Chapter 5
Later that night, the house long abed and sleep still his enemy, William sprawled on the too-small-for-his-frame leather button sofa in his office.
This marked the one space that had proven safe this past year, for it was the one place she’d never stepped foot within. He’d given the command, in gentle tones, that she not visit him when he was overseeing matters of business, and she’d simply accepted that directive. Because that was who his late wife had been. She’d been demure and obedient, relegating herself to the cheerful sunlit parlors, where she tended her needlepoint and entertained Society’s leading hostesses.
No, Adeline had been nothing like the spitfire who’d invaded William’s chambers that morning. A woman who couldn’t be bothered with a polite form of address or a curtsy and, had his understanding of her intentions been correct, had wanted nothing to do with overseeing his “care,” as she’d humiliatingly put it.
For the first time in a year, it was not guilt or the memory of a wife whose face was losing its clarity in his mind that occupied his thoughts… but rather, Miss Allenby.
Miss Allenby, whose first name he still did not know.
It felt like a betrayal of sorts, comparing the two and finding the woman he’d loved and promised to care for second in any regard. Because his wife had not possessed the skills most needed to survive. She’d been delicate. A refined lady in every way, such that she’d been horrified on the rare occasions that silverware was slightly askew before a household of guests.
She’d been all golden perfection, and he’d been completely entranced by her beauty. And then he’d courted her, against his own best judgment as the Sovereign. Delicately blushing and given to discourse about mundane matters on which the security of the Crown and its subjects weren’t dependent, she’d been so unlike any other in his world that he’d been bewitched from their first meeting.
That moment and the subsequent ones to follow with Adeline had been so very much like the first time he, as an eight-year-old boy, had stepped inside The Pot and Pineapple. As a ducal heir whose father was friend to the king, the world had been laid out before him. One morning, a private appointment had been granted whereby William, accompanied by his nursemaid, had received a personal showing and tasting of the exotic wet sweetmeats, ices, and custards. Foreign. Unique. He’d been confused and entranced, at the same time, by each dessert presented.
The selfishness on his part, the taste he’d had and enjoyed of her innocence, had left Adeline vulnerable.
He’d allowed her to live in a fictitious world as though she and William were any other proper lord and lady, when in truth they’d never been that. It had been a secret she’d not been privy to, and she’d not pressed him on details about business or life outside of social events and house décor.
“I believe you mean ‘unfailingly.’ Either way, I’m one who speaks only the truth.”
The lilting, singsong quality of Miss Allenby’s voice had not erased the layer of steel and strength to it, and William had been shockingly enticed by it—and haunted ever since. She’d displayed a mix of authority and womanly softness, a seeming contradiction that had emerged more as an erotic melding.
A knock sounded at the door. Rap-rap-rap.
That one-two-three quick signal of Home Office business.
All enticing thoughts of Miss Allenby faded.
Bloody, bloody hell.
William scrubbed a hand over eyes that were dry from days of sleeplessness.
They would not leave him be. But then, that was what happened when one sold one’s life and soul to the devil. In this case, the devil had proven to be the king himself, and William had traded all in service to that great liege.
What had once filled him with honor and excitement was met with a now familiar annoyance.
The four o’clock hour had long been the hour of the Brethren. It was the time at which members of Polite Society abandoned their inane revelries and sought out their elegant townhouses. Those who did not—the rogues, rakes, and rapscallions—could be found at their clubs, or wandering the streets drunken and unknowing that their very safety and security was owed them by lords who were alert and always working.
Rap-rap-rap.
They’d enter anyway. Oh, they’d put on a display, honoring time-old respect shown a duke. But William’s rank of Sovereign superseded even that.
After one more of those staccato announcements, Stone let himself inside and bowed. “You’ve company, Your Grace.”
Wordlessly, Cedric Bennett, the Delegator of the Brethren, entered. Second only to William in position and power within the organization, Bennett was responsible for evaluating missions and handing assignments out to men best suited. “Your Grace,” he greeted as the other man took his leave and closed the door behind him. A familiar folder in hand, Bennett rooted himself at the door, waiting for the command.
Because that was what their world was based on: rank and orders.
William shoved himself upright, his muscles screaming in protest of the abrupt shift after hours of a prone state.
He strode across the room, taking up a seat at his desk. His desk, once tidy, had over the year become overrun with papers that no servant could touch and that William didn’t care one way or the other about.
Using his action as an invitation, Bennett strode forward, his black cloak whipping angrily about his ankles. He stopped before William’s desk. His gaze crept along first the cluttered space and then the thick growth covering William’s cheeks. The other man’s distaste for both untidy states was reflected in his sneer. “I require your seal,” he finally said, settling himself onto the leather winged chair across from William.
That was one thing William still appreciated about those who served in the Brethren. They did not bother with formalities or pleasantries. All that compelled them in any matter was their business on behalf of the Crown. Even the attempts to find one who’d help rid William of his debilitating pain was driven by the need for William to assume the responsibilities for which he’d taken an oath. His own brother was included in those ranks.
Wordlessly, William tugged open the center desk drawer. His fingers found the clever latch inside in an act made rote for the decade of service he’d served in this role, and it gave way with a quiet click. Fishing out the ink and seal, he set them atop a stack of ledgers.
William continued through the motions. He leaned over, and with the taper held between his thumb and forefinger, he held it above the lamp stand precariously situated at the edge of his desk. He held the wax above the candle, so it barely touched the point of the flame. When it was soft on all sides, he drew his arm back too quickly, and crimson droplets splashed several of his leather folios.
He felt Bennett’s stare taking in every movement. “You’ve no questions about the assignment you’ve just put your seal to?”
“I don’t give a damn.” William turned through the pages written in Bennett’s hand, finding the next place requiring the Brethren seal. He set the page aside where it might cool and continued on to the next.
“You have to give a damn. It is your role.”
“It’s a role I don’t want,” he gritted out.
Bennett abandoned his negligent pose. Uncrossing his knee, the broader man sat forward. “Regardless, the terms are clear. Only death or madness can sever your role.”
Madness.
He let that word roll around his brain.
He’d witnessed all number of men and women reduced to that very state. Miserable souls locked away in Bedlam, destroyed by a disease of their mind.
He was not vastly different from those pitiable bastards, incapable of feeling, caring. Ruled by pain and the reminders of his own failings.
“You are not mad,” Bennett said coolly, correctly following the path William’s thoughts had traversed. With his flinty stare and life-hardened eyes, Bennett would never, ever be mistaken for offering any kind of assurance meant to calm. It was given as a matter-of-fact, from one fixed not on William’s well-being but on his status within the organization. “As such, your role and service… continue.”
A vise clenched, tightened, and squeezed, over and over. This was to be his hell. A prison he could not be free of. A role he could not separate himself from. Instead, he’d be forced to serve at the mercy of a king who honored the time-old history of the Brethren.
Returning to his task, William grabbed the puce and sprinkled the powder upon his marks, lightly blowing on them. “Now get out,” he ordered in gravelly tones when he’d finished.
*
Run, poppet… Run…
Gasping for breath, Elsie sprang up. Her chest moving fast and hard, she struggled with the sheets tangled about her. She did a frantic sweep of the darkened chambers, searching out the one who’d hunted her.
She blinked, struggling to make sense of the surroundings.
A quiet whine cut through her panic. “Bear,” she whispered, solely to hear the sound of her own voice as reality came trickling in. It wasn’t her father’s assailants after her, but rather, a different threat. No less dangerous territory she’d willingly stepped foot into.
Bear rested his enormous head on the edge of her mattress and lapped at her fingers. She immediately stroked the place between his ears until a low rumble of appreciation met her efforts. “What time is it?” she asked her faithful, aging companion.
He nuzzled his wet nose into her palm.
“That’s hardly a response,” she chided. Squinting, she attempted to bring the silver and colorful enamel clock atop the mantel into focus. She blinked several times. “Surely not.”
Not even eighteen minutes had passed since she’d closed her eyes and at last managed to sleep.
Elsie collapsed back into the folds of the feather mattress and stared at the mural overhead, the clouds, trellises, and pink roses vivid enough one might actually believe oneself tucked away in a far-flung, forgotten corner of the English countryside.
The sleeplessness that had plagued her these past five years reared its head once more, robbing her of desperately needed rest and leaving her only nightmares and horror-laden memories for company. And when they came, nothing could shake them free.
But here, there were no animals awaiting her care whom she could visit and see to in the dead of night. Nor herb gardens to tend, with the moon illuminating her works and allowing an illusory vision of daylight.
No, there was no hint of English countryside or calming ease to be found in this household.
The Duke of Aubrey’s visage flashed forward.
Elsie shivered, and huddling deeper into the blankets, she allowed herself to think of her patient.
He’d not been as she’d expected.
The man his brother had made him out to be was one bed-bound and physically incapacitated.
The Duke of Aubrey, despite the tangible pain caused by wounds he’d not speak of, possessed an aura of strength. A power that made it too easy for one seeing to his care to fix on. But who was he? This duke who served the secretive division within the Home Office? Those peers, by the very nature of their titles, didn’t see to anything beyond their own comforts and pleasures, and yet, not only had he joined the Brethren, but he served as a leader.
He was a man with secrets, and though he’d insisted she remain and oversee his recovery, Elsie could not manage such a feat unless she knew more about him. And his past and everything that had brought him to this point.
And then she would be free of this place and, God willing, these people and their all-powerful organization.
Her vision now adjusted to the dark, Elsie stole another, clearer glance at the clock.
Four o’clock is when the world sleeps and the sheep cease bleating.
It is the time that birds fall silent and the earth gives way to quiet.
The hour of…
“Peace.” She whispered the nighttime poem her father had murmured to her as a small girl when dark dreams had awakened her. Back when those darkest dreams had been made up only of pretend monsters and imagined demons. Before life had invariably shown her what real nightmares were made of.
Elsie pushed herself upright. Mindful of Bear at her feet, she swung her legs over the side and climbed down from the half-tester bed. The plush, ornate Aubusson carpet muted her steps as she crossed to the Venetian carved mirror. Plucking her cotton wrapper from the gilded bird along the top, Elsie shrugged into the article and, as she belted it at the waist, made her way to the door.
Panting with excitement, Bear trotted over.
“Aww, pup,” she said gently. Elsie sank to a knee and rubbed the tip of his silken ear between her fingers. “You know the rules.”
He whined in canine protest and nosed at her skirts.
“I venture first and determine if it is safe for the both of us.” It was a rule she’d put into effect after the night their lives had been upended. The then-younger dog had kept pace with her as she’d bolted through dense brush and forests, until he’d been felled by a bullet meant for her. Elsie’s fingers automatically found the scar along his left side. He’d merely been grazed, but the blood loss had nearly killed him. Caring for him had sustained her in those immediate days. She swallowed past a ball of emotion in her throat. “What would I do without you?” she asked hoarsely. Because, when he was gone, then she would be well and truly… alone. Alone in ways she hadn’t been even when her father had perished.
Bear wiggled his massive body and plopped himself down. Leveling his large, dark eyes on her face, he dropped his head between his paws and stared accusatorily up.
Giving her head a shake, she dispelled the useless lamentations. Hadn’t her own father’s murder proven that no one person had the promise of any one day?
“It is for your own good,” she promised and sprang to her feet. With an uncharacteristic obstinacy, Bear planted himself between her and the door. “Oh, fine, you troublesome fellow.” She softened the rebuke with another stroke of his ears. With Bear at her side, Elsie collected the candlestick and set off to explore the duke’s residence.
Holding the delicate, hand-painted porcelain chamber stick close, Elsie wound her way through the hallways. She took in every detail of the duke’s household. Everything, from the pale pink hall carpets, to the matching pink hyacinth silk wallpaper, to the white alabaster statues of The Three Graces, bore an air of femininity that did not fit with the masculine figure who dwelled here.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
She jumped, losing her grip on the chamber stick. It clattered to the floor, splashing wax over the immaculate carpet.
Cursing quietly, she dropped to her knees and patted out the faint flickering of flame. A damning black burn mark met her efforts. At another time, mayhap in the light of a new day, she’d be filled with proper horror and remorse at sullying a duke’s lavish residence. On unsteady feet, she rose, her gaze trained in the direction of the odd pounding.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
There it was again.
Elsie closed her eyes.
Run, poppet… Run…
Bear pushed his nose into her side, and its damp touch penetrated her thin skirts.
She wetted her lips. Return to your rooms. Better yet… leave this home altogether.
Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock.
Drawn toward the errant, untimed beat, Elsie drifted silently down the hall and then stopped.
A door hung partially opened, jammed by a branch.
“A branch,” she mouthed. Her earlier terror lifted, and compelled this time by a far safer intrigue, Elsie walked the remaining steps to that door.
Bear, who’d followed at her side, promptly sank onto his heels beside her.
Pushing the panel open, she peeked outside.
Her breath caught.
Bear sat upright with a like appreciation, his entire body poised to rush forward, and yet, he restrained himself.
“Gardens,” she whispered. A tangled, overgrown space of untended trees and flowers and weeds. At first glance, one might even believe oneself upon an uninhabited swatch of land in the wilds of Bladon. Everything from these grounds to belongings scattered throughout the household bore the touch of a woman. Yet there was no duchess? Or had each piece and detail been selected within part of some larger plot at confusing the outside world about the activities that went on in this place?
Bear emitted a small whine.
“What is it?” she whispered, reluctantly drawing the door closed.
His hackles up, his ears raised, Bear stared down the left hall, his gaze fixed.
She shivered, and for the first time since she’d begun her exploration, an uneasiness rooted around her belly. “Come,” she urged. “We’ll return tomorrow, I promise.”
Except, Bear remained fixed not on the outside grounds that had pulled him moments ago, but on something… or someone in the opposite direction.
“Bear,” she urged once more.
He lunged to his feet and took off running.
Bloody hell.
Elsie grabbed her skirts and chased after her dog.
This was the last place one wished to be caught snooping. As she raced down the corridor, her breath came hard not from exertions but from panic. Nor did the unease have anything to do with the fact that a duke resided here, but rather, a member of that ruthless organization. “Bear,” she entreated.
Suddenly, he stopped. The dog nudged his head at the door.
“No,” she mouthed.
He nudged his head again and let out a keening whine.
Oh, blast and damn. Raising a finger to her lips, she pressed her ear to the panel and strained for a hint of sound within the rooms. Only the muted ring of silence met her.
“There is no one in there,” she assured him.
Or I’ve been heard.
As that ominous possibility crept in, another wave of cold racked her, and she drew her robe more tightly about her person. I’ve done nothing wrong. I’ve merely explored this residence they’d make me call home for the next three weeks.
Wetting her lips, Elsie raised her palm. She hovered her fist inches from the panel.
Rap-pause-rap-pause. Rap-rap.
She waited, breath held, for… something.
When no greeting was called out, she glanced down. His head tilted back, Bear’s wide brown eyes met her gaze. “I told you,” she mouthed. “Now, let us go.”
Except… Bear lifted a paw.
“I knocked,” she insisted in hushed tones.
He gave her one of his familiar accusatory, wide-eyed stares.
“Fine.” Gritting her teeth, Elsie tried the handle.
It gave with a surprising ease, and the door swung wide on well-oiled hinges.
She paused. Had the room been of any importance, its master would have surely seen the door locked…
“See? There is no one here. Nothing here. Now let us—” Bear surged ahead, entering the rooms.
Cursing one of the more inventive words introduced to her by one of her father’s long-ago patients, Elsie hurried into the room and closed the door behind her.
This was all she needed. To be caught snooping about His Grace’s…
She glanced around the well-lit space and cursed again.
His offices. She’d invaded his offices. “It is time to go,” she repeated, this time more firmly, doing a search for her dog.
And finding him.
Her heart sank.
From where he lounged on the leather button sofa, the Duke of Aubrey rested a large, menacing palm upon Bear’s head. A dangerous grin iced hard, unyielding lips. “Miss Allenby,” he said frostily. “How very unexpected to see you here.”
Bloody hell. “Your Grace,” she returned in measured tones. How was she so calm?
“Now,” he went on, swinging his legs over the side of the sofa. “Why don’t you begin first by telling me how you know ‘that’ and then explaining what the hell you’re doing here.”