Awakening His Duchess (13 page)

“I have business in the neighborhood. At Haven Castle.” The
accent couldn’t be helped. Claiming business with the duke should alleviate the
innkeeper’s suspicions. The gold coin dropped on the counter would help, too.

The coins were in short supply, but he would shortly have no
worries. He couldn’t believe his luck when he learned Yvette and Etienne were
alive. The slaves had savagely massacred so many of the white people of the
island. But with Yvette and Etienne alive, the plan he’d set into motion years
earlier was still feasible.

He’d seen them the night of the revolt, Yvette dragging
Etienne from body to body, tears streaming down her face, her hand over her
boy’s eyes. Her horror flashed with the flames of the fires that had been set,
but he hadn’t been certain they made it off the island until he learned she had
laid claim to funds housed in French banks.

The innkeeper stared as if uncertain he should let him stay.

Foreign visitors arriving in the middle of the night were
probably strange to this rural English innkeeper, but it was the closest to the
castle and the Duke’s lands—just in case. “My horse went lame and I have come
the last few miles on foot.”

Not trusting the beasts, he hadn’t ridden a horse. Horses
were dangerous creatures. The hoof-shaped rock in his coat pocket said so. He
stilled the smile at his own private joke. The machete scar made his smile
appear lopsided and ghoulish, so it was better not to frighten the man. “Have
you not a room and supper for a weary soul?”

The innkeeper slid the coin across the counter and tested
its weight. “Weren’t expecting anyone so late.”

“I hoped to be here sooner.” It was unusual for anyone to
arrive in the wee hours of the night. But all of his traveling had been done at
night. The less people saw of him, the better. Until the business was done,
revealing his presence served no purpose, but time was running out for him. “A
tankard of ale, bread, and cheese will serve.”

“Might have a bit of cold chicken. If you’ll step to the
common room, I’ll have the missus fetch you a plate and then we’ll see if we
can find you a bed, sir.”

He nodded. “Merci, er, thank you.” He wasn’t certain if the
man meant their rooms were full or that was just his way of talking. But the
man would find him a bed or give up his own.

The innkeeper surreptitiously bit into the gold piece. Ah, skepticism
about the late night traveler’s ability to pay. He’d once been wealthy before
the slaves had reverted to the savages they were and killed the men that fed,
clothed, and housed them.

Now his clothes had seen better days and, well—nothing could
be done to hide the scars except wearing his hat low which gave him the
appearance of a highwayman. “The duke is well, no?”

Lighting a lamp, the innkeeper carried it into the common
room and slid behind the serving counter. “As well as can be expected.”

Merde.
He’d hoped to wait until the old duke
died—when Yvette would welcome a man to help her run things until Etienne was
old enough to assume responsibility—but the duke was taking damnably long.
“Good, good. I have heard he is not as well as he should be, but he has many
tragedies, no?”

The duke was probably not foolish enough to let the
vicissitudes of life destroy his health, but that was likely what people
thought.

The innkeeper’s face drew into a deep frown. “What is your
business with the duke?”

“I am not at liberty to discuss it. But I can tell you the
news will be happy.”

“What business could a Frenchman have with the duke?” The
innkeeper’s harsh glare was made ridiculous by the nightcap.

Biting the insides of his lips to hold his crooked smile at
bay, he slid onto a stool. “Monsieur, I am a Frenchman from Saint-Domingue, the
same place the duke’s daughter-by-law and grandson were born. I assure you, I
have tidings he will wish to know, and I have traveled far to bring them.” Not
so far as he was allowing the innkeeper to assume, but far enough.

The innkeeper studied him for a minute and then gave a short
nod as if the knowledge of Etienne and Yvette’s birthplace might not be
commonly known.

At least back in Saint-Dominigue, the writing had been on
the wall long before the murmurings of the slaves turned deadly. Even though
he’d never expected them to find the courage to claim the island, he’d
prepared, sent what money he could spare to France, made contacts in Caribbean
islands, until he learned he could live like a king if he made use of the
child.

The innkeeper removed a plug from a barrel behind a long
counter and filled a pewter tankard. He shoved the tankard across the counter.

Without removing his gloves, he reached for the ale.

The innkeeper’s open countenance closed, his eyes narrowing.

The gloves hid the two and a half fingers lost to a machete.
Only the thumb and forefinger remained whole, but the sacrifice of the fingers
had probably kept the blow from being fatal—although it had damn near killed
him anyway. The stuffed glove fingers with their hidden threads attaching them
to the fingers that worked allowed him to straighten the fake appendages or
curl them as needed, but the innkeeper might summon the nearest magistrate if
his suspicions weren’t allayed.

He set the precious box of Havana cigars on the counter so
he could work the leather free of his left hand, but he never removed the right
glove.

The innkeeper glanced at the box. “What is that?”

“A gift for the duke. His favorite cigars.” With a little
arsenic thrown in for good measure. But the best present for the duke was
rolled in oilcloth and tucked securely in his breast pocket. How convenient of
Yvette to already be ensconced in the castle and convincing the duke to fight
for the very thing that would make life grand for all of them.

Once the old duke was gone Etienne would be the new duke,
and they’d all live like kings.

“A celebration gift?”

Shrugging he took a slow drink of his ale and considered his
answer. “Perhaps, but I do not know that my news is so important.” After all it
wouldn’t really change things until the duke died.

“Then you have not heard. The duke’s son is returned.”

A cold pall came over him. “His sons are dead. Perhaps you
mean his daughter has given him a new grandson.”

“Heard tell one of his sons come back from the other side of
the world.”

“No. All his sons are dead.” It couldn’t be any other way.
He’d seen to it no one stood between Etienne and his inheritance. Fighting the
tightness that threatened to cleave his spine, he shook his head. He’d paid the
bokor to poison Etienne’s father—long before he’d known his true identity—and
watched him buried. The other two sons were dead. There were no others. “You
are mistaken.”

 
*~*~*

Yvette stood in the shadows near the door and watched Beau
lean toward Etienne’s bed. Resting his elbows on the mattress, Beau stared down
at his sleeping son. His breathing had eased, only a faint wheeze accompanied
each breath, and his color was better. Her worries about protecting her son
seemed frivolous in light of the tender way Beau looked at him. The knot in her
stomach unraveled.

Swathed in blankets like an old man he sat in the rolling
chair. Digby had at least insisted Beau wear the dressing gown, but she feared
as the medicines kicked in he’d shed that and the blankets. The recipient
tended to get hot. Or the herbs could have other odd effects.

Mazi stood silently sentinel behind Beau and the hapless
under-footman turned valet hovered nearby.

Watching Beau, she folded her arms. The herbs were working,
but her chest grew tight as she considered what could have happened. Beau’s
death had been too near for her liking. She had seen it too many times to think
he was not on its doorstep when his lungs had seized.

Life was so unfair. He should have been safe here in
England, not having his lungs ruined by processing the cane. He should not be
ill, fearing death. But having a bokor brought in to poison him, enslave him,
and steal his soul was extreme even for Saint-Domingue. Had she been considered
so valuable? Her worth as a bride must have led to a desperate solution. There
was no other explanation.

When Beau had first come to Saint-Domingue, she had known
her future was decided and Beau was a temptation to be ignored, but she hadn’t
ignored him—and it had ruined his life. Her father must have called in the
bokor to get rid of Beau when their marriage interfered with his arrangements.
Even though she hadn’t told her father about the marriage, he must have known
about her sneaking out to meet Beau—or her mother had told her father.

Her father had needed her marriage to Henri, needed the
infusion of slaves and capital to continue to run their family’s plantation.
They’d been in Port-au-Prince so he could buy new slaves with the borrowed
money. Foolish spoilt girl that she had been, never seeing how much damage
giving in to her desire could do. She’d just wanted to experience love in all
its impetuous glory before marrying Henri.

She shook her head, pulling her thoughts back to the
present.

Beau smoothed back Etienne’s brown hair and left his hand
cupping the boy’s head. The image jabbed through the murky darkness of her
existence and stung her like a dozen swarming jellyfish. Her breath came out in
a whoosh and left her shaky.

Beau should have known his son from his birth.

Not trusting her ability to keep her emotions in check, she
drew back, but she had to make sure Beau was safe. Digby was a bit of a ninny
although he meant well. But Beau clearly only trusted one person to guard him,
and the former slave had caught Beau when he’d almost fallen in the hall.
Clearly Mazi knew Beau much better than she did and would know if his behavior
was outside of normal.

She caught the eye of the large man Beau had returned with.
“Monsieur Mazi, a word with you,
s’il vous plaît.”

A catch in her throat, she inched farther away from
Etienne’s room.

Mazi followed her, moving surprisingly quietly for a big
man. She glanced over her shoulders several times, not liking that his silent
footfalls didn’t allow her to place how closely he followed. It reminded her
too much of the rebel slaves who had followed her the morning after the
massacre. They’d followed her for miles until a group of soldiers just outside
the city had appeared. She didn’t know if the sight of the soldiers had sent
them scurrying off, but when she turned around they’d vanished as if they
hadn’t been there. When she reached the end of the corridor she stopped and
drew a deep breath. She had only to treat him as Beau’s trusted companion.

Turning around she faced the big man. “The medicine—herbs—I
gave Beau will ease his breathing, but they also can make him see things that
aren’t there.”

Mazi squinted at her.

She hurried on. “He will need to be watched for the next few
hours to be certain he does not do anything strange. He may forget he was given
medicine and should be reminded if he behaves not himself.”

Mazi folded his arms across his broad chest.

“Guide should be easy.” Her English was failing her and she
was shaking although the hallway was not cold. “He will drink much. Water, no
wine.”

He cocked his head sideways as if he were puzzling something
out.

“Do you understand? No alone for him.” With any luck, Beau
would only have hazy spots of memory of the night.

“Je te comprends,”
Mazi said.

Her knees almost buckled hearing the lilting French of her
birthplace. But his next sentence in her native language made her want to bolt.

“Non!”
Her potions were not what a bokor would give.
She stared at him.

He gave a slow nod.

Her stomach squeezing hard, she shook her head slowly and
held her hand out in front of her. “No, I only give herbs to ease sickness. I
know nothing of bokor potions.”

Mon Dieu
, if there was any similarity between what
she gave Beau to ease his breathing and what the bokor had poisoned him with,
Beau would never trust her.

Yet an old vodou priestess and herbalist had given her the
recipe. The docility brought on by the herbs might be the effect the vodou
practitioners were after.

The fragile hope that had begun when Beau told her not to leave
shattered like a piece of thin glass dropped on a stone. The hand she held out
shook, and she rapidly blinked trying to rid her eyes of excess moisture.

“For Etienne’s sake, I wish his father no harm.”

Mazi’s lashes flickered. “And for your sake?”

She flinched. For her sake? Wasn’t it indulging her own
selfish desire that got them all in this mess in the first place? She shook her
head. “I want nothing.”

She deserved nothing. And Beau was right—a simple apology
was not enough. Would never be enough.

Mazi’s upper lip lifted so quickly she almost missed it in
the dim light, but her heart jolted. His disdain might have been missed by one
not watching so hard. She’d thought he’d be an ally. When he insisted Beau
drink the tincture...

Or was she affected by the hearty swallow she’d taken?

Her movements jerky, she gestured back toward Etienne’s
room. “You should be with him. He trusts you.”

He didn’t trust her not to poison him. She hurried toward
the stairs to return to the prison of their shared suite.

“I bring him home to die among his people,” said Mazi
softly.

Her knees wobbled. She didn’t even know how to respond. Beau
had come home to find his brothers dead, his mother and sisters away, and a
wife he never wanted to see again. “Does Etienne not give him reason to live?”

But Mazi’s response was maddening. “A wife should want her
husband.”

She did want him. It had surprised her that she had been
contemplating what might happen between them when he was healthy...but she was
only human and French. Desire for a man who had been her first lover was
natural. It didn’t mean she had any intention of acting upon those wayward
urges. No, she was content—as content as she could be the place where she
didn’t allow emotions to touch her. She couldn’t be sliced raw if she didn’t
allow feelings in. It might be a lonely existance, but it was safe.