Page 10 of The Duke’s Christmas Bride (Drop Dead Dukes #3)

C HAPTER 9

P roper gentlemen didn’t sneak up on young ladies.

A wise gentleman—and Max did like to think of himself as wise, if not always proper—didn’t attempt to sneak up upon a young lady like Rose St. Claire. The girl knew how to wield a pistol, by God, and she hadn’t any qualms about using it.

It was early yet, though not as dark as it had been when he’d left Grantham Lodge, and the worst of the storm had loosened its grip on Fairford. Still, it was bloody unpleasant enough this morning—cold, with a light fall of snow creeping under the collar of his greatcoat. But he lingered in the shadows nonetheless, staring up at the house, much as he’d done when he was a boy and used to sneak from Grantham Lodge through the woods to Hammond Court.

There was no light spilling from the windows this time, no Christmas carols drifting on the wind, and no glowing moon or magical silver starlight gilding the house as if it were something out of a fairy tale.

But the same loneliness he’d felt as a boy, that same hopeless sense of being nothing, of mattering to no one, of being so insignificant he was invisible, was waiting here for him still, lurking in the muted morning light, just as it always had. It didn’t matter that he was a duke now—a wealthy, formidable duke, with England’s most powerful aristocrats cowering before him.

Here, standing alone outside Hammond Court, he was the same tiny, isolated speck he’d been back then, a pinpoint surrounded by a vast blackness. He stood there for some time, lost in memories he’d sooner forget. When he came to himself again, the flurry of snowflakes had piled up in feathery drifts around his boots.

The gloom of the morning would help obscure his approach from anyone who happened to be peering from one of the upper windows, but he muttered a quick prayer that Miss St. Claire wasn’t up there with her pert little nose pressed to the glass, her pistol cocked and ready.

It was damned risky, sneaking about like this, but if ever there was an errand he’d rather keep private, it was this one, so he took care to keep close to the trees lining the drive, darting amongst their shadows, and managed to gain the front door without being fired upon.

The flimsy bit of rope Miss St. Claire had woven through the hole where the knob used to be was still there, but just as Townsend had predicted, one slice with the knife in his pocket put an end to it quickly enough.

What had the girl been thinking, imagining such a pitiful apparatus would be enough to keep her safe? Hadn’t Ambrose taught her anything? She was as na?ve as a country milkmaid and as trusting as a newborn kitten. Not that it mattered to him , of course, but someone had to look after the girl, didn’t they?

He tore off his gloves and reached into his pocket for his tools, but his fingers were clumsy with the cold, and no sooner did he have the screws in his hand than he dropped one.

“Damn.” He crouched down and pawed through the snow until at last he found the screw, but that wasn’t all he found. There was a scattering of curious bits of gray stone, as well.

What the devil? They looked like . . . he snatched up a piece and held it up to the meager light, squinting at it. It was . A broken piece of slate tile. One of the edges was jagged, but the other three were smooth and straight.

He got to his feet and stepped back, craning his neck to get a better look, and yes, there it was—a patchwork of empty spaces on the roof. Last night’s wind had torn a dozen or more tiles loose from the eastern corner of the roof and hurled them onto the drive below.

The eastern corner . . . wasn’t that where the bedchambers were? And the window—it had been cracked before, but now the glass was gone entirely, and a rivulet of water was running from the outer sill down the side of the house.

His heart—no, not his heart , but some other, less, er . . . loverlike organ rushed into his throat. He leaped through the door and rushed up the staircase, two stairs at a time.

“Who the devil are you ?”

Max jerked to a halt on the third-floor landing. A boy with tousled dark hair stood in the middle of the corridor, his arms thrust out and his fists clenched as if he were prepared to dive upon anyone who dared to try and get past him.

“The Duke of Grantham.” Max peered down into the fierce little face. “Who the devil are you ?”

“I’m Billy Lucas, an’ you weren’t invited here, so’s you may as well turn around and go back out the way you came in.” Billy Lucas pointed an imperious finger at the front door.

“Did you hear what I said, boy? I’m the Duke of Grantham .” Didn’t the dull-witted lad know what a duke was?

The boy sniffed. “Don’t care if you’re Prinny himself. Miss St. Claire isn’t seeing people, least of all some high and mighty duke. Get out, and leave Miss St. Claire alone.”

Good Lord, was there a single man—or boy, come to that—in Fairford who wouldn’t defend Miss St. Claire? The chit had them all hypnotized. “Now see here, you impertinent little imp—”

“Billy? I’m going to need another pail.” Miss St. Claire’s voice drifted down the hallway from one of the bedchambers. “Will you fetch the one from the stillroom for me?”

“Well? You heard the lady, Billy.” Max crossed his arms over his chest and smirked down at the boy. “Do as you’re told, and fetch the pail.”

Billy’s freckled face darkened. “Go to the devil.”

The devil ? Had the little demon truly just told him to go to the devil? A wild laugh threatened, but he choked it back and gave the boy his most fearsome glower. “Now you see here, Billy Lucas—”

“Oh! Oh, no !”

The cry came from the bedchamber, Miss St. Claire’s voice breathless with alarm, and an instant later there was a crash that made Max’s blood freeze to ice in his veins. Billy’s eyes widened, his mouth rounding in horror, and without another word the two of them flew down the corridor, each tripping over the other’s feet in their rush to get to her.

Billy got there first. Max came to a careening halt behind him, peering over the lad’s head, and what he saw . . . well, between her panicked cry, and that crash, he hadn’t expected it to be good, but nor was he prepared for the sight that met his eyes.

Miss St. Claire was sprawled on the floor on her backside, one of the chairs from the kitchen below lying on top of her. That alone was bad enough, but the bedchamber . . .

It was flooded with water, a steady stream of it still dripping from the gaping hole in the ceiling. Several full buckets stood nearby, as well as a mass of sodden, dark red silk that looked as if it had once been a bed hanging. Bits of plaster and rotted wood were scattered across the floor, and shards of broken glass were floating atop the water.

“Miss St. Claire!” Max shot forward, tearing the chair off her and tossing it aside before reaching for her, and hauling her to her feet. “Can you stand? Damnation, you’re soaked to the skin!”

“I—I’m all right. I can stand. It was just a bit of a tumble, that’s all.”

“A tumble ? You might have broken your neck! What were you thinking, standing upon a chair in a flooded room?” Didn’t the girl have any sense at all?

“I thought if I could see what had happened, I might be able to . . .” She trailed off with a shudder. Her entire body was trembling, and her hands, which had somehow found their way into his, were like two blocks of ice.

“Billy!” He glanced over his shoulder. “Quickly, fetch some dry blankets.”

Billy didn’t argue this time but fled down the hallway. Max turned back to Miss St. Claire, whose despairing gaze was darting from the broken window to the hole in the ceiling, to the pond that had once been her bedchamber floor. “There’s nothing to be done, is there?” she murmured, more to herself than to him. “It’s utterly lost.”

“Look at me, Miss St. Claire.” He grasped her shoulders and gave her a gentle shake until her gaze found his. “There, that’s better. You’re coming back to Grantham Lodge with me, so you can—”

“No, I—I can’t leave! It’s out of the question.” She waved an unsteady hand around the room, her mouth twisting. “Look at this mess!”

He caught her chin between his fingers and turned her face back to his. “I see it, and it will be dealt with, but not now, and not by you. You’re exhausted, and half-frozen, and you’re going to need a great deal more than a foul-mouthed boy and a kitchen chair to rectify this problem.”

“But I can’t just—”

“You can, and you will.” God above, had there ever been a more stubborn woman than this one? Or a more maddening one? She was dead on her feet, her face as pale as death aside from the dark rings under her eyes, and she thought he’d simply walk away and leave her here?

She glanced around the bedchamber, biting her lip. “I think it would be best if I—”

“May I remind you, Miss St. Claire, that I am a part owner of Hammond Court? You can’t do a single thing in this house without my approval. Now, not another word, if you please. You’re coming back to Grantham Lodge, where you will have a hot bath and a rest, and then we’ll decide what’s best to be done.”

Billy came scrambling back into the bedchamber then, blankets piled high in his arms. “Here you go, Miss St. Claire!”

“Thank you, Billy.” She took a blanket from the top of the pile and wrapped it around her shoulders. “You’ve been a great help to me today.” She patted the boy’s shoulder. “I’m going with His Grace to Grantham Lodge, Billy, so go on home to your grandmother now.”

Billy cast a suspicious look at Max, then turned back to Miss St. Claire. “You’re sure you want to go with him ?”

Max huffed out a breath. Bloody little demon.

Miss St. Claire choked back a laugh. “Yes, quite sure, but you may come by later, if you like, Billy. I’ll be back at Hammond Court by this afternoon.”

Max said nothing, only took her arm and led her down the stairs to the carriage he’d left at the bottom of the drive, but if he had anything to say about it, she wouldn’t be returning to Hammond Court.

Not this afternoon, or any other.

* * *

“Your Grace!” Townsend burst through Max’s study door like a whirlwind, his red hair standing on end in a most disgraceful manner, his face pale and sweaty.

Max, who’d perfected the art of putting people in their places with an imperious quirk of one eyebrow, employed the tactic now, and predictably, Townsend came to a halt in front of his desk, his cheeks flushing. “Oh, dear. I do beg your pardon for bursting in upon you without knocking, Your Grace, but I’ve just had the most distressing news. It’s Hammond Court. It’s tumbled down to the ground!”

“Tumbled down to the ground?” Is that what everyone was saying? “Hardly, Townsend.”

Townsend blinked. “It hasn’t tumbled to the ground?”

“No, though I confess I would have been singularly unsurprised if it had.” Max raised the eyebrow another notch to emphasize his point.

“But something’s happened! Something dreadful, indeed!” Townsend wrung his hands. “Miss St. Claire is missing!”

Missing? Good Lord, were all small villages as prone to hysteria as Fairford? He tugged his spectacles off and dropped them onto his desk with a sigh. “She isn’t missing, Townsend. At this very moment, Miss St. Claire is tucked into a bedchamber two floors above us, with the estimable Mrs. Watson clucking and fawning over her like a mother hen with a baby chick.”

Townsend collapsed into the chair in front of Max’s desk—again, without so much as a by-your-leave, and let his head drop into his hands. “Thank goodness, Your Grace! I own I was quite distressed on her behalf. One doesn’t like to think of a young lady buried under piles of—” He broke off, his head jerking up. “Did you say she’s here ? At Grantham Lodge?”

“I did, yes.” Those were the words that had come from his lips, at any rate. Even now, he had a difficult time believing they were the truth. Of all the places he’d have predicted Miss St. Claire would end up, he would have put Grantham Lodge at dead last. But here they were, and he had no one to blame for it but himself, as he’d been the one who’d brought her here.

What a bit of madness that had been, but damned if he’d had any idea what else to do with her. She’d been ready to collapse. He may not care much for Miss St. Claire—she was a tiresome, interfering little chit with airs way above her station—but even he wasn’t coldhearted enough to leave a young lady on her backside in her flooded bedchamber with chunks of plaster and broken glass floating around her.

Rather too bad, that, but it was too late now.

Townsend was staring at him, his mouth wide open. “Close your mouth, for God’s sake, Townsend. You look like a half-wit, and the sight of your gaping maw is putting me off my tea.”

“Yes, Your Grace, but, er . . . begging your pardon, Your Grace, how did Miss St. Claire happen to end up here ?”

It was an excellent question, by God. What a great pity he didn’t have a correspondingly excellent explanation for her presence in his house. Her scandalously inappropriate presence. As soon as the good citizens of Fairford learned she’d spent most of the morning cozily tucked into one of his bedchambers, there’d be no quelling the storm of gossip. “It’s nothing so shocking, Townsend. I, ah . . . I happened to be in the, er, general vicinity of Hammond Court only hours after the ceiling expired.”

Townsend blinked. “But Mr. Turnbull told me it happened last night, during the storm.”

“Yes, that’s right, Townsend.” Damn it, why had he said anything at all? He could already see the wheels turning in Townsend’s head.

“You, ah, you mean to say, Your Grace, that you were in the vicinity of Hammond Court last night ?”

“No. I was there this morning.”

Townsend wrestled with himself for a moment, but in the end he could no more hold his tongue than anyone else in Fairford. “Forgive me, Your Grace, but you must have been at Hammond Court quite early this morning, before it stopped snowing. That is to say, you were there mere hours after the worst storm Fairford’s seen this decade.”

He wasn’t about to explain himself to Townsend, particularly when he couldn’t even explain to himself why he’d rushed off to Hammond Court before the sun had even crested the horizon, when his errand could easily have waited until a more civilized time of day. So, he said only, “That’s right, Townsend.”

If Townsend was wise, he’d let it go at that, just as Mrs. Watson had when he’d appeared in his entryway this morning, soaked to the skin, with a nearly unconscious young lady leaning on his arm.

But Townsend had only been employed by Max for a little over a year, and he wasn’t anywhere near as wise as Mrs. Watson, who’d been Max’s father’s housekeeper before his, and knew better than to pry into the ducal affairs.

Townsend was gaping at him, his eyes nearly popping out of his head. “Of course, that makes perfect sense, Your Grace. That you’d be lurking outside Hammond Court before sunrise, directly after a blizzard. Very right and proper, indeed.”

Lurking? What an ugly word, and unfair, too. He’d never lurked in his life. “For pity’s sake, Townsend, if you must know, I only went because I was concerned about Miss St. Claire’s doorknob.”

He hadn’t meant to tear the doorknob off the other day. It had just happened.

When he’d tugged and kicked at it, that is.

Oh, very well, so he had meant to tear it off. One didn’t accidentally kick a doorknob off a door, after all, but he’d been so focused on getting inside, he hadn’t considered the thing properly.

“Her doorknob, Your Grace?”

“Yes, damn it. You were the one who told me she was in the house alone, and I . . .” He trailed off, fury and shame writhing like a serpent in his belly. This was all Townsend’s fault, with his talk of knife-wielding scoundrels.

His assault on Miss St. Claire’s door hadn’t troubled him at first. Indeed, he hadn’t given it a second thought until he’d gotten a better look at the damage he’d done. He’d gone to his bed that night only to find he couldn’t stop thinking about Miss St. Claire and her missing doorknob, and that absurd length of rope she’d used to tie the door closed.

Did the girl think that rope would be enough to keep anyone out? It had taken only a moment for him to slice through it with his knife. What was to stop any other villain from doing the same? What was to keep him from strolling into her house, as cool as he pleased?

And once this nameless, faceless villain was inside, well . . . it didn’t bear thinking about, did it?

Except he had thought about it last night, and once the idea caught hold he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it, and the longer he’d lain there, the worse it had gotten. Eventually, he’d been so tormented with visions of a gang of murderous villains overcoming Miss St. Claire, it had driven him from his bed and into the coldest, windiest morning he’d ever had the misfortune of experiencing, with a bloody doorknob stuffed in his pocket.

A gang of villains, in Fairford. Bloody ridiculous.

Still, if he hadn’t appeared at Hammond Court when he had, Miss St. Claire would likely still be balanced on that blasted kitchen chair, peering up at the ceiling with her wet skirts clinging to her legs, courting a nasty lung infection. And while in the abstract he might wish for her to be made uncomfortable—it would, after all, hasten her departure from Hammond Court—the reality of the thing was rather distasteful, like crushing a butterfly in his fist.

She was a thorn in his side, yes, but he didn’t want her to become ill, or worse yet, suffer an injury. He wasn’t such a blackguard as that. He merely wanted her out of his house, and preferably far, far away from him.

Farther than one of his guest bedchambers, certainly.

Townsend had gone quiet, and when Max looked up, he found the man beaming at him. “Stop that this instant, Townsend.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Townsend made a halfhearted attempt to school his expression, but he couldn’t quite hide the glimmer of approval in his eyes. “But it was good of you, Your Grace, to see to Miss St. Claire’s door.”

“Not another word, Townsend.” For God’s sake. This was the very reason he despised heroics. “I should have left the chit where I found her.”

Townsend’s grin vanished. “Surely not, Your Grace.”

“Well, no, but what am I meant to do with her now? I can hardly send her back to Hammond Court while her bedchamber is underwater.” But she couldn’t stay at Grantham Lodge, either. It wasn’t proper. He was an unmarried gentleman, and unmarried gentlemen didn’t install innocent young ladies in their homes.

Not even if the young lady in question had been installed well out of the way of his own bedchamber, and even when said unmarried gentleman didn’t find the lady in question at all alluring.

Distracting, yes. Infuriating, certainly. But alluring? No.

At least, not much so. Not so much he couldn’t keep his hands to himself.

That is, there was no denying Miss St. Claire was . . . satisfactory. No doubt there were scores of gentlemen who’d find her unobjectionable enough. Attractive, even, with those green eyes, and that wild cloud of golden hair.

Perhaps even enticing.

Not him , of course, but other, less particular gentlemen. “It isn’t proper for her to stay here, is it, Townsend? I’m quite right about that, am I not?”

Because now he thought of it, it would be convenient if Miss St. Claire did remain at Grantham Lodge. He wanted her gone from Hammond Court, and now she was, albeit temporarily. Still, a temporary absence could become a permanent one quickly enough, if he managed the thing properly.

“It’s, ah, a trifle unconventional, Your Grace.”

Unconventional, yes. That was the word for it. Not scandalous, or shocking—nothing so terrible as that, but merely a trifle unconventional. “Then again, it wouldn’t be at all gentlemanly to toss poor Miss St. Claire out into the cold, would it, Townsend? She’s a defenseless young lady, after all, and recently bereaved.”

Recently bereaved, and recently made an heiress, too. Or half an heiress, at any rate, and thus vulnerable to any unscrupulous fortune hunters who happened to be lurking around Fairford. No doubt there were dozens of them. Why, it was practically his duty to take her in.

“Yes, that’s so, Your Grace,” Townsend allowed, but his tone was wary, and he looked suspicious.

“You needn’t look at me like that, Townsend. I’m merely concerned about what’s best for Miss St. Claire, just as you are.”

Townsend’s brows lowered. “Of course, Your Grace.”

As for what was best for Miss St. Claire, well, that was obvious, wasn’t it? The chit should be married off at once, before she got herself into any more trouble. But to whom? If any of the young men in Fairford wanted to marry Miss St. Claire, presumably they would have done so by now.

He eyed Townsend. “You’re quite sure you’re already married, Townsend?”

“Yes, Your Grace, reasonably certain. My five children were rather a mistake, otherwise.”

Five children? Good Lord. “Perhaps a trifle more self-control might be in order, Townsend.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Max drummed his fingers on the top of his desk, thinking. There was no denying Miss St. Claire would be far better off if she were safely married. The lady was very young, far too pretty for her own good, and left friendless and destitute in a cruel, wicked world.

Of course, it would make it much easier for him to get his hands on Hammond Court if she did happen to marry a gentleman who was amenable to his influence. But wouldn’t an advantageous marriage benefit her, as well?

It was a good idea, by God. A marriage, between Miss St. Claire and . . . well, someone. Anyone would do, really. Not Townsend, but another gentleman, one who would do as he was told, and turn Hammond Court over to Max as soon as the wedding vows had been spoken.

Yes, what he needed to do was to keep Miss St. Claire here at Grantham Lodge until he could find some stray gentleman or other to marry her. But what were the chances a tiny village like Fairford would yield up a suitable bridegroom?

Unlikely, at best.

London, however, was another matter. God knew there was no shortage of gentlemen in London who’d be thrilled to discharge their debt to him so easily. A nice baron would do, or perhaps a viscount. Miss St. Claire could hardly complain about becoming a viscountess, could she? Yes, a handsome, fashionable viscount would come in quite handy, one who owed him a favor, and would do his bidding without complaint, someone like—

He jerked upright. By God, he had just the viscount in mind! “I think, Townsend, that it would be best if Miss St. Claire remained at Grantham Lodge, after all.”

Best for him, certainly, which was all he cared about.

“But what of the young lady’s reputation, Your Grace? Fairford is a small village, and people do talk.”

“Mrs. Watson is here. She’ll make certain the girl’s virtue remains unsullied.” That should be enough to satisfy even the most prudish of Fairford’s citizens, and anyway, it wouldn’t matter, once she was married.

It was a clever scheme. Diabolical, yes, but clever. One of his best. And if he did feel just a tiny twinge of conscience at so ruthlessly manipulating the situation, it would pass soon enough.

It always did.