A Devil of a Duke

by Madeline Hunter

  She had spent the whole carriage ride garnering her anger so she could refuse the duke if he dared assume they would continue as lovers while he kept her here. Instead he had not even tried to touch her.

  “Get her some food and a bath to wash off the smells of her last abode,” he had said when he handed her over to the housekeeper. “We will speak in the morning, Miss Waverly.”

  Then he had walked away as if she were an unwelcome piece of baggage he had to dispose of.

  The bath seduced her as no kiss could. She lay in it longer than needed, and only submitted to having her hair washed when the woman attending to her demanded she be allowed to complete her duties. Afterwards, that woman brought her to the bed and closed the curtains while men returned and took away the bath. The soft linens amazed her. She kept moving her legs to feel their fresh cleanliness anew.

  The bed lulled her to sleep. When she woke in the morning, she lay abed thinking about her situation. If she were to tell the duke the truth, what were the chances that he would release her and allow her to proceed with her plans? If he did, it might not be too late to follow the delivery of that buckle—if she resumed her watch this morning.

  More likely he would immediately hand her over to the magistrate.

  If the whole truth would not do, perhaps part of it would be enough.

  She threw off the linens and opened the drapes. He said they would talk in the morning. It was time to suffer that interrogation. With any luck, she would end the day still in this gaol and not Newgate.

  She dressed quickly and went below—only to learn that His Grace had left the house already.

  * * *

  The footman brought him to the morning room. Air still damp from the night’s rain poured in the open windows. Sunlight turned the space into the human hothouse that only summer in London could create. Two coats and a stiff cravat were the garments of hell in such weather.

  “It is early, Langford.” Brentworth set aside the letter he was reading.

  “Too early. However I know you rise with the sun most days, and I did not sleep at all, so here I am.” He threw himself into a chair and accepted some coffee from a footman.

  Brentworth eyed him, then gestured for the servant to leave. Gabriel did not miss the significance of that. With one look, Brentworth had guessed this must be a very private conversation.

  “I need some information from you if you have it,” Gabriel began. “Simple answers.”

  “It is yours unless giving it would be high treason.”

  They both laughed even though that was not a joke. Brentworth probably did learn things it might be treason to share.

  “I need you to refrain from asking me any questions in turn.”

  “Will I want to?”

  “Probably. No, definitely.”

  “Does this have to do with the shepherdess?”

  “Damnation. You are already asking questions. If you can’t—”

  “Very well, I remove the question and will ask no others.”

  Gabriel reached into his pocket. “One more thing. No scolds.”

  “None at all? If I can’t scold, my day will be incomplete.”

  “I am serious.”

  “Fine. No scolds. It is sounding like you are in some trouble. I hope not.”

  “That sounded like a scold, damn it.”

  “A very small and oblique one. I am done now.”

  Gabriel removed two papers from his pocket and unfolded them. “Do you know what these are? Do you recognize them?”

  Brentworth took the drawings and studied them. “I know them.”

  “What can you tell me about them?”

  “This one here was recently stolen from Sir Malcolm Nutley. Did you know that already? He lives next to your brother.”

  “No questions. What else do you know?”

  Brentworth sat back in his chair. “They are very old. Sixth century. Maybe seventh. Not Celtic despite the linear decoration. The remains of a barbaric tribe more likely. A Frankish one perhaps, that had tried a little raiding on these shores.” He paused. “They were dug up in Devonshire some years ago.”

  “You know them very well if you know that.”

  Brentworth shrugged. “My father collected. He liked to talk about such things. I suffered it, being a dutiful son.”

  “How did Sir Malcolm come by this item here?”

  “It is a buckle. A pin would connect the two pieces here. The hoard was auctioned off here in London. Privately. Sir Malcolm bought it. There were, I think, twenty items. This was one of the best. There were three, maybe four, of this quality.”

  “Is it valuable?”

  “He paid little for it compared to its worth today. At the time, it was a novelty. Now, with the fashion for Britain’s ancient history, it is valued as an artifact. Yes, it is valuable.” He tapped the other drawing. “This one was bought by Argyll. He gave it to the British Museum. It is in a case there. Or is it?”

  “No questions.”

  “I can visit the museum and learn the answer soon enough.”

  “Do so if you want.”

  “Ah. You have promised discretion. Far be it for me to discourage that.”

  “However.” Gabriel used the most casual voice he could muster. “If you did visit and not see it, what would you conclude?”

  “That it also was stolen and the museum is keeping the theft secret, probably in hopes of getting it back before its loss is known and fingers get pointed. Do not worry that I will share my conclusion with anyone. I can keep secrets too.”

  Gabriel collected the drawings. “You would conclude nothing else?”

  “Well, it would probably be the same thief for both of them, of course. Someone with a taste for early medieval metalwork. Or a thief sent by such a person.”

  “You said the auction had three items of high quality.”

  “The third was perhaps the best. A dagger. The hilt displayed a similar decoration as the brooch. It has a very large jewel at its end. Ruby.”

  “Do you know who bought it?”

  “Actually, I do. My father.” Brentworth stood. “Come with me. I’ll show it to you.”

  Gabriel followed him through the house. That Brentworth owned the dagger explained his knowledge of its history. Unfortunately, it also dashed a theory that whoever bought the dagger had set about obtaining the other two items as well. The last Duke of Brentworth, a man even more ducal than his son, would never hire a thief.

  In the gallery, Brentworth opened one of several ebony cases positioned along its length. He pulled one of the drawers set behind the case’s doors. There lay a dagger, its hilt encased in worked gold covered with intertwining lines. A large red stone decorated the end of the hilt.

  “It is thought the hoard came from a burial ship for the tribal leader. Some wood was found in the pit. The men who discovered it were not professionals, so much was probably lost.”

  “Not professionals, you say.”

  “As I understand it, no.”

  “And a private auction was held.”

  Brentworth offered no reaction or response.

  “Do you know where in Devon this was found?”

  “The information provided to the bidders was vague, according to my father. Near the coast, but in Devon that means almost anywhere in the county.” He closed the drawer. “The lack of detail was deliberate, of course. That and the secrecy imply the dig could have been less than legal. My father bought the dagger to keep it from being destroyed for its jewel and gold.”

  “Does the museum know this?”

  “I doubt it. The items speak for themselves as to authenticity. They are not like paintings by Raphael, where provenance helps establish that.”

  They paced down the gallery where two Raphael paintings hung among works by other celebrated artists. “Do you not think that whoever lusted over the brooch and buckle will also want the dagger?”

  “Let him come. It is not easy to enter this house, let alone this gallery
. My father ensured that.”

  Gabriel doubted anyone had ensured against a thief who scaled walls, jumped across chasms, and did not look at all like a thief to begin with.

  * * *

  Amanda doubted most ordinary women would recognize the close watch under which she moved. Having been raised far from normally, she noticed at once that the servants kept an eye on her. A footman was never far away. Should she need service, of course. Their presence meant that any attempt to slip away from the house would be futile.

  They let her move about at will. She gave herself a tour of the public rooms. From the street, the exterior did not reveal the house’s size. Once inside, room led to room, which led to more rooms as one walked its length.

  She especially liked the library. She guessed this was where Langford spent his time. The drawing room and dining room both sported a severe classicism that seemed out of tune with his nature. The library, however, offered sensual delights in textures and colors. Overstuffed chairs and comfortable divans filled it. A huge fireplace would put on an impressive performance in winter.

  She left through its French doors and strolled the garden while she sang to herself. As she moved, so did two gardeners. She visited the folly and one of them decided to prune trees nearby. Memories came to her that made her leave the structure quickly. That parting had saddened her. Now, soon, she would have to leave again.

  She found a bench and considered how to escape. When she idly examined the back wall, one of the gardeners decided to tend to a fruit tree espaliered across it.

  It went without saying that the back portal was locked. She had eyed it while she passed. The lock appeared new, sturdy, and difficult to pick. Only at night would she have enough time. By then, it would probably be too late.

  Each hour that passed meant that buckle might be on its way and she would lose any chance to follow it. Langford had no idea how he had jeopardized her mother’s safety, but she still blamed him for this unnecessary interference.

  Vincent chose that moment to stroll in the garden.

  “I am over here,” she called. “You do not have to act as gaoler. The gardeners are serving the purpose just as well.”

  “I am only here in the event you require something,” he said while he walked closer.

  “You do understand that helping to abduct me was a crime, don’t you? The duke would never be called to justice for that, but you very well could be.”

  “You were not abducted. You entered the carriage of your own will. As for justice, His Grace said you would never go to the magistrate.”

  Did he now?

  She turned over last night’s conversation in her cellar. She remembered Langford’s description of her activities. Illegal?

  Had he guessed? She could not imagine how he might have. Yet something had led him to become very suspicious of her.

  “The duke was wrong. I cannot be kept here indefinitely. When I leave, I will march right to the magistrate and lay down information against you. Then you will see how it feels to be locked up.”

  That amused him. “If you promise I will have a cell like yours, and eat the chef’s best delicacies, I might help you to leave. Why not enjoy the luxury while it is yours? I would.”

  “Prison is prison no matter how nice the linens. Now, please let me be. It is rude to be so obvious in your lack of trust. At least go where I can’t see you.”

  He humored her by walking away some distance. But she saw he had taken a position with a clear view of the walls and portals.

  Vincent was merely following Langford’s orders. She would like to know what had inspired those orders, however.

  She had the opportunity to demand an explanation a few minutes later when she spied him coming through the French doors. As soon as he appeared, Vincent headed into the house and the gardeners made themselves scarce.

  He came to her on a path that wound through the flower beds. Dark. Crisp. Hard. She wished his blue eyes sparkled like gems and not like ice. She missed his ready smiles.

  You have only yourself to blame if he is cold to you. The woman he found last night was a mystery in all the wrong ways.

  He sat beside her on the bench. “I trust you have been made comfortable?”

  “If I were a guest, I could not complain about a thing.”

  “You are a guest. If you think otherwise, I can show you how there are places to truly imprison a person in that house.”

  There probably were. “Thank you for not putting me in one of them.”

  For all his sternness, she felt something of the old bonds while he sat this closely, their legs almost touching. She wondered if he did too. “I am sorry that I did not tell you I was leaving my life behind.”

  “Just as well. I would have asked why, and then you would have had to lie to me.”

  “I do not lie easily.”

  “Do you not? Lady Farnsworth said you were going to aid your mother. You did not tell her you planned to remain in London.”

  “I never said my mother was not in London.”

  He smiled sardonically. “You do not lie often, but when you do, you lie very well, it appears. You allow others to supply the lie in their heads so you do not speak it. You only say enough to lead their thoughts where you want them to go.” He gave her a deep gaze. “That is a rare talent. Are you that clever, Amanda?”

  To her surprise, he took her hand in his. She closed her eyes while she fought to contain what his touch did to her. It melted her resolve and made her almost glad he had interfered with her plans.

  “That you turned from me I can accept. I offered something less than honorable. That you turned from your situation and employment, that you walked away from your life, as you just said—I can think of no good reasons, and a few bad ones suggest themselves.”

  She ached to confide in him. She was so tired of being a pawn in that unknown man’s game. She wanted to be free of the worry about her mother.

  But she didn’t dare trust him. He had a duty to his honor and his title.

  She feared he would release her hand. She clutched tightly because his hold comforted her more than she ever thought a human touch could.

  “I wish we were holding each other in your bed as we did mere days ago,” she whispered while tears filmed in her eyes. “I wish that man were sitting here now, and not this stern, harsh duke who I believe will despise me no matter what I say. I trusted that man with my body and heart. In my soul, I knew I could. I do not think I can trust you now, however.”

  She kissed his hand, then let him go. She jumped up and ran into the house.

  Chapter Sixteen

  He felt her presence throughout the house. He had not seen her since she ran away from him in the garden a few hours before, but he could sense her so clearly that he could follow her in his mind as she moved through the house. All the while, her last words repeated in his head. I do not think I can trust you now.

  Trust him with what? What terrible burden did she carry that had led her to risk so much to steal a few ancient artifacts? He was sure he had guessed only part of the story. He wanted to hear the rest, and not only so he knew what he faced due to being involved.

  And how the hell had she managed it at Sir Malcolm’s house? It would require risking life and limb to jump from one window to the next.

  There had been no stolen goods in that trunk or valise. He looked while he waited for her in that dreadful cellar. She was not the collector, but then he’d never thought she was. Rather he had hoped to find the evidence and remove it so she did not hold stolen goods.

  The buckle and brooch were gone already. To whom? He’d found little money in his search, so where was the payment she received for her services?

  He left the house to find some peace. He visited his club. Stratton and Brentworth were there. They played cards while Stratton bored them with yawn-by-gurgle details about his son.

  Then the talk took an unfortunate turn.

  “I say, Stratton, did you hear about the the
ft at Sir Malcolm Nutley’s house?” Brentworth asked.

  Stratton, who had no time for news these days, had not.

  “The thief went in through a window,” Brentworth said. “A high window. Hell of a thing.”

  Gabriel had not told him that detail. Brentworth had been poking around. “I said no questions,” he muttered when a friend distracted Stratton with congratulations about the heir.

  “And I asked none of you, as you required.”

  “No, you went elsewhere and probably stirred all kinds of pots with your curiosity.”

  “I have property to protect.”

  “Then protect it, but otherwise keep your nose out of this.”

  “A high window,” Stratton said, returning his attention. “That is odd. A rare skill. One misstep and down you go.”

  Gabriel pictured Amanda plummeting to the ground outside Harry’s house. He wished Stratton had not warmed to the topic.

  “There was a fellow in France when I first went back who became celebrated for going in and out windows. He knew his jewels and only stole the best,” Stratton said. “What was his name now? He was caught and the trial was all the talk.” He pondered. “An English fellow. Watkins—no, Willow? That’s not it.” He gave up with a shrug.

  “What became of him? Might he have moved his adventures here to London?” Brentworth asked.

  “He was sent to a penal colony. He probably died there. Many do.”

  That seemed a fitting end to the story.

  “Or—” Brentworth said. “He may have jumped ship. Think about it. What would hold such a man on a prisoner ship? Shackles? He may be good with locks. The seas themselves? All ships must call into ports for water and provisions. Guards? None are strict to their duties. In a port he could even jump to another ship and avoid the guards that way if he has this talent in movement.”

  Gabriel’s thoughts returned to Amanda. Stealing those items had taken great skill—skill acquired only through years of practice.