Not the Duke's Darling Page 2

  * * *

  Christopher Renshaw, the Duke of Harlowe, stared out the window of his carriage later that day as he traveled toward the West End of London.

  His morning had been like any other since he’d returned to England—tedious—until a spitting wildcat had hurled herself into his carriage. He found himself entirely unable to stop thinking of her. She’d been like a splash of cold water to the face: shocking, but also refreshing. And like a splash of water she’d woken him up for the first time in months.

  Perhaps years.

  The woman had glared up at him from the floor of his carriage with beautiful green-gold eyes and challenged him, indifferent to the disadvantage of her position, literally at his feet.

  It had been dumbfounding.

  Intriguing.

  In the two years since he’d rather implausibly gained the dukedom, he’d almost grown used to the awe, fawning, and frank greed his rank prompted in others. Few if any regarded him as a living, breathing man anymore.

  And none treated him dismissively.

  Except the wildcat.

  She’d worn a plain brown dress and one of those ubiquitous white caps with a ruffle around her equally plain face, hiding both the color and style of her hair. She might’ve been a tavern keeper’s wife or a fishmonger, and had she not opened her mouth, he would’ve assumed her accent to be common. Instead he’d detected both education and a hint of Scotland.

  And then there’d been that venomous glare, as if she knew him somehow and had cause to loathe him.

  Tess leaned against his thigh as the carriage swayed around a corner.

  Christopher absently dropped his hand to her head, rubbing the soft points of her ears between his fingers. “Perhaps she’s mad.”

  Tess whined and placed her paw on his knee.

  A corner of his mouth lifted. “In any case, no doubt that will be the last we see of her.”

  He sighed and once again glanced out the carriage window. They were past Covent Gardens and nearly to Jackman’s Club. After a morning spent in Wapping warehouses, overseeing a new venture in shipping, followed by a tiresome afternoon in the city center, consulting with men of business, Christopher had a strong urge for coffee and an hour or so reading the newspapers in quiet.

  And, as always, alone.

  For years he’d been exiled from these shores. Had lived in a country with foreign sights and smells and people. And he had thought all that time—thirteen years—that when he returned to England, his birthplace, everything would be different.

  That he would be home.

  Except when he returned it was to a title too grand. To parents dead and friendships destroyed and turned to dust. To enormous manors that echoed with his solitary footsteps when he walked through them.

  England was no longer home. All that he could’ve built and loved there had been lost as he spent his youth in India. It was too late to find a home now.

  He did not belong anywhere.

  * * *

  Five minutes later Christopher entered Jackman’s with Tess. The livery-clad footman at the door blinked at the dog padding by Christopher’s side, but was far too well trained to make any objection.

  Being a duke did have some advantages.

  Jackman’s was fashionable but not too fashionable, and frequented by gentlemen who had lived in India and abroad. The selection of newspapers was one of the best in the city and the main reason he’d become a member.

  He found a chair near the fire, had a footman open the window behind him, and was soon immersed in the news, a coffeepot on a small table at his elbow. Tess lay nearly under the table. He’d ordered a plate of muffins with his coffee, and every now and again he dropped a torn-off piece to Tess, who snapped it up.

  Christopher was frowning over an account of the battle with the French at Wandiwash in southeast India when someone sat in the chair across from him.

  Tess growled.

  Christopher tensed. No one bothered him at Jackman’s.

  He raised his head and saw that idiot Thomas Plimpton looking nervously at Tess.

  Christopher snorted. He’d been back in England for nearly two years now and hadn’t seen Plimpton in four, but unless a miracle had occurred, the man was still the worst sort of coward. Plimpton had startled blue eyes, a round face, and a mouth that always seemed to be half-opened. Oddly these features somehow combined to make the man handsome—at least in ladies’ eyes.

  Christopher stared at him.

  “Ah…,” Plimpton said, sounding nervous, “might I have a word, Renshaw?”

  “Harlowe,” Christopher drawled.

  “I…beg your pardon?”

  “I am,” Christopher said slowly and precisely, “the Duke of Harlowe.”

  “Oh.” Plimpton swallowed visibly. “Y-yes, of course. Erm…Your Grace. Might I have a word?”

  “No.” Christopher turned his attention back to the newspaper.

  He heard a rustling and glanced up.

  Plimpton had a piece of paper in his hand. “I’m in need of funds.”

  Christopher didn’t reply. Frankly, he saw no point in encouraging the man’s impertinence. Plimpton knew well enough that Christopher despised him—and why.

  But Plimpton must’ve found a shred of bravery somewhere. He lifted his chin. “I need ten thousand pounds. I’d like you to give it to me.”

  Christopher slowly arched an eyebrow.

  Plimpton gulped. “A-and if you don’t I shall make public this.”

  He shoved the piece of paper at Christopher.

  Christopher took it and opened what was obviously a letter. The messy handwriting inside was instantly recognizable and brought a small pang to his heart. Sophy.

  His wife had been dead four years, but that didn’t end Christopher’s vow to honor and protect her.

  He balled up the letter and flung it into the fire.

  The paper immediately caught, flaming brightly before dying almost instantly. Gray ash crumpled into the grate.

  “That’s not the only one I have,” Plimpton said predictably.

  Christopher waited.

  Plimpton still had his chin up, a gallant, defiant look in his eyes. No doubt the man fancied himself some sort of chivalrous knight. He’d certainly cast himself in the role of hero in India. “I have many more letters, hidden in a safe place. A place you won’t be able to find. A-and if something happens to me, I’ve left instructions to publish them.”

  Did the idiot think he’d murder him? Christopher merely looked at the man, but Tess growled again, the sound low and threatening.

  Plimpton’s eyes widened, darting to the dog and back up to Christopher’s face. “In a fortnight your brother-in-law, Baron Lovejoy, will hold a house party. I’ve been invited and no doubt you have as well. Bring the money there and in exchange I’ll give you the letters.”

  Christopher inhaled and for a moment debated his next action. He despised social events, and a house party by its very premise was a confined affair without respite from fellow guests. He could refuse and do something nasty to Plimpton instead, but really in the end paying for the damned letters was the easiest and least complicated course.

  “All the letters.” Christopher made it a statement.

  “Y-yes, all the—”

  Christopher stood and walked away while Plimpton was still stuttering out his reply, Tess trotting by his side. Better to leave rather than do something he might regret later.

  He’d failed Sophy once. He wasn’t about to fail her again.

  Chapter Two

  Rowan had hair the color of flames, skin as white as clouds, and eyes as green as the moss that grew on the riverbanks.

  She had three cousins who were her constant companions. They were named Bluebell, Redrose, and Marigold. Rowan was fond of Bluebell and Redrose, but Marigold she loathed.

  Why has never been told.…

  —From The Grey Court Changeling

  Late that evening Freya selected a strand of floss silk an
d threaded her embroidery needle.

  “Whatever are you embroidering, Miss Stewart?” the eldest of the Holland girls, Arabella, asked, leaning over Freya’s arm. They shared a settee together in the sitting room of Holland House.

  Freya had been Lady Holland’s companion ever since she’d come to London five years ago to be the Wise Women’s Macha. From the beginning she’d used her middle name, Stewart—a Scottish name to explain her Scottish accent. The Dunkelders knew that women of the de Moray family had been Wise Women for generations, so it was imperative that no one know she was the daughter of the Duke of Ayr.

  “It’s a merlin,” Freya replied now, placing a bright scarlet stitch below the raptor.

  “What’s it doing?”

  “Tearing the heart out of a sparrow,” Freya said serenely.

  “Oh.” Arabella looked a little pale. “It’s quite realistic.”

  “It is, isn’t it?” Freya said. She smiled down at her violent artwork before glancing at the mantel clock. It was just after ten, which meant she had another two hours before her meeting with the Crow.

  Freya’s job as Macha was to gather information, gossip, and news for the Wise Women, the majority of whom lived at their estate near Dornoch in the far north of Scotland. It was the Wise Women like her and the Crow—the ones who lived outside the compound—who were fighting a war against the Dunkelders. A war for survival.

  A war for women in Britain to live freely.

  “What did you do on your day off, Miss Stewart?” Lady Holland asked absently. She sat in the armchair to Freya’s left and was frowning at her own embroidery, which appeared to be tangled.

  “Not anything very exciting, my lady,” Freya replied. She set down her hoop, reached for Lady Holland’s, and started teasing apart the tangled silks.

  “Oh, thank you,” Lady Holland said with what sounded like relief. Freya’s employer was a short lady with an unfashionably rounded bosom and a practical, decisive personality, but embroidery defeated her. “And how was your outing with Mr. Trentworth, Regina?”

  “He has a new pair of bays and they were simply gorgeous,” Regina said from the chair across from Freya. “Perfectly matched and so high spirited. I begged him to give the team their heads and race about Hyde Park, but he refused.”

  “I should think so,” Lady Holland said, but smiled fondly. “I’m pleased that he’s a young gentleman of sense.”

  “And he has a classical profile.” Regina looked dreamy for a moment before straightening. “Mama! Mr. Trentworth said today that he’s thinking of calling on Papa.”

  “Did he?” Lady Holland’s head came up like that of a greyhound sighting a rabbit. “I shall have to tell your father.”

  Regina frowned worriedly. “What do you think he’ll say to Mr. Trentworth?”

  “Don’t be silly,” Lady Holland replied. “Mr. Trentworth is of an indisputably good family and has quite a nice income. If he hadn’t your father would’ve sent him packing long before now. He’ll give his blessing to your beau, never fear.”

  Regina squealed and Arabella hugged her, but Freya noticed that Lady Holland’s gaze lingered on Arabella. She had a small line between her brows.

  “May Arabella and I retire for the night, Mama?” Regina asked, clearly eager to gossip with her sister.

  Lady Holland waved her assent and the girls hurried from the room.

  Freya handed back the embroidery hoop. There was a silence as Lady Holland frowned down at it.

  She cleared her throat, choosing her words carefully. “You disapprove of the match, my lady?” She couldn’t think why her employer would—Lady Holland had already enumerated Mr. Trentworth’s assets, and she’d always seemed fond of the young gentleman. Freya thought that if Regina must marry, he was well suited to her.

  “Not at all.” But Lady Holland sounded disturbed.

  Freya glanced sideways at her. “Then…?”

  “I would prefer that Arabella be settled first.” Many mothers wouldn’t particularly care in which order their daughters married, but Lady Holland fretted about Arabella.

  “Ah.” Freya bent her head to her own embroidery and reminded herself that the ways of the Wise Women were not the ways of London society ladies—though they really ought to be.

  Neither Regina nor Arabella was a great beauty, but both had their mother’s wheat-colored hair and creamy complexion. Regina was the prettier and more vivacious of the two. Arabella had her father’s long face and nose, and his serious manner. She had a dry wit and could speak intelligently on philosophy, literature, and history—none of which were attributes that seemed to attract London aristocrats.

  As far as Freya could see, the average London gentleman looked for wealth, a noble lineage, and comeliness.

  Things that lay outside a woman rather than within her.

  Even dog breeders knew to value intelligence in their animals. Really, it was rather surprising that the English aristocracy hadn’t descended into drooling idiocy.

  “If only she had a chance for quiet conversation with an eligible gentleman,” Lady Holland murmured absently. “It’s a pity the London season is ending.”

  “Yes, my lady.” Freya hesitated, then said, “Perhaps a country house party?”

  “For Arabella, you mean?” Lady Holland narrowed her eyes and then shook her head. “You’re aware Lord Holland dislikes large gatherings. I don’t think I can make him change his mind on the matter, particularly since he considers the country house his retreat.”

  Freya nodded thoughtfully. “Then perhaps one of the invitations we’ve already received.”

  “Perhaps. We’ll look them over in the morning.” Lady Holland stifled a yawn. “I’m for bed now, though. Are you coming up?”

  “Not yet.” Freya indicated her embroidery. “I’d like to finish this bit here.”

  Lady Holland shook her head as she rose. “I don’t know how you do it, Miss Stewart. I should be quite blind if I embroidered as well as you.”

  Freya permitted herself a small smile. “One must have an interest to occupy one’s time.”

  They said their good nights, and then Freya was alone in the sitting room.

  She waited, diligently working on the merlin and his meal, and her thoughts turned to the Duke of Harlowe and how she would get the ring back. He’d seemed so certain of his power as he’d sat above her in the carriage, so arrogant. She gritted her teeth. That a man such as he should be able to swan about London while Ran had been all but destroyed by the Greycourt tragedy…

  She shook her head. No use thinking of Ran and what he was like now. Better to find a way to bring down the prideful duke. Harlowe had inherited a fabulously wealthy dukedom through sheer luck. Society had been rife with gossip two years ago when the old duke died and Harlowe—a very distant relative—had returned from India. But in all the time since, she’d never seen him at any London social events. Was he shunning society? If so, it might be difficult to run across him again without rousing suspicion. Perhaps if she bribed a servant—

  The clock on the mantel struck midnight with a tinkling chime, pulling her from her thoughts.

  Freya put her embroidery away in a basket and went into the outer hall.

  Everything was quiet.

  She crept to the back of the house without a candle—she’d lived here for five years, after all. She slipped out of the door that led to the back garden.

  The moon had risen and the garden was cast in black and white, the scent of roses in the air. She took the path straight back to the mews, gravel crunching beneath her slippers. It was chill this late at night and she regretted not fetching a shawl from her room.

  The back gate had been oiled and opened smoothly beneath her hand. She made sure to push a rock against the gate to keep it from closing behind her.

  It wouldn’t do for prim Miss Stewart to become locked out of the garden after midnight.

  Freya stood looking up and down the mews for a minute. She’d just decided to walk toward
the road when the Crow emerged from the shadows.

  “Lady Freya.”

  Freya stilled. “You shouldn’t call me that.”

  The Crow drew back her hood. An earring glinted in the mass of her thick black hair. “I’m sorry.”

  By rights, as the daughter—and sister—of a duke, Freya should’ve been at the pinnacle of power. Should’ve been able to move among the most influential of London’s elite to do the work of the Macha. But the Greycourt scandal had destroyed all that. The de Moray name had sunk into the mud, the ducal fortunes beggared. Not long after the scandal, Papa had died from the shock, and then she and her sisters, Caitriona and Elspeth, had gone to live with their aunt Hilda in Dornoch.

  It was because of Aunt Hilda that Freya was the Macha. She’d vowed to the old woman to preserve the teachings and the ways of the Wise Women.

  That thought brought her back to the present. The Crow’s sharp eyes watched her, black and impossible to read.

  Freya frowned at her. “What have you to tell me?”

  “You are recalled by the Hags.”

  “What?” Freya couldn’t hide her shock. The Hags—three appointed women—were the ruling body of the Wise Women. “Why would the Hags recall me? Are they displeased with my service as the Macha? Do they wish to replace me?”

  “Not at all.” The Crow pressed her lips together as if she wished to say more but dared not.

  “Then why? It’s imperative that I be in London right now. You know that there’s talk of a new Witch Act before Parliament. What has changed?”

  “We have a new Cailleach,” the Crow said carefully, naming one of the positions within the Hags. “She feels that ’twere better if the Wise Women all withdrew to Dornoch.”

  Freya stared. “You jest.”

  The Crow shook her head. “Nay, my lady.”

  “Retire and do what?” Freya demanded. “Forget about all the women who need our help? Pretend we don’t have a sacred duty to right the wrongs of a man-led society? Hide like cowering mice in a nest until the Dunkelders finally discover and burn us all?”

  The Crow shrugged, watching her.