The Duke's Men [1] What the Duke Desires Read online

  Tears spilled down her cheeks, soaking into Dom’s fine blue coat as he murmured soft words of comfort. She wasn’t sure how long they stood that way, but it seemed like mere moments later when the noise of horses outside broke them apart. As she exchanged glances with Dom, a hard rap at the door made her jump.

  “We should fetch your mother to answer it,” Dom said in a low voice. “His seeing me here might tip our hand too soon.”

  “But the sight of Maman will infuriate George. Let me answer.”

  “Lisette—”

  “I can play dumb, and he might believe me. We have to stall him long enough to give Tristan time to get away.”

  Dom stared intently at her, then sighed and stepped back. “I’ll be right here if you need me.”

  Casting him a grateful smile, she opened the door.

  Then she froze, taken off guard by the mob George had brought with him. There was his nasty man of affairs, John Hucker, and two of the more brutish grooms, along with several villagers who disliked that “French bastard,” as Tristan was often called in town, all because he had the viscount’s favor.

  She fought not to react to this show of strength, reminding herself that George was still unaware that she knew about Papa. Or the Thoroughbred. “Good morning, my lord. What brings you here so early?”

  Though George possessed the sturdy build of a country laborer, his features and clothing and manner were pure aristocracy. He had the fine pale brow of a lord who rarely ventured into the sun, the perfectly tailored suit of a gentleman who never worried that work might muss his clothes, and the sheer arrogance of a viscount’s heir.

  Plenty of women would call him handsome, too, with his broad chest and wavy brown hair and the toothsome smile he bestowed on those females who met his exacting standards. But Lisette was immune. She knew the darkness lurking within that chest.

  Typical of him, he didn’t even bother to climb down from his favorite gelding. “Where is he?” he barked without preamble.

  “Who?” she barked back. If he wouldn’t attempt civility, why should she?

  “You know who. Your sly arse of a brother.”

  Only with difficulty did she contain her temper. “He’s your brother, too.”

  “Or so your mother claims,” Hucker drawled.

  The cruel remark made her gasp, even as it set the other men laughing. How dare he? And how dare George not only allow it but laugh at the remark?

  She fought to hold her tongue, for Tristan’s life might depend upon it. Unfortunately, her silence only fired up the men. They edged nearer on their horses to make crude comments about her bosom, and to propose things she only dimly understood but which sounded vile.

  Within seconds, Dom appeared in the doorway. “Call off your dogs,” he snapped at his brother. “She’s in mourning every bit as much as us. How can you let them insult her? She’s your sister, for God’s sake!”

  George raised an eyebrow but wisely said nothing to that. “What are you doing here, Dom?”

  “I’m here to commiserate with my family—our family.”

  A sneer crossed George’s face. “Are you sure you’re not just hoping to take up with Mrs. Bonnaud where Father left off?”

  Lisette blinked, then lunged forward. “Why, you beastly, awful man!” Only Dom’s iron grip restrained her from jerking George off his gelding so she could slap his face.

  “Enough, monsieur!” Maman cried from behind her. She came out to stare coolly at George. “Your quarrel is with me. Leave them out of it.”

  George’s expression chilled to ice. “My quarrel is with Tristan.”

  Not for nothing had Maman been the toast of Toulon society when she was an actress. Though she couldn’t hide her red eyes or her pale cheeks, she could play nonchalance very well. “Oh? What has my son done now to annoy you?”

  “Stolen my property. And we’re here to make sure he pays for it.”

  She waved her hand. “I know nothing of that.” A disbelieving smile crossed her lips. “Can you prove he stole your property?”

  Hucker was the one to answer. “Witnesses saw him take Blue Blazes from the stables last night.”

  As Maman paled, Lisette went limp. Witnesses. That wasn’t good.

  Yet Maman persevered. “Be that as it may, it has naught to do with me. I cannot control my son. I’m sure he will return the horse soon. It may very well be back in the stables now, if your lordship would just go—”

  “I’m not going anywhere, Mrs. Bonnaud. The first place Tristan would come is here, if only to tell you of Father’s passing.” George stared at her with the lazy arrogance that made them all hate him. “So I’ll make this simple enough for even a French whore to understand. Either tell me where Tristan is, or vacate this cottage by first light tomorrow.”

  As Dom cursed under his breath, Lisette spat, “You can’t do that!”

  “I most certainly can.” George glanced at Maman. “Do you have this month’s rent?”

  “Of course not,” she said, her face now ashen. “Ambrose owns it.”

  “Owned it. My father is dead, remember?” George said coldly. “So now the cottage belongs to me, and I require rent. Can you pay it? Because if you can’t, I have the right to evict you.” He smiled his bullying smile. “Hell, I have the right to evict you anyway. Especially since you’ve been harboring a thief.”

  Dom stepped forward. “Show some mercy, George. They’re still reeling from the news of Father’s death. We all are. Allow them time to grieve, to get through the funeral and the reading of the will.”

  “I hope you’re not siding with them, brother mine,” George said acidly as his horse danced back and forth. “Because there’s nothing in Father’s will for you. He wrote it shortly after I was born, and he hasn’t changed it since.”

  Judging from Dom’s sharp intake of breath, he hadn’t known that. “That can’t be true,” he ground out.

  “Consult with Father’s solicitor if you don’t believe me. He’s been trying to get Father to update his will for years.” George cast his brother a smug smile. “So I suggest you figure out whose side you’re on. Because I’m more than willing to be generous to my legitimate brother and give him what Father neglected to leave to him legally. Or . . .”

  His malevolent pause made Lisette’s blood run cold.

  “Or?” Dom prodded.

  “I can end your future career as a barrister just like that.” He snapped his fingers. “If you help them hide Tristan from me, you won’t get a penny of Father’s fortune—no allowance, no property, nothing. And you’ll find it very difficult to continue studying law without money.”

  Despair gripped Lisette. Dom’s life would be over before it even started. He hadn’t agreed to that when he’d agreed to help Tristan.

  “How can I hide him from you when I have no idea where he is?” Dom said with a calm mien, though she could feel the tension in him.

  George frowned. “Be very careful what choice you make, little brother. I mean it when I say I will cut you off.”

  A heartbreaking look of pure betrayal crossed Dom’s face. “You really did burn that codicil, didn’t you?”

  The color drained from George’s face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I heard that Father wrote a codicil to his will on his deathbed that provided for all of us, including me. And you burned it.”

  “Aha!” George leaned forward in the saddle. “You do know where Tristan is. Otherwise, you wouldn’t—” He broke off with a chagrined expression.

  “Have heard about the codicil?” Triumph lit Dom’s gaze. “I thought you didn’t know what I was talking about.”

  George wasn’t about to let anything so inconvenient as the truth stop him from his course. “Don’t try your legal tricks on me, little brother. You’re not a barrister yet, and I’m not admitting anything. Where is he, damn you?”

  “I told you. I have no idea.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “So are yo
u,” Dom bit out.

  “You can’t prove that. You have only the word of a worthless thieving bastard who has nothing to lose by slandering me.”

  “And you can’t prove that I know where he is.”

  “I don’t need proof. I’m the heir. My law is absolute.” He tightened his fist on the reins. “So are you with me, little brother? Or with them? Because if you choose them, I swear I’ll leave you with nothing.”

  Lisette held her breath. Even the horses seemed to halt their fidgeting, waiting for Dom’s answer.

  He stared at George for a long, hard moment. Then he turned to offer Lisette his arm. “Come, sister. It appears we will have to pack your and your mother’s belongings before tomorrow.”

  Shock lined George’s face. Then he narrowed his gaze. “Fine. You’ve made your choice. Tell Tristan that your ruin is on his head.” Whirling his gelding toward the other men, he barked, “Search the house! Search the fields and moors and every inch of land between here and the sea! He must be here somewhere!”

  As his men rushed into the house, Lisette said, “Dom, you shouldn’t—”

  “Keep quiet until they’re gone, dear girl,” he whispered. “Then we’ll talk.”

  He was right to be cautious, but it took all her restraint not to protest as Hucker pawed through her closet, and the others turned furniture upside down, ignoring Maman’s French curses. Hucker was smoking his vile Spanish cigarillos, and the thought of the sickening scent permeating her clothes was almost more than she could bear.

  Battered by the day’s events, Lisette wanted to scream at them, but there was no point. Nothing would ever be the same anyway. Papa was gone. There’d be no more lazy breakfasts with him reading funny parts of the paper aloud or regaling them with stories about his latest trip. No more walks along the cliffs at Flamborough Head with him and Maman. No more nights staring up at the stars with Dom and Tristan.

  Tears burned her eyes again. How would she bear it? And what was to become of them without Papa?

  It didn’t take long for George’s men to figure out that Tristan wasn’t inside. As soon as they’d left to check the surrounding property, Maman approached Dom with a look of worry. “My boy, you mustn’t do this. George will leave you penniless for certain. Your father wouldn’t want that.”

  “You’d rather I give Tristan over to him?”

  “Of course not, but perhaps if you reason with George—”

  “You saw how well that worked.”

  Maman frowned. “What if Tristan gave him the money he got for the horse? Surely George couldn’t . . . wouldn’t have his own brother hanged. Would he?”

  “He could and would, I’m afraid. If he’s willing to trample over the wishes of our dead father, he’ll do anything.” Dom gazed out the window to where George was spurring his men on in the search. “Besides, I suspect that even if I were cruel enough to hand Tristan over, it would gain me little except a lifetime of slavery to George. He’d use the bludgeon of his fortune time and again to require my compliance with whatever scheme he concocts, and I refuse to live like that.”

  “But how will you live?” Lisette asked. Dom was her brother, too. She didn’t want him to suffer.

  Dom chucked her under the chin. “I’m a grown man, dear girl. I can take care of myself. My legal education may not have progressed far enough to gain me a position as a clerk or solicitor, but I have a friend in the Bow Street Runners who might hire me on the strength of it.” He broadened his gaze to include Maman. “I’m more concerned with how you three will live.”

  Maman squared her shoulders. “We shall slip away with Tristan to my family in Toulon.”

  Dom frowned. “That means leaving everything behind.”

  “Not everything,” Maman corrected him. “I have my children. Besides, my possessions were bought for me by your papa, so George will claim that they belong to the estate anyway.” She tipped up her chin. “I won’t have any accusation of thievery laid upon my head. Or Lisette’s. We will take our clothes, that is all.”

  “But how will you live in France?” Dom asked.

  “I can find a position as an actress again.” She tilted her head coyly. “I am still young and pretty enough for that, no?”

  Dom smiled at her show of vanity. “Yes. And you have whatever money Tristan got for the horse.”

  “He shouldn’t keep it,” Maman whispered.

  “Ah, but he should. Father wanted him to have it.” Dom turned pensive. “At least we know that Father meant to do right by us all, even if George thwarted him in the end.”

  The shadow of grief that darkened his face made Lisette feel sorry for him. “Papa should have put you in his will. It was very wrong of him not to.”

  “You know how he was, always off somewhere exploring a new city or island or lake.” An edge entered Dom’s voice. “He had no time for things like family responsibilities.”

  “Do not blame him too much,” Maman said. “He might not have been good at such things, but he did love you.” Her gaze stretched to include Lisette. “He loved you both very much.”

  That started Maman crying again, and she left to find a handkerchief. After she was gone, Lisette whispered, “Yes, he loved us. Just not enough.”

  That was the trouble with relying on a man to save you. Men were unreliable. Papa . . . George . . . Even Tristan had made matters worse with his anger. Of the important men in her life, only one had always done the right thing—and much as Dom wanted to help, even he could do little more than pack them off to France.

  Maman had been wrong to place her faith in Papa. All it had gained her was grief for her and her children.

  Lisette dashed away fresh tears. Well, she would never be so foolish. First chance she got, she would make her own way in this world, no matter what it took. She wasn’t going through this kind of betrayal ever again.

  1

  Covent Garden, London

  April 1828

  THERE WASN’T A single letter from Tristan in the whole lot.

  As the misty morning brightened to a less gloomy gray, Lisette tossed the mail onto the desk in Dom’s study. Typical. When she’d left Paris, Tristan had promised to write her once a week. But though he’d started out well, two months had now passed without so much as a line from him.

  She was torn between worry over what had stopped the flow of letters, and a desire to string her feckless brother up by his toes and let him see what it was like to be left hanging.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to accompany me to Edinburgh on this case?” Dom asked. “You could take notes for me.”

  Lisette looked over to see her half brother lounging in the doorway. At thirty-one he was leaner and harder than when they were young, and he now had a scar across his cheek that he wouldn’t talk about, which came from God knew where. But he was still in her camp.

  Most of the time. She scowled. Sometimes he could be as bad as Tristan.

  Ever since Dom had fetched her here from France six months ago, she’d worked hard to turn his rented town house into a home. Just because it also served as the office for Manton’s Investigations didn’t mean it had to feel cold and impersonal. But what had her efforts got her? Nothing but another man to govern her behavior.

  Sitting back in the chair, she lifted an eyebrow. “You don’t need me to take notes—you remember everything word for word.”

  “But you’re better at descriptions than I am. You notice things about people that I don’t.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I will only go if you let me do more than describe things and make you tea.”

  He eyed her warily. “Like what?”

  “Interview witnesses. Follow suspects. Carry a pistol.”

  To his credit, he didn’t laugh. Tristan would have laughed. And then tried, again, to find her a suitable husband from among his swaggering soldier friends in Paris, who acted as if a half-English bastard like her should be grateful for every crumb of their attention.

  Instead, Dom eyed he
r consideringly as he came into the room. “Do you even know how to use a pistol?”

  “Yes. Vidocq showed me.” Only once, before Tristan put a stop to the lessons, but Dom needn’t know that.

  He was already cursing Eugène Vidocq, the former head of the French secret police. “I can’t believe our brother allowed you anywhere near that scoundrel.”

  She shrugged. “We needed the money. And Vidocq needed someone at the Sûreté Nationale whom he could trust to organize all his index cards containing descriptions of criminals. It was a good position.”

  And to her surprise, she’d enjoyed it. After Maman’s death three years ago, when Lisette had moved to Paris to live with Tristan, she’d craved useful work to take her mind off her grief. Vidocq had offered it to her. She’d learned about investigating crimes from him. Vidocq had even proposed hiring her as an agent for the Sûreté, as he’d done with other women, but Tristan had refused to allow it.

  She snorted. Tristan thought it perfectly fine for him to be an agent for the Sûreté all these years, but his sister was to be kept wrapped in cotton until she found a husband. Which got more unlikely by the year. She was already twenty-six, for pity’s sake!

  “What is your answer, Dom?” she prodded her half brother. “If I go with you, will you let me do more than take notes?”

  “Not this time, but perhaps one day—”

  “That’s what Tristan always said.” She sniffed. “Meanwhile, he was plotting behind my back to get me married, and when that didn’t work, he packed me off to London with you.”

  “For which I’m profoundly grateful,” Dom said with a faint smile.

  “Don’t try to distract me with compliments. I’m not going to marry any of your choices for husband, either.”

  “Good,” he said cheerily. “Because I don’t have any. I’m too selfish to want to lose you to a husband. I need you here.”

  She eyed him uncertainly. “You’re just saying that.”