Chapter Three
Shaw House
Portman Square
Mayfair, London
The sudden lightening of the mood in his bedchamber woke James late that morning. With a groan, he turned over in time to catch his valet pulling back the draperies.
“Leave off, Littleton.” There was a specific pounding in his head from over-imbibing the night before. “I don’t wish to rise this morning.” Or any morning if truth be told.”
“Don’t be more of an arse than you can help, Your Grace. And it’s almost noon,” the valet said with a snort. Then he moved to the other window and opened the drapes there. “It will do you good to get out of this house—in the daylight—and do something. Maybe visit the British museum.”
God, I don’t think so.
“Just let me rot.” He turned over onto his belly and buried his head beneath the pillows. “You already know I don’t go about in the daytime hours, and I have a megrim besides.”
“You are not allowed to rot, Your Grace.” Littleton ripped back the bedclothes from James’ frame. “You are too good for that.”
“Ha. I’m not good for anything.”
“Gammon.” The valet yanked away the pillows, and when James’ head hit the tick mattress and he turned it to glare at his friend, Littleton grinned. “Besides, the butler gave me a letter for you. It arrived earlier today from the post.”
“Christ. What now?” Try as he might, he didn’t remember having a good enough relationship with a former mistress that she would write to him.
Shit, what if it was about a child? “Let me see.” As soon as he sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, the valet gave him the ivory envelope.
After breaking the seal that didn’t bear any sort of crest or design that he recognized, he slipped a single page out then unfolded it. “I don’t know this person.”
“What does it say?”
As his valet moved into the adjoining dressing room, James read the letter.
To His Grace, the Duke of Blackhawke,
I am Miss Eloise March, daughter of Ambassador March, former ambassador to France. I have strong reason to believe that you murdered my fiancé, Jean-Claude Dubois three years ago in the tiny village of Allanche in the Auvergne region.
Now, I wish to hold you accountable. You must pay, duke or not.
If convenient, meet me in the farthest corner of Regent’s Park in Queen Mary’s Gardens behind the stand of willow trees near the duck pond and fountain.
If you do not, I will go to the papers and tell the story of what you did while in pursuit of the French regiment that had recently moved through the village at the time.
Perhaps the scandal will encourage you to do the right thing.
You have two hours. And by the by, if it is inconvenient for you, come anyway. You have had years to hide and perhaps not tell the tale. Today, it comes to light, and you will meet your comeuppance.
Respectfully only because it’s proper on paper,
Miss March
“Bloody hell.” James shot to his feet. “The fucking audacity of this woman!”
Littleton returned to the bedroom with a fine lawn shirt in hand. “What is it? What happened?”
“Look.” Incensed and with hot anger surging through his chest, James put the missive into his friend’s hand. “Who does she think she is to threaten a duke?”
After putting the shirt into James’ hand, the valet quickly skimmed the letter. “Well, that is interesting.”
“That’s one word for it.” He tugged on his shirt then headed for the painted privacy screen.
Once he’d ducked behind it, he did the necessary.
“I suppose it’s possible I could have killed the man.
” With much willpower, James forced those memories away before they could whisk through his mind’s eye like rapidly moving paintings.
“All those days and campaigns in France blend together after a while.”
All the men he’d killed morphed into a faceless blur as well.
“They do, indeed,” Littleton said, and from the distance of his tone, James assumed he’d gone back into the dressing room. “God, those were horrible times.”
“Yes.” James moved to the wash basin then poured cold water into the porcelain bowl. “I doubt I shall ever be free of those horrors.” He splashed water onto his face, appreciating the shock of it to help him come awake.
“At least we went through them together.”
A grunt was his answer as he scrubbed his face with a clean, folded rag.
Littleton had been with him for the past five years.
They’d met in the last couple years of the war and since the man didn’t have anywhere to go after everything ended, James asked him to come work for him as his valet.
They were friends and he didn’t like the thought of Littleton indigent or struggling.
Because his family had long since perished from various causes, he was only too happy to oblige.
And honestly, James didn’t know what he would have done without his valet.
“It is entirely possible that you killed Miss March’s fiancé,” Littleton said as he handed James a pair of navy breeches. “Those were murky days.”
“True.” He yanked on the garment and tugged it up, manipulating the buttons of the front falls. “Yet I don’t remember killing a villager. There were a few villages I recall going into, and one I visited as a spy, but I wasn’t hunting a village doctor…”
God, did I kill someone I don’t remember?
“That is what the red haze of war will do to a man, I suppose.” As he spoke, Littleton fit a light blue satin waistcoat to James’ frame then tightened the laces in the back.
“Yes, but it doesn’t ring true. I refuse to have some no-account woman belittle my name or even threaten me.
” Was he terrified that his deeds during the war or as a spy would come to light in a public forum?
Yes and no. It had been war; these things were expected, but having a civilian with a grudge spin the stories to make it seem he was naught but a deranged murderer?
That would damage his reputation, even if he didn’t care about it overly much.
It was now the principle of the thing.
“You’ll find no objection from me.”
James said nothing as his friend spent the next few minutes winding the length of silk cravat about his neck then arranging it into a stylish knot.
“If this is what it takes to get you out of the house in between bouts of rain, it’s all to the good.
You need the exercise and to breathe fresh air, regardless. ”
This time, he huffed. “You aren’t helping.”
“Perhaps, but I’ll not let you slip into the next world merely because you’re lazy and without motivation.” Littleton held up a jacket of sapphire superfine. “You need a project or a reason to stay; perhaps this is it. You can even have your solicitor involved. That might prove interesting.”
“I’m not lazy.” Annoyed, James shoved his arms into the sleeves. He huffed while the valet smoothed the garment over his shoulders. “Exhausted and disillusioned, of course, but who wouldn’t be after what I’ve gone through?”
“Who among us isn’t?” Littleton brushed at a piece of lint from one of James’ shoulders. “We still go on because there is hope.”
He grunted. “Not for me.”
“Yes, even for you. As jaded and weary and as unworthy as you think you are, there is still hope. Never discount that.” The valet shoved him toward one of the chairs in the room.
“Let’s get your boots on so I can style your hair.
After you shave, you can start your day, Your Grace. I’ll ring for coffee.”
James collapsed heavily into the chair. “Fine. And porridge. If I’m to go out in this wretched weather, I want something hearty sticking to my ribs.” Old habits died hard, for that was the meal he enjoyed while on the march. And in these trying times, it was cheap.
Regent Park
Mayfair, London
James hunched deeper into his greatcoat and turned up the collar, for a desultory rain persisted and made the air a bit more chilly than it should have been for this time of the year.
Gray clouds filled the skies. The paths through the park were dotted with puddles, because, of course they were.
It had been raining for ages, and didn’t look to stop any time soon.
As of yet, he hadn’t spied the bold woman who had sent him that missive. Frankly, hot annoyance still flowed through his chest, for he planned to give her a dressing down she wouldn’t soon forget.
When he saw the stand of willow trees, he moved toward them. It wasn’t until he rounded a curve that wound past the fountain Miss March had mentioned in her letter that he finally saw a splash of color that broke through the grayness of the day.
Her back was turned to him; clearly, she expected him to approach from the opposite direction.
The raspberry hue of her dress proved a much-needed bright spot, tempered only by the long sage-green pelisse she wore over that to keep the rain off her clothing.
A straw bonnet covered brown hair, and then she turned.
With the black umbrella she held, she actually made a lovely picture against the dreary backdrop.
There was no more time to delay, for he was nearly upon her.
Her doe-like eyes met his with enough anger reflected there he could almost feel it. “Are you the Duke of Blackhawke?”
“I am.” As he glanced about, he couldn’t discern a maid or companion with her. “I assume you are Miss March, the would-be blackmailer?”
Immediately, annoyance crossed her face.
“If that is the only way for you to admit to your sins, then certainly.” She glared at him, but with her eyes framed by black lashes, the effect was rather more stunning than he’d anticipated.
The woman wasn’t exactly beautiful in a classical sense but she wasn’t plain.
“So, you intend to move forward with your plan of revenge? At least I’m assuming that is what you want from me?”
“Revenge or at the very least avenge my fiancé.” She shrugged. “It all depends on what you’ll do next.” From the reticule that dangled from her wrist, she withdrew a tarnished silver pocket watch. “This was found clutched in my fiancé’s hand the night he died.”