When You Give a Duke a Diamond (25 page)

One month later

Juliette collapsed on the blue velvet chaise longue in the drawing room of Will’s London town house and heaved a sigh of relief. Her white satin gown with the blue sash and beaded bodice felt as though it weighed three stone. “That is the last of them,” she said. “I thought they would never leave.”

Will, dressed in elegant charcoal gray, lifted her feet and sat beside her. “We’re finally alone.” He tugged off his gloves and set them neatly beside him.

Juliette knew that tone of voice and raised her head to smile at him. “
Married
and alone.” She removed her gloves and dropped them in a heap on the floor.

“It was the longest month of my life,” he said.

“I told you to get a special license.”

He shook his head. “You deserved having the announcement in the
Times
and the banns called.”

She smiled. “Thank you.”

He coaxed one of her slippers off and then the other, and began to knead her feet. She groaned in pleasure.

“And now that we are alone,” Will said, “and married, I want to ask you a question.”

Juliette tried to open her eyes, but she couldn’t manage it. “Hmm?” was all she could say.

“Why did you do it?” Will flexed her foot, and the motion felt heavenly. “Why would you choose to play the role of a courtesan?”

Juliette’s eyes fluttered open. “So you
do
know. I wondered.”

“It makes no difference to me.”

She knew this, but it felt good to hear him say it again. “Who told you? Lily?”

“The countess. She told me that night at Covent Garden.”

Juliette sat up. “And you’re just now asking me?”

“I told you, it doesn’t matter to me. The past is the past. Why didn’t
you
tell me?”

“Would you have believed me?”

“Perhaps not at first.”

She raised a brow, and he tickled her foot.

“Perhaps not ever.” He smiled. It was so wonderful to see him smile all the time now.

She laid her head back on the arm of the chaise. “Are you certain you want to hear this? It’s not exactly a celebratory story, and we are celebrating our nuptials tonight.”

“I want to hear it.”

She sighed. She would tell it once, and then it would be over. Will was right. She
should
have told him. “When it became clear to me I could no longer live with Oliver—rather, that he would end up killing me if I lived with him much longer”—she felt Will’s hand on her foot tighten—“I went to my older brother and my mother and told them I had to get away.” She ran a hand over her eyes. “I never thought of divorce. I simply wanted to escape. I was tired of living in fear. I’d spent three years doing everything I could to please Oliver, and nothing I did was ever good enough. He had begun beating me more frequently, and as I said, I really did fear for my life.”

Will’s face was white and strained, and she sat forward and took his hand.

“It’s in the past now. I escaped.”

“I should have killed him out on the moors,” Will said. “I should have beaten the bastard until he was dead.”

“Perhaps jail is a worse fate,” she said. “In any case, my brother would not help me. You see, after my father died, I was a bit lost. I was so sad and lonely and missing my father. Oliver stepped in and wooed me. He made me feel so special, as my father had done. Oh, I was
so
young and so naive—only seventeen and really still a child.

“My brother and my mother rejected Oliver’s requests to marry me. They did not think him a good prospect. In hindsight, they were right, but for reasons even they couldn’t know at the time. But I begged and pleaded, and finally my brother relented and gave consent.

“When I wanted out, he reminded me how I’d begged him and refused to help. My mother relied on him to support her, and she could not go against his wishes. But she had a friend she knew would help me.”

“Lady Sinclair?”

She nodded. “Yes. Lady Sinclair was the one who helped craft a scheme to convince Oliver to divorce me. When everyone thought I was cuckolding him, it became a matter of pride to him. It took another year, but I was finally rid of him. All of that time, I’d been living with the Sinclairs, and rumors were swirling that the earl and I were having an affair. It was completely untrue, but the rumors gave Lady Sinclair an idea. What if I were to become a courtesan? Not simply any courtesan, but one of the most sought-after courtesans in all of London?”

“It’s a brilliant idea. What other options were open to you?”

“Exactly. I was a divorced woman, which is scandal enough, but I had no income, no family support, nowhere to go. I would have ended up on the streets. Instead, Lord Sinclair helped set me up in London. I don’t know how he did it—I suppose he spent quite a deal of money—but he helped me build a reputation. By then, Lily and Fallon were also under the countess’s wing, and she decided it would be better for the three of us to stick together. And so we became The Three Diamonds.”

“And none of you are actually courtesans?”

“No. But what the countess gave us was freedom. Freedom to live our lives in relative security. Freedom to have fun, to enjoy life, to become someone new. I suppose we even had the freedom to choose the men we would bed, if we wanted to bed any at all. None of us had ever had that freedom before.”

“I’m liking the countess more and more.”

Juliette laughed. “I thought you might. And incidentally, until I met you, I never met a man who interested me enough to take him to my bed.”

“And you know that does not matter to me. You are mine now. You are no longer the Duchess of Dalliance but the Duchess of Pelham.”

“It doesn’t have quite the same ring.”

Will frowned, and she laughed. She sat forward and cupped his face in her hands. “There is no other duchess I would rather be. I love being
your
duchess, Will.” She kissed him softly and found his mouth more than eager for hers. Tingles of heat spiraled through her body from the tips of her toes to the ends of her hair. She had not realized how much she missed Will’s kisses—how much she craved them. She pulled him closer and lost her balance, causing him to fall on top of her. She laughed and wrapped her arms around him.

He kissed her again then raised his head. “Why don’t we go up to the bedroom? I have everything arranged.”

She raised her brows, wondering what surprise he had in store for her. “Lead the way,” she murmured into his ear. He stood and pulled her up, but her foot had caught in the hem of her gown, and laughing, she grasped the side table to keep her balance. Unfortunately, the Greek vase on the table toppled to the floor. She lunged for it but missed. It landed with a thud just short of the Aubusson rug and shattered on the wood floor. Papers scattered on the rug and littered the wood. “Oh, I’m so sorry. Is it authentic?” She bent to pick up the pieces and the slips of paper, but before she could lift anything, Will grabbed her hand.

“Wait.”

“What is it?”

He fell to his knees beside her and lifted the largest shard of pottery. Beneath it lay a small folded scrap of paper. It was quality vellum and quite expensive. It would not have been used to jot a simple note.

“I assume that is not yours.”

“No.” He lifted the cream rectangle and flipped it open. He stared at the contents for a long moment.

Juliette, impatient to retreat to the bedroom, raised her brows. “Well, what is it?”

“It’s a list of names.” He angled the paper and she saw the names of four men scrawled in an elegant hand. At the top of the vellum, underlined twice, were the words
Diamonds
in
the
Rough
.

She shrugged. “Should this mean something to me?”

“It means something to me. This is Lady Elizabeth’s hand. I am almost certain of it. And, if I am not mistaken, these are the names of four spies for the British government, one of whom is already dead.”

“Lucifer’s diamonds,” she breathed.

“Yes. They were never jewels, as we assumed. These names, these men’s identities could be just as valuable as a handful of diamonds if offered to the right people or government. Obviously, at least one of the men has already been sold and disposed of.”

She had no idea how he knew this, and she was not certain she wanted to know. She’d had enough dealings with Lucifer and his diamonds to last her a lifetime.

“And that’s not all.” He lifted some of the cheap papers and began thumbing through them.

“Lady Elizabeth’s vowels?” she asked, scanning the parchment.

“Yes. Most of them issued from Lucifer’s Lair.” He looked up at her. “Did she actually think she would get away with it? She must have known Lucifer’s reputation.”

“I don’t know.” Juliette gestured to the IOUs. “I would venture to guess she enjoyed taking risks.”

Will folded the vellum along with the IOUs and placed the papers on the mantel in a mahogany box embellished with gold filigree. Juliette shivered with unease, glad to be rid of the papers. They felt tainted with Eliza’s blood.

“I know someone who is looking for this information. I’ll contact him in the morning,” Will said, taking a small key from inside the box and locking it. He dropped the key in his waistcoat pocket. “Until then, they will keep.” He held out his hand. Juliette took it, and he drew her close, kissing her fingers with his lips. She felt safe again.

“Let’s go to bed, Duchess.”

“A very good idea, Your Grace.”

***

Will stood at his bedroom window and stared into the night. It was never truly dark in London, but his window overlooked the gardens, and so the view was darker than most. The scent of rose petals teased his nose, and he turned to glance at the bed behind him. Juliette lay on her side, her hand curled under her chin, the white counterpane pulled over her bare shoulders. Surrounding her were hundreds of pink, red, and white rose petals. During their lovemaking, a few petals had fallen on the rug and into the two champagne flutes on the floor beside the bed.

He lifted one of those flutes now, fished the petals out, and drank the last of the champagne. In a moment, he would climb in bed beside his warm, sleeping wife and hold her until the first pink light of dawn. He thought of his uncle, who had sent him a half-dozen letters, no doubt railing against his betrothal. Last night, Will had thrown them into the fire without reading them. He had thrown his unhappy childhood into the fire, as well. This morning he had begun over again. He was a different man, a different duke. He had Juliette by his side.

And she loved him.

He set the glass aside and took hold of the window drapes. He spared a last look into the garden. Lucifer was still out there somewhere—biding his time, waiting for his opportunity to take back the diamonds—the secret names of loyal men he had intended to betray. There had to be more than those names alone. Will was certain Lady Elizabeth’s slip of paper was merely her insurance. What had she done with the rest of the information about the men? Whom had she sold them to? Had Lucifer killed her before she could sell all of them, or were the men on the list still in danger?

Will thought of the second name on the vellum.

Warrick
Fitzhugh.

Will would arrange a meeting with Fitzhugh first thing in the morning. He didn’t know anything about these Diamonds in the Rough, but he knew his friend was in peril.

And he knew Lucifer would not give up easily. The duke almost hoped he had a run in with this Lucifer. He felt he owed the man a few broken limbs for what he’d done to Juliette. He would make sure the man was hanged for what he did to Lady Elizabeth.

But Lucifer and the diamonds were a worry for the morning. He had the only diamond he wanted right here. And he lifted the counterpane and took her into his arms.

From

The Rogue Pirate’s Bride

France, 1802

“That’s him,” Percy whispered. “I’m almost certain of it.”

Raeven Russell glanced at Percy. There was a fine sheen of perspiration on his pale, freckled skin, and his white-blond hair stood up in all directions as though he’d run a hand through it half a dozen times. Which he probably had. Percy Williams was purser for the HMS
Regal
, and while Raeven knew Percy adored her, she also knew he abhorred any action that violated her father’s rules.

She reached over and slung an arm around him in the jaunty way she had seen men do time and time again. “You look nervous,” she said under her breath. “People will wonder why.”

“I
am
nervous,” he hissed. “You’re going to get yourself killed.”

“That’s my problem.” She shifted away from him and scanned the men around her. Which one was Cutlass? There were several likely candidates.

Raeven stood like a man—legs braced apart and hands on hips—to survey the seedy Brest tavern. Dockside taverns the world over were the same, she mused as she studied the crowd. They were filled with sailors looking for wine and women, ships’ captains hiring additions to their crews, beleaguered serving girls skirting men’s too-free hands, and whores working to entice any man with the coin to pay.

She didn’t know why she should feel so at home. She certainly didn’t belong here and had gone to considerable trouble to disguise herself as a young man before sneaking off her father’s ship and onto a cutter with the crew members going ashore legitimately.

If her father knew she was here… She shook her head. She could hear his booming voice in her head.
The daughter of a British admiral should behave with more decorum, in a manner befitting her station in life.

But what was her station in life? Her mother had died days after her birth, and from the age of four—when the last of her relatives had given her up as incorrigible—she’d been sailing with her father. This certainly wasn’t the first tavern she’d visited. It wasn’t even the first time she’d sneaked off the HMS
Regal
.

It was the first time she’d found Captain Cutlass. After six months of searching for the murdering bastard, she was about to meet him… face to face.

“It’ll be my neck when your father finds out.” Percy swallowed audibly, and she suppressed a smile.

“Then you won’t be long in following me to meet our maker. I’ll put in a good word for you.”

He gave her a horrified look, which she supposed indicated he didn’t think she’d be a very good envoy. He cleared his throat. “I prefer a little more time on this earthly world.”

“I’m in complete agreement. Now, tell me which one he is again, but don’t look at him or gesture toward him.”

“Let’s go sit at the bar,” Percy said. “You can see him better from there, and we’ll be less conspicuous.”

“Fine.” Remembering to play her role, she swaggered to the bar and leaned against it, trying to look belligerent. Percy ordered ale, and she did as well, though she had no intention of drinking it. She needed all her wits about her.

When the barkeep moved away, Percy studied his mug and murmured, “See the man in the far corner?”

Raeven allowed her gaze to roam lazily over the tavern until she focused on the corner he indicated.

“He’s dressed as a gentleman in a navy coat, white cravat, buff breeches.”

She saw him now and nodded. “A gentleman pirate.” She shook her head. “Contradiction in terms.”

“The rumor is he’s a deposed marquis whose family fled France during the revolution.”

She scowled at him. “Don’t tell me you believe that rubbish. All the pirates concoct romantic stories. Just because one claims he’s a duke doesn’t make him any less of a thief and murderer.”

“Of course I don’t believe it. I’m telling you the rumor.”

But she could hear in his voice he had believed the story, and now that she’d set her eyes on Cutlass, she could see why. The man did have the air of the aristocrat about him. It wasn’t simply his clothes—any man could dress up as one of the quality, but there was something in Cutlass’s bearing. He was sitting at a table, his back to the wall, facing the door to the tavern. That much told her he was no fool. There was a man seated across from him, and Cutlass was listening in a leisurely fashion to whatever the man was saying. Cutlass’s arms were crossed over his chest, and his expression was one of mild interest. He had a glass of something on the table before him, but she hadn’t seen him drink from it. Nor had she seen any whores approach him.

He was doing business then. It would have better served her purposes if he’d been drunk and whoring, but she didn’t have the luxury of choosing when to strike.

Her gaze slid back to Percy. “He’s handsome,” she remarked and watched the purser’s eyebrows wing upward. “I hadn’t expected that.”

The reports she’d had of him rarely mentioned his appearance. Captain Cutlass was known for his stealth, his agility, and his slippery escapes. It was rumored he’d boarded over a hundred vessels. That was obviously exaggeration, but even if his record was a quarter of that, it was an impressive feat. Of course, he claimed he was a privateer, and she knew he sailed under the Spanish flag and with that country’s letters of marque. She didn’t care for privateers any more than she cared for pirates, and made little distinction between them. Neither pirates nor privateers should dare attack ships of the British Navy. Neither should dare to kill a British naval officer.

She felt the anger and the blood pump through her and took a deep, calming breath. She couldn’t afford to be emotional right now. She had to put emotion away. And she couldn’t afford a schoolgirl crush on the man either. Yes, he was handsome. His dark brown hair was brushed back from his forehead and would have grazed his shoulder if not neatly secured in a queue. His face was strong with a square jaw, plenty of angles and planes, and a full mouth that destroyed the hard effect and hinted at softness. But the eyes—the eyes did not lie. There was no softness in the man. She couldn’t quite see the eye color from this far away, but under the sardonic arch of his brow his eyes were sharp, cold, and calculating.

A worthy adversary, and she’d spill his blood tonight.

“I don’t like the look in your eyes,” Percy said. “Now that you’ve seen him, you can’t possibly mean to challenge him. He’s not a small man.”

Raeven straightened her shoulders to give herself more height. She was well aware of her short stature, but size and strength were not everything. She was small and quick and deadly. “I do mean to challenge him,” she said, brushing her hand against the light sword at her waist. “I’m only waiting until his business is completed.” Though if it took much longer, she would have to interrupt. She wanted this over and done.

“I don’t think that’s wise. Perhaps if we wait—”

“I’m not waiting,” she snapped. “I’ve waited six months, and that’s too long.”

“Timothy would not have wanted…”

Her glare cut him off. “Timothy is dead, and his murderer is sitting over there having a chat and sipping wine. Timothy would have wanted justice.”

And because she knew Percy’s next comment would be about justice versus vengeance, and because she did not want to hear it, she pushed off the bar and arrowed for Cutlass’s table. It was a short trek across the tavern but long enough for her heart to pick up speed and pound painfully in her chest. She tried to calm herself with a deep breath, but she exhaled shakily. Her hands were sweating, and she flexed them to keep them loose.

When she stepped in front of Cutlass’s table, he glanced up at her briefly and then back at the man seated across from him. Before she could speak, another man was beside her.

“Move away, lad. The captain’s busy at present.” The man was tall and lanky with a shock of red hair and pale, freckled skin. He was well dressed and spoke to her in fluent, if accented, French. English, she thought, and well bred. Probably Cutlass’s quartermaster.

She stood her ground. “I think the captain will want to hear what I have to say.” She said it to Cutlass, but he didn’t acknowledge her.

“I’ll tell him you wish to speak with him. In the meantime…” He made the mistake of taking her arm, and she responded with a quick jab to his abdomen. He grunted in surprise and took a step back.

“Problem, Mr. Maine?” Cutlass said smoothly. He had one brow cocked and a bemused smile on his lips. Obviously, he didn’t see her as any sort of threat. “Is the lad giving you trouble?” He also spoke in French, but his was sweet and thick as honey. A native speaker, she surmised, and one with a polished accent. No wonder he played the deposed French marquis.

“No, Captain,” Maine said, stepping forward again. “I’ll get him out of your way.”

Raeven put a hand on the small dagger at her waist. “Touch me again, and I’ll slice your hand off.” Her gaze met Cutlass’s. “I want a word with you.”

“Obviously.” He lifted his wine, sipped. “But you’ll have to learn some manners first. Come back when you’ve mastered the art of patience.”

In one lightning-quick move, she drew her dagger, rounded the table, and pressed it under his jaw. “You want to talk about patience?” She pressed the blade into the bronze skin until a small bead of blood welled up. “I’ve been waiting six long months to slit your throat.”

“Is that all?” he said, setting his glass of wine on the table. With annoyance, she noted his hand did not even tremble. “There are some who’ve waited far longer.”

“I’m going to kill you,” she said, looking directly into his eyes. They were cobalt blue and framed with thick brown lashes.

He raised a brow at her. “I don’t think so.” She should have seen it coming, should have seen his eyes flick down or his jaw clench, but he gave no indication he would move. And before she could react, he had her wrist pinned on the table, the dagger trapped and useless. Slowly he stood, his hand warm steel on hers. She watched him rise and rise and had never felt as small as she did in that moment. She realized the tavern had grown quiet as the patrons drank in the scene.

Percy’s voice broke the silence. “Captain, the boy’s had too much to drink. He’s young. If you don’t mind, we’ll just be taking him back to the ship now.”

Raeven scowled. She could imagine her father’s men lined up behind her, Percy in the middle, his hands spread in a placating gesture. She kept her gaze locked on Cutlass’s, saw him shrug and exchange a look with one of his men. Devil take her if he wasn’t going to pat her head and shoo her away. She couldn’t allow that. This was her last chance. Even now her father might have noticed her absence, and it could be months—
years
—before she had another opportunity to confront Cutlass.

“Coward,” she said loud enough for her voice to carry through the tavern. “Too afraid to fight me, a mere boy?”

She saw the surprise in his face and then the irritation. “Look, lad, I don’t want to kill you.”

She laughed. “What makes you think you can? I’m good with a sword. Very good, and I challenge you to a duel.” Now she did look away from him; she swept the room with her eyes, making sure everyone heard the challenge.

“Now you’ve done it,” she heard Percy mutter. And she had. Cutlass could not back down from a direct challenge.