Devil at the Gates

Chapter 2

2

Rain whipped at the coach windows as Harriet attempted to catch a few hours of sleep. Thunder shook the road so hard that more than once Harriet was jostled awake in fright. She rubbed her eyes, fatigue hanging heavy in her limbs. It was close to midnight, and they still had a ways to go before they reached Dover. In good weather it would take at least two hours, but with the roads muddied and visibility hampered, that time might double.

With a quiet sigh, she wrapped her black wool cloak tight about her shoulders; it was freezing in the carriage. Her toes were already numb and her fingers icy as she twisted them beneath her skirts to try to keep them warm. She turned her thoughts to what would happen when she reached Calais. Harriet was completely alone and had no one to help her find her way, but surely with her passable French she could find a coach to Normandy. With the coins Mrs. Reed had given her, she should be able to afford a room at an inn before she journeyed ahead.

Caution would be crucial, however, because she knew she would be a target for men. Alone, and just shy of destitution, she would be easy prey if she wasn’t careful. Harriet’s only hope now was to trespass on the kindness of her father’s distant cousins until she could find suitable work. She’d attended a finishing school for young ladies until her father had died, and she’d been a prized pupil of the instructors there. Perhaps she could find her way as a governess? If that didn’t work, she might have a chance to be a seamstress. She wasn’t completely useless with a needle and thread.

The storm only worsened as midnight passed, and the rains flooded the road. More than once, Mr. Johnson slowed the coach to allow the horses to walk through deeper pools of water that had gathered on the road. Harriet pressed her forehead against the coach window and peered into the darkness. She glimpsed nothing until a flash of lightning lit up the roads, and she was at last able to see what obstacles the horses were facing.

The poor beasts, they were risking their lives to save hers. They didn’t even have the comfort of stopping here, because the countryside around Dover wasn’t a safe place, at least according to the gossip she’d heard in Thursley Manor.

Harriet prayed that they would make it to Dover’s harbor without a reason to stop. They were passing through the Duke of Frostmore’s country, and Harriet feared meeting up with him. Redmond Barrington was known as the Dark Duke or the Devil of Dover by the servants at Thursley, and rumors followed his name like shadows cast by gravestones.

Harriet knew all the stories, of course. The duke feasted on naughty children who did not abide by the wishes of their parents; he stole the virtue of unsuspecting maidens foolish enough to travel alone in his lands. Perhaps the most gruesome tale was that he had killed his younger brother, Thomas Barrington, in a duel after Lord Frostmore discovered his brother bedding his new bride. They said he cast his wife off the cliffs before he shot Thomas in the stomach and watched him slowly bleed to death. Harriet knew that the younger brother was in fact dead, according to parish records, but no one knew the truth of how he’d met his end other than that he had been shot.

George had often bragged at dinner that he was well acquainted with Lord Frostmore, and that only made Harriet’s fears of being caught in Dover that much stronger. What if the duke discovered she was here and returned her to George?

Regardless of the veracity of the grim tales, Harriet knew it was not wise to be caught alone on the duke’s lands, especially when the cliffs of Dover were so close. Flights of imagination led Harriet toward visions of carriages plummeting over the cliffs and crashing into the sea below.

She shuddered at the notion of gasping for air and breathing in only icy seawater. Harriet tried to dismiss her fears as much as she could, and instead focused on thoughts of her father. She was almost asleep again when the carriage suddenly lurched and toppled onto its side.

Harriet’s head struck the wall of the coach when the carriage overturned, and something warm began to trickle into her eyes. For a long moment she was paralyzed with pain and confusion as her vision blurred. Finally, her sight cleared enough for her to get up. Her right arm felt oddly numb after a violent pain. She lay against the window of the coach, which was now pressed into the muddy ground. Broken glass cut her palms as she tried to rise, and she winced as her shoulder suddenly flared with fresh pain.

“Mr. Johnson?” she called out.

There was a cry, muffled beneath the crash of thunder. Harriet shoved at the door above her so she could climb out of the side of the carriage, now the ceiling. Her hem tore as she jumped from the carriage, and her arm twinged as she braced herself to land. She sank almost instantly into several inches of oozing mud. The road was dark; moonlight was unable to pierce the storm clouds. In a brief flash of lightning, she saw Mr. Johnson clutching his leg, his face twisted in pain. Harriet ran over to him, hunching over to get a better look.

“Are you able to ride, Mr. Johnson?”

“Afraid not, Miss Russell.” Mr. Johnson winced as he tried to stand, but fell back to the ground. “You should take a horse, ride to find help. I’ll stay with the coach.”

“We have to get you to a doctor,” Harriet insisted. Lightning tore across the sky, and in the distance a mountainous edifice was momentarily revealed. “What place is that, Mr. Johnson?” She pointed in the direction of the distant building.

The driver’s face darkened. “That is Lord Frostmore’s estate.”

“The Dark Duke?” Harriet’s heart jumped in her chest.

“Yes, miss. I know you to be a brave lady, but you mustn’t go there.” Mr. Johnson grasped her arm as though to prevent her from going for help.

Harriet pried his fingers off her arm gently. “Is there nowhere else close enough to reach?”

“Not in this weather,” the driver admitted.

“Then I must go to the duke.”

“Miss, please…,” the driver protested, but she shook her head.

“Do not worry about me, Mr. Johnson. Now come, let me help you up. You can rest inside the carriage until help arrives. You mustn’t catch a chill in this storm.”

Harriet forced him up and got him inside the carriage with some difficulty. After Mr. Johnson was secured, Harriet loosed one of the horses and pulled herself up onto the beast’s back, grasping the long reins. She hadn’t ridden a horse since she was a child, and while she was uncertain as to her skill now, she knew Mr. Johnson depended on her.

Her torn and muddied skirts split easily as she straddled the horse. Wrapping the reins tight around her fingers, she kicked the horse’s sides. It didn’t need any other urging to fly across the soaked road toward the distant estate. Her cloak flew out behind her as she dug her muddy boots into the horse’s flanks again, spurring it toward the dark, shadowy edifice she’d glimpsed moments before.

Harriet rode the horse hard all the way to the gates. The heavy wrought-iron structure was open just enough for her horse to pass, but Harriet lingered at the entrance, taking in the sharp spiked tops of the gates and the stone carved with the name of “Frostmore” near the gates.

A pair of devilish gargoyles crouched menacingly on either side of the entrance pillars. And when the lightning flashed over them, Harriet nearly screamed as she swore they moved. More pain lanced through her shoulder, and she cried out, clutching her injured shoulder.

The large mansion lay in the gloom beyond. There within its walls was the Dark Duke. Could she pass these gates and brave the risks? Harriet thought of Mr. Johnson and his injuries, and she remembered her father’s fencing lessons. She was capable of defending herself if it came to it, assuming he wasn’t like her stepfather, with men hired to trap her, so she spurred her horse again and rode through the gates, ready to risk her life in order to help her driver. But she would do her best to beg for help from the servants who would answer the door, and hopefully they wouldn’t share with their master that she was here. It was a small hope, but she clung to it, nonetheless.

The manor house was dark; only a few lights were lit near the main entrance. She abandoned her horse and ran up the stone steps, beating on the heavy oak door with the knocker. After a few minutes, a middle-aged man with a somber face opened the door. He was in his nightclothes, with a candle raised near his head. His bleary eyes focused on her in surprise and confusion.

“Please, sir. My coachman is injured. Our carriage overturned on the road to Dover. He cannot walk or ride without assistance!” Harriet blurted out quickly.

The man took in her dirty, drenched appearance and opened the door wider. “Come in, my child. Quickly now,” the man whispered in a soft tone. Harriet followed him, and he led her through darkened halls until they reached a small sitting room. The man lit fresh kindling under the logs in the hearth with his candle and turned to her.

“Now, more slowly, tell me exactly what has happened.” He gestured for her to sit on the settee. She did her best to recount the accident on the road.

“I will see to his retrieval and care at once. Please remain here. Do not leave this room—it is better that no one but myself and a few others know you are here,” the old man warned. There was a shadow of concern in his eyes that urged her compliance. He must wish to hide her arrival from the duke, and that was quite fine with her. But if the carriage was broken, she had no way to reach the port of Dover…and George may already be looking for her.

After the butler left her alone, Harriet stood up and walked to the fire, holding her hands out to warm them over the meager flames. Her shoulder still ached with a dull, agonizing pain, but she didn’t want anyone to know she’d been hurt. Weakness in a woman traveling alone was even more dangerous.

A few minutes of dead silence passed with nothing but the ticking of a grandfather clock before she heard a stirring in the hall. She looked up to see a large black dog standing in the doorway. The silhouette of the creature was startling, like the interruption of a dream by a hellhound. It let out a low growl, its white teeth bared. It was nearly as tall as her chest. The dog took a step toward her, its growl deepening to a deadlier tone.

Harriet brushed her hood back and shoved wet locks of blonde hair away from her face so she could better make eye contact. Her stepfather had several mean-spirited hounds back at Thursley, which she’d had to defend herself against more than once. She did not back away or show fear. She braced her hands on her hips and leaned menacingly toward the dog. The dog took another step forward, its brown eyes boring into her blue ones. It let out a snarl and trotted toward her.

“Sit!” Harriet shouted in a commanding tone.

The massive dog froze, the growl dying in its throat. In mild confusion, it slowly lowered its back haunches so it now sat two feet away from her. For a long moment she continued to glare at the beast, which as she got a better look at it appeared to be some kind of hound…a schnauzer? But she had never seen one this large. It had a noble black beard, a strong and well-formed body, and a glossy coat.

Harriet carefully extended her hand to the creature, who craned its neck forward, brushing its wet black nose over her fingertips in a cautious but friendly manner. It snuffled loudly but made no move to bite her as she stroked its great head. The hairs on the back of her neck rose, and a sense of being watched prickled along her skin, sending little tremors down her spine.

“You are the first person Devil hasn’t bitten upon first meeting,” a cold voice said from the doorway.

Harriet’s head flew up, and she saw a tall man leaning in the doorway. His head was afire with deep-red hair that was cut a tad too long, and his hazel eyes gleamed with the fire’s distant glow like topaz. His face was carved with perfect masculinity, but there was a hint of cruelty that hung about his sensuous lips, and anger radiated from his eyes. She bit her lip and tried to still the trembling of her body as she took him in. There was no question—this was the Duke of Frostmore.

He was not pretty, as some men tended to be. There was certainly nothing angelic about his face or form to bring forth a sense of natural charm. Instead, he seemed to exist in a singularly masculine way that made her sit up and take notice. Fear and curiosity warred with each other as she continued to stare at him.

“Devil?” It was a foolish thing to say, but no other thoughts in her mind were coherent enough to say. The effect George had on her paled in comparison to this man. Fighting George, had it come to that, would have been difficult, but she could tell with one look that attempting to resist this man would be impossible. She swallowed hard and resolved to be pleasant, but not overly so, lest he think she was a woman he could take to his bed.

“Yes, my black-haired companion here. I spent a summer in the Bavarian Alps two years ago and brought him back with me. He’s a rather new breed of dog, a giant schnauzer. Devil seemed a fitting name for the brute. He’s torn many a throat from a careless man and even a few careless ladies.” His tone was serious, but she thought—or rather hoped—she saw the glint of teasing in his eyes, a dark, cruel teasing.

“If that is so, perhaps the fault lies not with the beast but with his master,” Harriet replied, meeting his gaze with courage, despite the fact that deep within she was quivering.

He’s no different than George. You can handle him.

She tried to instill within herself a sense of confidence, but her right arm ached fiercely, and her head was pounding with a headache that made even the light of the fire sear her eyes. She had dealt with men like this, the kind who took pleasure in striking fear into a woman’s heart. But Harriet was not so easily shaken.

Lord Frostmore crossed his arms and leaned lazily against the doorjamb, preventing her from escaping. She felt his eyes rake over her, as if he wanted to rip her clothes clean off her body and ravage her.

But much to her surprise, the power of those eyes was enough to send a whisper of a dark, forbidden thrill through her as well, something she’d never felt before. George had only ever disgusted her when he looked at her like that, but with this man…something was different. The anger and disdain mixed with lust in the duke’s eyes seemed different. And there was something else in his gaze…shadowed not by evil, but rather by pain. Pain was something she recognized all too well.

The man snapped his fingers, and Devil trotted out of the room, leaving his master and Harriet alone.

“Might I ask, Miss…,” he began.

“Russell, Harriet Russell.” She blurted out her real name without thinking, but it was too late. She couldn’t take it back. She could only pray that if this man indeed knew George, then George would never have had a reason to discuss her, let alone call her by her name.

“Miss Russell, what are you doing in my house at this ungodly hour?” His lips curved upward as he said “ungodly,” as though sharing some private joke. So she’d been correct in her assumption. He was the Dark Duke, the infamous Devil of Dover.

“My carriage overturned, and my driver was injured. I sought help from the man who answered the door.” She took a small step back as the duke entered the room and shut the door behind him. She heard the sound of a key turning in the door before he faced her again. Harriet gripped her wounded arm to support it, while also attempting to look relaxed, lest she betray her wounded condition.

“So my man Grindle let you in, did he?” The duke leaned back against the locked door, eyeing her with increasing interest.

“Your Grace, I did not mean to intrude, but my driver is terribly injured, and the storm is worsening.”

Thunder rumbled as if on cosmic cue, shaking the house around them. Harriet tried to remain calm as the duke came closer. He wore buff breeches and a loose white lawn shirt that billowed open at his chest, revealing broad shoulders and a sculpted chest so breathtaking the angels would have wept. His state of relative undress had escaped her attention while she’d been so focused on his face and his dog.

Harriet took another involuntary step back, her body warning her of the danger that emanated from him. She should not be left alone with him. Daring to look around, she tried to find a bell cord to pull that might summon a servant to protect her if her strength failed her.

“Are you all alone this night, Miss Russell?” The duke was only a foot from her now, peering into her eyes.

He cupped her chin, raising her face up as he studied her. She tried to retreat, but the settee was right behind her now, her calves pressed against the base of the cushions. Lord Frostmore reached up with his other hand to undo the clasp of her cloak at her throat. The thick fabric collapsed at her feet in ebony waves of coarse wool. Harriet felt suddenly naked beneath his gaze, despite the pale-pink muslin gown she wore.

“I am alone, save for my driver,” she answered. He would know the truth in her eyes if she tried to lie, and she refused to be cowed by him. The duke’s hand at her throat dropped slowly to her chest and then to the rising flesh of her breasts. His fingertips traced a burning line over her skin before he withdrew his hand.

“You should never travel my roads alone.” Lord Frostmore released her chin and turned to face the fire, no longer looking at her.

“I am not afraid,” Harriet declared boldly.

He chuckled softly. “You will be before this night is through.” He said this to himself, as if his words were not a warning but a dark promise.

“You would not dare touch me.” Harriet’s tone remained steady, despite her rising concern. She wanted to convince herself that he would do her no harm, not with Mr. Grindle and the other servants as witnesses. The duke turned back to face her, a cruel kind of delight shining in his eyes.

“I would do more than dare, my dear. Do you not know in whose house you stand?” He returned his focus to the fire, but she knew his attention was still upon her, as though he waited for her to scream or faint dead away like some ninny of a girl.

“You are Redmond Barrington, the Duke of Frostmore.” She did not think it wise to mention his other names. The duke gave a wide smile as the firelight played with shadows on his face. Had she made a mistake in coming here? But what choice did she have? She couldn’t leave Mr. Johnson injured in the midst of a dangerous storm. She’d face this devil and do whatever she had to survive the night.