A Duke For All Seasons

by Mia Marlowe

He released her wrist and motioned for her to descend the bell tower stairs. “First, we will visit the Olympic.”

  * * * * *

  Sebastian watched from his perch on the back of a hansom as Bella and the Frenchman emerged from the old church and re-entered their cab. It was Sebastian’s idea to switch jackets and hats with Mr. Harris and hide in plain sight while the Bow Street Runner was disguised as his fare. No one ever marked a hack driver, and no one would expect to find the 8th Duke of Winterhaven in the gig’s high seat. He rapped twice on the cover of the coach. Mr. Harris climbed out and went through the motions of paying for his ride.

  “The child’s not in the church or Miss St. George wouldn’t have left without her,” Sebastian said, one eye trained on the retreating cab Arabella and de Lisle entered. “She must be someplace near though. Have your men do a thorough search of the surrounding blocks. Find her, Harris. Everything depends upon it.”

  Then Sebastian flicked the ribbons over the back of the pie-bald cob and set off at a trot after Arabella. He was careful to hang back so as not to be noticed. When it became clear the Olympic was their destination, he pulled into a side alley, tied the horse to a lamp post and walked the rest of the way.

  Much as he chafed to bring the confrontation with de Lisle to a head, he couldn’t follow them into the theatre. It would endanger Arabella now. He had to let the Frenchman make the first move. Only once de Lisle made an attempt on his life would Sebastian be free to act.

  He wondered if things would have been different if he’d behaved in a more gentlemanly manner toward Arabella that first night. If he hadn’t assumed she’d become his mistress, hadn’t acted as if their relationship was a fait accompli, would she have mistaken him for the sort of man to whom she was supposed to give the traitorous envelope?

  Like everything else in his life, he expected her to fall neatly into his plans, never considering that her life might have its own twists and wrinkles that needed straightening.

  He’d been a selfish bastard.

  He checked the time on his pocket watch. Only five minutes had passed, but it seemed like an eternity since she disappeared through the theatre’s side door. He really ought to have left this watchful waiting to his subordinates, but he couldn’t bear to cool his heels in his townhouse, all the while tormenting himself with the thought of her forced to bear the company of a man who’d brought her such grief.

  In truth, Sebastian couldn’t bear not seeing her. It had been agony to leave her yesterday. Worse, not to be able to join her last night. He’d tossed on his empty bed for hours before he was finally able to shake the scent of her skin from his memory long enough to fall into a fitful sleep.

  He hated that she had to accomplish this much of the plan on her own, but as soon as she emerged from the theatre, her part in this adventure would be finished. It had to be. He couldn’t stomach placing her in proximity to de Lisle another moment longer than necessary. The lump in his chest, which he still resisted naming, hardened into a firm resolve. Whatever had to be done, Sebastian was prepared to do.

  Arabella St. George would never suffer from the likes of Fernand de Lisle again.

  “Every mistress is deserving of a final gift from her protector and none is so fitting as a dignified departure.”

  ~ A Gentleman’s Guide to Keeping a Mistress

  Chapter 14

  It took Arabella the rest of the day to set her rooms to rights again. The work helped her shake off the sense of violation over having her things destroyed. There was no help for her mattress, however, and she sent the boy who turned the spit in her landlady’s kitchen to order a new one to be delivered.

  Reordering the sheaves of the Marriage of Figaro libretto and reassembling her scattered music occupied her mind as well as her hands since the pages weren’t numbered. She had to rely on her memory of the music and text to bind it all back into usable order.

  It helped her shove aside the more troubling aspects of the day. Like seeing that strange old woman snatch up her daughter and spirit her out of sight. Lisette was too far away for Arabella to hear her, but she’d struggled against her captor and her little arms had stretch toward the puppy. Bella imagined her unhappy wails though and they strafed her heart.

  As if her heart wasn’t already bruised enough.

  She’d seen no sign of Sebastian’s men shadowing Fernand and her, though that didn’t mean they hadn’t been there. She expected the duke was firmly ensconced in his fashionable London townhouse, directing his forces like a general.

  Or a puppet master.

  She’d heard most peers found their lives so unspeakably dull, drinking, gambling and whoring were the only things that relieved the tedium of too much wealth and unlimited free time in which to spend it. Sebastian obviously sought to enliven his nights with his seasonal mistresses. He must have found it a stroke of luck that Arabella brought complications enough to occupy his days as well.

  She was an entertainment. He’d made no bones about the fact from the very beginning. Despite their whispered confidences and pillow talk later, it was her own fault she had envisioned anything more.

  Sebastian’s dossier on her ended that fantasy. She was an underling to be investigated and used, if deemed fit. Nothing more.

  Still, she’d found it hard to give Fernand all he demanded. After he tore open the note and read the contents, she hoped he’d take her to Lisette. Instead he demanded to know all she could tell him about the Duke of Winterhaven.

  “Since His Grace has tossed you aside like a used handkerchief, it can cause you no grief to share what you know with the man who holds your daughter’s life in his hand,” Fernand said before he extracted every scrap of intelligence from her.

  Once she told him Sebastian was on the guest list for the recital she was scheduled to sing for Lady Granger, he stopped badgering her.

  “Even though the duke does not deserve your loyalty, no man can fathom the workings of a woman’s mind,” Fernand said. “You may be tempted to warn him.”

  “Trust me, I will not,” she said, determined to stick to the story that she had separated from the duke under less than friendly circumstances. “If the man were ablaze, I would not spit upon him to put the fire out.”

  Fernand had laughed. “Truly, hell hath no fury, eh? Then I shall have to make sure I too do not find myself combustible in your presence, non?” Then all traces of mirth left his hard, handsome face. “And I shall keep the child until this is over, just to make sure you do not feel the need to . . . spit upon His Grace.”

  So Lisette was still a pawn in Fernand’s game.

  And Sebastian was in more danger than he realized. He expected Fernand to strike at the theatre and had ordered the rest of his life to make that option the most appealing for a potential assassin, but who could guess what Fernand might really do?

  As night fell, Arabella sank into a chair since she had no bed at present, exhausted in spirit as well as in body. Cheek in hand, she skimmed the surface of sleep, skipping like a flat pebble over the sleek, dark surface but not actually sinking into it.

  The sound of booted feet on the back stairs roused her to full wakefulness. Without a knock, her door swung open.

  A man in a dark coat filled the opening.

  “A light, Bella, and quickly,” he said.

  She recognized the half-whispered voice as Sebastian’s and leaped up to light a taper. He was dressed like a dustman with a disreputable hat pulled down obscuring his face. He bore something wrapped in a blanket in his arms.

  “Auntie Bella?” a small voice said.

  “Oh, God.” She nearly dropped the candle in her haste to set it back on the mantel. “Lisette.”

  She skittered across the room, her arms hungry to relieve Sebastian of his small burden. She clutched the child to her chest, tears of relief streaming unheeded down her cheeks.

  “Are you all right, ma petite?” Arabella covered Lisette’s face with kisses. “You’re not hurt, are you?”

&nb
sp; “They took my puppy.” The girl’s chin trembled and she squirmed in Bella’s arms, probably because she was being held too tightly.

  Arabella didn’t care. She didn’t think she could ever let her go again. Sebastian had to ease Lisette away from her and set the child on her own two feet.

  “Don’t fret about the puppy, sweeting,” he said, squatting down to speak to Lisette at her eye level. “Once I take you back to your mother and father, I’ll see that you have a pony instead.”

  The girl squealed with delight and draped her arms around Sebastian’s neck in a quick hug.

  Her mother and father. Of course, Arabella thought woodenly. Everything would have to return to the way it was. Lisette would go back to her sister and brother-in-law for her own good. Even though her heart ached to keep her child, she would always be simply ‘Auntie Bella.’

  “That’s right,” she said, fighting the tightness in her throat. “Your mama and papa have moved to a place in the country. You’ll love your new home.”

  Lisette dimpled up at her and then was distracted by something on the floor beside the piano. She scampered away to investigate. “It’s a nose!”

  “Yes, Herr Mozart had an accident today.” Arabella picked the damaged bust from the top of her piano and set it down on the floor. “Why don’t you see if you can make his nose fit again?”

  Once Lisette was happily engaged with trying to reattach Mozart’s nose, Sebastian stood and took Arabella’s hands.

  “They’re like ice,” he said, bringing them to his mouth and exhaling his warm breath on her knuckles. “Are you all right?”

  “I am now.” She longed to take this man and her little girl and run as far away from London as she could, but the world would never allow such a thing. It should be enough that Lisette was safe.

  And that Sebastian simply was.

  He bent down to rest his forehead against hers, a surprisingly tender gesture. She burned to kiss him and felt him struggle with the same need, but since Lisette was only steps away, all Arabella could do was sizzle inside. Whatever else her complicated relationship with Sebastian was, it clearly was not over.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  His dark gaze seemed to reach inside her and seek out the last wrinkle of her soul. “I didn’t do it for your gratitude.”

  That’s right. This was never about Fernand’s schemes or Sebastian’s contract or how he might use his station to help her and her child. Their bond, their joining, their whatever-it-was, was only about itself. “Then why?”

  His face was so close she could have counted his dark lashes. There was a tenderness she’d never seen before in his eyes, a yearning. “Because Bella, I lo—”

  “Herr Mozart doesn’t want his nose,” Lisette interrupted. “He won’t keep it on.”

  The spell was broken and Sebastian released Arabella’s hands. “I need to take her to the country this night,” he said softly.

  Bella nodded, though it lanced her heart to part with Lisette again so quickly. “The sooner she’s out of London altogether, the safer she’ll be.”

  “And de Lisle will have one less chip in the game,” Sebastian said.

  “He knows you have been invited to the recital.”

  “Good. I’ll remain in the country for a week. It should be difficult for him to approach me there surrounded by my own people. Then I’ll return in time to hear my favorite soprano sing.” He leaned forward as if he would kiss her even with Lisette close by but stopped himself. “I’ve made lots of missteps with you, Bella.”

  She stifled a smirk. It was so unlike someone of Sebastian’s station to admit to a mistake, she couldn’t wait to hear what he considered a misstep. “How so?”

  “The first time we met, for example, I kissed you without permission.”

  “As I recall, I didn’t complain.” She remembered it vividly. A perfectly seductive, practiced kiss. A kiss that promised pleasure. “I don’t expect a duke asks permission for anything very often.”

  “I’m asking now.”

  Her breath caught in her throat. With that request, he’d leveled the field between them. They were no longer a duke and an opera singer. They were simply a man and a woman.

  “Then I’m saying yes.”

  Very slowly, Sebastian leaned in and kissed her cheek, as soft and sweet and honest a kiss as she could imagine. He bared his soul to her in that giving kiss. It touched her heart and set her spirit alight.

  Then he straightened to his full height. “Come, poppet,” he said to Lisette. “We have a long carriage ride before us and your mother and father are waiting.”

  Lisette gave Arabella a quick hug around her knees and ran to his arms. He wrapped her in the blanket again and was gone before Bella could beg for one more kiss from her daughter.

  Or him.

  “God help me.” She leaned her forehead against the closed door, listening to his footsteps, the measured smack of leather on wood like a fading dirge as he disappeared down the back stairs. “I love you, Your Grace.”

  Mr. Cobb,

  Kindly locate the book titled A Gentleman’s Guide to Keeping a Mistress by Lord Funderburk. It should be shelved in my library’s reference section. Once you have found it, toss it in the nearest fireplace and set the damned thing ablaze.

  Winterhaven

  Chapter 15

  Arabella ran through a few dozen scales to warm up as she applied her stage makeup. Usually the backstage of the Olympic was a cacophony of singers and instruments tuning up their respective pipes, but on this night, only echoes of her own tones bounced back from the high ceilings.

  Blast. Her vibrato was usually tight as a lark’s. Now her tone had a wobble wide enough to drive a coach and pair through. She forced herself to focus on her technique, to control her breathing. Somehow, she had to pretend this was just another performance.

  “Five minutes to curtain,” the stage manager said through her closed dressing room door.

  “William, come in, please,” she called.

  He poked his homely, good-natured face around the door. “Yes, Bella?”

  “Do you remember the fellow who came here with me about a week ago?”

  “The one who wanted to see the Scottish play box?”

  “Yes, that’s him. Have you seen him since?”

  “No. Should I have?”

  “You’ve taken a stroll through the house this evening, haven’t you?” Bella tried to keep her tone casual. While performers weren’t allowed to mingle with patrons before the footlights went up, the stage manager often made the rounds on the other side of the curtain to make sure the theatre-goers were happy. “I was thinking that gentleman might come tonight.”

  “No, can’t say as I’ve seen him. He was a pretty remarkable fellow what with that pale hair and all. Handsome bloke. Think I’d have remembered him if I’d seen him again. Sorry, Bella. But cheer up. The house is packed.”

  As if to support William’s words, the indistinct murmur of myriad conversations rose to a vibrant hum.

  “Time to dim the house lights,” Will said as he checked his pocket watch. “Your accompanist is already in the wings. In bocca al lupo, Bella.”

  In the mouth of the wolf. Theatre people told each other to ‘break a leg.’ Opera types wished each other well by reminding themselves they were about to face ‘the mouth of the wolf’—the audience, the critics, the thousands of things that could go horribly wrong in a complicated performance.

  But Bella wasn’t the one facing the wolf this night. Once the gas footlights were glaring in her eyes, she wouldn’t be able to see Sebastian alone amid the sumptuous appointments of his private box, but she knew he’d be there. It was the Duke of Winterhaven, resplendent in the full glory of his station, who would meet a French wolf once the houselights dimmed.

  * * * * *

  Fernand tugged the turned-back cuffs at his wrists as he strode with purpose along the rear corridor of the theatre. The fit of the powder-blue livery that mark
ed him as one of Lord Granger’s footmen was adequate, he supposed. Disguising himself as a servant was brilliance itself, for no one ever looked closely at fellows in the frockcoats and breeches of the last century. He’d walked, bold as brass, past the stage manager without drawing so much as a second glance.

  He was less pleased by the horsehair wig. It itched abominably. Fernand only hoped the fellow from whom he’d liberated the costume didn’t have head lice.

  If he did, the little beasties will trouble him no more, Fernand thought darkly. The real footman had been ridiculously easy to dispatch. The entire garroting had taken less than a minute and had been good practice for Fernand’s real target this evening. He’d never used a garotte before and was pleased with the result. The footman hadn’t managed a sound and there was no blood to speak of.

  It was unlikely anyone would find the corpse until long after the recital was over. Especially since the hue and cry over discovering the cooling body of a duke in his private box would naturally overshadow the death of an insignificant footman.

  He drew near the curtained doorway where a servant in the scarlet of Winterhaven’s livery stood sentinel.

  “My lord craves a word in your ear,” Fernand said. He’d practiced for days till he could ape the English accent, shoving his voice back in his throat instead of letting the tone ring in his nasal cavities. Arabella had taught him that years ago, patiently showing him how to disguise his nationality. At the time, he’d let her believe he wanted to be accepted when he came with her to England.

  Foolish girl.

  “I don’t serve Lord Granger,” the Winterhaven footman said. “Why would I bear a message for him?”

  “You won’t serve His Grace much longer either if you ignore this summons,” Fernand said loftily. “My lord has a message for the duke that will only bear so much repeating. He knows you have your master’s ear. The fewer tongues that relay the information, milord says, the less likely it will be misunderstood.”