Duke of Renown

by Aston, Alexa

  Chapter Three

  Moreland Hall, Cornwall—August 1813

  Andrew stood. “Good morning, Aunt Helen.”

  He helped seat her. A footman quickly filled her cup with tea as another brought her usual poached egg and toast to the breakfast table.

  “Are you packed for your return to Devon?” he asked, hoping to avoid the topic he knew was on her mind—and knowing he’d failed by the look of determination of her face.

  “You know how I look upon you as a son, Windham,” she began.

  He cringed inwardly. His father had been in his grave almost a year now and Andrew still wasn’t used to hearing everyone call him Windham or Your Grace. Even this dear maiden aunt, his father’s sister, had abandoned use of his Christian name and always referred to him as Windham, even in private.

  “Yes, Aunt. I am most blessed that you have always been more a mother to me than my aunt.”

  She had indeed mothered both him and Ward when his own died giving birth to him. Aunt Helen had done the same with Francis, though she’d had less success in that endeavor. Francis was all about himself and what a person could do for him. Andrew dreaded the next time they met. He’d last seen his half-brother in London a month ago, as the Season had ended. Francis had begged him to pay a slew of debts.

  Andrew had refused.

  He’d discovered upon his return to England that Francis owed everyone in town and that their father had covered all markers on several previous occasions. When the duke died two weeks after Andrew’s arrival from Spain, the two remaining brothers had sat for a heart-to-heart talk. Andrew told Francis he’d be given a quarterly allowance from now on and he gave him one property to manage in Somerset. A year later, Francis was already begging for more money and the steward in Somerset had resigned in frustration.

  He turned his attention back to his aunt.

  “You are twenty-eight, my dear boy, and not one to sow wild oats.”

  Like Ward.

  “You need to take a wife,” she said firmly.

  “I participated in the past Season, Aunt,” he said patiently, thinking back to the spring and early summer, grateful that he’d been able to reunite with George, Weston, and Jon. None of his friends were remotely interested in finding a wife, especially George and Weston, since their earlier brushes with engagements had ended in disaster. Jon said he’d learned from those two that marriage wasn’t for him. As for George and Weston, they now cut a wide path through Polite Society, being known as the Duke of Charm and the Duke of Disrepute, both swearing never to wed.

  “And you made absolutely no progress,” she retorted. “You are the most eligible bachelor in Polite Society, Windham. Women flocked to you at every social event you attended.”

  He grimaced. “That’s why I found no one who interested me,” he said, his temper rising. “Aunt Helen, every woman in the ton—unmarried or even those who are wed—sidled up to me. No one wanted to know me. All they wanted was to become my duchess. Or at least say they’d slept with a duke.”

  He rose and paced anxiously around the room, a flick of his hand dismissing the ever-present footmen. If they were going to have this conversation, he wanted a small slice of privacy for it.

  “Do you think any of those ladies would have given me a second glance before I became Windham?” he asked angrily. “Beyond a few desperate wallflowers who might have considered marriage with an army officer who would never be home?”

  Aunt Helen clucked her tongue. “You are too hard on yourself, Andrew.”

  Immediately, he noticed the change of name and grew wary.

  “You are handsome. Educated. Accomplished. Of course, you would have had your pick of several young ladies. It’s true, a lofty title has attracted more females to you but surely someone appealed to you?”

  He stopped pacing. “Frankly? No. Most are girls. Barely out of the schoolroom. They either giggle incessantly while they blush profusely and can make no worthwhile conversation or they are married and have provided their heir and now look for amusement.”

  Andrew sighed. “Is it too much to ask for a nice woman of good character and family who can hold a decent conversation? A wife who would be faithful to me and not gallivant about later?”

  “Do you mean you are seeking love?” Aunt Helen asked in quiet wonder.

  “No,” he said quickly. “Not a love match. I’d never consider the idea. I gave my heart and soul on the battlefield and lost too many men. I have nothing like that left to give. I merely want a good companion. Someone who wants to be a mother and would be devoted to our children.”

  He plopped into his chair again. “Sometimes, I wish it had been me who perished on the battlefield and not Ward in his phaeton.”

  She gasped. “Never say that, Andrew. You spent a good half a year or more after your father’s death traveling about England, looking after all the estates. Much as I loved your brother, that is something Ward never would have considered doing.”

  “I wanted to become familiar with all my properties and how each estate was being managed. Father rarely took us anywhere except the ancestral home in Devon and our townhouse in London. It was good to see the other places.”

  “What about this small property in Cornwall? Why are you here now?”

  “Because it is far away from London. From people. From people who want something from me,” he admitted. “I love the sea. Walking on the cliffs or along the beach. I needed some time alone after all that’s happened this past year.”

  “I understand.” She patted his hand then rose. He followed suit.

  “I will see you back in Devon at some point. That is, if you don’t mind me still living at Windowmere with you.”

  He took her hand and kissed it. “It is our home. I will always want you there. Even when I wed. You are the mother of my heart, Aunt Helen, and always will be.”

  She smiled. “Will you promise me you’ll be open to marriage in the future? I could introduce you to a few eligible women in the neighborhood once you return to Windowmere. If none of these ladies catch your eye, might I draw up a list of young beauties for next Season? But you truly must wed by this time next year, Andrew.”

  He wanted neither a young nor especially beautiful woman as his duchess. Andrew thought somewhere among the ton must be a woman other men had overlooked. Not a diamond of the first water but a woman of substance.

  “I will find a wife myself, Aunt,” he promised. “I’m eager to start a family.”

  She smiled. “That is music to my ears. It has been too long since children freely roamed the grounds of Windowmere and brought laughter to the halls.” She sighed. “I am packed already. I will see you soon?”

  “Most likely. I need a little more time here on my own. I’ve correspondence now to deal with.”

  She offered her cheek and he kissed it.

  “Safe travels, Aunt.”

  *

  Phoebe closed the window, where the gentle sea breeze from the south had called to her as she’d worked. She set aside her drawings and put on her bonnet, hoping it would keep some of the sun off her face. With her fair skin, she burned easily. Her mother had always taught her to carry a parasol when outdoors but she didn’t want to bother with one now. She placed a basket over one arm and carried another in her other hand as she left Falmouth Cottage and headed the two miles into Falmouth.

  Leasing Falmouth Cottage was the best decision she’d made in months. For the first year after Nathan’s death, she’d been like a sleepwalker, moving from room to room, no emotion within her beyond a grief so deep she thought she might drown in it. For once, Letty took care of her instead of the other way around. Her sister had been a godsend, though nothing could quell Phoebe’s sorrow. She’d lost her precious, perfect boy.

  And the baby.

  Oddly, she’d almost felt more grief at missing her unborn child than in losing Nathan. At least she’d had five wonderful years with her sweet boy. Phoebe grieved for a baby she’d never know. Never hold. Sh
e would never see its first smile or watch its first steps. Her body had recovered quickly from the loss but her mind and heart never would.

  As for Borwick, she didn’t miss him at all. Her husband was rarely home and when he was, she’d barely seen him. Though they had been wed for six years, she knew little more about him than she had on their wedding day. It hadn’t troubled her when John Smythe, Borwick’s first cousin, claimed the title of Earl of Borwick and the estate. After the funeral, he’d made a cursory offer by asking her to stay on. John had a young family, though, and she didn’t think she could remain around them and keep her sanity. Her things had been sent for from both London and the country and taken to her brother-in-law’s London townhouse.

  Letty’s husband had graciously insisted that she stay however long she liked, knowing how close the sisters had been since childhood. When their father passed a year after Phoebe’s marriage, she’d claimed guardianship of her sister, bringing her to live with her and Borwick. Her husband hadn’t cared at any rate and it had made for good company for Phoebe, having Letty with her. The pair had spent hours with Nathan and later enjoyed preparing for Letty’s Season, where she’d wed Viscount Burton after the Season ended.

  Phoebe hated her sorrow intruding on Letty and Burton’s happiness, though. Finally, she’d gone to Burton first to let him know she was ready to move on. Fortunately, she had sufficient funds in order to do so and her brother-in-law had made all the arrangements for her.

  Then she’d told Letty of her plans.

  Her sister had been hurt at first, being left out of the initial decision making but she had come to understand why Phoebe wished to have some privacy. Especially when Letty shared that she was with child. Phoebe said she would return in time for the baby’s birth in mid-January. After two months in isolated Cornwall, she knew that only the soft breezes from Spain would heal her in a way no one else would understand.

  As she walked along the path to town, she thought of how close she felt to her son these days. Phoebe had always told Nathan bedtime stories and he’d always begged for more, claiming hers were much better than any she or Nanny read to him. In Cornwall these past few weeks, Phoebe had begun writing some of them down, remembering the ones Nathan had loved best and adding new ones. She had even begun several simple illustrations to go along with them. She enjoyed drawing as a child but once her mother passed away, she’d put aside the hobby to care for her sister.

  Phoebe reached the small town, which rested nine miles south of Truro, a larger place where all the rich mine owners lived on Lemon Street. Her father had once brought her and Letty near here on holiday and when she’d needed to escape London, Cornwall had come to mind. Of course, Letty was horrified that her sister was living in a small, two-room cottage with no help, doing her own cooking, cleaning, and laundry, but Phoebe didn’t care. The simple, mundane tasks helped to pass the time and she thought of new stories to write down as she worked.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Butler,” she said as she entered the store.

  “Why, hello, Mrs. Smith. Don’t you look lovely today in your pretty bonnet?”

  Phoebe had come to Falmouth under an assumed name. She knew being the Dowager Countess of Borwick would cause people to look at her differently and draw undue attention. She didn’t want to tell her story over and over again and feel pity, the rich countess who’d lost three members of her family on the same day. Instead, she’d had Burton rent the cottage for her through a local agent. The agent was merely told that the viscount’s distant cousin, Mrs. Smith, had been recently widowed. No mention was made of her stature in Polite Society. The people in Falmouth had accepted her, asking few questions.

  “Here to do a little shopping?” asked the proprietor’s wife.

  “Yes. I need more writing paper and pencils and I’d like to see if you have any drawing paper.”

  “I have all of that,” the older woman said. “Perhaps a sketchbook would do?”

  “That would be lovely,” Phoebe replied. She’d had one as a girl and liked keeping all her work together.

  “I have some charcoals. Pastels, too, if you’d like. Are you drawing the scenery around Falmouth Cottage?”

  “Yes,” Phoebe said, determined to keep her project under wraps.

  She’d decided to send a few of her stories, accompanied by the illustrations, to an associate of Borwick’s. She didn’t know if they were worthy of publication but Nathan had enjoyed them and she hoped other children might, too. If they did see print, it would be a way for her boy to live on.

  Mrs. Butler assembled the requested materials and placed them on the counter. “Anything else for you?”

  Phoebe picked out several items since she was running low on supplies. Mrs. Butler promised that her husband would deliver them in a few hours.

  “Thank you. I think I’ll walk over to the fish market and pick up a few items there. Then I’ll try and beat Mr. Butler back,” she said.

  “If you’d care to wait, he could take you in the wagon.”

  “I enjoy walking,” she answered, enjoying the freedom and solitude of the habit.

  Phoebe stopped at the bakery for bread and then went to the market. Already, several boats had returned from their early morning run and she selected a piece of cod, one of lemon sole, and a few scallops. Living by the sea whetted her appetite for fish. She would miss eating it when she returned inland to Oxfordshire, where Burton’s country seat was located. Of course, knowing Letty and her love for London, she would prefer to give birth to her child in the city. A decision would need to be made soon since travel would become more difficult the more Letty increased.

  Her two baskets full now, she reversed direction and returned to the cottage, putting her purchases away. By then, she heard Mr. Butler’s vehicle outside and opened the door to greet him.

  “Let me bring things in for you, Mrs. Smith,” he said and carried in two crates, emptying them on the table and then asking, “Anything else I can do for you?”

  “Not a thing, Mr. Butler. Thank you. I appreciate you delivering my goods.”

  “It’s my pleasure, Mrs. Smith.”

  He tipped his cap and returned to the wagon, giving her a cheery wave before he departed. Phoebe returned it and then went back inside and put away the goods he’d brought. She sliced some bread and coated it with jam and devoured it, hungry after her trip to the growing village.

  Then she took up her new sketchpad and lost herself in her drawings.

  Chapter Four

  Andrew spent the next two hours dealing with correspondence regarding his various properties. As Windham, he’d gained seven estates scattered throughout England, not including Windowmere, the country seat of the Duke of Windham in nearby Devon. He’d only visited some of these properties as a child and none as an adult, having left university to go straight into the army, thanks to the commission his father had purchased for him. Once Windham passed, Andrew made a point to go and see each place, becoming familiar with the house, grounds, and servants, as well as having each property’s steward introduce him to his tenants.

  It was then that he’d given Francis full authority to manage Monkford, the small estate in Somerset, hoping the responsibility of running the place would help him mature and settle down. Sadly, it looked as if his half-brother had run it into the ground. Andrew would need to reclaim control, hire a new steward—or rehire the old one—and see that no tenants were left wanting.

  He finished going through and then answering all the various letters, surprised there hadn’t been appeals from Francis for more money. He’d received two letters already and had ignored them both. He’d made it clear that he wouldn’t raise Francis’ quarterly allowance or advance him any monies. Andrew had thought by assigning Francis a property to manage that it would keep him away from London and all the bad habits he’d formed there, as well as allowing him time away from his questionable friends. Having to remain in Somerset on a regular basis should have kept the boy out of trouble. No, not a b
oy. Francis was a man. He needed to start acting like one.

  A light knock sounded and he bid them to come. The butler inquired if he wanted any luncheon and Andrew decided the break would do him good. He dined on a roasted duck breast and hearty vegetables, enjoying the solitude. While he enjoyed his aunt’s company immensely, being alone calmed him nowadays.

  Deciding to go for a ride once he’d finished eating, he changed clothes. Since the day was warm and he’d see no one, he decided to forego wearing a coat and waistcoat and cast aside his cravat, as well. He dressed in an old shirt and pair of breeches which had seen better days. He also removed his gleaming Hessians and replaced them with a pair of old, worn boots that he wore when he traipsed about his various estates, aiding the tenants in their work by helping to repair fences or roofs.

  Andrew hadn’t brought a valet with him. Hadn’t even hired one, which would have appalled most of Polite Society. Instead, he’d written to Private Thomas Bagwell that the job awaited him when he was well. Andrew knew it would take time for Bagwell to heal, having one leg amputated and been shot in the other foot. Knowing the young man would get lost in the army hospital and never gain the attention he needed, Andrew had arranged for Bagwell to return to England and seen he’d gotten the best medical care available in London. He’d taken the soldier to a doctor who used a design recently created by James Potts, which was an above-knee prosthetic with a calf and thigh socket made of wood. What Andrew had liked was the flexible foot that was attached with catgut to the steel knee joint and how it would give Bagwell better range of movement.

  Afterward, he’d sent the former soldier to convalesce in a cottage on the grounds at Windowmere. After several months of country sunshine and air, Bagwell was now in London, staying at the Windham townhouse. He was taking well to the prosthetic and from his most recent letter this morning, he was ready for service. Andrew had written for him to return to Windowmere, where the new valet would take up his duties once Andrew left Cornwall and returned to Devon. It would be odd having someone wait on him after having spent the last year doing for himself. Still, it would make Thomas feel useful.