The Duke

by Kerrigan Byrne

  Watching them was a lot like Imogen would imagine watching a wolf fighting with a bear. Each of them crafted for killing, but in entirely different fashions.

  As they circled, the moonlight illuminated different parts of Cole’s body. A shallow slash on his neck. A perfect round bullet wound in his shoulder. A labyrinth of raised and welted scars scattered in violent chaos across his entire trunk, both front and back.

  She remembered some of his scars from before his incarceration, the visual narrative of a soldier’s life. But most of them, indeed, the most horrific, had been inflicted whilst he suffered in a foreign prison, subject to the basest cruelties imaginable.

  Cole’s left arm corded, the metallic hand glinting in the moonlight as he lifted it, the buckles strapped tightly to his thick forearm.

  How extraordinary, Imogen thought. That he should use his prosthesis as a weapon. That he should turn his hindrance into strength. She remembered the coiled blade hidden at the wrist, and wondered if he’d ever chanced to use it. She remained crouched beneath the ancient tree on unsteady legs. It was like watching a dance, the steps brutish and heavy, but requiring just as much mastery of motion. In this waltz, one misstep had eternal consequences.

  Without any sound or warning, Argent lunged forward, aiming low with his knife in an attack so quick and deadly, Imogen was left wondering if he couldn’t shove the blunted weapon right through a man’s heart by way of brute force.

  She needn’t have worried, Cole waited until the last possible moment before parrying, using Argent’s bulk against him and sidestepping the attack. Argent seemed to anticipate the move, and performed some sleight of hand, the knife appearing in his left and jabbing once again at Trenwyth, even though he was slightly off balance.

  This forced the duke to throw his body back, his left arm crossing his chest to bat away the trajectory of the knife aimed at his throat. He performed a simultaneous attack as he blocked, but the thrust went wild, missing its mark.

  “You’re distracted,” Argent accused.

  “Am I?” Trenwyth baited.

  This exchange gave Argent the time he needed to regain his balance, and he took no occasion to savor it, but struck like a coiled viper, the weapon aimed directly beneath Trenwyth’s sternum.

  Now squared to his opponent, Cole caught Argent’s outstretched arm by crossing both of his in front of his body. He maneuvered the weapon out and away from danger, and turned against the extended arm to plant an elbow in Argent’s jaw with a gasp-inducing crack.

  Imogen’s hands flew to her mouth, barely containing her cry of astonishment.

  Argent caught the knife-wielding hand that closely followed, and spat blood on the grass. The men strained and grappled for an instant, their movements concealed by the substantial shadows they both created with their magnificent bodies.

  After a heart-pounding struggle, they both froze, locked in some painful-looking impasse.

  “You’re distracted, and you’re dead,” Argent said victoriously, a bit more breathlessly than before.

  “Am I?” Trenwyth repeated.

  The blunted blade glinted against his neck as Argent made a slashing motion.

  “So I am,” the duke relented, and then made a gesture that directed attention to where he held his own blade.

  Scandalously high against Argent’s inner thigh where the femoral artery would spill all his blood in less than two minutes.

  “So are you.” It might have been the first time Imogen had ever heard a smile in Cole’s voice. At least, the first time in almost three years.

  Their sparring ended with a draw, and the men separated with a handshake, then each used the back of their hands to wipe blood from their faces in an eerily synchronized manner.

  “Care to divulge what’s troubling you?” Argent prompted mildly.

  “What makes you think I’m troubled?” Trenwyth bent to gather other discarded sparring implements such as canes of bamboo, fencing swords, and their knives. He returned them to a sturdy trunk at the foot of the garden stairs.

  Imogen knew she should go, but had to remind herself to even so much as blink. His sleek, powerful beauty mesmerized her into stillness, hypnotized, nay, seduced by the potency of his masculinity.

  Argent assisted, though he paused to study Trenwyth whilst he was unaware. “If I’ve learned anything in my life, Your Grace, it’s this: if you watch people long enough, they reveal themselves to you.”

  “Your Grace. What a ridiculous moniker,” Cole murmured bitterly. “You and I have known very little grace in life, Argent. And we possess even less. I wonder if such a thing exists.”

  “It does,” Argent affirmed in his toneless way. “I’ve found it with my wife. My mother had it. Most women are built with an extra element of grace. It is because of men like us that they need it, I think.” He elbowed Trenwyth in the ribs, as though to mark the rare occasion upon which he employed humor.

  Ridding himself of his burden of weapons, Cole looked down at his hands. One streaked with his blood, the other with the metallic reflection of the cold moon. “Blood and steel. These are the only elements I recognize anymore. I only find grace in a single memory. A memory of a woman who gave it to me once. In that, I fear, is my tragedy. I wonder if reminiscence has smothered my sense of reality.”

  Argent contemplated that for a moment. “It is only human to prize most what we have lost.”

  “I know that.” Cole made an impatient gesture, directed more at himself than his companion. “It’s a tactic I’ve used against others countless times. And so … I should be above that base impulse, should I not?”

  Argent shrugged. “Even remarkable people are subject to human banality.”

  “I seem to be imprisoned by it,” Cole said bitterly.

  The big, stoic man brought his hand to his auburn hair, looking about as though seeking permission from the darkness to say what he did next. “More than most, I understand that a prison can keep you long after you’re released. That a man, locked away, becomes an animal. And that animal walks with you into freedom, until freedom becomes confining. It is … not an easy thing.”

  When Cole glanced over at Argent, the careful expression on his face caused an ache to well in Imogen’s chest so painful that she clutched at it.

  “It is exactly as you say. My mind has become a sort of prison. The walls are bricks mortared with remembered screams. The bars lock me in with remembered torments. My body squirms to be rid of it all. Of me. Of the past. And the disgust I feel drenches me until a vague sort of numbness takes over … and erases me altogether. I want to tear myself apart. Or others. Or the entire world. I feel at once violent and apathetic and—” He broke off, his hand curling into a fist.

  “And you are looking for the one person you think can hold you together,” Argent finished for him.

  “Yes.”

  That one broken word shattered any semblance of Imogen’s composure. Tears made tracks of fire down her cheeks, and her heart thundered so loudly it was a miracle that both superlative men couldn’t hear it.

  Imogen ducked further into the shield of the tree as Argent turned to look past her house toward his own, hunkered on the other side. Millie was, no doubt, slumbering within, awaiting her husband’s return.

  “Don’t stop until you find her,” Argent said with more ferocity than she’d ever credited him for.

  “What if she’s nowhere to be found?”

  “I would burn this empire to the ground if Millie were taken from me. I would scour the world until fate swallowed me whole and hell tried to claim me, as it surely will.”

  “I feel as you do. But I only knew her for the space of a night … It seems ludicrous, doesn’t it? I should have my head examined.”

  “Sometimes it only takes one night to fill a chamber you thought empty.” Argent thumped Cole on the chest, above his heart.

  The duke nodded, turning so Imogen could no longer see his face. “I was going to ask Dorian Blackwell for his aid, but I
think I made an enemy of him.”

  Argent made a sardonic sound. “Dorian never forgets a thing, but his own bit of grace has taught him to forgive. I’ll talk to him on your behalf.”

  Feeling as though she’d stolen enough luck to remain concealed, Imogen sneaked back into her garden on trembling legs, holding in sobs that threatened to reveal her. She didn’t know what terrified her more. That Cole would find her and reveal the clandestine life she’d been forced to live …

  Or how very much a part of her yearned to be found.

  But it was impossible now, wasn’t it? He’d never forgive her secrets, or worse, wouldn’t believe her. She had details of their night together locked into her memory, of course. She could prove that she’d been Ginny.

  Oh God, was she even considering this lunacy? Was the risk worth the recompense?

  Her heart bled for Cole, for all the suffering he’d endured these past years. But every encounter they’d ever had as duke and countess had been fraught with antagonism. He disliked almost everything about her.

  Once, long ago, they’d been no more than a soldier going off to war and the woman he’d paid for comfort. If he transposed her with his memory of Ginny, which emotion would win his heart? Would his nostalgia be strong enough to smother his fury? His distaste for what she’d become?

  And if it did, what would he expect of her once he knew? Sex? Love? Marriage? She wasn’t Ginny anymore. Her love could not be bought for twenty pounds.

  Neither was she the desperate Imogen Pritchard. She hadn’t been for a long time. She was capable of showing him plenty of grace, of forgiveness and kindness and … maybe love. But what could he provide her other than the title of duchess? Which, if she was honest, meant absolutely nothing to her.

  Assuming he even offered for her. That he didn’t destroy her in a fit of wrath.

  He’d certainly made it clear that he couldn’t accept what she’d chosen to do with her life, and she wasn’t willing to let her purpose go. Not even for him.

  So what was her next move? She could pray that Dorian Blackwell wasn’t as crafty and well connected as they seemed to think. But something told her it was only a matter of time. Once upon a time she would have fled England, and a selfish part of her wished that she could. But she couldn’t abandon the ladies and children already in her care and employ.

  She needed to stay and fight. Fight for their safety and survival.

  And, above all, fight that aching part of herself that yearned for him to come and claim her.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Your Grace,

  After careful inspection of the case file we discussed, I’ve come to the conclusion that the murder of a one Flora Latimer and that of Lady Broadmore have enough similarities to give the connection further consideration. I have decided to cast the net of investigation wider, and sent requests to the Scotland Yard branches of other boroughs for information on any such similar atrocities. According to a witness, the attacker was likely a man named Mr. Barton who has subsequently disappeared. As to your association with this “Ginny,” I have yet been unable to confirm her existence, let alone her connection to the victim, but I can tell you that it is notated that Flora Latimer used some sort of chemical dye to make her hair gold. However, the file clearly states she had naturally dark hair and green eyes.

  I have found, however, that a Devina Rosa worked at the Bare Kitten at the time, and is now one of the infamous courtesans they call the horse-breakers of Hyde Park. Perhaps she remembers your Ginny. I hope this information helps you, though I fear it can confirm neither your fears nor your wishes.

  My sincerest regrets,

  Sir Carlton Morley

  * * *

  With a vicious curse, Cole had crumpled the letter in his hand and tossed it into the fire. He’d learned in his days in prison that hope could be wielded as a cruelty. Never had that been truer than this moment. He didn’t know whether to rejoice or grieve and that, in itself, was a certain kind of hell. Stalking to his study window, he’d whipped aside the drapes and glanced down to find a particular garden empty of a particular countess. The sun was high and warm today, the air still and tepid. Why the devil wasn’t she painting?

  A frown weighed down his features as he rang for his jacket and hat and ordered his horse, cantering to Hyde Park to seek out this Devina creature, and the answers she might provide him.

  Answers, it seemed, were to be as elusive as anything else he sought. Contentment, tranquility …

  Sleep.

  He dare not even reach for happiness.

  After considerable time, charm, and expense, he gleaned that Devina had moved on, finding a rich protector whose name no one knew, and was installed comfortably somewhere out of his reach. Upon learning this, Cole had turned his horse’s head toward Rotten Row, the long raceway at the east of Hyde Park, and galloped until they were both panting, hot, and exhausted. Still, it didn’t quell the burn of helpless fury whipping through his chest as uncontrollably as a wildfire.

  He’d find this Devina, if he had to tear London apart stone by ancient stone.

  The rare sunlight did little to help his dark mood, though the exertion did quiet the violent urges. Somewhat.

  Ignoring the hails of sycophantic lesser nobles, the calls of desperate mothers with eligible daughters, and others of the ton who crowded into Hyde Park during the season for no other reason than to see and be seen, Cole trotted toward the Mayfair park entrance. Perhaps he’d go into the Home Office and find out what he could about Devina. She was a Spanish migrant, this he knew, and there would have to be some record of her—

  A rather violent shade of purple skirt fluttered in his periphery, interrupting his thoughts and turning his head. Only one woman he knew wore such unapologetically vibrant colors. And there sat the countess Anstruther in profile, perched forward on a long stone bench. Though, rather than applying the paintbrush in her hand to the canvas in front of her, she stared at some mysterious point in the distance.

  Violet satin ribbons fluttered from her hat in the same errant breeze that caught red-gold tendrils escaping her intricate coiffure. The rest of her remained as still as the statue of Achilles she regarded with more morose perturbation than artistic appreciation.

  Cole deliberated for a moment before deciding he should definitely leave.

  He slid from the saddle, planting his boots in the soft grass.

  He should avoid Countess Anstruther and her compelling presence, he admonished himself while simultaneously tossing his reins to an awaiting stable hand, along with a few coins.

  As his long stride brought him nearer to her, he noticed a pinch between her brows and new shadows beneath her eyes that hadn’t previously been there. It wouldn’t be prudent to interrupt her, especially in such a public venue. Cheever, the old goat, lounged behind her in a lawn chair with a paper, so it wasn’t as though she was left unattended.

  She appeared tired, Cole noted. Tired and a little gloomy. Well, he certainly wasn’t a harbinger of cheer, and shouldn’t even consider getting any closer …

  She glanced up at him the moment his shadow crossed her canvas. Her eyes crinkled in that way that made him sure she was pleased, though he couldn’t imagine why she would be.

  “Cole.”

  His heart tripped at the sound of his name on her lips, and he managed a curt nod.

  “What an agreeable surprise.” Scooping extra skirts beneath her, she made space for him on the bench.

  “Is it?” It discomfited him just how much he wanted the radiance in her eyes to be genuine. Because when she looked at him, the shadows he’d just noted were replaced by a warm light. He found it extraordinary. Confounding, but extraordinary nonetheless.

  “How striking you look,” she remarked, and didn’t give him a moment to process the abrupt spurt of pleasure at the words before she turned to Cheever. “Would you very much mind procuring the three of us some lemonade from the stand at the entry? His Grace seems uncomfortably hot.”

/>   Cheever folded the paper just so, setting it on his seat before bowing to them both. “Of course, my lady. Your Grace.” His stride was that of a much younger man as he left them.

  “Do sit,” she invited. “The shade here is excellent.”

  “I really should be going,” he excused, and then somehow they were nearly at eye level as the sun-warmed stone of the bench caught him when he sat. What was it about her that drew him like this? It was as though he was a ship tossed about in a storm, and she a siren luring him to his fate. In her presence, his body was consistently at odds with his mind, and refused to obey him in any regard.

  “Though we are little better than strangers, you always seem to treat me as though you know me,” he remarked.

  “And yet it seems I know nothing about you,” she challenged.

  It could have been the dappled sunlight, the distraction she provided from his consistent disappointment, the mysterious glint in her eye, or some odd combination of all of these variables that summoned a rakish mischief within him he’d thought forever lost.

  “I am an open book,” he declared with false solemnity.

  “You are anything but that,” she laughed.

  He made a sound of mock outrage. “Ask me any question you please, and suffer the consequences of my absolute candor.”

  She pretended to give it some thought. “Speaking of books, then. Who is your most beloved author?”

  “Shakespeare, obviously.”

  She cast him a dubious look. “Which play?”

  It was his turn to give it some thought and answered with a defiant smirk, “The one wherein the parent dies and someone goes mad.”

  “That’s nearly all of them.” Her eyes danced with mirth. “So much for candor. I’m beginning to doubt you know Shakespeare at all.”

  Cole plucked from his memory one of the numerous sonnets he’d devoured as a child.

  “‘Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove, O no! it is an ever-fixed mark that looks on tempests and is never shaken…’” He let the words trail away as their significance pierced him with solemnity.