by Lenora Bell
It was only a brief walk through shady back streets to reach the family town house.
“I attended a ball last evening,” Dalton said, feeling awkward as hell in the lace-trimmed room, worried the delicately carved legs on the chair might snap under his burden.
Society affairs were usually safe topics that wouldn’t set her off into one of her panics.
They called her the Dowager Recluse now. Said she must have contracted the pox from her philandering husband. Must be hideously scarred and unfit to be seen by society.
Dalton knew her scars were all internal.
“And did you have a pleasant time, Duke?”
He wouldn’t call it pleasant. “Most pleasant indeed.” He kept his voice soft and soothing. “I saw Lady Clyde there. She asked about you.”
“And what did you tell her?” Abigail murmured, her face clouding over.
Blunder. Dalton tensed on the pale-green-and-white-striped settee, bracing for an outburst. He wasn’t supposed to mention the fact that the outside world still thought about her.
It was just that his head and his shoulder ached so.
“I can’t remember,” he said carefully. “I drank too much ratafia.”
Her face eased. “Oh, you. Always drinking too much. Why don’t you move here with me? We could have Cook fill your brandy bottles with apple cider. Why, you’d never even know the difference.”
Dalton laughed, relieved that the potential storm had blown over. “I should think I’d be able to tell.”
He hadn’t moved to Osborne Court after his father died last year, as everyone expected him to, because his secret life had been planned from his nearby bachelor apartments, and there’d be no way to come and go as easily from the ducal house.
Many of the powerful men he’d crossed had the ear of the Prince Regent himself. They could undoubtedly have his title and all that went with it stripped away for treason.
Which would devastate his mother.
Her quiet, secluded life in the comfort and familiarity of her home was all she had left.
Taking that away from her, forcing her to leave her sanctuary would be unthinkably cruel. He would never let that happen. Not until she found the will to leave on her own.
And so he continued his quest to bring the murderer to justice. Maybe then his mother would feel safe enough to reenter the world.
And he continued righting the wrongs of his father, but he did so carefully.
So very carefully. Keeping his two worlds entirely separate.
Never betraying weakness.
Fear and love.
The emotions that made a man weak.
He’d learned to control his fear, sculpting his body and disciplining his mind for vengeance. And he’d methodically eliminated the need to love, or be loved.
When the judgment day came and he finally faced his enemy, he would be ready.
Ruthless and in control.
No fear. No weakness.
He did worry about his mother, though, even if she had dozens of servants. Ten years ago, she’d retreated into her apartments at Osborne Court and never left again.
She called it her cloister, as if she were a nun. As if she’d taken a vow of pious seclusion.
Nothing could induce her to leave. Not her husband’s enraged accusations, nor Dalton’s increasing concern.
Later, they realized that her self-imposed seclusion had been a gradual thing. She’d started leaving the house less, sending the servants out to do all her errands. She’d begun eating in her apartments, instead of the dining room.
She’d added more and more distance between herself and outside world, refusing invitations, not even allowing her own mother to come for a visit.
A small army of physicians concluded that she suffered from mental anxieties of the most severe kind. They said this fear of leaving the house sometimes manifested itself in females, particularly in females who’d experienced traumatic events.
The week of Alec’s death they’d been visiting Balfry House, the country estate the duke had purchased for his Irish Protestant bride, one of the famously beautiful Kerry sisters.
Sometimes, when Dalton closed his eyes, he saw sunlight glinting on the green waters of Balfry Bay. Felt a chubby little hand clasped in his. And then not clasped.
Never again.
He should have been watching Alec more closely.
Some of his clothing had washed up onshore, though his wee body had been carried out to sea. A forlorn tweed cap, waterlogged and torn.
Dalton squeezed his eyes shut.
The cut on his jaw stung; his right fist and shoulder ached.
His mind ached as well, sitting with his mother, unable to tell her the agonizing truth.
He’d reached the end of his father’s list last night and was no closer to finding the murderer.
She’d confided to Dalton that she thought the murderer was in London. She was sure he was waiting for her out there. Waiting to end her life, as he’d ended the life of her darling son.
The old duke had threatened to send her away to an asylum, but Dalton had fought with all his might, and his mother had remained at Osborne Court.
“Cook made a rather fine pheasant pie yesterday,” Abigail observed, stroking the fluffy cat until he purred. “Wasn’t it delicious, my darling? Didn’t you lick your wee little paws?”
Dalton had lost count of how many cats had taken up residence at Osborne Court. They were all enormously rotund, with round moon faces and worried, wrinkled expressions.
One of them rubbed against his Hessians. He gave its chin an obligatory scratch and it flopped onto its back, all four paws raised like some enormous fluffy capsized insect.
Shameless hussy, he thought. But he couldn’t resist the siren call of that soft fur. When he rubbed its ample belly, the cat purred so loudly his hand vibrated.
“Buttercup, sweetling,” remonstrated his mother. “Don’t you know dukes never pet kitties?”
The old duke certainly never had. He’d always been bellowing about the Persian Menace, as he called the cats. Threatening to stuff them all in a sack and drown them in the Thames.
Dalton hadn’t thought to become the duke for many years to come. He’d even thought he might die before inheriting the title since he was reckless with his body, plunging into perilous situations that would have killed a weaker man.
He’d never even considered his father might go before him.
The old duke had seemed healthy as a horse. He drank excessively, bedded a different woman every night, and gambled into the wee hours with his crooked friends.
But one morning, at the breakfast table, he’d apparently clutched at his chest, turned blue about the lips, and fallen face-first into a pile of fried lamb’s kidneys.
Dalton had never told his father how much he hated him, but he’d shown it, gambling away his father’s money and playing the rake, the wastrel. Becoming the Hellhound and wreaking justice on his father’s corrupt set.
There’d been one day, six months after the old duke’s death, when Dalton and his mother had looked at each other over a glass of sherry and he’d seen it reflected in her eyes.
The macabre sense of relief.
“I think I shall have Cook make a gooseberry tart tomorrow,” Abigail mused, scratching the cat’s tufted chin.
“That would be nice,” he said in a neutral tone. If she wanted to say more she would.
His mother glanced up, her face brightening. “Oh, I nearly forgot to tell you. I had a letter today. From Ginny.” She waved a pale hand through the air. “She wrote about the old times, when we were famous beauties. My, how many beaux we had between the three of us sisters.”
Dalton smiled. “Tell me about one of your suitors.” It seemed everyone wished to chat about former loves lately. Even gruff old Con.
“Well, let’s see . . .” she mused. “There was the Earl of Kilkenny, of course, he was a great favorite, not as rich as your father, though. And there was one
. . . Mr. O’Roarke, Patrick was his given name.” She stared into the flickering flames in the grate. “I haven’t thought of him in years.”
“Merely a mister?” Dalton teased. “Doesn’t sound suitable for one of the Kerry sisters.”
“And he was poor as a pauper as well. A lowly shipping clerk. But my, how he loved me. He was mad for me. I heard later that he made his fortune abroad, in the colonies, of all places, and now he’s wealthier than Midas. Imagine that. He was terribly angry when I refused him. Nearly strangled me. I was so frightened. But what choice had I? A duke or a shipping clerk.”
Dalton had never heard her speak of this beau before. Something she had said jarred his mind. O’Roarke nearly strangled her? That didn’t sound right.
“Tell me more,” Dalton urged. “Did this O’Roarke hate my father for stealing you away?”
“Oh yes. Called him a devil and an evil British oppressor. Said he’d never make me happy, as he could. Said I’d live to regret my folly. And so would the duke. He was all red about the face. Truly he scared me. But why didn’t I listen to him? Why didn’t we run away together?”
The hairs on the backs of his arms stood on end. That gave O’Roarke a motive. He’d hated the duke for stealing his bride.
Hated him enough to murder his son?
Love made people do desperate things.
The murderer had left a note stuck under a rock on the barren stretch of shoreline.
You stole what was mine, so I stole something of yours.
Abigail lifted her head and tears began streaming down her cheeks. “Why, why did I marry your father?” The cat on her lap gave a frightened yowl and leapt away, startling the cat by Dalton’s feet.
The two offended felines tore out of the room.
“He was so cruel,” she moaned, clutching at her collar. “His fault. Poor Alec . . . poor, sweet boy. He had to pay the price.”
Dalton sprang out of his chair and offered his handkerchief, discreetly pulling the bell for the nurse.
This was how it began. There was nothing more he could do. He’d tried. But anything he did at this point would only make it worse.
When his mother was safely in bed and feeling calmer, Dalton walked back to his apartments.
This was the best lead he’d had in years.
He’d go to Ireland to find this Patrick O’Roarke. Or America, if he had to. Question him. Break him, if necessary.
Perhaps Con would be seeing his brown-eyed Bronagh soon, after all. If O’Roarke still had ties to County Cork, Dalton needed to be there.
They’d leave tomorrow, slipping away in the early morning. He couldn’t risk Trent seeing him with this slash across his jaw, or hearing about it from someone else.
Actually, a journey out of town was exactly what the doctor ordered.
And there was irony for you, he thought as he ascended the stairs to his chambers. Lady Dorothea would certainly be interested to know he was planning to visit Ireland.
Of course, she’d never know.
“You’re late.”
“I . . . am?” Thea blinked at the tall, broad-shouldered older man who’d opened the door of the duke’s town house before she’d even finished knocking.
Emphatic nose, bristly gray beard with reddish streaks, no cravat—was he even a butler?
“Well, don’t just stand there, love.” The man gestured impatiently toward the shadowy entrance hall. “He’s waiting.”
Love? Just who did this disreputable-looking butler think was at his door? Thea hesitated on the threshold, a sliver of misgiving intruding into the indignant resolve that had driven her here.
She’d slipped downstairs when her mother retired for the evening and left by the side entrance on King Street, swathed in a hooded gray cloak over her pelisse.
Skirting St. James’s Square instead of taking the direct route across, she’d traversed the back streets as stealthily as possible, her mission made easier by the fact that the duke still lived in his more modest bachelor apartments instead of in the nearby grand residence of Osborne Court itself.
One thought had pulsed through her mind, sweeping away hesitation and propelling her to his door.
The duke had ruined all her plans. And he would just have to repair them.
She simply couldn’t be a success. And she wouldn’t live with her grandmother.
It extinguished all hope of the unobtrusive season she’d planned, the quiet escape back to Ireland, a quiet, blissfully husband-free life with her aunt.
“Well?” The man crossed his brawny arms and stared down at her, drawing his thick gray eyebrows together. “Are you going to stand there all night? You are Miss Inga Olofsson, are you not? From Madame Signe’s? Here for the usual?”
“Erm . . .” Apparently she’d been mistaken for a Swedish courtesan.
Maybe now would be a good time to tell the unkempt butler the truth.
I’m Lady Dorothea Beaumont and I’m here to deliver the scathing reprimand your master so richly deserves.
That wouldn’t get her past the door.
She’d be whomever the butler wanted her to be if it would gain her entrance to the lion’s den. “That’s right, I’m Inga Olofsson.” She gave a confident nod, adding a ja? for good measure.
The butler grinned. “Follow me, Olofsson.” He strode across the entrance hall and up a wide spiral staircase.
Dark and cavernous, the hall held little furniture. Thea paused for a moment. There were no paintings on the wall. None whatsoever.
She’d never seen walls so very bare and devoid of art.
She had to trot to catch up. The wavering light from his lantern was the only illumination keeping her from tumbling down the black-and-white marble stairs and breaking her neck. The duke certainly preferred his house dark.
The butler paused outside a massive carved wood door. “He’s unclothed and ready.”
Thea stared. Surely he hadn’t said unclothed.
A low moan emanated from inside the room, the eerie sound reminding Thea of nothing so much as a caged wild animal. She shivered.
“Not frightened, are you?” The butler’s whiskers bristled when he grinned. “He’s quite harmless, really,” he whispered conspiratorially. “Only devours two or three young ladies per day.”
Ladies? Thea searched the butler’s face. “I’m not frightened,” she said, attempting to believe it was true.
The flood of righteous resentment that had swept her here began to flow again. The duke ruined everything on purpose. He had no right to interfere with my plans.
She straightened her shoulders. “Lead on, sir.”
“In you go then, love.” The butler opened the door. “Remove those boots and climb aboard.”
Climb aboard?
Heavens. What on earth had she agreed to do?
“Er,” Thea whispered desperately. “There’s been a mistake. I’m not really—”
“I’ll leave you now, Olofsson,” the butler said loudly. He gave her a little push into the room.
The door closed with an ominous thud. Thea nearly dove for the knob and ran straight back across the square. This had been a spectacularly bad idea. Perhaps she should pen an excoriating letter instead. She’d be assured of choosing precisely the perfect invectives that way.
You’re not scared, are you?
Thea took a deep breath.
Fear had dictated her actions too long.
She had a right to be here after what the duke had done. A right to speak her mind, demand that he make reparations. Ensure she could retire to Ireland as planned.
She stood at a crossroads.
The well-worn path of silence and obedience stretched back to her house, to the unbearable weight of her family’s expectations, and beyond, to a loveless, miserable marriage.
The path of courage and adventure lay ahead.
In the duke’s bedchamber.
She pivoted toward the majestic, towering bed that dominated the center of the room.
&nb
sp; What she saw upon that bed nearly stole what remained of her bravery.
Miles and miles of duke. Face down.
Very much unclothed.
Well, there was a thin linen sheet covering his lower half, but it didn’t do much to hide the lines of his taut, rounded backside and powerful thighs.
Thea’s first sight of a nude male not carved from marble or fashioned from bronze quite took her breath away. All those ridges and valleys on the vast landscape of his back, shadowed and gleaming in the firelight.
So much powerful virility.
So much overbearing arrogance, she reminded herself.
And then the true enormity of her task became clear.
She was meant to climb.
On top.
Of a duke.
She should have brought a rope and pickaxe. This wasn’t a crossroads—it was a mountain expedition.
Thea unlaced her boots. She’d probably be unceremoniously ejected the second the duke saw her face. Best to continue the charade as long as possible. Find just the right moment to spring her demands upon him.
She approached the bed on wobbly, yet determined, limbs.
“You’re late, Olofsson,” the duke growled, not bothering to raise his head. “It’s the right shoulder again. Seized up so I can barely move it.” He flexed the bulging muscles in his shoulder and moaned. “Work your magic.”
Er, what magic was that?
If Olofsson ministered to his shoulder, and not other parts of his anatomy, then she was a . . . nurse?
Thea must mount him and . . . then what? What exactly did this Olofsson person do?
When she was closer she could see by the light from the thick candles in bronze stands on either side of the bed that his eyes were tightly closed.
There was a thin red line along his jawline that hadn’t been there last night when they waltzed. Had he fought a duel? It was entirely possible. Some of the married ladies he dallied with must have jealous husbands.
“I haven’t got all night, Olofsson,” the duke said impatiently. “I promise not to bite. Climb up and walk around.”
Right, then. She could do this.
Thea stepped onto a low wooden stool and hoisted herself onto the bed, then, cautiously, she crawled onto his back on her knees and slowly, very slowly, rose until she was standing.
