The Last Duke (Thornton 1)

“Yes.” Daphne fiddled with her mask. “Pierce, I told Sarah about you; about The House of Perpetual Hope. Given the circumstances, it eased her despair. Are you angry?”

He shrugged. “I’ve never made a secret of my background. The only person I’ve chosen not to discuss the details with, for reasons you already know, is your father.”

With a quick nod, Daphne plunged on. “There’s one other thing you should be aware of. Sarah is with child.”

A heartbeat of silence.

“I see. Has she told the father?”

“Evidently, he wants no part of either her or their babe.”

“Why doesn’t that surprise me,” Pierce muttered, bitter memories scorching his throat.

“But, as was the case with your mother, Sarah does want her child. Very much. She’s determined to offer it all the constancy and devotion she herself was denied.”

“And so she shall.” Pierce urged the horses around the bend leading to Benchley. “We’ll do everything we can to help her.”

“I knew you’d say that.” With a sigh of relief, Daphne lay her head against Pierce’s shoulder. She felt the almost imperceptible tensing of his body. “We’re here,” she realized aloud, a statement not a question.

“Yes.” Pierce maneuvered the carriage into a small, concealed grove of trees. That done, he turned to Daphne. “Snow flame, are you absolutely certain you want to do this? You can still change your mind.”

“I’m very certain.” She brushed her lips across his chin. “Moreover, the Tin Cup Bandit cannot strike without me, not tonight.” She patted her pocket. “I have the emerald, remember? So you see, changing my mind is not an option. Not for me or for you. Now, shall we make quick work of Benchley’s impenetrable abode?”

Admiration flickered in Pierce’s eyes. “Very well, Madam Bandit.” Slipping on black gloves, he tugged his masked hood over his head, adjusting it to allow him to see. He took Daphne’s mask, waiting only until her gloves were on and she’d twisted her hair atop her head, before he pulled the hood on her, helped her conform it to her face. He then billowed the black cape about her until all her feminine curves were eclipsed from view.

Objectively, Pierce scrutinized her, making certain not a shred of evidence was visible that could identify the dark-clad figure as his wife.

“Will I do?” Daphne murmured, intentionally dropping her voice to an unrecognizable drone.

Beneath his mask, Pierce smiled. “Better than even I expected.” Lightly, he jumped to the ground, gripping Daphne’s waist and lowering her beside him. “Let’s go.”

They made their way through the trees, careful not to walk on the path leading to the gates, lest their shoes make even the slightest crunch on the roadway.

Two powerfully built guards leaned against the silver gates. Pierce stopped, gesturing to Daphne to stay behind him. Then, he took up a good-sized rock and flung it with all his might.

It hit the dirt on the far side of the gates.

“What the hell was that?” one guard muttered, reaching into his pocket for a pistol.

“We’d better look.”

Pierce called upon his incomparable timing, waiting until just the right moment, when the guards had walked far enough from their posts to be out of viewing range, but not so far that they’d halt, thus eliminating their receding, but revealing, footsteps. Then, he acted, beckoning to Daphne, edging swiftly to the gate.

His fine-tuned hearing told him his wife was right behind him. To be certain he waited, carefully easing her between the iron posts before he followed suit.

The vast grounds of the estate loomed before them, illuminated by a full, glittering moon.

Choosing the most thickly treed areas, Pierce led Daphne toward the house, urging her to the ground when the trees ebbed into gardens. Crouched low, they crept through the paths between flower beds, pausing now and again to listen for the steps of the vigilant sentries.

Experience had taught Pierce to surge forward a scant moment after any guards had passed by, as that was when they were most confident, and most careless of the region they’d so recently perused. Armed with that knowledge, he timed each advance perfectly, inching closer and closer to the sleeping manor.

At last their destination was upon them, dark and silent.

Pierce squeezed Daphne’s gloved hand and pointed toward the conservatory. Then, he moved stealthily toward it.

Taut with anticipation, Daphne followed.

As Pierce had predicted, the conservatory windows were broad, each fastened by a catch on either side. Pausing only to reassure himself no one was about, Pierce whipped out his knife and, in less than ten seconds, had cut a pane of glass just large enough to admit his hand. He reached around, forced back both catches and, an instant later, leaped lightly to his feet on the conservatory floor.