The Duke of St. Giles

by Jillian Eaton

  Emily felt her stomach tighten. “But then why—”

  “Does West stay when he could so easily leave?” Sullivan’s mouth flattened. “Because the fool thinks he owes some sort of allegiance to that damn place.”

  “Because he is a criminal like the rest of them,” Emily guessed.

  “Because,” Sullivan said as he stood up, “it is where he was born and where he was raised. He has made a better life for himself, but it’s one he doesn’t think he deserves. West may be a criminal in the technical sense.” His mouth quirked as he stared down at her, but the smile fell short of his eyes. “I can see why you, of all people, would believe that. But life is not black and white, Lady Emily, and when you’re so hungry you would contemplate chewing off one of your own fingers just to fill the gnawing emptiness in your gut suddenly stealing a loaf of bread doesn’t seem all that bad. Would you damn a boy for stealing bread to satisfy his hunger?”

  “No, of course not, I—”

  “Then why damn the man? We’re a sorry lot, my lady. But West Green is by far the best of us. He just doesn’t know it.” Without so much as a ‘by your leave’ Sullivan turned on his heel and sauntered away, leaving Emily gaping after him.

  She sat like that for a quite a while. Hands folded in her lap. Brows slightly drawn. Expression one of deep thought. She sat for so long the ducks waddled back up onto the shore and settled side by side for a nap in the sun, curling their long necks around and burrowing their orange beaks in the soft folds of their feathers.

  They quacked in alarm when Emily abruptly stood. She gave them a quelling glance. “I hope you know you are all quite dramatic.” The largest duck flapped his wings and tilted his head to the side, beady eyes pinned on her boots. Emily sighed. “And here I am, talking to you yet again. Well I shall tell you one thing. I am not a loaf of bread.”

  Leaving the ducks with that cryptic message to decipher, she returned to the house.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Dear Father,

  I have been kidnapped. Please do not be

  alarmed. I am in good spirits and have not been

  harmed in any way. The man who has taken me

  is actually quite nice. He pretends not to be,

  but the evidence to the contrary cannot

  be ignored---

  “Oh bollocks,” Emily muttered, unconsciously using one of the West’s favorite curses as she crumpled the parchment up and tossed it over the side of the desk to join the rest. Dipping her quill in ink and peeling a single piece of parchment from the hefty stack on the upper left hand corner of the writing desk, she bit her lower lip in concentration and began again.

  Two days had passed since she stormed away from West in the field. Since then they’d barely spoken more than a dozen words to each other. If they happened to pass each other walking down the hall to their rooms they both looked the other way. If they saw each other outside the house they turned on their heels and walked in opposite directions. They even dined at separate times, Emily with Mattie and her sisters, West with his friend Sullivan who, it seemed, would be staying the duration of the week.

  In addition to Emily and West avoiding each other at all costs there was a noticeable edge of tension in the air. An unspoken feeling of something not quite right.

  Twice Emily had entered a room only to catch West and Sullivan conspiring in the corner, their voices lowered, their expressions dark and somber. Both times they stopped speaking as soon as they saw her and walked briskly away without explanation, leaving her to ponder what could possibly be going on.

  She would have thought it was something to do with her, except this morning was the first time West had reminded her about the ransom note and even then he’d done so off-handedly as though it were not the most pressing matter on his mind.

  Which begged the question: what could be more important than a kidnapping?

  Emily had every intention of finding out… after she finished this infuriating letter. As it turned out, writing one’s own ransom note was not as easy as she thought it would be. Especially when she knew her father did not possess the funds to pay said ransom.

  Thirty thousand pounds…

  West might as well have requested the moon.

  Noting the ink had already dried on the tip of the goose feather quill, she sighed and dipped it again, careful to write in steady, even strokes to avoid black splatters across her hands and the filmy green wrapper she wore over her nightgown.

  Dear Father,

  I have been kidnapped. Do not fear for my

  safety. The man who has taken me, while not

  a gentleman in the traditional sense, is

  proving to be a very gentle man…

  Another curse erupted within the quiet confines of the library. Disgusted with herself, Emily swept the unfinished later onto the floor and stood up to restlessly pace the length of the room, her bare feet sinking silently in the thick Persian rug.

  West had threatened her father’s life. She should be assassinating his character, not building him up to be some sort of hero.

  She crossed to the window and drew the heavy curtains aside. It was just shy of dusk and the sun was beginning to set on another warm, breezy day. She’d spent most of the morning in the field with Galahad – the name she’d secretly given the colt – and his dam, using an old comb she’d found in the one of the drawers in her bedroom to work out the tangles from the mare’s mane and tale. In the afternoon Berta taught her how to bake an apple pie, and in the evening she’d had dinner with Mattie, Bea, and Lyddie out on the back lawn.

  The life of a captive was proving to be surprisingly pleasant, and not at all what she expected when she’d been tossed into the carriage like a sack of grain five days ago.

  Five days.

  Emily pressed her fingers against the window, smudging the glass as she took a deep breath. Not even a week, and yet it already felt like a small eternity had passed between then and now.

  “I want to go home,” she sighed, letting her forehead fall forward with a dull thud. The words echoed hollowly in the empty library, and in Emily’s heart. She did want to go home. Truly she did. She missed her father and Petunia. She missed sleeping in her own bed with its luxurious feather mattress and pillows stuffed with lavender. She missed riding in the park on her favorite mare. She missed… She missed… Her nose wrinkled. Surely there was something else she missed. One little thing she quite simply could not live without. Except if there were, wouldn’t she have thought of it by now? Letting the curtain fall back into place she stepped away from the window and resumed her fretful pacing.

  She missed her life in London. She did. It was only that she felt so at ease here. Within the confines of Rosemore she never had to worry about saying the wrong thing or wearing the wrong fashion. No one laughed at her here, or – worse than that – stared at her across a crowded ballroom and whispered into their satin gloves.

  Emily had heard the whispers. She knew what her peers said about her…

  It’s unfortunate she’s such an odd duck.

  The duke would have been so much better off with a son…

  Do you see her dress? It’s so last season. The poor dear doesn’t know anything.

  She’s the daughter of a duke, and yet still no man will have her.

  …just as she knew she should ignore them all, but it was hard. Hard to walk into a room and know everyone was speaking about you. Hard to discuss the weather and the new hem length when you so desperately wanted to talk about something of importance. Hard to pretend to be someone you were not.

  For the first time in her entire life, Emily found she was free to be herself. If Mattie or Berta found her odd, they never said so. They actually listened to what she had to say and didn’t seem to mind that she’d worn the same hairstyle for the past three days. They didn’t mock her clothes or give her compliments that were really thinly veiled insults.

  It was refreshing. It was liberating. And it was terrifying to think o
f returning to a life where every word she spoke and every step she took were immediately analyzed and criticized.

  Emily supposed she could always go into seclusion. Live out the rest of her days as a spinster in her father’s estate in the country, refusing any and all invitations. Except unless she married – and soon – there wouldn’t be an estate in the country to run away to.

  As Petunia was fond of saying, she was in a bit of a pickle. Who would have ever thought being kidnapped was the least of her worries? Pressing her fingers to her temple Emily sat behind the desk and took the quill in hand once more. No problem had ever been solved by worrying it to death. If she wanted to help herself then the very first thing she needed to do was finish the ransom letter.

  Dear Father,

  I have been kidnapped. I am being treated

  well. Please do not be concerned for my safety.

  My kidnapper has agreed to release me in exchange

  for thirty thousand pounds. Please let him

  know of your intentions by return letter.

  With everlasting fondness,

  Emily

  After re-reading the letter no less than three times Emily sighed and sat back, stretching her arms high above her head.

  There. Simple and efficient without any unnecessary fuss in regards to West’s character. A stack of envelopes sat on the far right hand corner of the desk, but she left them untouched, knowing West would no doubt like to inspect the letter himself before having it sent off.

  She wished there were some way she could let her father know that she knew he could not pay the ransom, but it would be impossible without alerting West and she still wasn’t sure what he would do once he found out his entire kidnapping scheme had been in vain. Let her go? Keep her longer? Emily bit her lip and slowly lowered her arms. Did she even know which one she wanted anymore?

  The door opened with a creak, causing her to jump.

  “I am sorry,” a deep, familiar voice said. “I did not know anyone was in here.”

  Suddenly self-conscious of the way her hair fell in loose ringlets across her shoulders and her lack of appropriate clothing – she’d been preparing for bed before the urge to write the letter to her father struck and she returned downstairs – Emily drew her toes up beneath the hem of her nightgown and wrapped her arms tightly around her knees. “I was just finishing if you would like use of the library.”

  “No, no, that’s fine. Continue as you are,” West said even as he took a step forward, an odd expression capturing his countenance as his gaze flicked from the top of her head to her covered toes and back up again.

  Emily blushed. “I… I thought you had gone to the village, or else I would have worn something more—”

  “It’s fine,” he interrupted hastily. “You are fine. Your nightgown is fine. I cannot see anything. Not that I was looking for anything. But even if I were, I wouldn’t be able to – bollocks,” he muttered, sliding a hand down across his face.

  “I wrote the letter. To my father,” she clarified when West stared at her blankly. “In regards to the ransom?”

  He started to take another step forward, only to check himself at the last moment and remain where he currently stood, half in and half out of the library, his profile sliding into shadow as the sun began its final descent outside the windows. “Oh yes,” he said slowly. “The ransom.”

  Emily tilted her head to the side, lips pursing as she studied him. “You’ve forgotten all about it, haven’t you? Because of the other thing that is going on.”

  “Other thing?” he repeated warily.

  “Indeed. The thing that has you and Mr. Sullivan so concerned. I am not blind, you know. Or deaf. I have seen you whispering to each other at all hours of the day when you think no one else is around.”

  His jaw tightened. “I do not know what you think you have seen or heard, Princess, but—”

  “If you are about to tell me I am imagining things please save your breath.” One brow arched in silent challenge. “I have been around conspirators long enough to know when someone is attempting to hide something, Mr. Green. Or have you forgotten where I came from? There is no greater place for intrigue and secret affairs than the ton.”

  He glared at her, his golden eyes smoldering. She lifted her chin and stared back, refusing to flinch no matter how tumultuous his gaze became. Finally he hissed out a breath, raked a hand through his hair, and stepped fully into the library, closing the door behind him. “I am going to need a brandy for this,” he muttered, crossing in front of the desk to a cabinet that housed various decanters filled with amber colored liquors. Pouring himself a liberal glass he held the decanter up in silent question, but Emily shook her head.

  “No thank you.”

  “Suit yourself.” Tilting his head back he drained the glass in one swallow and immediately poured himself another before settling his lanky body into a leather chair.

  Emily perched on the edge of her own chair like a tiny sparrow poised to take flight, her entire body humming with anticipation as she waited for West to speak. What would he say? What would he reveal? Given the hard set of his mouth and the deep groove between his brows she suddenly wasn’t entirely certain she wanted to find out. “You know, if you do not wish to tell me you don’t have to. After all, we are hardly friends and I know the last time we spoke it ended on bad—”

  “I apologize for that,” he said, cutting her off and leaving her gaping at him.

  “You – you do?”

  Staring down into his brandy he gave a hard jerk of his head. “I do. I should not have threatened your father. I would no more harm him than I would you. I want you to know that, Emily.” His chin lifted as an emotion she couldn’t readily identify flickered in his gaze. “It is important to me you know that.”

  It was only the second time he’d ever used her given name. She tightened her arms around her knees, not quite sure what to say. She wasn’t familiar with this side of him. The softer side. The sincere side. The apologetic side. It caught her off guard and left her floundering, feeling for all the world as though she were adrift in a dark, deep ocean that had suddenly settled and calmed.

  “Well then,” she managed after a pause that lingered in the air far too long, “that is quite reassuring.” For a moment she considered telling him the truth about her father, but the moment passed too quickly, leaving a void in its place. A void filled with uncertainty and doubt and guilt and so many other feelings she couldn’t even begin to name them all.

  West’s troubled gaze returned to his glass. He swirled the contents, but didn’t take a second sip. “Do you know how I came to own this estate?”

  “Mattie said you won it in a bet, but what does that have to do with—”

  “It has everything to do with it,” he said bitterly. “Three years ago I played a game of cards with four other men. One of them was Lord Alfred Collinsworth, to whom Rosemore belonged. It had been in his family for generations. When Collinsworth came into his inheritance he squandered it away on women, cards, and drink. In a last desperate attempt to save face, he wagered his one remaining property. And he lost.”

  When Mattie first told her how West had come by the estate Emily remembered she’d felt pity for the previous owner. Now she felt nothing more than a mild stirring of disgust. Even without having met Lord Collinsworth she knew precisely what sort of man he was for she’d come across his ilk a hundred times before.

  Arrogant and presumptuous, men in Collinsworth’s position believed themselves above everyone else for no other reason than the title that preceded their name and the wealth and entitlement that came along with it. They spent their mornings in bed, their afternoons hunting, and their nights carousing about until the very brink of dawn. In Emily’s experience they were rude, obnoxious, and not worth a second of her time, which was why she ignored them all. Unfortunately, however, it seemed with each passing year they became the rule instead of the exception as more and more of the generation before them passed aw
ay and they came fully into their inheritances.

  “I assume when Lord Collinsworth lost Rosemore to you he was not very pleased,” Emily guessed.

  “You could say that. The bloody fool accused me of cheating.”

  “Did you?”

  He stared at her, his gold eyes intent. “What do you think?”

  Emily gave the question due consideration. She thought of everything she’d learned about West, not only her own firsthand experiences but what she had been told by Mattie and Sullivan and even Berta, who never seemed to be revealing anything but in truth revealed the most.

  After all, it had been Berta who revealed the names of the only two men West had ever murdered. Tom Pickens and Peter Williamson. Names Emily would never forget for the rest of her life, even though she’d never met them. According to Berta West had come upon them late one night in a dark alley in St. Giles. One had been raping a young woman while the other stood to the side, jeering him on. West stabbed Pickens. Shot Williamson. They died instantly. It took the young woman three tortuous days to succumb to her injuries. Her name had been Hannah, and she was Berta’s only daughter. The piece of leather West wore around his wrist was in honor of her. A lace from her boot, the only thing of her daughter’s Berta had been able to part with.

  It would be easy, Emily supposed, to paint West as a villain. But the complexities of his character defied such a bold and sweeping assignation, demanding one look deeper and sift through the layers of charm and supposed wickedness to the man that existed beneath. A man who had been born into the most deplorable of conditions and circumstances. A man who had made something of himself using the only tools he had at his disposal: intelligence, cunning, and an unparalleled ruthlessness. A man who was not always kind, but one who was never cruel. A man who broke the law of king and country, but adhered to a greater law whether he chose to admit it or not. A law that would not have allowed him to cheat at a game of cards, no matter the temptation.