The Dangerous Duke

by Arabella Sheraton

  “I must speak wi’ Yer Grace,” he said in a low voice. When the Duke nodded, he respectfully indicated Butterball’s stall. “Sorry, Sir, can we speak in private?”

  Devlin felt the stirrings of suspicion send shivers down his spine. The two men looked at the now calm but worn out Butterball. She lifted her head and whickered at her visitors, clearly glad to be home in her familiar stall.

  “Odd, isn’t it?” The Duke was pensive, stroking Butterball’s silky nose. “Such a mild-mannered horse. What could have sent her crazy?”

  “This, Sir!” Finch thrust out his clenched fist and opened his fingers to display the small gleaming object.

  Devlin bent his head to examine it closer. “What the devil’s that?”

  “’Tis a pin, from a woman’s brooch, Sir,” Finch whispered hoarsely. “I found it under the saddle.”

  “Perhaps it got there by accident?” The Duke turned a level gaze on the man he had trusted for years.

  “Sorry, Sir. I don’t believe in accidents when it comes ter stables. Not when somethin’ is under the saddle, affixed in the blanket so the sharp end is pointin’ down.”

  Devlin’s voice was grim. “It was deliberate?”

  “’Fraid so, Sir.” Finch took the blanket from under Butterball’s saddle and pierced the fabric with the pointed tip of the pin.

  “See? When I saddled ’er up, I noticed she was more than a bit frisky the moment she felt the saddle. But it were p’raps no more than like a stone in a shoe fer us. But the moment she felt any weight, the pain would make ’er angry. Then when Lucifer clobbered ’er, that was the end o’ the matter. Miss Fenella, as light as a feather though she may be, came down like a lump o’ lead. The pain from this must have been terrible. It sent Butterball screamin’ mad.”

  Devlin was incredulous. “Are you telling me someone in our household deliberately sabotaged Miss Preston’s saddle so as to unseat her and perhaps kill her?” His face was dark with anger.

  Finch shuffled his feet and looked down. Then he gazed straight into Devlin’s eyes, with a firm, clear resolve. “Beggin’ Yer Grace’s pardon, Sir, but no person of this ’ouse’old would lay a finger on Miss Fenella. She’s like a ray of sunshine, she is.”

  He fingered the gold pin. “Besides, this don’t belong ter no one in our ’ouse’old, Sir. P’raps outsiders, but not from here.” His look was meaningful. He handed the pin to Devlin. “I think ye’d better keep this, Sir. Maybe ye’ve an idea of the owner.”

  The Duke turned the pin over in his fingers. “Not a word to the others, Finch. Not a word. I’ll sort this out.”

  “My lips are sealed, Sir.” Concern clouded his ruddy face. “She’ll be all right, won’t she, sir?”

  Devlin forced himself to smile encouragingly. “Yes, Miss Preston is a strong young woman and Doctor Barclay is an excellent physician. I’m sure she will recover soon.”

  Finch nodded and went on his way. Devlin walked slowly back to the house, an angry expression on his face. He entered the drawing room where Lady Penelope sat, sipping tea with the Dowager.

  “My dear, how is the horse now?” the Dowager cried, catching sight of him. She placed her cup down on its saucer with a nervous clatter. “What could have happened?”

  The old lady wrung her hands. “Has Butterball gone mad? Will you have to shoot her?”

  Devlin kissed his mother’s trembling hand before sitting next to her. He patted her shoulder and calmed her fears.

  “No, Mama, the horse is fine. Lucifer frightened her—that’s all. In a day or so, Butterball will be back to normal. It was entirely my fault; I should have been there to supervise. How is Miss Preston?”

  The Dowager’s face was grief-stricken. “Doctor Barclay says she is still unconscious, but that she is young and strong and should recover quickly. The usual things doctors say when they cannot give you a proper answer. Molly is with her now and Mrs. Perkins will sit with her later.”

  She gave a small sob, which she bravely tried to turn into a cough.

  Devlin rubbed his mother’s hands. His voice was gentle. “Don’t distress yourself, Mama. There’s no point in you becoming ill as well. Why don’t you retire for a small nap before dinner? Perhaps we will have good news by then?”

  The Dowager agreed, and rang the bell for Harbottle. Once his mother had left the room, Devlin turned back to his mistress. His eyes were chips of flint in a face that resembled a granite statue. Lady Penelope cowered into the sofa cushions; Devlin stood over her, implacable in his fury. His voice was cold.

  “So, my lady, explain yourself, if you please.”

  Lady Penelope pouted and resorted to her one, infallible weapon where men were concerned: tears. However, the only effect they had on Devlin was to make him turn his back on her and stride to the fireplace.

  “When you have composed yourself, madam,” was his haughty comment, “perhaps you would like to tell me what you think you were doing?”

  Lady Penelope played for time.

  “I know you must be angry with me.” Her voice was low and mellifluous; she even managed a heart-rending sob.

  “Angry?” He whipped round and glared at her. “That, my dear Penelope, is the understatement of the year.”

  Lady Penelope rose from her seat and flung herself against his chest, clutching at him in a melodramatic manner. Her shrieks of anguish echoed around the room as she slid down onto the floor, weeping.

  Devlin was enraged. She was behaving like a third-rate actress in a bad theatrical. He yanked her to her feet. At this opportunity, she melted into his arms. In exasperation, he pushed her into a chair and handed her a large white handkerchief.

  “For God’s sake, compose yourself!” he snapped.

  Lady Penelope stopped crying in an instant. Miraculously, there was not a trace of tears or any of the associated ravages on her face. She gave a few exaggerated sniffs and then hazarded, “Can you forgive me for taking such liberties with your horse?” She peeped out at him from under coquettish lashes.

  Aha, so that’s the way the wind blows. She thinks this is just about riding the horse.

  Determined to play her at her own game, Devlin gave her a scornful glance.

  “I am astounded you saw fit to ride Lucifer, after you have been well warned as to his temperament.”

  Lady Penelope shrank from his withering gaze. She nodded, crestfallen, but still fluttering her eyelashes. Tears glittered like diamonds and trembled on the brink of pouring down her alabaster cheeks. However, Lady Penelope was a consummate actress and was well-versed in the art of tears at will, so there was no real danger of spoiling her complexion.

  “Not only that, you had the temerity to behave in such a fashion that you knowingly placed the lives of not one, but two people of my household in danger.”

  As Devlin spoke, the idea formed in his head that were he to focus only on Fenella, he would exacerbate Lady Penelope’s resentment, and who knew what she would plan next. By including Finch, he would give the impression of being the angry lord of the manor, protecting his employees.

  “I am distraught that poor Miss Preston has been hurt,” she whimpered. “Shall I go up and sit with her?”

  Devlin whirled upon her. “No!” he almost shouted. “Stay away from her!”

  Lady Penelope drew back in the chair, shivering. “I can’t think why I did such a silly thing,” she whispered, hanging her head. She peeped up at him, cautiously this time. “Oh, I feel so exhausted and my nerves are jangling.”

  Lady Penelope lay back against the cushions, affecting dizziness. Devlin strode to the mantelpiece and yanked the bell-pull.

  “What are you doing?” she quavered.

  “I can see you are indisposed. So perhaps you should emulate my mother’s example and take yourself off to your room for a rest.”

  Lady Penelope flounced off to her room, refusing even Maria’s tender ministrations.

  Chapter Eleven

  Devlin walked quietly to the door of Fenella�
�s room and nudged it open. The hinges gave a faint squeak as the door swung ajar. Molly started in surprise when she saw her employer.

  “Beg pardon, Yer Grace!” She jumped up and then bobbed an anxious curtsey, staring fearfully at him.

  Devlin waved her back into her seat next to the bed and whispered, “How is…er … Miss Preston?”

  Molly did not answer him right away. She was too busy gazing at the large white box tied with a silver ribbon that he clutched in his arms.

  “Uh…sorry, Sir,” she whispered, bobbing again.

  Devlin, exasperated, muttered, “In Heaven’s name, Molly, stop doing that. You’re making me dizzy.”

  Molly, midway toward executing another curtsey, froze and then slowly straightened up. Devlin put the box on the end of the bed and walked around to the side where he could see Fenella’s sleeping form.

  “Well, Sir,” Molly announced, sotto voce. “She’s bin sleepin’ ever so much, but that’s good ’cause Doctor Barclay recommends the power ’o sleep to mend the broken body. ’E said sumpin’ else about sleep ravellin’ up a worn sleeve o’ care but I didn’t much understand that bit.”

  Molly finished the recitation with a proud flourish, as if she alone were responsible for these words of wisdom.

  Devlin nodded, still gazing down at Fenella. Her face seemed very pallid.

  Molly, suddenly struck by an instinctive, age-old flash of feminine intuition, whispered demurely, “If yer don’t mind, Sir, would ye like to sit a wee while? So I could just slip away to Cook to prepare Miss Fenella’s broth.”

  Devlin looked at her rosy-cheeked country face. In that moment, maidservant and master were in perfect understanding, and he thanked her silently for her perspicacity.

  “You run along, Molly,” he whispered. “I have a little time to spare.”

  “I’ll be back in fifteen minutes, Sir,” she whispered in return, giving him clear indication she would be absent for a decent interval. She slipped out the room and closed the door. However, for propriety’s sake, Molly left it open a crack.

  * * * *

  Devlin sat in the chair Molly had vacated and gazed at Fenella’s face. Her breathing was soft and regular. Her dark lashes fanned onto her cheeks, which had just the faintest touch of pink to indicate that health was returning.

  It had been three days now. Three days of uncertainty.

  The Dowager had hardly slept; neither had he. Both showed the ravages of sleeplessness with shadowed eyes and solemn faces. The servants tiptoed often to her door to ask if there was any change in Miss Fenella’s condition. Molly and Mrs. Perkins watched over the frail, slumbering body and never were the guardians of Hell more fierce than the feisty little maidservant and the severe housekeeper. Even crusty Blenkins found that his duties, upon occasion, took him past the bedroom door where he managed to have a few mumbled words with Molly. Doctor Barclay made regular appearances, shut himself in the sickroom for long periods, and refused to answer when questioned beyond a testy, “Time will tell.”

  Devlin stared at her. She seemed so fragile, so tiny, surrounded by mounds of lacy white pillows and with the coverlet drawn up to her chin. Her dark hair fanned out across the pillow and made a startling contrast to her pinched face. Her usually rosy lips were pale, a little parted as she dozed. Devlin longed to touch her, to take her hand, but he dared not wake her. His wandering eyes soon spied a velvet ribbon hanging down from the small table next to her bed. Curious, he lifted the ribbon and the gold locket swung into view. He started, almost guilty at being found out for something he had not yet done but which he knew he would do—open the locket. He held the gold ornament in his hand for a few moments, wrestling ineffectually with his conscience.

  Should he or shouldn’t he? This was almost as wrong as reading someone’s letters or a diary; a potential deed made even more heinous by the fact that the sleeping owner lay so close by. After all, he should know if there was something to do with Fenella’s past. As her employer, he had every right to demand the truth. However, this argument sounded weak, even to him.

  He felt along the side of the locket, found the catch, and prised it open. The dark lock of hair fell out onto his knee. He lifted it up in astonishment. Her mother’s hair? It had to be—the shade was so exact. Was there more? He fumbled with the locket for a few minutes and then did a very simple thing. He pressed the middle of the inside of the locket. A thin gold wafer opened to reveal a miniature portrait of a fair-haired man. Astounded, he pressed the middle of the other side and the same phenomenon occurred. Two false insides opened to reveal opposite portraits. The one on the left was a man, dressed in what appeared to be a military uniform. It was hard to distinguish much more since the portrait was of a head and shoulders, so just the top of the collar and shoulders were visible. However, Devlin was sure the man was Fenella’s father. Hadn’t she mentioned he had been killed in the war? The other portrait was of a beautiful woman with a knot of dark curls and laughing eyes. Small as the picture was, the woman’s beauty was clearly defined. He might have been looking at an older Fenella. So, these were her parents.

  Well, the father may have been a military man but where did he came from? He may have earned honours on the battlefield yet been as poor as a church mouse. Possibly the woman was of good stock but who was to say that she was anything higher than a parson’s daughter? She may even have been the daughter of an impoverished gentleman; a pretty woman at that, but still beneath him.

  Fenella stirred and he quickly snapped shut the two false leaves, inserted the lock of hair and closed the locket, replacing it exactly where he had found it. He felt a pang of shame at his underhanded conduct. Fenella opened her eyes. She uttered a faint murmur of astonishment and he jumped to his feet and took a few steps back.

  “Don’t distress yourself, Miss Preston. I was passing and Molly asked if I would sit with you for a few minutes. She has to…er…get broth or gruel or some such thing.”

  He returned to his seat. “How are you feeling now? Are you well?”

  Fenella gave a weak smile. “About as well as anyone who has endured a stampeding horse and a cracked skull.”

  He gave a short laugh, the smile still playing around his lips as his laughter died away. “Yes, I’m sorry, that was a silly question.”

  “No, no,” Fenella hastened to assure him. “Thank you for your concern.”

  An awkward silence fell. He sat silent, wondering how to mend what had taken place between them. He could never retract those scornful words. He could never undo the intimacy he now so clearly remembered. Would that vision never leave his brain? Then he remembered the reason he had come.

  With almost palpable relief, he got up and fetched the large white box from the end of the bed.

  “I nearly forgot,” he said, with a faint reddening of his cheeks. “There is something for you.”

  “For me?” The words came out of her mouth like a strangled squawk. She coughed. He was at her side instantly.

  “Here, let me help you.”

  He held a glass of water to her lips. When he was satisfied she had drunk her fill, he handed the box to her and said solemnly, “This is from Lucifer.”

  “Pardon?”

  He pressed his lips together to suppress a smile. However, in that moment Fenella entered into his jest with child-like glee.

  “Really?” she exclaimed, with a peal of laughter. “From Lucifer? I don’t believe it.” A pink flush of excitement stained her cheeks and she clapped her hands with delight. “How considerate of him.”

  He nodded with mock gravity. “It’s true.”

  “Why, I declare he is a most thoughtful steed.” She giggled.

  Her riposte gave him the opening he needed and he relaxed with a laugh. “Yes, I’m afraid he has been very misunderstood, and especially during these past few days when he has been much maligned for his actions.”

  A shadow fell across Fenella’s face. “I still don’t understand what happened.”

  Devlin
soothed her by saying, “I will explain all. Hurry up and open the box. I am under strict instruction to inform my steed whether you approve of his gift.”

  Fenella slowly pulled the silver ribbon from around the box, delaying the moment, creating an exquisite anticipation of what could be within. Finally, she lifted the lid. Inside lay a beautiful riding habit of dark blue velvet. On top was a dainty blue hat with a veil and a jaunty feather. Underneath the folds of material, she found a pair of black leather boots, a pair of fine black leather gloves and a small crop.

  “Not that you’ll need it with Butterball,” Devlin laughed, “but I am assured that every lady of fashion who rides in Hyde Park carries one, for show at least.”

  It seemed to Devlin that Fenella scarcely heard him. The detail on the habit was far more fascinating than any words he could have uttered at that moment. The outfit was superbly cut and decorated with intricate, yet tasteful frogging in corded black velvet on the bodice and cuffs. Small brass buttons down the front finished off its dashing, military look. Fenella’s eyes filled with tears and she turned her head away, but Devlin noticed her distress.

  “What is the matter?” Devlin demanded. “If it is not to your liking we can change it for something else, although Lucifer will be very upset and rightly so. He went to a lot of trouble to get it. Do you know how difficult it is to get service in London when you’re a horse?”

  He gave an exaggerated sigh. “Finally, he had to ask for my help.” He added this last remark slyly while watching her expression.

  Fenella choked with laughter and sobbed, “It is utterly perfect. I’m not sad, just so overwhelmed by Lucifer’s…kindness…his consideration…his generosity.”

  Devlin knew her words had nothing more to do with the original jest.

  His voice was low when he replied, “Yes, it’s true, he is very generous and kind and he can be gentle too; and when he makes mistakes, he would appreciate forgiveness, more than you could know.”