Chapter Four
‡
“Why did you ask that man to investigate Doctor Banting?” Rosalyn asked the next morning as soon as they were in the large traveling carriage. She’d spent the night at the duke’s town house, whereupon arriving, she’d been whisked off to guest chambers, brought tea and an assortment of sandwiches, and offered a bath. She’d also been assigned a maid, who had not only fussed over her but had cleaned and ironed her dress. It was her only dress, and she wore it again this morning.
She should have slept well, all things considered, but she had worried about her mother and brothers and fretted as well about the job to be done. What did the duke want her to steal? How long would they travel? And then, as she’d been coming down the stairs, she’d heard the duke tell his secretary to look into Doctor Banting and to send him a report. What was that about?
“It doesn’t concern you,” the duke said, settling back on the squabs. Besides overhearing the duke ask his man to investigate Doctor Banting, she’d also heard him confirm that a groom had ridden ahead to ensure that fresh horses would be waiting at each posting house so they wouldn’t be delayed and could therefore travel as quickly as possible. The duke was obviously in a hurry to reach their destination.
“As Doctor Banting is my brother’s doctor, I think it does concern me,” she said.
He gave her a long, hard look. He’d shaved this morning, his jaw clean of the stubble that had grazed it the night before. He’d removed his hat when he’d entered the coach, and in the daylight she could see his hair was light brown with streaks of chestnut and gold. But his eyes were what held her attention. They were still the prettiest shade of blue she had ever seen.
“I’m a curious man,” the duke said at last. “I wanted to know more about Banting.”
“He’s one of the best in London,” she said.
“So he says. I merely wondered what others might say.”
She closed her mouth. It was true. She had no idea of the doctor’s reputation, other than the praise he’d heaped on himself. But Michael did seem to improve under Banting’s care. Didn’t he?
The maid—her name was Alice—gasped as the horses started forward, and Rosalyn glanced at her. The poor girl was white as a sheet and wide-eyed. She was young, perhaps even younger than Rosalyn, with white-blond hair and pale blue eyes. She looked like she had come from Druid stock, if the old tales of Druids were to be believed. Even more important, she looked as though she had never been in such a grand conveyance before, or seated across from a duke.
Come to think of it, Rosalyn had never been in this situation either.
“Are you well, Alice?” she asked.
“Oh yes, miss.” She stared out the window, then turned quickly back to Rosalyn. “Do you need anything, miss?”
Rosalyn shook her head. Just to be finished with whatever it was the duke wanted from her and to go home. “Now that we are under way,” she said, leveling a look at the duke, “can you tell me where we are going?”
“Cornwall,” he said.
“Cornwall? But that will take days to reach!”
“That’s why I wanted to leave first thing this morning.”
“And what is it you want in Cornwall?”
At this question, Alice looked away from the window. Apparently, the maid knew no more than she.
The duke looked at Alice then back at Rosalyn. “We’ll discuss it later.”
“When?” she pressed.
“Later.”
But later, once they were outside of London, the duke vacated the carriage and rode his horse. Without the duke across from them making her nervous, Alice fell asleep, and Rosalyn stared out the window at the countryside racing by. It had been so long since she’d been out of London, she’d almost forgotten what green fields and white sheep looked like. And the air was cool and fresh, even under the heat of the summer sun.
They stopped routinely to change horses, and if time permitted, Rosalyn didn’t even wait for the footman to open the carriage door before climbing down. She simply stepped away from the carriage, found a small patch of grass, and lifted her face to the sun. She could remember doing this as a child back at her home in Surrey.
“You’ll freckle if you keep that up,” said a male voice from behind her.
Rosalyn resisted the urge to lower her face and turn to face the duke. “I don’t mind.”
He was silent so long she finally did look at him. “I’ve never heard a woman say she doesn’t mind freckles.”
She shrugged. “That’s because the women you know have nothing else to worry about. Freckles are not at the top of my list. Besides, I might look half alive again if I get some color on my cheeks.”
“You look alive as it is.”
She studied his face, but his expression gave nothing away. “Was that a compliment, Your Grace?”
“Just an observation.”
“Good. Because if it was a compliment, it wasn’t a very good one.” She thought his lips might have quirked just slightly at that remark. “What is in Cornwall, Your Grace?”
His face clouded. He did not like this line of questioning, and the more he avoided telling her about the job he’d hired her to do, the more concerned she became. “You have to tell me at some point,” she said.
He looked dubious.
“Don’t you?”
“It’s a book. A manuscript, to be precise,” he said, surprising her. She’d thought she would have to do much more wheedling and cajoling, skills she had in abundance, as she’d finely honed them on her brothers.
“You want me to steal a book?”
“Possibly.”
“Possibly? What book is it?”
“An old and valuable book.”
“I didn’t think it was the latest copy of Byron.”
He frowned. “You have a flippant nature.”
“Some people call it amusing. I like to smile, laugh, tease. I don’t see the point in frowning all the time. It gives one lines.” She touched his cheek to the side of his mouth. “Right here.” And then she walked away, smiling because the shocked look on his face was the most amusing thing she’d seen in a very long time.
*
She’d touched him. She’d worn her gloves, so it hadn’t been skin-to-skin contact, but nevertheless, she’d touched him. The sensation had jolted him, made him wonder how long it had been since someone else had touched him—someone besides his valet in the course of dressing.
Oh, he kissed his mother on the cheek when he saw her, a formal, perfunctory kiss as befitted a duchess. Nothing like the stifling hug Mrs. Dashner had given her daughter. And of course, he shook hands with men in the Lords. And there were women. He was a duke. He did not have to look very hard for a willing woman, but he had not looked in some time. And no one had touched him in any way that wasn’t obligatory or dutiful in longer than he cared to remember.
That was until Miss Dashner. She’d touched him and she’d smiled up into his eyes, and his heart had jolted. He didn’t quite know what to think, and so he mounted his horse and kept his distance the rest of the day. But it was impossible to keep his distance that evening. They stopped at an inn for the night, and he must dine with her, else she would have to eat in her room alone. He reserved a private room and sent word to her maid when Miss Dashner was to join him. He was in the room at the appointed hour, sitting at a table. But then he rose because his foot kept tapping. But he couldn’t manage to stand still either, so he ended up pacing the room, pocket watch in hand. She was late, which annoyed him. But what annoyed him even more was that he could not seem to stop pacing. Dukes did not pace. Dukes made others pace and wait and worry.
Finally, the door opened and Miss Dashner stepped inside. She gave him a bright smile, and the annoyance he’d felt at her tardiness fled.
“Good evening, Your Grace.” She looked just as fresh and pretty as she had this morning. “Have you chosen a table?” She gestured to the three empty ones in the private parlor.
“You go ahead.”
“This one, I think. It’s close to the hearth, but not so close as to overheat us.” She passed him, and he caught the clean scent of her. She smelled of mint mingled with something floral, a clean country scent that was miles away from London. She sat and adjusted her skirts.
“Will your maid be joining us?” No one else had entered after her.
“I told her to eat with the other servants. I didn’t think we needed a chaperone here. It’s not that private. Besides, I want to continue our discussion about this book I’m to steal.”
“Keep your voice down.” He leaned close. “You never know who might be listening.” As if to prove his point, the door opened again and the innkeeper entered. He was a pleasant enough man, tall and broad-shouldered and wearing a clean apron.
“Your Grace.” He gave a slight bow. “Miss.” Another. “Welcome to The White Hart. Shall I have your supper brought in?”
Dominick glanced at Miss Dashner, and she nodded.
“Very good. I’ll return promptly with the tea you ordered.”
He departed, and Miss Dashner raised a brow. “Tea? No ale?”
“Tea,” he confirmed. He needed all his wits about him to deal with her. A moment later, the innkeeper returned with the tea and informed them it would be a few minutes until their meal was prepared.
Dominick sipped his tea, watching with amusement as Miss Dashner added three small blocks of sugar. “Shall I request more sugar?” he asked.
“Why?” She sipped her sugar laced with tea and smiled. “Did you want sugar?”
“No, but you obviously have a taste for it.”
She shrugged. “I can’t remember the last time I had sugar in my tea. I’ve missed it.” She sipped again, then leaned forward. “Tell me about this book I’m to steal.” Her voice was low enough that he couldn’t chastise her, but he still glanced around to be certain they were alone.
“I prefer to say that you may need to assist me in acquiring the manuscript.”
“I’m certain you do. Which book is it, and why do you need me to assist you?”
“Have you ever heard of the Bibliomania Club?”
“No, but I know enough Latin to understand it’s a group who love books. And judging by what I know of most London societies, it’s full of men so wealthy they don’t have anything better to do with their money than spend it on rare volumes. Is that the gist of it?”
Dominick frowned. “We allow women.”
“How progressive.” Her tone was laden with sarcasm. “As I assume you only admit wealthy women, I don’t suppose you want me to acquire this manuscript so I can become a member. Do you need it to retain your membership?”
“No.”
“Then it’s part of a competition.”
“Not exactly.” If he were being honest, Dominick would admit he did not want to be the only one of the three searching for the volumes of The Duke’s Book to fail.
“Then it must be—”
“Miss Dashner.”
She scowled, obviously annoyed that he’d interrupted her.
“If you will stop talking for a moment, I will explain.”
“Of course!” She sat back.
Dominick opened his mouth.
“Please do explain, Your Grace,” she said.
He tried again.
“I am all ears.”
“Miss Dashner, if you were indeed all ears, I would have already said what I needed to say.”
“Do forgive me.”
It was the most insincere apology he’d ever heard. If he’d known she’d vex him this much, he would have offered her only forty pounds. “While at Oxford, I studied under an extraordinary man. He was my sponsor for the Bibliomania Club and taught me much of what I know about rare and valuable books.”
“What was his name?”
He blew out a breath at this interruption. “I don’t see why that matters.”
“I’m only trying to make the tale a little more interesting.”
“Are you implying that I am boring you?”
She opened her mouth, paused, then pointed to the door. “Oh, look! The food is here. How lovely!”
The innkeeper and a woman Dominick assumed was his wife bustled in with a tureen of soup, bread, and a variety of fresh fruits and fragrant vegetables. As soon as they departed, Miss Dashner filled her plate and bowl. Dominick supposed he should take advantage of her full mouth to speak while he could.
“The professor’s name is Peebles, and he has spent his life searching for what is commonly known as The Duke’s Book. More properly, it is referred to as The Duke’s Book of Knowledge.”
She ate bread and nodded encouragement.
“The book was commissioned by Lorenzo de’ Medici sometime in the fifteenth century.” He told her the history of the manuscript and about the professor’s years of fruitless searching and his own discovery about his volume’s possible location the night they’d met. “And so the three of us vowed to acquire the volumes as a gift to celebrate the professor’s retirement. That’s in about eleven days, so I need to move quickly to secure my volume.”
“What is your volume about?” She put down her fork and pushed her plate away. It still held a remarkable amount of food, but her eyes must have been bigger than her stomach. “You said one was a volume on natural history and another matters of the heart. What is the one you seek?”
He was surprised she had actually been listening. “Medical knowledge. I suppose it’s all rather arcane by our modern standards, but it’s not the content that’s important.”
“I disagree. I think what’s really important is your reputation. I can’t think why else you would hire me to steal a book away from an old, mad earl who has nothing and no one else in his life, just to present it to a man who isn’t satisfied with all he already has.”
With that, she rose and walked away.
*
Rosalyn thought Stephen would have laughed at her if he’d been here. She was usually the one who argued for taking more and her brother the one who was hesitant to steal from anyone who might be hurt by the theft. But once again, she saw Stephen’s point. The duke did not need this volume. He had all he’d ever need and more. The Earl of Verney, however, was a mad recluse who lived in the wilds of Cornwall—at least, that’s how Tremayne had described it. What honor could there be in taking something from such a man only to give it to a man, who, though he might appreciate it, had more than enough in his life?
She was disgusted by the situation and disgusted with herself for accepting payment. Even worse, she knew she would go through with the job because Michael mattered more to her than an insane old man.
She marched for the door of the parlor, intent on returning to her room. She’d wanted to know what the job entailed, and now that she did, she’d rather not hear any more or have to look at the man who’d hired her to do it. But just as she lifted the latch, the duke’s hand slammed the door closed again.
“What are you about, sir?” She rounded on him.
“I haven’t given you leave.”
Of all the pompous, asinine… “I didn’t ask for leave. I took it. Now, kindly remove your hand from the door and allow me to return to my room.”
His hand didn’t budge. “You wanted to know the details of the job you’d been hired to do. Now you know.”
True. And now she was forced to think how to bring the duke’s plan to fruition. How to convince him of its inefficiency without raising his ire—raising it further?
“Well, I wish I didn’t know these details. There’s no honor in what you’re asking me to do.”
“You’re a thief. You don’t possess any honor anyway.”
She inhaled sharply. A cold rage settled like a lead ball in her belly, and she stepped away from the door. “I have more honor in my little toe,” she said, her voice quiet and steady, “than you have in your entire body.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“You think money or a title makes you honorable? No, it’s who you are inside”—she tapped his chest—“that makes you honorable. It’s what you do when you lose your money, when you lose your title, that shows your true mettle.”
“So I suppose that means your true mettle took the shape of a thief.” He grasped her hand and pushed it away from his chest. “Everyone knows there’s no honor among thieves.”
“And that shows just how little you do know. Now, out of my way.” This time when she lifted the latch, he didn’t stop her.
The next morning, she didn’t speak a word to him or even glance his way. She simply climbed into the carriage and slammed the door behind her. Alice jumped. “Is anything wrong, miss?”
“Why would anything be wrong?” she said with false cheer. “It’s a beautiful day to do evil.”
And, in fact, the day had dawned bright and clear. The sun shone from a cloudless cerulean sky, and a mild breeze kept the afternoon from becoming too warm. Tremayne did not stop at a posting house for a midday meal. He had ordered food from The White Hart to be sent along, and they ate as they traveled. By three in the afternoon, the night she had spent tossing and turning and the novelty of a full belly meant her eyes crept closed. Alice lay sprawled and snoring on the seat across from her, and Rosalyn didn’t see any reason not to emulate the maidservant’s example. She sank down and was almost asleep when she heard the loud whinny of a horse and the words no traveler wants to hear.
“Stand and deliver!”
Rosalyn caught her breath but resisted the urge to spring up and peer through the open curtains. She heard the rumble of hoof beats, and then the carriage slowed, and she knew there could be only one explanation. The highwaymen had surrounded them, forcing the carriage to halt.
“What is this about? Move aside and allow us to pass, or I will make you sincerely regret it.” The duke spoke loudly and confidently, but in her opinion, not altogether intelligently. Now that the carriage had stopped, she slid to the floor and pressed herself against the door. If anyone peered inside from the side where the bandit’s voice had come from, they would see only Alice, who was still sleeping. If one of the highwaymen looked in from the other side, he’d see her, of course. From the angle where she crouched, Rosalyn couldn’t see any men outside that window, but the shadow of a man—whether the duke or a highwayman, she didn’t know—spread out over the floor of the carriage.
“Give us your valuables, and no one will be hurt,” the same man who’d spoken initially ordered.
Please just give him what he wants. Don’t be a fool.
“You are the one who should worry about injury. I will say it one last time. Turn around and go back the way you came.” Obviously, the duke was a fool.
Rosalyn flinched when she heard the sound of a cocking pistol.
“Hand over your valuables, or I put a pistol ball in your head.”
Rosalyn couldn’t allow this to go on. The duke would be dead if she didn’t intervene. Not that she cared about him, but how would she claim her remaining twenty-five pounds?
Stealthy as a cat, Rosalyn crept across the floor of the carriage and pressed the door latch down. The door clicked open, and she parted it just enough to peer out. There were two highwaymen on this side of the carriage, but one pointed a rifle at the coachman, and the other was in the rear, his attention on the duke and the bandits’ leader. She could see why the highwaymen had chosen this spot for an ambush. Trees grew thickly along the road, creating a dense canopy overhead and making this stretch darker than most they’d traveled thus far. But the landscape also worked to her advantage.
Pushing the door open a little more, Rosalyn squeezed out, hands first, and slipped underneath the carriage. Reaching up, she closed the door with a soft click.
“What do you have in that carriage?” the highwayman was asking now. She’d evacuated just in time. From under the conveyance, she spotted his horse’s hooves moving closer to the window where she’d hidden. He was peering inside and seeing only Alice. “Who are you?”
“J-just a maidservant,” Alice answered. Her voice was thick from waking from sleep.
“Are you traveling alone in there?”
The pause lasted impossibly long. Rosalyn closed her eyes and held her breath until Alice said, “Yes.”
“Good girl,” Rosalyn muttered, then slid across the dirt road. She had only one dress, and it would be ruined after this. The things she did for this idiot duke. Reaching the edge of the carriage frame, Rosalyn reached for the nearest horse’s leg and pinched it hard. Just as she’d expected, the horse startled and reared.
“What the devil?” the highwayman called. But the distraction proved enough for the duke. She saw his horse move close to the leader’s, and then the duke knocked the man off his animal, jumping down after him, punching him hard, and then hauling him up to use as a shield. Rosalyn snaked forward until she was just beneath the coachman’s box, then wedged herself slowly into the space to the side and waited.
“Lower your weapons,” the duke called, “or I shoot him.”
Rosalyn’s brows rose with appreciation. He’d obviously managed to snatch the highwayman’s pistol. He wasn’t as much of an idiot as she’d thought.
“Go ahead!” the man with the rifle pointed at the coachman called back. “I’ll shoot you right after.”
The rifle swung toward the duke, and Rosalyn jumped up, landed with a crouch on the box, then leaped forward and knocked the rifle out of the bandit’s hands. She fell forward, rolled, rose to her feet, pivoted, and scooped the rifle into her hands. Pointing it at the two bandits still seated on their horses, she strode forward.
“Hello, gentlemen. How lovely of you to provide me targets for my daily practice.”