Page 32 of The Duke’s Sworn Spinster (A Duel and a Wedding #1)

Chapter One

“ D o you want the Bow Street Runners to catch us!” Winston Montclair, Duke of Thornfield, called over his shoulder to his friend, Leonard, Lord Kingsley. Leo was loafing down the alleyway behind him at a far too moderate pace for Winston’s liking.

“I’m going—” pant “—as fast—” pant “—as I possibly can!” Leo snapped back, his words interjected by his labored breathing “If they do catch us—” pant “—it’s going to be because of you—” pant “—making so much noise! You’ve been shouting at me to hurry up for at least three blocks!”

Winston smiled even as he kept running at the steady pace he had maintained for half a mile now.

“Well, that’s because you’ve been dawdling. Look at me, I’m injured—” he gestured at his right arm which Lord Tallow had managed to graze with a bullet before Winston had knocked him out “—and I am still moving faster than you.”

“I’m hardly dawdling.”

Leo, to his credit, put on a burst of speed, and came level with Winston, who was running as fast as he possibly could down the darkened alleyway. Soon, the sun would be up. Already, it was beginning to grow light on the horizon. They had to hurry.

“I’m just—” pant “—a little bit—” pant “—out of shape these days.”

“Out of shape?” Winston gave his friend a skeptical look. “Do the ladies not keep you in very good shape?”

“They do,” Leo said, a smile creasing his exhausted face as memories of his most recent conquests assuredly flooded his memory.

“But my most recent mistress—” pant “—is very fond—” pant “—of cake.” He grabbed Winston’s arm as he skidded to a stop, bending over to catch his breath as he clutched at what Winston assumed was a stitch in his side.

“Her fondness for cake has made me sluggish,” Leo finished, looking up at Winston apologetically.

Winston looked around. Unlike his friend, he had hardly broken a sweat, and while he was breathing heavily, he was nowhere near panting like a dog like Leo, even with an injured arm.

“We may have lost them,” he murmured, glancing back behind them again. “I do not hear anything.”

They both waited for a moment, looking around, their eyes peering into the dark corners around them as if they thought the Bow Street Runners might be lurking there in the shadows.

“We must be close to Mayfair by now,” Leo said after a moment.

“Just a few streets,” Winston agreed, nodding. “Once we make it there, we can stop running. No one there will believe that a duke and the heir of another duke are the ones who left Lord Tallow bleeding and unconscious outside of a tavern along the Thames.”

“I’m not sure you are right about that,” Leo argued, raising an eyebrow. He seemed to have caught his breath because he stood up straight, his hands on his waist. “They are not going to believe it was the usual brigands or thieves once they read the letter you wrote.”

“Fine, they will believe it is some kind of vigilante,” Winston said dismissively. “But they will not suspect the Duke of Thornfield.”

“Mostly because the Duke of Thornfield has never been known to care about anything,” Leo said with a half-smile, “least of all if some minor lord was a lecherous and cruel man toward the women in his life.”

Winston shrugged. “Let them think I care for nothing and no one but myself. If it keeps me from arousing suspicion, I am happy to be known as a cold and unfeeling man.”

“Your secret is safe with me,” Leo assured him with a mischievous smile.

“But we cannot keep targeting the men of the ton who mistreat their wives forever,” Leo sighed, running a hand through his hair. “We are bound to get caught one of these days.”

“So what if we do?” Winston snapped. “We are titled, wealthy men. We will pay whatever fines we have to.”

“It will also cause a great scandal,” Leo pointed out, but Winston shrugged again to indicate how little he cared about that. Leo frowned at him. “You might not care about courting scandal, my friend, but?—”

“Shh!” Winston held out his hand to cover his friend’s mouth, his body stiffening and all of the hairs on the back of his neck standing up at once.

Behind him, he had heard something like the sound of footsteps hurrying along the road that led to the alleyway.

“What is it?” Leo whispered from behind Winston’s hand, his eyes wide with sudden fear.

“I heard something,” Winston muttered. He removed his hand from Leo’s mouth and then motioned for him to follow him along as he crept forward along the alleyway.

Behind them the sounds of several people running were growing louder. From the look on Leo’s face, he could hear them now as well.

Then a voice shouted out in the dark behind them: “There! At the end of the alley! I see ‘em, Cap’n!”

“Run!” Winston breathed, and he and Leo leapt forward, dashing out of the alleyway and across the road to the next alley which Winston knew would take them straight into Mayfair.

“This way!” he called out to Leo in a whisper-shout, motioning toward the alley, and Leo followed him.

But then another shout came from behind them: “They’ve gone to the alley! Quick! Surround them! We can cut them off!”

“The roofs,” Winston hissed, pointing at a barrel that stood against the side of one of the buildings. “Climb the barrel then scale up the wall using the window. You can then escape on the roofs.”

“But—” Leo looked at Winston’s arm which was still bleeding freely and hung at a strange angle by his side. “How will you climb with your arm?”

“Do not worry about me,” Winston said at once. “I will find a way up.”

He helped hoist Leo up then looked around for his own escape route.

He’d meant what he had said to Leo: he was not afraid of being caught. But apart from not particularly wanting to pay a fine for teaching Lord Tallow a lesson, he knew that if he were caught, he would have to put an end to these nights of vigilantism.

And with so many men in the ton still mistreating the women in their lives, Winston was nowhere near ready to give up his crusade.

Not when I have not yet atoned for my sins.

As he looked to his right, his eyes fell on a small opening that he had not seen before. Rushing forward, he saw that it was a very thin alleyway that connected to the street beyond. It would give him a way out—at least for now.

Quickly, he hurried down it, keeping his eyes peeled for any pursuers and his ears alert.

At the end of the tiny alleyway, he paused, checking carefully around the corners.

Then he saw it: a set of short stairs leading up to a red door.

Raising his eyes, he saw a building with large, curved windows, supported by Corinthian columns, above which seemed to float a bell tower.

Winston knew this building. It was St. George’s in Hanover Square, his own parish church. He was in Mayfair.

“Down the alley! Quick!” he heard the Bow Street Runners call out behind him, and Winston only had a split second to make up his mind. He ran across the street, sprinted up the stairs, and pulled open the door. Deftly, he slid inside, closing the door just in time.

The church inside was quiet. Only his steps echoed in the cavernous space as he moved from the sanctuary and down the steps into the nave. To his left, he spotted the confessional, and he hurried toward it, seating himself before pulling the curtain closed behind him.

At last, I can breathe. He sat back and closed his eyes, letting his breathing settle and his nerves calm themselves. I’m safe here. Safe from the Bow Street Runners at least, but far less safe from God Himself, whom he had been avoiding these past ten years at least.

It’s been a while since I’ve been inside a church, he thought as he stared at the fabric of the curtain. I’m probably the least worthy person to step foot in here after all the things I have done.

Memories began to flood Winston’s mind—memories he absolutely did not want to have right now. But as the excitement of the chase began to dissipate, the empty place left behind began to fill with all the things he did not wish to remember.

And then, just as he felt himself starting to shake, he was interrupted by someone opening the curtain on the other side of the confessional, slipping inside, and sitting down across from Winston.

Winston froze.

Someone is in the confessional. But it was so early in the morning! Who would come to confess at this hour—unless they had something very dire to confess?

The person on the other side of the confessional shifted as they knelt on the stool, and Winston heard the rustle of fabric. So it is a woman. His interest was piqued.

A woman—a lady, no doubt, considering they were in Mayfair—had come, alone, at what was basically still night time, to confess her sins.

Now, this will be interesting.

A wicked smile curving his lips, Winston pulled open the divider, revealing the latticed opening between his side of the booth and hers.

“Good evening, my child,” he purred.

On the other side of the divider, the woman stirred. He could not make her out fully, but he could see her outline. She seemed slight and delicate, but it was hard to tell. Her bowed head and the hood of her pelisse obscured her face.

“Bless me, for I have sinned,” the woman murmured, and Winston felt a thrill go through him at the sound of her voice. It was soft and buttery and, best of all, lowered in supplication, and he felt both powerful and protective as he looked down upon her.

The woman waited, and Winston realized he was supposed to say something—but he could not remember what.

“Go on,” he said when nothing else came to him, and the woman twitched, as if she were about to look up. However, she restrained herself.

“I confess to Almighty God, to his Church, and to you, that I have sinned by my own fault in thought, word, and deed, in things done and left undone,” she began, and Winston recognized this from when he was a child.

“I am…” her voice broke slightly. “I am considering going against the wishes of my father and mother.”