Historical Romance Boxed Set

by Brenda Novak

  “There is nothing you can do to hurt me, you arrogant bastard,” Greystone bellowed, his nostrils flaring. “I can crush you, put you away until you rot, until you beg for a morsel of worm-eaten bread. Who do you think you are?”

  “I’m your son.” Nathaniel said it through clenched teeth, struggling to sit up despite the two burly fellows who came forward to shove him back. “You deny it to the world, but we two know the truth.”

  Greystone’s face flushed red. “You have no idea what I have in store for you.”

  “Another carriage accident perhaps?”

  “Nothing so short and sweet. You’ll pay for your insolence. I’ll see to that.” The veins in the duke’s neck throbbed for a pregnant moment, then he whirled and left the room.

  * * *

  A hand covered Alexandra’s mouth. Coming out of the depths of sleep, she struggled against it, trying to pry it away so she could scream.

  “Alexandra!” Her name came as a harsh whisper, but she stopped fighting as soon as she recognized the voice. It was Trenton. He stood above her, his face shrouded in darkness.

  Tentatively pulling away, he said, “It’s only me.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Where’s Nathaniel?”

  Fear tightened Alexandra’s chest. Nathaniel had left the day before to meet Trenton and the others. Why wasn’t he with them?

  She started to answer, then froze as she heard shuffling from above. Tutty’s voice called down the stairs. “Alexandra, dear? Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine, Mrs. Tuttle. Just a little restless. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

  “No, no, don’t worry.” Alexandra could hear the sleep in her voice. “Just checking.”

  The ceiling creaked as Mrs. Tuttle made her way back to her bed. Trenton and Alexandra didn’t speak again until the house fell silent.

  “He left yesterday to find you,” she whispered at last.

  “He never arrived.” Trenton moved away from the side of her bed and crossed to the window. Moonlight poured into the room as he pulled the drapes back to gaze outside.

  “Where could he be?” Alexandra heard the tremor in her own voice, and swallowed.

  “Rat disappeared a few days ago as well,” Trenton explained. “He must have gone to see the duke.”

  Alexandra gasped as her mind briefly conjured Rat’s face. She remembered Nathaniel’s anger when the dirty little man had attacked her, and the punishment that had followed. “What does that mean?”

  Trenton glanced back at her, his profile outlined in silver. “If Nathaniel’s father has captured him, there’s no telling.”

  “Why didn’t Nathaniel stay with you in the first place?” she asked. “You would all be at sea by now.”

  Trenton didn’t reply, but Alexandra could feel the accusation in his stance.

  “He came back here to see me,” she said, answering her own question. “And when he arrived, I was gone.” Alexandra shuddered to think what might have happened to her had Nathaniel not come back for her. But she also realized that the time he spent searching for her might very well have cost him his life.

  “We must go to Bow Street,” she exclaimed. “We have to take a constable to see the duke—” She started to get out of bed, but Trenton’s bitter laugh robbed her of the energy.

  “The constabulary won’t believe us. They’d never question a man like Greystone on our word alone. The guns are our only hope, and we have to deal with them the right way, or the authorities will think we stole them from somewhere else in order to entrap a powerful peer of the realm.” He jammed his hands into his pockets. “Nathaniel said he was going to write to the Lord High Admiral at Doctor’s Commons. I think we should do the same.”

  “But that will take time.”

  “I know. Meanwhile, we’ve got to figure out where the duke is keeping Nathaniel and see if we can help him.” Trenton didn’t add, “If he’s still alive,” but he didn’t have to. The words hung in the air between them, too heavy to be spoken and too real to be ignored.

  “There must be some way of finding out what Greystone has done with him,” Alexandra whispered. She had to believe Nathaniel was alive. She couldn’t bear the alternative. “The duke might have attempted to smother an infant on the day of his birth, and he might have hired some men to run a carriage off the road. But even Greystone couldn’t get away with capturing a man and having him killed, could he?”

  Trenton shrugged. “The question isn’t what His Grace could get away with. It’s what he thinks he could get away with that matters.”

  * * *

  Nathaniel stared into the somber face of his father’s friend and political ally, Sir John Ballard. The duke had called the magistrate from his bed, and now, despite the late hour, Nathaniel, Greystone, Clifton, and two of the duke’s men stood in Ballard’s study while Sir John sat behind his oversized desk and rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

  “What are the charges?” Sir John asked the duke. Evidently, the judge hadn’t taken the time to put in his teeth. A distinctive lisp slurred his words, and his mouth looked oddly sunken.

  “Piracy.”

  The magistrate’s brows raised beneath the gray stubble of his hair that had probably been covered by a white-powdered wig earlier in the day. “A serious charge,” he commented. Taking up his quill, he began to scratch something on the papers before him. “Do you have any evidence against him?”

  “Just sign it, John,” Greystone insisted. “The details don’t matter.”

  “I’ve got my own arse to consider,” the magistrate cried.

  “Then invent whatever is necessary. Just sign the order and let’s be done here.”

  Sir John’s frown deepened. “I’ll take care of the details in the morning,” he relented. “Now, what is it you want done with Mr. Kent? I doubt we could get away with having him executed on my signature alone, if that’s what you’re hoping.”

  “Why not?” the duke asked.

  “Because it will incite a great deal of interest—”

  “We can’t kill him yet,” Clifton interrupted. “He’s got an entire shipload of our cargo, and it’s worth several thousand pounds. Send him to the hulks. Perhaps a good long stay in such a place will make him more cooperative.”

  Nathaniel threw a smoldering glance at his younger brother, but couldn’t move for the two thugs who held him fast on either side. He pictured the decaying line-of-battle ships moored on the banks of the Thames near the royal arsenal at Woolwich. Essentially prison barges, notorious for their poor living conditions, the hulks housed hundreds of hardened criminals and were probably the place most like hell on earth.

  “He’ll be secure enough there, for the time being,” Greystone added, sounding amused.

  Sir John snickered. “Capital idea! We’ve had few escapes from Woolwich.” His quill went back to work on the documents before him. “Most of the men there are too sick to attempt any such thing, and the shackles are a convincing deterrent.” He paused. “The only problem is that most of the convicts aboard those rotting ships are awaiting deportation. Where do you want Mr. Kent to go? Australia? Tasmania?”

  “Nowhere,” the duke returned coolly. “He might someday find his way back, and such a surprise would be unfortunate. Sentence him to remain forever in England, yet laying foot on English soil only to work in a heavily guarded gang.”

  Nathaniel began to struggle, even though he felt barely strong enough to stand. He could not allow his father to send him to the hulks. Such a sentence was far worse than spending the rest of his life at Newgate. Prison barges were even more rife with disease, violence, and corruption; it was a miracle anyone survived them.

  Greystone scoffed at Nathaniel’s feeble efforts. “I’m afraid you’re in no condition to object.”

  Sir John rose from his chair. “Take him over to the gaol. I know the gaoler. There will be no questions asked.”

  “Excellent.” The duke smiled. “I won’t forget this little favor.�
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  “What are friends for?” Sir John clapped Greystone on the back as the duke’s men dragged Nathaniel out of the room.

  When they reached the main entry hall, Nathaniel began to shout. He hoped to rouse a servant or a family member who might help him, but a meaty fist thudded against his skull, and once again he saw only darkness.

  * * *

  At dawn Alexandra stood outside the ornate iron gate that circled Greystone House, dressed as a maid and carrying a tin box that contained everything she owned in the world. She couldn’t see anything beyond the plethora of windows that winked at her in the early sunshine, reflecting the trees in the yard, the small lawn in front, and the fashionable square across the street with its flowers and cherry trees, but she hoped to find something that would lead her to Nathaniel.

  After taking a moment to gather her nerve, she lifted the latch and forced her feet to move along the flagstone path that approached the house, then veered off to circle behind. Not knowing whether the marquess would deem her friend or foe, should he see her, left her frightened and more than a little nervous. He knew she had been captured against her will. Had he discerned the softening of her heart toward the pirate captain?

  At the back door, she met two tradesmen carrying daily supplies. The butcher drove a high dogcart and was busily engaged with a woman Alexandra assumed, from her dress and manner, to be Greystone’s housekeeper. The baker was just leaving. Carrying bread in a large basket covered with a white cloth, he called, “See you Monday week, Mrs. Wright.”

  Alexandra remained silent until they had concluded their business, then stepped forward when the butcher drove away.

  “Who are you?” A hardy woman with shoulders the width of a man’s, and hands that were almost as callused, the housekeeper regarded her with frank appraisal.

  “I’ve come to see Lady Anne,” Alexandra told her. “Has she returned from Scotland?”

  The housekeeper’s brows rose as shrewd eyes swept over Alexandra’s plain dress and apron. “Aye, she’s back. But what business would she have with the likes of you?”

  Alexandra cleared her throat. “It’s personal,” she said, trying to ignore the anxiety churning in her stomach. Afraid the housekeeper would dismiss her if she didn’t explain, she added, “I’ve come to replace something I took. Tell your mistress I’m the seamstress who was supposed to fix the dress her mother gave her. We met in Manchester. I’ll wait here until she wakes.”

  Alexandra set her tin box on the ground and sat on top of it.

  The look of skepticism didn’t change on Mrs. Wright’s face, but she said, “It’ll only be a minute. Lady Anne’s up already.”

  She went inside, leaving Alexandra to chew her lip in agitation. How would Nathaniel’s half sister receive her? In light of their last meeting, Lady Anne could just as easily have her thrown into gaol as hire her as a maid. But Alexandra knew of no better way to find Nathaniel. She could only hope her and Trenton’s plan would work.

  A moment later, Mrs. Wright poked her head through the door. “Come inside. Lady Anne will see you in the sitting room.”

  Alexandra followed the housekeeper through the anteroom of a large kitchen and into the kitchen itself. A stove sat in one corner, flanked by a huge brick hearth. Utensils hung from pegs along the wall. Copper pots dangled above a large deal table. Several baskets littered the floor. One was filled with fresh eggs, another with carrots just out of the ground.

  A green baize door separated the kitchen from the rest of the house. Mrs. Wright charged through it, and Alexandra hurried behind, amazed at the opulence that suddenly surrounded her: drawing rooms, parlors, sitting rooms, music rooms, and libraries furnished with silk and cashmere draperies that puddled on the floor; doors carved from exotic hardwoods; carpets from Smyrna and Madras. An impressive wide stairway wound its way up to the second floor, where several Aubusson tapestries hung on the wall.

  They stopped at a set of double doors off a large, vaulted entry. Mrs. Wright knocked, then motioned for Alexandra to follow her inside.

  Lady Anne sat at a desk, wearing a pale blue Louis XV-style dress with a jacket-bodice and tabbed skirt. A Bible was open in front of her. She looked up as they entered—and frowned.

  “There you are,” she said, her voice indignant. “Where is my gown?”

  Alexandra stared at her shoes. “I’m sorry, my lady. The dress is ruined.”

  “Ruined! I should have guessed as much. Is that why you’re here? To tell me you ruined the gown my mother gave me?”

  “No.” Alexandra glanced up. “I came to see if I could make up for its loss. You see, I never meant to steal it—”

  Lady Anne waved her words away, the look on her face softening. “The fact that you’re here tells me that. Besides, I heard the fuss your stepfather made after you ran off. I can hardly blame you for leaving. Sometimes I wish I had as much nerve.” She glanced pensively back at the fire before a hesitant smile claimed her lips. “You caused quite an uproar. Mr. Calvert was beside himself. Really, between him and that father of yours, the entertainment was almost worth the loss of my dress.”

  Alexandra nearly chuckled at the picture Lady Anne’s words created in her mind—a flustered Mr. Calvert, a duke’s daughter standing in her shift, her dress gone, and Willy raging about his money—only she feared Lady Anne might interpret her mirth as insincerity. “I’d like to repay you, my lady. I have no money, but I’ll work off whatever figure you deem fair.”

  “As a housemaid?” Lady Anne’s voice rose in surprise as her eyes marked Alexandra’s attire. “But you’re a seamstress.”

  “I realize I have no experience as a servant, but I’d like the chance to learn.” Alexandra swallowed, feeling a twinge of guilt at her duplicity. She had chosen the role of maid only because, should Lady Anne take her on, it would allow her access to the house and its staff, and bring her into frequent contact with the duke.

  “How difficult can it be?” Lady Anne shrugged, glancing at Mrs. Wright. “Surely you can teach her.”

  The housekeeper nodded. “If you’d like, m’lady.”

  Nathaniel’s half sister glanced back at her Bible. “Yes, I’d like that. A woman with so much pluck would be an asset to any house, and the Good Book says we’re to forgive, doesn’t it? You’d have to work several years to pay for such a dress on a maid’s wages, but I’ll be content with one. Are you agreeable?”

  Alexandra curtseyed. “Yes, my lady.”

  “Good.” She turned to the housekeeper. “Make room for her in the attic.”

  Mrs. Wright led Alexandra back to the kitchen and from there up a tall, narrow staircase to a small attic.

  “You’ll sleep here,” the housekeeper informed her. “Put your trunk on that bed. You’ll have to unpack later.”

  Alexandra deposited her box on a worn quilt thrown over the top of an iron bedstead. Hers was one of three beds that lined the wall; a fourth was next to the only window on the opposite side. A spotted mirror hung above each cot, and a chest of drawers sat between them on bare floorboards. A chipped washbasin occupied the end of the room; next to it sat a chamber pot.

  “The position of housemaid normally pays eighteen pounds a year,” Mrs. Wright said as she turned back to the stairs and motioned for Alexandra to follow her. “Time off will consist of one full day each month and one afternoon a week, beginning at three p.m. You might be working for nothing, but at least you’ll have a roof over your head and food in your stomach.”

  Alexandra nodded as Mrs. Wright glanced her way before continuing, “You’ll rise at five o’clock every morning and begin by lighting the fires. Then you’ll carry water up for the family’s baths. After your breakfast, you’ll sweep the carpets downstairs and dust the main entry hall.”

  Mrs. Wright spoke quickly, sounding as though she were attempting to fit an hour’s worth of instruction into the time it took to reach the kitchen, and she seemed to remember more and more things as they went along.

  Alexandr
a struggled to absorb the onslaught of information, listening to every word with rapt attention. Now that she had established herself in the duke’s household, the last thing she wanted was to lose her position before she found out what she had come to learn. Trenton and the others were counting on her. And no one wanted to find Nathaniel more than she did.

  As they reached the bottom of the stairs, another servant approached, looking more than a little distraught. “Mrs. Wright, the tweenie has run off. I guess Cook had a few harsh words for her yesterday, and she popped off in the middle of the night.”

  The housekeeper groaned. “The girl was so homesick, she was no good to us anyway. Very well, Janet. Alexandra is here now. She can help out in the kitchen until we find someone to replace Ruth.”

  “The stove has yet to be lit,” Janet complained. “And it needs to be black-leaded. At this rate, we won’t have hot water by the time Cook wakes.”

  “Then get it done. Alexandra will help you in a moment.”

  Janet frowned but went to work, and Mrs. Wright turned to face Alexandra. “His Grace demands a great deal from his servants,” she warned, lowering her voice, “so until you’re properly trained, try to remain as inconspicuous as possible. Lower your eyes and step out of the way if he should come upon you while you’re performing your duties.”

  She raised her brows, as if questioning whether or not Alexandra understood her, and Alexandra nodded. “Your cleaning is to be done by noon each day,” she went on. “The afternoons are spent darning socks, mending clothes, or helping Cook. Now get along. Janet needs you. A good French cook is hard to come by, and Madame Plume is a fussy individual. I’d rather avoid a tirade this morning.”

  So would I, Alexandra thought. The last thing she wanted was to have someone in authority angry with her on her first day.

  “Come to my quarters at bedtime for further instructions. Any of the other maids can tell you where to find me,” the housekeeper said as she moved away.

  The kitchen was already a beehive of activity. Everyone had a purpose and knew exactly what it was and how to do it, except Alexandra. She looked for the girl Mrs. Wright had instructed her to join, and found Janet kneeling in front of a coal-fired range, busily polishing its steel bars with emery paper.