The Duchess and the Dragon Page 2

  Charles shook his head, “And what of the servants who know? You’ll never be able to keep news of this import quiet. You’re talking out of desperation, man!”

  “The desperate are often the most cunning.” Drake wasn’t in the least deterred. “Listen to me. My servants are completely loyal to me. I am certain I can depend upon their cooperation. The doctor, however, will have already been told and will have to be bought.”

  “But how . . . ?”

  Drake ignored Charles’s sputtering confusion. “I will marry immediately, as my father, and upon finding the most fertile noblewoman in all of England, I will, God willing, bring a son, a dear baby brother, into this world. A short time later, my father will die from a withering disease that has kept him ill and in bed for months. The end result will be that my brother will inherit the dukedom. I will, of course manage the estate for him until he comes of age, at which time I will turn it over to him.” After finishing his case Drake looked at his friends, satisfaction filling him, replacing the despair. He almost chuckled aloud, knowing this was the final and most perfect irony of all.

  “I will give up what is rightfully mine to one person and one person only. My own son.”

  THE DAWN, THREE days later, found Drake on the third story balcony of Alnwick Castle, having a hearty breakfast of ham, eggs, buttered toast, potatoes thick with cream, and coffee. Whenever he was home and the weather permitted, he took his morning meal outdoors: on a balcony, terrace, or one of the many garden spots. He preferred these places over the stuffy red-and-gold dining room he shared with his father on rare occasions.

  This morning he was engrossed in his newspaper, calm as any other morning. And why not? Having convinced Charles and Albert of his scheme he had little doubt he could convince others. And convince them he had. He smiled in memory, the words of the newspaper in front of him growing dim. Soon after their conversation had ended, Drake called the servants who knew of Ivor’s death to the study. They were given a condensed version of the plan and asked for loyalty, even as a weighty purse of leather was pressed into each hand. The doctor had been a bit harder to convince, but Drake was certain he could depend on him now that he had silenced the man’s conscience with an even heavier purse. The good doctor would never have to treat another case of consumption or deliver another baby as long as he lived if he didn’t want to.

  The next step in this lunacy was to locate some padding, cosmetics, and the wherewithal to use them. The unaware servants were told his father had gone to London for a few weeks. Drake calculated that would give him time to prepare and practice for the appearances he would make as his father. But the greatest challenge would be to find the perfect woman who would pose as his father’s wife. Ivor should fall in love while in London, he mused, and come back remarried. The question was . . . to whom?

  Drake allowed his mind to travel over the faces of the women in his life—beautiful women of varied backgrounds and temperaments, but having in common the grasping, avaricious character that dominated the ladies of his set. There had been many over the years, but many more opportunities for romantic liaisons that he had flatly refused. He was as calculated in his dalliance as he was in every other aspect of his life. He could have—perhaps even should have—chosen one of them to become his bride by now. But he’d enjoyed the life he led too much to consider that it could change so completely.

  Still, now that he had to choose one and quickly, he found himself unable to do so. Lana, his current mistress, was an earl’s daughter. She would be delighted—no, ecstatic. But he didn’t think he wanted to trust such a secret with her. She was too demanding, too moody, and much too talkative. He needed a quiet woman—submissive and sweet. Someone who would accept this scheme and him as a temporary husband without questioning him to death over it. Once the child was born, Ivor could be put to rest in truth, and Drake would end his relationship with the woman. He would live in London, visiting occasionally to watch over the upbringing of his son.

  Or rather . . . his brother.

  He chuckled. It was preposterous, when he thought of all the implications. But the woman would remain a duchess, living here in the splendor that was Alnwick Castle. He was confident he could find any number of females willing to accept the terms of such a bizarre proposal.

  Rubbing his freshly shaved chin, he leaned back in his wrought-iron chair and contemplated his other feminine acquaintances. He really should marry a virgin. Had to be certain it was his child that inherited the dukedom. And, much to his surprise, he realized he wanted someone who would be faithful, at least for the duration of the scheme. An innocent who would bear him a child and then become a rich dowager duchess, raising her child in the quiet countryside of Northumberland.

  It was more than many women of the ton had.

  An infinitesimal movement from Drake’s hand brought his footman to his side. Drake gestured for a refill of coffee and indicated his need of more eggs. They appeared, at the perfect temperature, in the exact amount he would have wanted on his plate and in his fine imported Indonesian cup. Drake picked up his fork, eyes on his food, and nodded his dismissal.

  Sipping from his cup, he sank back into contemplating candidates for a wife when a slight rapping sound at the outside of the door to his balcony caused him to turn, a frown tugging at his brows.

  “Yes?” he barked at the shadow behind the wavy glass.

  A reed-like man slipped through the opening. His shoes were dirt encrusted, his clothes filthy, a grimy hat turned round and round in his hands. Drake resisted the urge to curl his lip. “What is it, man? Can’t you see I’m at my breakfast?” This was hardly the sign of a well-run establishment. How had the man gotten beyond his stalwart butler? “Where is Crudnell?”

  “Pardon, milord, I begged an audience with ye. I heard tell of . . . well . . . I know ye ’ad some trouble . . . t’other night.” His voice dropped to a whisper, while he glanced over his shoulder. His gaze took on a greedy glint as he met Drake’s eyes for the first time. “I was ’oping to get in on the blunt. In exchange for my keepin’ quiet about the plot to get your fine self an heir, if you take my meanin’, milord.”

  Drake went hot, then cold. He stared at the man. The audacity! To be called on the carpet by someone of this person’s ilk. Drake turned in his chair, facing the little man.

  This, too, was his father’s fault. Rage returned, rushing to his cheeks and throbbing in his head. That he should be cornered by the likes of this fellow, in his own house, on his own balcony—

  It was too much! Surging from his chair like a dragon awakening from the comforts of his lair, Drake stalked over to tower above the man. “You, you sodden stench of humanity, will not utter a word about anything to anyone or you will never be able to utter a word again! Do you take my meaning?”

  The man backed up, cowering, but to Drake’s astonishment he rallied. “I’ll not leave without the same blunt the doctor got from ye. And I know how much it was.”

  The doctor. He should have known the old fool would be the weak link in this mess. “The doctor told you?”

  “Not exactly, milord, but I overheard ’im telling ’is wife. I work for ’em. They was talkin’ with the windows open, milord.”

  Black dots of rage filled Drake’s vision. He advanced—breathing hard through his nostrils. If this little man knew, soon the whole countryside would as well. His plans to reach his own bit of heaven crumbled like the tower of Babel. “You are very sure of yourself.” Drake’s words held quiet menace. “Whom have you told?”

  The man shrugged nervously, “Only my wife, milord—just to safeguard my protection whilst I was ’ere.”

  “And whom, pray tell, has your wife told?”

  “N–n–no one.” Then, seeing Drake advance, he amended, “I can’t rightly say, she being a woman and all.”

  Drake roared and took another step, backing the man up to the railing. “So you think you are safe from me?”

  The man glanced over his shoulder at the stone
terrace below. Terror filled his eyes.

  Drake felt his own power. It would be so easy . . .

  He took another step, closing the gap of reason that held his hands back, and leaned over the man. The scoundrel bowed back, his waist pressed against the railing, his feet on tiptoe.

  The sun felt hot on the back of Drake’s neck and he watched, transfixed as a trickle of sweat beaded on the little man’s brow, rolling slowly down his dirty face. Time seemed to hold its breath as Drake wavered, feeling the hardness of the tiles under his feet, seeing a spot of peeling black paint on the railing beneath his hand. A sudden breeze rose up, making his hair dance around his face. Suspended, Drake stared into the man’s eyes—and felt with astonishing clarity the reality of holding another’s life in his hands.

  Take it—just as your father took yours.

  The man’s face wavered, became Ivor’s, full of scorn and laughing from the grave. Drake’s insides shifted, then shattered. It was gone. Everything . . . gone.

  With a sudden move, Drake reared back, away from the man.

  A sudden shriek split the air—an awful sound that startled Drake out of his trance. One glance told Drake the terrible truth: The man couldn’t recover his balance quickly enough. Before Drake could move, the little man, eyes wide with fright, stretched out an arm toward Drake—and was gone. Toppled over the rail. Another scream, and then a dull thud.

  The sound echoed across the stone terrace below and carried into the lush green gardens.

  Drake looked at the fingers of his right hand, grasping into thin air. Stunned, he peered over the rail at the inert body, one leg lying cocked in a position that spoke of severe injury. A sick nausea rose from his belly to his throat. He pressed his fist to his mouth. Why hadn’t he been able to grasp the man’s arm? He had only meant to frighten him . . . hadn’t he?

  Before he had the chance to answer the questions, the echo of hurried footsteps sounded behind him.

  “My lord, we heard a scream . . .”

  His footman and butler stood at rigid attention at his back. Drake turned slowly to face them. “He fell. My visitor slipped over the railing and fell.” The words rang as false as they were. The careful, blank stares from his servants assured him they did not believe him.

  Crudnell stammered, which only added to the strange reality that was now his life. “W–w–what shall we d–d–do, my lord? Fetch the doctor?”

  Fear and panic rushed in.

  How strange, this feeling of fear. Drake couldn’t remember feeling it since he was a small boy. It was . . . immobilizing. He couldn’t think how to answer his butler. Plowing through the servants, he ignored their presence and fled to his bedchamber. Closing the door behind him he leaned against it, panting as if he’d just run the breadth of his property.

  Think, man!

  There was no question that he was responsible for the man’s death. When the entire tale came out—and it would, of that he had no doubt—they would hang him or worse, send him to a hellish life in Newgate Prison.

  He tore himself away from the door and rushed to the dressing chamber to search for a trunk. He threw clothes and stockings and neck cloths out of his way, utterly panicked. He had never packed for himself in his life and felt impotent rage at the knowledge that he might require help finding something in which to pack his things.

  No, he couldn’t let the servants see him like this.

  A small trunk stood in the far corner of the dressing room; he dragged it out. Opening it, he inhaled sharply. It was his childhood trunk. Something he hadn’t seen for years and hadn’t even known still existed. There lay the boyhood treasures he’d cherished and long since forgotten. With no time to waste, he pawed through it. Most went to the floor in a pile: a wooden yo-yo he’d gotten at a fair, a few books, a battered sailboat and some half-finished sketches. Near the bottom lay a miniature portrait of his mother.

  This and a lace handkerchief embroidered with ivy and her initials, LW, intertwined in the leaves, he left in the corner of the trunk. Turning to the mass of clothing, Drake chose some practical and some formal clothes. He didn’t know where he was going or if he would ever return.

  A sudden pounding on the door startled him.

  “Leave me!”

  Footsteps padded away down the hall. Drake redoubled his efforts, cramming his signet ring onto his finger and a heavy leather pouch of coins in his pocket. He would get more money from his solicitor in London, when he could. This would tide him over until he knew the lay of the land.

  Shouted voices drew his attention to the window. A carriage had just stopped in front of the castle and a tall, stately gentleman was descending. Drake peered out, half hidden by the heavy, royal blue window coverings. Justin Abbot? A dark curse escaped his lips. What was the king’s lackey, a powerful member of the Cabinet Council and a person Drake only acquainted himself with when necessity demanded it, doing here now? Drake had heard that the man was in the north on King George’s business, but he hadn’t expected to see him at Alnwick.

  For him to appear now meant certain disaster.

  It had only been three days since his father’s death, but it was possible Abbot had heard something and was coming to investigate. Add the incriminating evidence of a dead man on his terrace and . . .

  Drake jerked away from the window, seeing that his hands were clenched so tight his nails were imbedded into his palms. He must not panic. And yet, it seemed the very earth was opening beneath his feet.

  He rushed to the packed trunk and shut its lid with a bang. Oh, for more time to plan and think! There were papers in the library he would like to have, more money, valuables he could sell later if need be. But no time. He locked the trunk, his fingers fumbling in haste and frustration.

  Drake hoisted the trunk. Was it possible? Was he now carrying his only belongings in the world? The hall outside his room was quiet and deserted, but he could hear voices drifting up from the stairway. Quickly, he slunk toward the backstairs. Maude, an upstairs maid, was coming up. She took a breath to speak at the sight of him, stopping suddenly when Drake shook his head and put a finger to his mouth. “You did not see me, is that clear, Maude?”

  She bobbed her pretty head, eyes wide, and whispered back. “There’s a man here to see you, my lord. From the king. How could he have known so quickly?”

  “Let’s not jump to conclusions, Maude. What’s to know? Listen, reason would have it that I put some time and distance between this situation and myself. You understand?”

  Maude nodded again, though her brow puckered.

  “Good, now let us go down together and find a horse. I may be in need of your assistance.”

  Even as the two hurried down to a back entrance leading to the kitchens, Drake could hear a commotion coming from the front of the house.

  “Now,” Drake commanded, “as quick as you can and without being noticed, run ahead and tell Henry to saddle Talisman for me. Then lead him toward the south garden gate. If you are seen and anyone remarks upon it, let him loose and I will find him. Understand?”

  Maude nodded again, “Yes, my lord.”

  “Very well, now go.”

  Drake watched as she hurried to the stable. Once out of sight, he held to the shadows of the house, making his way into the garden, careful to stay beneath the foliage of bushes and trees. At one point he thought he heard a shout coming from the house, but he wasn’t certain. Pulse accelerating, he hid behind a dense wall of hedges, peering over the top and waiting for movement from the direction of the stable.

  Part of him wondered if he shouldn’t go back and brazen it out. Running only made him look guilty. And yet, the thought of the cold wall of Newgate pressed against his back made him happy to see Maude rounding the corner of the stable. She led his prized thoroughbred, an animal as fast as he was enduring, and Drake silently thanked whatever fate watched out for him.

  He held his breath as the pair hurried through open ground. When they reached him, he gave her a quick peck on the
cheek and said, “Not a word to anyone, Maude. You have done me good service this day. I will not forget you.”

  She blushed and nodded, starry eyed. “But when will you return? What will happen to all of us, my lord?”

  Drake grimaced. What, indeed? “I do not know, Maude. I wish I could tell you, but I just don’t know.”

  After strapping down the trunk Drake swung up to the familiar creak of his saddle. Talisman galloped several yards, then Drake turned and took one last look at the manicured lawns, the formal gardens, the imposing castle that stretched into the blue of the sky.

  An inheritance lost.

  Drake turned from it all, his heart leaden, not knowing if he would ever see it again, and put the spur to his horse.

  He did not look back.

  Chapter Three

  LONDON

  Drake huddled against the brick building of his solicitor’s office, the sharp edges of the wall digging into his back. The hardness reminded him of the stone terrace the man had fallen to. It never left him for long, this feeling of guilt. Sometimes it was a weighty pressure against his chest that made him struggle for a deep breath. Other times, a deep sorrow, a grief so profound that he couldn’t think how to go on with the ordinary business of where to eat, or whether he should stay at Charles’s house, or what to do next. It was as if he’d plummeted from another world . . . into a hellish world.

  Rain-soaked and cold, he clenched his teeth until his jaws ached. A high-sprung carriage with a coat of arms emblazoned on the side passed, splashing water onto his boots, adding to his sodden, heavy feel. A woman’s laughter drifted from inside the carriage—that kind of laughter that was pleased with itself, confident in its invulnerability.

  He used to laugh like that.

  A sudden feeling, a flash of insight struck him of how it might feel to live on these cold, unfriendly streets. Truly, he could stay here all night, huddled on this corner, and no one would care.