The Unworthy Duke

by Charlotte Anne

  ‘Yes, my darling,’ said his grandmother in soothing tones that suggested she was going to do nothing of the sort. Turning in her seat, she gave her full attention to her new companion-in-arms. ‘Do you like fireworks, Miss Smith?’

  ***

  ‘Fireworks?’ Ellen paused, a forkful of cake halfway to her mouth. The marchioness was absolutely nothing like she’d imagined. Then again, she’d never have imagined a duke quite like Calum Callaghan. Had anyone? ‘I’ve never actually seen any fireworks, my lady.’

  ‘Dear me.’ Lady Faye touched her arm in condolence. ‘We must fix that immediately. The fireworks at Vauxhall are always spectacular this time of year.’

  ‘You hate fireworks,’ said His Grace. The only one still standing, he was glowering over the table at Mr Tattershall. His hands were crossed over his chest again and his brows were low over his eyes. Arguing with his grandmother had brought a red, angry flush to his face, and his Scottish accent had completely disappeared.

  Now she thought on it, his Scottish accent had disappeared as soon as his family had come bursting into the library. On purpose or not, she wasn’t sure. Whatever the reason, she didn’t much care for his English voice—his Oxbridge drawl. It did not suit.

  ‘I’ve changed my mind,’ Lady Faye responded lightly. ‘How does that saying go?’ She drummed her fingers on the table.

  ‘It’s a lady’s prerogative to change her mind,’ Ellen suggested.

  ‘That’s the one.’ Lady Faye turned her radiant smile on Ellen. ‘How was your journey into Town? Mrs Nott wrote to me to say you’re from…Evendale? I haven’t been out that way in years and years.’

  ‘Nobody’s been out that way,’ Lord Woodhal interjected, sulkily.

  Lady Faye laughed. ‘Whatever did you do to him, gel?’

  ‘I’m not sure what you mean.’

  ‘I’m sure he was already like that when she found him,’ teased Mr Tattershall.

  ‘Arghh! Owen, why can’t they stay with you?’ Outside, the storm raged on; inside, Lord Woodhal raged on.

  ‘My place simply isn’t big enough, old man.’ He was completely unaffected by the duke’s temper. The way he was acting put Ellen in mind of a brother or a cousin but he looked nothing like either the marchioness or the duke. Where the duke had dark hair, Mr Tattershall was blond, and where Lady Faye had an aquiline nose, Mr Tattershall was blessed with a button.

  ‘I’m not staying with Owen. He has a dog.’ Lady Faye had finished off her plate of sweets in record time.

  ‘So do I!’ The duke pressed a fist to his solar plexus as though to release some tension in his chest.

  The dowager shook her head, waving a hand haphazardly in Ellen’s direction, which she took as her cue.

  ‘It’s a lady’s prerogative to change her mind,’ she repeated.

  ‘Perfect.’ The old lady beamed at her, a twinkle in her eyes. ‘We’re going to get along handsomely.’

  ‘Not perfect.’ Lord Woodhal ran a hand down his face. There was a strange beauty in his scars. They spoke of hardship and loss.

  If she kissed his cheek, would his scars be rough like sand or soft life feathers? Rough, hopefully. Rough suited him—made him somehow larger and stronger.

  Kiss? Wherever had that idea come from?

  He caught her looking. There was a kind of cowardliness in turning away, so she kept looking, drinking him in. She was suddenly hot under the collar, her dress too tight, the blanket about her shoulders too warm.

  ‘I need a drink.’ As abrupt as ever, he turned on his heel and stalked towards the door. ‘This isn’t over, Elizabeth. There’s no way in hell you’re all staying here.’

  ‘The trunks!’ was her only response.

  Ellen watched Lord Woodhal’s retreating back. Drawing rooms hadn’t been designed for men of his stature. Only in the kitchen did his sheer size not look out of place. The muscles in his neck and shoulders jumped as though he could feel her watching him. A second later, he was out of sight.

  ‘Ever the gentleman,’ chucked Mr Tattershall, returning his chair to its original location and flashing her a toothy grin.

  ‘Is he always so…disagreeable?’

  The smile slipped from Lady Faye’s face. Even Mr Tattershall looked halfway serious. Her question had touched a nerve.

  ‘I’m feeling rather tired all of a sudden. Ellen, gel, could you show me to my room?’

  ‘Of course.’ Ellen jumped to her feet. She had absolutely no idea where the bedrooms were or even where the staircase was, but that didn’t seem to matter because the dowager took the lead. As the old lady passed Owen, she pressed a kiss to the top of his head. ‘Do help him with the trunks, dear. And don’t be too hard on him.’

  ‘Me?’ He feigned surprise. ‘Never!’

  Ellen curtsied her goodbye to Mr Tattershall whoever-he-was and hurried to follow. She adopted a brisk step to impress upon her ladyship just how superior a companion she was going to be and just how seriously she was taking her employment.

  The passage was narrower than she’d first noticed, and there were doors down only one side. Ellen looked ahead and saw a single front door where there had been two doors on the outside. Where the second door would have been, there was a wall, which presumably meant the house had been divided in half.

  Whoever had heard of such a thing?

  ‘This way.’ Her ladyship led Ellen into another room. Most of the ceiling had been removed to make way for a narrow staircase. It was dark and miserable, and she had to light the three-arm candelabra on the small table by the door.

  They climbed on past the first storey, stopping at the second, where there was another long and narrow passage with doors down only one side, echoing the passage on the ground floor.

  ‘I don’t suppose Cal told you about the house?’ Lady Faye asked, opening a bedroom door. Ellen hurried to hold it for her.

  ‘No, my lady. He said nothing.’ Nothing about the house, although he’d probably revealed more about himself than he’d have liked in an effort to scare her away.

  The guest bedchamber was the picture of neglect. There was a musty four-poster bed with heavy curtains, a dressing table with a cracked mirror, a chest of drawers missing two handles and a porcelain washstand with faded bluebells painted on the inside.

  A middle-aged woman was waiting for them. She curtsied as they entered. Judging by her dress and manner, she was Lady Faye’s abigail. ‘I’ve laid out your nightdress, my lady, although the rest of your luggage is still outside. And I’m afraid the bedding is quite dusty. I tried shaking it out, but it really should be thrown straight into the fire. I don’t think anyone’s been in this room since we were here last.’

  ‘You’ve done excellent work, Pamela. Miss Smith will help me change this evening. There’s cake in the pantry for your supper. And remember to take no notice of His Grace.’

  ‘Thank you, my lady.’ Pamela curtseyed again, gave Ellen a friendly smile and left, closing the door behind her.

  ‘I don’t know what I’d do without that gel.’

  Ellen helped the dowager change into her nightgown and climb into bed. The musty mattress sagged in the middle.

  ‘You and I are going to have to take this house into our own hands,’ Lady Faye said. She removed her white wig and started pulling pins from her hair. Wispy strands dropped to frame her face like cobwebs—silver in the light from the gently crackling fire Pamela must have lit. ‘Cal can bake a scrumptious cake, but we really need a proper cook. Not to mention a butler, two footmen and a small army of maids.’

  ‘Won’t that just make him angrier?’ His Grace clearly valued his solitude. Although, as Ellen had learned these last few years, valuing solitude and actually being happy were two entirely different matters.

  ‘His ranting and raving does nothing to scare me.’ Lady Faye patted the bed, indicating Ellen should make herself comfortable.

  Emboldened, Ellen asked the question she’d been dying to ask all evening. ‘What happened to Lord Wo
odhal? He showed me the scars on his chest and back, but he said nothing more than that there’d been a fire.’

  The dowager sighed. ‘There was a fire, yes. At sea. Pierce died. Calum didn’t.’ She patted Ellen’s cheek affectionately which Ellen took to mean Lady Faye wasn’t unset by the question and she was free to keep talking.

  ‘Pierce. His brother?’ The son Debrett’s had said had died the same month as their father, the old duke.

  The dowager nodded. ‘Younger half-brother.’

  ‘I see.’ Almost. ‘What did you mean when you asked if His Grace had told me about the house?’ She asked an easier question.

  ‘Oh, that.’ Lady Faye settled back against her pillows. ‘Well, I guess the story starts a good few years ago, when my daughter married a very handsome young man.’

  ‘Hammond Callaghan, the fifth Duke of Woodhal.’ Debrett’s had gotten that bit right at least.

  ‘Yes. Hammond had been married previously, but his bride, Finella, wasn’t happy in England, and soon after their wedding she ran back to Scotland. Hammond went looking for her, but by the time he found her she’d already died in a carriage accident.’

  ‘Back to Scotland…’ Ellen frowned.

  ‘Calum’s mother,’ Lady Faye confirmed. ‘Finella McKenna. The thing is, nobody told Hammond that she’d given birth to a son before her death. I think her family thought if Hammond knew there was a son, he’d take the child back to London with him, which I suppose he would have done. Finella’s parents had already lost their daughter. I cannot really blame them for not wanting to lose their grandson as well.’

  ‘The old duke didn’t know Her Grace was expecting before she ran away?’

  ‘Finella never said a word. And I’ve been told Cal was a particularly small newborn.’

  They shared an amused smile.

  ‘Hammond knew nothing of Cal until he was ten,’ the dowager continued. ‘His grandparents died of consumption, and their lawyers contacted Hammond. By that stage, of course, Hammond had been married to Grace for eight years, and Pierce had been born.’

  Ellen could see where the story was going. Everyone would have believed Pierce to be the Woodhal heir. But Calum was—she quickly counted—close on three years older and a legitimate son. Assuming, of course, there was proof Calum really was Hammond’s progeny.

  ‘There’s a portrait hanging over the fireplace in the drawing room of a fair-haired gentleman,’ Ellen remembered.

  ‘That’s Hammond’s father; Cal’s grandfather. They don’t much look alike, if that’s what you’re thinking,’ said Lady Faye perceptively. ‘Cal looks a lot like his mother. But Hammond believed Calum was his son, without a doubt.’ She gave a forced smile. ‘Grace wasn’t happy.’

  A shout echoed through the house. Downstairs somewhere Lord Woodhal and Mr Tattershall were arguing, although it was impossible to make out their words.

  Clearing her throat, Lady Faye continued. Nothing seemed to faze her when it came to those two. ‘Grace blamed Hammond for not knowing about Calum. She was very angry…heartbroken. She wanted a divorce but didn’t want the scandal, so instead she divided the house in half.’

  ‘And that’s why the corridors are so narrow.’ And why there were two front doors.

  ‘Pierce lived on the other side of the house with Grace, and Calum lived with Hammond on this side.’

  ‘Does your daughter still live next door?’

  ‘Goodness, no. Grace moved out the month Hammond died. Less than a sennight after we received news of Pierce’s death. He was a first lieutenant, you know.’ She took one of Ellen’s hands in both of hers. Her skin was lovely and soft but wrinkled and marked with age. ‘Does all this talk make you want to run away from us?’

  ‘Of course not, my lady.’ Both my parents are dead, my brother beats me and I’m hiding little Gwen away in the country. Maggie is risking my brother’s wrath by helping keep Gwen safe, and Verity lied about my identity in her recommendation letter so you would employ me. ‘Every family has their own story. Do you know why Lord Woodhal hasn’t taken down the dividing wall now your daughter has moved out?’ After all, as he kept reminding everyone, this was his house.

  ‘I guess because he still believes the other half is Grace’s. And Grace isn’t his mother.’ She rubbed a hand over her eyes. ‘My daughter is…heartbroken. She won’t have anything to do with Cal, even though he provides her a generous allowance.’ Her shoulders drooped and she seemed to shrink in on herself.

  The dowager duchess wasn’t the only one with a broken heart. Lady Faye’s family was divided and the thought clearly distressed her. Ellen searched for a change of topic. ‘Who exactly is Mr Tattershall?’ The man downstairs currently arguing with the duke was a breath of fresh air. He had a ready grin, which she was quickly coming to think of as ‘the Tattershall Twinkle’. And she’d had the distinct impression he’d been flirting with her at dinner.

  He could not have been more different from the stern and grumpy Lord Woodhal if he’d lived on the moon.

  ‘Ahh.’ Lady Faye straightening, looking instantly happier. ‘He believes himself to be a veritable Bond Street beau, but in my opinion his waistcoats are a little too magnificent to be considered entirely fashionable. Don’t you ever tell him I said that though!’ She nudged Ellen with an elbow. ‘What you really want to know is that he’s my ward. Owen’s mother was a good friend of mine although she was close to twenty years my junior. In fact, I’m surprised you haven’t heard of the Tattershalls. I don’t mean the Tattersalls of Tattersall’s London horses,’ she added quickly as though that was exactly what Ellen had been thinking, despite being only newly arrived to London. ‘Owen’s family is also from Evendale.’

  ‘No, I haven’t heard of his family.’ She was surprised. There were only seven and twenty families in Evendale. Although, as Mr Tattershall was an orphan, it was quite possible his parents had died before Ellen had been born. By the looks of it, he was a year or so older than herself—and a couple of years younger than Lord Woodhal. Probably about the same age as her brother. Or even Lieutenant Callaghan, had he not died.

  One reclusive grandson, one dead grandson, one heartbroken daughter and one sweet-talking ward. The Woodhal-Faye clan was a peculiar bevy indeed. ‘This is all very personal, my lady. If you don’t mind my asking, why did you tell me? We’ve only just met.’

  ‘To be frank, gel. We may be a family of dukes and marquesses, but that doesn’t put us above reproach.’ Lady Faye squeezed her hand. ‘I’d prefer you heard all of this from me rather than the London gossips.’

  Chapter Six

  ‘You’re following me,’ Cal said as he limped into the library. ‘Isn’t it time you were heading home?’

  ‘Miss Smith’s a bit of an armful.’ Owen slumped into the old wing-back armchair. Dinner had finished and the ladies had headed upstairs for an early night. All Cal wanted was another whisky, not more company.

  ‘Quite the belle of the ball,’ Owen continued. ‘You must have noticed.’ Propping his cane against the side of the chair, he stretched his legs out before him. With his arms behind his head, he cupped the back of his neck with interlaced fingers, looking for all the world like this were his library.

  Of course Cal had noticed. He’d been trying not to notice for the last few hours. Companions to elderly grandmothers were not supposed to raise the blood. He stuffed his hands into his pockets, pursing his lips to stop himself saying something he’d regret.

  ‘Of course you did, don’t try to deny it.’ Owen chuckled. ‘Her style could do with a bit of an intervention though.’ He picked up the closest book, flicked through without interest and let it slide to the floor. ‘Whyever do you think she was so moist?’ he asked with a smirk. ‘Her dress was positively clinging to—’

  ‘It’s raining.’ Cal stalked across the room and back again. Something crunched underfoot, and he swore. He’d forgotten about the broken glass. That was perfectly good whisky soaking into his Persian rug.

  ‘
Oh, lark. You didn’t make her wait outside, did you, Wood?’

  ‘No.’ Not for lack of trying. ‘It was her own fault.’ He quickly related the events of the evening, leaving out the bit where he’d bullied her into showing him her bruises. Even he could admit that hadn’t been his most chivalrous moment.

  ‘Wood!’ Owen laughed. ‘Bested by a slip of a girl. I have so many questions. Why—’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it anymore.’ His head ached. Everything ached. He looked around the library, searching for another glass. No such luck. He took a swing straight from the bottle.

  ‘All right. All right. Just one quick question. Whyever were you shirtless?’ Owen laughed again, banging his knee with the palm of his hand.

  ‘Stop being such an arse.’ Cal pinched the bridge of his nose. How had he ended up in this mess? A few hours earlier he’d been blissfully alone. ‘Couldn’t you have suggested Lady F rent a house of her own? She listens to you.’

  ‘No, she does not. Besides, you should know by now that when she gets an idea into her head, nobody and nothing can stop her.’ Owen lifted Tzar onto his lap, and the old dog pressed his nose into the crook of Owen’s neck. As though Owen was the one who fed him and groomed him and let him sleep on the bed and took him outside every few hours for a piss and a shit.

  Little traitor.

  ‘Wait a moment.’ Cal’s thoughts suddenly caught up with Owen’s words. ‘What do you mean “an idea” What’s she planning?’ He glared at his cousin. ‘What’s she doing in London?’

  ‘She’s planning to enjoy the Season,’ Owen said, gently rubbing one of Tzar’s ears between two fingers. A couple of stray dog hairs clung to his otherwise perfectly black lapel.

  ‘Like hell. I can count the times she’s come to Town on the fingers of one hand, and not once has it ever been to enjoy the Season.’

  Twenty-three years ago, she’d come into Town announcing her intention to ‘enjoy the Season’ when she’d really come to meet him for the first time. That was back when Cal had only been ten, and his father had brought him to live in London after his grandparents had died. Nineteen years ago ‘enjoy the Season’ had translated to attempting to mediate peace between his father and Grace. They’d barely been speaking by then. Fourteen years ago she’d come to see him off to sea, back when he’d thought it was going to be a great adventure. Four years ago it was for Pierce’s funeral. Not that they’d had a body to bury. Sailors who died at sea were left at sea. Even first lieutenants.