The Gypsy Duchess (4 page)

The boy regarded him with solemn, dark eyes. “My papa died and went to heaven.”

Devon felt his heart twist painfully in his chest. Seven was much too young to lose one’s father. “My father died just two years ago,” he said because he could think of nothing else to say.

“Lots of people die.”

“Yes, they do.” Devon could see the boy was deeply troubled by his loss and perplexed, as the very young invariably were by the terrible finality of death. He found himself longing to say something comforting, but nothing came to mind.

“My mama said many good Englishmen died in the war against the Corsican monster.”

“That is true.”

The young duke’s expressive brows drew together in a puzzled frown. “But how can a person just…die, and never talk to someone or hold someone’s hand again?”

It was a question Devon had asked himself many a time in the heat of battle when one minute he had a living, breathing comrade beside him, and the next minute that same comrade was just another of the blood-soaked corpses decorating some hellish foreign battlefield, the name of which no self-respecting Englishman could even pronounce. “I don’t know,” he said truthfully, “except that dying is as much a part of living as being born.”

Strangely enough, the boy seemed satisfied with that obtuse explanation. They walked in companionable silence for a few moments, Devon leaning more heavily on his staff with each painful step.

“Do you walk with a stick because you were in the war, my lord?” the young duke asked, studying Devon with an expression much too serious for his seven years.

“Yes,” Devon said, acutely conscious of his limp. “My friend, the marquess, was also injured in the war,” he added to forestall the chance the inquisitive boy might feel inclined to question Peter about his more obvious battle scars.

“I know. My mama told me, but I must not ask him about it because I might make him sad.” He frowned anxiously. “Was it wrong to ask you?”

“Not at all.” Devon hesitated, wondering how much he should say to the boy. The bewilderment he read in his dark eyes made the decision for him. “You may always feel free to ask me anything you like because your papa appointed me your guardian.” He smiled. “Do you know what that means?”

“No, my lord.”

“It means he wanted me to be your special friend and help your stepmother take care of you until you are grown to manhood.”

“I’m glad,” the boy said. “I don’t have a special friend.” He surveyed Devon with solemn dark eyes. “You won’t die, will you?”

Devon’s heart took another painful twist. “No, Charles. I won’t die—at least not for a long, long time,” he promised solemnly.

The boy’s lip trembled noticeably but he raised his chin and gave Devon a brave smile—every inch the proud, young aristocrat. “My papa loved me very much,” he said, as if pronouncing a benediction on their proposed friendship, and slipped his small hand into Devon’s large one.

A feeling of near panic engulfed Devon. The feel of those trusting fingers entwined in his touched a wellspring that had all but dried up the day he’d learned of Blaine’s death, and he wasn’t certain he knew how to handle the emotions churning deep inside him.

But of one thing he was certain. There was something about this frail child that triggered his protective instincts—a feeling which he apparently shared with the duchess. For however callous and greedy she might be when dealing with the rest of the human race, her concern for her stepson appeared genuine. He gave a sign of resignation. If nothing else, perhaps this single commonality might make their joint venture concerning the young duke bearable.

Devon and his ward continued walking hand in hand along the twisting footpath, each deep in his own thoughts—the only sound to break the silence the gravel crunching beneath their boots. The others had dropped back beyond earshot; the crowds in this isolated section of the park had thinned to where, once they turned a bend in the path, they were entirely alone.

Suddenly, without warning, a burly fellow, dressed in the rough garb of a seaman and with a patch over his left eye, stepped into the path in front of them. “I’ll be takin’ the nipper now, guv’nor, nice and quick like afore your one-armed mate catches up, and I ‘opes you knows better’n to try’n stop me. I’ve no stomach for doin’ in a fellow wot I can see has earned himself a gimpy leg fightin’ the Frogs, for I done me share of fightin’ meself. But I’ll do wot I ‘ave to when all’s said and done. For I’ve not a brass farthing to me name, and there’s a bloke with ready blunt wot’s that anxious to lay ‘ands on the little bugger.”

Devon’s first reaction was amazement that this grimy giant was living proof of the validity of the duchess’s mysterious presentiment of danger; his second was an anger so deep and so terrible, he knew he could write
finis
to this scroungy fellow’s life without so much as a single qualm.

“Stand aside you piece of human garbage,” he snarled, raising his heavy staff like a pandybat. “Lay one finger on the lad and I’ll crack that ugly skull of yours like and egg.”

“Did you ‘ear that, Rigger? The toff’s threatenin’ you. Ain’t you just tremblin’ in yer boots?” The mocking voice came from directly behind Devon’s right ear and was accompanied by the stench of unwashed flesh and sour, ale-soaked breath. At the same time he felt a jab in the ribs which could only be the working end of a pistol barrel.

A toothless smile crossed the face of the man called Rigger. “You can see ‘ow it is, guv’nor and Weasel’s got none of me tender sentiments. He’d as soon blow a ‘ole in you as draw breath.

Devon flinched, knowing full well if he made a move for the pistol tucked into the waist of his trousers, he’d be dead before it ever saw the light of day. He felt the young duke tremble beside him but not so much as a whimper passed his tightly compressed lips. He was pluck to the bone, and Devon felt a great swell of pride and affection for the brave little fellow.

An icy calm settled over him as he contemplated the best way to save his young ward—the same icy calm he had experienced each time he had followed Wellington into battle. This time he faced only two opponents instead of the hoards Generals Soult and Ney had hurled at him. But ironically, the odds of his surviving this small skirmish were far less than any he’d faced in the major battles on the Peninsula. For he had no doubt Weasel meant business—and Rigger, for all his noble declarations, had an eye as cold as that of the Tyburn hangman.

The boy’s silent trembling increased and a flood of fierce protectiveness surged through Devon. If his was to be the shortest guardianship in history, then by all that was holy, he’d make his exit defending his young ward with his last breath.

He pried his hand from the boy’s fingers, placed his palm flat against the middle of his back, and gave him a mighty shove.

“Run, lad,” he shouted, “and don’t look back,” and with those words he lunged forward. Wielding his walking stick like a scythe, he slashed Rigger across the shins with a blow calculated to break both his legs.

The big man went down howling with pain and Devon, balancing precariously on his one good leg, turned to see Weasel raise his pistol and aim it straight at his heart. For one suspended moment he stared at the instrument of his death, painfully aware of the rich, red blood of life coursing through his veins.

He had never felt more vibrantly alive nor less ready to meet the grim reaper. Yet, oddly enough, the only regrets that came instantly to mind were that he would break his promise to the lad about living a long time…and he would never again see the beautiful Moira.

The premonition of danger that Moira had sensed since leaving the safety of her town house had temporarily stilled when the earl and marquess joined her party, and she had been lulled into further complacency by the earl’s fortuitous decision.

She knew now she had made a serious mistake when she had urged Charles to walk with his new guardian and then had purposely hung back, slowing the progress of the two walking with her, to allow them a few moments to become acquainted with each other. For, as she, Elizabeth and Stamden approached the bend in the footpath around which Charles and the earl had disappeared moments before, stark cold terror surged through her.

“Something is terribly wrong,” she said, starting forward on a run.

The marquess quickly caught up with her. “Devil take it, madam, explain yourself.”

“They’re in danger. I can feel it,” she gasped—and rounding the curve, saw the proof of her frightening intuition. Without a moment’s hesitation, she stopped, raised her skirt and unsheathed the knife she kept strapped to her calf. With the calm, deadly aim that had been painstakingly drilled into her since the day her Gitano grandfather first decreed her old enough to hold a lethal weapon, she hurled it straight into the upper arm of the thug drawing a bead on the Earl of Langley.

The force of the blow sent him catapulting forward with an unearthly scream, his head struck the rocky ground with a resounding thud, and the bullet discharged harmlessly into a nearby tree trunk, sending a flock of nesting starlings into frantic flight.

“Holy Mother of God!” Stamden rushed to the side of the earl and drew his pistol on the larger of the two ruffians, who was moaning piteously and rolling about on the ground like a great beached whale. A few meters away the miscreant whom Moira had felled lay face down in the gravel with her knife protruding from the back of his scrawny arm.

The young duke, his face white as parchment, walked straight into Moira’s outstretched arms, while Elizabeth leaned against the same tree the bullet had penetrated just moments before, held her head in her hands, and sobbed quietly.

“Devil take it, lad, I told you to run,” the earl growled, but the look he bestowed on his young ward held such pride it negated the censure in his voice.

“I couldn’t, my lord. My feet wouldn’t go.” A single tear rolled down Charles’s cheek and spilled onto the front of Moira’s sprigged muslin gown. “I—I was scared.”

The earl laughed softly. “So was I, lad. So was I, and if not for the marquess and his prowess with a knife, I’d not be around to admit it.”

He turned to the marquess and held out his hand. “Once again I owe you my life, my friend,” he said gruffly. “But where and when did you learn to wield a knife with such expertise? That’s one weapon I’ve never seen you use.”

Stamden’s shrug was eloquently nonchalant. “With good reason. I’ll stand against any man with swords or pistols, but the art of knife throwing completely eludes me.”

He stepped forward, pressed the heel of his boot on the back of the smaller felon’s neck, and withdrew the knife from his arm. With two broad swipes, he wiped it clean on the fellow’s shirt, took the blade between his thumb and forefinger, and handed it, handle first, to Moira.

“Your property, I believe, your grace,” he said with a devilish grin.

M
oira felt certain that if she lived a hundred years she would never forget the look of shock and disbelief on Devon St. Gwyre’s face when the Marquess of Stamden returned her knife to her. He had thanked her for saving his life in the same polite tone of voice he might have thanked her for passing him a biscuit at teatime, but the look he gave her could have frozen the Thames. She might have found the situation humorous if she hadn’t been so certain that sooner or later she’d be called upon to explain how she came to be so proficient with such as weapon.

All that had saved her from having to make that explanation instantly was the confusion that ensued once the authorities arrived to transport the two would-be kidnappers off to jail.

By the time that bit of business was completed and the balance of the walk to the carriages accomplished, the earl was in too much pain to question anyone about anything. In white-faced silence, he saw Moira, Elizabeth, and Charles into the ducal carriage, then limped, with the aid of his walking staff, to his curricle, where it took both the marquess and his groom to lift him onto the seat.

“It was obvious his lordship was embarrassed that we should see him rendered helpless by his infirmity,” Elizabeth said, “even though it was his brave defense of the duke that aggravated his old injury. Men are such silly, prideful creatures they think the least show of weakness casts a slur on their manhood.” She frowned thoughtfully. “I just hope he has the sense to send for his doctor. I fear he may have done himself serious harm.”

Moira refrained from comment, although she, too, was certain he had opened an old wound. But she saw no reason to alarm Elizabeth further by mentioning that when his coat flapped open in the breeze, she had seen blood seeping through the fabric of his right trouser leg. She trusted his friend, the marquess, would see that he had the proper medical care.

In truth, she was still too shocked by the entire affair to think clearly about anything except the need to get Charles safely back to the town house. She had known Viscount Quentin was desperate to gain control of the boy’s fortune; now she knew just how desperate. She would have to take measures to make certain her young stepson was properly guarded at all times.

Weary to the bone, she leaned back against the velvet squabs of the coach and closed her eyes. The sensation of immediate danger was gone, but her mind kept spinning round and round like a whirlpool, one thought chasing after another in the circling vortex…until a single, startling memory rose to the surface.

She sat bolt upright, shocked from her lethargy, as she relived that fateful moment on the footpath when her “gift” had told her the life of someone dear to her was threatened. In the heat of the moment, she had failed to register that it had been Devon St. Gwyre’s face she had seen in her mind’s eye.

But how could that be? The “gift” that was hers, and had been her mother’s and grandmother’s before her, had only ever warned of danger to those who were loved by the gypsy seeress. What she felt for the Earl of Langley was a far cry from love. In truth, though she was sincerely grateful for his brave defense of Charles, she could not bring herself to feel anything but an intense dislike for the insolent devil who had once called her his brother’s whore.

For once, the Great Spirit of All Nature, which conferred the “gift” on certain gypsy women, had totally missed the mark.

Love an arrogant
gaujo
like Devon St. Gwyre? Never! She might be many things, but a fool was not one of them.

The weather remained sunny for close to a sen’night and Moira’s heart ached whenever she came upon Charles standing, nose pressed to the window, watching the children who lived in the adjacent town houses roll their hoops or walk with their nannies to the park. But after the fright she’d had, she was loath to take him out on the streets of London—especially since both John Footman and one of the maids had reported seeing a very suspicious-looking fellow lurking behind the lamppost directly across the square.

Logic told her to return to Cornwall as soon as possible. Only there could she take the appropriate steps to insure Charles’s safety. But she needed the Earl of Langley’s permission to take Charles out of London, and while he had sent her a signed copy of the guardianship document within an hour of that fateful visit to the park, she hadn’t heard a single word from him since.

In point of fact, she had been waiting all of five days for an answer to her note requesting such permission, and both her nerves and her temper were beginning to fray at the edges. On the one hand, she felt as if her entire life were in a state of suspension waiting for a glimpse of the arrogant earl; on the other hand the very thought of facing him and his inevitable questions sent her into panic.

If she made one slip that revealed the truth about her parentage, she felt certain he would take Charles away from her and forbid her to ever see him again. For what member of London’s prestigious
ton
would consider the daughter of a Spanish gypsy mother and an Irish smuggler father fit to raise a future peer of the realm—even if that member were as rumor had it, the most notorious rake in London with a penchant for loose-moraled opera dancers.

Elizabeth came up with one excuse after another for the earl’s neglect of his ward. “You did tell him you required nothing but his signature on the guardianship document, your grace. In fact, you were most specific about wanting to raise Charles entirely by yourself.”

Moira could not argue the truth of that, any more than she could justify the deep, unreasonable anger she felt toward him for blithely taking her at her word. She told herself her resentment toward the earl stemmed solely from her concern for Charles. And she almost believed herself. For it was all too obvious that in the few minutes the lonely little boy had spent with his guardian, he had developed a serious case of hero worship. The least the insensitive lout could do was devote half an hour to visiting his young ward and giving his permission for him to be removed to safety.

“But the earl may be unable to visit,” Elizabeth said when Moira gave vent to her frustration. “I fear he may have injured his leg more seriously than we realized.”

“An injured leg would not keep him from taking pen in hand to grant me the permission I need,” Moira snapped. “And I do not intend to cool my heels much longer waiting to hear from him.

On the morning of the sixth day after the incident in the park, she decided enough was enough. Calling her household staff together, she informed them, “I am planning to leave for Cornwall within the week and have no plans to return to London in the near future. Therefore, before I close up the town house and leave it in the hands of a caretaker, I shall want it cleaned and polished from top to bottom, which includes cleaning every chimney, washing every window, and covering every stick of furniture with dust covers.”

Moira knew her demands were excessive since old Chawleigh, the duke’s butler, headed as competent a staff as anyone could wish for. But she was the consummate housekeeper—probably because she’d spent half her life contending with the careless slovenliness of her gypsy relatives. The duke had often teased her about her obsession, claiming he despaired of buying her expensive French perfume since he was convinced the only scent she truly appreciated was lemon oil.

She was an obsessive bill payer as well, having spent the other half of her life fleeing from village to village with a father who was always just one step ahead of his creditors. She often wondered what kind of person she would have been if she’d led a safe, conventional life like the one Elizabeth had described to her.

Now, as the staff cleaned and polished, she set about settling all her London accounts and penning final instructions for both her solicitor and man-of-affairs.

She worked steadily for nearly two hours at the desk in the library where the duke had so often sat when they were in residence in London. As always when in this room which so plainly bore the stamp of his vital personality, she found herself sorely missing the shrewd old man who had been more her friend and confident than her husband.

She owed him so much. Not only had he given her the protection of his name; he had given her the precious gift of knowledge as well. Her eyes misted with tears. It was here in this very room that he had taught her to read and write and do her sums, to appreciate the beauty and power of the English language, and to speak it with the grace befitting a duchess.

She set her pen aside momentarily and let her gaze wander one last time over this room that held so many happy memories for her—over the rich oak paneling, the tall leaded windows, the hundreds of books that had filled her hours with untold pleasure in the past four years. This had always been her favorite room in the massive town house, but that was with a roaring fire in the fireplace. Today, with the fireplace dark until the chimney sweep could complete his work, the room seemed miserably dank and depressing. She shivered, suddenly feeling chilled to the bone.

A scratching sound, and puffs of soot spewing from the blackened fireplace, told her that at last the sweep was working in this section of the house. She wrapped her warm shawl tighter around her shoulders and blew on her numb fingers, praying the fellow would finish quickly so she could complete her work in comfort.

“Gor’blimey watch what yer doin’, a muffled young voice demanded from the depths of the chimney, “I ain’t no worm to be twitched about for some fish to gobble.”

Moments later the same voice directed, “Haul me up afore I chokes to death. This ‘ere chimney’s as clean as it’s goin’ to get.” The speaker gave a raspy cough. “But mind that bit of broken brick wot’s cutting through the ro-o-o-o-o-o-ope.”

Moira heard a strangled cry and a dull thud, as what looked like a bundle of filthy rags dropped onto the andiron, then rolled off into the cold, gray ashes. To her horror, it twitched once then lay ominously still.

“Good heavens!” She leaped to her feet, rushed to the fireplace, and dragged the filthy bundle onto the hearth. Above her the sweep sent a string of obscenities as black as the soot he dealt in cascading down the chimney while he hauled up the remains of the frayed rope.

Frantic, Moira reached for the nearby pull chord and pumped it half a dozen times. Then, removing her handkerchief from her pocket, she wiped the worst of the soot from the urchin’s face while she waited for help to arrive.

“What is it, your grace? What is wrong?” Chawleigh sounded winded as if he had sprinted the length of the town house. He peered over Moira’s shoulder, a puzzled expression rearranging the unique collection of wrinkles crisscrossing his ancient visage. “My word what do you have there?”

“It’s a child,” Moira said. “One of those poor little devils the sweeps dangle down the chimneys.” She looked up to find dour Mrs. Chawleigh standing beside her husband. Behind her were a footman and two maids, and seconds later, Elizabeth burst through the door with Charles in tow.

“The sweep’s rope broke and this child fell into the fireplace,” Moira explained, gingerly touching the lump already rising on the boy’s forehead. “Fetch some cold water and soft cloths,” she directed the nearest maid.

Elizabeth dropped to her knees beside Moira. “Good heavens, he looks no more than eight or nine years old, and he’s so thin. He’s just skin over bone.”

“Me mum says the sweeps keeps them half-starved so’s they’ll fit down the chimneys,” the second maid, a pretty brown-haired girl of seventeen, volunteered.

“But that’s monstrous!” Elizabeth declared. “How would such a scoundrel get his hands on the child in the first place?”

“Could be an orphan he picked off the streets; there’s plenty of them about.” The little maid gave a slight shrug of her slender shoulders. “Or, what with times as hard as they are, he could’ve bought the boy from his folks. The sweeps is always lookin’ for new boys ‘cause the poor little tykes don’t last long what with breathin’ in so much soot. Just last month one of the blighters come lookin’ to buy me little brother, but me mum whacked him across the head with her broom.”

Moira stared down at the pitiful little scrap of humanity lying before her and remembered her own happy childhood in the gypsy camp ruled by her Gitano grandfather. A people who eschewed any material possessions they couldn’t carry in their squalid little wagons, the gypsies considered their children their only real treasures.

If food was scarce, which it often was, the children were always the first to be fed. She remembered being cold and dirty and often exhausted from the long treks between camps, but she had never lacked food to fill her belly nor love to fill her heart when she’d lived with her mother’s people. Yet the scoundrel who had starved this child to turn him into a human scrub brush for the soot-filled chimneys of London would be the first to label the gypsies the scum of the earth.

At that moment, a second footman appeared in the doorway to announce the sweep was on the back stoop and looking to collect his soot boy.

Moira’s temper flared. “Well he can’t have him, for I’ve need of just such a boy to start the fires for Cook each morning and I intend to keep him.”

Chawleigh raised a disapproving eyebrow. “If you do so, the sweep will want paying, your grace, for like as not he’ll have to give a shilling or two for another boy.”

“Then pay him out of the household money,” Moira directed, just as the boy opened his eyes and stared at her with the bewildered gaze of a small bird that had tumbled from its nest.