Not the Dukes Darling by Hoyt, Elizabeth (2)

Late that evening Freya selected a strand of floss silk and threaded her embroidery needle.

“Whatever are you embroidering, Miss Stewart?” the eldest of the Holland girls, Arabella, asked, leaning over Freya’s arm. They shared a settee together in the sitting room of Holland House.

Freya had been Lady Holland’s companion ever since she’d come to London five years ago to be the Wise Women’s Macha. From the beginning she’d used her middle name, Stewart—a Scottish name to explain her Scottish accent. The Dunkelders knew that women of the de Moray family had been Wise Women for generations, so it was imperative that no one know she was the daughter of the Duke of Ayr.

“It’s a merlin,” Freya replied now, placing a bright scarlet stitch below the raptor.

“What’s it doing?”

“Tearing the heart out of a sparrow,” Freya said serenely.

“Oh.” Arabella looked a little pale. “It’s quite realistic.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Freya said. She smiled down at her violent artwork before glancing at the mantel clock. It was just after ten, which meant she had another two hours before her meeting with the Crow.

Freya’s job as Macha was to gather information, gossip, and news for the Wise Women, the majority of whom lived at their estate near Dornoch in the far north of Scotland. It was the Wise Women like her and the Crow—the ones who lived outside the compound—who were fighting a war against the Dunkelders. A war for survival.

A war for women in Britain to live freely.

“What did you do on your day off, Miss Stewart?” Lady Holland asked absently. She sat in the armchair to Freya’s left and was frowning at her own embroidery, which appeared to be tangled.

“Not anything very exciting, my lady,” Freya replied. She set down her hoop, reached for Lady Holland’s, and started teasing apart the tangled silks.

“Oh, thank you,” Lady Holland said with what sounded like relief. Freya’s employer was a short lady with an unfashionably rounded bosom and a practical, decisive personality, but embroidery defeated her. “And how was your outing with Mr. Trentworth, Regina?”

“He has a new pair of bays and they were simply gorgeous,” Regina said from the chair across from Freya. “Perfectly matched and so high spirited. I begged him to give the team their heads and race about Hyde Park, but he refused.”

“I should think so,” Lady Holland said, but smiled fondly. “I’m pleased that he’s a young gentleman of sense.”

“And he has a classical profile.” Regina looked dreamy for a moment before straightening. “Mama! Mr. Trentworth said today that he’s thinking of calling on Papa.”

“Did he?” Lady Holland’s head came up like that of a greyhound sighting a rabbit. “I shall have to tell your father.”

Regina frowned worriedly. “What do you think he’ll say to Mr. Trentworth?”

“Don’t be silly,” Lady Holland replied. “Mr. Trentworth is of an indisputably good family and has quite a nice income. If he hadn’t your father would’ve sent him packing long before now. He’ll give his blessing to your beau, never fear.”

Regina squealed and Arabella hugged her, but Freya noticed that Lady Holland’s gaze lingered on Arabella. She had a small line between her brows.

“May Arabella and I retire for the night, Mama?” Regina asked, clearly eager to gossip with her sister.

Lady Holland waved her assent and the girls hurried from the room.

Freya handed back the embroidery hoop. There was a silence as Lady Holland frowned down at it.

She cleared her throat, choosing her words carefully. “You disapprove of the match, my lady?” She couldn’t think why her employer would—Lady Holland had already enumerated Mr. Trentworth’s assets, and she’d always seemed fond of the young gentleman. Freya thought that if Regina must marry, he was well suited to her.

“Not at all.” But Lady Holland sounded disturbed.

Freya glanced sideways at her. “Then…?”

“I would prefer that Arabella be settled first.” Many mothers wouldn’t particularly care in which order their daughters married, but Lady Holland fretted about Arabella.

“Ah.” Freya bent her head to her own embroidery and reminded herself that the ways of the Wise Women were not the ways of London society ladies—though they really ought to be.

Neither Regina nor Arabella was a great beauty, but both had their mother’s wheat-colored hair and creamy complexion. Regina was the prettier and more vivacious of the two. Arabella had her father’s long face and nose, and his serious manner. She had a dry wit and could speak intelligently on philosophy, literature, and history—none of which were attributes that seemed to attract London aristocrats.

As far as Freya could see, the average London gentleman looked for wealth, a noble lineage, and comeliness.

Things that lay outside a woman rather than within her.

Even dog breeders knew to value intelligence in their animals. Really, it was rather surprising that the English aristocracy hadn’t descended into drooling idiocy.

“If only she had a chance for quiet conversation with an eligible gentleman,” Lady Holland murmured absently. “It’s a pity the London season is ending.”

“Yes, my lady.” Freya hesitated, then said, “Perhaps a country house party?”

“For Arabella, you mean?” Lady Holland narrowed her eyes and then shook her head. “You’re aware Lord Holland dislikes large gatherings. I don’t think I can make him change his mind on the matter, particularly since he considers the country house his retreat.”

Freya nodded thoughtfully. “Then perhaps one of the invitations we’ve already received.”

“Perhaps. We’ll look them over in the morning.” Lady Holland stifled a yawn. “I’m for bed now, though. Are you coming up?”

“Not yet.” Freya indicated her embroidery. “I’d like to finish this bit here.”

Lady Holland shook her head as she rose. “I don’t know how you do it, Miss Stewart. I should be quite blind if I embroidered as well as you.”

Freya permitted herself a small smile. “One must have an interest to occupy one’s time.”

They said their good nights, and then Freya was alone in the sitting room.

She waited, diligently working on the merlin and his meal, and her thoughts turned to the Duke of Harlowe and how she would get the ring back. He’d seemed so certain of his power as he’d sat above her in the carriage, so arrogant. She gritted her teeth. That a man such as he should be able to swan about London while Ran had been all but destroyed by the Greycourt tragedy…

She shook her head. No use thinking of Ran and what he was like now. Better to find a way to bring down the prideful duke. Harlowe had inherited a fabulously wealthy dukedom through sheer luck. Society had been rife with gossip two years ago when the old duke died and Harlowe—a very distant relative—had returned from India. But in all the time since, she’d never seen him at any London social events. Was he shunning society? If so, it might be difficult to run across him again without rousing suspicion. Perhaps if she bribed a servant—

The clock on the mantel struck midnight with a tinkling chime, pulling her from her thoughts.

Freya put her embroidery away in a basket and went into the outer hall.

Everything was quiet.

She crept to the back of the house without a candle—she’d lived here for five years, after all. She slipped out of the door that led to the back garden.

The moon had risen and the garden was cast in black and white, the scent of roses in the air. She took the path straight back to the mews, gravel crunching beneath her slippers. It was chill this late at night and she regretted not fetching a shawl from her room.

The back gate had been oiled and opened smoothly beneath her hand. She made sure to push a rock against the gate to keep it from closing behind her.

It wouldn’t do for prim Miss Stewart to become locked out of the garden after midnight.

Freya stood looking up and down the mews for a minute. She’d just decided to walk toward the road when the Crow emerged from the shadows.

“Lady Freya.”

Freya stilled. “You shouldn’t call me that.”

The Crow drew back her hood. An earring glinted in the mass of her thick black hair. “I’m sorry.”

By rights, as the daughter—and sister—of a duke, Freya should’ve been at the pinnacle of power. Should’ve been able to move among the most influential of London’s elite to do the work of the Macha. But the Greycourt scandal had destroyed all that. The de Moray name had sunk into the mud, the ducal fortunes beggared. Not long after the scandal, Papa had died from the shock, and then she and her sisters, Caitriona and Elspeth, had gone to live with their aunt Hilda in Dornoch.

It was because of Aunt Hilda that Freya was the Macha. She’d vowed to the old woman to preserve the teachings and the ways of the Wise Women.

That thought brought her back to the present. The Crow’s sharp eyes watched her, black and impossible to read.

Freya frowned at her. “What have you to tell me?”

“You are recalled by the Hags.”

“What?” Freya couldn’t hide her shock. The Hags—three appointed women—were the ruling body of the Wise Women. “Why would the Hags recall me? Are they displeased with my service as the Macha? Do they wish to replace me?”

“Not at all.” The Crow pressed her lips together as if she wished to say more but dared not.

“Then why? It’s imperative that I be in London right now. You know that there’s talk of a new Witch Act before Parliament. What has changed?”

“We have a new Cailleach,” the Crow said carefully, naming one of the positions within the Hags. “She feels that ’twere better if the Wise Women all withdrew to Dornoch.”

Freya stared. “You jest.”

The Crow shook her head. “Nay, my lady.”

“Retire and do what?” Freya demanded. “Forget about all the women who need our help? Pretend we don’t have a sacred duty to right the wrongs of a man-led society? Hide like cowering mice in a nest until the Dunkelders finally discover and burn us all?”

The Crow shrugged, watching her.

Freya’s upper lip curled and she hissed, “If the new Witch Act passes we’ll be hunted by everyone, not just the Dunkelders. There will be tribunals and burnings again. The Wise Women will not survive another great witch hunt.”

“I know that,” the Crow murmured, “but I am not the Cailleach.”

“And the other two Hags are growing old,” Freya said bitterly. The Hags ruled equally together, but of course if one was a particularly strong personality she could persuade the others to her cause.

The Crow nodded. “I heard the eldest has taken to her bed. They say she hasn’t long and her successor is of a like mind with the Cailleach.”

“What of the Nemain?” Freya asked. The assassin of the Wise Women was used only in the direst of circumstances. “Is she recalled as well?”

“Yes.”

“And you?”

“I will follow you and the Nemain to Dornoch after my work is done,” the Crow said.

Freya squeezed her eyes shut. Think. She’d known there was a movement within the Wise Women to retire entirely from the world of men. She’d just not known how strong it was. If they retreated to Scotland and the Witch Act passed, she truly believed that the Wise Women would be destroyed.

And with them a millennium of knowledge, tradition, and dedication. Aunt Hilda’s knowledge, tradition, and dedication.

She could not let that happen.

Freya opened her eyes to find the Crow waiting patiently, her black gaze fixed on Freya’s face. “Give me a month. Tell the Hags that I’ll return to Dornoch in four weeks. That I cannot leave before then without arousing suspicion.”

The Crow’s brows rose. “What can you do in a month?”

“Listen to me,” Freya said. “Lord Elliot Randolph spearheads the Witch Act in Parliament. I’ve searched these many months for his weakness. He has none that I can find—save possibly one.”

The Crow cocked her head in question.

“His wife,” Freya said. “Lady Randolph suddenly died last year and was buried at his country estate in Lancashire before her family in London was even notified of her death. It seems to me that Lord Randolph might have had a reason to prevent his wife’s family from seeing the body. If I can find evidence that he had a hand in her death, then we can stop him—and with him the new Witch’s Act before it’s ever brought to Parliament.”

The Crow shook her head. “It’s the end of the London season. All the English aristocrats will be deserting the city for their country estates.”

“Yes, they will. Everyone including Lord Randolph.”

“Then how—?”

“Lady Holland has an invitation to a house party at Lord and Lady Lovejoy’s estate.” She met the Crow’s eyes. “In Lancashire. They’re neighbors. The estates adjoin.”

Understanding dawned in the Crow’s face. “You plan to attend the house party.”

Freya grinned fiercely. “Give me a month. I’ll investigate Lady Randolph’s death—and find evidence to destroy Lord Randolph.”

Two weeks later Freya winced as the carriage jolted over a rut in the Lancashire road. She sat facing backward with Regina on one side and Selby, Lady Holland’s middle-aged lady’s maid, on the other. Arabella and Lady Holland were across from them.

They’d been traveling for a week, and everyone was heartily sick of dusty roads, inns with dubiously clean linens, and the constant rattling of the carriage.

“We must be nearly there,” Regina said, staring hopefully out the carriage window. “If we drive much further we’ll be in Scotland.”

“Perhaps that’s why Miss Stewart was so keen that you accept Lady Lovejoy’s invitation in particular amongst all the others we received,” Arabella murmured, darting a small smile at Freya.

“Not at all,” Freya replied loftily. “For one thing, Lovejoy House isn’t anywhere near Scotland proper.”

Both Arabella and Regina stifled giggles at that—Scotland and all things Scottish had become something of a jest between them and Freya over the years. Freya felt a sudden pang. She’d lived with the Holland sisters for five years. Had watched them grow from gawky young girls into elegant ladies.

It wouldn’t be easy leaving them or Lady Holland in two weeks.

Freya squared her shoulders. Two weeks to find out what had happened to Lady Randolph.

Two weeks in which to prevent disaster to the Wise Women.

“Why did you choose Lady Lovejoy’s house party, Mama?” Regina asked, interrupting her thoughts. “I thought you were set on Bath this summer?”

“There’ll be more than enough time for Bath later in the summer, my darlings,” Lady Holland replied. “Lady Lovejoy is a particular friend of mine. She assures me that Lord Lovejoy has an extensive stable, and the countryside is wild and romantic around Lovejoy House.” She nodded at Freya. “And finally, our dear Miss Stewart was in favor of the idea.”

“Not to mention Mr. Aloysius Lovejoy will be attending with his friends,” Regina murmured.

Arabella blushed rather splotchily.

Freya hid a smile. The younger Mr. Lovejoy had the most beautiful golden hair she’d ever seen, but beyond that he seemed a kind man. Arabella would need a sensitive gentleman to match her quiet intelligence. It was the prospect of several eligible bachelors that had been the deciding factor for Lady Holland in attending the Lovejoy house party in particular.

“We’ve arrived, my lady.” Selby nodded to the carriage window, and all of them leaned forward to look.

The carriage had stopped to let a gatekeeper pull back the massive iron gates. The man touched his hat as the carriage turned in to a gravel drive.

Lovejoy House stood surrounded by a tended lawn, the better to be admired. The house itself was a red stone building that looked at least several centuries old. It rose arrogantly certain of its place in the cosmos, and for a moment Freya had a longing for her own ancestral home. Ayr Castle was older and bigger than Lovejoy House, a stately gray monolith that no doubt looked arrogant to strangers as well.

But not to her. To her it had been home.

“Oh, someone’s come just before us,” Arabella said, bringing Freya’s attention back to the present.

A black coach with a familiar crest stood before the doors, the coachman still in the box.

Freya schooled her features even as her heart began to thud in her ears. If the master of that coach was who she thought it was, she should be afraid. Worried that her identity would be revealed and her mission imperiled.

Instead she felt herself readying for battle. Her muscles tightening, her senses quickening. Oh, this was a divine gift indeed. She’d not expected him here, would never have guessed he would attend. And yet she could see the booted foot emerge from the carriage, the flash of lace at the masculine wrist. She inhaled leather and mud and the scent of her own body warming.

She felt alive.

Oh, let it be him.

She wanted that ring. She wanted to make him pay.

“Perhaps it’s Mr. Lovejoy,” Regina said, darting an impish look at Arabella.

“That’s not Mr. Lovejoy,” her sister replied. “He’s far too broad in the shoulders and too tall.”

The man stood beside the carriage, large and commanding as others scurried around him.

“Do you recognize the crest?” Regina whispered as their carriage drew to a stop.

Lady Holland pursed her lips in thought. “No, but whoever he is, he’s wealthy. That carriage is new.”

Freya’s heart felt as if it had climbed into her throat.

The footman set the step, and then there was the flurry of gathering items and exiting the carriage.

Freya made herself wait. She was the last to leave, ducking her head to clear the carriage doorway.

A male hand appeared before her, wearing Ran’s signet ring. The fingers long, the nails square, and the palm broad and strong.

She inhaled to steady herself and placed her hand in his, stepping down.

“I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced,” the Duke of Harlowe rumbled over her head.

She looked up…into cerulean eyes watching her with complete attention. His gleaming chestnut hair was pulled neatly back from his forehead, and he wore a nut-brown suit that made his eyes nearly glow.

Not that she was particularly noticing. “Are you sure, Your Grace?” Oh, this was playing with fire.

His eyes narrowed. How often did anyone question him? “I certainly thought I was.”

“Have you met our chaperone, Miss Stewart, Your Grace?” Regina asked with innocent curiosity.

He cocked his eyebrow at Freya, murmuring too low for Regina to hear, “Have I, Miss Stewart?”

“I believe we met at the Earl of Sandys’s ball,” Freya replied, pulling a story from thin air. “I’m afraid I was so clumsy as to bump into His Grace.”

“I seem to remember you falling at my feet,” Harlowe said, a too-attractive smile playing about his lips. “I do hope you’ve recovered from the incident?”

“Entirely.”

She lowered her gaze and imagined disemboweling him. Vividly.

He nodded in dismissal and turned to Lady Holland. “May I?” he asked, offering his arm.

Lady Holland blushed. “Your Grace is so—”

The yellow dog bounded up and shoved her nose into Freya’s skirts.

Regina stifled a shriek—she’d never liked dogs, having been bitten as a child.

Lady Holland said sharply, “Whose dog is that?”

“Mine.” The duke snapped his fingers. “Tess, come here.”

Tess ignored him, sniffing with great interest all about Freya’s hem. She remembered now that there’d been a friendly cat at their last stop.

Freya glanced up and said blandly, “I don’t believe Tess knows that you’re a duke, Your Grace.”

He sighed. “No, she most certainly doesn’t.”

Freya’s lips twitched before she regained control of them. She held out her hand to the dog—it wasn’t Tess’s fault that she had such a vile man for a master.

The dog snuffled wetly against her fingers and then looked up, letting her jaw hang open in a friendly canine smile as her tail gently waved. Her ears were upright triangles, her eyes and nose black against the dust yellow of her fur, and her head reached nearly to Freya’s hip. She didn’t seem like an aristocratic dog, but then Freya wasn’t sure she’d ever seen a dog exactly like Tess before.

“She’s quite harmless,” Harlowe said, glancing at Regina. “Would you care to meet her?”

Regina visibly hesitated, her hands clutched to her chest.

Tess turned and trotted to her master.

“V-very well,” Regina said.

“Come. Give me your hand,” Harlowe said, and it was amazing how gentle he sounded when Freya knew what he was capable of.

Regina held out her trembling hand. The duke took it and bent with her hand in his to let Tess sniff them both. “That’s my girl, Tess. Softly now. What do you think of Miss Holland, then? Will you be friends?”

Freya swallowed. His voice was deep and rumbling as he spoke to the dog, and the sound made her belly tremble.

The cad. Freya tried to look away but found herself strangely loath to do so.

A smile bloomed on Regina’s face when she petted Tess’s head. “Her ears are so soft.” She glanced shyly at Harlowe. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

He bowed gravely, but a corner of his wide mouth quirked. “My pleasure, Miss Holland.”

“Your Grace! I’m so pleased you could come.” Daniel Lovejoy, Baron Lovejoy stood on the steps of his house. He was a man of forty-some years with gray powdered hair. “And Lady Holland. A pleasure as always, ma’am.”

That seemed to be the signal to go inside the house, Freya trailing behind, all but forgotten.

Just the way she liked it.

Two hours later Christopher descended the grand staircase of Lovejoy House to the main floor, Tess padding by his side. He’d had a hot bath and changed his clothes and finally felt rested after a week of travel in a confined carriage. He hoped to find Plimpton and settle this matter as soon as possible. It made his skin itch to know the bastard still had Sophy’s letters. The letters were a last chore—a mess he needed to mop up so he could set Sophy’s memory in order.

They came to a larger hallway, and he could hear male voices nearby.

Christopher pushed open a sky-blue door and entered a room with dark paneling and several groupings of chairs—evidently his brother-in-law’s study. Three gentlemen seated by the fireplace turned to him.

Tess huffed, raising her head alertly.

Absently Christopher dropped his hand to her head.

“Ah, there you are, Harlowe,” Lovejoy said, sounding jovial.

The man was nearly two decades older than his sister had been, and yet the resemblance was marked. Fifteen years ago, when Christopher had married Sophy, he remembered thinking that at a distance Lovejoy and Sophy might’ve been twins, both with round, moonlike faces and impossibly blond hair. Lovejoy powdered his now, so it was difficult to tell if it was still that nearly white color.

Lovejoy stared at Tess as Christopher crossed to him. “Erm…perhaps the dog would be more comfortable in the stables?”

“No,” Christopher said, “she wouldn’t. Thank you for inviting me.”

Lovejoy went a delicate pink, though his next words were obsequious. “Entirely my pleasure, Your Grace. May I present my son, Aloysius Lovejoy?”

The younger man sprang to his feet. He had the Lovejoy white-blond hair, worn in a tail and with fussy curls across his forehead and at his temples. If Christopher didn’t know that the color ran in the family, he would swear it was a wig.

“Your Grace.” Aloysius bowed. “It’s a pleasure to meet you at last. At least, I know I met you when I was but ten at your wedding to Aunt Sophy, but it has been fifteen years. Shall I call you Uncle?”

Christopher eyed the man, wondering if Aloysius was mocking him. The younger Lovejoy looked entirely serious. The man was only eight years younger than Christopher, though Christopher felt much older than Aloysius.

In any case, the request was quite inappropriate.

“I think not.”

Aloysius’s eyebrows flew up, but he didn’t seem particularly put out.

The third man in the room snorted. “Shot down at once. That’ll teach you, Al.”

“And this”—Lovejoy indicated the man—“is Aloysius’s friend Leander Ashley, Earl Rookewoode.”

The earl was thirty-odd and handsome, with sardonic eyes beneath a white wig. Rookewoode bowed elegantly and with a bit of a flourish. “It’s quite an honor to meet you, Your Grace. I fear you’re not much seen in society. You’ve become almost a legend.”

“Have I?” Christopher murmured dismissively. The truth was that he avoided balls and soirees. The press of bodies made him ill at ease, brought a choking feeling of pressure to his throat, and filled him with the urge to escape to untainted air.

On the whole, he’d rather drink poison than attend a crowded event.

Rookewoode narrowed his eyes at Christopher’s tone, though his grin was quick and charming.

“May I present Christopher Renshaw, the Duke of Harlowe,” Lovejoy hastily continued. “My late sister’s husband, of course.” He glanced at Christopher. “We were about to join the rest of the party in the small salon.”

Christopher nodded and fell into step beside Lovejoy, Tess loping by his side.

“Have all your guests arrived?” Where the hell was Plimpton?

“Not as yet, Your Grace,” Lovejoy said. “I know Lady Lovejoy will be ecstatic that you’ve deigned to attend our little party. We’ve hardly seen you since you returned from India.”

The last was said with a stiff little smile.

Christopher supposed he was meant to feel guilty.

“My business affairs have kept me busy,” he replied with complete honesty.

“I’m sure, I’m sure,” Lovejoy murmured. “Ah, here we are.”

They’d arrived at a sitting room painted a deep shade of crimson. At one end a fire roared, making the place stuffy and overheated.

The room felt too small.

He took a slow breath, letting his hand fall to Tess’s head.

Christopher scanned the seated crowd, not realizing he was looking for someone until his gaze snagged on Miss Stewart. Even from across the room her eyes seemed to blaze at him, though her prim face was carefully composed.

What was she up to? She seemed perfectly respectable—even boring—in this setting, yet only a fortnight before he’d seen her fleeing two hulking men and leaping recklessly into his carriage. With a baby no less.

He set his questions aside and brought his attention back to the present. There were other people in the room and Lovejoy was introducing each.

He’d already met Lady Caroline Holland and her daughters. Regina was sitting with her mother. Across from them were Arabella and Miss Stewart, who apparently had no Christian name—at least none that he’d been given.

At right angles to the Hollands, Lady Lovejoy shared a settee with Malcolm Stanhope, Viscount Stanhope. The man looked to be under the age of thirty, but he held himself as rigidly as a cantankerous old man.

Lovejoy finished the introductions and Lady Lovejoy turned to Christopher. “Will you take a dish of tea, Your Grace?”

Christopher indicated he would and selected a chair closest to the French doors. They were shut, but they looked as if they led onto a terrace. The prospect of escape was at least near.

Tess crawled under his chair to lie down. Unlike her husband, Lady Lovejoy didn’t bat an eyelash at her guest’s bringing a dog to a country house party. Either she was more liberal than Lovejoy or—more likely—she’d let Christopher do just about anything because of his title.

People usually did. The moment they realized he was a duke they scraped and bowed and stuttered, as if he pissed gold.

As if he were set apart, alone and immune to human contact.

That is, most people treated him that way.

There were exceptions.

At the thought he felt his pulse pick up. He turned his head and caught Miss Stewart staring at him with loathing in her lovely green-gold eyes.