CHAPTER 8
Pay the Piper
Connor awoke hours later in the small, ordinary bedchamber he’d chosen for himself on the third floor of the mansion, at least until he got used to this place.
The master suite was opulent beyond belief. He’d never fall asleep in there. But this simple room reminded him of his chamber back at his seaside cottage in Ireland, though he sorely missed the view and the sound of the ocean.
Lying motionless, his eyes still stubbornly closed, he could admit that at least the four-poster bed was fairly comfortable.
He did his best to continue dozing, ignoring as best he could the clatter of carriages passing on the street below, the barking of a dog somewhere in the neighborhood.
But it was no use. His side hurt. His head ached, too, from the whiskey he’d drunk to chase away the pain of the gunshot wound—and his disgust with his entire situation.
Peacetime.
He couldn’t believe he had been shot. He’d truly thought that part of his life was over, that there’d be no more bullet holes in him, that he’d never have to fight again. Swords into ploughshares.
Pipe dream.
Ah well. Food would help his headache. But more than the torn flesh at his side, his pride stung from those little bastards’ mockery of him, Bryce’s friends. His fists curled at his sides when he thought of their jeering.
He’d like to call out every last damn one of them and teach the surly whelps some respect.
But beneath his ire, the truth was, he was just so damned disappointed.
He was a simple man, really. He didn’t need any of this, and with the war’s end, all he’d wanted was a chance to be happy.
Inheriting the dukedom had struck him as the most hilarious windfall raining down on him like a leprechaun’s gold. Rank, power, wealth beyond imagining. Happy? Hell, he should’ve been ecstatic.
Except that everybody here seemed to hate him before he ever opened his mouth. Well, perhaps that was a wee exaggeration, for plenty of ladies here seemed eager to give him a go. He’d seen them ogling him.
But twenty paces at dawn against the likes of Lord Bryce had made it quite clear that he would never be accepted here, and since it was all down to his Irish blood, there was not a thing that he could do about it.
Aye, not a thing he wanted to do about it, either. If they didn’t like it, let them go hang. The Irish were good enough to go and fight for England, eh? The cannon-fodder boys who relished a fight, they and their fellow tribe, the Scots.
God forbid the purebred English should get their own hands dirty when it could be avoided.
But these were dangerous thoughts.
Opening his bleary eyes at last, Connor stared at one of the posts at the foot of the bed. Feeling too lazy to get up and check the clock, he wondered if he could use it as a sundial to guess the time.
The duel had cost him a good night’s sleep. Judging by the sunshine trying to get in around the edges of the curtains, he supposed it must be nearly noon.
Was that damn dog ever going to stop barking?
He shut his eyes again, annoyed.
It was hard enough getting used to civilian life again. Now with his radical change in circumstances, he felt like he didn’t belong anywhere.
At least a gunshot wound was familiar, though.
With wry pleasure, he imagined the thing going differently at dawn if he had not listened to Lady Margaret Winthrop.
He pondered the far more pleasant subject of the girl for a moment, she of the lovely ankles. A roguish smile tugged at his lips.
The thought of her helped him cast aside his torpor. It was time to go collect on their bargain.
Taking a deep breath, he sat up, still dressed in his linen long drawers, held up by suspenders.
The bandaging around his waist hugged him like a tubby gent’s corset.
Whispering a curse at the pang when he sat up, Connor glanced down at it. A copper stain of blood marred its ivory expanse, but it wasn’t fresh.
The stuffy room stank of sleep, mingled with the astringent odor of the comfrey salve Nestor had given him to smear over his stitches.
Head pounding, Connor wanted to eat, to bathe—though getting a wound wet was always tricky. He also needed a shave, he noticed, glimpsing his jaw’s dark scruff in the mirror.
But first, he went to the window, pushed the curtains aside, and opened the sash, letting the fresh air in.
The cool breeze waving into the room helped bring him fully to awareness.
He began removing his bandage, sauntering over toward the chest of drawers as he unwound it from his waist. He wanted to see how the injury was looking. As he put the length of linen on the chest of drawers and peered down at his side, he found the skin still inflamed around the stitches, but that was to be expected, he knew from long experience.
Just then, Will came racing into his room, barely bothering to knock. “Major, Major!” The skinny lad skidded to a halt over the hardwood floor. “Oh, good, you’re up.”
“Morning,” Connor said serenely, pouring water from the pitcher into the white washbasin.
“Noon’s more like it, sir,” Will said, striding in.
“Ah. Well, what are you on about, then?”
“This!” Will marched toward him holding up a small, leather-bound book. “Remember how you told me and Nestor to search your cousin’s room again for any clues?”
“Did you find something?”
“His diary! We just discovered it a few minutes ago. It was wedged in a secret compartment built into the underside of that big canopy bed. I didn’t mean to read about your cousin’s private business, sir, but I wasn’t sure what it was, so I looked at a few pages.”
“Ah, no matter, Will. He won’t mind at this point. Give it here.”
“Yes, sir. Take a look at the last entry.” Will handed the book to Connor, who quickly dried his hands, having barely had a chance to splash his face. “Duke Richard was scared, sir. Seems he had suspicions, just like you, about the other dukes’ deaths. It seems like he started investigating it.”
“Hmm.” While Connor flipped through the neatly scrawled pages his dead cousin had penned—well, first cousin once removed, actually—Will marched back to the doorway and bellowed: “Nestor, he’s up!”
Connor scanned the page in fascination, reading what the Third Duke had written:
First Grandfather, and now Papa both dying within six months of each other? This cannot be a coincidence. I feel it in my bones that some unseen enemy wishes the destruction of my lineage, and I live in dread that if I cannot stop them soon, I may be next.
Connor snorted softly. “I know the feeling, mate.”
Then he read on.
I have no idea what the substance of this vendetta against us might be, nor does Mama. But I’ve got to start somewhere. After speaking with my father’s secretary, I’ve managed to assemble the list below.
These are the last few people Papa met with before his death, according to his appointment book. I believe one of these could be the culprit.
“Good work, Number Three,” Connor murmured.
I shall begin looking into them at once. Unfortunately, the person I really must speak to is Grandaunt Lucinda. To be sure, the Dowager Duchess is a mean old bird, but those eagle eyes of hers don’t miss a thing. If anyone might know the source of some ancient grudge against our family, it will be Her Grace.
The question is, will the old harpy reveal it?
Connor frowned. He had not yet met Grandaunt Lucinda, the First Duchess of Amberley, who’d been married to Granduncle Charles. She’d been giving him the cold shoulder since he’d arrived on account of his Irish blood. Still, Connor couldn’t imagine why, if she had information, she’d decline to share it with the family.
Then he scanned down the page to the list of five names Cousin Richard had recorded. None looked familiar to him…
But Lady Margaret might know who these people were.
“Hungry, Your Grace?” Nestor swept in at that moment, carrying a tray with Connor’s breakfast.
He snapped the book shut and set it on the chest of drawers. “God bless you, man! I’m starved.”
“How’s the wound?” asked the surgeon.
“Just a glorified scratch, really.” Connor shrugged. “I’m alive.”
“Good.” Nestor glanced at the diary. “What’s this?”
While Will picked it up and handed it to Nestor, explaining what he’d found, Connor guzzled the entire glass of orange juice, then took a large sip of strong, sweet tea.
Sitting down on the edge of his bed, he set the tray on his lap. Under the pewter lid covering his plate, he discovered scrambled eggs and several fried sausages. There was toast and jam as well as cinnamon-topped muffins, and he ate them like some ravenous wild dog.
“You’re a good cook, Nestor,” he said heartily. “And possibly a saint.”
“Pshaw,” the surgeon said dryly.
Connor stabbed a sausage with his fork and bit it in half, feeling much better already. He put his hand out for the book, gesturing to them to give it back.
Will brought it to him, then drifted over to the window. “It’s a nice day out.” He paused. “Don’t you ever wonder, sir, where all the servants ended up? If they found new jobs, I mean.”
Connor frowned at him. He didn’t need more guilt in his life. “Not really. Why?”
Will shrugged. “Some of them were nice.”
Nestor, meanwhile, began gathering up the used bandages. Will planted his hands on the windowsill and watched the busy world below.
Eating with one hand and reading with the other, Connor flipped through his cousin’s diary at random, when suddenly, his eyebrows shot up.
He read a startling page or two.
“Huh,” he said under his breath, then wrinkled his nose.
Nestor turned to him. “Find something?”
Connor nodded. “An explanation as to why that idiot this morning was so keen to kill me.”
“Lord Bryce?”
He offered Nestor the diary to read for himself the true nature of the two fops’ friendship.
“At least now I know why he was so…passionate about my cousin’s death,” Connor muttered.
Nestor read the passage and then looked at Connor, his eyebrows jumping up high on his lined forehead. “Good Lord. Are you going to break the news to Lady Margaret?”
“Hell no,” Connor said. “I couldn’t.”
“I don’t see how you can’t,” Nestor replied.
“She’s an innocent young girl!” Connor said.
“Huh? What’s happening?” Will asked, leaving off his daydreaming and turning from the window.
“Never mind,” Nestor said.
Speaking of innocent…
Connor snorted, then shrugged off the matter. Not my business.
“Oh, come, you can’t let that sweet young lady marry that fellow!” Nestor insisted with a frown. “Doesn’t she deserve a proper husband?”
Connor looked at his friend as he wolfed down his breakfast.
Will scratched his head. “Did I miss something, sirs?”
“No,” they both said.
For they both found it dear and rather amusing that Will was a virgin, despite being twenty years old.
“When will you see her next?” Nestor asked.
“Today,” Connor said around a mouthful of toast and eggs.
“Lady Margaret?” Will chimed in, his brow still furrowed in confusion.
Connor nodded. “She owes me, especially now, and I plan to make good use of her.”
“Sir!” Will said.
“Not like that,” Connor replied with a scowl as he stabbed another sausage. “Although…”
“Major,” Nestor said sternly.
“She is pretty, though,” Will said with a sigh. “And elegant.”
Connor shrugged. “I suppose. I’m merely developing an asset.”
“You, sir, are so full of horseshit,” said Nestor.
Connor laughed and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then held up his cousin’s list of names. “Bet she knows who these people are. Lord this, lord that. Toffs, the lot o’ them.” He tossed the leather-bound book down again.
“I see.” Nestor gave him a look of disapproval. “So you mean to use this innocent young lady as your spy in Society.”
“Spy is such a dirty word, Nestor. I much prefer source, scout, reconnaissance expert.”
Will chuckled. “You would know, Major.”
“Aye. But I’ll tell you one thing,” Connor said, his face hardening. “When I find whoever is responsible for harming my family, well… Let’s just say I won’t be shooting anybody’s hat.”
Nestor and Will exchanged a grim glance at his ominous vow.
Connor took a polite sip of tea, murder coursing through his veins.
* * *
Later that day, Maggie ambled along morosely after her sister through the smart new shopping arcade not far from Bond Street. Green-painted wrought-iron posts held up the fanciful, transparent roof, which was vaulted, like the inside of a fine conservatory.
The afternoon sunlight streamed through the thick glass as the voices of countless well-to-do shoppers rebounded beneath. The quaint, narrow lane the arcade enclosed was lined with fashionable shops frequented by fashionable folk—and few were more fashionable than the inimitable Lady Birdwell.
Maggie trailed after her sister alongside her lady’s maid, Penelope, while Delia held forth on the morning’s events.
“No one could believe their eyes,” the marchioness told her friends with great gusto. “He ripped off his shirt, blood everywhere. I’ve never seen anything so barbaric!”
Or magnificent, Maggie thought, then let out a dull sigh, remaining outside as Delia and her followers stepped into the linen-draper’s shop.
For her part, she did not care to relive the thing again.
“Will you wait with me, Pen? I don’t care to go in there,” Maggie said.
“Of course, my lady,” Penelope said, then the two of them leaned against the wall, waiting idly.
Penelope, a handsome, flaxen-haired woman in her mid-twenties, studied Maggie with a vague look of concern. “Are you all right, my lady?”
“Just a bit glum,” Maggie admitted.
Penelope had been her trusted lady’s maid for years; she had come with her from home and was thus permitted a certain degree of familiarity.
She could read Maggie well.
Certainly, Penelope knew her better than all the ton folk Maggie had met since she’d moved to London. Truth be told, her maid probably knew her better than her sister did.
“You didn’t get much sleep,” Penelope said. She knew all of Maggie’s comings and goings, since it was her job to help her dress for each social event and to wait up until the wee hours to help her undress, too, since so many of the ball gowns and such were difficult to navigate without assistance.
Then, while Maggie tumbled into bed, Penelope would have to see to the proper care of all those fine gowns. No earl’s daughter could live without such an ally, especially in London.
Maggie just counted herself fortunate that her lady’s maid was not simply a clever and hardworking servant—expert with needle and thread, inventive with millinery, and managed not to pull Maggie’s hair too much when she styled it in all the latest modes—but was also a kindhearted person, and sensible.
As Penelope studied her, Maggie let out a sigh, thinking of the duel again.
“Yes. I am rather tired,” she said. “And I’ve learned that I don’t like violence.”
“I should think not,” Penelope said, giving her an arch look.
Maggie watched the people milling about in their finery. The little tea shop across the lane seemed intriguing. Perhaps they’d go there next. Her body felt heavy with fatigue, but a nice cup of sweet China blend might help wake her up.
“Do you wish to go home ahead of Her Ladyship?” Penelope asked. “I could fetch us a hackney coach.”
“No, I can wait. But then, a long afternoon nap might be lovely. Oh, look at these muslins…” The fabrics on display in the bow window of the linen-draper’s shop caught Maggie’s eye, and they both turned to contemplate this far more pleasant subject than that of men trying to kill each other.
“That blue watered silk would look perfect on you, my lady.”
“You think so?” Maggie’s gaze wandered absently over a luscious greenish-blue watered silk and various swaths of printed muslin in charming patterns. Flowers, checks, little paisleys…
But her thoughts drifted far away again, and her heart was all a-tangle, more than she could have explained even to Penelope. Conflicting sentiments crashed within her like the waves of an uneasy sea.
She hated chaos, in general, so she tried to sort her emotions out neatly, as though she could stack them into organized piles, like the linen-draper’s bolts of fabric laid out on a shelf. First: relief that the duel was over and no one had died. Next: guilt that His Grace had been shot, even if it was just a flesh wound.
Beside that: anxiety at her sudden realization this morning that she would have to end her courtship with Bryce.
She simply had to. She knew that.
After the way he had behaved, the true colors he’d shown, she could no longer talk herself into believing that their match would all work out fine. He made her feel small…and stupid.
“He should respect you.”
Yes. She must call it off before things proceeded any further.
Otherwise, she’d probably find herself bullied about by him for the rest of her life. And if she was willing to put up with that, then she might as well stay at Delia’s.
Ending it was the right thing to do, but he wasn’t going to like it. And that made her nervous. Indeed, part of her was tempted to ask Edward to do it for her, but she wasn’t that much of a coward. She’d simply sit him down and tell him herself.
Last on her tidy shelf of emotions came her feelings toward Amberley.
No—Amberley got a shelf all his own. The size and complexity of her feelings concerning him warranted that. He confused her. He thrilled her. He awed her.
Above all, he worried her.
What might he want from her now? What exactly had she agreed to in all this? She’d shown him her ankles—now what?
He had said that he needed her help, but he’d never explained how or why.
Just last night, she’d been desperate enough to agree to that blindly, to save Bryce’s life.
Maybe he’ll forget about our agreement, she thought halfheartedly, staring through her own reflection in the glass, her face framed by a mullioned window pane.
It did not help matters that she could not stop envisioning the mighty major with his shirt off.
The blood that had been streaming down his side was of course upsetting to see and must’ve hurt, but he hadn’t even seemed to feel the pain at the time.
She could not make heads or tails of how perfectly at home he seemed to be in his half-nude state in front of so many people.
It almost made her laugh. She could never have conceived of such a thing.
Perhaps it came of his being a soldier, having to live day and night packed into tents with his regiment.
Privacy was probably as rare for the troops as it was for the servants—at least those that ranked beneath lady’s maid. Penelope, like the butler and cook, got her own room.
In any case, the question led Maggie to wonder about Amberley’s life before he’d become the current Duke of Amberley.
How on earth did anyone become that strong? The force and vibrancy of his character had engulfed her, along with the entire dueling field…
Then, speaking of those with dominating natures, Delia came back out with her coterie, still chattering away at the pace of a racehorse gallop, and the ladies drifted en masse on to the next shop, this one selling shoes.
Maggie followed like a leaf pulled along by a stream.
Penelope glanced at her. “Shall we ask about the tea shop, my lady?”
“I doubt we’ll get a word in,” Maggie said wryly, and shrugged. “Might as well look at shoes, I suppose.”
Penelope chuckled and followed her into the shop.
Inside, a cobbler sat working in one corner, tapping away with a little hammer, spectacles perched on the end of his nose. The shelves all around them brimmed with shoes of all kinds.
Dainty mules, half-boots in velvet or kid, embroidered dancing slippers, smart riding boots, even metal patens.
“Oh, look at these! Aren’t they beautiful!” one of Delia’s friends said, speeding over to fondle a pair of satin mules with a slender heel.
Maggie smiled absently at the woman’s gushing, still in a state of distraction.
If the Duke of Amberley was confused by his change of station, she was even more so with the sudden disruption in what had, until this morning, been her single-minded goal to marry Bryce.
What the deuce was she to do now?
One of Delia’s friends ordered a pair of shoes in her size, then they drifted back out into the sunny arcade.
As before, Maggie trailed along behind her sister’s cohorts, still contemplating her marital options, or current lack thereof, when suddenly, Penelope gave her a nudge.
“My lady?” she whispered.
Maggie jolted back to awareness. “Yes, what is it?”
“I think that gentleman over there is trying to get your attention.” Penelope nodded discreetly across the arcade to a tall, powerful, by now-familiar figure leaning idly on the wall next to a bookshop’s display window.
The duke!
Below his smart black top hat, but above the newspaper he was pretending to read, Maggie spotted Amberley’s tanned, square face. His cobalt gaze was fixed on her, and his lips curled into a half-smile when she saw him.
At once, her heart lurched; he tipped his hat, then sent her a meaningful nod toward the bookshop.
Maggie gulped. So soon he came to collect on their agreement?
“What is he even doing out of bed?” she mumbled. “Shouldn’t he be in hospital?”
“Who is that, my lady?” her maid whispered in amazement.
“That, my dear Penelope, is our new neighbor.”
“Handsome,” she said.
“Quite. But he’s trouble, believe me.” Unfortunately, I could develop a taste for that. Maggie watched, pulse pounding, as Amberley pushed away from the wall and sent her another insistent stare as he folded his newspaper.
Then he took off his hat and stepped into the bookshop.
“I think we’re meant to follow,” Maggie said, wide-eyed. I wonder how he found me.
Penelope gave her a skeptical look. “Is that wise?”
“Probably not,” Maggie said in amusement.
As far as the world knew, she and the duke had never been formally introduced, and there were so many Society folk milling about the arcade.
But Maggie had given her word to cooperate, and he’d already upheld his end of the bargain by sparing Bryce.
At least getting away from Delia and her friends wouldn’t be difficult.
He’d been clever to choose the bookshop, for such fashionable ladies would never venture into such a place.
Delia read as little as possible to avoid developing, she said, a squint.
For a moment, Maggie lost her train of thought, watching the smooth way Amberley glided into the shadows of the doorway, his broad shoulders straight, nearly as wide as the doorframe, his head held high.
He gave no outward sign of being wounded.
“My lady?” Penelope asked worriedly.
“I suddenly find myself in need of a good novel. You will come with me, Pen?”
“You think I’d let you go in there alone?”
Maggie sent her a conspiratorial smile, but Penelope did not smile back, clearly concerned. To make her excuses, Maggie hurried after her sister. The women had gained a lead of some yards on them, but a moment later, she tapped the redhead on the shoulder.
“Delia, I’m going to step into the bookshop over there for a moment.” Maggie glanced around innocently at them. “Do you want to come with me?”
“Oh God no,” Delia said. “What do you want in there?”
“Don’t you remember? Lady Delphine has invited me to be a part of her book club for all the ladies of Moonlight Square. I want to see if that bookseller has the title they’ll be reading this month. I’ve written it down somewhere…” She opened her reticule and pretended to search it in order to avoid her sister’s gaze.
For Maggie knew she wasn’t good at lying.
“Book club. Right.” Delia wrinkled her nose, and some of her friends tittered. “You run along.”
“I-I’ll take Penelope with me,” Maggie said. “I’ll be right back.”
“Oh, take your time,” the marchioness drawled. “We’ll be in the milliner’s, probably, or the tea shop.”
“Good. I’ll find you when I’m done. And don’t leave without me again!”
Delia stuck her tongue out at her playfully in reply.
Perhaps her sister still remembered the wigging that Edward had given her for abandoning Maggie at Trinny’s baby shower in January. She’d simply got bored and left her at the hostess’s house in St. James’s. She’d had to beg a ride home from her friend, Felicity, the Duchess of Netherford.
In this case, however, Delia’s self-centeredness might prove a boon. Once Maggie walked away, Delia would most likely forget she existed, at least for a while.
Penelope and Maggie hurried across the quaint cobbled arcade, passing the open doorways of several establishments: jeweler’s, glover’s, tobacconist.
When they arrived under the hanging placard for the bookshop, Penelope hesitated. “Are you quite sure about this?”
“Don’t worry, he’s a good man—I think. Come,” Maggie added, assuming a businesslike air. “Let’s see what he wants and get this over with.”
Whether her brisk attitude disguised her crazed inward fluttering at the prospect of speaking with Amberley again, she could not say. But she smiled and nodded to a few random customers with her usual outward serenity as she walked into the cluttered bookshop.
She kept her footsteps measured and sedate, but gripped her reticule hard with both hands, heart pounding.
She did not see the duke at once, given all the tall wooden racks that crisscrossed the shop’s length. But just knowing he was here made her flesh tingle with awareness. She could feel her petticoat brushing back and forth against her legs. Her skin seemed to grow a few degrees warmer.
She very much feared this emotion was lust, and despised herself for it.
So much for Mama’s perfect little angel, as Delia had said with a sneer.
Wandering deeper into the quiet bookshop, Maggie nodded back to the ink-smudged clerk who greeted her from behind the counter.
Penelope followed, an obedient step behind.
Then Maggie spotted the top of a man’s glossy black hair on the other side of the long wooden rack she was passing.
There he is.
Her pulse raced as she laid hold of her courage and walked around the shelving. Amberley was standing with his hands clasped politely behind his back, perusing the titles on offer. But he glanced over at her with a smile that made her stomach flip-flop.
The vibrant tone of his bronzed face, the clean line of his jaw, and the knowing and strangely intimate twist of his lips as he looked over at her knocked her world slightly off its axis.
He returned his attention to the shelves. “So, what are we reading?” he greeted her with a playful murmur.
For a heartbeat, Maggie feared she had forgotten how to read, even how to speak, standing beside him.
Though she felt fevered with his nearness, she ventured a step closer so they could converse quietly enough not to be overheard.
Turning to the shelves, she stared blankly at the titles for a moment, for he absorbed all her awareness. The cliff-like angle of his shoulder to her right, looming above her, the subtle spice of his cologne, the smooth brown wool of his tailcoat…
She shuddered. Oh my God. I want this man.
Penelope hung back at the end of the aisle, standing guard, as it were. Maggie would have to give her a nice little gift for that.
“How is your side?” Maggie finally whispered, collecting her wits.
“How are your ankles?” he countered softly.
She shook her head and pressed her lips together to hold back a laugh, as Amberley picked up some thick tome.
He glanced at her, eyes dancing, then he fanned idly through the pages of the book in his hand, stirring up a breeze. Alas, it only fed the blaze that he’d already stoked in her cheeks.
“You’re sure you’re all right, then?”
He winked at her. “Never better. Thanks for asking. What about you? You all right?”
“No!” she whispered. “That was horrible this morning.”
“Could’ve been worse.”
She shook her head. “I didn’t expect to see you so soon.”
He chuckled very softly. “No doubt.”
“I’m so sorry he shot you, Your Grace. I can’t begin to tell you how appalled I am—”
“Apologizing for your suitor once again, Lady Margaret?” he said. “I fear you may spend the rest of your life doing that.”
“No,” she said meaningfully. “Probably not.”
“Aha. Rethinking this marriage, then?” He looked askance at her. “That is good news.”
“Is it?” She hid her hopeful gulp, trying to glean his meaning.
“Of course. You can do much better than that idiot.”
If only he knew how many suitors her sister had scared away.
“Well, thank you for sparing him, anyway.”
“My word is my bond, love. However…” He cast her a droll look and snapped the book shut. “You might not want to thank me just yet.”