Despite the Duke (London Vices #1)

Prologue

Marianne Viceroy, Duchess of Roxboro, clutched at the enormous mound of her stomach, panting and terrified as she stumbled on the filthy cobblestones, covered with filth and lord knew what else.

Tripping on the edge of her gown, she braced herself against the side of a building, before venturing further down the darkened alley, hand tracing along the worn stone, alert for any sign of her pursuers.

A sudden flare of pain struck her midsection. Biting her lip so hard she tasted blood, Marianne struggled to remain silent, knowing no sound could escape lest she alert the men following in the darkness to her location. Those horrid men. Thugs who had—

Charles. He’s dead. He—

Another pain constricted the lower half of her body, nearly as painful as the one in her heart.

She’d witnessed the brutal murder of her beloved husband with her own eyes.

The villains who’d overtaken the carriage first shot John, the duke’s driver.

Thrown Robbs off the back of the carriage, bludgeoning the poor footman until Marianne saw the sheen of blood in the street.

I am the Duke of Roxboro. Unhand me.

Charles, so certain of his place in the world, had been more furious than anything. He was the Duke of Roxboro and one did not stop a duke’s carriage as it pulled away from Parliament. Her husband hadn’t realized the danger, until John fell from his perch, a pistol ball lodged in his forehead.

Pressing herself closer to the stone of the building, Marianne crouched down, terrified when footsteps, at a run, approached. Clamping her lips shut, she covered her mouth to keep from screaming in terror.

“She couldn’t have gotten far.” A harsh, lisping voice, dripping with the worst streets of London, reached Marianne’s ears. “Lord, she’s as big as a sow.”

“Leave ’er to the vermin here,” another voice declared before spitting, “The Devil’s Acre will eat her alive. There’s plenty who want to mount a woman with a rounded belly. She won’t survive the night.”

“She had diamonds in ’er ears, you bloody idiot.” The smack of a hand hitting flesh sounded. “I want ’em. Promised any jewels on their person.”

Marianne shrank further into the shadows, attempting to make her form as tiny as possible as she curled behind a pile of rags and foul smelling trash. Another pang ripped through her body, leaving Marianne clutching at the stone wall.

“Besides, I want a go at ’er. Never fucked a duchess,” a gurgling sort of laugh came out. “Specially not one big with child.”

“Nice teats too from what I could see. We’ll find ’er.” The other man belched. “Maybe down that way. I see somethin’ moving around.”

The next, fierce pain was so sharp that Marianne’s head swam for a moment, but she blinked and forced her eyes open.

Fainting in this hellish alley was not an option.

Nor could she give up. She must find safety, if not for herself, for the child she carried.

The child she and Charles had so dearly wanted.

There had been so many…miscarriages. But she’d finally conceived when she and Charles went abroad for nearly a year.

Not daring to share their happy news until Dr. Howard declared Marianne and the child to be healthy after their return to London. And now—

She held her breath, praying for divine deliverance.

One of her assailants hollered some distance away. “Here!”

“Sounds like Yorrick found her.” The heavy footsteps of the two men who’d been close, hurried away, back in the direction they’d come. “Don’t forget the duke’s signet ring. ’E’s asked for proof or we don’t get paid.”

Marianne’s breath left her lungs in a shocked hiss.

Proof?

Her heart beat that much faster. This was no accident. No random robbery. But a planned attack against the Duke of Roxboro.

Charles was well-liked. Respected. But he did have enemies, a handful.

He was outspoken on a number of contested bills, ones he defended passionately.

A fiery orator, Charles was known to be intractable at times when trying to prove his point.

Even so, that was hardly a reason to want him dead, was it?

A disagreement over the rights of miners? Or how best to fix the price of corn?

But who else could it be but a political opponent?

Mariane pressed closer to the wall.

She was alone. The baby was coming. And she was running for her life and trapped in The Devil’s Acre, a desolate part of London known for vice, murder, populated with thieves and prostitutes, ironically located close to Parliament.

Which would make it easier to murder a duke, firmly placing the blame on the denizens of The Devil’s Acre. Could it have been Cotswold? The earl blamed Charles and his platform for inciting the workers at his mine to riot.

Yes. It could be Cotswold.

Charles had been delayed in arriving to the carriage where Marianne awaited him.

He’d been so pleased to see her, pressing a kiss to her rounded stomach, before cursing Cotswold for the barbaric treatment of the working class.

Mere seconds later, the vehicle rocked violently.

A shot was fired, followed by the terrible groan of John as he fell to the ground.

The door had been flung open so forcefully, it had nearly been ripped from its hinges.

Hands reached inside, grabbing Charles and pulling him from the carriage.

Knives flashed in the light of the streetlamps, as their assailants stabbed him over and over, blood spreading across his coat.

Marianne hadn’t even screamed.

She had pushed herself into the furthest corner of the carriage, her mind unable to comprehend what was happening, knowing there was nothing she could do to save her husband. Charles fell to the ground, head lolling in her direction, his eyes meeting hers one last time.

Run. He mouthed. Run, Marianne.

Her fingers had grasped the handle of the door at her back as Charles continued to struggle, distracting the assailants so they wouldn’t—

Charles. A tear slipped down her cheek.

She had slid from the carriage as quietly as possible, knowing that she must save the heir to Roxboro. The thieves were so busy killing her beloved—well, they disregarded Marianne. Never glancing inside the carriage, likely assuming she’d fainted.

Cocking one ear, Marianne listened for any sign those awful men would return, but the nearby streets were quiet. Carefully, she stood, pressing a hand between her thighs as a great maw of agony leeched through her. Her fingers came away wet, the coppery tang of blood filling the air.

This child, all that was left of her sweet Charles, was choosing to arrive at the worst possible time.

“Mama will save you,” she whispered to her stomach. “I will.”

A dog barked in the distance. Shadows danced along the walls of the buildings surrounding her.

A drunk sang a song off key. Taking a deep breath, Marianne darted down a small alley nearly hidden behind a half-dozen barrels.

A soft light glowed, beckoning her towards a dilapidated house standing alone at the end of the alley.

Music and laughter sounded from a street or two over, but here, everything was quiet.

The light came from a lamp, sitting in the window.

Marianne could make out the sagging porch and the small pot of geraniums blooming beside the chipped wood of the front door.

Marianne focused her gaze on that door. Murderous thugs wouldn’t bother with geraniums, would they? Surely someone inside would come to her aid.

She half ran, half stumbled to the house, the scent of her own blood filling her nostrils, mixing with the unpleasant smells of the alley.

She gagged at the scent, before another pain struck, forcing Marianne to her knees.

Panting, she crawled up the steps, blood dripping down her legs.

Flinging herself at the door, Marianne pounded with her fist as loud as she dared, gaze darting back down the blackness of the alley.

“Please,” she cried, her strength waning. “I beg you. Help me.” She collapsed against the door, ears and eyes alert for any sign of her pursuers. “Please,” she whimpered as another stab struck her midsection.

The door opened a crack, which given the part of London Marianne found herself in, made a great deal of sense. These were not the manicured streets of Mayfair, geraniums or not.

A gasp came from somewhere above her, followed by a loud creak as the door jerked open.

Marianne fell through the opening, a scream on her lips as she took in the long, homely face hovering over her. Pale as a wraith. Pinched, tiny features. Wide, dark eyes.

Perhaps I am already dead.

“Lordy,” the ghostly creature whispered. “Oh lordy. Mrs. Bean! Come quick.”

Heels clicked across the wooden floor as Mariane struggled to pull the rest of her body inside the humble foyer.

“Please,” she begged. “Help me. I was attacked.” A sob caught in her throat, wondering how much she should say.

For all she knew, the attackers lived here.

But she had little choice. A tiny scream left her throat as she clutched her stomach. “My child—please.”

An older woman appeared, graying hair tightly plaited and wrapped around the crown of her head, a pair of spectacles perched on her nose. Shrewd, pale eyes took in Marianne’s crumpled form, the lamp in her hand raising higher. “What’s this?”

“She was bangin’ on the door, Mrs. Bean,” the wraith answered.

“And you opened my home to trouble. Haven’t I taught you better?” She lightly cuffed the back of the wraith’s, who was no more than a girl of fourteen, head. “We don’t care what reason is given. The door stays closed to strangers.”

“But,” the girl stuttered.