Chapter Nine

Now there came into King Heartless’s kingdom a magician who claimed he could perform all matter of miracles and wonders, turning lead to gold and ink to wine, and making the most spotted complexion smooth and dewy.

Except, as those who bought the magician’s charms soon discovered, he could do none of these things.…

—From King Heartless

Her lips had been sweet, like ripe figs, her mouth a cavern of delight. But her eyes—those dark inquisitor’s eyes—had held only horror and disgust.

Val sipped his China tea the next morning and gazed out the window. The sun shone on his garden, giving the illusion of warmth, though his empty chest was ice-cold.

He could have explained to her that a razor-sharp blade was kinder than a hangman’s noose. That death delivered in seconds with a few thrusts was preferable to a laughing, jabbering mob, gleeful at the jerking, agonizing execution.

But those saint’s eyes would’ve seen the hypocrisy.

A footman laid down a small stack of letters at his elbow and then slid away.

The servants were careful to keep at arm’s length from him now. They all knew he’d killed Cal. He’d placed a knife in the dead man’s hand and said it was a foiled assassination attempt, but still they looked at him with wary beasts’ eyes.

Mrs. Crumb had agreed to the fiction, but with a troubled expression on her face. She hadn’t liked it, his little martyr. It disturbed some balance of rights and wrongs within her.

Still, he did not doubt her. Had she not nursed him with her own hands? Had she not suckled his tongue so ardently? He’d give her time—a day or so only—and then he would invite her again to wait upon him. He’d slide close behind her, whisper scandalous words into her mobcap-sheltered ear, and remind her of all the things she tried so hard to hide beneath black wool and starched linen. And then… oh, and then, he’d see if his little housekeeper truly burned at her core.

Patience.

He could be patient when the occasion called for it, and this one certainly did.

She’d come back to him, even with his true face revealed.

She only needed time.

So.

He turned to his mail, leafing through the letters without interest until he came to one in a feminine hand. This one he picked up and slit open with his butter knife.

Val read the letter—and then read it again, incredulous. It was from Hippolyta Royle, informing him that she would not be receiving him today or at any time in the future.

He thrust the letter in the pocket of his coat and rose, striding toward the dining room doors. He caught the footmen outside the doors unawares and they scattered before him like startled geese. He took the stairs two at a time and arrived at his bedroom slightly out of breath—damn Cal and his poison to the fires of hell. A maid was doing something to the windows. She squeaked at the sight of him, and he waved her out of the room with a flick of his wrist, continuing his stride straight to the bed. He leaned over it, reaching for the headboard, and opened the concealed compartment.

Empty.

Oh.

Oh, Séraphine.

He felt the grin spread over his face, felt his cock throb and stiffen. Suddenly the day was bright, singing with vibrant colors and stratagems.

She’d outmaneuvered him.

And that? That hadn’t happened in a very, very long time.

“SÉRAPHINE.”

The whisper was in her dreams and Bridget whimpered and tried to bat it away. She needn’t wake yet. It wasn’t time to rise. She had hours still.

A soft chuckle and the brush of something soft on her cheek. “I would never have guessed you were such a deep sleeper, my practical housekeeper.”

She had a terrible foreboding, an awful suspicion, even in her dreams, and she fought valiantly through the sluggish waves.

Bridget opened her eyes, blinking, in the candlelight, to find azure eyes only inches from her own.

They crinkled at the corners. “There you are.”

“What.” She jerked her face back, looking around frantically. She was in her own little room in her own little bed. Even Pip was there, standing at her hip, wagging his tail at Val squatting by her head, the traitor. “What are you doing in my room?”

He grinned like a vicious imp of morning hell. “Waking you, of course.” He reached out and tapped her nose. “Do you ever take off that thing on your head? Are you bald? I’ve been wondering.”

“I… what?” She reached up, suddenly fearful that he might’ve disturbed her nightcap as she slept, but no, it was as firmly tied now as it had been when she’d lain down however many hours ago. She let her hands fall, and said plaintively, “What time is it?”

The duke cocked his head as if he could hear some unearthly clock no one else could. “Just gone half past three, I think.” He smiled angelically down at her. “Now get up. We leave at four.”

And he turned to the door.

She scrambled upright. “Leave for where?”

He’d already exited, but he poked his head around the doorjamb. “Ainsdale Castle. My estate in the country.”

Then he was gone.

For a moment Bridget stared, dumbfounded, at the place his devilishly smiling face had been. Her poor brain wasn’t used to working so early in the morning and especially without her usual two or three cups of tea, but this was highly irregular. Most houses had their own housekeepers. Surely Ainsdale Castle was fully staffed? Why then was he taking her? Was it merely for his own amusement—or was it for some other, more sinister reason?

After all, only two days before she’d seen him kill a footman in cold blood. Of course Cal had tried to kill the duke in a particularly awful and vicious way. But then afterward the duke had kissed her as she’d never been kissed in all her life. His tongue had tasted of wine and sin and she’d wanted to moan and rub herself against him as he’d tilted her back over his arm. She very much hoped that she hadn’t actually done that… although she wasn’t altogether certain that she hadn’t. She’d been avoiding him ever since.

She was very muddled at the moment and she very much wanted some tea.

“Hurry, Séraphine!” His voice came from the kitchens as if he saw her sitting there on her bed, debating.

Bridget rolled her eyes and began dressing. She pulled a small soft bag out from under her bed and swiftly packed the few necessities she might need, and then she glanced at Pip.

He was sitting on the bed, watching her motions with interest, his head cocked.

“Oh, damn,” she said under her breath.

Bridget stood and picked up the soft bag in one hand, snapping her fingers for the terrier with the other, and went into the kitchens.

Somehow the duke had roused most of the servants without her knowledge. Cook was busy supervising the packing of baskets of foodstuffs, maids were bundling together boxes, and footmen were marching in and out of the kitchen, laden with the materials the duke deemed necessary for a journey.

He whirled at her entrance and beckoned her impatiently with his fingers. “Come, come, Mrs. Crumb. We mustn’t dally.”

“But…” She looked down helplessly at Pip.

The duke actually rolled his eyes. “Oh, bring the mongrel as well, if you must. Just come.”

So she was hustled out the door and into the garden, still black, for it wasn’t even dawn yet. They crossed to the gate, the terrier trotting happily along, stopping only to water a hedge, and then they were in the mews and Bridget saw that the duke had had two carriages prepared. Only two. She’d seen some aristocrats travel with three or more. She sighed and started for the second one, wondering if she’d be able to sleep again on the bumpy roads, but Val caught her arm.

“No, not that one.” He led her to the first carriage—his carriage. “You’ll ride with me.”

She looked at him mutely. Of course. Of course he wanted her—the housekeeper—to ride with him. Shaking her head, she allowed herself to be helped into the carriage.

Inside she found Mehmed, already sitting on one of the luxurious red leather seats. He grinned at her. “Mrs. Crumb! We travel to an English castle!”

“So I understand, Mehmed,” she said wearily.

She began to sit next to Mehmed, but the duke guided her firmly to the seat opposite, and then took his own place directly beside her. She was conscious suddenly of his warmth and of the hard muscle of his thigh pressed against hers.

Pip climbed in the carriage and leaped onto the seat beside Mehmed.

A footman closed the door.

“And away we go, sailing north into peril and adventure!” shouted the duke, striking the ceiling with his stick.

“Huzzah!” cried Mehmed.

Pip barked.

And the carriage lurched into motion.

“Lord, I need a cup of tea,” Bridget moaned to herself.

“Why didn’t you say so earlier?” the duke asked in a more normal tone of voice. “Mehmed, the tea, please.”

“Yes, Duke,” Mehmed said, and jumped up from his seat.

He gently pushed the terrier from the seat as well and raised it, revealing a storage compartment. From this he took a polished wooden rectangular box. He stood it on the seat and opened it like a book. On the right was a stoppered ceramic bottle, carefully fitted and strapped into the padded interior. On the left were teacups, spoons, and a smaller stoppered bottle containing sugar.

Swaying gracefully with the movement of the carriage, Mehmed proceeded to serve both Bridget and Val tea—gratifyingly hot. Then he dived back into the storage compartment and came back up with a hamper containing a small bottle of milk for the tea, a basket of peeled hardboiled eggs, ham sliced so thin it was nearly transparent, crumbling sharp cheese, crusty bread, a cold raspberry tart, and several crisp apples, all served on China plates.

Val motioned with his fingers and Mehmed brought out a final basket, removing the top with a flourish.

The inside was crammed with books of all sizes and shapes.

“Oh!” Bridget gasped.

Val caught her eye and smiled. “I always like to travel with reading material. Please. Take your pick.”

And as Bridget watched the sun rise she decided traveling with a duke might be quite interesting indeed.

LATE THAT AFTERNOON Val watched with half-closed eyes as the autumn fields passed outside the carriage. They were making good time, which was excellent because by now no doubt there would be a hue and cry. He’d taken the precaution of sending off two other diversionary caravans, going in different directions from Hermes House. Even so, his pursuers would not be fooled for long.

A corner of his mouth curved.

Which only made the game more fun.

The carriage rolled over a bump and Mrs. Crumb’s head lolled on his shoulder. She, like both Mehmed and the dog, had been asleep for the last half hour. In that time she’d migrated from what she’d no doubt considered a safe distance up against the far end of the carriage to nestle against his side, lax and entirely defenseless.

He wondered what she would do when she discovered the countermove he’d made in their private game of chess. Oh, but he was looking forward to her reaction! The flare of indignation or anger or passion in those dark eyes. Would she assault his person?

He rather hoped she would.

He looked down at her sleeping form. Her hands lay like half-opened flowers on her lap, one cupped within the other. Such sturdy little hands, meant for practical work. Her fingers were rather plump. He smiled at the thought. He held his own hand over hers, comparing. His fingers, long and elegant, dwarfed hers, and yet he found he preferred hers.

He let his hand fall to his lap.

She wore that dreadful mobcap, hiding both her hair and her face from him, and he wanted to pluck it from her head.

But to do so would disturb her sleep.

He cocked his head, considering the conundrum. He found, on the whole, that he didn’t wish to disturb his housekeeper’s sleep. It felt… nice to have her lying so trustingly against him.

If he listened very intently he could hear her breaths.

After a bit he breathed with her.

In and out.

In… and then out.

A carriage wheel dipped rather violently into a hole in the road.

The jolt jerked her forward and only his arm kept her from a spill on the floor. “What?”

“It’s all right,” he said.

A glance showed that Mehmed and the dog were still somehow asleep, the dog within the circle of the boy’s arms.

“Oh,” she said, and then attempted to move away from him.

That he did not like.

He slung his arm across her shoulders. “Careful. The road’s quite rough here.”

“I don’t think—”

“If you watch out the window, you might see blue cows.”

She tilted her face up to see him, her expression extremely skeptical. He might be hurt if he were a man at all used to telling the truth. “Pardon?”

He smiled down at her. “The area’s quite famous for them. A product, I believe, of a breeding program by a local landowner. Of course there are those that claim that the color is more properly described as purple—”

“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever—”

“—than blue,” he finished, unperturbed by her outraged outburst. “Do you always interrupt your masters?”

“Only those who try and tell me a load of codswallop,” she muttered.

He was watching her face, so he saw the moment when she realized what she was saying… and more importantly, to whom. There was a flicker of fear and then her expression closed entirely.

“I do apologize, Your Grace.”

He’d never been sorry for his rank—why should he be? It conferred wealth and deference, things he found very useful in the world. But now, for the very first time in his life, Valentine Napier, the Duke of Montgomery, wished that for five minutes he might be a common man.

For those five minutes only, mind—let that be clear.

But if he were to divest himself of his glory for a few short minutes, become a plain, boring man—perhaps with the name Jack—what would she reply to him then?

He gazed at her a little moodily.

She made another movement denoting an attempt to escape.

He tightened the arm about her. “Tell me of your upbringing.”

She brought her brows together suspiciously. “You were bored last time I did that.”

He waved his left hand. “I find I have renewed interest.”

She sighed, slumping under his restraining arm, pliant again. Good. “I grew up in the North, almost on the border. My… father was a crofter with a bit of land and sheep.”

“How did you learn to read and write?” he asked.

“My mam taught us at night,” she replied. “Or rather me, for my brothers and sister are all older than me.”

“How much older?”

She looked wary for some reason, and then shrugged. “Ian is forty this year, Moira will be eight and thirty next month, and Tom just turned six and thirty.”

“How old are you?”

“Six and twenty,” she replied very stiffly.

He smiled. “So you were a belated fancy of your parents.”

She looked away. “I suppose.”

“Mm.” He leaned his elbow on the windowsill and his head against his knuckles the better to study her. “And was your childhood very bucolic? Describe it to me.”

“There were heather-covered hills and it was windy and cold.”

“You hated it,” he decided.

“No.” She frowned at him. “It was nice to sit by the fire at night with the wind outside and Mam knitting or telling me stories or singing to me.”

He cocked his head. “She sang to you?”

“Yes.” She looked at him as if he were quite strange—which was actually a look he was used to. “Didn’t anyone sing to you when you were a child?”

He thought of the drunken songs that had sometimes echoed through his father’s halls when he was young. That was probably not what she meant. “No.”

“Oh.” She bit her lip. “I suppose duchesses don’t sing to their children.”

“No, they don’t.” He smiled kindly. “Particularly when they dislike the child in question intensely.”

She blinked, looking shocked for a moment, and then cleared her throat. “Well. It’s nice, truly. And I liked walking over the hills as a little girl. There are birds in the heather and hares and mice and… are you sure you’re interested in this?”

“I wasn’t, actually, when I first asked,” he confessed. “But now I am. Go on.”

She made a little humphing sound at that and settled more comfortably at his side. “When I was a little older, about twelve, I went to work at a nearby house. It was owned by old Mrs. Cromby and oh, I was so homesick! I cried myself to sleep for a fortnight it seemed, until it was my day off and I could go home to see Mam.”

He frowned at this, not liking to think of his infant housekeeper in tears. “Why did they send you then if you were so upset?”

She gave him a look. “Because I needed to learn a trade, naturally. And it was a good position. Mrs. Cromby was very strict but I learned so much from her and her housekeeper, Mrs. Little. How to keep records and how to make wood polish and brass polish and silver polish. When to turn linen and how to store cheese. What cuts of beef are the cheapest and how to bargain down the butcher. How to judge when a fish is fresh and when to buy shellfish and when not to. How to keep moths from woolens and mice from the pantry. How to get wine stains out of white linen and how to dye faded cloth black again. All that and so much more.”

She drew breath and he looked at her, deeply appalled. “That all sounds frightfully boring.”

“And yet without that knowledge you’d live in dirty, messy, vermin-infested chaos,” she said sweetly.

“Mm.”

She was strangely alluring in her confidence in her own abilities. Women of his rank didn’t have jobs, didn’t have competence in… well, anything, really, aside from the odd musical talent. Embroidery. Dancing. His sister painted miniatures, but Eve was an eccentric. He did know of several ladies quite skilled at fellatio, but could that be called a job? Well, yes, if one were a whore, but the ladies in question didn’t actually sell their skills, not unless one counted obtaining ever more influential men as lovers, but that wasn’t exactly a quid pro quo, therefore…

He blinked and realized that Mrs. Crumb was watching him quizzically. “Yes?

“Sometimes,” she said, “I wonder what you think about.”

He ran through his latter train of thought, considered sharing his musings, glanced at her clever, competent, and yet in some ways naïve face, and discarded the idea. “Tell me why you came to London.”

That bright, open face closed again. Curious. She shrugged, glancing away from him. “The same reason any servant comes to London: to find work. I’d worked in several houses by that time, but I wanted to be a housekeeper and there were no situations nearby, so I came to London.”

He watched her, thinking that there was something missing from that simple recitation.

She glanced at him, her eyes dark and fathomless. “And Mam had died by then. There wasn’t anything to keep me by the border, was there?”

Wasn’t there? Not father or brothers or sister? Not heather-covered hills or warm hearth? Val cocked his head, studying her.

Wondering.

But she was glancing about the carriage. “Where is the book I was reading?”

“I placed it here,” he said, taking up The Most Noble and Famous Travels of Marco Polo, which he’d stowed on the seat beside him so it wouldn’t fall to the floor while she slept. “An interesting choice.”

“You mean for a housekeeper,” she muttered, taking the book from him.

He cocked his head, watching her. So fierce. “For anyone,” he murmured gently.

She smoothed a dimpled thumb over the worn red leather of the book cover. “Have you ever been to China?”

“No, but I would like to go.”

The carriage bumped and slowed and he glanced out the window to see that they were coming to an inn.

Mrs. Crumb straightened, regrettably pulling away from him. “Is this where we’ll be stopping for the night?”

“Only for supper and to change the horses,” he said cheerfully as Mehmed and the dog at last awakened. He pretended not to see her stare.

“When will we be stopping for the night?”

“We won’t.” He turned to her. “We’re traveling at haste—and straight through the night and tomorrow night as well.”

The carriage stopped.

“What?”

He smiled into her astonished eyes. They were headed north to Yorkshire at breakneck speed, no expense spared, changing horses as often as possible.

It was quite a reckless, mad journey—even for him. “If all goes well we’ll make Ainsdale Castle by nightfall three days hence.”

Or, as he sometimes liked to call the place where he’d been born.

The place where he’d been raised.

The place where he’d lost both heart and soul:

Castle Death.