Worth of a Duke

by K. J. Jackson

  The spinning stilled, and Wynne opened her eyes again. The first thing she saw was the heavy iron chain that led from the clamp around her left ankle to a square plate bolted to the floor.

  Where had her boots gone? All of her clothes were intact, except for her missing boots. She lifted her bare foot, pulling on the chain just to prove she really was chained to the floor.

  The thick metal clinked on the floorboards as she scooted backward until it was taut. Solid. She jerked against it a couple of times.

  The links didn’t budge. She would not be escaping so easily.

  Wynne’s head swiveled, looking around the dark room she was in. Not a large space, rafters angled down sharply across it, making it even smaller. A small rectangular window with the glass half broken out of it—not within her reach and high on the wall—let what little light there was from the grey sky into the room. But that was all she saw—grey sky.

  And then her eyes caught it. An easel in the corner. An easel with a blank canvas on it.

  Her leather satchel sat on the floor, propped against a leg of the easel.

  What in the hell?

  She crawled over to the easel, dragging the chain with her. Reaching her bag, she flipped it open, dumping it. Brushes fell out. A few scraps of paper with her sketches on them. But no knife. Why had she even hoped it would be in there?

  Wynne’s fingers clenched around the leather strap. The man had knocked her out and was now holding her captive? Why in the world? Why not just kill her? Clearly, they both knew she recognized him as her mother’s killer.

  Wynne shook her throbbing head. None of that mattered. What mattered was getting out of the damn shackle and escaping this room.

  Pulling her ankle onto her thigh, she looked at the thick iron clamp held tight around her skin with a lock. Wynne fingered the clamp, twisting it awkwardly so she could see into the lock’s keyhole. She grumbled a sigh. One of the few skills her grandfather never taught her—how to pick a lock.

  A few unsuccessful tugs at the lock, and she dropped her ankle, crawling over to the plate on the floor. Four fat, black nails went through the flat iron plate, securing it to the floor. This was her best chance, if she could wedge the nails up somehow.

  Stretching backward, she grabbed her thickest brush and then went to work on wiggling it under the edge of one of the nails. The wood cracked in half.

  Swearing, she grabbed another brush. She went slower this time, using all of her muscles to shove the wood without breaking it. Struggling with it at length, sweat dripped from her pounding forehead into her eyes.

  Finally, she got the thin edge of the brush wedged under the nail head, and she strained the wood stick upward.

  The brush splintered in half.

  One more brush.

  One more cracked in half.

  Tears of frustration squeezed out of Wynne’s eyes, and she pounded on the plate with her fist.

  A minute later, she heard the door open behind her.

  Wynne whipped around.

  The man.

  Grabbing a wooden shard from a broken paintbrush, she scrambled to her feet.

  He stood by the door, watching her with curious amusement.

  “What did you do to my mother?”

  “So I did not mistake the recognition in your eyes.” He took a step forward. In his hand, he held a small wooden crate.

  His jacket, his trousers were perfectly tailored. His face, perfectly handsome. The whole of him, perfectly docile. All of it did not fool Wynne. She had seen the ugliness inside of this man. She knew.

  Her mind raced back to the art gallery. He looked like he was in the same clothes as before, but Wynne could not be sure. If that was true, it gave her some solace—she hadn’t been knocked out for long. Small favor.

  “You look like your mother. But younger. More virile. You make me regret that I like my whores willing.” His voice was perfectly pleasant—like he was at a formal dinner. “But I may make an exception in your case.”

  “What did you do to my mother?” Wynne’s voice came out much stronger this time.

  “I took care of her as I needed to.”

  Wynne doubled over, not prepared for the punch in her gut the words caused.

  To actually hear him say he killed her mother.

  To take away her hope.

  She had known these many months her mother was dead, but to actually hear it…devastating.

  She struggled for breath.

  Arms wrapped over her belly, it took several seconds for her to look up at him. “Why did you not just kill me?”

  He didn’t answer her right away; instead, he walked over to the canvas in the corner of the room under the highest part of the rafters. He set the crate down under the canvas and turned to her.

  “You are too valuable.”

  Wynne pulled herself upright. “What?”

  “Those paintings you did. They brought me a small fortune. Fortune I need. I want more.”

  Wynne’s eyes dropped from him to the canvas. Slowly, they crept back up to his face. Her words came out slowly, disbelief cracking them. “You want…you want me to paint for you?”

  The man was crazy. Pure crazy.

  He clasped his hands in front of him, a smile on his face like he thought it was the most splendid idea ever. “Yes.”

  “No.”

  “No?” The smile slid from his face and he took a step toward her.

  “I will do no such thing.”

  Before her words finished, he was to her, the back of his hand whipping across her face.

  It sent her flailing to the ground, stick dropping from her grasp.

  Before she could even get her hands under her, his boot came up, kicking her in the stomach.

  It flattened Wynne, leaving her gasping for breath on her side. Gasping for breath that would not come.

  “You will not?” he asked.

  Wynne stared at the black boot in front of her face, the blood in her mouth sucking into her throat, choking her.

  “You will not?” he asked again, voice pleasant once more.

  A trickle of air finally made it to her lungs. She shook her head.

  His boot slammed into her stomach again.

  “What?”

  Wynne shook her head.

  He reached down, fingers grasping her hair and ripping her head upward.

  Then he slammed her forehead to floor.

  Blackness once more.

  { Chapter 25 }

  They waited near the buildings across from the art gallery for the clerk to appear. Rowen stood on the edge of the cobblestone street, ready to pounce. Luhaunt leaned against a wall, relaxed, twiddling with his pocket watch as he watched the early morning traffic in the street.

  When the woman finally appeared, opening the front door and disappearing inside, Luhaunt pushed off from the wall, joining his friend.

  “You think she will run?” Luhaunt asked.

  “I do not know.” Rowen did not look to his friend. “She does not seem the skittish type, or at least she did not the other day when I was in there. Too canny. That is why we are waiting until she is comfortable inside.”

  Rowen rubbed the dryness from his eyes. Once he had enlisted Luhaunt for help, they had spent the night waking up everyone they could to go through the manifests of the recent ships at the docks. The only ships that had left for the Americas in the last day had no “Wynne,” no “Theaton,” or any variation of those names or initials in their passenger lists.

  Not that Rowen had truly believed they would find anything. Wynne would not leave him again. He knew that in his gut, but he had to set aside his gut for logic’s sake and still search for her there. He wasn’t going to leave any possibility unexplored.

  Which left him here for the past hour, waiting impatiently for the clerk to show. It was his only lead. The duchess had found nothing in Wynne’s belongings to indicate she went out for anything other than to paint a few clients the day before. Nothing missing. All her
savings intact in a satchel. All her clothes.

  Rowen glanced at his friend. Even with no sleep, Luhaunt still looked as fresh as the morning dew. He had always been like that. Three days in muddy warfare with no sleep, and he still looked like he just tumbled from a ten-hour sleep with boundless energy.

  Rowen’s concentration went back to the shop. “Long enough.”

  He hustled across the street, leaving Luhaunt to dodge horses and carriages behind him.

  Into the store, and the clerk looked up from behind a back counter. Recognizing Rowen—the biggest sale the woman had most likely ever had—she stepped around the counter, smile beaming.

  “Mr. Peters, it is delightful to see you again.”

  Luhaunt’s eyebrows arched at Rowen’s false name, smirk playing on his lips.

  She stopped in front of Rowen. “I trust that every item was delivered properly yesterday?”

  Rowen nodded. “It was.”

  “Excellent.” Her hands clasped in front of her. “Then you must have another painting you are interested in if you are here this early? Maybe something that caught your eye the other day?”

  Her look flickered to Luhaunt. Rowen could see the near drool in her eyes. Her upper arms pushed inward, squeezing her breasts even higher above the cut of her dress. “And you have brought a companion. You are also interested in the arts, sir?”

  Luhaunt inclined his head. He was more than accustomed to breasts plumping up before him. “Indeed, I am.”

  “Are you more interested in the landscapes, or the human form?” She leaned forward, angling her cleavage.

  The last shred of patience Rowen had evaporated. He cleared his throat, stepping in front of the woman. “What we are most interested in right now is discovering how the paintings I purchased arrived at this gallery.”

  Her attention snapped to Rowen. “Mr. Peters, did I not explain that we do not discuss the origin of the artwork in this gallery? That we are discreet in both the origin and the sale?”

  “Yes, you did explain that sufficiently the other day, Miss Daven, but I am now asking you very directly as to where my paintings came from. A name. And I do expect an answer.”

  The smile left her face.

  “A name, Miss Daven.”

  She shook her head. “I do not know where your paintings came from, Mr. Peters.”

  “You are lying.”

  Her hand came up, flattening against her chest. “No, sir, I do not know.”

  Rowen stepped closer. “You do know, and you will tell me now.”

  She slipped a foot backward, and Rowen pounced, his hand around her neck as he shoved her backward. She ran into the wall, paintings falling around her.

  “Tell me, woman. Tell me now, or god help you.”

  Hands clawing at his arm, she tried to pull away from his grip. Rowen tightened his hold.

  “Rowe—enough.” Luhaunt grabbed his shoulders, pulling him off the woman.

  Rowen tried to shake Luhaunt off, but then he loosened his hold, dropping his hand from her neck. “She knows, Seb. She knows.”

  The woman’s hands splayed up her neck, desperate to protect it from another attack. “No, I do not know. I swear. I just sell them. The owner is the only one who would know. And so many come through that are suspect, obtained by unscrupulous means—he does not ask either.”

  “Who is the owner?” Luhaunt asked.

  She shook her head, mouth closed, tears streaming.

  Rowen leaned over her, his face in hers. “Who is the owner?” The threat in his voice gave her no option to stay silent.

  “He will kill me.” Her eyes went to the ceiling. “It is Red. Red Bastnum.”

  “Of the rookeries?” Luhaunt asked.

  She nodded.

  Rowen took a step back, his eyes still narrowed at her. “If you are lying, woman…”

  “I am not. I swear. If anyone knows, it is Red Bastnum.”

  Luhaunt’s hand clamped down on Rowen’s shoulder. “Come, Rowe. It is a lead. It is all we need.”

  A look at Luhaunt over his shoulder, and Rowen spun, stomping out of the gallery.

  ~~~

  She would die before she lifted a brush for that man.

  Sitting, leaning against the wall, Wynne stared at the easel across the room. The angle of the light into the room told her it was midday, and that she had lost time—a whole night.

  She drew a shaky breath, her heart tightening. She should be married by now. And by now, Rowen would be questioning where she was. And livid. And probably in the thick of it with the duchess.

  Her head dropped, a tear slipping. He would never know what happened to her. And she knew him—he would be questioning his own worth. Questioning why she had deserted him. Blaming himself.

  And it was all her own damn fault. She never should have gone near that shop. Near that street. Rowen had been right. She had been in danger she didn’t understand. So now she was trapped and all she wanted was to get back to him. To marry him. To pretend this never happened.

  Wynne’s fingers rubbed the chains, as they had done a thousand times in the last few hours, looking for a weak link in the iron. Her eyes drifted upward to the canvas again.

  The man thought he could kidnap her, hold her captive, and she would paint for him? It was almost so ridiculous that it was laughable. Almost.

  Her swollen lip, the cut dried with blood, was an aching reminder of how not-ridiculous this situation truly was. She hadn’t fought at all the last time he came into the room. The shard of wood was in her hand but a moment before she dropped it and crumpled up.

  She would do better next time.

  She would at least try. Hopefully, he kept a key for the lock on his body, and if she could fight him, knock him out—something—she could get out of here. It really was her only option. For she would never paint for him.

  Never.

  He was going to kill her eventually—that she was sure of, for he certainly wasn’t about to set her free now—so Wynne wasn’t about to reward him with any paintings before that happened.

  Her eyes whipped to the door as the knob turned. She scrambled forward, dragging the chain as she dove after her sturdiest brush. The only possible weapon in the room. She had picked at the end of it, forging it into a poker. If she could stick it in his eye, in his throat, then maybe, maybe she had a chance.

  Wynne buried her hand holding the brush in her skirts.

  The man stepped into the room carrying a bowl. He set it down by the door and Wynne could see that it held a spoon and something white.

  He glanced around the room, his eyes resting on the blank canvas. “You have not started painting. Unfortunate.”

  Wynne did not let the threat in his voice quell her. She stood. “Where am I?”

  He glanced at her sharply, instantly irritated. “Here.”

  “Where is here?” she asked, her voice stronger.

  He stomped over to her, fist in the air. “We can do this again, if that is what you wish. Again and again until you do what I want. I do not tire of it.”

  Her eyes narrowed at him. “I will never paint for you.”

  A smile, evil, carved into his face. “We will see.”

  His fist came at her head.

  Wynne was ready this time and dodged out of the way. A second swing came at her. Wynne ducked, and it only brushed the top of her scalp.

  Her grip tightened around the brush, poker end out, and she lunged, hacking it at his left eye.

  He shifted and it hit his forehead, scraping along his skin to his temple. Bloody. But a minor wound. Nothing more. Nothing to slow him.

  With a growl, his next fist made contact with Wynne’s left eye and sent her flying backward.

  She landed hard, the wind knocked out of her. He followed her and stepped on her hand, grinding it with his boot heel until her hold on the brush fell apart. Brush on the floor, he kicked the stick across the room.

  Wynne yanked her crushed hand into her belly, sheltering it.
<
br />   “Are you ready to paint?”

  Pain deep in her face, she opened her eyes to find she could only see out of one of them. But that one eye found his face. “I will never paint for you.”

  The words weren’t out before he was on her. Fists so fast at her face that Wynne’s arms flew up to cover her head.

  She kicked at him, a wildcat, both fighting and trying to escape at the same time.

  But then a crunch.

  A scream, and the instant pain up her leg told her he had broken at least one, maybe two toes with his hard heel.

  He took a step back, and Wynne curled into herself, trying to make herself invisible. Walking around her, he blasted one last kick into the back of her ribs, sending her screaming, arching against the pain.

  He bent down, balancing on his toes as he propped his forearms on his knees.

  “Take care, Miss Theaton, or you will need to learn to paint while lying on the floor.” He leaned closer, his sticky breath invading her ear. “Are you ready to paint?”

  Wynne had no breath, no way to speak through the vicious pain that consumed her body.

  But she could shake her head.

  “Unfortunate.” He stood.

  Wynne tried to brace herself for another kick into her side, but could not control her muscles enough for even that.

  His footsteps went around her head, stopping in front of her. “Then I will have to try a different way to persuade you.”

  Cracking her one eye open far enough to see, she watched his boots retreat out of the room.

  Her body went limp, defeated.

  So that was what fighting got her.

  She wasn’t given but two minutes of reprieve before the door opened again, his boots clicking on the wood floor. Wynne opened her right eye.

  This time, he was not alone.

  A skirt followed his boots, slippered feet jutting out from the folds. They both walked in, stopping in the middle of the floor.

  Wynne followed the skirt upward, wondering what new torture a woman could bring her. Her eye landed on the woman’s face.

  Shock so deep it froze time.