While the Duke Was Sleeping (The Rogue Files #1)(12)

When she opened her mouth to speak, an equally exotic accent spilled forth: “Mrs. Wakefield! What is going on here? Giles just informed me that Marcus is injured.” Her gaze locked on Autenberry prostrate on the bed. She released a sharp gasp followed by a litany of Spanish—one of the languages Poppy did not speak. Had it been French or German, she could have followed her.

Too young to be his mother, but not in the first blush of youth either, she charged forward with her dark eyes snapping fire, ready to tear someone apart. The lady launched herself into the chair that Poppy had vacated moments before. She picked up the duke’s lifeless hand between her own. “Marcus, mío. What ails you?”

Poppy shifted uneasily. Oh, dear. Her chest squeezed. In any case, all would soon be revealed now. This woman was obviously close to him. She would know Poppy wasn’t his fiancée. She could very well be one of the women the duke was always sending flowers to? Perhaps Autenberry loved her.

“Your Grace,” Mrs. Wakefield murmured, stepping closer and brushing a hand against the woman’s shoulder. “You must calm yourself.”

Poppy started at the form of address. She was a duchess? How could that be? She was quite certain that the duke wasn’t married and it wasn’t as though there were a surfeit of duchesses about Town.

“He’s like a ghost,” the duchess muttered, shaking her head. “My sweet stepson . . . thank the heavens his beloved father is not here to see him like this.”

Ah. She was his stepmother, then? The dowager duchess. She scarcely looked older than the duke though. If Poppy hazarded a guess, she would place her a few years over thirty.

“Oh, Mama!” A young girl close to Bryony’s age sidled close to where the dowager duchess sat. She was the very image of her mother with dark hair and eyes. “He will be well, won’t he?”

The dowager nodded as though convinced, and yet doubt lurked in her dark eyes. “He’s young and strong. Of course he will mend.”

“How did such a thing happen?” another woman asked. She, too, had dark hair, but she wasn’t the least bit exotic. She was as English as they come with milk-pale skin, gray eyes and a fine, narrow nose. Her clothing was finely made, but not nearly as bold or stylish as that of the duchess. It was difficult to determine her age with her rather stern expression.

Somehow, miraculously, Poppy’s voice surfaced in that moment to answer the question. “He fell and struck his head,” she explained from where she hovered. All gazes swung to her as though she possessed two heads.

The stoic-faced lady pinned Poppy with her gaze. “And how, pray, did that happen?”

“He . . .” Poppy hesitated, reluctant to betray the man standing beside her. Mackenzie did save her life. She supposed she owed him for that . . . and despite what she had accused him of to his face, she knew he did not mean for the duke to injure himself so seriously. “He and . . . another man were fighting.”

“A fight!” his stepmother exclaimed in her rolling accents, pushing back up from her seat and shaking her head. “Fisticuffs! With whom?”

“With me.” Mackenzie stepped forward, looking appropriately grim as he admitted this.

The dowager released a little squeak and took a hasty step back, clutching her young daughter close as though Mackenzie might turn his fists on them next.

“You?” Hot color flooded the other lady’s face, enlivening her and suddenly making her appear not so stern and stoic. “Who are you?” she demanded in outrage, not shrinking away.

He opened his mouth to answer and then paused. Angling his head, he looked at the lady strangely, as though seeing something within the tight lines of her face.

Mrs. Wakefield stepped forward and lightly squeezed her arm. “Lady Enid, it’s him. You recognize him, don’t you?”

Understanding passed over Lady Enid’s face as she gazed at Mackenzie. “Ah, of course.” Her voice dropped a notch softer. “I was wondering when we would meet.”

“Aye,” he said rather gruffly. “I’m Struan Mackenzie.”

Struan. Poppy rolled the sound of his name around in her head. Strew-an. In her head, she heard the vibrating rumble of his brogue, especially in the first syllables, even though she doubted she could pronounce it thusly herself.

“How good to meet you,” the lady replied. “This is long overdue. I’m Enid. Your sister.”

His sister? And they’d never met before?

Enid turned her gaze from her brother and gave her head a slight shake as if returning to the moment. She frowned down at the duke on the bed. “Let me hazard a guess,” she continued. “Marcus wasn’t pleased to see you and—” She broke off with a shrug. “Well, let’s just say that he said regrettable things.”

The dowager stepped forward again, fisting her linen handkerchief. Poppy tensed, wondering if she would strike him. She was well within her rights. “Marcus does have a temper, but he is not given to violence. Did you do this to him?” she demanded, waving her handkerchief.

“No,” Poppy heard herself quickly defend, not even stopping to wonder why she was defending him. All attention turned to her. “It was an accident.”

The exotic beauty nodded, looking relieved. Then, to Poppy’s great shock, she stepped forward and embraced Mackenzie. “Mr. Mackenzie . . . Struan, I’ve longed to meet you. We are family. Marcus has struggled to accept your existence. You can understand, I am certain. He was suspicious . . . afraid that you wanted to hurt us.”