What the Duke Wants (33 page)

“Grace, dammit, don’t give up on me!”

Unbelievably, he was crying as he shouted after her. She never looked back.

An explosive ring sounded in his head. The pain of her leaving without acknowledging him felt like a shot to the heart, and then he looked down and noticed the blood spreading across his shirt, surprised to realize that he had, in actuality, been shot. Literally shot in the middle of the street.

He looked at Cliff with disbelief in his eyes. “I think that was meant for you.”

Chapter 25

“She’s gone.”

Stonebridge was about to take a sip of his whisky when he heard those words. He froze, his whisky glass elevated just out of reach of his lips. He was in his bed, convalescing. Still. And he stayed that way, frozen with his glass raised, long enough to tamp down the desperate flash of pain caused by those words. He looked up to stare down his ex-best friend, Clifford Ross, who bore that painful news. There was no need to ask who she was.

He took a moment more to glare at the man standing before him before tossing back the contents of his glass in one swallow. Of course, he knew she was gone. He was there, dammit. He saw her leave with his own disbelieving eyes.

“You look like hell, Duke.”

He set down his glass and ran his good hand through his bed-mussed hair and then down his face. He felt the scratch of two-day-old stubble on his chin. He knew he looked like shite; no words were required to acknowledge it.

“What day is it?” he choked out. His voice was hoarse and scratchy, probably from loudly cursing Grace and himself to Hades—primarily himself—numerous times over the last couple of days.

“Thursday. I understand you haven’t been sober since you woke up last week. You’re one lucky bastard, you know. I hear the shot went clean through. Though your shoulder might give you trouble the next time you take up fencing.”

“Checking up on me, old man? It appears I have a butler to fire. And I thought we were no longer friends.”

“We’re not, but old habits die hard. And we still have a job to do, if you’ll remember. I care for her too, you know.”

“I know.”

“She’s a remarkable woman.”

“I know.”

“You’re a right jackass.”

“I know.”

“Well, I’m glad we got that straight.”

A few uncomfortable moments passed as each man grappled with their emotions—anger being the predominate mood. Stonebridge finally broke the silence.

“So, are you going to tell me more, or did you just stop by to give me hell for old time’s sake?”

“She left with her maid, Bessie, and everything she owned, with no intention of returning. Ever. She stood up to your fiancée, quite admirably I must say. Then she graciously thanked Lady Harriett for inviting her to London and left without looking back. That part you know.”

“Good for her.”

Another uncomfortable silence passed as he considered everything Cliff said. Then Cliff dropped the news guaranteed to get a much stronger reaction out of him:

“I asked her to marry me.”

He threw his glass into the fireplace, shattering it. Grace and Cliff wedded. Just a hint in that direction brought forth pure rage. His heart thundered in his chest, the sound so loud in his ears he was fearful he might not hear Cliff’s next words. He needed to hear them. He needed to know. He was impatient to know.

“Spit it out, man.”

“What?”

“Did. She. Accept?” He could barely contain his anger as he spat out the words between clenched teeth. What else could he possibly want to know? Cliff could be damned obtuse at times. His glass was gone; he would be after Cliff’s neck next. And he was angry enough to overcome the twinge in his shoulder to do it.

“Of course not. Would I be here if she had? You need to get a hold of yourself and use your brain for a change, Ambrose.”

He couldn’t help but feel relieved, even though it was ridiculous, considering the circumstances.

“Oh, and another thing. Beatryce threatened Grace. I heard it all. I suggest you keep a tight leash on your fiancée. She’s a vindictive bitch, and I don’t trust her not to make Grace’s life hell.”

It said a lot that he didn’t care in the slightest about the slur to Beatryce’s name. In fact, he even nodded in agreement as Cliff spoke. Even he knew, now, that Beatryce was all Cliff claimed and more. The knowledge that he had no way to separate his future from hers left him bitter. Though she wouldn’t know it, he would protect Grace for the rest of his life.

“You may depend upon it,” was all he said.

“Good. And I’ll have you know, I will hold you personally responsible if Beatryce ruins Grace in any way,” threatened Cliff.

“Damn, you must really care for her.”

“I may not love her, but I do care for her, and I would joyfully marry her and spend my life trying to make her happy if she would have me, but her heart is otherwise engaged—though she hates the man and genuinely hopes to never see his sorry hide again. I can’t say I blame her for the sentiment.”

He thought the sun had peaked out and shone on him and him alone.

She loves me?

Just touching the edge of that thought made the room seem brighter, his future look promising. And horses could fly and pigs could sing.

Grace would be happy in her new life. She would probably marry a nice man and have children of her own one day, while he would live the rest of his life in misery with the spiteful witch, Beatryce. The reality of his future burned like acid in his chest and he rubbed at it with his hand.

It was then that he realized the full extent of all he'd lost, and how deeply Cliff’s words sliced his soul. He knew she was forever out of his reach, and he knew how much he had lost because of it. Life with Grace would have been filled with joy and peace. She was smart, witty, and compassionate. His future was bleak.

“We’ve got another problem.”

He looked at his friend, bleary eyed and weary.

“Did you happen to read your betrothal announcement? It was in this morning’s paper.”

“No. Why would I want to read that rubbish?”

“You should have. It is quite informative. It seems you are to be married in one week’s time.”

He spat out a curse. “A week? Is he mad?”

Cliff would normally have laughed at this point, but he didn’t. Evidence that he, too, was still quite angry. “I did some investigating and it seems that your wonderful future father-in-law and your kindly fiancée are spreading some interesting rumors about. They suggest you have reason to marry in haste, if you catch my meaning.”

“Good, God! I never.”

“Oh, I’m sure.” Cliff laughed, some of his usual good humor returned.

Stonebridge pulled at the ends of his tousled hair. “Damn, but I have to do something. We’ve got to have a break in this case soon. I’m convinced the investigation is what is prompting Swindon to be so bold. We must be on to something.”

“Well, there is the box that Grace found.”

“What do you mean, the box that Grace found?”

Cliff told him about his search of Beckett House the day of the ball, initially leaving out Grace’s involvement.

“And how did you manage this search, during the day, with the servants wandering about?” he asked, anger dripping from every syllable.

“Grace.”

Cliff never saw it coming. Stonebridge exploded from his bed and tackled him to the floor.

“How
dare
you put Grace’s life in danger that way! Do you know they are watching that house every minute of every day?” he roared.

Cliff pushed Stonebridge aside; it was easy to do since he had not yet recovered from his wounds.

Cliff stood, brushed himself off, but left his friend on the floor.

“Who are you? I don’t believe I know this emotional, rash man on the floor before me. What happened to the calm, logical leader I know? You’ve not been the same since…” Cliff stopped and shook his head.

“Go on. Spit. It. Out. I’ve not been the same since…?”

Cliff tried again. “There’s the man society knows; there’s the man I know, and there’s the man you’ve become since you met Grace. Do you know what I think? I think Grace has made you aware that the man you are and the man you think you need to be are not the same person. And the truth is ugly. She’s turned you inside out and you don’t know what to do with yourself.”

“Nonsense.”

Cliff ignored him. “You want her, desperately; she fits the man you are, but you think you cannot have her.”

“What would you have me do? I’m trying my damnedest to be honorable, yet every move I make—every decision I make—results in someone getting hurt. I try, but despite my noble intentions, everything turns out wrong.”

“And you’ll continue to suffer with that problem until you embrace the man you are. Until you choose to create the life you want. Take hold of it with both hands. You’ve only got one life to live, friend.”

“I don’t know how to be both. My private self is none of the ton’s business. Society expects…”

“Who the hell cares what society expects? Hang society. Why do you care what those people think anyway? You don’t have to live with them day in and day out for the rest of your life. Like a wife. Don’t you realize the power you’ve amassed over the years and the influence you have because of it? Do you think your father cared what society thinks?”

He looked at his friend as he thought over Cliff’s advice. Hope floated filled his chest. Peace beckoned in the distance. Could he do it? Could he tell society to piss off? Possibly.

“Since when did you become a philosopher, old man?”

“I’m relieved you find that amusing. I’m through. I’ve said my peace. But we don’t have time for me to continue blowing sunshine up your arse. We have a case to solve and we’re wasting time here over something that is over and done with, for now. There’s nothing you can do about it anyway, not until that shoulder’s healed.”

Cliff helped him from the floor, and he crawled back into bed, wincing as the wound in his shoulder throbbed with his movements.

Cliff carried on. “Now, we have this box that Grace found at Beckett House. It has the symbol for the Society engraved on the lid, but it’s empty.”

“Circumstantial evidence. It wouldn’t put Swindon away or hang him for his crimes.”

“I know, but while you were incapacitated, we got a note from MacLeod. Our friendly neighborhood assassin has confessed. Everything. He even told MacLeod where Swindon keeps his Society papers hidden at his place near the Park. They need me to retrieve them; I’m headed there now.”

“Good. I hope to God you find something. Go then, I grow tired.”

As Cliff turned to leave, the door opened, admitting none other than Aunt Harriett. The duke scrambled to cover himself with his bed clothes.

“Aunt Harriett?” he said on a surprised gasp.

Aunt Harriett paid Ambrose no mind. She simply marched over—a fierce and determined look in her eye—and bashed him over the head with her umbrella. Then, she turned on a huff and walked out the door. Without uttering a word.

“Ouch!”

He heard Cliff laughing all the way down the stairs, while he sat in his bed now nursing a sore head in addition to his sore shoulder. Women.

* * * *

Swindon entered his study to find another note impaled on his desk, the same as before:

Writ of Execution

The Earl of Swindon

Tick. Tock.

He paled. And needed to change his trousers. Again.

* * * *

Oxford…

Grace stood in the middle of her father’s shop. Her shop now. She still couldn’t believe the transformation. Many of the details she recalled from her old life here had been recreated with obvious care.

She inhaled a deep breath and drowned herself in the atmosphere, the memories. She was glad to be rid of London and its smell. And the people, or most of them. This store was her future, and she was miserable. She had left part of her heart behind, and it would be a while before she was whole again.

She knew she should be thrilled at how perfectly her plans were working out. She had inherited this place and her childhood home above it. Dansbury had seen to that. She had enough capital to open her shop within in the next three months—and still be able to make ends meet—just—until her business took off. It all seemed perfect.

However, despite her good fortune, she was miserable with grief. True, Ambrose had been cruel—a real cad—but oh, how she loved him anyway, and her heart broke all over again. She should have looked forward to getting over her despair, but right now, it didn’t seem possible.

She refused to dwell on his upcoming nuptials or she would lose her barely controlled composure completely. As it was, she was constantly on the verge of hysterics, and she held on to her sanity by a thread. Her emotional state was chaotic from bouts of near happiness, to grief, to heart-racing anxiety over what they had done.

What if I am with child?

Reflexively, she placed her hand to her stomach and imagined the child that could well be growing in her womb. She would love his child, and a small part of her hoped she was indeed
enceinte
.

For the most part, however, she felt uneasy over the possibility—she was somewhat afraid to face the prospect of the birthing and subsequent child rearing—alone. Of course, she had Bessie, but it wasn’t the same as a husband—a lover.

She wouldn’t call on Cliff as he asked; she couldn’t pass off her child as his. He had his own life to live—his own love to find—and she wouldn’t burden him with her mistakes. Of course, she certainly couldn’t call on Ambrose.

She sighed, depressed over her maudlin thoughts. She knew she would be all right in the end, that she would survive, but the prospect was still frightening to contemplate if she found she were increasing.

“Have you thought about your story—what you plan to tell everyone should…you…you know…?” Bessie asked, with a pointed look at Grace’s hand on her belly.

She jerked her hand away even though it was obvious Bessie had been watching and guessed at the direction of her thoughts.

“I hadn’t, not yet, but I guess I should plan for the possibility, just in case.”