Without further ado, he bowed, turned, and left the establishment.
With unsteady hands Thomas drained his glass of brandy, tucked the papers into his waistcoat, and left without a word to his friends who tried to congratulate him on his good fortune. They could attribute his rudeness to shock, which indeed was the truth.
When he stepped outside, the cold blasts of wind and rain that shrouded London in midday gray did not register, nor did he remember that he had left his greatcoat, gloves, and hat at his club.
Thomas signaled his driver. Once settled within his carriage, he stared at the packet in his lap, ignoring the damp chill clinging to the inside of the coach.
***
The rest of the day and into the evening Thomas sat at the mahogany desk in his study at his home on Cavendish Square, a brandy bottle in hand, now half empty as he swigged it straight. The papers he had acquired, spread across his desktop, did little to ease his foul mood or the crushing weight upon his chest. Through it all, the gruesome picture of his dead father haunted his vision.
His father’s years of wasteful spending, drinking, and whoring had contributed to his declining health. Dead at the age of fifty-one, in the decimated body of a ninety-year-old. Thomas shuddered as he remembered finding his father, lying dead on the floor of his study. His wasted body and the putrid stench of vomit had hung sour in the air. He gagged even now as he remembered.
***
Several days later found Thomas back at his desk, his mind still contemplating his altered situation. The arrival of his valet, Giles, interrupted that.
“Excuse me, Your Grace, there is a gentleman here to see you.” Giles reached out to hand the duke a calling card, but Thomas waved it off.
“Read it for me.”
“Yes, Your Grace. A Mr. Charles Hamilton begs leave to see you. Shall I send him in?”
Thomas caught Giles’s critical gaze as it scanned the cluttered room.
“Perhaps you should meet him in the blue drawing room?” Giles suggested brazenly.
“Give me five minutes and escort him to me here.” So what if his study looked lived in? He had nothing to prove to this stranger.
Devil take it. What can the man want with me? And do I care?
He pondered this as he buttoned up the top three closures of his starched white shirt and tied his cravat. Thomas might be a duke and used to being dressed by his valet, but he was far from helpless. He tied a damn fine knot if he did say so himself.
Thomas scanned his study for his waistcoat before remembering he’d come down from his rooms without one. He had thrown all propriety to the wind the past several days––barely eating, bathing, or changing his clothes.
He put his bottle of brandy, his only trusted companion, into the deep drawer of his desk and waited for his visitor to be presented.
Though his friends Amesbury and Norwich had called each day since the fateful card game, he had refused to see them. What must they be thinking? That he finally needed to be committed to Bedlam? A knock sounded on the study door.
“Enter.”
Giles led Mr. Hamilton into Wentworth’s study and closed the door quietly after a silent bow. The small rotund man, several decades Thomas’s senior, was dressed impeccably in shades of brown. But if one looked closely, as Thomas did, the man’s skin looked grayish. He appeared to be terribly ill.
“Excuse the intrusion, Your Grace.” His visitor bowed his head.
“Please sit down, Mr. Hamilton.” The man sat, and Thomas continued. “What is your purpose in coming here?”
Was he here to reclaim his losses? Hope fluttered wildly in the duke’s chest.
“I’m here to see to the future of my estate and holdings in America.” Hamilton held up his hand. “Before you interrupt me, let me explain several things to you. I played you the other night. I wanted to lose to you. I wanted to get to know you in a familiar setting. See for myself what type of gentleman you are.”
Hamilton paused. “Your father and I were close friends during our younger days. After my family was disgraced, my father hung, and all titles and holdings stripped by the Crown, your father gave me money to start over in America. He was new to the title and had many obligations for those funds, yet he would never let me repay him. I’m repaying him now by saving your family from financial ruin.”
The duke opened his mouth to ask a question.
Hamilton ignored him. “Please let me finish. I’m also being selfish, for my daughter’s sake. I am dying. I’m not sure I will survive the crossing back to Boston, and I need you to take control of my businesses and the guardianship of my daughter, Emma. Everything is explained in these papers––everything you need to know about my daughter and my businesses and holdings. There is also a private letter for my daughter. Please give it to her upon her marriage or when she turns twenty-five.”
“But—” Words escaped Thomas as his world shrank down to his own pounding heartbeat and the gentleman facing him with so much pain and sadness in his eyes.
“I realize,” Mr. Hamilton continued as he rose from his chair, “all this comes as a surprise to you, but I assure you when you read the private letter addressed to you, you will understand my reasoning. All I ask is that you do not disappoint me where my daughter is concerned. Take her under your wing, introduce her into Society, and arrange a good marriage for her. I have made you my heir, with a substantial amount in a trust for my daughter.”
Hamilton hesitated, clearing his throat. “But whatever you do, you must not let her find out about our family’s past, about our card game, my illness, or how I die. And no one other than your immediate family and the two trusted friends from the gaming table must know any of this. It would ruin all I have planned for and done if the ton finds out my daughter’s real origins.”
Mr. Hamilton rose, took a step toward the door, and turned. “I will not have her suffer for my father’s sins.”
***
Thomas could relate to Hamilton’s comment about a father’s sins. Did not his whole family suffer for their father’s sins? Against his will, voices from the past echoed around him. He could hear his own voice choking back the words he’d uttered to his mother after he found his father’s body. The scene began to evolve. Christ, not again. He would not relive the finding of his father’s body again.
Thomas guzzled the remainder of the bottle of brandy. More fiery liquid trickled down his chin and onto his shirt than reached his mouth. He hurled the bottle against the fireplace.
The loud crash of it shattering gave him little pleasure.
The following day, a note from Mr. Hamilton’s barrister dangled from Thomas’s shaking hand.
Mr. Hamilton is dead. Suicide.
How long he sat there Thomas had no idea. He started when his study door burst open. His burning eyes rested on Amesbury and Norwich, who held their noses as they entered the room.
“Good gracious,” Amesbury bellowed as he wrinkled his nose. “When was the last time you bathed? Damn, Wentworth, my eyes are stinging.”
He pushed aside the burgundy drapes and opened the window to let in fresh air. Amesbury approached the sideboard and held up the empty bottles, then swung around with brows raised in silent question.
“Not a drop left, and, by the condition of this place, I’d say you haven’t left this room in days.” Amesbury left the sideboard to lounge in the chair opposite Wentworth’s desk. “My God, man, for someone who’s always impeccably turned out, you’re a mess. Three-day beard, dirty, disheveled hair, soiled, ratty clothes. I’m almost embarrassed to call you my friend. Did Giles leave you for another? What brought this on?”
Thomas glared at his friends. For some reason brandy had lost its appeal last evening. Today, though he didn’t look it, he was alert and sober, and he agreed wholeheartedly that his study reeked. But how dare they come in uninvited and criticize his appearance?
“Why are you two here?” Thomas demanded, his voice hoarse from lack of use and from abusing the
spirits he’d consumed. He tried not to squirm in his seat as four eyes––two brown, two green––narrowed on him. “Damnation, will someone speak? I’m not horseflesh to be appraised for sale at Tattersall’s.”
“Well,” Myles began, head cocked to one side, “we were just wondering what is so bad you have yourself wallowing in self-pity. Did you not just come into a fortune?”
Thomas leaned forward in his chair and shrugged his shoulders. How fortunate were these friends who insulted him without consequences. Being a duke had its advantages and downfalls. Too many of his peers sucked up to him and agreed with anything that tumbled out of his mouth because he was a duke. It was not so with these two.
Instead of explaining events, he handed over a copy of the Last Will and Testament of Mr. Charles Hamilton and the private letter addressed to him that had arrived with it. Patiently he waited for their reaction as both his friends read the documents.
Myles didn’t even try to hide his amusement as he handed back the papers. “What are you planning to do? Have you spoken with your family?”
“Do I look like I have?” Thomas shook his head. “They are due to arrive any day, and I’ve not decided what I’m going to do.” He slowly rose from his desk and paced the floor, his hands behind his back. “I might just forget the whole thing. I am considering contacting Mr. Hamilton’s solicitors in New Bedford to have them sell off everything and send the funds to me here.” He paused, rubbed the stubble on his chin, and winced. “As for the girl, there must be someone willing to take her in.”
“You mean to ignore a dead man’s wishes?” Amesbury asked with a sudden intake of breath.
“You cannot be serious, Thomas,” Myles said.
The shock in his friends’ voices puzzled him.
“Don’t ‘Thomas’ me. When I became Wentworth, I asked you to continue calling me Thomas and you refused, so don’t ‘Thomas’ me now. Besides, what do you expect me to do?” He slashed the air with his arm. “Never mind, don’t answer that. But what would you do if you were in my place?”
“Well, let me see.” Myles grinned widely. It was never a good sign when he grinned like that. “I think I’d book passage on the next ship to Boston, travel to this girl, extend my condolences for her father’s death, and beg her forgiveness for stealing all her money.”
Both Thomas and Amesbury yelled simultaneously, “What?”
Myles laughed. “Let me finish. Once she falls at your feet . . .” He paused, shook his head. “No, I take that back; she’s likely a feisty one. I think she’ll try to scratch your eyes out. Then I think you should marry the chit and bring her here as your duchess and get her portion of the monies, too. She might forgive you eventually for stealing her fortune and taking her away from the only home she has ever known.”
“You’re enjoying this.” Thomas eyed his two grinning friends and collapsed into his chair in frustration.
“Well, as a matter of fact, I am,” Myles said. “Come to think of it, maybe I’ll travel with you. I’m tired of the marriage-hunting mamas and their silly, witless daughters all vying for my attention and my title. Not one of them is interested in me as a man, only the earldom and fortune I’ll inherit someday. I don’t want some shy, placid virgin in my bed.”
Thomas stared in shock at his friend.
Myles continued. “Yes, well maybe I should explain. “I want a virgin, but I also want an enthusiastic bed partner. Do you think any of the present debutantes are anything but frigid?” He shuddered. “If you don’t want the American girl, maybe I’ll marry her.”
Thomas’s nostrils flared. “And what, pray tell, makes you think I would let you marry my ward? I will not even let you near my sisters because you are debauched. Visit your mistress and stop this nonsense.”
Myles burst into laughter and saluted him. “Yes, Your Grace.”
“You are jealous because you will never be called Your Grace, only My Lord,” Thomas teased his friend. “And for your information, Mr. Hamilton did not appear to be the type of man who would raise his daughter to be free with her favors. I doubt she is any different than the frivolous girls we have here in England. And I have no intention of marrying her.”
“Why not?” Amesbury questioned. “You need a duchess and an heir; why not marry her and be done with it? If she’s not comely, you can take a mistress. She’d probably be glad not to have to submit to your inept fumbling in the bedchamber once you have an heir and a spare anyway.”
Thomas flung his head back and roared with laughter. “All this praise from my so-called friends. What do my enemies laugh about behind my back?” His hand went up. “Don’t answer that. And I’ll have you know I don’t fumble in the company of any lady.” He paused and examined his large hands. “I play their bodies until they sing my praises and beg for a repeat performance.”
“If you say so,” Amesbury snorted.
“Now if you will excuse me.” Thomas rose. “I need a bath, food, and a comfortable bed.” Without waiting for a reply, he left his study and climbed the carpeted staircase two steps at a time.
Clearheaded and light of feet for the first time in days, he burst into his chambers with a renewed sense of purpose. He now knew what he had to do. Honor forbade him from ignoring his duty to Hamilton. How could he ever look himself in the eye if he didn’t fulfill the dead man’s wishes? A trip to America was in his immediate future.
THE LADY AND THE EARL
A Seabrook Family Saga, Book II
Available Now
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CHAPTER ONE
ENGLAND 1818
“Please, do not be afraid.”
Was he serious? How could she not be afraid?
Lady Amelia Seabrook struggled with her skirts as she waded through the shin-deep water to retrieve her boots and stockings from a nearby rock. Her muslin skirts were soaked to above her knees and clinging most embarrassingly to her legs; her stockings and shoes were drenched as she had splashed them in her hurry to exit the water. The mile walk back to her home, one she normally enjoyed, would be uncomfortable because of the dampness of her clothing. Most important of all was that she make haste to remove herself from this intruder.
How dare this stranger ruin the time she spent daydreaming about Captain Rycroft, her beloved? How dare he interrupt? It was only during these lonely, quiet times that Amelia allowed herself to think of him. To dream and wish he still lived. But today, when she needed this time to remember and to reflect, this stranger had destroyed the moment.
Amelia turned, her chin held high. She would not cower before anyone. “Who are you, sir?”
“Lord Bridgeton. My land abuts this creek.”
By the narrowing of Lord Bridgeton’s eyes, Amelia knew she failed to hide her shock at his intrusion here. She’d long known the earl lived as a recluse because of a scandal involving his older brother and his brother’s pregnant wife. Amelia had learned this from servants’ gossip.
Looking at him now, he did not look dangerous. Frightening perhaps, the way he sat on his fine stallion and towered over her, but not dangerous. Amelia admitted he was even handsome, with his dark, wavy hair, streaked with silver here and there. The earl wore it unfashionably long, however, and it grazed his shoulders. He had strong features and high cheekbones. What drew Amelia’s interest, despite her angst, were Lord Bridgeton’s eyes––a pale blue so light they were almost gray. Very striking against his dark hair and sun-bronzed skin. The color did not mesmerize her, rather it was the pain she recognized radiating from them. A pain she understood all too well.
Remembering her loss, she wiped a tear from her cheek, knowing her eyes would reveal her sadness and despair. She must look a sight after crying for so long. Her brothers had warned her to stay away from this earl and his property. Had they believed the gossip? Did they know more than she’d learned from servants’ gossip?
“Are
you going to continue to stare at me so rudely, or are you going to tell me who you are and what you’re doing here?” the earl demanded, slapping his riding crop against his thigh impatiently.
She should have been offended and cast him away like an irritating insect. But there was something compelling in his tone and his words that, though meant to intimidate her, did not. Instead, his voice, so demanding, deep, and smooth, wrapped around her like a blanket warmed by the fire.
“I’m Lady Amelia Seabrook, Thomas Seabrook, the Duke of Wentworth’s sister. I live here and have been for several weeks now.”
“If that is true, what, pray tell, is a lovely, young, privileged member of the ton doing crying in the country during the height of the Season?”
“That, Lord Bridgeton, is none of your concern.” Amelia looked down and again fought the burning of tears in her throat and in her eyes. She would not cry in front of this stranger. After all the crying she had done the past year and a half, she promised herself she would never cry another public tear as long as she lived. She had come to accept the fact that she would never dance at another ball or attend Almack’s or any such silly soirees that other young ladies attended during the London Season. And she did not care. Their loss did not make her cry. Losing Captain Rycroft did.
Lord Bridgeton’s eyes widened before he bowed his head ever so slightly. “Please accept my sincere apologizes for my rudeness. You obviously have a good reason to be here instead of London.” He held up his hand. “And, of course, that reason is none of my business. Once again, I apologize.”
“Indeed, no, it is none of your business. Oh!” Amelia backed up several steps as Bridgeton dismounted from his horse. Her heart pounded as her eyes darted about for an escape.
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