To Desire a Duke: Dangerous Dukes Vol 8 Read online

  Brione opened her mouth to protest but Joseph silenced her with a look. ‘We’ll be getting on then,’ he said, not very deferentially, and the butler scowled.

  ‘You didn’t have to do that for my sake. I was the one to blame,’ Brione said as they walked away.

  ‘Nah, don’t worry about it. He wouldn’t dare to scold you.’

  ‘Which is why you should have let me own up. You will never get the senior footman’s position if you keep defying him.’

  ‘I won’t get it anyway. I can’t be bothered to kowtow to the old fool.’ Joseph grinned. ‘Anyway, I’d best be getting on.’

  Her confidence undermined by the incident, Brione made her way to Rachel’s room, in urgent need of solitude to think about what had just occurred. The fire had been lit in Rachel’s absence, even though the night was warm. Brione though it an unnecessary expense. She would have preferred to throw the windows open, invite the cool evening air into the chamber and look up to count the stars. Instead she closed the curtains. She had seen how hard the servants worked, and if Glanville had ordered fires to be lit, she wouldn’t negate their efforts and risk getting them into trouble.

  Her solitude did not last long. Brione barely had time to make sense of her jumbled emotions and shake out Rachel’s night attire before her friend returned to her room.

  ‘Brione,’ she said, smiling. ‘I didn’t expect you to wait up for me.’

  ‘That’s what ladies’ maids do. Besides, it is not so very late.’

  ‘The party will carry on for quite a few more hours, but I had had enough.’

  ‘You regret coming?’ Brione asked.

  ‘No, not regret precisely.’

  ‘Then what?’

  Brione helped Rachel out of her gown, slipped her nightgown on over her chemise and then had Rachel sit at the dressing table, where she unpinned her hair and brushed it through. ‘I suppose I find society’s mores superficial after losing…’

  ‘I understand completely,’ Brione replied, touching Rachel’s shoulder. ‘But life goes on, my dear. In time you might even think about remarrying.’

  Tears flooded Rachel’s eyes. ‘Never!’ she said fiercely.

  ‘There, now I have upset you, which was not my intention.’

  ‘You are only saying what I discovered for myself downstairs. I am still fairly young and known to be wealthy, which means that a number of single gentlemen assumed I would be grateful for their attentions. Naturally, I cannot abide my own company and need a strong, capable man to shoulder responsibilities that I cannot be expected to understand.’

  ‘That must have been odious for you.’ Brione braided Rachel’s hair and tied it off with a ribbon.

  ‘I shouldn’t be ungrateful. As a guest, a certain degree of social intercourse is expected of me. I knew that when I accepted Deborah’s invitation.’

  ‘You have every reason in the world to feel put upon.’ Brione shuddered. ‘It’s like a cattle market down there.’

  Rachel looked amused. ‘I cannot possibly imagine what you mean.’

  ‘I am equally sure that you can.’ Brione grinned at Rachel’s look of faux surprise. ‘I watched the duke being relentlessly pursued earlier from the corridor window.’

  ‘The ladies here are not especially subtle; I agree with you there. I felt rather sorry for him, but he dealt with them charmingly, without giving any reason I could discern to imply that he had a favourite.’

  ‘Which won’t deter them,’ Brione replied. ‘They will be encouraged by their mothers to show themselves off to their best advantage. The duke will be well aware why they were invited. If he has no interest in matrimony, he should not have permitted your friend to issue the invitations. It seems…well, a waste of everyone’s time.’

  ‘Perhaps, but then the duke is proving to be remarkably resistant to the idea of matrimony. He is not getting any younger, doesn’t have any brothers to ensure the continuation of the title and so ought to remember his duty. I know his stubbornness plays on Deborah’s mind.’

  ‘Well then, I agree with you. He is a horrible person who doesn’t realise how fortunate he is.’

  Rachel laughed as she slipped between the sheets. ‘That is not what I meant at all. In fact, I rather like him. He is intelligent and charming and can be compassionate. I encountered a gardener with only one hand the last time I was here. I wondered about that, thinking his handicap would prevent him from carrying out his duties efficiently. But it seems he was a foot soldier in the duke’s regiment. His grace knew that the man would never find employment after his hand was amputated, given that able-bodied men are struggling to find work, so he took him on himself.’

  ‘That does at least sound thoughtful,’ Brione conceded. But it was not enough for her to change her opinion of the man. One act of kindness did not a patriot make.

  ‘How did you occupy your evening?’

  ‘Oh, I went for a lovely stroll in a meadow full of wildflowers, then sat upstairs and read for a while.’

  ‘You ought to sit in here. I am sure it’s much more comfortable.’

  Brione smiled. ‘Don’t worry about me. I have slept in worse places. But if you have everything you need, I shall retire now.’

  ‘I do, thank you, my dear.’

  Brione leaned over and kissed Rachel’s cheek. ‘In that case, I shall see you in the morning.’

  ‘Not too early. Take some time for yourself.’

  ‘Thank you. I shall do that. Good night.’

  The sound of music and the voices coming from below was quieter now. Brione glanced down and saw that the keep was lit with a dozen sconces. She could hear the tinkle of the water bubbling in the central fountain. There were fewer people outside and the duke was nowhere to be seen. Brione was annoyed with herself for noticing his absence, and didn’t tarry this time. Instead she made her way back to her room, smiling at one or two of the other maids whom she passed along the way, but not stopping to speak to any of them.

  She entered her room, threw off her cap, and then stopped in her tracks, inhaling suspiciously. Someone had been in her room. There was a faint aroma of tobacco and a man’s cologne. Her book, which she had left open on her bed, was now sitting on the small table beside it. Brione’s heart thumped as she searched the drawer where she had hidden the precious journal that contained her thoughts and ideas about the identity of the traitor—a document that was made up from the odd comment that Evan had let slip. It was highly private and possibly libelous, and its discovery would represent the ultimate intrusion upon her privacy. She only released the breath she’d held in when she found it undisturbed.

  Her knees unsteady, she sat on the edge of the uncomfortable bed before they gave way entirely, thinking the matter through in a slightly calmer state of mind. Perhaps she had placed the book on the table herself and forgotten doing so. She’d been distracted at the time, watching the latecomer’s arrival. If someone did suspect her motives, they hadn’t made a very good job of their search, she consoled herself, since her journal was not that well hidden. Perhaps it had been found and carefully replaced in an attempt to make her think she wasn’t suspected of being here under false pretences.

  But why would anyone be suspicious of her, even if they weren’t convinced of her status as a maid? A lot of women from the middle classes had seen their circumstances reduced after the war deprived them of their providers. Perhaps she should invent a similar history to avoid suspicion—not that it would be a complete invention.

  Brione prepared herself for bed and slid between the thin sheets, wondering if her suspicions could be explained away by one of the maids being assigned to keep the servants’ quarters tidy. If so, she could have moved the book.

  But since when did maids smoke pipes and wear men’s cologne?

  Troy played his part, dutifully entertaining the ladies his sister had invited for his inspection. Several were pretty, one or two were vaguely amusing, but none held his attention. After the atrocities he had seen on the battle
field and which continued to plague his dreams, young girls who lacked the ability to string two intelligible sentences together and who had nothing more taxing on their minds than the latest fashions seemed somehow trivial. Troy knew he was being unreasonable. He had to marry at some stage, Deb was right about that, and he had a duty to select a lady of impeccable lineage.

  Unfortunately, all the candidates beneath his roof this evening bored him rigid. He escorted Philippa Frazer into dinner because he had to escort someone, and she was the sister of his fellow officer, Sir Gregory Frazer. But Philippa had nothing to say to him that required his undivided attention, and he found his mind wandering for reasons he couldn’t explain in the direction of Mrs Woodley’s maid.

  He glanced down the table at Rachel Woodley. She was elegant and literate, wealthy and attractive, but still mourning the loss of her husband. He hoped Miss Carvell, whoever she might be, was not exploiting her grief in order to enhance her own circumstances.

  Thoughts of the maid who was not a maid lingered as he strolled in the keep after dinner, dogged at every turn by one female after another with questions that civility obliged him to answer. Sensing a presence, he glanced up at one point and saw the maid in question looking directly down at him. Troy felt a frisson of awareness streak through him as he held her gaze for a few long seconds, aware that this could be some sort of defining moment. Even from a distance he could make out the girl’s eyes widening, as though she was equally confused. She was challenging him, he realised, and he wanted to tell her that he was more than ready to rise to any challenge she threw his way.

  Who are you?

  Someone touched his arm, he instinctively turned to see who it was and when he looked up again, the maid had disappeared.

  He sat through several indifferent performances on the piano and was relieved when he noticed a few of his guests choosing to retire unfashionably early. He had done more than his duty for one night, he decided, and took himself off to his library in the company of Sir Gregory Frazer, Adrian Vaughan and Robert Craig. Greg had escorted his mother and sister to the party. Robert had arrived late, alone and distracted.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ Troy said. ‘Welcome to my sanctuary.’ He poured brandy and handed round the glasses. ‘Why the delay, Rob?’

  ‘Worried about being cornered by one of the females on the prowl, no doubt,’ Greg said, laughing.

  ‘No need to concern myself about that. They’ve all got their hearts set on our hero here,’ Rob replied, saluting Troy with his glass.

  ‘Ha!’ Troy took a healthy sip of his brandy. ‘The usual rules apply, gentlemen. This is the one room in the house where we will not be speaking about marital aspirations.’

  ‘Amen to that,’ Greg replied with feeling, raising his glass.

  ‘So what did keep you, Rob?’ Troy asked, adopting a relaxed pose that was anything but relaxed. How could it be when one of these men could be even indirectly responsible for Napoleon’s escape? ‘A female towards whom you don’t harbour marital intentions, one assumes.’ Rob was very popular with the fairer sex.

  ‘Nothing nearly so exciting, I regret to say. I was delayed at Whitehall.’ Rob’s expression turned sombre. ‘The damned Frenchman is on the march again, as you know, and our paymasters are getting a tad anxious.’

  ‘And they have no idea what to do about it, one assumes,’ Troy said, yawning. ‘They must be well aware that the country has no stomach for yet another scrap.’

  ‘Why the devil we gave the blighter so much leeway on Elba is beyond me,’ Vaughan said, scowling. ‘Sovereignty over the island and allowing him to retain the title of Emperor was never going to put such an ambitious man in his place.’

  ‘You think he looked upon his exile as a temporary setback?’ Troy asked.

  Greg flexed a brow. ‘Well, in his situation, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘His pride was damaged, I don’t disagree with you there.’ Troy crossed one foot over his opposite thigh. ‘What do the great minds in the corridors of power have to say on the matter?’

  Rob threw back his head and grunted. ‘That depends on who you ask.’

  ‘Napoleon created a small navy and army in his first few months on Elba,’ Greg pointed out, ‘which ought to have told us something, but we were all so anxious for peace that we ignored the signs. He then developed the iron mines and constructed new roads, creating jobs and prosperity and making himself popular with the locals into the bargain. He also found the time to issue decrees on modern agricultural methods and overhaul the island’s legal and educational systems. The power that made it possible for him to improve the lot of the common man was bound to turn him into a demigod on Elba.’

  ‘You think his escape might have been masterminded by people on our side who had their own reasons for wanting him to create renewed economic upheaval?’ Troy asked, watching his friends closely as he posed such a vital question.

  ‘I don’t think our spymasters have dismissed the possibility, and it would be unwise for us to do so either. Those who gambled upon Napoleon’s victory and invested all they had in that outcome won’t take defeat lying down,’ Rob said.

  ‘Likely not,’ Greg agreed, yawning. ‘But I’m done in and far too tired to come up with a solution this evening.’ He stood. ‘It’s been a pleasure, gentlemen. See you in the morning.’

  ‘I’m for my bed too,’ Rob said. ‘Night, Troy.’

  Troy stayed where he was, watching his comrades, his brothers in arms, fellow spies and lifelong friends leave the room together, chatting amicably. The thought that one of them could have tipped off Napoleon’s inner circle about his proposed removal from Elba to a remote island in the Atlantic where he would be far less influential made him feel physically unwell. Napoleon getting wind of his forthcoming banishment was generally supposed to be the reason why he had fled when he did. That and news of the death of his beloved Josephine.

  There had been rumblings of discontent about his activities on Elba within the corridors of power, and plans had been set in motion to move him further out of harm’s way, but only a select few people had known about them. Troy, Greg and Rob had been among their number. Troy hadn’t betrayed his country and hated the thought that Greg or Rob might have done so. That left their spymasters in Whitehall. Information leaked out of that place faster than rainwater used to seep through the old roofs of this castle before Troy had them repaired.

  ‘Interesting woman,’ Kensley said, strolling into the room and interrupting Troy’s meandering thoughts.

  ‘Who is?’

  ‘Miss Carvell. Her bedtime reading of choice is French poetry.’

  Troy abruptly sat forward, startling the slumbering Shadow when his feet hit the floor with a resounding thump. ‘Is it, by God?’

  ‘Yep. Louise Labé.’

  Troy flexed a brow, both worried and impressed by her choice. ‘Anything else of interest?’

  ‘Isn’t that enough to confirm your suspicions?’

  ‘Suspicions about what? Mrs Woodley has an educated maid, who might also be her companion in other circumstances.’ Troy was hugely disappointed to have the suspicions he’d been denying to himself confirmed. ‘Companions are ordinarily poor relations with a duty to be erudite.’

  ‘You’re defending her?’

  Troy toyed with the stem of his glass. Was that what he was doing? ‘I’m playing devil’s advocate,’ he replied.

  ‘Come on, guv’nor.’ Kensley plonked himself down in the chair across from Troy and stroked Shadow’s belly with the toe of his boot. ‘We both know she’s here for reasons that have nothing to do with dressing Mrs Woodley’s hair.’

  Troy thought of the way their gazes had clashed earlier, and the odd feeling that had rippled through him. He thought too of the effort it had taken him to avert his gaze, even when someone claimed his attention, and was obliged to concede the point with a nod.

  ‘Very well,’ he said, leaning forward again. ‘Let’s assume she is here to spy on us.’ He paused. ‘On me m
ost likely, so let’s make it easier for her. I am taking the gentlemen fishing in the morning and I believe my sister has a shopping expedition planned for the ladies. I assume that Miss Carvell will not accompany Mrs Woodley if she has alternative plans. It will certainly ally our suspicions if she does go with her mistress.’

  ‘You’ll create the impression that she has free access to this room?’

  ‘That’s my intention.’ Troy firmed his jaw. ‘If she is here for nefarious purposes then we need to discover what they are.’

  It would also give him the opportunity to make the lady’s acquaintance for himself, he thought. He knew that she had to be a lady. A lady who favoured French poetry and possessed the ability to beguile him, despite their not having been introduced and despite not even having seen her at close quarters.

  ‘Ye gods,’ he muttered, wondering if he was finally going mad.

  Chapter Four

  Brione’s mattress was lumpy, and the bed was too narrow for a comfortable night’s sleep—especially compared to the luxury she was accustomed to. Added to the swirling contradictions that made up her thoughts and her doubts about the task she had perhaps rashly set for herself, it made for a largely sleepless night.

  She arose early to another fine day in prospect, and having washed in the cold water that had been set out in the corridor for all the maids to use she dressed quickly, avoiding looking at her reflection. The drab grey gown she had donned drained all the colour from her complexion, but she had not come here to worry about her appearance. Wincing as she tugged her hair into an ugly braid that she hid beneath her cap, she made her way downstairs, remembering at the last minute to use the servants’ stairs.

  Going down the steep, uneven steps was more hazardous than climbing them, she already knew. She almost slipped twice and saved herself from a twisted ankle or ungainly tumble by grasping the rough rope that had been fastened to iron rings hewn into the wall at irregular intervals.

  Her plans to slip outside for a quiet ramble were thwarted when she entered the kitchens and found a scene of orderly chaos. Everyone seemed to be rushing from pillar to post—more servants than she had envisaged any one person needing. But then again castles, she supposed, required even more upkeep than large estates. In any event, all the people she passed appeared to have clear ideas of what they were supposed to be doing and she felt a little guilty. Surplus to requirements.