Page 1 of Hazardous to a Duke’s Heart (Lords of Hazard #1)

Bitche Prison, France

April 1814

L ord Jonathan Leighton’s mentor was at death’s door.

Jon didn’t need the naval surgeon attending Dr. Isaac Morris to tell him so. Even by dimmest candlelight, Jon could see Morris’s swollen, discolored leg and the feverish flush of his skin, could hear his tortured moans as he lay on the thin straw mattress.

Guilt stabbed Jon through the heart. How he ached to flee this dungeon and take his tutor with him. But attempting to escape their civilian detainee camp had been what had consigned him and his friends to Bitche Prison in the first place. And Morris wasn’t well enough to manage it, anyway.

The surgeon approached Jon. “I fear it won’t be long now.”

A shudder swept Jon. “Can’t you amputate?”

The doctor, a fellow prisoner, shook his head. “The gangrene has progressed too far for that, and in his weak state, the surgery would probably kill him. Perhaps if they had let me see him a month ago, but even then—”

Even then, the flesh surrounding the untreated bone fracture had begun to fester because Morris kept trying to walk on it.

“I gave him water with a bit of wine mixed in,” the surgeon said, “but that’s all I can do.”

“At least make him more comfortable. Give him something to help his pain, for God’s sake.” Perhaps then Morris could hold on long enough to make it home if they were finally freed.

Rumor had it that the war might be ending. But those rumors had surfaced before, only to come to nothing. After eleven years of captivity, three of those in Bitche, the now thirty-year-old Jon had seen his hopes battered so often that they could no longer rally.

“Dr. Morris has refused even the small amount of laudanum I have,” the surgeon said.

Schooling his features to calmness, Jon approached the man he’d spent years with, awaiting the war’s end. “Won’t you take a swallow for your pain, sir?”

Morris shook his head. “It will . . . make me sleep. I have things . . . to tell you before . . . I die.”

A chill ran through Jon that had nothing to do with the dank air in the cell hewn from rock. “You’re not dying,” he lied.

“Let us . . . be as honest with . . . one another as we . . . as we’ve always been,” Morris rasped.

Not always. Morris had secrets, but Jon couldn’t ask the man about them on his death bed. It didn’t seem right to press him, given his present condition.

Jon dropped onto the stool beside Morris’s farce of a bed. “Tell me whatever you wish—I’ll always keep your confidences.” I owe you that much and more.

Morris managed a smile. “It’s nothing . . . like that. First, I want you . . . to know . . . I consider you . . . the son . . . I never had.”

Then fight, damn you! Jon dismissed the words as soon as they came to his lips. Morris had fought the entire time they’d been in Bitche, but the wounded thigh he’d suffered in their escape attempt had pained him from the moment of his injury. Morris had a right to seek an end to his agony.

“And you,” Jon said instead, “have been a father to me when I had none.”

When they’d come to France as part of his grand tour, Jon had been a reckless youth, third son to the twelfth Duke of Falconridge and the only son by the duke’s second wife. But once Jon and Morris had become captives, it hadn’t taken Jon long to figure out that recklessness and youth led to being taken advantage of, not only by their French captors, but by their fellow detainees, or détenus as the French called them. He’d learned to be more careful and not trust anyone but his two friends and Morris, his bellwether and guide.

Jon stiffened. He had to be as strong for Morris as Morris had been for him. “I couldn’t have survived captivity without you. I only wish I hadn’t been so rash as to—”

“Don’t . . . blame yourself . . .” Morris paused as a spasm of pain apparently seized him, making his face contort. Then he nodded to Jon’s scarred hands. “You suffered, too.”

Morris’s kind words even in the midst of his agony sliced through Jon’s reserve. “Ah, but if I hadn’t pushed you to attempt escaping with us—”

“I couldn’t abandon you. Besides, your plan . . . might have worked . . . if we hadn’t . . . been betrayed. Not. Your. Fault.”

It was, though. Jon had been the one to misjudge the distance they would have to drop and the length of rope they would need, which had caused Morris to fracture his femur. And if Jon hadn’t insisted, Morris would never have joined him and his friends, never been recaptured with them, and never been punished by being sent to what everyone called the “Mansion of Tears.”

Jon and his friends had been young and hardy enough to survive their own injuries from their failed escape, not to mention the damp cold, the sparse food, the ever-present threat of disease, and the cruelties of men trapped together at Bitche and left largely to their own devices. At nearly sixty, Morris had not.

That was without considering that if not for Jon, he and Morris would never have ended up as captives in France in the first place.

Seeing the flask of water nearby, Jon held it to Morris’s lips and watched as the man swallowed, the fragile muscles of his throat trembling with every motion. “I know my father convinced you to be my tutor, sir, when you didn’t wish—”

“Doesn’t matter,” Morris said impatiently. “Must remind you . . . in my belongings . . . is the codicil to my will . . . making you executor. . . of my estate.”

“I remember,” Jon said hoarsely, although Morris hadn’t let him read it yet.

Morris raised his head. “Promise me . . . you’ll make sure . . . Ida is safe.”

Ida was Morris’s wife. “I vow that I will. I’ll handle it myself.” If we get to return.

“Ida has family . . . in Yorkshire,” Morris continued. “And there’s a small . . . bequest for her . . . in my will.”

Guilt overtook Jon anew. She would bear the brunt of Jon’s mistakes. And he’d have much to conceal from her if his suspicions about the “friend” Morris had left behind in their detainee camp, Mademoiselle Bernard, were correct. Even worse, what if Morris had left money to the woman? How would Jon explain that to Mrs. Morris?

Although, he should be glad Morris even had a will. His wife would need it, given that Jon and Morris had used up their ready cash on bribes, food, and medicines.

“What about your daughter?” If Jon remembered right, she’d be in her twenties. He’d never met her, but he thought he had the age straight. It was hard to be sure. One easily lost track of time in Bitche.

“Victoria is . . . a different matter.” Morris groaned. “Promise me you will . . . help her to find a . . . good husband.”

“I’ll do what I can, I swear,” Jon said. That was all he could promise without knowing how things were at home.

Before Napoleon had halted all communication between France and England eight years ago, Jon had learned of his own beloved father’s death, but no news since. His eldest half brother, Alban, must be duke now, and his second eldest half brother, Aubrey, must be the heir. Jon supposed that made him the spare, assuming Alban hadn’t borne an heir already. Anything was possible in eleven years.

Morris tried to raise himself off the mattress but fell back moments later. “The lease on . . . our cottage ends . . . soon. Once that happens . . .”

Victoria and her mother would be without a home, unless they went to those relatives in the north, who could have died or changed circumstances by now. Victoria could already be betrothed—or even married—to someone. Hell, Morris’s wife and daughter could both be dead themselves.

Jon shoved that thought into the dungeon of his heart where he dumped nearly everything lately. Otherwise, he’d have to consider the possibility that his own mother might be dead. Or his two half brothers might be mistreating her and his sister without him or their late father around to stop it.

Best not to dwell on that or he wouldn’t be of any help to Morris.

Jon heard the clank of a key in the iron lock, and before he could prepare himself, the prison door opened to admit his two closest friends.

First came the youngest of their group at twenty-eight—black-haired, green-eyed Rupert Oakden, the ninth Earl of Heathbrook ever since his father, the eighth earl and a fellow détenu, died at the detainee camp.

Right on Heathbrook’s heels was the next youngest at twenty-nine—Captain Quentin Scovell, third son of the Marquess of Glencraig. A naval officer and commander of the HMS Willoughby , captured near Egypt, the Scottish Scovell was a true prisoner of war and thus technically not a détenu.

“How did you get permission to come here in the middle of the night?” Jon asked. The separate cells for détenus and officers were generally locked from 8 PM to dawn.

The two men exchanged glances before Heathbrook answered in the quiet tone one used around sickbeds. “Napoleon has abdicated the throne. The guards and commandant are waiting to hear what will happen to all of us, and no one is paying much attention to what we do or where we go. Indeed, it was a guard who let us in, and he left the door unlocked.”

Jon’s blood stampeded through his veins. “So the rumors are true. The war is over.”

Scovell’s scowl matched the skepticism in his dark eyes. “I won’t believe it until I see proof. They’ve given us false hope too many times.”

Jon nodded, fighting the ever-present despair that was their daily burden.

“How is Morris?” Heathbrook asked.

With a glance at his mentor, whose moans grew apace, Jon pulled them aside. “The surgeon says he’s dying.”

Scovell didn’t bother to hide his pity. “What will you do about him if they do set us free?”

“Surely that will take time, like everything else in this cursed place.”

“If it doesn’t?” Scovell persisted.

“Then I’m not leaving him here to die alone. Besides, when he passes, I want to arrange his burial and speak a few words over his grave. So, if we are indeed freed, you should both go on without me.”

When the two men protested, Jon added, “I insist. Someone must tell his family and mine what has happened to us.” Jon drew out a letter he’d written once Morris had taken a turn for the worst. “If one of you would give this to my mother when you reach England, she’ll make sure Morris’s wife and daughter know what the situation is here with him. Tell everyone I’ll return as soon as possible.”

The earl took the letter. “Since Scovell may have to rejoin his ship, I’ll carry your correspondence with me as long as you promise we’ll meet again in London.”

Jon nodded. “I’ll send a message as soon as I arrive in that fair city.”

Another détenu burst into the prison cell, his face alight. “Talleyrand has signed the order freeing the prisoners of war!”

“What?” Jon’s heart took a leap. “Are you sure?”

“It’s in all the papers!”

“Does that include freedom for the détenus, too?” Heathbrook asked.

The other man broke into a smile. “Everyone. We’re leaving this damned place for good. Despite confusion concerning how and where we are to depart France, we could walk out of Bitche right now, and no one could stop us.”

At last, some good news. Jon hurried over to Morris and grabbed his arm, hoping to encourage him to rally. “Did you hear that, sir? We’re free! We’re going home at last!”

Morris gave no answer. His skin was cold and gray, and his eyes stared up at nothing.

Heart thundering in his chest, Jon clung to hope as the surgeon felt for a pulse and placed a mirror over Morris’s parted lips.

Then the doctor lifted a saddened gaze to them. “I’m sorry, gentlemen. There’s no breath and no pulse. He’s gone.”

Gone. The word sucked Jon’s bones dry, leaving an ache so deep he didn’t know how to assuage it. Until this moment, he hadn’t realized how closely his life had been tethered to his mentor’s. Now that the tether was severed, casting him adrift with the other casualties of war, he found himself left to his own devices in wildly uncertain circumstances.

And he had only himself to blame.