The Wicked Ways of a Duke

by Laura Lee Guhrke

  With a dreamy sigh she turned away from the window, smiling. Never in her life had she been this happy. Now she understood why poets wrote sonnets about love and why people said it was the most wonderful thing in the world.

  “Well?”

  She turned to the parlor doorway, where Maria was standing. The other girl-bachelors, Mrs. Morris, and Mrs. Inkberry were gathered behind her, all of them looking at Prudence with anxious faces.

  “The duke proposed,” she told them, and with those words, she began to laugh in amazement, still not quite believing it. “He proposed to me.”

  Exclamations of delight greeted this news, and the other women gathered around her at once to offer their congratulations.

  “He said I was the one he wanted all the time, but that he felt obligated to marry Lady Alberta,” she went on, her voice muffled as she hugged her friends.

  Lucy, always shrewd, was the first to comprehend. “To clear his debts?”

  “Yes. Does that make him sound terrible?”

  “Not at all,” Miranda said stoutly. “All the peers have to marry girls with dowries, especially nowadays. Look how many are having to marry American girls because our English girls don’t have a dowry to offer.”

  “So true,” Mrs. Inkberry agreed. “Why, without a dowry, a girl can’t expect to marry a man of any position at all. That was the way of things even in my courting days.”

  “It’s more true now than ever,” Lucy said dryly. “What with the agricultural depression, most peers are broke. And an heiress like Prudence has to marry a peer.”

  “Do I?” Prudence said with a chuckle. “Then it’s fortunate I fell in love with a duke, not a bank clerk or a land agent!”

  “And being a duke, he could have his pick, couldn’t he?” Daisy said. “He could have had any heiress he wanted. But he’s marrying our Pru. Well,” she added, giving Prudence a hug, “Maria said it was plain how much he wanted you from the very start.”

  “So all’s well that ends well.” Mrs. Morris gave Prudence a kiss on the cheek. “We must celebrate. A bit of my damson gin, I think, to toast the engagement.”

  Wry glances were exchanged by the others, but they all sat down again as the landlady brought out tiny crystal goblets and a bottle of her plum liqueur from the corner cupboard.

  “This is so exciting,” she said as she began to pour damson gin into the glasses. “First Emma marries a viscount, and now Prudence is to marry a duke. Why, I don’t think we’ve ever had this much to celebrate at Little Russell Street in all the years I’ve owned this lodging house. I can’t help wondering what’s next.”

  “A duke,” Miranda repeated dreamily, falling back in her chair. “Think of it. Our Pru a duchess.”

  “A very rich duchess,” Daisy reminded them, making everyone laugh. Everyone except Maria.

  Prudence cast a sideways glance at the woman beside her on the horsehair settee. Her friend hadn’t spoken, and her pensive profile reminded Prudence of their conversation just one week ago.

  “There’s something I want to discuss with all of you,” she said, raising her voice a bit to be heard above the laughter. When her friends turned to give her their full attention, she continued, “Once I marry, I will receive my inheritance, and I want each of you to have a share.”

  Silence followed this announcement, and she hastened on, “I realize it’s a bit awkward, but I’m going to be so rich, and have so much, and I want to share my good fortune with my friends.”

  There was another long pause as the other women in the room exchanged glances.

  Lucy pushed back a lock of her auburn hair and cleared her throat. “Pru, we don’t need your money,” she said, echoing Maria’s words from the week before. “You’ll be needing it, surely, to help the duke. All those estates need to be supported. And there are charities to which you’ll want to contribute, people you’ll want to help…”

  Her voice trailed off, leaving the room silent once again. Prudence looked around at the proud faces of all her dear friends with a sinking feeling. They weren’t going to accept her help, even though they lived just a hair’s breadth from destitution and she was to receive millions. They thought it charity, even though they were her dearest friends and wouldn’t hesitate to do the same for her. Prudence knew she had to find a way to help them without hurting their pride. “We can talk about it again some other time.”

  “After you’re married,” Mrs. Inkberry said, and leaned over from her chair to give Prudence’s knee an affectionate pat. “Then we’ll see. Abigail,” she added, raising her voice and looking at Mrs. Morris, “aren’t we supposed to be having a celebration toast? How slow you’re being.”

  Prudence couldn’t help noticing the relief of the others as the subject of the money was dropped, but as far as she was concerned, the matter was far from over.

  “I’m just coming, Josephine,” Mrs. Morris said, answering Mrs. Inkberry’s question. She began to hand the glasses of ruby-colored liqueur around, and when each of them had one of the tiny crystal goblets in hand, she took her own seat and raised her glass.

  “To our Prudence,” she said, smiling. “Who fell in love with a duke. And to His Grace, who had the good sense to fall in love with her.”

  Prudence laughed and lifted her glass along with the others. When she took a sip, she knew love was indeed a wonderful thing, for it could make even Mrs. Morris’s damson gin taste good.

  Chapter 11

  Will the trustees of the Abernathy estate accept the Duke of St. Cyres? Or will the duke’s wicked past prevent the match? We can only wait and see.

  —Talk of the Town, 1894

  Rhys went home to meet with Fane, who proceeded to outline in detail all that he had learned of Mr. Feathergill during the past week. Upon hearing just what fascinating tidbits his valet had uncovered, he gave a low whistle. “Well done, Fane. Very well done. When I’m wed to Miss Abernathy, I’m tripling your wages.”

  Fane, who had finally been paid his back wages due to Rhys’s meeting with the bankers and his subsequent loan, looked at him with gratitude at the promise of such a large increase in pay. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Where is Feathergill this afternoon?”

  The valet confirmed that the squire was spending the afternoon at White’s, but etiquette forbade even speaking to the other man without a formal introduction. Rhys dismissed Fane and left the house to call on Lord Weston for the purpose of enlisting his aid. Wes had some lands in Sussex and was already acquainted with Squire Feathergill, he had danced with Prudence at the ball the previous evening, and he was also a member of White’s.

  In Rhys’s opinion, White’s was a hoary old chestnut and boring as hell, but he was glad Uncle Evelyn had kept the dues current. Damned awkward for a duke to be told at the door he couldn’t come in without paying up.

  He and Weston found Feathergill in one of the reading rooms of the club, scanning that day’s issue of the Times, a bottle of port on the table beside his chair and a glass of the wine in his hand. Wes paused beside the chair and made a surprised exclamation. “By Jove, it’s Feathergill! Haven’t seen you in ages.”

  “Lord Weston.” Feathergill, a portly man of middle age, set aside his port and stood up, folding his newspaper into one hand so he might shake hands with the other. “Last we met, my lord, I believe we were both at that horse auction in Haywards Heath.”

  “Ah, yes, looking at that chestnut filly. Did you buy her?”

  Feathergill shook his head. “She went far too high for my purse.”

  “Pity. She was a pretty thing.” He turned, gesturing to Rhys. “Do you know my friend, the Duke of St. Cyres?”

  All the friendliness went out of the older man’s face, and his expression became a mask of frozen civility. “How do you do,” he murmured with a stiff bow.

  Rhys reciprocated, though his bow was much more relaxed. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance at last, Mr. Feathergill,” he said as he straightened.

  “At last,
Your Grace?”

  “I met your niece, your wife, and your cousins at the opera not long ago, but I did not have the pleasure of seeing you there.”

  “Yes, yes, I…um…my wife told me. I believe it was during intermission. I was in the smoking room, I think.”

  An awkward silence fell over the circle for a moment, then Rhys spoke again. “Did you enjoy the champagne?”

  “Er…yes, yes, we did. Deuced fine, it was.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” He paused, then said, “It’s such a fortuitous thing, encountering you here, Mr. Feathergill. I’ve been meaning to make your acquaintance, for there is a matter of business I should like to discuss with you.”

  The frozen mask became even stiffer, if that was possible. “I cannot imagine what you and I would have to discuss, Your Grace.”

  “It is a matter of great concern to us both, I assure you.”

  In the pause that followed, Weston cleared his throat. “Well, I must be off,” he said, clapping Rhys on the shoulder. “My whist game is about to begin. Gentlemen, forgive me?”

  His task accomplished, Weston bowed and departed, leaving the two men alone.

  Rhys gestured to the chairs nearby. “Shall we?”

  Feathergill sat down again with obvious reluctance. Rhys took the chair opposite, but before he could bring up the issue of Prudence, Feathergill did it for him.

  “I can guess what it is you wish to discuss with me, Your Grace,” the older man said, dropping his newspaper to the floor beside his chair.

  “Indeed? How perspicacious you are.”

  “You wish to court my niece.”

  “Court her?” Rhys gave a pleasant laugh. “My dear fellow, you are rather behind the times. The courtship is over, and we are engaged to be married.”

  “What?”

  Feathergill’s outraged exclamation caused several other men in the club to turn their heads in disapproving surprise, and some made hushing sounds of admonishment.

  The squire swallowed hard and lowered his voice. “You cannot possibly be engaged to her. You are already engaged to Lady Alberta Denville.”

  “I don’t believe any such engagement has been officially announced.”

  “Yes, but…but Prudence is to marry her cousin, Sir Robert Ogilvie.”

  “Oh, dear.” Rhys donned an air of perplexity. “I fear you, and possibly Sir Robert as well, are under a misapprehension. Miss Abernathy gave her consent to marry me not two hours ago. I suppose I should have asked your permission to court her first and all that, old chap,” he said, giving the old man a look of apology, “but I fear that she and I were carried away by the spontaneity of the moment.”

  “Spontaneity, my eye! You’re after her money, but if you think you will receive one penny of my niece’s inheritance, you are the one laboring under a misapprehension!” Feathergill was growing quite red in the face, though he did manage to keep his voice down. “You are a fortune hunter, sir, and your past conduct demonstrates a disgusting lack of moral restraint. I know all about you, and I will be sure Prudence knows all about you as well. Once I have made your notorious exploits clear to her, she will certainly change her mind and break the engagement.”

  “My exploits?” Rhys leaned back in his chair, smiling, pretending to be relaxed, though his entire future hung in the balance. “And which of them shall you reveal? That I am in need of money? She knows that. That I have had numerous liaisons with women? She knows that, too. That I am a scoundrel? I have admitted that to her myself. She knows all those things, and yet, she still wants to marry me. Astonishing, but there it is. Love is blind, they say.”

  “No, no, no.” Feathergill shook his head back and forth in violent denial. “Even if what you say is true, it hardly signifies, for I refuse to give my consent.”

  “I’m sorry you oppose the match, but fortunately, your niece is past twenty-one. We do not require your consent.”

  The older man stirred in his chair, keeping his emotions in check with an effort. Rhys waited with an air of patient gravity as Feathergill worked to suppress his anger and think of how to proceed.

  “My consent may not be necessary,” he said after a moment, “but to marry her and gain her inheritance, you do need the consent of the trustees.” He nodded several times and his expression became more confident. “They will never approve the match.”

  Rhys made a derisive sound. “Do you really think they would dare oppose a duke?”

  “Your rank will not impress them overmuch once they are informed of your sordid family skeletons.”

  Rhys was glad he’d learned long ago how to act as if he didn’t give a damn. He tensed, but his smile stayed in place. “God, man, if every marriage were opposed because of family skeletons, no peer would ever wed, and the entire British aristocracy would die out. The trustees of Miss Abernathy’s estate could hardly oppose our marriage on such trivial grounds.”

  “Trivial, you say? Is it trivial, sir, that your uncle shot himself to avoid financial ruin and your brother hanged himself at school? That your mother has had more lovers than a Whitechapel whore? That your father had the cocaine habit and died as a result? Suicide and vice run in your family.”

  At the mention of Thomas, Rhys’s smile vanished, but his voice remained cool and nonchalant, with all the well-bred disdain worthy of his position. “You seem to have made quite a study of the De Winter family tree.”

  “And a weak, sickly tree it is. The moment I learned you were sniffing about my niece, I made inquiries. As a result, I am quite well-informed about you.”

  Though he seemed to have the facts straight about Rhys’s parents, he wasn’t well-informed enough to know the true reason Thomas had chosen to tie a rope around his neck and take a leap from the stair banister in his school dormitory two days before his return to Winter Park for the summer holidays. Thank God that was still a secret. “My, my, how forward thinking you’ve been to go about finding these things out,” he drawled with mockery. “My hat’s off to you.”

  Feathergill refilled his glass from the bottle on the table beside him, his hand shaking. “I shall see that the trustees are told everything about you and your family,” he said, and took a swallow of port. “By the time I’ve finished, they will know all your sordid little secrets.”

  “Ah, but what of your sordid little secrets?” Rhys countered, his voice soft and suddenly dangerous.

  Feathergill set his glass on the table with a thud. “What do you mean?”

  Rhys pulled a folded letter from the breast pocket of his jacket, giving the squire a look of pity. “You didn’t think you were the only one making inquiries, did you?”

  “Pinkerton’s is an amazing institution,” Rhys said, watching the other man’s florid face turn pale as he unfolded the document in his hand. “They can find out the most intimate details of a man’s life.”

  Feathergill licked his lips. “Pinkerton’s?”

  “Mmm…yes,” Rhys murmured, glancing through the papers. “I haven’t a clue how you learned about my family history, but I can tell you that I’ve had a man following you for nearly a week. He’s also been digging into your past.” He looked up, smiling. “Does your wife know how often you visit Mrs. Dryer’s establishment? That brothel caters to a very specific clientele, I believe.”

  The other man was now sweating profusely. “I—I—”

  Rhys winked, putting on his best jovial, man-of-the-world air. “Tying up young girls and spanking them?” he murmured with a grin. “How naughty of you, Feathergill.”

  He tilted his head, and his grin vanished. He leaned forward, moving in for the kill. “What would happen, d’you suppose, if your wife, your daughters, your friends and acquaintances were to learn of your…umm…interesting proclivities?” He tapped the letter thoughtfully against his palm. “I wonder how Edith would feel to know that while she’s been pinching pennies and worrying about how to afford beef fillet for Sunday dinner, you’ve been coming up from Sussex every month to spend what littl
e money you can manage to scrape together on lascivious games with prostitutes. Tell me, how do you explain these trips to town? Business matters, I suppose?”

  “All right, all right,” Feathergill muttered hoarsely. He pulled out a handkerchief and mopped at the sweat on his face. “What do you want from me?”

  Rhys once again folded the document. “Not only will you consent to my marriage to Prudence, you will assure her of your wholehearted approval. How you explain your change of heart to your wife is up to you. Tomorrow, you and I shall pay a call upon the trustees of the Abernathy estate, where you will make your approval quite clear to them. You’re pleased as punch about having a duke in the family. Then you and your wife will accompany Prudence and me on a tour of my estates, during which you will make no snide comments about their shabby condition. We will then return to London for the wedding. There will be no mention to Prudence or anyone else of the skeletons rattling around my family closet. Not now. Not ever. I hope we’ve come to a right understanding.”

  “Yes,” Feathergill answered in a hoarse whisper.

  “Good. In return for your discretion, you will be amply rewarded. I will provide you and the other members of your family very generous quarterly allowances. What you choose to spend your portion on, I don’t really give a damn.”

  The other man nodded and started to rise as if to depart, but Rhys’s next words stopped him.

  “One more thing, Feathergill.”

  The squire sank back down in his chair, the picture of misery.

  “I am outraged by your past conduct toward your niece, particularly your shameful neglect of her.”

  The other man started to protest, but Rhys cut him off. “I will not tolerate such behavior one moment longer. The quarterly allowances you, your wife’s cousins, and the husbands of your daughters receive from the Abernathy estate shall be forever conditioned upon my approval, and I can assure you that approval will be influenced solely by your kindness toward her from this day forward. In other words,” he added, smiling, “you, your wife, your cousins, and your daughters—Beryl, in particular—will do everything possible to make up for the wrongs you have done Prudence in the past. From now on you will live for the purpose of making her happy. If you cause her even one moment of vexation or anxiety, or if any of you insult her or bully her in any way, I will tear up the next quarterly bank draft you are set to receive without hesitation.” He leaned back again in his chair. “I hope that’s clear?”