Dukes Are Forever Read online

  “Strathmore.” The balding man stopped in front of Edward. “John Litchfield, baronet.”

  Edward’s hard gaze raked coldly over him. “We have not been introduced.”

  Then he turned his back to the man and walked away. He didn’t have the patience tonight for another pointless conversation, not with Grey and Thomas making the memory of Kate prickle beneath his skin.

  “John Litchfield,” the man repeated to Edward’s retreating back, “the fiancé of your ward, Katherine Anne Benton.”

  Edward halted and slowly turned. What the bloody hell did he say?

  A smug look registered on the man’s face. “Is that enough of an introduction for you, Your Grace?”

  Edward’s jaw tightened, his fists clenching at his sides.

  “Well, well,” Grey murmured, his gaze moving back and forth between the two men.

  Thomas nodded in agreement. “The evening just became interesting.”

  Ignoring their antics, Edward pinned Litchfield with an icy gaze. “You are mistaken. My ward has no fiancé.”

  “I signed a contract with her father,” Litchfield announced loudly enough to draw the notice of the room, clearly enjoying having the full attention of the club focused on him at Edward’s expense. “You have made a mockery of my engagement.”

  At that, Edward shrugged and started walking again. He’d made a mockery of lots of engagements, including his own brother’s, and he couldn’t care less what that bastard Benton signed—

  “You have stolen what is rightfully mine!”

  A collective gasp went up from the room, followed by whispers and open gaping as necks craned to watch Edward’s reaction. Everyone stared, including the staff, and waited breathlessly to see Strathmore’s response.

  Edward slowly faced Litchfield, his expression black. “What exactly is it,” he asked, his voice even more threatening for all its cold control, “that you claim I’ve stolen from you?”

  “My fiancée and her dowry.”

  “A stubborn woman and an indebted farm.” He gave a bitter laugh. “You should consider yourself lucky in escaping.”

  The baronet held up a folded paper. “I have a contract that entitles me to her and her dowry. But now, you’ve stolen both.”

  Edward held out his hand, and Litchfield slapped it into his palm. He gave the document a cursory glance. “Her signature isn’t on it,” he drawled dismissively, handing it back.

  “Her agreement isn’t necessary. Her father and I made that contract five years ago before her majority.”

  “I refuse to honor it, and she most certainly will reject it.” His gaze swept disdainfully over the paunchy, balding man. “And you.”

  Indignation flashed over Litchfield’s face. “I say, that’s insult—”

  “Come now, Colonel!” Thomas positioned himself between the two men, his voice purposefully loud to draw their attention away from each other and the fisticuffs about to break out. “Haven’t you figured it out yet? He doesn’t want the chit. What he wants is money.”

  Litchfield’s eyes glinted with quick fury. He opened his mouth to protest, but Thomas cut him off with a wave of his hand.

  “Oh, she’s pretty enough to wed, surely, but she’s also in debt. And you know that, don’t you, Litchfield?” Thomas slapped the man on the back, hard enough that he was forced forward a step by the blow. “She’s the ward of a duke now, though, which means she’s worth a lot more than the dowry you settled on. So now you’re making a public row because you hope he’ll void the contract and pay you to go away.”

  Litchfield shoved off Thomas’s arm with a furious scowl that proved him correct. “Strathmore,” he announced boldly, loudly enough to ensure that everyone in the club heard him, “I demand justice!”

  At that, Edward’s mouth curled up devilishly in a darkly amused smile. “Are you calling me out?”

  Grey shook his head, silently warning the baronet to stop before he went too far, but Litchfield ignored him. “If it comes to that,” he clarified, not smart enough to leave immediately. “I want justice for the wrongs you’ve committed against—”

  “Fine!” Edward snarled. “Pistols at dawn on the green.”

  Litchfield sputtered, “But that’s—”

  “I’m the second,” Thomas promptly offered.

  “And me,” Grey added.

  “Good. At dawn then, Litchfield.” Edward spun on his heels and stormed from the club.

  Stares and whispers trailed in his wake, and slowly the room returned to normal, the men going back to their smoking and gambling, the staff to their duties. But the hum of excited gossip about Strathmore and the duel persisted and would do so straight on until dawn, although no one in the room seriously believed that the duke’s honor was even remotely in question.

  The baronet stared after him, his mouth hanging open, his eyes wide. “He—he really wants a duel?”

  “The colonel’s been looking for a fight for months,” Thomas explained. “You just happened to be the first nodcock to give it to him.”

  “I didn’t ask for a duel! He’s the one who challenged—”

  “Litchfield, I’m certain the manager will want you to settle your bill tonight.” Grey popped his cigar between his teeth. “After all, you’ll be dead at dawn.”

  “Is that supposed to frighten me?” he demanded, his indignant gaze swinging between the two men.

  “Oh, definitely.” Thomas slapped Litchfield on the shoulder again, once again felt him flinch. “Edward’s the second-best shot in England.”

  The man stiffened. “Who’s the first?”

  “Me,” both men answered at the same time, then looked at each other and grinned.

  Litchfield paled.

  “Either way.” Grey shrugged. “Should be a good show.”

  Thomas trailed his gaze up and down the man, clearly sizing him up and just as clearly finding him lacking. He clucked his tongue in disappointment. “Won’t last long, though.”

  “Pity.” Grey shook his head regrettably as the two former captains walked away.

  Behind them, Litchfield’s knees gave out, and he sank down into the chair to keep from hitting the floor.

  * * *

  Dawn lightened the sky over London. Its cold, pale light created a thin haze beneath the trees framing the clearing at the edge of Hyde Park as Edward and Thomas stood waiting, shoulder to shoulder, facing in opposite directions so no one could surprise them.

  “Think he’ll show?” Thomas turned his coat collar against the cold.

  “Yes,” Edward answered quietly as he gazed across the empty stretch of green. If Litchfield possessed the audacity to challenge him in front of all of White’s, he was certain to appear for the duel.

  “It was Benton, you know.” Thomas’s breath clouded on the still air. “The reason why Litchfield pressed the contract, how he knew about the guardianship. Most likely they’ve agreed to split the money.”

  “I know.” And Edward planned on making both men pay dearly for every pound.

  The sound of approaching horses broke through the quiet. Thomas nodded toward the path. “Our man’s arrived.”

  Edward’s eyes narrowed as he watched Litchfield and his second dismount from their horses.

  Dressed in black, with a jagged scar running the length of his cheek and disappearing beneath his cravat, his second remained behind with the horses and held on to their bridles rather than tying them. He was clearly a criminal, most likely hired by Litchfield because the man had no friends who would agree to second him.

  The baronet wrung his gloved hands as he approached. “Strathmore.”

  “Litchfield,” Edward countered coolly. “Still determined to go through with this?”

  “Still determined to receive reparation for the wrongs you’ve done me.”

  “Well, then.” Edward glanced up at the sky, now lightened to a golden yellow. “At least you picked a pretty morning to die.”

  Litchfield’s face flushed. “Ther
e’s no point in trying to intimidate me.”

  “I’m not trying.” Edward looked at the man distastefully. “Who’s your second?”

  “Harry Pinkerton.”

  “How much did you pay him to be here?”

  At the caught look that flashed across Litchfield’s face before he gritted his teeth in contemptuous hostility, Edward knew he was right.

  Thomas stepped between them. “Can we get this over with? It’s damnably cold, and I have a soft bed and a warm woman waiting for me.”

  Movement and noise from the side of the field caught their attention. A dozen men who had been at White’s last night and overheard the challenge made their way slowly up the sloping hill, still half-drunk from the night before and present for no other purpose than to gawk.

  Also with them was Nathaniel Grey, who had been charged with fetching a surgeon on the unlikely chance someone was wounded. But judging from the grim looks on both their faces, neither man was happy, with the surgeon scowling in murderous resentment at having been woken so early to be present at such a ridiculous display and Grey grimacing at having been the one who roused him.

  When he saw the surgeon, Litchfield’s shoulders sagged. “We don’t have to go through with this, I suppose.”

  Edward said nothing.

  Thomas withdrew two pistols from beneath his greatcoat and held them out handle-first toward Pinkerton across the field, who only shook his head and looked away, not caring enough about Litchfield to even inspect the weapons. Thomas shrugged and presented the pistols to Litchfield for the man to choose his weapon.

  Litchfield hesitated at the sight of the pistols. “Surely, Strathmore, you understand my situation.”

  Edward watched Thomas grin as he shoved the pistols toward Litchfield again, clearly enjoying the pantomime of this fiasco.

  Litchfield’s hand shook as he reluctantly selected one. “We don’t have to—”

  Edward snatched up the remaining pistol. “To the field.” He removed his jacket and stalked away.

  The baronet glanced hopefully at Thomas. According to the code duello, as the challenged man’s second, he was supposed to attempt to broker an end to the duel before paces were taken and shots fired. Yet he did nothing to get apologies and find an agreement.

  “Fine day to die!” Thomas declared, slapping the man on the back, then strolled away after Edward to the center of the field.

  Litchfield gaped, his face paling. Pinkerton continued to stand off to the side by himself, not caring enough to try to intervene.

  Litchfield had no choice but to step forward. His knees shook visibly with fear.

  “You both know the code. Twelve paces, ready, then present,” Thomas explained, going over the agreed-upon terms of the duel. “Called signal for firing, no rounds.” Finally, he added, “Unless you’re both willing to admit that this was nothing more than a misunderstanding.”

  “But I’ve been wronged,” Litchfield sniveled. “My honor is at stake.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake!” Edward reached inside his waistcoat to withdraw a bundle of banknotes. “Take the damned blunt. We’ll count off twelve paces, then you’ll delope. I’ll accept your apology, and you’ll live. And if you bother me again,” he threatened, his voice ice, “I’ll sink a bullet straight into your heart.”

  With a visible look of relief, Litchfield seized the money from his hand and shoved it into his jacket pocket. “Glad to be rid of the gel, actually. She and that worthless farm would’ve sucked my accounts dry.” A pleased grin spread across his face. “Tupping her was the best thing you could have done for me, Strathmore. The money’s just cream—”

  Edward’s fist slammed into the man’s jaw, the force of the blow dropping him sprawling to the ground. “Don’t ever speak of her again!”

  Litchfield moaned and held his mouth as a trickle of blood spilled from his cracked lip.

  Thomas grabbed Edward’s arm and pushed him back, glancing over his shoulder at Litchfield while he simultaneously watched both men and prevented Edward from truly killing the baronet this morning. Across the field, Litchfield’s second never moved, his presence completely mercenary.

  “Feel better now?” Thomas asked sardonically.

  “Much.” Edward glared at Litchfield as he scrambled to his feet and swiped at his bloody lip with the back of his hand. The crowd of gawkers laughed.

  “Twelve paces, then!” Thomas called out, marshaling the two men back-to-back in the center of the field to end the charade. “One, two…”

  As Thomas counted off, he retreated to the side and watched the two men stalk away from each other.

  “…Eleven, twelve…turn!”

  The two men faced each other.

  Thomas called, “Ready?”

  “Ready.” Edward’s hard gaze never left Litchfield as his answer came loud and decisive.

  “Yes…I’m ready.” Even from nearly twenty-five yards away, Edward heard the nervous trembling in the man’s voice.

  “Present!”

  Each man raised his pistol.

  After a moment’s pause, Edward lowered his pistol to his side and waited. Litchfield would delope by firing into the ground at the side of the field, effectively giving his apology, then Edward would do the same, accepting it. His honor would be upheld, and Litchfield would leave with his blackmail blunt. Everyone would go home as if nothing had ever happened, except for the gossip, which would linger for weeks—

  The sound of a gunshot echoed through the trees, and Edward flinched.

  For a moment, there was no movement on the field except for the small trail of smoke rising from the end of Litchfield’s pistol as he held it, still pointed directly at Edward.

  Litchfield stared at the spent pistol in his hand, eyes wide, as if he couldn’t believe that he’d actually fired at the duke. Shocked whispers went up from the startled crowd.

  “I didn’t—I didn’t mean to—I was only supposed to get the money!” Litchfield threw the pistol to the ground as if it burned him. He stared incredulously across the field at Edward, who hadn’t moved an inch. “I wasn’t thinking—the trigger just—”

  Slowly, Edward raised his pistol and pointed it at Litchfield’s chest. “Run,” he snarled.

  Litchfield raced toward his waiting horse.

  Edward fired. The bullet pierced through Litchfield’s beaver hat, shooting it cleanly from his balding head. The baronet froze in his steps as all the blood drained from his face and a wet circle formed at the crotch of his breeches.

  “The next time I see you,” Edward growled, “I’ll aim lower.”

  Amid jeers from the crowd, Litchfield scrambled onto his horse and galloped away, hanging half off his saddle in his rush to flee. The onlookers roared with laughter. Litchfield had taken the shot, but his cowardice in fleeing only bolstered Edward’s honor in the eyes of the crowd.

  Pinkerton doffed his hat at Thomas and Edward, then mounted his horse and slowly trotted away across the park in the opposite direction. The man couldn’t have cared less what happened to Litchfield.

  The onlookers sent up raucous cheers for Edward and raised in toasts to the duke the bottles of liquor they’d brought with them. A rowdy drinking song broke through the morning stillness.

  Shaking his head at the debacle, Thomas sighed in relief that the show was over and turned toward Edward, still standing in the middle of the field.

  “Thomas,” he whispered.

  Then he crumpled to the ground, blood blossoming at his chest.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Kate gave a wide yawn.

  She wasn’t tired, but she didn’t want to subject herself to one minute more of evening embroidery than necessary, and she’d already feigned illness so many times that Mrs. Lutz had actually sent for a physician, so there was no getting out of it that way again. Yet the housekeeper seemed adamant that needlepoint was a hobby all ladies should do, apparently even those isolated away in the moors. But it bored Kate stiff, and instead of pricking h
er fingers, she’d rather be up in her room, plotting her escape.

  She’d been at Greymoor for three weeks now, and her life had fallen into one of well-ordered regimentation. Thanks to Mrs. Lutz and “His Grace his orders.”

  The housekeeper woke Kate every morning at dawn for two hours of Bible study—in German, so whatever religious epiphany the woman envisioned was destined never to occur—followed by hours of cleaning, mending, and cooking. And needlepoint by the firelight before Kate was promptly sent to her room at eight o’clock.

  It had been a hard three weeks under Mrs. Lutz’s supervision, but Kate was more determined than ever to find a way home. And she would leave. Somehow.

  She still had no solid strategy yet for returning to Brambly, but the planning gave her hope, and her anger at Edward kept her motivated. Where once she’d dedicated nearly every spare moment to her experiments and medicines, here in the moors, scheming to escape had become her raison d’être.

  In the meantime, however, she didn’t know how many more of these disciplined days with Mrs. Lutz she could endure.

  When the housekeeper didn’t pause in her cross-stitch, Kate yawned again, this time a loud, exaggerated noise.

  Mrs. Lutz finally glanced up.

  “My apologies.” Kate feigned regret and another yawn. “I’ll go up to bed now. And we’ll do it all again tomorrow.” She rose before the woman could stop her. “Gute Nacht.”

  Mrs. Lutz began to shoot her a disapproving frown, but then the old woman’s face softened with a long-suffering sigh. “Ja, gute Nacht.”

  Well. That was a surprise. The strict widow was certainly not won over by her yet, but perhaps she was softening just a bit—

  A clatter went up outside, followed by shouts. The sound of a horse on the cobblestones pulling up quickly from a gallop shattered the evening’s stillness, and seconds later, a fist pounded against the wooden door.

  “A message!” A man’s voice rang out between knocks. “From London!”

  Hurrying to the door, Kate yanked it open wide. A young rider stood on the steps, his hat and slicker wet from the drizzling rain. Splattered mud dirtied his boots, dark circles framed his tired eyes, and he reeked of sweat and horse.