The Duke's Accidental Wife (Dukes of War Book 7) (27 page)

“I’m not here to rob you, ma’am. I—”

“Well, I’m not here to
kill
you. I’ve consumption, which is almost always fatal. I shan’t be giving it to you.”

Almost
always. Steele’s smile faded and he considered the closed door with renewed respect. If the occupant was aware of the minuscule chance that she might not die, she was also probably aware that temporary exposure to an invalid did not necessarily—or even usually—result in the infection of the caretaker. And yet Mrs. Halton still valued a stranger’s life over any concern for her own.

“You’re not going to shoot me,” he said calmly.

“Try me.”
 

Her voice didn’t
sound
grandmotherly. But then, they were on opposite sides of a wall. He needed to put paid to this farce. She would realize soon enough that even real weapons were no deterrent. Her empty threats were laughable.

“If you wished for me to die, you’d have no objection to me entering a sick chamber.”

“Perhaps I simply wish for you to die
quickly
,” came the cheeky response.

He blinked and then bit back a silent laugh. How long had it been since last he’d been threatened to his face? Years. Not since becoming Blackheart. No one had dared to challenge him. Until today.

“Please open the door. I’m coming inside.”

“I’m busy adding extra powder to my pistol to make certain the first ball takes you down if you come near my door.”

“Most pistols only
have
one ball, Mrs. Halton. If you miss, you won’t even have time to reload it. Besides, we both know you haven’t—”
 
Steele paused at the familiar sound of a ramrod forcing a patched ball down a metallic chamber. “You have a
pistol?
”

“You really should consider leaving before I’ve finished loading it. Oh, bother…I’ve finished. A smart man would take his leave.”

Steele stepped away from the window in case the dear old bat was mad enough to shoot him.
 

He ran his hands down his coat. He, too, had a pistol. And, no, he would not be drawing it. He had something even more powerful.

Letters.

“Stopped by the postmaster on my way to your cottage,” he said conversationally. “Seems to have forgotten to drop off a couple of items. First letter is from a…” He squinted at the spidery script. “Can’t rightly say. ‘Mayer,’ perhaps?”

“My father?” The voice on the other side of the wall sounded tiny and shocked. “What does it say?”

“The second one was franked by the Earl of Carlisle but seems to be from a Miss Grace Halton. Relation of yours, is it?”

“My daughter,” Mrs. Halton breathed, her voice so quiet and so close that Steele could imagine her pressing up against the wall to be closer to the letter. “Read it to me.”

He shoved them back into his coat pocket as noisily as possible. “Let me in, and I will.”

“Blackguard,” she hissed.

He smiled. “You have no idea.”

Silence reigned for a scant moment before the soft sound of a tumbler indicated the front lock had been disengaged.
 

The door did not swing open.

Steele strode up and let himself in, just as the first drops of rain began to fall from the sky.
 

The tiny cottage consisted of very few rooms—all of which were visible from the vantage point of the front door. No candles were lit and no fire burned in the grate, but enough natural light filtered in through the windows to illuminate the musty, but surprisingly clean interior.
 

The furnishings were shabby and worn, but otherwise spotless. The dishes were clean. The beds were made. The woman aiming a triple-barrel flintlock turnover pistol toward Steele’s midsection was bathed and neat.

And not a day older than Steele himself.

Where his own beard was starting to appear more salt and pepper these days, Mrs. Halton’s long black hair cascaded down her back with nary a hint of gray. Dark eyelashes framed wide green eyes. He swallowed and tried not to stare. She was beautiful. Porcelain skin. Rosy lips.
 

The lady didn’t look sick. She didn’t even look like the right person.
 

He narrowed his eyes. “How can you possibly be the mother of a grown woman? Or…acquainted with the Earl of Carlisle?”

“Read me the letter, and perhaps we’ll both find out.” She gestured at him with the pistol. “Better yet, leave my correspondence on the table, and see your way out.”

“Why don’t you put that thing down before you lose a hand? Multi-cylinder pistols have been known to explode rather than eject their ammunition. Yours looks like it’s twenty years old.”

“It is. I bought it after my husband was killed and taught myself to shoot it. Don’t worry, it won’t misfire. I clean it every night.”

The increase in Steele’s heart rate had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the confident woman in front of him. Owning a gun had made her interesting to him. Being willing to use it had made her even more so. Now that he saw it for himself and realized not only was it three-barreled firepower instead of a lady’s simple muff pistol, but that she also knew how to take care of it…and herself… He was very, very interested.

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Dark Surrender

TRAPPED IN DARKNESS . . .

Violet Whitechapel committed an unspeakable crime to save a child. To escape the hangman’s noose, she takes refuge in a crumbling abbey with secrets darker than her own. When its master offers her a temporary post, Violet cannot say no. Just as she begins to see him in a new light, her past catches up to her and endangers them all.
 

THEIR PASSION BURNS BRIGHT . . .

Alistair Waldegrave keeps his daughter imprisoned in the black heart of his Gothic abbey. As he searches for a cure to the disease the villagers call demonic, his new governess brings much needed light into their lives. But how can the passion between them survive the darkness encroaching from outside their sheltered walls?

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Sneak Peek

Waldegrave Abbey

Shropshire

Alistair Waldegrave slammed his fist atop the ancient desk hard enough to send dust spiraling into the musty air. Another rejection. How many more pleading letters must he be forced to send? He already spent every waking moment sequestered in his office, and had absolutely no time to waste penning even more flowery invitations to England’s brightest medical geniuses.

To be fair, it wasn’t as though the men could leap astride their stallions and pop over to Waldegrave Abbey instead of the usual trot about St James Square. He was inviting them not to a party, but to a scholarly conclave one hundred and seventy-five miles north of London. But weren’t scientists supposed to be intrigued by puzzles to solve? And weren’t surgeons supposed to be dedicated to the idea of helping the infirm? And weren’t these people tempted to indulge his invitation if only out of curiosity and the fact that all their expenses would be paid out of Alistair’s own pocket?
 

Good Lord, if he couldn’t even appeal to basic human greed, what the devil did that leave him to bargain with?

“Master?”

Roper, Alistair’s manservant, hesitated at the doorway to the office. He was the sole staff member who’d been with the family since before everything had gone to hell. He was also the only living soul to have earned a modicum of Alistair’s trust. Roper hung back at the doorway, however, because service history notwithstanding, to cross that threshold without permission was a one-way ticket to an immediate sacking. And Alistair never granted permission. He could scarce afford to entrust any of his overly solicitous staff in the room housing his deadliest secrets.

“Inform my daughter,” he bit out without rising, well aware that Lillian’s antics were the only reason Roper ever hovered at the door, “that I am trying to
help
her, and if she would desist making impossible demands and refrain from attacking those who attempt to give aid, then perhaps she would find less to complain about.”

“Master . . .” Roper’s voice lowered. “It’s not Miss Lillian.”

Frowning, Alistair removed his pince-nez. “It’s not?”

Roper hesitated then shook his head.

Alistair stared at his manservant’s uneasy countenance. There was clearly a problem. And the problem was
always
Lillian. Lord help him, he did not have time for new problems. He didn’t even have time for the problems he already had.
 

“Well?” he demanded. “What is it?”

“There appears to be . . . a girl.”

Alistair blinked. “A what?”

“You may wish to come see,” Roper began, but Alistair was already on his feet. He swept through the doorway and automatically closed the self-locking door before continuing on.
 

A girl? What the devil could Roper mean?
 

He followed his manservant along the corridors to the entranceway, and made his way past the gaggle of servants blocking the threshold. There, on the front stoop, lay a crumpled mass of elbows and frayed hems, muddy boots and tangled hair.
 

A girl? So it was. A dirty, malnourished, unconscious girl. He sighed. Yet another riddle to solve.
 

No wonder Roper was so grim.

“All right, all right,” Alistair said, batting a hand at the hovering servants as if to disperse flies buzzing about a corpse. “Quit hanging about doing nothing, and bring her in.”

“
In
, Master?” Roper repeated in astonishment.
 

The other servants looked equally doubtful. Mrs. Tumsen in particular had an air about her that suggested the girl was better off in the street than within the devil’s lair. Alistair gritted his teeth. He had earned the housekeeper’s loyalty, but he had yet to earn her trust.

The only individuals who had willingly entered Waldegrave Abbey in the last decade were the ones whose desperation had enabled Alistair to bribe them into employment, if only for short periods of time.
 

Visitors new to the forgotten town of Shrewsbury took one look at the great crumbling abbey with its boarded-over windows and questionable stability, and turned the opposite direction. The folk who’d been around long enough to experience its haunted history firsthand well remembered the morning Alistair Waldegrave had gone completely mad. The screams. The funeral. The destruction. For all he knew, the rumors
had
travelled as far as London and his reams of desperate invitations would never garner a single acceptance. Perhaps even the superstitions had spread.

So, yes, he could appreciate his servants’ reluctance to bring someone within these unhallowed walls who wasn’t even conscious enough to make the wise decision to get the hell away while her heart still beat.
 

But she clearly had nowhere else to go. No one with anywhere else to go ended up here with him. Alistair opened his eyes and sent his gaze heavenward. Fine. The least he could do was provide her with a warm bath and a hot meal. And then send her back wherever she’d come from.
 

“Sir?” Roper asked again.