Duke of Desire (Maiden Lane #12)(56)

“Please.”

The small dining room turned out to be on the level below and was not small at all, which made one wonder about the large dining room. Donna Pieri sat at one end of a wide, dark wood table with huge squat legs, her back to a roaring fire.

She looked up as Iris entered, and beckoned. “Come, sit by me so that we can converse.”

A footman held a chair out for Iris at Donna Pieri’s right hand, where a place setting was already laid.

As soon as Iris sat, a footman appeared at her elbow and offered her a tureen of soup.

She inhaled gratefully as she ladled the broth into the bowl in front of her.

“Now then,” the older woman said after the soup was served, “how did you meet my nephew, eh?”

Iris carefully swallowed her spoonful of soup before she began the story she and Raphael had worked out between the two of them in the carriage today. “It was quite exciting, actually. I was returning from the wedding of the Duke of Kyle when my carriage was attacked by highwaymen.”

“Is this so?” Donna Pieri straightened, looking appalled, and Iris felt terribly guilty for lying to the woman.

Although the truth was far worse.

Iris inhaled, some of the memories of her real kidnapping coming back to her—the shouting of her men, the gunshots, the horrible feeling of helplessness and fear.

She tried a smile, but found it didn’t quite work. “They put a hood on me and one took me onto his horse and they all started galloping. Naturally I was quite frightened. I have no notion how long they rode with me, but then … then Raphael’s carriage came upon us, from the other direction.” She took a sip of her wine to steady herself. “He and his men fought the highwaymen off, but I confess to being shaken. Dyemore Abbey was close and Raphael kindly offered us refuge. The rest … Well, I think you can guess. After staying several days with him in his house, recovering, Raphael said it was only right that he discourage any rumors that might arise. He sent for the local vicar and we were married.”

She glanced down, biting her lip. The problem was—and she really couldn’t help thinking this wasn’t a fault of personality—she had always been a dreadful liar.

“How very romantic,” Donna Pieri said.

Iris made the mistake of looking up.

The little woman next to her was watching her with narrowed eyes.

Iris swallowed. For the life of her she couldn’t think how to answer. “Erm …”

“And you say my nephew was worried about propriety?” Donna Pieri sipped her wine.

Iris winced. Actually, Raphael didn’t seem the sort to worry about propriety. “Yes?”

“Hmm.”

Iris had never been so grateful for the sudden removal of a soup bowl. A second footman placed a platter of buttered fish fillets on the table.

She cleared her throat as she watched the older woman select a filet. “Raphael told me he grew up on Corsica?”

Donna Pieri merely looked at her, and for a long moment Iris thought she wouldn’t respond to the change of subject. Then the older woman’s lips twitched as if she found Iris’s ploy amusing. “Not grew up there. Not exactly, you understand, for he only came to live on Corsica when he was twelve years of age. Before that we lived in England, at Dyemore Abbey.”

Raphael’s father had sent his heir away at twelve? How very odd. Most aristocrats wanted to have some say in the education of their sons.

“Why—” Iris began, but the older woman shot her a stern glare and continued speaking.

“Corsica is a beautiful island. A paradise. England is so cold and dreary, but when Raphael said he must return I knew it was my duty to come with him.” She shuddered delicately. “But now I think we will not be here for very long. My nephew is too obsessed with revenge. It is not at all healthy.”

“Revenge?” Iris laid down her knife and spoke delicately. “You are aware of Raphael’s plans for … revenge?”

“Tch!” Donna Pieri looked scornful. “You know as well, then, about these Lords of Chaos?”

Iris nodded.

The older woman shook her head. “When we received word that Leonard had died, I told Raphael that he must return and claim the dukedom. This was his right, after all. But then we landed in London and he found out almost immediately that the Lords were still using the abbey’s cathedral for their revelry. He realized that they were still alive.”

“He thought they’d disbanded?”

“Indeed.” Donna Pieri took a sip of wine. “And now he thinks he must destroy the Lords—all the Lords. That this is his duty.” Her lips twisted. “It is nonsense, that. He has suffered enough from the Lords—from his beast of a father. He should forget all this and come with me back to Corsica.”

Iris raised her eyebrows. Donna Pieri must know how unlikely that was; Raphael had set his course and was determined.

She cleared her throat and decided to change the subject. “You lived in Corsica with Raphael?”

“Yes, of course,” Donna Pieri said. “I am after all his closest living relative. In Corsica the ocean is the color of turquoise—a bird’s wing—not the dull gray it is here. We have mountains and beaches, skies kissed by the sun. When he was a boy Raphael used to ride horses bareback like a wild savage. He’d disappear into the hills for weeks at a time and I’d despair of him ever returning to our home, ever becoming the aristocrat he was born to be. He was so angry. So very angry.” Her voice had dropped to a whisper, as if she spoke to herself—or maybe to her memories.