CHAPTER 4
The Peacemaker
Every quick, reverberating thump of Maggie’s heart as she held the duke’s stare warned her that she absolutely shouldn’t be here. She was not accustomed to doing rash things, and her current venture, she feared, was nothing short of foolhardy.
How she had managed to sneak away from Delia, she barely knew. The entire ballroom had been in an uproar after the outbreak of violence.
But she was here to stop it, if she could.
And so, Maggie swallowed hard and held on tight to her composure.
It was not easy, pinned in the gaze of such a man. Amberley had removed his black tailcoat and tugged loose his cravat. The loose, white, billowy sleeves of his shirt cascaded fascinatingly off the rugged breadth of his shoulders, only hinting at the hard, bulging muscles the crisp fabric draped.
His pale striped waistcoat hugged a powerful chest that tapered toward his lean waist. She gulped silently as her gaze slid lower to the manly regions concealed by his elegant black trousers…
Margaret Hyacinth Winthrop! Mind your manners and get your eyes back in your head. At once, she whipped a blushing glance back up to his disturbingly handsome face.
She found the duke looking not at all inclined to believe a word she said, but waiting patiently for her to speak her piece.
The polite curve of his lips was almost a smile.
Flustered by her own wayward noticings, Maggie briefly turned her attention to his companions; if they were servants, they’d have left.
Indeed, she saw no sign of butler, footmen, or maids, and that was very odd—but, clearly, no one was cleaning the place. Her nose twitched in the dust while the homely young beanpole who’d answered the door bathed the entrance hall in the cheery, beaming brightness of his smile.
He wore a shapeless jacket of rough, workaday brown cloth and trousers to match, though his skinny frame swam in them. The boy needed feeding.
The scruffy older chap over near the cluttered staircase did not even have on a coat or cravat, merely an unbuttoned vest over a loose, wrinkled shirt, with suspenders holding up his blue trousers.
His wild gray hair and eye patch made Maggie feel just for a moment as though she had stowed aboard a pirate ship.
A trifle disoriented, she could almost feel the floor at her feet rocking with the waves.
But instead of a ship’s deck, the entrance hall had marble floors veined with silver and white, and pale yellow walls.
A curved cantilevered staircase seemed to float up to the chambers above; a wrought-iron banister of slim proportions ran alongside it, curling its way up to the next floor.
There were a few pillars here and there, colorful paintings on the walls, mainly landscapes: Venetian canals, Flemish bridges, mountain cataracts beneath brooding alpine skies, Bedouins on camels in the desert. Overhead, a large crystal chandelier wept amethyst teardrops, but most of its candles were not lit.
To be sure, it looked like a mansion, but the clutter everywhere—and the smell—enhanced the sense that she had fallen in among some all-male band of brigands.
Muddy riding boots had been left to dry beneath the pier table; atop it, an abandoned serving tray brimmed with dirty plates that still bore the petrified scraps of some bygone meal.
Here, a large greatcoat slowly enfolded a Chippendale chair like it would eat it whole. There, a top hat dangled from the lithe raised arm of an indignant alabaster goddess in the wall niche.
What is going on here? she thought, amazed.
A random collection of odds and ends piled in the corners of the stairs, as though some absent-minded soul had set them there weeks ago and kept forgetting to carry them up: books, maps, newspaper, tinderbox, lint brush, some sort of leather knapsack, spyglass, and—egads!—a long gun, broken down into parts for cleaning.
The sight of the weapon reminded her of the grim reason why she was here.
The beanpole, meanwhile, following her gaze, must have suddenly realized how untidy it looked to a visitor. “Oh! Sorry for the mess,” he blurted out, then leapt into motion to begin tidying up.
The duke winced. “Er, we’ve had a bit of a problem with the staff.”
“I see,” Maggie murmured, nodding as though she comprehended.
“We weren’t expecting visitors,” the beanpole added apologetically, but the master of the house did not seem too concerned.
The duke hooked a thumb toward the older man. “This is Mr. Godwin and that’s Private Will Duffy.”
She nodded to the men.
“And you are?” Amberley prompted, arching a brow.
“Oh, yes, um.” Maggie brushed off her confusion about his friends. Irrelevant right now. Instead, she focused on the duke, but that proved distracting, too. It was hard to think with his full attention fixed on her.
His presence was potent, elemental, the force of him like standing on a beach at night with a hurricane approaching.
She cast about for her wits. “I am Lady Margaret Winthrop. I live across the square—well, diagonally from here, more or less—with my sister a-and her husband. On Marquess Row.” She gestured haphazardly toward the closed door in the direction of their terrace house. “Lord and Lady Birdwell?”
“Ah,” the duke said.
She could tell by his blank look that he had never heard of them before.
Delia would be crushed.
It seemed as though he didn’t even know which street on the square had been nicknamed Marquess Row.
“I beg your pardon, Lady Margaret,” His Grace said with a flicker of impatience, “this is rather a bad time for a neighborly visit, so…?”
“Yes, yes, of course.” She nodded briskly. “I saw what happened in the ballroom,” she said. “I thought I might be able to help.”
“Indeed?” said the duke, lifting his chin.
“In that case, young lady, you are most welcome,” said Mr. Godwin, sauntering closer. “What on earth did we miss in that ballroom tonight?”
“Well,” she said with a tentative smile by way of apology, “I’m afraid Lord Bryce must’ve had one too many rounds of scotch.”
“So that’s his name,” the duke drawled. “He never did bother to introduce himself before offering to shoot me.”
“Pardon, my lady,” Mr. Godwin said. “Did you say that this Lord Bryce is your suitor?”
Maggie nodded.
“Well, well,” murmured the duke, and a slightly diabolical half-smile stole across his chiseled face. “Follow me, Lady Margaret. You and I can discuss this in private, as you requested. Won’t you step into my…parlor?—or whatever this room is. I still get lost in this place.”
He pivoted and breezed toward a sitting room to the right of the entrance hall. By the light of just a couple of candles in there, she noted wood paneling and red velvet furniture.
“Ahem, shall I join you, Your Grace?” Mr. Godwin offered.
“That won’t be necessary,” the duke replied, beckoning Maggie to follow.
“Not to you, maybe,” the surgeon mumbled, and when the duke turned around, the older man nodded toward Maggie with discreet insistence.
It took Amberley a beat longer to catch his meaning—that Mr. Godwin was offering to play chaperone for them.
Gratitude filled her. Pirate or not, he seemed a very civil fellow.
“I think that would be wise,” Maggie said primly.
Amberley shook his head. “No, Nestor. Her Ladyship and I must discuss this in private, clearly.”
Maggie held up a finger. “I don’t mind if they hear this, Your Grace—that is, now that I see that these fellows are your friends.”
He flashed a wicked smile. “Perhaps I want you all to myself for a minute or two, my dear Lady Margaret. Don’t quit now; you’ve come this far, haven’t you?”
Private Duffy chuckled, but Maggie furrowed her brow in alarm, not as confident as the beanpole that her tall, intimidating host was only teasing.
Mr. Godwin didn’t seem convinced, either. “Ahem, two duels, Your Grace?”
Amberley smirked. “As many as it takes, ol’ boy. Now run along, you lot. Won’t be but a moment,” he assured them, then shut the door in the pirate’s frowning face.
Thus, Maggie found herself enclosed in a dim room with the Irish stranger.
When they were alone, he turned to her with a decidedly wayward sparkle in his eyes, and—duke or not—Maggie wondered if she ought to worry.
“So. Is the ol’ cyclops right?” he inquired. “Should I expect yet another challenge from this brother-in-law you mentioned, on account of your visit here—neighbor?”
The image of Edward’s placid smile flitted through her mind. In truth, he was the most even-tempered man alive.
He’d have to be, to marry Delia.
Still, it might be wiser not to tell Amberley that, just in case he had it in his head to try misbehaving with her. He seemed very much a rogue.
Maggie just shrugged, preferring not to lie.
“I see,” said the duke, then gestured to a chair. “Do you care to sit, my lady?”
“No, thank you, Your Grace. But do feel free, if you wish to.”
“Don’t mind if I do.” While the duke dropped lazily into an armchair, she walked across the Persian carpet toward the center of the room, putting a safer distance between them.
Then she stood with her feet together, both hands clenching her reticule tight against her waist.
Every drumbeat of her pulse seemed to chide her. This was not the done thing. Not at all. Not proper, not decent, not right.
So, why, then, did she feel such a thrill in this man’s presence?
The shadows pressing in on all sides made their secret meeting seem all the more intimate, here in the glow of two candles.
This could get her ruined, she was well aware.
At least, now seated, the warrior duke did not seem quite so large and intimidating. She was grateful for that.
Leaning back in the armchair, Amberley watched her face with guarded amusement. “Now then: Lady Margaret Winthrop. Concerning what happened in the ballroom, if you have information of some sort that could shed light on this whole debacle, that would be most welcome.”
“First of all, I’m sorry Lord Bryce was so unpleasant to you—”
“Unpleasant?” He laughed. “The man accused me of murdering my own kin.”
She winced. “Yes. He can be rather rude.”
“So I’d noticed. What else can you tell me about this suitor of yours? Why don’t we start with a name? Who the blazes is he?”
“Oh—Dorian Lacey, the Earl of Bryce. He’s the heir of the Marquess of Dover.”
“Is he now? Quite a catch there, young lady.” His blue eyes sparkled with dangerous mirth in the candle’s glow.
Maggie furrowed her brow at his teasing.
“Tell me.” He tapped a finger to his square chin thoughtfully. “Has the tot ever been in a duel before?”
“Not that I know of, no.”
“Is he a good shot?”
She shook her head. “I’ve no idea.”
“Does he regularly take target practice?”
“I-I don’t think so.”
“Ah. Then let us rename him Lord Mincemeat, for that is all he is now.”
She gasped.
“Calm down, Lady Margaret. ’Twas a jest.”
“That’s what worries me!” she burst out, staring at him in bafflement. “Shouldn’t you be a bit more—oh, I don’t know—concerned about this?”
“Sorry, I shall try to look grave. Is he right-handed or left?”
“How should I know?”
“Oh, I should think that a woman would notice such things about her beau’s touch. Unless he has not yet dared to explore those lovely—”
“Sir!” she choked out, appalled. Yet her heart skipped a beat. And then began booming.
Amberley grinned at her. “I beg your pardon, my lady. Please forgive a soldier’s blunt tongue and rough manners.” He paused while she stood there with her face radiating fire like a star. “But after all,” he said, “you’re on the other side in this matter, clearly. The least you should expect, coming here, is a wee bit o’ ribbing.”
“But that’s just it! I’m not on anybody’s side. That’s why I’m here. I don’t want this duel to happen at all!”
“Neither do I. Unfortunately, it’s not up to you—or to me, for that matter. It’s entirely in the hands of Lord Mincemeat. He’s the one who started this. If he wants to live, he can apologize. You’re free to tell him I said so. He didn’t seem to hear it when I told him myself.” He shrugged. “But perhaps he’ll listen to you, if you’re his sweetheart.”
Maggie stared at him, routed. He just looked at her, not budging an inch.
Oh, this was not going at all according to plan. She lowered her head fretfully and rubbed her brow, fighting exasperation.
“Would you like to sit down, Lady Margaret? You look a bit pale. Oh, er—can I offer you some…refreshments?” The great barbarian abruptly stood, blanching with apparent chagrin that he had not remembered hospitality till now.
Some duke he was.
“No, thank you,” she said crisply, lifting her head to pin him with a withering stare. “This is not a social call.”
He lifted his eyebrows. “Right,” he said after a moment. Then his rapid-fire questions resumed. “Do you have any notion why your suitor saw fit to accuse me of murder?”
“He didn’t mean that, I’m sure.” Maggie shook her head in frustration. “It’s just he was quite close friends with your predecessor. Richard? They were of an age and went to school together. From what I understand, Bryce was distraught when he died. I suppose now he probably just wants someone to blame.”
“His words were outrageous. Did you hear them?” he demanded.
“I did. And I…I apologize on his behalf.”
“Well, that’s very civil of you, my lady, but the apology can only come from him.”
Maggie sighed. “I’m afraid the chances of that happening are very slim, Your Grace. I don’t believe his mouth has ever formed the words I’m sorry.”
His lips twisted. “I could accept it in writing.”
She offered him a wan smile, and they gazed at each other for a moment.
It puzzled her that Amberley didn’t seem to want this duel, even though he’d likely win it.
Capable a fighter as he most likely was, it seemed he only wished for peace.
“Were you really in the Army from the age of sixteen?”
“Aye.”
She shook her head to ponder it. “That’s little more than a child.”
He shrugged with a weary half-smile. “Aristocratic families have to do something with their younger sons, don’t they? My grandfather, William, was the youngest of three. The first became the duke, the second was for the church, and the third was sent off to the Army. So war-fighting became my line’s specialty, I suppose you might say. And now I have a question for you, Lady Margaret.”
“Yes?” she whispered, entranced by the sound of his voice. His deep purr of a brogue wrapped around her, enchanting her senses.
“Why are you really here, love?” he asked softly. “Beggin’ your pardon, but I don’t think you came here at all to help me. You came wantin’ me to help you.”
“I thought I could at least shed some light on why Bryce…” she began, but her excuses trailed off, and she stared at him. “Will you? Help me, that is.”
He studied her. “What exactly do you expect me to do?”
“Spare him!” she pleaded. “I don’t want you to kill him. I know you probably could—”
“Oh, aye,” he assured her.
“But I’ve come to ask you not to,” she said in a heartfelt, humble tone. “For my sake.”
He narrowed his eyes at her, contemplating her request.
She faltered as he sat there, stony. “I know you don’t know me, but I-I throw myself on your mercy as a gentleman, Your Grace. That is all.”
A low growl escaped him. Maggie saw the chivalry that flickered behind the hard, devil-may-care veneer. But he seemed to fight it. He jumped out of the chair and paced over to the fireplace, where he propped an elbow on the mantel.
“Quite a risk you’re taking for that jackanapes, coming here. You know as well as I that if anyone found out, it could destroy your reputation. Are you so in love with this idiot?”
“Well—” The question startled her for some reason. “It…it’s my duty.”
“How’s that?”
She deflated. “I mean to make him my husband before the Season’s out, and I think he’s almost ready to propose.”
“Oho! Is that right?” He began laughing.
Maggie scowled. “You don’t know how long I have been working on this! It’s…important.”
“Well.” A wicked grin flashed across his face. “Felicitations, Lady Margaret.”
That grin worried her.
“I just want to make sure I understand,” he said. “So you set your cap at the future marquess, and now you’ve almost brought him up to scratch.”
Maggie glared at him.
“You’re not here for love’s sake, then, but ambition, yes?”
“No! Not ambition,” she insisted. “Practicality.”
“Ah, of course. Righty-ho,” said the duke, deviltry dancing a wee Irish jig across his face. He flared his thick eyebrows, then drummed his fingers on the mantel. “Let me see if I have this right: I’ve got the future wife of my enemy here alone in a room with me. What an interesting state of affairs.”
She frowned at him. “We are not engaged yet, but he is nearly poised to propose. Unless you kill him!”
“I see. Still…” His teeth flashed white in the candlelight. “As much as you tug on my heartstrings, my lady, I confess, it does get the wheels in a man’s brain turning.”
“How now, Your Grace?” she said, and drew back, offended.
Very well, not offended, exactly, but unsettled for certain.
Maggie braced herself for anything, seeing the merry glint in his dancing eyes.
“Tell me this, Lady Margaret.” He sauntered closer, leaning down to whisper, “What might you be willin’ to do to persuade me to spare your precious boy?”
He reached out and cupped her cheek in one large, warm, capable hand, and Maggie quivered.
“After all, if I spared his life for your sake, as you begged me so prettily, I should need some form of recompense. So tell me, my lady. What’s his life worth to you?”
Maggie held perfectly motionless, searching his cobalt eyes. The wicked innuendo in his question stole her breath, but she refused to back down.
Yet it was not the thought of Bryce’s survival or her life inside Delia’s prison that inspired the next words from her lips, but the scarlet image that unfurled in her mind, of this man raining kisses all over her body. The dark, violent hurricane of him sweeping her off her feet and…
She chased away a whirlwind of wicked thoughts, but her voice came out as a breathy whisper: “What did Your Grace have in mind?”