Duke of Desire (Maiden Lane #12)(54)

“You’re not going to investigate the Lords now, are you?” She looked almost fearful. “Raphael—”

The door was flung open and Ubertino bowed.

Raphael couldn’t help but be grateful for the interruption.

He descended the steps and held out his hand to help Iris from the carriage. “Welcome to Chartres House.”

She tilted her head back to survey the massive house before her. “It’s … quite large.”

“My grandfather wasn’t a man who believed in parsimony.” He tucked her small hand into the crook of his elbow and led her to the front door.

Standing there was a tall, spare man in an impeccable wig and silver-and-black livery. “Your Grace, welcome back to Chartres House.”

“Thank you,” Raphael said as he ushered Iris in. He looked down at her, watching her examine the entrance hall. “This is my butler, Murdock.” He glanced at the butler. “Murdock, my duchess, your new mistress.”

The only surprise the butler showed was in a single blink. “Your Grace.” Murdock’s bow was so low his nose nearly swept the floor.

When he rose, Iris smiled warmly. “A pleasure to meet you, Murdock.”

A reddish tinge crept up the man’s craggy cheekbones. His wife could enthrall a badger, Raphael thought a bit sourly.

He cleared his throat. “Is Donna Pieri home?”

Murdock snapped to attention. “My lady is in the Styx sitting room, Your Grace.”

“Good.”

He felt his duchess’s sharp gaze as he led her to the staircase at the back of the hall. Red marble imported from somewhere exotic made up the treads and the heavy sweeping railings. The walls were lined with his unsmiling ancestors—they had a tendency to be dark and draped in an excessive number of jewels.

On the upper level the stairs ended in a long gallery, running the width of the landing. He brought her to tall double doors painted pale gray and opened them.

Inside was a petite woman, her dark hair streaked with white. A neat little lacy cap covered the top of her head. She sat at the edge of a chair upholstered in gold brocade, her back straight, her shoulders level, her hands held before her as she pulled a thread through an embroidery hoop, peering through small gold spectacles.

His chest warmed at the sight of her.

She glanced up at their entrance, raised an eyebrow, and said with only a hint of an Italian accent, “Ah, Nephew, I am glad to see you alive.”

Iris blinked, rather alarmed at the woman’s greeting. She’d never thought about Raphael’s possessing living relatives, yet here was his aunt.

And apparently she thought it was notable that Raphael was still alive.

Iris turned quickly to look at her husband, but he’d regained his icy reserve. Damn it. What exactly had he intended to do at the Lords of Chaos’s revel if she’d not been there? Had he planned something that would’ve gotten him killed?

She knit her brows at that appalling thought and glanced back at the petite elderly woman, sitting in profile.

Donna Pieri was all alone in the enormous sitting room done in shades of black and gold: white-painted walls were divided by black marble pilasters topped with gold Corinthian capitals. The delicate chairs, scattered here and there, were upholstered in gold brocade, and at one end of the room was an elaborate black marble fireplace mantel.

The ceiling was painted. But instead of the usual gods or cherubs cavorting in clouds, this was a scene of the River Styx with a rather muscular Charon ferrying the newly dead into Hades. Iris couldn’t quite repress a shiver. The artist had been quite fond of vermilion.

Though she supposed this room fit with her initial impression of Raphael—it was an appropriate setting for Hades.

She brought her gaze back to Raphael and watched as he bent and kissed his aunt’s cheek. It was a show of affection all the more astounding from a man who hardly ever displayed emotion.

He straightened. “There’s no need for dramatics, Zia. Of course I’m alive.”

She peered at him shrewdly. “I truly did not know if you would return alive from your trip north. If my worry is dramatic, then so be it.”

Raphael frowned. “Zia.”

“We will not talk about your obsession with these Lords now.” She waved her hand. “Tell me instead who this lady is.”

“This is my wife.” He turned to Iris, his crystal eyes glinting in the candlelight. “My dear, may I introduce you to my late mother’s elder sister, Donna Paulina Pieri. Aunt, my wife, Iris.”

The older woman stood, and as she did so she turned and Iris saw her face in full for the first time. Donna Pieri’s upper lip was split on the left side. A harelip.

Iris made sure that her own smile didn’t falter as she sank into a curtsy. “Donna, I’m so glad to meet you.”

“The pleasure is mine,” Donna Pieri said in her lovely accent as she rose from her own curtsy. She came only to Iris’s chin. Donna Pieri arched a fine eyebrow at her nephew. “I confess myself surprised—both by the suddenness of your marriage and because I never thought to see the day Raphael would wed.”

Something passed between them, a communication that Iris was unable to decipher, before Raphael bowed again. “I beg your pardon, but I fear I must leave again. I have to see an old … friend.”

Iris’s eyes narrowed. He must be going to investigate something about the Lords of Chaos. Perhaps Dockery? She’d hoped that they’d settled the matter when she’d expressed her dismay at his “business” in the carriage.