Beguiled by a Baron (The Heart of a Duke Book 14)

Beguiled by a Baron (The Heart of a Duke Book 14)

Christi Caldwell




Chapter 1


Leeds, England

Spring 1820

Lady Bridget Hamilton had believed she’d made her last great sacrifice where her brother, the ruthless, soulless Marquess of Atbrooke, was concerned. She should have learned better—long ago.

Bridget gave thanks for having the foresight to leave her ten-year-old son, Virgil, in the care of their maid-of-all-purposes, Miss Nettie, who’d been with them since Bridget herself was a babe in the cradle. Keeping her son away from Archibald ensured he’d never grow up like the ruthless bastard.

“I beg your pardon?” Bridget said in frosty tones.

Born partially deaf in her left ear, it was possible she’d misheard Archibald. She had certainly failed to detect lesser words and tones than the ones he’d uttered. Yet, by the mercenary glitter in his ruthless eyes, she’d all the confirmation she needed.

He reclined in his seat; an upholstered chair with faded fabric and tears showing its age. “Oh, come, you make more of it than it is,” he drawled. His words forced her back to a different time. To the first and only time she’d left that remote, crumbling estate her family kept, with Archibald’s child in tow. In the end, Bridget had left with unexpected work from an old book collector…and also her nephew, rejected by his father. That same miserable bastard who now kicked his feet up. He dropped his gleaming black boots upon the French refectory table. “You’ve certainly undertaken far more than this small favor.”

Bridget lingered her gaze on his immaculate, and what was more, expensive footwear. Fine boots when he was in dun territory chasing a fortune and being hunted for the money he owed others. Costly articles when she and her son should live in the squalor that they did, in this ramshackle cottage. “Yes,” she said quietly. But those decisions had been ones she’d made…not to help her derelict, reprobate brother but rather to right the wrongs he’d inflicted upon others. “I have. As such, you should be ashamed to come here and put any requests to me.” As soon as the words left her mouth, she flattened her lips. Archibald was incapable of shame or regret. He’d been born with a black soul that not even the Devil would have a use for.

A flash of fury sparked in his eyes and he surged forward. “But there is where you are wrong, Bridget. I asked you for nothing. I demanded it of you.” It was not, however, the palpable outrage in his words that gave her pause, but rather the location of his feet. His dirt-stained heels kissed the edge of a document she’d been studying, prior to his arrival. That venerated script that she’d been asked to evaluate and study by a London scholar who’d no qualms in dealing with a young lady adept in antiquities. Those revered pages would provide much-needed coin and were also to be respected for the history contained within them. “Goddamn it, Bridget,” he shouted, cupping his hands around his mouth. “It is a chore to pay you any damned visit, even when you serve a purpose.”

So, he’d mistaken her silence for an inability to hear him. That had been a cherished tool she’d used over the years to gather the thoughts, words, plans, and opinions of the soulless siblings she’d been saddled with.

With her white-gloved fingers, she rescued the book and tucked it under the table—out of his reach, vision, and feet. She’d learned long ago that her brother’s attention was sparse at best. He could be distracted the same way a dog might when thrown a bone. “You don’t have a use for antiquities,” she finally said.

Archibald smirked. “I’ve developed a newfound appreciation for them.”

“Oh,” she bit out. “Since when did you care about anything?” Anything that was not a coin or a bottle of spirits.

“Since I learned the cost of this particular artifact,” he supplied, looking altogether smug. “Lord Chilton has it.” A crazed glitter lit his eyes. “And I want it. Need it,” he whispered.

So, he’d learned the value of those books. She curled her hands into balls. He’d never been the bookish sort. He’d mocked her and jeered her love of literature and ancient texts and documents. Only to now, all these years later, find the value of them. Of course, it should come to be because of his own financial failings. He’d been living in hiding these past two years, which was no doubt because of the creditors after him. And yet, he always crawled out to the Kent countryside like a determined rodent that Cook would never succeed in ridding from the kitchens. “You want me to enter a nobleman’s household, masquerade as a servant in his employ, and rob him while he sleeps?” Mad. Her brother was as mad as their sister, who’d just been committed for the attempted murder of the young Duchess of Huntly.

Archibald scoffed. “You’re rot at subterfuge, Bridget. You don’t need to wait until the dead of night. The gentleman is off seeing to business most days and nights. The time will really be yours to choose.”

“Which particular book?” she asked with an inquiry that came forth more of her passion for those records and less to aid him in his plans of theft. She’d sacrificed enough in her life: her respectable name, her ability to move freely in the world. She’d not also now sacrifice her honor. Not for a material scrap or coin. Not even a small fortune.

“It is the first edition of Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales.”