The Rake to Rescue Her

by Julia Justiss

  Vastly pleased with his work, James was delighted when she set it above the mantel. ‘There, you’ll be able to see it from your bed and admire it as you eat your supper.’

  ‘Look at my painting, Minnie!’ he cried to the nurse, who, to Diana’s mild amusement, hovered nearby whenever Diana visited her son. Though the girl seemed to have somewhat relaxed her vigilance, Diana sensed Minnie still didn’t entirely trust her mistress’s sudden, unprecedented interest in her charge.

  ‘That’s wonderful fine, young master,’ the maid answered, a deep affection in her tone. ‘A right handsome soldier you’ve drawn.’

  ‘Mama, will you make one, too?’

  ‘If it would please you.’

  ‘Oh, yes! I’d love having something from you, something to keep.’

  The artless words pricked her again, reminding her how little she’d offered her son since she’d forced herself to turn away from him as a toddler. True, she’d had a compelling reason for withdrawing from him—but no more. Silently she renewed her vow to do better.

  ‘What kind of picture do you want?’

  ‘Another soldier.’

  ‘Very well.’ Taking the brush from him, she deftly created a replica of the toy soldier. James looked over her shoulder as she painted, seeming entirely absorbed.

  When she finished, he gave a little sigh of awe. ‘Oh, Mama, that’s wonderful! He looks just like my soldier. Will you put him on the mantel next to mine, so they can keep each other company?’

  ‘Of course.’

  After she’d arranged the two pictures side by side and stepped back, James clapped his hands with delight. ‘It’s like having more soldiers for my army! Only maybe better, ’cause you and me made them together. Thank you, Mama!’

  Jumping up, he ran over and wrapped his arms around her.

  Still not accustomed to hugs, she started—then slowly wrapped her arms around him as well. From deep within, an impulse welled up to pull him nearer, hold him tighter.

  Immediately she resisted it...until she realised that she didn’t have to restrain herself any longer.

  Let him love you. You’ll find yourself responding.

  Hearing Alastair’s words echo in her ears, she hugged James tighter, pressing her face against his soft dark hair. An aching warmth curled around her heart.

  As much as she owed Alastair Ransleigh for his efforts to keep her son safe, she owed him even more for this.

  * * *

  Meanwhile, in the London office of his solicitor, Mr Reynolds, Alastair explained his need for some information regarding settlements.

  A smile creased the older man’s face. ‘Dare I hope that means you expect a momentous occasion in the near future? Let me offer my congratulations!’

  Startled at first, Alastair had to laugh. ‘I’m afraid not. A close family friend was recently widowed. Her father is now deceased, and she is not aware if settlements were ever drawn up.’

  ‘Are the circumstances not specified in her late husband’s will?’

  ‘The circumstances are rather...complicated. What would normally be set up?’

  ‘Normally, the dowry or portion brought into the marriage by the bride is guaranteed to her as an annuity in the event of the husband’s death. If a specific sum is not mentioned, usually she is deeded some property as her jointure, the income and rents from which are intended to support her after the husband’s death, when his estate passes to his heir.’

  ‘In the absence of settlements, she would be entitled to a dower?’

  ‘Yes, to one-third of the property and assets of the estate. Which, for a wealthy man, could be quite considerable, hence the desire for settlements to simplify the process and limit the annuity to a specific sum.’

  ‘If dower rights were invoked, how would the widow obtain the assets?’

  ‘The local sheriff’s court would have the handling of it.’

  That was what Alastair had feared. ‘And if there were...ill feelings between the heir and the widow?’

  Mr Reynolds sent him a questioning look. ‘Would this heir be a man of high rank?’

  ‘The highest.’

  The solicitor gave him a thin smile. ‘Then obtaining her due could be difficult. The local sheriff would, understandably, be reluctant to antagonise a man of wealth and influence in the community. Your widow would require a strong solicitor and a prominent advocate to ensure the heir was compelled to recognise her rights.’

  Alastair nodded. ‘Thank you, Mr Reynolds. I appreciate your expertise.’

  ‘If I can assist you further, please let me know. The poor widow is entitled to her due.’

  ‘She is indeed,’ Alastair agreed. ‘I will certainly call upon you again if circumstances require it.’

  ‘Always a pleasure to serve you,’ Mr Reynolds said with another smile as he ushered Alastair to the door.

  As he paced the street to summon a hackney, Alastair mulled over what he should do next.

  Would the new Duke really make problems for Diana? How much of her suspicion and foreboding were the results of her miserable existence as his father’s wife? Would the mature Blankford have outgrown his youthful resentment?

  There was only one sure way to find out.

  He’d just have to make a trip to Graveston Court.

  Chapter Twelve

  Several days later, Alastair passed through the entry gates and rode down a long, tree-bordered lane. Around one bend, set like a jewel against the hill behind it, its long columned facade reflected by a symmetrical pond before it, stood the huge Palladian mansion that was Graveston Court.

  After turning his mount over to a waiting lackey, he was admitted by a grim-faced butler, ushered through the marbled entrance down a corridor flanked with what appeared to be Grecian antiquities, and shown into a beautifully appointed parlour. The Duke would be informed of his arrival, the butler intoned before bowing himself out.

  So this was the prison in which Diana had been trapped for so many years, Alastair thought. He paced the room, whose arched windows, flanked by gold brocade drapery, echoed the Palladian influences evident in the mansion’s facade. More antiquities—vases embellished with Greek battle scenes, Roman busts and bas-relief carvings—were set on pedestals or artfully arranged on shelves.

  The scale was oppressively overwhelming, everything about the room and its opulent furnishings designed to dazzle the visitor and intimidate him with a sense of his insignificance, compared to the wealth and rank of his host.

  At length, losing interest in examining the various treasures, Alastair took a seat on the lavishly embellished gold sofa, and waited. And waited. And waited some more, his anger beginning to smoulder.

  Of course, he had arrived without notice and the new Duke would have many pressing matters to attend to, taking over the reins of such a large estate. However, leaving him tapping his fingers this long, without an offer of refreshment or any other courtesy, was, Alastair felt sure, a deliberate insult.

  Any deference to rank Alastair might once have felt had long since been dissipated by the refusal of his uncle, the Earl of Swynford, to support his younger son, Alastair’s cousin and best friend, after the scandal that had embroiled Max at the Congress of Vienna. A deference already worn thin by his army service, where experience and ability was worth far more in battle than rank or title, and his own previous dealings with a Duke of Graveston.

  So he was not feeling particularly amiable when the Duke finally deigned to make an appearance.

  After exchanging the obligatory bows and greetings, the Duke said, ‘So, Mr Ransleigh, to what do I owe the honour of this visit?’’

  The sly smile accompanying those words gave Alastair the distinct impression that the Duke knew exactly who he was and why he was here.

  Which shouldn’t
come as a surprise. In order for Graveston’s solicitor to have found Diana so quickly, the new Duke must have had his own spies hidden among the household at Graveston, some of whom had trailed her when she fled to Bath after her husband’s death. If those informers remained in the city to watch her, they would have already sent word to the Duke about his relationship with the widow.

  If the Duke wished to be coy, not revealing what he already knew, he could play along, thought Alastair, his irritation building. ‘As a friend of the Dowager Duchess, I wished to approach you about a family matter. Gentleman to gentleman, without recourse to involving the sheriff or the courts.’

  ‘Gentleman to gentleman,’ the Duke repeated, raising an ironic eyebrow. ‘Do proceed.’

  ‘The Dowager, naturally distraught over the death of her husband, needed time away to compose herself. She seemed to doubt that you would agree to provide her with the support and assistance to which she is entitled as your father’s widow.’

  The Duke’s smirk of a smile compressed to a thin line. ‘I’m surprised the doxy is intelligent enough to understand that. Support her?’ His raised voice had a derisive ring. ‘She left Graveston Court voluntarily; let her support herself. I’m sure she wheedled enough baubles out of my father to keep herself in furs, gowns and sweetmeats for the rest of her life.’

  ‘Nonetheless,’ Alastair countered, holding on to his temper, ‘she’s still entitled to her dower.’

  The Duke’s eyebrows lifted again. ‘She can certainly apply for it. Any claims submitted on that account will be referred to my solicitor.’

  ‘She was your late father’s legal wife. Your man might obstruct, harass and delay such a petition, but in the end, the law will see she gets what she’s entitled to.’

  The Duke laughed outright. ‘Oh, I certainly hope she gets what she deserves! My father’s legal wife—ha! Only think, he set aside my mother, who lived only to please him, for her. And what an ideal duchess she made! Incapable of running the household. Contradicting my father in front of his guests. Disputing the gentlemen’s opinions and ignoring the ladies, to whose company she should have directed her attention and remarks. Well, he had little enough joy of her. Just the one brat, after eight years of marriage.’

  While Alastair bottled up his mounting ire and disgust, Graveston continued. ‘Ah yes, the brat. I shall very much enjoy helping him discover what it’s like being the son of a displaced mother!’ He smiled, anger glittering in his eyes. ‘I’ll enjoy even more having her know he’s experiencing that delight, and she’s responsible.’

  Diana had warned him, but he hadn’t believed it. ‘You would punish a child?’ Alastair asked incredulously, revolted.

  Graveston shrugged. ‘Not punish. Just...instil in him a proper recognition of his place. He’ll survive. I did. It will make a man of him.’

  A man like you? he thought. No wonder Diana wants to keep her son away.

  ‘He’s a Mannington brat, for all that, even if he is half hers. Perhaps we can beat that out of him. One can try.’ He smiled again, as if relishing the prospect. ‘He will need to be trained to his role—to serve my son and heir. Which brings me back to a matter more important than the spurious claims of my father’s former wife. Since you seem to be on such good terms with her, perhaps you’ll inform her if she does not return the boy voluntarily, and soon, I shall have the Court of Chancery order it.’

  ‘She would appeal such a demand. You can’t know for sure they would rule in your favour.’

  ‘Can I not? When the head of an ancient, venerable family of vast resources magnanimously offers to support a half-brother, even though he’s the spawn of a nobody? Worse than a nobody, a woman whose odd and irregular behaviour forced her husband to banish her from Society. Who fled her home before her husband’s body was scarcely cold, instead of remaining to greet the heir and see proper tribute paid to her late master. Not to mention, as any number of witnesses can testify, a mother who paid practically no attention to her son from his early years until his father’s demise. Do you really think she has any chance to hang on to him? If you’re such a friend, you should advise her to spare herself the embarrassment of having her conduct censured before the Court, and send the brat back now.’

  So Diana was right; the miserable little muckworm did intend to exact his revenge on her son. His fighting instincts fully aroused, he said coldly, ‘I certainly couldn’t advise that.’

  His eyes narrowing, the Duke examined Alastair’s face. ‘So that’s the way it is, eh? I suspected as much. Though she has a pretty enough face, I suppose, and the same charms as any trollop, I still find it hard to understand how she entices men, but take some friendly advice. Have your fill of her and get out. She’s about to face the consequences of her infamy, and it would grieve me to see a gentleman get dragged in it.’

  ‘I think she has suffered quite enough already at the hands of the Dukes of Graveston.’

  ‘Do you, now? Then let me assure you, the retribution she so justly deserves is only beginning. The investigation is in its early stages, but it’s highly likely that she, ah, assisted my father’s departure from this earth. It’s common knowledge that she and the Duke did not get along, as every servant in this house would swear under oath. If this investigation bears fruit, I intend to have her brought up on charges of murder. So you’d be well advised to make your exit before she entangles you any further.’

  Alastair first thought the Duke must be joking, but by the end of that incredible speech, realised Graveston was entirely serious. ‘Bring her up on murder charges! That’s preposterous! I advise you to consider your position before making such a ridiculous charge. It’s more likely you, not the widow, who would appear reprehensible if Society learned that, not only had you no intention of honouring your obligations towards a woman who, despite your dislike of her, is still a dowager duchess, you are persecuting her with baseless and slanderous charges.’

  ‘And I advise you again to consider your own reputation! How do you think Society will react to learning that, within days of the suspicious death of her husband, his widow hurried off to Bath to meet her former lover, with whom she is now conducting an illicit affair? Perhaps also the man who incited her to dispose of the husband he’d always hated for winning the woman he loved?’

  Hot words hovered on his tongue to challenge the Duke then and there. But the man would probably welcome a confrontation—such behaviour would give credence to the absurd scenario of illicit passion and revenge the Duke was constructing.

  Besides, Alastair was quite certain a man intent on exacting revenge against a defenceless woman was likely too much a coward ever to meet him; bullies preferred to attack weaker beings rather than confront a man equal to them in vigour and influence. Better for him to take his leave now, before Graveston could provoke him into losing his temper, then plan in the coldness of reason how to counter this threat.

  Accordingly, he raised his eyes and fixed the Duke with a glare that had made many an errant subordinate quake. ‘If it weren’t beneath me to soil my blade with the blood of such a scoundrel,’ he said softly, ‘I’d call you out for such slander. I can promise you, I won’t forget it, and there will be a reckoning.’

  Keeping his temper in check with some difficulty, Alastair rose. ‘Since it has become quite plain you are unwilling to recognise your responsibilities towards the widow, there is nothing to be gained from prolonging this interview.’ He sketched the briefest of bows. ‘I will no longer keep you, as you doubtless have many pressing duties,’ he finished, with a last jab at the wait forced on him.

  ‘Indeed I do, Mr Ransleigh.’ The Duke nodded, looking very pleased with himself.

  Alastair found it even more infuriating that the Duke appeared so supremely confident of his own power, so dismissive of the possibility that Alastair might devise some way to check him, that he gave no credence to Alastair’s thre
at. His heart smouldering, he knew in that moment that even if Diana’s welfare were not involved, he would have to bring the man down. He also knew he would do everything in his power to prevent the Duke from getting his hands on Diana’s son.

  The Duke accorded him a brief nod of dismissal. Fuming, Alastair stalked out of the salon.

  Just outside in the hall, he encountered a tall, thin, hawk-nosed woman with housekeeper’s keys hanging at her waist. She stared at him boldly as he paced by her, a thin smile on her face.

  We’ll see who laughs last, he vowed under his breath as the imperious butler shut the entry door behind him.

  * * *

  Several days’ hard riding later, before returning to his sister’s lodgings on Royal Crescent, Alastair rode instead to the townhouse at Green Park Buildings. He knew he owed his sister some attention after decamping with hardly a word, but he also knew Diana would be anxious, waiting to learn what he had discovered. He wished he had a better report, but the bad news wouldn’t improve by putting off the telling.

  He’d debated calling on her in Laura Place—if the Duke knew of their relationship, how many others were aware?—but on the chance that it had not yet been discovered by half of Bath, opted instead for discretion, sending her a note asking her to meet him at their usual rendezvous, as soon as she was able to get away that evening.

  He would have to figure out how much to tell Jane, since, with his frequent absences in the evening and recent unexplained travels out of town, his needle-witted sister was certain to suspect something. But first, he needed to consult Diana.

  Since he had no idea how early Diana might get away, he ordered a bath and an early dinner. As afternoon faded into evening, unable to distract himself with a book, he took to pacing.

  At last, he heard her light step on the stairway, and leapt up to meet her as Marston ushered her in. She gave him her hands and lifted her face for his kiss, worry etched on every feature.

  ‘I’m glad you returned safely. What did you discover?’