Four Dukes and a Devil

by Cathy Maxwell

  “The boys have informed me that the cottage at Wallace Abbey is fully repaired,” she said stiffly. “We will leave your protection this afternoon. I was going to wait until tomorrow, but I find it might be better—”

  “Coward,” he whispered.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Look, I release you from whatever bonds of gentlemanly code you’ve forced upon yourself. I assure you I find none of your ideas acceptable.” She sniffed.

  “Victoria, listen to me. You are making a grave mistake. You could very well find yourself with child. Surely, you’ve considered the consequences. I hadn’t thought I’d have to remind you.”

  “I’ve spent decades looking into the forlorn eyes of what some people—of your rank—call the physical evidence of sin. I assure you, I know precisely what might happen. If I do find myself in a condition, I shall find an obscure corner of England, and you shall pay for our care, which shall be but a pittance. There are plenty of war widows, and I shall play the part. The child and I shall be perfectly happy. Either way, you shall rejoin your family—your world, and I shall rejoin mine—eventually—at the foundling home or, if fate insists, somewhere far from anyone who would know the truth. What I will not do is accede to your wishes, which would only serve to subject us to the slow, daily torture of remembering the foolishness of a moment.”

  She had wounded him as effectively as she had dared. She could see it in his eyes. But really, what had he expected?

  “Victoria…if you think for a moment that I would allow you to cower off to some godforsaken corner if you found yourself with my child, you do not know me. And while I had wished to keep this from you, I can see I must tell you the full truth of it. Do you know that you talk in your sleep?”

  A chill of worry wound down her spine.

  “Well, I’m sorry to inform that you do, and there was idle talk among the servants before I put an end to it. Your reputation will be in tatters if we do not marry.” He paused and gentled his voice. “Now look, I’m sorry the idea of this marriage is so repugnant to you, but it will occur. God, woman! I should never have let you stew so long. Now, I shan’t force you to leave today, but I do expect you to reconcile yourself to the grim facts of our upcoming nuptials by the time we leave at first light. Tomorrow. I will not delay this again.” He turned on his heel and strode through the door without a backward glance.

  Victoria bounded to the door after it shut, only to hear him bark for the servants to resume their posts. Only now they felt more like guards to keep her inside versus guards to keep him outside. She could have sworn he said something about “bread and broth, only,” but then it could very well have been “break her bones, slowly.”

  Well, that had gone superbly well.

  He had gone about it all wrong, he decided several hours later as he stood brooding and unseeing the beauty of the vista from his library window. He had the wealth of two nations, and yet he had not succeeded in the one thing that mattered. The one thing he wanted. Needed.

  And yet, she was also correct. In marrying her, he might very well ruin her innate happiness. He could not easily envision her rubbing along with the members of the aristocracy. With their sharpened claws and ingrained instinct to winnow out anyone who smelled of the shop or worse, she would be ripped to ribbons in one evening. And they would do it with graciousness dripping from ear to ear. She didn’t stand a chance, even if half the gentlemen in the House of Lords owed him favors or money or both.

  Nothing in his life was in balance. The idea he held dear, to rejuvenate the area with a mill, was fading. His meetings, or rather his attempts to meet with his stubborn neighbor, the Earl of Wymith, had utterly failed. On his second attempt to enter the sanctified chambers of his neighbor’s manor, the Wymith butler had informed His Grace that his lordship was giving him fair warning. He was lacing gun-traps on the edges of his property to ward off trespassers just as his former nemesis had done.

  In the distance, a large carriage that rivaled his own inched along under the arch of tulip trees bordering the avenue leading toward the high tower of Beaulieu. Within a quarter hour, he watched two gentlemen descend from the carriage, who in turn helped two ladies find their footing. The first was a diminutive gray-haired lady, wearing an outrageously colorful gown. She carried a long-snouted, short-legged canine. Why, if he was not mistaken, it was the Dowager Duchess of Helston, followed by the fire-breathing Duke of Helston, the beautiful, blond Countess of Sheffield, and an oversized brute of a man, dressed as a gentleman. What in hell?

  The library door was ajar, and he could hear the familiar demanding baritone of Helston acidly informing a footman that—Yes, he would very much like to see His Grace, if His Grace would have time for His Grace.

  John stilled the corner of his mouth from rising as the footman gave up any pretence of maintaining the correct forms of precedence. Through the sound of footsteps mounting the marble stair, John heard the echo of the party’s conversation.

  “Well, at least we know the way, at this point,” Helston said, dryly. “Second bloody time in less than five months. Perhaps I should scour the area for a suitable residence if this is the way it shall go from now on.”

  “Friendship has its costs,” the other man said with a chuckle.

  “The problem as I see it is that so far it’s been bloody one-sided in your case, Friend.”

  “Luc! Shhh. Is this not the most magnificent…Oh—”

  And then after a knock, which further opened the door, Helston, the dowager with her tiny brown dog tucked under her arm, and the stranger were ushered into the library. A red-faced footman hurriedly preceded them. The countess was missing from the party.

  “Pardon me, Your Grace,” the footman said. “His Grace, the Duke of Helston, and Her Grace, the—”

  Helston cut through the trivialities with seasoned hauteur. “He knows who we are. How the bloody are you, Beaufort? Good of you to see us.” Amusement laced the words of the black-haired and famously black-humored Duke of Helston as he strode forward to grip John’s shoulder on one side and to shake his hand with the other. “Like the new name. May I say it fits you better than the others? Although I must admit to a certain fondness for your epithet in the Post.”

  The dog barked. “Hush,” Ata admonished her pet. “Antlers are our friends here, Attila. Oh, Beaufort, please pardon us,” she shot a dark look toward her grandson. “May we offer our very deepest sympathies on the death of your uncle? He was a generous man—a gentleman who did not shirk from helping us in our great hour of need last winter. I fear we come on an equally important mission today.”

  “How may I be of service to you, madam?” John bowed deeply before her. He’d always liked the little, dark-eyed, plain-speaking dowager.

  John tilted his head to glance at the towering, rugged stranger behind the two Helstons. They had forgotten to introduce the man in their obvious haste.

  The dowager produced a letter from her reticule and offered it to him. “I received this letter three days ago. It was dispatched from the inn in Quesbury. I’m sorry to say it is from a woman who is very dear to us all. She had the great misfortune to become stranded with several others when the mail coach departed without them. Oh, I told her to accept the use of our carriage before she left town, but she is so very stubborn.”

  “A clear case of the pot calling the kettle black,” Helston drawled.

  “Luc! Do be serious. I am terri—”

  “I keep telling you that I have not the slightest doubt that the intrepid, flame-haired woman I know is perfectly fine. This is a fool’s errand. Now then, Beaufort, have you seen or heard news of a Miss Victoria Givan? She was traveling with—”

  “Three boys,” John finished, looking up from the letter. Her handwriting was as bold and arrogant as a queen’s.

  The dowager placed her hand over her heart. “Oh, thank heavens. You’ve news of them?”

  The hulking gentleman behind them moved
with the speed and lethal silence of a jungle cat. “Where is she?”

  “And who are you, sir?” John perused the form of the giant with all the hauteur his station permitted.

  “Where is she?” he demanded again.

  “You must be Miss Givan’s very good friend. No thanks to you, she is comfortably ensconced in one of the chambers above. The boys are here, too.”

  The man exhaled roughly, his hand rubbing his brow. “I don’t know what you’re suggesting, Beaufort. But I am that grateful to you, I don’t really care.” The man eased back a step when John stepped forward. “I must say though, I can’t like your tone, but, yes, I am her very good friend. That’s why I’m here. Her welfare is my responsibility.”

  John couldn’t keep the edge of anger from his bark. “You are her benefactor, you blackguard .”

  The Duke of Helston and the diminutive dowager were looking at him as if he’d lost his wits.

  “Uh, no, actually. Vic’s benefactor is the Countess of Sheffield, soon to be—”

  At the sound of the nickname Victoria refused to allow him to use, he erupted. “You’re the one who knows her as Vic? By God, I shall wash the floor with—”

  “Much as I would enjoy watching some other fool take on my friend here,” Helston interrupted abruptly, “I feel dukes should stand by one another. It’s the natural order of things. I’m sorry Wallace, but I must—”

  “Wallace?” John interrupted, incredulous. “You’re Wallace?”

  The dowager piped up. “Yes, so sorry. Thought you’d been introduced. He’s the long-lost earl you’ve probably recently heard tell about—that is if you follow the gossip columns, which you should since they particularly like to report about you often enough.” The dowager smiled, a pert little V of a smile. “Monstrously tall, isn’t he? Don’t know how the countess manages to bully him as well as she does.”

  Wallace smiled. “Ata, you know Grace has never bullied a fly in her entire life. She shames us all into doing the proper thing with her impeccable manners, her unsurpassed charm, her—”

  “Wallace,” Helston cut in with obvious boredom. “It’s not at all the thing to be so obviously in love with your fiancée.”

  The dowager turned on her grandson. “A clear case of the pot calling the kettle—”

  “Ata…” Helston growled. “Oh, do let’s get on with it. It’s almost full dark, and we should see Miss Givan, then get out of Beaufort’s little hovel here. I’m famished.”

  John nodded almost imperceptibly to the footman hovering in the doorway, and the man undertook his bidding to arrange for the needs of their new guests without a word. And then suddenly, the ethereal beauty of the Countess of Sheffield glimmered from the hall. She walked quickly inside, forwent the courtesy of a curtsy, and went to Wallace’s side. The man’s attention was exclusively drawn to her, and he urged, “What is it, sweetheart?”

  Her blue eyes darted to John, a worried question lurking there. “She’s left.”

  John started. “Left?”

  She searched his face, a hint of distrust in evidence. “One of your maids directed me to the ladies withdrawing, and when I asked, she explained that Victoria was indeed here. I took the liberty of going to her chamber, and I found…”

  “What did you find, sweetheart?” Wallace asked softly.

  “Knotted sheets from the window.”

  John could not make his feet move. “Knotted sheets? Why, the little…”

  Wallace’s eyes narrowed. “Little what, Beaufort? What have you done to her? I shall strangle you with those sheets until you cough up an offer if you’ve compromised her. This is the most gothic story I’ve ever heard. Straight from the pages of—”

  “The Canterbury Tales,” John finished. “Yes, I do believe I’m going to burn that book, if I find her. But never fear, Wallace, I’m marrying her. Even if I have to cuff and drag her every inch of the way to Gretna Green.”

  Wallace noticeably relaxed and continued gruffly. “You may use my smithy’s twitch if you like. It’s far superior to cuffs or rope ties.”

  The Countess of Sheffield’s eyes softened. “Now dearest, do not give him any ideas.”

  “I suppose you’re right, my love. But he has just voluntarily committed himself to a lifetime with Victoria. And while I adore her with every inch of my heart, she is, well, even you must admit, Grace—Victoria can be a challenge, at times. A wonderful, infuriating—”

  “I would suggest you stop while you’re ahead, Wallace,” John said stiffly. “You are speaking of the soon-to-be Duchess of Beaufort. And while I may refer to my future wife as I see fit, you, on the other hand—”

  Helston’s brows had almost reached his hairline. He recovered and quickly stepped between them. “Enough. Enough. Is there no brandy to be had in this hut of yours, Beaufort?”

  “Oh, this is the perfect reason to write again to dear Mr. Brown in Scotland.” The dowager Duchess of Helston laughed. “Luc, do you think this might roust him from his ill will toward me?”

  “For God sakes, Ata, allow Brownie the peace he has earned.”

  “But he loves weddings. Adores them. He’ll never be able to withstand the temptation of attending now both Wallace’s and Beaufort’s weddings to two ladies from my secret circle.”

  “Funny,” the duke replied dryly. “Brownie’s never mentioned a particular fondness for such folly in the past. And since when did Miss Givan become part of your ridiculous club? She’s not even a widow.”

  Ata blinked. “I’ve grown accustomed to your infernal Devil’s rules. If I say Victoria doesn’t need to be bereaved to be in my widows club, then so be it.” The tiny dowager tilted up her nose and sniffed. “Well, I’m off to write to Mr. Brown, and you can’t stop me.”

  The Countess of Sheffield bit her lip to keep from laughing.

  “Christ. My appetite is ruined,” the Duke of Helston said darkly. “There is far too much talk of weddings and happiness swirling about to my liking. When, I ask you, is tragedy to come back in style?”

  Chapter Five

  John had decided he would, indeed, borrow Wallace’s twitch, if he ever found her.

  They had searched every last mile of land separating them from the cottage near the abbey. Every dale, every hollow, every lane. She was not to be found, nor were the boys. She wasn’t a fool. She’d somehow charmed one of the younger grooms into providing his services as a driver, along with two of John’s best carriage horses and a simple four-wheeled dog cart. Yet none of them had returned.

  He swore violently as he paced the ridge above his massive stable—the best vantage point, and sufficiently removed from the great house to allow him to mouth every obscenity he could think of. He and the other two gentlemen had ridden all afternoon, all night, looking for her and the trio of boys. Helston and the earl didn’t take her disappearance nearly as seriously as he did. And if he had had to endure their jibes another minute longer, he had thought he very well might give in to his desire to smash the dark humor from both of them. He had galloped away from them as dawn first streaked its tawny pink fingers across the horizon, their laughter floating behind him.

  The sound of crickets whirred all ’round him, the sound deafening with the heat of day increasing.

  Where was she?

  A horse and rider appeared at the crest of the hill in front of him, and his heart pumped with renewed hope. But it was not she. The rider wore a top hat and breeches.

  The man drew up and dismounted, his mare’s shoulders showing a hint of lather.

  Could his day grow any worse? Apparently.

  The earl swept an exaggerated bow. “Your Grace.”

  “Wymith,” John gritted out. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” The imposing gentleman in his prime before him resembled his forebearer about as much as John did his own—that is, not one whit.

  The earl retrieved something from a saddlebag flung across his horse’s flanks and dropped two feathered shapes before him.

  “What on
earth?”

  “I think she pilfered them from one of your great rooms. Miss Givan is a very, ahem, enterprising young lady, if I do say so.”

  John reached to clench his hands around the stuffed forms of a preserved wood duck and pheasant. “Careful, Wymith, she is my fiancée.”

  “Really,” he drawled. “She didn’t mention that.”

  “And what, pray tell, did she say to you?”

  The other man studied him for a moment. “That we are both hardheaded beasts who refuse to see reason.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “She insisted I see past my objections to your very obvious desire to fatten your purses by way of this proposed easement. Said we should both think to the betterment of the many people of this county who depend on us.”

  “Did she now?” he muttered.

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “And she said we should compromise and build the road and the mill half on my property and half on yours, and arrange for the majority of the profits to go to the men who work there and to the ill and infirm of Derbyshire.” The earl examined his fingernails. “She also said that you had finally seen the error of your ways and those of your uncle before you—after she had fully explained in detail all of your faults—some of which, I am sorry to say, had little to do with hunting and trespassing but much to do with locks and keys.”

  He itched to strangle the managing little philanthropist with pockets to let.

  The earl continued. “These two motheaten bits of fluff were the peace offering she insisted I accept from you. More importantly, she said I was invited to hunt in Beaulieu Park anytime I wished.”

  “Really?”

  “She also insisted I was to condescend to wait upon you, here, as you wished to invite me to dine so we could discuss the building of the mill.”

  “I see.”

  He shrewdly stroked his jaw. “A most interesting choice, Beaufort. She has more pluck than most men.”

  “I know.”

  “Surprising how well you’ve done for yourself,” he said. “Not much of a conversationalist, are you?”