Page 18 of Hazardous to a Duke’s Heart (Lords of Hazard #1)

T wo mornings after the Sinclairs’ ball, Tory had Mr. Beasley shown into the drawing room. He looked startled to see her, and even more startled when she explained who she was.

“You’re Dr. Morris’s daughter,” he said warily.

“Yes! Did you know him?”

“I did, indeed. He was a fine man. Knew more about art than I expected.” He glanced around. “When the duke sent a note setting our appointment for this morning, I thought he’d be here.”

“He’s been very busy.” She’d barely seen him in the last two days. Jon had already been long gone when she’d stumbled out of bed at eleven yesterday morning. That was understandable since he’d retired at a decent hour, whereas she and Chloe hadn’t managed to leave the ball until nearly three AM .

He’d been at dinner last night, but that wasn’t an environment conducive to speaking about anything important—like how he and his friends had tried to escape Verdun. For one thing, his mother had monopolized the conversation, eager to tell them who had done what at the ball. And Chloe had peppered Jon with questions about Lord Heathbrook, which he’d answered reluctantly.

When dinner was over, he’d disappeared into his study, which he’d done often of late. This morning, he’d been gone by the time she and Chloe came down. But she did know where he was, at least—speaking to one of his estate managers.

“Today the duke has another obligation, I’m afraid,” she explained, “but once I told him I could meet with you about the engravings in his stead, he was happy to have me take care of it.” She smiled. “I hope you don’t mind meeting with me instead of him.”

“No, indeed, miss. Not to say anything bad about the duke, but I’d rather spend the afternoon with Dr. and Mrs. Morris’s daughter any day.” He leaned close. “I daresay you know a great deal more about engravings than His Grace.”

She laughed. “Let’s just say I know a bit more about art in general, although prints aren’t my area. Fortunately, I have some knowledge of printmaking, thanks to my late mother.”

“Your father boasted to me about your mother—said what a fine engraver she was.”

Tory brightened. “She was, indeed. I wasn’t sure if Papa appreciated how good she was, so I’m glad to hear he spoke of it. I still have some of her engravings, if you ever wish to see them.”

“Oh, yes, miss, that would be an honor.” He rubbed his hands together. “Now, where are these prints His Grace wanted me to examine?”

“This way,” she said, leading him up the stairs and into Aubrey’s old room. “His Grace left a note saying I was to tell you that they weren’t originally affixed to the wall, but he thinks they can be loosened fairly easily so they can be framed.”

Beasley was now examining the prints with a magnifying glass. “These are very rare and quite beautiful. The hand-painted ones are exquisite. I can’t believe His Grace allowed them to be affixed to the walls.”

“He didn’t,” she said dryly. “His half brother did it while the duke was in France.”

“Ah. A common tale, I’m afraid. Détenus came home to find their wives had left them for other gentlemen, their children had tried to have them declared dead, and their property had been taken over. Some détenus never came home because they’d formed new families in France. The lack of communication for so many years . . .” He shook his head. “It tore families asunder. And many people assumed their loved ones had passed away.”

“Yes. We thought the same thing, primarily because His Grace and my father were moved to Bitche prison from Verdun.”

“That’s right.” He’d started to look a bit anxious.

She smiled at him. “Captain Scovell said it was because of their attempt to escape.”

Now Mr. Beasley appeared positively uncomfortable. “I-I believe that’s true.”

“But my understanding is that Verdun was a decent place to live. Why risk going to a real prison just to escape France?”

He sighed. “For their families, of course. Lord Jonathan feared that his brothers might be mistreating his mother and sister in England. Lord Heathbrook knew his cousin was running things in his late father’s absence, and he didn’t approve. Apparently, his cousin is something of a scoundrel. Your father worried about you and your mother. And Commander . . . Captain Scovell wanted to get back to his ship.”

She stared hard at him. “You must have known them all quite well.”

He tugged at the stock he wore around his neck. “I helped them with a small matter involving their escape.”

That surprised her. “Didn’t you wish to leave with them?”

He shook his head. “I did, but I couldn’t. My family was all with me. Escaping Verdun with three children and a wife in tow would have been impossible, and I dared not leave them behind.”

“Of course not. No one would expect you to.”

“Some of the gendarmes were . . . rude to the women there who had no male companions. So it was better for me to stay. I must admit that the townspeople of Verdun were very kind, for the most part. The détenus generally spent their funds, such as they were, in the shops, which the locals appreciated. Still, we were subject to our commandant’s whims and those of his gendarmes. It was easy to cross one unwittingly, and then you found yourself marched off to another camp on foot, with or without your family, at great expense to yourself.”

He sighed. “Many of us ended up having to survive on charitable accounts set up for the indigent of the camps. That’s why there were plenty of escapes, especially early on, but most were of young, healthy fellows like the duke and his friends. Well, except for your father.”

Her heart pounded. Until now, it hadn’t occurred to her that Jon and his friends could have left her father behind—or her father could have chosen to stay behind. The fact that neither happened . . . well, she didn’t know what to make of that. She would have to press Jon for more information.

“One man was taken captive with his son, who escaped seven years later without him,” Mr. Beasley went on. “The father refused to go—said he would just slow his son down. He stayed behind. But his son made sure not to implicate him in the escape and ended up making his way back to England safely.”

“What happened to the father?”

Mr. Beasley frowned. “Died of disease a couple of years later. His son never saw him again.”

“That’s so awful!”

He shrugged. “It was life at Verdun.”

She digested that. “Let me ask you something. How did the duke and his friends get caught? I mean, they said that they were betrayed by someone, but they never explained exactly how their escape went wrong.”

He blinked. “You’ll have to ask His Grace that. They didn’t tell me what their plans for the escape were, so I don’t know the details.”

“But you just said you helped them—”

“Yes, but . . . well . . . they only told me enough for me to provide them . . . something they needed. And once they were recaptured, we never saw them in Verdun again, although we suspected where they’d been sent. To ‘the Mansion of Tears.’ That’s what everyone called Bitche.” Now he seemed truly uncomfortable, for he pulled out a handkerchief and began mopping his brow with it.

She took pity on him. “Forgive me, Mr. Beasley, for asking so many questions. I’m just so curious about what happened with all of them, especially my father. The duke doesn’t like to talk about it.”

“It was a painful time for them all,” he ventured. “The stories we heard of what went on at Bitche—” He halted, apparently remembering that her father had been there, too. “Anyway, it’s understandable that they don’t want to speak of it.”

“I’m sure. And you’re right, I should ask the duke . ” She gestured to Mr. Beasley’s magnifying glass. “Now, why don’t we see to those prints? I know His Grace is eager to have them appraised by someone who knows what he’s doing. I’m afraid I wouldn’t be much help with that. My mother was the only one aware of the value of such things, not me.”

His relief was so palpable that she felt guilty for pressing him.

They spent the next two hours examining each print as he looked for evidence of artists and printmakers, then made notes in a notebook he’d brought with him.

Meanwhile, Tory took notes herself, fascinated by Mr. Beasley’s breadth of knowledge. She learned more watching Mr. Beasley assess Jon’s prints than she’d ever learned from her mother. Then again, Mama had known that engravings didn’t interest her the way sculpting did, so her mother had been more focused on teaching Tory everything she knew about sculpting.

Mr. Beasley finished the last print, and he was writing out a bill for his work that she could give to Jon when something popped into her brain.

“Oh! I almost forgot. His Grace said you would be bringing a list of détenus who could use work. I promised to get it from you so I could give it to him.”

Mr. Beasley broke into a smile as he reached into his pocket. “I have it right here.”

When he handed her the list, laid out on several pieces of paper, she said, “So many?” There had to be at least a hundred names on there.

He nodded sadly. “My friends and I shouldn’t complain. There are thousands of former soldiers and sailors looking for work, and they deserve it more than we do after all they’ve been through. But—”

“You still need to feed your families. And at least sailors and soldiers chose their banishment from home. You did not.” She pulled her own list out of her apron pocket. “Speaking of your particular situation, I spent some time this week looking up Mama’s old printmaking friends, and they were happy to offer me names of printmakers who could use an experienced engraver.”

Mr. Beasley looked stunned as she handed him her list. He scanned the names, his face lighting up as he read them, probably realizing that they were some of the top printmakers in London. “Oh, Miss Morris! You cannot know what this means to me and my family!” Grabbing her hand, he kissed it repeatedly. “You are an angel come to Earth, I swear!”

Tory was blushing and trying to figure out how to extricate her hand when a chuckle sounded behind them.

“She is indeed,” Jon said as he entered the room. “Dare I ask what exactly Miss Morris has been using her angelic skills for?”

“Oh, Your Grace,” Mr. Beasley cried, “Miss Morris has given me a list of printmakers in need of experienced engravers! It is . . . so kind, so generous, so—”

“—typical of Miss Morris,” Jon finished for him. Then he turned to Tory, regarding her warmly. “On behalf of both me and Beasley, thank you for doing that, madam. I know it will mean a lot to his family.”

“You’re both very welcome, Your Grace. Oh, and here is the list of détenus needing work.” When she handed it to him, their fingers touched.

His gaze shot to her, full of heat and remembrance of the last time they were together. Her own look was bittersweet. She still didn’t know how she stood with him.

Then he spoke to Mr. Beasley further about the prints.

After not having seen him for two days, Tory took her chance to drink her fill of him. My, my, but didn’t he look delicious? Windblown hair, tan buckskin breeches, a chestnut riding coat with a striped waistcoat, kid gloves, and a pair of chestnut top boots. A sigh of pleasure escaped her. He might be thin, but he was still a fine figure of a man.

Given what they’d done the night of the ball, she was now noticing all sorts of things about him. Like how well-proportioned his body was, how muscular his thighs looked in the form-fitting buckskin, how large were his hands.

It got quiet all of a sudden, and she realized he was now scanning Mr. Beasley’s list of détenus.

“By the way, Mr. Beasley,” he said very casually—too casually, really. “Did you happen to encounter Giselle Bernard and her mother among the détenu community?”

Mr. Beasley looked discomfited again. Indeed, he practically squeaked the words, “Here? In England? Why should I? They’re French.”

“Yes, but Heathbrook tells me that a détenu encountered the Bernards at a watering hole. Somehow, they got their hands on passports to England and are living in our country. He didn’t know in what town they’d settled, however.” Jon lifted his head from the list to stare hard at Mr. Beasley. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that yourself, would you?”

“No, Your Grace, certainly not.” Mr. Beasley shot her a furtive glance. “You are speaking of Mr. Morris’s friend, are you not?”

Now it was Jon’s turn to look discomfited. “Were they really friends? Or just acquaintances?”

“I think friends, to be sure. Mr. Morris taught her English.”

That seemed to take Jon by surprise. “I . . . I didn’t know that.”

“Oh, yes. Mademoiselle Bernard had regular lessons up until the time you four were sent off to Bitche. Then she left Verdun for Paris, and I never saw her again.”

“Ah. I see.” He tucked the list of détenus in his pocket. “Well, I do appreciate you coming to look at my prints. Follow me, and I’ll get you paid for your work.” He turned to her. “And thank you, Miss Morris, for all your help. I’m sure I’ll see you at dinner. To my knowledge, we have no fixed engagements this evening.”

She winced. “Er, tonight is my night off, Your Grace. I get one every Friday.”

He blinked at her. “Right. I’m sorry, I completely forgot.” He smiled thinly. “I guess we’ll see you tomorrow then. Enjoy your night off.”

“I will, thank you.”

But not nearly as much as she’d enjoyed their night in the Sinclairs’ library. Then again, she doubted she could find anything else to compare to that.

Jon wished he could see Tory at dinner . He wished he’d continued their lessons in sculpting. He couldn’t stand that Beasley had been given more time with her than Jon had today.

And it still nagged at him that she really didn’t want to marry anyone.

That was why he couldn’t bear to be at dinner tonight, listening to his mother go on and on about some outrage a member of the ton had committed. Or his sister peppering him with questions again about Heathbrook. Instead, he was going to White’s, curious to see if they would transfer Alban’s membership to him, and if it would even be worth it to be a member of the gentlemen’s club anyway.

But as he walked out the front door of Falcon House, he noticed that Tory was leaving by the side gate and heading in the opposite direction he was. He paused to watch her walk down the street. He’d noticed that she always walked briskly. There was no leisurely strolling for Miss Victoria Morris, oh no. She was always ready to go about her business efficiently.

Tonight she was dressed in a simple blue gown and a bonnet that sadly hid her hair from his view. It dawned on him he’d never seen her with her hair down.

Damn. Now he had one more thing he regretted—not taking her hair down when he’d had the chance two nights ago. Of course, that would have ruined her as surely as, well, ruining her would have, but still . . .

She turned down a side street and disappeared from view. He walked down the steps and was about to go the other direction when he noticed someone in a hooded cloak cross the street from the little park in the square and start walking down the same side street.

Instantly, his every instinct went on high alert. All right, the fellow might be going the same way coincidentally, but on the off chance he wasn’t, Jon turned to follow the pair. When he reached the corner, he looked down the side street, and spotted the gentleman—or lady, for it was hard to tell which it was—following Tory, just far enough behind her to escape her notice.

It worried him. It was dusk now, but it would soon be dark, and if this scoundrel—whoever he was—really was following her, she might be in danger. Years of avoiding Courcelles’s gendarmes had taught Jon how to walk softly and inconspicuously when need be, so he began to follow the follower.

At one point in their parade of three, he glimpsed Tory ahead of the fellow, and it was clear she had no idea she was being followed. That only spurred him to anger. Just thinking of her in peril from some footpad made him wish he had a pistol on him, but his knife would have to do.

Yet it soon became obvious that his quarry had no intention of catching up to her, even when the street they were all on passed through a desolate wooded area. What was the fellow’s intent?

Tory had now entered a little neighborhood of neat cottages, and just as Jon passed one, a hound awoke and barked at him. Ahead, Jon saw the follower halt and glance back. Jon wasn’t close enough to see the face beneath the hood, but the person certainly saw him, for the scoundrel took off between two houses at a run.

Jon ran ahead to where the fellow had just been, but he’d vanished. Jon considered whether to hunt farther afield for the follower, but Tory was still walking, and Jon couldn’t risk the man getting ahead of her. Besides, he wouldn’t know how to find Tory if he didn’t locate the rogue, and the fellow might return later to catch her alone.

The very thought made Jon’s stomach roil. So, he decided to follow Tory to her cottage, then stand guard to make sure the man didn’t come back after dark.

She continued on a good quarter of a mile before halting at a pretty stone cottage on the edge of the neighborhood. Even as he approached, he saw an older woman walk out the cottage door and head in the opposite direction from Jon. That must be Mrs. Gully, the servant Tory had said stayed with her while she worked.

That had clearly been a lie. Mrs. Gully might have cleaned up and made dinner as Tory had said, but she clearly didn’t stay around to watch it being eaten.

Tory was in there alone? That was dangerous in itself, especially with footpads roaming around. Never mind that he’d teased his mother about footpads in Mayfair. This was clearly not Mayfair. It was the more rural environs of London west of Falcon House.

There was no way in hell he’d leave Tory here by herself when some arse had been following her. Jon had at least scared the scoundrel off temporarily, but that didn’t mean the fellow wouldn’t return.

Unfortunately, Jon standing in the midst of a street in his finest evening attire had begun to draw attention. So, after pretending to fish a stone from his shoe, he walked on until he was out of sight of the village. Then he retraced his steps, but through the woods that ran behind the cottages.

Once he got back to Tory’s cottage, which was smaller than he’d expected, he found a spot where he wouldn’t be noticed by her neighbors but could still see both the front and back. Then he sat down on a log to wait.

It wasn’t hard. He’d spent the past eleven years waiting for his life to begin again, so this was nothing. He liked listening to the birds calling before night crept over them, watching the sun set, feeling the hum of activity from the little neighborhood.

He tried to figure out if any of the cottages he could see were that arse Dixon’s. One of these days, he meant to find the fellow and put the fear of God into him, if he could figure out how to do it without rousing gossip about Tory.

She was in there now, molding clay or chipping away at marble or perhaps even creating a mold for some bronze statuette. He liked thinking of her that way, perhaps wearing a smock to keep her clothes clean as she worked intently.

Suddenly, as if his very thoughts had conjured her up, her face appeared in the window opposite him, which had been dark until now. There must still have been enough light to see him by, for she came marching out the back door.

Damn. Well, perhaps it was for the best. Because she needed to hear exactly how dangerous it was for her to be staying here alone at night.