The Dangerous Duke

Sick with anticipation, Lady Sarah Cole smoothed her worn gloves, gripped the strings of her reticule tighter, and made herself step down from the hackney cab.

As she emerged from the carriage, the stench of rotting fish assailed her with full force. She almost lost her footing on the uneven cobblestones and stumbled again as a large rat shot across her path, its naked pink tail twitching. Battling rising nausea, Sarah held a lavender-scented handkerchief over her mouth and nose to filter the fetid air.

After a few moments, she decided she’d mastered her uneasy stomach and returned her handkerchief to her reticule. Beneath the brim of her plain straw bonnet, she swept a glance up the street.

Ragged children played some sort of ball game against the crumbling wall of a dilapidated shop front. The tavern on the corner did a brisk, noisy trade, even at this hour. A hawker pushed his cart and cried his wares, adding to the general commotion. Sarah discerned from his barely intelligible bawl that he was selling cat meat.

She shuddered. It was a depressed, filthy part of London, located a stone’s throw from the Billingsgate wharfs. The lady she’d once been wouldn’t have dreamed of visiting such a place. She shouldn’t have come.

But she’d never admitted defeat when matters grew difficult, and she wouldn’t start now. Dismissing the cab driver’s warning about the rough neighborhood, Sarah paid him the fare and a little extra and asked him to wait.

She caught up her skirts to keep them clear of the rubbish that lined the street and picked a path to the front door of a tall, grim house. As she inquired the way of a sharp-eyed young girl, she tried not to show her dismay. She’d imagined him in circumstances far better than this.

Sarah thanked the girl and gave her a shilling. Glancing up, she saw a small face shimmer in the grime at a third floor window then disappear. Her pulse jumped. Was it he?

No reason why it should be. Slum lords crammed as many bodies as they could into houses such as this.

Sarah rapped with her gloved fist and the door creaked open, revealing a dim hallway with a row of doors either side of it and a central staircase zigzagging up and up, apparently to the heavens. No one came to ask her business, though the squalls of babies and rowdy voices assailed her, penetrating the thin, mildewed walls.

Hitching her skirts a little higher, Sarah crossed the entry hall and mounted the first of several flights of stairs. Not long now.

How would he look—her husband’s bastard son? Would he have Brinsley’s eyes, or his riot of curls? Years had passed since she’d wrung her hands over Brinsley’s tomcat proclivities, yet her heart stuttered at the thought.

The boy was ten years old, conceived mere months after she and Brinsley wed. The old pain of betrayal, a pain she thought she’d buried, rose to slap her in the face.

Pausing in her ascent, Sarah absorbed the sting with a clenched jaw, her hand closing like a vise around the worm-eaten banister. She took a deep breath, held it, then slowly let it out. The tawdry circumstances of his birth were not the boy’s fault. A child did not deserve to live in poverty merely because his father was a scoundrel. She had sold more perfume than ever, scrimped to save the moderate sum she carried in her reticule. All for him. The child she would never have.

Many stairs later, Sarah found the place she sought. She knocked and waited for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, the door swung open and Sarah came face to face with the boy’s mother.

“Maggie Day?” The name was branded on Sarah’s heart. The first in a long line of “other” women she’d prefer to know nothing about.

“Aye, that’s me.” The woman leaned against the doorjamb, her expression wary. She shoved stray wisps of blond hair out of her face with the heel of a grimy hand, revealing a faint echo of former prettiness in her high cheekbones and the vivid blue of her eyes. Those eyes flared when Sarah introduced herself. After a slight hesitation, Maggie shifted aside to let her uninvited guest enter.

This was not a social call. Sarah didn’t attempt pleasantries. “I’ve come about the boy. My . . . husband’s son.” She couldn’t yet give him a name. Brinsley hadn’t told her what he was called, and the address she’d found among his unpaid bills and notes of hand named the mother, not the child.

Sarah tried not to betray her anxiety, the strange yearning that had gripped her once the hurt and anger at Brinsley’s taunts had subsided. You’re barren . . . Useless, even as a breeder . . . I’ve already fathered a son.

She forced down the image of her husband’s triumph and focused on the scene before her. A straw pallet lay in one corner, made up with a coarse wool blanket. That and a crudely fashioned chair furnished the tiny room. The place stank of boiled cabbage and rat urine.

“Is he here?” Idiotic question. She saw for herself he was not.

A derisive expression flitted across Maggie’s features, but she answered politely enough. “Nah, m’lady. Haven’t seen him since before sunup. Goes down to the fish markets early, but after that . . .” She shrugged.

Sarah stared. Didn’t she know? The boy was ten years old and his mother didn’t know or care where he might be all day?

Jealousy seeped like acid into Sarah’s chest. If he were hers . . . The corrosive burn spread through her, thickening her throat and pricking behind her eyes. She blinked hard and looked away.

Her gaze snagged on a collection of empty bottles in one corner. Did the woman drink? Sarah bit her lip. It wasn’t her business; none of it was. But would Maggie use Sarah’s money to clothe and feed the boy, or to buy more gin?

Disappointment flooded her, drowning her one small hope. She’d thought she could soothe her conscience by making this short journey—one small gesture to clean the slate. But not only was her mission flawed—she could not possibly hand her precious coins to such a female—she’d given herself one more problem to solve.

She couldn’t compel Brinsley to provide for his love child. The pittance she made selling perfume was not enough to keep her and Brinsley, much less the boy as well.

Equally impossible to leave the child in this situation. Honor and simple Christian charity demanded that she ensure his well-being if her husband, his father, would not. Something must be done. She saw her duty clearly enough, but what right did she have to interfere?

Sarah offered her hand to Maggie, using every ounce of self-control to remain civil and calm. “I should—I should like to come again, if I may. To see him.”

“Why yes, m’lady. Of course.” Disregarding the outstretched hand, Maggie dipped a curtsy, a calculating gleam in her eye that Sarah did not like.

Sarah dropped her hand. “Shall we say Wednesday, at four?”

She looked up, and saw wariness shade Maggie’s face once more.

Sarah reassured her. “The boy will come to no harm from me.” Impatiently, she added, “I cannot keep calling him ‘boy.’ What is his name, if you please?”

Maggie eyed her for a silent moment. “His friends call him Jimmy.”

Thanking her, Sarah forced herself to leave the shabby room. When she reached the stairwell, all the turbulent emotion she’d dammed inside her spilled over. That poor little boy. How could Brinsley be so heartless towards his own flesh and blood?

She fought against it, but her chest heaved with a great dry sob. Sarah pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to quell the burn behind her eyes. She refused to weep like a ninny over a young scamp she didn’t even know, one borne to her husband’s mistress into the bargain. She was doing her duty. Emotion didn’t enter into it. The fat, hot tear that rolled down her cheek was the product of overwrought nerves, that was all.

Sarah opened her reticule to pluck out her handkerchief and stopped with a soft, strangled cry.

Every penny of the money she’d brought was gone.

All the heat of frustration and sorrow drained from her face. But how—? Sarah glanced back in the direction of Maggie’s room. No, the woman hadn’t approached within a foot of her unwelcome guest during that tense encounter. Unless Maggie was a conjurer, she couldn’t be the culprit.

When was the last time she’d seen the money in her reticule? Of course! The ragged child who’d given her directions. A moment’s inattention while Sarah scanned the upstairs windows would have been enough for an accomplished pickpocket. What a fool she’d been.

Sarah hurried downstairs, nearly tripping in her haste, and burst out into the street. She looked right and left, but of course the girl had vanished. And what would Sarah do if she found her? She could scarcely accuse her of theft without proof, and she balked at the thought of handing a child over to the tender mercies of the law.

Despair weighted the pit of her stomach like a millstone. All her hard work, gone.

Sarah questioned the hackney driver, but he hadn’t noticed the girl.

“Something amiss, ma’am?”

Sarah hesitated. The jarvey’s open, pleasant face invited trust, but he had a living to earn. If she admitted she had no money to pay him, would he take her word that she’d obtain it when they reached their destination? Or would he whip up his horse and leave her stranded in this mean, tumbledown street?

“Not at all,” she replied, trying to sound confident. “Take me to Tom’s Coffeehouse, please.” Brinsley was a creature of habit. He was sure to be at Tom’s at this hour, smoking and gossiping like an old lady with that fool Rockfort and his other dim-witted cronies.

Sarah gave the jarvey precise directions and suffered agonies while they navigated the crowded London streets. Ridiculous, but she couldn’t suppress the fear that the driver would order her to turn out her empty reticule and toss her into the street.

She imagined Brinsley, sprawled in a chair with a tankard of ale at his elbow, smoking a cigarillo and relaxing with his friends. Bile burned in her throat when she thought of the life of ease he continued to pursue, though they barely scraped enough together each month for rent and food. God forbid he should work for a living. As far as she could tell, he lived largely on credit, and supplemented the small allowance his elder brother paid him with sporadic wins at the gaming tables. But it never seemed to be enough.

Surely he wouldn’t begrudge her the cab fare? Though he might relish the blow to her pride if he refused, he wouldn’t wish to appear ungenerous in front of his friends.

The hackney pulled to a stop outside the coffeehouse— a rowdy, masculine establishment thick with smoke. Sarah scanned the bow windows that gave out onto the street, but failed to see Brinsley within.

There was nothing for it. She would have to look for him inside. “Wait here, please,” Sarah called up to the driver. “I won’t be a moment.”

“Eh? Now, see here, ma’am—” But in a fair imitation of her mother’s haughty bearing, Sarah pretended not to hear and swept across the flagstones, inwardly cringing at the prospect of seeking her husband in a public coffeehouse to beg for money. She prayed he wouldn’t make the task more difficult than it needed to be. She detested scenes.

A large hand gripped her elbow, stopping her. She gasped and swung around, to see the hackney driver’s reddening face.

She swallowed hard. “Let go of me! I told you, I’ll only be a minute.”

“And where ’ave I ’eard that before?” scoffed the driver. His hold tightened. “I’ll ’ave my money first, ma’am, if you please.”

Before Sarah could answer, there was a blur of movement and a dull crack. The driver dropped Sarah’s elbow with a grunt of pain, cradling his wrist. Sarah turned with a gasp and nearly stumbled. Standing between them, looking down at her with those deep, dark eyes, was the Marquis of Vane.

“Did he hurt you?” He made as if to take her arm to inspect the damage for himself, but she stepped back, evading his frowning scrutiny.

She shook her head, insides clenching, heart knocking against her ribs. There didn’t seem enough air in the world to breathe. “A—a misunderstanding, merely. You are very good, but please don’t—”

Vane lowered the cane he’d used to break the man’s hold and switched his glare to the driver. “If you don’t wish to feel this stick across your back, you’d better make yourself scarce.”

The jarvey was a thick-set man, but Vane towered over him, all broad chest and big shoulders and pure, masculine power. The driver blanched a little, but he retained enough spirit to mount a case in his defense.

Vane didn’t appear to listen, but he didn’t stem the flow. In the jarvey’s eagerness to explain himself, he described Sarah’s excursion in unnecessary detail. He even remarked how upset madam had seemed after visiting that dirty old house off Pudding Lane.

Sarah stiffened, so humiliated she couldn’t bring herself to argue. Of all the men in the world who might have come upon her in this predicament, why did it have to be Vane?

His swift glance held a gleam of curiosity. She lifted her chin with proud disdain. She mustn’t reveal the slightest hint of weakness. He’d show her no mercy if he sensed how susceptible she was, how fiercely she longed for him in the night. She’d never acted on that yearning, never allowed Vane the slightest liberty, not even a chaste kiss on the cheek. But the shame of lying in her husband’s bed while she ached for another man’s touch was slowly corroding her soul.

The marquis gave no sign he believed the driver’s story, but when Sarah said nothing to contradict it, he flicked a coin to the jarvey and dismissed him with a nod. Before she could protest, the man was gone.

Vane turned to her. “Come, I’ll escort you home.”

His low, resonant tone stroked down her spine in a warm velvet caress. A shocking wave of heat rolled through her body, left her trembling from head to toe. It was an effort to stop her voice from shaking like the rest of her. “That won’t be necessary, thank you,” she managed. “It is but a step.” She gripped her hands together. “I haven’t the funds with me, I’m afraid, but my husband will reimburse you. If you’d be so good as to find him . . .”

Vane followed her gaze to the coffeehouse and his jaw tightened. “I don’t want repayment,” he said harshly.

No, of course he didn’t. Vane’s wealth surpassed most men’s dreams. And there was only one thing he’d ever wanted from her. He still wanted it. She knew by the suppressed violence in him, the tension that held his large frame utterly still. As if he needed to exercise restraint over every cell in his body to stop himself from touching her.

Faith, but he was magnificent. His dark hair was cropped brutally short, with no attempt to soften the slightly hawkish nose and sharp cheekbones that stood out from his lean cheeks in high relief. His eyebrows were thick and black and straight. He carried himself like a Roman general, with the grace of an athlete and a habit of command.

Even in the open, bustling street, Sarah felt crowded, oppressed, overwhelmed by him. Her pride refused to let her take a backwards step. But oh, she wanted to. She wanted to run.

All she could do was conceal her fear behind that familiar mask of ice. “Thank you. I’m obliged to you,” she said in a colorless tone. She would repay him the minute she could. She dreaded being beholden to him, even for such a negligible sum.

He continued to stand there, waiting, as if he expected something from her. She wasn’t sure what it was, but she knew it was more than she could possibly give. She glanced at the coffeehouse. She needed to get away.

“So cold,” breathed Vane. “You are . . . quite the most unfeeling woman I’ve ever met.”

Sarah forced her lips into a thin, cynical smile. How little he knew her. The danger had always been that she felt far, far too much. An excess of sensibility had led to the great downfall of her existence. But she’d learned a hard lesson at the tender age of seventeen. She would never let emotion overtake her good sense again. She’d paid for her impulsive choice every day for the past ten years.

The suffering had increased a hundredfold since she’d met Vane.

They stared at one another without speaking. The everyday world rushed past in a muted blur, as if she and Vane were surrounded by smoked glass. Those compelling dark eyes bore into hers, determined to read her secret yearning, searching for a response.

Her heart gave a mighty surge, as if it would leap from her chest into his. But she’d built a stronghold around her heart from the flotsam of wrecked dreams. That irresponsible organ was in no danger.

The miracle was that she still had a heart at all.

Someone jostled her as they hurried past. The strange bubble of suspended time burst, and the world flooded back, swirling around them. Sarah turned away.

And there, in the bow window of Tom’s Coffeehouse, stood Brinsley, her husband.

THE Marquis of Vane flicked a glance at Brinsley Cole across the card table, betraying no hint of the animosity he felt. Vane was—as ever—in control.

The murmur of hardened gamesters intent on play surrounded them, punctuated by rattles of dice and the clack of a ball skittering around the E & O wheel. Occasionally, a low rumble broke out after a win or a loss, but the object of this hell was serious play, and the general mood was quiet and tense. Even the doxies attending each table knew their charms paled next to the turn of the card, and delayed their lusty propositions until the hand was done.

Vane hardly knew what brought him here tonight. He didn’t care the snap of his fingers for games of chance, and still less did he care to bed any of the unappealing women who graced the establishment. Whatever had prompted him to visit Crockford’s, he wished he’d ignored the impulse. Then he would not have to suffer Cole’s infernal smugness, nor remember with every breath that Cole possessed what Vane desired more than anything in the world.

She was fresh in his mind, a rapid hard pulse in his body, an ache that never quite abated and had flared to burning agony when he’d stood so close to her that afternoon.

He’d wanted to leave as soon as he saw Brinsley Cole already seated at the card tables tonight, but that might have created talk he wished to avoid. So he’d smiled and sat and played cards with a man he’d sooner never lay eyes on again. He doubted he fooled anyone at all.

“And how fares your lady wife, Brinsley?” Rockfort slid a glance at Vane as he dealt the cards.

In spite of himself, Vane tensed. Braced for the reply.

Cole lurched to his feet, spilling a buxom trollop from his lap and a dash of claret down his gold embroidered waistcoat. A sneer crossed his angelic features as he raised his glass for a toast.

“To the Lady Sarah Cole! The woman who can out-scold a Billingsgate fishwife, freeze a man’s balls off with her frosty green glare, then rate him for failing to pick up after himself. My lords, gentlemen—my damned virago of a wife!”

Cole flourished a bow and drank deep.

The gaming hell faded to oblivion. Vane heard nothing above the roar in his ears. The wild beast inside him raged, wanting to lunge across the table, wrap hands around that slender throat, and choke the life out of Brinsley Cole.

Muscles bunched and aching with the effort of restraint, Vane composed his features into a disinterested mask and picked up his cards. He had no right to defend Lady Sarah against her own husband. If he spoke up, people would assume he was her lover. He glanced around the table. Perhaps they already did. He was famed for getting what he wanted, and he’d wanted Lady Sarah from the second he’d laid eyes on her seven years before.

Everyone, it seemed, waited for him to speak.

Vane raised his glass of burgundy to his lips. He sipped, savored, then set the glass on the table in a precise, controlled movement. Without glancing at his cards, he threw them down. “Gentlemen, I’ve recalled a pressing engagement. I shall bid you good night.”

A murmur skittered around the table as he swept up his winnings. Cole, damn his soul to hell, smirked and waved a hand. “My lord, I’ll come with you.”

Over the players’ heads, Vane sent him a brief, scorching glare. As he turned to leave, he saw Rockfort twitch Cole’s sleeve in warning. But despite its porcelain perfection, Cole’s skin was thick as elephant hide. He stumbled out in Vane’s wake.

The frigid air speared Vane through his greatcoat, but did nothing to cool his blood. Brinsley Cole must be blind or suicidal to follow him into a dark alley. The man begged to be throttled and thrown in the gutter along with the other refuse and scum.

Drawing on his gloves, Vane halted and turned around. “What do you want?”

Brinsley swaggered towards him. “The question, my lord Marquis, is what do you want? I’ll wager I know the answer.”

Vane’s sigh fogged the air. “Is this where you try to sell me another of your schemes, Brinsley? Canals in Jamaica, that sort of thing?”

His companion barely seemed to notice the veiled insult. Despite Vane’s attempt to distract him, Brinsley knew he was on to something. Vane saw it in the avid light that entered the man’s wide, soulful eyes. Brinsley scented a weakness, and he’d worry at Vane like a hound at a wounded stag until he worked out how to turn it to his best advantage.

Finally, Brinsley spoke. “You want my wife,” he said softly. “You always have.”

Shock ricocheted though Vane’s mind. Brinsley knew? He’d always known, it seemed. Had Sarah told her husband of Vane’s interest? The idea sliced his chest like a finely honed blade. Suddenly, the past rushed back; events and conversations changed color and shape.

He dragged his mind to the present. He needed to remain calm, keep a cool head for Sarah’s sake. He wanted Lady Sarah more than he wanted air to breathe, it was true. Her husband knew it, but what difference did that make? As long as Vane made no admissions, Brinsley could think what he liked.

“If you wish to call me out, name your friends, Cole. Otherwise, shut your filthy little mouth.” With one careless finger, he flicked Brinsley’s wilted shirt-point. “Go home, man. You are drunk. Worse than that, you are tedious.”

“Home. Oh, yes!” Brinsley chortled, enjoying himself now. “What wouldn’t you give to be in my shoes, eh? Trotting off home to my tasty little wife. And do you know what I’ll do to her when I get—”

Fury ripped through Vane’s blood. He slammed Brinsley against the stone wall, pinning him with one hand to his throat. It was all Vane could do not to squeeze the life out of the cur there and then.

“Mercy!” Brinsley’s face was mottled red, his eyes bulging and frantic. Vane wished he’d put up some kind of resistance, but the pathetic creature made no move to defend himself, save for a feeble kick at Vane’s leather-clad shin.

Damn it, he couldn’t fight such a poor specimen, much as he yearned to dispatch him to the hottest fires of hell. Vane released his grip, and Brinsley crumpled to the slimy cobbles, wheezing and coughing, clutching his throat.

Vane waited for him to recover, even lent him a hand to help him up. With a glance of disdain, he stripped off the glove that had made contact with Brinsley’s soiled person and tossed it in the gutter. “Now, what were you saying before I so rudely interrupted?”

Brinsley dashed blood from his bit lip. “You want Sarah,” he whispered, edging closer. “Badly enough to lose your famous control. That must be worth something.” He smiled. “That must be worth quite a lot.”

Vane remained silent. He willed himself to ignore Brinsley’s jibes, turn his back, and walk away. But he couldn’t pretend not to care. He must know what Brinsley planned. Though she was beyond his reach in every way, he needed to assure himself that Sarah would be safe.

Yet, even as those altruistic thoughts crossed his mind, a small echo of honesty forced Vane to admit—Brinsley was right. He wanted Lady Sarah Cole in a way no gentleman of honor should want another man’s wife. His passion for her was like a recurring fever, rising again and again to attack him in moments of weakness. No matter how hard he trained and fought and conditioned his body, his soul was hers and always would be. For seven years, the knowledge that this worthless piece of rubbish before him possessed Lady Sarah had torn at Vane with razor-sharp claws.

And now Brinsley offered . . . what, exactly?

“You want her,” Brinsley repeated. “You can have her . . . at a price.”

Vane sucked in a breath. Disgust and desire clashed inside him. Had he misheard? Brinsley couldn’t possibly mean . . .

Though Vane maintained his indifferent expression, even managed to look a trifle bored, the very air around them seemed to thicken with his need.

“Ten thousand pounds. For one night with my wife.” Brinsley repeated it, stressed each word. “Ten. Thousand. Pounds.”

A red haze swept over Vane’s vision. He wanted to tear Brinsley apart with his bare hands. He wanted to leave without dignifying that insane, indecent proposal with a response. He wanted to forget Lady Sarah Cole existed, excise her from his mind and heart.

But he couldn’t. He couldn’t save her from Brinsley’s loathsome schemes either. He’d tried. She’d spurned him with her cold, cruel smile. But what if the little weasel took this offer to another man with fewer scruples than Vane? What then?

“I ought to kill you, Cole.” Vane kept his voice low, aware that a party of men had left Crockford’s and headed their way. “Exterminate you like the vermin you are.”

Brinsley didn’t even blink. “Ah, but I’m well acquainted with your sort, my lord. And I know you would not kill a man without a fair fight.” He fingered his bruised throat, then shrugged. “Call me out if you wish to see Sarah’s name dragged through the mud. I won’t meet you.” His expression darkened. “I married that little bitch, my lord Marquis. Short of bloody murder, I can treat her however I damned well please. So think well before you threaten me, sir, or your sweet Lady Sarah might suffer the consequences.”

Blind rage, all the more dangerous for its impotence, threatened to overwhelm every principle Vane held dear. He faced Brinsley in the darkness, panting with the effort of keeping his hands by his sides instead of wrapping them around the little weasel’s throat. This time, he wouldn’t have the strength to let go.

He’d never killed a man before . . .

Their misted breath clashed and roiled upwards. The moonlight glinted off wet cobbles, threw Brinsley’s profile into high relief. The thoughtful poet’s brow that hid a conniving, low mind; the noble nose that sniffed out weakness and despair; the sculpted lips that now curled in a self-satisfied sneer.