The Duke of Dark Desires

by Miranda Neville

  Denford, however. Denford was superb.

  She feared what she would do if she returned to him tonight. She wanted to confess the truth in a torrent of words while he held her, as he had this evening when she told him about Mathieu. He’d make her feel secure and loved and he would absolve her from the task she dreaded more, the nearer it approached.

  She shook her head at the illogic of the thought. Denford was a Fortescue. He had no right to release her from the obligation of revenge against a man who was his own cousin. And even if he did, Denford didn’t believe in forgiveness. In the end neither did she.

  There was no forgiveness for her, and none for Mr. Fortescue.

  She scraped back her chair to get away from the lure of the key and looked instead at the bottom drawer of the wardrobe. She envisioned the blade sliding into a man’s flesh, closed her eyes tight and felt the cutting of sinew and bone, smelled the coppery blood spurting over her hand, heard a cry of agony followed by the hiss of expiring breath.

  Or she could be wrong about how terrifying it would be. Perhaps it was quiet and quick and easy, dealing a mortal wound. She wished it was over and Charles Fortescue was dead.

  As for Denford, there was no future there. She could never reclaim her own life and go back to being Jeanne de Falleron. In order to survive she’d surrendered her virtue and consorted with the enemy. She was nothing but a governess with a dubious past. Dukes did not marry governesses.

  Jane woke early from a restless sleep. Against her judgment, she dressed and descended to indulge herself with one last glimpse of the duke before he left. Too late. Instead, on the breakfast table was a note addressed to her, and a sheet of foolscap folded in half.

  My dear Jane,

  I want you to have this. If I don’t return, I won’t need this reminder of you. If I do, I will have you in all your delectable flesh. I am a better man for having known you. Do not fear for your future. Blackett knows what to do. But tonight I feel lucky. I think my good fortune started when you answered my advertisement.

  Denford

  With no idea why the portrait meant so much to her, he had given her the Fragonard. The pure lines of the drawing were blurred by her gathering tears.

  She wouldn’t keep it, of course. When she departed she’d leave it behind for him because she would not be there in the flesh. She smiled a little. He had found her delectable and thought himself lucky to know her. She held his note to her breast. Though he didn’t use the word, it was surely a love letter.

  While there was no future for her as Denford’s mistress, or anything else, she could do one thing for him. In the time remaining to her at Fortescue House she would be the best governess possible.

  She looked over the Osbourne girls as they gathered around the schoolroom table, practicing their penmanship. Their toilettes had improved with their new clothes but their posture was too relaxed for good ton. The Marquise de Falleron would have shuddered to see Fenella with one elbow on the table and Laura kicking the legs of her chair.

  “Why do we have to copy out verses?” Fenella groused. “It’s so dull. Besides, I know how to write.”

  “A lady writes with an elegant hand. Yours, Fenella, is more like something a chicken would scratch in the dirt.”

  “You don’t write the way we do.”

  “I learned the French style of handwriting.”

  Laura looked cunning. “Tell us a story about Saint Lucia.”

  “You can’t distract me that way, chérie. Look at your eldest sister. You should emulate her.”

  Maria added a flourish to the end of a perfectly even line of graceful script and smirked, but Jane was in no mood to put up with nonsense.

  “Smug superiority is unbecoming in a lady, Maria,” Jane said. “True politesse demands that you make others feel appreciated and at ease in your company.”

  “Why are you talking so much about what a lady does, Miss Grey?” Laura asked.

  “Because I have neglected your deportment lessons. As soon as you have finished your morning studies in writing and arithmetic, we shall begin exercises in posture and good manners so that you will be worthy to be presented to the highest society, which is no doubt what your brother will arrange for you.”

  “What kind of lessons?” Maria looked eager.

  “You must learn to behave with elegance at all times, both in your movements and your behavior with others. We shall begin this afternoon with walking, standing, and sitting.”

  “That’s stupid. I can do all those things, just as I can write,” Fenella said. “I hate these stupid verses. I wish Isaac Watts was dead.”

  “Your wish has probably come true since this book is dated 1715.” Jane had to admit that the volume of Divine and Moral Songs for Children she’d found in the schoolroom was quite depressing.

  “Listen to this.” Fenella read what she had been copying.

  Have you not heard what dreadful plagues

  Are threaten’d by the Lord,

  To him that breaks his father’s law,

  Or mocks his mother’s word?

  “I think that sentiment is very proper,” Maria said.

  “And in the absence of your parents you must obey your governess,” Jane added.

  “And is this what will happen if I do not?”

  What heavy guilt upon him lies!

  How cursed is his name!

  The ravens shall pick out his eyes,

  And eagles eat the same.

  Fenella’s reading was so bloodcurdling that Laura shrieked and Jane succumbed to mirth. “I agree that Mr. Watts overstates the consequences of disobedience. I have a different idea. You will practice both your handwriting and the polite arts by writing letters.”

  Even Maria approved this plan. Mr. Watts’s book was closed with a slam, fresh paper selected and pens trimmed anew.

  “Can we write to Julian?” Laura asked.

  “That would be most proper.”

  “What shall I say?”

  “The rules for writing a good letter are similar to those for conversation.” Jane held up her hand and enumerated the things her mother had laid down, checking them off on her fingers. “If you tell stories, make sure they aren’t too long. Avoid arguments and the expression of strong opinions that your correspondent may disagree with. Always search for the witty turn of phrase, the mot juste, so that your writing amuses as well as informs. Think about what will interest the recipient, not what you want to write about. Above all, do not speak, or write, too much about yourself. People, especially gentlemen, prefer to hear and talk about themselves.”

  “That isn’t fair,” Fenella said. “Why are gentlemen allowed to talk about themselves if we are not?”

  “It is the way of the world,” Jane said firmly, not wanting to get into an argument about justice. Yet last night Denford had wanted to talk about Jane. The memory of the sweetness and sympathy with which he had listened to her caught at her heart. “I think your brother would like to hear what you are doing. Within reason, of course.”

  The two elder girls scratched away at their papers right away while the youngest flicked her quill over her nose and stared at the window. “Do you not have an idea of what to write, Laura?” Jane asked.

  “I’m searching for the mot juste. Don’t you think my French is getting better?”

  “If you can’t think of anything to say, perhaps writing in French will inspire you.”

  Laura stopped daydreaming and dipped her pen into the ink pot.

  Maria finished first. “Will you check my spelling and grammar, please?”

  Since she rarely made an error in either area, Jane deduced that Maria was proud of her epistolary skill.

  Dear brother,

  I trust this finds you well and that your business is successful and not tedious. The weather today is uncommonly fine for April though it rained yesterday and will no doubt do so tomorrow. It is to be expected and I look forward to the day when April showers bring forth May flowers. I am sure that
you do too. The Reverend Mr. Walters preached a fine sermon last Sunday on the virtues of patience. Not much has occurred since you left so I will keep this letter short. I look forward to your return so that you may regale us with tales of your travels.

  Ever your affectionate and respectful sister,

  Maria Osbourne

  “Very nice,” Jane said. “Very elegantly written.” And very dull. Denford would undoubtedly prefer Fenella’s ink-spattered effort.

  Dear Julian,

  Since you only left this morning and we saw you yesterday, I have nothing new to report. Instead I will tell you a story about something that happened last year. Farmer O’Riley, who was our neighbor in Ireland, let his pigs escape through a hole in their sty. Four piglets got into the garden and began to eat our early peas. Mother sent Maria and me out armed with stout sticks to fight them off. We chased them to the duck pond when their mama, a large sow who frightened everyone in the county including Mr. O’Riley and his pigman, appeared to protect her young. Maria was right on the edge of the pond when Mama Duck quacked loudly because she was concerned about her babies. Maria made a sound very like a duck, only louder and then . . . Oh dear. Miss Grey says if we tell stories they must be short or the reader will find them tedious so I will stop now.

  Miss Grey also says we must write about our correspondent, not ourselves. I do not know enough about you to write much. You are tall and thin and wear your hair long, but you know that. If you answer this letter you can be a gentleman and tell me more about yourself. I would enjoy reading it so apparently I am not a gentleman.

  Yours etc.

  Fenella Osbourne

  P.S. Why do letters end “yours etc.”? Why am I yours and what else does the etc. imply about me?

  Jane laughed. “You are a cruel young girl. Your poor brother will be dying to hear how the story ends.”

  “What story?” Maria asked.

  “Never mind. Have you finished, Laura?”

  “Mine is the best. I will read it aloud.” The child rose and took up a dramatic stance.

  “ ‘Dear Julian, I hope you are well. When are you coming home? I have a question about you. Will you let me have a puppy? Your loving sister, Laura Osbourne.’ ”

  She handed the sheet of paper to Jane. “When will Julian receive the letters?”

  Checking that the handwriting was even and the spelling correct, Jane imagined Denford’s enjoyment of these utterly characteristic missives. Rashly, she told the girls that she would post them, but he’d left no address. Since they couldn’t be sent to him in Belgium, they would have to await his return. She would leave them on his desk, along with her own farewell.

  Spring stretched into early summer, marked by the succession of flowering trees and shrubs in Hyde Park. On their frequent outdoor excursions, Jane and the Osbournes were always accompanied by the two footmen newly hired before Denford’s departure. He’d said nothing specific but Jane knew they weren’t ordinary servants and she was glad. She herself stuck to her charges like a burr, resolved that no harm would come to them as long as she remained with them. When it came to lesson time, she drilled them mercilessly so that she would leave behind pattern cards of refinement.

  Among the innovations Jane introduced for the betterment of the Osbournes’ education was for them to take their meals downstairs in the small dining room. Not only were the surroundings more conducive to elegant behavior than the spartan schoolroom, it was also convenient for the servants carrying dishes from the kitchen. Once Blackett managed to hire a reliable cook for Fortescue House, the food had improved. Now Jane became happily accustomed to eating her food hot.

  “Do you think Julian will write to us today?” Laura asked the same question every morning at breakfast. By the time Jane realized that her lie about posting the letters was a foolish one, it was too late to retract. Quite a little pile of neatly written missives had accumulated in her room.

  “He must have been gone a month,” Oliver Bream remarked. The artist almost always joined them for breakfast, whether there was a drawing lesson or not, and quite often for dinner too.

  “Five weeks and two days,” Fenella said.

  Jane almost contradicted her. It had been five weeks and three days. Desperately missing Denford was made worse by the fact that she was still in his house and he might walk in at any moment. Or she might hear the terrible news that he was dead.

  She was supposed to be long gone. As the weeks had passed with no word from the lawyer, she’d let Charles Fortescue fade from the foreground of her mind and concentrated on life as a governess. They were doing well, the girls, growing into graceful, confident young women. She was proud of them and proud of herself. And now . . .

  “Is that a letter?” Fenella asked eagerly when the butler came in bearing a silver salver. All three girls, even Maria, looked as though they’d like to rise as one and snatch it. Despite her anxiety, Jane was gratified to see that her training in deportment held. The Misses Osbourne remained demurely in their seats. Oliver continued to eat as though nothing was happening.

  “For you, miss.” The butler offered the tray to Jane. It took every ounce of strength not to let her hand tremble as she accepted the folded sheet with the heavy red seal.

  “Miss Grey never receives letters,” Maria said.

  Fenella’s voice was thick with envy. “For you? Julian has written to you?”

  “Hush, Fenella. The letter is not from His Grace. Have you all finished breakfast? It is time for your drawing lesson.”

  She needed to be alone when she read Mr. Russell’s news, alone to prepare herself and make plans.

  Mr. Russell’s man had finally traced Fortescue to a village in Lincolnshire where, it turned out, he had a wife. The wife was but a yeoman’s daughter, a misalliance for even the distant cousin of a duke, let alone the heir to one. Apparently he had kept his marriage a secret from his family but it hadn’t meant much to him either since he’d spent little time under her roof. Russell implied that he might have been forced into the ceremony by an angry father, perhaps because she was with child. The couple had a son, now ten years old.

  Jane lowered the letter to her lap. In all these years, it had never occurred to her that Mr. Fortescue had a family of his own, one that would suffer from his death. They would be innocent victims of her revenge.

  Or perhaps better off without such a worthless husband and father.

  She read on, skimming Russell’s rather lengthy description of the ends to which he and his man had gone to discover this household. Jane expected that a large bill would be the result. Impatiently she turned over the page, looking for the exact address where she would find her enemy and stared, unable to believe her eyes.

  Charles Fortescue had suffered from a wasting disease. He had returned to his native land to die. Jane didn’t have to kill him because he was already dead.

  The servants removed the breakfast things and cleaned the room without disturbing her stunned reverie. The goal of almost half a lifetime being wiped out left her numb. A whispered thought that she was free fought against her nagging conscience and gradually took hold.

  Free. Free to live and love and forget the past.

  Free to await Denford’s return with unreserved anticipation.

  The house smoldered, about to burst into a terrifying conflagration that consumed everything and everybody. Jane watched, helpless, unable to move, her feet anchored to the ground by invisible bonds. A man stood in front of her, also surveying the fire. She shouted at him to stop the flames but however loudly she cried no sound emerged. The building exploded into an inferno and the man turned around. She tried to see who he was but she couldn’t focus on his features before he faded away, leaving her entirely alone.

  Shivering with cold she awoke in the duchess’s magnificent bed, devastated by soul-crushing loneliness.

  She had suffered nightmares for years, especially in her early days as Mathieu’s mistress. She would scream as horrors invaded her dreams,
all the worse for being imagined and not actually witnessed. Mathieu would cuff her carelessly, tell her she was lucky to be alive and to go back to sleep. They hadn’t been so frequent when Henri was her bedmate. Often months would pass without disturbance, until close to the end.

  Not all her dreams were vivid and memorable but the man in front of the burning building was a constant. The first occurrence had been soon after Mathieu informed her that the Falleron family had gone under the guillotine. The vision returned periodically, always the same, and always leaving her shivering with grief. She had come to believe that the man in the dream was Mr. Fortescue.

  There were a number of reasons why she had refused Henri’s offer to settle down to a peaceful bourgeois existence, but the return of this vision had capped her determination. She knew then that she would never be at peace until she expiated her guilt for living while her family died, and her penance was to commit murder. Her family cried out for vengeance.

  And now, when she thought she had been relieved of her ghastly obligation, she suffered the renewed night terror.

  When the dream returned the second night, she knew what she had to do. She must continue her search for Mr. Fortescue.

  But what if Charles Fortescue had been the man, supposing the dreams never went away? What if she had to spend the rest of her life waking up to a solitude so profound it could drive her mad?

  Intolerable. She wanted to be happy, had always wanted it, and wanted it even more now that she had tasted it in Julian’s arms.

  Julian. She forced herself to reconsider the possibility that he was Mr. Fortescue. After all this time, her recollection of the man she’d seen in Paris could be mistaken; or he might not have been Fortescue but someone else; or Julian had been unusually mature for twenty. She made herself entertain the possibility that all her previous assumptions had been wrong, that she might be a fool to believe that, for all his shell of world-weary amorality, Julian was at heart a man of honor.