The Third Duke's the Charm (17 page)

“My brother is missing.”

Whatever she expected to hear, that wasn’t it. Startled, she replied ridiculously, “The marquess?”

“He is the only one I have.” His rangy form looked relaxed on the opposite seat, but his shoulders were tense. “The duchess is also concerned. She called just as I was leaving and when I told her I was meeting you at the modiste, she insisted on coming along. Quite frankly, I am glad she did. I’m afraid fashion plates are not holding my attention right now. Where the devil is Lucien?”

“I know you said he hasn’t been home when you’ve called . . . but missing?”

“Vivian has no idea where he is either.”

“Oh.” The wedding was at the end of the week. Madam Gardon had promised her a new gown in record time just for the event. Louisa took in that new information with dismay.

“I don’t understand it,” Charles continued in a deceptively conversational tone. “There is the possibility he simply went off somewhere without imparting his plans to anyone, but that is not like him at all. I think it is best if I return to Cheynes Hall as soon as possible. If he isn’t there, then my father will need to be told.”

She nodded, her harrowing appointment with the dressmaker suddenly insignificant. Charles had a deep affection for his older brother that wasn’t just the usual younger sibling worship, but based on a true friendship. “I am sure there is a reasonable explanation,” she murmured inadequately.

Charles, normally so affable and charming, said tersely, “There had better be.”

Chapter Seventeen

“Get up yer bloody lordship.” An ungentle toe nudged his side.

They were no longer moving. Lucien realized they were at anchor only vaguely at first in his haze, but then with a growing consciousness.

He hadn’t eaten in days. Or at least he was fairly sure that much time had gone by but it was rather hard to tell when he had no light to gauge the passing of the hours and sunrise and sunset. They had finally left him untied and gifted him a jug of water that he had carefully rationed. Because while hunger had faded into an almost painless oblivion, thirst was a relentless nemesis.

“Fuck off,” he managed to say in a hoarse croak, propping himself up on one arm.

“Up.” This time his warder hadn’t come alone and four hands roughly hauled him to his feet. “Get movin.’”

Steps, the gentle bob of the tide, the swing of the lantern; he half walked and was half dragged to above decks from the depths of whatever prison they’d kept him in.

After the prolonged stay in the dark, the light of day struck him powerfully and he was momentarily blinded. The two men carried him across the deck and he was unceremoniously shoved overboard, his reaction a weak sputtering when he managed to flail to the surface of the engulfing sea.

He could gladly drown here, he thought, the water pulling him down again . . . oblivion waiting . . .

But there wasn’t to be that kind of relief. Someone grabbed his shirt and hauled him into what appeared to be a small dinghy.

“Welcome, my lord,” a voice drawled with ironic inflection. “I hope you enjoy your stay here. Don’t worry; it won’t be a prolonged visit.”

***

Her wedding day was most remarkably lacking in a festive mood, Vivian reflected. No groom, no ceremony, and certainly no joyous celebration to follow. Her mother was not just distraught, but furious with Lucien, which seemed ludicrous under the circumstances. All joy of having a marquess for a son-in-law paled before his potential defection and the resulting humiliation.

“How could he?” she demanded for about the tenth time, which was rather tiring. “The announcement was in the
Times
. I planned the reception, at his request, in just
three
weeks.”

Vivian glanced at her father, hoping to communicate a silent message. She said with as much calm intonation as she could summon, “I don’t think the wedding is the issue, Mother. Shouldn’t we be more concerned over Lucien’s absence?”

“He’s inconsiderate.”

“He’s missing.”

“I should have known better.”

“Than what?” Vivian’s voice was flat, but she was skating past civility as it was. “Allowing me to marry a marquess who is also the heir to a dukedom? I thought you were pleased.”

“She was,” her father interjected. “She is,” he qualified, visibly taking a moment, reaching for his glass of claret. “But all of this is unfortunate, Vivian.”

As the abandoned bride, she couldn’t agree more. Still, as Lucien’s absence lengthened with no word, her worry grew and the possible humiliation didn’t matter.

Has he deserted me?

It took some faith to believe he hadn’t. It took quite a lot of faith, actually, but love involved the ultimate trust, and if she loved him, surely she should trust him.

Because she was beginning to think, as unfortunate as it was under the current circumstances, she might just truly be in love with him. She said with what she thought to be admirable calm, “I am glad to see we just aren’t looking at this on the level of the scale of the potential social disaster.”

Her mother gave a small, telling sound of distress.

“The duke is most concerned.” Her father remained stalwart.

Yes, he was. He’d returned to London with Charles once he was apprised of the situation. It had aged him a decade and taken the life from his eyes. When he had called to speak with her personally, he looked wan, thinner than she ever remembered, and was remarkably indecisive over what was to be done when he was normally a man who took command. Charles had actually exhibited more authority and hired a Bow Street runner to look into the matter, but it was impossible to keep secret. Gradually all of society was whispering about the mysterious absence of the Marquess of Stockton.

Personally, Vivian was discovering there was a kind of pain that had nothing to do with disdain or sly smiles, but something else completely.

She missed him—really
missed
him and she was frightened on his behalf, and hers, if it came down to it.

How was she going to live without him?

The daily calls since their engagement, the slow curve of his mouth when he smiled, the pleasure of having his full attention when she spoke, the flare of sensual appreciation in his eyes that she caught now and then, the feel of his hand possessively at her waist..

She wasn’t at all sure Charles was correct when he asserted Lucien had an interest in her before the elopement. It would be remarkable that the sophisticated and urbane Marquess of Stockton, who could have any woman he wanted, truly wanted
her
, but she had started to think it was possible.

After all the waiting, her refusal to accept a less-than-desirable marriage just for the sake of having a husband, she’d caught a brief glimpse of possible happiness and now it was gone.

Where is he
?

Woodenly she rose, knowing she couldn’t sit another moment, and without a word, she left the breakfast room and went out to the garden. There was at least some peace there and that was where she was still when Lord Damien Northfield joined her.

“Vivian?”

He limped over to her seat, his uneven gait the result of an injury suffered in the war. “This isn’t much of a surprise.” His voice held a hint of smooth amusement. “You are right where Lily predicted I would find you. She’s quite worried about you. I believe that is why I am here. The war is over but I am apparently still following orders, only from a much more attractive general.”

How like Lily to reply to her note so swiftly and effectively. All Vivian had asked was if she thought it was possible that Damien might agree to help her.

Her smile was probably not convincing. “I cannot believe my mother didn’t trail out behind you.”

“I am fairly adept at discouraging well-meaning mothers.”

That summoned a laugh, even in her apprehension. “You must be.”

“Let’s just say I arrived in this garden in an unconventional method and leave it at that, shall we.”

With chestnut hair and dark eyes, his tall build as athletic as Lucien’s, he was a striking man, but that wasn’t why Lily had married him. It was for the keen intelligence in his eyes and his kind manner. He settled next to Vivian on the bench but didn’t take her hand or do anything else to try to pretend nothing was wrong. “So Stockton has disappeared, and it seems like there is no intention of his return since this is his wedding day, and if a man has an ounce of sense, he is not late for that event. It is a puzzle, I agree. What are your thoughts?”

“Something terrible has happened.”

“Like?’

She rather wished he had argued, for her throat was suddenly tight and hot, but the pragmatic approach was probably the most effective. “I am not sure.”

“Enemies?’

“None he ever told me of.”

“All men have them.” Damien Northfield inspected the toes of his boots. “The dukedom can’t be it, for I don’t envision Charles doing this.”

That had never occurred to her. Horrified at the implication, she said stoutly, “Of course not.”

One brow rose in a cynical arch. “Brothers have quarreled over less.”

“Charles is as frantic as I am. Besides, I’ve known him my entire life and that isn’t his nature. The idea of being the duke doesn’t appeal to him at all.”

“I know just how he feels, then.”

“I suppose you do.” It was true, Lord Damien Northfield’s older brother was the Duke of Rolthven, and until recently, he had been the heir presumptive. The duchess had delivered a healthy baby boy, however, who was thriving, and Lily had confided that Damien was quite relieved.

“Now then, having ruled out Charles,” he said, looking at her with intent question, “can you think of anyone else, however unlikely, who might benefit from his absence or even just the postponement of your marriage?”

Vivian looked at her clasped hands. “I suppose it is possible he has a mistress. Perhaps she is vindictive.”

Once again, Damien didn’t try to soothe her, but just furrowed his brow. No doubt he understood the males of his class too well to argue that hypothesis. “I haven’t heard of one,” he said thoughtfully, “but then again, some men are discreet and others are not. Do you have any reason to think that might be true?”

“No,” she admitted, taking in a deep breath.

He didn’t precisely laugh, but it was there in a sardonic tone to his voice. “My younger brother was notorious indeed when it came to his inconstant affections for the opposite sex, and now he is a devoted husband and father. What a man does when he is afforded the freedom of his bachelor days and how he behaves once finds that special woman is quite different. Not all men, of course, are quite so honorable, but I think Stockton to be intelligent enough to not ruin his chance of a fulfilling marriage. Besides, Lily swears it is obvious he is very taken with you. I will look into the mistress theory, but I have reservations it is our answer.”

That was reassuring, but then what
was
the answer?

***

The first night on dry land wasn’t much better than the ship.

Now he wasn’t cold, he was too hot, and they’d locked him in some sort of small cell that looked like perhaps it had been unused for years, and to make matters worse, it had rusted bars on the single high window that let in the sound of the birds and the sweet scent of blooming lemon trees.

A promise of the world that was out there while he was incarcerated like an animal.

Lucien was fairly sure he might lose his mind.

He was filthy from the ship, unshaven, no fresh clothes, his ability to comprehend exactly what was happening compromised by the lack of food, but at least they had once again given him water, and in this new prison, there were no rats.

Small joy, that, but still a boon.

The
bastards. My family . . . Vivian . . . what are they thinking?

The helplessness was enough to nearly send him into madness.

When the door opened, he was dozing, not quite asleep as he wasn’t sure he’d actually slept deeply since the abduction, and at least alert enough to rise to his feet as two men came into the small cubicle. One he recognized as among the men who had tossed him off the ship, and the other he had never seen before.

“He hardly looks dangerous.” The stranger was tall, thin, elegantly dressed, and had a supercilious smile on his narrow lips. His dark eyes narrowed and his perusal was obviously derisive. “Quite a fuss for nothing, if you ask me. Is he threatening enough for all the effort?”

Had he the strength, Lucien would have lunged across the room and corrected the assumption, but he was light-headed and even with the deprivation of food a voice in his brain whispered that it was better to understand the situation before he reacted.

“He’s not as docile as he seems.” The rough-looking one scratched his chin. “Broke the arm of one of the mates, he did, when we was bringing him on board. I’d stay out of reach, guv.”

“Perhaps you’re right.” Apparently the courtier trusted the advice for he stepped back. “The meeting is in an hour. Surely you can do something about his appearance.”

Lucien said through his teeth, “What meeting?”

“Artemis. I’m sure you recognize his name, my fine lord,” the thin man said insolently. “He wishes to settle a score.”

Artemis? It meant nothing to him.

“This is insane. I don’t recognize the name at all.”

“Maybe you are being obtuse on purpose.”

“I don’t know him.”

Bluecoat gave Lucien in his bound and disheveled state a disdainful look. “Feel free to argue that point with him.”

What the hell? Was this a riddle?
If so, he wasn’t up for the game. “What kind of a name is Artemis? I don’t understand.”

“Then you aren’t nearly as smart as he says you are.”

That statement didn’t mean anything either except the stinging insult certainly registered. Lucien surged forward only to receive a violent shove backward from his original captor. “I wouldn’t, guv,” the man growled in a low voice.

“No.” Bluecoat already had drawn a pistol and had it leveled his direction. “I
wouldn’t
. Take his advice.”

“What do you want?” Lucien only kept his feet by something nothing short of a miracle. He despised the weakness, but it was impossible to combat.

“We actually want nothing.” Bluecoat smiled thinly, looking like a hungry predator. “Just a short interview in which you reveal your sources during the war. The conflict might be over but we haven’t forgotten those who betrayed us.”

This became more confusing by the moment. “What?”

“Your sources.”

“I never had any sources.”

“Come now, my lord, surely you don’t expect me to believe that? As good as you might have been, you had informants.”

“As good as I might have been at what?” He managed somehow to not go sprawling on the floor when he received another shove, but it took some effort. The slimy stones were slippery and he was infuriatingly weak.

“At your services as a spy to my Lord Wellington.”

As that made no sense whatsoever, he just shook his head. “Not true.”

“You may argue the point to Artemis himself.” Bluecoat turned to his companion and said in a staccato voice, “Bring him some hot water and a change of clothes.”

Then he swung on his heel and they both left, the door shutting and the scraping of the key loud.

Lucien sank back down on the small wooden stool that was the only place to sit. Though he’d lost count, he was fairly sure this was supposed to be his wedding day.

What
was
Vivian thinking?

He hated that. The captivity grated on his pride, and the rest of it was bewildering, but most of all he loathed the thought she might believe he’d abandoned her.