye. With a tip of his head, he indicated his immediate need of a private parlor. When no objection was forthcoming—how could there be when the man was far too busy with two drunks who were intent on spilling each other’s blood?—Derringer offered his arm to the young woman, just as if he were in the habit of such gentlemanly behavior, and led the way.

  At the doorpost, she paused, clearly unwilling to enter a room alone with him. She had a care for her reputation then, a further indication of her breeding.

  Derringer settled his dark gaze on her. “Follow me,” he ordered, gentling his tone. Yet she hesitated still. “Come, girl, I won’t eat you,” he muttered in exasperation.

  “That’s not what I’m afraid of.”

  Her candor caught him unaware but only for a moment. Then he leaned down. She stared up at him suspiciously, her hazel eyes huge behind her spectacles. “I will not ravish you either, my dear,” he murmured. Her suspicious look did not waver one whit. “I only ravish blonds and I only eat redheads,” he couldn’t resist adding, though he couldn’t tell exactly what color hair she possessed.

  The girl released a giggle and clapped a hand over her mouth. She nodded once and Derringer led her to a chair. “Are you hungry?” he asked brusquely.

  “Famished,” she replied.

  “Springs!” Derringer bellowed. The landlord appeared before him as if by magic. “Dinner immediately. And brandy. Your best, Springs, from that personal stash I know you keep. None of that bilge water you foist on your other customers. Now!”

  Springs scurried off without a word to do the duke’s bidding. Derringer sat down at the table.

  The young woman sat stiffly on the very edge of the chair opposite. She folded her gloved hands demurely in her lap and bowed her head meekly, giving him a great view of the top of her ugly bonnet.

  “Take off the hat and the cloak,” Derringer commanded. Her eyes flew up to meet his. She had a stubborn chin. “Trust me. We have much to discuss and you will be more comfortable. And none of this false meekness, my dear. I won’t stand for it.”

  She hesitated before complying with his demand. She smoothed her hands over her dull brown hair, tucking a few straying locks back into the severe knot at her nape. Then she sat with her hands folded in her lap and her head up, watching him.

  Silence reigned until the landlord returned with their meal. He bowed and scraped as usual and Derringer studied his companion while she studied him with equal curiosity.

  Being a connoisseur of beauty, it came as something of a surprise to Derringer to realize that the girl sitting opposite him was not plain. Her features were not fashionable, true, but he’d never found fashionable beauty very appealing. Her regular, ordinary features were somehow pleasing. If not for the spectacles perched on her retroussé little nose, she’d even be pretty.

  Her hair he couldn’t help but wonder about. Would it be long and straight or curl in riotous abandon? The sudden image of silky brown curls spread over his pillow and streaming over a pair of naked breasts taunted him. Which only led to the obvious contemplation of her form under all that sensible dark wool she sported as a gown. His imagination caused him some distinct discomfort. It took some considerable willpower not to shift his position in his chair.

  It was too long since he’d visited his mistress, he thought with a measure of disgust.

  “I have a proposition for you,” Derringer began as soon as their meal was laid out before them. He waved Springs from the room before the man could even open his mouth. Obsequious pandering was tedious at best.

  He poured himself a glass of brandy and swirled it around, watching the ripples in the liquid. “How old are you?”

  “I am twenty,” she replied softly.

  “Blast,” the duke muttered. “I don’t suppose you will turn twenty-one within the next six days?”

  “No,” she said. “Not until February.”

  “Damn and blast,” he muttered. He studied her round little face. What the devil was she doing at an inn alone? “Are you an orphan?”

  “Yes,” she answered immediately.

  “Are you a lady of gentle birth or merely an upper servant with aspirations above her station?”

  The girl set her fork carefully beside her plate. She took a sip of wine and smoothed the hair back from her face. He realized she was trying to compose herself.

  “That was rather blunt, I must say. I am not a servant. I am of gentle birth but I would not be considered a lady,” she finally said evenly.

  A whore? He looked her over carefully and decided she was not a whore. Fallen from grace perhaps, but not an actual courtesan. “Who is your father?”

  “The late Earl of Harwood.” She picked up her fork and began to eat steadily again.

  “The late earl? When did Harwood die?”

  “Almost a sennight past.”

  A week ago? The devil. “Oh. Is the countess dead as well then? You said you were an orphan,” he pointed out as he refilled his glass. He was quite sure the countess was not, but he hadn’t known about Harwood, damn his spies, so it was conceivable that yet another useless detail had slipped his notice.

  “The countess is alive and well. My mother, however, died nearly one-and-twenty years ago.”

  She was a bastard. Perfect, Derringer thought with a certain amount of glee. That should set Grimsby on his ear. The wealthy, powerful, and handsome Duke of Derringer throwing his life away on a penniless bastard would give that milksop something to fret about. Marvelous!

  “You sound like a gentlewoman,” he remarked lazily.

  “I was raised in my father’s house. I was sent to Miss Forester’s Select Seminary for Young Ladies when the time came and given every benefit of a daughter of the house. Then Papa died and his wife threw me out after the will was not found. Everything of Papa’s went to his son, the new earl.” All this was said in the most prosaic, matter-of-fact tone Derringer had ever heard.

  Her voice
changed subtly as she continued. It might have gone unnoticed by anyone but him. “I was told he left nothing for me but I refuse to believe my father would not take care of me. We were very close and he assured me I would always be taken care of, that I need never fear poverty. Well,” she shrugged fatalistically.

  “And you had no one else to turn to when you found yourself in straitened circumstances?”

  She hesitated. “I first went into the village to see my beau, Mr. Hubbard,” she confessed, a shade of reluctance coloring her tone while an embarrassed pink colored her round cheeks. “He had heard about the lack of will and let me know that he was no longer interested in marrying me. But he was more than willing to give me a much different position.” She shook her head and shrugged. “So now I am alone and apparently at your mercy, sir.”

  “So you are,” he agreed with an assessing look, uncomfortably surprised at his sudden desire to tear Mr. Hubbard limb from limb. “Marry me.”

  Leandra dropped her fork. It clattered onto her plate and her eyes flew up to stare at the crazy man sitting across from her. “Are you daft, sir?” she asked with her normal candor. “I mean, are you an escaped Bedlamite?”

  She didn’t give him a chance to reply. “You are kind, sir. I thank you for the meal and the sympathetic ear, but you needn’t feel that such desperate means are called for in helping me. I’m certain you like to help people, but marriage? Is that not going much too far, my lord? I assume you are a lord of some sort based on the landlord’s attitude but perhaps you are escaped from your keeper? I mean, even lords can lose their minds. The newspapers overflow with such stories…” Her voice drifted to silence.