My Captive Duchess (The Reeves of Reeves Hall #1)

Chapter 22

Broek

I am at my console doing the usual scan of the hundreds of analysis reports from the data collected by my nanoprobes. This is something I do every morning and night, unless I am away on a business trip. I have become adept at quickly digesting information and logging away in my mind anything that could be of importance towards our shipping interests, our investments in stocks and in the security of our lives here at Reeves Hall. I am mindful also of any information that could be useful towards my mission.

There is something different about today though. As my probes’ all-seeing eyes show me details of prominent people’s lives, Lord Liverpool sitting at the bedside of his dying wife, a member of the cabinet having an illicit interlude with a much younger man—all details which I would usually log for future reference should I need any leverage over these individuals—I am reminded of Jane’s words. One day, Broek, you will need to destroy the nanoprobes here too. Nobody, not even you, should have the power you describe .

What matter to me if a highly ranked politician of this country has an affair with a much younger man? Could there ever be a time where I would need to use this knowledge in the advancement of my family’s interests? It is a possibility but a very minor one. We have wealth aplenty and a thriving mercantile business. Moreover, we live quietly and have no wish to walk among the members of the haut ton . And yet divesting myself of this tool that allows me to reach across the world into so many prominent people’s lives is not an easy action. It would entail a loss of the power that sustains my sense of security in this alien land.

Power . Great Yol, am I turning into Mother, craving the rush of it? Try as I might, I cannot hate the memory of her, for I understand more than most the path she trod. Tarla, on the other hand, I can and continue to despise. Underhandedness and betrayal are harder to forgive than a reckless craving to continue exerting power. I have no doubt in my mind that had it not been for Tarla, Mother would have finished her term on the governing body and retired gracefully, most likely to dip her toes into other ventures. It was the evil whisperings in her ear that turned her astray, and I have to bear my share of the blame for creating the tools that were part of her downfall—the nanoprobes.

One day, Broek, you will need to destroy the nanoprobes here too. One day, yes. That day has not come yet, but it is drawing ever closer. I rub my eyes tiredly and stretch. I slept little last night after my twilight conversation with Jane. She drew out of me memories which I have long kept locked away, and once they were out, they plagued me relentlessly. I do not speak of the past. My brothers and sister know better than to bring the matter up. Yet at the prompting of this small whisp of a woman with a mighty will, I spilled my secrets. What is it about Jane that makes me so compelled to share such things with her?

That is not all this female has done. All night long, my cock was hard at the memory of her eyes on me, and the ardent desire I had seen in them. She did not deny it either. The duchess wants me, and Great Yol, I want her too. I palm my thickening cock, willing it to stand down. Only one woman can sate my need, yet she refuses to marry me. Damn her!

I am about to turn off the console and leave when an alert shows up on my screen. Someone is at the door hidden behind the wine racks, trying to gain entry. I touch a button to get a visual and am pleased to see Jane, her brow furrowed in concentration as she palpates the door, looking for a way to open it. She has evidently discovered the mechanism for pushing aside the wine rack and seen what it conceals. I always knew she was dangerously inquisitive.

Quickly, I get to my feet and head out into the corridor, towards that door. With all that she knows about us now, there is little harm in her seeing our below-ground operation. It is not as if I will be allowing her to leave Reeves Hall, at least not in any foreseeable future, and besides, I have an overwhelming urge to see her in the flesh. I get to the door and touch the button for it to swiftly slide open. Crossing my arms on my chest, I stand in the doorway. “Nosing about are we, Duchess?” I enquire with a sardonic raise of my brow.

Jane’s eyes are wide with surprise. She grapples for a suitable response. “I—well, I was told I was free to explore this house.”

I quirk my lips, trying not to smile. “So you were.”

She tilts her head sideways, wanting to see what lies behind me. “What is this place?” she asks.

I step aside to let her in. “Why don’t you come in and see?” I say.

She steps over the threshold and follows me, looking around curiously. “How interesting,” she murmurs, almost to herself. “This is some sort of subterranean part of the house.” We pass by various closed doors and she wonders out loud, “What is behind these doors?”

I point to the first one. “Behind this door is the source of the energy that made your fingers tingle when you touched that wall panel during our dinner party. It is also what provides the fuel to heat this house. You did not think the water that comes out of the spout is hot by magic, did you?”

Her mouth is a wide O. “May we go inside?” asks the inquisitive minx.

I shake my head. “Only qualified individuals are allowed in there.” We walk on, and I point to another door. “Through here is the facility for providing us with clean water and disposing of all our waste. And no, you may not go inside.” She makes a little moue of disappointment but wisely holds her counsel. Finally, we reach my control room. I let the security device scan my face while Jane watches in avid curiosity. A moment later, the door slides open, revealing my personal domain.

She follows me inside, her gaze taking in the multiple screens of my console that are currently displaying only a blank white background. She knows enough by now to realise that they can transmit moving images, as evidenced by her next words, “Did you see me on this screen just now when I was trying to open that door?”

“I did, Duchess. That is why I came straight over to let you in.”

She nods, and I can tell by the crease of her brow that her mind is working rapidly, trying to put together all the information she has acquired and to reach the inevitable conclusion. “This is where you get to play God, is it not?”

“Yes,” I rasp. I clear my throat and go on, “This is where I receive the information collected by the nanoprobes.”

“Show me,” she commands briskly.

I give her a wry look. “What is it you wish to see?”

She thinks for a moment then enquires, “Do you have the means to send the nanoprobes anywhere in this world?”

“Yes.”

“Then may I see my uncle’s house please?”

I take a seat in front of the console and tap out a few instructions. A moment later, the screen lights up to display visual images of the house where her uncle and aunt reside. Jane gasps beside me and leans closer to the screen. “There it is,” she says in wonder.

“There are several open windows,” I say. “If you wish, I can instruct the probes to fly inside and transmit to us from within. Which room shall we enter?”

“Oh,” she says, her eyes round with awe. “We can do that?”

“We can.”

She points with her finger to a room on the first floor to the right of the house. “Let us go there,” she declares.

I instruct the probes accordingly. An instant later, the visual moves closer to the house and begins to transmit images and sound from inside. In one corner of the room sits an older female at her desk. “Your aunt?” I ask.

She nods in reply, her eyes fixed on the female. “Get closer,” she says imperiously. “I wish to see what she is doing.”

With a quirk of my lips, I do as she says, moving the probes to hover just over the lady’s shoulder. We watch as she carefully breaks the seal on a letter that is addressed to a Mr Robert Price, esquire . Beside me, Jane is muttering in disgust, “I knew it! She is reading my uncle’s correspondence.” I adjust the probes so that we may read the contents of the letter. It is a formal missive from a Mr Smithson at Drummonds Bank in Charing Cross, London.

Dear Mr Price,

I write in relation to the monies of your niece, Miss Jane Price (now Dowager Duchess of Coleford), held with Drummonds Bank, the sum of which currently stands at ￡5,790. As you are no doubt aware, the terms of the late John Price’s will named your good self as executor and guardian of Miss Price in the event of the gentleman’s decease. As per your instructions, the quarterly interest from these funds was disbursed to you in your role as guardian.

Such disbursements were terminated upon her marriage, and we were subsequently instructed by the Duke of Coleford to re-invest the interest into the funds on his wife’s behalf, so as to provide for her, should the need arise in the future.

I understand that the Duke sadly passed on 16 th February of this year. May I take this opportunity to convey my deepest condolences both to yourself and the Dowager Duchess on behalf of Drummonds Bank. I would be grateful, sir, if you could inform me of the Dowager Duchess’s new directions so that I may write to her and request further instructions as to what she wishes done with her funds.

I remain your respectful servant,

Henry Smithson

I feel Jane stiffen beside me while she peruses the contents of the letter. Her chest heaves as she takes deep gulps of air. “I had no knowledge of this,” she breathes in agitation. “All those years living at my uncle’s house, I was made to understand that I had been left penniless, that they had taken me in from the goodness of their hearts as charity.” She turns to me, her voice thick with the onset of tears, “I was made to live as a drudge in their home, barely better than a servant, while they stole what was mine. And then Giles, dear Giles, had the bank invest the money for my future. He was thinking of me. He loved me.”

I watch in helpless horror as she bursts into loud sobs. I am not equipped to deal with such a thing as a lady’s tears, let alone her sobs. At first, I gaze at her, unsure of what to do, but very soon, instinct has me part my legs and draw her into my embrace. Seated as I am, she is at the perfect height for me. She comes to me willingly, leaning forward and burying her face into the cloth of my coat as she cries her tears.

I hold her to me gently, patting her back to give comfort and let her cry it out. Eventually, she stops her sobs but remains in the shelter of my embrace. I find that I have buried my nose in the soft fragrance of her hair. I close my eyes and inhale her sweetness.

After a time, I hear her mumble into my coat, “God forgive me, but I had begun to think uncharitably of poor Giles. How could he have left me in such difficult straits? The truth is, all along he had ensured those funds were kept for me.”

I say nothing but lift my head to look at the screen once more. There, I see Jane’s aunt writing out a reply to the banker, ostensibly in her husband’s name.

Dear Mr Smithson,

I thank you for your kind condolences and have conveyed them to my niece. With the entail on the late Duke’s estate, all his properties have now passed to the new duke, and since the Dower House is also presently let out, I have in great charity taken in my niece and her young daughter to live with me in my home. With this change in circumstance, I would be grateful if you would resume the disbursements of the quarterly interest on the funds to my local bank in Frome, from which Jane shall draw whatever monies she requires.

Yours sincerely,

Robert Price, Esquire

As the lady rummages in a drawer for wax and a seal, I say quietly, “Jane, you may wish to see what your aunt has written.”

She turns in my embrace to face the screen, though I keep my arms draped around her waist, anchoring her to me. She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand and quickly reads the missive. It is not long before the expected eruption occurs. “Why the wicked witch!” she cries. “I cannot credit it. Even she would not sink so low.”

“My faith in mankind is such that I can very well believe it,” I bite back acidly.

Her voice takes on the steely determination that I so admire. “We cannot let her get away with this.”

“She will not,” I say grimly. “If you write to this Mr Smithson, I can have the letter reach him by the end of this day.”

She turns back and fixes me with a quizzical glance. “How? The mail coach will take at least three days to reach London.”

I hold her gaze and tell her, “Scientific innovations, Jane. Believe me when I say, your letter will reach Mr Smithson today.”

She nods, too emotional at present to show much curiosity about it. “I will do it straight away,” she says. It is then she notices my arms, still wrapped around her. She stills a moment, then says quickly, “Thank you, Broek.”

I nod and let my arms drop. Together, we leave my control room and negotiate our way back to the basement door, which I shut securely behind us.