The Desires of a Duke: Historical Romance Collection

by Darcy Burke

  He wouldn’t risk trying to find answers tonight. He’d wait until tomorrow when she was in the schoolroom and complete a thorough sweep of her room, starting with that note. He’d planned on staying in Kent for a few days, as the Clocktower was headquartered in London, but he’d write Deacon in the morning that he was extending his stay.

  Miss Loren might have secrets, but she was about to find out that in a house of spies nothing remained unknown for long.

  The following morning, James reviewed the notes he’d received from the housekeeper on Miss Loren’s schedule. Mrs. Engle was one of the few servants who knew the family’s secret—she’d grown up in service at Abermont House, as her mother had been their cook until her death. James had not given Mrs. Engle a reason for his enquiry, and the housekeeper had not asked.

  James appreciated that about her. Mrs. Engle understood the importance of “need to know” far more than his sisters ever had.

  He reviewed the note one last time as he stood in the hall outside of the nursery. From down the hall, he heard the clock chime eight times. Miss Loren awoke with the sun. At six, she would prepare herself for the day ahead. From the hours of seven to eight in the morning, she breakfasted with Thomas in the nursery. From eight until teatime, she was in the schoolroom with him as well. Then she’d go on a walk with Thomas, and eat dinner with him.

  Outside of Thomas, he doubted Miss Loren had regular communication with anyone. Mrs. Engle had informed him the servants did not like her, for they considered her too highbred to be one of them.

  What a lonely existence. Here in Kent, she had no family, no friends, no one who would understand her grief.

  He understood her pain. Too well.

  He scowled down at the paper. Damnation, he would not feel sympathy for Miss Loren, not until he knew exactly why she’d poked through his library the night prior. The knife sheathed at his side, and the other secured in his boot, reminded him that he needed to treat this like any other mission.

  She was a suspect. A possible traitor.

  James passed the nursery, stopping at the next door to the right. Miss Loren’s room. He glanced up and down the hall—no one was coming. He pushed the door open and entered, shutting it quietly behind him. Though Miss Loren was not due back for hours, he did not want to risk that someone else would see him and ask questions. For now, he kept his suspicions to himself. He pretended that his reticence was simply because he wanted to have all the facts before he presented the case to Wickham.

  He knew better.

  He stood back, his gaze darting from one corner of the room to the next. The furniture was sparse. A bed, a desk and chair, a wardrobe, and a bedside table. Abermont House’s various servant quarters were considered spacious in comparison to other estates, but even with that Miss Loren’s room was the size of his dressing room. One hell of a change from the viscountcy where she’d grown up.

  His vision focused in on the jewelry box she’d opened last night and he stalked toward it. The lid stuck when he tried to open it; upon further investigation, a small brass lock clasped the two fasteners together. He took a seat in the chair, propping his foot up on his opposite knee. His top boots had been specially designed by the weapons expert at the Clocktower. A small repository was in the sole of each shoe, just wide enough for a pick and a tension wrench. He selected both, closed the receptacle, and stood.

  Surveying the lock, he let out a derisive snort. The most inept of child thieves could pick this. If Miss Loren thought this tiny trinket would keep him out of that box, she was even more inexperienced than he’d thought. He selected the thin tension wrench, sliding it into the bottom of the lock and applying pressure. He heard the click as the lock opened. Gathering up his tools, he slid the case back in his pocket and removed the lock from the box.

  “Let’s see what you have hidden.” He popped up the lid.

  Four broaches, two necklaces, and three pairs of earrings lined the upper tray. All were clearly paste. The lock had not been to protect their monetary value. He’d encountered enough seemingly innocuous objects to know not to immediately discount them. He picked up each one, checking for secret caches in the metalwork, or defining marks that did not fit with the rest of the piece. Nothing. These pieces might have held sentimental worth to her, but that was all.

  He removed the top tray and set it on the desk. The bottom cavity was not deep. A pink silk scarf folded twice covered the area, and to the casual onlooker, there appeared to be nothing else in the box. But he’d seen her place foolscap here.

  “She thinks she’s clever, doesn’t she?” He addressed the box as he lifted up the scarf and deposited it on the desk. A handful of folded up parchment scraps littered the space. “But she’s not clever enough.”

  Miss Loren must have affected his senses, if he was talking to a damn box as if it could deliver a response. He ran his hand through hair, frowning down at the notes. A part of him thrilled at doing something active again—though this was a far cry from the usual danger and exotic places of his old field missions—yet he could not crush the dread that welled up with him.

  “Enough dillydallying,” he muttered. Too much time in the office had made him soft, if the betrayal of one meager governess unhinged him.

  Drawing out the chair behind the desk, he settled onto it, careful to keep his weight evenly distributed so that the wood wouldn’t groan. He flipped over the first letter, glancing at the postmark. Written to her back when she’d lived in London, almost a year after her brother’s death. Though he was not as good at analyzing handwriting as Elinor, he knew enough to garner a few observations. The large, spidery script ran together, as if the writer both craved attention and crowded those around him. The letters were also sharply pointed, indicating the writer was aggressive and intelligent.

  Great. Just what he needed.

  He unfolded the letter, reading the message.

  If you ever want to learn why your brother died, you will apply to be the Spencer family’s governess. When you are accepted, expect to hear from me again.

  -Sauveterre

  Whoever sent Vivian Loren to his door had done so by offering her with information about her brother’s murder. For a minute, he forgot to focus on the mission. Whatever she’d done, the pain in her eyes over her brother’s death had been real.

  He clenched his fingers together in a fist, vise-gripping the note as memories besieged him. Nicodème had laughed when James encountered him. He’d gloated over Louisa’s torture, up until the moment James dragged the knife across his throat, effectively silencing him for good.

  When he found Sauveterre—and he would find him—he’d rip him apart, limb by limb. Not just for daring to threaten James, but for hurting Miss Loren.

  He remembered how hollow her voice had sounded when she’d asked him if he’d sought vengeance for Louisa’s death. She lived with this hole every day in her life, not just the guilt of having survived when he did not, but the inability to make it right. While Nicodème could never hurt anyone again, her brother’s killer was still out there, possibly preying on innocent lives. And instead of coming forward as a good Samaritan would have, this foul creature had preyed upon her grief.

  That bastard. That violent, deceitful, immoral bastard. Fury boiled up inside him, threatening to take hold. He told himself his anger was purely intellectual. This was the lowest form of cruelty, using the demise of a loved one to get information. There were certain cards one simply didn’t play when controlling an asset.

  He placed the note on the desk. Reminded himself that information was power, and the more he knew, the better prepared he’d be. He started with the signature. Sauveterre. He didn’t recognize the name—though that didn’t necessarily mean anything, for in his line of work people had many names.

  He pressed his lips together, considering. Given that the sender had purposefully instructed Miss Loren to instill herself at Abermont House, the most likely scenario was that the sender was an enemy agent. Perhaps one of Bo
naparte’s Talons—Nicodème had been one of the First Consul’s favorites. James had expected Bonaparte would seek revenge—he just hadn’t been prepared for it to come in the form of a pretty governess who was far too memorable for her own good.

  Reaching upwards, he pinched the bridge of his nose. Her lack of experience could now be explained. He doubted she’d ever worked a spy before this. Why had Sauveterre chosen this woman? How had he known about her brother’s death—was it through personal involvement in the murder, or through a third party?

  He flipped to the second note, which congratulated her on her successful hire and requested a list of people in the house and their usual schedules. Standard, easily obtainable information, most likely meant to test her skills. Sauveterre would likely match her responses against what intelligence he’d already received, gaging her willingness to tell him the truth. It was what James would have done.

  The next few were more detailed. Inquiries on what she’d sent him. The handwriting became larger, the formation of the letters more erratic. Sauveterre’s tone became more brusque. He pushed her to dig further. To bring him something valuable.

  James pulled in a deep breath. At least that was comforting. Whatever Miss Loren had sent him, Sauveterre wasn’t pleased. This meant that the threat might be more easily minimized—if this mysterious benefactor didn’t have concrete proof of James’s covert activities, he’d be easier to contain.

  And if there was one thing James was good at, it was eliminating threats.

  Unfolding another note, he spread it out on the desk beside the rest. In the final missive, he could almost feel Sauveterre’s frustration ebbing off the page. There was another demand for more information, and then this line:

  I think you’ve become too comfortable in your position there. Don’t forget that easily as you obtained that job, I can take it away. Find me something useful.

  James’s brows furrowed. Elinor had hired Miss Loren because of her education and social class. Had her past been forged as part of Sauveterre’s plan? He discounted that idea. Wickham had performed a stringent background investigation, which involved talking to many of her relatives and acquaintances. But he still had many questions about her that needed answers. What exactly had she told Sauveterre? What exactly did Sauveterre suspect him of? The fact that he’d sent Vivian Loren in, instead of attempting a frontal assault on Abermont House, was intriguing.

  Abermont House was well fortified, with seven guards who patrolled the grounds at all times. Any unusual activity was immediately reported back to him, or in his absence, Elinor. Had Sauveterre attempted entry into the home himself, and been refused? James skimmed over the staff in the last year. No one else new—there was little turn over at the estate, for he made damn sure that their salaries were well above average. Well-paid servants were loyal servants.

  The only position they’d had available in the last four years was governess, and that was only because Mrs. Garring’s mother had taken ill. Damnation, if he were going to instill an operative in the staff, he would have chosen the governess too.

  He gathered up all the notes, and placed them back in Miss Loren’s jewelry box, rearranging everything exactly as she’d had it. Slipping the lock back on, he closed the box. A quick search of the rest of her room revealed nothing more.

  Slipping his hand down, James checked the knife at his side, then the one strapped in his boot. He had no intent of using either on Miss Loren—unless absolutely necessary—yet their presence made him feel prepared for whatever was ahead. He wouldn’t wait for Miss Loren to finish her school day. He’d confront her now.

  Chapter 6

  This must be what hell felt like.

  Not the stab of sudden pain, nor the squeeze of one’s lungs gasping for air, but instead the slow tick of a clock toward doom. It was the waiting that would undo her. The agony of not knowing when her demise would come, yet all the while being fully aware that destruction was imminent. Unavoidable. She waited as the sun rose, stripping away the darkness of the previous night. Waited as she took in breakfast. Waited as she taught Thomas an hour’s worth of French, then assisted his tutor with the history lesson.

  By the time the hour struck three and she was finally able to extricate herself from Thomas’s side, Vivian considered a quick death a humane alternative to the torment of her present situation. She’d never been so glad to see Miss Spencer, who had come by the schoolroom to take Thomas out for an afternoon ride. Finally, finally, she could cease waiting and act.

  If she could only find the dashed duke.

  She’d checked the dining room, the parlor, the billiards room, the gymnasium, the ballroom, and a seemingly endless supply of other rooms, for Abermont House was nothing if not spacious. He was not there. Nor was he in the library she’d raided, or the office where she’d drank with him and been considered—for a few minutes anyhow—his equal. She did not know if she should feel relieved by that; perhaps Fate paid her some small gift in forcing her to speak to him somewhere not already clogged by memories.

  She stood now under the archway of the exit door out into the garden. One half-boot on the tiled floor of the conservatory, the other on the grass of the lawn. The symbolism was not lost on her, even as she debated going outside. She’d be exposed in that long swatch of green. Nowhere to hide, not until she reached the maze deep in the garden, and that was far away from here. While some shrubbery lined the paths and trees were interspersed amongst the flowerbeds and statuary, the garden had been created for visibility and atmosphere. It was a garden of the indolent rich, those with so few problems they had hours in the day to while away in the tranquility of the outdoors. It had not been created for women with threats against their lives.

  Stepping back, she worried her bottom lip between her front teeth. Sauveterre could be watching her right now, plotting her demise, as she waited at the threshold. In the house, she had some level of protection. Guards patrolled at all hours, for the Spencers liked their privacy. At first, she’d found this fact odd, but she’d attributed it to the habits of the highly wealthy. When one estate harbored so many priceless objects, it was bound to attract thieves.

  And deceitful spies like her.

  She laid her head against the cool wood of the door. Pretended that it steadied her, when in truth her heart beat so fast she feared it might burst free of her chest. Wouldn’t it be better, to live without a heart? That fanciful thought took hold of her, and she sucked in another breath, wishing for a life where she did not hurt so. Her heart had brought her nothing but pain and suffering. A life without passion, without the bitter thrust of a knife to her gut every time she remembered Evan: now that would be heaven.

  But she could not close her eyes without seeing him on the coroner’s table. His skin bloated. His abdomen discolored and green, while his legs appeared marbled as if violet-black spider webs interwove across his body. Sauveterre had done this to her brother, and now he was coming for her.

  A sob tore from her throat before she could stop it. Her frayed nerves were splitting at the seams and she had nothing left to patch them back together. For a year and a half she had waited to find Evan’s killer, and now that she had a name, she was even more powerless.

  “Miss Loren?”

  Abermont’s voice surrounded her. Intruded upon her thoughts, her very being, his words loud and bold. She wondered if she’d imagined him, for he’d arrived at the moment when she needed him most. When she was so frail the act of turning around to face him nearly made her drop. She’d fought for so long, lied for so many months, all for nothing.

  She did not know how it happened, exactly. One moment, she was standing up right, albeit unsteadily. Her shoulders did sag, yes, but her knees were most certainly not caving—until they did, and she was falling to the ground. But then a pair of strong arms wrapped around her, keeping her standing, anchoring her. She did not feel so alone anymore. Not when he was here, not when he held her.

  For a second—a blissful, fleeting seco
nd—she allowed herself to breathe in his woodsy scent, pine and leather. It wove through her senses, mingling in her mind, until everything was him and he was everything. His hands burned through the gossamer sleeves of her sienna day dress, catching her body aflame.

  And she wanted to lean her head against his broad chest and pretend that it was all going to be fine. There was no mysterious man hunting her. No secrets blackening her name.

  She had been wrong before. A life without feeling was not heaven.

  This was heaven.

  Too soon, he pulled back from her. It had not been more than a minute passed, yet she felt the inexplicable change echo through her. She stood again, on her own two feet, her stance firm. She remembered exactly who she was. At nine, she’d learned to ride astride, despite the objections of her uncle. At fourteen, she’d bested her brother in a fencing match, and when he’d claimed it was a lucky riposte, she’d done it again. And again.

  She was a survivor, blast it, and she’d make it through this battle as she had all the rest.

  Her chin notched higher, she met the duke’s inquiring gaze. Perhaps a flush slipped across her cheeks, for his eyes were so intense, twin whirlwinds reaching for her. But she ignored their pull. Ignored his appeal. In recalling her sense of self, she was again aware of the chasm between them.

  Abermont gave another of his nods, as if he was assured she wouldn’t faint again.

  “I need to speak with you,” she said.

  Just as he said, “I need to speak with you.”

  She blinked. What would he need to talk to her about? Her weekly report on Thomas’s progress wasn’t due for another few days. He’d already thanked her for bandaging his hand. There was little else between them.