Devil of a Duke by Kathleen Ayers
15
London, One year later
“That'll do I believe,my lady.” Anna's reflection smiled at Jemma in the mirror.
Jemma watched as her lady’s maid tucked a stray lock of hair into the simple bun that graced Jemma’s neck. Her vision blurred, and for just a moment she saw Mercy, her maid at Sea Cliff.
“Thank you, Anna.” The familiar wave of pain, of being homesick for Bermuda made her blink furiously lest she begin to weep. Mercy thought Jemma dead, indeed everyone in Hamilton assumed such, and they must continue to do so. Tally had been very clear.
“My lady? Do you not like your hair?” The maid bit her lip. “Lady Marsh said my styling was much improved.”
“No, you’ve done a wonderful job.” Jemma patted the maid's arm. “I look lovely and have you to thank for it. It was a long journey from Essex, I'm just a bit tired.”
Anna's long face wrinkled in concern. “Yes, and you've come so far already.” Jemma managed a small smile and nodded politely to the maid. She'd come much farther than Anna knew.
Nearly a year ago, Jemma arrived on the shores of England, still in shock, her thoughts confused and uncertain, her entire world turned upside down with the knowledge that she was not at all who she thought she was. Scared and shaken, carrying only a small bag that Tally had packed in secret for her and clutching the worn leather packet to her chest, she silently repeated the instructions he’d recited to her before he kissed her goodbye in Hamilton. Just as he instructed, she hailed a passing hack upon her arrival in London and directed the coachman take her to Meecham and Sons, one of the city's finest solicitors. She paid the man in silver from the small pouch Tally gave her that day on the cliffs.
“Go to the docks, lass,”Tally had instructed her as he'd wiped the blood from her lip and cursed Augustus Corbett. “Keep your head down lest someone recognize you. There's passage booked for a widow, Sarah Soakes, aboard the Red Rose, and the ship leaves on the evening tide. I've left a small bag for you on board. Don't speak to anyone until Bermudais but a speck in the distance. There's a note from your father.” Then Tally lifted his head sniffing at the air just as the sound of Augie, stumbling amongst the bramble met her ears. Tearing a scrap of cloth from her dress, Tally put a finger to his lips to stop her questions and motioned for her to take off her shoes. “He's coming. Godspeed my girl. Go!”
The stench of the London streets, the press of hundreds of bodies hurrying to and fro, so unlike the quiet of Hamilton, unnerved her. Sailors winked at her and beggars plucked at her skirts as she waved down a passing coach. The hack lurched forward, bouncing back and forth as it traversed the cobbled streets, forcing Jemma to hang on to the door for dear life. The damp of England permeated the coach and she wrapped her thin shawl about her shoulders, wondering again how she found herself here, how her father could have kept such a secret from her.
Arriving at Meechum & Sons, she approached a young clerk who was scribbling furiously at a stack of papers. He looked up at her, his eyes running over the frayed edges of her dress, lingering on the well-worn bag in her hand.
“Can I help you?” His tone implied he couldn’t.
Jemma lifted her chin and addressed the young clerk with the speech she had rehearsed in her cabin all the way from Bermuda.
“I am Jane Emily Grantly, niece of the Earl of Marsh. I need to be taken to my uncle. Immediately.”
The door to Jemma's room burst open, pushing aside the memory of her first day in London.
“Are you nearly ready, Cousin?” Lady Petra Grantly fluttered towards her in a flurry of pink taffeta and trailing ribbons. “Mother insists we be in the drawing room when His Grace arrives. We are to engage Lady Arabella and His Grace's aunt, Lady Cupps-Foster, in conversation until Papa deems it time to present me to His Grace like a sacrificial lamb.” Petra frowned dramatically, her eyes dark with self-pity. Sighing, she flounced on the chair next to Jemma. “That will be all Anna.” She waved the maid out.
Anna, quite used to Petra's theatrics, merely nodded, but not before catching Jemma's eye in the mirror with a knowing look.
She waited to respond until she heard the click of the latch behind the maid. “A sacrificial lamb? I would think it a great honor to be a duchess.”
Petra lowered her voice to a whisper, and her eyes widened. “A cursed duke. The Devil of Dunbar. He's a witch, they say, and so is his sister.”
“Ridiculous,” Jemma stated firmly. “There's no such thing as a witch.” An image of Nick Shepherd on the Governor's terrace shimmered before her. She'd accused him that night of bewitching her. Go away, Nick.
Petra twisted her fan about her wrist, toying with the delicate silk. “The first duke made a deal with the Devil for his family's power and influence. The ton whispers about the activities of His Grace. He is said to have,” Petra lowered her voice even more, “killed men.” She looked towards the door as if someone would hear her. “Did I not tell you about his eyes?”
“A thousand times, Petra. His Grace has a rare hereditary condition. He likely had an ancestor with a similar affliction.”
“The first duchess. She was nearly burned at the stake. They say her portrait hangs at The Egg.”
A fit of giggles burst from Jemma's lips. “The Egg? There is an estate in England called The Egg? Really, Petra, you’re joking.”
Petra pursed her lips. “Stop making fun, Jemma. I swear it's true.”
Her cousin was a dear girl, and Jemma adored her, but Petra was more than a bit dramatic. She reached out and took her cousin's hands in her own, biting her lip so as not to laugh and injure Petra's feelings more.
“I’m sorry, Petra. I didn't mean to poke fun. But, why would a mysterious cursed duke have an estate named The Egg? Even you must admit it sounds a bit silly.”
“I suppose it does,” Petra agreed. “Perhaps he won't like me.”
“Unlikely. You are pretty as a picture.” Jemma didn't lie, Petra was lovely. Her pink taffeta gown fit her petite body to perfection with the modest neckline drawing discreet attention to Petra's full bosom. Pink satin ribbons wound through her dark golden hair and tiny pink diamond earrings danced from her ears. Petra's complexion was like cream, not one freckle or blemish marred it, unlike Jemma's own. Her cousin could dance exceedingly well, play the pianoforte, sing, embroider and speak perfect French. How in the world could the duke not find Petra suitable?
“Perhaps if you caught me a fish, or a rabbit for supper, now that would be something.”
“Stop it.” At the oddest times, she would hear Nick's voice, teasing her, making her ache with loss and the memory of her own foolishness.
Petra took back her hands, her eyes filled with hurt. “You do not need to chastise me, Jemma. I am not nearly as brave as you are.”
“I didn't mean you. I was speaking to myself. I am nervous, you see, to meet a duke. London fairly terrifies me after the quiet of Bermuda and your father's home in Essex,” Jemma lied smoothly, squeezing Petra's hand in apology.
Mollified, Petra flashed a brilliant smile. “It is rather exciting, though I don't at all wish to marry him. I've only seen him once and he's never spoken to me. He is quite handsome, in a rough sort of way, and very tall.”
Jemma took a deep breath, thinking again of Nick. “See? Not all bad then is it?”
“Well, there is his sister, Lady Arabella. She's a holy terror. I heard Mother whispering about it to one of her friends at tea. I shouldn't like having her as my sister-in-law,” Petra confided. “She's quite formidable.”
A knock came at the door and Anna poked in her head. “Lady Petra, Miss Jane Emily, I beg your pardon, but Lady Marsh requests your presence in the drawing room straightaway. His Grace will be here any moment.”
Petra sighed in resignation. “I suppose it is time for the lamb to go down.”
“Perhaps the duke will decide he doesn't care for lamb.” Jemma winked and linked arms with Petra, leading her cousin down the large curving staircase to the drawing room. She hugged Petra tightly to her, determined to help her cousin navigate the evening. It was the least she could do, for hadn't her uncle welcomed her into his home?
“I shall escort you myself, my lady. Your uncle has been in London for the last month on business, but is due to return to Essex. Hopefully we shall catch him before he departs,” Mr. Meechum, a bit flustered by her appearance in his offices, had taken a few moments to read the contents of a letter addressed to him in William Manning’s own hand. He’d pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to Jemma, smiled kindly as he did so. “You look as if you are about to weep, child. Don’t fear, forif Lord Marsh has left for the country, I will take you myself to Essex.” Mr. Meechum need not have worried for they were informed upon their arrival at the Marsh town home that Lord Marsh was still in residence.
The solicitor and she were settled in the drawing room to await Lord Marsh. Jemma dabbed repeatedly at her eyes, grateful for the handkerchief, not wishing to meet her family for the first time in tears. What if her uncle threw her out? Declined to acknowledge her? She need not have worried.
Lord Marsh entered the drawing room, the suspicion clear in his manner as he greeted Mr. Meechum and took the proffered letter from the solicitor. Jemma watched as her uncle regarded her with a shocked look. “Willie. You are Willie's daughter?” Her uncle's voice broke as he stood before her. “You look like Maureen.” Shaking his head in disbelief he wrapped his arms around her in a fierce paternal embrace. “Do not worry, niece,” he said as he pressed a kiss to the top of her head, “you are home now and safe.”
“Jemma.” Petra admonished as Jemma tripped on a step. “You very nearly took a tumble.” Petra held on to Jemma's arm firmly. “I fear you are a bit melancholy tonight, and I think your mind is elsewhere. You are missing Uncle William, aren't you?”
Jemma righted herself, grateful for her cousin's hold on her.
“It's all right,” Petra said softly. “It is hard to come out of mourning I expect, after wearing black for so long. Tonight is the first night you've been allowed some color and it's brought back your memories.” Her cousin pressed a kiss on her cheek. “You don't have to stay, of course, for the sacrificing.”
Hearing her cousin's joke, Jemma couldn’t help but laugh. “Oh, Petra. What would I do without you?”
“You will have to make do with me, I expect, after we've married Petra off to her cursed duke.” Rowan, Petra's older brother, announced from the bottom of the stairs. “What a pretty pair you two are. I shall have to fight suitors off of you, cousin, when I escort you about this Season.” He winked mischievously up at Jemma, his hazel eyes twinkling in delight. “But not Petra, of course, she'll likely be married before the Season starts and miss all the fun. She'll be busy having tea with Lady Dobson and her cronies while we're out dancing.”
“I do not find you amusing, Rowan.” Petra stuck out her tongue at her brother. “Lady Dobson is a horrid woman who I would not have tea with even were I married.”
Rowan flicked back a lock of dark brown hair absently as he held out both arms for she and Petra. “Perhaps the duke will simply turn you into a newt or something,” Rowan stated solemnly to his sister. “I’m told Lady Arabella can cast a spell with a crook of her pinky finger.”
Petra's fan lashed out, neatly smacking her brother on the arm. “Stop Rowan.”
“Rowan, leave Petra be.” Aunt Mary, her plump form clothed in dark blue silk, rushed forward. “Come, let us have a sherry in the drawing room while we wait for His Grace.” She pulled Petra away from Jemma and towards the seat before the pianoforte, “let’s have you sit right here.” She patted the plump cushion. “Play something.”
Petra thumped down on the bench, annoyance stamped on her pretty features. “I don't feel inspired.”
Jemma’s aunt arranged Petra's pink skirts to drape fetchingly over the pianoforte's bench. She pinched her daughter's cheeks.
“Ow.” Petra's gloved hand flew to her injured cheek. “Really, Mother.”
“Just tinkle the keys with your fingers, pet. Turn your face from the door so the duke can see your lovely profile.”
“Now, my dear, let me look at you.” She ran her eyes down Jemma's slim form. “The dark green suits you, I'm so thrilled to see you out of black and gray. The duke has many connections, niece, so you must make an impression as well. Think of yourself as a complement to your cousin until you are the centerpiece.”
Aunt Mary lifted her cheek to Rowan. “Thank you for being on time, scamp.”
Rowan pecked his mother's proffered cheek obediently. “Of course, Mother. I wouldn't miss Petra's big night.” He winked at his sister.
Petra hit a sour note on the pianoforte. “Do shut up, Rowan.”
Aunt Mary gave both her children a pained smile. “Rowan, why don't you and Jemma start a game of chess before dinner?” She commanded with a firm press of her lips.
Rowan walked Jemma across the drawing room to the family chess table while Petra half-heartedly plucked at the pianoforte's keys.
“Mother is a tyrant, isn't she?” Rowan whispered, taking care not to be overheard.
“No. Well a bit,” Jemma acknowledged with a grin.
“Wait until she decides to marry you off, Cousin. You may not find it so amusing,” Rowan cautioned her. “She'll have all manner of eligible men presented to you, after checking their pedigrees, of course.”
She thought of Nick and his questionable background. Would that Aunt Mary, Lady Marsh, had been able to research his connections. She could still feel his hands and the brush of his legs twisted about hers. Grieving over her father and the loss of her home these last months, she’d tried desperately to forget Nick Shepherd. Forgetting had been easier at her uncle’s estate in Essex. But her arrival in London seemed to remind her all over again of her flight from Bermuda and the reasons for it. Today had been particularly difficult and she struggled to push thoughts of him aside. Perhaps it was the thought of the Season and that some of the ton might actually know Nick. Could he be here, in London? Or had that been a lie as well?
“Jemma? Have I upset you?” Rowan signaled to a waiting servant for refreshments.
“No, of course not.”
“The feel of your nails through the fabric of my coat would lead me to think otherwise.” He pulled out her chair and waited for her to answer. When she didn't, he moved to the other side of the table.
“Who was he?” Rowan placed the pieces neatly on the chessboard.
“I’m afraid I don't know what you mean.” Jemma busied herself with settling her skirts about her.
“Your secret is safe with me, Cousin. Just don't ever tell Petra, she'll blab to Mother. Did you love him?”
Jemma lowered her eyes lest she give herself away.
Yes, I loved him. I still do, even after all he has done.
Rowan moved his pawn, watching her with a curious look.
Would she ever truly get over Nick? Each morning she awoke to the vague sense of loss, not just of her father and her life in Bermuda, but for Nick. As Anna dressed her for the day, she would tell herself how lucky she was that her indiscretion had not brought her a bastard to raise. Fortunate indeed that she had managed to escape Hamilton and the machinations of the Corbetts. As she sat at dinner, she would ignore the gnawing ache in her heart, discounting the loneliness and utter desolation that would bubble up before dessert was served. Lying in her bed at night she would finally allow herself to think of the day on the beach, then curse herself for still caring for the scoundrel.
“Perhaps there is hope?” her cousin said softly, nodding for her to take her turn.
“No.” She lifted her chin, steeling herself against the sense of loss and anger. “I’ll never see him again and it’s better I don’t.”
“I see.” His eyes darkened with concern. “I would not wish to meet him then, for I would take offense to anyone who has hurt you so. We will speak of it no more.”
Jemma moved her knight. “Thank you, Rowan.”
“I’ve met His Grace,” he deftly changed the subject. “In fact, I've played cards with him at White’s.”
“Have you?” Thankfully, her cousin decided to not question her further. “And how do you find him? I understand he's quite frightening.”
“You must stop listening to Petra. She's afraid of her own shadow.” Rowan stroked his chin in thought. “I would say that he is not a man you should cross and those that have, rarely live to tell the tale. He is reputed to be a wicked, damned man, capable of horrible things.”
“What sorts of wicked, horrible things?” Jemma was rather looking forward to meeting him. “That he's a witch?” At Rowan's frown she said, “And I didn't hear that only from Petra.”
“He's no witch, he just allows others to believe it. I think he finds it amusing for he is possessed of a dry wit and a sense of irony. As for his being damned, well that tale goes back to the time of Henry VII. The first duke allegedly married a witch—“
“Yes, Petra did tell me that part.” Jemma frowned as Rowan took her rook.
“—and together they supposedly made a pact with the Devil. The Dukes of Dunbar were to always retain their influence in court, but in return, they must always serve the Crown."
“Serve the Crown? In what way? You mean as administrators of some sort?”
Rowan said nothing for a moment, then he gave her a pointed look. “That is a question better for all not to ask.” He relaxed and shrugged his broad shoulders. “The marked one forfeits his or her soul. The Dunbars’ loyalty has never been questioned, save that one time.”
“And what happened?” Jemma found the entire tale to be quite diverting and scandalous. While she didn't wish Petra to be unhappy, the Duke of Dunbar certainly sounded mysterious and exciting.
“His Grace's father was suspected of treason, but the crime, or his innocence, has never been proven, though it matters little now.”
“Why?”
Rowan pursed his lips. “I should say no more, but,” he looked up at Lady Marsh who patrolled the door lest she hear him. “His parents died suddenly shortly after the entire affair."
“How terrible.”
“Yes. You've heard about his,” Rowan waved his fingers before his eyes, “affliction? That's the sign, of course, of his damnation.”
“Hogwash.” Jemma bit her lip and observed the board.
“I would have to agree, for His Grace has no shortage of female companions, is possessed of an enormous fortune, is a grand wit and can out box any man in London. He's also very lucky at cards. I wish I was so cursed.”
Jemma looked up at her cousin as she took his knight. “So he won't turn us all into toads then? Perhaps hex us if the quail is not to his liking?”
“I should think not,” Rowan pretended affront, but his eyes twinkled, “though his sister, Lady Arabella, is another story. A more contentious, ill-tempered woman I have yet to meet. It is not her brother nor the old allegations of treason that keep her unmarried." Rowan snorted. "Her dowry is the largest in London, yet any man who attempts to converse with her is cut to the quick by her tongue. I wish good luck to any man unfortunate enough to win her favor, though I can’t imagine she is possessed of any affection.”
“Really?” Jemma thought Rowan protested a bit too much. He'd already said more about Lady Arabella than she'd heard him say about any girl, including Lady Gwendolyn, the woman her uncle hoped Rowan would marry. “How unattractive she must be as well. Poor thing, she will likely never find a husband if that is the case.”
“On the contrary, she's quite beautiful, but she never smiles. Never.” Rowan's brow wrinkled in thought. “One would think she didn't know how.”
Jemma could not wait to meet the girl who caused her rakish cousin such concern. She opened her mouth to ask about Lady Arabella further, but the drawing room door opened suddenly. Startled, she dropped the chess piece she'd been about to play.
“His Grace, the Duke of Dunbar, Lady Arabella, and Lady Cupps-Foster,” Jacobs, the Marsh butler intoned.
Jemma leaned down to reach for the chess piece where it lay beneath the table. Stretching her arm, her fingers ran over the floor for the piece.
"Jemma.” Rowan stood. “Get out from beneath there. His Grace has arrived. He's greeting my parents and Petra.”
Jemma grabbed the chess piece, smiling in satisfaction. “I’ve got you.” She tried to discreetly make her way out but succeeded only in butting her head against the bottom of the table. “Bloody hell that hurts.”
“Your Grace, Lady Arabella,” she heard Rowan say. “May I present my cousin—”
Jemma did not straighten, instead she gracefully dipped into an immediate curtsy and lowered her eyes, pasting a polite smile on her lips. She hid the chess piece in the folds of her skirt and ignored her throbbing head as she slowly stood to greet His Grace, the Duke of Dunbar.
“—Miss Jane Emily Grantly," Rowan said solemnly, bowing slightly to the duke and his sister.
Jemma looked up at the duke. The chess piece fell from her fingers and scuttled under the sofa. Her vision dimmed as if she were viewing the duke through a long tunnel, and she couldn't seem to take a breath. The room tilted, as did she, her knees buckling and her feet sliding across the floor.
His Grace reached for her, as did Rowan. The last thought Jemma had before she fainted for the first time in her life was that Nick wasn't wearing his eye-patch.
