Mary Blayney - [Pennistan 03] Read online

  PRAISE FOR MARY BLAYNEY’S

  Traitor’s Kiss/Lover’s Kiss

  “Taut and daring, an emotionally charged tale that satisfies from beginning to end. Traitor’s Kiss will steal your heart!”

  —GAELEN FOLEY

  “Reminiscent of Regency masters Putney, Balogh and Elizabeth Boyle … [Blayney’s] consummate storytelling completely involves readers.”

  —Romantic Times

  “Danger, deception, and desire blend brilliantly together in these two deftly written, exceptionally entertaining Regency romances.”

  —Chicago Tribune

  “Mary writes with a quiet beauty and great confidence.”

  —Risky Regencies

  “These two exhilarating Pennistan family Regency romances are well written, filled with plenty of action and star great courageous lead characters. … Fans will enjoy both super tales.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  “This beguiling pair of novels from author Mary Blayney delivers a double dose of romance and intrigue.”

  —Fresh Fiction

  ALSO BY MARY BLAYNEY

  Traitor’s Kiss/Lover’s Kiss

  For Diane Gaston

  and

  Julie Halperson:

  Thank you for your friendship, inspiration, and

  laughter

  Prologue

  London

  January 1818

  THE DUELING PISTOL lay heavy in his hand. Lynford Pennistan, the Duke of Meryon, counted off the paces with his second, staring at the ground as if each blade of grass mattered.

  “Have you decided?” Lord Kyle asked.

  Meryon didn’t answer. Kyle’s practical question belied what was at stake. Kill the bastard or let him live. Meryon knew his hand was steady, but his anger burned white hot.

  “Lyn, please, you’re a better shot than Bendas. He doesn’t have a chance.”

  Kyle’s hands were clasped behind his back, a gesture that Meryon recognized. His friend wanted to do something physical, most likely beat some sense into him. “He is the Duke of Bendas.” Kyle came close to pleading. “There will be consequences.”

  “You handle your role as second with honor, but you will not talk me out of this.” He reached twenty paces but Meryon kept his back to the field.

  “Can whatever happened between you be worth this risk?”

  “Yes. It is.” Meryon took the cloth that Kyle offered and wiped the barrel and the grip one last time. He owed Kyle this much at least. “Bendas tried to ruin my sister so that she would have no choice but to marry his grandson.” Meryon could still see the bruises on Olivia’s neck, the way fear shadowed her for weeks.

  “He did what?” Kyle straightened. “Lady Olivia …”

  “The end was better than anyone could have wished. She is happily married, not to his grandson, and she is safe.” Meryon narrowed his eyes. “This is not a story I want broadcast.”

  “Of course not. I have sisters. I know how precious a woman’s reputation is.” Kyle shook his head, still incredulous. “But why, Lyn? Why would Bendas do something so medieval?”

  “For land. He thought his empire more important than Olivia, or his grandson.” Meryon gave Kyle his full attention. “What would you do to Bendas?”

  Kyle drew a breath. “All right.”

  With a sharp nod, Meryon faced Bendas.

  Kyle stepped in front of him. “One more thing, Lyn. Dueling is not illegal, but murder is.” Without waiting for an answer, Kyle moved to the sideline.

  Meryon watched as Bendas’s second handed him the pistol, and with a profound bow he, too, moved to the side of the field.

  Kyle spoke to the man who would be counting, someone both seconds seemed to know. How odd, Lyn thought, that his life was in the hands of one man he did not know and another man he hated.

  Lyn buried the thought and concentrated on the moment. The ground was softening, filling the air with an earthy scent, carrying the first hint of warmer days. One deep breath told him that it might still be winter but spring would come. He heard the jingle of the horses’ tack and the sound of the groom’s words as he tried to quiet them.

  “Your Graces,” the man called out in a strong voice, not turning toward either one of the duelists. “My name is Carstairs. Mr. DeBora and Lord Kyle have asked me to officiate. A physician is present, should there be an injury.” He waited a moment. “I will count to three and on the count of three you may shoot at your discretion.”

  Forty paces away, the Duke of Bendas stood still as a stone gargoyle. To kill him or not. The answer came to Meryon as he concentrated on the pistol. Death was too easy. Bendas deserved to suffer in this life. He would burn in hell soon enough.

  “Your Graces, are you both ready?”

  Meryon gave a slow nod without taking his eyes from Bendas. His hand was steady.

  Bendas’s expression was more guarded than arrogant, as if recounting the stupidity that had brought him to this.

  “On the count of three.”

  Meryon nodded again.

  Carstairs coughed and after a beat called out, “One!”

  Meryon did not want to leave his children orphans, but if he died, surely his wife would be there to meet him.

  If he went to heaven.

  Meryon drew a breath to steady his arm.

  “Two.”

  He raised his pistol for the count of three as an explosion assaulted his ears and a bullet grazed his coat sleeve at the shoulder, too close to his heart to be an accident.

  Astonishment held him still long enough for two thoughts.

  Bendas had shot before the count of three.

  And missed.

  The caller counted, “Three!”

  Bendas stood still as a statue, awaiting Meryon’s volley. Did the man want to die?

  “The duke thought three numbers had been counted.” DeBora’s confusion showed his shock.

  “I missed.” Bendas dropped his arm to his side, smoke curling from the barrel of his pistol, an odd smile twisting his mouth. “Are you just going to stand there, Meryon? Take your shot.”

  Bendas wants me to kill him. It would be easy enough to do. The man had no heart, so it would be best to aim for his head.

  “The groom is dead, Your Grace! He’s dead!” The hysteria in John Coachman’s voice reached him before the words made sense. Lowering his gun, Meryon abandoned the field and ran to the fallen man. The physician reached him first, felt for a pulse, and shook his head.

  The boy lay on his back, shot in one eye, the other wide open, as if stunned to find himself the center of attention.

  “It was an accident, a mistake.” DeBora took one look at the dead boy, then ran toward the woods. Retching sounds reached their ears.

  Lynford Pennistan, the third Duke of Meryon, kneeled down beside the dead groom, put his pistol on the grass, and closed the boy’s undamaged eye, straightening his arms and legs. Except for the ugly seeping hole in his face, the groom, whose name Meryon had to ask for, looked as though he slept.

  The duke’s hands shook as misery consumed him. To say I am sorry is woefully inadequate. Despair overcame anguish and he clenched his fists. Why did God allow this? Joshua was an innocent with his whole life before him. His eyes filled. Just as Rowena had been too young, much too young.

  Ignoring the chaos around him, Meryon prayed for Joshua Kepless. He commended his soul to God. And to his wife, Rowena. Surely she would embrace this boy. One more who had died for the Pennistans.

  Rising to his feet, pistol in hand again, Meryon felt years older than he had five minutes ago. The coachman was crying, but tried to compose himself while Meryon waited. When he raised his head, Meryon met his eyes.

 
; “Take Kepless up in the carriage. I will ride home with Lord Kyle. Find out about his family and come to me immediately. The majordomo will direct you to my study.”

  John Coachman touched his hand to his head in a gesture that was as old as any dukedom. “As you wish, Your Grace.”

  Meryon shifted his pistol to his right hand and walked to Bendas. DeBora, pale as smoke, stepped between the two.

  “The death of the groom was an accident,” DeBora insisted.

  Bendas elbowed his second aside. “I aimed for your heart, Meryon. This gun’s balance is off.” Bendas sneered at his second. “That is your fault. Your sole task was to make sure the guns work and I had the better of the two.”

  Bendas tossed the pistol to the ground. “It’s your shot, Meryon. If you are done grieving for a groom.”

  Bendas’s disdain was enough to merit a death sentence. Meryon raised his pistol, aiming it at Bendas’s eye. Bendas stood still, waiting. Rage clouded Meryon’s judgment, he knew that, but it was impossible to ignore the way it burned through him, demanding action.

  Demanding justice.

  “Your death will be a blessing to your family, king, and country.” Meryon set the trigger.

  “Please, Your Grace, a word.” Kyle stood next to him as he spoke.

  Reason cooled his temper. Yes, Bendas was willing to die. Because it would mean Meryon’s ruin. If he killed Bendas, he would have to leave the country, his children, his world.

  A renewed surge of fury burned through his trigger finger.

  He fired.

  DeBora screamed as Bendas fell to the ground. Meryon waited, finding some pleasure in Bendas’s white face as he lay blinking on the dew-covered grass.

  “I missed.” Meryon used Bendas’s words and then added, “But I missed on purpose.” He handed the pistol to Kyle, whose hand, he noticed, was not quite steady. “Stand up, Bendas, you son of a bitch.”

  DeBora helped Bendas to his feet. Meryon grabbed the other duke by the lapels and pulled him up so they were face-to-face.

  “You are a disgrace to your title and your name. My sister almost died because of you. And now you’ve killed a boy with as little thought as a man brings down a stag.”

  “I am the Duke of Bendas.”

  “And your house is the poorer for it, you bastard.” Meryon tightened his hold, coming closer to strangling Bendas, then let go of him with enough force that Bendas staggered.

  “I will see that justice is done, Bendas. I will destroy you. In the end you will wish you had died here today.”

  Meryon nodded at Kyle, who picked up the second pistol. They made their way to Kyle’s carriage. Meryon’s breathing evened a little.

  Ruining Bendas would take more of his time than the man deserved, but this was one task the Duke of Meryon would see to himself.

  1

  London

  Before the Season

  March 1818

  MY DEARS, STOP chatting or you will miss everything! The Duke of Meryon has arrived.”

  A group of the ton’s finest gossips clustered near the entrance to Mrs. Harbison’s ballroom. Something interesting had happened.

  “Meryon is here?”

  “Where?”

  “He looks like he’s still in mourning.”

  They paused as one as they considered that even without a smile the Duke of Meryon was worth watching.

  “Poor Rowena.”

  “It has been every bit of a year.”

  “Is this his first social outing since she died?”

  “What else would he do of an evening?” one of the dim-witted asked.

  The ladies laughed at her naïveté. The gentlemen added gruff chuckles and considering glances.

  “How long before he marries again?”

  “He has an heir. Why would he marry again?”

  The whispers bit into Meryon like the tip of a sword, reminding him that his wife’s death had changed his world forever. But these very gossips were the reason he was here tonight.

  “Those women are idiots.” His hostess tried to steer him away from the crush of people, her too-tight grip a measure of her indignation.

  Meryon halted their progress and bowed over her hand. “Nevertheless, I will speak with them.”

  Letty Harbison took his arm again. “You will not speak to them alone, Your Grace.”

  “I can handle The Gossips.” He smiled down at her. “I have plenty of experience with backbiting in the House of Lords.”

  “But this is my house, Meryon, and I want to hear every word.”

  He laughed out loud and could not recall the last time he had. “What a delight you are, Letty. Does Harbison know how lucky he is?”

  She tapped his hand with her fan and faced The Gossips, assuming a look that Meryon could only describe as condescending.

  “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Your Grace, I am sure you have met all these people.” He would not laugh. She had neatly insulted them and they had not even noticed, thrilled to have a duke in their midst.

  Mrs. Harbison turned to him, including the others in their conversation. “I am so happy to see you among the ton again, Your Grace.”

  “Oh yes,” one of the ladies echoed. “I know it has been a difficult year for you.”

  “And for all of Rowena’s friends,” another added.

  “But having you with us will remind us of what we loved most about her.”

  “That she was a duchess?” He raised his eyebrows and smiled to cut his insult.

  The wisest of The Gossips laughed. “Of course not, Meryon. We loved her because she made you happy.”

  “Yes, she did,” he said, smiling at the memory, impressed with this one woman’s insight.

  A long silence followed. Meryon waited it out, squeezing Mrs. Harbison’s arm when she would have spoken. The Gossips would not abandon their place by the door but seemed at a loss for words with one of their favorite subjects in their midst.

  Meryon waited until they were nervous with embarrassment and then offered his tidbit of news. “Does anyone know why the Duke of Bendas’s grandson has taken rooms at Albany this Season?”

  The Gossips fell on the question like hungry kittens, discussing the subject with such enthusiasm that the casual listener would think they actually knew the answer. When the ladies began to speculate on whether Lord William would ever marry, one of the gentlemen brought up the subject Meryon had waited for.

  “Have you seen the Rowlandson cartoon of the Duke of Bendas, Your Grace?”

  “Bendas? In a cartoon?” Of course he had seen it. He’d sent his coachman to Rowlandson with the story. Meryon’s task had been to find a way to have everyone talk about it. This group would make that happen.

  “You should see it, Your Grace. It shows Bendas blindfolded and with rags in his ears while fighting a duel in which he shoots the wrong person.”

  The group sprinkled the story with dismay and relish and gobbled it up.

  “Rowlandson ridiculed a duke?”

  “No one is off-limits to the cartoonists. Look what they have done to Prinny.”

  Meryon listened.

  “But Bendas is so powerful, so formidable.”

  “He is so insistent upon being shown the proper deference.”

  “That’s what makes it so delicious. I must find a copy.”

  “My husband will have to add it to his collection.”

  “It does give credence to that rumor of a duel.”

  “I suppose that a duel could be the reason that his grandson is not staying with the family?” Meryon asked.

  The gaggle stopped chattering.

  Before any one of them was brave enough to ask if the rumored duel was true, Meryon bowed to them, offered Mrs. Harbison his arm, and withdrew. The chatter began again, busily weaving a story worthy of the Minerva Press.

  “Bendas was in a duel? That’s shocking, Meryon. Are you not appalled?”

  “Appalled, but not surprised. Bendas thinks he is a demigod, if not a
god. He is old and failing and has convinced himself that his rank sets him apart from the laws of man.”

  “But who would challenge a duke?”

  Meryon thought about his answer. “Someone with a good reason.”

  “I cannot believe it, Meryon.”

  “It happened. And Bendas’s bullet killed an innocent boy.”

  “Dear God, that is awful. You know this for a fact?”

  “That question, Letty, is why I find your conversation infinitely more tolerable than that of The Gossips. And yes, I know it for a fact.”

  “But I invited Bendas tonight. I hope he does not come. Surely he feels some regret?”

  “None,” Meryon said sharply. “He as much as said that women and servants exist to do his bidding and have no value beyond that.”

  “My God, Meryon.” She stopped their progress to confront him. “How do you know all these details?”