The Duke (Victorian Rebels, #4)

by Kerrigan Byrne

Her entire body shook with equal measures of fear and rage. She abhorred conflict, was petrified of it. But worse than that, she despised ignorant, egotistical men who’d rather see someone die than have their opinions questioned by someone of inferior rank. By a woman.

“Look, see there?” He pointed with his prosthetic hand, unwilling to put down his glass. “That buxom wench she’s embracing.” Ravencroft moved in closer, peering down to observe the outrage to which he was referring. Lady Anstruther stood grasping the hands of a voluptuous woman with a stunning wealth of auburn hair. “The countess is barely dressed and receiving guests in her garden. And that other woman, she’s obviously a wanton.” “Aye, that she is.” Something in Ravencroft’s tone prompted Cole to glance up at the man. “You say that like you know her.” “I do. That buxom, wanton wench would be my wife, Mena Mackenzie, the Marchioness of Ravencroft.”

How grand and extraordinary these people were. She appreciated their acumen and intelligence, but also their progressive principles. Not only did the men converse with conviction and compassion, but they also listened with interest when their wives spoke. They respected their views and opinions, and discussed them with as much candor as they would any man’s.

I do not disagree with you on any particular point, but in my experience there are those who work themselves into exhaustion and are still unable to better their circumstances. Most especially women. At times, they become so desperate, for one reason or another, that they cannot see a way to climb out of the hole they find themselves mired in. Often, they are oppressed by the upper classes, shunned by society, and utterly hopeless. Those are the souls I’m trying to lift from the mire. If they can only be shown a different way, a better way, perhaps they would no longer need charity.”

He’d thought her only a devious social climber, but it was much, much worse than that. She was, in fact, an idealist. A crusader. One of the consecrated few who’d pulled themselves out of the middle classes and wanted to reach into the gutter and pull everyone else up as well. Curse her bleeding heart.

“The whores I’ve known have never left my company unsatisfied,” he purred, his finger drifting south, to curve over the delectable flesh at her nape, the sharp arrow of her clavicle, pointing down. Down toward the breasts now surging toward him with each troubled breath. “How wonderful for you.” She mocked an impressed expression, but not before something else flickered over her features. Fear. Sadness. And something else … something that disappeared as quickly as it had materialized. “I suppose they’re paid not to complain. And I happen to know the ones who feign pleasure are better compensated.” He made a droll sound. “I rather think I’m not too dense to decipher real pleasure from false.” She lifted a lovely bare shoulder and rolled her eyes heavenward. “Every man assumes thusly.”

“Lady Anstruther hosted a charity event last night which, as her next-door neighbor, I attended. The guest list had more lords and ladies than Burke’s Peerage. The deceased viscountess was seated near the head of our table between the Duke of Trenwyth and Dorian Blackwell. If you ask me, she was a tittering, ill-tempered quim.” “I’ll thank you to bite your vulgar tongue when we’re in the presence of the countess,” Morley admonished. “You’re welcome to bite my vulgar ass, and I’ll say what I like,” Argent volleyed back tonelessly. “Besides, Lady Anstruther is friends with my wife, and acquainted with my vulgar tongue.” It was Morley’s turn to lift a brow. “Not in that way.” Argent scowled,

“You thought it might have been Lady Anstruther,” Argent finished. Trenwyth said nothing. Morley moved to stand next to Lady Broadmore and lifted his face to the window Trenwyth had indicated. “From this trajectory and distance, your conclusion is not remarkable. In fact, the resemblance between the deceased and Lady Anstruther is noteworthy in a case such as this.” “It … it is?” Appalled, Imogen had to force herself to look down at the slumberous expression forever frozen upon the poor woman’s features. “How so?” “You are both fair-haired and slight of build,” Argent assessed. “You wore dresses of comparable color.” “Not so.” She grasped for something, for anything to crush this ridiculous train of speculation. “If you remember, my gown was apricot, and hers is most decidedly coral.” She met a collection of blank stares and profusely cursed the entire male sex.

“I just can’t understand how a man can be so cruel to a woman, how he can take something more helpless than he and destroy her with such violence.” “That is because you do not understand what it is to be a man.” “Apparently,” she said bitterly. “I mean, yes, we women are generally smaller and softer than you, but why does that make us less than human in your eyes? Or less capable?” “It doesn’t.” Did she mean, him, personally? Or all of mankind? Cole wasn’t certain he was ready to defend those of his sex to her. “But it does,” she insisted. “If I were a man, would you so strongly object to my charitable undertakings?” “Yes, I would. But we’ve already established that I am an unmitigated bastard. That has nothing to do with your sex,” he reasoned.

“You haven’t any idea the strength it takes to be a woman. In my experience, it is men who are the weaker sex. Either too undisciplined to control their baser, primal instincts or, conversely, they are too fragile to endure the discomfort of honesty or integrity. Yet women endure and survive by whatever means we are able. And still we are either property or playthings. We have as much use in the eyes of the law as a cow or a fertile plot of land. It is not wrong to mistreat us. To objectify us. To shame and demand things of us and bend us to your will. That is your right as a man and our duty as a woman. Is it any wonder the world is in chaos?”

He pondered a moment, his entire being focused on the warmth of her hand as she clutched at him, seemingly unaware that she did so. What a little activist she was. So fierce. “You know what I think?” he finally said. “Men are terrified that were they to hand over power to women, they’d be humiliated at what a better job you’d do of everything. If you look at it, some of the most peaceful, prosperous times in our empire’s history have been when a great woman occupied the throne. Elizabeth, for example, and our own Victoria, of course. Not many men have ruled so wisely.”

“And yet it seems I know nothing about you,” she challenged. It could have been the dappled sunlight, the distraction she provided from his consistent disappointment, the mysterious glint in her eye, or some odd combination of all of these variables that summoned a rakish mischief within him he’d thought forever lost. “I am an open book,” he declared with false solemnity. “You are anything but that,” she laughed. He made a sound of mock outrage. “Ask me any question you please, and suffer the consequences of my absolute candor.”

“Speaking of books, then. Who is your most beloved author?” “Shakespeare, obviously.” She cast him a dubious look. “Which play?” It was his turn to give it some thought and answered with a defiant smirk, “The one wherein the parent dies and someone goes mad.” “That’s nearly all of them.” Her eyes danced with mirth. “So much for candor. I’m beginning to doubt you know Shakespeare at all.”

“The sun goes down and my mind seems to come to life. Sometimes for the better when I’m filled with artistic inspiration and can paint until dawn. And other times, I’ll construct scenarios and anxieties that are pure foolishness. I’ve taken up brooding of late, usually whilst raiding the kitchens or the liquor cabinet. The Brontes would be very proud.” She paused. “About the brooding and the drinking, not the snacking.”

“You don’t have to fear any legal repercussions, Trenwyth, that’s not why I called you here.” To his surprise, Trenwyth made a dry sound of mirth. “I am once removed from a royal duke, Chief Inspector, I could slaughter anyone I pleased in the middle of Westminster and leave their corpses in the street without fear of legal reprisal.” Morley thought he heard someone mutter, “Lucky bastard,” but couldn’t identify whom. Probably Argent.

How could one person be both so beautiful and so bitter? It was as though he’d been kissed by some ancient god, blessed with uncommon strength and magnificence, and then cursed with loss and guile.