Page 4 of The Duke’s Lance (The Duke’s Guard #12)

T he duke’s men filed into the library. Patrick—the duke’s right-hand man—was the first to enter, followed by Garahan and Flaherty, with O’Malley bringing up the rear.

“Shut the door behind you, Eamon.” As soon as he complied, the duke put his hands behind his back and paced to the window overlooking the gardens. O’Malley and the others waited, knowing the duke was gathering his thoughts before speaking. When he turned and walked toward them, his frown was fierce.

Trouble, O’Malley thought—he’d best bring up Burrows to the duke before His Grace launched into whatever reason he had for calling the meeting. “If I may have a moment, Yer Grace, I haven’t had a chance to tell ye about the sharpshooter I winged today on me patrol to the village.”

All heads turned toward him.

“Sharpshooter?” Patrick and the duke said simultaneously.

“Aye. Though he needs a bit more practice, if ye ask me.”

“Tell us the particulars, O’Malley,” the duke said. “I need to inform everyone about a missive I received.”

O’Malley frowned. He shouldn’t have interrupted the duke before the man had a chance to speak. “Forgive me, Yer Grace. It can wait.”

“Not if it’s a sharpshooter,” Garahan grumbled. “The potential for the man not acting alone is too great.”

“Aye,” Flaherty agreed. “Best to tell us now.”

Patrick nodded. “We can add to the guard if the situation warrants it.”

“I was riding past that last bit of thick trees on the way into the village when the breeze died and a metallic click echoed in the stillness,” O’Malley said.

“Did ye shoot first, or wait to return fire?” Flaherty asked.

“What do ye think?” O’Malley replied.

“Well then,” Patrick interjected, “’tis a fine thing that ye heard it, fired first, and winged the man.”

O’Malley wondered if he could get through the telling before his cousins interrupted and tried to recount the story for him. “Not one of ye were there, and His Grace has a missive to discuss with us.”

The duke said, “Hold your comments, men. Finish it, O’Malley.”

“The long and short of it is, after I coaxed him out of the tree, he recognized me as an O’Malley and said he was waiting for either Patrick or meself. Though he did not say why, he mentioned his uncle was down on his luck and was helped by one of the O’Malleys previously in London.”

“We’ll get to that later,” the duke said. “Where is the man now?”

“Cooling his heels in the constable’s gaol. Oh, and the constable agreed after hearing Burrows’s tale that—”

“Who is Burrows?” Flaherty asked.

“The sharpshooter,” O’Malley answered.

“What did the constable agree to?” the duke asked.

“That he’d send for the physician to take care of the wound where me lead ball grazed the young man.”

The duke’s expression was neutral. “Why was he waiting for you? Did he mention a connection with either Baron Hardwell or any of the other blackguards we have been dealing with lately?”

“He did not,” O’Malley replied. “Only that his uncle had turned to other ways of putting food on the table when he’d fallen on hard times. O’Malley was the name his uncle spoke of.”

“Why in the bloody hell would he be shootin’ ye, then?” Patrick demanded.

“I shot him ,” O’Malley reminded his older cousin.

That had Patrick clamping his jaw shut.

“So ye dropped him off with the constable,” Flaherty said.

“In the hopes that he would be questioned, and reveal the reason he was watching for ye,” Garahan added.

Patrick picked up the thread of the conversation. “In a dense bit of forest along the road ye were patrolling. ’Tis best that he’s safely tucked away, should any of Hardwell’s lackeys show up thinking to finish the business with Garahan, his bride, or her maid.”

A splitting pain shot across O’Malley’s forehead at the thought of any of the women being at the mercy of that blackguard again. “’Tis a possibility.”

“You’ll need to check in with the constable,” the duke told him.

“Ye can switch shifts with Flaherty,” Patrick said. “Find out whatever the constable has learned. Burrows may know something vital.” He looked to the duke, who inclined his head.

“Now then, on to other matters,” the duke said. “I received a missive from Gavin King a short while ago. Apparently someone has finally come forward regarding the incident involving Lord Montrose.” The duke paused and held Garahan’s gaze for a moment. “Yes, it is the person Michaela identified as the one who not only witnessed Lord Montrose being pushed in front of that carriage, but who carried Montrose away from the scene. We must still use caution and never mention Michaela’s account of what she witnessed that night. It would put her in danger and jeopardize her ability to continue her good works in London rescuing those who have no hope left.”

The duke turned and told Patrick, “I am confident your brother Emmett is more than capable of protecting his new wife while continuing to head up my London guard. But Michaela may be in even more danger, if a connection is made between Emmett and the rumors surrounding the identity of the Angel of the Streets.”

“Will King continue to monitor the situation and see that Michaela is protected?” O’Malley asked.

“King and Coventry are both committed to protecting her. However, I will send a missive to the both of them regarding Burrows, and the possibility that someone is out to kill one of the O’Malleys.”

Garahan’s anger was palpable. “We need to end this now! Me wife tries to hide her tears from me, but I’ve come upon Emily weeping at odd moments of the day.”

Patrick placed a hand on Garahan’s shoulder. “Be thankful she’s grieving. Gwendolyn held the double loss of her first husband and unborn babe close to her heart for years. I’ve been coaxing her to trust me with a bit more of what happened since we married. I think the miracle that she was pregnant, and then shared worry with me that she would be unable to carry our babe Deidre to term, drew us closer together. I encouraged her to let me share her grief.”

“There are nights when Persephone’s nightmares take hold of her,” the duke rasped. “And I know she’s in the ballroom at our town house in London when that madman burst in and held my sister at knifepoint, claiming that I was dead. I stopped wishing I had been there, instead of following a false lead, and concentrated on encouraging her to tell me her dreams. Sharing her pain has helped.”

O’Malley waited for Garahan to add his situation and how he was helping his wife handle her volatile emotions and grief, but his cousin remained silent. O’Malley had never asked, but sensed that Patrick and the duke knew the full story of what happened to Garahan’s wife, and her maid. Not just the ambushes along the route to Wyndmere Hall, but the attack at the last inn they’d stayed at. He knew Garahan still blamed himself for not anticipating that the blackguard would somehow get the key to Emily and Helen’s bedchamber and lie in wait for them.

His cousin had not spoken openly about what happened, and O’Malley had been hesitant to push Garahan to tell him. But now that he’d accepted what his heart already knew—Helen Langley was the woman he had been waiting for—O’Malley needed to hear the whole of what happened during the attack. He planned to be the one to help Helen conquer her nightmares for the rest of their lives. He wanted to be the man she clung to in the night when fear overwhelmed her. Needed to be the one she held on to when the grief over the loss of her family at a young age was too much to bear. He could not do that if she avoided him.

Garahan clenched his jaw and gave a brief shake of his head. “’Tis like pulling teeth to get me wife to share the depth of her worries. I’m hoping this new information will ease at least one of her nightmares—that she would never seek justice for her father’s murder.”

Garahan acknowledged Patrick’s direct gaze. “Did ye ever wonder if it was our destiny in life to use our God-given talent with our fists, and all manner of weapons, to protect the greater good?” Garahan paused and nodded to the duke. “The greater good being yerself and yer family, Yer Grace.” Looking at Patrick again, Garahan added, “And once we found our purpose in life guarding His Grace, we’d meet the other half of our hearts?”

“Never in me wildest dreams,” Patrick answered before turning toward the duke. “The pieces of what must have been God’s plan fell neatly into place when ye asked if I had any suggestions for adding to the guard.”

The duke slowly smiled. “I believe you mentioned you had three brothers working in and around London.”

“Don’t forget me eight cousins.” Patrick frowned, then said, “Though it might have been Coventry that I mentioned me eight cousins to.”

The tension in the room eased a notch at the recounting of how the duke’s guard had been formed. O’Malley said, “Getting back to meeting yer future wives, I’m thinking that was part of His plan too, as it happened in a heartbeat—to all of us.” All eyes were glued to him as he continued, “Yer eyes meet, and ye recognize the lass, though ye’ve never met her before. The women who have captured our hearts are valiant, fearless, stubborn, irritating, and beautiful, with bruises on their hearts that only we can heal.”

When O’Malley sensed that every man in the room was staring at him, he shrugged. “I’m not as stubborn as the lot of ye, who didn’t see what was right in front of him, nor recognize that the woman was his destiny, until he’d nearly lost her.” He grinned at Patrick and Garahan. “I’m not afraid to follow me heart.”

“We still recognized what was happening before ye did,” Flaherty told him. “And for the record, no woman has turned me head yet.”

“Eamon is the last of the O’Malleys to fall,” Patrick said. “’Twill either be yerself, Rory, or one of yer brothers, Dillon, Seamus, or Fenton, who’ll be the first of the Flahertys to fall.”

Flaherty grunted. “It won’t be me.”

O’Malley shook his head. “We’d best get back to the topic at hand. Pardon us for straying from the topic, Yer Grace.”

“Indeed. Now, as I was saying,” the duke continued, “apparently the witness feared for his family if he came forward.”

“Why now?” Patrick asked. “What has changed? ’Tis been nigh on two months since Lord Montrose died.”

“Murdered,” Garahan corrected him.

“Aye,” O’Malley agreed. “Was it a guilty conscience?”

Garahan swore beneath his breath. “Nay. I’m thinking it had to do with me wife’s harebrained plan. God help me, I couldn’t understand why Emily didn’t realize if she did what she intended, she may end up paying to hear a pack of lies.”

Patrick looked from Garahan to the duke and back. “Are ye sayin’ that yer wife offered a reward for news of her father’s death? How did she manage it without any of us knowin’?”

“Aye. She admitted she wasn’t going to tell me at all, but she kept giving me worried looks when she thought I wasn’t paying attention.” Garahan shook his head. “I charmed the information out of her.”

Flaherty snorted. “Ye mean ye wore her down until she confessed.”

Garahan ignored his cousin. “She contacted King. We had talked of the possibility of doing so, but I thought she and I would speak of it further before she went ahead and sent a missive to Bow Street.”

“Tell us everything,” the duke said.

“Apparently Emily decided to offer coin from her dowry as a reward for any information regarding the night her father was run down by that fast-moving carriage.”

The duke listened intently, then asked, “Is that all?”

Garahan’s pained expression had O’Malley and the others guessing there was more. “Nay. She offered a large portion of her dowry if any witnesses to the incident contacted Gavin King directly.”

“And she heard back from King?” Flaherty asked.

The duke’s gaze never left Garahan’s when he answered, “Aye, and he mentioned they had a witness, but that was all, Yer Grace.”

“Ah, so the witness’s guilty conscience for not coming forward got the better of him,” O’Malley remarked.

“If not for the witness’s wife falling ill from a fever, and lack of coin to pay the physician and the apothecary, he might never have come forward.”

Patrick’s frown was fierce. “Did his account of what happened match Michaela’s?”

“Aye,” the duke replied, “along with a detailed description of the person who rushed from the shadows into the lamplight to shove Montrose in front of that coach-and-four.”

“Emily was right,” Garahan rasped. “He was murdered, though he did not die until a few hours later.”

“Has King found the culprit?” Flaherty asked.

“His men are combing the city,” the duke told them. “He feels certain it is only a matter of time before they find the man.”

“That could take months…years,” O’Malley murmured.

“Aye, if not for one fact,” Garahan said.

“What might that be?” the duke asked.

“Hardwell is in King’s custody.”

“’Tis been a few weeks since ye arrived,” Patrick said. “Do ye think King has enough reason to detain the baron?”

Garahan exuded confidence. “Aye, that I do. One of the young men who worked for Lord Montrose had been hired by Hardwell to infiltrate the Montrose household.”

“Where is he now?” the duke asked.

“He accompanied Tremayne, Bayfield, and Greeves to London early this morning.”

“Ah, Stark—isn’t that his name?” the duke asked.

“Aye. Though he accepted coin from Hardwell to spy on Montrose,” Garahan said, “when push came to shove, the lad couldn’t go through with any of the other plans Hardwell had for Montrose or his daughter. His conscience would not let him.”

“What of Masterson?” O’Malley asked.

“As I understand it—though correct me if I am wrong, Garahan,” the duke said, “Masterson accompanied King’s man Jackson, and their prisoner, Hardwell, to London from the inn where he attacked Garahan’s wife and maid.”

Garahan’s expression was dark and forbidding. “The inn, where he nearly had his way with me wife, if not for Helen’s quick thinking.”

O’Malley’s heart clenched, then swelled. He was proud of Helen for standing up to the blackguard in a bid to protect Emily, but her actions could have had the opposite effect had she been overpowered by Hardwell. “Helen’s a brave lass.”

Flaherty rolled his eyes. “’Tisn’t a reason to lose yer head over a female, boy-o.”

“If not that, what then?”

Flaherty snickered. “If I have to be telling ye—”

Patrick interrupted, “Enough. Was there anything else in the missive, Yer Grace?”

The duke inclined his head. “Apparently the description King received from Michaela, and the witness, matches the man Hardwell insisted instigated the incident that resulted in Lord Montrose’s untimely demise—though the baron did not mention a name.”

“How do ye know we can trust the baron’s word?” O’Malley asked.

Garahan grunted. “Ye cannot.”

The duke replied, “I beg to differ. There is an instance in which I believe we can trust Baron Hardwell’s word.”

“What might that be, Yer Grace?” Patrick asked.

“Another of Hardwell’s contacts has come forward, a former soldier by the name of Poston…with information that Hardwell paid another handsomely to make it look like an accident.”

“I might have known coin was involved,” Flaherty muttered.

“Some men are ruled by it,” O’Malley added.

“Others would sell their soul for it,” Garahan mumbled.

Patrick asked the duke, “Did King supply a name along with a description of the man identified?”

“He did—Wilson.”

“Too bad Stark left with Tremayne and Bayfield,” O’Malley murmured. “He may have met Wilson in the short time he was employed by Hardwell.”

The duke walked over to his desk, sat, and penned a brief note. After sanding it, he sealed it with wax and handed it to Patrick. “Ask Humphries to have this delivered via special messenger.”

“At once, Yer Grace. With yer permission, I think it’s best to have Humphries alert the footmen on staff who double as guards to stand ready.”

“Excellent suggestion,” the duke replied. “See to it.”

“Aye, Yer Grace.” With a nod to the men, Patrick said, “Back to yer posts and be prepared to give additional instructions to the footmen who’ll be manning yer shifts with ye.”

O’Malley knew that Garahan would be filling his wife in on their discussion. Emily would not breathe a word of it, as Garahan would no doubt swear her to secrecy. But what about Helen? Would Emily tell her maid? O’Malley decided it would be up to him to confide in Helen so she would be aware of the possible danger headed their way. He had to speak to her alone. “I’ll protect ye with me life,” he murmured. But first he had to take Flaherty’s patrol to the village and speak to the constable. There may be other facts he uncovered while Burrows was in custody.

O’Malley strode toward the stables. The sooner he went out on patrol, the sooner he could return and speak to the lass. Time to get to it .