How to Deceive a Duke

by Lecia Cornwall

  He knew Mrs. Dunne was hoping for those dulcet days of family happiness back again at Temberlay Castle, especially now he was married.

  “All in good time,” he promised her.

  She searched his face, no doubt about to ask him about his bride.

  He changed the subject. “Have you any treacle tarts, by chance? I’m starving.”

  She puffed proudly. “Of course. Go through to the library and I’ll bring you tea, and something to eat. Some good beef stew first, mind you, before treacle tarts.”

  He smiled his thanks. “I understand Tobias Simmons retired to Temberlay. Is his cottage nearby?”

  “Oh yes—at the end of the village, near the river. He comes up to visit us in the kitchen on occasion, but he mostly keeps to himself, does a bit of gardening. He’ll be glad to see you, sir. He was dreadfully upset by Lord David’s death. Cried like a babe at the funeral. We all did.”

  “I’ll visit him tomorrow,” he said.

  He went into the library. David’s portrait regarded him soberly from above the fireplace, a new addition since he’d last been here, painted while he was at war. His grandmother had probably placed it here instead of the gallery. David never liked the library or books, but she knew that when Nicholas returned to Temberlay, this would be the first room he’d come to. No doubt she’d wanted him to look into the sad, gentle face of the brother he’d betrayed and feel shame.

  He studied his brother’s face for a long moment. He felt sorrow, resentment, and confusion, in that order.

  He left the library and explored the empty castle, taking the long way to his boyhood rooms, listening for ghosts as he passed the portraits of nine generations of earls and dukes of Temberlay. His own ducal portrait would hang here one day, and the children he sired would add their likenesses. Would they be happy with the title, and the life that went with it? He stared into his grandmother’s proud painted eyes, felt his lips twist bitterly. Happiness was not important to her. She had raised her grandsons to believe that duty, power, and tradition were the only things that mattered. To her, a child of his would be simply another portrait to hang on the wall.

  Nicholas had been fortunate. Since he’d never expected to be the Duke of Temberlay, he’d been allowed to make his own happiness. He looked at the childhood portrait of himself and his brother. He was a smiling imp while David was dull and sober even then. Had David ever been happy?

  He’d never know. He hadn’t exchanged a single letter with his brother while he was in Spain. His quarterly allowance had been paid regularly, but there’d been no news from his family until he received his grandmother’s terse letter informing him of David’s death and demanding that he return at once to take up his responsibilities.

  Responsibilities. How he hated that word.

  He opened the doors to the ducal apartments. The room stood in shadow, the furnishings draped as if mourning for David. Time stood still. Even the clock on the mantel had stopped. Were his brother’s clothes still in the wardrobe?

  He shuddered. The room was a tomb. He remembered how David had cried when Granddame insisted he move out of the nursery and into these rooms just days after their parents’ death.

  Nicholas backed out and shut the doors. He could not sleep here. He tried to imagine Marguerite in his grandmother’s rooms, or their children in the nursery upstairs. That room too had been a silent, lonely place after David had been moved downstairs. He hadn’t been alone long. Granddame sent him away to school.

  When—if—he had children, they could fill the whole castle with noise. He would not allow them to be raised as David had been. They would know joy as well as pride, he decided as he opened the door to his old rooms, still filled with books and boyhood collections. He opened the drapes and looked out over the magnificent fells. He’d always loved this view. It had reminded him that there was another world beyond these walls, freedom.

  He shut his eyes. Now everything he could see was his responsibility, and he didn’t want it.

  Turning on his heel he made his way down to the kitchens where there was life and laughter.

  Chapter 28

  Breakfast with the dowager became a daily ritual so the old lady could go over Meg’s schedule for the day, relay instructions, remind her of the rules, and discuss the invitations that came in the post.

  “Won’t people think it odd if I never appear with Temberlay?” Meg asked bluntly after he’d been gone for three days with no explanation. She was beginning to wonder if he really was at Temberlay, and if he was alone.

  “It can’t be helped. He has a great many responsibilities as duke. That is what you will tell anyone who asks where he is,” the old lady said bluntly.

  Meg took a careful bite of toast. “He’s left Town in the middle of the Season, right after his wedding, and without his bride.”

  The dowager waited until the footman refilled her teacup. “If he doesn’t return, you will join him at Temberlay Castle at the end of the Season. If he has left because he is angry at your deception, he will be over it by then. Let him sulk, and don’t discuss it with anyone.”

  “And if he is not alone?”

  The dowager glanced pointedly at the untouched sausages on Meg’s plate and changed the subject. “You aren’t eating. Are you, perhaps, with child?”

  Meg shook her head.

  The dowager turned to the post, which sat by her elbow. “There are a dozen invitations here for you, regardless of his presence. I will advise my secretary which ones to accept on your behalf. Tell me, do you miss him?”

  Meg swallowed. She couldn’t sleep. She lay in bed watching the connecting door, hoping he’d walk in. By day, she scanned the crowds on Bond Street and in Hyde Park, looking for him.

  “Not at all,” she said.

  The dowager smirked. “Good. Then he will likely return all the sooner. You might as well enjoy yourself without him. There’s an invitation here from Fiona Barry. Best to accept it, I think. Her opinion can make you or destroy you.” Her lips pursed as she surveyed Meg. “Fiona looks for flaws, but you have acquitted yourself well thus far.”

  Meg’s stomach churned. And the dowager wondered why she couldn’t eat.

  She attended Fiona Barry’s ball wearing yellow diamonds in her hair. She looked for Temberlay among the guests, held her breath in anticipation of seeing him there. She learned to smile through a churning mixture of emotions—shame, pride, and disappointment.

  Fiona did indeed examine every inch of her before she wondered aloud where Nicholas was.

  “May I beg an introduction?” an officer in a scarlet tunic interrupted, and Meg turned to him thankfully, and recognized Major Lord Stephen Ives from the theater.

  Fiona swatted him with her fan. “I hadn’t imagined there was anyone left in Town that had not met Marguerite. Where have you been, Stephen?”

  He bowed over his hostess’s hand, but his eyes remained on Meg. “Alas, Lady Fiona, I am part of the diplomatic corps now. We have been quite busy welcoming the crowned heads of the alliance to London.”

  Fiona’s eyes widened. “Including the tsar and his sister? Why did you not bring them this evening? I am the premier hostess of the ton! I would have welcomed them with open arms.”

  “I’m afraid my duties lie in more mundane circles than their highnesses’ social schedules. And their attendance would have caused a dreadful crush. Their entire entourage would have to come too—food tasters, ladies-in-waiting, page boys, interpreters, and protocol officers.” He smiled at Meg. “In such a crowd I might have missed my opportunity to be introduced to Her Grace of Temberlay.”

  Meg smiled at the subtle reminder that Fiona had forgotten the requested introduction.

  “Her Grace, the Duchess of Temberlay, recently wed to the Devil himself, may I present Major Lord Stephen Ives?”

  He bowed over her hand with a smile.

  “There. My duty as a hostess is done here, and since you appear to have no interesting tales to tell me about the tsar, I sha
ll go and do my duty elsewhere, if you’ll excuse me.” She sailed away.

  “I am an old friend of Nicholas’s, Your Grace. I wanted to offer my congratulations on your recent wedding. Please blame my belated felicitations on duty, rather than lack of manners or interest. I’ve heard quite a lot about you.” He did not ask where Temberlay was, Meg noted with relief. She looked at his uniform.

  “From Nicholas?” she asked breathlessly.

  He shook his head. “I have not seen him recently. Mostly, I have been listening to Delphine St. James, who sings your praises as the perfect bride for Nick, being both clever and beautiful. Under those circumstances, I could hardly wait for an introduction. I had not thought there was a match for Nicholas, and I am pleased to be wrong about it.”

  Meg felt her cheeks heat at the flattery. “Did you know my husband in Spain, Major Lord Ives?”

  “I did indeed. We served in the same regiment, the Royal Dragoons.”

  Meg tried to imagine Nicholas in uniform. “I know little about the war, I’m afraid. My father did not believe young ladies should know about such things.” She hesitated. “Could I impose upon you to tell me about it?”

  His expression grew careful. “You could ask Nicholas.”

  “But he is not here. He is at Temberlay Castle.”

  She saw the understanding in his eyes before he looked away. “I see. Then you want to know about Nicholas as much as the war. Has he been away for long?”

  She raised her chin. “Do you feel I’m prying?”

  He held out his hand. “They’re starting a waltz. Perhaps you’d care to dance?”

  She let him lead her onto the floor. “What would you like to know?”

  She swallowed. “Anything. Everything.”

  He laughed. “That would take much longer than the span of a single waltz, Your Grace. Nicholas Hartley is a fine man, and a respected officer.”

  “Please, Major, call me Marguerite, or Meg. I am still not used to ‘Your Grace.’ ”

  “Makes you think of Nicholas’s grandmother, I daresay,” he said, leading her through the steps. “Then you must call me Stephen.”

  She felt the warmth of the connection between them, and smiled.

  “If he’s not here with you, his absence must be essential indeed,” Stephen murmured, and Meg met his eyes in surprise, and he colored slightly and looked away. What had Delphine told him about her? “I mean running a dukedom is certainly a battle in its own right, especially if you weren’t raised to it. But you wanted to talk about Spain. I’ll tell you what I can. Some men—Nicholas among them, apparently—prefer not to discuss their military service. Some feel that those conversations do not belong in polite society, and should remain on the battlefield.” He scanned the crowded room as he moved her through the steps. “Some simply wouldn’t understand or believe what we’ve seen, and others still might imagine a man like Nick was bragging.”

  She thought of his reputation, the rake, the rogue, the devil.

  “I promise to believe every word,” she said eagerly. “If it’s true.”

  He laughed. “I am a diplomat, Meg, forbidden to lie. I must tell the truth at all times, as graciously as possible.”

  “Sugared almonds,” she murmured.

  “Pardon?”

  “Whenever my father had to tell my mother anything difficult, which might have been something as simple as being unable to get the exact kind of lace she ordered from London, he brought her sugared almonds to sweeten the bad news.”

  “Exactly so,” he said, and hesitated. “Do you wish me to sweeten my stories, leave out the harsher realities of war?”

  She raised her brows. “I dislike sugared almonds intensely. I want to know everything.”

  “That might take some time. Nicholas had a very distinguished career. Would you care to ride with me tomorrow morning? I can begin the tale then. Tonight is for dancing.”

  Meg smiled, let him charm her. No one had ever flirted with her before. It was exciting, and fun. “I would like that very much indeed.”

  Chapter 29

  Nicholas found Tobias Simmons gazing at the portrait of David the next morning, his cap clutched in his hand.

  “I was going to send a carriage for you, Toby,” Nicholas said quietly.

  The old servant turned, and wiped his tears on his sleeve, but it wasn’t sorrow in his eyes, Nicholas realized. It was anger.

  “Pardon me, Your Grace, I didn’t see you there,” he said stiffly.

  Nicholas felt his gut clench. Did Toby blame him as well? The man had been like a father to him and David after their parents died, had loved them both. Nicholas didn’t care what the rest of the world thought, but this was Toby, the man who’d dried his tears, taught him to fish, told him stories. To see hatred in this man’s eyes was worse than seeing it in Granddame’s.

  “Come and sit down,” he said. “I expect you know why I’ve come to Temberlay.”

  Simmons remained where he was. “I’ll stand.”

  Nicholas took a seat under the portrait, feeling David’s bland eyes on the back of his neck.

  “You were at the duel.”

  The old man’s lips twisted bitterly. “I was.”

  “You’re an unusual choice of second, Toby.”

  Tobias glanced up with fire in his eyes, then lowered them, remembering his place. “Lord David didn’t want to involve anyone else. He was too ashamed.”

  “For Lady Julia’s sake?”

  Simmons shook his head and slid his eyes to the portrait above Nicholas’s head. “He made me swear not to tell anyone. With his last breath, he did.”

  “Was it Lord Wilton who ruined Lady Julia? Or Lord Howard? Or the Earl of Wycliffe, perhaps?” Nicholas persisted.

  Tobias looked surprised, then indignant. “So you know them all, do you? It wasn’t any of them. That gentleman did not arrive. His Grace challenged the men you mentioned for quite another reason.”

  Nicholas clenched his fist, felt the ducal ring press into his flesh.

  “Even if it breaks my word, I will speak,” Tobias said. “His Grace wouldn’t have been there at all that morning—wouldn’t have died—if it weren’t for what you did. You as good as killed him!”

  Nicholas sat very still. Granddame had said the same thing. “I was in Spain, Toby, at war. How could I have caused any of it?”

  “I heard Lord Wilton say it. He told David everything you did. You took his wife in adultery. Lady Wilton said that his child wasn’t his at all, but yours, gotten in wicked sin. Yes, you were out of the country when it was all found out, but what were you up to before you left? Since you were out of reach, Wilton decided that Lord Davy must be punished in your stead.” He choked on the nickname he’d had for David as a boy, and wiped his eyes angrily.

  Nicholas’s heart froze in his chest. He’d never even met her. “That’s not possible.”

  “I heard them say it!” Tobias insisted. “And you cheated Lord Howard at cards. He wanted revenge too, and joined Lord Wilton to ruin poor Lord David.”

  Nicholas braced himself. “And Wycliffe? What is it I did to him, Toby?”

  “Nothing I know of. Only you know the truth of that. Lord Wilton and Lord Howard tricked David to investing everything he had. I gave him my life savings too. So did Mrs. Dunne, since he promised it was a sure thing. Lord Wycliffe put his fortune in as well, and since he was a righteous, upright man, it made it all look right and proper.”

  Nicholas’s stomach twisted like the cap in Tobias’s angry hands.

  The servant’s mouth quivered. “The scheme was always meant to fail, I know that now. Davy told me he lost everything. It was cruel enough to ruin a man for something he didn’t do, and his servants along with him, but they told Lord Wycliffe that it was all David’s fault, that he stole the money. Lord Wycliffe was ruined, penniless. He was the one who accused David of cheating him, and in public too. What else could David do but challenge him for the insult? Lord David was drunk, you see, still upset over
Lady Julia coming to tell him she was calling off the wedding. All three men were there, and he challenged them all.”

  Toby took a step closer, and Nicholas wondered if Toby intended to hit him, or try. He’d let him, allow him to shed some of the terrible pain they both felt, but Toby stopped, standing like a bantam cock.

  “They told him about your part in it, at the duel, as he lay on the grass, wounded—” He swallowed tears, his throat bobbing. “And that was the worst wound of all. Your wicked ways got your own brother killed!”

  Nicholas’s chest ached. He got to his feet, tried to speak, to tell Toby he was wrong, David was wrong, that it had all started because of a woman’s lie he had no part of, but his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.

  Toby turned away in disgust when Nicholas remained silent. He reached into his pocket. “Here. He told me to burn this, that last day, but I couldn’t do it. It’s a journal he kept. I haven’t read it, since it’s not my place.” He tossed it on the table. “I’m going now. And even if you revoke my pension and take the cottage back again, I will not bow to you. Not ever again.”

  Nicholas looked at the book. It was the kind that gentlemen recorded their vowels in, or wrote notes regarding appointments and assignations.

  Simmons was halfway to the door.

  “Lady Wilton lied, Toby. So did Lord Howard.”

  The servant turned, his expression hard, unbelieving. “Your reputation says otherwise.”

  There was nothing more for Nicholas to say without proof. He watched the old servant leave without a backward glance.

  Nicholas stared up at his brother’s portrait. He’d died thinking Nicholas had betrayed him. Nicholas clenched his fist and leaned his forehead on it.

  Did no one believe that he was a man of honor? He lived by his own rules, but he was never cruel, or wanton, or dishonest.

  He had never so much as danced with Wilton’s wife. She was the wife of a rich baron, and he was a young rascal who preferred whores to ladies, especially married ones.