A Duke Like No Other

by Valerie Bowman

  Regina smoothed her dark hair with one hand. “It’s not so much that I’ve refused, really. It’s more that I have yet to find anyone I particularly want to marry. Not to mention, I have the ludicrous notion that you should only marry if you fall in love and actually want to spend the rest of your life with the person you’re marrying.” She rolled her eyes. “Call me mad.”

  Nicole reached over and squeezed Regina’s hand. “I don’t think you’re mad at all.”

  “You sound like my mother,” Mark said to Regina.

  “Yes, I think I take after Aunt Mary quite a bit. Grandmama even says I look like she did at my age.”

  “I’ve only ever seen a miniature of her,” Nicole admitted quietly.

  Regina clasped her hands together and gave Nicole a bright smile. “Oh, we’ll have to rectify that. There is a grand painting of her in the east wing. I’ll show it to you while you’re here.”

  “I would like that very much,” Nicole replied. She dared a glance at Mark. He was staring out the window, clearly lost in his thoughts.

  “Well, I’m certain you two are exhausted,” Lady Harriet said, taking a long deep breath. “I’ll show you to your room. We picked out one at the end of the corridor. It’s large and comfortable and far away from the others.” She beamed at them and batted her eyelashes. “You know, so you’ll be at ease getting to the business of producing an heir, which is even more important, I’m afraid, now that our poor dear John is gone.”

  Nicole barely had a chance to contemplate those surprising words before the old woman added, “In fact, we don’t have any plans till dinner. Now’s the perfect time to begin.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  An hour later, having refreshed himself with a change of clothing and a stiff drink, Mark knocked on the door to his uncle’s study. He and Nicole had gone up to their bedchamber together and silently laughed after Lady Harriet left them, waggling her eyebrows. If they’d expected the older woman to be proper because she was in mourning, clearly they’d been mistaken. Lady Harriet didn’t know the meaning of the word “subtle.”

  Mark and Nicole agreed they’d change clothing and rest for a bit, allowing Lady Harriet to think what she would. Nicole had actually fallen asleep, her light breaths filling the air. Mark had lain on the bed next to her, his body stiff as a board, until he gave up the pretense of resting. It was not the time to pounce upon Nicole, even if the idea of lovemaking in the afternoon held a certain appeal. Mark had sneaked out the door quietly so as not to disturb her, in search of a drink.

  He scowled at the door to the study, the same room that had once housed his pompous ass of a grandfather. The door seemed smaller now. It was no longer the dark imposing barrier that had hidden an awful, scary man behind it. It was just a door. Just wood. Nothing special.

  “Come in,” came his uncle’s frail voice.

  Mark pushed open the door and stepped inside, further banishing his painful memories to the shadows. The space smelled of wood and lemon polish. The room was not as imposing as he’d remembered. Ornate furniture filled the space. The desk was still large and centered in front of the mullioned windows, but it was just a desk, nothing but a piece of furniture. The man who sat behind it now was a much different man, in a much different set of circumstances.

  Despite his illness, his uncle had managed to wheel his chair to sit behind the desk. He looked so pale and thin, hunched over the grand piece of furniture. The duke couldn’t be much more than five and sixty years old, but his illness had taken its toll and his son’s death hadn’t helped. He seemed to have aged ten more years since Mark had last seen him.

  His uncle raised his arms and spread them wide to indicate the room at large. His voice shook when he spoke. “This will all be yours … soon.”

  Mark clenched his jaw and stared out the windows into the flower-dotted meadow beyond. “Please don’t say that.”

  “Why shouldn’t I? It’s true.” His uncle lapsed into a coughing fit. He slowly pulled a handkerchief from his lap and covered his mouth.

  Mark took a seat across from him on the other side of the desk and waited for the fit to subside. “Nothing’s been decided yet and you promised—”

  His uncle waved a thin hand in the air. “I know. I know. I promised not to tell anyone that you’re my nephew … yet. But once I announce the heir—”

  “Just a few more days,” Mark replied. “For the sake of the investigation.” Would he ever be ready to be named heir to a dukedom? No. No, he would not.

  “Very well.” The duke sighed. He carefully backed up his chair and pulled open the drawer in front of him. With painstaking slowness, he retrieved a small, aged letter from inside the drawer. “I want to show you something, Mark. Something I hoped I wouldn’t have to.” The old man deliberately pushed the letter toward him with a shaking, wrinkled hand.

  Mark glanced at the parchment. Then he narrowed his eyes on it. His name was written on top in a bold scroll. “No.” Had he said that aloud?

  The duke nodded toward the letter. “It’s from your grandfather. I never sent it to you before because I assumed you’d rip it up. Such acts done in anger cannot be undone. I hope you’ve matured enough to finally read it, regardless of how you respond to it.”

  Mark took the letter. Rage rose in his throat, threatening to choke him. He didn’t want to read it, but he also had no intention of ripping it up.

  “Read it, Mark. I think it will help you to understand your grandfather a bit.”

  “You’re assuming I want to understand him,” Mark said through clenched teeth.

  “I only meant—”

  “I already understand perfectly. I understand he disowned my mother because of me and my father.”

  “Read it,” the old man repeated in an even tone, pointing feebly toward the letter. “Please.”

  A knock at the door interrupted them. The butler stood there with Daffin Oakleaf at his side. Daffin was dressed in the red vest his profession was famous for.

  “Ah, Oakleaf.” Mark stood and crossed the thick carpet to greet the Bow Street Runner. Oakleaf’s arrival was a welcome distraction from arguing with his uncle about the letter sitting on the desk, untouched.

  The butler left them and Mark introduced Daffin to the duke. “Your Grace, may I present Mr. Daffin Oakleaf? He works for Bow Street and is the best of the lot. Daffin, this is my uncle, the Duke of Colchester.”

  Daffin bowed to the older man. “Your Grace.”

  “So, you’re claiming me now?” the duke asked Mark with the hint of a smile in his voice. Then the older man turned his attention to Daffin. “Good to meet you, Mr. Oakleaf.”

  Mark nodded. “Daffin knows the details about our family, but Lord Tottenham does not and I’d ask you to keep it that way.”

  “As you wish, Mark, as you wish,” the duke replied. He turned his attention back to Oakleaf. “Thank you for helping us discover who killed John.”

  “I’ll do everything in my power, Your Grace,” Oakleaf replied. “Speaking of Lord Tottenham, he intends to arrive tomorrow morning.”

  “Ah, good to know,” the duke croaked.

  “Have you learned anything else, about any of the diners?” Mark asked.

  “I have.” Oakleaf pulled open his coat and slid a small notepad from his inner pocket. He flipped it open and scanned it as he spoke. “About Mr. Cartwright, the man who believes himself next in line to the dukedom. No word on why John invited him to dinner that night. From all accounts, they were not close.”

  “That’s true. They barely knew each other,” the duke replied.

  “Miss Lester and Lady Arabelle are friends. Both made their debuts last Season. They were accompanied by their mothers,” Daffin continued.

  “Yes?” Mark prodded.

  “Lord Anthony was John’s closest mate,” Daffin said.

  “I cannot imagine how Anthony is holding up. It’ll be good to see him,” the duke said, his eyes misting.

  “And the last person? Lor
d Hillenbrand?” Mark asked.

  Oakleaf flipped the notebook shut and stuffed it back into his pocket. “Apparently, Lord Hillenbrand had asked for Lady Arabelle’s hand earlier this Season. She turned him down before accepting John’s suit.”

  Mark rubbed his jaw. “That’s interesting. Hillenbrand is a viscount, is he not?”

  “Yes, but is he a jealous one?” Oakleaf quirked his brow. “Jealous enough to kill?”

  “I don’t know him,” the duke replied. “I’ve met him once or twice, but I cannot remember anything specific John had to say about him.” The old man tapped his forehead as if it might help him recall.

  “Is there anything else, Your Grace?” Oakleaf’s astute gaze turned to the duke. “Anything John said about any of these people that might help us with our investigation?”

  The duke stared unseeing at his lap for a moment or two before sadly shaking his head. “No. Nothing. If I do remember something, I’ll send for you posthaste.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace.” Oakleaf bowed his head.

  “I’m going to rest now,” the duke said in a weary voice. He rang a bell that sat upon his desk and two footmen arrived to push his wheeled chair out of the room.

  Mark and Oakleaf watched him go in melancholy silence. Mark waited for the door to close behind his uncle before he turned back to Oakleaf. “Who do you think did it?” he asked in a clipped voice.

  Oakleaf shook his head. “We’ve got at least two good suspects. Cartwright and Hillenbrand both had a reason to want John dead.”

  Mark rubbed his chin. “Cartwright stood to inherit a dukedom.”

  “Or so he thought,” Oakleaf replied with a wry smile.

  “And Hillenbrand may have been angry about losing his potential betrothed to a marquess,” Mark said.

  Oakleaf nodded once. “Precisely.”

  “What about the others? Anything?”

  Oakleaf walked to one of the windows, and stared out across the meadow. “This place isn’t too bad, Grim. Don’t have a clue why you’d renounce all of this.” He turned and waved a hand around the study, grinning at Mark.

  “I have my reasons,” Mark ground out. His father’s face flashed through his mind.

  “Yes, and I’m certain they make perfect sense … to you.”

  “I asked about the others,” Mark reminded him, growing impatient.

  Oakleaf continued to grin at him. “And you wonder why they call you the ‘stone man’?” He laughed, but before Mark could bark out a reply, Oakleaf added, “I found no indication that Anthony and John had had any sort of falling-out. Seems the two of them were thick as thieves. I fail to see what either of the ladies or their mothers would gain in killing Lord Coleford.”

  “Understood.” Mark leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers over his chest. “Anything else?”

  “Just that we examined all the food and wine. The only glass that was poisoned was Lord Coleford’s.”

  “I see. And the others? They all intend to arrive tomorrow as well?”

  “Yes, from what I understand.” Oakleaf stretched and waggled his eyebrows. “Now where is that wife of yours, Grim? I haven’t seen her in an age and I daresay she’ll be a sight for sore eyes.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Nicole sat in the brightly lit sunroom with Regina, sharing a cup of tea. It was lovely to discover that while Regina had grown more beautiful with age, she hadn’t lost any of her biting wit and wisdom. They’d already talked about Nicole’s mother, the latest fashions in both London and Paris, and Regina’s steadfast refusal to take a husband.

  “Why did you never visit?” Regina asked Nicole, pouring herself a second cup of tea.

  Nicole took a deep breath and traced her finger along the edge of her half-filled cup. “At first it was because I was needed in France. I was working … for the War Office while I was there.”

  Regina nodded. “Yes, I remember hearing something about that. And after the wars ended?”

  “I don’t know.” Nicole hesitated. She looked down and bit her lip. “I suppose I stayed out of habit. I was used to it there. I’d made a few friends. I moved out to the country to live in the lavender fields.”

  “And to avoid Mark,” Regina finished quietly, setting the delicate china teapot back down on the silver serving tray that rested on the table between them.

  Nicole calmly lifted her cup and took a sip of tea. “He was in France dozens of times over the last ten years. He could have looked for me. He never did.”

  “He almost died there, you know.” Regina’s words were barely a whisper.

  Nicole sucked in her breath and stared at her companion, the teacup frozen in her hands. “Pardon?”

  Regina didn’t look at her. She busied herself adding two lumps of sugar to her tea. “He was in a French prison camp for months. They nearly beat him to death. Broke his nose three times.”

  Nicole’s stomach clenched. She lowered her teacup with a shaking hand and set it on the table. She felt as if she might retch. “I … didn’t know.” She pressed suddenly freezing fingers to her middle. Horror and the urge to cry burned her eyes as she lifted them to meet Regina’s. “Oh, Regina.”

  Regina reached out and squeezed Nicole’s numb hand. “It’s all right. He’s back, he’s alive.”

  But Regina’s words didn’t help. Bile rose in Nicole’s throat. She didn’t want to contemplate it, but all she could do was picture Mark’s fine features bruised and bloodied, his strong body broken under the enemy’s brutal hands. The image tore a hole through her heart. To imagine him abused and helpless when he’d always been such a strong, unyielding force. Yes, he was the stone man, but he did bleed.

  Where had she been when he’d been so close to death? She bloody well would have hunted him down and tried to help with everything in her, if only she’d known. He’d nearly died. Her husband had nearly died.

  * * *

  Their wedding had been a small, private affair. Surprisingly, her mother and Grandmama hadn’t been against the match. Nicole had expected them to put up a fight. She’d expected them to argue with her, tell her she should marry the marquess. Instead they helped her plan the ceremony and even agreed to Mark’s demand that it be a tiny affair. There were no invitations sent to members of the ton. The banns were read and posted in the newspaper of course, indicating that Corporal Mark Grimaldi was to wed Lady Nicole Huntington. If anyone thought anything of it, they didn’t mention it to the happy couple.

  It wasn’t until a few nights before the wedding that Nicole learned the truth about who she was marrying. She’d been trying to track down any member of Mark’s family to invite to the wedding. She knew his parents were dead and he had no siblings, but surely he had an aunt or uncle or some cousins to share such an important event in his life. She meant to surprise him with his family, but she’d only been able to locate the part of his family that lived in Italy. She’d written to them and they had wished the new couple well but told her it was too far to travel. She couldn’t blame them. She’d saved their letters to share with Mark after the wedding.

  A few nights before the wedding, she made the fateful decision to ask Daffin for help. She sat across from the Bow Street Runner in his office as she had a hundred times before. “I only want to find one person on his mother’s side,” Nicole explained. “Just one person. Surely, there is someone still in England he’s related to.”

  Daffin barely glanced up from his paperwork. “Of course there is.”

  “What?” Nicole blinked. She leaned across the desk, folding her arms in front of her. “Who?”

  “He’s got an uncle, two aunts, and two cousins.”

  Nicole cocked her head to the side. “What are you talking about, Daffin?”

  Daffin pushed aside his papers and regarded Nicole down the length of his nose. “His mother’s side of the family. They live right here in London … when they’re not at their estates.”

  “Estates?” Surely the runner was mistaken. “What i
n the world are you saying?”

  Daffin dropped his quill and looked at her. His expression changed to surprise when he read her features. “Surely you aren’t telling me that you don’t know that Grim’s family on his mother’s side is the Duke of Colchester and his lot.”

  “The Duke of what?” She jumped from her seat and braced her palms on the desk, staring at Daffin in shock.

  Daffin winced. “Damn. I never thought he wouldn’t have told you. I probably shouldn’t have said anything. You must promise me not to tell him that you know.”

  “Why wouldn’t he have told me himself?” A thousand thoughts flew through her mind. It definitely explained why her mother and grandmother were fine with the match. Why hadn’t they told her either?

  “How exactly is he related to them?” she demanded.

  “The duke is his mother’s brother. The former duke was his grandfather. The Marquess of Coleford is his cousin.”

  Later, Nicole had asked her mother why she hadn’t said anything. “Oh, darling, Corporal Grimaldi clearly didn’t want anyone to know who his family was. We weren’t about to be the ones to tell you. Frankly, we thought part of the reason you liked him was because he was a nobody. We feared if you knew you were marrying the grandson of a duke you might cry off.”

  “Did you always know?” Nicole asked, still baffled.

  “No, darling. At first we thought he was a nobody too, but when you seemed so attached to him, your grandmama hired a man to do some investigating.”

  “You spied on him?” Nicole couldn’t breathe.

  Her mother waved a hand in the air. “I wouldn’t call it spying, dear. We simply needed to know who you were falling in love with. We weren’t about to allow you to marry just anyone, regardless of your affection for him.”

  Nicole had been forced to let that go. It bothered her that her mother and grandmother had been manipulative, but it would be silly to argue the point when she was madly in love with Mark and longed to become his wife. So she proceeded to the wedding without mentioning a word to her husband about his family, hoping he might tell her himself. He never did. She made a fateful choice by not telling him that she knew.