CHAPTER 3
The Warrior
Connor’s first reaction as he stalked out of the Grand Albion was fury.
Some gratitude. Aye, that is truly some gratitude, he couldn’t stop thinking, over and over again, his jaw clenched. Bloody useless civilians.
You risk your life a thousand times—for that lot?
He marched across the landing outside of the ballroom, and then jogged down the long, opulent staircase, ignoring the old knee injury that tended to ache when the weather changed.
All he’d wanted to do was have a look around, try to acclimate himself a bit more to his ridiculous new life as a duke, and even that had turned to bollocks.
God, if only Napoleon hadn’t surrendered.
Connor would rather be in battle. But no—that ballroom was a battlefield, one he did not understand, one where he did not know the rules, and where every person present was apparently an enemy of some sort. He stood alone against an army of haughty English toffs, stiff as the undead, every one.
His cheeks burned with the humiliation of how it had been made very clear to him just now that he would never be accepted here, never mind his authentic ducal lineage, let alone a decade and a half of loyal service to the Crown.
Fool. Why should he care? These people weren’t worth it. So what if they judged him unworthy? He would never apologize for who and what he was.
The lot of them could go to hell.
Connor shook his head to himself as he marched across the entrance hall at the bottom of the marble staircase, then blasted out through the front doors of the expensive hotel and out into the black, windy night, which was threatening rain.
The lanterns on either side of the stately building cast a gleam into the inky shadows. Liveried footmen on both sides of the entrance glanced at him in surprise; he had beaten them to the task of getting the door.
One stepped nearer with a look of chagrin. “Shall I call your carriage for you, sir?”
“No thanks, I’ll walk.” Connor nodded toward his nearby house, and the footman bowed to him.
Easing a bit now that he was away from that smug crowd, Connor descended the few stairs outside the hotel to the pavement. He turned left and began striding homeward at a fast clip.
Well, bloody what now? he wondered with a curse under his breath as he peeled off his fancy white gloves.
Truly, he was going to enjoy shooting a hole in that young piece of arrogance, if that was what it took to stop this shocking, ugly rumor before it got started. Kill his own relatives?
Ridiculous.
Connor tugged his cravat loose with an irked growl. Every day in this new life of his truly got more absurd. Yet one question loomed: did that fellow have something to do with the plot against his family? Connor knew he could not afford to take anything or anyone at face value. He was surrounded by strangers in this place, and who his true enemy was, he had no idea—yet.
But he would find them in due time, each and every one who might be connected to all this. And as for that haughty chap, well, one way or the other, he would not be a problem for much longer.
Connor strode through the darkness, hoping that maybe, once he dealt with this bastard, others around here might start to get the message. They might view him as an Irish mongrel, but to dare speak those sentiments aloud, well, that was insulting his mother, aye, and his Irish granny, too.
So there was that.
Moreover, he would damn well be treated with the same respect due to any man of his rank. If they did not wish to befriend him, well and good; as one of his former commanding officers liked to say, it was better to be feared than loved, anyway.
Yet the whole prospect disgusted and rather depressed him. This was not the peacetime existence he had envisioned for so long.
It all felt like a cynical jest and a damned shame.
The only person back there who had seemed remotely friendly was the gray-eyed girl. Well, she had probably realized by now that he was persona non grata. No doubt, she would keep a safe distance.
Connor sighed. Battle-hardened warriors did not generally admit to being lonely. But deep in his heart, he knew he was, and that annoyed him, too.
Weakness.
Marching along the pavement, he passed feeble gold pools of light where quaint black wrought-iron streetlamps lined the lane. Across the cobbled avenue was a matching swath of pavement, and the wrought-iron fence that girded the garden park in the center of Moonlight Square.
It was a pleasant green refuge in the hubbub of London. He’d taken to strolling its graveled walks, now that spring had come. Each day showed the many flowers planted throughout the park in new stages of development.
This interested him. Perhaps the flowers’ progress seemed a silly thing for a trained killer to want to follow and watch with such anticipation. But after all he’d seen, all he’d survived, all the ugliness, horror, and pain, he had learned to take whatever small joys and beauties life offered where he found them.
Tomorrow, after all, was promised to no man.
Particularly one who’d just inherited a dukedom that some hidden foe seemed determined to destroy.
All the more reason to show this fop no mercy when dawn came.
Connor clenched his jaw, itching to feel a weapon in his grip—not that he needed one to send an enemy to his grave.
Ahead, the gigantic house he’d inherited hulked astride the corner.
To be sure, it was beautiful, but Connor still felt a sense of unreality every time he walked in, considering his main residence for years had been a leaky, smelly tent shared with other officers, and that most of his essential items for everyday life could fit on the back of a horse.
This opulence was all just bizarre.
Adorned by a grand, porticoed entrance, Amberley House stood four stories high, with various layers of windows in classical designs, the second being the tallest, what with the drawing room and so forth. The third contained a maze of bedchambers where he still tended to get lost. The fourth was where the servants lived—or had, before he’d sacked the whole treacherous lot.
As he reached the bottom of the few stairs leading up to the front door, which was illuminated by flickering lamps on either side, Connor glanced down warily into the dark exterior stairwell that led to the service entrance, for merchants and deliveries and so forth.
There, a few feet below street level, a plain wooden door was tucked away in the shadows. Behind it lay the working regions of the house: kitchens, pantries, wine cellar, silver vault, butler’s quarters, as well as bins for coal storage.
Connor had always thought that that dark, half-underground stairwell looked like a good place for a murderer to hide and lie in wait.
Tonight, once again, however, it was clear.
He harrumphed. Truthfully, he’d have rather fought it out now with his unknown enemy and got the whole thing over with, but no such luck.
He continued up the few front steps to the grand main entrance of Amberley House, unlocked the door, and let himself in without ceremony.
Inside, the mansion was dim and drafty, and though he noticed it was getting a bit messy around here without a proper staff, it was magnificently decorated to suit the taste of one of the previous dukes—or his duchess, more likely.
The floors were marble, the ceilings painted, with touches of gilt. The art adorning the walls was unthinkably expensive, the furnishings so splendid that Connor often still hesitated before sitting down on some of the chairs. Likewise, the canopy bed up in the master chamber seemed vast…and much too empty.
He supposed one of these days he’d have to find himself a mistress. Lord knew, a good daily romp would help dispel the jitters of peacetime and this bizarre change in his station, and all the unanswered questions of who was trying to kill him and why.
Unfortunately, in his current state of well-justified paranoia, Connor doubted he could’ve found a bedmate who wouldn’t have left him wondering if she’d stab him in his sleep, should he doze off after their sport. Bit of a problem there. Thus, he’d become a monk in recent weeks.
But so be it. He had bigger matters to worry about these days than relieving his want.
As he tossed the door shut behind him then locked it, he could already hear Will and Nestor squabbling somewhere in the cavernous depths of the house.
He smirked at the familiar sound. Those two.
Of course, as footmen and butlers, his trusty regimentals were generally useless, but they’d have followed him to the gates of hell itself, and had.
Their bickering stopped at the sound of the front door’s slam, and a moment later, Will came jogging out onto the landing at the top of the steps, looking more dusty and rumpled than usual from the task Connor had given the men.
Namely, searching each room of the fifty-some rooms of Amberley House for any possible clues about these deaths in the family.
“Major! You’re back! Nestor, the major’s back!” the skinny lad called over his shoulder.
It comforted Connor immensely to know he would always be the major to his men, rather than the duke.
Little did his humble band of merry men know what a balm their presence here was. This disorienting change in his duties, routine, expectations, command structure—frankly, everything he’d ever known—sometimes made him feel like he was losing himself. But through their eyes, he remembered who he was.
The leader.
Who always knew what to do. Who’d get them out of any scrape alive.
They trusted him, and that reminded him to trust himself.
Then Will looked at him again, furrowing his brow. “Why are you back so soon, sir?” His grin flashed. “Didn’t you have fun sportin’ a toe with the ton?”
“Not exactly,” Connor said dryly. He stalked across the decorative medallion of the foyer’s marble floor, practically ripping off his stupid fine coat.
“You need anything, sir?” Will offered, sensing his dark mood.
Connor grunted, and Will frowned, studying him uncertainly.
Private Will Duffy was twenty, but looked younger because of his thin build. His joints seemed oversized on his bony frame. He had a big nose but thoughtful eyes, and wore a gregarious smile on his homely face most of the time.
He couldn’t really fight, and indeed, looked like a good breeze could blow him away, but he was entirely goodhearted, and though Connor would never admit it aloud, he credited the lad with preserving whatever was left of his humanity—along with Nestor, who presently joined them in the entrance hall.
The regiment’s weathered surgeon took one look at Connor and stopped, resting his hands on his waist. “Ah, bloody hell,” the older man muttered. “What’s happened now?”
For a man with only one eye, Nestor Godwin always seemed to see everything clearly in a glance.
He was a short, stocky fellow in his fifties, with a wild mass of wiry gray hair and an eye patch.
Nestor had served as the regiment’s chief medic until a piece of shrapnel had cost him the use of an eye. Though he could no longer judge distances, he could still set bones and make stitches—more by instinct than sight. He also had wide apothecary knowledge—not to mention nerves of steel.
You’d have to, to amputate limbs, Connor had always thought.
As it happened, Nestor was also—like many old bachelors—a fairly good cook. So he’d become the kitchen staff at Amberley House, while Will was more Connor’s valet, butler, footman.
As for everybody’s favorite jolly fat man, Sergeant Rory McFeatheridge had gone a-rambling after he’d gobbled down the poison intended for Connor, but he’d be back.
Privately, they’d agreed that once Rory had spent some time recovering from the poison’s effects at the home of some cousins near Portsmouth, he’d do some sleuthing hither and yon to see what he might be able to dig up on the Amberley deaths.
That was the thing about McFeatheridge. For all his faults and vulgarities, the bearded sarge was so damned likable, he could get nearly anyone to talk.
He also had a fist like a hammer; Will liked to call him Friar Tuck.
Presently, Will was glancing from Nestor to Connor and back again, alarmed. “Is Nestor right, sir? Did somebody try to kill you again?”
“In a sense, I suppose.” Connor let out a huge sigh and scratched his eyebrow. “Seems I’ve been challenged to a duel.”
“What?” both men burst out.
“Major!” cried Will. “You can’t be serious! A duel? But it’s peacetime!”
“I know. I know, believe me.” Connor shook his head.
Nestor planted his fists on his waist, his good eye homing in on Connor with knowing disapproval. “What did you do?” he asked sternly.
“What? Me? It wasn’t my fault!” Connor retorted. “I was minding my own bloody business, I assure you.”
“It’s a ballroom, not an alehouse, Your Grace,” Nestor said wryly. “People are generally on their best behavior in such locations. Which tells me you must’ve provoked the challenge somehow.”
“I’m innocent this time, I swear,” Connor said with a frown, unbuttoning his cufflinks. These Bond Street clothes were too damned restrictive.
“Ohh,” said Will in a tone of understanding. “Was it ’cause you’re Irish?” The lad leaned against the newel post, hooking a pointy elbow around the base of the carved marble urn that topped it.
“I’m afraid it’s even worse than that,” Connor admitted. “If I expected these people to look on me with sympathy over the deaths in my family, or at least to view me with a whit of appreciation on account of the war, it appears I was highly deluded.”
“Why? What do you mean?” Nestor demanded.
“Well…” Connor’s tone turned grim. “The young jackanapes who challenged me offered a theory that I’m the one who killed my predecessors.”
“What, the dead dukes?” Will exclaimed.
“To get the title, aye,” Connor muttered in disgust. He rubbed the back of his neck while Nestor and Will looked at each other in shock.
Connor began pacing back and forth across the entrance hall. “This challenge might be connected to all that’s happened—or not. I really couldn’t say for certain whether this chap’s involved in it or what his true motives might be. Hell, I don’t even know his name. Either way, I admit, I did not see this coming.”
“Of course not, how could you?” Nestor looked outraged at the sheer absurdity of the accusation. “You? Kill your own relatives? You never even wanted the title!”
“Plus, how could you have done it?” Will cried. “I mean, you’ve been a bit busy!”
“I have no idea!” Connor threw his hands up, bewildered. “The idiot seemed to be suggesting I could’ve engineered the whole thing from a distance somehow to lay hold of the dukedom, the fortune, the power. This might be the rumor going around now, I hardly know.”
“Oh Lord,” Nestor grumbled, then huffed. “This is not good.”
“It’s bloody awful,” Connor replied.
“No wonder they’ve all been so standoffish—well, not all of them,” Will amended. “The Duke and Duchess of Rivenwood have been friendly to you, haven’t they, sir? I mean, he’s an odd one, of course—name like Azrael?—but pleasant enough.”
“Right…” Nestor nodded at the reminder of their ducal neighbor on the nearest corner. “You’ll have to ask Rivenwood to be your second.”
“I shall do nothing of the kind,” Connor said, scowling. “You can second for me, Nestor.”
“Me?” Nestor scoffed and pointed at his eye patch. “There’s no way in hell I could ever fight a duel. I’m blind in one eye, remember?”
“Oh, come, you’re not going to fight—you’ll just do the talking bit, arranging matters. I’m the one who’ll do the fighting, obviously. Indeed, nothing would please me more at this point.” Glowering at the thought of that golden-haired jackass, Connor pivoted and rubbed his mouth.
Nestor scoffed. “Major, you know full well you need a fellow aristocrat to second you, at least a real gentleman. Not some lowly limb-chopper like me. Why not ask the Duke of Rivenwood? Will can go and fetch him for you.” The surgeon gestured to the lad. “Go and tell His Grace—”
“No. Stay,” Connor commanded. Will froze. “Rivenwood’s a newlywed, Nestor. Dragging him into this mess would be poor thanks for the courtesy he’s shown me. It’s been quite a rarity in these parts, if you haven’t noticed.”
“Believe me, we have,” Will mumbled with a frown.
“That cocky little bastard,” Connor said under his breath, thinking of his challenger. Pacing over to the umbrella stand in the corner, he took out his favorite sword, which he had stowed there to have it handy in case of another attack.
Lifting it, he pulled it from its sheath, gazing at the blade. It had seen him through many a scrape. “Aye, I shall make him eat his words. One…bloody bite…at a time.”
“Look here, Major—” Nestor began.
“Oh, quit griping,” Connor said, and put the sword away again. “Who gives a damn if the ton’s scandalized that I chose a commoner for a second? I was one myself until December, wasn’t I? Let them choke on their gossip for all I care. Besides, you’ve got to be there, anyway. I’ll need you there to patch me up if I get wounded, so don’t forget to bring your doctorin’ bag.”
Nestor stared at him with his one good eye, hands propped on his waist, fingers drumming. “Perhaps you should just go and talk to this fellow. Try to reason with him.”
“What?” Connor retorted. “Hell no. I’m sendin’ that one on to meet his maker. Besides, I haven’t the foggiest notion who the bastard is.”
“Think, you Irish hothead,” Nestor said without malice. “If some in the ton already suspect that you’re a killer, then shooting this chap in the heart in front of witnesses might not exactly be the best idea.”
“He insulted my honor! He dies.”
“Yes, but Major…”
While Connor and the surgeon continued bickering, Will suddenly glanced at the door. “Did you hear that?” the lad asked.
Still arguing with Nestor, Connor ignored the low-toned question. “What, are you suggesting I let the bastard off with a warning shot?”
“A flesh wound, perhaps.”
“Nestor, that entire ballroom would’ve happily lynched me if I’d stayed a moment longer,” he said. “If I don’t make an example of him, I risk more challenges in the future.”
“Oh, you’re always blowing things out of proportion,” Nestor said, waving this off.
“Well, it’s kept me alive, hasn’t it? Plan for the worst, hope for the best, like I always say.”
“Sirs, I think there’s someone at the door!” Will broke in.
“Well, answer it, genius.” Nestor smacked the boy on the back of the head, and off he went.
As Will trotted across the entrance hall, Nestor glanced grimly at Connor. “Your challenger’s second, already?”
“That was fast.” Connor shrugged, planting his hands on his hips. “Told you he was eager for my blood.”
Will unlocked the door, but glanced back first to see if they were ready.
Connor gestured at the surgeon. “Talk to him, doc. Negotiate the time and place as you see fit. It’s all the same to me. But at least find out the blackguard’s name.”
Nestor sighed and shook his head. “Very well. I’ll speak to him upstairs, Will. Drawing room. And you, sir, had best stay out of sight,” he said to Connor. “Try to keep out of trouble for once in your life.”
“Who, me?” Connor flashed a wicked grin, retreating to the shadows of the nearby sitting room that adjoined the entrance hall. “Don’t forget to ask which weapon!” he reminded the older man in a stage whisper.
“Shh!” Nestor replied, then he nodded at their “butler,” and Will opened the door.
“Good evening,” he started, then: “Oh—! Er, can I help you, miss?”
Miss? Connor thought.
“Um, yes, I-I am here to see the Duke o-of Amberley, if I may.” The soft voice coming from the doorway had an accent as elegant as cut crystal, but tones as warm as hearthstones where a cat would like to curl up and sleep away a winter’s day.
They melted something inside Connor from the moment he first heard the sound.
Even Nestor was startled. Halfway up the staircase, the surgeon turned so he could see through the open doorway with his good eye.
“I-I only ask a moment of His Grace’s time, I promise.”
“Er, Major?” Will turned to face the sitting room, his eyebrows arched high. “There’s a beautiful young lady at your door. Are you at home?”
Always, Connor thought.
Filled with equal parts roguery and suspicion at this extremely unusual news, he sauntered forward from the sitting room and leaned toward the doorway to view their caller.
To his amazement, it was the gray-eyed beauty from the ballroom: the English rose.
What on earth was she doing here? Alone, no less.
“Please,” she said with an innocent blink, gazing past Will to Connor, “if you don’t mind, I should be grateful for a moment of Your Grace’s time.” She glanced nervously over her shoulder, as though making sure she had not been followed.
Then she looked at him again.
Her heart-shaped face was pale by the dim glow of the lanterns flanking the front door. Her gauzy skirts billowed in the breeze. She wore a lacy white shawl now, draped across her delectable shoulders.
She pulled it closer around herself as she stood in the doorway. He could see her shaking…probably not from the chill, but from the boldness of her visit here. Even he was startled by it.
“May I come in?” she asked with a gulp. “We are…neighbors, after all.”
He blinked out of his daze. “By all means.”
What she wanted, Connor could not imagine, but he prowled over slowly to brush the lad aside. “I’ll take it from here, Will.”
“Aye, sir.”
Connor held the door for their fair visitor. The girl stared at Will as she tiptoed in warily, looking a little nonplussed at his unconventional butler.
Nestor returned to the bottom of the stairs, watching skeptically.
“I don’t suppose there’s any chance you’re here about the duel?” Connor said, half joking.
He paused to scan the street before shutting the door, then locked it behind her again.
“Actually, I am,” she said, wide-eyed.
“You’re the fellow’s second?” Will exclaimed.
“N-no, of course not,” she said. She pursed her rosy lips. “I’m his…his…”
Connor cocked a brow, waiting, hands on hips. “His what?”
“His…particular lady friend,” she said judiciously.
“I see.” His smile soured.
Suspicion promptly won the inner tug of war with roguery. His mood darkened back to normal. “Let me guess. You’ve come here to plead for the blackguard’s life.”
She blinked. “Well—actually…now that you mention it…”
He smirked. Her words faltered, and she started turning red, like she had in the ballroom.
“Um, could we possibly discuss this in private, Your Grace?”
Connor considered it. Fraternize with the enemy?
Once again, there was no way of knowing who might be involved with the plot against his family. Indeed, if he were out in the field, running a scouting mission or an intelligence-gathering operation, he would find the most unlikely person to send in to make inquiries for him.
Someone the enemy would never suspect. Someone who could serve as a distraction, diversion, spread false information…or do even worse.
Hmm. Connor’s stare homed in on the girl’s dainty gloved hands clutching her reticule.
For a moment, he studied her little tasseled handbag, determining after a few seconds that it was too diminutive to contain even a small pistol.
But that didn’t mean this lovely little confection wasn’t perilous to him in other ways.
Temptation such as this had got Adam and Eve thrown out of the garden, last he’d checked, and this was one alluring red apple, ripe and juicy.
He wanted a taste.
She grew flustered at his prolonged silence. “You are the duke, aren’t you? If there’s someone else I should speak to—”
“Oh yes,” he said absently, curiosity outweighing his caution. He’d hear her out. Why not? “I am Amberley these days, so it would seem. I admit, you’ve come at rather a bad time, but it’s always my pleasure to be of…service to a lady.”
His double entendre went over her clearly virginal head, but he folded his arms across his chest and stared at her, far more entertained than he cared to let on.
“How may I be of assistance, mademoiselle?”