My Once and Future Duke (The Wagers of Sin #1)

by Caroline Linden

  But . . . what could he want?

  Warily she walked to the parlor. He might be just as cruel and spiteful as his father, come to call her an abomination and worse. He’d never showed any interest in her before. When Papa was banished from Makepeace Manor, he had left nearly everything about it in the past. He rarely spoke of his family, who hadn’t been a warm or loving lot. The main thing she remembered Papa telling her, in fact, was that he’d named his father her guardian in his will. He’d been so desperately ill, coughing up blood until she feared he had none left in his veins, but he’d wanted to explain to her why he did it. Makepeace had money; Makepeace knew his duty to his family, and he could see that she was provided for when Papa was dead.

  Her mother had already died, a week earlier, and Sophie had sobbed that if Papa died, she wanted to die, too, to be with him and Mama. She would never forget how he squeezed her hand and told her never to say that again. “You must live for her now,” he’d whispered, his rich tenor voice destroyed by the consumption. “And for me. Makepeace is not a gentle man, but you’re stronger than he. Don’t let him cow you. You’re a Graham, and Makepeace will see that you’re treated as one.”

  Well. Her mouth flattened to a thin line at the thought of her grandfather, glowering and growling that he had no desire to raise a granddaughter. The only indisputably good turn he’d done her was to abandon her at Mrs. Upton’s Academy. If her uncle was anything like him, she would throw him out, no matter how civil he’d been to Colleen. Girding herself for confrontation, she turned the knob on the parlor door and went in.

  The man waiting inside looked up at her entrance. He rose to his feet, tall like Papa but portly, although he looked far too young to be her uncle. His hair was sandy brown, not fair like her father’s had been, but his eyes were Papa’s—­and they were kind. She stopped cold, suddenly unsure.

  “Mrs. Campbell.” He bowed and gave her a small, tentative smile. “I am Lord Makepeace. I—­I rather think I’m your uncle.”

  She wet her lips. “What makes you think so, sir?”

  “Were your parents Thomas Graham, of Yorkshire, and his wife, Cecile?” he asked, adding apologetically, “Cecile was French, but I’ve forgotten her surname entirely.”

  The air seemed to grow thin for a moment. He knew her parents. “Yes,” she managed to say.

  A smile creased his face. “Then I most certainly am your uncle. Well, I knew it as soon as I saw you! You’ve got Tom’s look. I met Cecile only once, but you’ve got her coloring.”

  “Why are you here?” she asked unsteadily. “I’ve had no contact with your family since the viscount stopped paying my tuition at school several years ago.”

  Embarrassment flicked in his eyes. “Yes, that. My father was a stubborn man. When he died, I discovered a thick stack of letters from Tom in his papers. All neatly boxed, and I don’t think he replied to one of them.”

  Her heart was about to pound out of her chest. What had Papa written to his father? When had he written? He’d always sworn never to speak to Makepeace again unless the viscount welcomed and accepted his wife and daughter. Sophie had presumed that never happened. “Not that I ever knew,” she murmured.

  The new Lord Makepeace nodded. “He and Tom went at it hammer and tongs more than once. I’m not so keen on that m’self, and, why, Tom was a good brother to me. I knew he had a child, but my father never would say anything about you. The last time I asked, he said you’d been at school but had run away.” He squinted at her uncertainly. “I came to see that you’re well, ma’am. You’re the only family I have left now.”

  Slowly she came into the room. Her knees were about to give way; he was nothing like she had expected. She gestured at the sofa and sank into a chair as her uncle resumed his seat. “Forgive me, sir—­I know almost nothing of my father’s family. Lord Makepeace was the only person I ever met, and it was not a warm and tender reunion. My father hardly spoke of his family at all.”

  He chuckled. “I don’t doubt why! An old tartar he was, my father. George was the same, but Tom and I . . .” He shook his head. “I hope I can do better.”

  She stared at him, jolted. George? George was Papa’s older brother, who taunted and teased her father over his musical studies, who mocked him for refusing to go see the bearbaiting in the village. Frantically she searched her memory. It had been so long, and Papa had never said much, but hints of it were coming back to her . . . “You’re Henry,” she blurted.

  He grinned proudly. “I am! Tom must have said something of me.”

  “He did.” She frowned, rubbing her forehead. Henry was Papa’s half brother, younger by several years. Papa had spoken of him as a child. “It was so many years ago . . . You kept a pet hedgehog.”

  “Humbert,” he said with affection.

  “You fell off your pony when you were eight,” she added with growing enthusiasm as bits of stories surfaced in her memory. “And broke your leg! Papa had to help you with your lessons for a month while you were abed.”

  “He tried,” said Lord Makepeace with a laugh.

  Sophie laughed, too, then clapped her hand to her mouth to stop it. “What happened to . . . ?”

  “My father? George?” Her uncle nodded, unperturbed. “George died a few years ago. A cancer, the doctor said. My father breathed his last right after Christmastide. It’s taken me a while to get things in order, and then I wasted time searching for Miss Graham. I’d no idea you married,” he added apologetically.

  “You were looking for me?” she repeated in wonder.

  “Of course.” He looked at the floor. “I found the bills for your school and wrote to the headmistress. Mrs. Upton, her name was. She’s quite fond of you and gave me a direction in Bath. Well, you weren’t there anymore. Lord Fox told me his aunt left you some funds, and it made sense you’d go to London. I had to hire someone to ask about in town.”

  Sophie could hardly breathe. “Why?”

  He pursed his lips. “I thought I’d like to know how you are,” was his reply after a moment. “I haven’t got children—­never did find a wife, either, a younger son with no expectations. I know my father didn’t take well to Tom marrying Cecile, but I didn’t do much better. I only wrote to him a few times, being a young idiot, and never managed to come see him after he came back to England. So I thought I owed something to Tom’s daughter, if she needed anything.”

  Numbly she shook her head. If she had known she had an uncle—­a kind uncle who might take an interest in her, she could have had somewhere to go when she left Mrs. Upton’s Academy.

  “Well. Good. I’m glad you’re getting on all right.” He rubbed his palms on his knees. “I’ve got no experience at this, but if you’ll welcome me, I thought I’d call on you now and then. Make certain you still don’t need anything.” He shrugged. “Tell stories on Tom, if you want to hear them. He was a dozen years older, but I remember him well. I was twelve when he met your mother and left.”

  “Yes,” she whispered. “I would like that very much, my lord.”

  “Uncle Henry, if you wish,” he said, almost shyly.

  She beamed. “I do.”

  It looked like her uncle blushed. He told her where she could find him in London, then got up and bowed in farewell and put on his hat. He let himself out and went down the step to where a handsome roan stood waiting. Sophie followed, still dazed by the visit. He was gathering the reins when something struck her. “Uncle Henry,” she called.

  He looked up, waiting.

  “Are there attics at Makepeace Manor?” she asked. “Crammed with old furniture and perhaps some of Papa’s things from when he was a boy?”

  “There are attics,” he said in surprise, “although I’ve no idea if there’s anything of your father’s up there. You . . . You are welcome to visit and see, if you like.”

  She thought of that rainy afternoon with Jack, up under the eaves
of Alwyn House. Perhaps he would come with her to rummage in her own family’s history. “Thank you. I think I might.”

  Uncle Henry grinned, touched the brim of his hat, and rode off.

  She closed the door and leaned against it. She had family. Just an uncle, but one who seemed kind, who didn’t disdain her or her parents. Who asked to call on her and tacitly offered his support.

  Her breath caught. She had family. Connections. With her four thousand pounds and a viscount for an uncle, she was no longer nobody; she was almost . . . eligible.

  Jack might say he didn’t care, but other people would. London society would look down their aristocratic noses at the just-­barely-­respectable woman who’d snared the Duke of Ware. She dreaded being snubbed and suspected of tricking Jack into wedding her. It was very easy to say one didn’t care what other people thought or said, but to spend the next several decades of her life atoning for doing what she had to do to survive . . .

  But now she didn’t need to. As niece to Lord Makepeace, and with her modest fortune, she had claim to being one of the ton. Good enough to be a duchess. Her heart lifted at the thought of telling Jack tonight.

  Her joy lasted all of two hours and twenty minutes. She finished her letters to Eliza and Georgiana, greatly expanded to include the news of her uncle’s visit, and sent Colleen off to post them. Georgiana’s letter she enclosed with Eliza’s, since Lady Sidlow was intercepting Georgiana’s messages and would confiscate anything from unapproved persons—­namely Sophie. She felt an extra burst of vindication that soon Lady Sidlow’s objections would melt like ice in the summer sun. Not merely the niece of a viscount, but a future duchess, as well. She couldn’t wait to see Georgiana again.

  So it was a great surprise to hear a rapid knocking on the door, and open it to see Georgiana herself, flushed and flustered. “What—­?” she began, astonished.

  “Sophie, listen to me,” said her friend in a great rush. “I’m not supposed to be here—­I promised Nadine all my pin money for the next month not to tell Lady Sidlow we came here instead of going to the lending library. Eliza wrote to me about you and the duke. Are you still in love with him?”

  She blinked at the intensity of the question. “Yes, but Georgiana—­”

  The other girl closed her eyes. “That scoundrel. You must refuse to see him again, Sophie, for your own sake. Trust me in this!”

  “Why?” Sophie reached for her hand. “I was just writing to you—­about him. Georgiana, he asked me to marry him. Can you believe it?”

  Georgiana’s eyes flashed. “No,” she said grimly. “I cannot. Oh, if only Lady Sidlow hadn’t refused to let me come to tea! I could have saved you—­”

  “What?” Sophie asked when she compressed her lips into a fierce scowl. “Saved me from what?”

  “From falling for him.” The plain-­faced maid loitering several steps away coughed, and Georgiana flapped one hand at her in irritation. “Another minute, Nadine!” She turned back to Sophie. “I’ve been hearing little bits of rumor about Ware,” she said, low and fast. “Gossip that he would marry Lady Lucinda Afton, whose mother is such bosom friends with the duchess—­everyone knows both mothers are in favor of the match. But he rarely goes to balls, and no one had ever seen him dance with her, let alone show any other sign of interest, so I dismissed it. But we were at Gunter’s today, enjoying ices in the shade, and there he was!”

  “Jack?” said Sophie in confusion, as Georgiana paused to draw breath.

  “Ware!” Georgiana gave her a deeply disapproving look. “Don’t think of him as Jack. He was in Berkley Square just today with Lucinda Afton on his arm.”

  She shook her head even as a shiver of dread crept up her spine. “It doesn’t mean he’s going to marry her.”

  “I didn’t see him go down on one knee and propose,” retorted Georgiana, “but they were arm in arm. They sat on a bench in the square not far from Lady Sidlow’s carriage and talked for some time, quite cordially and intimately. He ordered an ice for her from Gunter’s. Lady Capet, one of Lady Sidlow’s gossipy friends who was with us, couldn’t stop remarking on it. She said Ware is very somber and proper, but there he was smiling and laughing with Lady Lucinda. Lady Sidlow said an engagement announcement was surely imminent, and I was so outraged I asked why she thought so.”

  Sophie said nothing. The shiver had turned into a sharp chill. She folded her arms around herself and listened even as protests screamed through her mind. She knew Jack. He would never do something so heartless and cruel as ask her to marry him when he meant to marry someone else . . . a proper young lady of his own class . . . of whom society and his family would happily approve . . .

  “Lady Sidlow said it was because his father caused Lady Lucinda’s father’s death,” Georgiana went on, “and that the Afton ladies have been under the duke’s protection ever since. She said there is a longstanding agreement that Ware would marry Lucinda. She’d heard it from Lady Stowe herself, who has pointedly discouraged other suitors for her daughter. Lucinda is quite an heiress and rather lovely, and normally she would have a number of gentlemen vying for her attention.”

  “Then why hasn’t he already married her?” Sophie argued. “There’s nothing stopping him, if he wants her.”

  Georgiana gave her a look of pity. “Lucinda’s much younger than he is. She’s only eighteen. I daresay he wanted to wait until she was grown and had her presentation at Court.”

  Nadine the maid coughed again, with more vigor this time. Georgiana flung out her arm angrily. “One minute!” She turned back to Sophie. “I cannot stay—­we shall have to run as it is, to make it back to the lending library before Lady Sidlow’s carriage returns for us. Will you listen to what I said? Sophie, I can’t bear to see you humiliated and brokenhearted.”

  “I always listen to your advice,” she said softly. “Thank you, Georgiana.”

  Her friend gave her a hasty hug. “Goodbye. I hate to be the one to tell you, but I couldn’t wait. I’ll write more when I know more, and have Eliza send it. Goodbye!” She hitched her shawl back up her shoulder and hurried off with the impatient maid.

  Sophie watched them go in silence. Georgiana was a reliable witness, and she wouldn’t have dared risk Lady Sidlow’s anger for anything less than a dire emergency. The trouble was, Sophie couldn’t believe it. It was impossible. Jack wouldn’t have lied to her that way. She would have to hear him admit it before she believed that he’d betrayed her that badly.

  No. She gave herself a sharp shake. It was ridiculous. Georgiana must be mistaken. Jack had proposed and then made love to her all night long until she fell asleep in his arms. He stayed until morning, when anyone could see him leaving her house. He wouldn’t have done that if he intended to throw her over for another woman, if—­she staggered as something even more horrible struck her—­he had been engaged to Lady Lucinda all this time.

  Breathing hard, she steadied herself against the door. She trusted him. She was mad to let rumor and a chance sighting at Gunter’s obliterate everything she believed about him.

  Still . . . Sophie had met many liars in her life. Some she’d seen through at once, and some had got the better of her, but she learned something from every encounter. When someone was caught in a big enough lie, he usually lied again to hide it. If Jack had led her on, saying he wanted to marry her when in reality he planned to marry another woman, there was no reason to think he’d be honest with her now. Georgiana said Lady Sidlow believed it to be a very longstanding betrothal, which meant she ought to be able to find independent confirmation . . .

  Her heart sank as the answer came to her. Philip. She would have to ask Philip, tonight at Vega’s.

  Chapter 26

  She climbed the club steps earlier than usual that evening. Jack usually arrived later, as Philip kept his word and stayed away from her. Sophie had been grateful for that at first, but tonight she walked through the enti
re club looking for him.

  When she finally spotted him, lounging in an armchair with a glass in his hand, she walked right up to him. “Good evening, Lord Philip.” She dropped a curtsy.

  He sat up straighter, then leaped to his feet and bowed. “Mrs. Campbell. What an absolute pleasure.” One of his mates nearby snickered, and Philip made a rude gesture at him. “Let us talk somewhere else.” One corner of his mouth quirked up. “Since I presume you’ve not come to invite me to play hazard again.”

  “Never hazard again,” she said lightly as she took his offered arm. “I only wanted a private word, if I may.”

  “Always,” he said. They walked through the still-­quiet club until they came to an unoccupied sofa. Sophie seated herself, and Philip sat an arm’s distance away. “What troubles you?”

  “I would like there to be peace between us,” she said.

  His brows descended. “Have we been at war?”

  “I don’t think so,” she said honestly, “although things became a bit tense.”

  He heaved a sigh and stared across the room. “Was I really that obnoxious to you?”

  “Well . . . yes.” She gave a little nod as he glanced at her in astonishment. “You followed me about like an angry thundercloud, scowling and muttering. It would strain anyone’s nerves.”

  “I am sorry for it.” He dropped his head and ground his palm against his forehead. “I was so worried when my brother swept you away—­the thing is, I know him, and you don’t. You said I made a spectacle of you, when he was the one who carted you away like a prize of battle.”

  This was what she wanted to discuss, but her mouth still went dry. She wet her lips. “What do you mean, you know him and I do not?”

  He gave a sharp huff of bitter laughter. “I know him! Have my whole life. He used to be a capital fellow, open to adventure and daring. Sometimes I think that fellow must be deep inside him still, but he never shows it.”