Chapter One
September 1814
Central England
Elliot Townsend, the Duke of Huntington, led such an ordered existence that he failed to recognize disaster.
Until it was far too late to save himself.
Calamity appeared in the form of a rain-soaked female clad in a simple white gown. The thin fabric was plastered to every considerable curve of her womanly form. She surfaced at the same ramshackle inn, from the same punishing rainstorm.
A washed-out section of Watling Road outside the town of Coventry had forced him to seek shelter at the Black Swan Inn. It was a tattered structure with a lopsided overhanging roof. The inside proved even less inviting than the dubious exterior. Mingled odors of unwashed bodies, perspiration and spirits permeated the inn’s damp smoky taproom. Now sipping his too-sweet ale, Hunt cursed himself for not delaying his journey at the first sign of inclement weather.
He could be in London right now finding satisfaction between Georgina’s delectably plump thighs. He’d certainly prefer to inhale her delicate flowery perfume rather than a mildewy room full of malodorous strangers. He visited his mistress precisely three times a week, appearing at her Half Moon Street address, which he paid for, every Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday. Hunt rarely deviated from the pattern he’d set early on in their arrangement. Or any arrangement really.
Soon he and Georgie would part ways. Hunt intended to marry before Parliament met in early November, at which time the Season would begin in earnest. He was on his way now to pay court to his future wife. Unease moved through him, but he pushed it away. Surely all men experienced a sense of foreboding before binding themselves to one woman for a lifetime.
He had no reason to be apprehensive. His choice was sound. Lady Victoria was a hidden gem, an unpolished diamond that society’s foolish young bloods had overlooked. Hunt congratulated himself on recognizing the fine attributes hidden deep beneath the bookish young lady’s retiring exterior and decided lack of conversational polish.
She met all of his qualifications for a wife. Her extraordinary shyness in his presence would eventually pass. What truly mattered was that she was agreeable, of good family, and possessed sufficient intelligence so that Hunt wouldn’t be bored to death. Most importantly, Lady Victoria’s countenance suggested she would never do anything to dishonor the Huntington title. God knows Hunt’s rakehell of an older brother had done enough damage to the family name to last this lifetime.
Phillip Townsend, the seventh Duke of Huntington, drowned during a drunken boat outing four years prior. He left behind numerous unpaid debts, broken hearts and ruffled feathers that Hunt had spent the past four years repaying, mending and unruffling.
From his rickety corner table in the crowded taproom, he swallowed his ale, his attention drawn to the latest castaway who’d joined the tavern’s motley group. Her back was to him. His gaze followed the single long dark braid that ran down her back almost reaching a curvaceous arse. Hunt’s eyes widened when his gaze hit the bottom edge of the lady’s gown.
What he glimpsed there was barely visible. He suspected the woman’s intention was to keep them hidden, but Hunt could make out what seemed to be the hems of billowing trousers beneath her straight-cut gown.
“I would like a chamber,” she informed the innkeeper.
The man’s heavy brows almost met in the middle of his considerable forehead. He cast an appraising look at the woman, his interested gaze lingering well below the woman’s face far longer than necessary. “Do you now?”
“Yes, and without delay if you please.”
The innkeeper’s brows lifted. He seemed uncertain of how to respond to a woman who dressed like a costermonger but commanded him like a queen. Before he could respond, the inn door blew open, and the rain ushered in yet another arrival, a brown-skinned man with a lived-in face stooped over a worn leather valise. The woman addressed the newcomer in an unfamiliar tongue.
She spoke so quickly that the words all seemed to run together. The woman’s male companion nodded, set the bag down at her side and withdrew, the wind and rain blowing leaves across the stone flagged floor as he made his exit.
“What are you?” The innkeeper flushed as he stared after the man. “A blackamoor?”
“She’s Persian,” one of the old soldiers cried out. “No, Arabian, that’s it.”
One of his companions guffawed. “As if you’d know the difference, you old drunk.”
“I ’eard that kind of guttural talk in Egypt,” the old soldier insisted, “when we fought against the frogs in Alexandria in ’01.”
“They got camels out there, don’t they?” another of their companions inquired.
The innkeeper scowled at the woman. “We do not accommodate heathens.”
“I require a chamber. The roads are impossible to travel on.” The woman did not cower. To the contrary, Hunt admired the way she seemed to grow taller. She set a small bulging money pouch on the scarred counter. “I will pay handsomely.”
A hush came over the taproom. The once-boisterous throng of soldiers and laborers grew silent, their eyes now fixed on the woman. Even a group of miscreants singing vulgar songs stopped their racket.
The innkeeper realized he had an audience. “You need a place to sleep?” He crossed his arms over a high belly. “Perhaps one of these fine men will see to you. I am certain a wench such as yourself is well used to accommodating her betters.”
“Maybe she learned some tricks in her master’s harem,” one man called out amidst guffaws of approval.
Hunt set down his pewter tankard. He did not care for the restless tension that stretched the air. Nor for the fact that the woman was the lone female in a crush of drunken men already agitated about being cooped up at the inn. Even the serving girls had vanished.
“I will take that chamber now,” she said firmly, as if she was ordering fripperies in Mayfair. She paid no mind to the leering ruffians edging ever closer.
Hunt slowly rose from his chair, sliding his hand beneath his tailcoat. His fingers brushed the cool barrel of the flintlock pistol he’d removed from his valise and clipped to his trousers.
He never traveled unarmed. Country roads could be treacherous for a man on his own, particularly a duke. His security team blanched whenever he indulged in these occasional solitary sojourns. The outings were much needed reprieves from the strictures of a title he’d never expected to inherit. A bachelor duke under seventy with fifteen thousand pounds a year tended to draw unwanted attention.
“I got a room yer can share, sweet’eart.” A man sitting with the old soldier separated from the crowd and sauntered up to the woman. A huge scar ran down the left side of his face, a jagged line dissecting one ruddy cheek. “’Ow about we go up now and yer ride me like yer people ride a camel in the desert?”
“I got a bigger . . . chamber.” Another man, this one small and ragged, stood up, gyrating his bony hips indecently. “Come with me and I’ll take yer for the ride of yer life.”
“Ain’t no reason the wench can’t screw us both.” Scarface grinned amidst the hoots of encouragement and slid a meaty hand down over the woman’s bottom.
Hunt vaulted across the room. “Get your hands off of her!” he bellowed.