The Secret Duke

by Jo Beverley

  An ugly spinster beyond all hope. There was nothing here to appeal to any man except that she was in dire straits.

  Signs of poverty were everywhere. This kitchen was hardly wider or longer than his outstretched arms, and his head was in danger from the beams. Even so, it was scantily furnished, and if there’d been a fire in the hearth, it had long since burned to ashes. The candle was tallow, giving little light but too much odor. He saw no sign of food.

  The few pieces of furniture were of good quality, however. The small table and four chairs could grace a morning room in a manor house, and had probably come from such a place. The pine dresser held some china and a few precious glasses.

  Gentry fallen on hard times.

  Because of a wastrel brother.

  He had to know more.

  Cate knew his size was frightening her, so he pulled out a chair and sat, putting his hands on the table.

  “You won’t scare me away, and if it comes to a fight you won’t give me more than a scratch. Simpler by far to sit down and tell me your story.”

  The woman tried to keep up her glare, but it melted into bewilderment and then, to his alarm, threatened tears. The dog whined again, somewhere amid her skirts. Oh, ’struth. Cate quickly took the flask of gin from his pocket and put it on the table. “Have some of this.”

  “What is it?”

  “Gin.”

  “Gin!”

  “Have you never indulged? It can sweeten bile.”

  She changed her grip on the knife, and surprised, he half rose to defend himself, but then she drove it two-handed into the table.

  “My, my,” he said after an appreciative moment. “Do please sit, drink, and tell.”

  “You’ve already had too much to drink, sirrah.”

  “It’s never too much unless I’m unconscious. You have glasses, I see. We could even be elegant.”

  Suddenly she laughed. It was ugly, but a release of sorts. She pushed straggling hair off her face and took two glass tumblers and slammed them on the table. Then she opened a low cupboard and produced a bottle.

  “Brandy,” she said, putting it beside the glasses. “My mother’s medicinal supply. Should we drink it with water?”

  “Seems a shame,” Cate said, picking up the bottle. “Your mother is abed upstairs?”

  “My mother is dead.”

  “My condolences.”

  “Two months ago.”

  Cate cursed his drink-blurred mind. He was being tossed pieces of a picture but couldn’t put them together.

  She sat down opposite him. “Pour me some, then.”

  The knife stood upright between them. Some vague reference to the sword of Damocles struggled to form, and failed.

  He uncorked the brandy bottle and sniffed. Not good stuff, but not atrocious. He poured half an inch into one glass and pushed it over to her. He poured the same into the other. He’d normally take more, but even half an inch might be enough to send her under the table. He didn’t want her sozzled, only loose-tongued.

  You’d be better off out of it, his sane side argued. This is no cause of yours.

  True enough, he responded, but when has that ever stopped me?

  The spaniel appeared at his knee, but now it was begging.

  “Away with you, coward.”

  “Don’t be cruel,” the woman said. “Toby, come here.”

  The dog slid away and only then did Cate notice that it was missing a hind leg. Devil take it. Two lame ducks. So to speak. He picked up his glass and drank, hoping for the strength to leave.

  She sipped and grimaced, but then she sipped again, and he found himself arrested by her.

  It was probably only her thinness that made her face so striking—that and the weak candlelight from the dresser to one side. It inked strong angles under her cheekbones and emphasized a square chin and a firm, straight nose.

  She could pass for a handsome youth. She could, he supposed, be a youth passing for a woman, but why would any male do that? And every sense said she was undoubtedly female.

  “Will you give me your name, ma’am?”

  “No.”

  “I’ve given you mine.”

  “Then I’ve forgotten it.”

  “Catesby Burgoyne.”

  She furrowed her brows at him. “An odd name, Catesby.”

  “My mother’s family name.”

  “Catesby? Wasn’t he connected to Guy Fawkes? The Papist plot to blow up King James and take his Parliament with him?”

  “The very leader of the plot, though Fawkes is better remembered, having had charge of the gunpowder.”

  “A strange heritage to pass on to a son,” she said.

  “I’ve often thought so, but she’s a proud woman, my mother, and sees her ancestor as a man who stood firm by his principles.”

  “Are you Papist then?”

  “No, and nor is she, or her parents or grandparents.”

  Humor flickered and he found himself reflecting it and, in a strange way, liking her. “Your brother is a lawyer. His offense is . . . ?”

  She took another sip of her brandy, this time grimacing not at all. She’d be swigging it soon, but it hadn’t yet loosened her tongue. Cate poured a little more into her glass and topped up his own.

  “I have a brother,” he said to encourage her, “but he’s a prince among men. A tender son, a devoted husband, a loving but firm father.”

  “You’re fortunate, then.”

  “I’m sure I am.”

  She cocked her head. “He’s not all that he appears?”

  “He is.”

  “But you resent it. Because you are none of those things?”

  Too sharp by half. “Your brother? He’s a failure at the law?”

  “On the contrary. He’s doing very well.” She cradled her glass, staring at the reflections from the guttering candle flame. “I thought him, too, a tender son. A good brother.”

  “Until?”

  The brandy was doing its work. Cate could dimly remember when a glass of spirits had made him babble. Long, long ago.

  “Until I received his letter.” She flickered a glance to one side, to an unfolded sheet of paper that lay on the dresser.

  “What does it say?” he asked.

  She drank again, swallowing slowly. “That the responsibilities consequent on his upcoming marriage make it impossible for him to increase the amount he sends me for my support.”

  “That doesn’t seem entirely unreasonable.”

  “Does it not?” Her eyes met his over the knife. “He sends two guineas a month.”

  “That is very little,” he agreed.

  “While establishing himself in a fine house in Darling-ton and proposing to purchase a carriage and pair for his future wife.”

  “Ah.” A sad case, but not unusual.

  She slammed her glass down on the table so hard that brandy splashed. “He owes me a decent life. He owes it to me. And to my mother if she were still alive. Everything he is—everything he has—is because of our unstinting labor and sacrifice over ten long years. We’ve gone without every elegance and indulgence and often without necessities as well.” She swept her hand around. “We’ve lived here, when once we had a lovely home. All so Samuel could be educated and establish himself in his profession, so that he could support my mother in comfort and enable me to make a good marriage. But now he reneges.”

  She grasped the bottle and poured herself more brandy. “I will not stand for it. I will make him hold to his duty, to his promises.”

  Cate observed, growing alarmed. Shock he could believe, but her anger was of another order, especially when it drove a blade deep into wood. She might be headed for a madhouse. Or the gallows . . .

  “Would you not be better off as a governess or companion?”

  “What? Why should I become a servant? I may have lost all hope of being a wife with a proper home and family, but I will not sink so low.”

  Cate swigged down his brandy and rose. This was not his problem
, and there was nothing he could do.

  “I regret your situation, ma’am, and wish I could assist you, but I can’t. In case you think me heartless, I am almost penniless and homeless myself, cut off from my own family. I must find employment if I’m not to starve.”

  She rose, too, needing to steady herself on the back of her chair. “Then I’m sorry for you, Mr. Burgoyne. Alas, I am equally unable to help you.”

  He considered matters and then took two shillings out of his pocket.

  “I would need to spend this to share a room at the tavern. If you will allow me to stay here tonight, I’ll have some privacy and less fear of fleas, and you’ll have money for some small indulgence.”

  Conventional shock showed. “What if anyone found out?”

  “I promise to leave carefully.”

  She touched the shillings in a way that showed the value they held for her. They held value to him at the moment, but he had more money in London, and could earn shillings, and even guineas, in any number of ways. She, being a woman, could not.

  “Very well.” She picked up the candle. “I’ll show you to my mother’s room. I regret that the bed is unaired.”

  “I’ve slept rougher.”

  Before leaving, Cate grasped the knife and worked it out of the wood. She’d stepped away from him, eyes wide, but he put it down.

  “You would have found that hard to do. A lesson for you. Be sure you can deal with the results of your angry actions.”

  She turned and led the way stiffly up steep, narrow stairs to a tiny hallway between two doors. She opened the one on the right, went in and lit the stub of a candle there. The bed was narrow and plain.

  “Thank you,” he said. “If I’m gone before you rise, I wish you well.”

  “As I do you.”

  There was something in her tone. Perhaps she felt the same strange pull, as if extraordinary circumstances had linked them, however briefly.

  Then she raised her chin. “Will you kiss me, sir?”

  “Why?” he asked, startled and wary.

  “Because I’ve never been kissed, and probably never will be.”

  He laughed, but quickly said, “I’m not laughing at you. I’m delighted by your frank curiosity.”

  He took the candle from her hand and placed it with the other, then touched her cheek. She had striking eyes, he realized, though he had no idea of their color. Large and with heavy lids. He didn’t know her name.

  Better so.

  He cradled her face and kissed her.

  One of her hands gripped his wrist, but she didn’t protest. Too late he realized she might panic and cry rape, and he’d have no defense that anyone would believe.

  But she didn’t, and he wanted to give her this.

  He had no idea how much of a kiss she wanted and doubted she did, either, so he kissed her again, teasing at her lips, hoping she would open them. She pressed her lips back against his but clearly had no notion what to do. He could have used his thumb to coax her jaw down, to deepen the kiss, but instead he ended it and then drew her into his arms for an embrace.

  She stiffened as if trapped, but then suddenly relaxed, leaning limply against his chest. He could feel her thinness now, and it was the gauntness of chronic hunger, something he’d never known. He gently separated them, making sure she could stand.

  She could, but one of her hands rose, perhaps to touch her lips, but instead went to her hair as if she feared it had run wild.

  “Is that what you wanted?” he asked.

  “Yes, thank you, sir.”

  He suspected that wasn’t true and that with a little coaxing she would willingly experience more. He needed no more trouble in his life, however, and truly did not want to harm her.

  “Then good night,” he said.

  “Yes. Good night.”

  She hesitated a moment longer before grasping her candle and hurrying out.

  Cate considered the closed door and then pinched out the precious candle. By darkness he removed his outer clothing and went to bed, attempting to put all thought of the woman and her problems out of his mind.