Page 13 of A Bride for the Devilish Duke (Marriage by Midnight #2)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

T he smell of the smoke awoke Damien. Acrid and heavy, stinging his nostrils and lodging in his throat.

He coughed, then again.

Harder, throat rasping. He could barely breathe.

Flinging aside the bedclothes, he tumbled from his bed to the floor. He could barely open his eyes for the smoke which hung as a haze in the air. The rug was beginning to smolder and when his hands touched the bare wood of the floor, he recoiled in shock.

The varnished wooden boards were hot to the touch. Animal instinct drove him towards the door. He couldn't see it through the smoke but he knew where it was. His chest heaved and wheezed. An iron vice gripped him, refusing to let him gather enough air to satisfy his lungs. His head spun.

The door was close but just out of reach. Damien summoned the last of his strength to raise himself up high enough to reach the doorknob. He screamed at the touch of red hot metal but managed, somehow, to turn it and fling open the door.

Beyond was a vision of hell.

Flames wreathed the floor, walls, and ceiling of the hallway. It reached for Damien, forcing him to fall back, hands raised. His vision narrowed and strength fled his limbs, stolen by the black, roiling smoke.

Then he heard his brother's cries.

The last thing he saw was Harry's staggering form, dragging their unconscious father behind him. Fire swirled around him but somehow he continued to move. Its tendrils snaked around his legs, up his back. It consumed his hair, leaving his head a crisped, black skull. And still he fought, dragging their father who seemed untouched by the fire that was eating Damien's brother.

Then their father's eyes opened.

He looked into the eyes of his youngest son and smiled.

Damien came awake with a yell and a start. An ink bottle was upended by an involuntary twitch of his arms. Black liquid spread across the blotter and, where it reached the edge of the desk, began to drip to the carpet below.

Damien stared across his study, still feeling the heat of the fires. The smell was strong in his nostrils and he even reached for his hair, checking if it had been burned away by voracious flames. The sound that had wakened him from his nightmare, returned. A deferential knocking at the door.

Outside, the sounds of London intruded. Carriages rattling and horses whickering. Bird song and the sound of workmen. Tapping hammers, grinding saws. A new row of houses was being built across Portman Square from the Fitzgerald townhouse that had belonged to the Dukes of Redmane for twenty years.

“Yes?” Damien called.

The door opened to admit Wilkins, a young man with hair the color of coal and a pinched, serious face with a pointed nose and thin lips.

“Forgive the intrusion, Your Grace. Their Lordships have arrived and request an audience,” he said, voice clinging to the vestiges of his Welsh accent.

“Are they indeed? Come in, Wilkins, and close the door,” Damien said wearily.

Wilkins obeyed, and having closed the door, strode the room to stand before Damien's desk. He took in the spilled ink and went neatly to a cupboard across the room, producing a sheet of blotting paper which he used to skillfully and efficiently mop up the spillage.

“The dream again, Your Grace?” he asked distractedly.

“As always , Wilkins. I have no more of your marvelous elixir left,” Damien replied, sitting back.

“I shall brew another batch at the earliest opportunity. Of course, the best remedy for recurring nightmares is to get a good night's sleep after a calm and restful day.”

There was the hint of reproach in his voice. Wilkins knew that he could speak his mind around his employer.

“My days are invariably calm and restful. My nights are the problem,” Damien muttered, wincing as he flexed bruised knuckles.

“I shall prepare a fresh poultice to reduce the swelling, Your Grace. An encounter with a nightwatchman?”

“ Two ,” Damien corrected, “and very keen to do their jobs. I should be grateful that there are such men so dedicated to their employer, except that it is so damned inconvenient.”

“I'm afraid your garments from last night have been destroyed. They were not salvageable,” Wilkins added, “fire damage never is.”

“I have many more coats.”

“So, should I cross the Wapping Docks off the list of properties?” Wilkins asked.

“You should.”

The spilled ink had been mopped up, though there was no hiding the stains on the rug. Wilkins held the sopping blotting paper fastidiously between the fingers of one, gloved hand.

“I suppose that I should grant my cousins their audience now,” Damien sighed. “Has the modiste arrived at Manchester Square yet?”

“She was scheduled to arrive at noon and it is now fifteen minutes thereof. I will send a boy to check that the appointment has been kept, Your Grace.”

“The Montrose girls will be in their element with an Oxford Street modiste to wait on them.”

“And much goodwill banked from his Lordship the Earl of Eastwick,” Wilkins added.

Damien nodded. “Which may be valuable in fending off the twins and their ambitions. I do not want to be distracted.”

Wilkins turned away but now hesitated. “Some distraction is needed, Your Grace. It will not be enough to simply marry well and comply with the terms of the will. Ultimately, the Regent must be assured of your respectability.”

Damien grimaced. “I do not enjoy being beholden to such a decadent wastrel. And that is a description of most of my peers, not just the Regent.”

“A decadent wastrel of most royal blood and the ultimate giver and taker away of privilege,” Wilkins replied.

“ Yes, yes , I do not need reminding. Nor do I need reminding of the role my blasted father gave to that jackanapes in deciding who should hold the Dukedom of Redmane,” Damien rose, straightening his coat, and turning to the window.

Portman Square lay outside, and beyond it, the bustle of new buildings being erected. A great deal of traffic passed the square heading north. The so-called New Road was being constructed to connect the Edgeware and Tottenham Court Roads. Beyond it, fields were becoming the Regent's Park, rivaling Hyde in scale and grandeur. It was a symbol of the Regent's power and wealth.

Damien's lip curled. He could not think of his sovereign without thoughts of his father intruding, so highly regarded in court had Geoffrey Fitzgerald been.

“Do you dream, Wilkins?” he asked suddenly.

They both knew of what.

“Yes, Your Grace,” came the plain answer. “Usually, you are not there to save me. And I burn.”

“As do I,” Damien sighed. “Will this work end the dreams do you suppose?”

“I hope so, Your Grace,” Wilkins said fervently.

It was the first emotion that Damien had heard from his manservant in years, a rare display. Damien turned to him.

“Show them in,” he uttered.

Wilkins left the room and Damien resumed his seat. He opened a drawer and took out a box of Lucifers , placing them before him.

The door opened and Wilkins announced the arrival of Isaac and Jacob. They were dressed finely, in bright colors and highly polished shoes. They looked the epitome of fashionable dress. Damien dismissed Wilkins and did not rise from his seat. He regarded his Uncle's sons silently.

They stood before the desk, there being no other chairs in the room. This study was a place of privacy and sanctuary for Damien, he rarely allowed anyone inside and would make no allowances for the comfort of those who were admitted against his better judgment.

“I regret that I have little time for socializing. What business do you have here?” Damien said sharply.

Isaac and Jacob glanced at each other. Jacob smirked but Isaac looked serious.

“We feel that we have no choice but to address the... elephant in the room,” Isaac piped.

“One that has been the subject of much discussion in our... social circles ,” Jacob put in.

“At the very highest level,” Isaac added.

“And which elephant would this be?” Damien drawled.

“The reckless management of the Fitzgerald properties across England,” Jacob noted.

“Your inheritance gave you a minority share in my father's businesses. Not enough to entitle you to an opinion,” Damien replied.

He pushed the box of Lucifers open and took out one of the slim sticks inside, twirling it over in his fingers.

“We maintain that the circumstances should be the opposite of that which currently exists,” Jacob said, heat in his voice.

“Our father was born moments before his twin, and therefore, I should be Duke of Redmane,” Isaac suddenly asserted.

Damien grinned insolently. “This nonsense again? It has been contested at Court and a ruling was given in my father's favor. This was resolved before your father and mine met their ends.”

“In a fire from which only you survived!” Isaac snapped, his eyes hooded, “which was convenient for you.”

“A fire which removed any rivals to the Dukedom,” Jacob added.

“Except for us,” Isaac pressed.

“And we were too young to challenge you anyway.”

“But now we are not.”

“His Majesty the King has already ruled on this matter. It is ended,” Damien replied.

“The Regent cares as little for his father's opinions as you did for yours,” Isaac remarked, “he is reexamining the petition.”

“Which we do not wish to see. There has been enough scandal and controversy. It is bad for business,” Jacob said, punctuating his words with a finger stabbed to the desk.

Damien struck the first Lucifer . It hissed into life and both brothers took a step back from the bright flame. Damien stared into the flickering yellow light, then beyond it.

“Your pardon, Jacob. I interrupted you,” he smiled.

Jacob glanced at his brother uneasily as the flame ate away at the flimsy wooden stick it was born of. The flame was getting closer to Damien's fingers, but he did not look at it.

“We would... accept a settlement...”

“No,” Damien said tonelessly.

“Control of the businesses... while the title and country properties remain...” Isaac took over.

“ No ,” Damien replied.

The flame was tickling his fingers now, but he ignored the pain. Burning was something he had learned to live with. Pain could be suppressed if the will was strong enough.

Isaac was not so stoic.

With a wordless cry, he darted forward and snatched the Lucifer from Damien's fingers, then dropped it to the floor where he stamped the fire out of existence. When only smoke remained, he looked at Damien, his perfectly coiffured hair awry and his eyes wide.

“Are you mad?” he demanded. “These are not the playthings of children!”

“Are they not? I find them fascinating,” Damien murmured, “such a marvelous invention. Do you not think? Once, a man had to carry flint and tinder to make fire. Now, he carries it in a handy pocket-size box.”

“Does the ability to make fire need to be so convenient?” Jacob scoffed. “Anyone would think that you have an unhealthy obsession with it.”

“I was almost killed in a fire that consumed my home, my family, and my uncle,” Damien stated flatly. “Such events can make a man terrified. Or obsessed. Are you not?”

“No,” Isaac replied matter-of-factly, “we are not. But our property is being burned, money is going up in smoke.”

“ Accidentally ,” Damien put in. “I have had investigations carried out privately. There is no indication of arson.”

Isaac and Jacob looked at each other again. They had both been discomfited by Damien's game with the Lucifer . Now they visibly fought to regain their equilibrium.

“The Regent has expressed concerns about the reputation of an important English Dukedom being left in the hands of a rogue. He has the power to remove the Dukedom from your hands,” Isaac said, leaning over the desk, hands planted on it.

“I look forward to reassuring the Regent. Perhaps at the wedding breakfast after my marriage to Lady Emma Montrose, eldest daughter of the Earl of Eastwick,” Damien uttered with a smile. “I understand that the Regent loves a celebration?”

Both twins looked stunned. Isaac licked his lips, glancing at his brother.

“Montrose?” Jacob asked. “Did you say Montrose ?”

“That I did.”

Isaac suddenly grinned broadly. He straightened and walked to the mirror which hung over the mantle. He preened in the mirror for a moment. Jacob was chuckling. Damien kept his face impassive. He did not like their reaction.

“Very well. I hope that we are invited?” Isaac replied.

“A splendid family. Splendid . Very... reputable,” Jacob added, apparently trying to conceal laughter.

“And reliable ,” Isaac put in.

“We will not trouble you with talk of business when you must have so much to prepare. We will talk after the wedding. Good day to you,” Isaac said with a bow from the waist which his brother echoed.

They left the room.

Damien sat staring at the closed door for a long time, wondering what the two scheming brothers were so thrilled about.

Whatever it was, it could not bode well for him.