The Last Duke (Thornton 1)

Daphne stalled only until they’d reached the main road. Then, as the estate disappeared from view, she turned to Sarah, frowning as she saw the girl’s obvious trepidation.

“There’s no reason to be apprehensive. Your old life is over. Let’s embrace your new one.” Daphne’s meaningful glance flickered briefly over Pierce before returning to Sarah. “Tomorrow morning we’ll begin planning a schedule of lessons for all of Markham’s children. We’ll consult their parents, of course, and devise times that won’t conflict with their chores. Why, with a modicum of effort, you can begin teaching by next week.”

Pierce gave Daphne an almost imperceptible nod of understanding.

Chewing her lip, Sarah addressed Pierce. “Sir, I think you should know I have no prior experience. I’m not qualified for this position.”

A twinge of amusement lit his eyes. “Clearly, my wife thinks otherwise. And, since I’ve discovered her instincts to be flawless, I’ll make note of your candid admission, then dismiss it.”

“I—Thank you, sir.”

“You’re quite welcome.”

Confident that Daphne would explain the situation more fully once they’d arrived home, Pierce resumed his mental arran

gements. Shifting restlessly, he glanced at his timepiece. “I hope you ladies don’t object. I’ve asked our driver to make a brief stop.”

“Of course not,” Daphne assured him, although her brows rose in surprise. “Where are we stopping?”

“Wellingborough.” Pierce knew his. wife well enough to know she wasn’t fooled by his casual demeanor or light tone. Just as she’d perceived his inner conflict, she sensed his current unrest. And he could do nothing to assuage her worry, especially not in light of the decision he’d just made. “I need to collect some business materials for my meeting in London next week. It shouldn’t take more than a few minutes. Wellingborough is on our way.”

“By all means.” Daphne laced her fingers together. “Sarah and I will use that time to get better acquainted.”

Silence fell, lingered until the carriage rolled to a stop before Pierce’s Wellingborough home.

“I’ll be back straightaway,” he assured them, alighting swiftly and striding up the walk.

The house was dark, and Pierce lit a single candle to illuminate the hallway. Strange how coldly unoccupied the place seemed, he mused, glancing up and down the shadowed walls. Not long ago it had been his home. Now it was only a house.

Home was with Daphne.

He acted quickly, squatting to remove the appropriate floor plank, reaching beneath to extract the small object he’d carefully secreted on the morning following his wedding while his bride was still blissfully asleep.

The emerald from the Earl of Selbert’s Mansfield estate.

Slipping the stone into his pocket, Pierce reached beneath the floorboard again, extracting the mask he wore on his excursions as the Tin Cup Bandit. Pocketing that as well, he replaced the slat, scanning the floor to make certain he’d left no evidence of his hiding place. Then he stood, pausing only to gather up some unneeded papers to support his fabricated excuse for stopping by. Extinguishing the candle, he left.

Sleep was not forthcoming.

Tossing off his brandy, Pierce stared out the sitting room window, wishing Daphne hadn’t rushed off to help Sarah settle in. He needed her tonight, needed the gentle touch of her body, the healing warmth of her love.

Perhaps it was better this way.

He refilled his glass, frowning as he realized how little he could tell Daphne of what was transpiring inside him. He refused to amend his decision to protect her from the criminal portion of his life. And yet, selfishly, he wanted her still, if only to wrap herself around him, whisper that she loved him.

Dawn’s first rosy glow embraced the horizon, and Pierce massaged his aching temples, finalizing his strategy. He would send a missive to Hollingsby, arranging a meeting for tomorrow between the two of them and the barrister Hollingsby had selected to handle the marchioness’s impending divorce. That would serve as an excuse to go to London. If he committed the burglary tonight, then rode directly to Town, he could stop at Thompson’s store and the Faithful Heart workhouse in London’s East End, all before dawn.

In which case, he had only today.

Today to advise Daphne of his trip and to get enough rest so his senses would be whip-taut when he broke into that arrogant son of a bitch Benchley’s impenetrable estate.

Wearily, Pierce climbed the stairs to bed.

His room was still dark, only a trickle of light finding its way beneath the closed curtains. He tossed his robe aside and turned to climb into bed.

Daphne.

His beautiful wife lay on the rumpled sheets, her pristine nightgown covering her from neck to toe, her hair a tawny waterfall upon his pillow. Evidently when she’d finished settling Sarah in her new chamber, she’d come to his room rather than her own.