A Tale of Two Dukes, page 22
Bringing up the end of this troupe is Whiteport, brother to Norhaven. He too has a girl from The Rose and Thorne by his side but shows her no attention. Instead, his eyes bore into me, as if looking for all my flaws and imperfections.
“May I present to you, Miss Kitty Bartlett.”
At the sound of my false name, I nearly collapse as I give them all a curtsy. In truth, ever since William said my true name, I ceased to remember myself as Kitty and went back to being Catherine. How foolish of me.
The merriment seems to die down at the proclamation, but the men, thankfully, do not appear to be outright hostile. Not like his brother, that is. That’s something, at least. With his hand on the small of my back, William motions for us to make our way to a row of tents.
The scent of food wafts in the air as we gather around the table, drawing forth a different sort of conversation. As the men converse about hunting, the girls murmur amongst themselves. Granting me a small smile, the Duchess of Foxford leans forward.
“Men and guns, don’t you agree?”
“In truth, this is the first I’ve heard about his love for game. But it’s nice that he has a hobby.” Nervous energy runs through my fingers as I pluck a bit of food from the plate.
She gives an unladylike snort. “Hobby? That’s not a hobby. At least not one that should be conversed on at the table.”
“Then what, pray tell, dear wife, should we talk about?” Foxford raises an eyebrow, his lips set into a thin line. A warning if I’ve ever seen one.
“What about fencing? Dueling? Shakespeare?”
“Only one of those is suitable for your lips, and I shall allow you to figure out which one it is.”
“Come now, Foxford,” William laughs. “You should know by now that your wife could speak about a great many things. I say let her regale all of us on how she drew first blood.”
Stabbing his fork into his food, he shakes his head. “She will do nothing of the sort if she values her backside.”
My eyes widen at the banter amongst the men as their conversation takes on a far different tenor. Somehow, they go from hunting game to hunting down women. Apparently, William’s brother prefers that sport over riding to hounds.
“Don’t let these men fool you,” the duchess whispers. “They’re all talk, but no action.”
“Was not your backside burned just this morning?” Foxford warns, garnering a large grin from his wife. “If you care to see action, I have no issue taking you back home, allowing you to do some penance at your cross. While you’re there, I’m sure you would enjoy ruminating while holding onto a fresh bit of ginger. It’s been a fair minute since your Hail Marys have been stuttered from your lips.”
My face blazes as I listen to the two. Though their speech is veiled, spoken with obvious entendre, the message is quite clear. William seems to not be the only one who enjoys this sort of interaction. Do they all have such proclivities?
Sipping on some port, I remain silent as ribald jokes and scenarios fly across the table, all of which are spoken in code. They only cease when servants come to either refill glasses or address the food. Though my glass is still nearly full, it’s taken away and refreshed with another.
I turn, catching a hint of some indiscernible scent, but go back to my meal when nothing seems amiss. It must be my nerves still on fire from all the anxiety I hold on to. Soon, everyone descends into silence as they attack the food.
Taking another sip, I blink down, unsure as to why everything seems a bit blurry. It’s odd, but as I shake my head, everything goes to rights. Perhaps it’s merely the excitement of seeing William in his element. That or this port is far stronger than I realize.
My duke glances over at me, concern lining his face. Through the bond, I feel his warm presence, comforting and questioning. I give him a soft smile, urging him not to worry about me. It’s merely me not drinking very often.
Funny enough, it doesn’t taste strong. In fact, it’s more akin to juice than anything else. Taking another sip, I blink, and the world remains upright. It must have been some momentary thing.
The meal continues where I observe but don’t interfere. At this point, I don’t feel like I’m allowed to intrude, not when everyone else already feels like such a family. It makes me ache for my sister.
With each smattering of laughter, I take another drink, needing to dull the pain. Yes, William is there. I feel him in my mind, but he’s far more preoccupied with his guests. As he should be. I never wish to deny him when it is I who is not worthy and not him.
As he turns, no doubt about to scold me for my line of thoughts, a loud shout interrupts everything, drawing the attention of the group. “Stay here,” he barks out as he and the other men dash out of the tent.
Similarly, the other men give the same order before disappearing. The duchess does no such thing as she rises and stands at the edge. Not quite disobeying, but not exactly doing as she’s told.
The girls from The Rose and Thorne follow suit, all of them peering out into the gardens.
“It’s a fire!” the duchess exclaims, stepping out from beyond the line of the tent.
She turns, motioning for me to come forward. As I rise to stand, I find that I cannot move. Everything blurs around me as if in slow motion. My hand refuses to lift. Try as I might, I cannot even open my mouth to cry out for help.
In my mind, I try to call for William, but my thoughts are mired, mucked about as if dragging me down. Again, my vision blurs as my eyelids feel like lead. The shouts and commotion due to the fire sound watery to my ears.
As I drift forward, strong hands wrap around my shoulders. The last thing that registers in my brain as everything goes dark is that damp stench of mildew. Fear flashes for a moment, then everything stops.
CHAPTER 26
William
The acrid stench of fire and fear fills my nostrils, igniting my adrenaline. What if it had been our tent and my precious omega was at risk? I redouble my efforts, working alongside my friends and others to put out the flames.
Glancing over at our section, I note the girls looking out, but thankfully, they stay put. My obedient little kitten is not among them, no doubt staying in her seat where it’s safe. Thankfully, Foxford has a link to his wife. If something happens and Catherine is too overcome to convey it to me, she can alert her husband.
Just to be sure, however, I reach into the bond. Despite a small jolt a few minutes ago, nothing else seems amiss. In fact, she’s the calmest I’ve ever felt her, placid even. Could it be that being around friends from The Rose and Thorne is having an agreeable effect on her nerves?
If that’s the case, then I should have them over more often. I could even host a masquerade. Again, thoughts of my omega’s happiness infiltrate my mind, driving me to distraction. Whether or not to invite the women over has no bearing on the concern blazing right in front of me. What’s important is keeping the fire contained so that it does not spread.
After diligent work, it finally extinguishes to embers. It’s in the hands of the Bow Street Runners now. Rubbing my sleeve over my brow, I watch as Whiteport bends low, sliding his fingers along the wreckage.
What could he possibly be looking for? I step forward, about to ask, when Foxford glances up at me, his eyes wide with alarm. “We must get back to the tent.”
Prickles of unease tense the back of my neck as I turn to look in their direction. Now, no one stands at the entrance. I reach back out to the bond and find nothing. Foxford, on the other hand, looks as white as a piece of clean linen.
I quicken my steps, reaching them before anyone else. Instantly, my gaze flies over to where my dear Catherine was eating. No one else is important at the moment.
But she’s gone. Nowhere to be found. My heart clenches so hard physical pain shoots down my left arm, compelling me to clutch it. Where is my mate?
I scour every corner, leaving no space untouched. She’s not there. She’s not anywhere. Tipping my nose up, I drag air into my lungs. Her scent still lingers, untainted by fear or unease. It’s as if she just left, waltzed out on her own accord while we were all distracted.
But she wouldn’t do that. Would she? Sorrow lances through me at the very thought. It would explain some things but not everything. Again, I try the bond. A vast nothingness greets me. Something isn’t right.
Foxford enters next, gathering his wife into his arms. Her face is wet with tears as fear and recrimination roll off of her, nearly choking me. Turning, I take a step toward her, desperate to know what happened.
I’m not sure what my face looks like or what I’m giving off, but Foxford slides in between us, blocking her from me. Growling softly under my breath, I pin him with a hard gaze. “Where is she?”
“They don’t know,” he admits, his tone full of regret. “They were so intent on watching the fire. They assumed she was with them.”
Behind him, a soft sob echoes, bouncing around the tent. I can almost feel the despair drip from the duchess's small frame. The others, the ones Catherine worked with, stand by, fiddling with their hands.
“What aren’t you telling me?” They quake in fear as they lower into a curtsy. “Your Grace, we know nothing.”
I scent the air, looking for any hint of deceit or malice and finding none. “Surely you must know something. Did she confide in either of you? Something? Anything?”
They glance at each other, confusion drawing their brows downward. “Your Grace, why would she confide in us? We barely know her.”
My blood runs cold at her proclamation. “But all the time in The Rose and Thorne…”
The other steps up, resting her hand on the arm of the girl that had been speaking. “Your Grace, I’m not sure what Kitty told you, but the night you found her was the night she entered the establishment. We never saw her before that. None of us are privy to the inner workings of her mind.”
Of course. In all my need to ensure her interactions with Hugh were circumspect, I neglected to really poke at the memories concerning her time at The Rose and Thorne. I saw the images I wanted to and left it at that. I should have dug further, but with the rut overtaking me, all I cared about was her feelings for the man who threatened every bit of our happiness.
Rage floods my system as I pace about the tent. Off in the corner, Whiteport pokes about, his lips turning down as if in deep thought. Eventually, he brings her glass to his nose and sniffs.
The irrational part of me, the part that wants to rend England apart until I find my mate, longs to rip the glass from his fingers and punch him in his smug face for even daring to do something so intimate as to scent her. However, I must force my mind to focus. To my knowledge, he feels nothing for her.
“Find something?” My voice is tight, controlled, but he sees right through me.
I detest the look of pity in his eyes as he nods his head. Once more, he leans forward, his nostrils quivering as he confirms his original assessment. Reaching in, he runs two fingers along the glass before holding them up to the light, rubbing them together ever so slightly. “Opium, if I’m not drastically mistaken. Your courtesan isn’t known to imbibe, is she?”
Grinding my teeth, I breathe, commanding my lips to not correct him, revealing that she’s my mate. There could be ears and eyes everywhere, especially here in the pleasure gardens. Instead, I take in a deep breath and shake my head.
“To my knowledge, she is circumspect, even going as far as to eschew too much drink.”
Again, he leans forward, but this time, his tongue touches his fingertips. A deep grimace twists his features as he swirls the glass, studying the remaining liquid. Setting it down, he takes a deep breath. “There was a lot in here. More than just recreational use. Whoever took her must have wanted her pliant or unconscious.”
It explains why I can’t see into the bond. Damnation. I should have known something was wrong the first time I felt that vast pit of tranquility when she had been so anxious before. Hell, I should have gone to her the instant I felt that spike of panic. No doubt that was the moment the fiend nabbed her.
Stepping over to him, I pluck the glass from off of the table. It’s still warm. No doubt from Whiteport’s hand, but I can still dream of her warmth, fooling myself into thinking it was mere moments instead of several minutes that she was here.
I turn, spearing the women with a glare. “And no one saw or heard anything?”
Foxford’s wife steps out from behind her husband despite his hand attempting to hold her back. “Your Grace, please forgive us. We were too caught up in the commotion. But tell us what we can do to assist you in getting her back.”
Whiteport steps up beside me, his countenance drawn as if in deep thought. “I think it best if all the ladies return from whence they came. Foxford, Blackport, and Portswell, take the women home. I will stay here with Birchleigh. Also, if you see either Redleigh or my brother, bring them with you. We will need all the help we can get.”
“Can we not be of assistance?” she insists, ignoring the glare Foxford is giving her. “Besides, as women, no one would expect us to uncover anything.” Her blue eyes sparkle as excitement pinkens her cheeks.
“Absolutely not,” Foxford growls, wrapping his arm around her waist. “You will retire. I cannot dedicate my mind to helping our friend if I’m worried about you. Besides, Miss Cynthia said she would visit you tonight. I’m sure you two have a lot to titter about.”
She opens her mouth, no doubt to deliver a rebuttal, but the look in Foxford’s eyes brooks no argument. With a slight huff, she turns and joins the other women preparing to be ushered away.
My brother steps forward. “Whiteport, you should accompany your lady. I can stay here with William.”
He hedges, looking back down into the glass, his fingers twitching as if the need to examine it again is overwhelming. “I feel I could be more useful here.” Though he holds himself with an air of nonchalance, his eyes seem to take in every detail of the scene.
Robert and I exchange a curious glance, but wisely decide to say nothing. At this point, any assistance would be a boon. Once the women are safely away, Whiteport and I go back to where Catherine was sitting.
So many scents clutter the air—the fire, the girls, my friends, the servants, but a few stand out. They’re not the same ones I remember from earlier. And underneath all of them is the one smell I dread the most. That horrible mixture of decay and ocean water.
“Hugh,” I snarl, flinging my hand out to slam against the table.
“Calm down,” Whiteport urges, his tone calm, resolved. “You will be no help to her if you allow your anger to get the better of you. Besides, maybe this is for the best. By allowing this obsession out of your life, you may be able to open yourself up for something better.”
My body stills as I stare at my friend. There’s no way he just said those words. And yet, as I mull them over in my brain, the more enraged I become. I move to grab him, to force him to the ground, fighting as we did in the academy, but with a swiftness I’ve never seen from him, he steps out of the way and pushes me to the side.
In my anger, I stumble, bumping into the table. Enraged, I roar, knocking the dishes to the ground with a satisfying clatter. I turn again, lowering my center of gravity to charge forward.
It’s for naught. No doubt it’s my fear for my mate and fury clouding my mind, making my movements too slow. To his credit, Whiteport never strikes me. Instead, he treats me as if I’m a child, pushing me away and sliding out of reach.
Not to be deterred, I rush at him again. Once more, it’s as if I’m nothing but a pesky insect as he moves and shoves. I need to hit something, to bloody my fingers. I need to do something.
Coming around, he grabs me about the shoulders and holds firm. “I’m not the one you’re angry with. Besides, you know I speak the truth. You’re too overcome with this courtesan. In truth, I’ve never seen someone as besotted as you.”
“Then look to your own brother,” I snarl, struggling against his hold. “I’ve never seen anyone carry the look of unrequited love like him.”
My words seem to hit their mark, startling him enough that he loosens his grip. Taking full advantage, I break free and hold my fists aloft. He shakes his head and turns his back.
“I will not fight you.”
“Then help me find the man I truly wish to knock into the oblivion. Besides, there’s more to this tale than you know.”
Turning, he raises a brow. “Oh?”
“She’s no longer just my mistress,” I murmur, keeping my voice low enough that only he can hear. Plopping down onto the seat Catherine once occupied, I rest my head on my hands. “She’s so much more than that. She is my bound mate.”
He stills next to me, his body practically screaming with his displeasure. “You didn’t.”
“I did. And now, that bastard has her. What will he do when he finds out?”
“If,” Whiteport grounds out. “If he finds out. Come. If we hurry, we can catch up with the others. Between all of us, we can figure something out.”
Shaking my head, I rise and look toward the corner of the tent. “You go on ahead. I’ll see what I can find out, and then I have a stop to make.”
With a grim smile, the last of my friends races off, leaving me alone. Now that he’s gone, if I find the monster, I’ll have no one to stop me from the carnage I intend to wreak upon his body. Even now, I can taste the blood on my lips as I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.
But Whiteport is correct. I need to calm down or I might miss something. Heading to the back corner of the tent, I pick up on his scent. Catherine is there too, but there’s no fear, no distress that I can tell.
It must be because she’s drugged. In a way, it’s a blessing. Being rendered pliant like this will make any injury to her person less likely. She won’t be thrashing and either hurt herself or cause Hugh to become violent with her.
Again, I close my eyes, reaching out to the bond. There’s nothing there. It’s as if she’s disappeared completely. The only reason I know she’s not dead is because I’m still functioning. If the bond was severed completely, I would be mad, feral, no doubt fit for Bedlam, or worse.
