The Duke of Dark Desires

by Miranda Neville

  Bidding her driver stop, she raised the window flap. “Miss Osbourne,” she called.

  Maria jumped and turned, the picture of guilt, gloved hands covering her mouth. The young man—not as young as he should be to consort with a fifteen-year-old—looked shifty. He was handsome enough and well dressed in a flashy way, but Jane’s eyes narrowed as she detected poorly polished shoes with worn-down heels and loose threads in his stockings.

  “Get into the carriage. I daresay it will rain any moment.” Maria glanced at the unthreatening sky but appeared too cowed to quibble. Murmuring a hasty farewell to her swain, she joined Jane. Five minutes later they climbed the steps to the front door of Fortescue House. “Wait for me in my room,” Jane said, sounding more governessy than she would have believed possible. “I must make sure all is well in the nursery, then we will talk.”

  When she had answered Denford’s advertisement she’d thought only about fooling her way into the position. In her first days as a governess she’d done quite well. What she hadn’t counted on was developing an affection for her charges and a desire to do her duty properly. Who was she to handle the delicate matter of a well-brought-up young lady’s first love?

  Standing in the center of Jane’s lavish chamber, Maria presented a picture of youthful defiance on the verge of tears, and Jane wanted nothing more than to put her arms about her.

  Instead she adopted a tone that was no-nonsense without being overbearing. “I was surprised to see you out without an escort. Did Nurse Bride give you permission?” She hardly needed an answer, neither did she receive one, beyond a slight hunching of the shoulders and a pouting lower lip. “Tell me about your acquaintance.”

  Maria eyed her warily. “Mr. Godfrey Norville.”

  “Is he a family friend?”

  “Our family friends are all in Ireland. We met Mr. Norville when we were walking in the park with Bridey.”

  Jane affected an air of puzzlement. “I don’t understand. Who introduced you?”

  “No one. We were feeding the ducks in the lake and so was he. We started talking and I knew at once.” She sighed. “He is so handsome.”

  Jane nodded. “Kindness to animals is always an appealing trait in a man. When I was about your age I had quite a tendre for a gentleman who could ride the wildest of horses. The sight of him taming a huge black stallion sent my heart aflutter. I imagine the sight of Mr. Norville throwing bread at the ducklings must have had the same effect.”

  Maria didn’t ask for further details of this entirely fictitious affair. “He is easy to talk to, as well. It’s dull in London having no one but Fenella and Laura. At least in Ireland we had neighbors.”

  “Did he call on your brother and ask permission to see you?”

  “Julian wouldn’t care.”

  “He cares about your safety. You’re a sensible girl, not like your sisters. I think you know that it is wrong to sneak out to meet a man without the knowledge of your guardians.”

  Showing a lack of guile and invention that would have got her killed in revolutionary Paris, Maria made no attempt to pretend they’d met by chance. “I had to see him,” she said. “I’m sorry, Miss Grey, but when he sent a note by one of the maids, begging me to meet him at the church, I couldn’t leave him to wait, could I?”

  “Being incapable of penning a short note yourself.”

  “I wanted to see him. I think I love him.”

  “After two meetings?”

  “Four.” The girl wasn’t canny enough to know that information was being extracted from her. “You are too old to understand.”

  Perhaps she was. Nine years’ difference in age and nine decades in experience. At fifteen Jane had been a pampered and sheltered mademoiselle who would never have dreamed of going out to meet a man of dubious suitability. Until one day changed her life and she became the mistress of a proletarian, garlic-breathing soldier more than twice her age. She’d never had a first love, or surrendered to a stolen kiss. Maria’s ridiculous and innocent love saddened her, and made her envious. There had been no one to save her from Mathieu Picard, but Maria was not going to fall into the clutches of an unscrupulous man. If no one else stopped her, Jane would.

  “You are too young to be presented, let alone married.”

  “I’m almost sixteen. Why should I wait, just because Mama decided to go to America? It’s not fair.”

  “Is Mr. Norville a gentleman of means?”

  “He has a large estate in Wales and he has come to London to see to some business regarding the arrival of a ship. I think he must be very rich.”

  Jane wanted to roll her eyes. She might not be familiar with the nuances of English society, but she could spot a flâneur at ten meters. “My dear Maria, I doubt that men of property and wealth scrape up the acquaintance of young girls in public parks.” She trod carefully, feeling her inexperience as both a governess and a Londoner and wishing there was someone she could consult. “If Mr. Norville is suitable—”

  “He is!”

  “If he is suitable, when you are old enough to come out, he may court you. In the meantime, with your brother’s permission, he may call. But only with your brother’s permission. You are the sister of a duke and must be especially careful of whom you consort with.” Denford was abundantly capable of assessing the fellow. Surely he’d give short shrift to a man who battened on his sister.

  “I told you, Julian doesn’t care for us or what we do.” Maria’s face settled into a mulish determination, quite unlike her usual pleasant acquiescence. “We’re only here because Mama’s new husband didn’t want us. She forced him to take us in.”

  “I’m sure that’s not true.”

  “It is too. We hardly know him.”

  “He is much older than you, yes?” Jane did rapid calculations in her head. “But he wasn’t grown up when you were born. Surely he must have still been at home.”

  “He went to school in England. I never saw him above three times in my life before we came to live with him.”

  “Didn’t he visit his family?”

  “He and Papa didn’t like each other. I’m not sure, but I think when Papa married Mama he sent Julian away. Papa had a very bad temper and I daresay Julian provoked him.”

  “Even so, your mother must have missed her son.”

  Maria shook her head. “Now Mama has a new husband and he has sent us away. I think she cares more for husbands than for children.”

  “All the more reason why you and your brother should become close. You must tell him about this young man of yours, or I will.”

  “Please, Miss Grey! Don’t tell him.”

  Jane hesitated. It was certainly her duty to inform Denford of the incident but was it the best course? The last thing she wanted was for the girls to be in more trouble with an indifferent brother. What they needed was distraction and more entertainment than was found at Fortescue House or Hyde Park.

  “Please,” Maria said. “He won’t take us to the theater if he knows.”

  “I’m not sure he’s going to take you to the theater anyway. I haven’t been able to persuade him.”

  “But you will, Miss Grey. You can do anything.”

  Indeed. It looked as though Miss Grey was going to be kissing the Duke of Denford in the near future. She’d enjoy it, and doubtless regret it, but she couldn’t resist the plea in Maria’s big blue eyes, so like her brother’s. She’d like to see Denford plead. He was far too confident. She’d like to have him on his knees, begging for her favors . . .

  “I will do my best,” she said. “And you must do something for me.”

  “What?”

  “If Mr. Norville writes to you again—”

  “He will.”

  “—you will reply that you cannot meet him alone but he may call at Fortescue House and ask for Miss Grey. I will decide if he is a suitable acquaintance for you.”

  “He is suitable, as you will see. Thank you, thank you!”

  “And in return you will do something for m
e.”

  “Anything.”

  “You will work with me on deportment, manners, and clothing in preparation for your presentation. You are almost old enough to be out and there is much to learn.”

  The blue eyes gleamed with avarice. “New clothes?”

  The Duke of Denford was about to discover an additional drain on his purse. That kiss was going to be very expensive.

  Two years after becoming Duke of Denford, Julian found life as a high member of the nobility rather tedious. Now that the title came with a handsome income, he had to endure endless meetings with various men of affairs and stewards about the running of his estates. Necessary, of course, but not the kind of business he had been bred to. As for the House of Lords, the less said (or thought) about the practice of politics, the better.

  He missed the cut and thrust of life as a dealer in pictures, a confluence of high art and low cunning that suited him. Since the dignity of the aristocracy merited no more than a curl of the lip, he would have happily continued to conduct his trade, but his former customers didn’t see it that way. Nor was he having much luck with one of the few collectors who now outranked him. The Prince of Wales might be capable of exerting charm on his future subjects but Julian had seen no evidence of it.

  Thoroughly irritated by an interview with the heir to the throne, he departed the overheated halls of Carlton House. A walk would clear his head, but in which direction? He could return to Hanover Square and make a surprise visit to the nursery. He’d enjoy baiting Jane Grey as she tried to decide if he was taking a genuine interest in his sisters, or pretending in order to ingratiate himself with their governess. As he contemplated the governess’s confusion, a worm of unease gnawed his brain. Which was it? Perhaps a bit of both.

  Not prepared to admit to a scintilla of fraternal affection, he set off at a brisk walk to Leicester Square and the lavish premises of London’s leading picture dealer, Isaac Bridges. His old friend and rival was about the only man who treated the Duke of Denford exactly the same as he had Julian Fortescue.

  Half an hour in the elegant gallery, especially built with clerestory ceiling lights for the best viewing, left Julian calmed and inspired. The great works that Bridges had to offer also aroused his competitive urges. He consoled himself with the thought that soon he would have the Falleron collection and, in his last glorious action as a seller of art, blow anything Bridges had right out of the water.

  “I don’t trust that smile, Julian,” Bridges said. “If you’ve seen enough, come and take a glass of wine with me. I want to hear what mischief you have in mind.”

  Tucking his walking stick under his arm, he followed Bridges to the private office that resembled the library of a man of substance and taste. The older man’s origins were obscure, but during thirty years he’d taken advantage of wealthy Englishmen’s passion for collecting foreign art. As a beginner, Julian had sold pictures to Bridges and bought from him, often begging for credit. Either way, Bridges drove a hard bargain. Today Julian was in the market for information.

  While Bridges poured sherry from an engraved glass decanter, Julian pondered how much intelligence he would have to give to learn what he wanted.

  “I’ve just come from Carlton House,” he said.

  Bridges responded to this promising gambit with nothing more than a twitch of his brow. “Is that a new walking stick?”

  Of course it wasn’t, as the man knew well. “I had an audience with His Highness.”

  “I imagine the Prince of Wales is always ready to receive a duke of the realm.”

  “You are quite right. He tried to borrow money from me, no doubt to pay your exorbitant bills.” While the prince had never given plain Mr. Fortescue the time of day, let alone bought any of the splendid pictures Julian offered, God only knew how many he’d bought from Bridges.

  “I’d like to think so. One cannot easily refuse credit to royalty.”

  “You surprise me, Bridges. I thought you could refuse anyone.”

  “I suppose you tried to interest him in your collection. You don’t really think the heir to England will take a lure that the mere King of Prussia refused.”

  Excellent. Now Bridges thought he had extracted information that Julian had every intention of revealing. He nodded.

  “I’ve told you before, Julian. Fine as those works are, they lack a true masterpiece, a crown jewel to make the purchase irresistible. Too bad you couldn’t have acquired the Farnese Titian from the Duchess of Castleton.”

  “I think so too. The Venus hangs at Castleton House now and looks very lovely.” He sipped his wine and contemplated the lost opportunity. Never mind. The Falleron collection contained a Titian almost as fine. “I daresay the prince isn’t buying much these days, what with his debts and the king fully recovered from his illness.”

  “If you still want to dispose of your collection, I’ll take them off your hands.”

  “I’m sure you would,” Julian said with a crack of laughter. “And pay me less than I need to cover the Fortescue lawyers’ fees. I’ll take my own chances.”

  “Perhaps we can come to an arrangement. Your canvases would complement the works I have been assembling for a purpose close to your heart. We’ve often spoken about the need for a national collection of pictures. Our dearest wish could come true if we joined forces.”

  Like a hound catching the scent of a fox, Julian’s senses went on the alert. “You interest me greatly,” he said with all the languor he could summon.

  “His Majesty has expressed enthusiasm for the idea.”

  “As he has before, without taking action. He’ll never receive a man of my reputation, and I doubt even you, my dear Bridges, have managed an audience with the king.”

  “Apparently he is serious this time. Cazalet has the commission of finding the right works and preparing a report with recommendations.”

  Now that he had the information and name that he wanted, Julian pondered Bridges’s motive in revealing them, especially the latter. Lord Cazalet was an art collector of unimpeachable taste and reputation. He was also known to be as rigid in his morals as the king he served.

  “What pictures do you have that, combined with my collection, you believe could prove irresistible to the king’s advisors?”

  Bridges unlocked a drawer in his desk and extracted a sheet of foolscap. Julian read the list, the occasional piece making him raise a brow in admiration. Bridges had acquired an exceptional group of Dutch masters from a marquess whose financial difficulties were a close-kept secret. “I see one problem,” he said once he’d read the list carefully, twice. “The same one you just pointed out in my collection. Where is the masterwork?”

  “Maddening, isn’t it,” Bridges replied. “Had I known of this opportunity I wouldn’t have sold the Michelangelo tondo or the Van Eyck altarpiece.”

  “Seller’s remorse is a hazard of the business.”

  “What we need is something big.” Bridges stressed the we. “Something like, I don’t know, a Raphael Madonna.”

  “That would indeed be perfect,” Julian said. “I wish I had any idea where to acquire such a thing, but I can assure you I don’t have one hidden away in my cellar.”

  He rose, having got what he’d come for, and more besides: the fact that Bridges knew about the Falleron collection. Or else it was a coincidence that he’d named a Raphael Madonna. Julian didn’t believe in coincidence.

  “Before I go,” he said, “I’ve made up my mind about the Fragonard. I want it.” To hell with waiting until he’d seduced Jane Grey. He wanted her likeness now.

  “I’m glad,” Bridges said. “Sir Richard Radcliffe wants it too, but I’d rather sell it to you.” He opened a drawer of his print cabinet and extracted the delicate pastel.

  Julian examined it hungrily. The subject, a girl on the cusp of womanhood, wasn’t Jane. The shape of the face and the nose were similar, the mouth smaller. The resemblance lay in the spirit, the indefinable charm that came from an inner light. Julian frowned
and closed his eyes, summoning the governess’s features. Fragonard’s lady lacked the strain of melancholy that sometimes disturbed Jane’s spirits.

  “I’ll take it with me,” he said. Radcliffe might appear at any time and make Bridges an offer he couldn’t resist. The man had no scruples, and Bridges very few.

  The package securely under his arm, he stepped into the square to find Sir Richard Radcliffe descending from his carriage.

  “Denford.” The exquisitely dressed elderly baronet always greeted him affably, as friendly as a viper.

  Julian nodded curtly.

  “I’m glad to meet you here.”

  “Why?”

  “Do I need a reason?”

  “Yes.” Julian’s quarrel with Radcliffe went back years, long before the business with Cynthia last year.

  “I won’t beat around the bush then. You have a pretty little Bosschaert still life. What is your price? I want it as a gift, you understand, not for myself.”

  If Radcliffe thought to soften Julian by this assurance, he failed. “It’s not for sale. To you. I think you know why.”

  Radcliffe smiled, unabashed by the blunt refusal or by Julian’s superior height, looming over the elegant old villain. “I know you and Windermere have a ridiculous notion that I had something to do with endangering Lady Windermere. Utter nonsense, of course. I have nothing but the greatest respect for the dear lady.”

  A respect that if genuine, which it certainly wasn’t, was entirely unreciprocated. Cynthia Windermere had expressed herself frequently and at length on the subject of her loathing for Radcliffe and his wife, Lady Belinda.

  Julian wondered why Radcliffe had even raised the subject.

  “I would be interested in the Falleron pictures, of course.” That was why.

  “What pictures?” he asked.

  “Don’t let us be coy. I know you have them. What I don’t know is where they are: in England, or still in Belgium, or perhaps you moved them to another country entirely.”

  That was all the admission Julian needed of Radcliffe’s complicity. Otherwise there would be no way he knew the collection had been moved. “And yet you claim to have had nothing to do with the effort, last year, to force me to reveal their hiding place.”