The Duke of Hearts (The Highwaymen #2)

Chapter Eight

CHAPTER EIGHT

THE BANDITS CAME to Briar Abbey in the night, and Marjorie did not feel she could ask the servants to put their lives on the line for the place, not in good conscience, not when she still hadn’t managed to gather the money to restore their salaries.

She had intentions to do so, of course. Now that her nephew would not be siphoning all the rents from tenants into his own pleasures, she would be able to bring everything into balance, but it would take time.

The bandits smashed things and took whatever objects of value they could find—and there weren’t many, truly, for her nephew had quite stripped the place. They threatened her and they threatened the scullery maids and the cook and they said all manner of vulgar and terrifying things.

But in the end, thankfully, they were mostly talk.

They slapped Marjorie when she tried to intervene on behalf of the servants, and beat down the carriage driver and the butler, both of whom tried to make a stand against them. No one was badly hurt, though, and none of the women were ravished, and the bandits left only hours after breaking through the windows on the first floor.

Marjorie did not sleep after they left. She paced the sitting room upstairs and wondered what she should do.

Word must have spread that she was a woman alone in this place, she assumed, and that there was no protection. Truthfully, she doubted her nephew could have mounted much defense against men like that either, but he would have been motivated to hunt them down and string them up, and she didn’t have the wherewithal to lead a manhunt.

She could appeal to the Duke of Arthford, who might help her.

She wished to, in fact. Any excuse to go to him, to see him again, to welcome him back into her bed.

When she had woken alone in the cold light of morning, knowing he had disappeared without even bothering to say goodbye, though, she had quite seen it all for what it was.

She knew how men could be this way, could have a single-minded drive for a woman, and then—once they had emptied their bollocks and their cocks had wilted—seemingly lost all interest.

He had wanted her for one thing, and he had gotten it, and then he was done with her.

She could go and beg for his help, and he might give it to her.

But what if he wouldn’t?

What if he said, Look here, silly girl, I have already paid through the nose for the privilege of taking your virtue, and besides which, I killed your father for you. Haven’t I done enough?

She wanted to preserve the way he’d been with her, eager for her, even enchanted by her. She wanted to fix that in her memory forever, and she didn’t wish to witness his cold dismissal of her.

So, it was foolish not to go to him, perhaps, but she didn’t think she could do it.

Finally, after dawn split the sky, she fell into bed and slept until one of the servants woke her, saying she had a caller.

She dressed hurriedly, in a dress, and made haste to the sitting room where the gentleman was waiting.

As she entered, she spoke in conciliatory tones about how they had been robbed the night before and the servants were in no state to prepare refreshments for a guest, not that their larders were full, having been pillaged by the bandits, at any rate.

And then the man turned to her, and the words died in her throat.

It was him.

He was standing across the room, leaning on his cane. He tapped it on the floor as he advanced on her, and the way he looked at her, it felt as if he was looking under her clothes. Because, of course, he had seen her without her clothes, without any of her clothes.

She remembered it well, how he had been bored when he ordered her to lie on her back and spread her thighs for him, how he’d eyed her there and shrugged, as if he wasn’t even interested in seeing her, even though he’d paid her father a tidy sum for the privilege.

“Comte Champeraigne,” she gasped.

“Miss Adams,” he said, lifting his chin and giving her a smile. “I’m ever so sorry to hear about your misfortunes with bandits. It must be terrifying to be here, a lone and unmarried woman, with no one to protect you.”

She wanted to cry.

She could not cry.

For one thing, one did not cry in front of, well, anyone. But also, this man, he could not ever see her weaknesses, and she knew that with a conviction that made her stand up very, very straight and school herself to keep control of herself.

“You must realize that you are once again quite the talk of London,” he said. “Everyone talked about you before, of course, when your father was parading you about for anyone and everyone, but since his death, most people have forgotten all about you. And then, I heard quite the story about your nephew being turned out of this house. Everyone is saying you realized that you had a valuable commodity that you could sell for your own benefit. The Earl of Abernachy, they say. Bought you this estate in exchange for a night with you.”

“What?” she said.

“Oh, no matter if it isn’t true, my dear,” he said with a shrug. “Rumors like this, no one cares if they’re true. They spread like wildfire.”

“I have never met the Earl of Abernachy,” she said, quite horrified.

He laughed. “No, no, as I say, I know these sorts of things are all mostly vapid lies. I don’t believe a word of it, don’t worry.”

She was reeling. Her hands started to tremble, so she shoved them behind her back and clasped them together to make that stop.

“But this does bring me to the reason for my visit,” he said.

“Oh, yes,” she said. “It is quite a surprise to see you, sir.”

“I heard the rumors and I was concerned for you,” he said. “I feel that I have a, er, connection to you, my dear.”

She shuddered visibly and hated herself for it.

“Yes, there is an intimacy here, is there not?” He tilted his head to one side. “I have seen you laid entirely bare, and it stirs feelings within me.” He shrugged. “I am but a man, after all.”

He was lying, because he had no stirrings or feelings or anything of that nature. He certainly was not concerned for her.

“As it happens, I think I could help you. I could provide protection for you, so that bandits like the ones who troubled you last night would never come to your door again. If anything did happen, you could call on me, and I would see to it that the ruffians in question were found, punished, and all of your goods were returned. Also, just the notion of being under my protection would deter this sort of awful behavior, you realize.”

She swallowed. “And what do you wish in return?”

“Clever girl,” he said, smiling more widely.

“I won’t— you can’t—”

“No, no, I’m not the least bit interested in your body, my dear.”

“I didn’t think you were,” she said faintly.

“That was a means to an end,” he said. “It wasn’t truly about you. It was about your father. I’m sorry if you were caught up in it. Was it very awful for you?”

She gaped at him. How dare he?

“It’s not really my way, typically,” he said. “I prefer women willing and eager. I did not take any pleasure in your discomfort. I doubt that matters to you, though. At any rate, you can rest assured, I would not ask to see you or touch you or to fuck you. No, what I want is money, of course. Just money. It’s a very straightforward business transaction, isn’t it?”

“How much?” she said in a strangled voice.

He shrugged. “We could negotiate, of course, but I think you must consider how important your safety is, madam. What price would you put upon your very life? For if more dangerous men come into your abode and attack you, next time they might slit your throat.”

She grimaced. “I could not afford it, I’m afraid. I have debts to see to, servants whose salaries are quite late, and I shall not be collecting rents in the immediate future.”

“You’ll be able to afford nothing if you are dead.”

“Well, true, I suppose, but I’ll be dead, won’t I, so I don’t imagine I’ll care.” She was sharp, and her voice wavered, and she scolded herself for allowing any emotion out. Her anger would likely lead to tears if she weren’t careful. Often, when she was angry, she cried.

“You won’t wish to say no to this, Miss Adams. Do you wish the bandits to return? Because if you say no, be assured, the bandits will return.”

It dawned on her slowly, what he was saying to her. He wasn’t saying it out loud, but he was conveying it clearly nonetheless. She understood now.

He had sent the bandits. This was not protection. This was coercion. He would terrorize her unless she paid him not to.

Yes, he had heard the rumors that she was alone and unprotected, and then he had decided to exploit her. He was exactly that sort of man. She felt rage well up in her, and she had an urge to fling herself at him, to rake her nails over his face, to claw his awful eyes from his skull.

But she could not actually move. She was frozen, rooted to the spot, and she felt a feeling that reminded her of what had happened to her sometimes when she’d been overwhelmed by men leering over her body, a feeling of crushing surrender, a feeling of something inside her breaking way. I’m helpless, said the feeling. You will do as you wish with me, I suppose. I can do nothing.

“Miss Adams?” he prompted.

Her voice was distant, detached. “How much?” she said again.

He smiled at her, triumphant.

ARTHFORD THOUGHT ABOUT going to see Marjorie, to apologize or something, but he didn’t, because he didn’t think his apology was going to mean anything, and then he thought if he saw her again, he’d probably try to talk her into letting him have his way with her again, because he wanted her, he still wanted her, and she didn’t want that, and…

In the end, it was better to stay away, he thought.

At any rate, he was only back with Dunrose at Bluebelle Grange for less than a week before a letter came from Nothshire that his wife had given birth to a tiny little boy child, and Nothshire wanted to show it off, so he and Dunrose were obliged to travel up there to look at the squalling, wrinkly thing.

Arthford had nothing against babies in theory, he supposed, but he didn’t really see the allure. They were actually ugly was the thing. People who had them were always cooing about how beautiful they were, and he had to admit that about a year on, they did become rather adorable and winsome, but that was just at the point wherein they were toddling about and terrorizing pet dogs and the like. So, even though they were cute then, they were still just annoyances. Infants seemed to him sort of reminiscent of larva.

He would never say this out loud, of course, because it was a horrifying thing to say.

And he had to admit that Nothshire was his very close friend, a brother really, more than a brother, and if Nothshire loved this little squirming larva thing, he would probably love it, too.

Maybe.

Someday, anyway, when it was big enough to talk.

He was actually astonished at his reaction to the baby. It had a name. He had a name. He was called Henry, which seemed rather a too-grown-up name for a tiny little one, Arthford thought, but he had not been consulted on what to name the child.

Henry was not beautiful. He was as pink and unformed as babes usually were, but he was sort of wondrous, and Arthford had been unprepared for the feeling that stole over him the first time the little bundle was settled in his arms. It was like… well, it was like falling in love, except not because it was different and wholesome and easy.

He found himself gazing into the little child’s face. He had blue eyes, wide and unfocused, and he was so very small and tiny and needy. Arthford, who would never have known this about himself, felt immediately that he would throw himself into a raging fire to keep this precious small one safe.

It astounded him.

He had no reason to feel that way. It must be because the babe was Nothshire’s, he supposed, but it was something else, something deep and ancient that worked through him, something, well, animal and instinctive. Protect the young.

He gentled his finger under Henry’s tiny little nub of a chin and thought that Champeraigne didn’t understand anything, nothing at all.

Being an animal, it wasn’t all brutality. Survival, it was instinctive, but survival was brought about by collective effort. Humans helped each other survive. They needed each other. If we did not instinctively love our young like this, we would all die out, he thought.

Love was an animal thing.

How could he have ever doubted it? Wasn’t it just like every other instinct? Out of one’s control? Overwhelming? Nonsensical?

Yes, Champeraigne was entirely wrong about the way of the world. Entirely.

Henry cried, but Arthford didn’t want to let go of him. He asked for instructions on how to soothe him instead, and he clutched the babe and walked in circles, rocking and swaying until Henry collapsed against his chest, exhausted, blowing little bubbles of spittle between his tiny and perfect lips.

Ah, yes, maybe he was beautiful, now that Arthford was really looking.

Christ.

Arthford wanted this. He wanted his own child. He wanted a woman and a family and all of this.

“You are quite taken with him,” said Nothshire’s duchess.

“Apologies,” he said to the child’s mother. “You must be wishing to have the babe back in your arms.”

“Oh, truly?” She shrugged at him. “I don’t mind a little bit of a reprieve now and then. I do love him, more than life, more than I thought I could ever love. It is terrifying the way I love him, but he is so demanding, and I am so tired. I was up for three nights laboring with him, and I have not ever made up that sleep.”

“No?” he said. “Why not?”

“He won’t settle for the wet nurse. She feeds him and then he bawls and cries until he’s in my arms.” She shrugged. “I am his home, you see? He has only ever known my body. I think he misses it, that he needs me close to feel safe.”

“Oh, yes,” said Arthford gravely. “You were his whole world until now.”

“He likes his father,” she said, smiling across the room at Nothshire, who was in some discussion with Dunrose and Rutchester, something about hunting dogs, Arthford thought. He was only hearing snatches of it here and there. “He recognizes Benedict’s voice, and I can tell.” She smiled wider. “It is something strange, being the safe harbor for a little babe. I am not worthy of it. I am not ready.”

He furrowed his brow at her. “Of course you are worthy.”

She raised her eyebrows at him. “Do you even like me, Your Grace?”

“I… yes,” he said. He looked down at little Henry. “Your Grace.”

She shook her head. “I shouldn’t have said anything. I feel so tired as of late, it is as if I cannot remember what it is one should say aloud and what one should keep to oneself.”

“It’s all right,” he said. “You can say anything to me. I would die for Nothshire. I would die for your child. I feel it’s only natural to include you in that. I think we are family, Your Grace.” He licked his lips. “Patience.” That was her first name.

“Die for Henry?” she said, tilting her head to one side. “You have just clapped eyes on him.”

“It’s odd,” he said, nodding. “Not remotely rational, but that’s why it’s true. You don’t volunteer to die for rational reasons, after all.”

She smirked. “Perhaps you don’t.”

“So, then, unburden yourself, duchess, if you wish. If you don’t wish me to repeat any of it to your husband, I shan’t.”

She drew in a breath, as if she were going to speak. But then she let it out, saying nothing, shaking her head again.

He thought to prompt her again, to reassure her.

But then she was talking. “I don’t know if you know how it all happened between Benedict and me, how I was wild for a child, and I wanted him to assist me in adopting one?”

“Yes, he tells me things. Probably not everything, but quite a lot of things. So, yes.”

“Well, then we were sort of foiled, and the child we had procured needed to stay with her mother, and I was… relieved. I thought, I don’t know, I thought that I wasn’t ready. And then, we were married, and then, we had decided we’d wait to have children, but it was sort of an accident. So, then, I thought, well, I have nine months to ready myself for this, for being a mother, and I shall be ready. And then… then… I’m not, though. And he’s here. And he needs me. And I am trying, trying and trying, but I am still simply not ready, and I don’t know if I shall ever be ready, and maybe Nothshire will just get ten children on me, and I’ll be surrounded by them and still not ready, and I—”

“All right,” he interrupted.

She winced.

“No, no,” he said. “I didn’t silence you because those words should not be said aloud, not at all. But I think, Patience, that you are quite exhausted, and I think that no one feels ready to do anything when they have not slept in a fortnight.”

She let out a breath that sounded like a sob. “Yes, but he needs me—”

“He needs you to take care of yourself. What’s more, Nothshire needs to be taking care of you both. He may also feel similarly overwhelmed, of course, but that’s why we’re here, the three of us. So, here is what we shall do. You will leave right now, and I shall tell a servant to draw a hot bath for you. You must soak in it for as long as you wish, and think of nothing but that. Then to bed with you, and no one will disturb you. No one.”

“But Henry—”

“The wet nurse will feed him, and between the rest of us, we shall soothe him. He is asleep now with me, is he not? And you said he knows Benedict’s voice.”

“What if he thinks I abandoned him?” she whispered. “I am his home, and he might be quite distressed without me close.”

“One night,” he said. “Just one night. You shall see little Henry first thing in the morning, and he will see that you have not abandoned him, that you always come back.”

“But—”

“No, no more protestations,” he said. “Off with you, now, and I mean it. You need your rest.”

She hesitated and then she nodded, and tears were glistening in her eyes. “Yes, all right, yes.” She wiped at one eye, brushing away a tear. “Thank you, Simon.”

“Think nothing of it,” said Arthford.

She went off.

What followed was the longest and most horrendous night of his life.

The babe woke every hour, sobbing like he was in agony. He and Nothshire had agreed to sleep outside the nursery to take the baby from the wet nurse and soothe him, but Nothshire just slept straight through it, and Arthford didn’t quite have the heart to wake him.

Henry did settle, though, again and again, between himself and the wet nurse, but Henry could not be laid down once he had fallen asleep, not unless they were willing for him to wake again immediately and scream.

Arthford caught bits of sleep here and there in a rocking chair, the baby a warm and solid weight on his chest.

It was the most horrendous night of his life, and yet…

It was also somehow perfect.

Strange, that.