The Duke’s Obsession Bundle

by Grace Burrowes

  “My housekeeper, you mean.” Westhaven arched an eyebrow at her. “Somehow, the old bastard got wind of Anna Seaton and set his dogs on her.”

  “Westhaven.” The duchess’s regard turned chilly. “You will not refer to your father in such terms.”

  “Right.” Westhaven shuttered his expression. “That would insult my half brother, who is an honorable man.”

  “Westhaven!” The duchess’s expression grew alarmed rather than insulted.

  “Forgive me, Mother.” He bowed. “My argument is with my father.”

  “Well,” the duke announced himself and paused for dramatic effect in the doorway of the private parlor. “No need to look further. You can have at me now.”

  “You are having Anna Seaton investigated,” the earl said, “and it could well cost her her safety.”

  “Then marry her,” the duke shot back. “A husband can protect a wife, particularly if he’s wealthy, titled, smart, and well connected. Your mother has assured me she does not object to the match.”

  “You don’t deny this? Do you have any idea the damage you do with your dirty tricks, sly maneuvers, and stupid manipulations? That woman is terrified, nigh paralyzed with fear for herself and her younger relation, and you go stomping about in her life as if you are God Almighty come to earth for the purpose of directing everybody else’s personal life.”

  The duke paced into the room, color rising in his face.

  “That is mighty brave talk for a man who can’t see fit to take a damned wife after almost ten years of looking. What in God’s name is wrong with you, Westhaven? I know you cater to women, and I know you are carrying on with this Seaton woman. She’s comely, convenient, and of child-bearing age. I should have thought to have her investigated, I tell you, so I might find some way to coerce her to the altar.”

  “You already tried coercion,” Westhaven shot back, “and it’s only because Gwen Allen is a decent human being her relations haven’t ruined us completely in retaliation for your failed schemes. I am ashamed to be your son and worse than ashamed to be your heir. You embarrass me, and I wish to hell I could disinherit you, because if I don’t find you a damned broodmare, I’ve every expectation you will disinherit me.”

  “Gayle!” His mother was on her feet, her expression horror-stricken. “Please, for the love of God, apologize. His Grace did not have Mrs. Seaton investigated.”

  “Esther…” His Grace tried to get words out, but his wife had eyes only for her enraged son.

  “He most certainly did,” Westhaven bit out. “Up to his old tricks, just as he was with Gwen and with Elise and with God knows how many hapless debutantes and scheming widows. I am sick to death of it, Mother, and this is the last straw.”

  “Esther,” His Grace tried again.

  “Hush, Percy,” the duchess said miserably, still staring at her son. “His Grace did not have your Mrs. Seaton investigated.” She paused and dropped Westhaven’s gaze. “I did.”

  “Esther,” the duke gasped as he dropped like a stone onto a sofa. “For the love of God, help me.”

  “He was working for some London toff,” Eustace Cheevers informed his employer. “His name was Benjamin Hazlit, and he does a lot of quiet work for the Quality down in Town. He never discloses his employers by name, but it’s somebody high up.”

  “Titled?” the Earl of Helmsley asked, mouth tight.

  “Most like.” Cheevers nodded. “Folk down south distinguish between themselves more. A fellow who works for the titles wouldn’t want work from the cits or the squires or the nabobs. Hazlit’s offices are top of the trees, his cattle prime, and his tailor only the best. I’d say a title, yes.”

  “That pretty much narrows it to Mayfair, doesn’t it?” The earl’s tone was condescending, as if any damned fool might reach such a conclusion.

  “Not necessarily,” Cheevers said. “There’s a regular infestation of money and titles in Mayfair itself, but the surrounds are not so shabby, and there are other decent neighborhoods with quieter money.”

  An earl worthy of the title would have spent some time in Town, Cheevers thought, keeping his expression completely deferential. But this young sprig—well, this not quite middle-aged sprig—had obviously never acquired his Town bronze. Pockets to let, Cheevers thought with an inward sigh. The word around York was to get paid in advance if Helmsley offered you his custom.

  It hadn’t been like that when the old earl was alive. The estate had been radiant with flowers, the women happy, and the bills always paid. Now, most of the gardeners had been let go, and the walls had bleached spots where valuable paintings had once hung. The drive was unkempt, the fences sagging, the fountains dry, and nobody had seen the dowager countess going about since she’d suffered an apoplexy more than two years ago. Where the granddaughters had got off to was anybody’s guess.

  “So that’s the extent of what you’ve learned?” Helmsley rose, his tone disdainful. “You can tell me the man’s name and that he’s a professional investigator with wealthy clients? Nothing more.”

  “It’s in the file.” Cheevers stood. “You will have his address, the names of those with whom he spoke, what they told him, and so forth. I don’t gather he learned much of significance, as people tend to be leery of Town fribbles up here.”

  “That they do.” Helmsley nodded, his expression turning crafty. Cheevers considered the earl and wondered what the man was plotting, as it boded ill for someone. Helmsley had the look of man who could have been handsome. He had height, patrician features, and thick dark hair showing only the barest hint of gray. Cheevers, expert at summing people up, put Helmsley in his early thirties. The man looked older, however, as the signs of excessive fondness for both the grape and rich foods were beginning to show.

  Helmsley’s nose was becoming bulbous and striated with spider veins. His middle was soft, his reactions slow. Most telling of all, Cheevers, thought, there was a mean, haunted look in the man’s gray eyes that labeled him as a cheat and a bully.

  Good riddance, Cheevers concluded as he showed himself out. There were some accounts that even the thriftiest Yorkshireman’s son was happy to close.

  Thirteen

  “Well?”

  Wilberforce Hammond James, ninth Earl of Helmsley, carefully composed his features before turning to face the man who’d thrust open the interior door to the study. He did not face a pretty sight. Hedley Arbuthnot, Baron Stull, was nearly as round as he was tall, and he wasn’t exactly short.

  Worse, he was untidy. His cravat showed evidence of the chicken he’d consumed at lunch, the wine with which he’d washed down the chicken, and the snuff with which he’d settled his understandably rebellious stomach. That stomach, Helmsley knew, was worked incessantly.

  But Stull, who was at least ten years Helmsley’s senior, had two qualities that appealed, despite his appearance, lack of couth, and tendency to flatulence. First, he was free with his coin when in pursuit of his own ends, and second, he was as determined as a bulldog.

  “Well, what?” Helmsley flicked an imaginary speck of lint from his sleeve.

  “Where are the girls?”

  “Mayfair,” Helmsley said, praying it was true.

  “Best get packing then,” Stull said, sniffing like a canine catching the scent of prey. “To Mayfair it is.”

  “He’s been gone for hours.”

  Anna stopped pacing and pinned her gaze on Dev, whom she’d accurately assessed as the more softhearted brother. Val was sensitive and perceptive but had learned as his sisters’ favored escort to keep some perspective around emotional women.

  “He said we weren’t to hold meals for him,” Dev reasoned. “Meals, Anna, plural. Not just luncheon. He might have gone to talk with His Grace’s investigator or taken Pericles for a romp.”

  “He romped Pericles this morning, when it was cooler,” Anna pointed out. “I liked you better when you weren’t trying to turn me up sweet.”

  “I’ll go to the mansion and find out what’s what,�
� Val said. “When His Grace and Westhaven go at it, they are usually loud, ugly, and to the point. Anna’s right—it shouldn’t be taking this long.”

  He shot Dev a sympathetic glance but knew his brother would not have offered to investigate. Dev did not show up at the ducal mansion uninvited or unexpected, and Val wasn’t about to ask him to break that tradition now.

  The library door opened, and Westhaven strode in, surprising all three occupants.

  “What’s wrong?” Dev asked. “Don’t tell me His Grace got the better of you.”

  “Well, he did,” Westhaven said, going straight for the whiskey decanter, pouring one drink, knocking it back, and pouring another.

  “Westhaven?” Val asked cautiously. But it was to Anna the earl spoke.

  “For once,” he said, “His Grace was blameless. You were investigated by a man named Benjamin Hazlit, who is legendarily thorough and legendarily discreet. He was on the Moreland payroll, but at my mother’s request, not the duke’s. I did not become aware of this until I had shouted dear Papa down with every obscene expression of my petty, selfish frustrations with him. I ranted, I raved, I shouted, and I told him…”

  A pin could have dropped while Westhaven stared at his drink.

  “I told him I was ashamed to be his son and heir.”

  “Ye gods.” Val went to the brandy decanter. “About time somebody set him straight.” He handed drinks all around but saw Dev was staring at Westhaven with a frown.

  “The old windbag got the last word somehow, though, didn’t he?” Dev guessed while Anna waited in silent dread.

  “I sincerely hope,” Westhaven said, pinning Anna with a troubled look, “it isn’t quite his last word. Just as Her Grace was explaining that Hazlit was her agent, the duke suffered a heart seizure.” The silence became thoughtful as all three brothers considered their father’s mortality, and thus their own, while Anna considered the earl.

  “He’s still alive?” she said, drawing three pairs of eyes.

  “He was demanding his personal physicians at full bellow when I left,” Westhaven said. “I’ve sent Pugh and Hamilton to him and left very strict orders he is not to be bled, no matter how he rants and blusters.”

  “Are you sure it was real?” Dev asked. “I would not put chicanery past him.”

  “Neither would I,” Val said, eyes on Westhaven’s face.

  “I am sure it was real though I am not sure how serious it was. I am sure he thought he was dying, and of course, he still might die.”

  “He will die,” Val corrected. “We all will. What makes you think he wasn’t faking?”

  “I’ve seen him morose, playful, raging, and—with Her Grace—even tender,” Westhaven said, “but in thirty years of memory, I cannot recall our father ever looking afraid before today. It was unnerving, I can tell you.

  “I recall his rows with Bart,” the earl went on, shoving back to sit on his desk. “I used to think Bart was half-mad to let the old man get to him so. Why didn’t he just let it roll off him, I’d wonder. I’ve realized though, that there is a kind of assurance to be had when you take on His Grace, and he doesn’t back down, doesn’t give quarter, doesn’t flinch or admit he’s wrong, no matter what.”

  “He’s consistent,” Dev admitted. “Consistently exasperating.”

  “But he’s always the duke,” Westhaven said. “You never catch him breaking role, or doubting himself or his God-given right to be as he is.”

  Val took a thoughtful swallow of his whiskey. “If the duke falls, then what?”

  “Long live the duke,” Anna said, holding Westhaven’s eyes for a moment. “I am going to have dinner brought in here on trays. I am sure you will all be going to check on your father afterward. You might want to take Nanny Fran with you, as she’s a skilled nurse and would be a comfort to Her Grace.”

  Westhaven just nodded, seeming relieved she’d deal with the practicalities.

  The evening unfolded as Anna predicted, with all three brothers off to the ducal mansion to see His Grace—to watch Westhaven argue with the duke over the choice of physicians—and to offer the duchess their support.

  Val elected to stay at the mansion, agreeing to send word if there was any change in the duke’s condition, while Dev went off to inform their half-sister, Maggie, of the duke’s heart seizure. When Westhaven returned to his townhouse, it was late enough that Anna had dismissed the footman at the front door and waited there herself for Westhaven to return.

  She was dressed in only her night rail, wrapper, and slippers when she met him, and heedless of any prying eyes or listening ears she wrapped her arms around him as soon as he was near enough to grab.

  “He looks like hell, Anna,” Westhaven said, burying his face against her neck. “He finally looks old, and worse, Mother looks old, too. The girls are terrified.”

  “And you are a little scared, too,” Anna guessed, drawing back. “Give me your hat and gloves, Westhaven, and I will fix you a tray. You did not eat worth mentioning at dinner, and Her Grace warned me you go off your feed when you have concerns.”

  “What else did Her Grace warn you about?” the earl asked, letting Anna divest him of hat and gloves. She didn’t stop there but went on to remove his jacket and his cravat, and then undo his cuff links and roll back his shirtsleeves.

  “It is too hot to go about in your finery,” Anna said, “and too late.”

  He’d stood there in the foyer like a tired little boy, and let her fuss with his clothing. She piled his clothing over one arm, laced her fingers through his, and towed him unresisting into the peaceful confines of his home.

  The warmth of Anna’s hand in his felt like the first good news Westhaven had heard all day.

  “My grandfather died just a couple of years ago,” Anna said as she led him through the darkened house. “I was so lucky to have him that long, and he was the dearest man. But he suffered some wasting disease, and in the end, it was a relief to see him go, but he held on and held on for my grandmother.”

  “I can see His Grace doing the same thing,” the earl said, squeezing Anna’s fingers slightly.

  “I recall that sense of dread,” Anna continued, “dread that every time Grandpapa dozed off, he was actually dead. He looked dead, sometimes, or I thought he did until I actually saw him pass. Three weeks after he left us, my grandmother had an apoplexy and became quite invalided herself.”

  “She suffered a serious blow,” the earl said as they gained the kitchen.

  “We all had,” Anna said, sitting him down at the work table. “I recall the way the whole household seemed strained, waiting but still hoping. We were… lost.”

  He watched her moving around the kitchen to fetch his lemonade, watched her pour a scandalous amount of sugar into it then assemble him a tray. Something in the practical competence of her movements reassured him, made him feel less lost. In the ducal household, his mother and sisters, the servants, the physicians, everybody, looked to him for guidance.

  And he’d provided it, ordering the straw spread on the street, even though the mansion sat so far back from the square the noise was unlikely to disturb his father. The need was for the staff to do something—anything—to feel like they were contributing to the duke’s welfare and comfort.

  So Westhaven had issued orders, commandeering a sick room in the ducal chambers, sending word down to Morelands, setting Nanny Fran to inventorying the medical supplies, directing his sisters to pen notes to the family’s closest acquaintances and extended family, and putting Her Grace to extracting a list from the duke of the cronies he wanted notified and the terms of the notice. He’d conferred with the doctors, asked them to correspond with Fairly on the case, made sure Dev was off to inform Maggie, and finally, when there were no more anxious faces looking to him for direction, let himself come home.

  And it was home, he thought, not because he owned the building or paid the people who worked there, nor even because he dwelled here with his brothers.

  It was home be
cause Anna was here, waiting for him. Waiting to care for him, not expecting him—hell, not really even allowing him—to care for her, solve her problems, and tell her how to go on.

  I love you, he thought, watching her pull a daisy from the bouquet in the middle of the table and put it in a bud vase on his tray. When she brought the tray to the table and set it down, he put his arms around her waist and pressed his face to her abdomen.

  “I used to look at your scalp wound this way,” Anna mused, trailing her finger through his hair to look for a scar. “I am lucky I did not kill you.”

  “My head is too hard,” he said, sitting back. “I am supposed to eat this?”

  “I will wallop you again if you don’t,” Anna said firmly, folding her arms. “And I’ll tattle to Pericles, who seems to have some sort of moral authority over you.”

  “Sit with me,” he said, trying to muster a smile at her words.

  She settled in beside him, and he felt more at peace.

  “What do the physicians say?” Anna asked, laying her head on his shoulder.

  “Odd,” the earl said, picking up a sandwich. “Nobody has asked me that, not even Her Grace.”

  “She probably knows, even if she doesn’t admit it to herself, just how serious this is. My grandparents were like that, joined somehow at the level of instinct.”

  “They loved each other,” the earl said, munching thoughtfully. Were he and Anna joined at the level of instinct? He thought so, or she wouldn’t be sitting here with him, feeding him, and offering him company when his own family did not.

  “They surely did,” Anna said. “My grandfather grew his flowers for her. For me and Morgan, too, but mostly for his bride.”

  “Morgan is your sister,” the earl concluded as his sandwich disappeared. Beside him, Anna went still.

  “I know you are related,” he said, sipping his lemonade then offering it to Anna. “You care for her, and she is much more than a cousin to you.”