The Desires of a Duke: Historical Romance Collection

by Darcy Burke

  James came toward her, taking the paper she offered him. He grimaced as he read the names.

  No, it wasn’t bad. It was worse.

  He recognized the women as the ton’s diamonds of the first water. Each woman was a sweet, timid debutante, who probably sang beautifully, painted reasonably pretty landscapes, and was well versed in the latest fashion trends. Perfect for the rest of the bachelors in the ton, but he led a dangerous life. He couldn’t see subjecting a milquetoast woman to the perils and uncertainties of his existence.

  A woman like Miss Loren might know how to handle his complex life. She certainly already had the field dressing skills. And she’d made him laugh.

  God, he hadn’t truly laughed in months.

  He thought of her alabaster skin, her inquisitive blue eyes; that spirited smile she had when she teased him. The sharpness of her chin, her perfectly straight nose, and her high cheekbones dotted with pink when he’d touched her.

  If he had to take a bloody wife, then why couldn’t it be Miss Loren? He suppressed a sigh. Because the ton would expect him to marry someone of similar standing. A daughter of a duke, or at the least, of a marquis. Miss Loren’s lineage traced back to a viscountcy, which wasn’t high enough. Her position as his governess made the match even more ill advised. While his family certainly wasn’t normal by most standards, he couldn’t see bringing on such societal stigma unless he had a damn good reason.

  Sadly, his comfort around her—and the physical attraction she sparked within him—did not warrant enough of a reason.

  Still, she’d given him a small morsel of hope. If talking to her came so easily, perhaps, someday, he’d be able to speak to his future wife about the past too. Perhaps he was not completely jaded.

  He refolded the list, handing it back to Elinor. “No.”

  Elinor’s forehead creased. “No?”

  “No,” he repeated, ignoring the archness of her tone. “I don’t want any of these women.”

  “But they’re all suitable in disposition and dowry,” Elinor protested. “What reason could you possibly have to refuse them?”

  “How about, I’ve never once spoken to any of them on a topic of substance? Or that I have nothing in common with them but our collective fortunes?” He paced the area in front of her settee, pivoting with each suggestion. “Or, and I cannot possibly stress this enough, the fact that I don’t need my sister to choose my betrothed?”

  “Well, you needn’t be so piqued about it,” Elinor admonished, annoyance flashing in her eyes. “It is a sound plan, and if you were smart, you’d recognize that we cannot have the scrutiny your being unmarried brings us.”

  “If I were smart?” James repeated, spinning on his heel. “Elinor, do you hear yourself? You admonish me for my authoritarianism, but people are not chess pieces you can move around as you see fit. The world is not yours to control.”

  “You think I don’t know that? I need only look at the bloody Clocktower,” she shot back, a scowl darkening her pale features.

  Instantly, he regretted his harsh words. He’d never met anyone who could predict the outcome of an event, or find patterns in random occurrences, better than Elinor could. Details of every agent and every mission of the Clocktower were all stored in her encyclopedic memory.

  But Elinor would never be allowed be to be an active field agent because of her sickness. She’d be forever stuck on the edge of the action.

  And he’d thrown it back in her face. What an arse he was.

  “I shouldn’t have said that, Ellie,” he murmured. “I didn’t mean it.”

  Elinor’s eyes narrowed. “Of course you did.”

  “Ellie—” Richard started, closing his mouth when Elinor glared at him. Instead, he stood up and ambled across the room to her, plopping down on the settee next to her.

  Elinor’s rigid posture relaxed, ever so slightly, at his presence. Somehow, Richard had always been able to break through her icy reserves, even when her own siblings couldn’t.

  James dropped into the chair Richard had vacated, sloshing the remaining brandy around in his glass. The amber liquid remained enigmatic as always; while liquor made many men spill secrets, it did not offer up any answers to his quandaries.

  “Wickham values you, you know that,” James said. But it wasn’t enough—it would never be enough.

  She was absolutely devoted to the Clocktower, but she’d never get to reach her full potential.

  “Whatever that matters,” Elinor groused.

  “I strive to make sure your opinion holds weight in the organization,” James said. “You know I always will, don’t you? We’re Spencers, damn it, you, Kori, Arden, Thomas, and me. We’re a unit.”

  And Louisa.

  “And me,” Richard piped up with a grin.

  James nodded. “And you, Richard Denton, honorary Spencer family member.”

  “As well as whomever you shall choose for your duchess,” Elinor added pointedly. “You can be reluctant and sentimental all you want, but it won’t change anything. You need to marry. And quickly.”

  He looked to Richard for assistance, but the other man simply shrugged. Some help Richard was—the lucky bastard would be a bachelor for the rest of his life, most likely.

  “Miserable fate for you, chap, but she’s right,” Richard stated. “You take a bride and the ton talks about it for a few weeks at most, and then they move on to the next scandal. You don’t marry, we spend the next four months besieged by curious ninnies, and suddenly the French know who we are.”

  “It’s a risk we can’t afford to take.” Elinor’s eyes shone triumphantly, for she knew she had him now.

  With Bonaparte’s ongoing invasion of Egypt, the organization couldn’t risk any impediments to their operations. The Navy needed the intelligence that their missions provided. The Clocktower relied on a system of hand-offs at societal functions, hiding in plain sight amongst the aristocracy. James, and his sisters, had to be able to attend the Season’s most popular routs without drawing too much attention.

  Damnation. As usual, he couldn’t argue with Elinor’s logic. A love match wasn’t in the cards for him.

  Our lives are meant for more, my boy. So many times, he’d heard his father say that. His entire childhood had been about learning to become a spy. At first, he and his siblings had thought they were simply playing games—but as they’d entered adolescence, they’d learned what their family legacy really was: not the Abermont title, but espionage.

  He drained the last sip of brandy from his glass, and considered his options. His own mother and father had not been besotted with each other, but they’d achieved a companionable enough arrangement to sire four children. The Lion’s second wife had been much younger than he was, but they had shared a friendly bond too. Perhaps James could achieve the same dynamic, if he chose wisely.

  “I’ll do it,” he declared. “I’ll marry quickly and with little fanfare. But I will choose my own bride.”

  Chapter 4

  Two days after she’d strolled through the garden with Abermont as if she belonged in this house, Vivian was reminded once again that her life was not her own. How she both loathed and eagerly anticipated the first and third Mondays of every month, when Sauveterre’s next orders would arrive. She’d trek down to the post office on the other side of the village, and pick up missives from her supposed old aunt Aline Stuart, Sauveterre’s alias when writing to her.

  This time, there was more than a single letter waiting for her. The postmaster handed her a parcel wrapped in brown paper, not much wider than the width of her two hands pressed together, but about as tall as a shot glass in height. When she shook the box, she heard a slight shifting sound.

  The knot in her stomach that always formed upon receipt of Sauveterre’s missives tightened, until she had to lean against the post office window to catch her breath. She fought the urge to rip the package open here, out in the open, daring anyone who watched to judge her. Maybe, if the right person saw her, they could help
her out of this ordeal.

  Foolish girl, she chided herself. No one will help you. They’ll throw you in gaol for what you’ve done, and then how you will find out who killed Evan?

  No, she must soldier on. She pushed off of the post office window and began the long walk back to Abermont House.

  More lies. More secrets. With each passing day, the web she spun grew more complex, until the simple act of remembering what she’d said she was doing versus what she was actually doing required a herculean mental effort.

  Yet the sole chance for release was when she completed this mission to Sauveterre’s liking. The police had no new information. She doubted they were even still investigating Evan’s death, a year and a half later. They’d been so quick to claim it was a robbery that had escalated into murder. If she went to the authorities now, she’d lose any opportunity to identify Evan’s murderer.

  She was alone in this, just as she’d been alone in everything else since her brother’s death. It had always been the two of them against the world. When her cousin, the new Viscount Trayborne, had thrown them out of the home they’d grown up in, Evan had found a small cottage for them in Devon by the next day. It did not compare to the sprawling estate of the viscountcy, but she hadn’t cared. Everything would be fine, as long as they had each other.

  If she hadn’t asked him to move to London, maybe he’d still be alive. If only she’d known how dangerous London could be.

  A half hour later, she’d returned to Abermont House. Taking the servants’ entrance upstairs, she passed by the nursery, entering her own room next door. She waited until she’d locked the door and taken a seat on her bed before opening the packet. As she sliced through the seal with a penknife, her hands shook. What would Sauveterre ask her to do this time? Each missive from him had brought increased demands. He wanted additional information, and not just odd details about the family’s whereabouts. He wanted the kind of information she could only get by listening in on private conversations, her ear pressed against the door, risking exposure. She’d even sent him notes on the duke’s investments, obtained by snooping through the drawers in his office.

  The very office in which she’d shared a drink with Abermont.

  She was a survivor, yes, but she was also a traitor.

  And nothing seemed to satisfy Sauveterre. He always wanted more.

  Her knife bit through the last speck of sealant. Vivian tore into the package, dropping the contents onto her lap. A letter in Sauveterre’s handwriting, written on the same thick, stiff paper he always used. Whoever he was, he was rich enough to afford high-quality stationery.

  The letter was not surprising. But the second item in the package concerned her. An emerald velvet bag no wider than her hand, held closed by a black-corded drawstring. She picked it up by the string, examining it. There was no insignia anywhere on the bag, and the velvet was uniform, giving no indication of where it had been made. It was neither extravagant in make, nor low enough in caliber to be conspicuous.

  It, like the blasted Spencer family, was blatantly normal. Not a hint of covertness anywhere.

  Yet for all its typical appearance, there was something insidious about it. She couldn’t put her finger on what unsettled her, only that the second she had touched the bag, she’d felt troubled, as though the contents would change her life in a way she wasn’t prepared for yet.

  Nonsense, Vivian. It’s probably quite innocuous.

  But she couldn’t think of a single thing a man such as Sauveterre would send her that wasn’t in some way damning. She glanced from the bag to the letter and back again.

  Holding the bag between her pursed thumb and index finger, she raised it to eye level and gave it a shake. An ominous muffled rattling emitted from inside, not tinny enough to be coins, nor as tinkling as glass. Her palms began to sweat. The beat of her heart was now akin to the repeated slam of a door. In one swift motion, she upended the bag, dumping the contents in her hand.

  Teeth. Sauveterre had sent her yellowed teeth. Seven jagged, broken teeth.

  Oh, God.

  The world crashed around her. She didn’t scream. She couldn’t. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. Panic clogged her mind, until all she could do was keep breathing, one breath after the other, faster and faster. No amount of air seemed to help her. Her chest contracted, but she didn’t move. It was impossible to tear her eyes from her outstretched hand.

  Each tooth was no bigger than her fingernail. The buds were a dingy white, but the roots were stained with long-dried blood, as though the teeth had been forcibly ripped from someone’s mouth.

  This can’t be happening.

  That one phrase kept repeating in her mind, over the din of her pounding heart, and the roaring in her ears. She could not be here, with teeth in her palm.

  The room spun around her. Her head felt so light. For a minute, she could not focus on anything. Her hand dropped, falling to her side. The teeth scattered onto the bed, contaminating everything they touched. Her sheets. Her skin. Her mind. She’d never be clean again.

  She burst from the bed, seizing the basin of water and the soap she kept on the bedside table. She scrubbed her hands until they were red and raw, but still she could feel the grime on her. The rose scent of her soap wafted to her nostrils, but it could not erase the foul odor of decay.

  Whirling back around, Vivian dried her hands on a towel. A part of her had hoped that the teeth would disappear while her back was turned. That this had all been some awful nightmare. But no, the offending molars remained on the bed. She breathed in again, trying to calm her racing heart to no avail.

  She needed to get the teeth out of sight, and she needed to never, ever, ever touch them again. Wrapping her hand in the towel, she lifted each tooth back into the bag and then closed the bag. Still using the towel, she picked the bag up and took it over to the window. She opened the window, tossing the bag outside. It fell to the ground with a horrid rattle.

  One of Abermont’s many gardeners would find it and dispose of it. She’d never have to see the teeth again.

  She tugged the counterpane down on her bed and then sat back down, her legs no longer able to support her. Why in God's name would Sauveterre send her this? And perhaps more importantly, whom had those teeth originally belonged to? She bit at her bottom lip, fearing the answer.

  What if—what if the teeth were Evan’s? Evan’s face had been so badly beaten when she’d went to identify his body. She closed her eyes, the image of his body on a slab in the coroner’s office appearing before her. Her stomach seized, and for a second, she thought she might vomit. Swallowing the bile back down, she put her hand on her stomach to quell the roil. Dash it all, she’d been too distracted by his bulging eyeball, the footprint across his cheek, to notice if his teeth were missing.

  She opened her eyes. A speck of white peeking out from the edge of the quilted counterpane caught her eye. The letter.

  With trembling fingers, she plucked the paper up from the bed and slit the seal. For once, Sauveterre's missive was quite short. The first line read:

  You see now what I did to your brother.

  Her mind reeled, as the pieces of the puzzle smashed into place. No, no, no, no. How had she missed this? She was so stupid! Fury boiled within her, threatening to take hold when she needed logic the most.

  Sauveterre had killed Evan. She’d wasted six months of her life obeying his every bloody order. Six months of being led around like a pony with a carrot in front of its nose, when the man she’d wanted all along had been right in front of her.

  Except she didn’t know a damn thing about Sauveterre, other than the fact that he could afford expensive paper and his letters were postmarked from a coaching inn in Chatham, Kent. Five months ago, she’d written to the proprietor of that coaching inn for information on Sauveterre—but the proprietor had claimed they never received, or sent out, any letters for such a man.

  She reached in the top drawer of her bedside table for a map, spreading it out
on the bed. Chatham was approximately eight hours away from Maidstone, or a day’s ride in a carriage. She had enough blunt saved up for at least the trip there. But once she arrived at Chatham, what would she do? She could go to the coaching inn and demand an explanation, but there was little chance their answer would be any different. As someone in service, she simply wasn’t important enough to warrant the truth.

  And if by some slight chance they did tell her where Sauveterre was, what was her play? Yes, she was a skilled fencer, but she’d never handled a gun before. The blade of her sword triumphed in close combat, but her ability to defend herself from a distance was minimal at best. Evan’s body had been badly brutalized, and he was a much better fighter than she’d ever been—not to mention he’d had five stone on her. The ludicrousness of her plan was now startlingly clear. If the police hadn’t believed he’d been a targeted murder when the crime scene was still current, why would they believe her now when she had only shadowy evidence? She couldn’t fight Sauveterre on her own.

  Any hope she’d cherished in the last six months ripped from her. Her head hung down, her chin in her hands. Tears rolled down her face, slow at first, but then faster, as sobs shook her shoulders. She cried until her throat ached. Until she had no tears left, and all that came forth was silent, dry bawling.

  But wait. There was more to the message.

  Find me confirmation that James Spencer is in British intelligence. If you disappoint me again, I’ll send you to hell in the same manner I did your brother.

  A keening whimper escaped from her throat. She’d refused to think of her own life in the last few months, so focused was she on getting revenge for Evan. Her existence had seemed immaterial if she couldn’t accomplish that goal. But now, faced with the immediate threat, she could only think one thing: she did not want to die.

  We have survived when we wish we had not. We are too strong for our own good, but we cannot change.

  Abermont’s words resonated in her mind. He’d called her a survivor. He believed in her strength. His confidence in her bolstered her more than it should. More than she wanted to admit. She grasped at his support, letting it shape her mind. If it would take a day for her to get to Chatham, the opposite was true. Sauveterre could be on his way here. Or, Chatham could simply be a forwarding address, and he was already in Maidstone. Watching her.