My Dangerous Duke (32 page)

She drew his warm, oversized robe closer around her body, suddenly feeling lost, not knowing how to act.

“Well, go get dressed,” he ordered with a lordly little smile as he noticed her wavering. “How’s a man to think with a luscious naked woman lying around? You, my dear, are far too distracting.”

His smoldering gaze, so full of desire for her, thrilled Kate to the marrow. His glance alone could warm her blood on this cold winter’s day.

Her heart soared in spite of her better sense telling her to be extraordinarily careful with him. Oh, to have snared such a man.

She suddenly thought she would die if she could not keep him.

That in itself was reason enough to go.

After all, she was only his mistress—and should act accordingly.

She rose from his bed, playfully letting his robe slip a little from her shoulders as she strolled, barefooted, toward the door. “As you wish, Your Grace.”

He tracked her progress with a glazed stare, looking tempted to throw her back down on the mattress and have his way with her again.

But she did not give him time to act on the notion, blowing him a kiss by the door before shrugging his dressing gown back up into place. She stepped out into the drafty hallway, heading back to the guest chamber to pack her few, ill-fitting, stolen clothes.

On the way, she paused to glance down into the Gothic stairwell, letting her gaze travel over all the ancient carved stone. Strangely enough, she would miss this place.

She wondered if she’d ever be back again.

Good-bye, Gray Lady, wherever you are. For what it’s worth, I’m betting your Lord Kilburn was not the one who murdered you.

Kate had stayed at the castle long enough to have formed an opinion on the so-called Kilburn Curse. Her official ruling as a bona fide descendant of the Alchemist was that the whole thing was hogwash. Just like in Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels, in the end, there
had
to be some logical explanation for what only appeared supernatural at first.

The Warrington men could not be cursed; there was too much honor in their blood. If the rest of them were like Rohan, they were surely incapable of harming any woman. Everything he had done, after all, had been centered around keeping her safe. It was all just a tale.

Convincing Rohan of this would probably prove impossible—but then again, as long as he believed it, he would never take a wife. She would never have to share him.

Hmm.
Now there was a thought worthy of a courtesan. She moved on, sauntering back to her room.

Chapter 15

T
he journey to London took four rather than the three days Rohan had predicted, due to the inclement weather of waning January. Their party traveled in two carriages: Rohan and Kate in his long, luxurious traveling chariot, Eldred and Parker minding Peter Doyle in another closed black coach. A few more of the castle’s black-clad guards accompanied them, now transformed into liveried footmen, drivers, and grooms.

Occasionally, their caravan had to stop for a snowdrift blocking some lonely country road. The men would jump down, grab their shovels, and clear the way for the horses and carriage wheels to pass.

Kate did not mind these delays. The chariot lacked for no comfort, and she savored all those hours alone with Rohan in the coach. It felt more like they were going off on holiday than traveling to confront people who were out for her blood. True, her trust in him had suffered a bit of a blow after all his revelations, but she had made up her mind to take it all in stride.

They spent the journey talking, enjoying each other’s company, and trying together to decipher some of the mysteries of
The Alchemist’s Journal.

It was a most eye-opening volume. The book had entries written by several different generations of DuMarins, giving a glimpse into some of the activities of the Prometheans over the last few centuries.

Some pages were written in code, but from the parts in plain French, they learned that the religious and political clashes of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries had given the Prometheans many opportunities for advancement. There were even a few stunning details about their hand in the Great Fire of London of 1666, apparently a key year for their occult beliefs. But by the early 1700s, it became necessary for the Prometheans to move the Alchemist’s burial place, which was about to be discovered by the Order.

The book said that when the new site was chosen to hold their revered warlock’s remains, the location was determined to be ideal for the establishment of a large and elaborate underground compound where the Prometheans could conduct training, initiations, and various other rituals.

The complex, which they simply called the Alchemist’s Tomb, had taken nearly thirty years to build and employed all the genius of those men of the Enlightenment.

Valerian’s coffin and secret scrolls were now sealed in a hidden chamber within the subterranean compound. The book was evasive about its location, but she managed to learn why the mysterious facility had fallen out of use.

During Bonnie Prince Charlie’s exile in France, the Prometheans had taken an interest in the Scottish prince’s claim to the English throne. In other words, they had smelled their own advantage. The Council—the leaders of the Prometheans—had decided to back the Stuart prince in his goal to seize power from the Hanoverian King George II. Then their meddling had begun, much as Rohan had described their activities during the more recent French Revolution.

But after the disastrous Battle of Culloden in 1746, the Order had come hunting for the various Prometheans whose soulless machinations had brought such devastating ruin on the great Scottish clans. One by one, the Order had cut them down, until the Tomb complex was abandoned; the few Prometheans who knew about it had been killed. Over time, it was forgotten.

Despite this sobering tale, there was still much to decipher. Kate was especially intrigued by entries in the book showing scientific notations for chemical compounds.

The long, complicated sequences of elements left her wondering what sort of substances these ingredients produced. Had her ancestors managed to preserve some of Valerian’s ancient formulas for alchemy potions?

She did not know. She turned the puzzles over constantly in her mind, but as they drew closer to London, she tried not to let it get in the way of the precious time she had alone with Rohan.

The best part of the trip were the warm, wanton nights they spent together in the cozy rooms of various galleried coaching inns along the way. They passed the ruddy, firelit hours enrapt in delectable exploration, deepening their knowledge of each other in body and soul.

Alas, they arrived in London before she knew it, suddenly thrust among the throng of carriages whirring and clattering past, this way and that, weaving through an endless maze of slushy streets lined with shops and crowded houses.

The windswept austerity of Dartmoor and the lulling quiet of the Cornish castle by the sea seemed a world away. Kate peered eagerly out the window, her gloved hand linked with Rohan’s. She had never seen so many people in one place.

Vendors loudly hawked their wares, boys sold newspapers on every corner, hackneys picked up passengers, while wagons made their rounds with all their various deliveries. Mail coaches trundled into the city, while stages gusted away from their depots, loaded with travelers bound for the far-flung shires.

Then the bell towers of countless churches throughout the great metropolis began to toll the hour of noon all at once, from all directions. She glanced at Rohan, delighted by the glorious clamor; he smiled back, but when she looked out again, she shook her head, for the hurried people in the streets paid no mind to the joyful noise.

Soon they passed through the hurly-burly of the mercantile City and proceeded into the refined environs of the West End. Grubby shops gave way to graceful park squares, bounded on all sides by giant stately houses.

Instead of delivery wagons, now fashionable phaetons clipped by, pulled by high-stepping blood horses. They passed gleaming mahogany barouches and elegant Town coaches with liveried footmen on the back and aristocratic coats of arms emblazoned on the doors, not unlike the chariot in which they rode.

As they swept along a stylish avenue dotted with lavish boutiques catering to the wealthy, a pair of ladies emerging from a shop spotted Rohan’s carriage passing by.

Though Kate caught only a glimpse of them, their wild reaction was difficult to miss.

“Oh, look! It’s Warrington!”

The first pointed feverishly at their already-retreating chariot, while her companion waved her handkerchief in the air, as though tempted to try running after them.

“Your Grace! Yoo-hoo! Dear Warrington! Come back, darling!”

“Shite,”
he whispered, glancing back, his epithet fogging the window glass.

Kate glanced in surprise from the expensively clad Society ladies to the duke, who had flattened himself back from the carriage window, keeping out of view.

She began laughing. “Who are they?”

“I have no idea.”

“Right.” She regarded him in chiding amusement, but when she glanced through the back window, she saw the first two ladies flutter over to speak with more women on the street. The whole, fashionable tribe of perfectly coiffed beauties turned and stared eagerly after the chariot until it turned the corner.

Rohan cleared his throat and gestured to the road ahead. “We’re almost there. Just a few blocks more.”

Kate looked at him matter-of-factly, but he refused to comment; she suddenly had a better sense of why Caleb Doyle had thought it fitting to give His Grace a female for a gift. Jealousy plucked a discordant note on her heartstrings, but she wryly decided to shrug it off. That unpleasant emotion would not do either of them any good.

Linking her fingers through his, she thrust his crowd of admirers out of her mind, and a moment later, his chariot pulled up in front of a sprawling Town mansion.

“Here we are.”

“Oh, my,” Kate murmured.

Behind an elaborate, wrought-iron gate it sat, a great gray block of Portland stone, with tall rectangular windows trimmed in white, and stone urns with matching topiaries flanking the front door.

The carriages stopped at the gate, but Parker got out with the key and opened the way before them. Halting only briefly, the chariot rolled up under the white portico on the side of the house, where it stopped.

Kate rejoiced to be freed from the confines of the carriage, while Parker and Wilkins hurried Peter Doyle into the house before he was seen.

As she stood glancing around, feeling the excitement of London in the air, and taking in the beauty of the sculpted grounds, Rohan captured her elbow and quickly guided her inside, as well.

“Don’t forget the little rules that we discussed,” he chided in a low voice.

“Yes, I know. Stay out of sight. Don’t talk to anyone besides Parker and Eldred. Don’t worry, I’m not even here,” she assured him, parroting back the guidelines he had laid down for her own safety before they had left Cornwall.

“Good girl,” he answered as he got the door for her. “I appreciate your patience. I know it’s a bore for you to be caged like this, but just you wait and see. I’m going to spoil you as you deserve when all this is over.”

“Are you really?”

“Every woman in London is going to hate you,” he replied with a smile, but she frowned.

“I’m not sure that’s actually necessary.”

“Don’t worry, they’d never dare say it to your face. They’ll all be too busy groveling.”

“Who grovels to a mistress?” she asked dryly.

Rohan laughed and put his arm around her. “My little Dartmoor darling, you are so adorably naïve.”

“Why? What do you mean?” she exclaimed.

“Ah, you’ll learn soon enough how this place works.” He got the door for her with a worldly look. “Inside with you now, before the neighbors start their snooping. And welcome … to my humble abode.”

“Humble?” she murmured, staring all around as she stepped inside. Egads, she had never been in so opulent a building in all her life. It was nothing like the stark medieval castle. Here, luxury was piled atop luxury, every room a statement of the owner’s wealth and rank.

She followed in a daze as he led her through the ground level, with its black-and-white-marble floors and reception rooms of deep blue and stately red with touches of cream and gold and formal black. Twenty-foot ceilings. Soaring Corinthian columns with gilt-touched capitals, ornate chimneypieces carved from alabaster.

The pomp of the ducal residence stretched from the luxurious carpeted floors to the magnificent painted ceilings. The walls between were hung with fine wood paneling and pieces of great art.

The whole place bespoke proud strength and noble service to the Realm, but everything was in a state of such perfection that she barely dared sit down on the furniture. For heaven’s sake, the satin-brocaded armchair beside a rose-wood table inlaid with mother-of-pearl, along with the oil lamp on it, dripping with cut crystal—that little grouping alone probably cost more than her entire cottage.

She was afraid to touch anything and was beginning to feel entirely out of her league.

Those Society ladies in Bond Street would probably have felt perfectly at ease. Kate suddenly wondered how many of them had been inside his house, especially upstairs, where the bedchambers were …

“Now, then. Make yourself at home,” he said, when they reached the entrance hall.

“Hm?” She had been staring with some trepidation at the impressive marble staircase that swept up to the next floor.

“Feel free to relax. Pick a room and take a nap if you like, or if you’re hungry, just tell the staff, and they’ll fix you a meal. I need to go check in with the Order.”

“Will you be gone long?”