The Lost Duke of Wyndham (6 page)

He shrugged. “I am not most men.” Then he offered a half smile and turned to Miss Eversleigh. “A rather banal rejoinder on my part, wouldn't you say? So obvious. A novice could have come up with it.” He shook his head as if disappointed. “I do hope I'm not losing my touch.”

Her eyes widened.

He grinned. “You think I'm mad.”

“Oh, yes,” she said, and he rather enjoyed her voice again, washing warmly over him.

“It's something to consider.” He turned to the old lady. “Does madness run in the family?”

“Of course not,” she snapped.

“Well, that's a relief. Not,” he added, “that I am acknowledging a connection. I don't believe I wish to be associated with cutthroats such as yourself. Tsk tsk. Even I have never resorted to kidnapping.” He leaned forward, as if imparting a very grave confidence to Miss Eversleigh. “It's very bad form, you know.”

And he thought—oh, how
lovely
—that he saw her lips twitch. Miss Eversleigh had a sense of humor. She was growing more delectable by the second.

He smiled at her. He knew how to do it, too. He knew exactly how to smile at a woman to make her feel it deep inside.

He smiled at her. And she blushed.

Which made him smile even more.

“Enough,” the old lady snapped.

He feigned innocence. “Of what?”

He looked at her, at this woman who was most
probably his grandmother. Her face was pinched and lined, the corners of her mouth pulled down by the weight of an eternal frown. She'd look unhappy even if she smiled, he thought. Even if somehow she managed to get that mouth to form a crescent in the correct direction—

No, he decided. It wouldn't work. She'd never manage it. She'd probably expire from the exertion.

“Leave my companion alone,” she said tersely.

He leaned toward Miss Eversleigh, giving her a lopsided smile even though she was quite determinedly looking away. “Was I bothering you?”

“No,” she said quickly. “Of course not.”

Which couldn't have been further from the truth, but who was he to quibble?

He turned back to the old lady. “You didn't answer my question.”

She lifted an imperious brow.
Ah
, he thought, completely without humor,
that was where he got the expression
.

“What do you plan to do with me?” he asked.

“Do with you.” She repeated the words curiously, as if she found them most strange.

He lifted a brow right back at her, wondering if she'd recognize the gesture. “There are a great many options.”

“My dear boy,” she began. Her tone was grand. Condescending. As if he'd only needed this to realize that he ought to be licking her boots. “I'm going to give you the world.”

 

Grace had just about managed to regain her equilibrium when the highwayman, after a lengthy and thoughtful frown, turned to the dowager and said, “I don't believe I'm interested in your world.”

A bubble of horrified laughter burst forth from her throat. Oh dear heavens, the dowager looked ready to spit.

Grace clamped a hand over her mouth and turned away, trying not to notice that the highwayman was positively grinning at her.

“Apologies,” he said to the dowager, not sounding the least bit contrite. “But can I have
her
world instead?”

Grace's head snapped back around in time to see him nodding in her direction. He shrugged. “I like you better.”

“Are you never serious?” the dowager bit off.

And then he changed. His body did not move from its slouch, but Grace could feel the air around him coiling with tension. He was a dangerous man. He hid this well with his lazy charm and insolent smile. But he was not a man to be crossed. She was sure of it.

“I'm always serious,” he said, his eyes never leaving those of the dowager. “You'd do well to take note of that.”

“I'm so sorry,” Grace whispered, the words slipping out before she had a chance to consider them. The gravity of the situation was bearing down on her with uncomfortable intensity. She had been so worried about Thomas and what this would all mean for him. But in that moment it was brought home to her that there were two men caught in this web.

And whatever this man was, whoever he was, he did not deserve this. Perhaps he would want life as a Cavendish, with its riches and prestige. Most men would. But he deserved the choice. Everyone deserved a choice.

She looked over at him then, forcing herself to bring her eyes to his face. She had been avoiding his gaze as much as she could, but her cowardice suddenly felt distasteful.

He must have felt her watching him, because he turned. His dark hair fell forward over his brow, and his eyes—a spectacular shade of mossy green—grew warm. “I do like you better,” he murmured, and she thought—hoped?—that she saw a flicker of respect in his gaze.

And then, quick as a blink, the moment was gone. His mouth slid into that cocky half smile and he let out a pent-up breath before saying, “It's a compliment.”

It was on the tip of her tongue to say,
Thank you
, as ridiculous as that seemed, but then he shrugged—one shoulder only, as if that was all he could be bothered with—and added, “Of course, I would imagine that the only person I would like
less
than our esteemed countess—”

“Duchess,” the dowager snapped.

He paused, gave her a blandly haughty stare, then turned back to Grace. “As I was saying, the only person I would like less than
her
”—he jerked his head toward the dowager, not even honoring her with a direct glance—“would be the French menace himself, so I suppose it's not
that
much of a compliment, but I did want you to know that it was sincerely given.”

Grace tried not to smile, but he always seemed to be looking at her as if they were sharing a joke, just the two of them, and she knew that it was making the dowager more furious by the second. A glance across the carriage confirmed this; the dowager looked even more starched and upset than usual.

Grace turned back to the highwayman, as much out of self-preservation as anything else. The dowager showed every sign of an imminent tirade, but after her performance the night before, Grace knew that she was far too besotted with the idea of her long-lost grandson to make him her target.

“What is your name?” Grace asked him, since it seemed the most obvious question.

“My name?”

Grace nodded.

He turned to the dowager with an expression of great scolding. “Funny that
you
haven't asked me yet.” He shook his head. “Shameful manners. All the best kidnappers know their victims' names.”

“I am not kidnapping you!” the dowager burst out.

There was an uncomfortable moment of silence, and then his voice emerged like silk. “I misunderstand the bindings, then.”

Grace looked warily at the dowager. She'd never appreciated sarcasm unless it emerged from her own lips, and she would never allow him the last word. And indeed, when she spoke, her words were clipped and stiff, and colored blue with the blood of one secure in her own superiority. “I am restoring you to your proper place in this world.”

“I see,” he said slowly.

“Good,” the dowager said briskly. “We are in accord, then. All that remains is for us to—”

“My proper place,” he said, cutting her off.

“Indeed.”

“In the world.”

Grace realized that she was holding her breath. She could not look away, could not take her eyes off his when he murmured, “The conceit. It's remarkable.”

His voice was soft, almost thoughtful, and it cut to the bone. The dowager turned sharply toward the window, and Grace searched her face for something—anything—that might have shown her humanity, but she remained stiff and hard, and her voice betrayed no emotion when she said, “We are almost home.”

They were turning down the drive, passing the very spot where Grace had seen him earlier that afternoon.

“So you are,” the highwayman said, glancing out the window.

“You will come to regard it as home,” the dowager stated, her voice imperious and exacting and, more than anything else, final.

He did not respond. But he didn't need to. They all knew what he was thinking.

Never
.

L
ovely house,” Jack said, as he was led—hands still bound—through the grand entrance of Belgrave. He turned to the old lady. “Did you decorate? It has that woman's touch.”

Miss Eversleigh was trailing behind, but he could hear her choke back a bubble of laughter.

“Oh, let it out, Miss Eversleigh,” he called over his shoulder. “Much better for your constitution.”

“This way,” the dowager ordered, motioning for him to follow her down the hall.

“Should I obey, Miss Eversleigh?”

She did not reply, smart girl that she was. But he was far too furious for circumspect sympathy, so he took his insolence one step further. “Yoo-hoo! Miss Eversleigh! Did you hear me?”

“Of course she heard you,” the dowager snapped angrily.

Jack paused, cocking his head as he regarded the dowager. “I thought you were overjoyed to make my acquaintance.”

“I am,” she bit off.

“Hmmm.” He turned to Miss Eversleigh, who had caught up to them during the exchange. “I don't think she sounds overjoyed, Miss Eversleigh. Do you?”

Miss Eversleigh's eyes darted from him to her employer and back before she said, “The dowager duchess is most eager to accept you into her family.”

“Well said, Miss Eversleigh,” he applauded. “Insightful and yet circumspect.” He turned back to the dowager. “I hope you pay her well.”

Two red spots appeared on the dowager's cheeks, in such stark relief to the white of her skin that he would have sworn she'd used rouge if he hadn't seen the angry marks appear with his own eyes. “You are dismissed,” she ordered, not even looking at Miss Eversleigh.

“I am?” he feigned. “Lovely.” He held out his bound wrists. “Would you mind?”

“Not you,
her
.” His grandmother's jaw clenched. “As you well know.”

But Jack was not in the mood to be accommodating, and in that moment he did not even care to maintain his usual jocular facade. And so he looked her in the eye, his green meeting her icy, icy blue, and as he spoke, he felt a shiver of déjà vu. It was almost as if he were back on the Continent, back in battle, his shoulders straight and his eyes narrowed as he faced down the enemy.

“She stays.”

They froze, all three of them, and Jack's eyes did not waver from the dowager's as he continued. “You brought her into this. She will remain through to the end.”

He half expected Miss Eversleigh to protest. Hell, any sane person would have run as far as possible from the upcoming confrontation. But she stood utterly still, her arms stick-straight at her sides, her only movement her throat as she swallowed.

“If you want me,” he said quietly, “you will take her as well.”

The dowager sucked a long, angry breath through her nose and jerked her head to the side. “Grace,” she barked, “the crimson drawing room.
Now
.”

Her name was Grace. He turned and looked at her. Her skin was pale and her eyes were wide and assessing.

Grace. He liked it. It fit her.

“Don't you want to know my name?” he called out to the dowager, who was already stalking down the hall.

She stopped and turned, as he knew she would.

“It's John,” he announced, enjoying the way the blood drained from her face. “Jack to friends”—he looked at Grace with heavy-lidded seduction in his eyes—“and
friends
.”

He could have sworn he felt her shiver, which delighted him.

“Are we?” he murmured.

Her lips parted a full second before she managed to make a sound. “Are we what?”

“Friends, of course.”

“I—I—”

“Will you leave my companion alone!” the dowager barked.

He sighed and shook his head toward Miss Eversleigh. “She's so domineering, don't you think?”

Miss Eversleigh blushed. Truly, it was the prettiest pink he'd ever seen.

“Pity about these bindings,” he continued. “We do seem to be caught in a romantic moment, your employer's acidic presence aside, and it would be far easier to drop one exquisite kiss on the back of your hand were I able to lift it with one of mine.”

This time he was certain she shivered.

“Or your mouth,” he whispered. “I might kiss your mouth.”

There was a lovely silence, broken rather rudely by:

“What the devil?”

Miss Eversleigh jumped back a foot or three, and Jack turned to see an extremely angry man striding his way.

“Is this man bothering you, Grace?” he demanded.

She shook her head quickly. “No, no, he's not. But—”

The newcomer turned to Jack with furious blue eyes. Furious blue eyes that rather closely resembled those of the dowager, save for the bags and wrinkles. “Who are you?”

“Who are
you
?” Jack countered, instantly disliking him.

“I am Wyndham,” he shot back. “And you are in my home.”

Jack blinked. A cousin. His new family was grow
ing more charming by the second. “Ah. Well, in that case, I am Jack Audley. Formerly of His Majesty's esteemed army, more recently of the dusty road.”

“Who are these Audleys?” the dowager demanded, crossing back over. “You are no Audley. It is there in your face. In your nose and chin and in every bloody feature save your eyes, which are quite the wrong color.”

“The wrong color?” Jack responded, acting hurt. “Really?” He turned to Miss Eversleigh. “I was always told the ladies
like
green eyes. Was I misinformed?”

“You are a Cavendish!” the dowager roared. “You are a Cavendish, and I demand to know why I was not informed of your existence.”

“What the
devil
is going on?” Wyndham demanded.

Jack thought it wasn't his duty to answer, so he happily kept quiet.

“Grace?” Wyndham asked, turning to Miss Eversleigh.

Jack watched the exchange with interest. They were friends, but were they
friendly
? He could not be sure.

Miss Eversleigh swallowed with noticeable discomfort. “Your grace,” she said, “perhaps a word in private?”

“And spoil it for the rest of us?” Jack chimed in, because after what he'd been subjected to, he didn't much feel that anyone deserved a moment of privacy. And then, to achieve maximum irritation, he added, “After all I've been through…”

“He is your cousin,” the dowager announced sharply.

“He is the highwayman,” Miss Eversleigh said.

“Not,” Jack added, turning to display his bound hands, “here of my own volition, I assure you.”

“Your grandmother thought she recognized him last night,” Miss Eversleigh told the duke.

“I
knew
I recognized him,” the dowager snapped. Jack resisted the urge to duck as she flicked her hand at him. “Just look at him.”

Jack turned to the duke. “I was wearing a mask.” Because really, he shouldn't have to take the blame for this.

He smiled cheerfully, watching the duke with interest as he brought his hand to his forehead and pressed his temples with enough force to crush his skull. And then, just like that, his hand fell away and he yelled, “Cecil!”

Jack was about to make a quip about another lost cousin, but at that moment a footman—presumably named Cecil—came skidding down the hall.

“The portrait,” Wyndham bit off. “Of my uncle.”

“The one we just brought up to—”

“Yes. In the drawing room.
Now!
”

Even Jack's eyes widened at the furious energy in his voice.

And then—it was like acid in his belly—he saw Miss Eversleigh lay a hand on the duke's arm. “Thomas,” she said softly, surprising him with her use of his given name, “please allow me to explain.”

“Did you know about this?” Wyndham demanded.

“Yes, but—”

“Last night,” he said icily. “Did you know last night?”

Last night?

“I did, but Thomas—”

What happened last night?

“Enough,” he spat. “Into the drawing room. All of you.”

Jack followed the duke, and then, once the door was shut behind them, held up his hands. “D'you think you might…?” he asked. Rather conversationally, if he did say so himself.

“For the love of Christ,” Wyndham muttered. He grabbed something from a writing table near the wall and then returned. With one angry swipe, he cut through the bindings with a gold letter opener.

Jack looked down to make sure he wasn't bleeding. “Well done,” he murmured. Not even a scratch.

“Thomas,” Miss Eversleigh was saying, “I really think you ought to let me speak with you for a moment before—”

“Before what?” Wyndham snapped, turning on her with what Jack deemed rather unbecoming fury. “Before I am informed of another long-lost cousin whose head may or may not be wanted by the Crown?”

“Not by the Crown, I think,” Jack said mildly. He had his reputation to think of, after all. “But surely a few magistrates. And a vicar or two.” He turned to the dowager. “Highway robbery is not generally considered the most secure of all possible occupations.”

His levity was appreciated by no one, not even poor Miss Eversleigh, who had managed to incur the fury of both Wyndhams. Rather undeservedly, too, in his opinion. He hated bullies.

“Thomas,” Miss Eversleigh implored, her tone once
again causing Jack to wonder just what, precisely, existed between those two. “Your grace,” she corrected, with a nervous glance over at the dowager, “there is something you need to know.”

“Indeed,” Wyndham bit off. “The identities of my true friends and confidantes, for one thing.”

Miss Eversleigh flinched as if struck, and at that moment Jack decided that he'd had quite enough. “I suggest,” he said, his voice light but steady, “that you speak to Miss Eversleigh with greater respect.”

The duke turned to him, his eyes as stunned as the silence that descended over the room. “I
beg
your pardon.”

Jack hated him in that moment, every prideful little aristocratic speck of him. “Not used to being spoken to like a man, are we?” he taunted.

The air went electric, and Jack knew he probably should have foreseen what would come next, but the duke's face had positively twisted into fury, and Jack somehow could not seem to move as Wyndham launched himself forward, his hands wrapping themselves around his throat as the both of them went crashing down to the carpet.

Cursing himself for a fool, Jack tried to get traction as the duke's fist slammed into his jaw. Pure animalistic survival set in, and he tensed his belly into a hard knot. With one lightning-quick movement he threw his torso forward, using his head as a weapon. There was a satisfying crack as he struck Wyndham's jaw, and Jack took advantage of his stunned state to roll them over and reverse their positions.

“Don't…you….
ever
strike me again,” Jack
growled. He'd fought in gutters, on battlefields, for his country and for his life, and he'd
never
had patience for men who threw the first punch.

He took an elbow in the belly and was about to return the favor with a knee to the groin when Miss Eversleigh leapt into the fray, wedging herself between the two men with nary a thought to propriety or her own safety.

“Stop it! Both of you!”

Jack managed to nudge Wyndham's upper arm just in time to stop his fist from reaching her cheek. It would have been an accident, of course, but then he'd have had to kill him, and that
would
have been a hanging offense.

“You should be ashamed of yourself,” Miss Eversleigh scolded, looking straight at the duke.

He merely raised a brow and said, “You might want to remove yourself from my, er…” He looked down at his midsection, upon which she was now seated.

“Oh!” She jumped up, and Jack would have defended her honor except that he had to admit he'd have said the same thing were he seated under her. Not to mention that she was still holding his arm.

“Tend to my wounds?” he asked, making his eyes big and green and brimming with the world's most effective expression of seduction. Which was, of course,
I need you. I need you and if you would only care for me I will forswear all other women and melt at your feet and quite possibly become filthy rich and if you'd like even royal all in one dreamy swoop
.

It never failed.

Except, apparently, now. “You have no wounds,”
she snapped, thrusting him away. She looked over at Wyndham, who had risen to his feet beside her. “And neither do you.”

Jack was about to make a comment about the milk of human kindness, but just then the dowager stepped forward and smacked her grandson—that would be the grandson of whose lineage they were quite certain—in the shoulder.

“Apologize at once!” she snapped. “He is a guest in our house.”

A guest. Jack was touched.

“
My
house,” the duke snapped back.

Jack watched the old lady with interest. She wouldn't take well to that.

“He is your first cousin,” she said tightly. “One would think, given the lack of close relations in our family, that you would be eager to welcome him into the fold.”

Oh, right. The duke was just
brimming
with joy. “Would someone,” Wyndham bit off, “do me the service of explaining just how this man has come to be in my drawing room?”

Jack waited for someone to offer an explanation, and then, when none was forthcoming, offered his own version. “She kidnapped me,” he said with shrug, motioning toward the dowager.

Wyndham turned slowly to his grandmother. “You kidnapped him,” he said, his voice flat and strangely devoid of disbelief.

“Indeed,” she replied, her chin butting up in the air. “And I would do it again.”