Son of a Duke Read online

  Rogers snapped his fingers at the two men with him and started to gather the body for transport. Alec stepped over the dead man's leg to take Jane's arm to lead her away. Jane would not budge.

  "I am only leaving if Miss Quinton says it is all right for me to leave."

  Nathan looked back at Miss Quinton. Her hands were now pressed flat against the fabric she had moments before tried to rip to shreds. Her eyes were blank, and her face frozen as it had been before Nathan had touched her. The corners of her lips were no longer turned up.

  "It is all right, your grace." She never took her gaze off of Nathan.

  Nathan flicked a glance at Alec. He had not been aware that Jane had gotten quite this close with Miss Quinton.

  Jane turned to let Alec lead her away.

  "Um, sir?"

  Nathan wanted to rub his hands over his face in exhaustion, but instead he turned to Rogers with an eyebrow raised.

  "Are you going to be alright alone with her?" He pointed rudely at Miss Quinton.

  Nathan stupidly followed the line of his finger and instantly watched the blood drain from the poor woman's face at his look. He supposed he would have reacted the same way if two strange men were whispering and pointing in his direction.

  He quickly shifted back to Rogers, grabbing the offending finger and shoving it against the man. "I will be fine. Rest assured, Rogers, I can handle one woman."

  "I would never doubt it, sir. Normally. But this is not just any woman." Rogers leaned in. "She could cut your ballocks off with that tongue. Mark my words." Rogers leaned back and gave him a frightful look.

  Nathan cleared his throat and adjusted his jacket, covering the front of his breeches. He hoped the gesture looked casual, or Miss Quinton was going to faint on him.

  He wondered then what had happened. She had been confident and sure, even a bit demanding. And then suddenly, she had withdrawn, pulling so far in on herself she had disappeared from his grasp. Leaving her dead. And scared. Absolutely terrified. He thought her eyes would have never shown emotion beyond efficient progression, and the emotion they had shown was not something he wanted to see in them again.

  But he also wanted to know what had put it there. What had happened to Miss Quinton that had made her so reflexively nervous? What had her pulling away from him?

  He stepped over some fronds, slowly approaching her again. "Is there somewhere we can speak privately, Miss Quinton?"

  "His lordship and ladyship will wish to be informed of anything that involves their home. They have retired for the evening, however." It appeared the confidence had come back.

  Nathan nodded, acknowledging the validity of her statement. "You can tell them anything you see fit tomorrow when they rise, but I will tell you some things you should not even know and therefore, I cannot let you tell them." He watched Rogers and his men carrying the body out wrapped in canvas. "It is state business."

  "State business."

  Her tone made him look at her.

  "Is that what it is called?"

  He nodded.

  "Very well, Mr. Black. It appears I require a lesson on the definition of state business."

  CHAPTER THREE

  Miss Quinton spun on her heel, and he moved to follow, watching his feet to avoid tripping over any plant parts, champagne glasses or...was that a shoe? He collided with her before he could answer his own question. His body weighing a great deal more than hers sent them both sprawling. He wrapped his arms around her waist hoping to roll her on top of him, keeping her from landing directly on the floor and everything that littered it. He landed on an urn and spun backwards over it. Landing quite solidly on his back, he tried to roll to gentle the impact, tucking Miss Quinton quite nicely under him. He came up on his elbows before squishing her. A plant frond had become affixed to her white cap and more hair had fallen down around her face. It was brown, he decided. No, it was definitely red.

  He went to reach for it when he noticed her eyes were shut. Tight.

  His hand paused in the air over her cheekbone. Her skin was so white he thought no blood ever flowed through it. It was paint. Her face was painted with that horrible powder women put on their faces to hide age. It smothered her features. If he had not gotten so close, he would never have noticed. But around her eyes, he saw the weary smudges of too many sleepless nights. And by her right ear, there was a long, thin scar that was hidden nicely by the powder. No one would ever notice it just by looking at her. But he saw it all, and the strain around her eyes from holding them shut so tightly.

  He was not sure any more what to do with his hands. He thought if he touched her she might have an attack of the heart and simply die. But the skin around her eyes was strained so tightly he thought it might just snap off. He rested a hand on her shoulder. Surely that was a safe spot. But she did not budge. He looked down at her chest. He needed to see if she was breathing. Which he found she was not. At all. He moved his hand to her cheek. Her eyelids squeezed tighter, sucking her lips in at the same time removing all hint of color from her face.

  "Miss Quinton." He slid his hand along her cheek, down her neck and around, cupping her head. He placed his other hand along the side of her face, rubbing his thumb over her lips.

  She trembled. Under his thumb, against the palm of his hand, against his chest, against his legs. It was a full body tremble that vibrated right through all of her clothes and all of his.

  He tightened his grip and shook her. Picking her head right up off the floor, he shook her. "Eleanora."

  She tossed her head in his grip. Her lips parted and he heard her mumble, "No."

  He leaned his head down, pressing his lips to her ear. "Eleanora. Wake up, Eleanora. It is all right. Nothing is happening to you."

  Her eyes snapped open. He felt the flutter of it against his cheek. Pushing back on his elbows, he raised his head to look at her. The frozen look had returned, except her mouth hung slightly open. She darted her tongue out to wet her lower lip.

  Nathan thought he might die right there on top of her. But then that would have been rather rude, seeing as how she had already had one dead body on her hands tonight. He did not want to add another one. But he could not help the way his body responded to her.

  She blinked rapidly now, coming out of whatever fog had washed over her. Her hands flew up before he saw them coming, striking against his chest, wiggling out from under him. He rolled off of her and stood, reaching down for her hand. She looked at his hand as if it might give her leprosy and stood on her own.

  She brushed at her skirts and apron, pulling on the loops of the ridiculous bow at her back. Her cap was still lying on the floor, and he picked it up, feeling her warmth still in it. He was tempted to hold it up to his nose and take a deep breath except she saw it first and snatched it away from him. The jerky movement sent the last remaining hairpin flying out of her hair.

  And her entire mane of silky red brown hair went cascading down her back.

  Nathan felt his knees give and summoned the strength to remain standing.

  She really was beautiful. He wanted to grab her, wipe that horrid white paint off of her face, and see her for what she really was. But not with that stark fear in her eyes. He wanted her eyes wide with excitement, her face flushed with the passion he put there, he wanted-

  He felt himself choke, and he coughed several times before his lungs began functioning properly.

  When he felt he could control himself, he looked at her again. Somehow she had twisted the hair into a braid that she coiled and pinned at the nape of her neck. Her hands flew and suddenly the cap was fixed back on her head as if nothing had happened. Setting her hands on her hips, she looked at him. "Are you coming, Mr. Black?"

  Small wisps of hair fell down along the sides of her face, and she tucked them behind her ears. He sighed, absolutely exhausted. "Yes, madam. I'm coming."

  He walked five steps behind her. He counted. She took five whole steps before he even took one. She took him toward the back of the ba
llroom and the platform where the orchestra had been set up. Sheer drapes fluttered in the wind by the terrace doors. Miss Quinton picked her way carefully past a chair that had fallen off the platform and scooted around the stage to the terrace doors.

  "Miss Quinton?

  "It is faster to go out these doors and around to the study through the parlor doors." She did not look back at him as she spoke.

  He felt the wind shift and welcomed the cold that washed over him. The wind shifted again, and his head snapped up. He saw the bush move before the moon glinted off the barrel of the gun. He dove for Miss Quinton, once again wrapping his arms around her and sending them both to the ground.

  The gunshot sliced the air above them as they landed behind one of the doors, pulling down a drape as they slid into the corner behind the platform. Nathan struggled to get the damn drape off of them. He freed his arms from it and began to work Miss Quinton free. He grabbed her shoulders and dragged her up the length of him, which he had to admit felt just too good even if someone was trying to kill them.

  Her arms were wrapped around herself, but her eyes were wide open.

  "What sort of state business are you involved in, Mr. Black?"

  ~

  Nathan picked up Miss Quinton, depositing her rather unceremoniously on the floor by a tree in the corner, perfectly sheltered behind the platform. What the hell a tree was doing there, he had not a clue.

  He stuck his finger in her face and waited for her to push up her fallen white cap so she would see it. "Stay."

  He treated her rather like one would a furry companion of the canine variety, but he would make up for the disrespect. For now, the burning need to keep her safe propelled him forward without a conscious thought as to propriety.

  Thankfully he had reloaded his pistol after shooting poor Frederick, and he grabbed it out of his greatcoat pocket. The weight of the gun felt secure in his palm, as he waited for one of the drapes along the doors to flutter again. It shifted, and he darted out on the terrace, mixing his movements with the fabric. Anyone watching from out in the gardens would have seen just one movement, not being able to discern his dash from the flutter of fabric. He pushed his back against the post of the staircase leading down into the dark gardens. The shot had come from the left. He turned his head, thinking again why it was a good thing he did not wear a hat. It would be a serious encumbrance right now.

  It was late spring, but the night still held a chill in the air that had Nathan watching his breath to ensure he did not accidentally give himself away. The largest rhododendron bush he had ever seen loomed up on the left of the staircase. Its blooming branches obscured his vision of the remainder of the garden, and he leaned a little outward to see around it. He held the pistol wrapped in his right hand, nestled in his left for balance. He raised it now, stepping out with his left foot. His stance was firm as he surveyed the bush more clearly. A flash of red caught his eye, and his finger started to squeeze the trigger even as his mind was stepping ahead of it.

  The red scarf was stuck to one of the flowers. Whoever had shot at them was long gone. He lowered the gun to a smaller angle but did not release his grip on it. He went down the staircase sideways, crossing one foot in front of the other, his eyes traveling the length of the garden to the left and back again. A fog was starting to come up as the night grew colder. The hedges were just gloomy lumps in the dark. He reached the ground and took a wide circle around the bush.

  The ground was too firm, which meant no footprints, and he was reminded again of how the evening was not going according to plan. He stuck the pistol back in his pocket, grabbing the red scarf off the bush. He ran it between his fingers. It was silk with small, white rosebuds along the edges. A woman had taken a shot at him? That did not fit with the information he had received about Archer, and if this attempted shooting was related to the matter, he did not see how it fit.

  He took another sweep of the ground and started back up the stairs to the terrace. The agents who had relayed the information on Archer's whereabouts were dependable, solid operatives. He could not imagine why the information had been corrupt. He paused at the top of the staircase and looked back through the night and fog. All was still, the wind the only noise in the darkness.

  The ballroom was blindingly bright when he returned. He did not bother looking in the corner where he had deposited the demanding Miss Quinton. It was pretty certain she would not have stayed where he left her. Her confidence and surety at commanding the situation would have propelled her to seek him out and ascertain the gravity of the event and what was necessary to rectify it.

  He studied the scarf in his hand now that he had more light when he heard her voice from behind him, so soft he almost missed it. "Mr. Black?"

  He spun around. She was still on the floor behind the tree. Her knees were drawn up, her arms wrapped around them. Her chin was up, her eyes clear and piercing. For a moment, he simply stood and stared. She looked so young there in the candlelight, shadows dancing across her fine, too thin features. The vulnerability of her stance struck him, and his breath caught in his chest. His mind flashed on a long ago time when he was a young boy, helpless in his youth, and then it had been a different woman who had been so vulnerable. A different woman he had been unable to help even when her pain was clearly visible in the bruises on her face. A shift in the wind through the terrace doors brought him back abruptly, and he pushed the memory from his mind.

  "It is all right, Miss Quinton. They are gone." He shook the scarf at her. "This was all they left behind."

  She started to get up from the small place she was squeezed into between the obnoxious tree and the wall. Her feet slid across some fronds on the floor, leaving her slipping back down to the ground. He waited, unsure if he should help her or if his presence and touch would send her into hysterics once more. But when she looked up at him, his breath stuck in his lungs once more at the abject innocence he found in them. He wanted to pick her up, hold her against him, carry her away from all of this and-

  And do what?

  Support her on the salary of an agent for the War Office? He thought it unlikely. And once again, he felt the helplessness of a child engulf him. A helplessness that raged unbidden in his mind.

  "Mr. Black, I seem to be incapable of getting up. Would you please assist me, sir?" A more politely worded request he had never heard before in his life.

  "Certainly, madam." She was holding up her hands to him, so he took them very gently in his and pulled. Her feet would not gain purchase on the floor, and she began to slide directly between his legs, first her own legs disappeared between his and then her torso and then he saw her face heading for-

  His arms were under and around her, pulling her upright faster than even he thought he was capable of moving. Her face smacked into his chest instead of his more delicate areas, which he considered a good thing. But by the way Miss Quinton immediately tensed at such a close proximity to him, he knew she did not think it a good thing at all. His arms were snuggly around her, her head tucked just under his chin. He could not help but think how perfectly she fit, and how good it felt to hold her with her scent invading his senses. Lemons...and wax. She smelled like cleaning formulas. He wanted to pull her closer, which was most likely impossible, but he very much wanted to try anyway.

  Instead, he took a deep breath and a step back. He had not even realized that she had been holding onto him as tightly as he had been holding onto her until her hands slid along his back and around to the front as he stepped away from her. Her eyes were closed or looking at her feet or something, but it was killing him not to see what they were saying. Was she scared, terrified, ready to kill him for touching her?

  It seemed an eternity before her lids rose, and her brown eyes flickered in the candlelight. Wariness. He saw wariness in them. And insecurity. But not fear. There was not any fear in them. The air rushed from his lungs, and blood surged to his head making him dizzy. He sat down casually on the edge of the platform to cover his su
dden euphoria. She was not scared. A little wary, a little insecure, a little unsure, but not scared of him. Uncertainty was easier to work with than outright fear.

  The scarf was still in his hands, so he handed it to her. "Found this. That is all. The ground is too firm for footprints." She took the scarf from him, which left his hands free to scrub over his face with them. He had been staring at her so hard that he feared his eyes were going to fall out of his head. He pushed his hands into his hair, rubbing his scalp, hoping to clear his brain, which was suddenly cluttered with thoughts of lemons, wax and red brown hair.

  "Bridget Davies was wearing this. She left about a half hour ago with Daniel Flattery." She held the scarf out to him.

  "Bridget Davies?" That name had not appeared anywhere in the intelligence on this mission. He did not even recall a Bridget Davies having been on the invitation list for the evening's affair.

  "They have not come back yet. I am hoping they heard the mass exodus and left discreetly through the back. Or tongues will be wagging tomorrow." She sighed, looking to the spot where the body had been. "Well, they will be wagging more."

  "What do you mean they have not come back yet?" He knew his mind wasn't so befuddled with lemons and wax that he could not understand English any longer.

  "They went for a stroll in the gardens, Mr. Black." She pursed her lips at him as if any idiot would know to what she referred.

  "Oh, quite," he finally said and looked back at the floor.

  This entire affair had gone drastically wrong, and nothing seemed to be improving matters. He had the wrong man dead, Archer was still out there somewhere, and now someone was shooting at him. And then there was Eleanora Quinton. Nathan should have listened to his brother and never gotten out of that hack.

  "Mister Black, did you hurt yourself?"

  He raised his eyebrows. "Not that I recall."

  "You are bleeding."

  He jumped up as if a dog had taken a bite out of the seat of his pants. "Where?"