The Duke’s Impossible Deal (The Black Widows Club #2)

Chapter 1

One

“As long as nothing else goes wrong, everything should be fine.”

No sooner had the words left Lady Rowen Berrymore, the Dowager Countess of Irving’s mouth than there was an almighty crash and boom that made the entire house shake.

Of course, just perfect.

The storm outside battered against the windows, and trees bent and creaked ominously in the howling gale that seemed more like a crowd of banshees than a wind. Lighting flashed, and thunder roared, mingling with the sound of crumbling stone, brick, wood, and shattering glass.

She was sitting in the study of her country estate, Irving Manor, with her housekeeper, Mrs. Brown. They had just finished going over the accounts, and dire as they were, Rowen had been hopeful.

“What on earth was that?” Mrs. Brown’s eyes were wide.

“Given my luck? Something large has just crashed into the house—I suspect a tree or something similar.” Rowen massaged her temples with her fingertips, trying to steel herself to go and inspect the damage. “It was probably the old oak. You know, the one by the eastern…”

Her eyes widened, and the rest of her sentence died on her tongue as realization hit her.

“Oh God! The children! They are having lessons in the eastern library—right by the oak tree!”

She leapt over the desk and sprinted out of the study, Mrs. Brown lagging behind her. “But that oak is hundreds of years old!”

“Yes, and the gardener thought it might have some rot,” Rowen called over her shoulder, hiking up the thick fabric of her skirts as she ran. “Drat, bother, and damn! From what he said, I thought it could wait a few days until I received my next payment from my brother.”

“You could not have known about the storm.” Mrs. Brown panted as she struggled to keep up with her. “And funds are rather tight at the moment. Which is not your fault.”

“No, the blame for that lies with my late husband. If he had not frittered away our fortune, then I would not be reliant on whatever I could scrounge together and the little money my brother could spare for us.” Rowen leapt up the stairs two at a time. “If anything has happened to the twins, I—”

“I am sure they are perfectly fine, My Lady.” Mrs. Brown was clutching her side. “Please, My Lady, we must slow down. You will injure yoursel—”

“I do not care! My children could be hurt or worse!” Rowen put on a burst of speed, leaving the older woman behind.

Lightning flashed again, and thunder boomed, the wind screaming like an angry banshee. The sound of the storm grew louder as Rowen climbed the stairs. Her heart beat like a wild thing in her chest, as though trying to free itself from her body.

She was nearly at the top of the stairs when she slipped on rivulets of water running down them. The wind hit her with the force of a battering ram, whipping her long, dark hair around her. Her stomach twisted and sank.

This is not good.

“Came right through the roof and the window!” a panicked feminine voice was saying. Rowen recognized it as the voice of the governess, Miss Harris.

Her heart clenched, panic making her blind to everything else as she skidded into the corridor and saw exactly what the governess was talking about.

A large oak tree sprawled through what had once been the eastern library. Its leaves and branches fluttered wildly in the wind, stone crumbled around it, and bits of roof were still clattering to the floor.

It was hard to see anything past the tree or hear much above the storm. The blood in Rowen’s veins turned to ice.

“Gigi! Alistair!” She made to dart past the two footmen who were consoling Miss Harris, desperate to get into what was left of the eastern library.

“My Lady!” Mr. Yately, her butler, flung himself in front of her and grabbed her arms. “You cannot go in there, it is not safe. The tree—it has brought down the roof and the wall, and I fear it will take the floor, or the wind will.”

“My children are in there—unhand me at once!” Rowen snapped, clawing at him as she struggled to break free of his hold.

She could see the swaying branches of the thick oak that had crushed a good portion of the eastern library beneath it.

What would that do to a child?

That was when she spotted a flash of blue fabric beneath one of the branches.

“Gigi!” She drove her elbow into Mr. Yately’s side, thrashing against him like a madwoman.

“The children are safe, My Lady.” Mr. Yately panted with the effort of holding her back. “They were not in the room when the tree fell.”

“Do not lie to me. I can see Gigi’s scarf!” Rowen roared, the thundering of her heart drowned out by the pounding of the rain. “Gigi!”

“It is only her scarf, My Lady. I swear. She is safe!” Mr. Yately was dragging her away, panting harder.

He is lying. How dare he lie to me?

Rowen was prepared to bite the man, to do anything to break free of his grasp and get to her child. She did not care what happened to her, but she would not let her children suffer.

“My Lady, please, Mr. Yately is telling the truth.” Miss Harris appeared beside her, wet strands of hair plastered to her pale face. “Young Lady Georgia was in one of her moods, and I thought that perhaps a snack would brighten it. I sent her and Master Alistair to the kitchens.”

Her voice was shaky, but her words cut through some of the panic that had filled Rowen.

“I was just about to look for them when the tree came crashing through.”

“It is lucky you did, or else you might have been in there when it happened,” Mr. Yately remarked.

Rowen finally stopped fighting him. She let out a ragged breath as he lowered her onto her feet and released her. “Thank heaven above.”

Her heart began to slow, and she rested a hand on her chest. Rain was coming through the hole in sheets, seeping into the carpets and hangings.

“Someone close the door, for goodness’ sake.” Mrs. Brown had arrived and was gesticulating to the doorway while she tried to catch her breath.

“Of course.” A footman began to wrestle with the door, trying to close it against the roaring wind, but the latch had been broken some weeks ago.

Yet another thing that I do not have the funds to repair.

“I suspect we will need to block it with something, Mrs. Brown, Miss Harris, come and help me move this against the door while Mr. Yately and Mr. Arnold hold the door in place.”

“That was the late Earl’s favorite sideboard! It is mahogany from the Far East with an ivory inlay!” Mrs. Brown exclaimed.

Rowen could hear the unspoken words: it is worth a lot.

She gave her housekeeper a look and pointed to the hideous bit of furniture. “And now it will be a doorstop. It will be ruined one way or another. At least this way, it will do some good.”

Mrs. Brown pursed her lips but made no further objection, and the three women pushed the heavy sideboard and, with the help of the two men, wedged it against the door.

“Find some other bits as well—the last thing we need is the dratted door opening again.” Rowen swiped her sodden hair from her face. “And use that rug to stem the flow of water—and anything else you can find.”

“Of course, My Lady.” The footman inclined his head and disappeared.

Rowen glanced at Mr. Yately, who was adjusting the lapels of his jacket. “Are you all right, Mr. Yately? I fear I elbowed you rather hard.”

She felt her cheeks warm at the memory.

Mr. Yately gave her an understanding smile as he bowed his head. “I have experienced worse knocks, My Lady. I apologize for my rather improper actions. But I could not allow you to put yourself in danger.”

“While it was improper, it was necessary. I would have fought the King himself had he stood in my way.” Rowen shuddered as she remembered Georgia’s blue scarf fluttering beneath the tree.

“I do not doubt that,” Mrs. Brown piped up, though Rowen could hear the amusement and affection in her voice.

“Was anyone hurt? Miss Harris, you were the closest when the tree crashed through.” Rowen turned to the governess.

“A few bruises, My Lady. The crash gave me rather a fright, and I fell in my haste to get away from it.” Miss Harris rubbed her elbows. “But no doubt Cook will have something for that.”

Rowen nodded. “She does have a knack for that sort of thing, which is rather fortunate, given Gigi’s propensity for mischief.”

And my lack of funds.

The cook’s knowledge of medicinal herbs was a lifeline in the house, and one of the many reasons Rowen had decided to hire her.

“Mother?” a small voice called from behind her.

Rowen turned to find herself looking at the familiar faces of her children.

The twins shared her dark hair and grey, piercing eyes. They each had her delicate little nose, though their lips were more like their late father’s, and their smiles could melt the most hardened of hearts.

Rowen closed the distance between them and scooped them into her arms, breathing in their scents. “Thank goodness you are both safe.”

“Ugh! Mother, you are wet.” Georgia wriggled away from her and wrinkled her nose.

“Why is there water on the stairs?” Alistair gestured to the rivulets of water.

“The storm has thrown a tree at the house. It has destroyed most of the eastern library and perhaps the drawing room beneath it. Thankfully, Miss Harris had left the room to fetch you from the kitchen.”

Rowen caught sight of Georgia’s face lighting up and the look of longing she was casting at the door the footmen were attempting to secure.

“And under absolutely no circumstances will you try to look at it.”

Georgia’s eyes snapped to her mother’s, the corners of her mouth quirking downward. “But I want to see it!”

“Absolutely not. It is far too dangerous.”

The image of Georgia’s scarf fluttering beneath the tree branches filled Rowen’s mind, and she fought the urge to pull her closer.

“Gigi, you must promise that you will not try and see the tree. Nor will you rope Alistair into some silly adventure to see it. Not until it is safe and you have my explicit permission to see it. You will promise me this, Gigi—and you, Alistair.”