Why Lords Lose Their Hearts

by Manda Collins

  “W-was he not?” Perdita asked, curiosity cutting through her anxiety.

  “No, he wasn’t,” the duchess said, chafing Perdita’s hands between her own. “My first husband was a mere mister. A young man of wealth whom I met during my very first season. While he wasn’t of noble birth, however, he was used to having everything he wanted, which included me. Of course I was young and silly and I thought myself in love with his lovely dark curls. I thought him to be the very embodiment of the Byronic ideal. Even his petulance seemed to point to his exquisitely sensitive manners. But you know the rest of the story, don’t you, my dear?”

  Perdita felt her heartbeat slow, her own nerves settling, as she concentrated on the duchess rather than herself. She had a difficult time imagining the confident woman before her as a naïve and trusting young wife. Having her own will bent to match that of a mercurial husband whose every whim was catered to by those around him. But she could not. “I don’t see how it is possible,” she said softly. “You’re so strong. So self-assured.”

  “That came of years of working at it,” the duchess said, her expression kind, sympathetic. “We were only married a year before he was killed in a riding accident. It took me nearly two years before I could go out in company. Not because of any visible scars, but the ones inside. The ones he left on my spirit. My soul.”

  The duchess smiled. “I believe you and I are the only two ladies in the county who know what it is to feel relief instead of grief upon the death of a spouse.”

  She did understand, Perdita realized. How awful she’d felt, how guilty, as she stood over Gervase’s grave. She was supposed to be in mourning but she could think of nothing but her freedom. “Did he hit you?” she asked quietly.

  The other woman nodded. “Nearly every day that we were together. He went from being mysterious and handsome to brutal and ugly within the space of a week. And I don’t need to tell you more. You know. You’ve suffered it.” She squeezed Perdita’s hands. “But I came back to myself. And you have, too.”

  “But how?” Perdita asked, tears springing to her eyes. “How can I possibly trust myself again?”

  “A very wise man once told me that the fault wasn’t mine in trusting, but in my husband’s for thinking he could stamp out the spirit of such a strong woman.” Now the duchess’s eyes glittered with tears. “That man was the Duke of Pemberton, who pursued me after I’d given him every sort of rebuff possible. He wouldn’t take no for an answer. And when I finally relented and said I’d allow him to become my friend? Well, that was the beginning of the end.” She smiled at Perdita, who felt the stirrings of hope within her. “I love all my sons, but Archer is my baby. And I think he’s grown into a fine man. His father’s son. And if I thought he bore any resemblance at all to my first husband, I’d be the first woman to tell you so, Perdita.”

  Thinking about Archer and how gentle he’d been with her those first days after Gervase died, when she’d been almost unable to even speak to a man, let alone let him touch her, she knew that the duchess was right. She’d need to think about it a bit more, but there was no doubting his mother’s story. No woman would admit to having been in such a demoralized position without having experienced it. Even if that woman wished to see her son’s love requited.

  “Now,” the duchess said, rising, “it’s quite late, and if I know my sons they are probably all getting roaring drunk. I suggest that you and I get some sleep so that we can lord our sobriety over them in the morning.”

  “Your Grace,” Perdita said as she followed the duchess to the door. “Thank you. I … It helped to hear what you had to say. I know that happiness after such awfulness is possible, for both my sister and a dear friend have found love with men who treat them as if they are precious things. But to know that someone of your strength and disposition could learn to trust her own instincts again? Well, I don’t need to tell you how much it has affected me.”

  “I only wish it might help you make up your mind,” the duchess said, kissing her on the cheek. “And whether you decide that you will accept my son’s love or not, I will respect your wishes. Because I know that anyone who has been through what you have deserves the courtesy of having her wishes respected.”

  Twenty

  The Duke of Pemberton was talking to Alfred Miller, the man who oversaw all the guards on the estate, when Archer found him. They were standing near where the dead man had been staked. The body had been removed from the thick wooden pole and laid out on the ground, a sheet covering what was left of it.

  “Archer,” his father said as he approached them. “You remember Alfred, do you not?”

  When he nodded, the duke continued. “We were discussing possible identities for the dead man.”

  In the flickering torchlight, Archer could see that his father was looking older than he had just yesterday. It hadn’t occurred to him when he decided to bring Perdita here that the person threatening her might actually succeed in bringing his campaign of terror to Lisle Hall. He hadn’t thought the man would know where they were bound when they left London. Clearly he’d been overconfident in his ability to protect her.

  “I’d like to speak to Peter,” he said to his father. “Will you come with me? I believe he trusts you and will respond more readily if you are with me.”

  The duke simply nodded and they went back into the house through the kitchen door. The cook, Mrs. Winfield, was just placing a plate of biscuits before Peter. They both scrambled to their feet at the sight of the duke and Archer.

  “Sit down, sit down,” the duke said as Peter tugged his forelock. “Enjoy your biscuits, my boy.” To the cook he said, “I think we’d both appreciate a cup of tea, Mrs. Winfield, if you please.”

  The round little woman nodded and went to put the kettle on while Archer and the duke sat down at the well-worn kitchen table.

  “Peter,” the duke said firmly, “Archer and I would like to ask you some questions about what went on here tonight.”

  Exchanging a look with his father, Archer said to the young man, who was happily munching away, “What can you tell me about the man who asked you to light the fire tonight, Peter?”

  Clearly mindful of being in the presence of the duke, Peter brushed the crumbs from his mouth before speaking. “He said it was a surprise. For the pretty lady, Duchess Perdita.”

  “What did the man look like?” Archer queried. “Was he tall like me? Or short like Mrs. Winfield.”

  Peter’s eyes brightened. “Short,” he said. “I’m tall. Like you, Lord Archer.”

  “What else can you tell me about him?” Archer continued. “Where did you meet him? Out in town?”

  “In the street,” the boy said with a vigorous nod. “I carried the box from the inn and Mrs. Wilson gave me a farthing. Then I saw the man.”

  Mrs. Wilson was the local seamstress.

  “What color was the man’s hair, Peter?” Archer leaned forward as if proximity could make the young man remember.

  “Brown.” Peter grinned. “And he had mustachios.” He said the word again as if liking the feel of it on his tongue. “Mustachios.”

  Archer gave his father a questioning look, but the duke gave a brief shake of the head. The boy’s description was ringing no bells, it would seem.

  “Why didn’t anyone else in the village do it this year?” Peter asked, as if confused. “Gram always lets me have a Guy, but not tonight.” He gave a little chuckle. “I thought he was real tonight, but the man said it was just a … a very good Guy. I never saw one like that before. Are all the Guys in London like that, Lord Archer?”

  Good God, Archer thought. The villain had convinced the boy the figure he burned was a Guy Fawkes effigy. It was an easy enough way to overcome the young man’s reluctance to burn an actual person. And he was trusting enough to believe—even a stranger.

  “Not quite like that, no,” he told Peter. Realizing they’d gotten all the information they could from the boy, he rose. “Thank you very much, Peter, for helping us. If
you see the man again, you must come tell us at once.”

  “Was he a bad man, Lord Archer?” He looked troubled. “Gram told me not to sneak out at night, but the man said he would give me a pound if I helped. And Gram needs money.”

  “He is a bad man, Peter. But you did nothing wrong.” Archer grasped the boy by the shoulder. “He was wrong to ask you to sneak out. But you did it for the right reason.”

  “Very much so,” the duke echoed.

  The two men left the kitchen just as Peter’s grandmother was arriving to take him home.

  “I’m that sorry,” the old woman said to them. “I shall have to lock the boy in his room from now on.”

  “There’s no need for that, Mrs. Gibbs,” the duke assured her. “I think Peter has learned his lesson.”

  Archer reflected that he had certainly learned his. No longer would he underestimate the scoundrel who’d orchestrated tonight’s incident.

  “Let’s go to the library,” the duke said, breaking into Archer’s thoughts. “I’ve asked Miller to come in as soon as he’s able.”

  They found the guard waiting for them in the duke’s inner sanctum. Once they were seated, Archer asked the third man, “What have you come up with? Is anyone local missing?”

  Miller shook his head. “None that we know of. And your father being the local magistrate, he’d know. Far as I can reckon this fellow’s likely just a vagrant or some unlucky traveler he encountered and decided to use for tonight’s display.”

  Archer ran a hand over the back of his neck. “Something just doesn’t seem right about that,” he said after a moment. “The stalker has always used surrogates to do his work for him, so Peter’s role isn’t a surprise, but the people he’s actually harmed have been those who got in his way somehow. Apprentices who either turned on him or got too curious about him. What they haven’t been is complete strangers.”

  His father nodded. “You know more about the man than we do,” he said. “Can you think of anyone who might fit that description? I know you said that Perdita was accosted in London. A few times. Could it have been any of them?”

  “He might want to have a look at the things we found near the body,” Miller said, removing a leather pouch from his enormous coat pocket and handing it to Archer. “They don’t mean anything to us, but they might to you.”

  Unfolding the leather, he saw a jeweled stickpin and a fine lawn handkerchief embroidered with a coat of arms he didn’t recognize. But it was the signet ring that gave him pause. He remembered that ring on a hand he’d seen quite recently.

  “I know who it is,” he said grimly. “But it muddies the waters a bit.”

  “Why?” his father asked. “Who is it?”

  “I think it’s a friend of the late Duke of Ormond’s, Lord Vyse.” Quickly, he explained about the altercation that had happened at the Elphinstone rout. And Vyse’s accusations against Perdita. “What I don’t understand,” he continued, “is why he would kill Vyse of all people. He’d have needed to transport him here against his will. Why go to that trouble?”

  “It’s a fair question,” his father responded. “It’s no small thing to carry a man cross-country when he’s not willing to go.”

  “The other thing that doesn’t make sense,” he said, “is that Vyse is on the stalker’s side. He thinks Perdita had a hand in killing Ormond, too. So why would he wish him dead?”

  “Perhaps Vyse was working with the stalker?” Miller suggested, his gray brows furrowed in thought. “You said that he only kills those who get in his way or his compatriots. So if Vyse wasn’t getting in his way, perhaps he was helping him. And followed you and the dowager from London in order to make some further attempt to frighten her.”

  Archer hadn’t thought of Vyse as someone who played well with others, but anything was possible. Especially when it came to the stalker. He’d been adept enough at convincing others to do his bidding in the past. “If that’s the case, then Perdita has never been safe. Even while we were traveling.” The very idea frustrated him beyond bearing. Was there nowhere that this monster couldn’t find her?

  Perhaps sensing that the father and son needed to be alone, Miller excused himself to see to it that the perimeter of the house and immediate grounds were under watch by his men.

  Once he was gone, the duke said, “There’s nothing else you could have done, Archer. Every step you’ve taken is exactly what I would have done myself.” He steepled his fingers before him, thinking. “The only thing you’ve done that I would not have recommended was taking the lady into your bed.”

  “Papa,” Archer protested. “I’m not a green lad with his first woman. I have no need for you to explain the fine points of behavior toward the female sex. I know what I owe her.”

  The older man’s brow arched, in a manner that looked familiar to his son. “Then why haven’t you done it?” he asked quietly. “I’d have expected something like this from Frederick. Or even Rhys in one of his more high-handed moments, but you are the one I thought I needn’t worry about.”

  “And you needn’t worry about me now,” he assured his father. “I mean to marry her as soon as I convince her to have me.”

  “What can be her objection?” To Archer’s amusement, he looked affronted that Perdita hadn’t leaped at the chance to become Mrs. Archer Lisle. “You are a fine prospect. Especially now.”

  “What do you mean, now?” Archer asked. If he’d suddenly been given a peerage or inherited a fortune, he’d like to know it.

  “Well, I was waiting until the last bit of the paperwork was finalized,” his father said, drawing on his spectacles as he shuffled through the papers on his desk. “Ah, here it is.” He handed a piece of parchment across the desk.

  “What’s this?” Archer asked, even as he noted that it was a deed. With his name on it.

  “It’s the Waltham estate,” his father said with a rather pleased expression on his countenance. “I’ve had it made over to you.”

  “Yes,” Archer said, still dumbfounded. “But why? I thought you meant to settle this on Rhys when he married.”

  “As it happens,” the duke said mildly, “Rhys has decided that he does not wish to marry yet. And for all that your Perdita seems resistant to the idea, you are.”

  “But you’ve only just learned of my attachment to her in the past couple of days,” Archer argued. “Have you been studying fortune-telling at the gypsy encampment?”

  “Not at all,” the duke said, leaning back, folding his hands across his middle. “But I’ve known from what you weren’t saying in your letters that you had some kind of attraction for the lady. Your position is as the private secretary to the Duke of Ormond, but your talk was of little other than the young dowager.”

  Archer fought the sudden desire to duck his head. Apparently he’d been more transparent in his missives home than he’d thought. “I’m not sure I know what to say, Papa. I’d planned to use the money that Aunt left me to purchase a small farm, but this is more than I could possibly have afforded on my own.”

  “I expect it is,” the duke said. “There’s a rather good living at Waltham. And I’ve got a good man as estate agent there, so you won’t need to rush there and take over the running of it before you’re ready.”

  Standing, Archer offered his hand to his father, which he took then covered with his other hand. “All I want for you, Archer. All I want for all my sons, is for you to find the one woman who will give you the same kind of happiness your mother has given me.”

  “I think I have,” he said. “And once we get this madman who threatens her in shackles, I shall convince her that she wants me as much as I want her.”

  “Then you’d better stop her leaving in the morning.” The duke’s face turned serious. “For the sake of your heart, and her safety.”

  Archer’s jaw clenched in determination. “That’s exactly what I intend to do.”

  But first, he had to go back and see what his brothers were getting up to.

  Twenty-one<
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  The next morning, Archer felt as if a small man were hammering on the inside of his skull. His mouth was dry and if the response of the footman who was acting as his valet to seeing him was any indication, he looked like death. Fortunately, Jem had been talking with Frederick’s valet that morning while he mixed a morning-after remedy for his master, so he’d been able to nip down to the kitchen and have Samson mix up another one for Archer.

  So, by the time he walked into the breakfast room—having tracked Perdita there—the smell of food didn’t make him want to put a bullet in his brain like it had on previous occasions the morning after overindulging.

  Perdita was seated at the table in conversation with his mother, who was telling her about some system for organizing the linen closet or whatnot. Archer didn’t particularly care what they were talking about so long as they were doing so and Perdita was still there. She was so beautiful, despite the late night they’d all had. And he was reminded of how glorious she’d been when they’d stood together in the pier glass, before the horror that had occurred on the lawn.

  Reminded of the reason he’d wanted her to stay, he was suddenly glad for more reasons than his foolish heart that she was still here at Lisle Hall.

  “I’m grateful to find you haven’t left,” he said as he took the seat next to her. “Were you not able to get a lift into the village?”

  She looked a little sheepish. “I’ve decided,” she said, letting her gaze meet his for just the barest moment before she lowered her lashes, “to remain here for the time being. You were right to say that it is safer here. I was so overset by what happened last night that I was thinking only of the most expedient way to keep you out of danger.”

  Wishing that he could kiss her, or at least take her hand in his, Archer had to make do with dipping his head so that he could meet her downcast eyes. “I’m glad you stayed. And I hope that you won’t spend time worrying about my safety. I am well able to take care of myself. And if you are concerned for me, think of how out of my mind with worry I would be if you went back to London without me.