Page 6 of The Duke’s Christmas Bride (Drop Dead Dukes #3)

C HAPTER 5

A sound night’s sleep was meant to reassert one’s nobler nature, to push back into place whatever higher principles had been knocked askew the day before. Max was meant to wake in the morning refreshed, the cobwebs cleared from his mind, a better man than he’d been the day before.

Or some such bollocks as that.

He was as wicked today as he’d been yesterday, his heart as black and shriveled as it had ever been. He hadn’t forgiven that fair-haired chit—whose bloody name he still didn’t know—for nearly blowing his foot to bits, nor was he any less determined to have his way in the end.

So, when he called Townsend, his land steward, into his study after he’d breakfasted, he was in no mood for prevarication. “Some murderous vixen has tucked herself into Hammond Court tighter than a mouse in a hole. It’s my house, and I want her out, Townsend, as quickly as the thing can be managed.”

Townsend blinked. “Murderous vixen? Does this, er, murderous vixen have a name, Your Grace?”

“I presume so, Townsend. Most people do.” Max cast the man a withering look over the top edge of his spectacles. “Damned if I know what it is, though, and neither do I care.”

“Of course not. Only this vixen, Your Grace. Is she a young lady, with fair hair, and green eyes?”

Yes, that was her. He’d thought he was dreaming when that delicate, sylphlike creature had emerged from the shadows with an enormous dueling pistol clutched in her slender fingers. It had been the strangest moment, so incongruous he’d had a wild urge to laugh.

Of course, that was before she’d shot at him. Or shot near him, at least. Far too near for comfort. The hearing in his right ear might be permanently damaged.

It all became a great deal less amusing, then.

“Is she about this tall, Your Grace?” Townsend held a hand up to his shoulder.

“For God’s sake, Townsend, I didn’t measure her, nor did I sketch her likeness, but yes, that sounds like her.”

“Yes, Your Grace. The trouble, Your Grace, is that she’s not a murderous vixen at all, but rather—”

“Ambrose’s chère amie if I don’t miss my mark.”

Townsend gasped. “Oh, no, Your Grace! That’s not—”

“The lady has dreadful taste in lovers if you ask me. Get rid of her, Townsend.”

As far as Ambrose’s paramour was concerned, he was only interested in one thing, and that was how to expel her from his house, but God only knew how many other guns she had hidden on the premises. He refused to get drawn into an armed standoff with a young lady who looked like a bit of dandelion fluff.

He was a duke, damn it. It wasn’t dignified.

“Well, you see, Your Grace, it might prove to be a trifle more difficult to toss her out than you anticipate.” Townsend turned his hat in his hands. “The young lady you describe sounds very much like—”

“I don’t see what’s so difficult about it. If she gives you any trouble—and I warn you, Townsend, she is armed—then a discreet application of funds should solve the matter. I’ll leave it to you to decide how best to go about it, but make it quick, man. I expect you to report back to me this afternoon to confirm she’s gone.” Max bent over the papers scattered across his desk, waving his hand in a vague dismissal.

Townsend said nothing, only stood in front of the desk shuffling his feet until at last Max looked up. “For God’s sake, Townsend, why are you still here? Get on with it, will you?”

“Yes, Your Grace, but the vixen . . . that is, the young lady, Your Grace. She’s not Ambrose St. Claire’s paramour. She’s his daughter.”

Max froze, his fingers going slack around his quill. “That’s impossible. Ambrose doesn’t have a daughter.”

Townsend gave him a pained look. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace, but I’m quite sure the young lady you saw at Hammond Court is Miss Rose St. Claire, Mr. St. Claire’s adopted daughter.”

“ Adopted daughter?” He didn’t like the sound of this. Not at all. “What the devil are you on about, Townsend?”

Townsend lowered his voice, the tips of his ears turning pink. “As to that, Your Grace, it seems . . . well, I don’t like to talk out of turn, but if the gossips are to be believed, Miss St. Claire is the illegitimate daughter of Mr. St. Claire’s former cook. The woman passed away some nine years ago, but Miss St. Claire has remained at Hammond Court ever since, in a sort of, er . . . daughterly capacity.”

Max stared up at Townsend, speechless. Ambrose had taken in some brat born on the wrong side of the blanket? How the devil had the man managed to keep that little morsel out of the gossips’ mouths? He prided himself on knowing everything there was to know about his enemies, but he’d never heard a soul breathe a single word about this Miss St. Claire before.

Then again, Ambrose had always been a cagey devil. He’d had dozens of secrets, and he knew how to keep them. “So, what you’re telling me, Townsend, is that Miss St. Claire does in fact have a right to be at Hammond Court?”

Townsend nodded, his Adam’s apple bobbing miserably in his throat.

That spastically bobbing Adam’s apple didn’t bode well. Not well at all.

“She’s, ah, well, I don’t like to be the bearer of bad news, Your Grace—”

“Come, Townsend.” Max dropped his pen onto the desk and leaned back in his chair, gesturing to Townsend to continue. “Let’s have it out, shall we?”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Townsend cleared his throat. “Miss St. Claire is the beneficiary of Mr. St. Claire’s fortune. Not that there’s much of a fortune to speak of, you understand, Your Grace, but I’m afraid there’s rather a strong chance Hammond Court belongs to her now.”

Belonged to her ? Hammond Court, his family’s legacy, his mother’s childhood home belonged to that tiny menace of a chit who’d tried to shoot him yesterday? No, it was impossible. Ambrose himself had summoned him to Fairford, and there’d been nothing ambiguous about that note.

Except . . . claim your treasure . There’d been no mention of what treasure that might be, or how he was meant to claim it.

Damn it, it was bloody ambiguous, wasn’t it?

But what could Ambrose have meant by treasure , if not Hammond Court? God knew there wasn’t a single thing Max wanted in Fairford, aside from that house. Was this just another of Ambrose’s pranks, then? A final move in the game they’d been playing for years, the last twist of the blade?

He tore off his spectacles, his fingers tightening around them until he nearly snapped them in half.

Damn. This was a disaster.

He tossed the bent spectacles on his desk, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers. “You’re quite sure about this, Townsend?”

“Reasonably sure, Your Grace. All of Fairford has been talking about it. It’s just gossip, of course, but gossip in Fairford generally turns out to be true.” Townsend sighed. “That grand house, Your Grace, and poor Miss St. Claire all alone in it.”

Ah, so it was poor, lonely Miss St. Claire, was it? Max rolled his eyes. “I can assure you, Townsend, that Miss St. Claire is perfectly capable of taking care of herself.”

“Yes, Your Grace, but that house is quite a burden for such a young lady.” Townsend shook his head. “The whole thing is likely to collapse around her ears before the winter’s out.”

Yes, that was true, wasn’t it? The house was a catastrophe waiting to happen. It wasn’t surprising, really, given it had been in Ambrose’s possession for nearly two decades. He’d always been careless with his things.

Houses, windows, gardens, doorknobs.

Friendships.

And now his daughter, as well.

It would cost a fortune to make Hammond Court habitable again—a fortune Miss St. Claire didn’t possess—and that was to say nothing of the upkeep required.

Far better just to tear the thing down and be done with it.

Even if it had been in proper condition, what was a young, unmarried lady like Miss St. Claire going to do with such an enormous house? She couldn’t hope to make proper use of it.

Perhaps all wasn’t lost, after all. The girl likely only wanted money, and he had plenty of that. A flash of guineas, and the house would be his. Once he had it in his possession, he’d see her sent on her way quickly enough.

“Your Grace?” There was a knock on his study door, and his housekeeper poked her head inside. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace, but I have a note here for you.”

“A note? From who, Mrs. Watson?” No one in Fairford knew he was here, and even if they had, they were likely to keep well away from him, unscrupulous London dukes not being quite the thing in a rustic little village like Fairford.

“The boy didn’t say.” Mrs. Watson approached the desk and handed him the note. “Will that be all, Your Grace?”

“Hmm? Oh, yes.” He waved Mrs. Watson away, his attention already on the paper in his hand. His name was written on the front in an elegant, flowing script, quite pretty, and certainly feminine.

There was only one lady in Fairford who knew he was here.

No, surely not.

But if not her, then who? He ripped open the note with an odd twist of . . . something in his chest. Not anticipation. Certainly not that . Irritation, perhaps. Yes, that was what that twinge under his breastbone was.

Irritation.

The note was one line only, an invitation for him to call on her at Hammond Court at his earliest convenience. He stared down at it for a moment, then folded it, slipped it into his pocket, and rose from his chair.

There was no sense in putting it off. He’d wasted two decades on this business already, and he was ready to be done with it. Done with Ambrose, with Fairford, and with Hammond Court and all the memories lurking inside those crumbling walls. “Come along, Townsend.”

“Yes, Your Grace. Er, where are we going, Your Grace?”

Max grabbed the coat he’d draped over the back of his chair. “Miss St. Claire has summoned us to Hammond Court.”

“Has she, indeed? I would have thought you’d be the last person she—” Townsend broke off, clearing his throat. “I mean, that’s a bit curious, is it not, Your Grace?”

“Rather, yes.” The note had appeared innocent enough, but then so did Miss St. Claire with those big green eyes of hers, and she’d nearly shot him in the foot yesterday.

What was the chit up to this time? Nothing good, that much was certain. He unlocked the bottom drawer of his desk and retrieved the pistol he kept there.

Townsend’s eyes widened. “Your Grace?”

“You can never be too careful, Townsend.” He didn’t intend to shoot the chit, of course, but Miss St. Claire had proved herself a worthy opponent yesterday. An unmanageable bit of baggage as well, of course, but worthy, all the same.

The lady needed to be made to understand that he wasn’t trifling with her.

Hammond Court was his , and he would have it, even if it meant crushing a bit of dandelion fluff under his boot on his way through the door.

* * *

By the time they arrived at Hammond Court, it was snowing again. Not the light, fluffy flakes from this morning, but a wet, heavy snow layered on top of the morning’s ice. Max trudged up the drive, Townsend at his heels, icy water dampening the toes of his boots as he made his way over the ruts that led to the front door.

He’d need a new pair of Hessians after this. His tassels would never recover from such a dousing, and that was to say nothing of what had once been a perfectly serviceable beaver hat.

Townsend paused partway up the drive, staring up at the house. “Goodness, it’s in a state, is it not, Your Grace? It’s rather a lot to manage, and poor Miss St. Claire without any servants now.”

“No servants?” Surely Miss St. Claire wasn’t living here alone, without a single servant to protect her? Not that it mattered a whit to him, of course, except the pistol made a great deal more sense now. He must have frightened the wits out of her when he battered his way inside yesterday.

“None but her old nursemaid, Abigail Hinde, but poor Abby is well on in years, Your Grace, and a trifle lame now. One of the village lads, Billy Lucas, pops around here now and again, as well. He’s a good lad, is Billy, but he’s young yet. I doubt either of them is much help to Miss St. Claire.” Townsend frowned up at the silent fa?ade. “Such a pretty house as it once was, too. Now it looks as if it’s been abandoned.”

Yes, he’d thought the same when he’d come yesterday and found the house all dark and silent, and without a flicker of movement behind the windows. But the next thing he knew, he’d been staring at the deadly end of a pistol.

No doubt Miss St. Claire was watching them at this very moment, plotting her next move. He peered up at the windows, shielding his eyes from the snowflakes, but the windows stared back at him like a row of glassy blank eyes, revealing nothing.

“What’s happened here?” Townsend pointed at the door Max had assaulted yesterday morning. The knob he’d kicked loose was nowhere to be seen, and in its place, a rather feeble-looking rope had been strung through the gaping hole, and presumably fastened to something inside to hold the door closed. “This is a disgrace, this is.”

Good Lord. Perhaps he might have been a trifle less aggressive.

“This isn’t right, Your Grace.” Townsend picked at a bit of shredded wood where the knob had once been, his face darkening. “Why, any scoundrel or thief who happened by here could be inside her house with one quick slice of a blade through that rope there.”

An unpleasant emotion uncurled in Max’s stomach. Regret? No, it was something more, something worse, something closer to shame, or one of those other useless emotions, the sort he didn’t generally indulge.

Nor would he do so now, only . . . well, he’d never broken into a house. Perhaps kicking down a young lady’s door was a bit much even for his neglected conscience.

What had become of the doorknob? If Miss St. Claire had fetched it, why hadn’t she repaired the door? It had been left that way overnight, for God’s sake. Townsend was right. Any scoundrel in Fairford might have strode right in while she slept.

He wandered around the top of the drive, kicking at the snow until he spotted the rusted corner of the door plate, then the knob itself a short distance away. He leaned down, snatched them up, and slipped them into his greatcoat pocket.

Townsend raised an eyebrow. “Your Grace?”

“I’ll send one of the footmen to see to it.” Miss St. Claire was a troublesome chit, but she didn’t deserve to die in her bed at the whim of some villain.

He raised his hand to knock on what was left of the door, but before his fist met the wood there was a muted shuffle of footsteps, and a moment later the rope loosened. He peered around the side of the door, and there, the piece of rope dangling from her hand and a tranquil smile on her face, stood Miss St. Claire.