by Betina Krahn
Startled, Sarah jolted into motion and herded them back outside. She closed the door and leaned back against it, searching for mental footing. Much of what she had assumed and counted on these last months, had just been knocked into a cocked hat. She looked over at the parlor archway and found Michael standing with his feet spread and arms crossed, watching her.
Arthur. Back from the dead.
She swallowed hard, straightened, and faced him.
“You, sir, have some explaining to do,” she said, feeling strangely numb and unsure of her course. Was she going to give a duke of the realm a dressing down? If he really was Arthur Graham, she told herself, he damn well deserved it. “Come with me.”
The study was full of bookshelves, sunshine, and dust motes suspended in still air, until she entered and set it all swirling. He had followed her and stopped just inside, surveying the fireplace, stuffed bookshelves, and worn leather chairs as if reconciling memory with fresh perception. His face bore a strange combination of reluctance and determination.
Instinctively, she took control by planting herself in the great leather chair behind the desk. Pointing to one of the barrel chairs that sat before the desk, she ordered, “Sit.”
He studied her position and disposition before complying.
“I want the truth,” she declared, folding her hands on the blotter and papers before her. “Now.”
“So, this is where I have to recall dates and names and events to prove my identity?” he said. He rubbed the worn leather arm of the chair, betraying his tension.
“No, this is where you explain why you didn’t just announce yourself as Arthur when you arrived, instead of engaging in this prolonged deception.” She glared, though with less heat than she would have liked. “Assuming you are Arthur Graham, sixth Duke of Meridian.”
“I’d rather do names and dates,” he said with a wince.
“We’ll get to that. First, I want an explanation for this”—she waved, indicating his hair and garments—“masquerade.” When he hesitated, she insisted, “Now, please.”
He rubbed his chin, eyes narrowing, collecting his thoughts.
“I arrived in England six weeks ago with no coin and no contacts, outside of a salty old fellow who had jumped ship with me off the coast of Portugal.” He bent forward and clasped his hands between his knees. “He had family in Portsmouth and we stayed with them while working at the docks unloading cargo. I saved what money I could and was finally able to take a train north. I traded some work, and most of the money I had, for a horse at a way station and made my way to Betany.” He looked down at his clothes. “This is no costume.” Every word seemed to cost a piece of his pride. “It is—what I have had to wear for a very long time.”
She sat back in her chair watching him closely, sensing truth in his words. This seemed difficult for him, this recounting. If he truly was Arthur, it was an admission that his grand plan of exploring the world had proved more arduous and costly than he could have imagined. No funds . . . stuck aboard a ship . . . shanghaied, he said. Had that really happened?
“If you are Arthur, you were gone for years. Why didn’t you come home before this? You knew the terms of the agreement with Ashton, that he would assume the title if you didn’t return in the given time.”
“I had what you might call adventures . . . the last of which was aboard a ship I was shanghaied onto. The captain was a right bastard, and when he learned I could write and cipher, he set me to keeping his records in addition to my regular sea duties . . . and he . . . made me read him stories each night to put him to sleep. Whenever we put in to port, he locked me up below. My literacy apparently made me an asset he refused to lose.” He gave a humorless smile. “After more than a year, he made the mistake of getting drunk one night near Lisbon and forgetting to lock me up. That’s when Mack Dowd and I slipped overboard and swam for it.”
“So, you arrived here with little money and just the clothes on your back. But you didn’t come to Betancourt. You went instead to Betany, took a room at the Iron Penny, and kept your identity a secret. If this was truly your home, why wouldn’t you come directly here?”
The look on his face made her wish she hadn’t used such a prickly tone. He took a deep breath and scanned the study for a moment as he chose his words.
“I thought Ash was here.”
“All the more reason to—” She halted, realizing from his lowered gaze and uneasy posture that he was reluctant to see Ashton. But Ashton would have welcomed him with open arms, if he had been here. For the hundredth time since she arrived at Betancourt she wondered why Ashton hadn’t returned to England to fully assume the role of master of his estate.
“You must have known he would welcome you, that all of Betancourt would welcome you.”
“Betancourt doesn’t know me from Adam.” He shoved to his feet, hands clenched with frustration. “It never did. I left to see the world and find myself before they had a chance to know me. I thought Ash would have taken my place, but he’s not here and the folk don’t even know they have a duke anymore. They think you’re their duchess, for God’s sake.”
“I told you, I’ve never made such a claim,” she declared, feeling oddly wounded. Was the prospect of her being taken for a noblewoman so unthinkable?
“I’m not saying you did.” He paced away, then back, pushing his long hair back as if it annoyed him. “I’m just saying . . . I never was a real Duke of Meridian . . . not like I could have been.” His features tightened and voice lowered to a pain-laden whisper. “Not like I should have been.”
For a moment he stood staring at the floor, his chiseled face a study in loss. There was nothing she could say to relieve his regret. She saw clearly the conflict he felt in returning to a home he believed he had deserted. The fact that he felt such guilt seemed potent evidence of his identity.
She took a deep breath and prayed her raging attraction to him hadn’t overtaken her common sense.
“I believe I could use some of those names and dates, now.”
Chapter Nine
He looked up with a strange expression that might have contained a trace of hope. With a deep breath, he propped his hands on his waist.
“The year 1618, the title Duke of Meridian was created. Jacob Makepeace Dennison Graham was the first . . . half English, half Scottish—more borderland raider and hotheaded warrior than gentleman noble. History has lost the tale of whatever deed or deeds convinced King James to award him land and title. It was probably something of a bribe and definitely meant to get him away from the unruly borderlands, since the lands granted him were well south. But old Jacob made the most of it . . . tamed the unruly inhabitants of his granted lands, enforced his own brand of justice, and managed to sire a dozen children on three long-suffering wives.”
“Which explains the streak of contrariness in the present generation,” she murmured. “Go on.”
“The second duke, Cornelius Graham, was a canny sort who managed to support both sides during England’s civil war. One minute a Roundhead through and through, the next a flaming loyalist determined to avenge the king’s beheading. He wore a Puritan collar during Cromwell’s rule, but silks and ostrich feathers when welcoming the Restoration and the king’s return.”
“A man of flexible convictions,” she observed.
“And wardrobe. The third duke, Eustice Graham, built this house in 1716, and added on to it in 1723, which accounts for the interesting mix of brick and stone in the architecture.” He gestured to the study and the house beyond. “He seems to have been something of a stay-at-home, content to see to his estate and tenants. He replanted the decimated forest and saw proper wells dug . . . funded the building of the church in Betany . . . started a proper forge and a grain mill in the area. It was his wife, Ann, who insisted on the checkered marble in the front hall. It seems she got her way a lot. She tired of cold food coming from the outside kitchens and insisted hearths and pantries be installed inside the main house. Her last improvement w
as a dumbwaiter, installed to prevent accidents on the stairs from the kitchen.”
“Thank you, Duchess Ann,” she said with a small smile.
He paused, studying her, seeming more composed.
“I have them all,” he said quietly. “The dates, the names, the glorious history of the great House of Meridian. Though I’m sure it all sounds more grand and exciting than it really was. Some of my predecessors were little more than fancy-dressed tax collectors who required people to bow and pull their forelocks as they handed over their hard-earned goods and money. If you want, I will set them to paper and you can hold them as evidence.”
“That might be a good idea,” she said, drumming her fingers on the leather desktop. “You know, there are some family photographs. It wouldn’t hurt to see if there might be something in them to . . .” She rose and searched the drawers of an antique chest near the door. She brought a large pasteboard box back to the desk and opened it to reveal a stack of photographs wrapped in tissue.
“How did you know about these?” he asked as he helped her unwrap the photos and lay them out on the desk.
“When I first came, I had to locate documents and go through the accounts to learn what had to be paid. There was quite a bit owing. I searched every drawer and cabinet in the study and library. I found these, but didn’t look at them.”
Some images were fixed on heavy pasteboard, others were thick paper that was now brittle and had to be handled gently. As they were laid out, they seemed to be mostly photographs of babies and young children. It was hard to tell if the babies were boys or girls at first, since they all wore dresses. But on the backs of the photos someone had thoughtfully penned names and years in ink that was now faded.
She asked Arthur his birthdate and checked it against the dates. A surprising number seemed to be of him. Then came a few photos of him with infant Ashton; Arthur appeared in short pants and a jacket with a velvet bow and Ashton wore an elaborate gown. A christening photo, it seemed. Similar images in succeeding years documented the boys’ growth.
She checked the cabinet again and the doors beneath the bookcases, hoping she had missed something. She returned holding her forehead.
“I’m fairly certain there aren’t any other photographs,” she said, coming to stand beside him and look at the picture of a plump boy in short pants and bowl-cut hair. He looked nothing like Michael or even Arthur.
“Who in blazes takes a dozen photographs of the heir to a dukedom as a baby and a young child,” she said, “but doesn’t bother to document any other stage of his life?”
He stared fixedly at the photo. When she looked up, she wished she could take back those words of frustration.
“I remember this. It was my eighth birthday.” His voice was little more than a whisper. “A short while after my mother died. My father was sick with grief... my uncles came to stay . . . insisted I must be sent away to school. In the end they waited, so they could send Ashton and me together. He was six and I was nine when they sent us off. I saw my father only twice after that. From the day I went to school until I met your sister Daisy, my uncles ran my life.” He paused and swallowed hard before continuing.
“Your sister changed all of that. When I saw how good she was and how mean they were to her—the same disdain they had always shown me—I began to realize what they had done and the limitations they had placed on my life. I knew I had to change things and to find out who and what I was.”
“And did you?” she asked, touching his hand. When he looked at her, into her, she had the sudden, awful feeling that he was seeing Daisy. The tenderness in his voice as he spoke of her sister was hard to witness.
“Yes,” he said with a determination that surprised her.
For one charged moment he met her gaze with fierce, silvering eyes, then turned and strode out of the study.
She watched him go with an ache in her heart. She remembered the wedding, the shocking events at the altar, the joy of seeing Daisy and Ashton finally united in love and marriage. It hadn’t occurred to her that when Arthur disappeared that same night—leaving behind a message about wanting to travel—that it might have been because he couldn’t bear to see Ashton with the woman they both loved.
Her heart seemed to deflate and sink, leaving a void in her core.
She pressed a hand over that emptiness, realizing that she wanted to believe him. She wanted him to be Arthur Graham, former Duke of Meridian, who was once betrothed to her sister Daisy. But if he was, then he was also the young man so devastated to lose her sister that he fled his home and country and roamed the world for years.
Daisy had chosen Ashton instead of the duke, but by a twist of fate, she had become a duchess after all. She was now the wife of the current Duke of Meridian, Ashton . . . who hadn’t come home or shown any interest in fulfilling his obligations or even reveling in his new title and standing. She couldn’t help contrasting his neglect to Michael’s desire to return home. He had crossed oceans and escaped captivity and swam for his life . . .
The realization of what that meant took the strength from her legs. She dropped into the grand chair, wondering if demanding Ash return to Betancourt was the right thing to do. Whatever happened, she saw with miserable clarity, it had to be done. With trembling hands, she reached for paper and pen.
And when Ashton came home, what would happen to Arthur?
* * *
The next afternoon, in a fashionable London townhouse, Elizabeth Bumgarten greeted a caller who claimed to have urgent information concerning her daughter. The Bumgarten matriarch hurried to her elegant parlor as her butler, Jonas, admitted the man.
A well-dressed gentleman of middling height and pleasant features entered the parlor with an air of urgency. He introduced himself with perfect manners: “George Parker Graham, Baron Beesock, at your service, Mrs. Bumgarten. I must apologize for this intrusion, but I bear news of your daughter that cannot wait.”
“Baron? Goodness, this is a pleasant—oh! Frances! The baby is coming!” Alarmed, she went for the bell.
“No, no.” He quickly corrected her impression. “I refer to Miss Sarah Bumgarten.”
“Oh. Great Heavens, I thought—” Elizabeth pressed a hand to her heart in relief, motioned the man to a chair. She tensed again as she realized a strange baron with urgent news of her daughter . . . would not be bringing good tidings. She took a seat opposite him in front of the great fireplace. “What news do you have of my Sarah?”
“She is even now residing on an estate in Wiltshire called Betancourt, the seat of the Duke of Meridian.”
“I know my daughter is there, Baron. She has written me about her circumstances, and it is a great comfort to me that she is sheltered by that venerable house. In fact, I intend to visit her there, as soon as my other daughter, the Viscountess Tannehill, is delivered safely. The child may come any day now, and I am on pins and needles.”
The baron came to the edge of his seat, looking grave indeed.
“I would urge you to spare some concern for your other daughter. She is at this moment, trapped in Betancourt with a man posing as Arthur, the former Duke of Meridian. I have taken it upon myself, as a close relation of the real duke, to investigate this man and his claim, and am convinced that he is a fraud. Worse, this imposter has no compunctions about involving your innocent daughter in scandalous encounters where he . . . dare I say it . . . is sometimes disrobed.”
At her gasp, he halted and transferred to the settee beside her, his demeanor one of grave concern.
“I see that to say more would be too distressing. I will only caution that her safety and reputation are both in peril. Something must be done.”
“Sweet Heaven. How could this happen?” Elizabeth’s eyes had widened during his speech. Now she fanned herself with her handkerchief and found it hard to catch her breath. “My poor, dear child! These blasted ‘dukes’ will be the death of me, yet.”
“I urge you to act quickly, Mrs. Bumgarten. The imposter even now works
to insinuate himself into your daughter’s confidence. I tried to convince her of his deceptive and venial nature, but she is too pure of heart to believe the worst of anyone. I can only appeal to your more discerning nature and hope that you will take my warning seriously.”
“I shall indeed, Baron. And you say you are a kinsman of Duke Ashton?”
“I am. My father was his closest counselor and aide. It breaks my heart to think of how that man may work his greedy plan to gain control of the estate in the duke’s absence.” He paused and with the hesitation of a true gentleman, put his hand upon hers for reassurance. “I was devastated to hear of the old duke’s, Arthur’s, disappearance. But I am certain the new duke, Ashton, will take the situation in hand, when he learns of it.”
* * *
George Parker Graham exited the Bumgarten home with a smug expression. Mothers. The woman was thrown into a tizzy at the thought of her daughter’s reputation being sullied. She had practically run to her writing desk as he departed . . . was probably already penning letters to all and sundry, demanding action. It probably wouldn’t cross her mind that a telegram would reach her titled son-in-law much sooner. And he wasn’t about to suggest it.
His expression warmed to a full smile as he struck off for the heart of English jurisprudence, the Inns of Court. He had a few more cages to rattle before the day was through.
That wretch at Betancourt had no idea of the trouble he was in for.
Chapter Ten
After sending Eddie to Betany’s small rail station with the text of a telegram for Ashton and Daisy, Sarah had spent the rest of the afternoon secluded in the study going over documents. She read what little information was in the library on the legalities of the peerage of Britain . . . dug out the folio of documents laying down the conditions under which Ashton would assume Meridian’s title . . . and mastered some of the legal jargon in the paperwork regarding the title and property attached to it.