No Good Duke Goes Unpunished (5 page)

She had drugged the man, after all.

She was across the room and had the blanket in her hands before she could change her mind. She spread it across him, tucking it around his body carefully, trying not to notice the size of him. The way he exuded warmth and the tempting scent of clove and thyme. The memory of him. The now of him.

Failing.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

And then she left.

Chapter 3

H
e dreamed of the ballroom at Whitefawn Abbey, gleaming sun-bright in the shade of a thousand candles and the sheen of silks and satins in a myriad of color.

The room belied the darkness that lurked beyond the enormous windows overlooking the massive gardens of the Devonshire estate—the country seat of the Duke of Lamont.

His estate.

He descended the wide marble stairs to the ballroom floor, where a crush of bodies writhed in time to the orchestra situated behind a wall of greenery at the far end of the room. The heat of the revelers overwhelmed him as he made his way through the throngs, pressing against him, pulsing with laughter and sighs, hands reaching for him, touching, grasping. Wide smiles and unintelligible words beckoned him deeper into the mass of people—welcoming him into its center.

Home.

There was a glass in his hand; he lifted it to his lips, the cool stream of champagne quenching the thirst he hadn’t noticed before, but was now nearly unbearable. He lowered the glass, letting it fall into nothingness as a beautiful woman turned and stepped into his arms.

“Your Grace.” The title echoed through him, coming on a wave of pleasure.

They danced.

The steps came from distant memory, a slow, spinning eternity of long-forgotten skill. The woman in his arms was all warmth, tall enough to make him a proper match, and curved enough to fit his long arms.

The music swelled, and still they danced, turning again and again, the sea of faces in the ballroom fading into blackness—the walls of the room falling away as he was distracted by a sudden, heavy weight on his sleeve. He turned his attention to his forearm, wrapped in black wool, pristine but for a sixpence-sized white spot.

Wax, fallen from the chandeliers overhead.

As he watched, the spot liquefied, spreading across his coat sleeve in a thread of molten honey. The woman in his arms reached for the liquid—her long, delicate fingers stroking along the fabric, her touch spreading fire as it crept toward the spot, hot wax coating her fingertips before she turned them up to his gaze.

She had beautiful hands.

Beautiful skin.

She wore no gloves.

He followed the line of her long arm from wrist to shoulder, taking in her piecemeal perfection—the curves and valleys of her collarbone; the long rise of her neck; her angled jaw; her wide, welcoming mouth; long, equine nose; and eyes like none he’d ever seen. One blue, one green.

Her lips curved around the words he’d craved and feared for so long. “Your Grace.”

And, like that, she was in focus.

Mara Lowe.

He woke on the floor of his library, coming to his feet in a mad rush, a foul curse echoing in the blue fog of breaking dawn.

A green and black tartan fell to his feet as he rose, and the fact that the woman had covered him with a blanket after drugging him in the dead of night was no kind of comfort. He imagined her standing over him at his most vulnerable moment, and wanted to roar his anger.

She had drugged him and left.

Again.

On the heels of that thought came another.

Dear God. She was alive.

He hadn’t killed her.

Relief burst full and high in his lungs, warring with frustration and ire.

He wasn’t a killer.

He ran one hand down his face to ease the tightness of the emotion, and noticed that she had not simply left him.

She’d also left a note, scrawled across yesterday’s news, and pinned to his chest with a simple hairpin, as though he were a package to be delivered by post.

He tore the missive from its mooring, knowing that whatever she had to say would do little to assuage his anger.

I had hoped it would not come to this, but I will not be intimidated, and I will not be strong-armed.

He resisted the urge to crumple the note and throw it into the fire. She thought
she
was the one being strong-armed? When it was
he
who had been knocked out on the floor of his own study?

The offer is a trade, and nothing less.

When you are in a negotiating frame of mind, I welcome your visit for a discussion of equals.

That would be impossible. He was not nearly mad enough to be her equal.

You will find me at No. 9 Cursitor Street.

She’d left her address. Mistake. She should have run. Not that he wouldn’t have caught her; he would have spent the rest of his life chasing her if she’d run.

He deserved his retribution, after all. And she would give it to him.

Who was this stupid, brave woman?

Mara Lowe. Alive. Found.

Strong as steel.

The thought came, another fast on its heels, and he reached inside his boot, knowing what he would find.

The harpy had stolen her knife.

W
ithin the hour, he was washed and on his way to No. 9 Cursitor Street, uncertain of what to expect. It was possible the woman had run, after all, and as he made his way deeper and deeper into the streets of Holborn, he wondered if she had done just that and left him with directions to her personal cutthroats to finish the job she’d begun the prior evening.

The neighborhood was less than pleasant, even at seven in the morning. Drunks were nestled in doorways of unsavory taverns, empty bottles fallen haphazardly to their sides as they lolled in their early-morning stupors. A haggard prostitute stumbled into the street from an alleyway beyond, eyes bloodshot and heavy as she plowed into him.

Her eyes met his, and he recognized the faraway look in them. “Wot’s a fancy bloke like yerself doin’ ’ere?”

Chasing ghosts.

Like an imbecile.

The prostitute’s touch was everywhere, and he caught her as she searched his coat for his purse.

“No luck today, darling,” he said, extracting the empty hand.

She did not hesitate to lean in, and he steeled himself against her sour breath. “ ’Ow ’bout a bit o’ business, then? I’ve never ’ad one yer size.”

“Thank you,” he replied, lifting her and setting her to the side. “But I’m afraid I’ve an appointment.”

She grinned, two teeth missing. “Tell me, luv. Are you big all over?”

Another man would have ignored the question, but Temple had lived a long time on these streets, and he was comfortable with whores. For years, they’d been the only women willing to keep him company—luckily, he’d never had to settle for ones quite so . . . well used.

Fate had dealt the woman an unfortunate circumstance, a truth that Temple understood better than most. She did not deserve scorn for the way she managed.

He winked. “I’ve never had a complaint.”

She cackled. “Any time you like, luv. A right bargain, I am.”

He tipped his hat. “I shall remember that.” And he was off, down Cursitor, counting the doors until he reached number nine.

The building was out of place—cleaner than all the others on the row, with flower boxes in the windows, each boasting a mass of mums in bright colors—and as he stood outside, staring up at the flagstones, he knew that he’d found the place. And that she hadn’t run.

But why live here, on a filth-ridden street in Holborn?

He raised the knocker and let it fall with a firm rap.

“I see I wouldn’t be the first to sample the wares.” He turned back to the street, where the prostitute stood watching him. She came closer, gaze suddenly knowing. “I know you.”

He looked away.

“Yer the Killer Duke.” He returned his attention to the door, frustration coursing through him. It never went away, that cold thread of anger mixed with something worse. Something far more devastating. “Not that I care, luv. A girl like me can’t be too choosy.”

But he heard the change in her voice. The edge. Wariness and knowledge and a tinge of equality. They both lived in the darkness, after all, didn’t they?

He ignored her, but she continued. “You’ve a boy for MacIntyre?”

He looked to the door again, then back at the woman in the street. “A boy?”

She raised a brow. “Y’ain’t the first y’know. Won’t be the last. It’s the way of it. The way of
men
. Girls ought to be careful these days. Especially around the likes of you.”

The woman hadn’t met Mara Lowe, evidently.

The door opened, ending the woman’s sermon and revealing a young lady with a cherubic face in the house beyond. She couldn’t have been older than sixteen, peering up at him with wide, surprised eyes.

He tipped his hat. “Good morning. I’m here for Mara.”

The girl’s brow furrowed. “Mrs. MacIntyre, you mean?”

He should have known she wouldn’t be here. Should have known she’d lied to him. Had the woman ever told a truth in her life? “I don’t—”

He couldn’t finish the sentence, however, as hell chose that precise moment to break loose inside the house.

A cacophony of shouting erupted from a room beyond his view, and a half-dozen small figures came tearing through the foyer, chased by a handful of slightly larger figures, one of which was carrying—was that a table leg?

Three of the smaller creatures seemed to sense their impending demise and did what any intelligent being would do in such a scenario—ran for the exit. They made a tactical error, however, in that they did not count on either Temple or the young woman to be in the vicinity, and so instead of a straight shot into the street, they found themselves captured like flies in a wide web of skirt.

The trio cried out in frustration. The maid at the door cried out in what Temple could only imagine was terror, and not improperly placed. And the leg-brandishing creature cried out in conquest, leaping onto a small table in the entryway, raising his club high above his head and launching himself into the fray.

For one fleeting moment, Temple admired both the child’s courage and his form in battle.

The girl at the door stood no chance. She toppled like a felled poplar, and the boys scurried from their cambric trap, tumbling across the floor, kicking and screeching and wrestling.

And it was only when squeals began to emanate from the pile that Temple realized he could not in good conscience back away from the door and let the insanity ensue without him.

If these children escaped, they would wreak havoc on London.

He was the only one qualified to contain them. Obviously.

Without asking permission, he stepped over the threshold and entered the house, the door closing behind him with a great thud even as he helped the maid to her feet. Once he had confirmed that all her extremities were in working order, he turned to the more unsettling matter at hand . . . the writhing pile of boys at the center of the foyer.

And then he did what he did best.

He entered the fight.

He pulled boys one by one out of the pile and set them on their feet, removing wooden swords and bags of rocks and other makeshift weapons from hands and pockets before setting them free, placing each of them on the ground with a firm “That’s enough,” before going back to extract the next.

He had taken the last two boys in hand—the one with the table leg and another who was quite small—and lifted them clear off the floor when he saw it, small and pink and unmoving.

He leaned in, still holding the two boys.

“Aww . . .” said the boy with the table leg, seeming not to mind that his feet were dangling two feet above the floor. “She’ll get away.”

Was that a—

The piglet sprang to life with an ear-splitting squeal, running for the nearest room and startling Temple, who leapt back. “Jesus Christ!”

And, for the first time since he’d knocked on the door, there was silence inside No. 9 Cursitor Street.

He turned to face the boys, each of whom was staring up at him wide-eyed.

“What is it?”

None of them replied, instead all looking to their leader, who still held his weapon, but luckily seemed disinclined to use it. “You took the Lord’s name in vain,” he said, accusation and something close to admiration in his tone.

“Your pig startled me.”

The boy shook his head. “Mrs. MacIntyre doesn’t like cursing.”

From what Temple had seen, Mrs. MacIntyre might do well to worry less about the boys’ language and more about their lives, but he refrained from saying as much.

“Well then,” he said, “let’s not tell her it happened.”

“Too late,” said the little one in his other hand, and Temple turned to look at the boy, who was pointing to something behind him.

“I am afraid I already heard it.”

He turned to the voice, soft and feminine. And familiar.

He set the boys down.

She hadn’t run
. “Mrs. MacIntyre, I presume?”

Mara did not reply, instead turning to the boys. “What have I said about chasing Lavender?”

“We weren’t chasing her!” several boys cried at the same time.

“She was our booty!” another said.

“Stolen from
our
treasure!” said the leader of the pack. He looked to Mara. “We were
rescuing
her.”

Temple’s brow furrowed. “The pig’s name is Lavender?”

She did not look at him, instead letting her attention move from one boy to the next with an expression he found distinctly familiar—an expression he’d seen a million times on the face of his childhood governess. Disappointment.

“Daniel? What did I say?” she asked, staring down the leader of the once-merry band. “What is the rule?”

The boy looked away. “Lavender is not treasure.”

She snapped her attention to the boy on the other side of Temple. “And what else? Matthew?”

“Don’t chase Lavender.”

“Precisely. Even if—? George?”

George shuffled his feet. “Even if she starts it.”

Mara nodded. “Good. Now that we’ve all remembered the rules regarding Lavender, please tidy yourselves and put away your weaponry. It’s time for breakfast.”

A ripple of hesitation passed over the boys, each one of the dozen or so faces peering up at Temple in frank assessment.