The Duchess War (Brothers Sinister #1)

“What? They’ve charged you in your absence?”


“No. Not me.” His lips curled even more. “The man they have is innocent, but that won’t stop them from pursuing the matter. Perhaps they think to embarrass me, without thinking that they’re destroying the life of a man who is, and always has been, my superior.”

“Who? Who is it?”

His face contorted, and his hands gripped hers. “Oliver Marshall,” he said. “My brother.”

Chapter Twenty-three

ON THE EXPRESS TRAIN FROM PARIS TO BOULOUGNE, Robert booked an entire first-class compartment. Not for luxury; he would hardly have noticed at this point. It was simple self-preservation. If he had to make polite conversation about his journey, he would never survive. Instead, he stared at the passing countryside as the sun climbed in the sky. The hours passed.

He didn’t sit in any of the comfortable seats, didn’t partake of any of the charming fruit-and-cream-laden pastries that Minnie must have ordered for him. He tried a biscuit at her urging, but it tasted like ash in his mouth, and he laid it aside after one bite. He stood near the front of the compartment, one hand on the wall, the other holding a cigarillo out the open window.

He’d long since realized that he used cigarillos as an excuse to avoid company. Now, the trickle of smoke that escaped into the compartment made another barrier, a hazy wall built between him and his wife. He took a drag on it anyway, and the smoke was acrid and harsh in his lungs, a more fitting punishment for what he’d allowed than his own guilt.

He’d known that Stevens wanted a culprit. He’d known, and in the haste—and lust—of his wedding, he’d put the matter off for his return. He thought he had time enough to deal with it.

The miles clacked past, marked only by his watch and the passing villages. Long hours slipped by, punctuated only by the shriek of the brakes and the whistle of the train for the few stops that the express made. First Beauvais, then Amiens, was left behind. It was only when the train skirted the silver-barked beeches of the Forest of Crécy that his wife braved the forbidding looks he gave her and crossed to him.

“You know,” she said, coming to stand by him near the farthest wall, “pushing won’t make it go faster.”

“No?” He tapped the end of his cigarillo out the window and watched embers fly away, pulsing briefly in the wind. “Doesn’t slow it down, either. Not that I can see.”

She looked away. Her fingers tapped against the window; her jaw squared.

A third punishment, that slight withdrawal, one that stung more than the smoke he’d inhaled.

But this way, you’re punishing her, too. His fist clenched and he shook his head.

She didn’t say anything. The train went around a curve; she put one hand against the wall to steady herself. The protest of the metal couplings, bending in place, surrounded them. The sound of the train, clack-clacking along at something just above thirty miles an hour, swallowed up any other response she might have given.

Not even one week married, and he was already fouling everything up. He’d wanted…so much. Not just a wife in name, but a family in truth. Someone who chose him.

Stupid bloody dream, that. At this particular moment, he wouldn’t have chosen himself, either. He gave the cigarillo another flick and watched orange sparks fly.

And that was when he felt her arm close around him from behind. She didn’t say anything at all, just pressed against him, holding him tight. She squeezed until it was clear that she wasn’t letting go, no matter how foul his mood. His breath rasped in his lungs, and this time not from the smoke.

“Oh, Minnie,” he heard himself say. “What am I going to do?”

“Everything you can. When is the trial?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“You’re a duke. There must be something you can do.” She paused. “Legal matters… I know almost nothing about them. But cannot trials be quashed?”

“This one, it’s intended to embarrass me,” Robert said. “Retaliation, I think.”

His face grew grim.

“There’s been something odd afoot in Leicester. I started looking into it because I discovered what my father had done with Graydon Boots. Those charges of criminal sedition always arose just when matters between workers and masters had come to a head. They’re grudges, not a proper application of the law.”

“All the easier to have it quashed, then,” Minnie said.

“Not that simple.” Robert tapped the cigarillo against the window frame once again. “Sebastian said they’ve already had a few reporters come in from London to cover the matter. It’s being reported that a man in my household committed a crime. Stevens no doubt thinks he has an easy conviction, that with me out of the country, I won’t be unable to respond. He thinks the damage will be done by the time I come back. I’ll be embarrassed, and Oliver—a guest of my house and a known associate—will be branded a criminal.”