Duke of Disgrace (Dukes of Destiny Book 3)

by Whitney Blake

  Not all of it had been as good. She sighed, pausing over the childish scrawl and looking out the window into the mews beyond the house, eyes finally ranging beyond them and into the hazy skyline of brick walls and high roofs.

  She wanted out. It wasn’t because of the boys, who were admittedly boisterous but charming, or her impromptu benefactors—the duke and duchess didn’t have to help her, but they were helping, for which she was grateful—or even a dislike of the city. It was the only home she’d ever known.

  The reason was simple. It was a man. She’d met him after Lent of last year as “Tom—Mr. Tom Rankin,” or he’d introduced himself that way, and she was immediately smitten with his blond hair and strong jaw. He dressed well but not ostentatiously. He said he was a clerk.

  She told him the truth, that her father was the steward of Lord Robert Wenwood and she assisted him in his clerical work. It was her test for whether or not a new acquaintance was tolerable. Tom passed it by appearing interested, not put off. Men and women alike often reacted with surprise, and she knew that if she had been born a boy there would be no expressions of surprise.

  But she was good at what she did and once she reached a certain age, specifically her twenty-fifth year, which really rendered her something of a spinster even if her parents did not complain that she had not yet married, she refused to prevaricate about it.

  By the end of summer, she and Tom were quietly engaged. It seemed natural after months of jovial and affectionate acquaintanceship.

  Then came one mild night in her garden at home. Her parents were away to visit Aunt Edith and she knew in the back of her mind that she should not have received Tom alone, even if they were planning on marriage. Nothing was official or public yet, but she’d been carried away by the novel idea that she was not going to be on the shelf forever.

  Stupid, she thought.

  “I love you,” he’d said, slipping a hand under her dress and up her leg, “and you love me. That should be enough.” Before that moment, he had never mentioned “love”. She should have kept her wits about her and remembered that. Then he was crowding her against the wall.

  By the time she’d regained some amount of her common sense, she was sure she’d already asked him to stop. But it seemed like she blinked and in the space of mere blinking, he had gotten what he wanted and was doing up the fall of his pants.

  How much his mannerisms had changed when he eyed her so coolly under the weak moonlight. Gone was the dashing, genteel Tom.

  She didn’t know this haughty man who left her bewildered in the familiar space, sat on a bench with her muscles aching from the force, her shock, or both. She was lucky, in the end. Her courses still came that month, and the month after, and the month after that. It was, she knew, probably a narrow escape.

  She told no one, not even her parents, who bade her good night when they returned home an hour later and she was still sitting in the parlor with a vacant expression and a candle half-burned down.

  It took several minutes before she realized she was dripping ink onto Daniel’s work, and she hastily replaced her pen before the boy’s efforts were wholly ruined.

  No one knew of her shame until just three weeks ago. She had remained here in Lord Wenwood’s house working with her father and they had walked past a small group of men entering the premises for an appointment with the duke. Of the assembled voices, she knew one and it was enough to cause her to whip her head around to stare at the source.

  It was Tom, who was clearly not a clerk as he’d said, but rather was some kind of lord or member of the ton. At the time, Charlotte remembered thinking in a dark, internal voice, Of course, because he had simply disappeared after that night in the garden, never replying to her letters. Weeks prior, she had thought to ask where he might be employed, but when she visited the premises sometime after that horrible night, it turned out to be a haberdashery. There were no offices or any other premises where a clerk would work.

  She had not actually visited the address he said was his residence. It was probably a dairy farm.

  In retrospect, you were a naive fool, thought Charlotte, shaking her head and moving on to Drew’s composition.

  Standing amongst his peers, Rowling looked at her with a lazy smirk and a sly wink that set her stomach churning. There was no tenderness, no warm regard. She might have fainted then and there had it not been for her father’s quick reflexes, and the whole truth came burbling out of her as soon as they reached a hired hack. Until then, her mother and father both assumed the engagement had simply been broken off mutually before anything became formalized.

  These things happened, her mother had said. There would be another opportunity for Lottie if God saw fit, but there was no sense in rushing things before their time.

  She didn’t want to tell Papa what really happened. Even though they were very close, even though he obviously respected her, it all seemed so vulgar and dangerous when spoken aloud in a hack that was rattling along the London streets. He stared at her solemnly throughout the whole tale and his face was admirably composed.

  She fully took after him, and he was still a handsome man with ash blond hair and glittering gray eyes. But as she spoke, they seemed to darken, turning opaque like the sea did when storm clouds gathered overhead. Thankfully, he did not ask if Rowling had gotten her with child. The answer to that seemed obvious to him, and she was ineffably pleased that it was no more complicated a tale than she had not ever been.

  “Papa,” she’d said quietly, so quietly it almost didn’t carry over the hack’s rattling, “I didn’t want it to happen.” And to her immense relief, he believed her.

  “May I discuss this matter with Lord Wenwood?” he asked.

  Lord Wenwood was, as far as the aristocracy went, something of an oddity. Very open-minded. His own wife had not been of the ton. And once he discovered it, he accepted Charlotte’s rather unusual foray into having an occupation normally limited to men. Her father trusted him, and they had known each other for going on a decade.

  Charlotte knew all of this, yet she initially protested. “Why would he be at all interested in it?”

  Her father said calmly, “I doubt he would want to do business with a brute, and more than that, if you are to continue helping me and we have to see that bastard even in passing, I may be jailed for incredibly violent actions in the future, my dear.”

  That stunned Charlotte into giving her consent, and Lord Wenwood did not disappoint her father.

  “Tom” was none other than Lord Thomas Rowling, a baron and the heir apparent of Lord Nigel Rowling, an earl whose estate was in the middle of the country. According to Lord Wenwood, the younger Rowling felt London was his playground. Whatever his business had been with the duke, it was terminated because of what her father had confided.

  Lord Wenwood’s generosity, however, did not end there. Although Charlotte had never held him responsible for her first meeting of Rowling, he postulated that Lord Rowling must have spied Charlotte in the house.

  For her part, Charlotte could not recall seeing Lord Rowling anywhere before he rather brazenly introduced himself in an apothecary on High Street. Regardless, Lord Wenwood asked her if she would take on the position of the boys’ carer, partially a governess, partially a tutor, due to her intellectual abilities. She knew this was both a concession and a rare unspoken apology from an admittedly unconventional duke. But she accepted only with the caveat that she did not expect the post to last for long.

  It seemed understood that she did not want to stay in London after realizing the true identity of her seducer. Or, rather, that she might need to retreat elsewhere for a time. Rowling had taken his toll from her, and the pity was, he had no idea. Even if he’d had an idea, he would not have cared. She was more cautious and subdued, she had frequent nightmares, and she was very easy to startle.

  Drew caught on to that first. After his brother hid in a cupboard and sprang out at Miss Masbeck on the second day of their acquaintance, she brushed it off and
tried to carry on teaching the boys French. Until she burst into tears five minutes later. Though Daniel was cluelessly sympathetic, his brother was a little more astute.

  She heard Drew say as she excused herself for a moment, “I don’t think we should tease Miss Masbeck.”

  *

  The evening of the twins’ birthday was when the dowager duchess, seated with Lady Wenwood, explained more fully to Charlotte that Lady Wenwood had vouched for her secretarial abilities. Charlotte had only seen the dowager duchess in passing and knew that she was bosom friends with Lady Wenwood, whom she liked a great deal. But they had never been introduced until that very afternoon. There was no need for it, really.

  Charlotte was surprised that the subject had come up at all, especially that day when everything seemed so chaotic and full of life with Mary and the boys being released from their normal schedules.

  Despite her curiosity, she managed a modest, truthful, “Yes, your grace, my father has been coaching me these last several years. Well, until recently, when I was taken on by—”

  Lady Wenwood interrupted her kindly. “We’ve not explained the extent of your situation, but it is not necessary unless you yourself wish to do so.”

  Charlotte blushed. “I see.”

  “Please take a seat, Miss Masbeck,” said Lady Wenwood.

  She chose one of the plainer chairs near the unlit fireplace. Like most of the townhouse, this room was more understated than she knew the ton’s tastes could often dictate. That restraint was likely Lady Wenwood’s influence. She had not always been part of this world. But it was an impossibly dignified space, nonetheless.

  Unconcerned with any apparent awkwardness between parties, the dowager duchess said, “My son, the Duke of Bowland, is presently looking for a secretary.”

  That was the position?

  Looking to her for some clue as to how she might fit into this scenario, Charlotte said, nonplussed, “It can be a difficult search, or so my father says. I would also imagine that there are many people who claim abilities or qualifications that they do not have.”

  “Are you one of those people?”

  The question came from the dowager duchess, who was sitting up quite straight on the oldest settee in the house, which was upholstered with a yellow so vivid it reminded Charlotte of the center of a daisy. It had belonged to Lord Wenwood’s late mother, she believed.

  “No, I should think not,” Charlotte said mildly.

  “Then, Miss Masbeck, I would like to take the opportunity to offer you the position—pending the duke’s approval, of course—of secretary for the Duke of Bowland.”

  Perhaps needing to sit down as she digested the words, Charlotte was glad she’d been told to sit. And thank God she’d worn one of her best dresses today. She was rather proud of it, a pearly gray that lightened her eyes and always made her feel like she was at her best advantage.

  “You… why?” She completely forgot to whom she was speaking, and prepared to be soundly chastised.

  It was Lady Wenwood who elaborated and she did not sound at all offended. Perhaps she expected the question. “Lord Hareden needs someone who is discreet, methodical, and skilled.”

  She emphasized discreet with a lift of her perfectly arched, dark eyebrows.

  “His grace fought in Spain, Miss Masbeck, and although he is more fortunate than many men, he was injured. And while he may not ever admit this to anyone, including you—but I suspect you are a woman who understands that life is not always what it seems, so I shall tell you—his mind is not entirely the same.”

  Is the duke feeble in some way? Charlotte thought.

  Her confusion must have reflected in her face, for the dowager duchess continued, saying, “He is in possession of all his mental faculties. He trained in law, although my late husband did not understand why his heir was drawn to a profession and pushed him into military service by securing him a commission. At the moment, Lord Hareden is accruing new matters of business that leave him with the need for help.” Lady Hareden studied Charlotte closely. “He has just become rather scatterbrained and distracted when it comes to clerical things.”

  “I am a woman,” Charlotte said, rather at a loss. “An unmarried one, at that.”

  “The duke is married and I reside with him. If you are worried about your reputation, I don’t feel you should be,” came the simple, almost brusque reply.

  “Of course,” said Lady Wenwood affably, looking between them, “there are those who may natter about a woman being a secretary, but I do believe things are changing for us women, slowly but surely.”

  Taking a deep breath and considering her options, Charlotte found that, actually, the thought of gossip instigated by her simply undertaking work she had been trained to do was not very distressing.

  In truth, she’d been more worried about Rowling ruining her reputation somehow once she discovered he was of the nobility, but that worry had only lasted for about a week. She quickly assured herself that he would have no reason to discredit her. He probably had seduced a string of untitled ladies, she concluded, somewhat ruefully.

  “I never intended to remain long in the employ of Lord and Lady Wenwood,” she told the dowager duchess, now thinking of logistics. “Where is Lord Hareden’s office?”

  “He keeps two. One here in London and another in his manor, Rosethorpe, which is about an hour’s journey away.”

  Two?

  “Where would I be intended to work?”

  “For the moment, I think it would be best if you worked from the one in Rosethorpe, as it is the larger of the two and possibly the more important. At least, there is more to do there, I presume. But we shall see what he says.”

  “Won’t the duke be concerned about hiring a woman for this purpose?” pressed Charlotte. She was more curious than nervous. She did not know if the dowager duchess was having this conversation with her son’s knowledge. Or with his blessing.

  “To be frank, Miss Masbeck, he’s only just come around to the thought of taking a secretary for this venture. He employs a steward, naturally, but his steward should not be expected to work at two occupations, should he?”

  The question, Charlotte knew, was rhetorical. She parried it with a question of her own. “So my sex is to be a surprise to him until he interviews me as a candidate?” She could not imagine that going over well. If she was not mistaken, Lady Wenwood turned a chuckle into a cough. It only bolstered her courage. “I beg your pardon… I only… most men would not take well to such a surprise, your grace.”

  “Lord Hareden is levelheaded and just. If he was displeased with you on the basis of your sex, he would not turn it against you. Truthfully, he would most likely turn it upon me,” said the dowager duchess, her blue eyes mirthful, “and in any event, I shall warn him of your horrible defect before you meet.”

  Charlotte decided then that she liked Lady Hareden. She also sensed that she would not be turning down this meeting. “Might I have a day? I need to speak to my parents.”

  “Sensible. Would a meeting at the end of this week—on Friday, sometime during the morning—be amenable to you?”

  Rather blindsided by how quickly this was all going, Charlotte nodded.

  *

  After she had informed her mother and father of the situation, they agreed that there was no harm in at least meeting the duke and discussing the position with him. Mrs. Masbeck observed that the City had women who tended their own business affairs, so why shouldn’t Lottie be a secretary?

  Her father, on the other hand, seemed disquieted at the thought of her living away from home, but Charlotte assured him that she would not be lost to them forever. Besides, she’d added, there was no promise that the duke would accept what the dowager duchess had arranged.

  While the woman, who was clearly used to controlling the circumstances around her, offered to send a carriage for Charlotte, Charlotte politely declined. The dowager duchess then said that if she wished, she could still pay for the journey.

 
It didn’t sit well with Charlotte to ride in someone else’s marked carriage to a meeting that might not even end in mutual satisfaction for all parties.

  Lady Hareden had tilted her head in agreement, and with, it seemed to Charlotte, a measure of respect at the bartering. However, she added that a Bowland conveyance would be taking Miss Masbeck back to London if things did not go well with the duke.

  Now, gazing at Rosethorpe’s grounds, she began to understand why the duke’s late father had been flummoxed that his son was interested in working. Without a doubt, this was the home of an incredibly wealthy, powerful family. Beautiful trees punctuated the green, manicured landscape, while a small outbuilding placed a little distance away from the main house sat proudly near a pond that shimmered under the blue sky. It must have been artificial, for the shape was even and perfect.

  The driver was met by footmen in Bowland livery of blue and bronze. She waited until the carriage stopped and one of them offered her his help as she stepped out.

  Preoccupied, for she was thinking about how the duke would respond to everything, she tried to keep in mind everything she had heard or been told about him. The manor was lovely and, ordinarily, she might have been absorbed in gazing at its ornate brickwork or the colorful flowers that interspersed themselves amongst the greenery, but she was trying to predict what would happen. She had packed a trunk and carpetbag on the dowager duchess’ advice but prayed that wherever the duke was now, he could not see it being carried toward the manor.

  How presumptuous that would seem to him, she thought, taking careful steps on the gravel, walking toward the main doors. They were wood flanked by heavy iron, intimidating and solid. In all, the entire building actually looked somewhat like St. James’s Palace. She wondered if it had been built around the same time, or if it was a more modern structure designed to look like it was over two centuries old. The ton could indulge in those kinds of fancies, she supposed, and she recalled that her father had mentioned parts of St. James’s were remodeled somewhat recently due to a fire. Perhaps that had started a new trend.