Whispered Music (London Fairy Tales 2) (25 page)

—The Diary of Dominique Maksylov

The walk around the castle hadn’t done Dominique any good, he was just as agitated if not more by the time he returned to the front of the castle. Matters worsened when he noted the carriages out front and the blazing crest on every one of them.

Montmouth.

Dominique truly didn’t have God on his side, for the one thing he wished would not happen had come true. Now, Isabelle would know, and she would hate him, for who would she believe? The beast he once was? Or the man he had become?

Muttering an oath, he took the steps two at a time and entered into the house, only to find Hunter pacing outside the salon as if someone had died.

“What the devil are you doing?” Dominique all but yelled.

Hunter did not still, nor did he respond, merely cursed and closed his eyes.

Dominique took that as an invitation to shake him.

Which he did.

Hunter just cursed again.

“Get a hold of yourself!” Dominique jerked his friend away from the door. “Now tell me what is going on?”

“If you don’t mind,” Hunter seethed, “I’d like to continue my pacing, it makes me feel deuced better about the fact that the chit I rescued is on the other side of that door and my cover could be completely blown at any second!”

Realization dawned. Despite his foul mood Dominique laughed. “The chit you are referring to, would it be Gwen? Isabelle sister?”

Hunter paled.

“You little liar.” Dominique crossed his arms. “So when I was in bed from a gunshot wound and you flew into the room with stories of being accosted by a woman who smelled of eggs and meat—”

Hunter slapped his hand across Dominique’s mouth. “Do not remind me of that particular woman. This is not she, believe me.” His eyes took on a lusty haze. “This is not she,” he all but whispered. “I discovered her on my way back through the village, to take care of your sorry a—” He stopped himself and shuddered. “At any rate, she was alone, can you believe it? An English miss alone in the countryside asking questions!”

“Yes well,” Dominique removed Hunter's hand. “I do believe women tend to do that when they are lost and searching for answers.”

“She was gaining too much attention,” Hunter muttered. “So I rescued her.”

“Did she see it as a rescue or a capture?” Dominique asked, intrigued.

“I saved her life!”

Truly, Dominique had to fight to keep his expression indifferent. “Are they erecting a statue in your honor? Or perhaps giving you some sort of medal?”

“She doesn’t know who I am, only that I work for the crown.” Hunter ignored Dominique’s teasing barbs. “And she cannot tell her family of my help in the matter.”

“Why ever not? I believe they would be thankful! Joyous! That is unless you took advantage of a single woman, all alone in the woods, with nothing but the dress on her back and—” Dominique stopped talking as Hunter lost color in his face. Quite a feat considering he looked like a ghost already.

“Do not speak of it.”

Dominique blanched. “Did you compromise her?”

“I did it for God and Country?” Hunter said it as more of a question as he broke his gaze away and stared at the floor.

“Yes well, be sure to say that when the duke murders your sorry excuse for an a—”

The doors opened swiftly, interrupting Dominique’s speech.

Montmouth stood, arms crossed, looking every inch the formidable foe Dominique had remembered him being. He suddenly had a distasteful vision of the man ripping his limbs off, laughing all the while Isabelle watched.

Well, he would always have those few weeks of happy memories before he met his demise.
And here we go.

“Montmouth, didn’t expect to see you here,” he rasped, casting a quick nervous glance at Isabelle.

Anger rolled off her. Face pale and hands on hips, she sent him a murderous glare.

Dominique cringed. She knew.

“Did you not send for me?” Montmouth asked, clearly agitated as he paced in front of him.

“I did, but that was over a month ago, before the
accident
.” He hoped that his emphasis on the word clued Isabelle in. He dared not look at her, lest he break down in front of a room of strangers. The infamous beast, felt like a broken man, a wounded puppy, and once again full of fear.

“Yes well, you can imagine it took a while for word to reach us, though it just so happened that Gwen nearly beat us here, imagine that.”

Hunter spoke up, “Yes imagine it.”

The raven-haired beauty glared at Hunter but said nothing. Nor did her body language give away any sort of previous meeting.

Family reunions. Truly glorious, something to look forward to in the future, no doubt.

Dominique cleared his throat. “I will have rooms readied for you at once, your grace.” He nodded to Brinks who was standing outside the room watching the exchange with an amused grin on his face.

He cleared his throat for the second time, and Brinks disappeared around the corner.

“Now,” Dominique addressed the Duke. “I trust one of England’s greatest spies has yet again helped us retrieve your sister-in-law?”

Montmouth nodded. “Yes, it seems Gwen sold as many of her possessions as she could in order to go searching for her lost sister. She imagined the great beast of Russia was set on killing her.”

“Lovely bedtime story, do be sure to tell me that one someday, Dominique,” Hunter interjected with amusement.

Montmouth glared. “At any rate, the man who rescued her, though I use the term loosely considering her disheveled state, hasn’t been seen since, nor do I know his identity. However, I’m not sure I wish to thank him. Murdering him sounds more likely, since Gwen has yet to explain where she obtained the marks on her neck and arms.”

Hunter chose that opportune moment to have a fit of coughing. He bent over and grabbed at Dominique’s coat.

With a resigned sigh, Dominique pushed his friend away and once again faced the duke. “Your grace, as you can see Isabelle is quite alive and healthy.”

“I cannot see that,” Montmouth clipped. “Perhaps you need to look closer, for my sister-in-law looks ready to burst into tears at any moment, and since you are the only one I can imagine who caused such pain, you will forgive me for not being more polite or well-mannered. I have half a mind to shoot you for buying her. What’s worse is you brought her into a heavily French-occupied area!”

Domnique didn’t think it would be wise to point out that the duke had done the same with his own wife.

“My mother-in-law is in Bedlam, and it seems Isabelle has traded one nightmare for another. Do you deny it?”

He couldn’t. Dominique wanted to deny it, to fight, to explain the whole story, but the truth of the matter was, Isabelle had put up with the worst of nightmares, and he was to blame.

“I do not deny it.”

“At least you have
some
honor.”

Hunter took a step forward, but Dominique stopped him with his hand.

“Now,” Montmouth spat. “We will stay as long as it takes to gather what belongings Isabelle has here, and we will be returning to London with her. Do I make myself clear?”

The man seemed ruthless. Especially standing up to one with Dominique’s reputation. With an amused chuckle and most likely an insane wish to be shot, Dominique said, “No, you do not make yourself clear. Perhaps you should speak louder.”

Montmouth's face turned red with rage, he reached into his jacket pocket. But Dominique was quicker. With little effort he rendered the giant harmless by cracking his wrist. The pistol dropped to the floor, and he kicked it to Hunter who immediately made quick work of unloading it of its contents.

“Now, you have barged into my home, put your wife and her two sisters in danger, as well as the life of my unborn child…” He knew it was possible, though quite unlikely that Isabelle carried his heir, but he hoped Montmouth didn’t see the fib, nor the trembling of Dominique’s own voice at the thought. “All based on a letter that should have never been sent to you in the first place.” Dominique used all his strength to push Montmouth down into a nearby chair and loomed over him. “Now, allow me to take myself clear. I love Isabelle. I have been to Hell and back in order to have her, and will not let some self-righteous duke trounce into my home and demand that the only woman I have ever loved return with him. You will have to kill me to get to her, and if her choice is to go with you, I beg you to kill me anyway, for I cannot imagine taking a breath without her by my side.”

The room fell silent.

Montmouth’s breathing slowed and then a grin broke out on his face. “Good work, man! I knew you had it in you! See, Isabelle, I told you it was a misunderstanding. Women, you can’t truly believe a word that comes out of their mouths.” Rosalind slapped him playfully on the arm.

Hunter swore a string of expletives and kicked the wall with his boot.

Exhausted and in utter shock, Dominique merely stared at the duke, slack jawed.

“Come now!” Montmouth rose to his feet and pulled him into a tight embrace. “It seems we have a wedding to celebrate!”

Dumbstruck, it took a few seconds for what had just transpired and when it hit him, he was ready to pummel the man. “You smug son of a—”

“Easy…” Montmouth paused and looked Dominique straight in the eyes. “I know when a man is tortured, the haunting look in his eyes when he thinks he’s lost what’s most important to him. It was like looking in a mirror.” Montmouth shook his head. “Now, let us adjourn elsewhere so the ladies can catch up. It seems they’ve all had adventures to last a lifetime.”

Dominique nodded slowly and turned to look at Isabelle, tears were streaming down her face. She gave him a weak smile and nodded. He took that as a good sign, the only sign she could give him amidst the chatter.

Hunter led the way, a scowl on his face. Montmouth turned to Dominique. “Speaking of a man haunted, what the devil is wrong with your friend? It looks as if he’s seen a ghost.”

“Not a ghost… a memory.” Dominique left it at that and went into the study where he kept his best whiskey. There would be time enough to talk to Isabelle after dinner. And he would make certain she knew where his loyalty lay.

Chapter Thirty-two

I refuse to be him, therefore I won’t be. I make a choice to be better, stronger, more loving. To be a true father.

—The Diary of Dominique Maksylov

Once she had awoken from fainting, Stefan had demanded she tell him what was wrong. Was she held here by her own free will? Had she been harmed? Where was her husband? Truly it had all been too much.

She lost all control.

And in true feminine fashion, burst into tears. Never before had she been such a watering pot. She told them everything. Nothing was sacred, well, except for the stolen moments with Dominique.

To his credit, Stefan listened intently while Rosalind patted her hand and Gwendolyn held her in her arms whispering into her hair.

She loved him, and she told them as much, but also explained that she had just discovered an incriminating letter.

Heartbroken, she continued to sob, until with a laugh Stefan jumped to his feet. “Well, this is perfect!”

Rosalind glared.

Gwen gasped.

And Isabelle whimpered.

“Hear me out!” Stefan clapped his hands. “All men need is a little push, and it seems the earl is at the brink of insanity!”

“Please explain yourself, husband, before you find yourself sleeping in the stables.” Rosalind seethed.

Stefan ignored her angry comment and continued, “I’ll threaten to take the thing he values most in life.”

“His music?” Isabelle offered.

Stefan knelt in front of her, “No, my dear. The other half of his soul. You.”

Well, Isabelle hadn’t known what to say then, not that it mattered because as soon as the words left Stefan’s mouth, low voices were heard outside the doors to the salon.

Stefan marched right over to the doors and threw them open revealing a pale-looking Hunter and irritated Dominique.

She was unable to meet his gaze, ashamed for believing the worst of him, but most of all, still doubtful of his affection. Isabelle was so used to his rejection, to his excuses, his justifications that no matter how much attention he paid her these past few weeks, she still feared the worst.

Dominique began his speech, defending himself. She didn’t want to listen, wanted to stay in her miserable state. That is, until she heard him say that he sent the letter before the accident.

Before he was bed-ridden.

Before he reached for her.

And before he promised to hold and keep her heart forever.

She meant to put a stop to all the nonsense. Stefan truly should have made a go of it with the theater. He was yelling and threatening as if he was truly intent on causing physical harm, and just when she thought Dominique would hang his head and allow her to go with them, he rallied.

And in that moment, stole her heart all over again.

He loved her.

She smiled at the memory and touched her hand to her chest, surely she was dreaming! She hadn’t realized she had an audience until she looked up at both her sisters. Each of them had their heads tilted, merriment twinkling in her eyes.

Isabelle cleared her throat. Drat, they looked at her again, and again she gave back a blank stare. Had they asked her a question?

“My, my, it is worse than I expected,” Gwen mused. “Our dear sister has fallen so hard she has forgotten her own name.”

“That isn’t true.” Isabelle cheeks heated.

“Sure it is.” Gwen winked. “I’ve been repeating your name trying to gain your attention for the past five minutes. And all I received was a sigh.”

“Don’t forget the fluttering of her eyelashes, too,” Rosalind interjected helpfully.

Isabelle glared. “I assure you, I remember my name, I was merely…” Drat, why couldn’t she think of a better excuse than daydreaming about her husband's hands on her body?

“Lusting.”

“Sinning.” Gwen coughed.

Isabelle narrowed her eyes at her two sisters and promptly changed the subject. “So, how is mother?”