“And what do you think he’ll do then?” Hero demanded as she shoved her feet into the slippers. Her hair must be a mess! She rushed to the mirror to look.
“Do? You mean…?” Cousin Bathilda gasped.
Hero turned and saw from the blanched expression on the other woman’s face that at last she’d realized the peril. Without her marriage to Thomas to stop him, Maximus would attack Griffin—or worse.
She nodded and gave her hair a distracted pat. It would simply have to do—she didn’t have the time to wait for it to be dressed again. “He’ll want to do something, perhaps even something violent. And frankly I’ve had enough male violence for today.”
She dashed out of the room and down the stairs, then had to pause in the front hall while a carriage was called.
“Wait for me, dear,” Cousin Bathilda panted behind her. She held Mignon in her arms like a shield.
“He’s bound to be in a terrible mood,” Hero said. “You needn’t accompany me.”
Cousin Bathilda lifted her chin. “I’ve taken care of all of you since your parents’ death. I’ll not let you face him without me. Besides,” she added a bit more prosaically, “it may take two females to calm him.”
The thought did not make Hero more cheerful, but she entered the carriage with determination.
Half an hour later, they were knocking on the door of Wakefield House, the imposing residence her father had built. He’d expected to raise his family here, but only Maximus inhabited the grand town house now.
A flustered butler opened the door, his back straightening at the sight of her. “My lady, I don’t think…”
Hero pushed past him and turned. “Where is my brother?”
“His Grace is in his private rooms, but—”
Hero nodded briskly and mounted the stairs. Normally she would never invade Maximus’s bedroom, but the circumstances were extraordinary.
As it turned out, his door was open, a secretary scurrying out like a chastised dog.
Hero took a deep breath and entered the room.
Maximus was in his shirtsleeves, bent over a desk, writing something. Three other men stood in the room, including Craven, Maximus’s long-time valet. Craven was tall and thin and looked more like a coffin-maker than a valet, dressed as he was all in black.
He saw her and Cousin Bathilda and turned to Maximus. “Your Grace.”
Maximus looked up and met Hero’s gaze.
“Leave us,” he said to the servants.
Craven ushered the other men from the room, closing the door behind him.
Maximus stood and crossed to her. He stared down into her face, his own curiously blank.
Then he touched a finger to her aching cheek. “He’ll die for this.”
She wasn’t sure which “he” Maximus referred to, but it hardly mattered. “No, he won’t.”
He frowned and half turned toward his desk again. “I’ve already sent my seconds to Reading. The matter is settled.”
Cousin Bathilda drew in her breath and moaned softly.
Hero caught his arm. “Then call them back.”
He raised his eyebrows. Maximus was a duke, after all. No one talked to him thusly, not even she.
But this was life or death.
“I don’t want a duel,” she told him, holding his eyes firmly. “I don’t want any more violence, and I certainly don’t want a death.”
“It does not concern you.”
“It most certainly does!” she said. “I am the one responsible for Mandeville’s rage. I am the one who chose to give away my virtue and cause this problem.”
He shook his head. “Hero—”
“No, listen,” she said low. “I am ashamed of what I’ve done, but I will not let shame make me hide from the consequences. Call back your seconds, Maximus. Don’t fight a duel that will ruin you on my behalf. I don’t think I could bear to live with that.”
He gazed at her silently for a moment, then crossed to the door and cracked it open. Craven must still have been waiting outside, because Maximus held a murmured conversation before closing the door again and coming back to her.
“I do this for you,” he said. “Only for you, and I do not promise that I will not pursue a duel at a later date if I feel this matter is not adequately settled.”
Hero swallowed. It was a great concession, even if it was only a partial one. “Thank you.”
“Thank God!” Cousin Bathilda pronounced, and plopped into a chair.
Maximus nodded and crossed to the desk. “Now, we must settle how soon you can marry Mandeville. I’ve no doubt the servants will have started gossiping over this morning’s affair already.”
Alarm climbed Hero’s spine. “Maximus—”
He frowned down at the papers on his desk. “No doubt he’s upset about your liaison with his brother, but I think he will come around when he has a chance to think. The marriage settlement was very much to his liking, after all.”
“Maximus!” she repeated a little desperately.
Her brother looked up, frowning.
Hero lifted her chin. “I’m not marrying Mandeville.”
“Do you want me to arrest Lord Reading?”
She swallowed. “No.”
He looked at her a moment and then glanced down again at his papers as if her feelings hardly mattered. “Then you’ll marry the Marquess of Mandeville.”
His flat tone sent a chill down her spine. She knew that voice: It was the voice of the Duke of Wakefield.
And the Duke of Wakefield did not change his course once set.
Chapter Fifteen
That night the queen summoned her suitors to her throne room to hear what their answers might be.
Prince Westmoon came forward and unfurled a magnificent flag at her feet. On it was the emblem of her kingdom along with an embroidered castle. “This castle,” he said, “is the heart of your kingdom, Your Majesty.”
Next, Prince Northwind unveiled a silver compass, cleverly inlaid with mother-of-pearl and coral. “The harbor, Your Majesty. That is the heart of your kingdom.”
Finally, Prince Eastsun laid before her a sparkling crystal globe that held a miniature town at its center. “The city is the heart of your kingdom, Your Majesty….”
—from Queen Ravenhair
The Duke of Wakefield was not an easy man with whom to procure an audience.
Griffin had spent half the afternoon cooling his heels in first one sitting room and then another at Wakefield House. Presumably he was moving closer to the great man, but at the rate he was going, it would be well past Christmas before he got there.
Which was why he was striding down a long and formidably elegant hallway in search of His Grace’s study. He had no doubt that the man didn’t want to see the seducer of his sister—and a gin distiller to boot—but that was just too bad. His and Hero’s future depended on this meeting.
He passed a small library and yet another sitting room—how many did one man need?—before coming to a closed door on the right.
Griffin opened it without knocking.
Considering that he had a huge mansion with an overabundance of rooms, the Duke of Wakefield had chosen a relatively small space for his study. The room must be nearly at the back of the house, an odd situation for the master. The study’s walls and ceiling were covered in dark wood, intricately carved as if from some medieval monastery. Beneath his feet was a carpet richly embroidered in amber, ruby, and emerald. At one end, taking up nearly the entire width of the room, was a huge, rather ugly desk, also carved from dark wood. Behind the desk was the duke, scowling at him.
Griffin made a leg. “Your Grace, I hope I am not disturbing you.”
One ducal eyebrow slowly rose at this bit of blatant lying. “What do you want, Reading?”
“Your sister.”
Wakefield’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “According to her, you’ve already had her.”
“I have.” No use trying to pretend innocence. “And that is why I desire her hand in marriage now.”
Wakefield leaned back in his chair. “If you think I’m letting my sister be seduced into a trumped-up marriage with a fortune hunter—”
“I’m not a fortune hunter.” Griffin flexed his fist, still sore from his brother’s jaw. Losing his temper now would not serve his cause well. “I have enough money of my own.”
The duke’s upper lip curled ever so slightly. “Think you that I haven’t made inquires about you and your business?”
Griffin stiffened.
“You’re a profligate rake,” Wakefield said. “You enjoy the affections of numerous ladies—the majority married. You have only a small inheritance yourself, but your brother for some reason sees fit to let you manage both it and the Mandeville lands. Add to that the fact that you are distilling gin illegally in St. Giles, and it’s not a very nice picture, is it?”
Griffin looked the other man in the eye. “I don’t gamble or drink to excess. I have increased what you term a small inheritance fourfold since I got it and confidently intend to continue to build it. I may be known for my affairs of the heart, but I fully plan to be faithful to your sister when she marries me.”
Wakefield smiled cynically. “Few men of our class refrain from keeping a mistress once married, and yet you expect me to take you on your word alone that you will not?”
“Yes.”
“And what of your still? Will you give it up for my sister?”
Griffin thought of Nick covered in jellied eels and his own life’s blood. “No, not yet anyway.”
The duke watched him silently for what seemed like a full minute. Griffin could feel a bead of sweat trickle down the small of his back. The urge to say something was nearly overwhelming, but he knew he’d laid his case before the man as strongly as possible. Speaking now in the face of the intimidating stare would only show weakness.
Finally, Wakefield spoke. “It doesn’t matter anyway. This entire discussion is moot. I’ve already informed Hero that she will be marrying your brother on Sunday. And if you haven’t given up your still by then, no doubt I will be visiting you with my soldiers very soon thereafter.”
He picked up a piece of paper from his desk. The interview was obviously over.
Today was Wednesday. Sunday was only four days away. Griffin took one step toward the big desk and swiped his arm across the entire top. Pens, papers, books, a small marble bust, and a gold inkwell all crashed to the floor.
Griffin leaned across the desk, his arms braced on the now-clear top, and stared into Wakefield’s outraged eyes. “We seem to be under a confusion of communication. I did not come here to ask for your sister’s hand. I came to tell you I will marry Hero, with or without your permission, Your Grace. She has lain with me more than once. She may well be carrying my child. And if you think that I’ll give up either her or our babe, you have not done nearly enough research into my character or history.”
Griffin pushed himself off the desk before the other man could utter a word and strode out the door.
IT WAS VERY, very late at night, and Thomas squinted as he propped himself up with one hand on the doorjamb while he used the other to pound on the door. It was the second time he’d knocked, and he stepped back to squint up at the town house. This was the correct house all right, he wasn’t likely to ever forget it. Which meant the jade was either not answering him or, worse, was visiting one of her many young paramours. If she was, he’d—
The door opened abruptly to reveal a large, menacing manservant he’d not met before.
Thomas scowled. “Where is she?”
The manservant began to close the door.
Thomas set his shoulder against the door, shoving hard. But his footing wasn’t as firm as he thought it. Suddenly he found himself on his arse—the second time today—and red washed over his vision. He was the Marquess of Mandeville, damn it! His life wasn’t supposed to be like this.
