The Last Duke (The 1797 Club Book 10)

by Jess Michaels

  Not that it mattered now. If it comforted the old man to believe Kit would have some kind of help, then he was not going to disabuse the man of the notion. Even if he was wrong on every level.

  “I’m not ready for you to go,” Kit admitted, feeling the tears stream down his face at last and not caring.

  His father looked up at him, searching his face, like he was memorizing it. Then he smiled. “But it’s time. I love you…my…dearest…boy.”

  His breathing went shallow as he said it. His eyes slid closed. Kit jolted, clinging tighter to his hand. “No,” he whispered. “Oh no, no, no. Please…please don’t.”

  His father didn’t respond now. He didn’t open his eyes. Kit counted his breaths, counted the endless spaces between them. And then, there was nothing left to count. In quiet, in peace, in a moment that would change Kit forever, his father slipped away.

  Kit rested his head on his father’s chest, a lifetime of love between them playing out in his mind. And now it was gone, only a memory, with no new moments to ever be shared again.

  He lay like that for a what felt like an eternity, then he stood up. He stared down at his father. He looked so peaceful there. The pain that had accompanied his long illness was gone from his face. He looked younger.

  With a shuddering sigh, Kit stepped from the chamber into the hall. Only the servants were lined up there, gathered in groups, weeping. He drew a breath of relief. At present they had a full house. When it became clear his father’s life was close to an end, his friends had come in from all over England. His brothers, the 1797 Club dukes.

  They’d filled his home and his father’s last days with gentle kindness and soft laughter. Kit appreciated it, but he wasn’t yet ready to see them. To tell them what he was about to say to his father’s loyal servants.

  He drew a deep breath and felt their sadness increase. It was clear they knew what he was about to say before he did.

  “My father has passed,” he said, his stomach turning as he said those words for the first time.

  His butler, Barrymore, stepped forward, his face solemn. The man had been with the household since before Kit was born, and he could see the servant’s true heartbreak in every line of his face. “The household staff will see to your father’s last wishes,” he said. “Our deepest condolences to you and to Miss Phoebe.”

  Kit nodded. “Thank you, Barrymore.”

  “Of course, my lor—Your Grace.”

  Kit froze. Your Grace. That was his title now. He was the duke. A role he had been prepared for by the very man who now lay dead in the room behind him. A role he felt woefully ill prepared for in this moment of pain and loss.

  The household staff moved away, scuttling off to make arrangements. He was left alone in the hall. Except he realized he was not alone. Sarah was standing at his sister’s door, her hands folded before her as she just…watched him.

  “We’ll need to tell her,” he said, looking away from her.

  “Yes,” she said softly. “Would you like me to be present when you do so?”

  He froze and glanced at her. His father’s words about her rang in his ears. That he would need her. It seemed like nonsense at the time, but right now less so.

  At last he nodded. “Yes. I think that would be a good thing. She will need…she’ll need both of us.”

  Sarah inclined her head. “If I might make a suggestion?”

  “Please,” he whispered.

  “Take a moment, Your Grace,” she said, taking half a step toward him before she stopped herself. “You have suffered a great loss.”

  “I knew it was coming,” he said.

  She tilted her head and a flash of anguish crossed her face. “Somehow I doubt that is a comfort. Phoebe will know soon enough. Take a moment, won’t you, and I will be waiting in the nursery to help in any way I can.”

  She turned and left him there, alone at last in his grief. And as he let the moment she had granted wash over him, he dropped to his knees and he wept.

  Sarah’s hands shook as she sat on the floor with Phoebe, helping her stack a tower of blocks and then watching the little girl knock them down. Phoebe was a unique little girl, for she had always liked toys that might be labeled for boys as much as those for girls. She ran and played and laughed without thought for propriety or the state of her gown.

  But right now that big spirit was muted. Phoebe’s mouth was turned down deeply and she shifted in her seat like she was waiting. Like she already knew what her brother would come in to say to her.

  Sarah shut her eyes. Christopher Collins…Kit…was now the Duke of Kingsacre. Her employer. After all they’d been through all those years ago, after so many times he had looked at her with disdain plain on his countenance…now her fate was up to him.

  It was an untenable situation, indeed. And yet all she could feel when she thought of him was empathy. He’d been so close to his father, everyone knew that. The look on his face when he said the old duke was gone was…heartbreaking.

  So despite her conflicted feelings about him, she was bound by honor and duty to do all she could to ease this troubling time for him and for his sister. What happened after? Well, that would be what it would be.

  The door to Phoebe’s chamber opened and Kit stood in the entryway. From Sarah’s position on the floor, he looked like a god. So tall, his shoulders so broad, his entire being formed by lean, wiry muscle and hard angles.

  And then she looked into his face and saw all-too-human heartbreak. She pushed to her feet and said, “Phoebe, your brother is here.”

  Phoebe looked up at him and her little frown drew down further. “Go away, Kit.”

  Sarah caught her breath and jerked her gaze toward the new duke. He flinched ever so slightly but did not respond in a harsh way. He very patiently stepped into the room instead and shut the door behind him.

  “I cannot go away, dearest,” he said softly, and he glanced at Sarah. She nodded in encouragement. “I have some news for you.”

  Phoebe froze, her hand hovering over the tower of blocks she had built. “No.”

  Sarah pressed her lips together. It was obvious how difficult this was for Kit. And how horrible it was going to be for Phoebe. The little girl knew it, too, on some base, powerful level, which explained her petulant response. Normally she was exuberant and friendly.

  “Phoebe,” she said gently. “Stand up. Your brother has something important to say.”

  Phoebe slashed her hand out and the tower she’d built fell, blocks scattering halfway across the room with the force of her angry response. “No! Go away!”

  Kit met Sarah’s eyes and she saw the devastation within. That and the helplessness that his sister’s response engendered. She moved toward him even though being close to him had always been a situation fraught with dark emotions.

  “She knows,” he said softly, shaking his head. “She knows.”

  Sarah glanced over her shoulder. Phoebe was now sitting on the floor, back to them, arms folded across her little chest. “I tend to agree with you,” she whispered back. “I don’t know what your father said to her earlier, but she is a child, not a fool. She knows that the time is near. Seeing you here must make her think her world has changed.”

  He jerked his gaze to her and his brown eyes locked with hers, holding there, pleading and pained. “Her world has changed, Sarah.”

  Sarah jolted at the use of her given name—he always referred to her formally. That slip was evidence of his state of mind. For a moment all her hesitations about the man, all her memories of an ugly encounter long ago, faded. All that was left was a connection to him, a desire to soothe the anguish that lined his handsome face.

  After all, she knew it well.

  “Not all her world,” she whispered. “Your job, my job, from this day forward, is to reassure her that her life will be different, but not destroyed. That her home is still here, that she is loved and cared for. That she will not find darkness in all t
he corners where there was once light.”

  He hesitated, then nodded. “Yes,” he murmured. “Let me try again.” He stepped forward and sat down next to his sister. He picked up one of the blocks and smiled. “These used to be mine,” he said, nudging her with his arm gently.

  Phoebe glanced up at him at last, her upset tempered somewhat by his statement. “They were?”

  He nodded and stacked one on top of the other. “Papa gave them to me, I think. I used to build big towers. Just like the one you just knocked down. I doubt any of mine were as good as that one, though.”

  Phoebe smiled just a little, as if that idea that she could beat her big brother at anything was triumphant. He let out a long breath.

  “Phoebe… Poppin… Papa is dead.” He said the words softly but firmly. “Do you know what that means?”

  She bent her head and her little shoulders began to shake. But she murmured, “Papa said I wouldn’t see him again until I go to heaven. But that he’ll be watching over me.”

  Kit let out another shuddering sigh. “Yes, that’s right.”

  Her cry echoed in the quiet room, a sound of pure heartache. “But I want to see him now. I don’t want to wait.”

  Kit grabbed her, dragging her into his lap, and the siblings wrapped their arms around each other. He rocked her as she cried, and Sarah held a hand to her mouth as her own tears flowed. She was not so far removed from her own loss. This reminded her keenly of a night when she’d watched her own mother’s light go out.

  “I know, love,” he said, voice strained with emotion. “I don’t want to wait either. I want him here too. But…but I promise you that I will take care of you, just as he would have done. I will love you just as much. And you can depend on me.”

  She pulled back a little. “So I don’t have to…go away?”

  He jolted as if he’d been struck by lightning. “Go away? Why would you go away?”

  “Because I don’t have a papa anymore,” she explained. “And—and girls without papas have to go away.”

  Kit’s face twisted with pure horror and Sarah gasped. Phoebe had never said such a thing to her about these unfounded fears regarding her place in the world. Good God, no wonder she had been so afraid of losing her father.

  Kit cupped her cheeks. “Look at me, Phoebe. You never have to go away. You will always be with me and I with you. I need you here.”

  She nodded and hugged him tightly. Sarah let out a long breath. The worst was over. Phoebe’s grief would follow, of course, as the reality of what it was like to not have a father anymore struck her. The girl had never known her mother—Sarah had heard that the woman had given her up to the duke at birth.

  But time would heal. And probably heal the little girl faster than it did her grown brother. Children were more resilient that way.

  Kit sighed and glanced over his shoulder at her. She caught his gaze and nodded, hoping that little movement would reassure him that he had done well. For a moment, he allowed the kindness she hoped to offer. But then his expression hardened. He returned to the man who had been judging her for years.

  She turned away and slipped from the room. It seemed her future was not as set as Phoebe’s. And with the old Duke of Kingsacre gone, everything she had begun to rebuild could be dashed as swiftly as Phoebe’s tower.

  Chapter Two

  Kit stood at his father’s grave, staring down at the coffin which had just been lowered in. It was littered with flowers, tossed in by the attendees of the funeral. His was the last to go in and then his father would be covered in dirt and he would be gone.

  Kit’s stomach turned with the realization, just as it had been turning nonstop since he said his goodbyes and watched his father’s life disappear. Since that afternoon, he had been busying himself with duties. Making decisions for the funeral. Allowing his friends to try to comfort him.

  Try. Fail.

  Everything in Kit hurt. His body, his heart, his mind…his soul. What would he do without this man, this wonderful, decent, loving man who had served as Kit’s rock for three decades?

  He almost buckled, almost threw himself into the grave so that he could be covered in the dirt with his father. Before he could succumb to those desperate impulses, though, one of the men stepped from the small crowd of funeral-goers behind him, and he felt the comforting hand of a friend on his forearm.

  He glanced over to see the owner and nodded to the Duke of Abernathe. James was one of his dearest friends, a brother, just like all those in their club of dukes. As leader of their group, of course it fell to James to be his support in this time of need.

  “What can I do?” James asked softly.

  “Nothing,” Kit whispered, and his voice sounded so far away. He fought to control his emotions, knew he failed at least a little. “He’s just…gone.”

  “I’m so sorry, Kit,” James said, his voice low and kind.

  Kit nodded, distracted as he looked from the coffin to the rose in his hand and back again. He didn’t want to let it go. He didn’t want to let his father go. And yet he had to. That was his duty. With a shuddering sigh, he held out the flower and at last dropped it with the rest.

  “Godspeed, my dear friend,” James said to the coffin, squeezing Kit’s arm harder.

  Kit gathered his composure and turned to look back at the crowd. They were mostly his friends. He could have invited the entire shire, of course. Men and women were clamoring to show their respect to his father, to pay tribute to him as they tried to figure out what kind of duke Kit would be. He’d allow it at some point. Perhaps in a week or two he’d want to have a more public memorial. His father would probably tell him he owed their tenants and acquaintances that courtesy.

  But for now all Kit wanted was his friends. His closest friends. His brothers. The men James had gathered together what felt like a lifetime ago in a club of future dukes. He was the last to take that title, and now they were all here to support him, to surround Kit with family.

  And yet he felt empty. Adrift. Even more so when his gaze fell to Phoebe. Normally children weren’t allowed at a burial, but he refused to keep her from her chance to say a final goodbye. But God, there was nothing so heartbreaking as a five-year-old in black. Despite their conversation in her nursery three days before, she had been very quiet since. She clung to Sarah’s hand now, her expression blank and forlorn.

  “She will be all right,” James reassured him. “And she has you and Sarah, all of us, and your staff to support her when she isn’t.”

  “Sarah,” Kit repeated with a shake of his head. In truth, he had been thinking a great deal about Sarah since his father’s death. Tangled, jumbled thoughts. “My father said the oddest thing about her on his deathbed.”

  James wrinkled his brow. “You discussed Sarah with your father on his deathbed?”

  “I asked him why he’d hired her as governess—” he began, and watched as James jerked his gaze back to the crowd. To Isabel, their friend Matthew’s wife. The Duchess of Tyndale had been close friends with Sarah before their circumstances had shifted so vastly.

  “And what did he say?” James asked.

  “He said I needed her,” Kit said with a small snort. “I needed her. Not just Phoebe.”

  James was quiet a long time. “Hmmm.”

  Kit arched a brow in his friend’s direction. “Hmmm? What does that mean?”

  “Well, you have always had an uncommon interest in the woman,” James said softly. “I have never understood why you despise her so much.”

  Kit bit his tongue. He’d never told James what Sarah had said to his sister. Meg had asked him not to, so he’d kept his mouth shut for her sake. Only hers.

  “I don’t despise her,” he explained carefully, trying to put out of his mind how gentle Sarah had been with his sister. With him. “I just do not think she belongs here.”

  “I would not say that in front of Isabel,” James said. “She and Sarah are old friends from her wallflow
er days—she might have words with you if she thinks you might do Sarah a wrong.”

  Kit harrumphed as an answer. It was true that Isabel would likely defend Sarah if he moved to end her position here. That was not something he wanted to manage at present. He needed peace. Quiet. Support, not a fight. Right now he was too overwhelmed for a fight of any kind.

  “I’ve got so much to do,” he muttered, happy to change the subject. “My father was so hands-on in every aspect of his duties. He talked about the dukedom to me for years, and yet I know I will still miss something.”

  “You won’t. My father didn’t give me any direction and I haven’t harmed my position one bit. The idea of it is more overwhelming than the reality. Besides, you have nine dukes here at your side, any one of them ready to help at the slightest flick of your hand.”

  Kit smiled at the idea, but he couldn’t help but still be troubled. “And yet you won’t be here forever. At some point, I’ll have to face it all alone. Kingsacre is the largest holding of any of our friends. It has the most tenants, the most tangled duties.”

  James turned toward him with a frown. “Kit, for God’s sake, take a break. Your father arranged everything. I know Baldwin and Ewan were looking over his accounts no more than a few days ago. Everything is in perfect order. You need time to grieve before you jump headlong into your duties.”

  Kit shook his head, watching as the other mourners began to trail off toward the house. He stepped forward to follow them, forcing James to fall into step beside him if he wanted to continue the conversation. Which, of course, he did. James was King of the Dukes. Right now Kit was the subject he thought needed him most.

  And yet there was nothing his friend could do.

  “I don’t want to take time,” Kit said, hardening himself to the pain in his chest. “I just want to do him proud. That’s all I can do now. Starting today.”

  Sarah stood at the sideboard in the East Parlor. It was one of the biggest gathering places on the estate, save for the ballroom, and it was filled to capacity by dukes and duchesses. But it was still as the grave they’d all left not an hour before.