No harm and no joy as it turned out. Although she did get a sense from all the ledgers and notices from shops that an inordinate number of spirits was purchased for this household. They searched the housekeeper’s room, the wine store, the laundry... every room used by staff. Since the servants had taken their personal items with them when they were let go, very often there was little to look through.
“I hope the staff found good employment elsewhere,” he said quietly as they trudged up the stairs. “That they weren’t penalized for having been employed by a traitor.”
“Having served a duke, they were no doubt able to land on their feet. I can’t imagine anyone would have held them accountable for their employer’s bad judgment.”
“It is astounding how the actions of one can affect so many.”
They reached the top and an antechamber where the footmen prepared to serve dinner. He shoved on the door and walked through, holding the portal as she followed. The dining hall was nearly as large as the main floor of her residence. Again, everything was draped in white: the long table, chairs, cabinets that no doubt held china or heirlooms. She was tempted to strip away all the cloths so she could feast upon what she was certain would put her own mother’s furniture to shame.
He came to a set of double doors, pushed them open, and strode into the cavernous chamber. As she stepped through the portal, the fragrance of books swept over her, even though all the shelves and tomes were hidden behind white linen, transporting her to a time when she had devoured books because they’d carried her away from an unforgiving mother and a stepfather who couldn’t quite decide what to make of her, who’d wanted to marry her off young, so she’d no longer be their problem.
While she’d ceased movement in order to take in the grandeur that was still visible—the dark mahogany walls, the heavy golden drapes, the large chandelier—Marcus had continued on until he reached the massive fireplace. Reaching up, he yanked down the covering to reveal a large portrait of his family. She recognized each member because she’d made it her business to be able to know them on sight, in case their paths should have crossed, or an opportunity presented itself for her to make discreet inquiries of them. The older woman sitting on the settee was his mother, the young lady beside her his sister. The duke stood behind the only piece of furniture in the painting, his two sons flanking him, the settee narrow enough that the full length of Marcus and his brother was visible.
Marcus had been slenderer when those oils had been brushed over that canvas. And softer. Not in a feminine way, but he was without cares. His brow harbored none of the lines in it that itdid now. His eyes didn’t look at the world with cynicism. His mouth wasn’t set in a hard line as though daring one and all to come at him. His jaw wasn’t taut as though he yearned to pound his fist into something. She rather wished she’d known him then, but only for a minute. He wouldn’t have appealed to her as he did now. He’d have been far too innocent, too naive, too trusting. The man standing there gazing up at the portrait tempted her far more than he should, more than was safe or wise.
As though she were the tide and it were the moon, the portrait gently drew her toward it, her feet making no sound as they traversed over the thick Aubusson carpet until she was standing beside the man she’d once considered her nemesis.
“That was painted the Christmas before all went to hell,” he said quietly.
1872, then. After the rumors of an assassination plot had begun surfacing. Had the duke been strategizing even as he posed there with his family gathered around him? Or had he yet to become an accomplice? “I’d not thought it done so recently. You all look remarkably young.”
“I wonder how long he’d been involved in the planning of the betrayal. I see no deception in those eyes. I thought if I looked at the portrait more closely, I would see that I should have known what he was about.” He shook his head. “How could I have not known?” He scoffed. “But look at me. I appear to be a young man who cares about only his own pleasures. I remember being abit cross because the artist was taking so damned long with it. I wanted to go skiing in the Alps with some mates. I left as soon as the last drop of paint touched the canvas. The thing is, even if I’d known it was to be our last Christmas together as a family, I don’t know if I’d have stayed. We were never close.”
She had a strong urge to pull his head down and cradle it against her bosom, to murmur words of comfort. But she’d been the heartless harlot for so long that any softening at all was a bit terrifying.
“Well”—he released a long exhale—“staring at that isn’t going to get us anywhere, is it?” Spinning around, he yanked the cloth off the massive rosewood desk. “Put your talents to work. I’ll look elsewhere within the room.”
As he marched away and began tugging other cloths from their mooring to be carelessly tossed on the floor, she had a feeling he had a need to put some distance between them. Perhaps he was embarrassed to have revealed so much, for giving her that small glimpse inside of him. The young Marcus in the portrait would not have been bothered by it. But then he had yet to have been effectively destroyed. Had not been forced to re-create himself.
The desk was a monstrosity, three solid walls, the fourth side containing an opening between two towers of drawers that revealed themselves to be empty when she opened each one. No doubt they’d been gone through when the duke wasarrested. Whatever had been contained within had not been shared with her, so it was either useless or something deemed for particular eyes alone to gaze upon. She was considered a foot soldier, told only what was necessary to get the job done.
Glancing over at Marcus, she watched for a minute as he examined drawers in delicate tables. She could so easily envision him sitting at this desk, lord of his domain, managing estates, seeing to the well-being of those under his care. All of this should have been his. It was wrong for it to have been taken away. But if he’d merely stepped into the role of duke, would he now move so smoothly, like a wolf on the prowl, throughout the room? Such purpose in his strides, such concentration in his gaze. He considered and explored thoroughly each object he approached. She shouldn’t be enthralled by something as simple as the wave of a hand over a figurine, the stroke of a chair that might have something hidden beneath the fabric, the riffling of pages through a book before gently setting it aside—respecting the treasures that would go to someone else not of his blood because eventually the Crown would gift this residence to someone or sell it. He should lay claim to the non-entailed possessions. Perhaps he would once some honor was restored to his family name. She wanted him to have all this.
For that to happen, they needed information.
Kneeling, she began running her fingers over the smooth wood, occasionally pressing, searching for something that might trigger the opening of a concealed compartment. Aclicksounded, on the side, near the front of the desk. “I’ve found something!”
His fragrance of spice and man was suddenly surrounding her within the close confines, causing an unexpected dizziness to assail her as she breathed him in more deeply. What an absolute fool she was.
“What is it?” he asked, a tightness and eagerness in his voice.
“A small door has sprung open, revealing a cubby.” She reached inside and her finger was pricked. Odd. “There’s something—”
Taking a bit more care, she grasped it and brought it out. He scooted back, placed his hands on her waist, and dragged her from the cavernous opening. Crouching before her, he asked, “What did you find?”
She unfurled her fingers to reveal an intricately carved wooden soldier in a red coat, sword at the ready, the tip of which had probably caused the pinprick of pain in her finger.
“Bastard,” he ground out in a low growl, gently taking it from her, dropping from his haunches to his backside, and pressing his spine against the desk. “I was eight years old, in this room, striving to gain my father’s attention, playing with this fellow, pretending I was him, battling Napoleon’s army, racing around when I knocked over a porcelain figurine of a woman herding lambs. He snatched my soldier from me, declared me tooold for such nonsense. I awoke the next morning to find all my armies gone from my bedchamber. I mourned the loss of my favorite fellow.” He scoffed and looked at her. “He went to the bother of hiding it in his cubby? Was there nothing else in there?”
She shook her head. “But there might be another secretive compartment. I’ll keep looking.”
He turned his attention back to the swordsman. Was he reliving his childhood?
“He shouldn’t have taken it from you,” she said softly. “But then there is a lot that shouldn’t have been denied you.”
He gave her an ironic smile. “Perhaps that’s the reason I’m on this quest. I was too young to do anything when this little warrior and I were forced to part ways. Why the devil did he save it and not toss it out with the others, and in a place where I was unlikely to ever find it?”
“I fear there’s a lot about your father we’ll never understand. Maybe he regretted that he’d not let you keep it.”
