Duke of Sin

  “There be a burglar in th’ duke’s library!” Bob exclaimed, his country accent suddenly broad.

  “Call the watch and throw him out,” Bridget snapped. She disliked intensely having her sleep interrupted. The terrier was busy investigating everyone’s toes.

  “He won’t let us,” Bob replied.

  “Who won’t?”

  “The duke,” Bob said. “He’s in there wi’ the burglar and he’s like to kill ’im, last I saw.”

  “Oh, good Lord,” Bridget muttered. “Where are the other footmen?”

  “Bill and Cal are up in th’ library,” Bob said. “Bill was the one on duty by the front door and gave th’ alarm when he ’eard th’ shouting. Sam and Will came wi’ me to tell you.”

  “Very well.” Bridget nodded. “Mrs. Bram, would you be so kind as to take the maidservants back to the kitchens and start a pot of tea. I’m sure everyone will need some when this is all over.”

  “Right you are.” The cook nodded and shooed the disappointed maids before her.

  “The rest of you”—Bridget addressed the footmen—“please follow me.”

  She lit a candle from Bob’s candle and strode briskly into the hall, leading a procession consisting of the three footmen and Pip to the front of the house and up the grand staircase. Bob had said that shouting had caused Bill to raise the alarm, but she could hear nothing now from above, which made her quicken her step to a near run.

  If the duke had killed a burglar it might be hours before she had that tea.

  She made the upper floor and hurried down the hall. As she neared the library she could see that the two footmen stood outside the room, peering inside like timid children too afraid to enter. Idiots. She pushed past them both and sailed into the room.

  And then stopped short. The sight that met her eyes really was rather extraordinary.

  Of all the ostentatious rooms in Hermes House, the library was far and away the most extravagant. The paneled walls were painted a seafoam green. Paired columns of black marble with gold Corinthian capitals marched down both walls of the library, supporting arches, and within the arches were exotic-wood bookcases holding thousands of books. The floor was black-and-pink checkerboarded marble. The ceiling was painted with scenes from various myths of the god Hermes—in all of which he was nude and looking remarkably like the Duke of Montgomery himself.

  And in the center of the library stood the duke and another man.

  The Duke of Montgomery was dressed in his purple banyan—the one with a huge gold-and-green dragon embroidered on the back. He was barefoot and his curling hair was loose about his shoulders.

  He appeared to be engaged in a sort of duel with an exceptionally large man dressed all in black, wearing a tricorne hat, and with a black scarf wrapped about the lower half of his face. The duke and the stranger circled each other and Bridget was appalled to realize that they each held a knife.

  The duke’s was a small pocket knife, grasped almost negligently in his left hand, his gold thumb ring winking in the candlelight. The man in black gripped some sort of dagger.

  The duke couldn’t win against such a large man. Not armed with a damned pocket knife. Whatever was he thinking?

  She had started forward, intending to intervene somehow, when the big man lunged, caught the duke about his middle and slammed him violently against one of the bookshelves. There was a terrific crash and books rained down on the both of them.

  Pip gave one sharp bark at her feet, as if expressing his disapproval of the proceedings.

  Both combatants slid to the floor in a tangle of limbs, the stranger on top, his broad back straining as he tried to control the duke’s arms. The duke made a quick snakelike strike. There was a metallic click—the man in black just managed to block the duke’s knife thrust with his own knife. The force of the parry flipped the little knife out of the duke’s hand.

  It skittered across the marble floor.

  And then she heard it: the duke was laughing, a lock of his shining hair caught in his lips.

  It was a low, affable chuckle, as if he were sharing a joke with a friend rather than fighting for what looked like his life in his own library. Fighting—and losing.

  “Give it up, Montgomery,” growled the stranger, his left forearm thrust firmly against the duke’s throat.

  “Oh, I don’t think so,” the duke gasped. “Not when you’ve come into my house, my library, my sanctum sanctorum. I’m going to cut out your tongue and shove it down your blasted throat before I send you back to your masters.”

  “What are you talking about?” the black-clad man asked, sounding much the more reasonable of the two. “You’ve lost.”

  Bridget couldn’t help but agree. The bigger man all but hid the duke’s flamboyant purple silk form beneath his bulk. The duke must give up.

  She bit her lip. Was the stranger a blackmail victim? If so—

  “Have I?” A flash, and then a wickedly curving gold-hilted dagger pressed hard against the stranger’s throat where it was exposed beneath the scarf, cutting the flesh. The duke’s upper lip curled in a feral snarl. “Get. Off. Me.”

  And Bridget saw that the duke held the second dagger in his right hand.

  A trail of blood trickled down the stranger’s bared throat.

  The man in black seemed equally stunned. He opened his fist, his dagger clattering to the floor. “Easy.”

  He moved back very slowly, the pressure of the blade at his neck unrelenting, keeping his head held unnaturally high, until both men were kneeling. “I thought you were left-handed.”

  The duke grinned—a mere exposure of his teeth and hardly reassuring. “I find committing to one side leaves out a world of possibilities.”

  With a swift movement he reached forward and snatched the scarf from the other man’s face. The man revealed had a pugilist’s features with a heavy forehead and cheekbones, and a large nose with a rather prominent bump on it. His hat and wig had been knocked off in the fight, exposing black hair trimmed close to his skull. He was handsome in a brutish sort of way—his thick lips especially might’ve belonged to a dissolute Italian angel.

  Beside the Duke of Montgomery, though, he looked like a plow horse next to an Arabian stallion.

  “Oh, it’s the royal rough-jobs man,” the duke breathed, finally taking the knife away from the other man’s throat. He got to his feet, motioning to the stranger to do so as well. Without taking his eyes from his captive, he waved his hand at the door. “You may all go, excepting you, Mrs. Crumb. Oh, and your small dog. I may need you both for protection. Or witnesses.”

  The three footmen shuffled away.

  “Close the door and come here, Mrs. Crumb,” the duke called.

  Bridget did as he commanded, picking up her candle and snapping her fingers to draw Pip’s attention away from a statue in the shape of a golden elephant. She had the sudden realization that the terrier had not visited the garden since his bath before bed and she hoped fervently that he wouldn’t embarrass her in the duke’s library.

  “Have you ever met a member of the royal family?” the duke asked her as she neared.

  “No, Your Grace,” she said cautiously.

  “Then you’re in luck. May I present Hugh Fitzroy, the Duke of Kyle, although I suppose he’s not a proper royal as such, hence the Fitz in his Roy.” The Duke of Montgomery smiled that snaky smile—the one Bridget was beginning to loathe—at the impassive Duke of Kyle. “My housekeeper, Mrs. Crumb. I can’t supply you with her Christian name as she won’t tell me it, though I’ve begun to think I should simply give her one of my own choosing. What do you think, hmm? Shall I name her Annis, chaste and pure? Or Félicité because she’s so very happy?”

  He glanced sideways at Bridget and though she tried to make her expression blank, a little of her outrage at his taunts might’ve shown through.

  He chuckled, looking back at Kyle. “No, you’re quite right. Neither does her justice. Oh, but what an odd duck this fellow is,” he continued,
now apparently back to addressing Bridget. “Neither fish nor foul nor bonny, bonny prince. For you see, though His Grace was born of the most royal spunk that ever spurted from kingly pud, his mother was but an actress.” He swung suddenly to Bridget. “Have you ever heard of Judith Dwyer? No? Well, she wasn’t very—”

  He was cut off by a guttural growl. “Montgomery.”

  The curved knife was back at Kyle’s throat before Bridget could blink. For a moment she didn’t breathe, for she very much feared that Montgomery would actually slit the other man’s throat.

  Then the duke lowered his arm and she inhaled softly—so softly.

  “Be careful,” Montgomery whispered, and the sound sent shivers along Bridget’s nerves. “You’ve frightened my housekeeper with your thoughtlessness. Never forget: you’re here without invitation in my domain. I might do anything to you here.” He smiled gently. “Anything at all.”

  Kyle must have very steady nerves indeed, for he didn’t even blink. “There would be repercussions should I not return.”

  Montgomery’s eyes widened, blue and guileless. “You see, this is the difference between you and me. When you make a statement like that, you think it will sway me. It doesn’t. I. Don’t. Care. I could kill you as easily as stepping on an ant and with far less remorse. Perhaps I’d face your repercussions on the morrow. Perhaps not. But that is for the sunrise. Tonight the shadows reign and the blood is singing in my veins. My very muscles tremble with the urge to carve the meat from your bones. Tell me”—he swept wide his arms—“who in this whole dissolute world is to dissuade me from my pleasures?”

  Standing barefoot in his purple silk banyan, books scattered at his feet in the flickering light of a few candles, still holding that jeweled, curving dagger, he might’ve been some druidic priest, born before history was written.

  Before men knew human sacrifice was forbidden.

  Bridget found herself with her hand on his arm. How it had happened she could hardly think. Had it been daylight, had she been better rested, been better prepared, had at least one cup of tea inside her, she would’ve had better control over herself.

  As it was, she was left with the act already done and the duke staring at her with his dangerous, mad eyes.

  She swallowed, her lips trembling, and lifted her chin. “Don’t. Please.”

  He cocked his head as though hearing a new song. Or a sound he’d never heard before at all. Something alien and strange.

  He took her hand and, holding it, looked at Kyle. “Go. Tell your masters that you have failed and I tire of waiting. Tell them that I want the King in Hyde Park tomorrow at one. That if he doesn’t acknowledge me in front of witnesses I’ll have everything to the newspapers by three. Do you comprehend?”

  She looked at the royal bastard, hardly believing her simple words had persuaded her master. She was very aware that Montgomery still held her hand.

  A muscle flexed in Kyle’s jaw, but he merely bowed his head.

  He picked up his hat, wig, and knife and strode to the door of the library.

  The duke brought her hand to his mouth and, his azure eyes glittering in the candlelight, pressed a kiss to the inside of her wrist.

  And then the edge of his teeth.

  She felt the warm softness of his lips, the prickle of stubble against tender skin, and a sort of shock seemed to go straight through the center of her body.

  He let her go and her wrist felt the cold of night. “Séraphine. The burning one. I should’ve known. Now I think you and your little dog had better see that Kyle makes it to the door. It’d be a sad thing indeed if he started rifling through the rest of the house on his way out, hmm?”

  Chapter Five

  The heartless prince grew into a brawny youth, tall and broad and with arms like oak trees. When he sparred with the other boys of the court he knocked them down like bowling pins.

  And they soon learned not to get up again.…

  —From King Heartless

  Bridget fought to catch her breath, still dizzy from proximity to Montgomery, as she hurried after the Duke of Kyle, Pip panting happily by her heels. The terrier at least seemed to think they were on an exciting nocturnal adventure.

  She caught sight of the Duke of Kyle at the end of the upper hallway and called after him, “Your Grace.”

  He halted and half turned, watching her with grave eyes as she walked toward him.

  “The duke asked that I show you the way to the door, Your Grace,” she said as diplomatically as possible, for she had never before been required to escort an aristocratic burglar from the house.

  He inclined his head.

  She hesitated, eyeing the cut on his neck. It really was quite nasty-looking and still seeping blood. That made up her mind.

  She straightened, smoothing her wrapper—well, as much as possible. “Follow me, please.”

  Bridget took the main staircase, both the little dog and the very large duke following her. Bob was by the front door, alert now that the house had already been broken into. She nodded at him and led the duke back to the kitchens.

  As she’d expected, everyone else was gathered here, having what was probably a lovely gossip around the kitchen table.

  Cook rose on her entrance. “Mrs. Crumb.”

  Bridget nodded. “Mrs. Bram. Will you be so kind as to send Alice to the small drawing room with some hot water and the bag of clean linen cloths? Oh, and a pot of tea as well.”

  She didn’t wait for a reply, but led the duke to the aforementioned room. It was painted lavender, lined with white pilaster columns linked with gilt swags, and small only in that the rose drawing room was larger.

  She gestured to one of the purple-and-gold settees, which had a low, marble-topped table before it. “I hope you don’t mind, Your Grace. I thought you wouldn’t like to be introduced to the other servants.”

  He’d just lowered himself to the settee when there was a knock on the door.

  Alice, a very pretty, but rather slow, maid, shouldered the door open. She held a tray with a jug of steaming water as well as the teapot and cups, and the linen bag was over her arm. She stood there, gaping at the Duke of Kyle, eyes wide.

  “Put the tray on the table, please, Alice,” Bridget said briskly. Pip had trotted in after them and was now investigating the far side of the room where a group of chairs were arranged.

  Alice carefully lowered the tray and handed her the bag, but then stood there, still gawping at Kyle.

  “You may go,” Bridget said, long used to having to tell Alice exactly what she must do.

  The maid meekly left.

  Bridget poured two cups of tea. “Do you take sugar or milk, Your Grace?”

  “Neither,” Kyle murmured, at last speaking, and then, as she handed him the cup, “Thank you, both for the tea and for what you did upstairs.” He met her gaze and she saw for the first time that his eyes were a warm brown and heavily lashed like a girl’s. They were almost pretty on his rough face. “I know it takes great courage for a woman in your position to come between a master and his desires.”

  She blinked, uncertain of what to say. To acknowledge his thanks was to agree that the duke, her employer, had been in the wrong, which would be rather disloyal.

  He seemed to understand her dilemma. He smiled lopsidedly—and very charmingly. “That’s all right. I just wanted to thank you. I don’t know what would’ve happened if you hadn’t spoken up.”

  She remembered Montgomery standing like some mad warlock… and that kiss afterward. Her wrist almost burned at the memory.

  “Yes, well…” She cleared her throat and took a sip of her tea before setting the cup down and reaching for the jug of hot water. “I thought we should see to your throat, Your Grace, before you leave.” She wet a cloth from the bag. “With your permission?”

  He nodded.

  She bent and gently pressed the cloth against the cut on his neck.

  He hissed softly.

  The cut wasn’t terribly wide, but it was
deeper than she’d initially thought. The blade the duke had used must’ve been very sharp—and he’d wielded it with awful precision.

  Unless, of course, Montgomery hadn’t cared if he killed his opponent.

  Bridget shivered at the thought, hastily drawing away to find an appropriate length of cloth in the bag. The wound had begun to bleed again, gentle as she’d tried to be, and she needed a piece of linen to make into a pad.

  Finding what she wanted at last, she turned back to him, carefully placing the pad against the wound. “Hold that there, Your Grace.”

  He did as she asked and then she began winding a long length of cloth around his neck. She was so intent upon the chore that she didn’t notice how close she was to the big man until she glanced up when she was almost done.

  He was watching her with those long-lashed eyes and her fingers faltered.

  “He’s a villain, you know,” Kyle said matter-of-factly, “your master. He’s blackmailing the King, as I think you understand.”

  She swallowed and looked away, concentrating on tying the bandage at his throat.

  But she couldn’t shut out his calm voice. “You seem a sensible woman. A good woman. I know you can’t approve of what your master is doing.”

  She made no comment at that, simply rising and gathering the debris of her work.

  “Mrs. Crumb.” He caught her arm and she stilled, looking at him. “I understand that you probably fear for your position, but please believe me, if you are ever in need of employment, I promise I can supply you with a position every bit as good as this one. I only ask that if you are aware of information—any information—that might help your king, you will bring it to me.”

  “But you’ve already agreed to his terms, Your Grace,” Bridget said, frowning uneasily. “Will you renege?”

  “No.” He smiled bitterly. “I have no doubt at all that Montgomery would indeed do as he threatens and damn the consequences.”

  “Then how can I help you after that?”