Devil of a Duke by Kathleen Ayers

14

Nicholas Tremaine, the 11th Duke of Dunbar, was tired of waiting. He paced impatiently before the large window in his study, moving about like a tiger, caged and ready to pounce.

Damn! What was taking so long!

The ship bearing Nick's solicitor, and hopefully Jem, docked no more than an hour ago. A young boy, whose job it was to watch the harbor, ran from the docks to Nick’s home bearing the news of the ship’s arrival.

Jem.

She would have had the entire voyage to be furious, and he thought it unlikely she would be pleased to see him. If she could get over her anger at having been kidnapped, it would give her time to focus on the fact that he’d deserted her after ruining her.

As I originally set out to do.

Nick winced with guilt, both at hurting Jem and for disappointing his grandfather. He'd tossed his family's honor aside for want of one slender girl from Bermuda, a fact that displeased his grandfather, Henry. So much so that Henry had died almost immediately after Nick’s arrival in London.

The death and subsequent burial of Henry Tremaine, 10th Duke of Dunbar required all of Nick's attention, as did the mantle of responsibility for the vast properties and wealth of the Dunbars. He could not leave London to return to Bermuda to fetch Jem, even though every fiber in his being instructed Nick to do so without haste. Instead, he'd dispatched Hotchkins, his most trusted solicitor, in his place. Hotchkins was a resourceful, discreet man who promised Nick he’d bring back Jem. Nick pressed his nose against the glass of the window as if he were a child staring into a candy shop, his stomach churning with frustration and worry. I should never have left her that day on the beach.Damn George Corbett.

Nick awoke after his unexpected meeting with Wren that ill-fated night with a knot the size of a hen's egg on his temple. The floor on which he lay moved softly beneath him and the smell of the ocean reached his nose. A dull ache thudded in his temples and one eye was swollen completely shut. When he wiped at the crusted blood on his cheeks, he found he was limited by the heaviness of manacles about his wrists. He was chained aboard a ship.

Several days went by, but no one came to see him. No food was left for him, nor water. He assumed that he would die slowly from starvation and thirst.

“I should have killed Corbett that night,” Nick said out loud, his words fogging the window.

He awoke one day to find the sun streaming through the small porthole above his head. The creak of the door sounded loudly in the dim light of the tiny cabin.

“Whatever it was you did to the Governor of Bermuda, he's making damn sure you don't visit him again.” A small, neat man, sporting an enormous beard reaching nearly to the middle of his chest, approached Nick’s shackled body. Two beefy sailors stood on either side of the man whom he took to be the captain. “Make your peace with God, man, before you are food for the sharks.”

Nick found himself quite opposed to becoming someone’s dinner. “I am worth far more alive to you than dead,” he whispered, lifting his head so that he could stare directly into the face of the man who spoke. His face had healed enough so that he could finally open both eyes.

The effect on the trio was immediate and not unexpected. The captain quickly made the sign of the cross. He waved for the two sailors accompanying him to move back, well out of Nick’s reach.

Lifting his lips in a mocking smile, Nick kept his eyes on the captain. He absolutely adored Catholics, for they held the deepest respect for the devil. If only he could have convinced the captain to return to Bermuda.

“Your Grace?” A firm wrap of knuckles on the study door brought Nick back to the present.

“Yes.” Nick bellowed, hoping it was his solicitor being announced.

Only Peabody, the butler of the Dunbar town house entered and bowed as low as his elderly body allowed.

Nick hissed in annoyance at the butler's appearance. “Well?”

Peabody had served the Dunbar family for many years, and like any servant who knew he’d never be sacked, made known his displeasure at Nick’s mood with a mere raise of one eyebrow.

Nick didn't mind. Serving the Dunbars, particularly Nick’s grandfather, was not for the weak of heart. He appreciated Peabody’s courage, to say the least, as a lesser man would have fled years ago.

“Your Grace.” Peabody held out a silver tray on which lay a missive.

Nick recognized the scrawl of his solicitor, Hotchkins, across the creamy vellum. He looked over Peabody’s shoulder to the hallway beyond.

“I am sorry Your Grace.” Peabody's lined face continued to remain bland, but the butler’s voice held genuine concern. “Mr. Hotchkins is not here. A messenger dropped this off. I'm feeding him for his trouble, and he'll wait for a reply.”

“Where's Hotchkins?” Nick growled.

“I fear,” Peabody’s face creased a bit as he frowned, “that he has not returned from his errand.” The silver tray was thrust at Nick.

Nick grabbed at the note, annoyed to find his hand trembled. A chill descended over him as if the sun had suddenly gone behind a cloud. “Leave me.” Moving towards the sidebar, he clutched the note in one hand. He needed a drink. Jem was not here, which likely meant she'd married Corbett, and Nick would now find it necessary to make her a widow.

Peabody stood frozen at the door and cleared his throat.

“What is it?” Nick snarled at the butler. “I am capable of pouring my own drink.” Nick poured out the dark amber fluid into a glass. He set down the decanter, then picked it up again. He might well need more than a glass.

“Lady Arabella wishes to know if she should expect you at dinner.”

“Yes, yes.” Nick waved Peabody away. Something was terribly wrong. His sixth sense sounded alarms as he shooed out Peabody. Very wrong. After locking the study door, he tore into the envelope.

Hamilton, Bermuda

To His Grace, the Duke of Dunbar,

I apologize, Your Grace, for not attending you in person. In consideration of your instructions, I am staying on Bermuda to gather all the pertinent facts as I know Your Grace would wish me to be thorough.

Nick expected nothing less of Hotchkins. He crossed to a leather chair and sat. A fire blazed in the hearth before him, but Nick shivered all the same.

I arrived in Hamilton and made discreet inquiries. William Manning died shortly after your departure from Bermuda.

So Manning died. He should have felt a sense of satisfaction, but he found no real pleasure in Manning’s death for it meant that Jem was alone and unprotected in her grief.

I admit to feeling some relief at the knowledge of Manning's death as Miss Manning could not have married Mr. Corbett while in mourning. My task would thus be easier to accomplish if she were not another man's wife.I proceeded to Sea Cliff in order to seek out Miss Manning. I bore Your Grace's letter confident that she would see reason, prepared should she not.

Nick made a mental note to give Hotchkins a bonus. The man had absolutely no reservations about kidnapping a woman for his employer.

I arrived to find the entire house in deep mourning, not unexpected given Manning's death. I inquired at the door after Miss Manning only to have the servant who answered burst into tears and run from me.

Why was his chest tight? A knot formed in his throat. The awful sense of dread felt earlier at the letter’s arrival, intensified. He carefully turned to the next page.

I waited on the step, unsure what to do, when an older woman came to the door. She introduced herself as the vicar’s wife, Mrs. Stanhope.

Nick's hands started shaking. He imagined Mrs. Stanhope’s plump form at the door of Sea Cliff.

Mrs. Stanhope, tears streaming down her face, asked what I wanted Miss Manning for, as Miss Manning was gone. When I asked the good lady where, Mrs. Stanhope sobbed in earnest. She asked why I wished to see Miss Manning?

Nick gulped in air and tried to catch his breath. He pressed one hand against his chest and felt his heart race beneath his palm.

I have a letter for her, I explained, holding out your envelope. Mrs. Stanhope swayed against the doorjamb, and I feared she would fall at my feet. “I cannot help you, sir. Jane Emily is gone”. She gave a great sob. “Poor lamb, she has thrown herself from the cliffs.”

“What do you mean?” I said.

“Grief, sir. Her father’s death did something to her mind. She’s gone. Dead. Poor lamb.”

Nick blinked at the words, quite sure he’d read them wrong. The paper crumpled as he gripped the pages tighter.

I decided to investigate, Your Grace. Miss Manning apparently took off suddenly during a luncheon with Augustus Corbett and ran towards the cliffs. He claims she was irrational during the meal, speaking of her father and blaming herself for his death. Mr. Corbett pursued her, but she disappeared. After a search of the area, Miss Manning could not be found. A group of men, led by a Mr. Tally O’Dell searched the area, but found nothing, only a scrap of cloth from Miss Manning’s dress.

Nick looked up from the page, imagining the rocky trails that surrounded Sea Cliff. The color of the dress, Jem wore that day. The arrogant smirk of Augie Corbett. He reached out to take the glass of whisky from the table next to him and watched as the glass fell from his trembling hands and the dark amber liquid spilled onto the floor. He tried to stand and couldn’t.

The consensus is, Your Grace, that Miss Manning threw herself from the cliffs in her grief over her father. I continue to investigate, as there is no body, but I believe, as does all of Hamilton, that Miss Manning is dead. My deepest sympathies, Your Grace.

A horrible sound, the sound of a soul dying, or a banshee being released, echoed through the study. Nick put his hands over his mouth in an effort to quell the horrific noise.

Peabody knocked urgently at the door. “Your Grace!” The doorknob rattled.

The letter fell from Nick's hands, that creamy wisp of paper that destroyed him. The note fluttered to the rug beneath his feet. If the captain had just turned the ship back to Bermuda as Nick begged him to do. If only Henry hadn't passed away so soon after Nick's arrival. If only.

He grabbed the decanter of whisky and brought it to his lips. Drinking deeply, he prayed that the liquor would blot out the awful words of the letter. He wished this were a nightmare, and he would awake with Jem in his arms. “I should never have left her on the beach. I should have taken her then.”

Nick slid to the floor, the decanter, now empty, slipping from his grasp. He pulled his knees to his chest, rocking back and forth like a terrified child who sought to comfort himself.

“This is my fault.”

The ghost of the gypsy hag, from that day in the woods so long ago, whispered in his ear.

“You will destroy the thing you love most, that is why you are damned. You will know unimaginable grief. Grief of your own making.”

“Not Jem, please.” His eyes flew to those awful words standing out clearly in Hotchkin’s letter. “No. Please, anything but this.”

The click of a woman’s heels sounded outside the study door.

“Nick.” Arabella, his sister, beat her palm against the door. The knob twisted and turned. He heard her order Peabody to find the key. “Nick! What is it? What has happened? You must let me in.”

“Go away!” Nick cried. “Go away! You must all go away!”

Then the Devil of Dunbar did something he'd never done before, not at the death of his parents, nor as his grandfather was buried.

He wept.