Page 4 of The Duke’s Christmas Bride (Drop Dead Dukes #3)

C HAPTER 3

“M ust you, indeed? How tiresome of you.” Not as tiresome as a pistol ball lodged in his skull would be, but Max would have wagered his dukedom that when he did choose to leave, he’d do so with his head intact.

He’d faced enough violence in his lifetime to know an empty threat when he heard one.

He’d fought dozens of brawls before the end of his first year at Eton and endured countless thrashings from vengeful headmasters. He’d had his eyes blackened, his bones broken, and boot heels lodged in his ribs.

Oddly enough, however, not once in his thirty-one years had he ever found himself on the wrong end of a loaded pistol. He’d had a near miss or two, certainly—there’d been that footpad in Covent Garden who’d held a blade to his throat, and on one memorable occasion a former mistress had tried to smother him with a pillow—but those were isolated incidents, and they’d taken place years ago.

These days, there weren’t many people in England who’d dare raise a fist or point a weapon at the Duke of Grantham.

“Did you not hear me, sir? I ordered you to leave my home this instant.”

He squinted into the gloom, but aside from a sweep of floating white hems, he couldn’t make out much of her. Her face was cast in shadows, but there was no mistaking the quiet menace in that soft voice.

Wasn’t his past meant to flash before his eyes in such circumstances? Shouldn’t he be overwhelmed with regrets over his misspent life? Shouldn’t he fall to his knees and grovel for forgiveness for his sins, and beg for mercy from the depths of his blackened soul? Surely, the fleeting moments before death should be ones of perfect clarity, and divine thanks?

But he wasn’t thankful, and the sudden racing of his heart and his sweat-slick palms weren’t the result of fear, but of fury. The sun had only just struggled over the horizon, for God’s sake. Surely, it was a bit early in the morning for such theatrics?

If he was destined to meet his end with a ball between his eyes, it wouldn’t be in the kitchen of his childhood home before he’d even had his morning coffee, nor would it come at the hands of this . . . this . . . well, he didn’t have the vaguest idea who she was, or what she was doing in his house.

“Don’t trifle with me, sir.” She inched closer, close enough so he could see her long, slender finger on the trigger. “It would be a great pity if I were obliged to shoot you.”

She didn’t sound like a murderess. Her voice was husky but sweet, and not at all the tone one might expect of a murderess. “Indeed, it would, but you’re not going to do it.”

At least, he hoped not, especially if Ambrose had been the one to teach her how to shoot. The man had been a liar and a degenerate of the first order—a trickster at best, a charlatan and thief at worst, but there was no denying he’d been an excellent marksman.

She shifted but remained hidden in the shadows, and the dainty hand holding the pistol didn’t so much as twitch. “You appear quite confident of that, but it’s not the sort of thing one wishes to be mistaken about, is it?”

“No, but I’m not mistaken.” He leaned a hip against the table and crossed his arms over his chest. “You’re the housekeeper here? A maidservant?”

“You’re rather inquisitive for a man with a pistol aimed at his head.” She tutted, a soft click of her tongue. “Presumptuous, as well.”

“I do beg your pardon, miss . . . miss . . .” He raised an eyebrow inquiringly, but Ambrose’s serving maid, or cook, or whoever the devil she was didn’t deign to offer her name. “Perhaps I should explain. I was invited here. Surely, you don’t intend to shoot a guest?”

She let out an incredulous laugh, the sound far sweeter than a lady with a pistol in her hand had any right to produce. He squinted into the darkness and caught a glimpse of a small, straight nose and a curved cheekbone, but otherwise, she was merely an indistinct shape in white.

Well, aside from the pistol pointed at his head. That was distinct enough.

“Invited? I rather doubt that.”

“I have a letter that proves it. May I fetch it?” He reached a hand toward his coat pocket.

“No, I’d rather you didn’t move, if you please. Who wrote the letter?”

“Ambrose St. Claire, of course. Who else?”

Ah, now that got her attention. She didn’t move, or venture into the light, but the air between them changed, grew charged, the sudden deep hush crackling with tension. At last, she said, “Ambrose is dead.”

He was, yes, and not a single bloody moment too soon. “I’m aware of that, madam. An unfortunate accident, I believe. Pity. But this is his house, or it was.”

Except it hadn’t been, had it? It hadn’t been Ambrose’s house at all, no matter if he’d been living in it these past nineteen years. Ambrose St. Claire was no better than a poacher with a brace of pilfered pheasant hidden under his coat. He’d stolen this house right out from under Max’s father, and by the looks of things, he’d taken bloody poor care of it.

“It was his house, yes, but it’s mine now, and I certainly didn’t invite you here.”

“ Yours? ” Like bloody hell it was. Hammond Court was the one remaining piece of his family’s legacy that he had yet to reclaim, the missing jewel in the Grantham family’s crown. It had eluded him for years, and he’d be damned if he’d let it slip through his fingers now.

“Mine, yes, and I don’t want you here.”

“I rather assumed that, madam, given you greeted me with a pistol in your hand.”

“Are you complaining, sir? Because it might just as easily have been a ball between your eyes. If I were you, I’d consider myself fortunate, given I would have been well within my rights to shoot you.”

“Shoot me? On what grounds? Just because I—”

“Kicked my door down, and broke into my house? You’re an intruder, sir.”

It wasn’t her house, damn her, and he’d only kicked the doorknob, not the door, though admittedly he’d left it a trifle mangled. “I beg your pardon. I was under the impression the house had been abandoned.” Anyone would have thought so, given the decrepit look of the place. Half the windows were cracked, for God’s sake.

“It hasn’t been,” she said, her voice flat.

“Yes, well, I see that now. But be that as it may, Ambrose must have wanted me here, or else he wouldn’t have invited me to come. One would think you’d choose to honor his wishes in that regard. Or do you mean to disregard the final, dying request of your, er . . . employer? Friend? Distant uncle, or second cousin, perhaps?”

Alas, the woman was too clever to be goaded or tricked into revealing herself, and his questions were met with a deafening silence.

“I’ve come all the way from London at Ambrose’s summons, madam. You might at least agree to have a look at the letter,” he said when the silence continued to stretch between them. “You’ll see it’s written in his hand.”

There was another long, fraught silence, then she jerked the pistol toward the kitchen table. “Very well. Sit down, and take care to remain still, if you please.”

Ah, at last, they were getting somewhere.

He drew a chair away from the table and sat, careful not to make any sudden movements. He was almost certain she wouldn’t dare shoot him, but almost certain wasn’t quite good enough when it came to keeping one’s brains from splattering onto the kitchen table, was it?

He reached into his coat pocket, withdrew the letter, and waited with some curiosity for her to emerge from her hiding place, but when she detached herself from the shadows and passed in front of the window, the gray morning light fell on her face, and he nearly bit his tongue in half.

This was no robust kitchen wench with raw, red hands and the thick neck he’d been expecting, but a slip of a girl with luminous green eyes, silky golden hair hanging in a long, loose braid down her back, and the hems of a white nightdress swirling around a pair of trim ankles.

This was his tormentor? This nymph, this woodland sprite, this dainty little pixie had threatened to put a ball between his eyes? He bit back a wild urge to laugh. Why, the chit couldn’t be more than twenty years old, and she appeared as delicate as the porcelain figurines his mother used to collect.

Who the devil was she? And what was she doing here, alone in this house?

Could she have been Ambrose’s lover? She was far too young for him, of course, but there was a certain type of man who allowed his cock to make decisions that were better left to his head. He wouldn’t have thought Ambrose was one of them, but then he’d only been a boy when he’d known him, and he’d revered him then with the sort of blind adoration of a lonely child.

God knew Ambrose had proved himself a scoundrel in the end.

So, Ambrose had taken a much younger lover, and then he’d gone and died on her, leaving her alone in a ramshackle house? Yes, that sounded plausible.

If he’d been a better man, perhaps he might have felt some sympathy for her, but he wasn’t a better man, nor did he aspire to be one. Whoever she was, she had no one to blame for her current predicament but herself. He’d save his sympathies for those who didn’t cause their own problems with poor judgment.

She held out her hand. “The letter, sir, if you please.”

He placed the scrap of paper in her hand, still taking care not to make any sudden movements. She might have an angel’s face, but given the ease with which she wielded that pistol, the celestial began and ended there.

The letter was a paltry thing, one line only.

Come to Fairford, and claim your treasure.

It was characteristically cryptic, but then Ambrose had always had a flair for the dramatic. He never did a thing plainly, but surely there was only one way to interpret such a message? After all these years—a decade of offers of outrageous sums of money, and when that failed, threats, scheming, and bribes—at long last, Ambrose had decided to just hand Hammond Court over to him.

Rather surprising, as he hadn’t shown the least qualm in stealing it in the first place, but perhaps his conscience had got the better of him, in the end. Such things tended to happen when a man was on his deathbed.

“Grantham.”

He jerked his attention back to the nymph—that is, the chit with the pistol. She’d turned the letter over and was studying the direction.

“Yes. I’m Grantham. The Duke of Grantham,” he added, rather unnecessarily. Everyone in England knew who he was. “I’m certain Ambrose must have mentioned me.”

“Grantham,” she repeated, staring down at the paper in her hands as if she couldn’t quite believe what she was seeing. “His Grace, the Tenth Duke of Grantham.”

“As I said.” Good God, was the girl simple? “I do hope you’re not going to claim you’ve never heard of me.” He may not have set foot in this godforsaken corner of England in fifteen years, but there wasn’t a single soul in the cursed village of Fairford who didn’t know the name Grantham.

Knew it, and remembered, just as he did.

One never forgot where they came from, no matter how much they might wish to. You couldn’t escape your past. It held you fast, like a butterfly pinned to a board.

She continued to gaze at him, her face giving nothing away.

“I think you know precisely who I am, madam, and why I’m here.” Max rose to his feet, weary of her games. “Nineteen years ago, Ambrose St. Claire stole Hammond Court from my family, and I’m here to take it back.”

* * *

Grantham. God above, Maxwell Burke, the Duke of Grantham, here at Hammond Court.

Ambrose hadn’t merely mentioned this man, he’d warned her about him, on numerous occasions, most notably on the day he died. “I know who you are, Your Grace.”

She’d known him forever, hadn’t she? For as long as she could remember, Ambrose had spoken of him in a tone he seemed to reserve for Maxwell Burke alone, one of regret, fondness, affection, and resentment all at once.

A lost soul, Ambrose had called him, but the duke didn’t look lost to her . He’d found his way through the front door of Hammond Court and into her house easily enough, hadn’t he?

They’d seen their fair share of uninvited guests since Ambrose’s passing, but none so brazen as the Duke of Grantham. Ambrose’s creditors had been nasty enough, but they had at least contented themselves with pounding on the door and shouting curses at the windows, their hands fisted and threats on their lips. None of them had dared to attack her door, and then stroll into her kitchen as cool as you please, as if they had every right to be here.

Only a duke would be so shameless as that, so certain he wouldn’t be held to account for his behavior. It was a wonder he hadn’t plopped down at her kitchen table with a plate of biscuits and a cup of tea.

She eyed him. He’d risen to his feet despite her warning to remain seated and was lounging against the kitchen table as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Dear God, the gall of the man! He was practically daring her to shoot him. Her wrists ached from the weight of the pistol, but she held it steady in clenched fingers, the grip tucked tightly against her palm.

She’d known he’d come, sooner or later, but she thought she’d have more time.

Ambrose was hardly cold in his grave, yet here was the duke, tall and broad and expensive, his shoulders nearly as wide as the doorway behind him, his head a mere foot from the heavy beams in the ceilings.

How could she not have known at once who he was? Ambrose’s creditors were plain men with aprons under their serviceable coats, not sleek, elegant creatures like the one before her, with his gleaming dark hair, maddeningly perfect aristocratic nose, and gold watch chain dangling from the pocket of his richly embroidered silk waistcoat.

“Ah,” he murmured. “I see Ambrose did mention me. You’ve gone quite pale.” He pulled a chair away from the table. “Perhaps you’d better sit down. May I help you to a chair?”

She resisted the urge to back away from him, to throw the pistol at him, to turn and flee. Instead, she raised her chin, even as a tremor drifted down her spine at that cold, gray gaze. “Tell me, Your Grace. Is it now considered acceptable for a duke to enter a private home without so much as a by-your-leave? Have the laws of England changed without my knowing of it?”

One dark eyebrow rose. “Not that I’m aware, no.”

“Then you do not, in fact, have any right to be here at all.” Her voice was shaking, but only a little. “As that is the case, I must insist once again that you take your leave.”

“We’re back to this, are we?” His mouth curved in an amiable smile. “Come now, madam. You’re not going to shoot a duke. I believe the Crown frowns upon that sort of thing.”

“I believe the Crown also frowns upon strange men accosting defenseless young ladies in their homes.” Especially men the size of the Duke of Grantham, whose sheer magnitude made her perfectly serviceable kitchen feel as if it belonged in a doll’s house.

Why, the man’s legs alone seemed to stretch for miles.

His gaze moved from the muzzle of the pistol to her face. “You’re hardly defenseless. Still, if you did intend to shoot me, you’d have done so by now. Come now, madam. I mean you no harm. May we not sit down, and have a cup of tea?”

So polite, so charming. Ambrose had told her he would be.

Ambrose’s voice had warmed with affection when he spoke of the Tenth Duke of Grantham, but he’d also taken care to caution her about the man. He’d told her the duke would present himself as an old friend of his, and thus as a friend of hers, and while that wasn’t a lie, precisely—not quite—neither could she entirely trust him. He’d told her over and over again to be extremely cautious when it came to the Duke of Grantham.

What he hadn’t said was that he’d summoned the duke here himself.

That letter the duke had produced—or the scrawled note, more accurately—she’d never laid eyes on it before, but there was no mistaking Ambrose’s messy, slanting scrawl. He’d written it. He’d summoned Grantham to Fairford with a cryptic invitation to “seize his treasure.”

What could he have meant? There was, alas, a shocking lack of treasure to seize at Hammond Court, unless one considered a mountain of debt a treasure.

The only thing of any value was the property itself, but surely Ambrose couldn’t have meant for the Duke of Grantham to have Hammond Court. Why, the duke’s country seat was a mere five or six miles from here, and a grander, more ducal residence she couldn’t imagine.

What did the duke want with Hammond Court, when he had Grantham Lodge?

But why, then, would Ambrose lure the Duke of Grantham from London to Fairford with false promises of treasure? She couldn’t begin to imagine, but Ambrose did have his secrets, and while she’d never known a kinder, more generous man than he, there was no denying this was just the sort of mystery he would have delighted in.

Whatever the reason, the duke was here, rather like a plague of locusts, and for all that she’d just as soon send him to the devil with a pistol ball to the head, the cursed man was right about one thing.

Ambrose had brought him here, and he must have had a reason to do so.

“I don’t believe you’ve told me your name, madam. Now that you know mine, it seems only fair I should know yours in return.”

“I think not, Your Grace. You won’t be here long enough to use it, in any case.” She had no intention of telling him her name, no matter how sneakily he tried to squeeze the information out of her.

“In what capacity did you serve Ambrose? You don’t look much like a maidservant to me.” He cocked his head, studying her with cool silver eyes. “Were you his paramour?”

Paramour! Before she could stop it, an incredulous laugh burst from her lips. For pity’s sake, Ambrose was—had been—three decades her senior! But then that sort of thing happened all the time within the aristocracy, with fathers sacrificing daughters scarcely out of pinafores on the altar of their ambitions.

But she wasn’t about to explain herself to the Duke of Grantham. The less he knew about her, the better. “I’m afraid I must insist you be on your way, Your Grace.” She gestured toward the kitchen door with her chin. “Now.”

She waited, the only sound the drip of water falling into the pail she’d set under a leak in the adjacent stillroom, yet the odious man didn’t move. Dear God, was she really going to have to shoot him? She didn’t fancy it at all, but perhaps a graze to his leg might convince him to—

“Very well, if you insist on it. Might I have my letter back?” He held out his hand.

Dash it, she was hoping she might get a better look at it, but she had no right to keep it. “Of course.”

She held it out to him. His fingertips grazed the edge of the paper, but then with the speed of a striking snake he seized her wrist, and with one quick tug, jerked her off balance. “Oh!” She stumbled into him, and for an instant they both froze, the long, hard lines of his body pressed against hers before they both shifted at once.

She scrambled backward in a panicked attempt to put some distance between them, but he held her fast, his gloved fingers wrapped around her wrist, and—no, not her wrist, but the barrel of the pistol! He was trying to snatch it from her hand!

A scream swelled in her throat, but it didn’t make it past her lips before a deafening blast rent the air, the resounding crack bouncing off the walls of the kitchen, echoing long after the ball lodged itself... somewhere.

Dear God, had she actually shot him? Or had the gun discharged accidentally? Oh, she didn’t know! She stared down at the gun in her hand, at the thin cloud of smoke drifting from the end of the barrel. The acrid stench of gunpowder filled her nose, and yet . . .

The duke was still standing upright. There weren’t any massive holes in his person, and he still held her wrist, his grip too firm for a man whose lifeblood was gushing from a gaping wound.

The floor, alas, hadn’t fared as well. The floorboards a mere hair’s breadth from his foot were now a mess of pulverized wood. She wrenched her arm, struggling to loosen his grip. He released her at once, and she fell back a step, her heart racing. “My God, are you mad ? I might have shot you!”

“You did shoot, madam. It seems I was wrong about that, after all.” He eyed her calmly, smiling as if a young lady fired upon him every day, and he found it all terribly amusing. “Fortunately, you’re a dreadful shot. Still, you’ve got more nerve than I gave you credit for.”

This close, she could see his gray eyes were as cold as the ocean during a northern winter. He might smile as charmingly as he pleased with that handsome mouth, but his eyes told the story of who he was. “I do indeed, Your Grace. Enough nerve to fire a second time.”

“Very well, madam. You’ve made yourself perfectly clear. I’ll be on my way.” He ambled toward the door, his body loose and his stride careless, for all the world as if he didn’t have a pistol aimed at the back of his head.

But when he reached the door, he turned. “Until we meet again, madam.” He offered her an elegant bow, but this time, there was no humor in those frigid gray depths. “You can be certain it will be soon.”

Then he turned and vanished through the door and up the stairs, the thud of his expensive Hessians against the floor fading as he neared the entryway. The front door creaked open, and a few moments later a carriage door slammed shut.

Once he was gone, and the clop of the horses’ hooves had faded to silence, she slid down the wall at her back until she was sitting on the floor, her legs splayed out in front of her, her knuckles white around Ambrose’s pistol.

Her head fell against the wall behind her with a soft thud, her entire body shaking.

The hole she’d blasted in the floor was nearly as big as her closed fist. It would be the devil to patch it up, but at this point, what was one more hole?

That was the least of her worries, now.