In the Devil's Bed (Sins of the Duke Book 1) (3 page)

“You were not particularly pleasant to my granddaughter, Captain Hazard.”

Jack shoved his ledger back into his desk drawer and slammed it shut. He crossed to one of the windows, letting the bright morning sun warm his chilled skin. His hands curled into fists as he turned back to the white-haired old man standing in the doorway to his private room.

“You are not paying me to be pleasant, Your Grace.”

“Demmed true, boy. I’m paying you to keep me informed since Lady Regan insists on this absolute foolery.” The Duke of Chiles adjusted the emerald and diamond stick pin in his bottle green cravat then he tapped his cane against his black pant leg. “I don’t suppose a man such as you knows how to be a gent around the ladies. Though I reckon they admire your
rustic
power. Some women don’t care about breeding or where a man has been.”

Jack forced a smile to his lips. His hands itched to wrap around the duke’s lily white throat and squeeze the man’s weak neck.

“Indeed, Your Grace. You know my kind well,” he agreed, fighting back sarcasm.

Chiles nodded, his perfectly curled white and silver hair glinting in the light. “I want reports regularly and see to it that you protect my granddaughter from herself. Don’t let her know of my involvement. If she knew of our communication, she’d terminate the arrangement immediately.”

The duke hesitated, a cold smile tilting his lips. “She likes to think herself independent.” Chiles examined the gold head of his cane. “Why she and my son ever wanted to help those disgusting dregs of humanity, God alone knows.”

Jack fought back a quick surge of anger. He and Devlin had spent too many years planning for him to make a muck of it. “God is a strange individual, Your Grace. Your man will stop by this afternoon?”

“Yes. And you’d better be worth the price, Hazard, or you’ll wish a Frenchie got your guts instead of what I will do.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Nothing the duke did could be worse than that day at Badajoz. He could kill the old bugger, right now, and make it look like an accident or natural causes. Twenty years of war made a person a master of such things. But Jack wanted more than a quick death for the duke. This man was going to suffer, like Devlin had suffered. Like he had. Like so many had. Jack was going to bring the duke’s world crumbling about his feet. “Good afternoon,” Jack said with forced pleasantry.

The duke snorted and rolled his eyes, showing his disdain at Jack’s attempt at gentility as he strolled out of the office. After all, His Grace was a true bastard of the old guard. Jack was used to it. No noble man, no matter how clean Jack’s speech was or immaculate his dress, would ever accept him into their circles. Nor did he want that.

The wide, thick paneled door slammed shut and Jack blew out a harsh breath. Prolonged periods amongst pompous nobles grated at the cold detachment he’d been cultivating since Devlin’s death.

Hesitating, Jack crossed to his desk and glanced at the intricate chair that Lady Regan Chance had sat in. Gently, he stroked his fingers over the smooth wood, imagining the black fabric of her gown brushing it.

She wasn’t safe. He knew it in his gut. She hadn’t been safe from the bastards down in Whitechapel and now she wasn’t going to be safe from him.

He stood silently by the hard-backed chair letting his fingers trace the smooth wood one last time. Jack flexed his hand as he returned to his desk. He had never thought the opportunity to destroy one part of Chiles would come so easily. Hell, it had fallen into his lap. And though Lady Regan would be a casualty of this war between himself and Chiles, her part was a necessary evil.

Still, something about Lady Regan alarmed the hell out of him. He’d personally wanted to kill whoever was threatening her.

But Devlin needed revenge. They both needed it and the peace it would bring. Jack had lived too long in the duke’s dark shadow. He was lucky. He’d survived. Thanks to the duke, Dev had lived and died like an unwanted piece of refuse. And Lady Regan, despite the strange response she’d invoked in him, would not change the course of Jack’s path. Nothing would.

***

R
ain spattered the glass windowpanes, running down in narrow, crisscrossing streams. Regan pressed her fingers to the cold glass and stared out into the darkness of the night.

Coaches coursed up and down the streets, off to parties, the opera, or musicales. Regan sighed and glanced over her shoulder. A stack of letters awaited her attention, piled neatly on her father’s mahogany desk. She needed to answer them all. Requests for materials, legal papers, and notes from her builder all beckoned her away from the window.

Regan slipped her fingers down the glass, its smoothness stroking her skin. She should feel safe here, but unease rattled around inside her. If she’d had her way, she’d still be in her father’s house. Right now, she’d be working in his study. The room had been her favorite room in all her father’s house. Even a year later, his pipe tobacco tinged the air, the wood of the floors, and the dark green, silk wallpaper. But her grandfather had locked up her home and now she lived with her Uncle Geoffrey. She didn’t even have the comfort of her father’s things. They’d been boxed up as if the Chances wished to eradicate James Chance’s very existence.

Regan closed her eyes.

Good God, would it never go away?

The need to wrap her arms around her father. To pretend for one moment, that she could rest her head on his chest and feel at home again. A home that no walls of brick and wood could ever be.

Swallowing against the burn tightening her throat, Regan curled her fingers into fists. She could not dwell on her father’s murder. Nor could she think on the fact that one moment he had been the center of her life, and then in the next he had been ripped from her completely. Leaving her to float in a harsh sea with no direction.

Absently, Regan crossed to the tall bookshelves lined around the room. The tomes, some having never been opened, stared back at her. All mocking her in silence. They should have been her father’s favorite books, Kant and Aristotle, but Geoffrey had put those in the attic.

Sighing, Regan took in the crackling fire, the Italian engraved table in the center, the desk by the windows, and the two wing back leather chairs by the fireplace. She was alone. Utterly.

Slowly, Regan brought her hand to her mouth, pressing her lips against her teeth. She welcomed the slight pain, forcing reality to the forefront of her mind.

“He is dead,” she muttered against her fingers.

Nothing would bring her father back. Nothing would change the fact that there was not a single soul in the world that loved her, not as she truly was. She dropped her hand from her mouth and yanked on the bell pull. She could not be in this room. In this house.

Now that she had a permanent guard handpicked by Captain Hazard, nothing was keeping her here.

The door at the end of the room opened and Anne, the newest maid, stepped inside. “Yes, my lady?”

“Send for Brent. I’m going out.”

Anne bobbed a quick curtsy and left.

Grief had been her constant companion these twelve months. Not even work could drive it away. It was time to go out and let the world in. For a change.

––––––––

C
hapter 4

“My dearest, can you believe the ruffians the Prince is allowing into society?” whispered Countess Sylvia Chance, as she completely ignored the sugary notes and blending voices of the opera taking place below.

“Into Royal appointed operas such as this!” she gasped. “George Swindon? It is impossible! Truly impossible!”

Regan hid a smile behind her black, silk fan. Thank God for Sylvia. She needed such distraction. And her aunt was the only thing that made living under her uncle’s and grandfather’s control endurable.

Regan leaned over and patted Sylvia on the shoulder with her fan. “Come now, Sylvia. You like those ruffians. And the fact that Lord Swindon was endowed with an Earldom for dashing deeds of service to The East India Company must thrill you to no end.”

Sylvia tossed her perfect, blond curls and laughed. The sound disappeared into the soprano strings of the violins and woodwinds of the orchestra.

In the box next to them, the Viscountess of Salisbury turned her befeathered head in their direction. Her steely eyes narrowed and her lips curled in a frown at Sylvia. However, when recognition flared in her myopic blue eyes, she smiled tightly and nodded before returning to the goings-on performed on the stage.

Regan shook her head and folded her fan. No one dared challenge or criticize a Chance. As a Chance, there was little one could not do in society. One could rob merchants blind or arrange to have someone killed and society would still sit there and smile politely. The Chance favor was highly curried.

The Chiles Dukedom was one of the most powerful in the land.

And sometimes, just sometimes, even her own grandfather’s power terrified her.

Sylvia placed a gloved hand to the gold embroidered bodice of her purple, velvet gown. The thin, golden-capped sleeves threatened to snap and unleash her bosom. “Doubtlessly, the viscountess hasn’t known a night’s pleasure in decades.”

Regan leaned in closer to her aunt, trying to hear over the soprano singing out an aria. Sylvia was, indeed, Regan’s opposite in every way which was why Regan found her fascinating to no end. Sylvia offered a taste of scandal that, every now and then, Regan enjoyed listening to. Aside from that, Sylvia was her only well-meaning relative.

“I suppose you indulge in pleasure every night?” Regan teased.

Sylvia’s wide, brown eyes twinkled and she waved her feathered fan, blowing her curls away from her face. “And sometimes in the afternoon. I often wonder why I bother to dress at all.”

“Sylvia!” Despite herself, Regan felt her cheeks flush. She did not care for her Uncle Geoffrey at all and did not blame Sylvia for seeking comfort elsewhere. But to say it in public?

That was Sylvia, for you.

Tilting her head to the side slightly, Sylvia smiled. “Oh come, my dear, one should always consider options when it comes to men. I do believe a strong, intelligent man who knew how to please a woman would do you good.”

For some inexplicable reason, Captain Hazard’s hard physique and shining, dark eyes came to Regan’s mind. She swallowed and shook her head. In no way would she involve herself in any flirtations. She was a woman working to better the East End. Scandal of that sort couldn’t touch her name. It was difficult enough for society to accept her as she was. “I simply don’t think of men as trinkets the way you do.”

Sylvia waved her fan out towards the curved balconies. “That is simply because you have not met the right
trinket
. And how could you at these affairs? There’s no one here to stir your blood. And stirring is exactly what you need.”

Regan bit back a mortified laugh. “My Lord, Sylvia. Must you be so frank?”

“Indeed, I must. I, myself, am looking for a new
trinket
. George Swindon might do nicely.” Sylvia smiled wolfishly. “As you said, I do like ruffians.”

Regan turned her attention back to the stage as the final crescendo burst from the orchestra. She applauded along with everyone else till her fingers burned.

A footman came in and lit the candelabra behind them. As Regan stood, she turned towards Sylvia. “Thank you for joining me. I couldn’t bear another moment in the house alone.”

“Of course.” Sylvia nodded her head as she patted her blond hair. “I’ve seen this particular performance thrice already and would have died of boredom without your company.”

Despite herself, Regan laughed. Sylvia would rather be dead than bored. She was a true darling of the
ton
.

“Shall we?” Sylvia stood, the folds of her gown swishing about her legs.

Regan fought back regret. She did not wish to leave for home. For a few brief hours, she’d actually been able to forget the last days and the reality of her situation. “Certainly.”

The footman entered, carrying Regan’s umbrella and both their cloaks, a vivid, green velvet and a black. Sylvia paused long enough for the tall, bewigged footman to slip the cloak over her slim shoulders.

Regan pulled the red, velvet curtains back. Brent, her guard, inclined his head toward her. As she and Sylvia stepped out into the hall, she smiled back at him. Sylvia raked her eyes over the length of the guard. The corners of her lips tilted into a smile as she glanced away. “A woman should always have a man service her,” she whispered.

Brent fell in behind them as they strolled down the hall, filled with the
ton’s
glittering horde. Wordlessly, they followed the crowd to the grand, sweeping staircase.

Sylvia straightened her long, white gloves then squeezed Regan’s arm. “Well then, let us go home for a light repast.”

Sylvia started forward, but Regan pulled her back. “No. You have countless invitations you’ve already accepted and I’m certain there’s at least one you are longing to be part of.”

Sylvia’s eyes widened as color crept up her cheeks. “Really Regan, I’d much rather—“

Regan pushed her young aunt gently. “No, you would not. Besides, I am tired and must rise early. There is still so much for me to do.”

“Work, work, work.” She paused. “But if it makes you happy— Regan I—“

Regan forced a laugh. “Go. Before I have my guard carry you out.”

Sylvia’s lips pursed as she raked her eyes over Brent again, as if the idea had merit. “Actually. . . “

“
Sylvia
,” warned Regan.

Her aunt laughed. “Oh, if you insist. But tomorrow, we shall chat over tea.
I insist
.”

“Indeed.” Lord only knew when Sylvia would return home. Most likely, she would creep in along with the first rays of dawn. “Until tomorrow.”

Sylvia hurried off in the direction of Lord Stockton’s tall, broad frame. Regan couldn’t help but smile. Sometimes she wished a little part of her was like Sylvia. Unafraid to take from the more pleasurable side of life. Still, Regan rebelled in her own way. “I’m ready, Brent.”

“Yes, my lady.”