To Ruin the Duke Read online

  Debra Mullins

  To Ruin the Duke

  To Esi Sogah,

  who gave me chances

  when I really needed them.

  Your belief in me

  made this book possible.

  Contents

  Prologue

  The tiny attic room stank of sweat and blood. The…

  Chapter 1

  He had carried Michael out of many a tavern, but…

  Chapter 2

  Miranda stood on the doorstep of Matherton House, her eyes…

  Chapter 3

  Mrs. Weatherby’s Thursday night salon was the only thing that kept…

  Chapter 4

  The fire burned low in the grate, infusing the dimly…

  Chapter 5

  Mr. Everton Wallace did not have the look of a lawman…

  Chapter 6

  Miranda climbed down from the hired hack, still simmering about…

  Chapter 7

  Mrs. Cooper had arrived and left again after feeding James his…

  Chapter 8

  When Miranda came downstairs, Wyldehaven’s servants bustled through the floors…

  Chapter 9

  Why the devil were women so contrary?

  Chapter 10

  After breakfast, Wylde summoned his gleaming black coach with the…

  Chapter 11

  By afternoon Miranda had decided two things.

  Chapter 12

  Wylde arrived at the dower house precisely at eleven o’clock…

  Chapter 13

  Wyldehaven thumped on the door of Miranda’s home with his…

  Chapter 14

  The Oakley musicales had become something of a tradition over…

  Chapter 15

  Her innocent kiss sparked an inferno.

  Chapter 16

  He removed her clothing with a skill that left her…

  Chapter 17

  “Wylde!”

  Chapter 18

  “What do you mean the duke is not at home?”

  Chapter 19

  It was a stunned group that adjourned to Wyldehaven’s house…

  Chapter 20

  When Miranda arrived at Rothgard’s town house, she had not…

  About the Author

  Other Books by Debra Mullins

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  The tiny attic room stank of sweat and blood. The midwife had opened the door to ease the stifling heat, but the ensuing draft barely made the flame on the single stubby candle flicker. The mewling and fidgeting of the newborn babe in the midwife’s arms broke the heavy silence and added burden to the grief that weighed on them all.

  By the doorway of the closet-sized chamber, the vicar waited and watched, as patient as death. Miranda tried not to look at him, tried not to be reminded that Lettie would not live to see the sunrise.

  She sat on the floor beside the pallet under the eaves, holding Lettie’s limp hand in her own. Her friend looked so pale, so weak. Not at all like the vibrant, brilliant Lettie who had returned from London only months before, bursting with health and expectations for her unborn child. Oh, the plans she had spoken of, the grand schemes for raising her baby and seeing that he or she took his or her rightful place in society.

  Gone now. They would never come to pass.

  Miranda swallowed past the lump in her throat, then leaned closer as Lettie slowly turned her head on the pillow. Her blue eyes, always so stunning, no longer sparkled with life. The roses had gone from her cheeks, leaving them waxen. Her lovely blond hair was dark with sweat and clung to her scalp.

  Lettie’s fingers fluttered in Miranda’s, and she opened her mouth, but no sound came forth.

  “Hush now.” Miranda swept a hand over Lettie’s damp brow and tried to summon a reassuring smile. “You need to rest.”

  Lettie gave a knowing chuckle, half laugh and half sob. Her voice came finally, thready and frail. “Liar. I am dying, Miranda.”

  “No.” Panic streaked through her veins. To speak of death so easily—that made it all the more real. There had been too much loss in Miranda’s life already. She could not accept more. Would not. “You must get better, raise your son.”

  “A son.” Lettie’s lips curved ever so slightly. “Wylde would have liked that.”

  “Shhh.” Miranda brought her friend’s hand to her cheek. So cold. Already Lettie’s flesh took on the aspect of death. She struggled for the strength to maintain her composure. Falling to pieces would not help Lettie. “Do not speak of that man. He does not deserve a single thought from you.”

  Lettie curled her fingers around Miranda’s. “You must take care of my son.”

  “Nonsense. You will be here to see that he grows up properly.”

  “Miranda.” Lettie’s voice strengthened, and just for a moment she seemed to be her old self, all confidence and dazzling ideas. “Listen now.” The sternness faded from her tone, and she took a shaky breath. “I am dying. I can feel the life slipping away from me.”

  “No.” Miranda shook her head in vehement denial. “I cannot lose you, Lettie.”

  “Be practical.” Lettie’s voice faded to a whisper. “Take care of my son, Miranda. Take care of my James.”

  “James.” Tears stung her eyes, and she blinked them back. “A lovely name.”

  Lettie’s eyelids drifted shut. “My father’s name.”

  Lettie’s fingers weakened their clasp, and Miranda bit hard into her lower lip, holding back the sob that threatened to choke her. Lettie was fading before her eyes. In a moment she would be gone.

  Just like everyone else.

  Miranda bowed her head over their clasped hands and let the tears fall at last, streaming down her cheeks in silent tribute to her friend.

  Lettie’s fingers tightened again. “Mira.”

  Miranda jerked her head up, met Lettie’s gaze. The nickname nearly tore away the last of her self-control. “Lettie. I thought—”

  “Soon.” Her lips curved again. “So impatient, Mira. Even rushing me to the grave.”

  “I am not, of course I am not! I do not want you to go, Lettie.” The sob finally burst from her throat, smashing the dam of her restraint. Grief flooded through her, stealing the strength from her limbs. “Whatever shall I do without you?”

  “You will take care of my son.” Lettie’s gaze never wavered. “Make certain he gets what he deserves. A place in society with his father. Swear to me.”

  “Yes, yes, I swear.” Miranda nodded, willing to promise anything, do anything.

  “You will go to London. Collect the dowry your mother left for you with Thaddeus.”

  “I will.”

  “Use it well. Make a life for yourself.”

  “Yes, Lettie.”

  “I can count on you to do what is right, my dear Mira.” Lettie smiled again, and her lips were still curved when she closed her eyes and breathed her last.

  Miranda sat frozen by her bedside. She waited for Lettie to open her eyes again, to laugh at the joke. But Lettie remained silent and peaceful in her death, and the fingers Miranda continued to hold grew lax.

  She heard a rustle of clothing and then the vicar was beside her. He laid a hand on her shoulder. “She is gone.”

  “No.” The sound was more croak than word. Miranda clasped Lettie’s hand tighter. “She cannot be gone. Not so quickly.”

  “She is at peace.” He took Lettie’s hand from Miranda’s and laid it gently across the still body of the deceased. “I am sorry. You must let me see to her now.”

  Miranda nodded, her shoulders slumped, watching as the vicar bent his head and prayed. For a moment it felt as if she again sat at the bedside of her mother, gone just over a year ago no
w. She supposed she should feel comfort from the familiar rituals of death, but the truth was, she hated them. How was it she always lost the people she loved?

  She had never known her father. He had gotten her mother with child and then, upon hearing the news of her condition, dismissed her with a healthy financial settlement. Her mother, once the great actress Fannie Fontaine, had lived the rest of her life in obscurity, and once the money ran out, had no choice but to eventually become a prostitute at the tavern where Miranda still lived—until the drink finally killed her.

  Lettie had also worked at the tavern, but as a barmaid, not a whore. Before her death, Fannie had seen potential in the girl and sent her to her friend Thaddeus in London, who arranged for a career on the stage. Months later Lettie returned to the tavern, having enjoyed some success as an actress but abandoned by her lover when she had gotten with child. Hoping for advice from Fannie, who had suffered the same fate, Lettie had instead discovered Fannie was dead.

  With Lettie having nowhere else to go, Miranda had offered to her a place in her tiny attic room at the tavern until the child was born. Even though Miranda now had to serve ale at the tavern to pay for the extra food—in addition to her long days writing the memoirs of wealthy Mrs. Etherington, and her evenings ciphering the tavern’s accounts—she felt she could not do otherwise. She could not escape the thought that if someone had helped Fannie in her time of need, maybe her own life would have been different.

  But now Lettie was gone, and Miranda had no idea what she would do next. The burial, of course. And then back to her solitary life. Always alone.

  A wail rent the air, jolting Miranda from her memories. The midwife jiggled the howling baby. “There, there, little man,” she cooed. “We’ll find something for you to eat.”

  With the baby cradled in her arms, the midwife came to stand before Miranda. “You’ll be needing a wet nurse for this one,” she said. “Or goat’s milk. But the lad has to eat.” She leaned forward and placed the squalling infant in Miranda’s arms before she could think to protest.

  “Will you be raising the boy then?” The vicar turned from Lettie’s bedside. “With his mother dead, I expected to take him to the orphanage.”

  “Not the orphanage.” Her arms tightened around the child, and she instinctively rocked him, calming his cries. “I promised Lettie.”

  The vicar raised his brows. “It will not be an easy path, with no husband to provide for you.”

  Miranda glanced at Lettie’s pale, still form, then down at the baby. His little face was scrunched up in fury, fists clenched as he wailed his displeasure. He was so tiny. So helpless.

  And hers now.

  She looked up at the vicar and braced for an objection. “I intend to do what she asked of me.”

  To her surprise, he simply nodded, his face solemn. “Very well. I will pray for you.”

  “I will manage.” I always do. She glanced down at the child again, her heart already unfurling with love. “Do not fret, little James,” she whispered. “Miranda is here to make everything right.”

  Chapter 1

  He had carried Michael out of many a tavern, but he had never expected to be carrying him to his grave. Not so soon.

  Thornton Matherton, Duke of Wyldehaven—called Wylde by the few who knew him best—shouldered the coffin of his dead friend as it slid from the hearse. As the personage of the highest rank, he had been given the post at Michael’s head, with Wulf—Edwin Warrell, Earl of Harwulf—on the other side. Kit and Darcy, a viscount and an impoverished earl, respectively, bore the burden in the middle. How fitting that the four of them, friends since their school days, should be the ones to bring Michael to his final resting place. Michael’s younger brothers, William and Peter, hefted the foot of the coffin.

  They began to walk toward the entrance of Michael’s parish church. Every step Wylde took, every crunching footfall on the dry earth, echoed like a drumbeat in his head. The scent of burning wax and flowers wafted from the doorway of the church and reached his nose before he had ascended all the steps. Sickly familiar, memory struck him like a staff across the knees, and his booted foot caught on the top step. He caught himself just in time to prevent the coffin from sliding back down the steps. Wulf steadied the box, then sent him a warning look.

  Wylde inwardly flinched from the unexpected censure but took pains to assure that his expression of solemnity never wavered. A duke never revealed weakness—or his emotions—to anyone. And the fact that his heart screamed in grief was no one’s business but his own.

  But death, and the trappings of it, slid through his defenses like a well-placed dagger through the ribs, tearing at his insides and leaving him bleeding. It seemed only moments ago that he had stood by Felicity’s elaborate coffin as she had been laid to rest in the family crypt at Wyldehaven, though he knew nearly two years had passed. And now he walked his best friend to his entombment in this tiny parish church just outside London.

  An elderly woman swathed in black sniffed into her handkerchief as they walked down the aisle. She threw Wylde a look of contempt and hissed, “Drunkard!” as he passed. Wylde blinked in surprise but then pushed the moment aside, focusing on balancing the coffin and then lowering it with the other pallbearers to its place near the altar.

  The ceremony passed by in a blur. He heard the words of the vicar through a dense fog of unreality. He was conscious of Wulf, Darcy, and Kit sitting in the hard pew beside him, of Michael’s mother wailing unceasingly from the front row, comforted by her younger sons. He stared at the ornate wooden box, unable to conceive that Michael was really in there. It was all a nightmare from which he could not wake.

  He should have done something. He should have stopped him.

  But no, he had been so engrossed in his grief over his own losses that he had refused Michael’s invitation to go on that trip to India. Perhaps if he’d gone, if he had let Michael lure him from the gloom of mourning back into the vibrant colors of life, maybe then Michael might still be alive. They could have watched out for each other, as they had since childhood.

  But he had not gone, preferring his darkened rooms and the perpetually unfinished opera he was composing over spending time laughing in the sun with his dearest friend. And now the shadows of grief stretched even longer over his life. First his wife and unborn child had been taken from him, then his closest friend. Everyone he loved, it seemed, suffered by association with him.

  Before he knew it, the ceremony was over and he was out of the church, away from the cloying smells of death and mourning. His coachman waited nearby, the black-swathed coach with its ducal emblem on the door a fitting testament to Michael. He headed toward it like a bullet, his careful walls crumbling beneath the grief that waited to claim him. He had not been anywhere near London since before Felicity’s death and had no idea how to even talk to people anymore. How he longed for the isolation of Wyldehaven, for the peace to be found in his own music room as he worked on his compositions.

  Forty-eight hours was his limit for staying in London. Twenty of those hours had passed already. By tomorrow he expected to be on his way home to Dorset, leaving London and its rumor-mongering, busybody citizens far behind.

  “Say there, Wylde! Wait!”

  Wylde halted just as the footman jumped down to open the door of the coach. He gave a longing look at the welcoming interior, then glanced back to see Darcy dashing over to him. “Darcy, good to see you.”

  “Blast it, Wylde, you barely said three words to me today.” Darcy came to a halt, clutching his hat in one hand after the quick sprint and smoothing his curling black hair back with the other.

  “Apologies, Darcy. I just…funerals.”

  Darcy nodded. “Too painful after your wife.”

  “Yes.”

  “Understood.” Darcy flashed his famously charming grin. “I would be glad of a ride, Wylde, if you can spare the time.”

  “Certainly.” Wylde waved a hand at the coach. “Just give Goodman your direction.”
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br />   “Splendid!” Darcy leaped toward the open door, calling his destination to the coachman as he did so.

  Wylde sighed, then climbed in after him. It appeared he would have to wait a bit more for his treasured solitude.

  Once they were seated, the coach lurched into motion. “I thought you arrived with Kit,” Wylde said.

  “I did, but your coach is finer.” Darcy gave a quick laugh, but the eyes he turned on Wylde were serious. “Truly, I wanted to speak to you and did not want an audience.”

  Wylde frowned. “Is something wrong?”

  “That is just what I was going to ask you.” Darcy settled back against the squabs, his handsome face creased with concern. “I understand that you needed time alone in the country to grieve for Felicity and your unborn child. Wulf, Kit, and I all tried to let you be, assuming you would contact us when you were ready.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “But I cannot believe you returned to London and never even told us,” Darcy continued. “And I especially find it difficult to comprehend how you could even think of going to a gaming hell like Fulton’s without asking me to join you.”

  Wylde frowned. “What are you talking about? I only arrived in London last night.”

  “I’m talking about the incident three days ago. I wish you had asked me to go with you. I could have helped.” Darcy’s brow creased. “I worry about you, Wylde. You seem to have gone a bit mad after your wife’s death, sorry to say.”

  “You will be even sorrier if you do not explain yourself. What is this about Fulton’s?”

  “Come now. ’Tis common knowledge that you lost a small fortune there three nights ago. But what disturbs me is the fight afterward. ’Tis not like you at all to beat a man bloody because he was cheating.”