Jilting the Duke

by Rachael Miles

  In the warm sunlight of the garden, Sophia felt the chill of foreboding return.

  * * *

  Sophia stood in front of her wardrobe, trying to choose a dress for her afternoon meeting with her solicitor. She had already removed her garden frock and apron, and washed her arms, chest, hands, and face in the basin. Now she stood in her chemise, staring at her choices. It should be easy: one black mourning dress looks much like another. What, she wondered, did one wear to accompany a sense of impending disaster?

  In a way, the problem of the dresses was rather funny. There were only three, and, by now, the ever-observant Aldine had probably catalogued her entire afternoon wardrobe in one of his precisely ruled notebooks. The only thing he had never seen her in was her chemise. There, that’s a decision: wear your undergarments downstairs and see if Aldine blinks or just takes out his notebook and makes another entry.

  With a sigh, she chose the unassuming black silk that buttoned from the bodice to the floor. The practical choice, she thought. It required no help from her maid, allowing Sally to remain in the nursery with Ian. As Sophia pulled the dress on, she felt the wear on its covered buttons. It was no longer a dress even a widow in mourning would wear, but the thought of venturing out, of buying new clothes, overwhelmed her.

  To calm her nerves, she stood at the open doors of her balcony. Below her, the pale green grass darkened into deep shadows below the oaks, yews, and alders, and past her yard, several houses over, a statue of Flora, goddess of flowers, stood on top of a conservatory of iron and glass. Hers had become a circumscribed life, and one Tom would not praise. The house, the garden, the park with Ian, the vista from her window, they had become the whole of her world. It was a stark contrast to their life in Italy, filled with laughter and sparkling conversation. But Tom’s death had stolen her ability to talk brightly about nothings with near strangers. She had no idea how to broaden her circles, or even if she wished to. Just as with the dress, she was caught in limbo. She didn’t know how to change, or even if she could.

  She touched the small key worn on a ribbon around her neck, a reminder of her unfulfilled promises to Tom that weighed increasingly heavy on her heart. Breathing in slowly, she turned and left her room.

  As she walked down the back staircase to the library, she tried to imagine the reason for Aldine’s visit. The newspapers were filled with parliamentary debates on the stability of the Bank of England and its monetary policies, alongside stories of how vast family fortunes had been lost in a single day to volatile investments.

  What if their money were gone?

  The idea knocked the breath from her chest. She pressed her hand against the cool plaster wall. Would she lose the house and the estate? The London house was her refuge, Tom’s gift, allowing her to live in town rather than on his country estate, with her uncle and his prim wife for neighbors. But if it were a choice, she’d keep the estate. It was Ian’s future.

  But both? What if there were nothing left? To be reliant on the narrow kindness of relatives was something she’d sworn she would never do again. But for Ian, she would reconcile with the Devil . . . or her brother Phineas. She preferred the Devil.

  The image of Aidan standing in moonlight rose before her. She shook it off. She would do what she had to do. She always had.

  If the problem weren’t their finances, then had someone learned their secret? But why take the information to Aldine, and not to her? To know, they would have to have the papers....

  She had to know. She entered the library and pulled the key from beneath her chemise. Kneeling behind the partner desk she had shared with Tom, she pressed a latch hidden in the elaborately carved paneling. A panel moved to the side, revealing the door to a hidden compartment. She unlocked the door, holding her breath. The papers—and the hair she had placed over them—appeared untouched.

  Suddenly tired to her bones, Sophia spoke to Tom’s portrait, hanging above the fireplace, “You promised me all would be well. But after last night . . . after seeing him . . . I don’t know how it can be.”

  When her solicitor arrived, he handed her a letter in Tom’s hand, and she found that she had been completely wrong about how bad the possibilities could be. The truth was much, much worse.

  * * *

  Aidan stepped from his bath and rubbed a towel over his chest and upper arms.

  “You’d enjoy rake’s hours more if you spent them on the town, your grace.” Barlow smiled at Aidan’s scowl. “I’m sure Cook would be delighted to concoct another sleeping posset. She says she knows what went wrong last time. Her newest recipe, she promises, will have you sleeping like a condemned man.”

  “If I risk Cook’s remedies, I will be a condemned man. I prefer to lie awake until morning, then sleep until noon. I find it less damaging to my bowels than Cook’s remedies.”

  “I think, your grace, you have simply lost your nerve.” Barlow chuckled.

  Aidan threw the towel at the back of Barlow’s head. But his old sergeant turned and caught it. “You won’t be catching me out,” Barlow said. “I’ve been wise to your ways since you convinced me that the adjutant general’s daughter fancied me.”

  “I thought your midnight serenade at her window quite affecting.” Aidan laughed. “I only wish the musicians had shown more talent.”

  “As I remember, your grace, you hired the musicians. Promised me they were the best in town.” Barlow folded the towel in two brisk motions.

  “But I didn’t say which town. The madam of the brothel assured me she hired only the highest caliber of musician.” Aidan smiled. “But I think you more than repaid me with the frog in my pack.”

  “I still feel for that frog. I never expected you to carry him croaking for five miles,” Barlow said as he selected clothes from the wardrobe.

  “It would hardly have been fair to leave him to find his own way to a good pond.” Aidan watched Barlow’s choices. “Am I entertaining visitors?”

  “A Mr. H. W. Aldine.” Stout and sturdy, Barlow had the face and the manner of a man other men trusted. Given fifteen minutes, Barlow could take any recruit’s full measure, knowing his hopes, dreams, fears, and most important, whether he cheated at cards. When Aidan left the regiment, he had taken Barlow with him, and on their missions, Barlow’s instincts had more than once saved their lives.

  “How does he look?”

  “Like a solicitor.”

  “Not another creditor trying to recover my brother Aaron’s debts?” Aidan asked as he pulled on his trousers, shrugged into the suspenders, and buttoned the fall front on each side.

  “No, your grace. Too careful with words. And he carries a portfolio of papers.... I placed his card on your desk.” Barlow helped Aidan into his shirt.

  “So if he is a creditor, he has the good sense to pretend to be something else.” Aidan allowed Barlow to tie his cravat. “Well, show the solicitor into my study. I’ll be down presently.”

  * * *

  Aidan walked into his study five minutes later, having run a comb through his wet, unruly hair. His dress was casual enough to signal a lack of concern, even contempt for the business at hand. Creditors were like wolves. Any sign of weakness translated into deep losses for the ducal estate. Five minutes of polite attention could lead to months of negotiation. No, Aidan had learned quickly after his eldest brother’s and then his father’s deaths: a dismissive nonchalance produced the best resolutions.

  A stolid man, Aldine stood behind one of the more comfortable chairs, his worn leather portfolio open in the seat before him. Aidan sized up the solicitor as he had a row of army recruits or his contacts in the more perilous world of intelligence gathering. Barlow was right: this man was no creditor. Inked at the fingers, but meticulous in his clothing, Aldine held himself with a grace that belied his sturdy frame. A man to have beside you in a fight, Aidan realized. He reconsidered Aldine’s fingers: a man who wished to be underestimated. How, he wondered, would Aldine respond to a frog in his portfolio?

  “Well, M
r. Aldine, what business is so urgent that you must come without warning?” Aidan used the brisk tone he found most effective at limiting unwanted interactions.

  The solicitor looked from Aidan to his study. Aidan watched with interested satisfaction, knowing the room revealed little. The furniture was well-appointed, the objets d’art fine, but not extravagant. The pieces revealed no particular preference as to period or style: an ancient Grecian urn on a carved mahogany pedestal stood before a contemporary painting by a little-known artist. Aidan wondered whether Aldine saw a rake, unkempt from a night of carousing, or the former officer known for his ruthless detachment. The men’s eyes met, both having taken the other’s measure.

  The solicitor folded his hands behind his back. “I come on behalf of Thomas Gardiner, the late Lord Wilmot. I’m to deliver a letter his lordship wrote you shortly before his death. If you agree to the proposition he outlines, I have brought papers for your signature.”

  At Tom’s name, Aidan stiffened with complicated emotions: fondness, regret, anger, betrayal. “Wilmot has been dead a year, yet the delivery of these papers is urgent?”

  “Lord Wilmot was very specific. Your letter—and one to his widow—were to be delivered within a day of the first anniversary of his death.”

  “Then it is convenient I am in town.” Aidan leaned against the edge of his desk.

  Aldine held out a letter, its seal unbroken. “His lordship instructed I am to remain while you read.”

  Aidan nodded acquiescence, and Aldine began laying out papers on the desk.

  Tom’s handwriting, though still legible, had grown less controlled.

  My dear old friend,

  Knowing one is dying gives a perspective to the past. Besides time and distance, only one thing stands between us, an act I cannot regret, except that it separated us. Had I lived, we would have talked and embraced again as brothers, but that conversation and the sight of your dear face has been denied me. These lines—poor substitutes—must stand in their stead.

  Look beyond our present silence to our years of brotherhood when your father took a fatherless boy into his home and reared him as his own. His sons I cherished as brothers, but none more than you. Since I must leave my son fatherless, I ask you to serve as his guardian. Take him into your home and heart. Shelter him and guide him into manhood, for the sake of our old friendship.

  In this guardianship, I give you a partner: his devoted mother. Do not separate the mother from her child. Ian would adapt, as children must do, but Sophia would suffer immeasurably. Find some way to live near one another, forgetting the past, for my dear child’s sake.

  Love my son, protect him, rear him as your own.

  Yours ever most affectionately and sincerely, Tom

  Had Aidan been alone, he would have cursed out loud. Tom’s letter was unwelcome, as unwelcome as Aidan’s father’s summons five years ago to return from the wars to care for the ducal estates.

  Aidan turned to the guardianship papers, noting several contradictions between them and Tom’s letter. “Let me make sure that I understand. Wilmot’s son is to live with me part of the year?”

  “If you wish. My firm disperses funds for the boy’s maintenance, supported by the approval of both guardians, or one guardian and our firm.”

  Aidan raised one eyebrow. “What is the rationale there?”

  “If one guardian is unavailable or if you and Lady Wilmot cannot agree, the firm adjudicates on the child’s behalf.” Aldine offered a long pause. “It is a right we prefer not to exercise.”

  “Ah, money is tied up in this arrangement.” Aidan leaned forward toward Aldine. “Did Wilmot believe his wife would run through the funds?”

  “No. His lordship valued his wife’s judgment. She’s an able manager.”

  “He valued her judgment, but removed the boy’s estate from her control?” Aidan let his voice convey disbelief.

  “No, the estate remains under her ladyship’s control until the boy’s majority. This guardianship administers a trust for the boy’s maintenance. Wilmot wished to provide the boy with a male mentor, but you can refuse the guardianship.” Aldine pulled another document from his portfolio. “Your signature on this makes Lady Wilmot sole guardian.”

  “So it’s me or no male guardian.” Suddenly, Aidan remembered Tom as a boy, playing King Arthur and his knights with Aidan and his brothers. He cursed inwardly: Tom had known honor would not allow Aidan to refuse. “Then I will accept.”

  Aldine returned the refusal to his portfolio. “My clerk can witness your signature, unless you prefer someone of your household.”

  Aidan rang the bell. “I always prefer someone of my household.”

  Aldine moved Aidan’s copy of the legal papers to the side and produced the official contract, a large piece of vellum, carefully lettered, with six signatures and seals already in place. Three signatures dated from shortly after Wilmot’s marriage: Wilmot’s own, large, flourished, and confident, and those of two witnesses. Wilmot’s seal—a dragon’s head—drew Aidan’s attention. Something tugged at his memory, but wouldn’t come clear. Lady Wilmot’s hand was firm, but restrained; her witness, an Italian with a neat Continental script. Aidan read over the official document to ensure it was consistent with his copy.

  When Barlow arrived, Aidan signed in his best, most official hand, adding flourishes to the tail of the S in Somerville, the curve of the D in Duke, and the F in Forster to mirror those in the ducal seal. An expansive signature to suggest full and willing consent. Barlow signed in a competent school hand, then slipped from the room.

  “While the ink dries, have you any questions?” Aldine offered.

  “I would like a sense of Wilmot’s intentions beyond this.” Aidan waved his hand over the documents. “I leave London in three weeks. May I take the boy with me to my estate?”

  “The guardianship papers stipulate you may, but it might be wise to delay exercising that provision. Though his lordship established the guardianship a decade ago, her ladyship appeared surprised it had been called into effect.”

  “What you do mean?” Aidan knew Tom never kept secrets without a reason.

  “Lord Wilmot sent the instructions related to the guardianship in three letters, to me, to you, and to her ladyship. All were folded together in a cover addressed to my firm, signed and sealed by Lord Wilmot and carried to England by her ladyship.” Aldine tested the edge of the ink for dryness. “It seemed rather like the scene in Hamlet where Rosencrantz and Guildenstern act as couriers of the papers that lead to their executions.”

  “An interest in drama, Aldine?” Aidan quizzed.

  “A student of human nature, your grace.” Aldine folded the contract until it formed a tall narrow book with a title already carefully lettered on its spine.

  “Why do you think her ladyship was unaware of the guardianship?” Aidan asked, interested in Aldine’s observations.

  “Her ladyship rarely shows emotion. But her shoulders stiffened when she read the letter.”

  “Then her ladyship is unhappy with this ‘partnership’?” Aidan replied, pleased at the news.

  The solicitor returned the documents to his portfolio. “I simply report her response to the letter.” Aldine withdrew a slip of paper and held it out. “Lord Wilmot purchased a house for her ladyship quite close to your own. If you do not wish to meet at her ladyship’s, my office is also available.”

  Aidan looked at the address—Queen Anne Street, just around the corner. Near the park. The implications settled slowly. Aidan could likely look out his bedroom window and see her yard. “No, I will call on her.”

  “Those copies are yours.” Aldine indicated the papers remaining on Aidan’s desk.

  Aidan extended his hand in parting. The solicitor’s handshake was firm and confident.

  Aidan waited until the solicitor reached the door. “Wilmot’s letter claims that her ladyship is devoted to the boy. Is that correct? Women in the ton often find children merely an obligation to be fulfille
d.”

  Aldine paused. “Then her ladyship is unusual. Observe the mother and the son together to determine the depth of her ladyship’s affection for her child.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “You will charge me once more with a fondness for drama.” Aldine placed his hand on the doorknob.

  “I’ll refrain.”

  “Then I’ll answer. Only with her son does Lady Wilmot seem to be a woman, rather than a beautiful statue carved in marble.” With those words, Aldine, ignoring the requirements of rank, wished Aidan a good day and left.

  * * *

  From the window, Aidan watched as Aldine and his clerk, a thin, limping man in rumpled clothes, parted ways on the sidewalk. Aldine’s walk was all efficiency, long strides in a fluid gait. The solicitor was more interesting than he ought to be, and all the more interesting because he tried to hide it. Perhaps Aidan should inquire at the Home Office about Mr. H. William Aldine of Leverill and Cort, 19 Cateaton Street.

  Aidan had waited a long time for his revenge. To have it fall so neatly into his lap seemed a sign of Fate’s approval. Tom had placed Sophia in Aidan’s power. A shared guardianship required a devoted mother to remain in his good graces, to be civil, even courteous, lest she lose the ability to make decisions regarding her child. Perhaps, given how quickly Sophia had exchanged Aidan’s bed for Tom’s, she might even offer her body as a bargaining chip. That would be rich.

  At his desk, Aidan reached not for his standard notepaper, but for the fine foolscap sheets he used for correspondence or when, as now, he wished to impress his reader with his wealth and rank. He wrote one sentence in the middle of the sheet, then folded and sealed it, pressing his ring into the soft wax until his signet came clear. He held the letter, feeling the same exhilaration and anticipation as he did before a boxing match or a horse race—or even a battle. Then he called decisively for his footman to deliver his first correspondence in a decade with the woman who had once been his fiancée.