Duchess Deceived

By Alyssa Roberts

Widowed duchess JULIANA BARRINGTON fears that men who covet her son's title are trying to kill him. When greedy relatives discover her whereabouts, she flees her seaside hideout. Will she be running forever?  

 

RANSOM WOLFE HAWKINS, a Royal Navy officer in hiding, wants to protect Juliana and her son, but fears he'll lose her trust if she learns he's been accused of murder. Will he have to choose between clearing his name and protecting the woman he loves? 

 

Or will he Deceive the Duchess?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Champagne Book Group
• Release date: Jun 7, 2021
• ISBN: 9781771553612

Book preview

Duchess Deceived

ALYSSA ROBERTS

CHAMPAGNE BOOK GROUP

Duchess Deceived

This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

Published by Champagne Book Group

2373 NE Evergreen Avenue, Albany OR 97321 U.S.A.

~~~

First Edition 2021

eISBN: 978-1-77155-361-2

Copyright © 2021 Alyssa Roberts All rights reserved.

Cover Art by Robyn Hart

Champagne Book Group supports copyright which encourages creativity and diverse voices, creates a rich culture, and promotes free speech. Thank you by complying by not scanning, uploading, and distributing this book via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher. Your purchase of an authorized electronic edition supports the author’s rights and hard work and allows Champagne Book Group to continue to bring readers fiction at its finest.

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To Doug, my hero.

Dear Reader,

I wish you the clarity of knowing your own convictions and the courage to act on them.

Love,

Alyssa

Chapter One

England, Sandstone on the Sea, June 1811

There was never a good place to hide when you needed one. And Ransom Wolfe Hawkins needed one now.

The darkening evening sky threatened rain, but he pressed on against relentless wind. Hand clamped to his ill-fitting hat, he staggered forward, struggling on his wounded leg to keep his footing until he reached the shelter of a thatch-roofed hut outside the seaside village. He caught his breath and risked a glance around the corner of the building.

Ghostly seagrasses swayed, and something in them moved in a direction that would intercept him. Maybe his luck would change—maybe it was an animal. His muscles clenched. Not an animal. A person.

The slight form walked raggedly, so likely not from His Majesty’s Royal Navy. Navy or not, the person must go faster. Each extra moment nearby increased the chances Ransom would be seen.

He let his head drop back against the rough wall blocking him from view. With luck, anyone tracking him would assume a naval officer accused of the crimes leveled against him would keep moving inland. Maybe he should begin to think of himself as Wolfe, so he didn’t slip up if someone eventually saw him.

Behind him, waves hissed, mocking his need to stay hidden in one place and at his conflicting need to run as far away as possible.

Cautiously, he swiveled his head. Someone he knew? Or the messenger, though that would be early?

A young woman, dark hair slipping out of her cap, fought her way up the pebbled slope and floundered under her awkward load. Wind threw her cloak against her body, slender and well-formed—so, a threat, though not the one he’d been on the watch for. He’d been defeated by unexpected dangers often enough in the last few weeks that he had a new motto: The threat that defeats you is not the one you worried about. The back of his neck tensed.

Her skirts swung in flowing ripples. He had to keep his gaze glued on her to see where she was going, so he noticed she was too thin, her skirts falling too thickly for that slight form. Smothering the urge to offer to feed her a full meal—something he couldn’t even give himself—he tightened the rope belt across his own empty belly.

The awkward load she carried caused regular hitches in her movements. A wooden bucket swung from one hand, slapping against her long skirt, and a sleeping child hung in a shawl draped over her shoulder.

The steep roof increased the gloom, which made it likely she would not see him if she didn’t come too close. Still, he flattened himself against the wall, gripped its rough wood, and whispered, Hurry, hurry. Please.

Though she came closer, he couldn’t tell what her ultimate path would be. The only house visible beyond the bluff ahead had a rundown air about it. Rambling, with two floors, large enough to accommodate many people, including several servants. She could be a servant returning from the house’s well, but why would she be carrying a baby while collecting water, especially with the coming storm and the stones already wet from earlier rain?

He held his breath and stole another quick glance around the corner. What direction would she take when she reached the hut? Once she committed, he would dodge to whatever side would give him greater protection, though his wound made it so he couldn’t precisely dodge. Waiting to steal away was torture, but it would be worse to misjudge her direction and stumble into her path.

She forged forward against the stones shifting under her. Her persistence was admirable, but couldn’t she persist elsewhere? Though these deep shadows hid him from a casual glance, they provided no real cover. Every minute of her snail-like progress simultaneously cost him possibilities of escape and increased his chances of detection.

He breathed out, long and slow, and eased flat against wood weathered by salt-sodden air. If he stayed pinned to the shadow of the hut and she stayed on the same trajectory, she’d almost certainly go by without seeing him, though her meandering progress made it difficult to predict with certainty what way her ultimate path would take her.

After what seemed an eternity, a noise caught his interest. He stretched his neck to peer around the corner. He flinched. She’d come too close to where he hid. A few feet from him, her feet skittered, working to keep her balance, and she tottered two steps ahead on the pebbled incline, then back. The babe in the shawl repeatedly slid down the woman’s chest. When she lurched to catch the child, the bucket jostled, sloshing water onto her skirts. She steadied one burden, then the other.

She’d come far too close, so now he couldn’t risk moving. She was bent forward, head lowered, passing him. If he didn’t betray his presence, she shouldn’t notice him. His chest ached from working to steady his breathing. She staggered and slipped again, the babe sliding down her right shoulder.

He stilled his breathing.

She righted herself, tucked the baby back onto her shoulder, then scuttled sideways and back like a dazed crayfish, drifting ever backward over the shifting stones. Ever backward toward him. He pressed his back against the rough wall, trying to become part of it.

Amid a clatter of stones, she lost her footing and flipped toward him. He wrapped his arms in on himself. Her spinning continued—her shawl flying, bucket whirling away, her feet flying out from under her. She emitted a cry that would do a banshee proud, and, flailing, crashed to the stones, losing her hold on the baby. The child flew from her arms, head down.

He dove, catching the baby just before it hit the ground. Pain sent clanging shocks up his body, lighting sparks in his head, illuminating his greater folly: He had exposed himself. His nightmare was here, and he had done it to himself. The baby stopped its terrified wailing, and he couldn’t regret catching the little thing to save it from bashing its head against the stones.

The woman lunged toward him. No!

He snapped his gaze to her face. Her large startled blue eyes flashed in apparent terror.

An answering shock of tension pierced him. Yes, he had appeared out of the gloam, and she did not know him, but he had saved her child. The fear in her eyes was far more intense than this chance meeting would warrant. Had the people searching for him already been here asking about him? He should have done more to ensure he remained hidden. Didn’t mean to startle you.

Wolfe couldn’t risk her discovering his identity especially if word was already out that an officer in the Royal Navy had committed a crime and was on the run. He took a good look at his clothing. He needed a dialect to go along with it, something that would not reveal his actual station.

She plunged her hand into her pocket but swiftly withdrew it again. Empty.

~ * ~

Juliana Barrington drove her hand into her pocket for her dagger. She didn’t want to use it, but what choice did she have? They had found Charlie. But, strangely, Charlie had stopped crying. She released the knife, jerked out her empty hand, and tugged at her skirts.

The man wore ragged and torn clothes and a misshapen hat pulled low over his black hair. Her mother would have warned that he was the worst sort of man. He loomed over her, holding out a hand.

She recoiled, her breath a hard knot in her throat.

May I helps you up? he asked.

What drivel. Give me my baby.

Of course, ma’am. His head tipped to one side, and his eyebrows creased together in question. But won’t it be easier if you rises before I gives him to you?

Not what she expected, but she would not take his hand. She bent, tugging and kicking at her snarled skirts, and, in the process, knocked away a few offending stones. Finally extricated, she leaped to her feet.

As soon as she was standing, she reached for her son.

The man extended Charlie out to her. Here’s your baby. He started toward her. The stones under his feet must have shifted because he slid, his legs folding under him. He tucked Charlie to him and landed on a knee and a fist.

She yelped, but Charlie was safe. The man shoved himself upright, letting out a groan, and sweat beaded on his forehead. Goodness. Had he hurt himself?

The man offered Charlie to her again, and she grabbed him, hugging him tightly. She would never let him out of her embrace again. She patted his back to comfort him. Strangely, though, he wasn’t crying. Had he hit his head? She leaned back to inspect him. He gazed at her with none of the fear she’d supposed she’d see.

Despite the man’s apparent pain, he asked, Is you harmed? Or the babe?

The distress on his face seemed genuine, and his deep voice resonated with concern. Would he act like that to quell her suspicions? She worked to slow her breathing, along with the speed of her pats on her son’s back.

All this time, she’d kept Charlie away from everyone. Now a man appeared and even snatched Charlie. A disreputable-looking man. Yet he hadn’t killed Charlie. Instead, he’d helped both Charlie and her. She scanned the area. Had any townspeople gathered around to keep the man from doing as she feared? No, as always, their only accompaniment was the lonely shushing of waves.

She dragged her mind back from searching the outer edges of their surroundings for danger. The man inclined his head and retreated a pace, away from her as though she were the threat. Had he seen the knife? Ah. He must be surprised by her reactions.

Thank you for saving my baby. I’m sorry; I haven’t been very gracious.

He paused, one foot already planted for another step backward. That’s all right, it is. You was understandably distressed. And you probably didn’t know I was hereabouts. I can see you was startled.

Heavens. Now he was making excuses for her. A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. Silly. She had thought, seeing his clothing—in fact, simply seeing a man on her property—that he could be a hired killer. Another reminder she could not judge people by their appearance. Also another reminder of her woeful lack of judgment.

He put his weight on his foot and winced.

Oh, no. I’m sorry. I’ve caused you an injury.

The man sucked in an extended breath, then drew himself up straight. I’m fine, but thanks to you for your worry. He sounded like a man being strangled.

You’re kind to say so, but unfortunately, it’s clearly not true. She darted glances around the clearing.

Charlie’s leg kicked loose of the shawl, and seeing that fragile limb reminded her of the ever-present peril. She lurched back and worked to create an impenetrable wall of ice to separate the man from them. She cleared her throat. What are you… Why are you… What brings you here?

The man tilted his head. Here to see a friend who’s coming to this area. I waits for word of his arrival.

She squinted. People did visit this area, but usually in warmer weather. Of course, not always.

I have a letter of reference from a vicar in a parish north of here if you would likes to see it.

That might help, but she wondered if she may have known this man when she visited the area in her childhood, so she asked, What’s your name?

A pause. Wolfe.

A letter from a vicar. She paused, screwing up her face to help her think. Her mother would be appalled, but Juliana couldn’t be bothered with smoothing out the creases she was no doubt creating. Yes, may I see it?

Gladly. He tugged the letter from his coat pocket, the paper worn, softened from being carried so long in his clothing. He offered it to her, and she cautiously stretched around the child for it. He misjudged her grasp, and the letter fluttered to the ground. At least the wind had slackened, so the letter didn’t blow away.

They both stared down at the missive. It seemed hundreds of miles away. She shifted Charlie to one side and leaned over for the letter.

No, no, let me. He bent from the waist and grasped the paper, then proffered the letter in his dirty hand. She accepted it using just the tips of her fingers.

She read, shrugging her shoulders to ward off the feeling of being watched so intently. After reading it a few times, some of the tension trickled out of her. She nodded, handed him the letter then took a step to the side. He considers you trustworthy. Follow me, and I’ll give you something for your leg.

Oh, no, not necessary. He peered in all directions but still leaned on the hut. Even more color leached from his face, leaving him paler than a few minutes ago.

I have injured you. If you will not have your wound tended, you must at least allow me to remedy something.

No, no. I’m fine. I’ll be on my way.

She glanced back at him, shoulders more relaxed now that she had distance between them. It’s time for supper. I can, at a minimum, give you some small morsel you may take with you.

He blinked and still hesitated, then relented. All right. A few bites of food would be most welcome.

She headed toward the cottage. Good.

He muttered something, but she must quickly repair the damage she had done so he could be on his way. The house was isolated, no other buildings visible from where it stood, fairly rising from the sea. It provided shelter for her but could also hide any action he might take. She forged on. After all, a minister had vouched for him.

She glanced back, her gaze flicking to his shirt and away. His clothing was disreputable. His loose shirt and baggy breeches must have come from a rag shop, but she shouldn’t judge him by his clothes. After all, her own clothes didn’t accurately reflect her station.

He hoisted a short, stout branch to protect his injured leg. He walked, listing to one side, and pushed on the stick, clearly needing to absorb the force necessary to thrust himself up the hill. She paused, bending to retrieve a longer branch. Standing well away from him, she extended it toward him. This should work better for you.

Thank you. He set down the smaller crutch and accepted her offering. Battling the shifting stones, he lurched heavily, favoring his leg. She nodded in satisfaction; the longer branch worked better.

She staggered to the house’s rear door, yanked on it with the hand not holding Charlie, and jolted to a stop, nearly disengaging her shoulder when it didn’t budge. She hauled again, and it screeched open, sending her stumbling backward, still gripping the child.

He dropped something and jolted toward her. Let me.

No, no, I’m fine. She held the door open with her elbow and waved her hand at him.

At least let me holds open the door for you.

She tucked Charlie closer to her. I do this several times a day. Don’t worry; most days, I do it better. You may remain out here, and I’ll see to some provisions.

Lightning flashed as Juliana slammed the door behind her. For almost a year, she’d avoided people, now a stranger appeared. Yet, despite her fears, he hadn’t reacted badly. Foremost, he hadn’t killed Charlie. And he hadn’t raged at her. In fact, he had made excuses for her.

Still, why had she offered to help this stranger? All her early training in politeness could lead her into trouble. Mac had warned her about that, but he had warned her of many things. A Bow Street runner, he had more opportunity than she to know such things. Nevertheless, this decision felt right. Maybe her powers of decision-making were improving. Warmth filled her at the very possibility. She withdrew the dagger from her pocket and, hands trembling, laid it on the kitchen table. Mac had insisted on giving her the weapon and showing her how to use it and further insisted she carry it with her.

For the first time, she had actually intended to use the dagger. Fortunately, she had stopped herself in time. In fact, now the truth hit her. That sense of security the dagger had provided was false. She swallowed. Mac had told her to insert the knife under the ribs, but she’d wondered from the start if she could make herself do that. Though, certainly, if it were necessary to save Charlie, she would force herself to act.

She hadn’t even been able to get close enough to touch this man, and if she had, she likely wouldn’t have the strength to make a knife penetrate the musculature showing through his ragged clothing. Worse, even supposing she had been on her feet and close enough to reach him, he was bigger and stronger than she and could overpower her before she could use the knife. So, even if she had been able to convince herself to use the knife, she was unlikely to have done as Mac described. At the realization, her whole body trembled. That dagger had been a comfort to her. In reality, her perceived protection was useless.

She drove away the urge to sink to the floor and hold her head. Instead, she put the knife back into her pocket. She might yet need it. She set Charlie down but then startled. Putting him down had proved easier than she expected. A brief glance at her hands showed her why. Her attention had been so wrapped up in Charlie and the unexpected appearance of Mr. Wolfe, she hadn’t noticed she’d left behind the bucket of water she’d worked so hard to obtain.

A glance out the window confirmed the sky was continuing to darken with night and with the coming storm. If only she could remain inside and not go back outside for the bucket or anything else. Unfortunately, that man had helped her, and she had harmed him. She must force herself to leave the shelter of the house, but caring for her son came before everything else. Another good decision, surely. These last months, she’d been making decisions about her son, and he’d remained safe. She might try making even more decisions on her own.

She tousled her young son’s blond curls. That man didn’t act dangerous, did he? At least not in the sense of being a killer. Yet, Uncle Baldwin should have taught her she couldn’t rely on how a man looked or acted to determine whether he was a threat.

Charlie simply blinked, his large eyes gazing at her with trust. Still, if this man wanted to hurt Charlie, he could have done so already. Whoever was trying to kill her son presumably had enough money to hire men who would act immediately.

That was why she needed someone working for her, and she had the best. Thank heaven Mac had attended Francis’s funeral and had still been there when events had revealed that his skills had become necessary.

Mac had agreed she must escape, but unfortunately, she couldn’t go to London or Bath where she’d be recognized. Thus, here she was in the tiny hamlet she’d visited as a child, where nobody would think to search for her. She had been right to insist no servants accompany her to reduce the number of people aware of her location. She would not have her haven exposed by a careless word. For the same reason, she didn’t allow Mac to forward additional money to her, despite the fact Charlie’s guardian had initially insisted. Thank goodness both he and Mac admitted it would be another way to find her.

Thunder rumbled, and rain battered the side of the house. Maybe that would keep all manner of interlopers huddled inside.

She now agreed with another of her grandmother’s idiosyncrasies. A kitchen on the main floor was useful so the cook could see outside. Juliana just hadn’t expected to be the cook. How fortunate her grandmother had taught her rudimentary cooking skills. Luckier still that the one neighbor who visited also brought tasty meals. Juliana set food to heat for both Charlie and the man outside.

Judging from his unshaven jaw and the ragged clothing hanging off him, the man must have been living out of doors for several days.

Supper finally warm, she set a bowl aside for Charlie, then filled a bowl for Mr. Wolfe. She opened the door and scanned the area, but he wasn’t in sight. She eased along under the eaves and set the bowl on the ground for him under that protective cover. Part of her cringed. Her mother would berate her for leaving his food out like that, as one might for a dog. But Juliana must. She made sure the food was under the overhang, protected from the rain as much as possible, then she went inside and shut the door. Surely he would go away after he ate.

She rubbed raindrops off her arms and let the warmth of the room surround her. The stranger must be cold, dressed only in rags as he was. She couldn’t help glancing at the door several times but settled in and fed Charlie. As she spooned food into his mouth, the firelight glittered against the metal of the old utensil. For a moment, she imagined Charlie as an adult, hosting a dinner for many guests, the glittering coming not only from the fine dishes of his home but also from the ring his father—no, she reminded herself—that ring had been lost. But that loss paled next to her son not having his father by his side. Still, at least they had Mac working to protect them. Later, Charlie played on a thick blanket, and she opened her letter from the man helping to protect them.

Mac had not agreed with her that Uncle Baldwin was necessarily the person she was hiding from. Instead, Mac insisted they examine all possibilities. He had conducted investigations—people who might have a grudge against Francis, people who owed him money, and people who opposed him in Parliament—and hadn’t found the killer. Now, at last, Mac was following the man she was sure had murdered her husband, the man who would inherit the title if Charlie died: Francis’s uncle, Baldwin Colburn.

She gripped the letter and leaped up, her blood pounding in her head. She couldn’t sit still. Even thinking of that austere man concealing such evil intentions behind his genteel airs made the hair on her arms stand on end.

Something heavy hit the gravel by the back door.

She shot a quick glance at Charlie. He still clutched his toy horse, though now his large eyes stared at her.

Footfalls sounded, heading away from the house.

She extinguished the lamp. Her stomach churned. Had she made a fatal mistake? She steeled herself and waited to be sure whoever had been back there was gone. After she judged enough time had passed, she forced her legs forward, pushing as though through dense gelatin, to the window beside the back door.

The storm clouds and pelting rain had transformed the grounds into an ominous, yawning emptiness. She stared into that void, as bleak as the tunnel view of the future she faced with her husband dead and her son possibly next.

Shadowy shimmers outlined an object that hadn’t been there earlier. She stared into the dark. What new threat had found her?

She blinked, helping her eyes become accustomed to the dark of night, and was able to discern the shape. Her bucket. Had that man made her even more indebted to him? A few fat raindrops landed nearby. Could her bad fortune be decreasing along with the rain?

It seemed unlikely the bucket would still contain water. Maybe the rain had added some to the paltry amount left. They needed that water.

She remained unmoving, breaths shaking her. When at last her heartbeat steadied, she opened the door a crack. She could reach the bucket without leaving her house.

Mr. Wolfe didn’t appear to be anywhere about, so she lowered herself to her hands and knees, inched the door open, then eased a wary hand outside.

Ragged footfalls approached.

She ducked back inside but kept her gaze outward. A man hobbled toward her. She rose and swooped up Charlie, grabbing the door to lock it. The man stumbled. Ah, Mr. Wolfe, his wet hair slicked to his forehead despite his hat and his clothes clinging to him. His gait was faltering even more than before.

Your limp is worse.

It’s nothing, nothing. Old injury. Rain aggravates it. Yet the deep creases alongside his mouth suggested great pain. Was the droplet running down his brow from the rain, or was he perspiring?

How had he been hurt?

Sorry… Thank… That is… Did you fill the bucket for us?

He leaned to the side a bit as if that would help him decipher what she had been trying to say. Yes, the bucket was near empty, so I filled it. Decided I should tell you. Didn’t mean to alarm you.

Ah.

Thank you for the food. I’ll be’s off. He placed the bowl on the ground and walked away, each foot placed deliberately in front of the other.

He stumbled. His footsteps faltered.

Then he crumpled to the ground.

Chapter Two

She froze. Was this a subterfuge? She should run. Still, he had looked ill, and now he lay unmoving, his disreputable hat