Disciplined by the Duke Read online

  A hiss of air was her only warning. A lick of heat sliced across her left fist as the leather tongue of his crop rapped her closed hand. It shocked her more than hurt, and in her surprise she relaxed her fists. Her mouth dropped open and she stared at the duke, wide-eyed. “Your Grace!” Her voice dropped to a hushed whisper.

  He cleared his throat, resumed flicking his boot. “You will need those hands for your work, I presume. It wouldn’t do for you to damage them.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.” She pressed her palms to her stomach. An ache gnawed at her, unsettling. “I . . . I need to be going.”

  He rubbed a hand along his jaw. “Yes. So do I.” Opening the stall gate, he threw a blanket over Darkwing’s back.

  Taking that as her dismissal, Liz stumbled backwards, turned for the door.

  “Miss Smith.”

  She hesitated, but didn’t look back. She didn’t want him to see the swirl of emotion she couldn’t keep from flashing across her face. Confusion the main one. “Yes, Your Grace?”

  “On your afternoons when you’re free, you are welcome to ride one of my horses. I will notify the head groom that you have my permission.”

  Her head turned so she could see him out of the corner of her eye. He was staring at her back, and she felt his gaze like a brand. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  She took another step.

  “Oh, and Miss Smith. There will be no more self-inflicted damage to your person. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, Your Grace.” She fled out the door before he could say another word.

  * * *

  Liz bumped the volume of French poetry with her elbow, and the book nearly toppled to the floor. She caught it with one hand and returned it to the desk. It was her nominal excuse in case anyone found her in the duke’s library. She’d come to return a book.

  What she needed to do was return to her room before anyone caught her trying to lever open the one locked drawer in the duke’s desk. Every day that passed that she didn’t find the letter with the purple seal made her more frantic. Her urgency was causing her to be careless. A faint scrape in the wood of the drawer showed in the candlelight, damning her. She would need to make cleaning the library on the morrow her first task, and buff out the evidence of her prying.

  The slim blade of the letter opener caught at the latch, and Liz carefully jogged her tool until she heard the soft click of the release. She held her breath as she pulled the drawer out.

  Lowering her candle, she bent her head to peer into the depths of the drawer. And hissed out a sigh of disgust.

  It didn’t contain one solitary piece of paper.

  Tomorrow night she’d have to attack the locked drawers in the desk in the duke’s study, a more dangerous mission as she had no excuse to be there after dark. Perhaps during the day when the duke was out and she could make it look like she was cleaning?

  Liz shuffled aside a length of purple silk, and pulled out a small wooden box. She frowned, lifting out a pair of golden loops. Earrings, she supposed, but the size of the clasp seemed too large.

  Replacing the box, her fingers brushed against leather. She hadn’t noticed the book at first glance, its black cover melting into the lining of the drawer. Setting the box on the floor, she pulled out the book and placed it on the desk to flip through it. A letter could easily be hidden within.

  All thoughts of the letter disappeared from her mind after the candlelight illuminated the first page. It was a picture book, but not one for children. The artwork was Oriental in design, the woman depicted all raven black hair and creamy white skin. Except for the space between her thighs. That was painted as pink as a budding rose.

  Liz bounced her foot up and down and glanced at the door. Still shut. She turned the page.

  The woman was joined by a man. Their lips were fused together and her hand was wrapped around—

  Oh my.

  She flipped over another page.

  The intimacies between the couple grew. Liz tugged at the bodice of her gown, pulling the cotton away from her damp skin. Did the duke sit in this very chair and finger his way through the book? Did he enjoy looking at such pictures?

  Tilting the book up, Liz twisted her head until her ear met her shoulder. Was that position even possible? And that stick thing the man used on the woman. Was that an object of the artist’s imagination, or did such a tool actually exist?

  Restless, she pressed her thighs together, a small relief to the ache that grew there. She reached the end of the book. The last picture was of the woman smiling up at her lover, a satisfied glow on her face.

  Why would the duke have this? It merely left Liz feeling unsatisfied. Yearning. What pleasure could he derive from it? Unless he turned the pages with a woman by his side. Tried some of the acts painted within. As handsome as Montague was, he most likely never wanted for female companionship.

  His money wouldn’t hurt, either.

  She ran the silk material through her fingers, over the back of her palm. The spot where the duke had struck her with his crop tingled. Her hand trembled as she rubbed her thumb over the skin.

  The mark had faded before she’d even reached Hartsworth House. The strike had caused only shock, no pain. There was no reason why her mind should turn to that moment in the stable over and over.

  Yet it did.

  Why had the duke done it? Surely other maids had scraped hands. And why had it made her feel so odd? Liz had taken her slipper and rapped the back of her palm, trying to replicate the sensation until Molly had returned to their room. Her efforts hadn’t been fruitful. The taps hadn’t made her belly quiver. Hadn’t made her blood pound.

  It was the surprise of the duke’s action, of course. Her self-inflicted blows couldn’t replicate that.

  Carefully closing the book, she put everything back in the drawer as she’d found it. The silk length disappeared into it last, the fabric sliding through her hands like water.

  A faint shout drew her attention. Pressing the drawer closed, she made sure the lock was engaged before blowing out her candle. After a couple of seconds, her eyes adjusted to the moonlight streaming in through the windows.

  She crept to the casement behind the desk, pressed her face close to the pane, her breath fogging the glass. She saw no movement. But the shout had definitely come from outside.

  Two shadows separated from the wall of the stable, almost out of her line of sight. They were the size of men, but she couldn’t be certain. She was about to turn away when a scuffle broke out between the shadows.

  It ended as quickly as it had begun. One man fell to the ground, rose up, and shuffled away. The other disappeared into the stable. Resting her hand on the window, she tapped her fingers against the cold glass. When all remained silent, she pushed away. Whatever intrigues were taking place on the duke’s estate, it wasn’t her concern.

  And now she could add washing that window to tomorrow’s duties.

  Finger marks on a window at Hartsworth just wouldn’t do.

  Chapter Five

  Montague crossed one long leg over the other and flicked at a piece of lint on his trousers. The barmaid placed two mugs of ale in front of him and Julius Blackwell, the Earl of Rothchild, and exited the private room at the back of the tavern, closing the door behind her.

  Marcus drank deeply, his throat dry after the afternoon ride. He glanced over at his friend. “You look like hell. What have you been doing with yourself lately?”

  Rothchild snorted and rubbed at the foam on his lips with the back of his hand. “It’s no wonder Prinny can’t stand your company. Didn’t your upbringing teach you not to insult people who have traveled two hundred miles at your request?”

  “Not when those people are my friends.” He examined the lines around the man’s eyes and the slump to his shoulders. “And your appearance has little to do with your travels. Have you been ill of late?”

  “I’m fine. London has become . . . tiring. Your missive couldn’t have come at a better time.” He drained
his glass. “The fresh air of Leicestershire sounds invigorating for once.”

  Marcus drummed his fingers on his knee. “You’re an earl, Julius, with a lovely country estate of your own. You can get out of London any time you like.”

  Rothchild smirked. “But London has so many more diversions than the country. Speaking of which, you haven’t been to the Black Rose in a while. Madame Sable asked about you.”

  “Yes, I’m sure she misses my money. As soon as this business is over with, she will be seeing more of it. God knows I could use the distraction her sort of entertainment provides.” A pair of flashing dark eyes and a tidy brown chignon crept into his thoughts. Perhaps Madame Sable had a girl similar in appearance to his new maid. The thrill he’d received when he had tapped her with his crop had been unsettling. It was the duty of his steward to discipline any of the servants, not his.

  The rustle of her starched gown and the press of her soft breast against his arm lingered in his mind. Taking her in hand would exceed mere duty. Which was why playing with a woman who looked like her by proxy was a superb idea. Work the idea of his maid out of his system.

  Leaning back, Rothchild tossed a leg up on the wooden table. A grin stretched his cheeks. “It has been a while for you, Marcus. Your last affair was with that widow in Russell Square. And you couldn’t play with that blue blood like you could with a girl at the Black Rose. You must be feeling very frustrated.” He rummaged in his breast pocket and pulled out a cheroot.

  Marcus clenched a fist. This was the problem with friends. They tended to know more about him than was comfortable. And friends who frequented the same house of ill repute saw more than they should.

  Marcus watched his knuckles turn white, and let out a bark of laughter. The same device for control that Miss Smith preferred. However, with her chapped and reddened hands she risked infection if she were to break the skin with her nails.

  He frowned. His new chambermaid’s hands were reacting to her labors as though she was new to the job. She had yet to build up the calluses necessary for a servant’s work. What, exactly, had her duties been in the Earl of Westmore’s household? His stomach went tight at the idea of what sort of job would leave her hands soft and delicate. Westmore didn’t seem like the kind of man who would have the same rule against bedding a servant as Marcus did.

  Exhaling through his nose, Marcus relaxed his grip. Not his problem. “My control is fine. And my play habits aren’t why I asked you here.”

  “Your letter was very thin on details. What do you need?”

  And that was what made friends worthwhile. Marcus didn’t have many close associates, but those he did would drop everything to help. It came as no surprise that the four men he was closest to were also the members of the House of Lords whom the government turned to for special assistance.

  “I’ve been asked to find a traitor in Parliament. A flow of information has been reaching France, the last of which was a proposed treaty between England and Holland. Napoléon got wind of it and has come to his own accord with Holland. An exchange agreement that cuts us out.”

  Rothchild brought his leg down with a thump and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Why would Willem agree to that? Our relationship with the Dutch king is stronger than France’s, and I’m sure we can offer better terms.”

  Marcus sighed. “It might have something to do with the fact that France threatened to blockade their ports if they didn’t sign. Their business sense trumped any claim of allegiance between our nation and theirs.”

  “How does this new treaty affect your business? Will your ships still be heading to Rotterdam?”

  “Time will tell.” Marcus shrugged. “Most of my commerce is with the southeast Indies and the Caribbean. If I lose my route to Rotterdam my bottom line will hardly be affected.” He stood and walked to the window. The forest behind the village was thick with shadows in the darkening afternoon. “But my company is of little account at the moment. I need to discover who in the government is a traitor.”

  Rothchild joined him at the window. “What do you need of me?”

  “I need to know which lords have either been short of funds of late or, conversely, been spending above their means. Visit the gambling hells, the brothels, and ask around. Anything out of the ordinary could be important.”

  “Gambling hells and brothels. Just another Saturday night.” Rothchild grinned. “That’s a task I don’t mind in the least.”

  Marcus straightened his shoulders. “This isn’t to be taken lightly. Treason against the Crown is a capital offense. One of our peers might hang by what we discover. If a man is in dire straits for money there is very little he can’t be talked into doing.”

  Rothchild blew a long stream of smoke out between his lips. “If it came to it the traitor would deserve to visit the Tyburn Tree, regardless of financial woes. Selling information to our enemy can cost British lives. A traitor’s end is no one’s fault but his own.”

  Marcus nodded. Julius was right. Treason caused nothing but chaos, and that was one thing he could not abide. He took a deep breath. It would still be difficult if he were the man responsible for sending an acquaintance to hang.

  He walked to his chair, picked up his coat. “Send me information as you obtain it. I’ve already sent Summerset to Paris to see what he can discover on that end.”

  Rothchild raised an eyebrow. “Summerset? I thought he was a wanted man in Paris after his dalliance with that princess.”

  “Said dalliance makes him the perfect man to send.”

  A broad grin broke across the earl’s face. “I see. Well, if he doesn’t make it out alive at least he’ll die with a smile on his face.”

  “Everything’s a lark with you.” Marcus shook his head. “Princess Catarina has contacts, not all of whom are friendly to Napoléon. Not only is Summerset seeking the name of our traitor, but if he can facilitate certain relationships between those malcontents and our government he will have done more for our country than you or I could ever hope to.” He shrugged into his coat, smoothed his hands down the seams. “I await a letter from him if he is successful with his endeavors.”

  “I’m sure Summerset will succeed as he always does. I’ve never known that man not to come out of a tight situation smelling like a rose.” Rothchild picked up his own coat and draped it over his arm.

  Marcus tapped his hat against his leg. “Put on your coat and come back to Hartsworth with me. It makes no sense that you stay at this inn tonight when I have a hundred guest rooms for you to choose from.”

  “You know I feel cooped up when I stay at your house. I’ll be happier staying here before I leave for London tomorrow.”

  “How can one feel cooped up in an estate with hundreds of rooms and three thousand acres of land?” He scratched his jaw. “I know you dislike being trapped in small spaces, but truly, you take this too far.”

  Rothchild shrugged. “Yes, you have a large home. Ostentatious really.”

  Marcus snorted.

  “And your obnoxiously large home is packed full of obnoxiously helpful and cloying servants that you step on every time you turn around.” Rothchild opened the door to the main barroom. “No, I will be quite content being ignored in this charming establishment.”

  Marcus rubbed his jaw. “Yes, my servants can be quite distracting.” His voice was low, rough, and he cleared his throat. Thoughts of his maid were harder to clear from his head. Ignoring the curious look Rothchild shot him, he held his hand out to his friend. “Thank you for riding up here, Julius. I will await what you discover.”

  The men shook hands and Montague left his friend to his anonymous lodgings. His entire ride back to Hartsworth thoughts of his distracting servants, one in particular, would not leave him alone.

  * * *

  “Lawks, you dust as slow as my gouty grandpapa walks to village. I can see why you lost your place with the earl.” Molly scrubbed the windows of the library, the scent of vinegar overpowering. The late afternoon sunlight str
eamed through the gleaming glass and illuminated the room in a golden glow. The wing chair Liz had huddled behind the week before beckoned to her. She used to spend afternoons curled up in a similar chair, though much less fine, reading whatever book she could get her hands on.

  She stared down at her hands, now covered with a thin sheen of wood polish. Little had she known such a simple pastime would soon become a luxury. Before she could start to feel sorry for herself, she remembered her last visit to Newgate. The stench of waste and misery so thick it clogged her throat. Her sister so wasted away and lifeless she could have been mistaken for a scarecrow.

  She released a wobbly breath. Her sister needed her and that’s what she had to focus upon. Which was why she was cleaning slow enough to catch her chamber-mate’s attention. Her fingers tripped through every piece of paper they came across. As she dusted and polished, one eye was on constant lookout for a splash of purple wax.

  “I like to be thorough.” Dropping to her knees, Liz rubbed the brass hardware on the desk’s drawers. The majority of the duke’s correspondence was kept in his study, but Liz had found a couple of missives in the library. Montague didn’t merely read behind the desk in his library, but did some work there, as well. New mail was arriving daily. Every search had to be repeated. “Besides, I didn’t lose my place from my previous service. This is a better-paying position and I was happy to transfer.”

  Molly snorted, and cocked one grimy hand on her hip. “Well, you won’t last long if you don’t work faster. Mr. Todd doesn’t tolerate laziness. Discipline is strictly enforced at this house.”

  “Discipline?” A sheaf of papers tucked under a book on horticulture caught her eye. She stood and casually reached towards the oil lamp next to the book, pretending to swipe at it with her rag. She knocked the book and papers to the floor, forced out an exasperated huff of air.

  Molly shook her head. “Yes, discipline.” Turning to another window, she dipped her rag into a small bucket at her feet. “Clumsiness like that might earn six raps on your palms. The punishment I get the most is for sleeping past my morning duties. I don’t oversleep much. But those days when I just can’t open my eyes on time, it gets me twenty strokes with a cane.”