The Duke of St. Giles

by Jillian Eaton

  “Then tell me who did this.”

  “Lord Collinsworth.” West spat out the name as though it were the foulest of curses, which, Kinsley supposed, for him it was.

  “Collinsworth?” The name struck a chord of familiarity inside of him, and he recalled the reason almost instantaneously. “The man accusing you of murdering his wife? I met with him to discuss the charges he wanted to bring against you.” And had disliked him even then.

  “One and the same. He wagered his family estate in a game of cards three years ago and he lost. To me. I did not know the depth of his bitterness and resentment until two weeks ago when I learned that he was trying to frame me for killing his wife. Unfortunately for him, I was not even in London at the time of her disappearance, nor was I here when her body was pulled out of the Thames.”

  “Because you were in the country with Lady Emily,” Kinsley guessed as he built up the account of events in his mind.

  West gave a short, clipped nod. “Evidently he’s been having me followed, and when I returned to London he learned where I would be tonight. He came with five men and they took Emily with them.”

  It was an incredible story. One Kinsley would have not easily believed had he not been a part of it. He was not a religious man, nor a superstitious one, but even he could not deny the fates that be had been hard at work where West and Emily were concerned. Now the only question that remained was whether they’d been working to bring them together… or tear them apart. “But to what end would they take her?” he wondered aloud.

  West’s expression turned grim. “To kill her… and have me hang for her murder.”

  When Emily woke her head felt as though someone had taken a hammer to it. Which, she supposed groggily as her memories began to resurface, someone very well could have. With a groan she tried to sit up… only to fall back when she realized her hands and feet were still bound.

  Blinking, she turned her head to the side and attempted to take in her surroundings with a clear, level head even though the urge to scream was nearly overpowering.

  She was laying on her back in the middle of a large canopied bed. It smelled musty, as though it had not been used in quite some time. The room was small and dark and reminded Emily of the room at the inn she’d shared with West. She could not twist her head around far enough to see the opposite wall, leaving her to assume it was as barren and empty as the rest of the room. A faint trickle of light was coming in from underneath the door and she thought she heard the murmur of voices on the other side of it, but she couldn’t be absolutely certain.

  Her arms were numb from being forced to lie on them while she’d been unconscious. Kicking out her legs, she managed to flip onto her side – and bit her lip hard enough to draw blood when pain the likes of which she’d never felt before coursed down her limbs. It felt as though her arms were being stabbed with tiny needles over and over again. Tears welled in her eyes, and she sucked back a whimper of relief as the horrible sensation slowly began to fade away.

  On the other side of the door the voices suddenly increased in volume, and although Emily recognized none of them, she could hear bits and pieces of what they were saying.

  “…toss her in the river.”

  “And if we…her body? We need…body…evidence.”

  “…choke her then. Plain…simple.”

  “What…stabbed her?”

  “…too much blood…”

  They were discussing how to kill her, Emily realized with a horrified shudder. Turning her head to the side and squeezing her eyes shut she did her best to tune them out, replacing their voices with a song her mother used to sing to her when she was a young child.

  Sleep, the bird is in its nest

  Sleep, the bee is hushed in rest

  Sleep, rocked on thy mother’s breast

  Sleep, the waning daylight dies

  Sleep, the stars dream in the skies

  Daises long have closed their eyes

  Calm, how calm on all things lies

  With tears wetting her cheeks, Emily slipped back into oblivion.

  When she woke the second time her mind was instantly clearer. Her head still throbbed, but the ache was a dull one, easily pushed to the side. The soft light of dawn filled the room, letting her know she’d slept through the remainder of the night. Gritting her teeth in concentration she rolled to one side of the bed and managed to swing her legs over the edge, making it possible to push her upper body into a sitting position, not unlike swinging a pendulum.

  “Very clever,” Collinsworth remarked from where he’d been standing, unseen until now, in the corner of the room.

  Her stomach rolling queasily at the idea that he had been watching her sleep, Emily swallowed the knot of fear in her throat, lifted her chin in defiance, and said, “There is still time to atone for what you have done, Lord Collinsworth. Release me, and I will ensure no harm comes to you. Even though it is justly deserved,” she muttered under her breath.

  Collinsworth chuckled. He stroked his cravat as he sauntered to the edge of the bed and Emily tensed in anticipation of his oily touch, but he merely leaned a shoulder up against the bedpost and regarded her with a crocodile’s smile. “You’re quite feisty, aren’t you? And beautiful as well, although I must admit at the moment you look quite a fright. Rookshire wanted to kill you last night, you know. The man whose ear you bit off, dear,” he explained when she stared at him blankly. “Not very polite of you but warranted, I suppose, given the circumstances.”

  “So you are not going to kill me?” she asked carefully.

  “Oh, no. I am,” Collinsworth said, still smiling. “Or rather, one of my men is. I am simply awaiting confirmation that your dear duke is in custody and then it’s off with your head.” He drew a finger across his throat, and laughed when Emily cringed. “An anonymous note will lead to the whereabouts of your body, and the rest, as they say, is history.”

  “Even if you kill me there is no way to prove West guilty.”

  “Do you think me so foolish as not to have imagined every single possibility?” Collinsworth said sharply. “He will be found guilty, and he will hang. Have no doubt about that, my dear.”

  Every fiber of Emily’s being yearned to scratch Collinsworth’ smug expression right off his face. He was not only an evil man, but a sick one as well. Sick enough to have concocted such a horrible scheme. Sick enough to be responsible for her murder. Sick enough to want to watch a man hang for a crime he had not committed.

  “West will come for me,” she said with a quiet certainty she felt resonate deep in her bones. “And when he does, may God have mercy on your soul Lord Collinsworth, for West Green shall have none.”

  For the first time, Collinsworth’s smile slipped a notch. “I am afraid you have underestimated the man you love, my dear. Rats do not run into sinking ships. They run out of them and are never seen from again. Even if he managed to escape from Kinsley, which no man ever has, he would not come looking for you.”

  Emily stopped breathing. When the pressure in her lungs became too much she remembered to exhale, and on a gasp of air said, “What name did you say?”

  “Trevor Kinsley, Captain of the Bow Street Runners. They said he is more ruthless and cruel than the criminals he arrests. Have you heard of him?” Collinsworth asked, lifting one brow.

  “Yes.” Emily disguised her smile behind an upraised hand. “Yes, I believe I have.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  “I want to go after her now. With every second that passes her life is put in more and more danger.” Stopping short, West spun in a circle and pointed an accusing finger straight at Sullivan’s chest. “You said your men would be back by now.”

  “And so they will be,” the gambler said calmly. “When they’ve found her. Until then, stop your bloody pacing before you wear through my rug. It’s an antique Persian, you know.”

  Last night, wanting Collinsworth to think he’d been apprehended by the Runners without actually being apprehended by the
Runners, West had gone to Sullivan’s townhouse, the only other in place in London he trusted to be secure outside of his own home. By some small miracle the gambler had just returned London in the wee hours of the morning himself, having traveled through the day and night to bring West unbelievable news: Lord Collinsworth’s wife was alive and well and hiding in Blooming Glen of all places.

  It cleared West of one murder, but not the one he feared the most.

  Kinsley had gone to inform the Duke of Brumleigh of his daughter’s second kidnapping. He’d yet to return, which did nothing to ease West’s growing anxiety. Even nursing three severely bruised ribs, a broken nose, and a headache to end all headaches, he’d done nothing but pace the length of Sullivan’s parlor since he had arrived, pausing only to wipe at the blood that occasionally dripped from his nostrils and a cut on his right cheekbone. Glancing down now, he belatedly noted the dotted trail of red in his wake.

  “It seems I’ve stained your precious Persian rug.”

  “Stained it?” Sullivan shot to his feet and stalked across the room. “So you have,” he said in disgust as he eyed the blood. “I will have you know this rug is irreplaceable. The Duke of Longford wagered it in a game of hazard three years ago and has been trying to buy it back ever since. He would have paid double, but he’s not going to fork out a single shilling now that it has your blood splatter all over it.”

  “Leave him alone.” Marching into the parlor carrying a silver tray heavy with tea and pastries, Mattie set it on a side table and fixed Sullivan with a glare. “Can’t ye see the man is beside himself with worry? Why don’t ye do something useful and go help those men of yours you have looking for Lady Emily.”

  There was a very good reason Sullivan knew everything about everyone. He had eyes everywhere in the form of his own personal spy service: a collection of young men and even some women he paid to run about the city gathering information. As a result he knew before anyone else who was getting married, who was being cuckolded, and – most importantly – who was in desperate need of quick funds. This morning, however, after learning of Emily’s kidnapping he’d sent his entire task force out on a different mission entirely. They were to track down Collinsworth with all haste and immediately report back with his whereabouts.

  West and Kinsley would take care of the rest.

  The Captain of the Bow Street Runners planned on taking the earl into custody. West had a far different fate in mind. Even if he were found guilty of kidnapping, no harm would come to Collinsworth. After all, even disgraced and penniless he was still a lord, and as such would come away with only a slap on the wrist.

  For the beating alone, not to mention falsely accusing him of murdering his wife, West would have killed him. For threatening Emily he would kill him with pleasure.

  “Perhaps if I tell Longford the blood is from a royal…” Sullivan mused as he absently stirred a lump of sugar into his tea.

  Ignoring him, West crossed to the front window and stared out at the quiet, tree lined street, silently willing one of Sullivan’s spies to appear and tell him Collinsworth’s exact location. Every moment that ticked by was another moment Emily’s life was in danger… if something had not happened to her already. The idea of losing her was nearly too much to bear and he set his jaw against the pain that had nothing to do with his physical injuries. If he lost her… If he lost her he would lose himself.

  He felt a faint pressure on his elbow, and turned to see Mattie standing behind him with a cup of tea. “Here,” she said, pushing it into his hand. “Ye need to drink something, and eat as well.”

  “I am not hungry.”

  “I know.” Eyes filled with sympathy, Mattie patted his arm. “But ye need to keep your strength up. To be honest, I don’t know how ye are still on your feet after the beating ye took.”

  “Because he is a stubborn bastard.” Sinking into a richly upholstered drawing chair, Sullivan crossed his legs at the knee and leaned back, looking every inch the prince sitting upon his throne. “My men have never disappointed me. They will find Collinsworth and you’ll have your hands wrapped round his throat soon enough. Patience, my friend. It is a virtue for a reason.”

  “I do not have time for patience,” West growled. He would have been out looking for Emily himself if not for the irrefutable fact that, even though they were taking far longer than he would have liked, Sullivan’s spies stood the best chance at finding her. Setting his cup of tea aside on the windowsill without taking a sip he resumed his pacing. Sullivan sighed.

  “There he goes again. I’m warning you, friend or not if you bleed on another one of my carpets—” He broke off as a loud pounding shook the front door. “Not one of my men. They only come in through the back.” His eyes narrowed. “Let the butler answer it. He’ll send whoever it is on their way.”

  Before the butler could get halfway across the main foyer, however, the door opened with a resounding crash and an older man, bellowing West’s name, charged inside.

  “Someone not looking for me.” A grin spread across Sullivan’s face. “How delightfully refreshing.”

  West recognized Emily’s father at once. He’d never met the Duke of Brumleigh, but the similarities between him and his daughter were unmistakable. They had the same dark hair. The same blue eyes. The same line that appeared between their eyebrows when they were furiously angry, which it appeared the duke was.

  “Where is my daughter?” he demanded as he marched into the parlor without invitation. “What have you done with her? Damn you, tell me!”

  “And that,” Sullivan said brightly as he sprang to his feet and took Mattie by the arm, “is my cue to leave. Come along, love. We shouldn’t eavesdrop on a family spat.”

  They left the room, Mattie craning her neck for one last, inquisitive look before Sullivan dragged her out, leaving West alone with a very irate father.

  Without any warning his throat suddenly went dry. His palms grew damp. Unaccustomed to feeling nervous, he wiped his hands on the sides of his trousers and swallowed with effort. “Your Grace.”

  “Do not ‘Your Grace’ me,” Edgar snapped. “Where is my daughter? Where is Emily?” Coming to the middle of the parlor he halted with his arms held rigidly at his sides and his chin lifted, every inch the imperious noble he’d been born to be. And yet beneath the air of authority West detected something he was much more familiar with when facing an opponent: fear. Not fear of him, but fear for the life of his daughter. It was the one common thread that bound them together, no matter the difference in their social standing or wealth or character.

  Here was a man who loved and cared for Emily every bit as much as West did… and here was a man – the only man – who had the ability to take her away from him. For even when all was said and done, even when she was once again safe in his arms and Collinsworth was but a mere memory, she would not truly be his. Not unless the man standing before him now wished it to be so. For the one thing West would not do, the one thing he could not do, was make Emily choose between her father and himself.

  “Since you are here, I assume you have spoken with Kinsley.”

  “Yes.” The duke’s eyes narrowed in accusation. “He told me you were the one who took Emily from me, and now because of another man’s personal vendetta against you she has been taken again.”

  The guilt of knowing he was the one responsible stabbed at West’s heart like a hot poker, making the pain of his injuries pale in comparison. “That is correct.”

  “And?” Edgar challenged, taking one step forward. “Have you nothing else to say for yourself? Have you no explanation to give? No excuses to make?”

  West stood his ground. “I kidnapped Emily for my own selfish reasons. There is no excuse for that and there is no apology I could give that would make up for the pain I know her disappearance has caused you. I can only say no harm came to her under my care, and she was always treated respectfully.” His jaw clenched. “I never anticipated the lengths Collinsworth would go to exact his revenge and
am doing everything in my power to see Emily is returned to you safely.”

  For a moment Edgar seemed taken aback before he said, “My daughter’s companion seems to be under the impression Emily has developed… feelings for you.”

  West met the duke stare for stare. “As I have for her.”

  “Would you risk your life for my daughter?”

  “I would give my life for your daughter,” he corrected quietly. “I know there is little chance of you ever forgiving me, let alone accepting me as a suitable match for Emily, but you need to also know that I love her.” He hesitated. “And last night I asked her to marry me.”

  “I loved my wife.” Suddenly, inexplicably calm Edgar helped himself to a cup of tea and stirred in a lump of sugar before he settled on the edge of the chair Sullivan had just vacated. “Emily reminds me of her. She is headstrong, like Martha was. Impulsive as well. Beautiful. Thoughtful. Kind. I loved my wife,” he repeated, looking down into his tea as though he’d forgotten West was even in the room. “And she loved me. I want the same for my daughter. Wealth can be taken away.” He lifted his head, and for the first time his stern expression hinted at the faintest glimmer of a smile. “I think we both know that. And titles are important only to those who care for them, which Emily does not. She has always known what the rest of the peerage refuses to acknowledge. That but for the grace of God and a bit of fate, there is nothing separating a man commonly born from the son of a king. I would rather see Emily happy as the wife of a pauper than miserable as the wife of a duke.”

  West’s throat had gone dry as dust halfway through the duke’s speech and he had to clear it twice before he was able to say, “I know I am not the man you imagined for Emily. But I—”

  “I imagined,” the duke said, neatly cutting him off, “a man who would come before me and have the courage and the strength to admit his love for my daughter, which you have done. I also imagined,” he continued, lifting one meaningful brow, “that such a man would ask my permission for Emily’s hand before ever asking her to marry him. Which is why I am quite certain last evening was only a bit of practice.”