Heir to the Duke (The Duke's Sons #1)

by Jane Ashford

  “Your brother?” The shopkeeper’s tone dripped with disbelief.

  “Yes. Oh, not in that way!”

  “What way would that be…sir?”

  Torn between embarrassment, indignation, and laughter, Nathaniel threw up a hand. “Never mind.” He left the shop and walked off down the street, certain that the dismal shopkeeper’s gaze was fixed on his back. What sort of man was he, if his thoughts jumped to such conclusions from a simple request?

  After several minutes, well out of the man’s sight, Nathaniel began to chuckle. How much less…varied his life would be without his brothers. He would not know what it was like to wake up under a moth-eaten wolf skin. Or how to juggle three irate debutantes, each convinced that he had engaged to take them in to supper, and ready to defend their rights with metaphorical tooth and claw. Or the best ways to navigate when you were hip deep in a pile of manure—granted that was a long time ago. Nor would he have had the pleasure of being considered a degenerate by a Brighton shopkeeper. The lengths he went to for his family!

  Well, he would not attempt this particular errand again, that was certain. Perhaps Violet could suggest something. That was it. She had, after all, been a fifteen-year-old girl, and a thirteen-year-old, come to that. He would ask her for advice and get her to purchase the—whatever it was—herself.

  * * *

  The object of his thoughts was sitting at the writing desk in their parlor, plotting. She’d begun a note to her mother, inviting her to go walking and visit the circulating library. But she’d scarcely written the salutation when she realized that her grandmother would surely intercept it and force Mama to share the contents. And there was no sense in trying to arrange a secret delivery as long as her mother was staying in Lady Dunstaple’s house. Violet didn’t know any of her servants, or wish to confide in them. Besides, Renshaw was there. Her former lady’s maid would have established connections in the household, forming alliances so she knew everything that transpired within its doors. That was Renshaw’s invariable habit. So she would expose any message, and gladly do Violet a bad turn if she could.

  No, Violet needed a more subtle way of getting her mother out of the house on her own, or encountering her as if by chance. As she tried to list the likely times and places for that to happen, Violet realized that her mother rarely ventured out alone. Grandmamma was always part of her outings in London, whether shopping in Bond Street or attending an evening party. Even in the country, her grandmother joined in visits to needy tenants or sociable neighbors. Could this be right? Memories crowded in, but none of them featured her mother alone, apart from an occasional walk in the garden, under the scrutiny of rows of windows.

  Violet leaned her chin on her hand. Here was another thing that she hadn’t really noticed about her early life. Or, rather, had simply taken for granted, a truism that one didn’t examine. The insights were accumulating at an uncomfortable rate. She wondered if this was how a horse felt when they removed a set of blinders and its perspective suddenly widened to include new vistas. The comparison made her smile.

  “My lady?”

  Violet turned to find that Furness had come in without her hearing the door open.

  “I was just tidying your things, my lady, and I found you’d left something in your reticule.” She held out the bag. It crackled. “Of course I did not look inside,” she added virtuously.

  She forgotten about the Prince Regent’s note, Violet realized. And of course Furness knew perfectly well it was in the reticule. She’d seen her put it there. Hiding her chagrin, Violet held out a hand. “Thank you, Furness.”

  She waited until her maid left the room, then took out the crested envelope. There was no choice but to see what it said and answer immediately. She might wish to ignore the letter. Actually, she longed to throw it away. But one could not be openly rude to a royal prince. He could be as rude as he liked, but…

  The parlor door opened again, and the housemaid appeared. “Lady Granchester,” she said, bobbing a curtsy. Marianne came in on her heels, so Violet could not refuse the visit—not that she necessarily wished to. But she had to keep reminding the landlady’s maid that she was to inquire whether Violet was at home before bringing up guests.

  “I came to lure you out for a walk,” Marianne said. “It’s a fine day, for once.” She gestured at the windows. “Quite warm.”

  The sun was shining, Violet saw. The sky was a flawless blue. She’d been too preoccupied to notice the beautiful July day. Turning back to her friend, she observed that Marianne looked eager and lovely in a morning dress of rose pink under a gauzy shawl, with two matching feathers curled in her bonnet. There was no sign of self-consciousness in her expression, still less remorse. “You abandoned me at the ball,” Violet said. “You left me there in the…the clutches of the Regent.”

  “Clutches?” Marianne laughed as if it was a joke. “We were right outside the card room. There were people all around.”

  “Yes, to watch him…loom over me like a…a…”

  “Hot air balloon?” suggested Marianne.

  The picture this called up in Violet’s mind—a small figure crouched under one of the giant gas bags that lifted intrepid voyagers into the sky—made her laugh. “It was too bad of you,” she insisted. “Surely you could see that he was—”

  “Soused.” Marianne shrugged. “I’m sorry. I had to get home before… I had to get home.” She drew her shawl closer. “You will come for a walk, won’t you? You can stay in when it rains.”

  “Is it going to rain?” Violet looked out at the clear sky again. Marianne gave her a quizzical glance, and Violet laughed. Of course it was going to rain, probably sooner than later. The weather at the seaside was notoriously changeable. And she couldn’t stay angry with her friend. “Very well. I’ll just get my hat.”

  They set off together a few minutes later. Marianne unfurled a rose-pink parasol that she’d retrieved from the front hall. It threw a flattering ruddy light over her pretty face. Violet carried no sunshade. She’d found that a touch of sun warmed her pale complexion and made Furness’s rouge pot less necessary. “Shall we walk along the Marine Parade?” she asked. “Or down the Steine?”

  “I’m tired of crowds,” replied Marianne, dismissing Brighton’s fashionable haunts. “Let’s look about the town.”

  Violet had no objection, and so they strolled along one street and into another, glancing in shop windows and chatting. “William and Colin are not with you?” Violet asked when they had paused before a display of children’s toys.

  “Anthony prefers that they stay in the country,” said Marianne, the vivacity gone from her voice. “The air is better. And little boys would be bored in Brighton.”

  “Ah.” It appeared that Violet had hit upon another awkward topic. Her friend’s life seemed rife with them.

  “I would have stayed with them, of course,” Marianne continued. “I would have preferred that over… But Anthony feels it is unhealthy for mothers to hover over their sons.”

  “I’m sure you don’t…”

  “It’s nonsense, of course,” said Marianne, walking faster so that Violet had to hurry to keep up. “An excuse to prevent me from doing what I want. Not that the boys care. My sons look just like their father and have the same temperament. It’s as if I had no part in their existence except to bear them.”

  “I’m sure they adore their beautiful mother.” Sons did, didn’t they? Violet thought. “And wish you were with them.”

  “They idolize their father,” Marianne replied. “Shall we look at the church?”

  Surprised by the change of topic, Violet looked up at the large gray edifice ahead. There didn’t seem to be anything noteworthy about it.

  “I understand it is quite…historical.” Not waiting for Violet’s agreement, Marianne closed her parasol and led the way inside. The vaulted interior space was dim and nearly empty. In the far corner, a couple with an open guidebook bent over some monument, and a lone gentleman stood not far from the
entry, his eyes on the door. With a sinking feeling, Violet recognized him as the man she’d seen kissing Marianne at the ball. His eyes were brown, she noted, but not melting. They practically simmered. He was even handsomer than she’d remembered.

  Her face gone radiant, and without a word to Violet, Marianne hurried over to him. Their meeting was rapturous. And obviously prearranged, Violet thought. She stood stock-still on the stone floor, trying to take in the fact that she’d been used as a cover for Marianne’s tryst. Her friend had known all about this meeting when she called, with her talk of enjoying the fine day. She’d been anticipating it as they walked together. Perhaps she’d purposely invoked Violet’s sympathy, with her complaints about her sons. Was she that devious? Violet didn’t think so. She didn’t want to believe so. But Marianne had forced her into subterfuge, with no chance to object. This was not like the old friend she thought she knew.

  Violet watched her enfolded into the stranger’s arms. It would serve her right if she marched over and pulled them apart, Violet thought. Or asked them what in the world they thought they were doing. Marianne was trusting that she wouldn’t. And, deuce take it, she was right. She didn’t quite have the nerve.

  And so they stood there, leaning together, not kissing, though they might as well be, conscious of nothing but each other. Violet looked around the church. The couple with the guidebook was paying no attention, not yet at least. They were engrossed in their explorations, and nobody she recognized. That didn’t mean anything, however. They were clearly curious individuals, and they might know Marianne. And why was she worrying about Marianne’s exposure when she’d been manipulated?

  She couldn’t stand here staring. Violet moved farther down the nave. She found a placard explaining that St. Nicholas Church dated from the mid-fourteenth century, although the tower contained stones of Norman origin. There was a font carved around 1170 in Caen stone. Dutifully, Violet trudged over to examine it, discovering that it was the object the couple had been poring over when they came in. She rubbed her arms as she took in the scenes carved into the large stone cylinder six hundred and fifty years ago. It was chilly in the church. So much for the fine day they had come out to enjoy.

  There was an intricate carved screen, the oak black with age. Pews radiated outwards from the font, and there were galleries with more seating around the roof of the church. Violet tried not to overhear Marianne’s murmurs to her lover, and yet some part of her also strained to discover what they said. She had become—willy-nilly—a part of their plots. Was some disaster looming? Was there something she must do?

  The couple with the guidebook left the church, scarcely glancing at their fellow visitors. Violet heard a clock chime the quarter hour outside. She moved restlessly about the space, then finally sat in a pew, fuming.

  The clock had rung twice more before Marianne returned to her. The man walked quickly out of the church. There was to be no introduction then. “Marianne,” she said.

  “You’re angry with me.”

  “How would you feel if I…tricked you into such a position?”

  “I believe I would be glad to help,” her friend murmured, head down.

  “Marianne! This man… I don’t even know his name.”

  “Daniel Whalen,” Marianne replied.

  It meant nothing to Violet. She’d never encountered a family with that name. “Who is he? Where did you meet him?”

  “He is the younger son of a nearby landowner. I lost my way walking in the upper town one day. He found me, rescued me.” She sighed at the memory.

  “That’s all you know about him?” Deciding the man must be well away by now, Violet headed for the church door.

  “I know he loves me,” replied Marianne, following her out of the church.

  “After an acquaintance of…?”

  “Three weeks.” Marianne sighed again. “It is so hard to believe that it was just three weeks ago that he—”

  “Three weeks? Marianne.” Violet started back the way they’d come.

  Marianne hurried after her. “Don’t be this way,” she said, raising her parasol. “You don’t understand. You can’t understand what my life is like now.”

  “I don’t suppose I can,” replied Violet. “I can only see how you treat me.”

  Marianne winced. But she said, “I had to see him. If I’d told you, you might have refused, and I needed—”

  “A story to tell, to explain your absence. ‘I went walking with Violet.’”

  “Yes,” Marianne admitted baldly.

  “But you said Anthony cares nothing for what you do.”

  “As long as I am unhappy.”

  “What?”

  Marianne stared straight ahead, her expression gone stony. “He is perfectly indifferent to me as long as I’m miserable. But if I find any little crumb of happiness, he makes sure it’s taken away.”

  Violet stopped before the windows of a butcher shop. “That makes no sense, Marianne.”

  “You think I don’t know that?” It was an anguished cry, and it attracted curious glances from several passersby.

  Violet started walking again. “Why would he…? What did you do?”

  “Of course that is everyone’s first question,” responded Marianne bitterly. “Even mine. You cannot imagine how long I puzzled over it. Examined every word I’d said, every action I’d taken. For years, Violet. Years!”

  The heartbreak vibrating in her voice made Violet uneasy—partly because they were in a public street, but more because it was so sad. Seeing her old friend’s misery, Violet found sympathy overcoming her embarrassment. “Marianne…”

  “I finally concluded that he would be the same no matter what I did,” she continued. Her tone had flattened, emotion stripped out of it. “The cause was not my flaws and shortcomings, though I freely admit I have them. He simply enjoys my suffering.”

  Violet couldn’t conceive of such a thing. But she could see her friend’s pain.

  “He’s teaching my sons to despise me,” Marianne added, eyes on the cobbles beneath their feet. “And they’re soaking it up like little sponges. He treats them like miniature kings. And every treat comes from his hands. Every servant looks to him.”

  “I don’t understand.” Violet knew the words were feeble, but she had no others.

  Marianne straightened and gave her a raw, direct look. “It is not a logical proposition; you can’t work it out in your mind. It is simply a fact. Anthony is a wicked, perverse man. He hides it from most of the world. But I am his…personal plaything. His possession.”

  “Oh, Marianne, what can I—?”

  “Nothing. There is nothing you can do.” Her friend looked away. “And it doesn’t matter. I don’t care anymore. I’ve found a man who cherishes me, and I’m going to become his lover.” She said the last word with a kind of triumph.

  “You haven’t yet?”

  “There has been no opportunity. For all his professed indifference, Anthony keeps close track of me. All the servants spy for him.” She looked around. “I wouldn’t be surprised to see one of his grooms lurking in a doorway.”

  Violet knew what that felt like. Still, she wasn’t reconciled to being used as a shield. “You should have told me you were meeting him,” she said again.

  “And you would have come with me?” Marianne challenged.

  “I would like to help you,” Violet replied instead of answering. “There must be something. Could you not appeal to—?”

  “Anthony does not strike me,” Marianne interrupted. “He provides for me quite lavishly. Indeed, he insists I order fine new gowns and…and everything. Violet! No one cares what he says to me, or about me to my children.”

  “I do,” she protested.

  “Then you will help me bring some happiness into my bleak existence.”

  Violet couldn’t hold her demanding gaze. “What are you going to do? Run away?”

  “I will not lose my children,” was the fierce reply. “Despite everything…in a few years
they will both be at school. I can see them there, without him. I will do so! Then I can show them that I’m…worthy.”

  Violet found the word unbearably poignant. “So you are only going to…?”

  “Enjoy myself! Grasp some pleasure in an arid life.”

  Violet again heard an echo of her own resolutions. “I just don’t know—”

  “Of course you don’t,” Marianne interrupted again. “You’re married to a man who cares for you.”

  “We are good friends,” Violet acknowledged.

  “Friends!” Marianne gave her an incredulous stare. “Haven’t you noticed the way he looks at you?”

  “What way?” Violet was suddenly riveted, and desperate for her friend to elaborate.

  But before she could, they came out onto the Steine, and Violet saw the Prince Regent strolling along the fashionable promenade with a group of his cronies. She stopped abruptly, then retreated a few steps into the street they had just left. She became acutely conscious of the Regent’s note, still in her reticule. She’d forgotten it again. Her brain seemed bent on erasing it from consciousness. She couldn’t see him until she’d replied. And her lodgings were on the other side of the Steine.

  “What’s wrong?” wondered Marianne.

  Violet discovered that she didn’t want to tell her—partly because her problem was trivial compared to Marianne’s, and partly because her trust in her friend had been shaken. If Marianne would use her as she had today, what other indiscretions might she commit?

  The Regent turned to walk the other way. Violet seized the opportunity to rush across the open space and into a street opposite. She felt ridiculous.

  “Violet?”

  “I must get back. I have to write a letter.” She hurried along.

  Marianne kept pace. “You’re not going to tell?”

  “Oh, Marianne, of course I’m not going to tattle on you.”

  “But you aren’t going to help me.”

  “I need to think.”

  “Very well.” Marianne stopped and let her go ahead.

  After a moment, Violet realized she was gone and turned.

  “Let me know when you have finished thinking,” said her friend, and walked away.