The Last Duke

by Andrea Kane

  Obviously lacking an answer, Russet stood, pacing in an impatient circle around Daphne.

  With a tender smile, Daphne broke off her impassioned speech. “Yes, love, I know it’s nighttime and you’re feeling alert and vigorous.” She stifled a yawn. “But I’ve had a long, tiring day. Any prowling you do this evening, you do on your own.”

  Rising from the cold grass, Daphne shivered a bit, wishing she’d brought her shawl with her. In the hour she’d spent in the woods, dusk and twilight had melded and were gracefully giving way to darkness. The air had chilled, and Daphne’s already depleted body now ached from a long day fraught with turbulent emotions: self-doubt upon facing the children, anguish at seeing their deprivation, fear that her overtures would be rejected, and ultimately, joy when she’d earned their acceptance.

  And with every step back to Tragmore, her apprehension had grown.

  What would she say to her father? How could she explain her prolonged absence? Could she fortify herself to withstand the beating that would doubtless follow?

  God must have taken pity on her. The marquis was blessedly away from Tragmore at a day-long business meeting in London. Given her welcome reprieve, and with no intention of looking a gift horse in the mouth, Daphne spent the duration of the day in her room, venturing out only after she’d heard her father return; take his evening meal, and retire for the night.

  Only when she was safe.

  Intent on capturing Daphne’s attention, Russet shook out his luxuriant tail and waited, his features sharp.

  “I know you’d prefer company,” Daphne acknowledged with a smile. “But I’m truly exhausted. Moreover, I already evaded Father once today. I don’t want to tempt fate yet again. You know how he feels about my nocturnal strolls. So, sleepless or not, I’d best go to bed. Now be off, and enjoy your explorations.”

  The fox blinked his comprehension, then turned and sauntered into the night.

  Thirty minutes later, Daphne slid between the sheets, knowing even as she did that sleep would elude her. It always did, no matter how tired she was. Night after night, she tossed and turned, her mind refusing to succumb to the blessed relief of slumber, fretting over the world and all its inequities.

  And tonight, there was the additional lure of her unsatisfied curiosity.

  Waiting only until her maid’s footsteps had disappeared down the hall, Daphne rose, lit a taper, and dragged the copy of the day’s Times from beneath her mattress.

  The headline was just as she’d expected: “Notorious Tin Cup Bandit Baffles Authorities.”

  The article went on to describe the robbery that had sent the Viscount Druige into a rage and reduced his viscountess to an attack of the vapors from which she’d yet to recover.

  With an exasperated sigh, Daphne skipped past the silly details of the victims’ distress, focusing instead on what she found most enthralling, the bandit’s methods.

  Evidently, he had entered the manor through the conservatory door, cutting a square of glass large enough to reach around and open the lock. He’d taken only the finest pieces of silver from the pantry, a strongbox containing five hundred pounds in notes and coins from the library desk, two heirloom bracelets with matching brooches from the viscountess’s dressing table, and, of course, her flamboyant necklace, recently purchased by the viscount for the enormous sum of one hundred ten thousand pounds. Nothing else in the manor was disturbed and no one in the household knew the crime had been committed.

  Until dawn, when Viscount Druige awakened to find the symbolic tin cup upon his pillow—a cup containing the Earl of Gantry’s diamond cufflink, a remnant from the bandit’s most recent theft. And then, four hours later, the Worsley workhouse’s headmaster entered his office to find a tin cup containing five thousand pounds on his desk.

  Leaning closer to read the final paragraph of the article, Daphne silently celebrated the fact that the authorities had no clue as to the bandit’s identity nor were they any nearer to unraveling the mystery than they were months ago. “As the ton’s outrage grows, so do the accolades of the working class,” the Times reported. “And through it all, the Tin Cup Bandit thrives, and no one seems able to predict where he will next strike, nor stop his series of extravagant crimes.”

  With a heartfelt sigh, Daphne put down the newspaper and extinguished her candle, raising the unlit taper in tribute. Then, satisfied that her avenging hero was righting the world’s wrongs in a way she could not, she climbed into bed and closed her eyes.

  Her final thought was of the beautiful doll she’d purchased before returning to Tragmore this morning—a doll that was now carefully concealed in her wardrobe. Somewhat appeased, Daphne drifted off to sleep, trying to visualize Prudence’s forthcoming joy.

  And fervently wishing she could make it last.

  The thin blade slipped between the window sashes, forcing back the catch. The jemmy followed, prying the decorative shutters open just enough to admit the hooded figure in black.

  Noiselessly, the bandit lowered himself onto the parlor floor, his eyes gleaming as he surveyed the dark, deserted room. As was his custom, he waited, although, in this case it was mere habit that compelled him to do so. No one was about, and no scrutiny was necessary. After numerous nocturnal visits to these grounds in particular, he knew Tragmore’s late-night routine like a well-read book. The servants, the family, and the marquis would all be abed by midnight.

  Ironic that he’d chosen this, of all homes, to invade, when everything in it already belonged to him.

  Ironic, but infinitely appealing—for many reasons.

  Slipping the jemmy and file into his coat pocket, the bandit swiftly removed his shoes. Then he lit a single taper and began his work.

  The drawing room yielded no surprises, the only worthwhile items being a few pieces of silver plate and a silver soup ladle. Pilfering those, he made his way to the library.

  The marquis’s desk offered not the slightest challenge. The expected cash box was there, although he hadn’t anticipated quite so much as he found: fifty pounds in silver and seventy-five pounds in gold. With a shrug, he reached to the back of the drawer, carefully feeling his way until he found the secret panel he sought. With a little help from his file, the panel came away, revealing a gold pocket watch, two antique rings, a dozen five-pound notes and twenty ten-pound notes.

  For a destitute man, Tragmore was doing quite well.

  Not for long, the bandit thought with a smile.

  Deftly he stashed his booty in a sack he kept tucked inside the lining of his coat. Then he eased open the doorway and slipped into the hall. The corridors were dark. He crept to the foot of the stairs. Silently, he ascended, treading only on the inside edge of each step so as not to evoke even the slightest creak.

  He reached the second-floor landing.

  As always, he headed first for the mistress’s bedchamber.

  The marchioness was deeply asleep, her door unlocked. The bandit worked swiftly, taking only the dressing case of jewels and the gold locket that lay beside it.

  Closing the door behind him, he moved across the hall to the marquis’s room.

  Gloved fingers on the door handle, the bandit paused, gazing down the corridor to the bedroom he knew to be hers. In his recurrent nightly scrutiny, he’d seen her light extinguished time and again. Hers was always the last room at Tragmore to lapse into darkness.

  What was it that kept her awake? Was it a book? A worry? Thoughts of a man?

  The questions erupted in his mind, along with another, more compelling one.

  How would she look in slumber? Would she sleep curled on her side, her hair primly braided, her body ensconced in a chaste white nightgown buttoned to the neck? Or would she be unreserved, her hair unbound, her nightgown sheer and deeply cut?

  After yesterday, he had to know.

  Before he could rethink the foolhardiness of his actions, the bandit veered away from his original mark, and headed toward her chamber. There was no excuse for his behavior, and he k
new it. He should be rifling the marquis’s chambers, leaving his symbolic gem, and taking his leave. To divert from his customary methods was risky, insane. Unprecedented.

  Until now.

  Finding the door unlocked, the bandit eased inside, keeping his taper close and low so as not to awaken her.

  She was breathtaking.

  The dim glow of the candle flickered across her face, giving her an ethereal beauty unrivaled in its impact. Sprawled on her back, with her hair fanned over the pillow like a tawny waterfall, she was a golden angel, all captivatingly innocent and excruciatingly seductive.

  And far from prim.

  The tangle of sheets was caught about her waist, giving the bandit an unimpeded view of her body. Transfixed, he watched her breasts rise and fall softly above the low cut of her bodice, her bare throat and shoulders exposed, inviting his touch.

  Sweat broke out beneath his mask, desire exploding in his loins like cannon fire, as startling as it was fierce. He wanted her. It was that simple. Only years of self-discipline kept him from acting on his impulse and taking her where she lay.

  He was a bloody thief, for God’s sake, and he’d come to Tragmore to divest the marquis of his possessions.

  Instead, all he wanted to divest the marquis of, was his daughter.

  Silently, the bandit fought the hunger raging inside him, a hunger rooted in too many emotions to explore, and utterly unthinkable to indulge. He had to leave Tragmore—now.

  He made no sound, of that he was certain.

  Yet all at once her lashes lifted, fluttered, then lifted again.

  “Oh!” She sat bolt upright, all semblance of sleep vanishing in a heartbeat.

  Lightning quick, the bandit reached into his pocket, his fingers closing around the handle of his pistol. Cursing himself for his careless stupidity, he withdrew it slowly, praying she wouldn’t force him to use it.

  “Don’t scream. I don’t want to have to hurt you.”

  The raspy command elicited a bone-melting smile. “You’re he, aren’t you?” Daphne whispered, climbing from her bed. “You’re the Tin Cup Bandit!”

  His gaze swept her scantily clad body, then, with the greatest of efforts, returned to her face. “Did you hear me?”

  “I was wondering why you hadn’t come to Tragmore before now. I racked my brain trying to think of how I might send you a message, suggesting that you visit us.”

  He started, desire checked by disbelief. “Do you understand who I am? Why I’ve come?”

  “Of course.” Daphne shrugged into a robe, seemingly oblivious to her state of undress. “You can put your gun away. You won’t be needing it.” Tucking a wisp of hair behind her ear, she crossed the room, gathering up the strand of pearls and exquisitely crafted cameo from her dressing table, and thrusting them at the bandit. “Here. Unfortunately, they’re all I have. But Mama has a jewel case filled with lovely gems. I’m sure she’d want you to have them. She’s a fairly deep sleeper, so I wouldn’t worry about disturbing her. Father, on the other hand—” Daphne broke off, frowning. “Before we resolve that problem, did you retrieve the cash box from the library? I’m certain Father keeps additional funds hidden away elsewhere in that room, but I’m not sure precisely where. I do know that he keeps absolutely nothing of value in his bedchamber.” A wry grin. “Fear of burglary, you see. In any case, don’t waste your time searching there. Also, I understand you always restrict yourself to jewelry—and money and silver, of course—but we do have a few paintings that would yield a decent sum, as well as some fine fabrics that were terribly expensive. Do you think your contact would be interested in them? If so, I’d be happy to—”

  “Stop!” the bandit exclaimed. Dazedly, he shoved his pistol back into his pocket and took the jewelry from her hand. “One of us is mad. I’m just not certain which.”

  Daphne inclined her head quizzically. “Why?”

  “Why?” He had scarcely enough presence of mind to keep his voice in that unrecognizable rasp. “Because you’re not only unruffled by my presence, you’re aiding me to rob your home—despite the fact that you obviously know who I am.

  “It’s because I know who you are that I’m helping you. It’s also the reason I’m unafraid.” Adoration shone in her eyes. “A man who sustains hundreds of needy children wouldn’t harm one innocent woman. No, sir, I feel no fear in your presence.”

  Surprisingly, her praise evoked irritation, rather than pleasure. With brutal candor, he threw her description back at her.

  “Innocent woman? Tell me then, little virgin, do you make it a practice to entertain men in your bedchamber?”

  “Pardon me?”

  He indicated her scanty attire. “I only wondered why a beautiful and innocent woman would so blithely display her attributes before a veritable stranger.”

  Daphne winced as though she’d been struck, glancing down at her sheer nightgown and open robe as if seeing them for the first time.

  Her bewilderment, her pain, were like blows to his gut, and the bandit’s anger dissipated as quickly as it had come. She had no way of understanding the complexity of what he was feeling. Hell, he didn’t even understand it himself.

  Soberly, he watched her draw the edges of her robe together with trembling hands, and shame and remorse converged inside him. She was as artlessly naive as a child, possessing not a shred of experience at seducing men. It wasn’t her fault that he wanted her beyond reason, that she stripped away an iron control he’d spent thirty years building. The weakness was his, and he had no right to torment her for it.

  “Forgive me,” he murmured, “that assault was inexcusable. You owe me no explanation.”

  “Nevertheless, I’d like to offer you one.” Self-consciously, she crossed her arms over her breasts. “It isn’t that I’m unduly immodest. ’Tis only that I didn’t realize—that is, I don’t think of you as—I mean, I know you’re a—but I never imagined…” Twin spots of red stained her cheeks.

  “You mean you never thought of me as a man?” The bandit stepped closer, lifting her chin with one gloved forefinger. “I assure you, Daphne, I’m very much a man. And you are very much a woman.”

  “You know my name,” she whispered.

  “Your name—and a great deal more.”

  Those incredible hazel eyes searched his face, as if seeing clear through his mask to the man beneath.

  “You’re wondering who I am.” Gruffly, he read her mind.

  “I’m wondering many things. I have so many questions.”

  He slid his hand around to caress her nape. “Ask, then. Anything but my name. Ask.”

  She wet her lips with the tip of her tongue. “My head is spinning. I can’t seem to think.” A tiny smile. “I’m sure I’ll berate myself in the morning. But, be that as it may, you dare not tarry longer, for our servants are instructed to arise before dawn. Whatever questions I have must remain unanswered. Nothing is more important than your leaving Tragmore undetected.”

  He stared at her mouth, possessed by the nearly uncontrollable desire to tear off his hood and kiss her.

  She seemed to feel it, too, for her breath came faster, and the pulse in her neck began to beat rapidly. “I’ll pray for you,” she whispered.

  “I don’t believe in prayers.”

  “But you must. You answer them.” Tentatively, she brushed her fingers across his masked jaw.

  A low groan escaped his chest. “Ah, Daphne.” Touching her in the only way he could, he sifted his fingers through her hair, wishing he could feel its silky texture. “Pray for me then.”

  She smiled. “I always do.”

  If he didn’t leave now, he never would.

  “Good night, Daphne.”

  “Wait—” She stayed him, blurting out her request as if it required all her courage. “I know it’s none of my business, but unless you have a specific workhouse chosen to receive tonight’s profits, would you consider donating them to an establishment I know to be especially needy?”

  He said n
othing, still combatting the fire in his loins.

  “Please?” she repeated softly.

  “What is this workhouse?”

  “It’s located in Leicester and is called the House of Perpetual Hope.” Daphne gave a hollow laugh. “ ’Tis anything but.”

  The bandit went rigid, his hand tightening reflexively on her nape. “Why this house in particular?”

  Daphne paled, but she didn’t flinch. “I visited there once, as a child. I’ve never forgotten.” She swallowed, hard. “It would mean a great deal to me. Please, sir, it’s all I ask.”

  “You ask very little.” Another pause. “What would your father say if he knew you were aiding me—to rob your own home, no less?”

  Daphne didn’t hesitate. “He would beat me senseless.”

  The bandit’s hand relaxed, shifting to idly stroke her cheek. “You are extraordinary, my lady. Truly extraordinary. I only wish—” He broke off, lowering his arm to his side. “Go back to bed, Daphne. Go back to bed and pretend none of this happened.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

  He started. “Pardon me?”

  “Sir, I assume you’ve brought some jewel from your last robbery and that your intention is to leave it in your customary tin cup upon my father’s pillow. Is that right?”

  Beneath his mask, the bandit smiled. “Quite right.”

  “Well, didn’t you hear what I told you? My father is a very light sleeper. He will surely awaken. And then—” she shuddered, a spasm of pain crossing her face. “Suffice it to say that your mission would fail and you would fall victim to his rather formidable temper.”

  “I appreciate your concern. But, at the risk of appearing immodest, I’m excellent at my craft. Rest easy, your father will not be awakened.”