by Cora Lee
Too bad he also knew her real identity, and wasn’t above blackmailing her with it.
“Aren’t you going to greet me?” He came to a halt directly in front of her, a box held in one hand while the other reached for her.
She set down one of the heavy buckets and offered him her hand, trying, as usual, to disguise her reluctance. If he detected anything but willing obedience in her voice or manner, there was no telling what he’d do. “Good afternoon, Sir George.”
He took her hand, giving it a hard squeeze. “Good afternoon to you, Olivia. What’s the water for?”
She couldn’t let him know that there had been another man in her home, but if he caught her lying to him... She shuddered internally and pushed the thought away. “Some of my linens were stained, and I need to soak them before the stain sets.”
He yanked her closer to him, sloshing water onto her shoes from the bucket she still held. “Linen? As in bed sheets?”
She swallowed hard and dropped her gaze, her whole body tensing. “Yes. But it’s not what you think.”
“It’s not what I think? What do you know about what I think?”
It was a trick question, of course. It always was. “I didn’t mean to presume, Sir George.”
His grip on her hand relaxed a little. He liked her best when he thought she was meek and biddable. “I’m sure you didn’t. Tell me, then—what happened to your sheets?”
Olivia slid her hand gently from his, slowly setting down the other bucket of water in case she needed to run. He’d never seriously harmed her—he seemed to enjoy her fear more than her pain—but he’d threatened to do so more times than she cared to recall.
“Th-there’s blood on them,” she replied quietly, clasping her hands together at her waist. Perhaps this time she could quell the shaking before he noticed it.
“Blood on your sheets?” His tone was even, almost conversational. But his eyes had narrowed and his cheeks had flushed. “Who were you tupping, you little whore?”
“No, Sir George, that isn’t what ha—”
“And now you lie to me about it?” He took a step closer to her, grabbing the neckline of her dress in one big fist. “What have I told you about lying to me?”
Olivia fought to control her breathing. The more panic she displayed, the longer he would torture her. “That there would be consequences,” she said as steadily as she could. Part of her badly wanted to explain the situation, to exonerate herself of the wrongdoing he was imagining. But she knew that would only anger him more, so she clamped her mouth shut.
“That’s right. Would you like to tell me the truth now, or do you want to find out what those consequences are?”
His words were harsh, almost a whisper, but they frightened her more than if he’d been shouting. “I am telling you the truth,” she managed, fighting tears. She’d only cried in front of him once and he’d stomped away in disgust, but she couldn’t be sure he’d react that way a second time. What if her tears enraged him even more?
“Perhaps I should burn down your little house, hm? With no place to live, you’d have to marry me...or freeze to death this winter.” She clenched her teeth together hard to keep from responding, but he smiled. “While I’m at it, I’ll put your neighbors’ hovel to the torch, too. That would teach you not to lie to me, wouldn’t it?”
Faint but persistent barking filtered through the air, simultaneously filling her with hope and dread, her heart racing as the sound grew louder. What would George do to the animal who came upon them? To a person accompanying the animal?
His eyes stayed focused on hers for a moment that felt like years. Then he slowly released her gown and opened the box he’d been carrying. Her eyes widened as he drew out an ivory-handled pistol and touched the tip of the barrel to her chest.
“Don’t make a sound.”
She nodded slowly, barely breathing as he turned and fired in the direction of the barking. Peering around his shoulder, Olivia could see her dog, Artie, loping down the hill toward them. He started when the gun fired and she pressed her hands to her mouth to stifle the scream that tore from her throat.
Artie laid his ears back and snarled, racing toward Sir George and the sound of the shot. Sir George pulled a second pistol from the box and took aim, sending the tears pouring down Olivia’s face.
She gathered every ounce of courage she had and shouted, “Loup! Arrête-toi!” He didn’t always listen when he thought she was in danger, but he’d been a herding dog before the late Mr. Davies had brought him home from Waterloo and still reflexively responded to commands given in French. Thankfully, he stopped in his tracks and dropped into a low crouch. Mrs. Davies’ form crested the hill a second later and Sir George lowered his weapon, concealing it behind his back, as the smell of gunpowder hung thick in the air.
“Olivia? Are you down there?” Mrs. D. called. “I forgot to ask you—”
“I’ll be right there,” she called in a shaky voice, defying Sir George’s order for silence once again, hoping he’d leave Mrs. D. alone if she stayed far enough away. To him, she murmured, “If I don’t go up there, she’ll come down here.”
Sir George gave her one final glare, then jerked his chin in Mrs. D.’s direction. Olivia lifted her buckets of water and tried to walk normally, whistling to Artie to follow her up the hill. Mrs. D. held out an arm and Olivia passed her one of the buckets, threading her free arm through Mrs. D.’s, hoping to draw strength from the older woman.
“Just a few more minutes and you’ll be safe,” Mrs. D. whispered.
Olivia spent her remaining energy maintaining a calm countenance and a regular stride all the way back to Mrs. D.’s cottage. Once she rounded the corner into the little kitchen garden, she let go. Dropping her bucket and leaning against the stone wall of the house, Olivia covered her face and cried out her terror, her anger, her relief that no one had been hurt today. Mrs. D. hugged her, let Olivia cry on her shoulder as Artie leaned against her legs.
“How bad was it this time?” Mrs. D. asked when Olivia had cried herself out.
“You heard the shot?” It was all Olivia could bring herself to say, but it was enough to convey the danger they’d been in. Sir George had described his pistols in detail over the last few weeks, including the animals he’d killed with them.
Mrs. D. hugged Olivia to her again. “You poor girl.”
“I can’t live like this anymore,” Olivia choked out. “What am I going to do?”
Mrs. D. rubbed Olivia’s back in slow circles, and Olivia let the motion and the gentle breeze calm her, let them carry away thoughts of what could have happened at the base of the hill. When she’d cried her last, she lifted her face and wiped her eyes, bending down to give Artie his own hug and kiss. “You’re a good boy, Loup Garou.”
“You do have one option.”
Olivia straightened, keeping one hand on Artie’s furry head as she faced Mrs. D. “Teverton?”
Mrs. D. didn’t react to the name, but she didn’t have to. It was a discussion they’d had before. Lord Teverton was Olivia’s closest living relative and head of her family, but the only thing she knew about him was that he owned an estate near Liverpool.
“What if he turns me away?”
No one could legally force Olivia to marry Sir George, but if she went to Teverton for help and he refused, her only choice would be between Sir George and slow starvation as the demand for her work continued to decline and her past slowly caught up with her.
“But what if he doesn’t?”
Olivia pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. What if Teverton was an honorable man who promised to protect her? Did she even have paper to write him a letter and ask?
“What about His Grace?” she said suddenly, dropping her hands to her sides. The breeze picked up, carrying with it the scent of the mint growing a few feet away.
Mrs. D. took a step back. “What about him?”
“Well...he’s here. Teverton is all the way in Liverpool. Or at a different esta
te completely. And the duke ought to be amenable to my situation—if I am hale and hearty, I can continue paying my rent every quarter.”
Mrs. D. shook her head faintly. “You can’t mean to ask him for help.”
“At least I’ve made his acquaintance,” Olivia replied slowly. “Better the devil you know.”
“Devil is right,” Mrs. D. said, her mouth pulling into a pucker as if she’d eaten something sour. “I know we helped him this afternoon, but that was basic decency. You know what they say about the man.”
Olivia did know. She’d borrowed a battered copy of a story called The Vampyre from a friend in the village the previous week, and had read it aloud to Mrs. D. and Miss H. after dinner one evening. The two older ladies had exchanged a knowing look, and it had taken some doing to get Miss Hatch to elaborate.
“The Duke of Rhuddlan,” she’d said with a shudder. “Some think he’s like that. A vampire.”
She’d refused to speak of it further, and Olivia had let it drop. But she’d made an inquiry or two when she returned the book a few days later, and Miss Hatch wasn’t the only person who thought there was something unholy about His Grace.
Olivia frowned at Mrs. D., recalling the fraught conversation they’d had about Olivia’s past when Sir George had first come calling. “Does that mean you believe the rumors about me?”
Her neighbor made a little gasping noise. “Of course not! I would never—”
“Then perhaps the rumors about him are equally as malicious.”
Mrs. D. stood staring for several moments, but eventually nodded. “Perhaps.”
Olivia felt Artie’s fur slide through her fingers as he bolted away after a rabbit. “Then I’ll make an appointment to see His Grace.”
She felt calm for the first time in months, despite Mrs. D.’s disapproval. Nothing in her life had immediately changed, but at least she had a feasible plan. If the Duke of Rhuddlan tossed her out on her ear she’d be right back where she started, but she tamped that fear down. One thing at a time. And now she had something she could do.
Chapter Two
“Your wound is healing well, Your Grace,” the surgeon pronounced, straightening up and wiping his hands on a towel.
Rhuddlan grunted and rose from the chair he’d been sitting in. His head wound ought to be healing properly after applying alcohol to it nightly for nearly a week—a trick he discovered when he accidentally spilled whisky on a soldier’s lacerated hand after Vimeiro, and noted how much faster it had healed than other similar wounds.
But his head was still tender and the surgeon’s probing caused it to throb. “Good,” he managed in tight voice.
“I’ll return in two or three days to remove those stitches,” the surgeon continued.
“No need,” Rhuddlan countered. “My valet can do it.” Harding had never so much as nicked his master with the shaving razor in eight years of service. He could certainly handle the snipping of a few threads.
“As you wish, Your Grace.”
The surgeon collected his things and left, nearly colliding with Vaughn as the latter entered Rhuddlan’s study.
“Your Grace, there’s a woman here to see you,” Vaughn said when the surgeon had shut the door behind him.
Rhuddlan mechanically passed a hand through his hair and returned to his seat behind the big desk. “What does she want?”
“She’d only say that it was important and would only take a moment of your time.”
Of course she did—every petitioner did. Sometimes they actually did have important matters that were settled quickly, but more often they brought him issues of little significance and took up too much of his time. But they were his people, and it was his duty to see to them.
“Who is she, then?”
“Miss Stone, Your Grace.” Rhuddlan must have given his secretary a puzzled look because Vaughn added, “The Miss Stone who tended you in her home when you were injured last week.”
“Of course,” Rhuddlan replied with a nod, linking the name with the face once again. “Your summary of the investigator’s report was good.”
“Thank you,” the secretary returned with a small smile. “The full report is there on your desk.”
“Good.” Vaughn would have noted anything of interest in his summary, but information was always better when it came straight from the source. He ruffled the dark hair near his wound and sat back in his chair. “I’ll see Miss Stone now.”
Vaughn disappeared and returned a minute later with a plump blonde female in a rather plain pink dress. Her skin was pale, and she walked hesitantly behind the secretary, nearly bumping into him when he came to a halt before Rhuddlan’s desk.
“Miss Stone, Your Grace.”
Vaughn bowed and left, not needing to be told to get back to work. Miss Stone curtseyed deeply, and Rhuddlan could see her hands trembling as they clung to her skirt.
“Miss Stone...who helped me when I was struck in the head.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Her voice was soft, almost timid as she straightened, as if she were facing down an angry father in the wake of some misdeed.
Was she afraid of him? Members of the peerage were wont to liken him to the devil, particularly after the incident with his cousin a few years back. Had the rumors filtered down to the lower classes?
“I did not thank you properly for your care of me that day,” he replied with genuine gratitude. Vaughn’s summary of the investigation had indicated that, not only had she and her neighbor come to Rhuddlan’s rescue, but they had not told a soul about it afterwards. “If not for you, I would have been at the mercy of whomever happened by. And not everyone would have been as kind.”
She flinched at his pronouncement, as if he’d raised his hand against her. “Miss Stone, are you well?”
“I–I have come to seek your protection.”
“Protection from what?”
“Not what, who,” she returned cautiously. “Sir George Grayson attempted to begin a courtship with me some months ago—”
“You should be flattered,” Rhuddlan interjected, wondering if she wanted him to settle some lovers’ spat. “Marriage to a knight would raise your standing considerably.”
“But the attention is unwanted, Your Grace, and Sir George has become dangerous.”
He watched her clasp her hands together, first in front of her then behind her back. Rhuddlan had never met Grayson, but had heard of him, and the memory returned to him now. There’d been a rumor circulating through the gaming hells in Town that Grayson had beaten a man senseless when a debt was repaid too slowly.
If he had nearly killed a man who was honorably repaying a debt, what would he do to a penniless female?
“Dangerous in what way?”
She took a deep breath in and held it for a moment before letting it out slowly. “He comes to my home uninvited, proclaiming that he’ll kill any man who speaks to me...including Mr. Price down the road, who is happily married and old enough to be my grandfather.” She paused and took another breath. “He has also threatened my next door neighbors—he says he’ll burn down their home to punish me.” Pause. Breath. “He tells me at least once during each visit how he’d like to disembowel my dog because ‘the beast’ tries to keep him away from me.” Pause. Breath. “And his favorite subject is to tell me how, if I ever show interest in another man, he’ll take me by surprise one day and shoot me in the head.”
Her whole body was shaking by the time she finished, despite the pauses for what he assumed were calming breaths, and her gaze had drifted downward to the thick carpet at her feet. The fear wasn’t for Rhuddlan, then, but for Sir George Grayson. Was it real? Was she genuinely frightened or a superb actress?
“This is why you’re asking for protection.”
She hesitated, then answered haltingly, “Y-yes, Your Grace. The only family I have left is a distant cousin who lives near Liverpool, whom I’ve never met. I don’t know if he would take me in or insist I give in and marry Sir George despite his threa
ts.”
Rhuddlan propped his elbows on his desk again and clasped his hands together. “And if George Grayson has his way, someone will be dead before you can get a letter to Liverpool.”
“That is what I’m afraid of, yes.”
Rhuddlan pressed his lips together. If she were acting, he would soon find out. And he’d make sure that she never attempted to take advantage of him again. But if she was in real danger, she needed immediate assistance. “Then you were right to come to me. You are my dependent and I will see to your safety.”
The breath whooshed out of her. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
“You so generously took me in when I was in need,” he added, “it’s only right that I repay the favor. Have you a maid or companion?”
Her posture had relaxed, but it stiffened again. “Only my dog.”
“What about these neighbors that George is hellbent on harming?”
“Mrs. Davies and Miss Hatch, Your Grace. Mrs. Davies also assisted you when you were injured.”
“Then I shall extend my offer to them as well, and they can serve as your chaperones.”
“Why would I need chaperones? No one cares about the reputation of a seamstress.”
He rose from his chair and walked around the great oak desk, twisting the gold signet ring he wore on his little finger. “I think it’s best if you and your dog and neighbors stay here until I can have a word with Grayson. Possibly afterward, too. If you’re here, you’re out of his reach. Safe. And chaperones protect my reputation as well as yours.”
“Stay...here? Loup, too?”
“You named your dog Loo?”
“No...I...” She stopped, then lifted her eyes to his face. “His name is Artie, but sometimes I call him Loup Garou.”
“You call your dog Werewolf?” How was it a seamstress came to know an old French legend?
“At times his expressions are almost human,” she replied, smiling for the first time since they’d met. “Might I be dismissed, Your Grace? I’ll need to gather my things, as will Mrs. Davies and Miss Hatch.”
