One Wicked Night (15 page)

“I understand, milady,” Caffey whispered softly, her touch gentle. “But His Grace must be brought inside and laid out. This cold won’t be doing him no good. He’ll get . . . stiff,” she finished awkwardly.

Squaring her shoulders, Caffey lifted her chin. “This is one time, milady, when you’ll be doin’ as I tell ye. Now come out of that coach.”

Serena resisted until Caffey grasped each of her arms and dragged her away from her husband. Immediately, the porter moved forward to remove Cyrus from the coach. The manservant labored under the heavy burden.

The vision of Cyrus lying unmoving within the porter’s arms brought about the stark truth, the realization that Cyrus was genuinely no more. She turned into Caffey’s waiting arms and sobbed.

Moments later, her maid urged her toward the town house. She went, her limbs moving automatically, as if inside, she, too, were lifeless. The porter followed behind with Cyrus.

Once inside, the trio encountered Cyrus’s coachman again, bleeding and wheezing upon the cold marble of her entrance hall.

“Your Grace,” he gasped. “Sorry . . . so sorry.”

She nodded, not trusting her voice as she watched Caffey examine his wound. True, the coachman was injured, but he was breathing, damn it;
he
was alive. Why wasn’t Cyrus?

With a mumble, the porter excused himself to the duke’s chambers, still bearing Cyrus’s body.

“Your Grace . . .” The coachman coughed before continuing. “It happened so fast . . .” He broke off into a groan as Caffey began sponging the bleeding hole in his shoulder.

“No, that’s”— he coughed—“my point. He did what the culls demanded, but when His Grace asked if . . . he was free to go . . . one told His Grace they was
hired
to kill your husband. Then they shot ’im.” The coachman gasped again under Caffey’s probing fingers.

“They knew who my husband was?” Serena pressed on.

The coachman nodded weakly. “Called him Your Grace.”

Serena’s mind raced with possibilities. Hired to kill him? Certainly, he had political enemies. He possessed a thousand philosophical differences with easily a hundred men, but it was doubtful any of them would wish Cyrus dead. No, only one person stood to gain so much from her husband’s death; only one man held him in that much contempt: Alastair.

Serena nearly recited her ready-made speech about sinner’s drink. After all, she hadn’t had a drop since her wonderful, disastrous night with Lucien. That seemed like another lifetime. She nodded and accepted the glass without protest.

In the lonely hours ahead, Serena would wonder where she’d found the will to push aside her grief and deal with the issues at hand. But deal with them she did, from the undertaker’s arrangements, to Cyrus’s solicitor, Mr. Higgins. After she directed the porter to throw straw in the street and ordered the staff into mourning, she penned a note to the agent at Warrington Castle, telling him to prepare for Cyrus’s impending internment in the family vault.

Then she summoned the Bow Street Runners, and spoke with John Vickery, an experienced officer. Vickery didn’t seem very hopeful that they could find the “highwaymen,” despite Roberts’s description, much less link the killers to Alastair. But Serena swore she would do just that—or die trying.

*

At nine o’clock that same morning, Lucien finally reached his Hanover Square town house. He felt like hell. After sleepless hours plagued by memories of Chelsea, and damn her, Serena too, he had arisen in the wee hours and dressed, opting to find solace in his club and a bottle.

Back home, Lucien discarded his hat and gloves in the entrance hall, automatically handing them over to Holford. Rubbing gritty, sleep-deprived eyes with his thumb and forefinger, he headed for the stairs, mentally counting the number of steps to his bed.

“Excuse me, my lord,” Holford called. “A gentleman awaits you in your study. He arrived with an urgent summons an hour ago and asked to wait for your return.”

“An urgent message?” He frowned. “From whom?”

“I believe the gentleman identified himself as the Duke of Warrington’s solicitor, my lord.”

Warrington’s solicitor? Here? What the hell for? Lucien searched the possibilities for that answer and only one seemed plausible: The duke meant to initiate a divorce.

Foreboding ate at his gut. The last thing he wanted was public scandal all over again. But clearly, Warrington had somehow learned of the night he had made love to the duchess. His Grace must have decided to sue him for Criminal Conversation, which Lucien knew well was the first step in obtaining a divorce through England’s lofty Parliament. He swore again.

From firsthand experience, Lucien was well aware how down-in-the-mire such proceedings could become. Lord Wayland had not chosen to appear at his own hearing to defend himself. The man hadn’t any defense. Lucien had dug up too many witnesses. It was at that proceeding he heard in minute detail of his wife’s encounters with Wayland, his one-time friend.

Gripping the ivory-handled cane in his left palm, Lucien wondered just who Warrington’s witnesses would be, and how much of the night he had spent in Serena’s arms would soon become public knowledge, and therefore, the
ton’s
major scandalbroth.

Inhaling a deep breath, Lucien made his way to the study.

He spotted a wiry, silver-haired man perched uncomfortably on an azure-blue elbow chair. Gray superfine stretched crisply across the solicitor’s tautly held shoulders and back.

Lucien was curious about the man’s sudden change in wording, but said nothing. “What can I do for you, Mr. Higgins? My butler indicated you have a message of an urgent nature.”

“Indeed.” The solicitor fished through his coat pockets, his thin fingers curled with age, until he produced a letter bearing the Warrington seal. Mr. Higgins held it out. Almost reluctantly, Lucien took it, fearing the missive would open a whole Pandora’s box of scandal.

When he made no move to read its contents, an alarmed Mr. Higgins said, “As I indicated earlier, this communication is of the utmost urgency. In fact, His Grace asked me to deliver this to you immediately before dealing with any of the other instructions he left regarding his estate.”

“His estate?” Lucien quizzed, a chill of dread darting through him. Certainly, the Duke’s estate had nothing to do with his divorce. “What do you mean?”

“I’m terribly sorry. I assumed you already knew . . . I mean, since he instructed me to come to you first, I assumed that you and His Grace were well acquainted.” When Lucien didn’t respond to the implied question, Mr. Higgins continued. “His Grace was killed by highwaymen last evening on Hampstead Heath.”

Killed? There had to be some mistake. Lucien’s mind whirled as shock numbed his body. “Dear God.”

Mr. Higgins cleared his throat. “Yes. The coachman brought the body back to Her Grace early this morning.”

Serena. Yes, what about Her Grace? Would she mourn her husband’s passing? Or feel a sense of emancipation? Would those sultry blue eyes be shining with tears of sorrow or joy?

Those unanswered questions and others rolled through the confusion in his mind as he broke the duke’s wax seal and read.

Lord Daneridge,

If you receive this missive, it is because I have died by means most foul. Nor am I the only target of this evil; my wife will be in terrible danger after I am gone. I tell you this because I hope, in light of your intimate acquaintance with Serena, you will consent to protect her from the violence that has ended my life and threatens to end hers also. I beg you to consider this plea. I trust no other with her welfare. Watch over her. Keep her from harm’s way by any means necessary so I may rest in peace.

Cyrus, Duke of Warrington

What “evil” had Warrington written about? He could not discern how a duchess, unless traveling on a near-deserted road, could be in danger from highwaymen. And how on earth had Warrington learned of his own “intimate acquaintance” with Serena? Had she told Warrington in the hopes of provoking a response from her busy, politically involved husband? Maybe that had been her game all along.

Slowly, Lucien lifted his gaze from the letter, trying to smooth out his scowl of confusion. “I’m afraid I do not understand, Mr. Higgins. What exactly did Warrington want?”

The small solicitor cleared his throat in obvious discomfort. “I fear I cannot shed any light on the letter, my lord. His Grace did not share its contents with me, which I must admit I found highly irregular. In fact, if I may say so, I found the entire . . . situation highly irregular.”

“Situation?”

“Yes, well, His Grace usually consulted with me in all legal matters . . . and occasionally a personal one or two,” he boasted. “But in this, he was most secretive, and most insistent I reach you immediately upon being notified of his death.”

“But you are, my lord.” When Lucien opened his mouth to question the solicitor further, Mr. Higgins cut in. “I’m not at liberty to say more now. The reading will be a week hence in my offices. I shall leave the address and time with your butler.”

Lucien nodded and turned to show the man out when, unexpectedly, Mr. Higgins spoke again. “You know, my lord . . . it’s as if His Grace knew his time had come. He composed that missive and rewrote his entire will this Tuesday past.”

Less than a week ago. Lucien swallowed nervously, confusion infusing every thought. What the hell was all this about?

The diminutive solicitor took his leave. Lucien nodded absently to the man, his mind in turmoil. He read Warrington’s missive once more, slowly this time, hoping to discern a message he had missed the first time. Nothing. Only a jumble of unanswered questions.

A moment later came the realization that if Mr. Higgins couldn’t explain the meaning of this mysterious missive, a certain duchess might well be able to.

CHAPTER TEN

Despite the fact Lucien knew Warrington was dead, the sight of straw dusting the street before the town house brought the secondhand news into the realm of stark reality.

At the door, a conspicuously red-eyed butler greeted Lucien. “I’m sorry, my lord. Her Grace is now mourning and not receiving callers.”

“I am aware of Warrington’s death.” Lucien paused to withdraw Warrington’s letter from his coat pocket. “His solicitor delivered this missive this morning from the duke. I must consult the duchess about its contents.”

Discreetly, the butler’s eyes drifted down to examine the broken seal. It must have satisfied him, because he opened the door further, allowing Lucien to step into the entrance hall.

Gripping the handle of his cane for support, Lucien followed. They stopped before a pair of massive dark wood doors, embellished in Baroque-style carvings. The butler announced his presence with a discreet knock.

“Yes, Mannings?”

Lucien knew that soft voice. It was just a hint shy of husky. It rang with femininity. Her voice brought recollections of a soft gardenia scent, her honey skin, hair of golden fire . . . and the powerful combustion of her awakened passion. He swore beneath his breath, willing the surfacing memories back into the recesses of his memory, where he could again call them forth at a more appropriate time.