Page 8 of The Captive Duke
The explanation had St. Just itching to hop back in the saddle and ride anywhere—Paris, Moscow, Rome—provided it was far, far away. His Grace held up his left arm, on the end of which was an appendage bearing five fingers; the last two of them bore old scars and curious angles at the joints.
“As a gift to the commanding officer, the guards decided in his absence that I was to write out a confession to present their superior upon his return from Toulouse. My captors neglected to realize I was left-handed.” The lost duke spoke slowly, each word chosen to convey the most information with the fewest syllables.
“The guards limited their attentions to the hand they thought I could not write with,” he went on. “I did not write out the confession in any case. When ColonelGirard was done having his guards beaten for their cheek, he was effusively apologetic.” That last phrase was flourished with subtle irony and such a perfect enunciation of the final consonants, that St. Just paced off a few feet, the better to curse quietly.
“Anybody who readsThe Timeswould know the story of the lost duke,” Easterbrook said, a bit desperately, to St. Just’s ears. “My cousin was a robust man, handsome, fastidious, vain about his person. His family connections would be listed inDebrett’s, and known to anybody who moved in good Society. You’re skinny, dirty, disgracefully turned out…”
He ranted on, for he was ranting, his voice rising, likely for the benefit of the officers inside the tent, but St. Just had heard enough.
“Easterbrook, mind your horse.”
Anders held the reins of a grand chestnut beast, solid, but with a hint of Iberian grace and refinement. The horse was pawing and curling its upper lip while craning its neck forward.
Toward the lost duke.
“Aragon?” Easterbrook was apparently not that canny a fellow. Beside Aragon, St. Just’s mount was standing perfectly calm.
“Not Aragon,” the lost duke said, walking toward the horse. “Chesterton. You took my horse, Cousin, and changed his name. I suppose I am to thank you for looking after him when God knows what might have befallen him had he remained in French hands.”
The beast pawed repeatedly, and whuffled, a low, whickering sound of greeting.
And the love of a mute beast was, to St. Just, better evidence than any interrogation would ever yield.
“You’ve found your duke,” St. Just said. “Either the horse has readDebrett’sand colluded with an imposter, or that’s his master, plain as day.” A half-dozen officers had shuffled out of the mess tent, their uniforms declaring them cavalry, and not a one argued with St. Just’s conclusion.
Easterbrook scowled as the horse nuzzled at the lost duke’s pockets, each in turn. The duke scratched at the animal’s shoulder. Had the bloody horse been able to, it would have purred and hugged its owner.
“By God…” Easterbrook took a step toward a man whose death would have been convenient, if tragic. But the duke held up a hand—his good hand.
“Do not, I pray you, embarrass us both with an excessive display of sentiment comparable to that of this lowly beast. If you would show your welcome, fetch writing utensils that I might communicate with my duchess posthaste. A change of clothes would be appreciated as well, as would a bucket, cloth, and soap.”
The horse gave up nuzzling empty pockets, but was either too well-bred or too canny to nudge more strongly at a master who would likely topple at such attention.
For the first time, Easterbrook’s expression conveyed consternation and…shock. “You don’t know, then. God help you, nobody told you about Helene.”
Three
“YOURGRACE, YOU HAVE A CALLER.”
Christian had been at his London town house for three days and nights, and still his entire household, from butler to boot boy, seemed helpless not to beam at him.
He’d beentortured, repeatedly, for months, and they were grinning like dolts. To see them happy, to feel the weight of the entire household smiling at him around every turn made him furious, and that—his unabating, irrational reaction—made him anxious.
Even Carlton House had sent an invitation, for God’s sake, and Christian’s court attire would hang on him like some ridiculous shroud.
The butler cleared his throat.
Right. A caller. “This late?”
“She says her business is urgent.”
By the standards of London in springtime, nine in the evening was one of the more pleasant hours, but by no means did one receive calls at such an hour.
“Who is she?”
Meems crossed the study, a silver tray in his hand bearing a single note of cream vellum.
“I do not recall a Lady Greendale.” Though a Greendale estate lay several hours ride from Severn. Lord Greendale was a pompous old curmudgeon forever going on in the Lords about proper respect and decent society. An embossed black band crossed one corner of the card, indicating the woman was a widow, perhaps still in mourning.
