The Demon Duke

by Margaret Locke

  Chapter Nineteen

  Smythington Ball, London – Mid-May, 1814

  Damon hurried to the main ballroom. They’d found Sephe, safe and unharmed, playing billiards with several female friends. It had taken more time than he’d wished, as they’d first checked the more private areas, fearing she’d been spirited away to one of them. He’d disrupted a number of amorous couples, but luckily his sister hadn’t been part of one of them.

  Cassie had insisted on accompanying him, delighting in making pointed jests about the people they’d spied in compromising positions. “I mean, truly, Lady Chesterson? With Lord Plumperset? Widow or not, is he not thirty years her senior?”

  “Please don’t tell Mother,” Damon implored. “I would never hear the end of it for having furthered your education in such a manner this evening.”

  “Fear not, dearest brother; this is not the kind of information a lady shares freely. At least not with elders.”

  He’d raised an eyebrow at that, but they’d hurried along until they reached the billiards parlor. Cassie had pressed him to check it, though he’d insisted they’d find only gentlemen present.

  “Women do not play, do they?”

  Cassie had rolled her eyes, throwing open the door her only other response. It’d been full of ladies, Sephe at their center.

  Damon was glad to have been wrong in this case, since it meant his sister was unharmed. That hadn’t stopped Cassie from giving her a tongue lashing, however.

  “Bother!” Sephe had exclaimed with a pout. “Why am I never allowed any fun?”

  Her friends had quickly scuttled out of range, casting furtive glances at Damon. He scowled for extra effect, as Sephe reluctantly took his arm to return to the ballroom. One of the ladies had yipped, a noise so high-pitched she might have been a frightened pup.

  Now, as they entered, he looked to the spot where he’d left Grace, but she wasn’t there. Not entirely surprising; he’d been gone far longer than intended. He searched where the matrons sat to see if she were speaking to someone there, and when that yielded no results, he scanned the dancers. Her blue dress wouldn’t be hard to pick out in this sea of white, but she was nowhere to be found.

  “Do you see Grace?” he demanded of his sister Cassie.

  “Grace, is it?” she teased him, before joining in on searching the room.

  Spying Rebecca, he hurried over. “Lady Grace? Have you seen her?”

  Rebecca gestured toward the terrace. “She stepped outside a moment ago. I think she wanted some air.”

  “And she hasn’t come back in?”

  “No, not that I’ve seen, but it hasn’t been long. Why? Is something wrong?” Rebecca’s blue eyes rounded in apprehension.

  “No, no. I’m sure everything is fine. She had promised me this dance, is all. I will check the terrace.” He gave Rebecca a smile meant to put her at ease, though his own gut twisted.

  Rebecca nodded, making to follow him until the young woman at her side distracted her with a question.

  Damon sauntered to the terrace door, not wanting to give Rebecca cause for alarm. Two missing women in one night was too much. She is merely outside and all is well. He repeated the thought over and over. All had been well with Sephe, and all would be well with Grace.

  But when he exited the ballroom to no sign of Grace, his heart began to pound. The terrace was deserted. Surely she wouldn’t have ventured onto the garden paths? Perhaps Rebecca simply hadn’t seen her return. He turned to reenter the ballroom when something sparkling at the edge of the terrace caught his eye.

  He neared it, squatting down to retrieve the item. It was the flower brooch he’d given Grace earlier. What was it doing here? Fear crawled its way up his throat, robbing him of breath as he looked around for further evidence of her. A bush nearby had a number of bent branches. Hooked onto its bottom was a jagged piece of a silver-shot gauzy material. Grace’s dress. Terror engulfed him. He ran partway into the gardens, but couldn’t see much in the inky darkness. He raced back to the terrace, where Rebecca was peeking out from the ballroom in concern.

  “Did you find her?”

  “No.” Damon’s voice was hoarse with panic. “It may be that something has happened. I need a lantern.”

  Emmeline came up behind Rebecca, a pleasant smile on her face. “Good evening, Your Grace.” Her mouth fell at his ragged breathing. “Is something wrong?”

  “We don’t know where Grace is,” Rebecca said.

  Damon held up the brooch and the piece of fabric he had found. “She was wearing these. I found them near the bushes. I am concerned something nefarious has happened.”

  Emmeline looked at the brooch. “I don’t remember Grace having a piece of jewelry like that.”

  “I gave it to her,” Damon bit out. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to get a lantern, a torch, something so that we can search the gardens.”

  “What should I do?” Rebecca interjected.

  “Stay here in case she comes back; Emmeline, go and find help. I need men and lights.”

  Damon sprinted out into the darkness, a lantern he’d pulled off a terrace table in his hand. Holding it high, he scanned the terrain for Grace. Nothing.

  Soon other lights joined his.

  “What has happened?” said Arthington as he appeared by Damon’s side.

  “It’s Lady Grace. She’s disappeared.”

  Arthington’s face whitened.

  Emerlin dashed up to them both. “How can I help?”

  “I … don’t know.” Damon pinched his nose with his fingers, willing Grace to come back, to be unharmed, to be safe.

  “I shall alert the local night watchman,” Arthington said, his tone brisk and authoritative. “We will find her, Malford. We will find her.”

  Additional guests filtered out onto the terrace as rumors of Grace’s disappearance spread like wildfire. A number of the gentlemen combed the gardens, but besides flushing out a few cats and one clandestine couple, they found nothing more.

  When Damon neared the house again after a fruitless search, Rebecca scurried over, a female servant in tow. “She saw a man and a lady get into a carriage in the alley behind the gardens a short time ago. She noticed, she said, because the man seemed to be handling the lady roughly.”

  “Was the lady wearing a blue gown?” Damon demanded, his eyes boring into those of the serving girl’s.

  “I-I think so, Your Grace,” the girl stammered. “It were pale, I know.”

  “Did you see in which direction they went?”

  “No, Your Grace, though the carriage were facing to go north on the street. I had to get back inside afore I saw it leave.”

  He nodded tersely. “Thank you.”

  The serving maid bobbed a curtsy and then looked at Rebecca. “Yes, you may go,” Grace’s sister said. “Thank you for bringing this to our attention.”

  Damon’s lungs constricted as if clamped in a vise and he struggled to breathe.

  Rebecca and Emmeline stood together, clasping each other’s hands.

  Arthington reentered the room, a night watchman in tow. “A carriage flew past him heading west on Piccadilly about fifteen minutes past,” the Duke exclaimed.

  “Carriages on Piccadilly are hardly an unusual site,” Emerlin interjected.

  “Yes, but this one was racing at breakneck speed,” the watchman said. “Nearly crashed into a second carriage turning out of Berkeley Street.”

  All music and dancing had ceased as everyone circled around Damon and the Mattersley sisters. Speculation as to what could have happened was rife, and a number of ladies swooned at the idea of being taken from a ball in such a manner.

  “What if he means to kill her?” one young woman exclaimed.

  “Or worse,” said another. “Dishonor her?”

  Damon closed his eyes, willing himself to breathe in and out. He couldn’t lose her. Not his Grace. Not now, when he’d finally found someone with whom he’d made a true connection.

  The jostling of
the crowd thrust Rebecca against him. He needed to take action, needed to end this spectacle as best he could. And he needed to find Grace.

  “Arthington, Emerlin,” he called. “I shall escort the Mattersley ladies home. Alert me if you hear of anything.”

  “Of course.” Arthington’s face was a mask of grave concern. He cast his eyes at Emerlin, and the message they conveyed infuriated Damon.

  “We will find her,” he roared. “And she will be all right. She will be.” He would find her, alive, if it was the last thing he did.

  Disregarding the looks—some curious, some frightened, some suspicious—around him, he offered an arm to each of the Mattersley sisters, and they clung to him as he led them to their carriage. After assisting them inside, he leapt in and took a seat next to Emmeline. The carriage sped off to Claremont House.

  No one spoke. At length, Emmeline said, her voice tremulous, “Do you think we will find her? Truly, Damon? Who could have done this? Why?”

  “Yes. Yes. I don’t know. And I don’t know.” He closed his eyes. His head wanted to move, wanted to jerk, his body’s reaction to extreme duress. He fought it with all he had. Concentrating on controlling his body helped keep the panic at bay. Temporarily. For he was panicking. He had no idea who had taken Grace, or why. Nor did he have any clue as to where, except somewhere west. But in town? Or worse, out of London? He clenched his jaw, willing his body to stay in control.

  Rebecca began to weep, not the loud, obnoxious wails he’d heard from young women, but more a quiet shuddering. The sound closed around his heart, crushing it like a piece of soft fruit.

  After arriving at Claremont House, the two girls flew from the coach and into the house, calling for the dowager, who, Emmeline had said in the coach, had claimed a headache and remained behind that evening. Damon followed more slowly, averse to facing Grace’s mother, given the situation.

  He waited in the hall. The servants were in too much of a dither to pay him any mind. After a few short minutes, Matilda Mattersley, Dowager Duchess of Claremont, came flying down the broad staircase, clothed only in her nightgown and wrapper. Her face was white, her mouth pinched. Anger erupted when she spied Damon.

  “What has happened? What have you done?” she burst out, marching up to him. She was a good half a foot shorter than he, but at that moment Damon Blackbourne, Duke of Malford, felt about two inches tall.

  “I—” he began, but Emmeline cut him off.

  “Mother! His Grace had nothing to do with Grace’s disappearance, and you well know it. He has been most excellent in his response, enlisting the aid of all he can and sending men out to search.”

  “Then why is he here instead of with them?”

  “I came,” Damon said, an edge to his voice, “to see your daughters home safely and to break this news to you. I came because I care for your daughter. And she for me.”

  The dowager’s shoulders sagged at his words. It was as if the reality of Grace’s disappearance had suddenly sunk in. “Who would do this?” she asked, her voice a shell of what it had been moments earlier. “Who would harm my child?”

  “We shall find her, and justice shall be served. I promise you that, Your Grace.”

  “Have you sent for Deveric? He should be here. We need his help.”

  “Of course,” Damon said, beckoning to a footman. “Send a carriage for Claremont, as quickly as possible.”

  Though the man was not in his employ and this was not Damon’s house, the servant instantly obeyed the barked command.

  Grace’s mother’s face had aged twenty years in five minutes. She clasped her arms around her waist, teetering as if she might fall over. “Thank you,” she managed to say.

  “Mama, let me lead you to the parlor. Let us sit down,” Emmeline said, reaching for her mother’s elbow.

  “Yes,” was the dowager’s only response.

  Rebecca turned to Damon. “Find her. Please. Find my sister.”

  “I will. I will.”

  With that, he headed out into the night.

  Chapter Twenty

  Blackbourne House, London – Mid-May, 1814

  Damon sat in his study, nursing a tumbler of brandy. He’d searched the streets for hours, questioning nearly everyone he saw, but had received no additional information. Grace had been snatched, thrown in a carriage, and bundled off somewhere west. More than that, he didn’t know.

  He hurled the glass at the wall. He’d come home only on the insistence of Arthington, who’d accompanied him on his quest. Although he had known the fellow duke only a short while, Arthington was proving quite a friend. Damon trusted him. Emerlin, too. How powerful to have other men of similar age and rank in whom he could put faith. It was a strange but welcome experience.

  “We will help however possible,” Emerlin had assured him. “Deveric will come to London as quickly as he can, and we will find Lady Grace.”

  But would they? How? They had no clue as to her abductor or her location. And if—no, when—they did find her, in what condition would she be?

  Despite the grand wealth and polish of the West End, there was a darker side to London. Women could and did disappear, though not usually a member of the aristocracy from a ball.

  That was the one thing that gave him hope. This seemed too premeditated to indicate a random crime. A crime of passion was a possibility, but Grace had never mentioned any other suitors, nor had he seen anyone pursue her. He shook his head.

  “Idiots,” he muttered.

  She was a beautiful soul, inside and out. How did others not see it, not rush to simply be in her presence? Perhaps that was intentional on her part. Like him, she didn’t care to let people in, preferring instead to stick to her quiet routines, her close circle of intimates.

  His eyes welled up with tears. He let them fall. There was no one here to see anyway, and it was a crushing despair that weighed on him, this fear that just as he had found someone with whom he could see sharing a life, whom he could even love, she’d been taken away, perhaps never to return.

  Love. There was a powerful word. Did he love Grace Mattersley? They had had only a few encounters, but each had been significant, meaningful. In their conversation in the carriage that afternoon in Hyde Park, they’d not wasted their time on pleasantries and trivialities, but had dived right into substantive conversation. He loved that about her; she wasn’t about surface. She was depth. She was intelligence. She was kindness. She didn’t judge him for his ticcing movements.

  Hell, yes, he loved her.

  Hobbes appeared in the doorway. He must have heard the glass shatter. “Is there anything I may do for you, Your Grace?”

  Damon nearly snickered at his valet’s formality. Hadn’t they moved past that? He shot Hobbes a grin so wide, so crazed, he was sure he resembled Lucifer himself.

  “Bring her back to me, Hobbes. Bring her back.”

  Hobbes nodded, sympathy radiating from his eyes. “Perhaps you should rest for a few hours.”

  Damon shook his head vehemently. “No. I cannot sleep. I must find her. I must.” He stood and strode to the fire, which blazed with welcomed warmth, for he was frozen inside. Staring into the flames, he repeated the words over and over.

  “I must find her.”

  The rocking motion of the carriage jostled Grace to consciousness. She lay on her side, trying to gain her equilibrium. A horse whinnied. The violence of the rocking indicated they were traveling at a fast rate of speed. But to where? Why?

  She set her hand to her head to steady it as dizziness and nausea overtook her.

  “Ah, good. You’re awake.”

  Her eyes flew open. A man sat across from her, though not the same one who’d pulled her from the terrace. Grace had never seen this man before. He was a portly fellow, with a shock of thinning white-blond hair and thick, bushy eyebrows. Beneath the eyebrows lay narrow-set eyes of an indeterminate color, perhaps hazel, perhaps brown. One of his feet was propped on a small stool.

  “Who are you?” She force
d herself upright. To her surprise, she was not bound in any way. Then the pistol nestled on the seat next to the man caught her eye. Clearly he had ways to keep her in line. Deadly ways.

  “Do you not know me?” The man’s lips pinched into a tight smile. “You know my nephew, most certainly. That despicable excuse for a human being.”

  His nephew? Who? Oh— “You are Damon’s uncle.”

  The man nodded. “Good to see you have a brain.”

  “What are you doing? Why have you taken me? Where are we going?”

  “Typical female, full of questions.” His eyes bulged, a vein in his forehead visibly throbbing.

  Was he mad?

  “Damon has taken what is mine. He should not be Duke. I should. So I have taken something of his.”

  Grace frowned. “Me? I am not his. We are not—”

  “Don’t try to fool me, missy. I’ve seen the way he looks at you. I’ve watched you from afar. It’s clear as day.” He gave a self-satisfied chuckle.

  “But,” Grace began, before biting her lip.

  “But what?”

  “But why have you kidnapped me? What could you possibly hope to achieve?”

  “He will give me what’s mine. Oh, not Thorne Hill. It is entailed and no court would allow it. Unless I kill him.”

  Fillmore cackled at that, a high-pitched nervous keening. Yes, the man was not in his right mind.

  He whisked out a flask from inside his jacket and took a large swig. “Oh yes, he will give me what is mine. I have creditors bearing down on me, men to whom I owe debts. I am an honorable man; I settle what I owe.”

  She stifled an unexpected laugh. The man considered himself honorable? When he’d kidnapped the sister of a peer, absconding with her to who knew where? The wildness about him made it clear, however, she needed to tread carefully.

  “This is about money?”

  “It is about honor,” he roared, and Grace’s head pounded from the force of his voice in the cramped space. “The man has none. He is a devil. He is possessed by a demon. He. Is. Not. A. Duke.”