“Michael,” Will interrupted, coming to tower over his brother.
“She was quite thankful for my proposal.”
Will raked a hand through his hair, then folded both arms over his chest as he counted to ten. “And what offer might that be?”
Michael uncrossed his legs and stood, their eyes meeting. “Well, I think we all know what will come of this
courtship
,” he said, disdain dripping from his tone. “I wanted her to know that I would not abandon her, though the entirety of the ton surely will once you’re finished.”
Will stretched to his full height, barely a hairsbreadth above his brother’s. “Enough!” he yelled, grabbing at Michael’s arms and holding him in a vicelike grip. “I would rather die than do Lucinda harm.”
“Your very presence in her life harms her more than—”
“Do not speak of things you know nothing about!” Will hissed, his hands tightening about Michael’s arms.
The grim set of Michael’s mouth slid into a satisfied smirk. “I lie. No such proposal was made to Lady Lucinda,” he said smoothly, “though it is encouraging to see that you are in possession of a heart after all.”
Will wanted to hit him—lay him out flat on the floor of the ducal chamber and be done with it. But it was not so simple. It never was when it came to his family.
“I am in possession of a temper, little brother,” Will replied, belatedly releasing Michael’s arms. “And I am tired. I do believe I’ll go to bed. You’ll have to wait a bit to get the best of me.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” Michael said, his voice barely above a whisper.
Will watched Michael’s back as he walked from the room, the uneasy feeling that he should stop him weighing heavily on his heart.
“Are you quite done with the preserves or would you rather eat them straight from the serving dish, my dear?”
Lucinda looked to her plate, where her toast was now swimming in strawberry preserves, and set her knife down. “It is wonderful jam, Aunt Victoria.”
“But hardly a meal in itself,” Victoria countered, beckoning for the serving dish.
Lucinda took a bite of toast and began to chew, hesitating for just a moment before passing the jam to Victoria.
“Impertinent little chit,” Victoria said, taking up her own knife and spreading a minute portion of the sweet preserves on her toast.
Lucinda offered a small smile in response, the disappointment of Will’s absence yesterday lingering.
“Ha!” Bessie yelled, then clapped the table with her hand, holding Bell’s Weekly Messenger in the other. “It appears our Lucinda has gained the attention of the society pages.”
“Gossip rags, you mean?” Victoria replied, rolling her eyes in Bessie’s general direction before taking a bite.
Bessie ignored Victoria’s remark and continued on. “Your outing to the opera with the duke caused quite a stir.”
She turned the paper so that the rest of the table might see the story and accompanying illustration.
Charlotte lowered a forkful of eggs back to her plate untouched and squinted at the drawing. “Is that meant to be Lucinda and the duke?”
“He resembles an ape of some sort,” Victoria commented dryly, “though perhaps the most attractive ape I have ever seen.”
Lucinda gestured for Bessie to pass her the paper, the excitement exhibited by her aunts hard to ignore. “Aunt Victoria is correct. The sketch of the duke bears a striking likeness to a very large ape,” she confirmed, taking another bite of toast while she studied the picture. “I must say, the artist made me look rather fetching, though the discrepancy in our height is rather severe, wouldn’t you agree?”
Stanford came through the door, a silver tray in his hands piled high with the day’s mail piled high. He set the tray down near Charlotte, removed a letter from the top, and rounded the table to Lucinda. “My lady, a rider delivered this just a moment ago and asked that it be given to you directly.”
Lucinda set down the paper and took the missive from the servant. “Thank you, Stanford.”
The man bowed and took himself off, leaving the four women alone.
“More regrets from the duke, I suppose,” she said quietly.
She broke the wax seal and unfolded the note. The black handwriting was not Will’s—the small, blocklike quality very unlike Will’s large, firm strokes.
“Oh, no.” She barely breathed the words, unaware she’d spoken them aloud as she read. Her heart slammed, her lungs seized with fear as Lucinda gripped the missive tightly.
In unison, her aunts jumped from their chairs and hurried to cluster around her.
“Whatever is the matter?” Charlotte asked as all three bent nearer to read over Lucinda’s shoulder.
“It’s from Perkins. Something is terribly wrong with Winnie,” she answered, holding back tears.
Lady Winifred, or Winnie to those who adored her, was perhaps the single most valuable mare in the family stable. She was bred to the county’s top stallion and due to foal any day.
Samuel Perkins was in charge of the horses’ care at Bampton Manor, overseeing everything from their food to their exercise schedule. His diagnosis of a complication involving the unborn foal was extremely worrisome.
The stable manager was a capable, calm man and not given to flights of fancy or worry without cause. That he’d felt compelled to inform Lucinda of Winnie’s illness spoke volumes about the depth of his concern.
“I must go at once,” Lucinda said in a panic, dropping the letter to the table and pushing back her chair to stand. “Should I write to the duke? We were to attend—the Whitney musicale this evening.”
Victoria retrieved the note from the table and tucked it into her sleeve. “No, my dear. We will see to everything. Now go.”
“No, you’re right. Of course,” Lucinda replied tearily.
The three aunts stood back and made room for Lucinda, who ran from the room in haste.
“I will accompany her,” Charlotte said to the other two. “Please, alert the servants. We will leave the moment we’re packed.”
“What, in God’s name, is in Bampton?”
Will’s man in the Grey household gave him a weary look from across the ducal bedchamber. “A horse. A sick horse, to be more precise.”
Will leapt from bed, wincing at the fresh flash of pain from his wound. “And Lady Lucinda is the only person in all of England who can cure this equine?” He stalked across the room to where the man stood.
The agent took two steps back. “It is a mare of some importance to her apparently.”
“Smithers!” Will yelled viciously, his eyes remaining on the man. “Apparently,” he repeated, his tone lethal.
“Your Grace,” Smithers said breathlessly as he entered the room. “A note from Lady Charlotte has arrived.”
Will grabbed the offered note and ripped it open, reading the contents quickly.
He crumpled the correspondence in his fist then tossed it to the floor. “You,” he said gruffly to the waiting agent, “Lady Lucinda is traveling to her home in Oxfordshire. Take two men and follow her.”
The man nodded firmly and turned to go.
“Smithers, my clothing.”
The vague feeling of light-headedness he’d experienced last night returned; only this time it was punctuated by a loud gasp from Smithers.
“Your Grace, you seem to be bleeding.”
Will cocked his head in an attempt to view his back; the little he could see was covered in white bandages, a crimson stain spreading rapidly.
“I’ll summon the doctor at once—”
“There is no time for such trivialities!” Will said angrily. “You’ll find fresh dressings in the bathroom.”
A frantic Smithers ran for the bandages, returning to stand in front of Will. “My lord?”
“Blast, Smithers,” Will growled, reaching around for the soaked fabric and pulling. He grazed the edge of the wound, spitting out an expletive in reply.
“All right, then,” Smithers said quietly, his composure returning though his face remained deathly pale. “Do turn around, Your Grace.”
Will was finding it hard to stand upright, Smithers’s hesitation doing little to help. “Now, man!”
All at once, Smithers ripped the bandages from Will’s back, the pain causing him to see stars. He steadied himself with one hand on the wall and took a deep breath. “Good man. Now fetch me that brandy,” he said, gesturing toward the decanter on the far table.
Smithers did as he was told, walking as fast as he could to retrieve the brandy then returning.
In one swift move Will uncorked the crystal decanter and poured the liquid over his shoulder, the burning sensation dropping him to his knees and ripping a deep, guttural grunt from his throat.
“Your Grace,” Smithers gasped, leaning over to offer his aide. “The stitches have been upset.”
“The bandages. Now,” he demanded through clenched teeth, ignoring the valet’s concern.
Smithers set about reapplying the bandages quickly and efficiently. “I’ve done all that I can, Your Grace,” he said, offering Will his arm. “I do think that a doctor—”
Will waved off the help and awkwardly rose. “We’ve wasted enough time as it is. Bring me my clothing.”
To his credit, Smithers did not argue, choosing to retrieve a shirt, breeches, boots, and neckcloth in silence.
Will took the proffered clothing and dressed as quickly as he could, affording minimum care with his wounds. “Give my mother and brother my apologies,” he ordered the valet, then walked to the door.
“Your Grace, I have not packed your things. You cannot leave without—”
Will continued to walk, savagely pulling open the door and sending it crashing into the wall. “Send them along after me,” he shouted, his fatigued body barely able to keep up with his agitated state. “Or do not. I don’t bloody well care either way.”
Antoine Garenne was many things. Patient was not one of them. He took a drink of the abysmal red wine and pursed his lips in distaste. He must wrap up his business in this godforsaken country and return to France—if for no other reason than to get his hands on a decent bottle of wine.
He’d killed the fools who had failed to take care of Clairemont—a charitable act, really, considering the damage the giant had done to them.
But the lady’s unexpected trip to the country was, quite simply, more than a man could take.
He paused to look out the dingy window of his rented room. On the narrow street below, a trio of prostitutes called out to passing men, their lewd and explicit invitations to potential customers rising on the damp spring air.
The band of pain around his head, reduced by a bout of vigorous coupling, gained strength, cinching tighter. His grip on the wineglass tightened and anger roiled in his gut.
He’d use the days that Lady Lucinda was absent from London to refine details for two potential kidnap schemes. And if the Duke of Clairemont died during either of them, so much the better.
He tipped the glass up and swallowed with difficulty, his throat constricted by rage.
“Lovie.”
Garenne pushed himself away from the scarred table and stood, crossing to the rumpled bed, where a nude prostitute lay. “It’s a bit cold without you,” she said coyly, her garishly painted face only serving to make her more disgusting to Garenne.
“We would not want you to be cold,” he replied, leaning one knee on the sagging bed and reaching for a pillow.
The filthy whore had eased some of the pain, but not all. He required more of her.
The woman smiled lewdly at him as he brought the pillow nearer. And when he brought it down hard over her face she complied, the many twisted demands she’d endured in the past hour telling her that he meant no harm.
But when he failed to release her, she began to struggle, her arms flailing in an attempt to free herself, her legs kicking out at the air. Her response pleased Garenne. After all, without a struggle there was no thrill, no satisfaction. No pleasure.
Her legs stilled, then her arms, signaling the arrival of death. Garenne waited a moment, then lifted the pillow away from the woman’s face and threw it across the room. He took in the frozen look of terror on her face and smiled, the irritation of the mission easing slightly.
He stood and walked to the window. Squinting through the dirt and grime, he eyed the women across the street. Standing within the pool of light cast by the newly lit lantern, the small group included a round, buxom redhead, a tall blonde, and a petite black-haired one, all more than willing and expertly able.
“I’ll bury myself in the black-haired whore. Or perhaps the blonde tonight?” A slow smile curved his thick lips. “All three it is.”
“Bloody British rain,” Will cursed, tugging his hat brim lower on his forehead. Sol pinned his ears back and snorted, clearly in agreement with his master.
“You’ve no one but your beloved Lucinda to blame for this,” Will said to the stallion, brushing water from his mane. Given that the horse was soaked, the action did little good and was more a rough gesture of affection. “Well, Lucinda and a mare named Winnie.”
He’d ridden at breakneck speed, not stopping until he reached the Rosemont Inn despite the dizziness that threatened to unseat him. He was terribly tired and the pain from his wound unbearable, the countless hours spent astride only having adding to his misery.
The rain quickened, accompanied by a tepid wind from the north. Will turned up the collar of his greatcoat just as the dim light from the Rosemont’s muddy yard came into view.
He turned Sol into the yard and slid from the saddle, nearly falling to his knees in the dank mud. A young man approached and Will handed him the reins.
He reached in his pocket and pulled out several coins. “Has a Lady Lucinda Grey taken a room for the evening?” he asked pointedly, dropping half a crown into the flat of the man’s palm.
The man stared at the coins in Will’s hand, scratching his head in earnest. “There’s only one lady of quality that’s taken a room for the night. Blonde, blue eyes, traveling with a companion—an older woman.”
Will dropped the remaining coins into the man’s hand. “Thank you. Take care of my horse and there will be more where that came from.”
“Yes, sir!”
Will thumped Sol on the rump and walked toward the inn.
Strange candles, those, that they would dim as one drew near
. He squinted at the lights that flanked the front door, blinked once, then again, but they continued to dim.