Forbidden to Love the Duke(17)

“It’s not raining heavily yet,” Rue said, scanning the moonlit sky through the window. “And there aren’t many clouds.”

“It has to pass by tomorrow morning,” Ivy said, and turned, her eyes widening, at the momentous shudder that rent the lower regions of the house.

“What is it?” Rue whispered, slipping her icy fingers over Ivy’s hand.

Lilac materialized at the bottom of the staircase with Quigley in tow, three puppies following at his boots. “There are two men hammering something onto the door,” she said. “Shall I have the servants shoot them?”

Ivy went to the stairs, descending in uneven steps. “It must be a lien against the manor. And no, we can’t shoot agents of the court, as much as I would cheerfully do so if I could.”

“A notice?” Rosemary had emerged from her room, stuffing one arm into her robe. “At this time of night? In the rain? I don’t believe even a bailiff would brave this weather.”

Ivy marched toward the door, her voice echoing to the dark beams above. “Rue, put down that sword or we shall be arrested for—inciting a riot.”

“In our home?”

“Perhaps it is no longer ours,” Ivy said, swallowing hard. “To think I spent the morning convinced I was our heroine.”

And convincing herself that, despite his questionable behavior, she had found sanctuary in the duke’s employment. What would he think of her now? He could not be expected to keep a governess who had spent time in debtors’ gaol. Would he show her any kindness?

The hammering at the door had stopped, and the house was plunged into a profound silence. Cook had been awakened to appear from her bed with a candle stub that threw the chaotic scene into relief. “Don’t open that door, my lady. They might spirit you off in your nightclothes.”

“I sold my soul this very morning to the devil,” Ivy muttered, lifting the heavy bolt. “If I’m taken away, perhaps one of you can explain to him why I will not be available for work on—”

She opened the door to the collective gasp of those gathered behind her. Rain splattered her face, temporarily blurring her vision. Even so, she recognized the nobleman in the black hat and greatcoat who stood before her, two menservants bearing hammers at his side.

“Your Grace,” she said in disbelief, conscious of his warm gaze and the damp air traveling over her at the same instant. “What do you think you’re doing here at this hour?”

His smile was the stuff that sent maidens to the couch, an act Ivy might have considered had she been capable of movement. The effect of darkness on his chiseled face gave her the quivers. In fact, if not for the rain, she might have stood there forever, a prisoner of his dark charm.

But it was cold, and above all else she was practical.

She lifted her arm to stay the gun that Quigley had raised in her defense. In the middle of the stairs hovered Rosemary, clutching, of all despicable weapons, the mate to the dueling pistol that had failed their father on the night of his death.

“Put down those guns,” she said over her shoulder. “It’s only the duke.” She turned back to him in time to glimpse another smile that amplified his general manly appeal. “May I ask Your Grace what you are posting on my door with enough clatter to awake those at eternal rest in the family vault?”

He removed his hat, rain sloshing around the black rim and dribbling to the step. He would stand there and be soaked for all Ivy cared. If he had tricked her into signing a contract today to test her desperation, only to sink his talons into Fenwick, then she might order Rosemary and Quigley to fire a few shots in his direction, after all.

“It’s very wet out here,” he said, shifting his feet. “My men are getting cold.”

There wasn’t any point in manners. If he planned to seize her property, then he could find another governess to kiss and mislead.

It was a heartless deed, she thought, that had brought him out on a night like this. She felt Rue trembling at her side although, knowing her sister as she did, Rue was more liable to be shivering from fury than apprehension. “What were you posting on my door?” she demanded.

“Oh, yes. That.” He grinned, rain sliding down his broad cheekbones to his jaw. “The sanctuary hold, of course. You forgot it. And this.” He withdrew her reticule and muff from the folds of his coat. “I assumed you would want these to travel to London. You said you were leaving tomorrow?”

She opened her mouth in astonishment, staring briefly at her reticule before she stepped outside, braving the rain, and looked at the other side of the door. “We’ll leave if the weather improves.”