confirmed in his own perfect French, revealing his aristocratic background. He motioned to the landlord, who brought fresh ale, leaving without a word.
Gaston sat down across from the duke and threw him a grateful smile before draining his tankard. After swiping his dirty sleeve across his mouth, he spoke in his native tongue. “The man you seek is in Maubeuge. Do you know it?”
Derringer nodded. “About eighty miles or so southeast of here.” He frowned, shaking his head. Maubeuge was so close to Waterloo. Was it possible Gabriel hadn’t ventured far from the scene of his injury?
“Aye. Take care, Heartless. There are some French still wanting to overthrow the English and would look on the corpse of one such as you with great delight,” he warned right before he stood to leave.
A sudden cry of rage rent the air and Derringer’s head jerked in the direction of the door. Gaston looked as well, blanched linen-white and muttered something about French devils and their English friends. Derringer straightened his slumped shoulders and stared at the brawl that seemed to be taking over the taproom. The circle parted briefly, allowing Derringer to see who stood at the edge of the melee, faces lit with savage delight as the combatants darkened each other’s daylights.
Cursing in a low tone, Derringer stood and, keeping his back to the contretemps, pressed several coins into Gaston’s hand. He knew he had to get out before he was discovered. There were too many uncertainties in this situation. He was at a disadvantage. The Duke of Derringer never entered a battle without an edge over his opponent.
With a nod for Gaston, Derringer quickly traversed the room, blending easily into the shadows along the wall. He slipped out a side door and into a dark alley before anyone even realized he had been there and gone.
It would be the height of stupidity to return home now, the duke thought. He was so close to finding Gabriel, a search that had lasted five long years. But why was the Earl of Harwood in France? As Derringer’s new brother-in-law, shouldn’t he be making a nuisance of himself at Derringer Crescent? And what the devil was the man doing with a loose screw like Fraser D’Arcy?
Derringer had once had a run-in with D’Arcy that nearly ended both their lives. Unfortunately, the crazy Frenchman survived.
Harwood’s relationship with D’Arcy was a mystery and Derringer felt he was not best equipped to solve it at the moment. He needed information, and the only place he could get that was at home. Home, where his bride waited, a bride he’d thought of far more often than he’d wanted to.
Derringer kicked Satan into a run, racing toward the cliff’s edge. It appeared that he would run the animal right off the crag and into the sea but he turned Satan’s head right at the last possible moment and steered him onto a hidden cliff path that led down to a little cove below. To the casual observer, he vanished over the edge of the bluff.
He slowed the great black beast and let Satan pick his own path along the rocky path. They were soon at the bottom and standing near a small yacht anchored just off shore.
Within moments they had set sail for Folkestone. Derringer was suspicious of Harwood’s presence in France. He wanted to make sure Merri was safe. And perhaps she would know something of her brother’s activities.
Gabriel would have to wait. For now.
“Here? Now? But why?” The dismay in Leandra’s voice was very much at odds with the smile that stretched across her face.
“I hate to speak ill of the Quality and all, your grace, but I would venture to say it’s because our a duchess now,” Mrs. Stark told her in a rare bout of cynicism.
“Oh, why did they have to come now? If Hart were here he’d know what to do to get rid of them,” she murmured to herself. “But I can’t bear the thought of being rude to them. I can’t.”
The housekeeper’s eyebrows rose at this evidence of
Gaston sat down across from the duke and threw him a grateful smile before draining his tankard. After swiping his dirty sleeve across his mouth, he spoke in his native tongue. “The man you seek is in Maubeuge. Do you know it?”
Derringer nodded. “About eighty miles or so southeast of here.” He frowned, shaking his head. Maubeuge was so close to Waterloo. Was it possible Gabriel hadn’t ventured far from the scene of his injury?
“Aye. Take care, Heartless. There are some French still wanting to overthrow the English and would look on the corpse of one such as you with great delight,” he warned right before he stood to leave.
A sudden cry of rage rent the air and Derringer’s head jerked in the direction of the door. Gaston looked as well, blanched linen-white and muttered something about French devils and their English friends. Derringer straightened his slumped shoulders and stared at the brawl that seemed to be taking over the taproom. The circle parted briefly, allowing Derringer to see who stood at the edge of the melee, faces lit with savage delight as the combatants darkened each other’s daylights.
Cursing in a low tone, Derringer stood and, keeping his back to the contretemps, pressed several coins into Gaston’s hand. He knew he had to get out before he was discovered. There were too many uncertainties in this situation. He was at a disadvantage. The Duke of Derringer never entered a battle without an edge over his opponent.
With a nod for Gaston, Derringer quickly traversed the room, blending easily into the shadows along the wall. He slipped out a side door and into a dark alley before anyone even realized he had been there and gone.
It would be the height of stupidity to return home now, the duke thought. He was so close to finding Gabriel, a search that had lasted five long years. But why was the Earl of Harwood in France? As Derringer’s new brother-in-law, shouldn’t he be making a nuisance of himself at Derringer Crescent? And what the devil was the man doing with a loose screw like Fraser D’Arcy?
Derringer had once had a run-in with D’Arcy that nearly ended both their lives. Unfortunately, the crazy Frenchman survived.
Harwood’s relationship with D’Arcy was a mystery and Derringer felt he was not best equipped to solve it at the moment. He needed information, and the only place he could get that was at home. Home, where his bride waited, a bride he’d thought of far more often than he’d wanted to.
Derringer kicked Satan into a run, racing toward the cliff’s edge. It appeared that he would run the animal right off the crag and into the sea but he turned Satan’s head right at the last possible moment and steered him onto a hidden cliff path that led down to a little cove below. To the casual observer, he vanished over the edge of the bluff.
He slowed the great black beast and let Satan pick his own path along the rocky path. They were soon at the bottom and standing near a small yacht anchored just off shore.
Within moments they had set sail for Folkestone. Derringer was suspicious of Harwood’s presence in France. He wanted to make sure Merri was safe. And perhaps she would know something of her brother’s activities.
Gabriel would have to wait. For now.
“Here? Now? But why?” The dismay in Leandra’s voice was very much at odds with the smile that stretched across her face.
“I hate to speak ill of the Quality and all, your grace, but I would venture to say it’s because our a duchess now,” Mrs. Stark told her in a rare bout of cynicism.
“Oh, why did they have to come now? If Hart were here he’d know what to do to get rid of them,” she murmured to herself. “But I can’t bear the thought of being rude to them. I can’t.”
The housekeeper’s eyebrows rose at this evidence of
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