The Duke (23 page)

“No, your grace. Miss Brandy took care of you during the nights. Now, don't get yourself lathered. You must know that Lady Brandy is very strong-willed. You just rest easy, your grace, and I'll be back shortly.” He continued at the uncertain look on his
master's face, “The bell cord is broken, your grace. I'll fetch Wee Albie.”

“It appears that there are a lot of wee people about. I seem to recall vaguely someone named Wee Robert.”

“The Scots doctor. He'll be here to see you this morning, no doubt.”

After Mabley closed the door quietly behind him, the duke slowly swung his legs over the side of the bed and tried to rise. He hated his helplessness, and cursed silently as his legs refused to hold his weight. He sank back down, rubbing the growth of beard on his face. Be damned if he was going to be an invalid. He flung back the covers.

Two splotches of dried blood stood out starkly on the white sheet. He froze when jagged pieces of memory began to fit themselves together. He gazed down at himself and saw more blood, as well as his own seed. He dashed his hand across his brow. He remembered. Oh, God, no. Surely he couldn't have done that to her. He felt a nagging soreness and raised his hand to touch his neck. He could feel teeth marks. He touched his fingers to his cheek, remembering her tears as he'd thrust himself deeply into her, not letting her ease, just heaving himself over her and into her, just taking and taking more until he'd found his release. He'd given her nothing except pain. And she'd endured him.

Mabley returned shortly to find the duke sitting up, staring vacantly ahead of him. He imagined his master must be in a good deal of pain. Strong he was, and proud, and he viewed illness as something to be overcome as quickly as possible. It hadn't been two days since someone had shot him, yet here he was sitting on the side of his bed. “Your grace, this will never do. You're weak. It's to be expected. We don't want the fever to come back. Here, let me help you back
under the covers. Mr. Giles wants to speak to you. Perhaps you wish to eat this broth while you see him? You need to build your strength.”

Ian nodded silently. “Yes, Mabley, the bath can wait. Give me the soup and send in Giles.”

Ten minutes later, Giles came into the bedchamber, paused in the doorway as he looked his cousin over, and said, “Ian, old fellow. If you've got your appetite, you must be on the mend.” Giles crossed to the bed and looked closely at his cousin. “You are feeling better?”

“Yes, Giles, much better. Do sit down while I eat this soup. You might know they're calling it chicken soup, but I swear there's not a shred of chicken to be found. Just this broth that doesn't taste like anything.”

“Be grateful that it doesn't. Would you prefer the taste of Cook's trifle?” Giles grinned at the duke as he sat down on the leather chair at the bedside. He began to tap his fingertips together in a thoughtful way.

“Do you remember anything, Ian, other than the obvious? Did you see any strange shadows that didn't belong on the beach? Perhaps you heard something odd that didn't quite fit?”

“I remember far too much,” the duke said slowly. “Unfortunately, none of it concerns the identity of my would-be killer. Mabley tells me there's a fellow by the name of Trevor poking about.”

“Yes, an old fool, Lady Adella tells us. He is, I think, a well-meaning fellow, but there are woefully few facts to aid him. As you can well imagine, all the Robertsons are at each other's throats. Accusations and suspicions are rife. I mean to get you away from this place, Ian, as soon as you are well enough to travel.”

The duke lowered his soup spoon, silent for some moments. He said finally, “No, I think not, Giles. It
isn't that I'm much concerned about appearing the coward by returning to England, no, not that. It's just that there's something I must still do here. No, I don't intend to try to find out who killed me. It would probably be a waste of time. I doubt that the bastard would in any way bring himself to my notice.”

“Do you refer to Percy?”

“If he's a bastard in character as he was in name, then yes. What does Lady Adella have to say about the matter? Come, I know she'd say quite a lot, it's her way.”

“She made a sour comment about disliking scoundrels and mysteries. Other than that, she has joined in the fray with the rest of the family. Felicity, as you can imagine, has been somewhat of a trial.”

The duke said abruptly, “Did you know, Giles, that Brandy has stood guard over me at night? A stupid thing to do and so I'll tell her.”

“No, I didn't know. I don't think Felicity would like that, though. No, I daresay she'd screech the rafters down from the ceiling and topple the armor from the walls. Brandy is a very unusual girl.”

“Indeed, I would have to agree with you, cousin.”

“After you were shot, she demanded of Claude exactly where
he
had been. She was like a little terrier. But you know, Ian, it doesn't set right with me, your wanting to remain here, for whatever reason. I tell you, no one, including myself, can venture other than suspicious guesses as to the identity of the person who tried to kill you. Can't you see how foolhardy it is for you to remain, possibly giving the fellow another chance at you?”

“I assure you, Giles, that I shall be very much on my guard. And if I keep myself surrounded by Robertsons, what chance would the scoundrel have?”

Giles didn't appear happy with the duke's decision,
but he kept his mouth shut. The duke had a reputation for holding to a course once he'd set it.

“You know, old boy, Felicity isn't going to be happy about your decision. She's spared no pains telling everyone what a detestable, horrid place this is and how she plans to see us all gone from here the moment you are better. Once I thought Lady Adella would throw her cane at Felicity, but the old bird managed to hold onto her control. In her place, to be honest, I don't know what I would have done. Your sweet Brandy didn't say a word, just got up and left the room. For a while there I thought she'd gone to get a gun. If she had, that would have proved interesting.”

“I will have to speak to Felicity. After Mabley's shaved me and drowned me in my bath, send her to me, will you, Giles?”

Oh, yes, he wanted to speak to Felicity. He wanted to speak to her very much.

“Y
ou're a much braver man than I, cousin.” Giles patted the duke's arm and took himself from the room.

The duke tried to concentrate upon the possible identity of his would-be killer, but found that it wasn't a killer in his mind, it was Brandy. “What a damned mess,” he said to himself.

Giles found Felicity sitting alone in the drawing room downstairs. He imagined that there had been other people in the room and that she'd driven them out. She said in a voice sharp with boredom, “Well, Giles, what of his grace? Is he coming down today?”

Giles eyed her petulant mouth and the narrowed, quite beautiful eyes. There was just a dab of amusement in his voice as he said, “I found Ian much improved, my dear. Indeed, I left him in Mabley's capable hands, getting a shave if you must know, and a bath.”

“Yes, he is so terribly dark,” she said, more to herself than to him.

“There is that,” he said. “Now, Ian has asked to speak to you, my dear, after he has had his bath. I will take you up in a while. You mustn't act shocked, for the fever and pain from the wound have changed him a bit.”

“I wish we knew which one of these ghastly men is responsible. No one will say anything, you know. Even while they insult each other in the most vulgar manner imaginable, they are protecting each other, I am certain of it. And that boorish doctor—goodness, he's so very short. How can a doctor be so short? Well, you saw how he insulted me, Giles.”

Giles vaguely recalled that Wee Robert hadn't shown what Felicity undoubtedly considered due concern for her nerves. “He was, most understandably, I thought, very worried about the duke, my dear.” He pulled out a small, elegant snuffbox, flipped it expertly open with one finger, and helped himself to a generous pinch. He sneezed delicately and removed a fleck of snuff from his sleeve. “Poor old Mabley looked worn to the bone, what with him having the full care of Ian during the day. Thank God it is Brandy who—”

“He's another one who shows no proper respect for his betters. I shall see that shriveled old turnip is soon out of my house. What do you mean, he's taken care of the duke during the day? What about Brandy? What has that rude girl have to say to anything? Surely she hasn't now decided to come to London? I tell you, Giles, I won't have it. That miserable little slut won't be in my house once I'm the Duchess of Portmaine.”

“Did I mention Brandy? I don't remember.” He looked away to gaze a moment at the dusty bagpipes hanging limply over the huge mantelpiece. Beside them hung the crested Robertson coat of arms.

But Felicity had caught the scent. “You of all people mustn't try to keep things from me. It is
she
who has been with him at night, isn't that true, Giles?”

“Yes, but I can see no reason for you to be upset about it. You didn't volunteer to stay with him, did you? Undoubtedly she did a fine job of nursing him.”

“Hah. I can just imagine how well the little slut
nursed
him.”

“If you'll recall, Felicity, the duke was seriously wounded. I don't think he's had the strength to even feed himself, much less dawdle with another female. Also, I don't think Ian would appreciate you calling his ward a slut. Ah, look at the time. I must warn you, my dear, that Ian is set upon staying here. I tried to convince him to leave, but he has no intention of doing so. He says he has more work to get done before he returns to England. No, I don't think he's going to budge.”

Felicity jumped to her feet. “This is ridiculous. Surely he's in no fit state to make such a decision. I hope you told him so.”

“You know as well as I do that when Ian makes a decision, he sticks to it. I tried to talk him around, but it didn't work. You must have learned by now that your betrothed is a very determined, stubborn man. Once he sets a course, it takes more than mere mortals to change him from it.”

“Determined is he,” Felicity said, her white teeth clenched. “And just what does he think I am—a weak, simpering little fool like his first wife, Marianne? I will tell him, you may be certain, that I have no intention of lying down on the floor like a rug and let him tread upon me. Determined? We'll see about that.”

“Oh, Lord,” Giles said as Felicity picked up her skirts and nearly ran out of the room. He didn't think he'd ever seen her move so quickly. She ran rather gracefully.

Within minutes, she was knocking sharply on the duke's bedchamber door.

Mabley opened it and stared. She was out of breath. She looked fit to kill. “Lady Felicity?”

“Well, it isn't Lady Adella,” she snapped at him.
“Pray tell the duke that I wish to see him, Mabley. The corridor is drafty, so don't keep me waiting.”

“His grace is expecting you, Lady Felicity,” Mabley said, and quickly backed out of her way.

“Do come in, Felicity,” Ian called from the bed. He said to Mabley under his breath, “Make yourself scarce. Have a mug of ale, then come back.”

Mabley slipped past her out of the room.

Felicity gazed across the room, her eyes flickering briefly toward the mammoth fireplace, then to the huge bed. It was a man's bedchamber, stark, with no delicate hangings or furnishings to soften its lines. The room suited him. Ian lay in the center of the bed, his black head in stark relief against the white pillow.

“Giles tells me you're feeling better, Your Grace,” she said, trying to sound conciliatory. Her mother had always told her that bending just a bit to get what she wanted wouldn't hurt her pride overmuch. But it did hurt.

“Aye,” he said in the Scottish vernacular that she loathed. “Thank you for coming, Felicity,” he added, his voice ironic. “I think it important that we talk.”

“Giles has already informed me that you don't wish to leave Penderleigh. I can't imagine that it would bode well for your health to remain here. Tell me Giles was mistaken. Tell me you want to leave here as soon as you're well enough.”

He said easily, “As I explained to Giles, I still have something that requires my attention here. Thus I have no intention of turning tail and dashing back to England. I'm disappointed, Felicity, that you don't appear to understand my reasons.”

She drew back at the harshness in his voice. What did he have to be angry about? She was just trying to make him see reason, nothing more. Her fingers itched to hit him, but a lady couldn't do that. Ah, but she could sharpen herself a bit. “
I've
disappointed
you,
your grace? What about
my
wishes in this matter? Surely you cannot imagine that I enjoy being surrounded by vulgar, rude barbarians? Do you know they all yell at each other and accuse each other? You know as well as I do that one of them is obviously a murderer.”

He was looking at her with even newer eyes than he'd had before he'd been shot. And before he'd been shot, his eyes had been quite new when they'd looked at her. He saw now that she was sharp and spiteful. He saw no generosity in her, no caring for another, just malice and contempt. He wasn't about to draw back, to measure his tone or his words.

He was nearly smiling as he said, his voice low and cold, “I still live, as you see. As to your calling the Robertsons vulgar and rude, madam, it appears to me that you should examine your own behavior. Not one conciliatory word have I heard you utter since you have come to Penderleigh. You pride yourself on being the daughter of an earl, but I will tell you that your manners have been as low as the lowest fishwife's.”

“Fishwife? How dare you call
my
manners into question, Ian? Ah, I see what it is now. I suppose you feel that little slut Brandy behaves in a manner better to your liking?”

“I hardly think Brandy comes into this conversation, Felicity,” he said matter-of-factly. Ah, but his voice was still wonderfully cold, filled with his dislike for her. “Brandy a slut? How odd that you'd think such a thing. I wonder what she thinks of you?”

“She counts for nothing. It doesn't matter what she thinks about anything. And she is a slut, nothing more than that.” Her dislike continued to overflow. She couldn't have stemmed it unless her mouth had been sewn shut. She realized she was shaking with anger, but she didn't care. “Let me tell you, Ian, that Giles let it slip that your precious Brandy has most
obligingly nursed you during the nights. Did you much enjoy her care, your grace?”

“Brandy is generous, at times overly so,” he said, and knew guilt in equal measure to the pain in his back.

“I suppose you believe I should emulate that little trollop? Or perhaps you would prefer that I docilely hang my head like your saintly Marianne and bow to your every ridiculous whim?”

“You go too far, madam.” And she was going even further than he'd prayed she'd go. He wanted to applaud her show of meanness. He wanted to fan it to outrage.

“Do I, your grace? Oh, yes, you refused to ever discuss Marianne with me, did you not? Did you believe me such a witless fool that I would not quickly discover that I bear a marked resemblance to her? I even know that all your mistresses have black hair and green eyes. You've gained quite a reputation with your requirements. Well, listen to me, Ian, I'm not your damned Marianne.”

“You state an irrevocable fact, Felicity. What is your point?”

His coldness sent her over the edge. “My point is, your grace, that I shan't play the role of a second Marianne. I once believed that you knew what you owed to me and to your own name, but I begin to see that I was sadly mistaken in your character. You behave more in the manner of one of these beastly Scots than an English peer.”

“
Your
behavior is very enlightening as well. And you're quite right. I see I have little to nothing in common with you, Felicity. Give me the Scots anyday.”

“There are some, my dear duke, who do not find me as repugnant as you seem to do. Indeed, there is the Marquess of Hardcastle, a noble, refined
gentleman whose suit my father discouraged because of your attentions.” She smote her forehead, a very effective ploy. “To think I paid him no attention because of you.”

“Undoubtedly Horace would slobber with joy to hear you say that. Indeed, I would wager that you would believe him the most spectacular male human in the world until he dared to disagree with you. Ah, I grow weary of arguing with you, Felicity. I have told you my plans, and I repeat to you, I have no intention of changing my mind. None. But if you wish to continue with your malice, pray do. A clean spleen is a healthy spleen, my mother always said to my father.”

“I suppose that little fool Brandy fairly drips honey about you, pandering to your every whim? I suppose you have but to nod and she comes running to do whatever it is you want? That is what you prefer, is it not, your grace? An ignorant, sniveling little—”

But this was going too far. He said sharply, “Hold your tongue, madam. You expose your own character more than even the Marquess of Hardcastle could take.”

“Oh, how very wrong I was about you. To think that I let myself be drawn in just because of your rank and position.”

“Felicity,” he said with deadly calm, “you begin to bore me. Actually, you really began to bore me when you walked into the room a good ten minutes ago. Now you're deadening me. Perhaps Giles will listen to your shrill raving, but I won't. No more.”

She drew up to her full height and squared her shoulders. “You are insulting, and I shan't stand for it.” Her voice became as formal and cold as the queen's. “I demand that you return with me to London as soon as you are able. If you refuse, your grace, I beg to inform you that our engagement is off.”

He wanted to dance. He wanted to sing. He felt not
one single bit of guilt. Just immense relief. He said very softly, “I refuse.”

She stared at him in some astonishment, turned away, and marched, head held high, to the door.

She said over her shoulder, her voice heavy with sarcasm, “I wish you luck, your grace, with all of your Scottish relatives. You will not object, I am certain, if I send a retraction of our engagement to the
Gazette.
”

“Not at all. Say all that is proper to your parents. Oh, yes, Felicity, don't despise a marquess, even Horace, who has a marginal brain, because it's but one rank less than a duke.”

“Go to the devil,” she screamed at him, then slammed the door behind her as loud as she could.

When Giles entered the duke's bedchamber not many minutes later to see how he had fared in his battle, he drew up short, his look of concern falling to the floor. “Well, I'll be damned. You've the look of the cat who has swallowed all the cream. What the devil have you done?”

“Congratulate me, Giles, I'm no longer a betrothed man. Felicity broke our engagement. I believe the estimable Horace, Marquess of Hardcastle, will shortly be bowled over by her.”

Giles sucked in his breath. “I never thought she'd go that far. Oh, dear, Ian, I'm sorry. Wait. You're laughing.”