The Last Duke

by Andrea Kane

  Daphne’s commitment to Tragmore.

  That spawned an interesting line of thought which diverted Pierce from his musings.

  Daphne had been decidedly curious over the details of her father’s monetary recovery from the burglary. Not surprising. Given Daphne’s fine instincts, Pierce assumed she’d arrived at the accurate conclusion that Tragmore was undergoing financial hardship. Moreover, it was likely she’d further deduced that Pierce was somehow connected to those difficulties. What she didn’t know, but was doubtless racking her brain to discern, was his motive.

  He wondered if she would understand if he told her, if he delved into the heinous history he shared with the marquis. Were she anyone but Daphne, he wouldn’t even consider doing so. But his spirited snow flame, with her generous heart and limitless compassion—perhaps she could fathom the helpless degradation he’d endured, the hatred that burned within him.

  But the man he planned to destroy was her father.

  Would that same compassion cause her to sympathize with the marquis? Would dutiful feelings for her father intercede on his behalf?

  Based upon past actions, the answer was no. After all, hadn’t she helped Pierce rob her house? Hadn’t she protected him from Tragmore’s wrath?

  No. She hadn’t. The man she’d aided was the Tin Cup Bandit.

  Irrational jealousy surged through Pierce, and he clenched his fists to stem its flow. This was insanity. The man he resented didn’t exist, was but a fictitious hero Pierce himself had created.

  That reality did nothing to appease him. For the first time Pierce found himself wishing his disguise weren’t quite so flawless, that he hadn’t been hooded, masked, swathed in black from head to toe when Daphne had awakened. He wished the hushed darkness of night hadn’t cast her bedchamber in shadows, that he’d employed more than the light of a single taper to illuminate himself. Perhaps if he’d touched her, held her, spoken to her in his own voice rather than a practiced rasp, she would have known.

  Known? Pierce drew himself up short. Known what? An undisclosed truth he’d sworn never to reveal? A truth that would jeopardize everything he stood for, not to mention endangering the person who discovered it?

  Christ, he really was losing his mind. If Daphne were infatuated with the bandit, there wasn’t a damned thing he could do about it—yet. Once she was his wife, once he had her in his bed—Pierce swallowed, feeling everything inside him go hard with desire. Once that happened, he’d make her forget all about her bloody champion of the poor.

  Reflexively, Pierce stood, crossing the room to open his desk drawer. Reaching beneath the hidden panel, he extracted the small, perfect pearl he had pried from Daphne’s necklace—his souvenir from the Tragmore burglary, and his intended token for the next.

  It began, that familiar restlessness churning inside him, this time magnified threefold by the emotional turmoil over Daphne. Whip taut with tension, Pierce rolled the pearl between his fingers, watching it catch the morning light in an incandescent glow. There was only one remedy for his fervor: to channel his energy into something useful, something to keep his mind off Daphne until he could go to Tragmore and claim her.

  A burglary. The ideal distraction.

  Now the question was who.

  A slow smile curved Pierce’s lips as he contemplated the gem in his hand, recalled the vast assortment of jewelry he’d spied on every noblewoman attending the Gantry ball. Doubtless the jewels they wore were only a small sample of what remained behind in their respective manors. He distinctly remembered Hollingsby telling him that the party at Gantry’s would drag on for days, despite the fact that Tragmore’s foul humor had evidently compelled him to depart early. But the rest of the ton would be carrying on with the festivities. Leaving their homes blissfully short of occupants—And providing endless possibilities for the Tin Cup Bandit.

  11

  THE EARL OF SELBERT’S Mansfield estate was every bit as lavish as his countess’s dazzling jewels had suggested.

  The bandit smiled, a self-satisfied smile, surveying the library’s costly sculpture and paintings by the light of his single taper. It had been worth the long ride from Markham, as well as the special provisions he’d been forced to make deferring his visit to Thompson’s store until tomorrow.

  Under normal circumstances, an all-night journey wouldn’t trouble him in the least. His customary procedure right after each theft was to hasten to Thompson’s shop at Covent Garden, make his exchange, then, just before dawn, leave his tin cup in the night’s chosen workhouse and travel home in the morning.

  But not this time. This time he needed to be home by dawn to reach Tragmore—and Daphne—by the first light of day.

  Checking his timepiece, the bandit frowned. Seven after two. It had taken him ten minutes longer than usual to gain access to the manor. Clearly, the ton was taking extra precautions to prevent his intrusion, as was evidenced by the solid, newly installed catch boasted by Selbert’s drawing-room window. The catch would require a quarter hour to force back, even with his expertise. Accordingly, he’d improvised, cutting a pane of glass just large enough to accommodate him.

  He’d have to make up the time.

  On that thought, the bandit swiftly and methodically began to strip Selbert of his assets, helping himself to the generous stack of notes that filled the strongbox, the opulent silver lining the pantry shelves.

  Making his way upstairs, he entered Lady Selbert’s empty bedchamber. It took mere minutes to discover that her gem collection, though horribly garish, was even more extensive than he’d hoped. Quickly, he pocketed the gaudy rings and flamboyant necklaces, pausing occasionally to grimace with distaste over a particularly ostentatious piece. A sudden image flashed through his mind of Daphne’s face were she to see these horrid jewels, and his lips twitched with amusement. His snow flame would shudder with revulsion if she stood beside him right now. Why, these trinkets made the Viscount Druige’s necklace appear refined.

  He was still grinning when he made his way into the master bedchamber, placed Daphne’s delicate pearl into a tin cup, and left both on the earl’s pillow. Keenly aware of the time, he retraced his steps, careful to remain utterly silent, and eased through the hall, down the steps, and back to the drawing room.

  A heartbeat later, he hoisted himself through the window, sliding the shutters into place so no one glancing at the manor could discern the missing pane of glass.

  The first portion of tonight’s job was done.

  Riding at breakneck speed, the bandit mentally added the fifteen hundred pounds he’d removed from Selbert’s strongbox to the two thousand pounds of his own money he’d brought. Three thousand five hundred pounds—a respectable sum for the shoddy workhouse he’d selected on the outskirts of Mansfield.

  He was in and out of the workhouse in a quarter hour, the gleaming tin cup filled with notes just beside the headmaster’s door.

  It was fifty miles back to Northamptonshire and less than three hours until dawn. There wasn’t time to stop in Wellingborough and secrete the jewels. He’d have to go directly to Markham and somehow evade the bevy of servants long enough to hide his clothes and his spoils, then prepare for the all-important excursion to Tragmore. Where Daphne would give him her answer.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Frame.”

  With a warm smile, Daphne sailed into the kitchen, bright and perky as if it were not still dark outside.

  Unsurprised, the plump cook returned her smile wanly, gesturing for the kitchen maids to continue their pre-dawn preparations. “I’m glad you’re up and about early, Miss Daphne. I need to speak with you.”

  “Oh, can’t it wait?” Daphne appealed, glancing about at the array of fruits and biscuits being readied for the morning meal. “I have very little time before Father returns from London. I’d like to gather up whatever food you’ve saved for me and ride to the village and back before he arrives.”

  “Unfortunately, no, it can’t wait.” Uncomfortably, Mrs. Frame wiped her hands on t
he front of her starched apron.

  This time her unhappy tone penetrated Daphne’s absorbed train of thought. “What is it, Mrs. Frame? Is something wrong?”

  “I’m afraid it is.” The older woman led Daphne into a corner where they could remain unheard. “I didn’t want to have to tell you this, but it can’t be avoided any longer.”

  “Goodness! What is it?”

  Mrs. Frame inhaled sharply, as if to steel herself. “It’s the marquis. He’s threatened to discharge me.”

  “What?” Daphne turned sheet-white.

  “ ’Twas the night before you left for Gantry. He came to the kitchen in a rage, sought me out to condemn me for wasting food. He was very specific in his accusation, and his ultimatum. Unless I do a better, more frugal job of rationing the meals, he’ll hire another cook and cast me into the street.” Mrs. Frame’s eyes grew damp. “I’m sorry, Miss Daphne. But I need my job.”

  “Oh, God.” Daphne seized the cook’s trembling hands. “This is all my fault. I asked you to set aside portions of our food so I could take them to the vicar.”

  “I know. And I didn’t say a word to your Father, I swear it. But I just can’t do it anymore, Miss Daphne. I spent the last few days trying to think of another way to help you, but I—”

  “No.” Daphne interrupted. “Don’t even consider trying to outwit Father. ’Tis impossible. He’ll deduce what you’re up to and vent his fury full force. I couldn’t live with that. Please, Mrs. Frame, don’t endanger your job.” Or yourself, she added silently.

  “I’m so sorry, my lady.” The cook wrung her hands. “How are you going to help those poor children now?”

  “I’ll find another way.” Impulsively, Daphne hugged her. “I’m glad you came to me. I don’t know what I’d do if we lost you. Now don’t you worry. I’ll think of something.”

  Back in the privacy of her room, Daphne perched dejectedly on the edge of the bed, wishing she felt as confident as she’d sounded. Without her weekly donations of food, what could she offer the children? How would they get enough to eat? Who would aid the vicar in his mission to care for them?

  Pierce would.

  Immediately, Daphne squelched that notion. Oh, she knew without a doubt Pierce would help her if she asked. She also knew, however, that she had no right to ask. She wasn’t his wife—at least not yet.

  No, for the time being she was on her own.

  Unless…

  Torn by indecision, Daphne contemplated her last resort, her mother.

  Like Pierce, Elizabeth would not hesitate to offer whatever aid she could. But at what cost? Daphne shuddered to think what her father would do if he discovered his wife had crossed that long-established forbidden line.

  If he discovered.

  Daphne bolted to her feet. Her father was still in London. Perhaps if she acted quickly she could elicit her mother’s help. Together, they could make a difference without the marquis ever finding out.

  Bursting into the hallway, Daphne sprinted down the hall to her mother’s room.

  “Yes?” the marchioness’s sleepy voice greeted her knock.

  “Mother?” Daphne eased the door open. “I apologize for awakening you before dawn. But I must speak with you.”

  Elizabeth sat up, alarmed. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, I’m fine.” Daphne crossed the room, lit the nightstand lamp, and sat down beside her mother. “But I need your help.”

  “Of course.” Elizabeth gave her a quizzical look. Rarely did Daphne seek her out to share confidences, and certainly never before daylight was upon them. “What is it, dear?”

  Taking a deep breath, Daphne poured out her situation.

  “I had nowhere else to turn,” she concluded, watching her mother’s features soften with compassion. “Nor did I know when Father was returning, else I wouldn’t have disturbed you so early. But I was afraid that if I waited, I’d run the risk of his overhearing us. Mama,” Daphne’s voice quavered, “I must do something.”

  Slowly, Elizabeth nodded, her chin set in a rare expression of determination. “Yes, you must. As must I.”

  Daphne started. “But what if Father—”

  “The missive I received from your father said he wouldn’t arrive home until late this afternoon.” As she spoke, Elizabeth leaned over and slid open her nightstand drawer, reaching in to grope around. “Therefore, if we act quickly, we shan’t have to take him on.” A triumphant glint lit her eyes, and she pulled out a small velvet jewelcase. “This should do nicely.” Unfastening it, she extracted a grotesquely large ruby-and-sapphire brooch. “It will bring you a handsome sum, more than enough to feed the parish children.”

  A soft gasp escaped Daphne’s lips. “I don’t recall ever seeing that particular piece.”

  “I rarely wear it.” Elizabeth grinned wryly. “It’s gruesome, isn’t it?”

  “But, I don’t understand. Why didn’t the bandit take it the night of the burglary?”

  “I had loaned it to Aunt Edith toward the end of this past Season. She thinks it a rare prize, but then, it’s much more her taste than mine. In any event, she only just returned it.” Turning the heavy brooch over in her hands, Elizabeth sighed. “In truth, I’d hoped she’d forget to do so. Heirloom or not, I hate it. So does Harwick. He never even noticed its absence.” Elizabeth’s eyes twinkled as she extended her hand to Daphne. “As things, turned out, however, I’m glad the monstrosity is back in my possession. It can provide food and clothing to those who need them.”

  “Mama.”

  “Take it, Daphne. You know as well as I that I was once as dedicated as you to the poor. We also know why I ceased my attempts to help them. My only way now is through you. So take the brooch. Find a jeweler who will pay dearly for it. Then take the money to the vicar. Do it today, before Harwick returns.”

  Tears of gratitude clogged Daphne’s throat. “Thank you, Mama,” she whispered.

  Elizabeth held out her arms. “I’m so very proud of you, Daphne. I don’t dare say it unless we’re alone. But I am.”

  With a choked sound, Daphne leaned into her mother’s embrace. “It will all turn out well, Mama,” she vowed. “You’ll see.”

  After a long, silent moment, Elizabeth cleared her throat. “When you asked to speak with me, I thought at first it might have something to do with Mr. Thorn—the Duke of Markham,” she amended.

  Daphne drew back, startled. “You know?”

  “Know what? That you’re drawn to him? That there’s something between the two of you—probably more than even I suspect? I’ve lost my youth, Daphne, not my intuition. I’m still a woman, and I remember what it’s like to fall in love.” A faraway look came into her eyes, a memory of a woman who was no longer, a love not destined to be.

  Studying her mother’s face, Daphne was struck by a sudden realization, one she was amazed she’d never before considered. “The way you say that—there was someone else in your life, wasn’t there, Mama? Someone before Father?”

  Elizabeth lowered her gaze. “That was many years ago, and ill fated from the start. There’s little point in dredging it up now. Besides,” she took Daphne’s hand between both of hers. “I’d rather hear about you and the duke.”

  “You’re not shocked?”

  “Why would I be? He’s handsome, charming, and, from what I witnessed at Newmarket, both clever and charismatic. Not to mention that he couldn’t take his eyes off you.”

  “Mama.” Daphne moistened her lips. “Pierce and Father—”

  “Do business together,” Elizabeth supplied. “I’ve noticed the duke arrive at Tragmore several times for meetings with Harwick. I’ve also glimpsed him leaving the manor—but not the grounds. I presume he was seeking you out.”

  “Yes, he was. Mama,” Daphne tried again, “I know Father conducts business with Pierce. But that doesn’t mean he’d accept him as my suitor.”

  Elizabeth nodded resignedly. “I don’t pretend to concur with your father’s ideas on class distinction. But, i
n this case, the point is a moot one. True, last week your Pierce was a commoner. But all that’s changed now. He’s a duke. And even Harwick can find no objection to your association with such a high-ranking nobleman.”

  Daphne bit her tongue, wishing she could blurt out the truth: that her mother was wrong, that the enmity existing between Pierce and her father went far deeper than the difference in their social standing.

  “You care for him a great deal, don’t you?” Elizabeth pressed softly.

  “You sound like Mr. Chambers.”

  A faint smile. “Do I?”

  “Yes. He asked me the same question,”

  “And what was your answer?”

  “My answer was, yes, I care for Pierce. So much that it leaves me breathless. He makes me feel safe and protected and, in some unknown but extraordinary way, treasured. I’m not certain how else to describe it.”

  “You’ve described it perfectly. Now, tell me what you’re going to do about these wondrous feelings of yours.”

  Daphne took a deep breath. “Pierce has asked me to marry him, Mama.”

  Two tears slid down Elizabeth’s cheeks, and, impatiently, she dashed them away. “Pay no attention to my foolish, motherly tears. I’m thrilled for you, darling. Truly I am.”

  “I don’t think Father will share your joy,” Daphne cautioned, choosing her words with the utmost care. “Pierce might be a duke, but he grew up in the streets, which is hardly the type of background Father would consider appropriate for my husband.”

  “The duke proposed to you, not Harwick,” Elizabeth surprised her by replying. “Your feelings—and Pierce’s—are all that’s important. Don’t let anything else deter you.”

  Quizzically, Daphne studied her mother, wondering at the unprecedented fervor in Elizabeth’s tone and the ill-fated love that inspired it. With great difficulty, she restrained herself from asking, sensing that her mother was not yet ready to share that chapter of her life. “I haven’t given Pierce my answer yet.”

  “Why not?”

  “Everything happened so quickly. I needed time to think.”