Devil of a Duke by Kathleen Ayers

3

Nick surveyed the group of what constituted Hamilton’s society from his seat next to his hostess, Lady Corbett. As the capital city of Bermuda, Hamilton was the Governor’s seat and the populace tried desperately to keep up appearances so far from home.

The table, a long, carved affair made of heavy dark wood, stretched nearly the entire length of the cavernous dining room, easily seating the twenty or so people present. The women were all dressed in bright colors—pinks, greens and yellows. Hibiscus and orchids were placed strategically in several of the lady’s coiffures, no doubt plucked from their very own gardens.

The men, many of them round and plump, sat sweating in clothes made for a much colder climate. Their faces were red and blustering, both from the heat and too much rum. Rum punch, Nick noted, was being poured as much as wine at the Governor's table, not unusual considering Hamilton was a port of call in the rum trade. Nick lifted a glass of punch to his lips.

“Mr. Shepherd?” The women to his right twittered his name

Nick struggled to remember who she was, though he’d been introduced to her just before dinner. “Miss Sinclair,” he recalled with relief.

Miss Sinclair’s homely face beamed back at him.

"I fear you’ve not heard a word I’ve said, Mr. Shepherd. Perhaps I am boring you with my tale?” Miss Sinclair pouted, making her even more homely, if that were possible.

“My apologies, wool gathering,” Nick said smoothly. “You were saying?"

Miss Sinclair giggled, showing a bit of discolored teeth. “I was just wondering how long you planned on being in Bermuda?” She cut into her fish, forking a bit of the white flesh, and reaching out with her tongue to take the fish into her mouth. She chewed slowly and seductively, watching Nick with eager eyes.

Dear God but the woman was forward. Nick hadn’t blushed since he was a lad, but he nearly did now. Clearly, the ladies of Bermuda wished to be caught by any male, fortune hunter or not.

“Now Bertha,” Lady Corbett intoned from Nick's other side. “Stop peppering Mr. Shepherd with questions. He's only just arrived to our fair isle. I’d venture he’s made no plans to leave just yet. Have you Mr. Shepherd?”

Lady Corbett winked at Nick as if they were co-conspirators.

He smiled politely at his hostess. Lady Corbett was nothing if not ambitious. When Nick appeared on the Governor's doorstep nearly a week ago, with his letter of introduction clutched in his hand, she’d welcomed him as if he were a long lost relative. Just as he suspected she would. The Governor's wife, the avarice clear as she clutched his letter of introduction from the Dowager Marchioness of Cambourne, could not wait to invite him to stay at their estate. In fact, she practically begged to install him in the guest wing. Apparently Dorthea, the Corbett’s daughter, had married the second son of Lord Jennings. The pursing of Lady Corbett's lips told Nick that Dorthea's marriage did not meet her mother's expectations. Desperate to further her daughter's social standing, she was asking him to write to the Dowager Marchioness on Dorthea's behalf before Nick's tea went cold. Governor Lord Corbett, however, was more restrained in his welcome.

Nick's host sat at the opposite end of the dinner table stuffing oysters into his mouth, a stray wisp of gray hair flopping over his forehead. He laughed loudly at something the man to his right said and caught Nick observing him.

The Governor frowned slightly, drawing the deep wrinkles surrounding his mouth into a look of distaste. He chewed the oysters slowly, the jowls around his cheeks wiggling wildly as if a small animal were trapped within the folds. He regarded Nick coldly before taking another sip of punch. Turning his attention back to the table he proceeded to ignore his unwanted guest but continued to watch Nick beneath hooded eyes.

No, Nick decided, Governor Lord Corbett did not particularly like Nick Shepherd. Not a bit.

Nick didn’t care.

Lady Corbett's need to curry the favor of one of London's premiere hostesses for her daughter overruled any of her husband’s objections in regards to their houseguest. Nick could stay with the Corbett’s as long as he liked, which suited his purposes completely.

The man to the Governor's right stopped laughing once he saw the direction of his host's gaze. An older, slightly balding man, his face florid with drink, barely gave Nick a glance before taking a sip of his rum punch. The cup trembled against his lips as his eyes slid away from Nick’s face.

A stocking-clad feminine foot ran up his calf. Nick jerked suddenly in surprise, nearly knocking his chair over.

Agnes Sinclair, twin sister to the woman next to him shot him a seductive look from across the table. “Mr. Shepherd, are you all right? Do you find it warm in here?” Agnes leaned forward. “I certainly do.” She strived to contort her homely face, identical to her sister’s, into seduction.

A lone gazelle pinned down by two lionesses would have been more comfortable than Nick was in that moment. As practiced as he was in the art of seduction, being stalked by the Sinclair sisters was something he wasn’t accustomed to.

Someone giggled at his discomfort. The feminine giggle was followed by a brief, unladylike snort.

No one but Nick seemed to notice. He swung his one-eyed gaze down the table and spotted a girl sitting next to Augustus Corbett, his host's son. Brilliants danced in her golden-brown hair as her slender shoulders shook with barely contained laughter.

Nick’s lips drew together. His plight apparently held amusement for one of Lady Corbett’s dinner guests.

Without looking up at him, she quickly pulled herself back behind Corbett's shoulder, hiding all but one slender forearm.

Not many people, and certainly no young ladies, ever mocked Nick. He'd been gossiped about all his life, had a few bibles thrown at him and Lady Withers, a Catholic, had discreetly sprinkled his jacket with holy water once, but no one made fun of the Devil of Dunbar.

Except the lad that rescued him outside the Green Parrot.

Nick turned his attention back to his dinner companions, two of Bermuda’s most determined spinsters, identical twin sisters. He’d always imagined a pair of twins fighting for his affections, though the twins in his fantasies didn’t even remotely resemble the plain and quite homely Sinclair sisters. “The weather, Miss Sinclair, is quite unlike what I am used to. I suppose it is a bit warm for me.”

“Perhaps it's not the weather,” Agnes Sinclair whispered from across the table, her pronounced lisp ruining any chance to sound remotely seductive.

No, it was definitely the weather since it was most assuredly not the roaming foot of Agnes Sinclair, which even now was inching back up his leg. Dear God. She put the whores in London to shame. “I suppose," he said flirtatiously hoping to draw out the giggling girl again, “that it could be something else.”

Agnes Sinclair’s cheeks pinked immediately. She batted her eyelashes at him and sat, arching her back so that the small bit of bosom she possessed thrust forward at him. Her sister, Bertha, ran a hand down his thigh.

Nick shifted in his chair, a false smile pasted on his face as he wondered if the twins would attempt to molest him through the meat course.

He heard it again, even over a loud discussion about the salt trade taking place to his left. Nick didn’t turn his head, he merely slid his glance down the table. This time, he saw her clearly as she seemed to be so overcome with hilarity, she neglected to hide herself.

The girl bit her lip to keep from laughing out loud, but every so often an amused snort escaped her lips. Obviously, she found his plight humorous beyond belief. Her shoulders continued to rock as she attempted to contain herself. A lock of light brown hair loosened and bounced to her shoulder.

That stray lock seemed familiar.

Augustus Corbett leaned in and shushed the girl, no doubt voicing his disapproval at her antics.

Nick had several encounters with Augustus Corbett during his brief stay at the Governor’s mansion and thought the younger man a terrible stick in the mud.

The girl promptly sat back again, her laughter silenced.

“Tell me, Mr. Shepherd.” Governor Lord Corbett's voice boomed from the far end of the room. “How you came to land on our fair shores. Surely with a connection to the esteemed Dowager Marchioness of Cambourne, opportunities would abound closer to home.”

Twenty pairs of eyes turned to Nick as the table grew quiet in anticipation of his answer.

Agnes Sinclair’s foot ceased its roving.

Lady Corbett frowned at her husband and stabbed at her fish.

“True, true,” Nick stated nonchalantly in a respectful tone. “I wish, my lord to thank you first for your enormous generosity.”

“Hear, hear!” The entire table lifted their goblets in toast.

Lord Corbett didn't flinch or acknowledge the compliment. He narrowed his eyes at Nick, waiting for a response.

Nick drained his glass and regarded his host. “The Dowager Marchioness is a distant cousin on my mother's side,” Nick lied glibly. “My parents, God rest their souls, died when I was only a lad. The Dowager was kind enough to offer me assistance.”

Well, at least that's true. Donata Reynolds, the Dowager Marchioness of Cambourne, had offered him assistance as a lad. She often gave him a place to stay when Nick was on the outs with Henry, his grandfather. She knew him quite well, Nick being the closest friend of her grandson, Sutton. Only she knew of his purpose in coming to Bermuda and wrote Nick his false introduction letter without a qualm.

“Indeed?” Lord Corbett speared a bit of plantain on his fork.

“The Dowager was quite generous with me. She insisted that perhaps I should go on an adventure and make a name for myself. Be my own man.”

The Sinclair twins glowed with rapt attention.

Lady Corbett smiled.

Lord Corbett merely raised a brow. "I see. Related on your father’s side are you?”

The Governor sought to trip Nick up. “Sorry, sir. The Dowager Marchioness and I are related on my mother’s side,” Nick said smoothly. “She loved my mother dearly and despaired at her death. Lady Cambourne, knowing that I wished to be my own man and not live at her largesse, directed me to Bermuda. She spent some time here as a young woman and remembered the people of Hamilton quite fondly.”

Lady Corbett gasped in happy surprise at Nick's comment and clapped her pudgy hands together. Her desire to become an acquaintance of the Dowager's was akin to a thirsty man's want of water.

Several people at the table nodded in approval at Nick's words.

The sisters Sinclair both looked at Nick greedily, he could almost hear their minds whirling with scenarios in which they could compromise themselves at his expense.

“Interesting, no doubt that dear lady visited long ago.” Governor Lord Corbett bit into a roll. “Before my time.”

“Yes, my lord. The Dowager is quite elderly. I don't believe she travels out of London much these days.”

“Of course,” the Governor intoned.

Lady Corbett pursed her lips and stared down the long table with admonishment at her husband. She clutched her knife so tightly, Nick worried that she was poised to fling it down the table into her spouse's chest.

Nick nodded to a passing servant to refill his glass. “She suggested I look into purchasing property in Bermuda, perhaps an estate whose owners wished to return to London. I feel certain I could prosper here. Her ladyship was very generous with me.” He annunciated the word generous, which elicited another sigh from Agnes Sinclair.

The man next to Governor Lord Corbett smiled, reminding Nick of a drunken elf.

Lord Corbett did not smile, instead he raised his glass to his lips and continued to regard Nick over the rim of fine crystal.

“You shall stay as long as you like, Mr. Shepherd.” Lady Corbett shot her husband a quelling glance.

“The Dowager will be most appreciative of your kindness to me, my lady. I thank you.” Nick bowed his head and considered the man sitting next to Governor Corbett. He assumed Governor Lord Corbett to be his quarry, but perhaps Nick was mistaken, for Lord Corbett’s friend appeared to listen to Nick’s speech with more than polite interest and his hand continued to tremble as he popped a piece of bread into his mouth.

The expensive cut of the man's clothes and the rubies winking at his wrists marked him as wealthy. The laugh lines around his mouth and the plumpness of his face suggested he was happy, well fed and had not a care in the world. His manner with Lord Corbett was relaxed and lacking in artifice, so the two men were close friends.

Nick was perceptive, sometimes so perceptive that his observations were taken to be a form of mind reading or witchcraft. Neither was true, but given Nick’s status as the Devil of Dunbar, it seemed convenient to allow the ton to believe it for their misconception instilled a healthy dose of respect for the his family.

The man stared back at Nick and drained his glass of drink. The goblet came back down to the table slowly and the man’s eyes widened, a smile frozen on his lips as if something important to him had just been remembered.

He recognizes me.Even with the eye-patch, somehow he knows me.

Nick had come to Bermuda to find the traitorous bastard who dared to steal a packet of papers from the Duke of Dunbar’s home during a house party when Nick was barely a lad. The documents were the property of the duke and contained a list of English spies embedded in France. Locations and names were noted. Treason, apparently not enough of a heinous crime for the thief, also arranged the evidence of the theft so that blame would fall on an innocent man, Nick's father, the duke’s heir. Whoever the true mastermind was, he had much to answer for—the death of loyal Englishmen, Nick's parents and of course the taint of treason which sullied his family.

The last offense nearly trumped the other two as the loyalty of the Duke of Dunbar and his family had never fallen into question. The Duke of Dunbar served the Crown. Always.

Nick focused his attention on the man sitting next to the Governor. Who was he?

Every guest who attended that ill fated party, every man who had dealings with Nick’s father had been carefully tracked down and questioned by Nick. None proved to be the man he sought. Frustrated at not finding the true culprit, Nick's search returned to one man. Lord Corbett. A man who he originally disregarded because Corbett sent a note of regret that he couldn’t attend the party. He was leaving London immediately to assume the Governorship of Bermuda.

The man sitting next to Governor Lord Corbett looked up at Nick, then quickly looked away.

Nick's sixth sense tingled. The Governor’s friend fairly reeked of fear. Perhaps Corbett was not the person he sought after all.

* * *

Jemma resistedthe urge to yawn as she listened to Augie chatter on about the latest news from his sister Dorthea. Composing her features into a look of attentiveness, she nodded and interjected at the appropriate times, feigning interest. She couldn’t care less what Lady Whatshername wore to Lord WhoCares’ fete in the country. Or how Dorthea adored the creamed truffles that Lady Something served at the one dinner party Dorthea attended in London. Augie, his face a bit red from drink, and his dark brown hair flopping over a brow, cheerfully described every detail to her.

Lady Corbett ushered the remainder of her guests into the drawing room after dinner, disregarding the custom of the gentlemen having brandy and cigars, to announce a game of charades. She clung to Nick Shepherd's arm, leading him about the room and introducing him to the dinner guests.

What in the world was that man doing at the Governor's?

Jemma and her father arrived a bit late, in time only to be ushered in for dinner. Nodding her head in greeting to several of the guests, her breath caught as she saw the large form of Mr. Nick Shepherd seated next to Lady Corbett at the far end of the table.

Good Lord! Her heart beat faster and she felt giddy at the sight of him, seated amongst Lady Corbett and the Sinclair sisters. During the soup course she admired him as the glint of red in his hair caught in the candlelight and his coat stretched across the breadth of his shoulders. A warmth spilled through her as she attempted to concentrate on her soup even as she reminded herself of the man’s arrogance. When the Sinclair sisters began to flirt madly with him, she smiled, thinking how appropriate that a fortune hunter should fall prey to Agnes and Bertie. When Agnes Sinclair, true to form, nearly attacked him over the fish course, Jemma simply couldn't contain her mirth.

Now he circled the room with the Governor's wife, greeting wealthy merchants and their wives cordially and with the grace and manners of the upper class. The limited society of Hamilton swirled about Nick Shepherd, the attractive, well connected stranger in their midst. Every woman present either approached the man for an introduction or forced her husband into Nick Shepherd's orbit. Connections to those in the ton were highly sought, and Nick Shepherd, according to the letter of introduction, had them. He never once looked her way.

Jemma was relieved. Wasn’t she?

“There is Mother, leading about our house guest.” Augie frowned, his brown eyes narrowed with dislike. "I don't know why mother is so fascinated with the man. I suppose she hopes that if she treats him well, the Dowager will invite Dorthea to tea in London. Dottie’s husband is only a barrister in Yorkshire. He needs all the assistance Mother can provide.”

“Even the vicar's wife is behaving like a silly school girl.” Jemma nodded towards a portly woman who extended her beefy hand to Nick Shepherd, giggling as she did so. “I find this entire display a bit ridiculous. Bertie Sinclair nearly wedged herself into the man's lap while the chocolate tarts were served. Agnes leaned so far across the table her bodice nearly burst apart on the cheese tray. Why didn’t you mention you had a houseguest?”

Augie shrugged. “I find him of no import. He’s common.”

“Common?” Jemma questioned, thinking that was the last word she would use to describe Nick Shepherd. He seemed the most uncommon man she’d ever met. “He’s a bit too self assured. He—” Augie twisted his lips, “acts as if we are below him somehow. I don’t suppose I like it. Not one bit. My father’s the Governor, after all. Ah. Here they come. Mother and her new pet.”

Jemma thought Augie sounded more than a little put out that all of his mother’s attention wasn’t focused on him.

Augie wrapped his fingers about Jemma's arm possessively. “Behave yourself and do not antagonize Mother.”

Jemma stiffened at the mention of Lady Corbett. A woman she could not please no matter what she did.

Lady Corbett beamed as she pranced about on Nick Shepherd’s arm as if she were the belle of the ball.

Mr. Shepherd appeared enchanted with the Governor's wife. Towering over his petite, plump hostess, he allowed her to lead him around, matching his longer strides to her practiced, mincing steps.

An unexpected jolt of anticipation slid up Jemma's spine as Mr. Shepherd neared.

“My dear Augustus," Lady Corbett's face beamed with pride as she lifted a plump cheek for his kiss.

Augie obediently pecked his mother’s cheek and nodded in greeting to Shepherd but did not release his hold on Jemma. “Mr. Shepherd. Did you enjoy dinner?”

“Magnificent.” The deep voice rumbled as the brilliant blue gaze fell on Jemma.

“And this is our dear Jane Emily, daughter of our great friend William Manning.” Lady Corbett lay a gloved hand on Jemma's arm while pressing her cheek to Jemma’s. “My dear,” she whispered in Jemma's ear. “I will have my maid send over some of my special lotion for those hideous freckles tomorrow. I did not realize how out of hand they had become.”

Jemma barely heard her. All she saw was Nick Shepherd.

Mr. Shepherd bowed, but not before his incredibly inappropriate gaze slid over the whole of Jemma's form, lingering on her bosom.

Bits of fire lit her skin where his eye touched her body. Her skin tingled and prickled with warmth.

“Miss Manning, a pleasure.” He took Jemma's hand in his own, his touch causing a flame of sensation to run up her arm. He pressed a seemingly polite kiss across the knuckles of her outstretched hand, his lips lingering a bit too long before reluctantly releasing her.

Augie blew out a small puff of annoyance and clutched Jemma’s arm tighter.

She ignored Augie. Indeed, Augie and his anxious puffing, as well as everyone in the room, faded into insignificance until only Nick Shepherd remained. Was that the tip of his tongue that glanced against her knuckles?

Shepherd straightened, and inclining his head politely he said, "Your servant, Miss Manning." The brilliant blue gaze again lingered on her bodice, seeming to dip down into the valley between her breasts.

Dumfounded at his attention, she swayed a bit on her feet and her pulse raced. The hammering of her heart was so loud she wondered if he could hear it. His presence caused her world to tip, threatening to upend her, just as it had that day behind the Green Parrot.

“Mr. Shepherd.” She nodded, pulling her hand from his grasp to hide her burning knuckles in the fold of her skirts. She told her heart to slow. “A pleasure.”

“How did you find dinner, Miss Manning?” The full lips quirked into a half smile as he tilted his head slightly.

The voices of the other guests receded into the background, becoming no more than a distant hum. What would happen if she reached out to run her fingers over that mocking grin? Or touched the dark hair that curled about his shoulders, the red highlights glinting like copper. Jemma’s hand twitched in response to her thoughts, and she had to forcibly restrain herself.

“Delicious.” The words left her mouth in a seductive whisper. What in the world was wrong with her? “I found dinner, delicious.”

Augie stopped talking to his mother and turned to look at her, his mouth hardening in disapproval as he heard her tone. He pulled her against him.

Lady Corbett thankfully, didn't notice the exchange. She was far too busy inspecting the Sinclair sisters as the pair drew close. Agnes, in particular, seemed the focus of her attention.

“Ah,” Nick Shepherd said softy. “I would have thought you found it,” he hesitated briefly, the whiskey notes of his voice purring over her body, “amusing.”

“Indeed?” Jemma did not look away from that brilliant blue gaze. She was entranced, enthralled at the way he regarded her.

“There you are Mr. Shepherd.” Agnes ignored Lady Corbett’s frown of disapproval and marched over. Sparing Jemma a nod of victory, she and her sister came about him on either side, each winding about him like an ivy plant gone mad. Agnes batted her eyelashes wildly while Bertha got as close as she could, fitting against him like a barnacle.

Jemma blinked, the shrill voice of Agnes bringing her abruptly back to reality.

“Have you heard, Jemma,” Agnes said, her voice high like an excited child. “About Mr. Shepherd's nearly being robbed of his purse when he first arrived? How brave he was.’ A hand flew to her meager bosom dramatically.

“Jemma?” Shepherd raised a dark brow, his look intent upon her.

“Well, yes,” Agnes tweeted. “Forgive me, Mr. Shepherd. We are so much less formal in Bermuda. I meant to say Miss Manning.” She giggled, tightening her hold on his arm.

“Jemma is a nickname.” She lifted her chin defiantly. “Short for Jane Emily.”

“I see.” He seemed obscenely pleased with himself.

Jemma tilted her head in acknowledgement, knowing at that moment he did indeed recognize her as Jem, the boy outside the Green Parrot.

“An unusual name to be sure. Not common.” His gaze flickered again to the tops of her breasts. “I’ve met only one other with a name similar.” The wide mouth broke into a smug smile.

Jemma stood her ground, refusing to look away. Must he look so pleased? The dark head inclined again. “A pleasure.”

“Come, Mr. Shepherd, we wish you to be on our side for charades." Bertha cooed.

“Yes,” Agnes parroted her sister. “Come Mr. Shepherd.” She ran her fingers over his forearm and batted her lashes at the man.

Someone really must tell Agnes she looks most unattractive when she flutters her lashes, like she's having a fit of apoplexy.

Jemma nodded politely, somehow disappointed that Mr. Shepherd hadn’t made more of their previous meeting. Ridiculous, of course. As the trio turned away, the sound of the Sinclair sisters giggling forced Jemma to grit her teeth in annoyance.

Augie waited until the Sinclairs and Mr. Shepherd were out of earshot. “I don't like him.” Raising his glass to his lips, he drained down the wine in one swallow and waved down a passing servant for another.

“Yes,” Jemma agreed automatically as she watched Mr. Shepherd walk away. “You find him common.”

A mean look crossed Augie’s boyish features. “Yes, common. Perhaps, even a bit vulgar. Only his connections make him remotely appealing. What woman finds an eye-patch attractive? I suppose.” His voice was peevish. “The Sinclair sisters are just pleased to find a suitor, even one as ill-bred as Mr. Shepherd.”

Jemma seemed fixated on the messy bit of dark curl that brushed against his shoulders as he led the Sinclair sisters confidently around the room. Did all London gentlemen wear their hair so unfashionably long?

“And his audacity.” Augie continued. “I did not care for the way he admired you. Why, we are practically engaged.” Augie thrust out his chest as if about to do battle. His hair, a dull shade of brown when compared to Mr. Shepherd’s, flopped over his forehead and he pushed it away in agitation.

“We are not yet betrothed,” she said, her attention drawn away from her thoughts of Mr. Shepherd. “I have not given my consent.” Everyone assumed she would marry Augie, and she likely would, but just now, the notion of marrying the man who stood next to her fairly bristling with petulance, filled her with annoyance.

Augie took back her hand, squeezing gently. “Cease with this nonsense, Jemma. This is what we both want. What everyone wants.” He spoke to her as if she were a wayward child. “It’s been decided.”

Jemma snatched her hand away. “Not by me.”

Augie shook his head sadly. “Your father has overindulged you and allowed you too much freedom. This headstrong attitude will change once we are married. No more riding about shooting pistols and the like. It's made you much too opinionated. Mother says—”

“I don't care what your mother says,” Jemma said in a heated whisper, not wishing to draw attention. “Nor do I care for your highhandedness.”

Augie sputtered a bit, acting as if she'd doused him with icy water.

“My father has said I may decide. Not you. Not Lady Corbett.”

“Don’t be upset, my love,” Augie said in a soothing tone “We have been promised to each other since we were barely out of the nursery. Must you be so stubborn?” He gave her an adoring smile, stroking her forearm with the tip of his finger. “We are meant to be together.”

Annoyance. Irritation. Those were the feelings Augie inspired in her, especially at this moment. Shouldn’t she feel more than annoyance towards the man she was to wed? Augie was sweet, kind and boring. “I need some air.” She put her hand up to stop Augie as he moved closer. “Alone.”

“You are behaving poorly. Mother will no doubt—”

Jemma spun on her heel as he mentioned Lady Corbett again and walked swiftly out of the drawing room before Augie could protest further.