The Dark Duke Page 2

“Look at what, Your Grace?” Jenkins asked.

  “I didn’t say anything.”

  “Yes, you did. Your Grace” Jenkins corrected. “You said, ’Look at it.”

  “I meant my father’s portrait. I think it needs to be cleaned.”

  They paused and surveyed the portrait of the late fifth Duke of Barroughby—in his full regalia for the House of Lords—which was hung on the landing. Beside it was a smaller portrait of Adrian’s mother.

  “Ah, those were good days,” Jenkins said with a sigh. “I was younger then.”

  “So were we all,” the sixth Duke of Barroughby noted as he passed them by.

  “Don’t look so glum, John,” Adrian chastised the surgeon, who was applying a fresh bandage to the wound in his leg. “I’ve had worse.”

  “What caused it?” John Mapleton asked. The stout man puffed a little from the exertion of bending over Adrian’s elevated leg. “Not a sword.”

  “Pistols at twenty paces.”

  “Ah!”

  “It bled terribly, but no lasting damage, the London surgeon said.”

  “Lucky for you.” Mapleton straightened with a grunt. “Lucky again. One of these days you’re not going to be lucky. You’re going to be dead.”

  “I didn’t have very much to fear from my opponent. I was far more concerned that his shot not hit my second or some innocent bystander.”

  “Huh.” Mapleton began repacking his black bag. “What was the cause? A woman?”

  “Yes.” Adrian lifted his foot and placed it gingerly on the thick carpet. On the table beside the brocade chair was a basin full of bloodied water and a cloth the surgeon had used to clean the reopened wound, items that seemed distinctly out of place in the ornately decorated room with its expensive wallpaper, comfortable brocade chairs, delicate tables, large canopied bed, damask draperies on the tall, narrow windows and chinoiserie armoire.

  Mapleton gave him a shrewd look. “Yours or Elliot’s?”

  Adrian didn’t answer.

  Mapleton frowned and went back to his task. “Elliot’s, then. I should have known. The young fool ran off to hide in Europe and you took the blame. Again.”

  “All has been taken care of, so I would prefer to let the matter drop.” Adrian winced as he stood and tried to put some weight on his leg.

  “I would rest some more, Your Grace, if I were you. Tell me, did it never occur to you to take a coach here?”

  “Drake needed the exercise, and after London, I wanted the air.”

  The deep, measured tones of Dr. Woadly were heard as he passed Adrian’s door. “I fear my presence has sickened my stepmother,” he noted sardonically.

  “You could send her to the Dower House.”

  Adrian slowly resumed his seat. “And have her tell everyone I turned her out?”

  “She has no right to Barroughby Hall,” Mapleton said. “Your father left everything to you.”

  “So he did.” Adrian reached into his vest for a cheroot. “I suppose, given my reputation, one more blemish shouldn’t matter.” He struck a match. “Don’t imagine I haven’t given it some thought. Still, my father wanted her to remain here. Along with Jenkins.”

  “Your father has been dead these ten years.”

  Adrian raised one dark eyebrow, well aware that Mapleton would never see eye-to-eye with him on certain things. “I was not aware there was a time limit on promises made to a dying parent.”

  “There should be!” Mapleton said forcefully.

  “This is such an unpleasant topic, John,” Adrian said as the smoke from his cheroot curled toward the high ceiling. “Sit down and have a drink with me.”

  Mapleton thought a moment, then nodded his head. “If you let me get it.”

  “Only too happy not to have to stir a hair,” Adrian replied lightly.

  Mapleton went to another small table that held a decanter and some crystal glasses. He poured two drinks and handed one to Adrian before sitting beside him. “I really think you should consider retiring Jenkins. Give him a cottage and a pension. He’s getting too old for his duties, and his hearing…” Mapleton left off suggestively.

  “I know. He’s worse every time I come. I’ve made certain he has only the basics to attend to, for the one time I said something about his age, I thought he was going to cry.” Adrian drew on his cheroot and let the smoke out gradually. “You can’t imagine a more worrisome sight than old Jenkins with a tear in his eye.”

  “Must you joke about everything, my lord?”

  Adrian gazed at the surgeon with a thoughtful expression. “It helps,” he said truthfully.

  “I’m surprised the duchess hasn’t insisted he go,” Mapleton said after a short silence. “She doesn’t strike me as having the patience to put up with his mistakes.”

  “Ah, now there I can offer an explanation,” Adrian replied, happy to be diverted from a serious subject like promises made on his father’s deathbed. “Jenkins was in his middle years when the duchess married my father. Now, if Jenkins is getting too old to do his job, well, how old is the duchess, then?”

  Mapleton frowned. “You mean, if she admits that Jenkins has to stop working, she’s admitting she’s getting old herself.”

  “Exactly!”

  “And I suppose I could extrapolate that she also feels by having a young woman who is not noticeably attractive for a companion, she maintains her position as the most beautiful woman in the household.”

  “One could say that,” Adrian agreed, for such an explanation might also illustrate why the duchess didn’t get angry over Lady Hester’s slight defiance. “How long has Lady Hester been here?”

  “About four months.”

  “Helpful, I take it?”

  “I believe Dr. Woadly would say so.”

  “Ah. Fewer summonses from Barroughby Hall?”

  “So I understand.”

  “We’ve made a very good guess as to why she might suit my stepmother, but why do you think Lady Hester would stay here?”

  “I’m sure I have no idea,” Mapleton answered. “No alternatives, perhaps.”

  “What of her parents? Have they died?”

  “Oh, they’re alive. I understand they’ve gone to Europe for an extended period. Lord Pimblett apparently feels it would be better for his gout, or so Lady Hester said. She asked me some questions about the complaint. A most intelligent, compassionate young woman.”

  “Which again begs the question, why would she shut herself up here with my esteemed stepmother?”

  “Why don’t you ask her?”

  “Perhaps I will.”

  Mapleton’s brow furrowed and Adrian sighed with genuine dismay. “Oh, not you, too. I assure you, she will be quite safe from the clutches of the Dark Duke.”

  Mapleton chuckled, then finished his drink and rose. “I know it. Now I really must be on my way. Take care of that leg. No riding for the next few days.”

  Adrian nodded absently. “I wonder how long she’ll stay,” he mused aloud.

  “Lady Hester?”

  The duke nodded.

  “Why should she leave, after putting up with the duchess for so long already?” Mapleton asked.

  “Because while you and I both know she has nothing to fear from me, Lady Hester may feel otherwise.”

  Chapter Two

  Later that evening Hester tried to pay attention to the card game she was playing with the duchess and not to let her eyes stray toward the drawing room door.

  Indeed, there was no reason she should keep doing so. She couldn’t expect anyone to walk into the room, except a servant, for the Duke of Barroughby had not come down to dinner. It was because of his injury, so Jenkins said, after also informing them that Mr. Ma-pleton did not think it a particularly serious one.

  She also suspected, however, that the duke was reluctant to listen to his stepmother continue to denounce him to his face, a quite understandable reason.

  “So, Lady Hester, you have never seen my stepson before?” the duchess asked. She
was currently winning the game of piquet, which Hester thought explained her somewhat mollified tone, and the duchess’s good humor was ample recompense for playing less than honestly.

  “No, Your Grace.”

  “I daresay you moved in better circles in London society.”

  “I did not move much in any circle, Your Grace,” Hester replied.

  “Why not?” the duchess demanded. “Surely your father’s rank made your welcome assured.”

  Hester tried not to squirm with discomfort, because the duchess would surely chastise her for wiggling. “I preferred to remain at home.”

  “With your mama? How sweet,” the duchess murmured as she checked the number of tricks she had taken.

  If that was what the duchess preferred to believe, Hester did not correct her. It was better than admitting she found it difficult to watch as her lovely sisters received all the attention, while she was treated as little more than a piece of furniture.

  The duchess smiled with satisfaction. “I win again! You know, Elliot is quite a clever fellow at cards. He can even defeat me on occasion.”

  “Really, Your Grace?”

  “Indeed. He is quite in demand at card parties, and when he can be persuaded to take a moment from dancing at balls. La, that is not often, I assure you.”

  Hester merely nodded.

  “But you shall see his qualities for yourself when he arrives.” The duchess opened her fan and frowned as she began to wave it. “Let us hope the duke is far away by then.”

  It was on the tip of Hester’s tongue to ask the duchess why she didn’t send the duke away, if she found his presence so odious, but she knew the woman would not enjoy being questioned. Therefore, she was forced to merely wonder about that, and about the duke himself.

  In one way, he more than lived up to his reputation. She had had more than ample time to observe people at the social functions she did attend, and she had never seen a more handsome man.

  On the other hand, she had found his patience with his waspish stepmother quite astonishing and completely unexpected. She would have thought a man who had done all the things he was said to have done would be rather hot tempered and quick to take offense. Maybe the fact that the duchess was a relation explained it.

  Hester glanced at the door again, to see the duchess’s maid waiting. “I believe it’s time to retire, Your Grace,” she said softly, nodding toward Maria.

  “Ah, so it is.” The duchess rose majestically, moving her beaded black skirt around the delicate chair with a graceful gesture before she glanced at Hester. “Aren’t you coming?”

  “In a moment. I believe I left my book in the library. I would like to read a little before I sleep.”

  The duchess frowned with disapproval. “You will ruin your eyesight,” she admonished. “Or fall asleep with the candle lit and burn the house down.”

  “I shall be very careful, Your Grace,” Hester said, trying to ignore being chided like a recalcitrant child. Again.

  “Oh, all right,” the duchess said ungraciously. “Mind you do not sleep too late.” With that, she turned and left, preceded by the dark-haired Maria.

  As if I ever do! Hester thought, taking a candle and heading for the library. She had never seen the duchess so much as pick up a book or newspaper, let alone read one, so it was no surprise the woman had no respect for reading.

  It was a fair way along the corridor to the darkly paneled library, a room the duchess never ventured into, and where Hester went when she wanted a few moments alone. It was quiet and a little solemn, like an empty church, but Hester liked it all the more for its aura of benign neglect

  Barroughby Hall itself was an immense building, the work of several generations and several architects, each seemingly trying to outdo each other in the spending of the Fitzwalters’ money. Fortunately, the estate was a large one, too, and more than one of the dukes had been a wise investor in art and sculpture, as well as business ventures, so there was little fear of putting the family into bankruptcy.

  By this time the house and grounds were magnificent. Built in a square, with an open courtyard in the middle reached through the imposing main entrance, the hall boasted a corridor nearly a mile long around the inside, filled with paintings and statues purchased in Europe. The ceilings of the main rooms on the lower level were all painted by master artists; even the hearths of the fireplaces were works of art. The large dining room would easily seat one hundred at an immense mahogany table. There were over fifty bedrooms, not counting those in the attic used by the small army of servants.

  Other rooms in the house included the large drawing room, the small drawing room, the library, the duke’s study, two smoking rooms, a billiard room, the Tudor hall that formed the main entrance, the servants’ hall and the kitchen, at an unfortunate distance from the large dining room. Outside, there were the formal gardens, a large shrubbery, the carriage house and the stables, as well as kennels for the duke’s hunting dogs.

  It was not a cozy place to live, yet it did have its compensations, not all of them architectural. Here Hester was not always being compared to her more attractive sisters, or made to wait upon her mother, who, believing herself sickly, was always in need of assistance and accepted Hester’s help as her due. The duchess also pleaded a weak constitution, but not nearly as often, and she seemed to appreciate Hester’s efforts a vast deal more.

  In addition to that, Hester realized, there was now the exciting presence of the Dark Duke himself to make her stay here something out of the ordinary.

  She reached the library, found her volume and headed toward the back stairs, which would be the fastest route up to her room. As she did so, she heard the servants still at work in the kitchen, talking and laughing among themselves as they completed their daily tasks.

  Once upstairs, she paused in the corridor, realizing that one of the bedroom doors between where she was standing and her room, a door that had always been shut tight, was standing slightly open. Perhaps that was the duke’s room, and she would have to pass it by.

  This notion filled her with a curious mixture of excitement and dread, until Hester told herself she was being ridiculous. Surely she didn’t expect the duke to lunge out of the room, grab her and drag her inside. The image was so…so romantically gothic that Hester had to stifle a laugh. As if she could ever be a heroine! Besides, with an injured leg, he could hardly be skulking about!

  Emboldened, she confidently walked down the hall.

  Nevertheless, her steps slowed as she came even with the open door. A low moan caught her attention. No one else was near, so she cautiously stepped inside.

  The room was dark, for no moonlight penetrated the drawn drapes. She lifted her candle a little higher, noting the fine proportions of the large room and splendid furnishings.

  Including the canopied bed, with the curtains open and the duke slumbering upon it, lying on his side, and turned toward the door. He certainly wasn’t a person to fear at the moment, she thought, smiling at her previous imaginings. At present he didn’t look like the cold, sardonic man of this morning, or the villain rumor and gossip painted him. With his hair tousled and his eyes shut, he looked like nothing so much as a mischievous little boy—although there was a sensuality to his lips that had nothing of the child about it.

  As she watched, he moved restlessly, rolling onto his back and throwing one muscular arm over his face. One naked, muscular arm. At the sudden realization that he might be nude beneath the bedclothes, Hester backed away, ready to depart.

  The duke moaned again.

  Perhaps he needed help. Maybe she should fetch someone—but then she would have to explain her presence in the duke’s bedroom. She recalled hearing his valet’s voice in the servants’ hall downstairs. She could ring the bell for assistance and leave before the valet appeared. The servant might believe that the duke had summoned him.

  Deciding that would be the best course, Hester moved farther inside the room, for the bell rope dangled near the head
of the bed.

  What if someone passed by? They would certainly see her light.

  Hester blew out the candle, so that the room was in complete darkness. She waited for her eyes to get used to the change, then slowly began to make out the shape of the duke, and the bellpull.

  She went slowly toward the bed and reached for the pull, hesitating for a moment as she looked down at the slumbering duke.

  He shifted again, rolling toward her and exposing his powerful shoulder.

  With a gulp, she yanked on the bellpull, then hurried from the room as quickly and quietly as she could.

  When she was gone, Adrian Fitzwalter opened his eyes and smiled.

  The next morning, Adrian sank onto the stone garden bench that was as cold and hard as his stepmother’s heart and stretched out his left leg. His limb was very sore, and although he believed Mapleton when he said that the wound was not dangerous, Adrian couldn’t help wondering when the devil he would be recovered enough to leave here, or at least go riding.

  Still, he might as well take some time to enjoy the garden, seen far too little of late, and bask in the warmth of an unseasonably mild autumn day.

  He slowly surveyed the flower beds, walks and shrubbery. His stepmother had been busy here, or busy giving orders at any rate. Very little of his mother’s garden remained. All was now formal and, to his mind, lacking any sense of natural beauty. He wondered what his father would have made of the change, and then decided that thought was a foolish one. His father would have said nothing, no matter what he felt. He had always been reserved.

  Far too reserved, except on that one memorable occasion.

  As for the “improvements” Adrian did not like, his stepmother could not live forever. When she died, he would put it all as it had been before his mother had passed away when he was ten years old, and his life had changed forever.

  Perhaps it had not been wise to come to Bar-roughby, with all its memories. He should have remained in London, at least until Christmas, and braved this latest scandal, too.

  Adrian forced himself to concentrate on the scent of the roses, and tried not to remember Elizabeth Howell’s tear-streaked face or the little body of her infant, robbed of life after a few short gasps, lying in the wooden cradle beside the narrow, filthy bed.