Quince stared out the window as his carriage sped toward his estate closest to London, Belle Fleur. When he had gone into his bedroom at the townhouse there had been another letter. On his bed, as though perhaps he himself had tossed it aside earlier in the day. Innocent eggshell colored paper. Folded over and unsealed. But he had recognized it immediately because the first letter had been delivered in just such a way. It inferred that someone in his household was delivering them, which was both disheartening and vaguely threatening. Rather than read it he had tucked it into his coat pocket and set his staff to packing for the country. Now he could hear the paper crinkle in his pocket whenever he shifted in his seat. It didn't really matter what the latest letter said, did it? He could still recall the first missive, word for word.
My dearest duke,
I hope that this letter finds you well. It has come to my attention that you are in possession of papers from your father that you have been discussing with others. If you surrender those papers to me then I will not find it necessary to share some interesting facts that I have discovered about your mother. I will give you a fortnight to gather them. Await instructions in my next letter.
Sincerely,
Your father's friend
That first letter had gone into the fire the night he had received it. No need for the information to get into the wrong hands. Now he had the second letter. Part of his reluctance to open it was that whatever instructions were contained, he could not follow them. He had no idea what papers from his father he supposedly had in his possession. He, of course, had many papers from his father. But nothing incriminating. Nothing that would inspire this veiled but menacing threat. Everything
he did have was related to the running of the estates, so unless something was in code it was hard to believe that any of it was causing this reaction. It was beyond low to be threatening his mother, but he knew the former duke had run with an unsavory crowd, men who would not hesitate to threaten even the most innocent and unprotected. The stories that his father would tell over the supper table had made Quince cringe. Honestly, if his father had documented his group's exploits half as well as the forty years of grain reports, then it was no wonder why someone would want to ensure that those papers never saw the light of day. But he had never seen evidence that such was the case. Not one note, one letter, one piece of paper hinted that his father had written down the salacious tales he had enjoyed telling. Even in the stories the elder duke had told names had never been used. Quince had very few clues about the identities of the men his father had run consorted with, save for one whose identity he had learned by accident. For the rest he only knew that they were of an age with his father, were lords, and seemed capable of almost anything.
Perhaps he should send a note to his mother, warning her of the potential outcome of this threat. Not that he was entirely sure what the anonymous blackmailer thought they had to exploit.
Certainly his mother had her eccentricities, but it was hard to see where any of them would be earthshaking if revealed. She was a bluestocking, a freethinker, but she was hardly shy about it. On the other hand, attacks to one’s reputation were rarely pleasant and often had long-reaching effects. Even Harrington had kept a relatively low profile since the scandal that had led to his marriage.
But regardless of how many times he turned it over in his mind, Quince came to the same conclusion. At present there was nothing he could do. Nothing but wait to see what Robert Bittlesworth came up with. If he had any faith that there was some cache of documents as yet uncovered he would look for them, but he had little hope of that. Most of the non-entailed estates had been sold years ago, with all relevant papers reviewed by his stewards. It was possible, of course, that one of his staff had found the papers and was currently attempting to use them to their own benefit. But the letter
had clearly indicated that the person talking about the papers had been Quince himself. Had he made some offhand comment that had been misinterpreted? That certainly bore looking into. But that would be more Robert's talent than Quince's.
Quince sighed and moved, the paper in his pocket crinkling again. If there was a solution he wasn't seeing it yet.
Once he reached the estate he tossed the letter into a bedside drawer and prepared for bed. It was not yet four in the afternoon but he could think of no better alternative than to escape into sleep.
Three nights passed in relative quiet while Quince stayed ensconced in his rooms. The ducal suite at Belle Fleur was one of the few that he had gone to the expense to update, and it was by far his favorite. Maple furnishings, swaths of dark gold fabric, and all of it offset by jewel-colored flowers, painted and embroidered, to echo the gardens outside. He had some of his favorite artwork displayed here and could spend hours staring at a particular piece and letting his mind wander. Works from Goya, Friedrich, and Turner were all visible from where he lay on the bed. Selling artwork had been among the hardest decisions when setting the estate to rights, but he had been determined not to accept Gideon's insistent offers to bolster the duchy's coffers until the books were balanced. His friend had done enough as it was. The only time he had considered countering that decision was when he had unwisely, and without thought, made an outrageous offer for a mistress.
On the third morning, however, the door to his bedchamber was opened with a good deal more force than usual. Still half-asleep, he roused himself to look at the doorway, anticipating that Giddy had decided to insert himself into affairs. As usual. But instead of the overbearing earl, Miss Bittlesworth glided into the room as though entering a ball. Her smile was sweet and dimpled
while her words slashed as quick and true as her sword.
"I wouldn't have expected you to be a slugabed, your grace. Yet I see your butler was correct. Have you really been in here for days?"
Quince cleared his throat. "My former butler."
Miss Bittlesworth went to the window and wrenched back the curtains, allowing a stream of sunlight in. Although horribly bright, it also served to highlight her figure under the flowing muslin gown. "I'm sorry, your grace?" she asked.
"My
former
butler. If my man can't stop one tiny woman from disturbing me then he shall have to find employment elsewhere."
She turned and sailed toward him with that pleasant smile firmly in place, stopping mere inches from the edge of the bed. "Don't blame him for meeting a woman who always gets what she wants."
"Do you?" Quince asked. He could tell his voice was still husky from sleep. He had obstinately not pulled the coverings up since she had chosen to intrude, and remained bare to the waist. "Do you always get what you want?"
She looked at him appraisingly. "You seem skeptical, but I can assure you that I do."
"What do you want right now?"
That seemed to make her reflective and she s
at down on the edge of the bed and worried the edges of her shawl where they fell across her lap. "To help you."
"To help me? What sort of help do you
fancy I need?"
She gave him a lopsided grin. "I'm not sure. Robert wouldn't tell me."
"Yet you assume that I do need help?"
"Why else would you come to see my brother? Early in the morning, unannounced, with not so much as a footman or coach in sight? It doesn't take a great deal of deductive reasoning to arrive at that conclusion. You need help with something."
"I'm sure your brother has whatever I need well in hand."
She frowned. "While I'm sure my brother has the best of intentions, his energies are spread across any number of issues. I, on the other hand," she said, replacing the frown with a smile again, "can provide you with my undivided attentions."
Her emphasis on the word
attentions
gave Quince all manner of unreasonable ideas. He had never recovered from their first meeting and thought often of what it would be like to touch her. Would her skin be as soft, her hair as fine, as he thought? Sitting there in the sunshine from the window, with her cream colored gown, she was the brightest spot in the room. He realized he was staring at her as he often did at his paintings. Barely breathing, trying to absorb every detail. Her skin was a flawless cream and her eyes sparkled again with the amusement that had drawn him into that most unwise proposition in the first place. Ringlets of dark hair brushed over her shoulders and fell down her back. He wanted to feel those curls, tangle his fingers in them. If she didn't leave the room soon he would do something untoward. Something that actually would deserve to have Robert fetch his pistols.
His extended silence drained away her smile until she was looking at him curiously. While she had spoken she had set one of her hands on the coverlet to lean closer to him. Now he couldn't resist running a finger over the skin on the back of her hand. Yes, it was soft. Soft and warm like a rose petal in the sunlight. She didn't resist or pull away, just looked at where their hands met with a ghost of her smile returning.
"Would you like to hear a secret?" she asked softly.
"Of course," he replied.
She leaned forward until her lips neared his ear, her cheek warm against his own. A curl of her hair tickled his nose, ripe with an exotic floral scent he didn't recognize. "What I really want?" Her breath fanned hot against his neck as she whispered. "Is you."
Her heart beat erratically from a boldness that even Sabre hadn't realized she possessed. She tried to draw back but the duke had tightened a hand on her upper arm, holding her in place against him. Her cheek and temple were heated from contact with his skin. He smelled, she thought, as a duke should. Like lemongrass soap and sunshine. How anyone could lounge about for three days and smell so compelling was beyond her. Nor had he looked lazy and dissolute, lying here in this bed. She had, in her time, seen any number of men without their shirts on. She had grown up in the country with brothers, after all. But the duke seemed different somehow. He was no taller nor more muscular than her own brothers, but he had a sense of presence that drew her. If she weren't afraid of the consequences, she would touch all that warm skin he had so casually left revealed even after she entered the room. What would his chest feel like? His arms? His stomach? She began to feel lightheaded from the shallow, gasping breaths she was taking and knew that she had edged toward panic. Taking a deep breath to steady her nerves meant that her senses were flooded in the duke's scent. She felt trapped between panic and surrender, and the better part of her just wanted to sink against him. To bury her nose in his hair, to feel the heat of his skin against every inch of her own. She felt him shudder against her, a moan low in his throat, as though he were considering the same things. She struggled to sit up and he released her. They stared at one another for a moment. His fair skin was flushed as she was sure her own was, and his eyes dark with intensity.
He closed his eyes and said tightly, "You must leave this room."
She hesitated, "I..."
His eyes snapped open again and the gaze he gave her was both intense and tortured. "You must leave this room. Now."
With that Sabre did something she had never done before, had not known she was capable of doing. She quit the field. The door to the room closed with a very quiet click behind her.
As she had expected, Sabre found servants haunting the hallway waiting to find out how their master would treat this interloper in his home. She took a deep breath to settle herself before trying to address them. Most of them melted away as soon as she gained the hallway but she caught one of the slower ones.
"Girl. Show me the duchess's quarters."
"Oh Miss," the young woman said, holding her apron up to her face. "I'm sure I shouldn't."
"Where is the housekeeper?"
"I'm here, Miss," came a voice from the stairwell. Sabre saw an older woman, tall and severe. She wore a dark gray, unadorned dress. "Mrs. Caldwell, if you please. Havers warned me about you."
Sabre watched as the housekeeper drew near. Controlled, no-nonsense. A slight limp on the right side, which Sabre found intriguing. With her height, plainness, and dour disposition Mrs. Caldwell could easily dress to pass as a man. Sabre wondered if she ever had. The butler Havers had been more feminine with his snowy white hair and delicate pink skin. What a fascinating household the duke had. She wondered if he noticed or simply spent all of his time locked in his rooms while he was here. Whereas Havers had been easy enough to run roughshod over it was clear that Mrs. Caldwell would resist such an approach.
Dropping into as deep a curtsy as was appropriate to give one's housekeeper, Sabre dimpled into a smile. "Miss Bittlesworth, if you please. Daughter of the Viscount Bittlesworth. Now that I have ensured that the duke is as well as can be expected
, I could use some help settling into a room and would be oh, so grateful for the hospitality of a light repast. And a maid."
Mrs. Caldwell narrowed her eyes suspiciously at Sabre's apparent friendliness. "And why do you ask after the duchess's chambers?"
Sabre followed the unintentional shift of the housekeeper's gaze to the door across the hall from the duke's own rooms. People always betrayed themselves if you watched for it. She had found the duke's room in the first place by testing which door Havers absolutely didn't want her to go through. Being equipped with significantly less steel than the housekeeper seemed to possess, the butler had fled at that point. Sabre shrugged. "It seemed logical to stay as close to the duke as possible while helping him." With that she turned and went through the door the housekeeper had accidentally betrayed.
All of the drapes in this room were closed tightly against the sunshine outside, the air stale and heavy. Within two steps Sabre had sneezed from the dust kicked up from the carpets.
Mrs. Caldwell's voice was heavy with reproach, "This wouldn't be the best room for you to stay in, my lady."
Sabre held the end of her shawl over the nose and went to the window to wrest back the draperies. More dust motes danced in the air, falling on her hair and dress. With the light from the window she could see the truth of the room. It had remained untouched for years upon years. A thick coating of dust lay over everything.
Sabre coughed and looked to where the housekeeper and maid hovered at the doorway. "Why on earth has this room not been cleaned?"
The housekeeper raised her chin. "At his grace's insistence, of course."
"Some of this dust is older than him. Why would he care?"
"Not the present duke, his father," Mrs. Caldwell corrected.
Sabre scanned the contents of the room. A dainty four-poster bed was across from a bank of windows that, if Sabre didn't miss her guess, faced east for a lovely view of the sunrise. The style of the furnishings seemed years out of date. If Jack were here she would know what style this was. Tiny bottles were still on the vanity. What looked to be a robe was cast over the foot of the bed. It was as though someone had walked out of the room expecting to return many years ago and had never come back.
"How long has the duke's mother been dead?" she asked the housekeeper.
Mrs. Caldwell responded in a neutral tone. "I have never met the duchess, but she is not dead."
Sabre frowned. "Then whose room was this?"
"The duke's first wife. She passed without issue."
"When?"
"Nigh on forty years ago now."
"Forty years is more than long enough for a room to be a mausoleum." Sabre wrenched the window casing open and turned back to where the servants still stood in the doorway. "Well? Are you going to help me? Or do I need to clean this room by myself?"
After hesitating in the doorway a moment longer, Mrs. Caldwell turned to the maid. "Fetch Molly and Sarah. And Owen and Hugh as well. We'll be needing to take all these fabrics outside for a good beating."
Sabre was wrestling open the third window, most likely marring her gown beyond repair with dirt and grime.
"I thought you were hungry," Mrs. Caldwell said.
"Yes, but I can't rest while there is work to be done."
That appeared to be the right thing to say because the housekeeper helped Sabre open the remaining windows without comment.
While bathing and dressing Quince noted that his household was alive with more noise than usual. Heavy footsteps up and down the steps. Banging and rattling in some room nearby. He couldn't decide if he wanted to demand that all the uncharacteristic noise stop, or just be happy that, while entertained with whatever she was doing, the estimable Miss Bittlesworth wasn't personally torturing him. When she had leaned down and whispered in his ear… And what she has whispered. Gods, a woman had never affected him like this before! But, he cautioned himself, her actions seemed far too practiced. Far too smooth and clever. He hadn't been far wrong, he didn't think, to suppose she was some man's mistress. Perhaps she was. Or had been. The Viscount Bittlesworth was a man of low morals and his two sons had run wild through London for years. Why wouldn't the youngest of the Bittlesworths have a similar character? Well, the Bittlesworth bastard Justin Miller, whom Gideon had taken on as a clerk recently, seemed of a solid character. But that was more likely due to his common blood than any association with the Bittlesworths.
Now dressed, Quince went downstairs for his meal, barely dodging a footman with an armload of fabrics that had been coming up. The man, whose vision had been blocked by the stack, dropped them when he realized he had almost plowed through his grace, bowing and apologizing so many times that Quince almost ran in retreat. Gaining the dining room Quince saw his staff scrambling to fill the sideboard for his breakfast. It seemed quite possible that Miss Bittlesworth had disturbed the entire household, not just himself. Once he was settled he waved over a footman. "Tell my guest that I would be pleased for her to join me."
He had only just buttered his toast when the footman returned. The man bowed and said hesitantly, "She respectfully submits, your grace, that she is busy."
Quince narrowed his eyes. He wasn't one to enjoy contests of wills. But he wasn't going to let one tiny, pushy woman to run over his household. "Please inform Miss Bittlesworth that it was not an invitation. It is an order."
The footman looked stricken but bowed again before retreating. "Yes, your grace."
Moments later the girl herself appeared at the doorway, but not as he had been expecting her. He rose to acknowledge her presence, as a gentleman should, his action slowed by his confusion. "Miss Bittlesworth?"
She gave the most cursory of curtsies. "You needed me, your grace?"
Her hair was tied back under a kerchief now, her gown covered in a large apron. Every inch of her, garbed or bare, was coated in some variety of dirt. If he
didn't know better he would assume she had been wrestling someone in the yard. "What on earth have you been doing?"
"Cleaning, your grace."
"You feared we didn't have a sufficient number of maids?"
She smiled. "On the contrary. I feared you had far too many without enough to do."
"What did you find for them to do?"
"We've started with cleaning the unused bedrooms."
"I don't know what to say."
"I'm sorry that I'm not dressed to join you in your repast. I'm famished."
He looked down at his plate full of food. "I could wait until you're available."
She sauntered closer. "No need. Although a piece of ham would be heavenly."
She had come close enough to be within reach and opened her mouth. Quince found himself placing a morsel of ham on her tongue, her lips closing over his fingers before he withdrew them. She closed her eyes as she chewed and gave a tiny sigh of appreciation. No, it hadn't been the dress that first time he had seen her. It was
her
. Here she stood dirty, tired, and hungry, yet all he wanted was to push the food out of the way and take her on this very table. He was shocked by his own thoughts and gripped the back of his chair to keep himself from reaching for her. Then he noticed the red marks under the grime on her left arm.
"You needed stitches?"
The young woman turned her arm to look at where his sword has scarred her. "Probably not, but Jack can be overly cautious. And she has a fine stitch so it wasn't a bother."
Quince cradled her arm and ran a finger over the puckered flesh. "I'm sorry. It was never my intention to hurt you."
"Well, I did goad you into it."
"That's no excuse for my behavior."
"Come now, your grace. I wanted you to fight me and I've told you that I always get what I want."
That only served to remind him of what she had most recently said she wanted. Would she let him pull her down onto this table as he wanted to? Would she raise her skirts for him?
She must have sensed his desire because she blushed and drew back. "If I may be excused, your grace?"
"Of course," he said thickly.
He sat back at the table and picked at his breakfast while the household continued to buzz with activity around him.