Lady Hope and the Duke of Darkness: The Baxendale Sisters Book 3 (2 page)

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The Loire Valley, France

Daniel Brienne, Duc du Ténèbres, galloped his hunter down the road bordered by thick forest, his enjoyable afternoon of cards with Monsieur Allard ruined after Madame Geneviève Bonnaire had called. The seductress made no secret that she wished to become Daniel’s duchess. The widow’s husband had been a wealthy man who’d held high office during the Revolution, and her lands ran with his on his eastern boundary. She’d practically stripped the clothes off him with her acquisitive gaze. He’d swallowed his annoyance, made his apologies and taken his leave.

The tower and the elaborate chimneys of Château du Ténèbres appeared above the trees. From this distance, the ruined tower looked undamaged, the timber supports and the rebuilding hidden from view. Daniel had bought back the château two years ago. Confiscated during the Revolution, the shell of a house he’d found was being restored.

Daniel had turned his back on England. After losing Elizabeth and his baby son, Tobias, there was a hole where his heart was, and the days ahead of him stretched out, empty and vast.

Still, he was determined to remain in the country of his birth, even though he felt little kinship here, and bad memories stalked the corridors. His mother, Alexandrie, had died here before his father had fled with him to England.

His father had refused to accept the end of the
ancien régime
. The old duke had insisted Daniel do his duty and marry a French aristocrat. When Daniel had failed to do his bidding, his father refused to acknowledge Daniel’s marriage to Elizabeth. The bitterness that lay between them had never been resolved.

The peace Daniel sought here seemed impossible to attain, as images flooded his mind everywhere he turned. The way his son’s fingers had curled trustingly around his, and Elizabeth, who’d jumped at every shadow, and while she stirred his sense of protectiveness, she never stirred his passion. Guilt piled upon guilt, and the nightmares continued, more vivid than ever. He’d dreamed last night of thrashing blindly through water and woke strangled by his sheets.

As Daniel rode across the grass, his horse stumbled into a rabbit hole. Tonnerre regained his balance but favored a leg.

Daniel jumped down. “Now, what’s amiss? You’re always so surefooted.” He ran his hand down the horse’s foreleg. The animal shuddered.

“
Mon dieu!”
It looked bad. With a soft curse, Daniel led the limping horse toward the stables. “Fetch Anton,
tout suite
!”

The stable boy, who rushed out at his approach, ran for the head groom while Daniel led the horse into a stall. He took a brush and began to groom the animal to calm it. Tonnerre whickered, and his nostrils flared. Concern tightened Daniel’s gut, and he talked softly to the distressed horse.

Moments later, Anton rose from his crouch and patted the gelding’s nose. “I think it best to put him down, Your Grace.”

Daniel scowled. “Is there a chance you can save him?”

Anton shrugged. “I doubt you’ll ride him again. Not with that leg.”

“Tonnerre will not be in pain?”

“No, Your Grace, but he may be lame.”

“If there’s any chance, do your best for him. At worst, he can enjoy the rest of his life roaming a paddock,” Daniel said tersely. “The leg isn’t broken, and he has a right to live the same as we.” Daniel left him. He could not countenance losing Tonnerre. He had no energy left to deal with it.

At the house, his servant, Alphonse, hovered, dwarfed by the massive front door. “You have a visitor, Duc.”

“
Qu’est-ce?
”

“It’s Monsieur Cosgrove.”

“
Bon!
” Daniel’s footsteps echoed across the massive hall with its soaring ceiling. What brought the English politician here? As he entered the oak-paneled library, his favorite room in the house, a solidly built man turned from the long windows, which gave a view over lawns to the rim of dense forest.

He bowed. “
Monsieur le Duc
.”

“Miles! It is good to see you.” Daniel crossed the parquet floor to shake his friend’s hand, his pleasure marred by the fear that his solitary life was about to be disrupted.

“And I you.” There was a hint of sympathy in his smile. “How are you faring these days?”

“I am well,” Daniel said carefully.

“You are much missed in England.” Miles frowned. “But you may not be so pleased once I’ve relayed my news.”

Daniel drew breath. “The king?”

“No, His Majesty is busily reviving the tartan in Scotland wearing full Highland dress.”

“Oh?” Daniel fought not to smile at the image in his mind.

“Yes, wearing Royal tartan and gold chains and pink pantaloons.”

“Pink pantaloons?” Daniel repeated in a faint voice.

“And assorted weaponry,” Miles continued in a mock-grave tone, not trying to spare him. “Cost the public purse close on fourteen hundred pounds.”

Daniel gave in and chuckled.

“But the government grows nervous about a matter looming between England and France,” Miles continued in a graver tone. “Canning wishes your help on a matter of diplomacy.”

That meant returning to England, something Daniel had no desire to do. He gestured to the leather sofas facing the fireplace. Then he approached the sideboard and held up a crystal decanter. “Cognac?”

“The king’s standing within the Congress of the Great Powers is not strong and Wellington has been unable to deter the allies who have pledged their support to French intervention in Spain.” Miles accepted the snifter of Cognac with a nod of thanks. “As a Frenchman brought up in England, you are in a unique position. Your friendships with both the French Prime Minister and the French Ambassador are of great value to us. With a foot in both countries, your voice will be influential. Can I persuade you to come to England?”

Daniel had known such a request was forthcoming, but his whole body stiffened with resistance. He took a mouthful of the dark-honey-colored Cognac, allowing the hint of vanilla and spice to linger on his tongue, but the liquor failed to smooth his apprehension.

“You can be of service to both England and France should you wish to become involved. England holds a great deal of sadness for you, I know,” Miles continued. “You may tell us all to go to the devil, but I hope you will not.”

Daniel nodded and forced a smile. “
Très bien, mon ami.”
To see his country at war again was inconceivable. The two countries had far more in common than they did differences. He could not refuse. It was his duty to help if he could.

“Of course I shall come, Miles.”

Miles finished his Cognac in several swallows and put down his glass. “Excellent. When can you leave?”

Some Englishmen treated Cognac like ale with a decided lack of appreciation. “Tomorrow. I’ll have a valise packed. My trunk can be sent on.”

“You are welcome to stay at my townhouse. Anne will be delighted. She has many friends keen to meet you.”

Daniel resisted clenching his teeth. The prospect of being thrust into a noisy, demanding household made his nerves jangle.
“Merci,
mon ami
. But unnecessary. I shall be quite comfortable at a hotel until my house is made ready.” He summoned Alphonse. “And tonight, I shall have my chef cook you a superb meal.”

Miles’ eyes twinkled. “I was counting on it.”

At least Madame Bonnaire’s ardor would cool in his absence. Daniel did not intend to marry madame or, indeed, anyone. He would find himself a mistress, a woman who wanted little from him, and lose himself in soft flesh for a while.

Chapter Two

London, February 1823

Hope had intended to form firm friendships with the other debutante’s at her first ball. But her attempts to discuss anything of interest beyond fashion and the gentlemen present, drew blank stares and a few titters. Later, in the ladies withdrawing room, Lady Pamela Dalton’s spiteful insinuation that Amy Tyndale’s grandmother had been a notorious demirep, had sent poor Amy rushing away in tears.

Pamela had merely shrugged and patted her hair. She gazed at Hope as if she was about to bestow a vail on a servant. “I daresay you wish for a more successful Season than your sisters?”

Hope turned back to the mirror. “Lady Pamela, both my sisters married into the Brandreth family.”

“But not the heir, I believe. Lady Faith refused many offers before marrying one of the sons, who lacked an estate. Lady Honor caused quite a scene here in this very ballroom when she entered through the French doors with her future husband. They’d been away for hours. Your father sent her home in disgrace.” She tucked the loop of her fan over her wrist. “It was
most
diverting.”

“I’m suddenly struck by an interesting fact, Lady Pamela,” Hope said, observing her through the mirror as she secured a silk rose in her hair.

Pamela’s plucked eyebrows rose. “Oh and what is that?”

“It’s said that every claw on a cat’s paw points the same way.”

Pamela’s eyes flashed. “Are you comparing me with a cat?”

“Not at all. I like cats.”

Pamela snatched up her reticule and left the room.

Pamela bared her claws at anyone she saw as a possible rival, and Hope had no illusions that she was the current mouse in the other woman’s sight.

Hope’s feet ached. She removed a slipper and rubbed her toes as the carriage took her and her mother back to Mayfair. The streets were quiet in the early hours, with only a little traffic about and gentlemen strolling home from their nightly pursuits. Her first ball had proven somewhat anticlimactic. She’d tried to remain bright and sparkling but, instead, had spent the last few hours yawning behind her fan.

“Your introduction to the
ton
has been a success.” Mama nestled in the corner of the carriage, limp and exhausted.

“It could have been better,” Hope said thoughtfully.

“Early days. Many of the beau monde
has yet to return from their country estates.”

Hope examined the tear in her fragile white net gown. She liked this one, especially the bodice sewn with seed pearls. Some clumsy oaf had torn the hem. It was hard to remember which of her partners the culprit was. No one stood out for none had raised her interest. Her attempts at vivacious conversation appeared to fall on deaf ears. One man talked about his set of bronzes, another listed the contents of his wine cellar. And when another spent the entire waltz staring down her neck, she’d felt quite dispirited. She’d gazed over Lord Hogg’s shoulder and attempted to distract him by introducing about the subject of George III’s library, which had been offered to the British Museum. She’d read about it in her father’s newspaper. Hogg had stared at her and burst out laughing. “You need hardly concern yourself with such matters,” he’d said. “Leave it to men.” She’d been sorely tempted to stamp on his foot.

Hope eased her shoulders. “Dance partners were knee deep around Lady Pamela Dalton.”

Her mother nodded. “But are they the right suitors to please her father? He is a marquess, and she sets her cap high. She is not as pretty as you, my dear. Your dress was a brilliant choice if I do say it myself.”

Hope held out the skirt. “Can it be repaired?”

“Yes. But you can’t be seen wearing it for a while. We’ll have the gown altered; otherwise, it will be remembered. We mustn’t let the beau monde think we can’t afford a decent wardrobe for you.”

Hope shrugged. “Haven’t you always told us it’s the person inside the dress that matters most?”

“Of course character matters, but beauty is currency, Hope. It’s the reason Lady Pamela has failed to make a good match. Such is the way of things. Here we are at the house. I can’t wait for my bed. Our social engagements are increasing by the day. Tomorrow night we attend Lady Lieven’s soirée at the embassy with your father.”

Hope followed her mother inside the townhouse. She thought Pamela’s failure to marry well, was more about her attitude than her looks. In the bedchamber, she began to undress. Charity raised her head from her pillow and blinked in the light. “Was it wonderful?” she asked sleepily.

“I hope you haven’t got a painting in here,” Hope said. “I can smell oil paint.”

Charity yawned. “No, I did have but just to study it. One of the best I’ve done. I’ve learned so much from visiting the art gallery. The painting is downstairs now. I had another French lesson today. Shall we just speak in French to practice?”

“No thank you. I prefer English.”

“You don’t sound thrilled. Didn’t the evening go well?”

“I’m sorry. Not as good as I expected. No one of consequence was there. I danced with a viscount, but he wasn’t at all nice.” She still wished to make friends amongst the other young ladies, but the jealous and desperate Lady Pamela had quite put up her hackles.

“It’s your first ball. You have a whole Season ahead,” Charity mumbled. “But if it’s a duke you’ve got your heart set on, you may well be disappointed.” Her head fell back on the pillow.

“I expect I’ll meet one before long.” Hope wrinkled her nose at her sleeping sister and climbed into bed beside her. She snuffed out the lamp, and lay staring into the dark. It would be a perfectly glorious Season. She would make it so. If a duke asked her to dance, she would double her efforts to be enchanting.