The Most Dangerous Duke in London

by Madeline Hunter

  He pulled harder, his whole body stretching, his shoulders knotting from the effort. Wednesday, Clara had said. Tomorrow. Are you now finished with this? Perhaps he could be. If she did not forsake him entirely, he might be.

  Shouts came to his attention. He looked around. Behind him, arms hailed him.

  “You won, damn it,” Brentworth shouted. “Do you plan to row to Richmond?”

  He set up his oars while he judged the currents, then turned the boat and made his way to shore.

  Brentworth and Langford had already donned their coats. Servants who had followed along the shore began rowing the boats back to where they had all started the race. Others held the horses. Adam’s bow hit ground, and he jumped out.

  “Hell, you rowed as if your life depended on it,” Langford said. “We did not even have a wager.”

  “The exercise suited my mood and helped me think.”

  “You are doing too much of that these days.” Langford wiped his head with a towel. His curls emerged all the more reckless. “Let us partake of some ale so your brain might find some ease.”

  A tavern waited across the road. The three of them sat at a table and Langford went to bring back some pints.

  “He is right,” Brentworth said. “You are too much in your thoughts. You look angry. It makes men nervous. Last night at White’s the card room almost emptied when you arrived.”

  “I didn’t notice.”

  “Of course you didn’t.”

  Langford returned with the ale. “Are you telling Stratton that he is casting a pall on the entire Season with his infernal brooding?”

  Adam drank his ale, then set it aside. “I learned something. Several somethings. I now wish I had not.”

  Neither friend prodded him. They just waited.

  “I found a letter from your father to mine,” he said to Brentworth. He described what had been written.

  Langford whistled. “So the earl would not let it rest when others had chosen to. There is no way to seek satisfaction with him dead, not that any jury would accept this as just cause for a challenge anyway.”

  “That is not what haunts you, is it?” Brentworth asked.

  “No.”

  “Have you written to her and asked about it?”

  Langford grasped the direction the conversation had taken. “Oh, hell. Yes, of course.” His expression turned frankly sympathetic.

  “I have written the letter and had a copy made of a drawing of the jewelry in question to send along. I have not sealed and mailed it. In fact, I find myself avoiding the desk on which it lies.”

  “Hell of a thing,” Langford muttered. “Small wonder you have looked like a man eager to thrash someone the last few days. If you send that letter you ask her to admit that she—that his death—I don’t think I could do it.”

  “Can you live with not sending it?” Brentworth asked. “Live with not knowing, and allow it all to remain as it is?”

  “That is the question that absorbs me.” Adam gestured to the publican for more ale. “Let us talk of other things, so I do not look like a man hoping for a fight. Tell me how it goes with your ladies.”

  He had raised Langford’s favorite topic. His friend did not fail him.

  * * *

  At one o’clock, and still thinking about the conversation she would have with Stratton the next day, Clara called for her carriage and had Mr. Brady bring her to the City for an appointment with her solicitor.

  Mr. Smithers greeted her himself. A young man fairly new to the law, he had been delighted to obtain such a distinguished client. She had gone to a great deal of trouble to find a lawyer who both came highly recommended and whom she trusted to resist anyone’s attempts to learn her private business. When Theo learned she had moved her private affairs to someone other than the family solicitor—who had informed Theo about her troubling decisions, out of concern, of course—there had been quite a row.

  Now Mr. Smithers patted his blond hair, plucked his cravat into new creases, and smiled obligingly across the table in his chambers. He handed her the document he had prepared at her request that would give Althea half ownership in Parnassus.

  “You will see that she must pay you a shilling, so there is what we call consideration. However, as equal owners, you will share in any profit. I trust Mrs. Galbreath understands that she will also be equally responsible for any debts.”

  Clara read the contract. There would be no debts. Parnassus had a benefactor who paid any costs beyond those covered by the subscriptions and sales.

  “If you send me the copies, I will have them signed.”

  “Very good, Lady Clara.”

  On impulse, she raised another matter. “I am curious about something. If I marry, what that is mine remains mine?”

  She surprised him. “Are you thinking to marry?”

  “No. I am just curious.”

  “I ask because there is a simple answer that may satisfy you. However, should you plan to marry, rather longer explanations might be wise so you understand thoroughly your situation. The simple answer is that all that is yours remains yours. However, your real property would be your husband’s to use and profit from during his lifetime. He could replace the tenants, or build villas, for example. The income would be his.”

  “So I would lose control of the land. I thought as much but wanted to be certain.”

  “Yes, and also the house you recently purchased. Had you used your legacy to buy dresses instead, those would be personal property. The house, however, is real property.”

  “I knew about the land, but to also have some man given leave under the law to poach my house seems very unfair.”

  Mr. Smithers chuckled. “Poach is an amusing word to describe it. Be of good cheer, however. A husband could use it or let it. He could not, however, sell it without convincing a judge you freely agreed.”

  That pending meeting with Stratton kept looming large in her mind and heart. As long as she was here . . . “I have another question. Are you familiar with the property that was contested for years by my family and that of the Duke of Stratton?”

  “My goodness, yes. The case is somewhat infamous, even if it began well before my time. It is the sort of story older lawyers tell younger ones over port.”

  “Can you learn the details of how it was finally disposed? The when and how of it, I mean. I ask because I was told that my father may have taken advantage of the situation, and I would like to have proof that he did not.”

  “So you can present that proof to the person who disparaged him?”

  “Possibly.”

  He jotted on a paper. “There are records, of course. Nothing that happens legally in the courts is a secret. Finding such records can be difficult, but it is what lawyers do. I will look into this at once so you can put the gossip in her place. Although the most recent disposition is of course known to you.”

  “Are you saying it was sold?”

  Mr. Smithers looked over, confused. “Goodness no. Having gone to such lengths and waited so long to secure it, selling it would be most odd.”

  “Extremely odd. Then what did you mean by its recent disposition?”

  “I see you do not know. My apologies, but I thought you did.” He leaned toward her and offered a reassuring smile. “Not to worry. It remains securely in the family, Lady Clara. You own it now. It is the property left to you by your father.”

  * * *

  Exercise, fresh air, and friendship turned Adam’s mood around. He still faced a hard choice, but his head had cleared. He decided he would wait a few days, then make a decision about that letter ready to go to Paris.

  Later that afternoon, he set the letter and other documents related to it aside on the desk in his study and busied himself with estate affairs. In particular he continued an ongoing communication with the house steward at Drewsbarrow about reviving the house’s appearance. All those timbers and gold really had to go. The steward’s last letter had implied it might be money ill spent, since no on
e much used the house. Adam penned a letter making clear that was going to change.

  An hour of writing letters left him thinking that it might be past time to employ a secretary. He was debating how to proceed with that when a commotion began in the house and grew in intensity.

  Suddenly the door to his study crashed open. Clara stood there. Behind her shoulder the butler made expressions and gestures of apologies.

  A better day became a wonderful one when Adam saw her. She had indeed come to him, finally, a whole day before she had promised to.

  Unfortunately her expression indicated her unexpected arrival might not be good news. Her blue eyes glared like jewels that could cut iron. Her posture remained rod straight. Her black ensemble encouraged the impression of a force of destruction. She was about as angry as he had ever seen her.

  He thought she looked glorious.

  He got up and walked toward her, gesturing for the butler to go away. “What a wonderful surprise, Clara.” He reached toward her.

  She strode past him, into the study. “Do. Not. Touch. Me.” From her tone, she might as well have added You. Miserable. Scoundrel.

  “I see you are in a fine humor today.”

  “I was. Until an hour ago.” She turned on him. “You can wait until tomorrow to tell me the rest, but today I demand you tell me this. Did you know that I had inherited that contested land? You know which land I mean. The land that started the years of unpleasantness between our families.”

  Damnation. He had spent days marshaling explanations and promises about their fathers, their families, his duties, his love for her. He had not expected this to come up, least of all now.

  She peered at him. “Do not try to lie. I know you now very well. I will be able to tell if you dissemble in the least.”

  Hell. “Yes, I did become aware of that.”

  “When?”

  “I am not sure just when. Sometime—”

  “When?”

  Shit. “I realized it after we spoke that first day. I rode back to Drewsbarrow much the way you rode over during our time together there.” Our glorious, passionate, loving time together there. “I recognized a few landmarks, like the town and the mill. And I realized why your father and grandmother wanted me to marry Emilia, not you.”

  She strode back and forth, angry and, he knew, hurt. “So you decided you would show them, didn’t you? You would make sure that old argument ended in your family’s favor. Marry me and that land would become yours.”

  “No, it would become ours. It would be a fitting end to the whole matter, don’t you think? No family wins, and no family loses. Your grandmother claimed to want peace.”

  “I think you saw a way to turn the tables on her. On my father. I think you enjoyed the idea of besting them at their own game.”

  “Since it undermined his careful plan to ensure that land would forever remain out of my family’s hands, I definitely enjoyed knowing that.”

  “What do you mean, careful plans?”

  “Why in hell do you think he bequeathed you that property, Clara? There had to be other lands not entailed that would have suited you just as well. He believed you would never marry. He counted on it. Theo might sell it, maybe even to me, if he ever found himself caught in financial trouble. You never would because it would be your source of independence.”

  She wanted to disagree. He saw that in her scathing glare and tight posture. Adam counted on her being too smart to miss how very neat that plan had been.

  She looked down on the desk and its papers. “Were you in here making your own plans on how to ruin his good name the way he did your father’s?” She still sounded angry, but at least she no longer looked ready to shoot him.

  “My last letter discussed decorating at Drewsbarrow, if you want the honest answer.”

  The worst of her fury left her like a dark specter flying out of her body. “Tell the steward not to use blue too much. So many people use blue.” Looking weary now, she walked to the door. “I will go now. My carriage is waiting.”

  He strode over and pressed his hand against that door so she could not open it. “You are here now. I cannot let you go on the chance you will return tomorrow.”

  She stood there, her hand on the latch, her back a mere inch from his body. He drank in her scent and closeness like a man deprived for years.

  “I cannot let you go, Clara, because I fear if I do I will never see you alone again.”

  She turned. “You are braver than I am, if you force this conversation now.”

  “Not so brave.” Not brave at all. Desperate. “I will send your carriage away. Do not move. Do not leave.”

  He sent word to her coachman. When he stepped back in the study, she was sitting on a bench in front of the garden window. She had removed her black bonnet, and the afternoon sun found those subtle strands of copper in her dark hair. She did not appear eager to see him again.

  “Do you have any sherry here?”

  “I can send for some, or I have brandy on hand.”

  “I suppose brandy will do.”

  He opened the cupboard that housed it and poured two glasses. She tasted tentatively, thought about it, then shrugged. “It will do.”

  “You were making calls today,” he said.

  “What makes you think so?”

  “The black.”

  She looked down at her dress. “I visited my solicitor. That is how I learned about the land. As I think about what you said, about my father’s plan, I think you give him more credit for nefarious plotting than is fair. My grandmother changed her mind, you see. When she concluded you preferred me to Emilia, she decided that would do as well.”

  He set down his glass, and went over to her, and knelt on one knee in front of her. He wanted to say he was wrong and swear that he never thought about land or fathers or anything at all where she was concerned except heartfelt emotions. I saw you and decided to marry you. It was not the entire truth.

  “Your grandmother decided that because that old argument and that land was the least of it. She knew I had more recent causes to want an accounting with your family. More serious reasons. I will not lie and say my interest in you was always separate from that, Clara. I desired you from the start for the woman you are, but I also saw at once how knowing you might benefit me as I sought to learn the truth.”

  “And did it benefit you?”

  “In small ways at first. And then, soon, I no longer cared if it did.”

  She searched his face, his eyes, looking for the signs of lying, he assumed. He counted on her knowing him very well, as she claimed.

  He ventured a touch on her hand. When she did not resist, he took that hand in his. “At Drewsbarrow you asked if I could let it go. If I could ever be finished with it. For you I can, and I will.”

  Her hand turned palm up, so she held his. “I said you must tell me everything. I do not think you want to.”

  “If I will be finished with it, maybe you should be too. Do the details matter once we put it all behind us?”

  She smiled sadly and squeezed his hand. “What were you reading when I found you in that room that morning? What did you learn about my father and yours? I think we both need to learn what is between us if we are ever to truly be finished with it.”

  He hesitated. He considered arguing. Instead he rose and went to the desk, and came back to hand her a letter. “It was from the last Duke of Brentworth.”

  She read it. Her gaze returned to the top and she read it again, slowly. By the time she finished, tears brimmed in her eyes.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Oh, Papa. She could barely believe what Brentworth revealed. For her father to have gone to such lengths to ruin a man . . . He might have held that gun that took the last duke’s life.

  This was not the man she knew. Not the father who taught her to ride and spent hours with her after her mother died. Not the man who allowed her to become the woman she was meant to be. That man was generous and loving and good, not this ve
ngeful, cruel person who needed to win so completely it meant a man died.

  Grief swelled in her, as raw as it had been right after Papa died. It inundated her heart, only it was worse this time because she did not even have refuge in memories she could trust. She closed her eyes until that wave of emotion ebbed.

  She let the letter fall on her lap. It gleamed brightly against her black dress. “No wonder you looked so serious and lost that morning. I find myself thinking I should beg your forgiveness in his name.”

  “It had nothing to do with you, or with me. Nothing to do with us. Not directly, and not in the future.”

  He looked very sure of that. Determined. He gestured at a small stack of papers on the corner of the desk. “You said you want to know everything. You know what matters already, but if you need more, there is a letter there to my mother that explains it all, including what few questions remain. You can read it if you want, now or later.”

  “Perhaps I will. Later.” She reached out to him. He came over and she urged him to sit beside her. “Did you mean it when you wrote that you loved me, Adam?”

  “I am insanely in love with you. I even wrote a poem about you.”

  “Is it any good?”

  He laughed. “It is terrible.”

  “I still want to read it.”

  “It will make you laugh.”

  “More likely it will make me cry. No one has ever written a poem about me.”

  “I am sure there are dozens tucked away in drawers throughout London, unbeknownst to you.”

  She adored him for really believing that. She took his strong hand between hers and raised it to her lips. “Did you describe me kindly?”

  “I described you adoringly.”

  “Even my mouth?”

  “It includes a scandalous line about your mouth.”

  “Oh. It is that kind of poem.”

  “A very loving that kind of poem.”

  She moved closer yet, so their faces were an inch apart. “Aren’t you going to kiss me?”

  “You wrote there would be no kissing.”