The Dangers of Doing Good (Arrangements, Book 4) Read online

  The Dangers

  of

  Doing Good

  by

  Rebecca Connolly

  Also by

  Rebecca Connolly

  An Arrangement of Sorts

  Married to the Marquess

  Secrets of a Spinster

  Coming Soon

  The Burdens of a Bachelor

  Also from

  Phase Publishing

  by

  Emily Daniels

  Devlin’s Daughter

  by

  Christopher Bailey

  Without Chance

  Whisper

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped” book.

  Text copyright © 2016 by Rebecca Connolly

  Cover art copyright © 2016 by Rebecca Connolly

  Cover art by Tugboat Design

  http://www.tugboatdesign.net

  All rights reserved. Published by Phase Publishing, LLC. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying or recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher.

  Phase Publishing, LLC first paperback edition

  November 2016

  ISBN 978-1-943048-14-4

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2016957763

  Cataloging-in-Publication Data on file.

  Acknowledgements

  To my awesome, generous, wise, and very patient mother who has always been a great example to me, who taught me all the good stuff that moms teach their kids, like you can have pie or cake for breakfast if you do it right, breakfast for dinner is perfectly normal, and going to the doctor means you get a treat… The greatest compliment I can ever receive is anything along the lines of remotely resembling you in any way, shape, or form, and I hope to live up to it. Thanks for being my mommy, my fan, and my friend. And, you know, for teaching me to love hot chocolate so much.

  And to Diet Coke, since I couldn’t have written and edited this one without significant support from it. You are a mighty miracle worker, curing everything from headaches to stress to heartache, and I love you in all your varieties.

  MASSIVE shout out to my favorite team of people. Chris Bailey and Phase Publishing for sticking with me and letting me dream big dreams, and then working with me to fulfill them. Deborah Bradseth for the incomparable cover and vision that brought everything to an entirely new level. Whitney for helping me get rid of the bad and improve the good. Hannah and Alicia for beta reading and being the best fangirls ever. The A-Team for being the blossoms in my stressful life.

  Thanks to my family for being the nicest weirdos I could ask for. Big fan.

  Last, but not least, a baker’s dozen of donuts to my Musketeers. No distance, no danger, no diet is too much to keep me from being devoted to you. Except I’m sick of the diets, so let’s not do those anymore, please. Replace that with dark chocolate. Lots of it.

  Index

  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

  Chapter Twenty One

  Epilogue

  Chapter One

  Yorkshire, 1820

  Duncan Bray thought he was a content man.

  Riding through the wintery chill of Yorkshire, he could easily convince himself that he was.

  His life was not perfect, not by any stretch, but neither was it overly complicated or full of much to distress him. He had a younger sister who was bent on turning him into an overprotective grizzly bear of a guardian, and an aunt who frequently put him at his wit’s end, but he adored both of them with such inexplicable fervor that even their best and most concentrated efforts were not enough to set his life awry.

  He had also been blessed to be friends with some of the very best men England, if not the world, had to offer, all of whom would give all they had, even their very lives, for any of the others. And all of them were deliriously happy, which could only leave Duncan with equally delighted contentment.

  Well, Colin was perhaps merely delirious, but he thrived in that state and thus did not require concern or additional attention from anybody, let alone Duncan.

  More than that, three of his friends had married and were beginning families of their own. Marriage itself was not something so very shocking, everybody seemed to be getting married these days, and very rarely was true affection to be had. At least, not in his view. But all of his married friends had done so with the purest and deepest of loves.

  He mentally winced as he remembered that Derek’s marriage, now going on seven years, had not been one of love initially, and hadn’t even been pleasant at all until recently. Indeed, he had never met a couple who had hated each other more, and Duncan had been privy to details of quite a few unhappy marriages. He had despised Kate himself before he had known just how delightful she was, and before he could see how perfect she was for Derek.

  Now he could hardly imagine thinking anything less of her than near-complete adoration. And it was the same with Moira for Nathan and Mary for Geoff.

  Duncan was not prone to overenthusiasm, but if he could be half as happy in marriage as his friends were, he would want for nothing else in his life.

  Not that he was pining to be done with his woebegone state of bachelorhood. On the contrary, he quite enjoyed it. He had freedom to go wherever he wanted, whenever he wanted, and he took that opportunity as often as he could.

  He absolutely abhorred London. The city life was too much for him; there was never a time or a place for peace and contentment. One always had to be about and doing something, or seeing someone, and when one had nothing to do, there was always someone else who was doing something or seeing someone in such a way that made for quite a scandal and everybody had to hear about it and make it their business.

  Duncan hated knowing other people’s business. What right did he have to know what other people did with their time or who they chose to spend it with or in what manner? He could not have cared less.

  His sister did not feel the same way. Marianne relished the high society and fashionable airs of London. But, of course, she was a beautiful young woman who did not want for attention. He rather wished she were a bit plainer and not so infectious in her charms, as he was tired of fending off her ill-advised suitors and troublemakers who only sought her fortune or fame.

  Marianne had quite the fortune and more than enough fame. She was bold, she was cold, and she was intoxicating, or so he had been informed. This made her fodder for gossip and speculation, which was something else he detested. But there was no stopping it, and Marianne thrilled with the knowledge that she was a household name.

  It was why she chose not to spend Christmas with him at their cousin’s castle in Scotland. Graeme had insisted they come this year, as they had not been in the Highlands for almost four years, and Duncan was pleased to accept. But Marianne had no desire to spend the holidays in “a stinking, freezing c
astle in the middle of a frozen wasteland surrounded by five grown men with the manners of boars.” Somehow, Graeme and his brothers had not been offended by that, and each had sent presents home with Duncan for their “favorite girl” along with their love and compliments.

  Duncan shook his head, bundled up with furs against the snow and the wind and the cold. He was not generally prone to such elaborate measures nor such grand taste as to be seen wearing furs, but his cousins had insisted. And as he had won the fur from his cousin’s castle fair and square, he felt a little bit of pride in now using the fur for warmth.

  It had been his well-deserved prize, as he had trounced all challengers in a surprise brawl the day after Christmas. In theory, it was the fur of a bear that was killed by their great-grandfather, Angus MacLaine, one of the boldest and bravest men to ever roam the Highlands. Of course, there were many rumors and legends tied to this ancestor, most of which Duncan suspected to be wildly untrue, including the bearskin. If he had it properly inspected, he was half convinced it would have been revealed to be made of an astonishing number of rabbits.

  But nevertheless, he was grateful for it. And he missed his cousins fiercely. They were his brothers in blood and had shown immense support for him and Marianne when their parents had passed, remembering their aunt with grace and honor.

  Duncan often thought of removing himself to Scotland entirely. The remote nature of the Highlands was far more suited to his reclusive lifestyle and contented nature.

  But he could never leave Marianne. Or Tibby.

  He scoffed as he thought of his aunt. The great Lady Raeburn would have thrown a massive fit of blazing proportions if her favorite nephew had left her side. His father’s sister was truly the most eccentric woman he had ever met, but he was fond of her. Far more so than he would ever confess. She alone had been his saving grace in the darkest hour of his life.

  She would find his furs delightful and no doubt try to convince him they should belong in her house rather than his. He could hear her voice now; “No, no, dear boy, far too masculine, think of what Marianne’s suitors would say when they came to call! No, they shall come home with me and I shall find a place for them. Furs are so deliciously rare these days, no one will think of it. Perhaps I could present them as from India…”

  He grinned and shook his head. Tibby. What a rare old bird she was.

  So in truth, he was content. He was. He was just fine, nothing to complain about at all.

  But…

  His horse, Balthazar, snorted suddenly, ears at the alert. Duncan sighed and patted the horse’s neck. The creature had been fidgety ever since they had left the Highlands and was determined to either race home as fast as possible or trudge in a funeral procession. It made for quite the exchange between the two of them.

  “Steady there, laddie,” he murmured, letting his well-practiced Scottish brogue roll on. “Don’t you be keeping me from a good bed and a warm fire tonight. “

  The horse calmed under his touch, but his ears still stood tall. Duncan frowned. Balthazar was not normally so concerned about his surroundings. He scanned the vicinity and saw a small creek and a stand of trees nearby.

  “Thirsty, are you?” he asked with another pat. He nudged the horse in that direction, with no resistance in return.

  He chuckled and allowed Balthazar to take the pace he chose. Fastidious animal.

  The snow crunched beneath the horse’s hooves, and the tips of grass blades could occasionally be seen poking through the blanket of white. Duncan loved when the world was like this. The air was brisk and made his lungs feel alive, everything was soft and still, and there was something about snow that he had loved ever since he was small. He would not be sorry to reach the warmth of an inn, however, for even bundled up as he was, the chill was growing fierce.

  Again, Balthazar snorted restlessly, and this time, Duncan’s senses went on the alert. He had been away from the army for almost eight years and his skills had become dormant, but, he flattered himself, they were not yet lacking. He looked around for what had disturbed his horse, what danger could await them in such a place.

  The creek was sluggish, almost silent as it kept its pace, and the banks were shallow; there could be no danger from either. He turned his attention to the stand of trees, and as he did so, something within shifted.

  Duncan froze, his horse stilling beneath him. He was still too far away to make out any sounds, and whatever the beast was, it hardly moved. Well, he himself had always been a creature of stealth. He pushed Balthazar gently forward, the horse seeming to sense his master’s wishes and trod lightly.

  The closer they drew, the more Duncan wondered what creature they were to come upon. Its movements were slow and careful, almost hesitant, and it barely made any sound. It obviously had not heard him or his horse in their approach.

  Ah, he loved having the advantage.

  With as much silence as he could manage, he dismounted, and rubbed Balthazar’s nose when he did not so much as sniff. Then he turned and crept, with surprising stealth considering his size and stature, towards the trees. The closer he got, the slower he moved.

  Still the creature did not notice him.

  It shifted to one side and suddenly Duncan was brought to a complete halt.

  It was a woman!

  And given the slow, halting manner of her movements, he suspected she was very old. She shuffled towards the creek and he was filled with compassion. Her clothing was thin and tattered, and she looked very frail. What was this old woman doing out in the middle of nowhere in this frigid cold near a creek? He could have snapped her between two fingers, and the flimsy shawl she wore around her head and shoulders would not have been sufficient as a serviette, let alone apparel of warmth.

  He did not want to startle the poor thing. That could send her into the creek and then he would be in a difficult place. He continued forward without his previous designs of a soft step, and still she did not move. Was she also hard of hearing?

  He frowned as he studied her from his distance. Why was this unfortunate woman out in this bitter cold alone? Surely she should have someone helping her, a child or grandchild, or even a servant. Perhaps her state of life was more destitute and she had no one at all. But couldn’t a neighbor have been assisting her? She was so small, so slight, and she shivered visibly against the winter breeze. It was then that he heard it: the soft, unmistakable sniffle that came with tears.

  He could not leave her in such a state.

  He cleared his throat as gently as he could. “Can I be of some assistance?”

  The woman jerked and whirled around, clutching her wrap tightly.

  A young face and striking green eyes stopped him in his place, and all of the air in his lungs rushed out as if he had been kicked in the stomach. She was no old woman at all. She was young. Quite young, if he was any judge. Younger than Marianne, he would guess, but only just. She was also hauntingly beautiful, though in a tragic sort of way. Her cheeks were gaunt and pale, and they held traces of tears, the faintest hint of dirt erased by their paths. Darker smudges of the same dirt and grime marked her prominent cheekbones, and underneath her eyes she bore dark circles that told of sleepless nights.

  And she was utterly terrified.

  “I am sorry to disturb you,” Duncan said softly, recovering his surprise as best as he could. “Do you need some help?”

  She said nothing as she stared at him, did not even move. Her small fingers clutched her wrap even more tightly around her head and shoulders, her knuckles white as the snow beneath their feet. Her eyes were fixed on his, and she did not shift or blink.

  “Miss?” he asked, trying his best to keep his voice as gentle as he knew how. He took a step forward, and she scampered backwards, faltering slightly as she nearly went into the creek.

  “Careful!” he pleaded, coming forward.

  She looked back at him with those emerald eyes, and the smallest whimper escaped from her.

  Duncan sighed and looked at her
with concern. He knew he was intimidating in his size, and it was often very useful. Except when it was not. But a lifetime of being his size and shape had given him ample time to adjust accordingly.

  “I am not going to hurt you,” he told her with a smile. “I just want to help.”

  She looked him up and down, then looked around in panic.

  “I am alone, and I will not harm you. I promise.”

  She considered him for a long moment, still shaking, whether from cold or from fear, he could not tell. He did not know what to do; he could hardly help her when she was so afraid of him. A great shiver racked her tiny frame, and that, he knew, was from the cold.

  “You must be freezing,” he commented unnecessarily. “May I offer you my coat?” He began shucking his great coat off.

  “N-no.”

  The word was spoken so softly he nearly missed it amidst the faint sounds of the creek.

  “No?” he asked, pausing with his coat half off.

  She shook her head very slightly. “No, thank you.”

  He looked at her, concern rippling across his features. “Are you sure? You look quite chilled.”

  Again, she only shook her head.

  He returned his coat to his shoulders and, feeling quite useless, put his hands into the pockets. “Might I help you, Miss?”

  She gripped her forearm suddenly, wincing at the clench and his eyes darted there. There were distinctive signs of blood soaking through the faint grey fabric.

  “Are you injured?” he asked, his voice rising just a touch as he moved towards her.