Heartless (25 page)

“Who is she?” He ran the name of Hughes through his vast store of useless knowledge but came up blank.

“Remember Clara Smythe? She started on here when we were off at Eton. We came home and she was the new housemaid, very pretty, and very willing. I had thought to make a go at her but she wanted no one but you.”

Derringer remembered the maid. She had been quite a taking thing with strawberry blond curls and dimpled cheeks. She’d had a way of moving around a room that made a man think inappropriate thoughts.

The duke cast a sidelong look at the footman. His eyes narrowed. No, it wasn’t possible. He looked at Gabriel, who was laughing at him. “Is it possible?” he finally asked his cousin.

Gabriel grinned. “No, it is not possible, Hart, you clunch.”

“So what am I supposed to call him? I can’t go around calling him Hart. People will think I’m mad, talking to myself and all that.”

“Hughes, I suppose.”

Derringer threw another suspicious look at the footman before putting the whole thing from his mind. “I suppose you’ll be needing clothes.”

“Naw, I think I’ll go around naked,” teased Gabriel. “Any ladies in the house? Other than your Merri, I mean.”

“Unless they took their leave—which I very much doubt despite my threats—Merri’s family is here. There is the unhappy Lady Harwood, wife of the current earl, her mother-in-law the dowager, a widowed sister-in-law by the name of Lady Schuster, and a young beauty named Michaella. And I believe the nursery is overflowing with little Harwoods and Schusters of all ages and sizes. Dear God in heaven, I hope they’ve left! Michaella was the only tolerable one in the bunch.”

Gabriel smiled. “Bad as all that, are they? Why don’t you toss them out on their collective ears? That would be like you from what I hear.”

“What have you heard?”

His cousin yawned before saying, “Lord Heartless, they call you. I’ve known all along where you were and what you were up to, you know. I couldn’t seek you out because… well, I just couldn’t. Are you really as heartless as they say?”

“How did I become that well-known in France? Every pub and tavern I went in seemed to be filled with men quaking at the mere sight of me.”

“You are legendary, cousin. You have no conscience, no sensibilities, no morals, no heart. I laughed when they said you were worse than Satan himself. I know you better than that. I did at one time anyway.”

For some unexplainable reason, Gabriel’s assessment of his character hurt Derringer. He had heard it all before so it shouldn’t cause this ache in his chest.

“Do you believe all that rot?”

Hughes approached the bed and forestalled Gabriel’s answer. He handed the patient a glass and Gabriel gulped it down without even asking what was in it. His face twisted into a grimace, he shook his head slightly as if trying to get rid of the taste, and then he grinned.

“Sleep now,” mumbled the footman in a guttural voice that made Derringer shiver.

The duke rose to his feet, bid his cousin goodnight, and left the room after promising to look out some clothes for him.

As Derringer settled himself into his high bed, the thought did cross his mind to seek out his wife and settle a few important matters between them. But his eyes refused to stay open and he was soon deeply asleep.

He came awake a few hours later with the feeling that he was being watched. Darkness coated the chamber, the only light a sliver of moonlight coming from a crack in the drapes.

Someone—or something—watched him, but he couldn’t tell exactly where it crouched in the vast chamber. Lids half-lowered, even breaths, forced calm, Derringer waited for he knew not what.

Whoever was there was not his friend. They were probably there to dispatch him to his maker. One too many incidents in the past left the duke attacked, injured, the clear goal to end his life. He wasn’t about to let that happen until he at least determined who went to such trouble to see him dead.

His dark eyes shot to the window where a shadow momentarily blocked the thread of moonlight. So he could expect the attack to come from his left. Every muscle in his tall form tensed with anticipation. He would know who wanted him dead, once and for all.

The attack took him by surprise. It came from his right and he narrowly missed being skewered to his mattress. He rolled to the side, throwing the blankets off him as he did so. He heard a muffled grunt and surmised that the bedclothes had caught at least one of his assailants. There was still the man near the windows. His eyes adjusted to the dark and he could make out the man’s dim outline.

Derringer headed right for him. A sharp pain sliced through his left shoulder—the same shoulder he injured two years previous in an attempt to rescue Aurora Greville—but he ignored it and slammed his fist into what he hoped was the man’s face. The man retaliated with an uppercut that slammed Derringer across the room. He landed on his back, his injured shoulder protesting the impact, and fought to regain his breath.

With the agility of a cat, the duke regained his feet. Arms outstretched, his eyes searched the Stygian gloom.

A muffled sound came from his right and his eyes darted in that direction. A blade glinted in the shaft of moonlight. He twisted his body to avoid the weapon. His arm shot out, caught something very human, and he twisted until he had the man in his arms with the knife at the man’s throat.

“Show yourself or your friend dies,” he told the other man in that silky tone that most men knew indicated blind fury.

The other shadow detached itself from the wall and sauntered toward the duke. Just before he would have been in arm’s reach, he darted around Derringer and escaped through the door and out into the winding, labyrinth-style passages of the castle.

“It seems your friend has deserted you,” the duke drawled.

Much to the duke’s surprise and horror, the man in his arms jerked his body convulsively. His arm, imprisoned by Derringer in a death grip, gave a sickening crack. The man groaned, Derringer relaxed his hold an infinitesimal degree, and in that split second of surprise, the man twisted and jabbed his fist into the duke’s ribs. He disappeared in the same direction as his accomplice.

The duke went after them. He left his chamber, shouting for help, and ran in the direction of the stairs leading to the second floor. He stopped short of descending them and stared down for about three seconds before his eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped to the floor in a dead faint.

19

Leandra rushed from her room at the first bellow for help. She witnessed her husband’s appearance on the landing, clothed in nothing but his breeches, blood running from his shoulder, over his chest and down his arm. He stopped short, wavered, and collapsed in a heap. Was he dead?

She stopped next to Derringer’s inert form, but her head whipped around at a sound behind her. Eyes widening, she beheld the sudden appearance of another man, one who possessed an uncanny resemblance to her husband. Same dark hair, tall, muscular form and angular features, but this man lacked one arm, the sleeve of his nightshirt rolled up and pinned at the shoulder.

Then he was beside her and looking down at the duke. He cursed.

Leandra ignored him, dropping to her knees beside her husband. She gently smoothed the hair from his face. He was breathing, she was relieved to note, but the blood didn’t seem to be stopping. Rather, it flowed faster. With no thought for modesty, she ripped a large strip from her generous nightclothes. Pressing the cloth firmly to Derringer’s shoulder, she threw an anxious glance at the man standing above them.

“You must be Merri,” he said in a voice much like the duke’s. He knelt down and ran his one hand over Derringer’s ribcage. “Cracked,” he muttered to himself. He pressed his hand hard against the wound in the duke’s shoulder, cursing under his breath the whole time. He glanced into Leandra’s worried face and said soothingly, “He’ll survive. He’s lived through worse, you know. And he’s merely fainted.”

The pounding of feet heralded the arrival of Lord Greville, Lady Greville not far behind.

“What happened?” inquired that lady as she, too, knelt down. Her fingers traced a line over Derringer’s forehead, feather-light. Her worried turquoise eyes flashed to Leandra’s hazel ones.

“I don’t know,” Leandra admitted. Stark came flying from the servants’ rooms in the attic. “He was standing on the landing, bleeding all over, and then he looked down, and he... fell.”

Martin made his appearance, distress creasing his pale brow. He saw the duke lying on the floor, swiveled his gaze slightly… and saw his brother. “Oh, bloody hell! You’re supposed to be dead!”

“I’ve missed you, too,” replied Gabriel, voice thick with sarcasm. “Perhaps someone could take Hart back to his bed? Hughes,” he called, gesturing to the deaf footman, “ride for the doctor.” Hughes carefully watched Gabriel’s lips, nodded, and took off at a run.

Greville motioned everyone out of the way and lifted his tall friend with seeming little effort. He carried him back to the master chamber.

Leandra walked ahead of him, lighting candles all over the room. She gasped when she turned and saw the wreck of the room. “What happened?” Her voice trembled on the words.

Aurora put her arm around her, giving her a gentle squeeze. “We will find out, my dear. And he will be all right. He always is, you know.”