While the Duke Was Sleeping (The Rogue Files #1)(8)

After stubbornly insisting that Struan couldn’t be his brother, Autenberry ordered him to stay away from him and his family—as though Struan were stalking them, as though he wished the remaining Autenberry clan ill.

Only today Autenberry had taken it one step further and insulted the memory of his mother. My father never strayed from his marital bed, and he most certainly didn’t father some whelp off a whore from Glasgow—

Their old man was dead. He’d lied and used Struan’s mother, abandoned her when she came to him for help. He’d pushed her to her death . . . as if he had snuffed out her life himself.

Death, as far as he was concerned, was too good for his sire.

That said, he never intended to transfer his hatred onto his half brother . . . but it seemed his half brother was determined to think the worst of him.

In fact, Struan had been debating returning to Scotland, selling the properties he’d accrued since moving to London and putting the past behind him for good. Or try to, at any rate.

Then they’d come face-to-face again on the street today.

Struan wasn’t sure what to expect, but the venomous words had jarred him. And just like that, his thirst for revenge flared to life again. Except this time instead of exacting it on his father, he wanted his pound of flesh from the bastard’s son. The good son. The son worth having around. The one worth keeping.

Struan had lost control. When Autenberry struck him, he was ready.

The carriage rolled to a stop. The door opened and he motioned for her to descend. “Go ahead. I’ll see him out unless you mean to carry him in yourself.”

She eyed him suspiciously before nodding and departing before him. He lifted the duke’s not insubstantial weight, maneuvering him as carefully as he could out the door. A pair of footmen waited at the ready, arms outstretched to assist.

Autenberry’s devoted little friend hovered close, her expression fixed in concentration as she stood next to an anxious-looking woman, presumably the housekeeper, if the keys hanging from the belt at her waist were any indication.

He watched as the men carried his brother up the steps and into Autenberry’s Mayfair mansion.

The gray-haired housekeeper scrutinized his face. “Mr. Mackenzie?”

He felt a small flicker of surprise that she knew him. But then of course servants talked. They knew everything, before even their masters did. As the housekeeper to the Duke of Autenberry she likely knew all about him the moment he arrived in Town.

He masked his reaction and nodded.

She surprised him further by stepping forward and closing her hand around his forearm. She gave him an encouraging squeeze. “You’re the spittin’ image of your father, sir. Come inside, won’t you?” She motioned him inside the house with an easy smile.

He cast one final look at the girl who’d jumped on him like a wolverine, then turned his back on her. Whatever she was to his half brother, he was certain it was the last he would see of her. She hardly looked the sort to fit in among the ton—so that would exclude her from the Duke of Autenberry’s drawing room.



Poppy watched, worrying her lip between her teeth as the footmen carried the duke inside the house, scarcely listening or paying attention to the housekeeper as she addressed the duke’s brother. Her heart lodged somewhere in her throat as she stood there agonizing, praying for him to survive. Please, don’t die. Please, don’t die.

The duke’s half brother moved ahead of her, blocking her vision with his broad back. He looked over his shoulder at her before ascending the steps and disappearing inside the house, leaving her on the stoop, dismissing her as though she were no one of any import.

Her chest squeezed. It struck her as vastly unfair that he got to go inside whilst she, who genuinely cared for the duke, was left out here to wonder and worry. She let out a huff of breath and propped her fists on her hips.

“Oh, Marcus,” she breathed, allowing herself the liberty of secretly using his Christian name. “Please be well. Please don’t die.” Her eyes stung. “I’m here for you.” Her voice quavered a little. She swallowed back a choked sob and attempted a weak jest, “We’re going to get married, remember?”

“Hallo, there.”

She jerked and turned to face the housekeeper staring intently at her. She hadn’t realized the woman was still standing outside or so close . . . or listening to her. Blast. Had she heard the nonsense she just spouted? If she had, she must not give it any credence, chalking it simply as the ramblings of a deranged girl.

“H-hello,” she stammered, finding herself pinned by the housekeeper’s eagle-eyed scrutiny. She backed up several steps. The housekeeper followed. She was a great Viking of a woman. Tall with considerable girth. Poppy felt like a sparrow in her shadow.

“What’s your name?” the housekeeper asked.

“Poppy Fairchurch.”

“Miss Fairchurch . . . how is it you came to be here?”

She opened her mouth to speak, but suddenly the coachman was at her elbow. “She saved his life! Jumped directly in front of the carriage and pushed him out of the way.”

The housekeeper’s eyebrows winged high, nearly disappearing into her hairline. “That so?”

“The damnedest thing I ever seen.” The driver snatched his cap off his head. “Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am, miss. It was a sight to behold. The bravest thing I ever seen.”