The Dangerous Duke (19 page)

“No, I’m not in the habit of ravishing unwilling ladies, as I told you once before. Besides, I have too much respect for you. I put a ring on your finger tonight to save you the shame of arriving here unattended by an abigail. I told the Priddys that our luggage and your attendant have been delayed by a broken wheel on the carriage.”

“So what is the reason for this charade then?”

“One night with me and you will be obliged to marry me,” he replied.

“How is this so?” she demanded. “You have just said you have no intention of forcing yourself upon me.”

“I don’t have to,” he said simply. “It’s not what I do that matters; it’s what people will think we have done that matters.”

He patted her shoulder. “You will be happy with me, my dear, and we need not live in England. I have money enough for us to live abroad in comfort and you will forget him, I promise.”

He stood up and took the candlestick from where Mrs. Priddy had thoughtfully placed it. “I think a night’s rest will help you see things in a clearer light in the morning.”

He motioned for her to precede him out the room. They went up the stairs to a small, but comfortable bedroom. At the door she turned.

“Do you intend to sleep here tonight as well?”

He tapped her chin playfully as he handed her the candle.

“Certainly not! It would not be fitting. You may sleep safe from my advances. However, I must turn the key on you tonight. I cannot have you running away.”

He pushed her gently into the room, locked the door and placed the key in his pocket. Humming softly to himself, he returned to the parlour and made up a comfortable bed with sofa cushions.

* * * *

A few minutes later, there was a loud thumping at the front door.

“It’s you, Yer Grace!” gasped Mr. Josiah Priddy, the proprietor, peering into the darkness and clasping his nightshirt around his plump knees. “Oi was sayin’ to the missus how it’s uncommon strange to hear a bangin’ at the door this time o’night.”

He bowed the irate Duke into the hallway as a gust of chilly wind blew out the feeble candle.

“Oh! Oh! Sir, now where’s the tinderbox.” He peered up the stairs and bellowed, “Missus Priddy? It’s ’is Grace. Ye’d better coom down.”

A faint screech and pattering of feet indicated that his lady wife was roused and on her way at a gallop. A glimmer of light appeared at the top of the stairs.

Devlin pushed past the stout innkeeper. “Never mind, Priddy. I have business with one of your guests.”

As Mr. Priddy caught sight of a long bundle under Devlin’s arm, he burst out, “Say there won’t be trouble now, Sir! Not in this ’ouse, please, Yer Grace. The authorities will be down ’ere in a flash if they get wind o’ duelin’.”

He sank onto his knees, his several chins quivering in agitation, and such a look of distress on his jowly countenance that Devlin suppressed a smile.

“Priddy,” he ordered, “get back to bed. This is none of your business. There’ll be no trouble and if you don’t tell the authorities, I won’t either.”

Devlin’s black humour was lost upon the doleful innkeeper. Muttering sadly under his breath, Priddy trod up the staircase where his plump spouse met him halfway on the downward. A faint muttering and muffled shriek ensued; then two pairs of heavy steps faded away.

Devlin smiled—an unpleasant tightening of his lips—and pushed open the parlour door.

Sir Marcus was standing with his back to the door, facing the fireplace as Devlin entered the room. He turned to greet the intruder.

“Ah, Deverell,” he nodded in acknowledgement. “I’m surprised to see you here.”

Devlin merely flung the long bundle onto the table. It landed with a metallic clatter. Sir Marcus flinched and put up his quizzing glass to observe the bundle.

“Dear me, no,” he sighed, affecting incredulity. “Don’t tell me you are going to call me out? How positively Gothic.”

Although Sir Marcus could hold his own and had frequently done so when sending an irate husband packing with honour satisfied, he was no match for the Duke. Devlin, like most London gentlemen of the age, regularly honed his skills with the sword at the prestigious Angelo’s Fencing Academy in the Haymarket. His proficiency was legendary.

“Yes, I am.” Devlin’s reply was brusque.

“Why on earth would you want to do that, my dear fellow?” murmured Sir Marcus.

“You have insulted me, my home, my mother and my family honour in your rampant and unbridled pursuit of a lady under my roof!” Devlin roared. “I know Fenella Preston is here.”

“Think, Deverell.” Sir Marcus’ voice was urgent with reason. “You are engaged to the lovely Penelope. Why on earth do you want to bother with an unimportant girl like Miss Preston?”

“Why do you want to bother with her if she is so unimportant?” Devlin’s question was pointed in return.

“Because I can. She is nothing to you, and can never be, whereas I—” He gave a harsh laugh. “I am so low, it would appear, that it matters not whom I take to wife.”

“Wife?” Devlin’s lips tightened. “You want to
marry
her?”

“Yes, of course I want to marry her!” Sir Marcus snapped. “Just because you think me lower than a snake’s belly doesn’t mean I cannot recognise quality when I see it. I’m not as fussy as you are in seeking the social acme when it comes to a bride, but I need not have one from the gutter. Even though that is your opinion.”

He glared at Devlin. Two pairs of eyes locked; emerald met sapphire in a gaze that spelled clearly there was no going back. The die was cast.

“You have no right to challenge me,” Sir Marcus said quietly, “since you have absolutely no claim to the lady yourself.”

Devlin knew Sir Marcus was correct and he hated his rival for telling him what he already knew.

Sir Marcus folded his arms. “You cannot call me out. There is no reason. I have not wronged you personally.”

“I can and will. I challenge you,” was Devlin’s retort.

“You cannot make me.” Sir Marcus stared coolly at Devlin, contempt curling his lip. “By God, but you’re a selfish brute. What would you say if I told you the lady came willingly?”

Devlin turned his head and shot an upward glance at the faint thudding noises coming from the room overhead. He gave a sardonic grin.

“I’d say you had a reluctant bride!”

Sir Marcus took a step forward, his pride wounded. His patience snapped. “You scoundrel. I’ll have your blood for that.”

“Finally I get the yes I’ve been waiting for.” Devlin showed his teeth as he yanked the cloak away from the weapons lying on the table.

Both men divested themselves of their coats and boots and tucked up their shirtsleeves. Devlin selected a blade from the two and swished it through the air. The hissing sound was unpleasant and Sir Marcus recoiled instinctively. They moved the furniture out of the way to the sides of the room. Once ready and armed, the opponents faced each other with an air of grim determination. After the briefest exchange of salutes, the duel began

“En garde
!” Devlin lunged forward.

The two blades met with a venomous scraping sound as the first thrusts were exchanged. The combatants were caught up in the heat of their rage. Reason fled as both men pursued their goals in a mood of recklessness laced with resentment.

Devlin dispensed with caution and drove his opponent hard with stylish brilliance, executing his thrusts with strong and cunning wrist play. Sir Marcus, a more prudent adversary, fell back under the force of Devlin’s assault. He lacked Devlin’s flourish and boldness of attack, but defended himself well. For a while, the only sounds were the rasping of the blades, the pad of stockinged feet and the panting of the men, one driving with fierce passion, the other hard-pressed. Sweat rolled down their faces but neither dared lose precious moments by lifting a sleeve to wipe away the drops.

The sound of banging from the upstairs room continued. Sir Marcus, briefly distracted, lost his concentration. His guard wavered and in a split second, Devlin’s blade flashed through, driven by the whole force of his arm. The stinging metal shaft ripped into Sir Marcus’ arm at the shoulder.

“Damn, you have me, Sir!” Sir Marcus cursed and fell back against the table. He dropped his sword and collapsed. “I hope you’re satisfied.”

“Don’t speak,” rasped Devlin, catching his opponent before he hit the floor. He laid his injured rival on the sofa and ripped the sleeve away from the wound. He tore the fabric into long strips and bound the wound tightly.

“Neatly pinked, and by God you gave me a good fight,” he panted.

Sir Marcus closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. “I am glad to have given satisfaction, Your Grace.” Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead.

Devlin poured some brandy into a glass and held it to Sir Marcus’ lips. “Drink!”

Sir Marcus swallowed the amber liquid and then opened his eyes. “This has come to a pretty pass. I don’t want any trouble.” He rolled his eyes upward to indicate the upstairs room.

Before Devlin could answer, Mr. Priddy burst into the parlour, glanced at the supine and extremely pale gentleman on the sofa and broke out into loud moans of anguish.

“Lord have mercy, Your Grace, you’ve killed the gentleman. Look at ’im lyin’ there, dead as a doornail!”

“Stop your gabbling, you fool!” snapped the supposedly deceased man. “I am very much alive and if your wife has any knowledge of nursing, I would be glad of her services.”

“But a duel and a man wounded?” gasped Mr. Priddy. He paled at the thought of possible legal consequences. “What if there’s to be questions asked?”

“There’ll be no questions asked at the Pig and Whistle,” announced Mrs. Priddy, sailing into the parlour, armed with a basket containing rolls of bandages and bottles of ointment. “It’s as plain as a pikestaff that these two gentlemen were ’avin a friendly bit o’ sword practice and what with one thing and another, and too much drink …” Her voice tailed off as she cast a stern glance at the brandy bottle Devlin still held. He quickly placed it on the table behind him. “It’s not surprising the one gentleman has pinked the other.” She set down the basket and shooed her protesting spouse out the parlour.

“So stop standin’ about wi’ yer mouth open and wringin’ your ’ands like a feeble old woman. Get boilin’ water right away, so I can see to this gentleman’s arm.” She glared meaningfully at Devlin. “I’m sure ’is Grace will be
very
glad to attend to the gentleman’s affairs while he recup’rates tonight.”

“You are an eminently sensible woman, Mrs. Priddy, and I am sure the Duke will be happy to do as you suggest.” Sir Marcus patted his pocket with his left hand as he spoke and looked at Devlin. Devlin gratefully retrieved the key and sped up the stairs to release the by now tousled and irate Miss Preston.

As he opened the door, Fenella bounced out, her cheeks flaming red and her hair awry.

“At last!” she cried. “It’s about time someone had the good sense to release me.” She saw it was Devlin in front of her. “What are you doing here?”

If Devlin had had visions of a wan and fragile maiden falling with gratitude into his arms, he was speedily disabused of this idea.

“What do you mean?” he asked in astonishment. “I’ve come to rescue you.”

“Rescue me? Ha!” She stood with her arms akimbo and her chin set in determined fury. “And what makes you think, Sir, that I need rescuing?”

“The fact that the door was locked and I had to retrieve the key from your kidnapper at the point of a sword.” Devlin retorted, growing angrier at each passing moment. He was furious at the ingratitude of the woman. She was incorrigible.

At the word “sword,” Fenella blanched. “What have you done to him? I suppose you just marched in here with that overbearing manner of yours.” She turned to run down the stairs.

Devlin caught her arm in a painful grip.

“Cannot wait to run to your lover?” he sneered. “Well, say goodbye, because whether you like it or not, you will return with me to Deverell House.”

She glared back at him. Her violet stare was almost blinding in its intensity. “And then?”

“Then you can depart in the morning, with decorum, having taken proper leave of my mother. It will not be said you sneaked off like a lowly servant girl to her suitor.”

“Is that what you think to be true?” Her voice was low and trembling with rage. Her body shook with suppressed anger.

By now, Devlin had severe doubts about his judgement of the whole situation. If Fenella was Sir Marcus’ mistress then surely he had no need to lock her in a room. It was obvious she had been brought under duress to the inn. Yet her eagerness to see Sir Marcus caused him to rethink; perhaps she was the kind of woman who liked the excitement of make-believe ravishment. He made a wild guess.

“It’s what I
know
to be true.” The words grated through his teeth.

“Then, Your Grace,” she replied with exquisite sarcasm, “you are entitled to and must hold to your beliefs.” Her gaze came to rest pointedly on his hand, which still held her arm. He flushed and released her.

Fenella ran down the stairs to the parlour. Upon opening the door, she saw Sir Marcus lying on the sofa, his one arm bandaged and Mrs. Priddy packing her bandages and medicines into a basket. A bowl of red-tinged water on the table was all that remained of the woman’s ministrations.

“What has happened?” she gasped, although the train of events leading up to the scene in front of her was evident.

“Ah, there you are, my dear,” said Sir Marcus. His voice was weak but his tone firm. “Do not upset yourself,” he said quickly as she sank down on the floor next to the sofa. “I know you are worried but all is well.”

There was a note of warning in his voice and she remained quiet as he continued, “What a ridiculous accident, to be sure.”

He shot a glance at Devlin, who had entered the room behind Fenella. “His Grace has been so gracious as to offer to escort you to Deverell House while I stay here and recover.” He gave Mrs. Priddy a kindly look, which had her blushing like a young girl.

“Now don’t you be worryin’ about anythin’,” said Mrs. Priddy to Fenella. Scandal was neither welcome nor entertained for very long at the Pig and Whistle. In her experience, gossip always brought the wrong kind of attention.

“I’ll be takin’ care of the gentleman myself and there’s no need for the surgeon,” she said with a meaningful glance at Devlin. “Things will be on the mend in a day or two.”

“Thank you for your assistance, Your Grace,” Sir Marcus said solemnly. “Perhaps you would do me the courtesy of calling on me at your
earliest
convenience tomorrow morning.” His tone was heavy with implication.

Devlin muttered his assent and escorted Fenella out the door.

* * * *

Devlin helped Fenella into the saddle and got up behind her. As Lucifer galloped back to Deverell House, both rider and passenger were silent. Devlin held Fenella close and cursed himself for feeling that familiar surrender to her scent and the aura of her feminine seductiveness. Fenella sat rigid, as if trying to avoid contact with him. Devlin was in a state of hopeless confusion. His pride prevented him asking for an explanation of the night’s muddled events. Her behaviour contradicted what he thought, yet she did not explain her actions or feelings. They rode in silence, each longing for the opportunity to unburden their hearts, yet each stubbornly refusing to break the silence between them.

When they rode back into the stables, the clip-clop of Lucifer’s hooves sounded very loud in the still night air. Devlin was not surprised to see Finch hurry toward them; he had almost expected his faithful retainer to be there when needed. Finch avoided looking at Fenella and merely said a gruff good night to them as he led Lucifer to his stall. Fenella shook off Devlin’s hand, and marched, stiff-backed, into the house. Once inside, at the foot of the stairs, Devlin opened his mouth. “I—”

“Leave me alone!” Fenella snarled at him.

Astounded at her vicious retort, Devlin bowed and went into the library. He had no idea what to say to her on the morrow but consoled himself, as he poured a large brandy, with the thought that no doubt his mother would smooth things over.

The next morning, as promised, Devlin rode back to the inn and walked into the parlour. The invalid was just finishing his breakfast of scrambled eggs, which Mrs. Priddy was spooning into his mouth.

“Thank you, Mrs. Priddy. Will you leave us now?” asked Sir Marcus. Mrs. Priddy patted his mouth with a napkin and rose.

“Now don’t you be tirin’ ’im out, Yer Grace,” she tittered as she left the room.

“Well, Solesby,” Devlin said with false heartiness. “How do you do this morning?”

“Well enough, Deverell,” Sir Marcus replied. “I’m glad you came because there are things you should know.”

Devlin had spent a sleepless remainder of the night pondering the questions in his mind, concluding that he had behaved despicably to Fenella and had hopelessly embarrassed himself. However, he was not going to tell Sir Marcus that.

“There’s no need to tell me anything,” he said stiffly. “I was wrong to stand in Miss Preston’s way. If she wishes to make her life with you, then so be it. I merely wanted to save my mother the humiliation of her companion eloping with a guest.”

“Oh, shut up for once with your pontificating,” growled Sir Marcus. “You’ve got it all wrong. It’s you she loves, not me, and she did not come willingly, as you correctly surmised. I kidnapped her.”

Devlin’s mouth fell open in astonishment as Sir Marcus continued to unravel the whole chain of events and motives behind the situation. Finally, he lay back against his pillows, exhausted and pale, but looking strangely satisfied.