The Secret Duke (51 page)

As
The Secret Duke
ends, I know Brand Malloren from
Secrets of the Night
is in Yorkshire, happily living the country life. Elf Malloren and her husband, Lord Walgrave, from
Something Wicked
, are enjoying Christmas at their own home in 1764 with their infant, who will turn one on Christmas Day. Bryght Malloren from
Tempting Fortune
is also spending a family Christmas at his estate for the first time. I wonder if the Duke of Bridgwater is there with them. He is a friend. But he’s also one of the historical people who appear in my stories, and he never married, so I don’t imagine there’s another ducal book there!

Other real people in the Malloren books are the king, the queen, and their family—I can’t invent a monarch, after all—and the various important political people Rothgar encounters as he moves in the highest political circles. Sometimes, as with Bridgwater, I realize a real person fits my story. The Chevalier d’Eon in
Devilish
was one example because he really was the acting French ambassador to England at the time, and Madame Cornelys in
A Lady’s Secret
was another. She was famous in London in this period for her Venetian masquerades, really was one of Casanova’s lovers, and came from Italy. Irresistible. I’d have brought in Casanova if he hadn’t left England by the time of the story.

I also blend real and imaginary places. For example, in Dover, the Ship Inn is real, and it was the most important inn in town. However, the Compass and the Bear are invented. The town of Upstone is invented, as is the inn there. (If you enjoy revisiting historical places, visit my blog at
http://jobeverley.blogspot.com
, on which I’ve posted pictures of some locations in my books. There are also some on my Web page at
http://www.jobev.com/pictures.html
.)

Why do I use some real places and invent others? Simply, for the story. If I’m setting a lot of action in a place, I want to be free to invent rooms, corridors, and such to suit my story. If I choose to use a real place, I’m constrained. In addition, it’s hard to be sure what a place was like centuries ago. An inn could still exist and seem very old, but it will almost certainly have been changed over the years, if only to add heating and electricity. Nearly all inns in England now have en suite bathrooms, so that demand changes.

On the other hand, there are places I can’t make up, such as St. James’s Palace in London or Hyde Park. Fortunately there are usually pictures and descriptions from people at the time, so I can describe them accurately.

Along with the stories about the Malloren family and their friends set in Georgian England, I’ve written some thirty books altogether over the years. I also have a Regency world. This has two parts, but I have blended them a little. Twenty years ago, my first books were classic Regency romances with linked story lines about family and friends. Then I began my Rogue books, about a group of men who had become friends at school. I haven’t directly linked the two, but savvy readers have spotted some characters from my classic Regencies in the background of my Rogue books.

The classic Regencies have been very hard to find for some years, but now they are being reissued. In 2008, two novels—
The Fortune Hunter
and
Deirdre and Don Juan
—were reissued as
Lovers and Ladies
. In 2009, my first book,
Lord Wraybourne’s Betrothed
, became available again, and then, early in 2010,
The Stanforth Secrets
came out. That book is set in my home area of Heysham, Lancashire.

I enjoy hearing from readers. You can write to me c/o The Rotrosen Agency, 318 East 51st Street, New York, NY 10022, in which case I appreciate an SASE, or you can e-mail me at [email protected]. There is always more about the books at
www.jobev.com
. Ask to be put on my e-mail list.

 

 

H
e was drunk but not incapacitated, and could see well enough in the dimly lit street. Well enough to detect ruffians at work. And that the victim was a woman.

Catesby Burgoyne grinned, drew his sword and charged, yelling a battle cry.

The ruffians turned toward him, eyes white-rimmed, then fled.

Cate staggered to a halt, flailing his sword. “Come back. Came back, you scum. Meet my blade!”

Only their fleeing footsteps answered.

“Damn your blasted eyes,” he muttered, shoving his sword back into its scabbard. “A bit of slaughter’s just what I need.”

A breathy sound made him turn and begin to draw the sword again, but it was only the woman, leaning against a house wall, all pallor and shadows, staring at him, as panic-eyed as the others.

She seemed to be wearing a dark gown that covered her neck to toe, and to have loose pale hair. Gown was respectable. Hair wasn’t.

Couldn’t be respectable, could she, out alone at night?

“You must be new to the trade, sweetheart, to dress so dully.” But then he recollected his manners. No need to be crass because she was a whore. He bowed, hand on chest. “Catesby Burgoyne, most humbly at your service, ma’am. May I escort you to your destination?”

She shook her head, still staring.

He walked closer to see her better.

She tried to shrink back, but the wall was relentless.

“Please . . . ,” she whispered.

A door opened nearby and a flat Yorkshire voice asked, “What’s going on ’ere, then?”

The stocky man was carrying a candle that illuminated his face and straggling hair, but little else. Even so, the woman turned away as if to hide her face. She had a reputation to lose, then.

“The lady was attacked,” Cate said, striving to hide all trace of gin from his voice. “The villains have fled and I’ll see her safely home.”

The man peered, but like all sane people, he didn’t go looking for trouble. Probably Cate’s aristocratic tone helped him along that path. “Good night to ye, then,” he said and shut his door.

Cate turned back to the woman. She still stared, but the intervention of someone from the ordinary world seemed to have restored her voice.

“I must thank you, Mr. Burgoyne,” she said on uneven breaths, clutching a dark shawl at her chest as if it could be a breastplate. “But please, there’s no need to you delay further.”

A well-bred voice, but not quite of the highest order. Hardly surprising when she was out alone and disheveled at night. Her thin hands bore no rings. Where was her father or brother to permit this?

His gin-addled mind was wandering. “I may not be the most perfect of gentlemen, ma’am, but I cannot leave a lady to walk the night streets alone.”

“I live very close by. . . .”

“Then this will delay me little.”

He gestured her onward. He’d commanded men in battle. Surely he could command one ordinary woman. She did move forward, stiff with wariness.

Or anger?

Now that was interesting. He assessed her as best he could in the gloom. A bit tall for a woman, but that only brought the top of her head to his shoulder. Hard to judge her looks, but her features seemed set in . . . resentment.

Yes, that was it. Resentment.

She might have reason to be wary of him, but why in Hades should she resent him? Damned women. Never a scrap of reason in any of them.

She was dawdling now, but he would not be put off. “Your direction, ma’am?”

She quickened her steps as if she might outpace him—a thin, sour thing, all sharp angles and antipathy.

He kept up without effort. “Unwise to venture out alone so late, ma’am.”

“I merely wished to walk.”

“I have no pressing engagements. If you still desire a stroll, I could escort you for miles.”

Her angles became harder, which vaguely amused him.

A blessing that. It was a while since he’d felt amused.

They’d arrived at the main street of the small town. He saw no one else on foot, but a coach rattled by and turned in at one of the many inns.

To the left lay the Crown, a mangy, ill-run place where he’d failed to drown his sorrows. He’d escaped for some fresh air, but he’d have to take a room there or in another because the next coach south didn’t pass by until early morning. One of the others might be better, but as he could only afford to share a room with others . . .

How far he had fallen—and all his own fault.

He pulled his mind back again. Woman. Home.

“Forgotten where you live?” he drawled.

She turned sharply to him. “Why are
you
walking the streets at night, sir?”

“A man is allowed to, ma’am. Especially one who has a sword and knows how to use it.”

“Men are allowed anything,” she said bitterly, “whilst we poor women have no rights at all.”

Ah. “What man in particular has offended you, ma’am? I have a sword and know how to use it.”

She gave a short laugh. “You’ll not call out my brother.”

“He wouldn’t fight? There are ways. . . .”

“Only in court,” she said. “He’s a lawyer.”

“The lowest form of scum.”

He meant it as the general, common gibe, but she said, “He is, indeed.”

What had the fraternal scum done to her? Was it something Cate could avenge in a duel? He’d never thought to miss war, but at this moment, bloody violence would be immensely satisfying.

“His name and location?” he demanded.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“No wonder you’re alone in the world with such a razor tongue.”

“You’d be sharp if . . .
Oh!
” It was pure exasperation. “I suppose, being a man, you’ll insist on having your way. Very well.”

She marched across the street and into a lane lined by small houses. She stopped by the fourth door. There she spoke only just above a whisper. “Good night, sir.”

Hardly surprising if she didn’t want to alert the neighbors to her improper behavior.

The two-story house was narrow and shabby, with perhaps just two rooms on each floor. From her bearing and speech, she’d come down in the world.

“Is your brother inside?” he asked quietly.

“No, thank God.”

“Will he be back soon?”

“Live
here
? Samuel?” She laughed, but quickly covered her mouth with her hand.

Something was very wrong, and Cate found injustice so hard to ignore. It was the bane of his life. “If you were to invite me in, ma’am, perhaps I could advise you.”

“Invite you in?”
She looked around frantically, seeking listeners. “Go away.”

“I’m not planning a rape. You need help, but we can’t discuss your situation here.”

“We can’t discuss it anywhere. Go away or I’ll scream.”

“Truly?”

She hissed in a breath, “You wretched, drunken . . .”

A voice demanded, “What’s going on out there?”

Cate reached out and pressed down the latch. As he expected, the door opened, revealing a narrow corridor dimly lit by a candle in the back room. He pushed her inside and shut the door, but they both remained still, listening, pressed together. Her hard angles conflicted with a gentle smell of herbs and flowers.

There was nothing flowery about the way she said, “Get away from me!”

A dog whined.

Cate looked quickly toward the back room. It was only a spaniel, and an anxious one.

The woman squeezed away and hurried toward the dog. “It’s all right, Toby.” She fondled its floppy ears, and the dog’s tail wagged.

Cate followed, but the woman straightened and whirled to face him, a knife in her hand. A good knife, too—long, strong and probably sharp.

The dog only whined again, the cowardly cur.

Cate raised both hands. “I intend no harm, ma’am. My word on it.”

“And why should I trust your word? Leave.”

The candle gave light enough to confirm that she was thin and sharp, and had loose blond hair, but it revealed more. Her gown was a dull green that had once probably been brighter, and her knitted shawl an ugly brown. It was hard to guess her age, but probably no less than his, which was twenty-six.

An ugly spinster beyond all hope. There was nothing here to appeal to any man except that she was in dire straits.

Signs of poverty were everywhere. This kitchen was hardly wider or longer than his outstretched arms, and his head was in danger from the beams. Even so, it was scantily furnished, and if there’d been a fire in the hearth, it had long since burned to ashes. The candle was tallow, giving little light but too much odor. He saw no sign of food.

The few pieces of furniture were of good quality, however. The small table and four chairs could grace a morning room in a manor house, and had probably come from such a place. The pine dresser held some china and a few precious glasses.

Gentry fallen on hard times.

Because of a wastrel brother.

He had to know more.

Cate knew his size was frightening her, so he pulled out a chair and sat, putting his hands on the table.

“You won’t scare me away, and if it comes to a fight you won’t give me more than a scratch. Simpler by far to sit down and tell me your story.”

The woman tried to keep up her glare, but it melted into bewilderment and then, to his alarm, threatened tears. The dog whined again, somewhere amid her skirts. Oh, ’struth. Cate quickly took the flask of gin from his pocket and put it on the table. “Have some of this.”

“What is it?”

“Gin.”

“Have you never indulged? It can sweeten bile.”

She changed her grip on the knife, and surprised, he half rose to defend himself, but then she drove it two-handed into the table.

“My, my,” he said after an appreciative moment. “Do please sit, drink, and tell.”