The Duke’s Twin Lust by Lorena Owen

Chapter Twenty-Three

Michael was riding around the grounds again, and Ernest had to admit the boy was getting better with time.

It was the next day, and Ernest was watching Michael from his window, noting the way his wife and sister were cheering him on. It was almost impossible, but it seemed that Rebecca and Christiana were finally friends. He could hear the sounds of their high-pitched laughter, and he had also seen them leaning close together, whispering.

Ernest had wanted very much to leave his study and join them, especially since it would involve seeing Christiana again. But he had been occupied by other thoughts. The most pressing concern he had was the fire. Not only did he not have any idea of who had started it, he had also discovered that the estate could not bear the costs of the fields that had burned.

The past few days had been terrible.

It was in times like this that Ernest wished his father were till alive. He did not think he could handle all of this by himself. He needed someone to draw advice from, someone to help him get through it. But a quick search through his mind brought no results.

He looked back at the window, where Michael was now being helped off his horse by stable boys. A name came quickly to him: Christiana. She was smarter than most of the people he knew, and she was ready to help. She was also the duchess, and Ernest did not much believe in assigning duchies to only feminine duties. She deserved to be briefed on the situation of things in the manor.

He turned away from the window, intending to go out to fetch her, but before he had taken a single step, there was a knock at the door.

“Come in,” Ernest said.

It was Paul. “Your Grace, the estate manager is here.”

Ernest gave a single nod. Mr Boyle strode into the room, looking as distinguished as ever with the white and black streaks on his hair.

“Your Grace,” he said with a short bow. “I have good news.”

“You do?” Ernest said skeptically. Unless Mr Boyle announced he could figure out the poor estate’s finances, Ernest very much doubted he cared what the news was.

“I have discovered who was responsible for the fire,” Mr Boyle said.

Ernest’s head shot up. “Who?” he asked immediately.

“It was a gaming hell owner by the name of Bruce Kaplan, Your Grace,” Mr Boyle replied.

Ernest’s eyes narrowed in confusion. “I do not believe I know this man.”

“You wouldn’t,” Mr Boyle said shortly. “But I assure you that his reputation preceeds him. He is a wild man, Your Grace. As a lad, he was involved in more bar fights than every other man in his county combined, and rumour has it that he has bedded all the whores in every county you can think of.”

Ernest raised his brows. “I have no interest in his social life, Boyle.”

“I understand, Your Grace,” Mr Boyle said. “However, I have to warn you, you should expect opposition when you confront this man.”

Ernest gave a tight nod. “Wait a minute,” he said after a moment. “Bruce, did you say?”

The solicitor nodded.

“I once heard the maids gossiping about one Bruce. They say he has a big…” Ernest stopped abruptly, unwilling to repeat what he had heard. “I might know of him. But why would he start a fire on my lands? We have never crossed paths before.”

“I cannot answer that, Your Grace,” Mr Boyle admitted. “All I do know is that one of his men was arrested, and his man looks very much like a man that was found near the fire.”

Ernest sighed. “You have been very helpful,” he said. “Thank you, Mr Boyle.”

Boyle bowed again and retreated. Ernest turned back to the mirror. Michael appeared to have gotten tired of riding, as Ernest could see no sign of the boy or his sister and his wife. He ran his hand through his hair. According to the maids, this Bruce was a leader of the London underworld.

Ernest had been taught by his father to avoid unsavoury men like this, but he knew that he had no choice now. Bruce had deliberately picked a fight with him, and as a duke, it was Ernest’s responsibility to make sure the death of the Highsmiths were avenged.

There came another knock at the door.

“Come in,” Ernest said carelessly, hardly caring who it was.

It was Christiana.

“Your Grace,” she said, curtseying.

Ernest stared at her. Just the sight of her was enough to push his worries to a distant part of his brain. He wanted more than anything to go to her and crush her in his arms, to make himself feel better in the face of all his worries. He had not seen her since the day at the lake, and he saw that she looked even more beautiful now, in a frail yellow dress and white gloves. Her hair was done up in a hairstyle that left loose tendrils dangling down her forehead and neck, and Ernest ached to go to her and feel her soft hair against the skin of his fingers.

“Christiana,” he said. “Isn’t it quite time you stopped addressing me as Your Grace? We have been wed for over a month now.”

He had been hoping to get a laugh out of her, and his mood lightened when he saw her slight smile. “I’m sorry, Ernest,” she said. “I do like addressing you by your title. It suits you more than any other nobleman I’ve ever met.”

Ernest could not help a chuckle. “Should I be concerned by your flattery? It is quite unusual that you do not have your swords drawn out by this time.”

“I suppose I could always be my true self,” Christiana said with a grin. She drew closer to him, and it was all Ernest could do to not cover the space between them and kiss her.

“Is everything alright?” she asked with a look of concern. “You do not seem well.”

Ernest shrugged. “I have been worried about the estate’s finances and the fire,” he said. “But I am glad you’re doing such a good job with Michael. Rebecca even told me you put him to bed by singing every night.”

Christiana shook her head. “It’s nothing,” she said.

He could not help it anymore. He crossed the room and took her hand in his, loving the way her silk gloves felt against his skin. “I would like to hear you sing,” he said in a low voice.

He could tell she was nervous at his proximity, and he wondered whether he had the same effect on her as she had on him. “No, Ernest,” she said. “You would not. I assure you it was terror at how terribly my voice sounded that put Michael to sleep more than anything else.”

Ernest laughed. It was the first time he’d laughed in days.

Christiana seemed to be pleased with his laughter. “Perhaps I can help with some of your workload,” she suggested. Pulling away from him, she moved to his study desk and picked up something at random. It was an envelope.

“What have we here?” she said, slightly teasing.

He took the envelope from her, discomfort welling within him. It was the envelope he had received the letter about his wife from. He glanced down at it, and then did a double take.

He had not noticed this before, but there was a seal on the envelope. It was a small curled snake.

“Who sent this letter?” she asked.

“I do not recall,” Ernest lied easily. He had thought of the letter over the past few hours, but he still had no idea what the sender meant. Still, the last thing he wanted was for Christiana to find out about the message. He knew how much it would worry her, and he hated to cause her any discomfort.

Christiana was safe and sound here, and that was what mattered to Ernest. Perhaps the letter was a warning of sorts, because the sender planned to kidnap Christiana. He supposed he could increase security around her for a couple of months.

Christiana nodded. Moving closer to him once more, she took her hand in his and gazed up at him. “You seem to have a lot more on your mind than a fire and finances. Tell me what is really wrong.”

Ernest looked down at her caring, earnest face and felt a surge of emotion. He could not recall the last time someone had actively cared about his worries. He had been right in thinking that Christiana could be trusted with some personal details about the manor, he realised.

“We’ve found out the cause of the fire,” he said.

“Who was it?” Christiana asked immediately.

“A gaming hell owner by the name of Bruce,” he replied, watching her face for a sign of recognition.

However, she looked blank as she said, “Who is he?”

“I’m not too sure,” Ernest admitted.

Christiana nodded. “What are you going to do?”

Ernest hesitated. He did not want to tell her that he was not certain if confronting Bruce was the right thing to do.

Christiana seemed to sense his inner struggle. Taking his hand, she said softly, “Your people need you to find justice for the Highsmiths. I think you need to meet this man and take him under your custody. I could accompany you.”

Ernest gave a short laugh. “The last thing I would want is for you to be within breathing distance of Bruce,” he said.

Still, he supposed Christiana was right. His father’s advice applied in some cases, but he did not think he could avoid not meeting Bruce in this particular case. It was what was expected of him as the duke.

And so, it was what he would do.

* * *

Bruce’s outpost was a downtrodden cottage on the far side of town. When Ernest got off his horse with his men, he looked around, wondering how it was possible for a man like Bruce to conduct business in a place like this. The floors and roof were overgrown with weeds, and the surroundings looked like they needed a good clearing.

Ernest frowned at the cottage. “Are you certain this is the place?” he asked Paul.

“Yes, Your Grace,” Paul said, putting a hand on the edge of his pistol as though to assure himself it was still there. Ernest looked down at his own pistol. He had ordered for all of the five men who’d come with him to be armed. Bruce did not seem like a man who cared for a duke’s authority.

The men marched to the cottage door, Ernest in front. There were two armed, burly men guarding the entrance.

Paul stepped forward. “By order of the Duke of Roxburghe, do step aside,” he said, his voice cracking a little.

Despite the seriousness of the situation, Ernest felt slightly amused. It was clear that he was no match for the two men, and Ernest could tell how nervous the lad was.

Thankfully, there was no need for Paul’s nervousness, because after glancing imperiously at Ernest, the two men moved aside.

Paul opened the door, and Ernest stepped in.

The air in the cottage was quite musty, and Ernest immediately had trouble seeing. The cottage seemed to be composed of a single room, in which several men were sitting around wooden, dusty tables, drinking and talking at the top of their voices.

Although Ernest had never seen him before, he could immediately pick Bruce out from the other men. Bruce was seated at the centre table, talking more loudly than anyone else, one of his legs on the table as he took a swig out of his tankard. Several men were sitting around the table, eagerly listening and laughing whenever he said anything.

Ernest made his way over to the table. He was aware that there were far more men in the cottage than he had thought to bring, and he wondered what would happen if a fight broke out. His men, with the exception of Paul, were good fighters, but he did not think they could take on a club full of men.

He stopped just in front of Bruce’s table, his men flanking him.

“Bruce,” he said.

Bruce looked up at him. He was a hairy man with a fierce beard as red as the flush on his face. He was almost as burly as his bodyguards himself. Ernest felt anger trickle into him as he stared at the man. This man had been responsible for the deaths of two of his people, and Ernest would not let that slide so easily.

“Your Grace,” Bruce said, his eyes twinkling. “Please forgive me if I do not bow. I am rather busy, as you can see.”

The men around him laughed.

Ernest felt his anger grow. “I have no wish for your bow, Bruce. I simply want you to answer for your crimes.”

“What crimes would that be, Your Grace?” Bruce said with a short laugh. “I have been a very busy man.”

“You sent a man to set fire to a cottage on my lands,” Ernest said through gritted teeth. “Do you agree to this charge?”

Bruce screwed up his face as though he was trying hard to remember something. Finally, he turned to Ernest and said, “Would that be the cottage where you keep your whores? Is that why this is a top concern for you, Your Grace?”

One of Ernest’s men came forward. With a grunt, he swiped Bruce’s leg off the table. Bruce’s chair gave way, and two of his men had to lunge forward to grab his chair before it hit the ground.

The atmosphere changed in an instant. All at once, Bruce’s men stood up, withdrawing weapons that ranged from knives to pistols. There was no trace of laughter anywhere.

Bruce looked at Ernest with a smile. “I do not think you are well suited for this fight, Your Grace,” he said. “Why, this one looks like a racoon.” He gestured to Paul, and his men burst out laughing.

This meeting was getting nowhere. Ernest sighed. He had thought he could force a confession out of Bruce and perhaps get enough grounds to arrest him, but this was proving to be impossible. He had no idea whether to forcefully arrest the man or leave.

Bruce took a swig from his tankard and set it down again, smiling broadly. Ernest glanced down at the table, trying to control the urge to upend the it and pour the tankard of ale on Bruce’s face.

But then he did a double take.

Because, staring at him from the table, was an envelope with the same curled snake seal he had seen that morning.