Duke of Sin

  He smiled down at her. “The area’s quite famous for them. A product, I believe, of a breeding program by a local landowner. Of course there are those that claim that the color is more properly described as purple—”

  “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever—”

  “—than blue,” he finished, unperturbed by her outraged outburst. “Do you always interrupt your masters?”

  “Only those who try and tell me a load of codswallop,” she muttered.

  He was watching her face, so he saw the moment when she realized what she was saying… and more importantly, to whom. There was a flicker of fear and then her expression closed entirely.

  “I do apologize, Your Grace.”

  He’d never been sorry for his rank—why should he be? It conferred wealth and deference, things he found very useful in the world. But now, for the very first time in his life, Valentine Napier, the Duke of Montgomery, wished that for five minutes he might be a common man.

  For those five minutes only, mind—let that be clear.

  But if he were to divest himself of his glory for a few short minutes, become a plain, boring man—perhaps with the name Jack—what would she reply to him then?

  He gazed at her a little moodily.

  She made another movement denoting an attempt to escape.

  He tightened the arm about her. “Tell me of your upbringing.”

  She brought her brows together suspiciously. “You were bored last time I did that.”

  He waved his left hand. “I find I have renewed interest.”

  She sighed, slumping under his restraining arm, pliant again. Good. “I grew up in the North, almost on the border. My… father was a crofter with a bit of land and sheep.”

  “How did you learn to read and write?” he asked.

  “My mam taught us at night,” she replied. “Or rather me, for my brothers and sister are all older than me.”

  “How much older?”

  She looked wary for some reason, and then shrugged. “Ian is forty this year, Moira will be eight and thirty next month, and Tom just turned six and thirty.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Six and twenty,” she replied very stiffly.

  He smiled. “So you were a belated fancy of your parents.”

  She looked away. “I suppose.”

  “Mm.” He leaned his elbow on the windowsill and his head against his knuckles the better to study her. “And was your childhood very bucolic? Describe it to me.”

  “There were heather-covered hills and it was windy and cold.”

  “You hated it,” he decided.

  “No.” She frowned at him. “It was nice to sit by the fire at night with the wind outside and Mam knitting or telling me stories or singing to me.”

  He cocked his head. “She sang to you?”

  “Yes.” She looked at him as if he were quite strange—which was actually a look he was used to. “Didn’t anyone sing to you when you were a child?”

  He thought of the drunken songs that had sometimes echoed through his father’s halls when he was young. That was probably not what she meant. “No.”

  “Oh.” She bit her lip. “I suppose duchesses don’t sing to their children.”

  “No, they don’t.” He smiled kindly. “Particularly when they dislike the child in question intensely.”

  She blinked, looking shocked for a moment, and then cleared her throat. “Well. It’s nice, truly. And I liked walking over the hills as a little girl. There are birds in the heather and hares and mice and… are you sure you’re interested in this?”

  “I wasn’t, actually, when I first asked,” he confessed. “But now I am. Go on.”

  She made a little humphing sound at that and settled more comfortably at his side. “When I was a little older, about twelve, I went to work at a nearby house. It was owned by old Mrs. Cromby and oh, I was so homesick! I cried myself to sleep for a fortnight it seemed, until it was my day off and I could go home to see Mam.”

  He frowned at this, not liking to think of his infant housekeeper in tears. “Why did they send you then if you were so upset?”

  She gave him a look. “Because I needed to learn a trade, naturally. And it was a good position. Mrs. Cromby was very strict but I learned so much from her and her housekeeper, Mrs. Little. How to keep records and how to make wood polish and brass polish and silver polish. When to turn linen and how to store cheese. What cuts of beef are the cheapest and how to bargain down the butcher. How to judge when a fish is fresh and when to buy shellfish and when not to. How to keep moths from woolens and mice from the pantry. How to get wine stains out of white linen and how to dye faded cloth black again. All that and so much more.”

  She drew breath and he looked at her, deeply appalled. “That all sounds frightfully boring.”

  “And yet without that knowledge you’d live in dirty, messy, vermin-infested chaos,” she said sweetly.

  “Mm.”

  She was strangely alluring in her confidence in her own abilities. Women of his rank didn’t have jobs, didn’t have competence in… well, anything, really, aside from the odd musical talent. Embroidery. Dancing. His sister painted miniatures, but Eve was an eccentric. He did know of several ladies quite skilled at fellatio, but could that be called a job? Well, yes, if one were a whore, but the ladies in question didn’t actually sell their skills, not unless one counted obtaining ever more influential men as lovers, but that wasn’t exactly a quid pro quo, therefore…

  He blinked and realized that Mrs. Crumb was watching him quizzically. “Yes?

  “Sometimes,” she said, “I wonder what you think about.”

  He ran through his latter train of thought, considered sharing his musings, glanced at her clever, competent, and yet in some ways naïve face, and discarded the idea. “Tell me why you came to London.”

  That bright, open face closed again. Curious. She shrugged, glancing away from him. “The same reason any servant comes to London: to find work. I’d worked in several houses by that time, but I wanted to be a housekeeper and there were no situations nearby, so I came to London.”

  He watched her, thinking that there was something missing from that simple recitation.

  She glanced at him, her eyes dark and fathomless. “And Mam had died by then. There wasn’t anything to keep me by the border, was there?”

  Wasn’t there? Not father or brothers or sister? Not heather-covered hills or warm hearth? Val cocked his head, studying her.

  Wondering.

  But she was glancing about the carriage. “Where is the book I was reading?”

  “I placed it here,” he said, taking up The Most Noble and Famous Travels of Marco Polo, which he’d stowed on the seat beside him so it wouldn’t fall to the floor while she slept. “An interesting choice.”

  “You mean for a housekeeper,” she muttered, taking the book from him.

  He cocked his head, watching her. So fierce. “For anyone,” he murmured gently.

  She smoothed a dimpled thumb over the worn red leather of the book cover. “Have you ever been to China?”

  “No, but I would like to go.”

  The carriage bumped and slowed and he glanced out the window to see that they were coming to an inn.

  Mrs. Crumb straightened, regrettably pulling away from him. “Is this where we’ll be stopping for the night?”

  “Only for supper and to change the horses,” he said cheerfully as Mehmed and the dog at last awakened. He pretended not to see her stare.

  “When will we be stopping for the night?”

  “We won’t.” He turned to her. “We’re traveling at haste—and straight through the night and tomorrow night as well.”

  The carriage stopped.

  “What?”

  He smiled into her astonished eyes. They were headed north to Yorkshire at breakneck speed, no expense spared, changing horses as often as possible.

  It was quite a reckless, mad journey—even for him. “If all goes
well we’ll make Ainsdale Castle by nightfall three days hence.”

  Or, as he sometimes liked to call the place where he’d been born.

  The place where he’d been raised.

  The place where he’d lost both heart and soul:

  Castle Death.

  Chapter Ten

  The magician was dragged before King Heartless, who didn’t bother looking up from his supper before ordering the man whipped and banished. But the magician wasn’t alone, for he had a daughter who always traveled with him.

  Her name was Prue and when she flung herself at the king’s feet and begged for her father, the king looked.

  And looked again.…

  —From King Heartless

  It was near midnight three days later when the carriage pulled down a long, winding drive leading to a castle silhouetted against the waning moon. Watching out the window, Bridget couldn’t help but shiver. One tower in particular, taller than the others, seemed quite ominous in the moonlight.

  She let the curtain fall.

  It had not escaped her notice that Val, usually such an irreverent, talkative, restless man, had become quieter the closer they’d driven toward his childhood home, until now that they’d arrived he was almost a pale statue, sitting in the corner.

  Still and watchful.

  He caught her eye. “Imposing, isn’t it? My ancestor acquired it centuries ago by storming it, skewering the previous owner, killing his infant heir, and raping his widow over the banquet table before marrying her.” He shrugged at the horrified look she gave him. “The castle was from her family. I suppose he was just making sure everything was legal.”

  “What is skewering?” Mehmed asked.

  “To pierce with a sword,” Val said very precisely, omitting his usual verbal flourishes.

  Bridget had an odd urge to take his hand. Which was ridiculous. He was a duke.

  The carriage came to a halt.

  There was a small jolt as one of the footmen descended, and then the carriage door was opened.

  Pip bounded down the steps and disappeared into the darkness, the boy not far behind.

  In the distance a series of yips and then canine yodeling started. Nearby, the terrier answered to the best of his ability.

  “What is that?” Bridget glanced curiously at Val.

  He grimaced. “Foxhounds. My father kept a pack and I suppose they’ve been maintained. Filthy things.”

  Bridget’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t know?”

  He shrugged. “I haven’t been back to Ainsdale since I left England when I was nineteen and spent a decade traveling the world. It’s been eleven years since I’ve seen this place.”

  He looked morosely at the open carriage door.

  He’d not told her why they’d hurried away from London so precipitously, but she’d decided on the long journey north that it must be that he was worried his enemies might poison him again. Watching him now, she thought the fear must be very great to drive him here.

  Bridget hesitated, and then said gently, “Shall we get out?”

  Val seemed to come to himself. “I suppose we must.”

  He gestured for her to precede him and she stepped down with the aid of Bob the footman. The second carriage had drawn up behind them and she eyed it thoughtfully. Yesterday evening she’d noticed that the servants who manned it were all strangers to her. And this morning, when they were stopped for a change of horses, she’d happened to stroll near the second carriage. Her way had been immediately blocked by one of the unfamiliar menservants.

  He’d been rather a rough-looking fellow, too.

  “Ah, the seat of my forefathers.”

  She turned at Val’s murmured words to find him standing and gazing with what looked like frank distaste at Ainsdale Castle.

  “Why did we come if you hate it so much?” she asked softly.

  His eyes flared wide and then he smiled gently. “Oh, Séraphine. Some things can neither be outrun, buried, nor burned. One must bear them like a twisted, degraded limb, dragged behind, odiferous and loathsome, forever reminding one of the most horrible time in one’s life.” He shrugged. “And if this foul disgusting thing becomes useful once and again? Should I not then make use of it?”

  Without waiting for her reply, he strode to the great double doors to the castle. The footmen seemed to be having some trouble rousing the staff within.

  Bridget followed more slowly, glancing around the dark drive. Tall trees were rattling their branches against the moon. The windows of the castle were dark and they were obviously not expected.

  Pip came trotting up to her, his tongue hanging out of his agape mouth happily.

  Mehmed looked less cheerful. “English castles are cold.”

  “There’ll be a warm fire inside,” Bridget assured him. At least she hoped so.

  One of the doors opened with a screeching creak, revealing a tall, thin man in hastily donned breeches and coat over a nightshirt, a soft nightcap covering his head. Behind him was an elderly woman, a thin gray braid trailing from under her mobcap, a gray shawl thrown over her nightdress.

  “Your Grace!” exclaimed the man at the sight of Val. “We hadn’t expected you.”

  “Few do,” replied the duke. “And yet here I am, weary and famished, and on the doorstep on a cold and dreary night. Oh, will you let me in, kind sir?”

  The last was said with more than a touch of irony and the tall man, who must be a butler, flushed, looking very young. “Of course, Your Grace. Yes, of course, do come in.”

  At the same time, the elderly woman’s face had darkened. She muttered, “No notice. Beds aren’t made. Don’t have meat nor bread laid by in the kitchen, don’t know what we’ll feed such a crowd.”

  But the younger man had already moved back, letting Val stroll in, followed by Mehmed and the dog.

  The duke continued into the castle but when it was Bridget’s turn to enter she stopped and smiled at the two confused servants. “I am Mrs. Crumb. How do you do?”

  The man made to remove a hat, remembered he was wearing only a soft cap, and ended on an awkward bow. “Erm… how d’you do? I’m John Dwight. Th’ butler?”

  “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Dwight,” Bridget said, and turned to the elderly woman. “And you are?”

  “Mrs. Ives,” the woman grunted. “Housekeeper and aunt to this one.” She tilted her head toward the butler.

  “Splendid.” Bridget gestured to the boy, standing and gawking up at what were admittedly rather sinister-looking carvings in the ceiling high above them. In the flickering candlelight they seemed to be writhing. “This is Mehmed, the duke’s valet. And this is Bob, one of his footmen. We have a party of a dozen or so.” She was still uncertain about how many men traveled in the second carriage. “What sort of food do you have on hand?”

  If possible, the housekeeper looked even more disgruntled. “Just enough to keep castle staff together, body and soul.”

  “And how many are in the castle at the moment?” Bridget asked smoothly. She gestured for Mehmed and Bob to precede her.

  “A skeleton staff.” The housekeeper snorted. “Don’t know what Himself will do w’out proper help. Half a dozen maids, four footmen, the cook, her two scullery maids, an’ me and John. Course that don’t count the outside help—the stablemen, the groundkeepers, an’ such.”

  “You’ve done very—” Bridget had begun in a conciliatory tone when Val interrupted her.

  “Come, Mrs. Crumb,” he said, appearing suddenly by her side and catching her by the upper arm. “You’re not on staff here.”

  He began walking back the way he’d presumably come, down a dark and gloomy corridor, his hand still on her arm. There were paintings crowding the walls, men posed haughtily in doublet and hose, women staring blankly, their fingers beringed, starched ruffs about their necks.

  “Then why did you bring me along?” she asked rather tartly, and then, before he could answer, “And I was in the process of seeing to your supper, Your Grace. I’
d think you’d be more concerned about your comfort.”

  “I’m always extremely concerned as to my comfort and creature needs,” Val replied as they came to a wide stone staircase. He turned to her and touched her lightly on one cheek, his azure eyes bright in the low light. “And I brought you along because I like you.”

  She inhaled and all thought fled her mind. He stood so close that they seemed to share the same breaths.

  His lips slowly curved and he grasped her hand in his.

  “But,” he continued as they mounted the stairs, his hand wrapped firmly about hers, “I am not going to wait for my esteemed castle housekeeper to rouse my equally esteemed cook in the middle of the night to find something worthy of my palate. No. Instead I shall simply retire to my rooms and partake of the victuals Mrs. Bram packed for us when we began this journey. There are plenty left, for I instructed her to be generous, foreseeing a situation such as this.” He shivered suddenly. “Dear God, the place is even colder than I remembered.”

  They made the upper floor, where the doors to what were obviously the ducal chambers were thrown open. A small dark-haired maid in nightclothes knelt by the enormous fireplace, coaxing a flame, while another girl turned down the bed—though it looked as if she was merely causing the dust to fly about—and a third was bringing in hot water as they arrived.

  Mehmed and Pip were standing by the hearth watching the dark-haired maid work at the fire.

  Bridget sniffed discreetly. She could smell mildew and, faintly, something decayed.

  Val was less inclined toward discretion. He inhaled deeply. “Ah, the stink of my ancestors’ rot. That does bring back memories—all of them quite vivid, if not pleasant. Now away, you sprites, and climb into your beds under the eaves. I’ll have need of you in the morn, I’m sure.”

  The maids froze, and the one kneeling at the hearth pushed a lock of hair off her forehead with the back of her wrist and said, “Pardon, Your Grace?”

  “Go. Away,” Val enunciated quite insultingly.

  Bridget glared at him—and then switched to a smile as the maids trudged, yawning, to the door. “Thank you!”

  She waited until the door was closed before whirling on him—he seemed to let go of her hand without regret. “You needn’t be so rude.”