Duke of Disgrace (Dukes of Destiny Book 3)

by Whitney Blake

That was the only urgent part. The rest was just causing a small but inconvenient ruckus. People were beginning to complain to Lord Hareden, the most local and powerful member of the nobility. Even though he was not technically obligated to look after their affairs because Aldbury was not part of his estate, he’d established the precedent that he would do so anyway.

  He deliberated for a moment, then nodded. “Try to schedule a meeting between myself, Mr. Corbett and Mr. Smith early next week. I shall attempt to arbitrate. It may do nothing as they seem inordinately stubborn, but I can try.”

  “You’re very good at that,” said Paul.

  Lord Hareden snorted. “Thank you for your endorsement. I don’t think I’d back myself against these staunch farmers.”

  Charlotte swallowed her coffee, dimpling a little at Paul’s fond interjection. She did not think it was off the mark. “Very well.”

  The duke said, with a glimmer of good humor, “You’ve filed away some of my older correspondence. You must have skimmed enough letters to know vaguely what I should sound like?”

  Charlotte licked her lower lip just slightly and nodded. “I skimmed nothing personal, of course.” She hadn’t read anything too personal of his. That, at least, was not a lie.

  “Naturally not.” He said it as though he couldn’t care less if she had. “Well, go ahead and mimic away. That’s not really out of the ordinary for a secretary. Snow or Higgins can provide you with a key to the bigger bureau in the corner. It has my seal in it. Just don’t forge anything that might grant you enormous wealth or any of the estates. There would be trouble, then.”

  “I would never dream of it,” she said, matching his tone after she knew he was jesting.

  He gave her a close-lipped, but true, smile in reply. They looked at each other as though Paul were not there. As though, thought Charlotte, they were entirely different people who were free to do whatever they wanted.

  “Yes, don’t make me worry over the state of my finances by emptying all his coffers, Miss Masbeck,” said Paul. It broke the stillness between Charlotte and Lord Hareden.

  She sighed. The duke sighed.

  Paul had probably done it on purpose. Knowing what he did after last night, even if she did not give her realizations so many words, he might have wanted to spare her the agony.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” said Lord Hareden. “I am sure she would be quite generous.”

  Then he gave Charlotte the smallest of winks like his brother had.

  She just about expired on the spot.

  *

  The rain was pouring down in sheets by the time Jeremy was ready to leave for London. It was of little consequence because he was traveling via carriage, but it would make the journey slower. If this wasn’t a matter affecting old Lord Brookbridge, an elderly friend of his mother’s who needed help arranging the sale of some of his property, he’d make his excuses and stay home.

  Rain made the stump of his hand ache, and just within this last year, it had started making his joints ache, too. He did not notice an ache much today, seeing as he’d dipped back into his supply of laudanum that morning. He was careful not to take as much.

  He took only enough to settle his mind, to wrap his perception in a hazy filter of slight disconnectedness. The effect was a blessing. He was playing with fire. He knew there was only a small gulf that separated his casual use from needing the stuff. At the moment, he did not care. He was thinking things he could not control. True, they were not the old nightmares of shouts and blood and torn flesh, but they were blasted inconvenient.

  Until Miss Masbeck arrived, he could muddle along and be content with what he had. He thought he’d given up the idea of romance months, even years ago, and thought he’d made his peace with a wife like his.

  As he’d told Mother, he had his son, he had Paul, and he had her. He did not need Isabel. That part, not needing Isabel, was true. What he insinuated—that he needed nothing else, was not. It was nothing Miss Masbeck had planted within him. He suspected he’d always wanted warmth and connection rather than to make do and pretend he could do without. It was what men did, though. Well, what the majority of men that he knew did. Perhaps not every man.

  He donned his hat, glancing out of the window at the sour weather. He much preferred rain in the winter. Summer rains made everything warm and sticky. Unbearable, he thought. He patted his coat pocket, which held the clandestine bottle of laudanum. London was full of the stuff, but he didn’t want anyone coming across this bottle and realizing he had resumed taking his favorite poison. He couldn’t fault Miss Masbeck for confiding in Paul that she’d discovered him very under the influence, but that was sloppy on his part.

  She’d not been terribly off the mark when she jumped to Isabel being away as the cause for his intoxication. He did not miss his wife, but he liked unwinding while she was away. Whether that meant taking more time for himself in the library or indulging in a morning dose of laudanum that unclenched his shoulders, he could only truly relax when she was not in the house.

  That had started early on in their marriage and he probably should have heeded it as a clue. His mother’s words came back to him. Send her away.

  The more he listened to their echo, the more and more he wondered if she was in the right. She spoke from experience. He hadn’t understood while he was a child that his father was only a cool and restrained person at home. He spared little affection for either of his boys and none that Jeremy had seen for their mother, his wife.

  It had been logical to Jeremy in his younger days to conclude that that was just how his father was—seemingly unreachable, unmovable and almost ascetically self-disciplined. In actuality, he kept two primary mistresses—one until her death and the other until his—and spent the majority of his leisure time in gambling dens, not to gamble, but largely to cavort. Jeremy only found out about it later, when at the age of nineteen, his father had summoned him for a talk and asked if he wanted to accompany him that evening.

  The madame at his favorite establishment, he assured Jeremy, could find him any sort of woman he might desire. Flummoxed, Jeremy declined, mostly thinking it would be enormously awkward to hire a woman while his father did the same thing alongside him. He wasn’t a stranger to sex by then and was not hugely shocked by discussing it so openly. It was simply news to him that his father sought it away from his mother.

  Actually, it was news that the stoic Duke of Bowland sought recreational sex anywhere at all. But in retrospect, as Jeremy thought back along various points in his childhood, there were telltale signs that his father had, and did.

  He always did his duty as the duke. He never beat either Jeremy or Paul, or his wife. He was not, in that sense, neglectful or cruel.

  But Jeremy recalled being very disillusioned with the man who, despite rarely showing affection to his family, was both his sire and role model. He decided after that conversation with his father, he did not want to be like him. He did not stop going to taverns or dens of iniquity, but he did vow that he wouldn’t go to them or keep mistresses when he was married. And marriage came later to him than it did some of his peers, so he supposed he was lucky. Jeremy had never broken a promise, not even an unspoken one that had been made only to himself. It probably wouldn’t matter to most people.

  With a wince, he admitted that he was tempted to now. Was he that weak? That all it took was one woman crossing his path?

  That’s nonsense, he thought, chuckling as Higgins dashed through the rain across the drive. He must have forgotten something in the stables. You have been around plenty of women since you married and you’ve never really felt like this until now. He had, too. Not including working women who wanted his custom. There were a few he was on amicable terms with who’d taken his retirement from their establishments rather hard.

  More recently than the women of the night, Jeremy had been around society women who were married, too, or not the sort of women to fling themselves in his path. He suspected that they were more wary of Isabel’s ch
agrin than they were wary of him, though, because as a younger man he could have had his pick of anybody. Did. Often.

  He and Paul shared that similarity, he noted ruefully.

  Fat load of good it did me in the end.

  Besides, he couldn’t be entirely certain that Miss Masbeck desired him unless he made advances. If he felt morally wrong making those advances, he’d never really know. It was quite a vexing conundrum, because what he really wanted—no, not wanted, but what would end his fantasies—was for her to rebuff him. He knew she wouldn’t without any provocation.

  She might not even if he did provoke her. He chewed at his lip.

  His carriage, marked with the Bowland crest, came to a lurching, muddy stop before the main doors.

  He would endeavor to put all thoughts of Miss Masbeck from his mind for at least the time being, and just get on with his work as he had always done. It was the only permissible way forward, and the only one which he could see leaving his conscience clear.

  Chapter Ten

  Charlotte concluded within the first moment of reading the letter that Walter had probably written it, not Lady Hareden. At least, she thought so. The handwriting looked masculine, relatively hurried and not especially careful. The words themselves, which were rather mocking and nonsensical, didn’t surprise her at all. As Charlotte read through the words one more time, she could imagine Lady Hareden dictating them. It was, though, somewhat akin to what she imagined talking with a mad person would be like.

  She hoped, anyway, that the duke’s wife had not thought to write this on her own without her lover’s input and instigation. If Lady Hareden had, she was far more disconcerting than Charlotte had given her credit for.

  My dearest Miss Harrison, it began.

  I trust that you are enjoying yourself in the manor and our conversation was not too jarring. It is the modern age, though, and ladies have started to break old taboos, haven’t we?

  Well, perhaps some ladies.

  If you are to pursue the Duke of Bowland, I would suggest doing so without delay. I have heard he wishes to cultivate a career—“career” was underlined—in the public eye and once his foothold is established, I doubt he will make time for even a sprightly secretary. His wife will most likely find she has more time to herself, too, but at least she will be within London with all of its diversions and distractions.

  I regret to say that you will matter very little to him in the end. But because you seem to be a sensible girl, I expect you would not anticipate anything more than a pleasant dalliance from such a man.

  —E.R.

  But more than physically writing the letter, she also suspected that he’d instigated the brunt of it. Probably just to tease. Probably just for fun.

  Otherwise, Lady Hareden was far, far too daring. Daring to the point of being careless about it, she thought. There could be no sensible end to sending anything like this at all. She tossed it down on the bureau in the red bedroom, looking at it mistrustfully. They’re just needling you, Lottie. That is all. She thought with misgivings about Walter’s face and her first impressions of him—he was handsome, she supposed, but there was something about him she’d found repugnant.

  Or maybe she was being silly. And too bad they knew exactly where to needle, which was unfortunate. She wondered if God had saved her a portion of all the times she’d sailed past difficulties and redoubled His efforts to cause her discomfort now.

  Rowling had been the most difficult thing she’d endured in her relatively young life.

  But this was a different variety of difficult. One in which she could see no happy solution, only moving forward without causing any trouble until Lord Hareden tired of her services. Ordinarily, secretaries could stay with a person or a family for years but, somehow, she suspected that it would not be the case for her.

  She crumpled the letter, tore it up, and put it in the hearth to use for kindling. Summer didn’t call for many fires, but she would swelter and sweat later to burn the thing. Perhaps the weather would turn unseasonably cold as it sometimes did. She might get lucky.

  The duke should have been well on his way to London by now. She was counting on the fact that she could get on today without him. Today, and tonight. He never made her nervous by his own actions, but just the way he occupied space rendered her tingly and a little empty-headed. It was good he was scheduled to be away.

  She could ruminate on that odious letter in peace, start to settle the issue with Mr. Smith and Mr. Corbett, and get on with her life. She went downstairs without a spring in her step, but with the conviction that she could get through all of this. She just didn’t quite understand how.

  Paul appeared as though he materialized out of thin air, striding toward her from one of the alcoves in the foyer. “Good letter?”

  “No,” she said, feeling that she could at least be forthright with this Hareden.

  Paul blinked. All right, maybe she had miscalculated.

  “Pardon me,” she said. “I mean only that… oh, there was no bad news, no—”

  She noticed that his expression was one of resignation. Not grim, strictly speaking, but equal measures of sad and wan. “It’s all right. I know who Mrs. Emily Rattray is.”

  *

  White’s was decidedly quiet that evening and Jeremy liked it. It was always, on the whole, a genteel place, but whether or not it was quiet depended greatly on a number of factors. Like who’d fallen out with whom and what spirits were being served. Really, conventional wisdom said that men were not as dramatic as women. But in Jeremy’s experience in the military and even as a citizen of the Crown, men could be just as capricious when it came to their social circles. He once had seen a row erupt in White’s over someone sitting in the wrong corner, thereby taking another man’s customary seat.

  He yawned, wondering if eight of the clock was too early to retire to one’s bed. He’d thought he would return to the manor, but everything had taken at least three times as long as he’d anticipated. Instead, he’d go to the townhouse and depart early tomorrow morning. If he remained on schedule, he could make breakfast at the manor.

  Brookbridge had been most grateful for his help, but the man could talk and talk like no other man Jeremy knew. Indeed, no other woman or other human being he knew.

  No one else talked as much as Brookbridge. He should have brought along his mother, who at least would have known what to say at the proper intervals. Jeremy had just managed to muddle along when the topics of conversation turned to anything but the legal document on the table between them.

  The poor man’s mind was starting to wither. Luckily, his sons were very upstanding and decent. They’d both been there when Jeremy walked their father through the various stipulations of the deed of sale. Satisfied that there was no desire on their parts for foul play or an underhanded barrister, which could sometimes come about when an older relation started to go a bit funny, Jeremy left the three men with the signed deed of sale. Hopefully, he’d also helped them reach a better understanding of the laws that pertained to it.

  He probably wouldn’t see Brookbridge again unless he sought him out. Brookbridge was too getting too ill and dotty. It made him feel old, himself. They were not close, but his father had known the man for years and Brookbridge had been to the manor a handful of times for both business and leisure.

  Jeremy supposed he and peers of his age were coming to that time of life, though—things were changing rapidly, titles and positions shifting, people dying and ceding property to heirs or the state—

  “Hareden!”

  Pushed out of his musings, Jeremy looked for the body attached to the familiar voice and saw Wenwood striding into his view. He wasn’t displeased to see him.

  “Evening, Wenwood.”

  “I wondered if you were the man Brookbridge had borrowed.” Wenwood was all smiles, as ever, and Jeremy could not help but smile back at him. “It’s good to see you. You’re turning into a recluse. May I?”

  Jeremy nodded and gestured t
o the comfortable leather chair opposite him. “By all means. I’m not as bad as some others, you know. Do not be dramatic.” He smiled. “Have the boys had their first ride, yet?”

  “Oh, days ago. Once the horses arrived, it was all I could do to keep both of them from clambering immediately up.”

  Perhaps he should have delivered the horses in person, but Jeremy had sent instead his best groomsman and Higgins to London. They’d settled the birthday presents in the Wenwoods’ mews.

  “Wonderful. Are they taking to it?”

  Wenwood considered the question, a range of amused expressions playing on his face. “For the most part. Drew seems to be a natural rider. Daniel… not as much. His horse is still leery of him, or he is still leery of the horse. I’m not certain which is more the problem. Fittingly, he has called the horse Terror, which is apt.”

  “Honestly, I’d have thought he might find it more difficult than Drew,” said Jeremy. “Horses don’t often do well with boisterous, and Daniel is, well, beyond boisterous. He can learn, though. Paul did, and Paul was fully terrified of horses at that age. Kept saying they were too big and had too many teeth.”

  It was very easy to imagine Drew succeeding with an animal because he was quiet and calm, whereas his twin was the direct opposite. Daniel never meant ill, but he often caused chaos.

  “So, you’re saying he can learn to be less of a maelstrom wherever he goes?” Wenwood grinned. “He doesn’t have a phobia of horses—he’s just too agitating to them, I think.”

  “Well, I meant just to ride without frightening the horses. I don’t think I want him to change too much.”

  “Ah, he’s a good lad. Just a bit overenthusiastic. And Luke? How is he?”

  Wenwood was the only person Jeremy trusted outside of his family, and maybe Miss Masbeck, to ask that question without there being some insinuation of a crass double-meaning. He recognized that he was fortunate right now, because Luke was young enough never to have been brought to social events, much less to be out in society. Soon, more people will meet him and wonder if his looks harken back to some long-dead relative. Then they’ll recall his mother isn’t terribly loyal to his father. Even despite the pending difficulties that Jeremy could predict, Luke was still worth everything.