The Duke's Redemption

“I’m sorry,” Elise whispered. “What must you think of me?”

“That you’re the most intriguing woman I’ve ever known,” Drake said as he reached for her hand. “I don’t think you’re silly. Tell me why you’re afraid.”

Elise pulled away, a lonely ache forming in her chest at that moment. “What is it, sweet?” Drake reached for her hand again. “Come back to me. Don’t go.”

Elise fought the temptation to lean on a person other than herself or her sister. She wanted to open up to Drake, share a deeper bond, but what could she say that wouldn’t spur more questions and the revelation of her darkest secrets? She wanted to trust him, but in reality he was little more than a stranger….

CARLA CAPSHAW

Florida native Carla Capshaw is a preacher’s kid who grew up grateful for her Christian home and loving family. Always dreaming of being a writer and world traveler, she followed her wanderlust around the globe, including a year spent in the People’s Republic of China, before beginning work on her first novel.

A two-time RWA Golden Heart Award winner, Carla loves passionate stories with compelling, nearly impossible conflicts. She’s found inspirational historical romance is the perfect vehicle to combine lush settings, vivid characters and a Christian worldview. Currently at work on her next manuscript for Steeple Hill Love Inspired Historical, she still lives in Florida, but is always planning her next trip…and plotting her next story.

Carla loves to hear from readers. To contact her, visit www.carlacapshaw.com or write to [e-mail].

The Duke’s Redemption

Carla Capshaw

www.millsandboon.co.uk

God is our refuge and strength;

always ready to help in times of trouble.

—Psalms 46:1

Dedicated to:

My wonderful family.

I love each one of you!

My first critique partners—Carole McPhee,

Lydia Hawke and Mary Veelle—who read and

reread this book without ever complaining.

Also, Sheila Raye, Paisley Kirkpatrick,

Stacey Kayne and Jean Mason.

I appreciate you more than I can say.

As always, thank You, Lord!

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Epilogue

Questions for Discussion

Prologue

Charles Towne, South Carolina

December 1780

The cold muzzle of a pistol scraped her temple. The hammer cocked a warning beside her ear. A familiar voice rasped, “Don’t move, Fox, or I’ll be forced to relieve you of your thinking power.”

Elise Cooper froze in the middle of her escape through the tavern’s second-story window. Her hands gripped either side of the narrow frame, one booted foot on the floor, one planted on the sill. A chilly, smoke-tinged breeze swept through the open space, ruffling her long cloak and loose black breeches.

Hawk had startled her, but she wasn’t concerned about the weapon. The real danger lurked outside. Her gaze never left the moonlit alley that cut behind the tavern. More redcoats crept from the darkness.

“Hawk,” she said, thankful her mask helped disguise not only her face, but her voice, “we have no time for your nonsense tonight. Blow out the candle and hurry your pace. Redcoats are infesting the room downstairs and may suspect we’re here.”

“Of a certainty, they do,” he replied. “You’ve finally been bagged. Your days as a spy have come to an end.”

Elise released an exasperated sigh. Hawk, the alias by which she knew him, possessed a fiendish sense of humor. To protect her identity as a woman, she always wore a mask when disguised as the Fox. Though he’d refused to tell her why, Hawk wore one, too. Neither had ever seen the face of the other, but she’d been privy to his games on more than one occasion. She fully expected him to lower the pistol and howl with laughter. He thought himself astoundingly clever, but under the circumstances, she found him most trying. “Cease this, Hawk. We have no time to linger. The English—”

“Are coming,” he interrupted gleefully. “Yes, I know. I arranged this meeting. The soldiers are awaiting my signal to make your arrest. I’ll be rewarded quite handsomely once I deliver you to my superiors.”

Surprised to hear the pride in his voice, she tried to turn and look him in the eye. He jammed the muzzle harder against her temple. “I said don’t move.”

The menace in his tone convinced her he was serious. Her stomach lurched with fear. Anger blazed through her. “Why hand me over now when you’ve had the opportunity to do so for well over a year?”

He chuckled. “And give up my play? I think not. Posing as the Hawk has been quite amusing. Sadly, my superiors have ordered your arrest. Since we work so often together, they chose me to do the deed.”

Elise bristled at how easily he betrayed her. “And the ransom being offered didn’t hurt, I suppose. If I may ask, when did you become a turncoat?”

He stiffened in response. “Turncoat? Not I. My loyalty has always been to my king and England.”

Her eyes searched the back alley in hope of seeing a loyal fellow who might aid in her escape. No one appeared save another pair of redcoats. There were eight of them now. Their freshly polished Hessian boots gleamed in the moonlight.

As the gravity of her situation compounded, her thoughts raced in time to her quickening heart. The enemy soldiers moved closer, their indistinct voices carried on the breeze.

“If you’re no traitor, explain the many secrets that have passed from your hand to mine?”

“I’ve shared only what my superiors wanted you rebel scum to know. Remember last month, when I sent you the message about supply wagons leaving Charles Towne for Savannah?”

“Of course.” She tried to ease away from the pistol. The Colonial army never ceased being desperate for supplies. At the time, the information she’d carried from Hawk to her spymaster had been considered a boon. “Then the attack was a trap. It seemed too coincidental. Did you assist in the murder of those men yourself?”

He laughed. “What do you think?”

She broke into a clammy sweat. If Hawk succeeded in turning her in, she doubted even her gender would save her from hanging.

Dear Lord, please help me.

Four of the redcoats made for the tavern’s back door. Her pulse throbbed in her ears as her thoughts shifted frantically. So much began to make sense. How many times had she rendezvoused with Hawk, only to find his information had become mysteriously inaccessible? Yet, many of his leads had been first-rate. Hawk had earned a glowing reputation within the Patriot ranks. Now she understood why. He’d kept her and her contacts hooked with promises of important information, providing just enough to earn their trust.

“This is ridiculous.” She stalled in an effort to reason with him. “There must be a bargain we can strike.”

She had to flee, but how? Hawk held a pistol to her head. Soldiers waited below, both inside and out. She could no longer make use of the ladder Josiah had propped outside the window. She’d be shot, either by Hawk or his lobsterback friends before she ever touched the ground.

“Ridiculous?” Hawk’s hot, menacing breath fanned the back of her neck. “I disagree. If anything, I find the situation most unfortunate. More than once I wished we weren’t on opposing sides in this war. Under different circumstances, you’re a man I could respect.”

“Then kill me if you plan to. I’ve no wish to meet my captors, and you know I’ll tell them nothing.”

“Most likely not. All the same, keep your hands against the panes. ’Tis safer when I can make out where they are.”

While she considered her options, she allowed him the liberty of searching her, careful not to give him an impatient trigger finger. His hand dipped beneath her cloak and inside her loose wool coat, feeling for weapons. Waiting for the right moment to strike, she held her breath. She’d bound her breasts with strips of cloth under her billowy black shirt and vest, but failed to flatten them completely. When his hand passed over her chest, she heard his sharp intake of breath. “No! You can’t be a woman!”

In one quick movement, she swung her arm and knocked the pistol away from her temple. The foot she had poised on the windowsill slammed downward. Her heel found its mark, crushing his toes. Hawk bellowed in pain. His hold slackened enough for her to face him.

The candle’s small flame sputtered in the draft, providing meager light to see the masked man she stood with eye to eye. She rammed her fist into his stomach, winding him. He recovered quickly, raising the pistol an inch from her face. She swiped the barrel away, then tried to wrench it from his grasp.

Hawk released her waist and lashed out with the back of his hand. The blow to her jaw stunned her. She stumbled back in pain, loosening her grip on the weapon as she hit the wall behind her.

“Hold your ground!” Hawk snarled. “I’d hate to shoot a woman, but I will if you force me to.”

Staring down the barrel of the pistol, Elise stilled. She could turn and run, making her back a perfect target, or she could stand and fight. Hawk was bigger, stronger, but she was fighting for her life. The redcoats considered a captured spy fair game for hanging. She had no wish to die in so shameful a manner.

Better to take a bullet than dangle in the breeze.

She ducked and threw herself forward, scrambling to reach him before he fired. Leading with her shoulder, Elise plowed into him with the full force of her weight, driving him back several paces until he slammed against a table. Hawk fumbled the weapon and dropped it to the floor, where it landed with a solid thump on the wood planks.

Their eyes locked for an instant. They both lunged for the pistol. Hawk reached it first.

Elise rallied before he took aim and fought with all her might. Her ribs ached. Her jaw throbbed. Fear coursed through her blood. Her arms and legs burned from the exertion of fighting her stronger opponent. Finally, she succeeded in twisting his wrist until the pistol’s barrel pointed at his belly.

“Stop this wretched business,” she demanded, panting for breath. “Let me go!”

“Ha! Think again, you rebel wench.”

He grabbed for her once more, but she sidestepped his advance. With one last effort to disarm him, she aimed her knee and made contact with his groin. He groaned in agony and doubled over. She dug her nails deep into his hand, praying he’d drop the weapon.

A blinding flash of light and a loud explosion jolted Elise. Hawk jerked and groaned in pain. Acrid smoke stung her eyes and nostrils.

“Hawk?” Frozen with shock, Elise stared into his horrified and slowly dimming eyes. The scrap of black silk he wore concealed the rest of his expression.

The firearm slipped from his fingers and thumped on the floor. A bone-chilling gurgle escaped his throat and gapping mouth. He reached for her, his fingers clawing weakly at her upper arms. Another frigid breeze whipped through the small room. The candle flickered out the same moment his body went slack.

In the darkness, he fell toward her. She braced against the wall, her body absorbing his heavy weight as he slid down the front of her and fell to his knees.

“Please Lord, no….” She covered his nose and mouth, searching for breath, but found none. Hawk…dead? The prospect was unimaginable.

As gently as she could, she lowered him to the floor. Shouting drew her to the window. More redcoats ran toward the tavern. The shot had warned them to investigate without waiting for his signal. Her cloak swirled around her as she raced to the dead spy and knelt beside him.

Frantic, Elise reached for his jacket. Moonlight exposed the growing stain of blood on the floor. She’d never killed anyone. Bile and remorse clogged her throat. Her hand trembled as it slipped inside the garment, searching for anything to aid her. Hawk had planned to deliver her to the English. He must have some kind of identification to offer them.

His warm blood oozed through her fingers. A sheen of tears blinded her before she blinked them away. The bullet had blown a hole in his belly. For him to die so quickly, it must have also found a vital organ to rupture. She shuddered, fighting nausea when lack of time denied her the luxury of turning squeamish.

Heavy footsteps pounded on the stairs leading from the tavern below. Outside her door, she heard multiple voices, a rattle of keys, the shuffle of boots on wood.

A key scraped in the lock just as her fingers made contact with a sheet of folded parchment. She pulled it free of Hawk’s inner pocket a moment before the redcoats stormed through the door.

Chapter One

Hawk Haven Manor, England

February 1781

The moment the coach rolled to a stop, Drake Amberly, Fifth Duke of Hawk Haven, shoved open the door and leapt to the cobblestone drive. Icy rain struck his face, ran off the brim of his hat and slid down his neck, under the collar of his greatcoat. He marched up the wide front steps of his family’s palatial home, his mood fouler than the weather.

Chaney, his wizened butler, opened the ornately carved front door in perfect time, allowing him to enter the manor’s grandiose hall without slowing his pace.

“Good day, Your Grace.”

“I’ve yet to find the good in it.” Drake shed his hat and coat before passing them to the efficient servant. He raked his fingers through his black hair and turned in the direction of the sweeping staircase. Changing his mind, he headed for his study. His mud-splashed boots clapped on the marble floor, echoing in the domed space as he passed gilded mirrors and a display of fine porcelain. “I’m not available for the rest of this miserable day.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Drake crossed the threshold of his mahogany-paneled study, the sound of his steps muffled by the room’s thick red carpet. The welcoming crackle of a roaring fire in the hearth and the familiar smell of leather-bound books did little to soothe his irritation.

He took his place behind the massive antique desk and without pause snatched up a quill. Dabbing the tip in ink, he flipped open one of his journals and began ciphering the figures from his latest shipping venture. Trade was an unpopular activity for the nobility, but Drake gave little credence to convention. Convention had caused him nothing but grief. Besides, he enjoyed dabbling in business to relieve his boredom, or annoyance, as was the case today.

Drake slammed the quill down on the desk, sneering as flecks of ink splashed across his accounts. Shoving the book away in disgust, he leaned back in his chair, his thoughts turning toward his former fiancée.

Were all women deceivers? He’d heard the rumors about Penelope, but finding her in the arms of another man was not something he could tolerate. He’d broken their engagement this morning and would speak with her father tomorrow. No strip of land was worth having a wife who couldn’t be trusted.

A knock sounded at the door. Chaney peered into the room. “Pardon, Your Grace, but a Lieutenant Kirby is here. I explained you’re unavailable, but he claims to have news of Lord Anthony. I thought you might wish to see him straightaway.”

Drake frowned. “Show him in. If they’ve sent someone, it must be urgent.”

The butler departed. Drake closed his journal. An image of his brash younger brother came to mind. From childhood, Anthony had longed for adventure. When the revolt began in the Colonies six years ago, he’d booked passage on the first ship bound for New York. Determined to join their distant cousin’s regiment, Anthony had been blinded by his ambition and lust for glory.

“Your Grace?” Chaney spoke from the doorway. “Please allow me to present Lieutenant John Kirby.”

Drake studied the new arrival as he walked into the room and stopped several feet away. The man was short, wiry thin. Dirt marred his craggy face and sodden wig. His bulging eyes held respect and a hint of fear.

Kirby bowed low. His uneasy gaze flicked down at his less-than-spotless uniform. “Please forgive my appearance, Your Grace. The ghastly weather—”

“No matter, Lieutenant.” Drake remembered his own battle with the soggy roads earlier in the day. Impatient, he motioned toward one of the chairs in front of his desk. “It would appear none of us is at his best this afternoon. Have a seat and tell me what news have you of my brother? I’ve received no word from him since before the new year.”

Kirby sat on the edge of one of the leather chairs. Fidgeting, the soldier cleared his throat. His nervous gaze fell to the floor. “The news I have is ill indeed, Your Grace. I regret to say I’ve been sent here on the worst sort of errand. There’s no delicate way to put this. Your brother, Lord Anthony, is…dead.”

“Dead?” Drake choked, inwardly absorbing the news like a blow to his gut. He’d anticipated something dire, an injury perhaps, but dead…? Not Anthony.

“Yes, Your Grace. I’m sorry to be the bearer of such tragic tidings.”

Drake stood and faced the windows that framed the gray winter sky and constant drizzle. Though it was just after one o’clock, the dreary weather made it dark as early evening.

He took a deep breath, desperate to relieve the sudden painful tightening of his chest.

Anthony will never come home.

The thought went round and round in his head. If only he’d insisted Anthony remain in England. He should have found a way to curb his brother’s tempestuous nature. Now he’d lost the opportunity forever. “Are you certain? There’s been no mistake?”

“I’m positive, Your Grace.”

“How? Which battle?”

Kirby cleared his throat as though he had more news he was reluctant to convey. “No battle, Your Grace. A notorious spy known as the Fox murdered him.”

Drake clamped his jaw. Fury mingled with his initial shock and raged through him. His brother wasn’t the casualty of an honorable fight on the field of battle. A traitor had killed him in cold blood. “When?”

“The last week of December. In Charles Towne, South Carolina colony.”

“Was this ‘Fox’ apprehended?” Drake swung around to face the messenger. “If so, I want his neck in a noose posthaste.”

Kirby squirmed in his chair. “That’s the rub, Your Grace. The Fox escaped. The soldiers who caught him—”

“I thought you said the spy eluded capture. Make up your mind, man. Did he or did he not?”

After an uncomfortable pause, Lieutenant Kirby explained. “He…he was caught, but the soldiers let him go without realizing who they’d bagged.”

Drake seethed. “What ineptitude! ’Tis a wonder the rebels haven’t won the war with lackwits such as those to fight.”

“Yes, Your Grace, but you see, Lord Anthony arranged the Fox’s capture with Captain Beaufort, my superior officer. As a cousin to your family, Captain Beaufort knew your brother on sight, but the men he sent to meet him did not.

“When our men arrived, Lord Anthony was dead. The Fox remained, or so I heard, refusing to remove his mask. Apparently, the spy had rummaged Lord Anthony’s clothing and found his identification after he shot him. The Fox then used the papers to switch his true identity with that of your brother. Our men believed the Fox was dead until they took the body to camp. Once there, Captain Beaufort immediately realized the deception. By then, the Fox had flown, reward and all.”

“Reward?”

“Aye, there’s a price on the brigand’s head. Your brother, also known as Hawk, was to collect it from the soldiers sent by Captain Beaufort.”

Drake’s brow furrowed in disbelief. “You’re suggesting my brother was involved in espionage?”

Kirby gulped. “Yes, Your Grace. Lord Anthony spied for His Majesty. The traitors believed he worked for them, but I assure you, his loyalty to England never wavered.”

Drake considered the information. Truthfully, he couldn’t imagine Anthony being self-disciplined enough to make a successful spy. That his brother had chosen such a reviled occupation surprised him. Its need for secrecy conflicted with his brother’s demand for attention. “How long did he work in that capacity?”

“I don’t know, Your Grace, but I suspect for some time. From what I understand, the rebels thought highly of him, too.”

“The rebels,” Drake said scornfully.

“They’re tenacious and unpredictable,” the soldier added. “None is so bold as the Fox.”

Drake’s jaw worked as he struggled to conquer his temper. “So, the scum got away with murder and the reward. Very clever.”

“Aye, Your Grace. Your cousin, Captain Beaufort, thought you might prefer to keep this matter secret until the Fox is found and punished. Because of that, he dispatched me to deliver the news, rather than someone from Whitehall. I secured passage from Charles Towne the day after your brother’s shooting and arrived in London yesterday morn.”

Drake returned to his place behind the desk. “Who is leading the hunt for this Fox?”

“As far as I know, Captain Beaufort remains in charge. However, he did say he would post further information to Hawk Haven by way of special courier if any became available.”

The muted sound of rain outside filtered through the lead glass windows. Grim resolve filled Drake’s mind. No one could be allowed to kill an Amberly and escape unpunished. “Tell me everything you know about this rebel spy.”

Kirby tugged at his ear, and his brow pleated with concentration. “I don’t know much. No one does. The Fox is the most elusive spy in the Colonies, Your Grace. So little is known about the sly dog, stories boast he’s a phantom.”

Drake snorted in contempt. “Phantoms do not murder people.”

“No, of course not, Your Grace. In truth, the only certain information is the Fox resides in Charles Towne or the nearby environs. Most likely he’s a man of wealth, perhaps a planter.”

Frustrated, Drake rubbed his angular chin. His pain and fury grew with each tick of the clock. “There must be a suspect or two. Anthony must have known something of the person with whom he dealt. Why didn’t he tell Beaufort the traitor’s whereabouts, and simply have the man arrested?”

Kirby shook his head. “He couldn’t, not without compromising his position in the enemy spy ring.”

Drake had heard enough for one sitting. He stood, barely controlling the need to smash something. He snapped his fingers, and Chaney entered from where he’d been waiting in the hall. “That will be all, Lieutenant. My butler will show you to a room. Prepare for a possible journey. Should I hear no word from Beaufort by week’s end, you and I shall return to the Colonies to root out this slippery vermin ourselves.”

“Yes, Your Grace. With God’s help we’ll find him soon.” Kirby stood, clicked his heels and bowed as he backed out the door.

With God’s help, indeed.

Drake stared through the window at the mournful weather. In his youth, he’d trusted in God, but no longer. Years of grief and disappointment had hardened his heart until he’d been able to forget God as effectively as God had forgotten him. Now, there was no room in his life for forgiveness or faith. It was vengeance he needed to set things right.

His fingers drumming steadily on the desktop, his mind quickly formed a plan. He’d wait two days to hear from Beaufort. Then he’d hunt down the unsuspecting Fox. When he located him, and he had no doubt of his success, he’d make certain the fellow danced at the end of a noose posthaste.