The Duke of Dark Desires

by Miranda Neville

  The blade was a constant reproach to her, a reminder of her failure. Tonight she hated it, railed at the fate that had kept her alive but wouldn’t let her be happy. A voice at the edge of consciousness told her that she could forget finding Mr. Fortescue, who was very likely dead anyway, and throw away the weapon. She could be happy. She could go down this evening and participate with an open heart in the excitement of Denford’s coming revelation.

  It reminded her of the occasions at home when Papa had bought a new work for the collection. He had made a little ceremony of it, leading family and guests to the lovely gallery at the Hôtel Falleron. Champagne would be served as they gathered around the latest acquisition, propped on an easel and draped with a velvet cloth. Then Papa would unveil it with a flourish and they would exclaim at its beauty and argue where it should be hung and toast it, even the littlest child permitted a sip of celebratory wine.

  When they left home it had been over a year since he’d bought anything new. In those uncertain times French families were selling their masterpieces, not buying new ones. The last unveiling had been of a Claude Lorrain landscape, supposedly a scene from the life of Aeneas but really an excuse to look at temples and trees, blue skies and the blue, blue sea. It made her feel happy; almost all the pictures did. Papa and his father before him had always bought works that were pleasing to the senses, be it a handsome young man by Titian or the lush Veronese Venus.

  Perhaps the echo of past joy made her consider the unthinkable: to tell Julian everything and ask him to help her. He might have a way to prove that Charles Fortescue, safely dead, was the betrayer. If not, no one was in a better position than the Duke of Denford to identify a Fortescue. Julian was a fair man; he wouldn’t protect a villain simply because he was a relation. Quite the contrary, she thought with a dark laugh. While not sure he’d go so far as to condone murder, the notion of sharing the truth with him tempted her. She’d borne the burden of avenging her family for years, and alone. She didn’t know if Julian would assist her or thwart her, or even absolve her from her task. But she would no longer be alone.

  The whole party was agog in the Crimson State Room, promised a surprise. The Osbourne girls chatted excitedly with Lady Windermere and Miss Cazalet, allowing Jane to melt into a quiet corner and avoid Louis. Not that anyone took the least notice of the governess.

  Oliver joined that group and exchanged a few words with Miss Cazalet. Jane liked the way the young woman treated Oliver, speaking of his work with respect. Much to Jane’s surprise he hadn’t fallen in love with her, remaining infatuated with Lady Belinda, who never gave him the time of day.

  Lady Belinda, in a scarlet gown that clashed with the drawing room curtains but displayed her considerable assets, smiled at Louis. But her cousin must have had something else on his mind tonight. He kept half an eye on the entrance and exchanged frequent glances with Sir Richard Radcliffe who did not, apparently, object to the Frenchman’s obvious relationship with his wife. Remembering what Denford had said at the theater about Radcliffe acting as his wife’s pander, she had to wonder what the trio was up to.

  Lord Windermere, for some reason, was watching the Radcliffes. Lady Ashfield held court over a group of other guests, including Lord Cazalet, who also looked eager. He knew what was coming, and Jane hoped for Julian’s sake that he would be suitably impressed by the riches to be revealed. Like him, she could hardly to wait to see what Julian had collected over the years.

  The double doors opened and Julian stood on the threshold, dressed in embroidered satin and velvet, all black like a king in mourning, brandishing his cane. The room fell silent. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, looking around the great room, pausing for a moment when he spotted Jane, half hidden by a fire screen. She shook her head imperceptibly, and thankfully the foolish man’s gaze moved on. “Please follow me to the Long Gallery, newly decorated and containing a collection of masterpieces of which you will rarely have seen the like.”

  The buzz of speculation grew loud as they followed him upstairs. Jane brought up the rear, not leaving her seat until everyone else had left the room. By the time she reached the gallery the buzz had swelled to a roar and she heard words like magnificent and extraordinary tossed around. A footman bearing a tray of glasses offered her champagne and she accepted, despite her status. She would raise her glass to Julian’s success.

  The gallery was surprisingly narrow, with an ancient arched ceiling embellished with the plastered strapwork Mr. Hillthorpe had promised. With windows down one side, the pictures were hung on the other, and such was the crush of guests who lined up to walk the length of the room and see each piece that it took a while before Jane saw the first picture: a Dutch scene of a skating party, a delightful canvas though not by a first-rate painter.

  “I congratulate you, Denford.” That was Cazalet’s voice halfway down the room, and she heard Julian’s deep tones that she would know anywhere, though she couldn’t make out his response.

  The people in front of her moved on and she was able to leave the skaters behind. She almost fainted at the sight of a picture she had once known as well as her own face: Fragonard again, an exquisite small oil showing a group of musicians in a garden.

  Her immediate thought was that her father’s collection had been seized and dispersed by the revolutionary authorities, some of the pictures had made their way to England, and Denford had bought one. But next came the Titian of the handsome young man with the white ruffled collar, and the Venus, and a Boucher, and the Claude Lorrain. Like a sleepwalker she passed from picture to picture, oblivious to those around her. They weren’t all her family’s pictures but most of the best ones were. With dread in her stomach she caught up with an excited trio of ladies gathered around the famous Raphael. How many hours had she spent gazing at the lovely Madonna with the faraway look in her eyes, and the fat, naked baby, standing on his mother’s lap with his hand on her breast?

  They were almost all here, the cream of her father’s art collection. The blinders she’d worn for too long fell away.

  “Jane? Miss Grey?” Julian touched her arm as she passed him but she did not stop, and luckily Cazalet or one of the others spoke to him and she was able to walk the length of the room unimpeded and confirm what she already knew.

  The treasure her father had given up to get them out of France was his beloved picture collection. His betrayer, the infamous Mr. Fortescue who had let her family die, was now Duke of Denford. Julian. Her love. The man she had sworn to kill.

  Jane sat on a velvet-covered bench between two windows, sick in her stomach, remembering every hint to the identity of Mr. Fortescue that she had ignored, willfully or not. Initially deceived by her recollection of the man she’d seen in Paris and by her certainty that a duke could not have been involved in such chicanery, she’d dismissed him out of hand. Even when she learned that he had been a Mr. Fortescue in Paris that year, she’d let her partiality blind her to the truth.

  To think that she had considered renouncing her revenge! And fallen in love with the enemy. She had betrayed the memory of her parents and sisters and shown herself unworthy of the name of Falleron. She’d often wished she’d fallen under the guillotine with them, but never more than now.

  Something was happening. Lord Cazalet called the company to attention. “I wish to tender my sincerest congratulations and thanks to His Grace for the assembly of such a magnificent collection. I shall have no hesitation in recommending to the king that he should acquire it for the nation. As one who can say without boasting that I have seen more than my fair share of masterpieces, I can safely declare that in England today only His Majesty himself can rival the Duke of Denford. And now let us raise our glasses to toast one of the great cognoscenti. To Denford.”

  “To Denford.” “To His Grace.” “To Julian.” She gripped her glass so hard it cracked and cut her palm. The chorus of praise drowned out her cry and the crash of shards on the floor. No one noticed her. Even Julian, whose triumphant smile she could se
e through a gap in the admiring crowd, had forgotten her, and why would he not? The tender words of such a heartless villain weren’t worth the breath they’d taken to utter.

  “I look forward to hearing how you managed to lay hands on such works,” Cazalet said. “His Majesty is always interested in the provenance of his purchases.” Jane put her bleeding hand to her mouth and waited to hear the answer.

  “I can help you with that, milord.” In her anguish she’d forgotten the presence of the one person alive as familiar with the Hôtel Falleron as she. Louis stepped forward and stood in front of Julian, a handsome little bantam cock challenging a black rooster. “The better part of Denford’s collection was stolen from the house of the Marquis de Falleron in Paris.”

  Denford sneered down at him. “I make no secret of these pictures’ history. I bought them from Falleron in 1793.”

  “Can you prove it?”

  “What is it to you, Beauville? Making trouble on behalf of your paymaster Radcliffe? Perhaps he has something to say about why the marquis and his family died.”

  With a collective gasp, the attention of the company turned to Sir Richard. “I have no idea what Denford is talking about.” Radcliffe dripped contempt. “Let us not forget that he is the son of an Irish nobody who conducted a shady trade in pictures until he stumbled into the dukedom by the most fortunate and coincidental deaths of numerous Fortescue men.”

  A high-pitched snarl of fury came from the other end of the room. Fenella. Jane hadn’t given a thought to the sisters who would hear about the perfidy of the brother they had come to love. Their governess, who should attempt to shield the blow, was going to make it worse.

  Julian started forward, gripping the knob of his cane, but Lord Windermere held him back. “You will retract that statement, Radcliffe,” Windermere said.

  “Perhaps,” the elder man said with an insolent shrug. “Let us hear from the true owner. Allow me to present the Marquis de Falleron. Louis?”

  The crowd threatened to erupt at this new revelation but subsided when Julian raised his hand. “The marquis is dead,” he said. “He had only daughters. No one knows better than I.”

  “You should appreciate better than most the distances a title can travel,” Radcliffe said. “Louis’s father was first cousin to the late marquis. As such he is heir to the Falleron lands and property. The unfortunate state of affairs in France makes it impossible for him to claim his birthright, but he can, thanks to your diligence in bringing the pictures to England, repossess part of his heritage.” His smile was purest malice. “I’m sure he will be very grateful.”

  Julian towered over Radcliffe, a physically uneven match between the duke in his youthful vigor and the slight older man. “I don’t believe you. You’ve been trying to lay your hands on these pictures for years and this is merely your latest devious attempt. How much did you pay your wife’s lover to pretend to be Louis de Falleron? Why did he come here under a different name?”

  “If you knew who I was, Monsieur le Duc,” Louis said, “you would never have revealed your illegal possession of the pictures. My pictures.”

  “Show me your proof.”

  Jane staggered to her feet and walked unnoticed through the circle of onlookers riveted by the unfolding drama. Cradling her injured hand, she pushed her way past Radcliffe and Louis to stand in front of the man who had killed her family. His astonishment turned to concern that softened the steel in his eyes. “You’ve hurt yourself, Jane. There’s blood on your gown.”

  She put her hands behind her back. She would never let him touch her again. “I wish to attest to his identity. This man is, indeed, the Marquis de Falleron.”

  “How do you know? Who are you?”

  “I am Jeanne-Louise Marie-Adorée de Falleron,” she said, the names rolling out past a suppressed sob. “I am the eldest daughter of the late Marquis de Falleron.”

  She turned her back on Julian, not wanting to see his reaction, be it defiance or remorse, and looked at Louis. They faced each other, the last of the Fallerons, and she noticed the faint lines of the dissipation on his handsome face, the discontented mouth, the air of conceit and dissatisfaction. She could have wished for a better ally, but Louis was her family and she cast her lot with him. “It is I, Jeanne. I am alive.”

  Endless seconds passed while she waited for him to take her hand and embrace her. “This woman is mad. I never saw her before in my life.”

  “Not for nine years, Louis. I have changed since I was fifteen but not so much, I think. Look at me.”

  He shook his head. “Jeanne is dead. She went to the guillotine with her sister. I don’t know what this woman’s motives are, but she is an impostor and no cousin of mine.”

  “It is true,” Julian said hoarsely. “Jeanne and Marie-Thérèse died, as did their parents. I don’t know what happened to the youngest girl, Antoinette.” He had the audacity to sound sorry.

  She spun around on her heels. “It was my two younger sisters who were slaughtered. I escaped.” Anger and grief welled up so that she couldn’t get out the words that needed to be spoken, the beginning of the ruination of Mr. Fortescue.

  The three Osbourne girls rushed forward. “Is it true, Miss Grey? Are you French?”

  She looked at each of the young faces that had become so dear to her.

  Tears that could no longer be held back blurred her vision and her throat was too choked to answer. She stood in the middle of the gallery at Denford Castle, surrounded by the pictures she’d never thought to see again, and wept.

  “Let me take you somewhere quiet.” She thought it was Lady Windermere. “You are too upset now. You can talk about it later.”

  She was right. Jane needed to think, away from the competing forces hammering her emotions. Away from Julian and Louis and the Osbourne girls, she might be able to think clearly. She let herself be led to her room. Lady Windermere bathed her forehead with cool water, bandaged her hand, and helped her undress. A servant delivered a posset to the door.

  She had to give the lady marks for discretion. She must have had a hundred questions but treated Jane as though she were an ill child. Perhaps she believed her a lunatic, Jane thought hysterically. Louis certainly did. After all her worries about being recognized, he didn’t know her or believe she was his cousin.

  “This will help you sleep, Miss Grey. I will tell His Grace that he may speak with you in the morning and get to the bottom of all this.”

  Jane sipped her drink. “Thank you, my lady. You must wonder—”

  “Not now. Go to bed.”

  The posset undoubtedly contained laudanum. Once she was sure Lady Windermere wasn’t coming back, she poured it out of the window and got into bed. Much later, she crept to the door and eased it open, half expecting to learn she’d been put under guard, and found the passage deserted. Either they trusted the drug, or they regarded her as harmless.

  Not they but he. Denford was the lord of this house. As she left the gallery in Lady Windermere’s sheltering arm, she had glanced back. Even through her tears she had recognized unalloyed horror on the duke’s face. What ultimately happened to her lay in his hands, unless she acted first.

  Chapter 18

  Julian sat propped against the pillows in the great bed, the oak-carved and velvet-draped resting place of generations of dukes. Never before had his good fortune seemed more hollow, less deserved. He’d remained thus for so long that the lone candle was almost guttered. What the hell was he going to do? Not about the pictures, or the wild speculation among his guests, or Cazalet and the king, or even about Radcliffe and Louis de Falleron. None of these things mattered compared to Jane.

  She emerged from the dark recesses of the room like a ghost, clad only in a white nightgown. He wasn’t sure that she was real until she reached the end of the bed and he could see wild hair and dark shadows around eyes swollen with weeping. She was beautiful and frightened him to death.

  “Jane,” he said. He meant to say more but the words were clogged
in his brain. What could make the slightest difference? That he was sorry? No apology could bring back her family, or even begin to make up for lost lives, theirs and hers.

  She came at him, crawling on her knees the length of the bed while he remained motionless, his hands flat on the covers on either side. A flash of something caught his eye before she fell on him. She seized his head in both hands, digging her fingers into his skull, and took him in a kiss that utterly confounded him. What he most wished for and least expected was for Jane to want him still.

  It was ravishment and punishment, agony and heart-stopping delight as she grasped hanks of his loose hair and thrust her tongue in a dark simulation of lovemaking. He relished the pain in his scalp as much as he adored the taste and texture of her greedy mouth. Since logic had no explanation for her action, he let thought slip away and surrendered to desire, his body aroused by her weight. His heart swelled with love and gratitude, and a pressure between the temples he hadn’t felt since childhood told him that he was close to tears.

  As soon as he moved his arms to draw her in, she stiffened. “Jane?” he whispered, and ran his hands over flesh, firm and vital beneath cool linen. She pulled away, shoved at his chest, and scrambled backward on her knees. Wetness cooled on his face but he hadn’t wept, yet. They were her tears.

  As he reached out instinctively to offer comfort, she snarled, snatching something up from the folds of the blankets.

  She had brought a knife with her, a long wicked blade.

  “Don’t,” she said. “Don’t touch me.”

  He spread and lowered his palms, making no attempt to protect his bare chest. “Jane. Jeanne, I should say, but you’ll always be Jane to me.”

  “Do you believe me?” she asked. Her fingers clenched the handle of the knife, held at shoulder height and pointed at his heart.

  “Of course I believe you. When have you lied to me?”

  She tilted her neck in that Jane-like way she had. “All the time. Everything I told you about me was invented.”