Page 2 of The Untamed Duke (The Secret Crusaders #3)

CHAPTER 2

J ournal of the Duke of Foxworth:

The time has arrived.

Finally, I will realize vengeance over the man who shattered our lives. He will live every day with the same pain I endure, knowing something precious was stolen by the man he hates most. Of course, his loss shall be temporary, yet he will always remember I had her, if just for a little while.

I cannot wait.

“I have wonderful news.”

Priscilla Livingston, the Duchess of Bradenton, did not look like she had good news. She quite resembled a child who had bitten into a ripe orange only to discover it was a lemon in disguise. An extra-sour one. “If you read the London Daily News , you know the measure on orphans’ rights passed. With your hard work, hundreds of children will see their lives improve. Congratulations.”

The ladies smiled and clapped. And Priscilla?

Still the lemon.

This should have been a glorious day. Not only had they achieved the favorable vote for orphans’ rights, but one of their own, Emma Sinclair, had just become betrothed to her earl. She’d actually already been unofficially betrothed, well, not really, yet that was a different story.

The sky burned a bright yellow outside the wide windows of the stylish mauve-colored drawing room. Little blue birds hopped on the sill, dancing on the cool breeze as they chirped the day’s news. Orange biscuits and banana tarts sweetened the world with their delicious scent, their savory taste evidenced by the rate at which the silver platter emptied.

Could Priscilla’s grimness have anything to do with Foxworth? Of course, Edmund was furious with the duke’s reemergence, chasing the record for the longest lecture ever uttered on planet Earth. Afterwards he forbade her from seeing him at least fifty-seven times.

Priscilla continued in a monotone tone, even as few noticed in the joyful post-vote atmosphere. “Our next effort is not a vote, yet it is just as critical. It is no secret that many women are mistreated, leaving emotional and–” She paused. “Physical scars.”

Sophia sobered immediately.

“Even under the dubious protection of the law, few are able or willing to escape. We are opening a new sanctuary for women fleeing such situations.” Priscilla held the ladies’ attention like a soldier. “Of course, this is a problem that transcends class. I am certain you all know women in similar situations.”

Gazes hardened and lips pursed, as some glanced at each other, while others studied the floor with ferocity. Priscilla’s voice softened. “We shall endeavor to support all women in this situation, whether of the working class or ton , although, of course, our approach will be quite different. Obviously, no sanctuary exists for ladies, yet perhaps we can still help them escape their situations. The first step is convincing them to accept assistance.”

“Excuse me, Your Grace?”

Priscilla turned to a petite young woman in the last seat of the last row. Betrothed to a baron, Lady Julia was timid, but lovely, with pale skin, midnight black hair and azure eyes. “Yes, Julia?”

The younger woman colored, averting her eyes. “I’m sorry for interrupting. It is nothing.”

Priscilla opened her mouth, yet a series of loud bells chimed, signaling the hour’s end. The ladies had numerous commitments, with a schedule rarely of their own making. “We will talk more of this at our next meeting. If you know any in this situation, speak to me in private, and we will do what we can to help.”

Sophia rose from the chair, and smoothed her pale green dress, as the ladies slowly drifted out of the room. The moment the last member left, she wasted no time. “What is wrong?”

Priscilla held her gaze, then softly sighed. She rubbed her arms. “Was it that obvious?”

“I’m afraid so.” Sophia grasped Priscilla’s hand. They had become close these past months, and she considered the duchess another sister. “Is everything well?”

“Not at all.” Sophia gazed at the ornate table in the middle of the room. Usually it held the journal where Priscilla recorded their efforts, yet today the wooden pedestal stood empty. “The journal was stolen.”

Sophia gasped. The journal contained all the information from the Distinguished Ladies of Purpose . It detailed their covert missions, revealing the so-called sewing guild was actually a secret society to advance social action. “Did it contain our names?”

Priscilla hesitated. “Only the initials, but it would be enough.”

Sophia exhaled. The ramifications were almost too much to bear. “Whoever took it could ruin us all.” She rubbed her forehead, as a burst of pain exploded behind her temples. “Did someone break in the townhome?”

Priscilla shook her head. “I made the grievous error of bringing it to Lord Colesworth’s masquerade. With the orphans’ vote so close, I wanted to ensure we targeted the right lords. I only put it down for a moment.” She clenched her skirts. “At first I thought it was a mistake, that the man who grabbed it didn’t know what he took. Yet, by the way he fled, clearly he planned the theft.”

Sophia exhaled lowly. “He targeted you.”

“Without a doubt.”

It meant someone suspected their group’s deception, possibly realized the extent of their ruse. Now they possessed proof. “Who was it?”

“I cannot say.”

Sophia’s breath caught in her throat. Without the thief’s identity, they could make no effort to retrieve the journal. “You didn’t see him?”

“No. Yes. Sort of.” Priscilla clasped her hands tightly. “It was a masquerade. He was wearing a nondescript suit and a full mask. I was across the room when I realized I’d forgotten the book, and before I could catch him, he slipped outside, jumped into his carriage and fled.”

No wonder Priscilla had been so distraught. “Were there any clues, any indication who it could have been?”

Priscilla paused, but then slowly nodded. “I didn’t get a good look at the man, but I believe I recognized the carriage. I’m not entirely certain, which is why I cannot outright accuse him.”

Tempered relief lightened Sophia’s chest. Perhaps there was a chance. “That’s wonderful. Who was it?”

The name Priscilla whispered vanquished all relief.

“Foxworth.”

“What is your scheme?”

Kenneth relaxed, closing the book. He looked up and smiled.

“Oh goodness, a smile. Now I’m truly fearful.”

“There’s no need for dramatics.” Kenneth stood and walked to the newcomer. He ruffled her curls. “I often smile around you.”

The suspicion in his sister’s gaze did not lessen as she strolled into the library. With a pale dress some shade of green, she was all grace and delicate movements, so different than the boisterous imp who flitted from garden to garden in Scotland. England had changed her.

It had changed them both.

Clara looked as out of place in the stuffy room as he felt. The large space smelled of leather and wood, with a massive oak desk as a centerpiece and huge shelves with countless books, which he had only just began to peruse.

She circled the room, tracing her fingers along the spines of leather-bound books. “You have been more serious of late. Plotting your vengeance I assume?”

His jaw hardened. Rotten enough his cousin had sensed his plot, but his sister, too? Would his grandmother be next to warn him of ill-begotten plans?

“You need not worry about such matters.”

She turned. She was so petite, yet her eyes burned with an inner strength that made him proud. He adored her spirit, even as he worried for her safety in a perilous world. He would always protect her.

He had the urge to do the same with another woman.

“Both Bradenton and Priscilla have been kind to me. I will not see either of them harmed.”

“I have no intention of harming Priscilla.” He tempered his annoyance. “Do you actually think I could hurt a woman?”

“I don’t mean physically, of course.” Clara frowned as she wandered away from him. “Yet other wounds can be just as damaging. I know you are angry at Bradenton because of…” She took a shaky breath, and he had to stop himself from embracing her. She had chided him the last time he tried.

A moment later, she composed herself. “By circumstances. Yet I wonder if we truly have all the details. No matter the truth, I will not have you mistreating Priscilla, either directly or indirectly in your revenge against Bradenton.”

“My revenge will not touch Priscilla,” he promised.

“What about the rest of Bradenton’s family?”

He paused just long enough to reveal the answer. Her eyes widened, yet before she could speak, he continued, “No one will be irreparably harmed. Lives may be altered, yet some for the better.”

The distrust in her eyes deepened. “What could you possibly have plan–”

A discreet scratching rattled the door. “Enter,” he boomed before she could interrogate further.

A servant opened the door, standing so straight it was as if the starch he employed on cravats had seeped into his very bones. “Lady Sophia is here to visit.”

Emotions flared: Surprise. Suspicion. Satisfaction.

He showed none of it as Clara inclined her head. “Of course. Please direct her to the Emerald Room. I shall be there post haste.”

“Lady Sophia?” He waited to speak until the servant departed, and they were once again alone. He even managed to keep his voice neutral. “I didn’t know you had a visit planned.”

“She sent a note this morning.” She looked down her nose at him. “She is my friend, which means your nefarious machinations cannot include her.”

“I would protect her with my life.”

That was true.

“I certainly have no nefarious schemes that involve her.”

That was only partly true.

His schemes very much involved her, yet they were not nefarious, at least not when it came to her.

Whether she would agree was up for contention.

“Would you like to see her?”

To an extraordinary amount. Yet he must restrain himself, at least for now. Her presence was a mystery, her motives unknown. His sister had mentioned Sophia regularly visited during his absence, yet it must be unusual to come on such short notice. Did she suspect his true plan?

Visiting with his sister would provide little insight into the clever woman’s mechanisms, but watching from afar could illuminate the schemes she hid. Perhaps he could discover her secrets while she hunted his. A smile, as genuine as it was rare, curved his lips.

The predator was about to become the prey.

Sophia shifted on a settee as stiff as Lord Dryfus’ fifth-favorite cravat. On the outside it was extraordinarily handsome, covered in rich brocade fabric and gleaming embellishments, yet underneath it was as hard and unyielding as iron.

Just like Foxworth.

She forcefully relaxed tight muscles. Focused on the crackling fire in the white marble fireplace, the scent of lilies from the massive display in a cut crystal vase. The room was decorated in shades of emerald, with rich tapestries of rolling Scottish hillsides, wingback chairs swathed in green jacquard and jade-enameled tables. A feast of tea cakes, miniature sandwiches and a full tea service sat in an artfully arranged display, bearing more food than some families saw in a day.

The change in the Drummond household was significant, undoubtedly a product of Clara’s gentle touch. Darkness had dominated the abode ever since the dowager became a widow, yet now small portions of light pierced the gloom, in fresh and fragrant flowers, pastel artworks and colorful furniture amidst the somber renderings. Did Foxworth notice the change?

And just like that, the mysterious duke usurped her thoughts once more.

That he stole the journal was all but certain. He’d confessed his plot to exact revenge, and no one had more to lose by the guild’s exposure than Edmund and Priscilla. He could reveal their identities and bring scandal upon them all, setting the ton afire. Of course it would cast dire consequences for all involved, including Clara. Could he truly hate Edmund that much?

Of course Foxworth could be one of those men who abhorred bluestockings so much he considered himself responsible, nay, a hero, for exposing their mechanisms. He’d made his overprotective nature quite clear.

Whatever he had planned, time was running out, which was why she already formulated several options to address the situation:

A. Calmly ask Foxworth to return the book. Advantages: easy and peaceful. Disadvantages: Chances of success less likely than the patronesses of Almack’s hiking up their skirts and dancing on the tables at White’s.

B. Tell him if he didn’t return the book she would plot her own revenge. Advantages: Showed she was a powerful woman who wouldn’t back down. Disadvantages: Chances of success also less likely than the patronesses of Almack’s hiking up their skirts and dancing on the tables at White’s.

C. Throw a potted plant at him and reclaim the book before he realizes what is happening. Advantages: Enjoyable, could be effective. Disadvantages: Would harm a perfectly innocent potted plant. Also, against the law.

D. Visit his townhome, locate the book and steal it back. Advantages: The only option that didn’t involve the patronesses of Almack’s hiking up their skirts and dancing on the tables at White’s or violence. Disadvantages: Could get caught. Likely to get caught. Almost certainly would get caught.

However unlikely, the last option was her only choice. She couldn’t simply confess her suspicions to Clara. Her friend was considerate, kind and undoubtedly loyal to her brother. If Foxworth learned they were investigating him, he may take the journal beyond their reach. Too many lives were at stake to take that risk.

“I’m sorry to keep you waiting.” Clara floated into the room, garbed in a sage green dress with tiny pearl roses. Her curls were fashioned into a simple knot, her eyes alight. “It’s wonderful to see you again.”

“And you, as well.” Sophia rose and clasped hands with the debutante. “You look lovely.”

Clara blushed lightly. So shy and sweet, she presented a stark difference from her brother.

“I’ve been admiring the changes you made to this room.” Sophia traced the soft fabric of the sofa. “I would love to see the rest of the home, if you are inclined to give a tour.”

“It would be my pleasure.” Clara smiled wider.

They strolled to the room’s exit. “I can’t believe your grandmother allowed you to do all this,” Sophia said honestly. Technically, the home belonged to Foxworth, yet he hadn’t sent his grandmother to the dower house. It was a surprising kindness from the formidable duke.

“She was a little hesitant, but Kenneth has a way of convincing people. You could tell she was elated.”

Sophia smiled. A wry grimace was the most elated she’d ever seen Lady Drummond.

“She nearly smiled.” Clara chuckled. “Of course, she resisted at first, yet she finally capitulated, as everyone eventually does to Kenneth.”

Not everyone.

“Kenneth is the one who insisted on changing the décor,” Clara revealed. “He wanted a more jovial atmosphere, especially after…” She paused, as stormy clouds overtook her sunshine.

Sophia put her hand on her friend’s arm. Clara didn’t share much about her past, but the change from Scotland to England must have been tumultuous, as was the death that precipitated it. The old duke never talked about his children, and Clara never talked about him. Word was they’d been completely estranged. “I’m sorry. I know how difficult it has been.”

Clara sniffed, then patted her nose with a delicate linen handkerchief, embroidered with the words Cherished Sister . “I don’t know how I would have made it if not for Kenneth. He takes care of everything and everyone. Even grandmother is happy with the redecorating, or he never would have done it.” Clara continued describing a Foxworth she had never met. To her family, he was a threat – untested, unknown and uncivilized – yet to his sister he was a hero.

“In the end, we are all better for the changes,” Clara concluded with a firm nod. She stood tall, and a tenuous smile returned. “Where should we start? Perhaps the common rooms first, and then my quarters.”

Sophia followed Clara down long corridors, filled with rich paintings and light-colored adornments. The air cooled as they passed an open window. “What about Foxworth’s domain?” She said the words mildly, as if an idle thought. “Did he make significant alterations?”

“Kenneth?” Clara cocked her head to the side. “I suppose he made some changes, as well.”

“I would love to see that, too,” Sophia replied earnestly. “If it’s not an imposition.”

“Of course not.” Clara’s smile widened. “I cannot show you his private quarters, of course, yet we can visit the common areas he frequents, such as the study, music room and library.”

Sophia followed Clara to the dining room, which was indeed lovely. Gold patterned paper covered the walls, with matching carved molding. A sparkling crystal vase stood on a huge carved cherry wood table, flanked by damask-covered chairs. Sophia walked around the set, touching the cool wood. It was perfectly smooth, with deep grains in shades of red and maroon. “Your taste is impeccable.”

“Actually Kenneth selected everything.”

Sophia stared. Who was this man who cared so deeply for his family, while threatening all that she loved? “Tell me about your brother.”

“Kenneth?” Clara’s features softened. “What can I say? He’s the most wonderful brother in the world. He’s kind, gentle and sweet as a puppy.”

Sophia parted her lips. “Do you have a second brother named Kenneth?”

Clara giggled. “I know he can seem daunting.”

Like a wolf. “I was jesting, of course. Clearly he is kind, and I’m sorry, did you compare him to a puppy?”

Sophia laughed again. “Indeed, I did.” Her eyes shined in the natural light. “Please don’t tell him I said that. He can get quite growly when he realizes people see the real him. He may appear fierce and difficult, but underneath it all…” She sighed.

Sophia lifted her eyebrows. “Puppy?”

Clara nodded firmly. “That’s right.”

Sophia drew back. Foxworth possessed more facets than a cut diamond. Of course Clara’s opinion didn’t necessarily reflect his true character. Sisters often idolized their brothers.

“We’ve done quite a bit with the music room.” Clara led her through a curved doorway to a cream and cobalt room with high ceilings and gleaming instruments. “Kenneth even paid for it with his own funds.”

His own funds? She pushed aside tender feelings she couldn’t afford. It didn’t matter if he acted kindly to his family. He was still trying to shatter hers.

If he possessed the journal, he could destroy every woman in the guild.

Clara showed her a host of other rooms, each exquisitely renovated and skillfully decorated. She may have asked for the tour to investigate, yet it was an enjoyable diversion, tempered only by the absence of Pricilla’s journal. “I would love to see where the duke conducts business.”

Clara smiled, and another flash of guilt surged. She hated deceiving the kind woman. “My grandmother didn’t want to alter my grandfather’s office, so my brother had his desk installed in the library. He enjoys being surrounded by books.”

“I love books, as well.” The words emerged before Sophia could stop them. She cleared her throat. “Of course, many people love books. It’s not uncommon.”

“Actually, you and my brother are alike in many ways. Perhaps that’s why he acts like he does around you.” Before Sophia could ask what she meant, Clara led them down a long hallway. “I must warn you, Kenneth was in the library not long ago.”

Sophia slowed her steps. “We shouldn’t disturb him.”

“He won’t mind.” Clara continued at a brisk pace, and Sophia hurried to catch up with her, as they arrived at a large double door. One side was ajar, revealing oversized furnishings, rows of books and a thankfully empty desk. “He always keeps the door closed when he is working,” Clara frowned. “He must have been called away. If you’d like I can find him–”

“That won’t be necessary.” Sophia forced a smile. “I don’t want to bother him.”

Clara stepped towards the door, just as the housekeeper appeared from behind a screen. “So sorry for the interruption, but your grandmother wanted to consult about tonight’s menu.”

“Of course. Tell her I’ll be there post haste.” Clara smoothed down her skirt. “I’m sorry, Sophia, but Grandmother does not like to be kept waiting. Would you mind perusing the library while I see to her needs? It shall not take long.”

What fortune. Clara’s expression was apologetic, yet it was a gift, granting the opportunity to search the most likely location for the journal. “Take all the time you need. I daresay I will find something of interest.” Like a stolen journal, with the power to precipitate a scandal the likes of which London had never seen.

“Thank you.” With a quick nod, Clara hurried down the hallway. Sophia stood still, waiting for her to turn the corner before pivoting towards the library. Time to investigate.

The heavy door was soundless as it opened wider, a sign of a smoothly-run household. She padded over the threshold, her feet sinking into the thick wine-colored carpet as she closed the door behind her. It wouldn’t do to have a servant notice her scouring Foxworth’s belongings. She strode quickly through the cavernous room, straight towards the massive desk.

The Drummond library had always been impressive, but now it was extraordinary. Bookshelves soared three stories high, covering every wall, carved from a deep cherry wood. A huge fireplace crackled in the corner, its marble mantle holding ceramic bowls filled with roses. Dark red settees provided ample seating, while Foxworth’s enormous desk and throne-like chair stood ready for their formidable master.

She slowed as she reached the colossal desk, set to the backdrop of so many precious volumes. The room seemed the most likely location for the journal, yet what if he secreted it among the thousands of books? Hidden in plain sight, she would never find it.

She moved forward. Imagining failure would only sabotage her efforts. If this didn’t work, another strategy would.

The desk was cluttered with papers, envelopes and writing instruments, as if Foxworth had stopped working mid-task for some urgent matter. There was no time to ponder it, as she lifted papers off papers off papers. Numerous books littered the desk, yet all regarded the running of an estate, land management and other such harmless endeavors. Drawers revealed nothing more nefarious than quills and fresh ink pots. That was, until she reached the bottom drawer. She pulled its golden handle, but it only gave slightly, catching with a distinctive thud. It was locked.

Not for long. The first thing she did upon joining the Distinguished Woman of Purpose was convince Priscilla to teach her how to pick a lock. She pulled a long pin out of her hair and slid it into the latch. With a soft click, the lock opened. She slid open the drawer.

More books. The top few were accounting journals, and those she left alone. She examined and passed over several with listings of businesses and contacts. Yet below that, a set of slim brown leather books peeked out. They were identical, each with a heavy script embossed on the top: Journal of the Duke of Foxworth.

She lifted a thin volume, traced the raised letters with the pad of her finger. The cover was well-worn, the pages yellowed with age. It was slightly crumbled, with sweeping ink peeking through the thin sheets. Of course it would be beyond the pale to read it, completely inappropriate. She lowered it back to the drawer and stopped.

Foxworth pledged revenge against her brother. Threatened them with unknown schemes. He had most likely stolen the journal, placing them all in danger. If there was any chance he’d written about his plans in these diaries, it was not just her right to read them, it was her duty.

She needed no further reasoning. She opened the book, choking as the heavy scent of spirits leapt from the long-dried pages, strong enough to coat her tongue in its sour taste. Goodness, had the duke soaked them in gin? The pages were stained with it, and frightfully delicate, crackling with every turn. The script was surprising as well, not the heavy cursive she’d seen Foxworth use, but a wobbly penmanship proving the writer managed to ingest as much of the spirits as he spilled. She focused on the small print, and froze.

Bradenton.

It was the very first word, written in heavy ink, and darker, as if the writer traced it a hundred times. She read on.

He has taken everything that matters to me – my family, my money, my reputation. There is nothing left.

The rest of the page was blank. She turned the page to a passage nearly identical to the first, a retelling of the injustices doled by Bradenton. Another page, another accusation. Every page showed no more and no less, pure hatred and bitter obsession, until the last entry.

I can no longer stand idle as Bradenton shatters my life. Tomorrow, everything changes.

We meet at dawn.

The duke’s story ended there.

No.

The journal slipped from her fingers, drifting to the desk. Foxworth was going to duel Bradenton? He’d claimed he wouldn’t, and certainly she’d know if Bradenton challenged him. Yet the writing was clear.

Her heart thumped like the heavy footsteps of duelists walking their paces. There would be a death tomorrow. Bradenton. Or Foxworth.

Both possibilities were unbearable.

She breathed deeply, fighting for strength. The duel had not yet been fought, which meant it was not too late. She reached for the journal, and stopped.

The journals numbered half a dozen, and at first they appeared identical. Yet next to the title, a number had been lightly embossed, and those differed for each. They represented years, she realized.

Last year.

She breathed pure relief, her lungs expanding freely now, as the weight of two potential deaths lifted. The Duke of Foxworth had not written in this journal. Well, he had, but not the current Duke of Foxworth. The writer was Foxworth’s father, whose hatred transcended words, time and even the death of the man himself.

What happened that fateful day? She’d heard of no duel, yet Edmund wouldn’t have necessarily shared such an abhorrent event with his little sister. She’d hardly known Foxworth’s father, as most of the ton avoided him, despite his title and wealth. His vices were many and frequent, his reputation for gambling, whoring and drinking well-known. His death had been a result of heart trouble, a common enough ailment, especially for a man known for overindulgence. Yet what if the story was a deception? What if Bradenton had been involved?

Was this why Foxworth wanted revenge?

She scanned the journals’ covers. Four of them delved further into the past, and while they may elucidate the feud’s origins, the future mattered far more. There was one final journal, the date of the current year. It was slimmer than the others, without the bulk of crinkled, well-used pages. She opened to the first page.

The difference in the script was immediately apparent. This was the writing she expected from the Duke of Foxworth, heavy and bold, the letters sweeping across the page in commanding strokes. With time growing ever-shorter, she swept to the last entry, dated this very morning.

Journal of the Duke of Foxworth:

The time has arrived.

Finally, I will realize vengeance over the man who shattered our lives. He will live every day with the same pain I endure, knowing something precious was stolen–

Heavy footsteps shattered the silence.

She slammed the book shut, shoving it into the desk and closing the drawer. Or rather she tried, but it caught on a thick volume half-hidden under the others, the same shape and size as Priscilla’s journal. She was out of time, as the footsteps delved ever-closer, yet she couldn’t lose her chance. She grasped the heavy tome, pulled it out. It was…

Not the journal.

Raw disappointment streaked through her. She’d been so close! Yet the book was not the right shape, and the cover was lighter. She shifted the books, pushing the drawer forward one last time, when the title seemingly leapt from the cover:

Real-life stories of successful abductions.

The air in the room vanished. She lifted the volume, read the title twice and then thrice. What did it mean? Was Foxworth planning to abduct Edmund?

“Find something that interests you?”

She gasped.

She. Was. Caught.