Heartless (2 page)

The solicitor looked down his long nose at the papers before him, squinted once, sniffed twice, and squinted again before answering. “By your thirtieth birthday, your grace.”

Before the last word had left the man’s mouth, Derringer was on his feet and leaning over the desk. With one hand braced for leverage, the duke held the other man aloft by his jacket lapels.

“What did you say?” he demanded in silky tones.

The man of business gulped. “By the time you’re thirty?” he squeaked.

Derringer shook the whiny little creature like a terrier shaking a rat. “Do you realize what day this is?” he barked at the frightened little man.

The lawyer managed to croak, “The twenty-second?”

“It’s the twenty-second of October, you bloody clunch! My birthday is a sennight from now. Seven days! How the bloody hell do you suppose I can marry in a sennight, you mangy whoreson? It takes that long just to get a special license!”

The solicitor released a petrified squeak and the duke dropped him in disgust. He paced about the tiny chamber. Seven days. He had seven days to find, woo, and marry some chit just so he could have complete access to his rightful inheritance. He hoped his father was burning in a particularly painful corner of hell for this one.

And what had possessed the late duke to draft such a codicil when his son was still in leading strings?

He turned his dark gaze on the cowering little man. “Is there anything else?”

The solicitor shook his head vigorously. He cowered even lower when the duke approached the desk and leaned toward him. “I will marry before the twenty-ninth, Grimsby, even if I have to ask the first girl I come across to be my duchess.” He stood up straight, still glaring down at the solicitor from his superior height of six-foot-three. “Prepare yourself, Grimsby. I trust you won’t be disappointed in my choice.”

Derringer left the office of Lehman, Grimsby, and Bimm with a determined stride. He would find a damned female and drag her to the altar if he had to.

As if his day could possibly get worse, Derringer thought as he entered the inn near Maidstone. He wasn’t even sure why he had decided to return to Derringer Crescent after nearly two years. He hated the drafty castle and preferred to avoid servants who had known him since he was in leading strings. They had a way of knowing things about a body that one would rather not have commonly known.

Logic insisted that London was the place to find his bride. But he had avoided London for nearly two years as well. The last time he’d graced the capital with his august presence, he’d been shot helping Lord Levi, Earl of Greville. He’d fled the country just as soon as he could stand, leaving Levi to take care of an injured wife by himself—Lady Greville had thrown herself in the path of a bullet to save her husband in the single most brainless act of selfless courage Derringer had ever witnessed.

Those events and his already dangerous reputation would prevent even the most daring of females from marrying him, however.

So now he was on his way to Folkestone to take a look at his childhood home—and any young woman who may have not heard that he was the devil’s right hand. He didn’t want to stay there; the place had too many horrible memories for comfort. But he should at least check in to see if there was anything that required his personal attention. And perhaps he should send his cousin Martin to look after the place, he thought with an inner sigh. He didn’t particularly like the other man but he was willing to give him a position since their grandfather had not seen fit to leave any of his vast wealth to his second son, Martin’s father.

And how the devil did the wheel of his curricle break?  He was fortunate he wasn’t killed in the resulting accident. Thankfully, he’d been traveling at a relatively slow pace due to the poor quality of the roads and the growing dusk—an unusual circumstance since he had a habit of racing along the English countryside at breakneck speeds regardless of weather or road conditions. It was said he had the devil’s favor; hence, his amazing good health after a lifetime of near-death experiences not all due to his own negligence.

But now, mere hours from home, he was stranded at the Black Bear hostelry late enough that he probably couldn’t get the blacksmith there for a good few hours. Damn it all to hell if he had to stay the night there!

Derringer slapped his leather driving gloves against his buckskin-clad thigh and surveyed the taproom, taking in the number of men watching him surreptitiously over the rims of mugs. Did they realize how transparent they were in their curiosity?

A commotion near the door distracted him from his inspection of the locals. He turned to see a very small, very plain, and very young woman in a drab brown cloak and ugly black bonnet arguing with the landlord.

“We don’t serve yer kind ‘ere, girl, so git,” the man ordered gruffly.

Her kind? Derringer’s lips twitched. Was the man blind?

“But you don’t understand,” the girl pleaded, her soft voice rife with sincerity. “I’m not one of those kind. I have a little money, so I can pay, I assure you. And it’s only for one night. I have nowhere else to go.” A note of desperation trembled on her final word.

“No, now off with you,” was the innkeeper’s implacable reply.

The girl stared at the landlord through a pair of hideous spectacles and somehow managed to look down her nose at the man while looking up at him. The duke found himself admiring her tenacity. The sensation surprised him.

As she turned to leave, Derringer called her back, his mind racing with possibilities even as he opened his mouth. Despite her hideous clothing and plain features, he wasn’t appalled at the idea of her in his bed. Quite the opposite, actually. Strange thought, that.

And she was desperate. Desperate women were known for all kinds of unusual actions, such as marrying a complete stranger. He almost smiled.

She eyed him warily, spine straight and fingers clenched before her. “Yes, sir?”

“A moment, if you will.” Derringer turned away, catching the landlord’s eye. With a tip of his head, he indicated his immediate need of a private parlor. When no objection was forthcoming—how could there be when the man was far too busy with two drunks who were intent on spilling each other’s blood?—Derringer offered his arm to the young woman, just as if he were in the habit of such gentlemanly behavior, and led the way.

At the doorpost, she paused, clearly unwilling to enter a room alone with him. She had a care for her reputation then, a further indication of her breeding.

Derringer settled his dark gaze on her. “Follow me,” he ordered, gentling his tone. Yet she hesitated still. “Come, girl, I won’t eat you,” he muttered in exasperation.

“That’s not what I’m afraid of.”

Her candor caught him unaware but only for a moment. Then he leaned down. She stared up at him suspiciously, her hazel eyes huge behind her spectacles. “I will not ravish you either, my dear,” he murmured. Her suspicious look did not waver one whit. “I only ravish blonds and I only eat redheads,” he couldn’t resist adding, though he couldn’t tell exactly what color hair she possessed.

The girl released a giggle and clapped a hand over her mouth. She nodded once and Derringer led her to a chair. “Are you hungry?” he asked brusquely.

“Famished,” she replied.

“Springs!” Derringer bellowed. The landlord appeared before him as if by magic. “Dinner immediately. And brandy. Your best, Springs, from that personal stash I know you keep. None of that bilge water you foist on your other customers. Now!”

Springs scurried off without a word to do the duke’s bidding. Derringer sat down at the table.

The young woman sat stiffly on the very edge of the chair opposite. She folded her gloved hands demurely in her lap and bowed her head meekly, giving him a great view of the top of her ugly bonnet.

“Take off the hat and the cloak,” Derringer commanded. Her eyes flew up to meet his. She had a stubborn chin. “Trust me. We have much to discuss and you will be more comfortable. And none of this false meekness, my dear. I won’t stand for it.”

She hesitated before complying with his demand. She smoothed her hands over her dull brown hair, tucking a few straying locks back into the severe knot at her nape. Then she sat with her hands folded in her lap and her head up, watching him.

Silence reigned until the landlord returned with their meal. He bowed and scraped as usual and Derringer studied his companion while she studied him with equal curiosity.

Being a connoisseur of beauty, it came as something of a surprise to Derringer to realize that the girl sitting opposite him was not plain. Her features were not fashionable, true, but he’d never found fashionable beauty very appealing. Her regular, ordinary features were somehow pleasing. If not for the spectacles perched on her
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little nose, she’d even be pretty.

Her hair he couldn’t help but wonder about. Would it be long and straight or curl in riotous abandon? The sudden image of silky brown curls spread over his pillow and streaming over a pair of naked breasts taunted him. Which only led to the obvious contemplation of her form under all that sensible dark wool she sported as a gown. His imagination caused him some distinct discomfort. It took some considerable willpower not to shift his position in his chair.

It was too long since he’d visited his mistress, he thought with a measure of disgust.

“I have a proposition for you,” Derringer began as soon as their meal was laid out before them. He waved Springs from the room before the man could even open his mouth. Obsequious pandering was tedious at best.

He poured himself a glass of brandy and swirled it around, watching the ripples in the liquid. “How old are you?”

“I am twenty,” she replied softly.

“Blast,” the duke muttered. “I don’t suppose you will turn twenty-one within the next six days?”

“No,” she said. “Not until February.”

“Damn and blast,” he muttered. He studied her round little face. What the devil was she doing at an inn alone? “Are you an orphan?”

“Yes,” she answered immediately.

“Are you a lady of gentle birth or merely an upper servant with aspirations above her station?”

The girl set her fork carefully beside her plate. She took a sip of wine and smoothed the hair back from her face. He realized she was trying to compose herself.

“That was rather blunt, I must say. I am not a servant. I am of gentle birth but I would not be considered a lady,” she finally said evenly.

A whore? He looked her over carefully and decided she was not a whore. Fallen from grace perhaps, but not an actual courtesan. “Who is your father?”

“The late Earl of Harwood.” She picked up her fork and began to eat steadily again.

“The late earl? When did Harwood die?”

“Almost a sennight past.”

A week ago? The devil.
“Oh. Is the countess dead as well then? You said you were an orphan,” he pointed out as he refilled his glass. He was quite sure the countess was not, but he hadn’t known about Harwood, damn his spies, so it was conceivable that yet another useless detail had slipped his notice.