Someday My Duke Will Come

by Christina Britton

  Again his friend stayed him with a hand. Quincy’s mouth closed with a snap of teeth, and he sat in misery.

  “Yes, you should have told me,” Peter finally said, his voice low. “But you are still the same man I’ve known this past decade and a half. I know who you are, Quincy. Or at least, I know everything that matters.”

  Quincy swallowed hard, his throat suddenly burning, his eyes hot. It took him a long moment to realize he was damn close to crying. It was the closest he had come since the day he’d left home. He looked down to the glass in his hands, at the remnants of whiskey within. “Thank you, Peter,” he managed thickly.

  Peter scoffed. “You’ve nothing to thank me for. And I know you did not keep the truth from me to spite me. I can well understand the need to distance yourself from the past, to forge a new life on your own terms.”

  Quincy shook his head, more in wonder that his friend could be so generous with him than anything else. “You make it out to be much more noble than it is. The only reason I kept it a secret was so you would not hate me.”

  “Hate you?”

  The disbelief in his friend’s voice brought Quincy’s gaze up. “You despised the nobility and all it stood for. I was fourteen, alone in the world for the first time, frightened. And you were my only friend.” He shrugged helplessly. “I could not chance losing you.”

  “You could never lose my friendship,” Peter said fiercely, before he flushed and cleared his throat. “Arse.”

  Quincy felt something deep in his chest lighten. Meaningless insults he could handle. They meant that things had not completely changed, that at least in this he was still the same person.

  With that Peter rose and fetched Quincy’s glass from him, striding to the sideboard. Once again came the sound of clinking glass and splashing liquid. A moment later he was pressing Quincy’s glass back into his hand, this time fuller than before. And this time there was a matching glass in Peter’s hand, a testament to just how much Quincy’s revelation affected him.

  “I expect the whole truth from you now that the proverbial cat is out of the bag, of course. But first,” he said, holding his own glass aloft. “To reluctant heirs.”

  Quincy stood, letting loose a relieved laugh. “To reluctant heirs,” he replied, clinking his own glass against Peter’s, his chilled heart warming with the knowledge that, in this, he was not alone.

  * * *

  Peter and Mr. Nesbitt—er, the duke—closeted themselves up for the remainder of the afternoon and into the early evening. In that time Clara learned one new thing about herself: her curiosity, while not as blatant as Aunt Olivia’s, was just as potent. Her mind swirled with questions, each one spinning round and round Mr. Nesbitt’s new dukedom like dancers around a maypole. The man had been pale as a sheet when he’d first arrived at Dane House, and in shock. That, combined with the strange questions he had put to her regarding the refusal of a title, made it plain as day the man had not expected or wanted his sudden dukedom.

  She would never forget the haunted look in his eyes when he had first told Peter. Her heart ached even now, just recalling it. She rubbed at her chest absentmindedly, as if to ease the small pain there. Beside her, Aunt Olivia tapped her gnarled fingers with impatience on the arm of her chair. The rest of the women were grouped tightly together, their seats facing the wide-open door of the smaller downstairs sitting room, the better to catch sight of Peter and Mr. Nesbitt—the duke! Goodness, this was going to be difficult—when they finally emerged from the study.

  “What is taking so blasted long?” Aunt Olivia muttered. She craned her neck, peering with a scowl to the hall beyond the door, as if she could magic the two men into being by sheer will.

  “I’m sure they have much to discuss,” Clara said in as cheerful a voice as she could manage. Which was not very cheerful at all, as the same phrase had been repeated in myriad ways over the past hours.

  “I just wish I could recall the particulars of the Duke of Reigate’s family,” the viscountess grumbled. “Truly, it is beyond ridiculous that no one in this house remembers.”

  As Dane House had kept a skeleton staff over the past several decades of sitting empty, and the rest of the staff had either come with them from the Isle or been hired on for the season, there was no one to glean information from—much to Aunt Olivia’s disgust. And she had tried to wheedle information from any staff she could. Which explained the obvious lack of footmen in the hall, seeing as they were now keeping as far from Aunt Olivia as was possible.

  “I’m certain Peter and Quincy shall be able to answer your questions in short order,” Lenora soothed.

  Her calming words were met with a glare by the older woman.

  Phoebe, who had been diligently sketching beside Lenora to the duchess’s quiet instruction, laid her pencil aside and stretched her arms over her head, sighing. “It is frustrating, I admit. Perhaps, Aunt Olivia, you might go over the details you do remember once more. Revisiting it might jar some forgotten memory.”

  Clara, Lenora, and Margery let loose low groans. There was little they wanted less than to be forced to listen to the dowager’s musings on the “Reigate Conundrum,” as she had begun to call it.

  Aunt Olivia, however, either did not hear their collective—albeit quiet—protests or chose not to heed them. Knowing her great-aunt, Clara rather thought it was the latter. “It is tragic, to be sure,” she said with a frown. “The elder duke passed away a decade and a half or so ago of apoplexy or ague or something similar.”

  The two diseases were not at all alike. But just as she had done when Aunt Olivia had last recited her limited knowledge of the Duke of Reigate’s tragic family history, Clara refrained from pointing that out.

  “He had four sons. The eldest inherited the dukedom, very quickly becoming the greatest wastrel the world has ever seen, and was dead within a few years at the hands of a jealous husband. Lord Kenneth took on the title and gambled away most of what was left of a once expansive fortune before he, too, died, this time in a drunken carriage race. Lord Sylvester did attempt to recoup his brothers’ losses by aligning himself with the daughter of some neighbor of theirs. But he was not the brightest, and while picking wildflowers for his prospective bride he stepped off a cliff.”

  As it had before, the simple retelling of that long list of lives cut short made a chill sweep over Clara. She wrapped her shawl more firmly about her shoulders as if to ward off the remnants of the tragedy that surrounded the family.

  “But for the life of me,” Aunt Olivia continued, her tone turned sharp in her frustration, “I cannot recall a single thing about the fourth son. It was like he disappeared into thin air after his father’s death. Neither the duchess nor his brothers ever mentioned him.”

  Again that ache in Clara’s chest for Mr. Nesbitt—er, the duke. She blew out a frustrated breath, her fingers playing over the calfskin cover of the book she had picked up to read yet had left unopened. If she were at all brave, she would just call the man Quincy and be done with it.

  But the thought of speaking his name made her shiver once more, this time with a disconcerting heat. She moved the shawl away from her neck, suddenly overwarm as she thought of her lips and tongue caressing his name. Such an intimate thing she could not think of doing. Not with him.

  To distract herself, she focused on the cold facts of the perplexing case. She did not doubt her great-aunt’s memory of the Duke of Reigate’s family. The woman had the sharpest mind Clara knew, and could recall the smallest, most unimportant details with frightening ease.

  And the timing of it all matched perfectly with the history she recalled hearing from Peter. He had first met his friend upon his own escape from England fourteen years before. Both men, mere boys at the time, had found places with an American sea captain, had sailed for Boston, and had quickly grown close. What had followed was years of friendship, with the two not only growing up together, but later becoming business partners in a lucrative real estate endeavor.

  It w
as entirely possible His Grace was indeed the missing fourth son. If so, why had he left? And why did it appear as if his family had erased him from their minds as easily as the tide erases writing in the sand?

  All of a sudden Freya, who had been napping beside her mistress, stirred. She lifted her head, her over-large ears swiveling toward the hall. The women stilled, even Aunt Olivia going quiet. In the silence they could hear the faint sound of boots on the polished floor.

  “Finally,” Aunt Olivia muttered.

  Before Clara could think to quiet her great-aunt, the two men filled the doorway.

  That they appeared tired was an understatement. Both were slightly disheveled, dark smudges beneath their eyes. But there were smiles about their mouths, proof that their talk had done some good.

  Too late, however, Clara registered that Peter’s was decidedly lopsided and almost—silly?

  “Lenora,” Peter said with a husky intimacy that had Clara’s cheeks flaring with heat. “Damnation, you’re beautiful. Quincy, look at my beautiful wife.”

  “I see her,” his friend murmured with amusement. He grinned as Peter went to Lenora on slightly uneven feet.

  “I would ask you to forgive Peter,” he said as he took the chair indicated by Aunt Olivia—one much closer to Clara than she was comfortable with. “But I am the one who needs your forgiveness. I’m well aware of his disinclination for strong drink, yet I did not dissuade him from imbibing with me.”

  Peter scoffed. “I’m not that drunk.”

  Lenora, who was busy fending off her husband’s amorous affection, rolled her eyes. “As I can only assume your inebriated state has to do with Quincy’s news, you are forgiven. If you can behave.”

  At once Peter straightened, though the sage nod he gave her nearly had him tipping right back into her. “Anything you say, my love. And as you are all no doubt waiting on the story behind Quincy’s news—and my head is spinning at a frightening speed—I’ll leave the floor to my friend here.”

  But Aunt Olivia was through with waiting. She rounded on the duke. “Are you or are you not the missing fourth son of the Duke of Reigate?”

  There was a flicker of pain in the man’s eyes. “I see you recall the history with impressive clarity,” he replied. Then he flashed her a devilish grin that did not fool Clara one bit. “Not that I’m at all surprised. I would never underestimate you, my lady.”

  “Don’t pour that charm on me, m’boy,” she said with an arch of her brow. “You’ve kept me waiting long enough while you got my nephew here drunk out of his mind.”

  “I am not drunk,” Peter repeated before looking to his wife with a frown. “Am I talking too loud?”

  “Hush,” the viscountess said before turning back to the duke. “Out with it. And no more of your prevaricating.”

  His attempts at levity were gone in an instant. “I suppose there is no sense in delaying it. I am the missing son,” he replied quietly.

  Aunt Olivia fairly puffed up at that. “And you all thought I was losing my mind,” she said to the room at large. “I am not so old that I do not recall such an important detail as the old duke having four sons and not three.”

  Again the pain in his face. Clara realized in a horrified instant that, having been separated from his family by an entire ocean for so long, he would not have learned of his siblings’ deaths until today. His shock at his new status confirmed that he had not believed it possible. How devastating must it be to lose nearly your entire family in an instant?

  Without thinking Clara leaned toward him. “I am so very sorry for the loss of your brothers.”

  He blinked, and she thought she detected a sheen of moisture in his eyes. But his expression was warm as he murmured in his deep voice, “Thank you.”

  His dark gaze bored into her, and she felt for one brief, shining moment a link between them that stole her breath. In the next instant his expression changed, his eyes going flat as he seemed to close himself off from her. He stood with a suddenness that had her jerking back.

  “But I’m exhausted and still have much to do. My tipsy friend here has insisted I stay at Dane House for the time being. He claims it’s because he will be able to assist me more easily as I transition into this new position of mine. I do believe, however, that he cannot stand to be out of my charming company.” He gave a small laugh.

  The rest of the women laughed along with him, declaring their joy that he would be staying with them, bidding him cheerful farewells as he said his goodbyes in order to fetch his things from Mivart’s.

  Clara, however, could only look on the scene with a frown. How was it that no one seemed to see the strain the man was under? How were they oblivious to the turmoil brewing just beneath the surface?

  He strode out into the hall and out of view. Clara was on her feet before she knew what she was doing.

  “Your Grace,” she called, hurrying after him. He froze halfway to the front door, his broad shoulders tensing under the snug fit of his dark coat at her use of his new title, and she winced.

  Turning, he gifted her with a strained smile. “Lady Clara, I’m glad you’ve come after me, for I must ask your forgiveness.”

  She stumbled to a halt before him and blinked. Of all the things she had expected him to say, that was not it.

  “You must have thought me a candidate for Bedlam when I arrived. Yet you have been all that is kind and helpful. You eased my discomfort, helped facilitate a conversation between Peter and myself.” He grinned. “Reined in Lady Tesh.”

  She gave a small, startled laugh, even as embarrassment filled her at his praise. And a disconcerting regret that he saw her merely as a friend who had come to his aid.

  Which was ridiculous. That’s all she was to him, and all she ever should be. She would gladly help him as she would anyone else who was in distress. And determinedly ignore the small part of her that wanted more.

  “Thank you,” he finished, with an intensity that sent her brain momentarily scrambling for purchase. “Thank you so very much for your help.”

  She nodded, flustered. “Of course.”

  He cocked his head to one side. “But I have not let you have your say. You were coming after me for something?”

  Was I? She blinked, thoughts whirling, trying to latch onto something coherent. The only thing that filled her mind was the image of his devastatingly handsome face peering down into hers.

  Finally—finally!—she lit upon one thing that would make perfect sense. That it was far from the comfort she had initially hoped to provide could only be seen as a positive.

  “You came on foot.”

  One of his dark eyebrows arched. “Yes.”

  “You are going to fetch your things. I assume you don’t have a carriage to assist you in that endeavor.”

  “I assure you, I don’t mind walking back to the hotel. And I can hire an equipage when I’m ready to return.”

  “Which is truly silly, when Peter has plenty on hand to help. I’ll have one sent on to meet you there. Would an hour suffice?”

  A small, bemused smile lifted his sculpted lips. “It would. Thank you, Lady Clara. As I’ve said, you are most kind.”

  A small, rebellious voice suddenly whispered inside her, urging her to show him that she was not all unselfish goodness and helpfulness. It surprised her, that voice. She had become quite expert at ignoring it in the decade and a half since her ruination, so much so that it had not made an appearance in a good long while.

  Why, then, did it reappear now? And why was it so hard to quiet? But she would not allow that passionate side of herself to gain the upper hand. She had vowed long ago never to let it rule her again; she was not about to lose that battle now.

  She dipped into a proper curtsy, keeping her expression serene. “Until later, Your Grace.”

  As she turned to go, his voice stopped her.

  “Please, call me Quincy.”

  She nearly lost her balance. His voice, so deep and soft, was like temptation in the garden. She
shivered against the pull of it. “Oh, no. I couldn’t possibly.”

  “Please.” When she opened her mouth to refuse once again—hadn’t she already had this fight within herself just moments ago?—he spoke. “You all are like family to me. It would mean the world if I remain simply Quincy with you.” His lips quirked, a sad imitation of a smile.

  Her heart plummeted—how could she possibly refuse such a request, though she knew it was the most foolhardy thing she could do?—even as she saw this development for the positive thing it was. Family. They could treat one another as family, and surely her strange infatuation for him would disappear. Especially with him staying at Dane House, being around her at all hours. He would be like a brother to her. Or a cousin. A very, very distant cousin.

  Who was much too handsome for her sanity.

  She plastered a bracing smile on her face. “Of course…Quincy.” Heavens, her tongue tingled from the very sound of his name leaving her lips. “And please call me Clara.”

  “Clara,” he repeated. The smile he gifted her with had all the brightness of a new penny in the sun. It was nothing she hadn’t seen from him before; he was as talented in charm and good cheer as Lenora was in watercolors. Yet coupled with her name on his lips, the husky sound of it burying itself deep under her skin, a frightening realization hit as she watched him bow and leave: no matter that he saw them as family, she would never see him as such.

  Chapter 5

  Are you certain we haven’t missed something? Some far-flung property, an overlooked investment?”

  It had been three days since Quincy had been hit with the unwelcome news that he was duke. Three days spent sitting in his solicitor’s offices, slowly realizing that becoming the Duke of Reigate was the least of his problems.

  “I’m quite certain, Your Grace.” The solicitor, Mr. Richmond, seated behind his massive desk, clasped his hands on the cluttered surface. His dark brown face was lined with worry, but there was compassion there, too. A compassion that Quincy did not deserve one bit, not after the hell he’d made the man’s life for the past seventy-two hours.