The Duke of Danger

by Burke, Darcy

  He gripped the bedpost until his knuckles were white. “Pack my things. We’ll leave in the morning.” After he sent a note to West informing him of his plans to depart London and instructing him that no one was to know that Townsend had fired early. Chalmers, the idiot, wouldn’t say anything. It was bad enough that Lady Townsend had been robbed of her husband—she didn’t need to know he was a scoundrel.

  Unless she already did. But that was none of Lionel’s concern.

  He’d banish himself once more until he was fit for polite society. And he had to accept, given his penchant for killing people, that he might never be.

  “Might I argue that you recover for a few days before we leave?” Hennings asked, his voice heavy with concern. “It won’t make a difference.”

  Lionel doubted he’d be pursued for the crime. While illegal, it was accepted that men of their class dueled as a point of honor. Death, while rare, was not unheard of. The last time, Lionel had spent a year in Dublin. When he’d returned, he’d been greeted with caution and, by some, a bit of fear and awe. He’d worked hard to show everyone that he was a likeable, jovial fellow, and not a murderer.

  “I’ll see how I feel,” Lionel said. That was all he would promise. He wanted to escape as soon as possible. Not that he would find relief—this would haunt him forever.

  Hennings nodded and left. He’d accompanied Lionel without complaint the last time he’d left England. He was a trustworthy and faithful servant, having been Lionel’s father’s valet until his death eight years ago. Lionel had kept him on as a sort of surrogate, a lasting, living reminder of the person he’d loved most in this world. A person who would be horrified at what Lionel had done.

  Yet, he also would’ve encouraged Lionel to defend Marianne. It was, in fact, the primary reason Lionel had done it—knowing it was something his father would do.

  His father wouldn’t have killed anyone, however. Certainly not twice. Lionel stood, and the pain in his shoulder burned through him. It was nothing compared to the agony of his regret.

  * * *

  Lady Emmaline Townsend stared at the stack of condolence notes, completely unmotivated to read any of them. For the past two days, she’d spent most of her time keeping vigil over her husband, Geoffrey. Thankfully, he’d been transported to the church last night because he’d begun to smell quite horrid.

  Instead of feeling anger or despair or guilt—which she probably ought to feel—she felt nothing. Just a numb emptiness that concerned the servants and frightened her mother.

  “You must feel something,” Mother had said last night as Emmaline’s father and Geoffrey’s secretary, Mr. Fuller, had escorted the body to the funeral.

  Yes, she ought to, but she didn’t. And wasn’t that better?

  Turning her head, Emmaline caught sight of herself in the glass hanging on the wall. She was pale—which her mother had also noted—a fact made more prominent by the black bombazine of her gown.

  “Lady Townsend?” The butler, a usually ambivalent fellow who’d paid more care to Emmaline in the past two days than in the past almost year that she’d lived here, walked softly into the drawing room.

  “Yes, Purney?”

  “You’ve a visitor. I informed him you weren’t receiving, but he was quite insistent.”

  Him. The only males she could think would be calling on her were her father, Mr. Fuller, or Mr. Mullens, who’d been Geoffrey’s tailor and apparently a friend. Gravely concerned following the duel, he’d paid a visit to Geoffrey’s bedside.

  She waved a hand, her gaze drifting back to the mound of missives on the small escritoire. “Show him in.”

  A minute later, she heard an unfamiliar voice.

  “Good afternoon, Lady Townsend. May I offer my deepest condolences?”

  She turned on the chair, barely curious as to who might be visiting and eager to send him on his way. But as soon as she pivoted, it was as if a dam inside her split in two and a cascade of emotion tumbled forth.

  Bolting from the chair, she took two long steps toward him. “You.”

  “Yes, me.” The Marquess of Axbridge didn’t flinch. Indeed, he stared into her, his blue eyes clear and piercing.

  “You’ve a singular audacity to come here.”

  The marquess bowed deeply. “I beg your pardon.” He looked at her once more. “And your forgiveness.”

  Rage spiraled through her, and it was glorious to feel. “You’ll never have either.”

  “That is completely understandable.” His tone was tight, measured. His cool reserve antagonized her.

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “I’m so glad I have your approval.”

  “I wouldn’t ever ask for, nor expect that.”

  “And yet you ask for my forgiveness. It hardly seems to matter—I’ll give you nothing save my undying hatred.”

  “Which I deserve. Nevertheless, I would apologize for what happened.”

  “Apologize? You didn’t step on my foot during a dance. Nor did you spill a glass of ratafia on my gown. You killed my husband.”

  Now he flinched. His eye twitched, and his lips pressed together so hard, they turned white. And yet he was still incredibly handsome. That hardly seemed fair.

  He took a step toward her. She didn’t retreat, but her body tensed. She clenched her hands into tight fists. Her spine was so straight and stiff that she could have flown a flag from her shoulder.

  “I didn’t come to make excuses, but please know I had good reason to demand satisfaction. I’d hoped he would settle the matter before moving to weapons, but he refused.”

  She gaped at him. “Are you somehow trying to blame my husband for your actions?”

  His jaw tightened, and he blew out a breath. “No. I came to offer my condolences, beg your forgiveness, apologize, and offer any assistance you may need—ever.”

  He wanted to help her? She stared at him, the anger inside her curdling. “I would never want anything from you, nor would I ask.”

  “I certainly understand you not wanting anything from me; however, if a need should ever arise, I would very much like to help you.”

  “I think you’ve done quite enough.” Fury churned through every part of her, and she wanted to lash out. Needed to. “Actually, I can think of one thing I would like from you.” She took a step toward him, her lip curling. “I should appreciate it if you would be miserable for the rest of your life. I would take great joy in knowing that you will wallow in guilt and anguish for all your days.” She glared at him, long and hard.

  “I can do that,” he said softly, without a shred of irony. “You may be pleased to know that I am already well on my way. And I shan’t trouble you with my presence. I’m leaving England today.”

  “Good.”

  “My offer will always stand, whether you choose to take advantage of it or not. Should you require anything at all, please contact my man of affairs.” He held out a card.

  She didn’t want to take anything from him. “Choke on it,” she spat.

  He withdrew his hand to his side. “Again, my deepest apologies, Lady Townsend.” He turned and strode from the room, his broad shoulders straight, his gait sure.

  Damn him.

  Damn him.

  Her heart pounded. She forced herself to take a deep breath. The color in the room seemed to become more vivid, the scent of the flowers more fragrant. They’d surrounded Geoffrey’s body the past two days, chasing away the smell of his rotting frame.

  Her legs weakened suddenly, but she didn’t fall. He was really gone. Sadness seeped through her, and the emotion made her glad. It was good to feel again, to react. She supposed she had Axbridge to thank for that.

  No. She’d thank him for nothing.

  With the sadness came something else—something that shamed her. Relief swelled in her chest. Yes, Geoffrey was gone, and with him the problems of her young marriage.

  She closed her eyes and chastised herself. Things would have worked out. He would have grown calmer, less temperamental
. She’d been hopeful that the man she’d fallen in love with was somewhere beneath the irascible hothead he’d become.

  And yet, she’d begun to lose hope. With every night that he failed to come home and every instance in which he railed at her for some perceived slight, a bit of her faith had been destroyed.

  Perhaps Axbridge did you a favor.

  She jerked her eyes open and snarled at the empty room. “He did not.” He had, however, restored her ability to feel. And while she’d give him no credit, she was ready to face things that needed to be addressed.

  Such as meeting with Geoffrey’s secretary to settle affairs. She stalked from the room and asked the butler to send for Mr. Fuller.

  An hour later, she awaited the secretary in Geoffrey’s office. She sat behind his small desk, which was painfully neat. She found that odd since he’d been rather untidy with his personal objects.

  Mr. Fuller arrived with a stack of papers. He was a slight man, with wire-rimmed spectacles and a head full of dark, wavy hair. “Good afternoon, my lady.”

  “Good afternoon. Please, sit.” She gestured to the chair on the other side of the desk. “What have you brought?”

  His gaze turned wary as he set the documents down on the desk. He dropped to the chair and adjusted his spectacles on the bridge of his nose. “These are his lordship’s outstanding bills.”

  Emmaline’s eyes widened at the large stack. “All of those?”

  He nodded just once and gave her a sympathetic look. “I’m afraid so.”

  “My goodness. Well, I assume there is enough to settle everything.”

  He winced. “Unfortunately, there is not.”

  The devil you say.

  She didn’t utter the words, but they echoed inside her head.

  “I will speak to his creditors, my lady, and hopefully come to an arrangement of some kind. At least the funeral expenses have been paid for.”

  She hadn’t known that. “I will thank my father for his generosity.”

  “It wasn’t your father, my lady, but Lord Axbridge.”

  He’d paid for Geoffrey’s funeral? The anger he’d provoked earlier spun again inside her until it formed a hot, tumultuous mass. “He’s a scoundrel.”

  “Mayhap, my lady, but his generosity is still a boon.”

  It was a bloody sacrilege. He killed her husband and had the gall to pay for the funeral. She’d refused his assistance and yet he’d helped her anyway. How she wished she could meet him on a dueling field. First, she needed to learn how to fire a pistol. Her friend Ivy had a friend—Lady Dartford—who could shoot. Perhaps she’d teach Emmaline—

  “My lady?” Mr. Fuller’s gently spoken inquiry broke into her musings.

  “What?”

  “I was just saying that the lease on the town house expires at the end of the month. Where will you be living after that?”

  Emmaline had thought to simply extend the lease, but if there were debts and a shortage of funds… She’d have to speak with her parents. Her insides tightened with anxiety. Her relationship with them had been particularly strained since she’d eloped with Geoffrey. He’d asked for her hand, and her father had refused him, citing his temper and immaturity. That Emmaline had run off with him to Gretna Green had caused a rift that was nowhere near healed. Indeed, it was worse now that Geoffrey had died, for instead of comforting Emmaline, they’d reminded her of the mistake she’d made in marrying him in the first place.

  And now she had to rely on their support.

  “My lady?” Mr. Fuller prompted once more.

  She straightened, refusing to be defeated by the challenges she currently faced. “I’ll speak to my parents. It would be most helpful if you could itemize the debts.”

  “Right away, my lady.” He gathered his papers and stood. After delivering an awkward bow, he departed.

  Emmaline looked around the sparsely appointed office and realized there were items missing—a painting, some knickknacks. It seemed Geoffrey had been selling things off, and she’d been utterly unaware.

  Frustration and anger burned inside her. Perhaps she was better off not feeling.

  Damn you, Axbridge.

  In truth, she’d be better off if the marquess hadn’t ever existed. She’d still have Geoffrey. Along with whatever financial hole he’d dug himself into. Actually, she had that anyway.

  What a tangle.

  Suddenly, she laughed. She’d long wanted to live her own life, away from the yoke of her parents. That desire had been paramount in her decision to elope with Geoffrey, equal to the love she’d felt for him.

  And here she was—her independence at risk as she faced financial ruin.

  Damn you to hell, Axbridge.

  Chapter 2

  March, 1818, London

  Lionel sat down behind the massive oak desk in his office. After nearly eight months away, it felt odd to be back. This self-imposed banishment had taken place in Ireland, as it had four years before, following that first fatal duel. As with last time, he’d drowned his sins in liquor and in the bed of Deirdre MacBride, with an emphasis on the liquor.

  Now it was time to return to real life—to the responsibilities that required his attention. Namely, attending to Lady Emmaline Townsend.

  His butler, Tulk, an exceptionally tall fellow two years Lionel’s senior, came to the doorway. “I beg your pardon, my lord, but His Grace, the Duke of Clare has arrived.”

  “Show him in.” Lionel had arrived yesterday and sent a note to his closest friend. There were others he ought to notify of his arrival; however, that task, which he wasn’t particularly looking forward to, could wait.

  The duke strode into his office wearing the enigmatic smile that made female hearts seize. “Welcome back. I hope you won’t take this badly, but I’m surprised to see you. I would’ve expected you to stay in Ireland until the summer at least.” He paused, his gaze darting to the side. “Like last time.”

  The last time Lionel had killed someone in a duel. Every time he thought of that, or the most recent one, it was like a knife twisting in his gut. Duels were supposed to be about honor and grace. Yes, death was possible, but it seemed a terrible way to move on from this life. “My presence was requested.”

  West’s brow arched as he sat down in front of Lionel’s desk. “Indeed? It must have been important to have pulled you away from Mrs. MacBride.”

  Lionel thought briefly of his mistress in Dublin, of her lush, dark hair and soft, welcoming arms. He’d appreciated her comfort, but the guilt had overwhelmed him, and by midwinter, he’d stopped going to her bed. In some ways, coming back to London had been a relief. In others, it was rubbing salt in the wound he deserved to suffer for eternity.

  “I was ready to return,” Lionel said. “Tell me what I’ve come back to. Am I persona non grata?”

  West cocked his head to the side, considering. “It’s only the start of the Season, so it’s hard to tell. I suppose you’ll find out in the next few days, when the invitations come.”

  “If they come.” Lionel had no illusions. And part of him—a good part of him—didn’t think he deserved anything but scorn and censure. He braced himself to ask the next question. But it had to be asked. “What do you know of Lady Townsend?”

  West exhaled, his hands splaying over the arms of the chair before he fixed Lionel with a probing stare. “You want the truth, of course.”

  “Nothing less.” Lionel knew that West’s wife was a friend of Lady Townsend’s. They’d become friendly at a house party back when Lady Townsend had simply been Miss Forth-Hodges. Lionel had been at that party but had paid little attention to the attractive blonde who’d eloped with the hotheaded Viscount Townsend.

  “She’s living with her parents and, as expected, has been in mourning. She doesn’t go out, but Ivy has seen her, of course. She enjoys playing with Leah.”

  “How is your daughter?”

  The best description for the expression that overtook Lionel’s face was lovestruck. “She is beyond any
thing I could have imagined.”

  It warmed Lionel’s decaying heart to see his friend so happy. That he’d gone from Lothario to joyfully married was surely some sort of miracle. Perhaps Lionel could hope for a similar transformation. Was it too much to hope that he could go from murderer to husband and father someday?

  Yes.

  West tapped his fingers on the arm of the chair. “You’re prepared for the notoriety? Now more than ever you’ll be called the Duke of Danger.”

  Ah yes, that silly nickname he’d been given because of his reputation for dueling. “Better than the Duke of Death.” He cringed.

  West’s brow creased. “I hope you aren’t torturing yourself. You gave Townsend ample opportunity to avoid taking weapons. And he did shoot first.” West studied him a moment. “Not that anyone knows that.”

  West hadn’t asked a question, but his statement held a challenge.

  “You understand why no one can know?” Lionel was certain he could trust his friend, but there was no understating the importance of this secret.

  “You’ve more honor in your little finger than most men will ever have. Which is why you shouldn’t judge yourself too harshly.”

  Lionel wasn’t sure that was even possible, given what he’d done—what he’d taken from Lady Townsend. “While I appreciate your concern, until you’ve experienced what I have, I would kindly ask you to refrain from offering advice.”

  West gave a reluctant nod. “I don’t think any less of you, not that you’ll care about my opinion. And that’s probably best.” He offered a self-deprecating smile. “I’d have done the same—protecting a friend. You’re a better man than you give yourself credit for, and I will kindly ask you to refrain from trying to change my mind.”

  Lionel wasn’t entirely satisfied with West’s response regarding Townsend’s widow. “We strayed from our topic. What else do you know of Lady Townsend? Is she well?”

  “Ivy worries about her. She hopes her mourning period will conclude soon and has encouraged her to participate in the Season at least minimally. You’re awfully concerned about her.”

  This pricked Lionel’s ire. “As I should be.” He took a deep breath and confided in his friend, “She’s the one who requested my presence.”