The Devilish Pleasures of a Duke Read online

  “They’ve taken the coachman and footman onto the bridge, my lord,” Bones whispered hastily. “They did not notice me on the back. They were waiting at the other side.”

  “How many?” Adrian asked, stepping down onto the road.

  “Three, I saw.”

  “Then they are outnumbered.” His calm voice seemed unnatural to Emma. Did the man not understand the danger? Oh, fool she was. Of course he understood, and he almost looked as if he relished what would come.

  “Stay behind the carriage, Bones, unless I call you. By no means leave my wife unprotected.”

  “Yes, my lord.” In the blink of an eye Bones looked less a London valet than a soldier who had witnessed the brutalities of life. “The coachman and his man were disarmed before they could cry for help,” he added in an undertone.

  Adrian walked several paces from the carriage, pausing to take his bearings. He knew this place, this bridge. Even in a thick fog he remembered the bridle path that cut through the trees, the myriad places a person could hide.

  As far as he could tell, there were only two mounted men on the bridge. Which meant the third whom Bones had mentioned was—his blood boiled over. Where was the bastard hiding?

  He swiveled around and stared at the coach. It sat like a tempting jewel on the secluded track. Damn his impatience. Damn his insistence on a detour. Damn him for not taking Cedric’s warning about the perils of Scarfield’s roads to heart.

  If anyone so much as approached Emma and her companions, he would not live to see the following day. And his dainty-mannered wife would know without a doubt that her efforts to civilize Adrian had been in vain.

  So be it.

  England was no more civilized than the most heathen land he had defended. Men were men, subject to the same temptations and greed the world over no matter how one disguised it.

  In the damp haze, he unharnessed one of the coach’s six horses and vaulted onto her back. The mare sensed his urgency, pricked her ears, and quickened her pace. He raised his sword, the artfully crafted Persian scimitar that he had been given for protecting a harem. A wolf’s head had been engraved upon the enameled silver hilt. He had accepted the gift, thinking he would never use it in England. Or anywhere for that matter.

  The report of a pistol echoed through the mist from the direction of the bridge. He thought he heard someone—something—fall into the water below. He resisted the urge to turn around. Instead, he charged full-tilt at the masked horseman who had just emerged from the trees.

  It felt odd and yet he recognized what it was, death in the air, the pulsing of blood through his veins. The fog might have been a sandstorm. The masked assailant could have been one of his faceless enemies. Suddenly the weight of the scimitar felt reassuring in his hand instead of unfamiliar. He grasped the pistol in the other and charged.

  The rider who approached the carriage looked startled by his appearance. Adrian felt a grim moment of humor. Obviously the normal highwayman did not expect to encounter a victim wielding a deadly scimitar in defense of a ducal carriage.

  It was the hardest thing in the world to sit by helplessly while one’s husband confronted a band of brigands. Emma scooted across the seat to the window, her reticule beneath her traveling cloak. Whom exactly was Adrian confronting? Her throat tightened. She had lost sight of his powerful frame in the fog. The muffled echo of hoofbeats pounding in the mist usettled her.

  Odham laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Best not to look, my dear.”

  “Of course she has to look,” Hermia said, squeezing in front of him. “How do we know what we are up against if we sit here shivering like spinsters?”

  He sat back, busying himself with the leather case he had pulled upon his lap. “Never fear, my dear. I shall put my life on the line to protect you, both of you, and consider it an honor.”

  Hermia slowly turned her head to regard him. “If anyone thinks that I shall sit by idly while you are assaulted—”

  He looked up, his eyes bright with emotion. “You are a stouthearted lady, Hermia. I am honored to have known you.”

  “We’re not dead yet, Odham, for heaven’s sake. Do you need a phial of vinegar to restore you, Emma?” she asked in concern.

  Emma reached into her reticule, her voice even. “Ask me when this is over and I shall surely say yes.”

  Adrian took advantage of his adversary’s surprise and kicked his sturdy mount into a cavalry charge. The horse responded with a hesitant but satisfying burst of speed. The highwayman glanced around in obvious disconcertment, then raised his flintlock to fire.

  Adrian swiveled at the waist, his reflexes guiding his horse in a zigzag course toward the other rider. A pistol ball soared over his head. With unnerving focus he watched the other man draw short to reload. “Now,” he said softly to the animal beneath him. “Do not be afraid. Keep going. You will be fine.”

  He dug in his heels, his sword arm tensed in anticipation, and cantered in a semicircle. The highwayman glanced up with a cry of panic. His gaze seemed transfixed by the scimitar that flashed like quicksilver in the twilight mist. Perhaps he thought it an illusion.

  The curved blade sang in the air. It had taken many a life and had never failed to protect its owner, or so Adrian had been told. He lowered his arm and watched the man sway on his saddle before pitching backward. His bloodied chest glowed a bright splotch of red in the gray shadows.

  With another glance over his shoulder at the coach, he wheeled the horse around and set a steady canter toward the bridge. He could just make out the gaunt outline of Bones sitting sentinel on the box where he had left him. As Adrian could barely see through the smoky mist, he preferred to believe that Emma had not borne witness to what her husband had just done. It seemed too much to hope, however, that she and Hermia had not been tempted to watch through the window, despite his request otherwise.

  He dismounted at the bridge and saw two riderless horses tethered to the lower branches of a tree. The criminals to whom the animals belonged had vanished. He tightened his grip on his pistol and detected a weak if angry groan from beneath the bridge. The coachman lay on his side on the riverbank, half-hidden behind a screen of reeds.

  “They’ve gone to the carriage, my lord,” he called in a disgruntled voice. “The footman’s tied up to a tree, but he’s alive. They said they’d gone to look for you.”

  For him?

  He ran past the horse. Another shot echoed in the mist. He kicked a fallen branch from his path and cursed. His heart pounded in panic. Why had he left the coach? That damned ostentatious coach, a lure for brigands on a lonely road.

  The bridge was not far from the estate. Several miles at the most. Who had been shot? Not his wife. Not Emma. He had told her to stay with the others.

  Two figures on foot materialized from the drizzling gloom and fled into the trees. He raised his gun, thought better of wasting his time, and circled around the coach. Another man sprang from beneath the underbelly of the vehicle.

  “Lord Jesus, it’s you!” Bones exclaimed, lowering his own gun abruptly. “One of them took a shot at me and missed. Stupid bastards.”

  Adrian stepped over the cloaked body that lay slumped against the rear wheel. Bones had made a decent attempt to cover the body of the man Adrian had felled. One shot meant for Bones that had missed. That was what Adrian had heard. And yet he had to ask, needing reassurance, “My wife, and Lady Dalrymple?”

  Before Bones could manage an answer, Adrian practically unhinged the carriage door to check for himself. Three pistols rose in unison from the dark interior. He lifted his free hand in feigned surrender, at the mercy of an amateur infantry comprised of his wife, Lady Dalrymple, and Odham.

  He would have laughed if he’d been able to breathe properly. His relief at finding Emma unharmed had made him feel embarrassingly faint-headed.

  As an irregular soldier, he had witnessed the horrific acts that unprincipled men could inflict upon the innocent. In truth, he’d defended a village of wo
men from such abuses. But if anyone had dared to defile his elegant wife—he shook his head then and did laugh. His elegant wife who had just leveled a pistol between his eyes as skillfully as she wielded a lace fan.

  “Oh, Adrian,” she whispered, her regard dark with relief. She launched herself upon him in a belated release of emotion that matched his own. “We were all sick with worry.”

  He held the bloodied scimitar behind his back until Bones, recovering his own wits, covertly removed it from his master’s possession and restored it safely amid the luggage.

  His hand thus freed, Adrian slid it around Emma’s waist and contented himself with holding her closely, all the while noticing that Hermia had not lowered her weapon.

  He buried his face in his wife’s warm neck. “A pistol—in your hands, Emma?” He carefully lifted the gun from her grasp. “A very nice pistol, too. It’s a Manton flintlock.” He glanced up at her in surprise. “I hope Heath didn’t ask you to use it against me.”

  She hesitated, smiling. “No. It came from Julia, with no specific instructions as to whom I should shoot, only that I should use it if needed. I don’t need it, do I?”

  “No, Emma.”

  “What about our footman and driver?” Hermia asked worriedly.

  Adrian smoothed his hand down Emma’s shoulder, knowing he would do anything to keep her safe. He had hoped she would never understand what kind of man he’d been. That there were some things about him that he couldn’t change.

  “That’s them coming now,” he said quietly.

  “One of the pair is limping,” Hermia exclaimed.

  Adrian disengaged himself from Emma with regret. “Stay here just in case.”

  She released her breath as he hurried through the rain with Bones a few steps ahead. The two men who walked toward her looked bedraggled but not afflicted with any mortal injuries that she could discern. The footman appeared, on closer inspection, to be supporting the coachman against his shoulder.

  Odham sent her a puzzled smile. “Why didn’t you tell him what you saw?”

  “He didn’t want me to see,” she murmured.

  “Ah.” He nodded, his mood lifting. “I think that you two valiant ladies could do with a bracing pot of tea.”

  She turned from the window, color returning to her cheeks. “Oh, to hell with tea, Odham. I think we deserve a bottle of porter each.”

  Hermia laughed in approval. “Well said, my dear. In fact, I think that is the first piece of advice of yours I am tempted to take.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Adrian’s brother Cedric overtook them less than a mile from the bridge. A small band of outriders from the estate accompanied him. He explained that he had been waiting at the main crossroads to escort them to Scarfield and was concerned at their delay. He whitened when Adrian explained what had happened during his detour.

  “Thank God none of you were killed,” Cedric said in distress. “This is not the homecoming any of us envisioned.”

  Lady Dalrymple stuck her head out the window. “Two of them escaped into the woods. I shall not sleep for weeks.”

  Adrian took his brother aside. “My coachman took a pistol ball in his upper leg. It needs attention. There is also a body lying back before the bridge that requires a hasty burial.”

  “You—you killed one of them?”

  Adrian frowned. “I hope I wasn’t expected to shake his hand and ask him to come meet my father. I think I killed him, Cedric. That is my wife in the carriage. I would have killed every one of the curs had I caught them.”

  “I see,” Cedric said faintly. He blinked several times. “But you didn’t—well, you know—”

  Adrian stared at his brother. Was this cowed lordling the result of his father’s constant browbeatings? “I didn’t what, man? For God’s sake, spit it out.”

  “You didn’t, um”—Cedric loosened his spotless white cravat—“behead this man, did you? The papers were full of reports—I only ask so that I may warn the servants what to expect.”

  Adrian almost laughed. He realized that his family had kept abreast of his exploits. His father’s letters had revealed as much. However, he had not expected that they would believe every exaggerated account that had been written about him. “Do not worry,” he said in a wry undertone. “We can feed the head to my wolf pack at a later time.”

  Cedric nodded weakly. “You’re teasing me. You always teased me, Adrian. It really isn’t fair, you know. Florence and I cried inconsolably when you left. I had no one to stand up for me when you went away.”

  Adrian clasped his brother’s arm. “I’m home for now at least,” he said. “And if you allow it, I’ll stand up for you whenever necessary.”

  Cedric dredged up a lukewarm grin. “I’ll more than allow it. I am glad to see you again, Adrian. And life here has not been as tragic as I have made it sound. Sad, perhaps, but let us hope that is all behind us.”

  It was evening when the ducal coach reached the estate under mounted escort. Emma was grateful to seek refuge in the rooms that she and Adrian had been allotted, even if the duke had made a point of asking to see his son alone.

  “I know this will be unpleasant,” she whispered to Adrian as they stood together in a vaulted entrance ornamented with stags’ heads while their luggage was unloaded. “Do your best to remember his age and the respect you owe him.”

  He stayed at her side until a servant in formal livery arrived to announce that the upstairs rooms had been warmed and made comfortable for the night. Thereupon he launched into a prepared speech about how heartening it was to have the duke’s heir home.

  For his part Adrian fought a devilish urge to slap the stuffy fellow on the back and beg him to leave off his long-winded welcome. Emma, on the other hand, nodded as if all this formality were her due and followed the chattering little man across the hall.

  And suddenly Adrian felt empty, and on edge.

  He watched his wife disappear up the dark Jacobean staircase with Hermia and Odham. He had played on those stairs as a child. He had slid down the balustrade with his wooden sword to terrify the servants and his two younger siblings.

  Wild little demon, they’d whispered. Son of a whore and a soldier. No one thought he’d come to a good end.

  He had returned to reclaim his past. His birthright. He was a ghost, he thought. The boy who’d frolicked in this house had died years ago.

  Hermia leaned lightly on Emma’s arm as the pair of them ascended the long staircase, Odham and the loquacious footman leading the way.

  “The duke has given us an entire wing,” Hermia said in approval.

  Emma sighed.

  By now Adrian had gone to the duke’s private chambers across the courtyard. She knew he’d wished her to accompany him. But she had claimed to be exhausted from the day’s ordeal. Poor Adrian, she mused. He would probably have preferred to fight off another band of brigands rather than face his father.

  Two chambermaids guided her down a hallway lined with tall Venetian-glass mirrors. “Madam,” the eldest maid said, “one of us will sleep on the bench outside your door all night should you require anything.”

  Emma nodded, not truly listening. Hermia and Odham had been assigned separate rooms at the end of the hall. Hermia was already asking the footman to make certain that any connecting doors were locked.

  One of the chambermaids swallowed a yawn. “There’ll be a pint drunk to Lord and Lady Wolverton’s health in the local house tonight.”

  Emma hesitated, eyeing Hermia coming toward her. It was perfectly unacceptable to prod a servant into repeating gossip, and yet suddenly she could not resist. “Lord Wolverton must have many relatives, close friends, who have awaited his return.”

  “We’re all relieved to have the young master home, my lady,” the woman said. Which was a polite reply but lacking the information Emma had hoped for.

  “How convivial of them.” She came to a halt outside the door. Hermia had paused to admire her reflection in a mirror. “The girls,�
�� she prompted, clearing her throat. “The local ladies will be happy to see him again, I suppose.”

  For a moment the two maids stared back at her with such an absence of comprehension that she could have shouted. “I suppose they will,” was the first’s formal, unsatisfactory response.

  “Heavens above, Emma,” Hermia said as she swept toward them. “Do stop dancing about the issue and ask them outright.”

  Emma frowned. “As tactful as thunder, aren’t we, dear?”

  “When one advances in age,” Hermia said, “one is disinclined to waste precious time worrying about what others think.”

  Emma gave her a wry look. “It seems to me that some people did not worry about the polite world even when they were young.”

  Hermia smiled. “Some of us learned our lessons at a tender age, thank goodness. I could not imagine a life more wasted than one dedicated to pleasing others.” She directed her attention to two chambermaids who’d most likely been warned how peculiar London ladies could act at times. “What Lady Wolverton wishes to know is whether her husband has any sweethearts awaiting his return.”

  “Oh.” The older of the chambermaids brightened. “Oh.”

  “I think I’ll go to bed now,” Emma said. “Thank you for that humiliation, Hermia. I shall pretend that our experience today caused this unspeakable breach of confidence.”

  Hermia put her hands on her hips. “Do I need a spoonful of treacle to loose that tongue?” she asked the chambermaid. “Is there, or is there not, a young woman hereabouts who wears her heart on her sleeve for your young master?”

  The maid nodded slowly. “You mean, Lady Serena? Why didn’t you say so?”

  Hermia’s mouth hardened. “At last. Is this Lady Serena married?”

  “Oh, no, ma’am.”

  Emma ducked her head, then opened the door to a warm firelit chamber. “Good night, everyone.”