Page 89 of The Duke of a Thousand Desires

“A romantic duke. I concede.”

Timpkins tuckedthe pistol into his waistband and whirled around to glare at the woman who had sneaked up behind him in the mist. So appealing was Isolde with her flowing black hair and white pelisse that he almost refrained from criticizing her recklessness. “What are you doing out here?” he demanded.

“I thought to check on you before bed and saw that you had left your room,” she said breathlessly.

“Wasn’t that improper of you?”

“Do not antagonize me, Mr. Timpkins,” she said, her usual steady voice warbling. “When I noticed your gun was missing from the cabinet, I felt my heart drop to my knees. I was so distraught I ran straight into the butler’s pantry to seek his aid.”

Timpkins stared over her head and saw half the domestic staff arranged along the brewery wall. “You could make my heart stop without a weapon whatsoever,” he said, moving forward to comfort her.

“You shouldn’t talk in such a manner.” She glanced at the gun in his hand. “Why and who were you shooting at?”

“I was thinking back to our honeymoon – to the night when someone was prowling about the place, and I got an idea in my head to climb a tree, with my gun, and act as if I was an assassin.”

“Whatever for?” she asked, blinking rapidly.

“His grace told me that Lord Heath climbed the walnut tree in London to gain the gunman’s perspective.”

“Heaven protect us.”

“I made as if I was aiming at the duke at the marquess’ party, and you’ll never believe what happened.”

“Probably not. I do not believe what I am hearing now.”

“You interrupted my shot. I had pegged that oak sapling as the duke and you interrupted as I was about to fire. It is ironical considering how closely your actions mimicked those of the duchess.”

“Ironical is not the word you mean.” She backed up to the wall with her arms folded. “’Idiotic’ is more appropriate. Furthermore, oh, honestly, Timpkins. What does this clownery prove?”

“It proves I am a clod,” he said. “When I saw you coming from the house, I jumped down from the tree and nearly shot off my foot.”

“And disturbed the entire estate.”

A clap of thunder rent the air. Isolde and Timpkins glanced skyward simultaneously only to swivel around at an earthly disturbance.

“Timpkins! Timpkins!” the duke shouted, charging from the house with a pistol in each hand. “What is everyone doing outside? Was that your gun I heard? Why is the staff standing out here? Was there a shooting?”

Isolde melted back from view, whispering, “I wish I could stay to listen to the rest of this, Timpkins, but I should report to the mistress. Your foolhardy operation has upset the house. Couldn’t you have chosen a better time to experiment?”

“Then I might have shot someone going about the garden.”

“Instead, you shot yourself.”

“Only the tip of his grace’s old boot, which was blessedly too big for me.” He grinned at her. “Say what you like, Isolde, but you would not have looked in my room tonight unless you were worried about me. Admit it.”

“Admit what?” the duke asked in an irate voice, his appearance on the scene allowing Isolde to make a covert retreat. “Damn. Did I detect gunfire or is a storm moving over the estate?”

“I misfired, your grace,” Timpkins said. “I could not fall asleep, wondering about the man who was purportedly skulking about last time I was here. So I came outside and I climbed that tree to study the lay of the garden, places that are vulnerable to entry, places to hide. But then who do you suppose comes along when she shouldn’t and gives me the fright of my life? And, yes. I do believe that was thunder we just heard.”

The steward broke off, realizing he had lost his master’s attention. The duke swept past him, his face frozen in an expression of incredulity. Timpkins turned his head and at once perceived through the mist what had drawn his master’s notice.

A jet-black carriage with enormous wheels crawled to the top of the drive. The glow of the vehicle’s links revealed the lacquered red dragons emblazoned on the door panel. Simon slipped his pistols into his coat and walked forth in resignation to greet the late-night arrival, a Boscastle brother-in-law. Although not the relative he had been expecting, the nocturnal caller certainly displayed the Welsh family’s flair for dark drama.

By the time Isolde appeared, Ravenna had changed into a smoke-gray taffeta dress suitable for company. “So the Duke of Thunder has arrived,” she said with a sigh. “Is he alone?”

“Lord Rhys traveled with him on horseback from what I gathered.” Isolde began to arrange the magical tools of her maid’s trade on the dressing table: combs, pearl-headed pins, silk ribbons, hair pomade, rose water and peppermint breath rinse.

“The aunts?”

Isolde shook her head. “No. Only your brothers.”

“Thank the stars.” She sneezed at Isolde’s generous application of fragrance behind her ears. “I suppose Harriet and the baby stayed with them in London. They must be heartily sick of travel.” She scrutinized her reflection. “Pin my hair back, please. I might be a well-ravished wife, but there is no need for me to look as if I’ve just tumbled out of my husband’s bed.” Especially knowing that her eldest brother had deemed Simon too sinful for her to wed.

Isolde smiled and deftly secured Ravenna’s heavy hair into a figure eight with a few curls artfully draped down one shoulder.

“Gracious, what a time for Griff to arrive,” Ravenna murmured, rising in a scented cloud from the stool. “I wonder why he didn’t wait until morning. I hope nothing is amiss. But he would have sent word, wouldn’t he?”

Isolde lowered her eyes. “I would assume so.”