Dead Dukes Tell No Tales Page 3

  Sabine glowered at the papers she had examined today. Nothing. Another code deciphered, another accounting of random antiquities purchases. Sometimes it seemed half the duke’s papers were written in code. At least most of what she’d found were simple alphabet shifts. Easy to decode. After weeks of this, she was beginning to doubt the veracity of the document that had brought her here. What if it was no more than a shopping list?

  Nein, she scolded herself. Men had killed for that letter. Redbeard himself had employed a code-breaker in an attempt to read it. Its value was no fiction. It would lead her to her treasure.

  If only she could find the key in this epic disaster of a library.

  A knock on the door prevented her from moving on to the next unhelpful bit of correspondence.

  “Tea, Captain?” Hawkes inquired, entering the room holding a tray with a steaming pot, two cups, and an array of snacks.

  “Yes, please. Set it down there.” Sabine waved at the single empty table in the room. She still wanted to laugh at Hawkes’ determination to do everything a proper English butler would, but she couldn’t deny that she found the afternoon refreshments beneficial. Sorting through old maps and papers was shockingly exhausting.

  “Here you are, my lady. Shall I ask the duke to join you?”

  “Please. I’d like to hear his latest progress report.”

  The butler bowed and departed, leaving the door open. Sabine poured herself a cup of tea and returned to her work. She would find her treasure, no matter how long it took.

  She was in the middle of scanning yet another Caesar cipher when the duke’s now-familiar American accent sounded from the doorway.

  “You wanted me?”

  Sabine looked up. He leaned against the doorjamb, his sleeves pushed up to his elbows, wearing neither tie nor waistcoat. The combination of his words and the untidy state of his smartly-tailored clothing conjured up visions of other, more intimate ways a handsome man might become so rumpled. She wouldn’t mind doing a bit of rumpling, especially if it meant getting a taste of those generous lips.

  Don’t be ridiculous, Sabine. He’s not your type.

  And those were not at all the sort of thoughts anyone ought to have about a neighbor with whom she had a business arrangement. It had been too long since her last tryst, apparently.

  “Hawkes made tea,” she replied, gesturing at the refreshments. “Help me eat these biscuits and tell me how today’s efforts are progressing.”

  “Slowly.” Hartleigh walked to the table and poured himself a cup of tea. He took a seat across from Sabine. “The master bedchamber looks to have been the duke’s dumping ground for old, obsolete, or broken projects. Mechanical contraptions piled to the ceiling, tangled up with one another. I’m trying to get them apart, in case any might be worth more intact, but I’ve already had a couple things almost fall on my head. I might be giving up soon and just demolishing everything.”

  “Feel free. I can’t imagine you’ll find many books or papers there, but if you do, you know where to find me.”

  Hartleigh nodded. “I’ll put them in the small study. This room doesn’t need anything else brought into it.” He plucked a biscuit from the tray and chewed silently for a moment. “So, have you come up with a plan to murder me yet?”

  Sabine glared at him. “Stop using that word. I’m no murderer. Life is a fragile and precious thing. I would never take it so casually and coldly.”

  “Fine. Have you arranged for Hartleigh to meet some untimely end in an entirely accidental fashion that you have nothing to do with?”

  “Why do you speak of yourself in the third person?”

  He snapped a biscuit in half. “I don’t. Hartleigh is the duke.” He dropped one half onto the plate. “I’m Cliff Kinsley.” He dropped the second half. “Two different people.” He scooped up both halves and popped them into his mouth.

  “Two halves of the same cookie. You may split them apart, but they came from one whole and they’re meeting the same end.”

  Cliff/Hartleigh gulped down half a cup of tea and rose. “Thanks for the food. I’ll be getting back to work.”

  “You can’t expect to kill Hartleigh and walk away from his world without another thought. All this,” she waved a hand, “is part of who you are now. The past stays with us, whether we like it or not. You won’t get away from it.”

  His blue eyes hardened. “Watch me.”

  She let him go, shaking her head. He was asking for trouble. Faking his own death was a path fraught with risks, and could easily leave him in a worse situation than he found himself in now. But he seemed determined, and if that was the cost for his assistance in finding her treasure, so be it. She’d uphold her end of the bargain. But she’d take no responsibility when things went wrong.

  Sabine was dusting the last crumbs of biscuit away when Hawkes again knocked on the door.

  “Her Grace, the Duchess of Hartleigh,” he announced.

  A buxom blond woman in a gauzy blue gown glided into the room, her brows knit together in a look of suspicion. “Where is Hartleigh?” she demanded.

  A duchess? Is Hartleigh married?

  Sabine studied the intruder for a moment, trying not to let her surprise show. The woman was in her mid-to-late twenties, at best guess. She wore no obvious cosmetics and minimal jewelry, but her gown looked to have been crafted by a skilled hand and was decorated with elaborate embroidery and fine lace.

  “Well?” The duchess tapped her foot irritably. “He’s here, isn’t he? I am informed that he’s here all day, every day, and I’ve had quite enough of it. He has duties to attend to, and it’s unseemly for him to waste his time fraternizing with a lady pirate, even if she is a national heroine. Where is he? Is he off doing unspeakable things with her right at this minute? Well? Speak up, girl. You must know something. Who are you, the pirate’s housekeeper, or a new governess for Hartleigh’s bastard child? That dress is too fine for a chambermaid.”

  Sabine studied her plain green dress. A housekeeper? No housekeeper could afford a dress this well made. Simple and functional didn’t make it any less fine than the duchess’ fancy attire. A duchess who was an English aristocrat, through-and-through. Definitely not the wife of an American businessman.

  “You must be the widow of the Mad Duke,” Sabine surmised. She’d known the woman existed, but had imagined her to be far older and more sedate. Was she only behaving so imperiously because she thought Sabine to be a servant? Or was this simply how duchesses were?

  “A fine way to speak of the dead!” the woman scolded. “I’ll be speaking with your mistress about you. Where is she? It’s time I met the woman who stole our rightful property.”

  “I am Miss Sabine Diebin, better known as the privateer La Capitaine.”

  “You?” The duchess visibly flinched. “You look like a schoolteacher, not a pirate. And you don’t sound French.”

  “I’m not. I’m German. What do you want with Hartleigh?”

  “What do I want? I want him to stop wasting time. I want him to do his duty. I want this house back.”

  Sabine shrugged. “I’ll sell it for a reasonable price once I’m done with it.”

  “Well, that’s something. Where is he?”

  “Upstairs. Working. Earning money so he can afford to buy this house.” In truth, Sabine had no idea what Hartleigh intended to do with the money he earned from this venture. Probably use it to help him move to San Francisco if his fake death plan succeeded. But the duchess didn’t need to know that.

  “Working?” The duchess sighed. “He’s so terribly American. I really don’t know what to do with him.”

  Sabine’s mouth twitched as she fought a smile. “I’ll take you to see him. He’s digging through machines. He deals in scrap metal, you know.”

  The duchess made a little huffing noise, but followed Sabine without protest. “You’ve improved the place,” she said sometime later. “Some of the rooms look usable. I never lived here, you know. He filled it with his junk and di
d his experiments, and I left him to it. He probably was mad, I suppose.”

  “Mm-hmm. Harleigh should be just—” She rounded the corner and nearly collided with him.

  “Miss Diebin!” He staggered backwards, juggling a large, rectangular wooden box studded with gears, screws, and other mechanical bits. When he finally recovered, he clutched the box to his chest, gasping in relief. “You startled me.”

  “There you are, Hartleigh,” the duchess said. “Enough with whatever this nonsense is. It’s time you came home. I’m taking you to a ball in London in three days, and I expect you to be prepared. We will find you a wife this time, even if I have to drag you around the dance floor myself.”

  Hartleigh didn’t even look at her. His eyes were locked on Sabine, shining and eager. “I found it! He’d hidden it in a corner, behind heaps of broken things.”

  Sabine frowned at the box. “Found what? What is it?”

  He turned the box and flipped it open. The top half of the machine was a jumble of gears, knobs, and switches. Rows of mechanical keys bearing the letters of the alphabet lined the bottom. Half-a-dozen steel wheels, inscribed with more letters, sat stacked in one corner. A bit of faded paper dangled from a small slot in the side.

  “It’s a cryptographic apparatus,” the duke replied, in a voice choked with awe. “He wasn’t insane. He was a genius.”

  Sabine reached out a hand, letting one finger brush over the smooth, metal keys. A shiver of joyful terror raced through her. Was this it? Her treasure, at last?

  “This will decode my document?” She almost whispered it, afraid to shatter the dream.

  “Type in the letters and the solution will print out. It appears to need new ink and new paper. And I believe the wheels need to be placed in these slots, in the correct order and rotated to the correct positions.” Hartleigh pointed at four semi-circular slots above the keyboard.

  Sabine’s excitement faded. “But how do we know which wheels to use, and how to place them? There must be hundreds of thousands of possibilities!”

  Hartleigh closed the box and turned it on its side. A small, brass plate surrounded a hole that looked to require a clockwork key. Scratched into the metal were the words, safebox - London. “I assume the old duke had a bank?”

  Sabine’s mouth curved into a broad smile. She turned to the duchess. “You say Hartleigh is going to London for a ball?”

  “Yes. Whether he wants to or not.”

  “Excellent. I’m always being invited to these things. I think this time I’ll go.”

  6

  “I can’t do this.”

  The whole room was staring at him. The whole room had been staring at him since he’d walked through the damn door twenty minutes ago. Cliff toyed with his cufflinks. They were diamonds. Enormous, ostentatious diamonds. What kind of snob wore diamond cufflinks? The duchess claimed they were family heirlooms. Cliff wanted to sell them and swap for something less ridiculous.

  Her Grace took hold of his elbow. “Everything is perfect. All you need do is smile. A thirty-year-old, unmarried duke? People are salivating.”

  “So I’m a piece of meat. How reassuring.”

  “The choicest of cuts, I assure you. Your American past has everyone talking, and you look especially handsome tonight, now that you’re properly attired. The eyeglasses, though…”

  “I can’t see without my glasses. I have terrible astigmatism in both eyes. If you think I walk into things often now, you should see what happens if I take off my eyeglasses.”

  “Yes, yes. I suppose it can’t be helped. We’ll see about getting you something less obtrusive. One of those rimless pairs, perhaps.”

  Cliff gritted his teeth. “I like the red.”

  “Why must you be so difficult?”

  “I’m here, aren’t I? I think you should be happy.”

  “I am relieved, certainly. You’ve been pleasantly agreeable to most suggestions. Now, who shall we choose for your first dancing partner?”

  Cliff’s gaze darted back and forth, taking in the brightly lit ballroom and the couples gliding and twirling in time to the music. His cufflinks fit right in. Everything sparkled, from the highly polished floor, to the glittering chandeliers, to the gems and beads sewn into the ladies’ dresses.

  I’m just a fancy bauble on display. Help me.

  “I can’t dance,” he blurted.

  “Nonsense.”

  “No, truly. I can’t dance. I don’t know the steps, I have terrible balance, and no rhythm.”

  “Not even a waltz?”

  “I can almost polka. I grew up next door to a family from Germany. They taught the whole neighborhood to polka.”

  “Close enough. We’ll pair you with the Danbury girl. She won’t know the difference.”

  “Fine.”

  Put on a show. Make them believe you’re okay with this.

  Easier said than done. Cliff followed the duchess through the crowd and forced a smile throughout the introductions. Miss Danbury giggled at his accent and intentionally dropped her handkerchief.

  “I’m living in a farce,” he muttered as he bent to retrieve the square of cloth.

  Any moment now, some newspaper man would jump out and cry, “Surprise! You’re our newest featured story! Tell us, how does it feel to be dragged from your home and thrust into a world of gilded opulence?”

  “Do you enjoy dancing, Your Grace?” the girl tittered.

  “I—”

  He lost his train of thought when he caught sight of Sabine Diebin striding into the room as if she owned it. An unadorned black corset covered her high-necked, long-sleeved white top. A puffed skirt of black velvet fell to the floor in the back, but was cinched up in the front to reveal knee-high, military-style black boots. Simple, elegant, powerful. The other ladies, in their gauzy, bejeweled pastels, with their pinched-in waists and thrust-out chests, looked gaudy by comparison. Sabine was a perfect slice of obsidian atop a pile of dusty, unpolished quartz. She also, Cliff noted with pleasure, still wore her wire-rimmed spectacles.

  A hush fell over the room. The music faded, the dancers freezing in place to stare.

  “It’s her,” Miss Danbury gasped. “The savior of the royal family! She’s real and she’s here.” She fanned herself vigorously. “And she’s so piratical! You can see her legs! Oh, heavens, I think I’m going to swoon.”

  “There’s a sofa right over there.” Cliff pointed. “Go sit. Please excuse me. I’d like to go greet my friend.”

  “She’s your friend?” Miss Danbury collapsed in a theatrical heap.

  “Bravo, young lady. You’d make an excellent Juliet.” He struck out across the room, ignoring the glare from the duchess. Was he supposed to have caught the girl? Probably he’d just insulted another heiress. Tragic.

  “Your Grace,” Sabine greeted him, her mouth hitching in that now-familiar half-smirk. “Fancy seeing you here.”

  “Indeed.” He nodded his head slightly, because apparently dukes didn’t bow to anyone except the king. Not that Cliff had any intention of ever bowing to an English king. Not when his country’s very existence began with rebellion against such a monarch.

  She took hold of his arm, as if they really were old friends eager to catch up. “I cased the bank,” she whispered. “It’s vulnerable. I think we can break in tonight. Did you learn which box is his?”

  Cliff turned to stare at her. “You’re seriously planning to rob a bank?”

  “Thief is in my name,” she pointed out. “And that treasure is invaluable to me. I could use your assistance as a lookout. Are you in?”

  “I’m the man’s only heir. I’ve already gathered the necessary paperwork. I can stroll in tomorrow and take whatever I want.”

  “Ah.” Her smile waned. “I suppose your way carries less risk. Though part of me had hoped you would be unsuccessful.”

  “And planned for it, clearly.”

  “Your obvious distaste for your new position in life made me question your willingness and abil
ity to gain anything via your title.”

  “A fair point.” An elbow jostled him and he stumbled. Music began to swell. “Uh, we appear to have wandered onto the dance floor.”

  “Lovely.” Sabine turned toward him. “Shall we?”

  “I can’t dance.”

  “Neither can I. We’ll fake it.” She nodded her head at the smartly dressed man who had bumped them and his tall, graceful partner. “Do what they do.”

  “Right.”

  Cliff took hold of her hand and struck a pose that looked vaguely like that of the other couples. Three steps in, he stepped on Sabine’s foot, then turned the wrong way and narrowly missed a collision with another couple. They half-ran back into position and tried again, only to slip and crash into one another.

  Sabine’s fingers clenched on his coat. She let out a very unpiratical giggle. “You really are terrible.”

  “I know.” He gripped her tightly and spun them around in a circle entirely at random. “I’m not even certain which of us is leading.”

  “I don’t know, but I’m having fun.”

  “Are pirates allowed to have fun?”

  “We do whatever we want.” She yanked him in the opposite direction, neatly slicing between the other dancers. “What about dukes?”

  “They’re boring, as far as I can tell.”

  “Then I’m glad I will save you from being one. Tomorrow we’ll get that key and hopefully the instructions for the machine. Then we’ll set out to find my treasure and you and Lola can vanish. Tonight, we dance.”

  They spun, bumped, tripped, and whirled until the music stopped, leaving them in the center of the dance floor, breathless and laughing. Cliff made an inelegant bow, no longer caring that all eyes were on him. “It was a pleasure, my lady.”

  Sabine curtsied, gracefully. “Yes it was, Your Grace. I will see you tomorrow, first thing in the morning.” She turned and departed, not looking back.