The Mad, Bad Duke by Jennifer Ashley
The Mad, Bad Duke
Jennifer Ashley
LEISURE BOOKS NEW YORK CITY
Mad Hot Ballroom
Alexander, his eyes hot and blue, snaked his arm around Meagan’s waist and dragged her to the dance floor. This was not the stately Nvengarian dance she’d learned. This dance was crazed, Alexander’s arm rock-solid against her abdomen, his sword held out to his side. Whenever they passed another whirling couple, Alexander’s and the man’s swords met in a ringing clash.
“You’re mad,” she shouted, and she started to laugh. “You are completely mad.”
He grinned, the wild and feral Nvengarian loose at last. It was as though without his medal-bedecked coat and sash of office, he could let free the being inside him. His face shone with perspiration, as did his muscled chest bared by the open V of his shirt. He looked like his barbarian ancestors, the gypsies and the nomads in tents under the stars who lived and loved with great passion.
“I love you,” she said beneath the stamping and shouting and clanging and clapping. “I love you, Alexander.”
Alexander jerked her close, and there in front of their five hundred guests, he scooped her to him and kissed her.
His sword clanged Nikolai’s, and the valet laughed out loud. Meagan joined the laughter, tasting the frenzy of Alexander’s bruising kiss.
A loud crash sounded even over the riot of dancing and shouting, and the two tall windows at the end of the ballroom broke and fell in sheets of shimmering glass. The night rain and wind tumbled in, along with five men carrying pistols cocked and ready.
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Mad Hot Ballroom
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Praise
Other Books By
Copyright
CHAPTER ONE
March 1820
Alexander woke suddenly in the middle of his garish sitting room, naked and alone. The pointed arches nailed over rectangular windows and the pillars carved to resemble palm trees seemed to mock him. False things, covering the real.
Alexander, Grand Duke of Nvengaria, exiled to rainy England to watch over its new portly king, was slowly going insane.
This was the dozenth time he’d had the memory lapse—this one, he realized as he glanced at the carved ivory clock, the longest. The last thing he remembered was sitting in his study upstairs three hours ago. He stretched out his scratched and bloody hands, more determined than ever to discover what was happening to him and why.
It wasn’t drink that caused the lapses, because Alexander drank only small amounts of wine and brandy and never became inebriated. He’d already ruled out poison as well. His valet Nikolai, fanatically devoted to keeping Alexander alive, had insisted on hiring a food taster and supervising the preparation of every dish.
Nikolai was the only one of the staff in on the secret of Alexander’s lapses. The rest of the servants, both English and Nvengarian, so far had not noticed a thing. Most of the lapses had lasted a half hour, some only minutes, but this one would surely have caused questions.
He gave a mirthless laugh, imagining his worried staff carting him off to Bedlam. Not enough that Alexander was darkly lonely, far from a home he fiercely loved, and irritated in his task of keeping England on the side of Nvengaria. Alexander was like a ruthless sword, honed and fixed for one purpose. These memory lapses and the strange new awareness inside him distracted him, and Alexander hated to be distracted.
As he turned to leave the room, he caught sight of himself in an overly gilded mirror, his naked skin gleaming in the moonlight. His black hair, mussed from whatever had happened in the last three hours, touched wide shoulders on his tall frame, his blue eyes wide.
Alexander was the second most powerful man in Nvengaria, and that power wrapped him like a second skin. He knew how to find things out, how to bend others to his will, how to open them to him. He would learn who was doing this, and then he would show them just what happened when someone tried to manipulate Grand Duke Alexander of Nvengaria. The result would not be pretty.
He left the room, his blood burning with determination. His fantastically decorated house was silent as he crossed to the stairs. He hoped to reach his bedroom before one of his efficient Nvengarian staff saw him, or, God forbid, the English staff who still did not know quite what to make of him. He’d escape into his chamber, clean himself up, and ring for Nikolai to dress him.
Before he could start up the stairs, he spied a figure lurking behind one of the arched pillars that skirted the hall.
“Myn?” he called softly.
Myn stepped out from the shadows as though he’d been waiting to be summoned.
Myn was a logosh, one of the legendary shape-shifting creatures that roamed the high mountains of Nvengaria. He stood Alexander’s height, six and a half feet tall, broad of shoulder, rippling with muscle, his face wide at the eyes and pointed at the chin. His eyes were blue, a strange, almost glowing blue that seemed to take in everything and give away nothing.
“Did it happen again?” Myn asked in slow Nvengarian. Myn never addressed Alexander as Your Grace, the only person who dared not to.
“What do you know about this?”
Myn gave him a cryptic look. “It is beginning.”
“What is? Tell me what you know.”
“It is inside you.” Myn tilted his head, his strange eyes fixed on Alexander. “When you embrace it, these troubles will leave you.”
“That is not an answer.”
Myn looked at him quietly another moment, then the leader of the logosh walked away. Alexander started to call him back, but the word choked in his throat. Myn moved into the shadows and then, in the uncanny way of his people, he simply disappeared.
Cursing under his breath, Alexander mounted the stairs, making for his rooms. Myn’s cryptic hints meant there was magic in this, and Alexander would find it and find out who wielded it, no matter what ruthless methods he had to employ.
“Do hurry,” Deirdre Braithwaite hissed, grabbing Meagan’s arm and dragging her into the house.
From all she had heard of the witch called Black Annie, Meagan expected to step into a dark and smoky abode with herbs and dried reptile carcasses hanging from the beamed ceiling. Instead they found a narrow, white-painted front hall trimmed with black and an ordinary mob-capped maid who curtseyed and led them to a sunny sitting room to wait.
Meagan hid her excited curiosity by sitting haughtily on the sofa, pretending she consulted with witches for potions and the like every day. Her father would be livid if he’d known her “outing” with Deirdre included a call on this witch to whom ladies of the ton hurried with their problems. But Meagan hadn’t been able to resist the opportunity, even though Deirdre, since her marriage, had become quite indecorous.
Deirdre’s husband was a wealthy nabob, a fact that she flaunted with costly frocks and as many jewels as she could cram onto her person at once. Even for this
Meagan Tavistock, daughter of a gentleman without excessive means, wore a silver ring, a gift from her father, on her left hand, and a gold ring dusted with Nvengarian sapphires, a gift from her dearest friend Penelope, on her right. Meagan’s dress was plain broadcloth, a rust color that went well with her dark red hair and did not make her complexion too sallow.
“Do sit down, Deirdre,” she said. “You make me fidgety with all your pacing.”
Deirdre regarded her with large, slightly protuding brown eyes. Meagan’s new stepmother, with her usual lack of tact, always said Deirdre reminded her of a large, overeager rabbit.
“This is a very important transaction, Meagan darling,” Deirdre said. “After tonight, you will be proud to be my best friend.”
Meagan did not point out that her best friend was Penelope, who had married last summer and gone to the far-off kingdom of Nvengaria to be its princess. “Are you certain you wish to do this? Your husband is a kind man; I cannot fathom why you rush to cuckold him.”
“All married women take lovers, and their husbands take mistresses. I’ve given Braithwaite an heir and a spare, and now I am taking my reward for being tied to a tedious and frumpy old man.”
Mr. Braithwaite was middle-aged, and a little portly, but Meagan had never considered him frumpy.
“Who is this gentleman you want to ensnare with a love spell?” Meagan asked for the dozenth time.
Deirdre looked mysterious. “Shan’t tell you.”
“I am risking my father locking me in the cellar for the entire Season to be here, you know. You might at least tell me whom you are chasing.”
Deirdre opened her mouth, then looked wise and shut it again. “You’ll know soon enough.”
Meagan rolled her eyes. “I vow, Deirdre, it is a great trial being your friend.”
“You shall laugh when you find out. He is a very powerful man. Oh my, he is powerful. All gentlemen of the ton fear him, and he has the new king of England eating out of his hand. Perhaps I will convince him to introduce you to one of his colleagues and make a good marriage for you.”
“That would be a fine trick,” Meagan said.
Deirdre’s reply was cut off as the door opened to admit the lady for whom they so anxiously waited.
Again, Meagan felt vague disappointment. Black Annie—in truth Mrs. Arabella Reese—was not a crone with a mass of wrinkles and a hunched back, but a tall, graceful woman with dark hair. She might have been fifty at most, with a touch of gray at her temples and faint lines about her dark blue eyes. She wore a simple gown of gray serge that made overdressed Deirdre appear ridiculous.
Deirdre nearly sprang at Black Annie, her hand out, every diamond flashing. “Mrs. Reese, how delightful to see you again. This is my friend, Miss Meagan Tavistock. Have you got it ready?”
Black Annie shook Deirdre’s hand, her expression neutral, then moved her gaze to Meagan. She held out a smooth hand adorned with one gold ring. “Miss Tavistock. How nice to meet you.”
“Mrs. Reese,” Meagan said politely.
As their hands clasped, a strange pressure stole through Meagan’s body. Black Annie looked into Meagan’s eyes a moment, assessing her, and then she gave a slight nod and smile. She moved away, and Meagan rubbed her hand, wondering what had just transpired.
Deirdre, impatient, chattered. “I have brought my fifty guineas; may I have it?”
Meagan’s eyes widened. “Fifty guineas? Good heavens, Deirdre.”
“It is almost finished,” Black Annie said smoothly. “Did you bring the final piece?”
“What? Oh, yes, I almost forgot.” Deirdre yanked open her reticule and withdrew something wrapped in a handkerchief. “I got it from my maid, who got it from one of his maids. Was that not clever?”
“Oh, yes, you are very clever, Mrs. Braithwaite.”
Black Annie carried the handkerchief to a table in the corner and rang a silver bell that rested there. A moment later, the mob-capped maid entered, carrying a wide, shallow basket. Meagan craned her head in fascination as Black Annie picked over its contents. She chose various things—a twist of cloth, a length of gold wire, and several feathers of different shades and sizes. Once she had a pile of odds and ends assembled on the table, she dismissed the maid, who curtseyed and sped away.
“She will bring tea when she returns,” Black Annie said, as though apologizing for her lack as a hostess. “You may be seated if you like.”
“What are you going to do?” Meagan asked curiously.
“Make the talisman that will transmit the spell.” Black Annie opened the drawer of the table and added scissors, a small knife, and a length of twine to the pile. “You are welcome to watch me. I have no secrets.”
Meagan approached the table with Deirdre. For fifty guineas, she thought, they ought to get a good show.
Black Annie lit a spill at the fireplace and touched it to the wick of a fat candle on the table. Then she seated herself and spread out her accoutrements. As the candle warmed, the faint scent of wax mixed with spice wafted to Meagan, filling her with sweet lassitude.
Black Annie lifted the feathers and twists of cloth and began to bind them into the length of gold wire with deft fingers. All the while she murmured under her breath, just beyond Meagan’s hearing. The words were not English, but Meagan could not decipher enough to identify them.
Deirdre leaned closer, eyes bright. “Are you doing magic?”
Black Annie ignored her. Meagan clasped her hands, her body relaxing, mesmerized by Annie’s smooth words and the tiny flame of the candle. She felt herself swaying, as if in rhythm with Black Annie’s chant.
Annie unwrapped Deirdre’s handkerchief to reveal a narrow braid of black hair. “This is his?” she asked. “You are certain? It would never do for the spell to work on the wrong person.”
“Certain enough,” Deirdre answered impatiently. “My maid swore it.”
Annie shrugged as though that were ample proof. Resuming her murmuring, she wove the wire around the braid, binding it to the feathers and cloth. She continued to weave and add feathers until she had an oblong bundle about the length of Meagan’s thumb. It looked like nothing more than a jumble of oddities held in place with the glittering wire.
“That is all?” Deirdre asked, sounding disappointed.
“Nearly. Miss Tavistock, would you put your finger there?” Annie tapped a place where the wire crossed itself.
Still in the grip of the lassitude, Meagan readily put her forefinger where Annie indicated. Annie tied the wire off in a neat knot and withdrew it from Meagan’s finger. The wire scraped a tiny drop of blood from Meagan’s finger to smear the feathers.
Black Annie blew out the candle. Acrid smoke filled Meagan’s nose, and she sneezed. As she did so, the sweet relaxation went away.
“That will be fifty guineas, Mrs. Braithwaite,” Black Annie said briskly.
Deirdre’s eyes narrowed, as though belatedly sharing Meagan’s father’s views about young ladies visiting charlatans. “I will pay you when I see whether the spell works.”
Black Annie quickly closed her hand over the talisman. “No, Mrs. Braithwaite. Cash on receipt of goods. If the spell does not work, you may of course request your money returned.”
Deirdre opened her mouth to argue. Black Annie gazed at her in quiet confidence, a much stronger woman than silly Deirdre could ever hope to be.
Deirdre sighed. “Oh, very well. But it had better work.”
“It will. Just have it with you when you next see the man for whom it is intended.”
Deirdre opened her reticule and removed a bank draft. “For fifty guineas.”
Black Annie took the draft calmly, folded it, and placed it in the drawer of the table. She wrapped the talisman in Deirdre’s handkerchief and held it out.
Deirdre glanced at it, then sai
Meagan stared at her. “It is only a bit of wire and feathers. Your husband would not tumble to what it is, surely.”
“He will ask me. He always tasks me when I come home with what I’ve bought and how much I’ve spent. So tedious. He will find it, and whatever would I say to him?”
“I do not know. Tell him it is for spots.”
Deirdre gave her a disparaging look. “As if I have trouble with my complexion, thank you very much. My maid is too stupid to hide it—my husband’s valet will find it and try to give her the sack. He loves to lord it over my servants. You must keep it for me.”
Black Annie held out the handkerchief to Meagan. “It seems the only way, Miss Tavistock.”
Meagan took the small bundle, resisting the urge to open it and study the talisman. “Very well. But only until tonight. And if my father or stepmother finds it, I will tell them truthfully that it’s yours.”
“Then make certain they do not find it,” Deirdre said. “Now where is that maid with my wraps? I must get home.”
Black Annie rang her bell and the maid reappeared, carrying their cloaks. In a sudden hurry Deirdre snatched hers up and flung out of the room without saying goodbye. Meagan tucked the handkerchief-wrapped talisman into her reticule, wondering if she should apologize for Deirdre or simply slip away.
“Miss Tavistock.”
Meagan turned back. Black Annie watched her, hands folded, her eyes wise and even kind.
“I am sorry for Deirdre’s abruptness,” Meagan began.
Black Annie made a small shrug. “She paid me well; I am not interested in her manners. But I wanted to tell you, Miss Tavistock, that I knew your mother.”
Meagan stopped, her excitement at the illicit outing fading. “My mother?”
“You look much like her, my dear. You must have been a very young child when she died, were you not?”
“I was eight.” Meagan remembered little about her mother except for her warm smile and lovely brown eyes. She also remembered her comforting hugs and the fact that she’d loved Meagan’s father to distraction.