Stuck out in the horse barn while he waited out the downpour, which was finally slacking off, Samuel Isaac Treyhorne, the twelfth Duke of Somerset, stood smoking a cigar as he leaned a shoulder against the rough wood frame of the open oversized doors. The smell of rain freshened the air as a stray tendril of breeze swirled past, carrying away his cigar smoke. Squinting in concentration, Sam marked the hired coach’s progress up the curving driveway until the manor house blocked it from his view.
He didn’t get much company at his country house. Especially during the season. And especially from persons in hired coaches, immediately identifiable to him by its distinctive coloring. His equals owned their own conveyances. Besides, anyone who would have visited them in their time of mourning had already done so and would now be in London enjoying the mindless rounds of balls and other assorted inane gatherings that marked the upper class’s social life.
Sam’s smile was sardonic and self-directed. Too much time in America had left him pained by the very notion of such ritualized social expectations. And speaking of such, who dared to visit without an express invitation? In his mind, he could hear his mother saying it simply wasn’t done. Now, that bit of etiquette he did like. All a man had to do was not invite anyone to visit, or decline certain invitations, and thus be spared a fair amount of tedious company.
But apparently that rule had been broken by this person or persons in the hired coach. Suddenly he didn’t like the feel of this visitation. Whoever it was, he reasoned, had to be the bearer of bad news because that was the only kind he’d had of late. But no matter the reason, he’d know soon enough because Scotty would greet the interlopers, determine the nature of their visit, and then simply toss some hapless young page out the back door and send him running to the barn at risk of life, limb, and general health to tell him that the duke’s presence was needed in the manse.
The duke. That got a snort of self-derision out of Sam. He was the duke. That had a nice ring to it, but it sure as hell hadn’t been his idea to assume the title. He’d had the good sense to be born the second son and to leave as soon as he’d achieved his majority. He’d gone to America to seek his own fortune and had left all the titled responsibility to Geoffrey Charles, firstborn and a man ideally suited to the task of administering a thriving duchy. Or so Sam and everyone else had thought.
His expression hardened with grief and no small amount of anger. Geoffrey. Tall, strong, capable. Intelligent. A very good man. Compassionate. But secretly and privately troubled. And now … dead.
Sam’s throat worked. He handled his cigar, tamping the ash before once again clamping the rolled tobacco between his teeth. Squinting now against the rising emotion in his heart that beat painfully in his chest, Sam fixed his gaze on the ancient tower that formed the cornerstone of the grand manor house. His and Geoff’s favorite place to play when they’d been small boys. Sam admitted that he missed his older brother more than he would let on to anyone.
“Dammit, Geoff, how did this happen?” His voice was soft, barely above a whisper.
“Did you say something, Your Grace?”
Startled, Sam pivoted around, looking for the speaker.
There stood a work-dirtied stableman who held a pitchfork in his calloused hands. He’d obviously been mucking out the stalls. Standing in the barn’s dim interior, the big man bowed and then waited deferentially for Sam to speak. Impatience had Sam quirking his mouth. He’d grown up with this deference, of course, and was used to it. But, again, his years in America, with its brash openness and ideals of equality, had changed him. Taking the cigar from between his lips and exhaling the smoke, Sam searched his mind for the man’s name. “Daniel, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Your Grace.” He appeared pleased that Sam could recall his name.
Sam was, too. He knew that his notice of a servant was outside the norm in most upper-class households where, for the most part and with only a few exceptions—such as the butler, a valet, or a lady’s maid—servants remained out of sight of their employers and totally anonymous. “Well, yes, Daniel, I did speak. But it was nothing to concern yourself with.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Daniel turned away, going solemnly back to his chores. Hay rustled underfoot as he tramped through it and turned left toward the next row of stalls.
Just as Sam turned back to the open doors and reflected on a life spent mucking out manure and how similar, figuratively speaking, that existence was to his own life of late, a sudden darting movement from up at the manor caught his eye. What’s this? He tensed, but then he spotted the source of the disturbance and relaxed. Just as he’d predicted. Bursting out of the ornate gardens and tearing down a hill, then across the open meadow, and running with total abandon toward the horse barn, came a young boy splashing—no doubt happily—through puddle after puddle. Indeed, his course zigzagged as if in an effort not to miss a single one.
Sam chuckled, surprising himself that he did. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d smiled. And now here he was laughing. That lifted his spirits. Maybe it was the running boy. The exuberance he showed. The freedom and joy. This didn’t look like bad news. Or feel like it, either. As he watched the boy coming his way, an air of expectancy seized Sam, all but shutting off his thoughts. Within a few more moments, the joyously soaked boy slid to a halt in front of Sam, who urged him to step inside the barn.
Out of the weather now, the lad stood dripping and silent. Sam half expected the freckled page to shake himself like a dog would. Instead, staring up at Sam, his brown eyes wide with respect, the boy sketched a formal bow. Instead of being annoyed, Sam found it rather amusing under the circumstances. After all, here they were out in the horse barn with the smell of manure all around. The boy’s clothes were soaked. And Sam’s riding attire—buff breeches, white, open-necked shirt, and Hessians, his favorite pair of tall black boots—was informal, to say the least. Yet manners and rituals would prevail. As would protocol.
“Well? What is it, lad? Speak up,” Sam encouraged.
Blinking, with water dripping off his longish brown hair and into his eyes, the page looked up at Sam. “Begging your pardon, Your Grace, but Scotty sent me. He says you’re to come to the manor house at once.”
“I see.” Sam doubted if Scotty had actually said all those words. They would comprise his entire vocabulary. Sam tossed his cigar butt out on the wet gravel. “Were those his actual words?”
“No, Your Grace. What he said was ‘Fetch.’”
A word for a dog. Sam raised his eyebrows. “And you assumed he meant me and not perhaps Mr. Marples?”
“No, Your Grace. I mean yes, Your Grace. He meant you, Your Grace.” The boy’s face colored, further emphasizing his brown freckles. Then his eyes widened, perhaps with a new doubt. “Was I wrong, Your Grace?”
“Probably not. Did Scotty say why you were to fetch me?” Of course, he knew why—the visitor in the hired coach. But he thought by questioning this boy he might find out something about what awaited him in the manor.
“Yes, he did, Your Grace. You have a lady visitor.”
An unexpected thrill chased through Sam. Not so much a pleasurable one, but certainly one of anticipation. “A lady visitor, is it? That can’t be bad.” Or boring.
“No, Your Grace.”
One more Your Grace and Sam felt certain his teeth would itch. Trying to have a meaningful conversation with anyone since he’d assumed the title had become a tedious and protracted chore. “Do we know who the lady is?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
And there it was. Another Your Grace. Sam’s teeth itched. “Well, lad? Who is she?” He assumed a proper upper-class glower and crossed his arms over his chest.
The boy swiped a hand over his brow to sweep his wet hair to the side. “She says she’s the duchess, Your Grace.”
“The duchess of what exactly?” Sam needed this narrowed down. England was currently overrun with duchesses. A man couldn’t take ten steps without stepping on the toes of one.
The boy swallowed. “Why, the Duchess of Somerset, Your Grace. Your wife. Newly come from America.”
* * *
Inside the manse, on its third floor, a veritable parade had assembled and now marched along a hallway in the west wing. Yancey followed the housekeeper, Mrs. Edgars, a tall, thin, no-nonsense woman who’d come back with the gruff giant unbelievably named Scotty. He too lumbered in front of Yancey. For her part, her hand was lightly held in the gnarled and knobby little hand of the tiny white-haired woman whose game of hide-and-seek Yancey’s untimely appearance had interrupted. At least now Yancey knew the benign reason why the elderly lady had identified herself as the Duchess of Somerset. She tended to repeat word for word what was said to her, but only apparently those words that struck her fancy.
Flanking Yancey and her new friend were three husky young men who handled her traveling trunks. And behind them trailed three imperious longhaired white cats. They must make quite a sight was Yancey’s opinion as she proceeded as decorously as possible toward the closed door that she’d been told led to the suite of rooms she would occupy.
Painfully enough, her suite was the one adjoining the duke’s—as befitted his wife, she’d been told by Mrs. Edgars. She’d also informed Yancey that, though she hadn’t known when to expect Her Grace’s arrival, she’d been told in private by Her Grace Rosamond Sparrow Treyhorne, the duke’s mother, to anticipate it. Yancey had accepted this silently, knowing that the housekeeper thought her the actual duchess and not the pretender that she was.
Yancey tucked away two bits of knowledge from this conversation. One, the housekeeper had been told in private by the dowager to anticipate her daughter-in-law’s arrival. That meant the mother had kept her letter-writing activities a secret from her son, just as Yancey had wondered about with Mr. Pinkerton. And two, no one here doubted for a second that Yancey was who she said she was. Obviously, the duke’s household had not ever met the real duchess. Interesting, but in her favor.
Still, surprising her had been the moment of conscience she’d experienced downstairs. Responsibility for her attack of guilt lay with the tiny elderly woman, whose beautifully tailored though overlong skirts now trailed along the polished floors. Her Grace Nana, everyone called her. She was instantly lovable. And she’d seemed so happy to see Yancey—or Sarah Margaret—when she’d introduced herself that Yancey had almost blurted out the truth right there.
How distressing. It was one thing to deceive criminals. It was quite another to lie to honest and accepting people such as these. But lie she must, Yancey felt, in order to see the dowager duchess. Get inside by presenting herself as the woman’s daughter-in-law, Mr. Pinkerton had said. Only in that disguise, he’d told her, could she be assured of an audience with the dowager. Any other person could conceivably be turned away. But not the daughter-in-law, the duchess herself.
Yancey glanced over at her companion. The ancient wispy-haired woman kept up a steady stream of chatter about people and places Yancey had never heard of. Even navigating the many stairs up to the third floor hadn’t winded the ancient woman. Nor did it seem to bother her that Yancey didn’t answer her. She would have been pleased to make polite remarks at appropriate intervals, but her venerable escort had yet to take a breath that would allow Yancey to do so.
At last, Mrs. Edgars and Scotty stopped. Yancey and company did the same. Along with the housekeeper, the giant turned to face her. Glowering, he pointed to a closed door. “Here.”
Yancey managed a smile. “Of course. Whatever you say … Scotty.”
The men with the trunks excused themselves—“Pardon us, Your Grace”—as they pushed around her and followed Mrs. Edgars and Scotty into the room ahead of Yancey, Her Grace Nana, and the three cats. Then Yancey looked again and chuckled. Make that three cats and a dog. Apparently, somewhere along the way they’d picked up a small, fat brown dog to add to the menagerie around her ankles. The terrier stayed a respectful distance from the impassive but watchful cats.
“Well, hello, Mr. Marples, you scamp. And where have you been off to all day, you bad boy?” Cooing, Her Grace Nana bent over to pat the dog’s head. Its stubby tail wagged and it jumped up on her, nearly knocking the old woman to the floor. Yancey whipped an arm around the woman’s shoulders to steady her.
“Thank you, Sarah Margaret,” she said. “Say hello to Mr. Marples. He’s a fine young man, despite what Alice and Mary and Jane say.” She tugged on Yancey’s bodice, pulling her down until Yancey’s ear was even with her mouth. She whispered, “Don’t listen to them. They’re the jealous sort, my dear.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” Yancey whispered back, forced to assume the woman meant the cats.
“I’m sure you’re right,” Her Grace Nana repeated. “Mrs. Edgars has kept your rooms fresh and aired out for you, Sarah Margaret. We knew you would come. We just knew it.”
Knew it—or hoped it? Were they in on the dowager’s secret letter-writing campaign? That was what Yancey wanted to know. But faced with such sweet innocence as Her Grace Nana exuded, she knew she would save the hard questions for someone more formidable. To the elderly woman, she replied, “Thank you. I’m sure the room is very lovely.”
“The room is very lovely.” Then Her Grace Nana reached up a gnarled little hand and stroked Yancey’s cheek. “You’re very beautiful. I can’t imagine why Samuel didn’t bring you back with him. And why he doesn’t want you here. He’s not going to be happy to see you, dear.”
Just as she’d feared. Yancey straightened up, releasing the richly dressed and stooped older woman. At that moment, her arm was grabbed and she was plucked right through the doorway and into the suite of rooms. Of course, Scotty had a hold of her. Yancey aimed a droll expression the giant’s way. “Scotty, you simply must stop handling me like this. You might break something vital.”
Still with a viselike grip on her, with his free hand he made a sweeping gesture that indicated the room at large. “Yours.”
Yancey had time only to gain a fleeting impression of a large, well-furnished lady’s sitting room before Mrs. Edgars very properly and formally said, “I hope you will be comfortable here, Your Grace. And will find everything to your liking.”
She didn’t mean that. A sudden chill of certainty slipped over Yancey’s skin. The housekeeper’s tone of voice hadn’t matched her sentiments. She’d said it more like I hope you don’t fall into the vat of boiling oil we’ve placed in a pit under the carpet.
“It’s very lovely. I’m sure I will,” Yancey said cautiously, eyeing the woman and thinking that she bore watching.
Before she could do more than store that observation away, the young men who’d handled her trunks again filed past her and out of the room, each of them nodding his head, not quite meeting her gaze, and murmuring either “Your Grace” or “Duchess.”
With a regal bob of her head, acting as if she’d been doing this all her life, Yancey acknowledged the servants’ show of respect. Only when they were gone could she follow Scotty’s impatient gesture and give the rooms their due attention. She’d intended to behave in an imperial manner, to appear judgmental and slightly bored in her perusal of her accommodations. But that notion fled when the dazzling splendor that met her gaze wrenched a delighted gasp out of her. Yancey stared in awe, a hand to her mouth. Why, this was a room meant for a fairy princess. Or a real duchess.
Apparently satisfied with her response, Scotty released her arm. As if in a trance, Yancey stepped inside and slowly walked around, marveling at what she saw. This was unbelievable. Back in Chicago, she rented a room in a respectable and comfortable women’s boardinghouse. But a suite of rooms such as these? Why, she had only been able to envy such luxury—and that from the outside looking in. But now, here she was inside, and this was hers. Or actually the duchess’s … the real duchess’s. The dead duchess’s.
Yancey put that thought aside until a later time when she could be alone with her thoughts. For now she wanted to concentrate on the rich display before her. Commanding this small room was a richly upholstered three-piece suite situated conversationally in front of a fireplace. Small tables with chairs arranged to either side reposed against the walls covered in a delicately rose-patterned wallpaper. Tall windows across the way let in the light. Feeling instantly at home in this room with its cozy feeling of intimacy, Yancey realized she was smiling as she crossed the sitting room and stood on the threshold of the bedroom itself.
Her breath left her. A large canopied bed with a thick mattress and many pillows commanded the room. Its coverlet, a wonderful sky-blue shot through with gold thread, appeared to be of a silky material. Yancey walked straight to it, put her handbag atop it, and then ran her hand over the fabric … so sleek and soft. She longed to lose herself in its comfort and sleep straight through until tomorrow. Impossible, though, it being not even teatime yet.
She next turned her attention to the huge wardrobes and armoires that stood like sentinels on opposite walls. Her three trunks hunkered like whipped dogs next to the nearer wardrobe. Yancey quirked her mouth in embarrassment. Her painfully few dresses would get lost in even one of those smaller armoires. She next came to a delicately feminine dressing table carved from a light-colored wood. Decorative boxes and glass bottles and a silver-backed comb and brush set awaited her. She imagined herself sitting in front of this vanity and brushing her hair. A sigh for such simple luxury escaped her.
She then moved past the washstand and came face to face with a closed door that stopped her. No doubt, it opened onto the dressing room that joined this bedroom to the duke’s room.
A chill of foreboding chased through Yancey. How easy it would be for the duke to slip through that door and kill her in her sleep. And how ironic that Mr. Pinkerton had raised the specter of that happening to her if she remained in Chicago. So he’d sent her here to England for her own safety. Yet here—and going by what Her Grace Nana, who was obviously a family member of some standing, had said—she would not be welcomed by the duke. Especially not if he’d had a hand in his real wife’s death, if the other Sarah had indeed been his wife. And if she had and if he had, wouldn’t Yancey be a shock to him, then? She told herself she definitely needed the key to this door. She only just stopped short of looking around for a sturdy chair to angle under the doorknob. Let him come through that.
Hearing herself, Yancey shook her head. She needed to remember to allow for simple explanations. For all she knew, the duke was a sweet little cherub of a man who never in his whole life had harbored a single hurtful thought. Or perhaps he was a painfully shy and ineffectual man who ran at the sight of his own shadow. Maybe he missed his wife terribly and didn’t know she was dead. If she was. After all, Yancey still had only hunches, no evidence. So what if he came rushing in happily, expecting his beloved wife, and found her, Yancey, standing here? How distraught he would be. And how cruel she would feel. Feeling sorry for this imaginary duke’s distress, Yancey moved away from the door.
She stepped over to a writing desk and ran her fingers over the polished wood. Very pleasing. Positioned next to the desk was a lovely cheval glass, a full-length mirror for a lady to view her appearance in one exquisite gown after another. Yancey knew she wouldn’t be using the mirror for that purpose because she didn’t own a single ball gown. Not much call for them in her line of work. Well, except for now. But it was too late to worry about proper clothing. All she’d brought with her were the sensible, serviceable clothes she did own. Nothing of the frivolous lady resided in her trunks. How would she explain that? Well, maybe she didn’t look too bad.
She glanced at her reflection in the mirror, and saw staring back at her a tired-looking, rain-dampened, and rumpled woman whose hair was frizzing and coming loose from its pins. Amused and mortified by her appearance, Yancey shook her head, pronouncing herself not fit for an introduction to a duke. Still, it was like a dream, seeing herself here in this room. She tried hard not to feel inadequate or like an interloper. Yet she knew the truth—she was both of those things.
Exhaling, she crossed the room to an enormous marbleframed fireplace where she traced with her fingers the intricate patterns of pink veins that ran throughout the cold stone. Adrift in her own world, forgetting she was attended by six persons and four domestic pets, Yancey turned to the tall windows adjacent to the fireplace. She went to the nearer of the two and, a hand on the heavy folds of sky-blue drapery, peered outside. Her breath caught.
If the window could be thought of as a frame, then this view could be a painting of a country scene of exquisite beauty. Green and rolling hills. Lush meadows wherein fine horseflesh grazed contentedly. In the distance a large herd of cattle milled about, also grazing. Closer to the house, formal gardens of geometric beauty caught the eye. And colorful flowerbeds showed a loving hand in their creation—
“Beautiful, isn’t it?”
Gasping in surprise, Yancey whipped around, all but tangling herself in the folds of the draperies. She pulled free of them only to see, standing framed in the bedroom’s doorway, the tall and commanding figure of a man in his full prime—and no one else. A thrill of fright coursed through Yancey, leaving her feeling overly hot, yet cold as stone. Tumbling thoughts and instant impressions tussled about in her mind. Where is Mrs. Edgars? Her Grace Nana? And Scotty? And the young men who carried my trunks up? And the cats, the dog? When did they leave?
Leave? They hadn’t merely left. They’d been dismissed by this man. Since then, he’d been watching her. She knew that as surely as she knew that her hair was red and her eyes were green. Yancey inhaled deeply yet discreetly as she fought to compose herself and meet the challenge in the level stare of the dark-haired man dressed in a white open-necked shirt and buff-colored riding breeches tucked into Hessians.
He offered no further conversation, not even an apology for being alone with her in what was essentially her bedroom. Such a circumstance, even by itself, compromised an unmarried woman. Yancey knew she had every right to demand that he leave. But under the circumstances—her being here under false pretenses—she thought not. Too, she’d sooner be damned than protest and appear to be the squeamish little miss. All the better because, at the moment, she couldn’t be entirely sure that she was physically capable of speech.
The man was absolutely stunning. Even as she tried desperately to convince herself that this was her objective opinion as an experienced observer, as well as a usually calm and rational woman, she failed miserably. Virility rolled off him in waves that threatened to sweep her away. And how could this be … this soul-deep certainty in Yancey’s heart that his hands already knew her body? That his mouth had already hungrily claimed hers on some wild, dark night in a long-ago time? Insane, yes, but the improbability nevertheless held for her the ironclad weight of a factual reality.
Rationally, Yancey knew she had never seen him before. But rationality held no sway here. Instead, her heart insisted that it knew this man. Fear teamed with anticipation to dry Yancey’s mouth. Such confidence, such daring, he exuded. And such arrogance. No introduction was necessary. This, then, was the duke who lolled languidly against the bedroom door’s frame, unmoving and soberly staring back at her … waiting.
Finally, but in actual time what was really no more than a passing moment from question to answer, Yancey replied, “Yes. It is very beautiful.”
He nodded … slowly. “Imagine how happy I am that you agree.”
Yancey flinched. He couldn’t care less what she thought. Normally that would have rankled her, but this time, with this man, and wisely, she said nothing. She watched him now as he watched her.
With no more than a shrug, he pulled away from the door’s frame and strode across the room with a lazy yet powerful grace that had Yancey surreptitiously clutching handfuls of her skirt’s material. She called herself a coward. And the closer he came to her, the more she steeled herself to stand her ground. As he drew even with her, Yancey judged him to be tall, about six feet. His coal-black hair was worn a bit longer than was fashionable. And his eyes were a very cool gray. His face boasted high cheekbones, a firm jaw, and full, sensual lips.
Yancey tensed at his nearness, but he ignored her, walking right past her. Immensely relieved, her heart racing, she exhaled as discreetly as she could manage and let go of her skirt. Her next breath, however, was nearly her undoing. Because the air she took into her lungs proved to be redolent with the unique scent of this man, mingled with a remembrance of hay and cigar smoke and cleansing rain. Intoxicating.
And dangerous. That bee sting of a realization brought Yancey sharply back to earth. This man certainly was not the milksop duke she’d imagined. What he was, then, was no one to trifle with. As she turned around to keep him in sight, and with her skirt swishing around her ankles, she knew she must keep her wits about her and remember that he was very probably the enemy here.
With an eye to that, and while his back was to her as he stared out the same window he’d caught her facing, Yancey raked her gaze over him, from his broad, muscled shoulders, down his tapering back to his narrow waist and tight buttocks. His long legs, with their perfect musculature, defined the breeches, giving them shape … and elevated her pulse in ways that could all too easily make her forget the threat he was to her.
Suddenly, the duke pivoted his shoulders and turned his head as if he meant to speak to her over his shoulder. Yancey tensed, waiting. He didn’t look directly at her, yet she figured that he could see her out of the corner of his eye and was aware of every move she made, every breath she took.
“Who are you?”
His deep growl, as much as his abrupt question, rumbled through Yancey’s chest, taking her breath. She wanted to believe that she had no idea what was wrong with her, or why he had this effect on her. But she couldn’t lie, not to herself. She knew, all too well, that this was a hungry need, a fierce and unexplainable attraction to him that she was experiencing. So be it. She was no virgin, no stranger to those emotions.
But the rest of it … the way she wanted to run, to cry, to get away from him so she could breathe, the feeling of being naked before him, of being overwhelmed and vulnerable … she couldn’t define or explain. And because she couldn’t, she was afraid. Yancey struggled for control. Resist his pull, she told herself. Remember why you’re here. You have a part to play, a murder to solve before you’re the next victim. She need only remind herself that she was an experienced Pinkerton undercover operative, she concluded. A smart woman. The Fox. And this game was hers.
Yancey knew all this. But still, she imagined that right now, here in the enthralling presence of the Duke of Somerset, that she couldn’t feel less afraid if, instead of him, she had suddenly found herself face to face with a winged angel. A dark and terrible angel.