Devil of a Duke by Kathleen Ayers
5
What an unexpected evening.
Nick stretched out on the mattress in his guest room and felt the quake of the bed beneath him. He struggled to get comfortable, sighing in frustration as the frame creaked loudly, protesting his weight. His feet hung over the edge, the bed being built for someone of lesser stature. Governor Lord Corbett struck Nick as a bit of an ass, in addition to his other sins. While Lady Corbett considered Nick an honored guest, Lord Corbett probably instructed the staff to find the shortest bed available. No matter. Nick wasn't sleepy.
He blinked both eyes, relieved to be rid of the eye-patch if only for the night. He hated the heat on this island, detested the bugs, in fact, there wasn't much he liked in Bermuda. But he made a promise. A promise to his grandfather, Henry. A promise that lay upon Nick’s broad shoulders like the heaviest of weights.
“I would know the name of the man who dared to steal documents from the Duke of Dunbar.”
Nick wondered, in his youth, why his grandfather would have a secret list of English spies tucked into a false bottomed drawer of the desk in his study. He knew now, of course, and wished he did not. He could still see Henry pounding on the long, wooden table that graced the dining room, startling the servants and causing Nick’s sister to flee the room.
“The taint of treason. Your parents are dead because of some sniveling coward. I would have that man’s name!”
Actually, Nick thought his parents weren’t dead because of the traitor, they were dead because of being drunk and stupid. Phillip and Charlotte were both given to drink and gambling and shared an appetite for handsome stable boys. His parents’ debts were enormous before Henry cut them off from the Dunbar fortune. Nick had been sailing a toy boat in the park with his nanny when Phillip accidentally shot Charlotte, then himself, with a hunting rifle.
Henry took the news of his son’s death much better than he did the slur against the Dunbar name. He extracted a promise from Nick. “Find the man before I die. I would curse him and his descendants. I would take all from him that he took from me.”
“William Manning. Though I doubt that was the name he was born with.” Nick scratched at a bite on his arm. How did one live in Bermuda with the incessant biting insects?
Manning proved to be polite, charming and nothing more than a content, wealthy, merchant. Full of rum punch, Manning nervously regaled Nick with small talk of his years in the salt trade, which made him wealthy beyond comprehension. He mentioned his delightful daughter, Jane Emily. Jane Emily who was the future betrothed of Augustus Corbett. But, Nick noticed, Manning's eyes looked to the side as he spoke and his hand trembled.
Nick shifted on the bed, rubbing his left eye.
Jane Emily Manning. The girl who found his pursuit by the Sinclair sisters to be so amusing. She could be useful.
Then he saw her.
Slender and willowy, she stood across the drawing room from him, Augustus Corbett’s fingers wrapped possessively about her elbow. She had a reckless, stubborn look to her, which Nick immediately seized upon. The cream of her gown enhanced the unfashionable tan of her skin, a color not unlike molten honey. He saw the spray of freckles dancing across her cheeks and the sparkle of green in her hazel eyes. Dozens of brilliants danced across her bodice and in her light brown hair. She held a glass carelessly in one hand.
The sight of her, standing thus, sent a bolt of lust through Nick the likes of which he’d never felt before.
Lady Corbett, clinging to Nick’s arm, stopped in front of the pair and made introductions.
Jane Emily's eyes widened at the sight of him.
The spark, unexpected and intense, as he touched her hand, caused a curious sensation in Nick. He likened it to a craving, an instant need for the girl. The revelation that followed, that Jane Emily Manning was also Jem, only intensified Nick’s lust. He'd had many beautiful, sensuous partners, but none that he might have to disarm in order to bed. He thought of nothing but those long legs, clad in breeches, while the Sinclair sisters swirled about him in the drawing room. He behaved badly. Instead of flirting with her as he meant to do on the Governor's terrace, he'd nearly thrown up her skirts and taken her against a garden trellis.
The future ruination of Jane Emily, for he’d already decided he’d have her, would certainly qualify as revenge. If indeed Manning was the man he sought. And Nick thought he was.
Manning was not a name Nick knew from searching his grandfather’s papers, only the name Corbett. But perhaps he should be looking for two men instead of one.
Nick laced his hands behind his head. He needed to be sure. Absolutely, sure. The Crown had promised to look the other way were the traitor to disappear, even if that man proved to be the Governor of Bermuda. Of course, there was the possibility that Manning and Corbett would try to have him killed.
Nick rubbed the Devil's ring on his thumb. The pewter, worn and pitted with age, felt cool against his skin. He nearly didn't wear it to Bermuda, but the ring had not been seen in over thirty years, and it was unlikely anyone would recognize it. Besides, the ring gave him an odd sense of comfort. He’d received the token just prior to leaving for Bermuda, upon the death of an elderly aunt, the last Devil of Dunbar. She died insane and hidden away at a distant estate.
“I will likely suffer a similar fate,” Nick said as he squashed another mosquito. “We Dunbars are cursed, though only I am truly damned.”
Damned. Even the gypsy knew of his fate. Three boys, drunk on whisky Colin stole from his father. The bullying never ended at Eton, but that day had been particularly bad. Colin and Cam each bore the bruises to prove it. The headmaster did not care to intervene on either boy's behalf. Nick himself, was taunted daily, only his size keeping the other boys at bay.
They say your mother screamed when she saw your eyes. My mother says she started drinking that very day and never stopped. Your father was a traitor, sold out his own country to pay his gambling debts.
Poor Colin, the smallest of the three, had been kicked into a mud puddle and pelted with refuse before all three ran into the woods, Colin drunkenly leading the way.
Who saw the gypsy first?
The gypsy read Cam's palm and the fortune she gave him was so near the truth of his life, he remained white-faced and terrified until they left the old hag's camp. Colin, drunk on what couldn't have been more than a thimbleful of whisky, lay in the grass. Colin was given a fortune, though Nick doubted his friend remembered the words the gypsy spoke.
Nick's fortune came last.
"We share an ancestor." The gypsy, shriveled and old, smelling of horses and garlic, winked at Nick. She turned his head back and forth between her withered hands. “The Devil's curse still lives.”
Nick pushed her filthy hands from his face. “Nothing you can say will frighten me. I am already damned.” Full of the arrogance and assurance of youth he lifted his head and looked the crone right in the eye.
The gypsy laughed, a deep hacking sound that left spittle on her cracked lips. Her mouth twisted into an evil grin. “Yes, yes. But not until your relative dies and the curse is passed.”
“How do you know about us?” Nick asked, his voice shaking.
“Oh, my Wicked.” Her eyes took on a dreamy quality as she took his hand and forced it open to gaze at his palm. “You will kill the very thing you love most in this world. That is why you are damned.”
Cam, frightened after his own fortune, took the bottle of whisky from Colin and drank deeply. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and jerked his head towards the school. “Nick lets just go. We'll carry Colin. Let's just go.”
But Nick was not leaving. He would hear it all. “Your prophecy doesn't frighten me, for I already know it.”
“But you do not, my Wicked.” Her eyes, bright like dark bits of glass were cold. Nick felt the creep of her yellowed nails against his thigh.“The sins of the fathers will revisit upon the children. You will know unimaginable grief. Grief so unbearable you will wish to die from it. Grief of your own making.”
Nick's eyes snapped open, the clearing in the deep woods and the smell of the gypsy's fire still stinging his nostrils. Sweat trickled down his armpits and stomach. He thought of Jem, and the need to have her, a need not entirely motivated by revenge. The traitor's daughter. Nick, unlike his friends, did believe in prophecy. Prophecy and witchcraft were woven into the very fabric of his family. He rubbed the Devil's ring on his thumb and closed his eyes.
But sleep did not come for a very long time.
