Duke Takes All (The Duke's Secret, #3), page 6
“I think her mother or her aunt knew Angeline Purcelle.”
The air went out of the room then as all the men stared.
“’Tis nothing,” Raventon declared firmly.
“Nothing?” choked Drake. “You nearly kissed Madame Guillotine because of La Purcelle.”
“She was a hero,” countered Max.
“And your lover?” Drake asked, daring what none of the others had ever dared.
He liked that about Drake, his fearlessness, but he’d have preferred if the man could have not acted on it for once.
“We were never lovers,” Max replied without animosity. “She was my teacher and my friend.”
“You were in love with her though?” Harley asked kindly.
“In love?” Raventon whispered, not needing to give it any thought. He and Angeline had known each other as well as any two humans could but there had never been a romance between them. Their hearts had been dedicated to other things. “No. We were both in love with the cause. Still, I trusted her more than anyone and when they took her. . .”
Max’s eyes burned with unaccustomed feeling.
Blackstone let out a troubled breath. “Forgive me, old boy. But are you, perhaps, trying to save Lady Diana because you couldn’t—”
“Will you help me or not?” Max bit out, refusing to let his friend finish. Too much was at stake, after all.
“Of course we will,” Blackstone said immediately.
“We all will,” agreed Harley.
“We’ll help her, too, in any way we can,” Royland added.
Drake eyed him longer than the others. “You can’t go back once you go down this road, my friend. La Purcelle is dead and you can’t bring her back by saving this girl.”
Raventon drew in a slow breath, hating that Drake had said it but unable to hate his friend. “No. I can’t bring Angeline back. But it’s true. I can save Diana Argyle.”
Drake lifted the snifter that Blackstone had just passed him. “Then let’s get to the rescue.”
Harley did the same, a brittle but genuine salute. “When’s the wedding?”
“Now,” Max said with forced cheer.
“I’ll go wake the bishop,” Harley said “And my wife. She’d never forgive me if I left her out of this.”
“And mine,” agreed Blackstone.
“It’s meant to be a swift affair,” protested Max. He liked his friends’ wives. They were both magnificent women without a silly bone in their bodies. But time was of the essence.
“A swift or legitimate affair?” challenged Drake. “Their wives’ presence at the wedding will only increase the evidence that there was no corruption present.”
“Invite them all, then.” Max plowed his hand through his hair, abruptly understanding that he might not be in control of all of this as he usually was. The realization unsettled him but there was nothing to be done. “Invite anyone who can be at my townhouse within the hour. I’ve already acquired the license.”
“You are being swift,” Drake drawled.
“If I don’t act, her life’s in jeopardy,” Max replied simply. “The brother is a dangerous man.”
“Well, luckily, old boy,” Drake drawled. “So are we. So are we.”
And as Max looked around at the only men who had been his friends, his fellow dukes, he was damned glad that there wasn’t a fool amongst them, but men of honor and heart.
Chapter 10
Turmoil was something to which Yvette de Coqueville had long become accustomed. She had been brought up in quite a good situation, surrounded by books, music, and love until her mother had died. And then, her father had simply given up on life and she had been sent to a convent.
Quelle horreur!
It had not been horrible. Not truly. Vraiment!
While she had struggled to come to terms with the sudden loss of her home and both parents, she had been raised by the nuns with surprising compassion. Several of the holy ladies were devoted artists and singers and had noticed Yvette’s talent for writing. But upon her majority, Yvette had abandoned the cloistered life, and had gone to Paris, determined to become a playwright.
The world of money, politics, and beauty that she had found had been a revelation. Immediately, she’d taken a lover. The nuns would have been shocked!
But what was a young, friendless woman to do? She had no money and did not care to walk the streets. There was little recourse for an intelligent woman. Employment that was not mere drudgery and virtual enslavement was almost nonexistent.
Her patron had been most pleasing and encouraging of her skills.
To her sorrow, it was not to last. It didn’t matter that they had fallen in love. Both of them had become political. Her lover, a duc, had sensed the terror on the horizon and begged her to leave with him. She’d refused, choosing to believe that the Jacobins would choose reason. The revolution would be a glorious thing where equality and a good life were bestowed upon all.
It was the most naive she’d ever been.
She’d been so very, very wrong and nearly lost her head for her pursuits of her rights.
It was Max who’d gotten her out of France, packed tight in a coffin with a soul who had not been as fortunate as she. The smell was something she would never forget. . . or the feel of the stiff corpse.
Over the last years, she’d watched her dear friend, who’d brought her to London and given her patronage, lose a little more of his luster every day until it was the darkness inside which shone the most.
Once, he’d been full of ideals, passion, and hope. He’d fought tyrants, liberated political prisoners, and fought on the continent.
Even here in London, he had put his skills to use in the back streets of the city in an attempt to bring down whole criminal organizations that preyed on children. He strove to improve the living situations for those where living a day beyond five and twenty was, in fact, a ripe old age.
He’d grown tired. His work and the disappointments had worn upon him. It hurt to see him so worn down by what he perceived as his failures.
Some saw Max as vital, indomitable, and all powerful. She knew better. He was a man who hid his pain and saved who he could, while secretly recriminating himself for those he lost.
But tonight. . . tonight, he’d entered Number 79 with a different set to his step.
So, as he strode down the dark stairs from the hidden room above the discreet establishment, she lingered in the door to her salon and waited for him to pass.
In the dark light of a London night, lit only by the light of the tapers, she studied him. He was more alive than he had been in some time. She had no idea why, but she was grateful for it.
“Mon cher?” she questioned.
He stopped as he placed a booted foot on the woven Oriental runner. “Yvette, have you been waiting for me?”
“Do not be silly, mon ami. Mais qui. What sort of friend would I be if I did not wait for you on such a night? For something is afoot, non?”
His lips twitched, his amusement clear, at her use of an English colloquialism. It pleased her to bring him a smile. The world was a dark enough place without a few moments of laughter.
He eyed the front door, as if considering whether he had time to stop and speak to one of the only people who knew his secrets.
That, in and of itself, told her a great deal. Something was both exciting and worrying him. If she had not sought him out, he would have left this night without confessing whatever was about to occur. Something that was not normal between them, for they hid little from each other.
She stepped back from the door. “Come on, then. Brandy awaits.”
He followed her quietly into the beautifully-appointed room draped in sapphire and gold silk and decorated with French paintings by artists that had to flee their homeland.
“So, what great mystery takes place this night?” she asked.
Max cleared his throat. “I am to be married.”
Her fingers paused on the decanter, knowing that this was most peculiar. “Felicitations, mon ami.”
“Do you mean that?” he asked softly.
“Mais qui,” she said with all truth. “I will always wish you to be happy. But this seems very clandestine. Is there to be a scandal?”
He sighed. “Yes.”
“Bring her to me,” she declared. “I shall teach her how to weather such a thing.”
“Will you be her friend?” Max asked.
She tsked, placing the decanter back without a sound. “How can you ask? How can I not be friends with the wife of my dearest friend?”
He nodded, his face relaxing.
“You were worried?” Her heart went out to him. It could be no easy thing, this sudden wedding.
“We have been friends for so long,” he replied, as if that answered everything.
She narrowed her gaze slightly. “Cherie, you are hiding something.”
He shook his head, protesting. “It is nothing. Only that, she is in immediate danger.”
“And this is why you are to marry her?” she presumed.
He gave a tight nod.
“Oh,” she sighed. “Mon cherie.”
He arched a brow. “Don’t you dare use that tone.”
“Quoi?” she asked innocently.
He rolled his eyes. “As if you know I am throwing myself into a pit.”
“Are you?” she asked playfully.
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“You like to save people,” she replied gently. “It is who you are. And there is no one more grateful of it than I. But to marry? To save a girl?”
He shrugged, but she did not miss the determination in his stance as he said, “It’s the only way.”
She took him his brandy. “You are very noble, dear man.”
“I’m not.” He took the offered glass and stared into its contents. “I—”
“Oui?” she prompted, hoping for a moment that he might reveal the truth that was dancing inside him.
He took a long swallow of the expensive import from her homeland. “Will you come?”
“To your wedding?” she queried playfully then replied as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Bien sûr.”
“Tonight.”
Her brows lifted.
“In fact, I should go now,” he said. He lifted his brandy and finished it in one quick swallow. “I do not wish to leave her alone for long. She’s protected in my house but. . .”
“Then go,” she urged, smiling. “I shall follow soon.”
He smiled in turn, a tight smile, but his eyes were full of shadows.
Yvette lingered by the brandy tray as he strode out of the room. In the silence, her heart suddenly ached. She only hoped the girl who was to be rescued did not hope for love from her husband and that she had a will of iron. For to be married to a beautiful, tormented man like Max? She would need it. Not because he would treat her poorly, but because he had given so much of his heart in the past, it was almost impossible for him to give any more.
Chapter 11
“Well, if this isna a blethering thing to do. A Sassenach!”
“A duke,” reminded Diana, clinging to whatever bloody bright side she could find in all of this affair.
“A Lowlander,” breathed Nellie, horrified.
Diana groaned. “His estates are in Northumbria! I’m sure there are mountains.”
Nellie harrumphed. “Hills.”
“Nellie!”
“I’ll wager there isna a proper castle in sight.” Nellie folded her hands beneath her ample, motherly bosom and pursed her lips. “Or a loch.”
She, too, doubted there would be a loch in Northumbria but she really couldn’t be particular. Most young ladies would swoon at the mere possibility of marrying a duke. She’d nearly swooned to escape the madhouse. “We shall just have to see.”
“And I suppose this means we will be living in London.” Nellie glanced about the beautifully-decorated bedroom as if she’d been put into the pits of hellfire.
“I suppose we must,” Diana agreed. Though, she wasn’t sure she’d hate it as much as Nellie. She’d always quite enjoyed reading plays. Now, she’d get to see them. There’d be galleries, fine music to listen to and work for her to put her hands and mind to in a city this great.
“Now,” Diana wheedled temptingly. “Nellie, have ye never wondered about the pleasure gardens?”
Nellie sniffed.
“I’m sure I could take ye to Vauxhall,” Diana offered, hoping beyond hope that Nellie would find it in her heart to accept an English mon for her mistress. “There will be all sorts of spectacles to take in,” Diana added.
Nellie’s terse expression softened. “I do have an affection for fireworks.”
At that concession, Diana grabbed Nellie in a familiar hug and squeezed. “We shall make the best of our circumstances.”
Nellie hugged her quickly but then held her back. “And what will ye do when the wild wind and the sea call yer bonnie Highland blood, my lass?”
“Why. . .” Diana searched her thoughts, desperate for an answer. For it wasn’t a fanciful question. “I’ll just have to buy a castle north of Fort William, willna I?”
“And do ye think yer lord and master will allow it?”
“Why, ye ken, Nellie, I think he shall,” Diana said, suddenly happy that she was about to marry a man who thought rather highly of women. “The Highland air would do him a great deal of good. Even Northumbria. I think he spends too many hours in the halls of power. For though he’s robust, I do believe he carries a great deal on his shoulders.”
Nellie peered at her. “Admire him, do ye?”
“Aye, I suppose I do.” Diana shrugged, trying to make light of the way she felt about the duke which, in truth, shocked even her. She’d never known a man like him and she’d never been so inspired by one. “How can I no’?”
“Just mind yerself, lass, before ye stumble about like a moon calf.”
“Nellie!” Diana gasped. “I would never.”
“He’s a fine-looking man. With a fine braw body. Braw enough to turn any lass’ head.” Nellie cocked her chin down and warned, “But we dinna ken him.”
Diana couldn’t deny it. Groaning, she pointed out, “He’s better than the alternative.”
“Grand.” Nellie rolled her eyes. “He’s better than death or the madhouse.”
A scowl pulled at Diana’s lips. “When ye put it like that. . .”
Nellie hugged her tightly again. “Look here, lass. Never mind that. It’s glad I am that ye’ll be safe. I couldna bear the danger ye are in.”
She, too, had begun to feel the pressure of it all. Now, she would know the demands of being a wife. . .
“D-do ye think he’ll wish to bed me right away?”
“He’s a mon. But he’s English.” Nellie’s brows quirked, perplexed. “It’s hard to ken.”
There was a knock upon her bedroom door and she all but jumped. Blazes, it was a nuisance, the feeling of being on edge.
But here she was. “Who is it, then?”
“Your future husband.”
Diana swallowed. All her life, she’d never much been intimidated by men. She’d known great, braw fellows who could toss trees for goodness’ sake. Men who’d seen hardship and loss and who had few kind words for anyone. But she’d always met their eyes and never felt the urge to step back.
The duke? He was a different. Och, she wasn’t frightened of him, but there was something about him that she couldn’t put her finger on. He fairly made her shiver with awareness of his power and strength. And there was something else. A knowledge of the dark side of this world.
She liked him well, despite it, as if her heart felt an affinity to his.
“Come in,” she called.
Nellie gave her a bracing smile.
The door opened slowly and, in the shadows of the night, he all but looked like a demon that had come up from the depths of hell. A beautiful demon, with sparks in his gaze. “Are you ready?” he asked, his deep voice a shocking rumble.
“Now?” she queried.
“Now,” he confirmed. “I have the license and do not advise delay. We’ve rousted the bishop from his bed and he is waiting downstairs. He’s already had three cups of wine. So, we must make haste.”
She pressed her lips together, knowing this was the best possible course for her. A remarkable one, really. One which would give her power, wealth, and protection. Yet, she barely knew him.
Still, a voice deep within her urged her to leap. Urged her to believe that she did know him.
She looked to the dark windows. This was hardly how she’d imagined her marriage. Once, as a girl, she’d assumed she’d make her way from the castle to the beautiful and ancient kirk on her family’s lands to go before a man of God who had presided over her clan since she was a child. There would be no winding journey through the heather. She wouldn’t step over the stone threshold. And she certainly wouldn’t be marrying a man she loved.
But then again, she had never imagined that her once beloved brother might wish her harm.
“My shawl, Nellie,” she said firmly.
The maid’s eyes widened, not with surprise, but approval. For now was not the time to lose her sense of purpose or determination.
Nellie quickly scurried to the tall walnut armoire at the end of the chamber and fetched her woven green silk India shawl.
Much to Diana’s surprise, the duke waited silently as Nellie quickly placed the thick folds about her shoulders.
As she adjusted it and smoothed her gown, she lifted her chin and met his dark eyes.
“Lead the way, Yer Grace, I am ready.”
He gave a single nod, his dark hair brushing his sculpted cheekbones.
She slipped past him and out into the dark hall.
Nellie and he followed with only the light of a single taper flickering over the walls, covered in paintings, to light their way.
She found herself hurrying down the hall, towards the grand staircase. Now was not the time for lingering or doubt. Now was the time to seize her future.
They strode silently across the shadowed foyer, their boots echoing over the marble.
And much to her relief, the duke circled in front of her and opened the heavy door to his library.
