by Jamie Carie
“Fair, sir?” Robbie’s eyes filled with tears. “It sounds a dream, sir.”
Drake nearly lost his composure but pulled himself together and smiled down at the lad. “Good.” Drake ruffled his hair. “Now rest and I will see you in the morning.”
DRAKE STOOD OUTSIDE the front door to his father’s house. He took a deep breath, said a little prayer, and knocked. His father answered, his face impassive and impossible to read.
“Come in, your grace, we’ve been expecting you.” He gave a slight bow of his head as Drake swept past him into the hall.
“Please, call me Drake.” Suddenly a new thought occurred to him. “For all I know, you were the one to come up with the name . . . did you?”
There were many questions in that query. Richard shook his head. “I told your mother to name you David. I always thought to have a son named David.”
“You never married, then? Never had children?”
Richard shook his head. “You are my only child.”
There, it was said. Out in the open at last.
Drake didn’t know what to say.
“I am sorry.”
Richard hesitated. “You found the letter, then?”
He moved further into the hall, where the lighting was better, so that he could see his father, read his reactions to all that was said. He studied Richard. The man was a good four inches shorter than Drake, a little round in the middle, his face softening around the jaw line, his hair gray at the temples. He was a little amazed to see that his resemblance to Ivor was by far more pronounced.
“Yes, I found it. Are you certain?”
Richard motioned him into the salon, and poured them both a drink. He looked to be seriously considering the question. Sitting across from Drake, he finally inclined his head. “Your mother was sure. That was enough for me.”
Drake nodded. “I seem to look more like my uncle then, and after being raised by him . . .” He couldn’t seem to finish the sentence. A hard lump immobilized his throat.
“Drake, I’m . . . sorry. I made choices based on the paltry experiences of a twenty-year-old. I–I made mistakes.”
Drake nodded briefly, then taking a deep breath asked, “May I see my wife, sir?”
“Of course. I’m sorry we ran out at the meeting, but she. . . wasn’t prepared. You gave her quite a shock. Did you enjoy George Whitefield?”
Drake couldn’t help his smile. “More than I can express. I had heard of him and the near riots to hear him preach. Now I understand why.”
Richard nodded. “Word is, he will be here in Bristol for a few weeks and preach every day. I plan to see him, and I believe Serena does, too, but I will let you speak with her. Oh, here she is now.”
They both stood as Serena walked into the room. Drake turned, setting his glass down too hard on the table in front of him, the sound in the sudden quiet startling everyone. His wife looked pale and tired in a simple blue dress, her hair pulled back with a few curls hanging down her back. More distressing was the sadness laced with longsuffering that now looked back at him. He hated that he was the cause of it. He went to her and reached out for her hands.
Serena turned from him, walking over to stand beside Richard. Her greeting was cool. “Good day, your grace.”
Drake walked back to his chair. “For heaven’s sake, Serena, do not call me that.”
Her chin lifted as did her beautiful reddish-gold eyebrows. “Why . . . art thou not a duke, perchance?”
He supposed he deserved that. Bowing his head, he acknowledged it was time to tell the truth. He had rehearsed many different versions of the truth on the way to Bristol in an effort to discover his best advantage. Now, seeing her, all the words fell away.
She couldn’t have chosen her position better. She stood behind the settee, his father seated in front of her like guard and protector. He hated that she felt need of one with him. But that, too, was his fault.
“Serena, there is one thing you must understand before I tell this story. One fact that can never, ever leave your mind.”
She nodded and he was intensely glad. She wanted him to explain it, which meant she still loved him. It gave him the courage to continue.
“From my first memory I was raised to be a duke. There was never a time when it was not reminded to me, never a moment when the weight of such a title didn’t sit upon my shoulders. Ivor directed my training from the least inconsequential activity, such as how to hold my fork, to the most complex economic schemes. More than that, he taught me how to think like one of highest-ranking men of the nobility, just beneath royalty. His example ingrained in me how to regard humankind as my servants and, if there was no need I had of them, how to let them fade into the background like a piece of furniture with no thought to their well-being or even that they were a living being. It wasn’t a lifestyle, Serena; it was a mind-set, and one I adapted to and even thrived on with amazing success. It was, and to some degree even after all I have experienced in the last years, still is what I am today. And whether you would like to admit it or not, it is part of why you fell in love with me.”
Her face whitened at that, her hands gripping the back of the settee, but she wanted the truth and now she must have it, barefaced and cold as it sometimes was.
“One night, several months ago my father died.” He gave Richard an apologetic look. “I regret you were not informed, sir. You will comprehend why in a moment.” His attention shifted back to Serena. “I also regret that we, my barrister and good friend Charles and I, read the will before Ivor was even laid in his grave. It sickens me now to see how ruthless I was. Nevertheless, it was done, and that was the night the madness began. The will stated that I was completely cut out of any and all inheritance.”
Richard and Serena exchanged shocked glances, which was understandable. For a father to cut his son out in such a manner . . . it just wasn’t done.
“At the time I couldn’t begin to understand why he would do such a thing. Now I realize, Ivor knew I was not his son and, in a preconceived revenge, that had I not been the object of, I would have greatly admired, he trained me and painstakingly prepared me for a position in the world that he intended to rip away at his death. Needless to say, I was outraged. Enraged is more precise. And so I concocted a plan to marry secretly, as my father, and as quickly as possible produce an heir, who would then be introduced into society as my sibling. A brother, I was told, might inherit all, and I was determined to have it all even if it be through a son. I thought whatever woman I married could easily be bought with the title of duchess.”
Serena gasped. “Thou only married me to—?”
“Of course not!” Drake calmed his tone. “You, my dear, were not planned at all.” He took a deep breath and told them about the man who had tried to blackmail him—the man who Drake believed had fallen to his death from the edge of the railing. Drake watched Richard’s face for the expected revulsion, but instead found only sad understanding. Then Drake described his flight to America and his meeting with Serena.
Serena had lowered herself to sit next to Richard. “What happened to make thee decide to bring us back to London and go through with this plan?”
Drake’s hand formed a fist by his side. “I was a failure in America. I couldn’t do anything well, not smithing, not farming. Serena, I was dying inside a little more every day. Couldn’t you tell?”
She offered a slow nod. “I knew thou wert restless, unhappy even. I have never seen thee as happy as when we came to London.”
Drake nodded, stood and paced. “When I finally read the letter, I realized all was not lost, that we didn’t have to just survive there in the wilderness.” He looked into Serena’s eyes, willing her to understand. “I realized that with a little deception, I could give you the world—my world. The one I knew I could succeed at. The one I was ruler of. Serena, I did it for you and for our children.”
“No. For thyself, Drake.” Her words burst out, suddenly fierce. “I was happy a farmer’s wife.”
>
Drake moved to squat in front of her. Taking her limp hands into his, he looked deep into her eyes. “Were you? Why then did you not marry Christopher?”
SERENA INHALED AS his meaning drove into her.
Why hadn’t she married Christopher? Her words claimed one thing, but all of her actions proved another. Thinking back, she was suddenly heartsick. Once the shock of discovering her husband’s true position had worn off, she had secretly delighted to learn she was a duchess. She had been living in an excited hum ever since meeting Drake—it was like being intoxicated all of the time, only reliant on excitement instead of a bottle of spirits. Drake made her feel alive and somehow free. Being a plain Quaker woman was never what she really wanted. Drake had awakened her, awakened all her dreams beyond that simple life. She’d hungered after the forbidden fruit, she’d eaten it, and now she knew . . . she knew the good and evil that was within her.
The shock of those thoughts had her head spinning and her mouth tightly closed. One question, though, screamed in her mind: Had Drake consulted her before leaving for England, would she have agreed to his plan? She hadn’t wasted any time helping him escape when she thought he would be tried for a murderer.
Richard rose and handed Serena a glass of water. “Drake, I believe she has had enough shock for now. It’s not good for her condition, you know.”
“Her . . . her condition?” Drake frowned, looking at her.
She met his startled gaze. “I had hoped to tell thee later. But thou wilt be happy to know that thy plan is nearly carried through.” She couldn’t help the bitterness that crept into her voice. “I am with child.” She didn’t know what response she had expected, but his whole face lighting with genuine joy had certainly not been one of them.
“Are you certain? When did you know? Do you feel faint? Women faint when they are pregnant, do they not?”
He was gushing. The bold, proud Duke of Northumberland . . . was gushing.
Serena stared at him, marveling at how he looked without the usual veneer of control that always stole the joy from his face. She smiled, unable to ruin the moment with all her misgivings. “I am sure and I am fine. I may not faint, but be careful treading near me in the mornings. I may retch upon thy shoes.”
He smiled, the usual steel of his eyes softened and bluer. “I will make it right. Somehow . . . I promise.”
“How can it be made right?”
“I will go to the king and tell the truth.”
“The truth?” Even that didn’t seem enough to untangle such a web of deception. “The world thinks me thy stepmother. Will think this babe thy brother or sister.”
“You will be risking your neck if you tell the king all you’ve done.” Richard’s tone sounded as anxious as Serena felt. “The king will not take this lightly.”
Drake nodded and then sat next to Serena and gripped her hands. “I won’t lie to you again, Serena. Telling the truth means changing our lives. At best, the scandal will be . . . monstrous. I . . . we . . . will assuredly be banished from polite society. I may lose everything—the title, all the estates, the wealth. I may lose my life and leave you to raise our child alone.” He gripped her hands. “We must risk everything to tell the truth.”
She stared at him, unable to answer or put to words the churning thoughts within her. All she knew was the full force of the price of loving him. “Thou hast decided, then.”
Drake nodded, solemn but firm. “It is the only way. I will throw myself on the mercy of the king—” his eyes looked up at the ceiling—“and the mercy of God. And we will hope, Serena. Hope that it will work toward our good. Can you stand with me in this?”
She felt his conviction down into the innermost parts of her, despite her anger, despite her hurt. Something had changed him, and as she looked into those blue eyes, everything in her urged her to say yes. To walk this path out with him.
Yet she was afraid. Her eyes, once opened, could not close again in blessed innocence. What had she done, trying to nail down to an ordinary life such a man as this?
“Yes. We will tell the truth.”
And, God help me, live with the consequences.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Serena stood in the hush of the anteroom to the council chamber of King George II, staring at a painting of a hunting scene without really seeing it. She and Drake had left immediately, traveling back to London and the justice of a volatile king. Drake spent several days getting his affairs in order and attempting to provide something for Serena should the worst happen.
Today, a bare week after returning to London, he had received his summons to attend the king. And he had gone eagerly, ready to make known to the world that he was little more than an illegitimate son of a third son of a duke. He went knowing he could be facing death, and yet, to Serena’s amazement, he seemed at peace.
It was a peace Serena credited to God. In the past weeks, Drake shared his heart and all that happened to him while hearing George Whitefield speak. They went everyday to hear the young preacher and Serena too had experienced a new birth. Had given herself up fully to God.
But still, she was afraid. Was this new Drake someone she could trust? His motives seemed so pure these days, and yet she felt she didn’t even know him. Tears started to well up, blurring the painting.
“Dash this pregnancy!”
She wiped her tears away. Now was not the time for weeping. She must be strong. This meeting was about to dictate the course of their lives. She took a shuddering breath, readying to stand beside her husband, no matter what he deserved. Later, if he escaped this horrid tangle with his life intact, then she would consider their future and how she must proceed. Staring at the painting, she muttered the prayer that had become a salve to her mind: “Please, God, have mercy on my husband.”
The minutes dragged by, her pulse racing and then slowing so that she thought she might need to sit down. The room was nearly empty, many of the members of court purportedly out on the green viewing a flock of swans recently brought in from Germany for the king’s pleasure. Serena was glad. What little she knew of court life was intimidating in the best of circumstances. The questions and looks and behind-the-hand whispers had the room been crowded would have been excruciating.
DRAKE WAITED IN the growing silence.
He had stated his case, told of Ivor’s will and his plan to prepare Drake for the dukedom and then destroy the man he had raised as son. He told the king that he believed himself to be the son of Lord Richard Weston and produced the letter as evidence. And then Drake told His Royal Highness of his own diabolical plot to take back that which he’d believed stolen from him.
Finally, he asked the king for mercy, explaining that his Quaker wife was with child and his only desire now was to be a good husband and father and somehow provide for them in his homeland of Northumberland.
The king sat thinking and staring at Drake with beady eyes. Drake felt the hardness of his chair, his body straining to stand and pace.
“Your father—Ivor, that is—was a rascal and a liar.” The king’s statement carried sudden heat. “He and Robert Walpole had more than one fierce battle. Ha! But you—you have tread on the sanctity of the law and acted with vile greed.”
Drake nodded, but kept his mouth safely closed. I will not defend my actions. I am in Your hands, God.
The king peered at him intently, and Drake felt a trickle of sweat run down his back.
“I shall have to consider what will be done with you. In the meantime, it would please us to see you consider your ways in the tower.”
Drake bowed low. “In the tower, my sovereign.” The words repeated themselves in his mind, numb but ringing. “Is there anything I can add to my defense?”
The king waved him away. “I have heard enough for today.” He turned to the guard at the door behind him. “Have this man escorted to the tower.” The bellowed order echoed about them.
Drake stood, shaking, and felt the guard grasp his upper arm and pull him toward the
door, felt the newfound, untried foundation of faith waver, felt the old self rear its protective head to be noticed.
Upon entering the anteroom, Serena’s terror-filled gaze slammed into him, and again he felt the blow of his betrayal and its consequences.
“A moment with my wife,” he begged the guard.
The man turned indifferent eyes upon him, then nodded, letting go of Drake and summoning additional guards to do the actual transport.
Drake hurried to her side, taking up her hands in a tight clasp. “It’s not the worst yet, my love. The king wants to consider the matter and is having me bide my time in the tower until a decision is made. You must pray . . . and wait. I will not see you again until the matter is settled.”
Serena looked up into his eyes, tears glittering. “I had not thought of this. I thought at the least we would know.”
Drake nodded. “Nor I.” Two guards were coming toward him. “I love you.”
The men grasped his arms, escorting him away.
“Yes,” she managed back, though the word was tight with sobs. “Yes!”
SERENA TOOK A deep, fortifying breath and opened the door, leaving the sanctuary of the quiet walls of the townhouse. She knew what awaited her in the society of London. She had endured their scorn, their accusing or pitying stares for the past twenty days and she would endure it again today.
Liddell, her driver, a burly man who looked and acted more a guard, helped her into the carriage. At least there had not been anyone waiting outside her door. Many days she’d had to fight through the press of the curious and scornful to traverse the path to her carriage. So many seemed glad to see one of Drake’s class receive their comeuppance. She hadn’t allowed it to stop her, though. Every day she went to the palace and requested audience with the king. And every day she was turned away.