The Duke's Bedeviled Bride (Royal Pains Book 2) (21 page)

As much as she wished Hugh dead, she could not kill him on her own. Firstly, he was Robert’s brother. Secondly, murder was a mortal sin for which she’d be condemned to an eternity slow-roasting in the fires of hell. Thirdly, she lacked the know-how and wherewithal to take a man’s life. And finally, immediate death was too good for him.

Better he should remain alive and suffer for his sins.

The thought turned her mind to the Biblical parable of Cain and Abel, which had never made sense to her. For years, she’d pondered a seemingly unanswerable question: If the brothers were the only two offspring of Adam and Eve, and their parents were the first man and woman, where their wives come from?

Then, one day, feeling braver than usual, she’d put that very question to Sister Mary-Gregory.

“There was more to the story than contained in Holy Scripture,” the sister told her. “Cain and Abel, you see, were both twins born with a sister. When the brothers came of age, their parents decided ’twould only be right for each to marry the other’s sister. But Cain, being selfish and headstrong, did not want Abel’s sister. He wanted his own, who was more beautiful than Abel’s twin, for his wife. Adam and Eve, unsure how to settle the matter, suggested each of their sons make an offering to the Lord, who would be the final judge. The Lord chose Abel, the obedient son, and Cain, in defiance of God’s wisdom, murdered his brother and took the sister he desired.”

The memory triggered a realization. Hugh, who’d tried to murder his brother out of jealousy and spite, was Cain, making Robert Abel. She just prayed that, unlike in the parable, Abel would have his revenge.

* * * *

 
“Wake up, wake up! You will not believe what I have found.”

The patient, who’d only been half asleep, could not help but quip in response, “Your clitoris?”

“No, you fool,” said Mistress Wakeman with a slight scoff. “Open your eyes and have a look.”

He squinted against the sudden light.

She held something in front of his face, but too close to focus upon. A leaflet of some sort. Snatching the bill from her hand, he pushed up on his elbow and struggled to focus his bleary vision. The paper bore a drawing and some text, but all he could make out at present was the largest of the words.

REWARD!

He frowned at her hovering figure. “You disturbed my rest to show me a wanted poster?”

“The man in the picture is not a criminal, he is missing,” she said. “Take a closer look and you will see the resemblance. The sketch is of you, my lord. The Duke of York is offering a reward for help in solving the mystery of your disappearance.”

He blinked at the poster, still straining to read the words whilst absorbing all she’d said.
 

“The Duke of York is looking for me?”

“Apparently.”

“But what should he want with me? I’ve never encountered the man except to open the door to the king’s bedchamber to let him in or out.”

Now better able to focus, he could see the leaflet offered only the barest essentials. To claim the reward, any with information pertaining to the whereabouts of the man pictured (himself, though with long hair and not the best likeness) should call upon His Grace at the Palace at Whitehall.
 

 
“How the blue blazes should I know?” she returned with vinegar. “But you must be a person of great import or—” Stopping mid-sentence, she rubbed her chin. “Unless you are a dangerous outlaw and the reward is but a ploy to draw you out of hiding.”

The suggestion struck a chord of concern. Was he a criminal? He did not think so, but, given his memory lapses, aught might be possible. In any event, due caution must be exercised.
 

“Perhaps you ought to go on your own to the palace and make inquiries,” he suggested. “Then, if you smell a trap, you can lead the king’s brother astray.”

“What? And give up the reward?”

He rolled his eyes. “You care more for the money than our friendship?”

“Friendship is all well and good,” she returned with a frown, “but will not put food on the table or pay our mounting debts.”

“Very well.” He sighed. “Go on your own, learn what you can, and use your best judgment as to what to disclose pertaining to my whereabouts.”

Even were the poster not a ruse to draw him out of hiding, there was no question of him going with her to the palace when he could barely stand and had naught but a nightshirt to his name.
 

“Perhaps I should claim the reward in any case,” she said. “That way, I can give you half. If you do turn out to be a criminal. Which will enable you to get away. When you are well enough, of course.”

She plucked the leaflet from his hand, claimed the chair, and sat there several moments studying the sketch. Then, looking into his face, she said, “I do not believe you are a criminal. I am a reasonably good judge of people and I would have sensed if you were a villain. Thus, His Royal Highness must want to know where you are for some other reason.”

He arched an eyebrow in her direction. “What other reason?”

She shrugged offhandedly. “Perhaps you are a libertine who ruined one of his daughters and he wishes to find you and force you to marry her. He has many illegitimate daughters, does he not?” Her countenance brightened and a smile bowed her comely mouth. “Perhaps she is the woman you love and all will turn out well!”

“I think not.” His tone was tart by design. “The woman I love is a ward to my family—a foundling who was raised by the Sisters of St. Teresa. My father took her from the convent at an early age to be a companion to my sister. Though her lineage is unknown to us, I cannot imagine she is of royal blood.”

“’Twas only a thought.” She smirked as if she spoke in jest. “Because I like you and want you to be happy.”

“I like you, too,” he returned. “And am prodigiously grateful for your superior caretaking, which went above and beyond the call of duty.”

His face heated as the memory of her “seminal extraction” flashed through his mind.

“Well,” she said, blushing, too, “perhaps she is not your lady love, but you could do worse than marrying the daughter of the future king, even an illegitimate one.”

The thought sobered him. ’Twas entirely possible she’d guessed right. God knew, he’d put it around enough. So the odds were fairly good he’d slipped his tarse up the petticoats of one of the Duke of York’s daughters without knowing her identity.

“And if he should not become king? I would be stuck in a loveless marriage with a broken heart.”

“Why would he not become king? He is the heir presumptive to the throne, is he not?”

“He is. But powerful forces oppose his ascension.”

“You speak of the Whigs and the Exclusion Act, I presume,” she said. “My father says the king will prevent the bill from going forward, even if it means disbanding the Parliament.”

He blinked at her, unable to believe his ears. “Doing so would be political suicide.”

“Perhaps,” she said. “But I believe it speaks well of the king that he should defend his brother to such lengths. After all, what crime has the duke committed beyond owning his beliefs?” She heaved a sigh and met his gaze. “Why do the Protestants hate us so? Are we not every bit as Christian as they are? If anything, we are superior, as ours is the One True Faith.”

“Their hatred has far more to do with fear and power than with our beliefs,” he told her. “Transubstantiation and the pope aside, of course.”

“I do not take your meaning,” she said. “Pray, explain yourself further.”

He took a few moments to collect his thoughts before saying, “Thanks to propaganda and fear-mongering, the Protestants believe we Catholics mean to subvert the government by placing the Holy Father upon the throne of Great Britain—an utterly preposterous notion, I might add. For ’twas they who rose against the crown, waged civil war, executed the king, and eliminated the monarchy—all whilst we Catholics risked life and limb to defend the status quo. But, as I’ve said, bigotry arises from hatred, and hatred from fear. And most human fears are incredibly illogical.” He shook his head disparagingly before meeting her bewildered gaze. “Does that help put the matter into perspective?”

“Not especially.” She stood, came to his bedside, and bent to retrieve the chamber pot. As she gave it to him, she looked uncharacteristically somber. “Well, I’d best get on with it, hadn’t I? We’re not going to find out what the Duke of York wants with you by sitting here wagging our chins about humankind’s intractable stupidity.”

She left him then and, a few hours later, returned with an elegant suit of clothes over her arm. Green velvet with elaborate gold embroidery round the edges.

They were clearly meant for him. The Duke of York must have given them to her.

Still abed, he arched an inquisitive eyebrow in her direction. “Which am I? Dangerous criminal with a price upon my head or scandalous rogue who has ruined one of his daughters?”

“Neither.” She laid the garments out across the foot of the bed. “You are already married to one of his daughters. And that only scratches the surface of what I’ve learned about you.”

“Oh, aye?” He was so stricken by the news he’d not married his Rosebud, he was finding breathing difficult. Feigning lightheartedness to hide his distress, he said, “Well, keep me in suspense no longer. Who might I be? Butcher, baker, or candlestick maker?”

She plopped down in the fireside chair, but her dreamy expression suggested she still floated on the air. “First, let me say His Royal Highness proved the most amiable of men. A little long in the tooth, perhaps, but clearly up for it.”

He could not help but wonder if she’d treated the Duke of York for excessive seminal humors during her visit. “His Royal Highness is married, I might remind you. Not that being so has put blinders on his roving eye. Nor his brother’s, for that matter. Now, do get on with it. I should like to at least know my name before the sun sets upon this day.”

“Very well.” Her elation suffered a slight deflation. “Your name is Robert Armstrong and you are not a page to the king.”

“Am I not?”

“You were at one time—before you became a duke!” The light returned to her eyes. “Can you believe it? You are no less than the Duke of Dunwoody, a hamlet in the border shires of Scotland, to be precise.”

The news both took him aback and plunged a dagger into his heart. He could only be the Duke of Dunwoody if his father no longer held the title.

Which meant…
 

“When and how did my father meet his end?”

“According to the Duke of York, he passed on about five years back of Yellow Fever—during the same outbreak that claimed your sister.”

An overpowering grief besieged his heart, bringing tears to his eyes. “Mary is dead as well?”

As she nodded, sympathy swam in her eyes. “I am so sorry, my lord—or perhaps I should call you Your Grace? I should have known, given the state of your memory, the news of their deaths would come as a shock to you.”

His thoughts turned to Maggie with a pang. What had become of her after his sister’s demise? Perhaps she’d returned to the convent to devote herself to God, which would explain why he’d given up the hope of making her his bride.

“And my wife? Which of the Duke of York’s daughters did I wed?”

The question seemed to surprise her. “You married one of his illegitimate offspring. A lady thought to be a foundling until very recently. York was the name she was given by the nuns who raised her.”

A beam of joy broke through the despair clouding his mind. Could it be? Was it possible? But wait. Maggie could not be the progeny of James Stuart. The notion was utterly ludicrous.

Or was it?

He shook his head to clear it of distracting thoughts. Who had fathered Maggie was of little consequence. What mattered was whom she’d married. She was his, by God. And now that he knew, his heart felt both lighter and more at peace. He also felt desperate to see her.

“Where is my wife? Here in town?”

“She anxiously awaits your return in Scotland,” Mistress Wakeman told him. “She wrote to her father a few weeks back, appealing for his assistance in finding you. That is the reason he printed the leaflets.”

“I must go to her at once.” He started to get up, but stopped himself when his dizziness overtook him.

“His Royal Highness is coming here to fetch you—in your own carriage to convey you back to your wife. That is why I brought you the clothes. I must help you dress at once, for he will be here to collect you within the hour.”

When she rose from the chair, he gave her a smile. “I am grateful to you, Mistress, for your care and friendship, and promise to send you something to help you get by when I am resettled in Scotland.”

“While I appreciate the offer, my lord, there is no need.” Beaming at him, she withdrew a bulging leather pouch from the pocket beneath her skirts. As she shook the purse, the coins inside jingled together. “Your father-in-law has given me all I could ask for.”

Chapter Thirteen

With a racing heart and trembling hands, Maggie broke the seal on the letter from her father. Please let him have found Robert alive and well. Please, please, please, please, please. She’d had Hugh strapped to the bed in the flagellation chamber for a fortnight and was nearing her wit’s end.