The Gypsy Duchess

by Nadine Miller

  “Of course we are here—exactly as we promised.” Stamden scowled down at the agitated woman standing beside him. “But tell us, ma’am, what has happened to make you tremble so?”

  “Her grace is terribly upset. She believes we were followed from the town house.”

  Devon instantly snapped to attention. “The devil you say. Did she see who they were?”

  “No, I did not.” The duchess stepped up beside her companion. She was deathly pale and she regarded him from eyes which had darkened from their usual vivid blue to a deep, troubled violet.

  “Then how do you know you were followed?”

  “I felt their evil presence too strongly to be mistaken.”

  “You felt their evil presence?” Devon echoed skeptically. “You have seen no one, yet you are certain that more than one of these invisible men followed you.”

  Moira could see the earl didn’t believe her. More to a point, the look of barely concealed contempt on his face told her he judged her to be nothing more than a troublesome female given to hysterics—or worse yet, one so devious she would manufacture danger where none existed so he would feel obliged to offer the protection she sought for the young duke.

  Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “I am certain, my lord. Do not ask me to tell you how I know, for I cannot explain it. But I am certain.”

  She took a deep, calming breath. “Please believe me it is imperative that I get Charles to safety. I would have made a try for my carriage before, but it seemed safer to stay in the crowd until you arrived.”

  “A wise decision, your grace,” the marquess agreed politely, but the look he sent the earl plainly said, “Humor the silly creature.”

  She could scarcely blame him, or the earl, for thinking her behavior irrational. Nor was it difficult to imagine how these two peers of the realm would react if she told them she had inherited from her gypsy mother the uncanny ability to sense when danger threatened someone she loved—that it was a gift passed down from generation to generation in the women of her family.

  No, that was a secret she dared not divulge to any gaujo. Not even her friend and protector, the duke, had known of her ties with the Rom. Very early in life, she had learned the painful lesson that anyone tainted with gypsy blood—even that of the proud Spanish gitanos—was automatically despised and distrusted by all non-gypsies.

  “The marquess and I will see you to your carriage if that is your wish, your grace,” the earl said in the chilly tone of voice she had notice he reserved just for her. “Then I believe we may consider the business between us concluded, at least for the present.”

  “Concluded!” Moira stared at him, fear and anger constricting her throat. “Just like that—without even taking the time to become acquainted with the boy?”

  “I shall have to reserve that pleasure for a later date,” he said coldly. “I want to meet with my solicitor this afternoon to set the guardianship process in motion. Stamden has relayed certain information concerning Viscount Quentin which leads me to believe it best I waste no time in taking the young duke under my protection.”

  Moira’s relief was so great she felt tears spring to her eyes. “Thank you, my lord, with all my heart,” she said, and without thinking, laid a hand on his arm. She removed it instantly when she felt him tense. It was obvious he still despised her for the part she had played in his brother’s death, and only his scrupulous sense of honor made him put his feelings aside for the sake of an innocent child.

  She steeled herself against the inexplicable pain ripping through her, when she considered how much greater would be his hatred if he knew the true extent of her deception of poor Blain. Sternly she reminded herself what Devon St. Gwyre thought of her was of no consequence. The important thing to remember was that the Duke of Sheffield’s choice of his son’s protector had been a wise one.

  But now that the earl had committed himself, she was more determined than ever that he should know something of the boy who would be named his ward. Glancing down at Charles’s upturned face, she ran loving fingers through his mop of dark curls. “This kind gentleman is the Earl of Langley, sweetheart. He is known as one of the finest horsemen in all of England and I am certain he would enjoy hearing about your pony. Since the earl is too busy to stay and visit with us, why don’t you and he walk together back to the carriage, while Elizabeth and I follow behind with the marquess.”

  Devon stared dumbfounded at the duchess and the small boy whose hair she was ruffling so tenderly. Devil take it! What was the fool woman up to now? He had agreed to act as guardian to the duke and he intended to do his best to see the lad’s numerous estates and properties were wisely managed until such time as he reached his majority; that didn’t mean he had the slightest idea how to talk to a seven-year-old. He had never been good with children; Blaine had always been the one the young nieces and nephews had flocked to.

  With a final look at the annoying woman who had once again maneuvered him into doing her bidding, he turned to follow the footpath leading to where the carriages were parked. The boy instantly fell into step beside him.

  The path they followed wound beneath ancient oaks which in the spring would form a green canopy far above the insignificant mortals who walked beneath them; now their stark, bare branches looked strangely naked and incongruous beneath a sunny, cloudless sky.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Devon studied his silent young companion. It occurred to him the duke was an extra ordinarily handsome lad—fair of skin with dark hair and darker eyes ringed with long, black lashes. But far too delicate looking to his way of thinking—probably the product of too much coddling by women.

  He cleared his throat self-consciously and launched into what he hoped was an appropriate conversation. “I understand your name is Charles.”

  “Yes, my lord, Charles Richard Algernon Handley.”

  Devon smiled to himself at so much name for such a dab of a boy. “And you have a pony?”

  “Yes, my lord. A Galloway from Scotland. His name is Starfire.” He swallowed hard. “My papa gave him to me on my birthday.”

  Devon smiled. “As it so happens, my papa gave me a pony on my seventh birthday also, I named him Magic.”

  The boy regarded him with solemn, dark eyes. “My papa died and went to heaven.”

  Devon felt his heart twist painfully in his chest. Seven was much too young to lose one’s father. “My father died just two years ago,” he said because he could think of nothing else to say.

  “Lots of people die.”

  “Yes, they do.” Devon could see the boy was deeply troubled by his loss and perplexed, as the very young invariably were by the terrible finality of death. He found himself longing to say something comforting, but nothing came to mind.

  “My mama said many good Englishmen died in the war against the Corsican monster.”

  “That is true.”

  The young duke’s expressive brows drew together in a puzzled frown. “But how can a person just…die, and never talk to someone or hold someone’s hand again?”

  It was a question Devon had asked himself many a time in the heat of battle when one minute he had a living, breathing comrade beside him, and the next minute that same comrade was just another of the blood-soaked corpses decorating some hellish foreign battlefield, the name of which no self-respecting Englishman could even pronounce. “I don’t know,” he said truthfully, “except that dying is as much a part of living as being born.”

  Strangely enough, the boy seemed satisfied with that obtuse explanation. They walked in companionable silence for a few moments, Devon leaning more heavily on his staff with each painful step.

  “Do you walk with a stick because you were in the war, my lord?” the young duke asked, studying Devon with an expression much too serious for his seven years.

  “Yes,” Devon said, acutely conscious of his limp. “My friend, the marquess, was also injured in the war,” he added to forestall the chance the inquisitive boy might feel inclined to qu
estion Peter about his more obvious battle scars.

  “I know. My mama told me, but I must not ask him about it because I might make him sad.” He frowned anxiously. “Was it wrong to ask you?”

  “Not at all.” Devon hesitated, wondering how much he should say to the boy. The bewilderment he read in his dark eyes made the decision for him. “You may always feel free to ask me anything you like because your papa appointed me your guardian.” He smiled. “Do you know what that means?”

  “No, my lord.”

  “It means he wanted me to be your special friend and help your stepmother take care of you until you are grown to manhood.”

  “I’m glad,” the boy said. “I don’t have a special friend.” He surveyed Devon with solemn dark eyes. “You won’t die, will you?”

  Devon’s heart took another painful twist. “No, Charles. I won’t die—at least not for a long, long time,” he promised solemnly.

  The boy’s lip trembled noticeably but he raised his chin and gave Devon a brave smile—every inch the proud, young aristocrat. “My papa loved me very much,” he said, as if pronouncing a benediction on their proposed friendship, and slipped his small hand into Devon’s large one.

  A feeling of near panic engulfed Devon. The feel of those trusting fingers entwined in his touched a wellspring that had all but dried up the day he’d learned of Blaine’s death, and he wasn’t certain he knew how to handle the emotions churning deep inside him.

  But of one thing he was certain. There was something about this frail child that triggered his protective instincts—a feeling which he apparently shared with the duchess. For however callous and greedy she might be when dealing with the rest of the human race, her concern for her stepson appeared genuine. He gave a sign of resignation. If nothing else, perhaps this single commonality might make their joint venture concerning the young duke bearable.

  Devon and his ward continued walking hand in hand along the twisting footpath, each deep in his own thoughts—the only sound to break the silence the gravel crunching beneath their boots. The others had dropped back beyond earshot; the crowds in this isolated section of the park had thinned to where, once they turned a bend in the path, they were entirely alone.

  Suddenly, without warning, a burly fellow, dressed in the rough garb of a seaman and with a patch over his left eye, stepped into the path in front of them. “I’ll be takin’ the nipper now, guv’nor, nice and quick like afore your one-armed mate catches up, and I ‘opes you knows better’n to try’n stop me. I’ve no stomach for doin’ in a fellow wot I can see has earned himself a gimpy leg fightin’ the Frogs, for I done me share of fightin’ meself. But I’ll do wot I ‘ave to when all’s said and done. For I’ve not a brass farthing to me name, and there’s a bloke with ready blunt wot’s that anxious to lay ‘ands on the little bugger.”

  Devon’s first reaction was amazement that this grimy giant was living proof of the validity of the duchess’s mysterious presentiment of danger; his second was an anger so deep and so terrible, he knew he could write finis to this scroungy fellow’s life without so much as a single qualm.

  “Stand aside you piece of human garbage,” he snarled, raising his heavy staff like a pandybat. “Lay one finger on the lad and I’ll crack that ugly skull of yours like and egg.”

  “Did you ‘ear that, Rigger? The toff’s threatenin’ you. Ain’t you just tremblin’ in yer boots?” The mocking voice came from directly behind Devon’s right ear and was accompanied by the stench of unwashed flesh and sour, ale-soaked breath. At the same time he felt a jab in the ribs which could only be the working end of a pistol barrel.

  A toothless smile crossed the face of the man called Rigger. “You can see ‘ow it is, guv’nor and Weasel’s got none of me tender sentiments. He’d as soon blow a ‘ole in you as draw breath.

  Devon flinched, knowing full well if he made a move for the pistol tucked into the waist of his trousers, he’d be dead before it ever saw the light of day. He felt the young duke tremble beside him but not so much as a whimper passed his tightly compressed lips. He was pluck to the bone, and Devon felt a great swell of pride and affection for the brave little fellow.

  An icy calm settled over him as he contemplated the best way to save his young ward—the same icy calm he had experienced each time he had followed Wellington into battle. This time he faced only two opponents instead of the hoards Generals Soult and Ney had hurled at him. But ironically, the odds of his surviving this small skirmish were far less than any he’d faced in the major battles on the Peninsula. For he had no doubt Weasel meant business—and Rigger, for all his noble declarations, had an eye as cold as that of the Tyburn hangman.

  The boy’s silent trembling increased and a flood of fierce protectiveness surged through Devon. If his was to be the shortest guardianship in history, then by all that was holy, he’d make his exit defending his young ward with his last breath.

  He pried his hand from the boy’s fingers, placed his palm flat against the middle of his back, and gave him a mighty shove.

  “Run, lad,” he shouted, “and don’t look back,” and with those words he lunged forward. Wielding his walking stick like a scythe, he slashed Rigger across the shins with a blow calculated to break both his legs.

  The big man went down howling with pain and Devon, balancing precariously on his one good leg, turned to see Weasel raise his pistol and aim it straight at his heart. For one suspended moment he stared at the instrument of his death, painfully aware of the rich, red blood of life coursing through his veins.

  He had never felt more vibrantly alive nor less ready to meet the grim reaper. Yet, oddly enough, the only regrets that came instantly to mind were that he would break his promise to the lad about living a long time…and he would never again see the beautiful Moira.

  The premonition of danger that Moira had sensed since leaving the safety of her town house had temporarily stilled when the earl and marquess joined her party, and she had been lulled into further complacency by the earl’s fortuitous decision.

  She knew now she had made a serious mistake when she had urged Charles to walk with his new guardian and then had purposely hung back, slowing the progress of the two walking with her, to allow them a few moments to become acquainted with each other. For, as she, Elizabeth and Stamden approached the bend in the footpath around which Charles and the earl had disappeared moments before, stark cold terror surged through her.

  “Something is terribly wrong,” she said, starting forward on a run.

  The marquess quickly caught up with her. “Devil take it, madam, explain yourself.”

  “They’re in danger. I can feel it,” she gasped—and rounding the curve, saw the proof of her frightening intuition. Without a moment’s hesitation, she stopped, raised her skirt and unsheathed the knife she kept strapped to her calf. With the calm, deadly aim that had been painstakingly drilled into her since the day her Gitano grandfather first decreed her old enough to hold a lethal weapon, she hurled it straight into the upper arm of the thug drawing a bead on the Earl of Langley.

  The force of the blow sent him catapulting forward with an unearthly scream, his head struck the rocky ground with a resounding thud, and the bullet discharged harmlessly into a nearby tree trunk, sending a flock of nesting starlings into frantic flight.

  “Holy Mother of God!” Stamden rushed to the side of the earl and drew his pistol on the larger of the two ruffians, who was moaning piteously and rolling about on the ground like a great beached whale. A few meters away the miscreant whom Moira had felled lay face down in the gravel with her knife protruding from the back of his scrawny arm.

  The young duke, his face white as parchment, walked straight into Moira’s outstretched arms, while Elizabeth leaned against the same tree the bullet had penetrated just moments before, held her head in her hands, and sobbed quietly.

  “Devil take it, lad, I told you to run,” the earl growled, but the look he bestowed on his young ward held such pride it negated the censu
re in his voice.

  “I couldn’t, my lord. My feet wouldn’t go.” A single tear rolled down Charles’s cheek and spilled onto the front of Moira’s sprigged muslin gown. “I—I was scared.”

  The earl laughed softly. “So was I, lad. So was I, and if not for the marquess and his prowess with a knife, I’d not be around to admit it.”

  He turned to the marquess and held out his hand. “Once again I owe you my life, my friend,” he said gruffly. “But where and when did you learn to wield a knife with such expertise? That’s one weapon I’ve never seen you use.”

  Stamden’s shrug was eloquently nonchalant. “With good reason. I’ll stand against any man with swords or pistols, but the art of knife throwing completely eludes me.”

  He stepped forward, pressed the heel of his boot on the back of the smaller felon’s neck, and withdrew the knife from his arm. With two broad swipes, he wiped it clean on the fellow’s shirt, took the blade between his thumb and forefinger, and handed it, handle first, to Moira.

  “Your property, I believe, your grace,” he said with a devilish grin.

  Chapter Three

  Moira felt certain that if she lived a hundred years she would never forget the look of shock and disbelief on Devon St. Gwyre’s face when the Marquess of Stamden returned her knife to her. He had thanked her for saving his life in the same polite tone of voice he might have thanked her for passing him a biscuit at teatime, but the look he gave her could have frozen the Thames. She might have found the situation humorous if she hadn’t been so certain that sooner or later she’d be called upon to explain how she came to be so proficient with such as weapon.

  All that had saved her from having to make that explanation instantly was the confusion that ensued once the authorities arrived to transport the two would-be kidnappers off to jail.

  By the time that bit of business was completed and the balance of the walk to the carriages accomplished, the earl was in too much pain to question anyone about anything. In white-faced silence, he saw Moira, Elizabeth, and Charles into the ducal carriage, then limped, with the aid of his walking staff, to his curricle, where it took both the marquess and his groom to lift him onto the seat.