Sins of a Wicked Duke

Page 9

“The usual.”
“Oh, Fallon,” Marguerite muttered, her tone half pity half aggravation. Not so very different from Evie’s response.
Petite and pretty as a fragile China doll Fallon once admired in a shop window, Marguerite was undoubtedly the most delicate creature to ever emerge from Penwich. Yet she never faced the difficulties Fallon had when it came to keeping a post. With her flair at the healing arts, she was a coveted commodity. As a sick nurse, she moved from household to household about the ton, her presence valued and respected. Employers treated her only with courtesy.
“Nothing to fret over,” Fallon quickly reassured. Although Marguerite and Evie had come to her rescue all those years ago at school, Fallon loathed to think that they still felt her some pathetic creature in need of saving. “I’ve handled things.”
“Have you now?” Marguerite arched a dark eyebrow, her whiskey brown eyes aglow.
“I’ve found a better position with the Duke of Damon.”
Marguerite’s gold-brown eyes widened. “You mean the demon duke? Surely you jest?”
Her stomach twisted at the designation. She smiled, her lips shaky. “You’ve heard of him, then?”
It made sense. Marguerite moved in higher circles than Fallon.
“That he’s recently returned to Town, yes, and that he’s an utter bounder? Yes, I’ve heard that, too. I’ve also heard that his reputation rivals that of his father…” She leaned forward and lowered her voice, “shot dead in a duel by a jealous husband. It’s said no woman was safe from him, and he preferred married ladies—the greater conquest and all that. Are you sure you’re safe working for such a man?”
“You heard _that _ much?”
She shrugged. “Lady Danford has me read her the gossip pages before I administer her treatments. It appears to relax her.”
“I’ll be safe.”
Marguerite shook her head, ever the pragmatist. Always, at Penwich, she had been the careful one. The one least likely to get into trouble. “How can you be certain?”
Fallon dropped her attention to the frayed edge of her cloak, playing it between her fingers. Over the distant rise geese honked as children pelted them rather fiercely with bits of bread.
Marguerite, she feared, would never understand or approve of her subterfuge.
Sucking in a breath, she confessed, “He doesn’t know I’m a female.”
“What?”
Fallon lifted her head. “He doesn’t know I’m a woman.”
Marguerite’s eyes flicked over her. “I don’t understand.”
“He sees what I present him.” She moistened her lips, bracing herself for Marguerite’s censure.
“And what I’ve shown him thus far is a man.”
“A man?” Marguerite uttered the word as if she had never heard it before. For long moments she simply stared at Fallon in mute confusion.
Fallon kicked the bag near her feet. “I’ve become Francis.”
Marguerite looked down at the bag. Gesturing to it, she asked, “What is in there?”
“Clothing.” She grimaced, reluctantly confessing, “My footman’s livery.”
Marguerite pressed a hand to her heart as though it threatened to gallop free of her chest. “Why?”
Fallon smoothed her hands over her wool skirts. “I think my reasons should be obvious. For two years we’ve met nearly every week at this park bench.” She waved a hand around them. “You know all I’ve gone through.”
“But you never even hinted that you were considering this! Isn’t it a tad… extreme?”
“You remember when we were at Penwich?”
Some of the light diminished from Marguerite’s eyes. She may not have gotten into trouble like Fallon and Evie, but her time at Penwich had been no less difficult. As petite as she was, she was a target among the bigger girls. Fallon and Evie could not look out for her every moment of the day. Marguerite had been bullied, her food stolen. Sick from malnourishment and susceptible to disease, she had spent a great deal of time in the infirmary—no doubt where her interest in the healing arts began. At times, Fallon feared she would perish like so many other Penwich girls.
Fallon swallowed against the lump in her throat. “We did whatever we had to in order to survive.
All of us.”
“I remember,” she intoned, her voice soft, subdued as her mind doubtlessly traveled the dark roads of their past, of the girls they used to be, struggling for life. “And when your deception is revealed?” Her gold-brown eyes locked on Fallon. “What then? They could arrest you…perhaps even commit you to an asylum. They will say you are a sick woman…unhinged.”
“I’m simply pretending to be a footman. I’m not impersonating Prince Albert. Besides.” She adopted a cheeky grin. “Who says I shall be caught? I’m tall enough. I’ve never been the delicate, petite sort.” She scanned Marguerite almost enviously. “Not like you.”
“Not delicate, true, but you’re all woman.” Marguerite assessed her. “From everything I’ve heard of this duke, he’s a connoisseur of womanhood. He’ll sniff you out. Mark my words. You will be caught.”
“He hasn’t yet. In fact, he warned me against flirting with the women on his staff.”
“What?” The word strangled on laughter. Marguerite shook her head, the thick sausage curl on her shoulder dancing, glinting blue-black as it caught the sunlight.
Fallon waved a hand in dismissal. “Enough of me. I want to hear about you.” Anything to distract, to ease her attention from the voice whispering across her mind, insisting that Marguerite was right, that it was only a matter of time. He’ll sniff you out.
A tremor skittered up her spine, and she couldn’t be quite certain if was fear or excitement.
Fallon rose and stepped aside as a carriage pulled up in front of the townhouse, the horse’s clattering hooves slowing to a stop. Setting aside the oil canister she had been using to grease the creaky iron gate, she clicked her heels together and opened the gate for the visitor, curious to see who would descend from the carriage. Another lady—for lack of a better word—calling on the duke?
A footman dropped down from his perch to open the carriage door, and a dignified-looking gentleman in black broadcloth stepped down. Tall and thin, he raked a haughty stare over the house, nostrils quivering as if he smelled something foul from within.
Using a brass-headed cane, he strode ahead at a firm clip, not sparing her a glance where she stood. Almost as if she did not exist. As if she were merely a statue holding the gate open for him. But then that was the rule of thumb with servants. The more unnoticeable, the better.
Dipping her head, she smiled in satisfaction, watching the caller covertly as she did.
A curious feeling of unease settled in her stomach as he rapped on the front door, the line of his back ramrod straight, inflexible, reminiscent of another lord. One who had never cared if his requests were an imposition on others. Viscount Hunt. Unreasonable or not, the viscount expected Da to do whatever he asked. Da was simply O’Rourke. Not a person. Not a man. Not a father struggling to provide for his daughter, striving to give her a home, to be everything for his motherless child.
Shaking off bitter thoughts of the man who drove her father to an early grave, she shut the gate.
The stranger rapped on the knocker. He removed his hat, revealing a head full of lush white hair.
Acrimony radiated from him, and she suspected this caller bore no love for the duke. A footman opened the front door. The gentleman swept inside without a word, the door clicking shut behind him.
She stared after him for some moments, curious despite herself. Why should she care if he bore no love for the duke?
It wasn’t as though she had taken Mr. Adams words to heart and adopted a sense of loyalty for her employer. It wasn’t as though his n**ed torso flashed through her head at night. Alone in her room, when she closed her eyes, his voice did not roll through her head, filling her ears with his heated promise. I can bring you pleasure. That, she swore, cheeks itchy hot, simply never ever happened.
Chapter 8
“Wake up, you forsaken sodomite!”
Dominic pulled a pillow over his head, telling himself the harsh voice that invaded his head was only a nightmare. The voice could not be real. Could not be here. And yet even as he told himself this, Dominic knew that the old man _could _ be standing in his bedchamber—that he would. Rupert Collins’s letters had chased him across two continents. Discovering his grandson was on English soil again, he wouldn’t wait for an invitation.
The end of a cane landed on the bed, dangerously close to Dominic’s side. The bed dipped and shuddered as his grandfather gave it a shake. “I said _up _ with you!”
Groaning, he pulled back the pillow and leveled a glare on the one man he had never wanted to see again. And yet he had known when he returned to England that he would have to face the bastard again. Sooner or later. His grandfather would make certain of it.
The tip of his cane dug into the mattress, the cold polished wood scraping his ribs. “Up with you.” At that moment, his aged eyes fell on Dominic’s tattoo. He pointed a shaking finger at it.
His voice quavered, “You bear Satan’s symbol?”
Dominic glanced at the tattoo. “What? This?”
“It symbolizes evil.”
His lips twisted. “Fitting I should wear it, then.”
His grandfather’s wrinkled lips disappeared into his mouth. He was a shadow of his former self.
His once brawny frame no longer the intimidating figure of Dominic’s youth.
Dominic knocked the cane off the bed with the back of his hand and settled against the pillows with an exaggerated sigh. “So. You’re still alive.”
His grandfather’s gray brows winged high. “A disappointment for you, I know. You’d like nothing more than for me to be dead and rotting.”
Dominic shrugged, the idle motion deceptive as his fingertips brushed the inside of his palm, tracing the puckered flesh of a scar given to him at the tender age of nine. He inhaled, almost smelling the stink of smoldering flesh. The echo of his sharp cries reverberated in his head, pleas for Mrs. Pearce, his grandfather’s minion, to stop, to lift the fire-hot poker from his palm.
“I could not yet meet my Maker until I’ve done all I could by you.”
“You mean you haven’t done enough already?”
“God knows I’ve tried. Tried to prevent you from becoming your father, but there is yet one more thing I can do.”
“I am a little too old for you to administer your usual punishments. Besides, hasn’t Mrs. Pearce retired from her post as your underling?” Dominic tilted his head. The large, raw-boned woman had terrified him in his childhood. With good reason. His hand flexed at his side.
His grandfather’s gaze flicked to Dominic’s curled hand. “She caught you at cards. Your father nearly drove the dukedom into the ground with his gaming. Her reaction was not unfounded.”
His chest swelled. “The trustees charged me with your rearing—”
“Because the only living relation on my father’s side was a decrepit old aunt.”
“Because I was a vicar _and _ the second son to a baron. They knew you needed proper moral guidance—the very thing your father was incapable of giving.”
“Yes. And Mrs. Pearce was a fine moral creature.”
Emotion flickered in the old man’s eyes. His voice faded. “I reprimanded her for her zealous measures that day.”
“But you still kept her as my governess.”
“She had your best interest at heart. As did I. You’ve your father’s blood in your veins after all…”
Dominic’s hands tightened upon the counterpane. He had heard the rhetoric many times before.