Forever a Lord

by Delilah Marvelle

  The duke held up a hand. “She insists on attending them and is physically very able to do so. It brings her joy. Aside from mingling with guests, she wanders about the house and looks through Augustine’s belongings. I’m not going to keep her from visiting with whatever is left of her own daughter.”

  Glancing up at the ceiling to keep himself from submitting to emotion, Nathaniel asked tersely, “And my father? Is he still here?”

  “Yes.” The duke hesitated. “Don’t think the worst of me, Atwood. Your mother insists I include him in everything I do. She and your father have become exceptionally close since Augustine’s passing.”

  Anger spiked through him. His father was not going to live the lie. Not anymore. “Tell your footmen to let me pass.”

  The duke’s brows shot up. “Pass? To do what?” He wagged a hand toward him. “You are not about to intrude upon my guests looking like that.”

  “Why not? I bathed and I shaved.”

  “Atwood.” The duke grabbed his arm. “You cannot expect your father or people to accept you all in one night and dressed as you are. We have to slowly reintroduce you into society and allow word of your return to blow in. Now come with me. And heed that it is not a suggestion.”

  “Given you graciously insist.” Nathaniel followed the man down the corridor toward another section of a very impressive house that led into what appeared to be a study.

  The duke pointed to a leather chair. “Sit.”

  “No.”

  The duke shifted from boot to boot in what appeared to be agitation. “Might I at least inquire where you are staying?”

  “Limmer’s.”

  The duke blanched. “Oh, no. No, no, no. I wouldn’t even send the French militia there for a night. No family of mine is going to be living like a pauper. I have plenty of rooms. I will have a footman collect your belongings within the hour.”

  Nathaniel leaned toward him. “Just because we are bound through my sister’s memory doesn’t mean we are also bound to live in the same goddamn house. Don’t insist on something that isn’t going to happen or you and I won’t be getting along. Wherever I do live, it will be paid for by me for me. Is that understood?”

  The duke eyed him and eventually shook his head. “Pride runs a bit too strong in this family. You and I will revisit this another time. Agreed?”

  “Revisit all you like. It’s not going to change a thing. Now what else did you fucking want?”

  The duke pointed a curt finger at his mouth. “Enough with the tongue. Show your family the respect it deserves. Would you have spoken to your sister like that?”

  Nathaniel tightened his jaw, knowing the duke was right. “No, Your Grace. Forgive me.”

  The duke raked his hands through his hair. “Do you still have her diary?”

  “Of course I do. What a thing to ask.”

  “Have you read it?”

  “No. I haven’t.”

  The duke dropped his hands and stared. “Almost a year has passed since you approached us back in New York and we have not heard so much as a word as to whether you would even be coming. And now this? They are her words, damn you. Words she had breathed life into, and half of them were dedicated to you. If you cannot find the strength to read them, you are unworthy of ever knowing them and I demand you give it back. I don’t know what she ever meant to you, but I do know what she meant to me.”

  Nathaniel swallowed. It was with awe he had the honor to witness how his sister had touched this man’s life. She had found something he never thought possible. Real love. “I’m not ready to read it quite yet. It’s been difficult enough for me to face knowing I missed any opportunity of seeing her again. You have had years to adjust to her death, whilst I have barely had a year. So let me keep it.” Let me keep it until I no longer have a need for it.

  The duke huffed out an exasperated breath and pointed to the leather chair again. “Sit. And whatever you do, don’t wander about dressed as you are. I didn’t invite people here tonight to meet a disheveled phantom everyone thinks is dead. There are ways to go about this. Now stay here. I need to find Yardley. He up and disappeared on me. Again.”

  “I’m not in the mood for a family gathering.”

  “It’s important he see you.” The duke grabbed his arm. “He suffered a very serious accident back in New York, not long after that night you came to us at the hotel. He was hit by an omni and his mind was rendered entirely blank. Though he has regained most of his memory, he hasn’t been the same since.”

  Rendered his mind blank? Nathaniel’s brows rose, remembering Matthew telling him about the man Georgia had brought into her tenement back on Orange Street. A man who had lost all memory of who he was. A man who Georgia had followed to London. Georgia. London. And his nephew was in…London. Blood on high. It couldn’t be. “Did he go by the name of Robinson, per chance?”

  The duke’s eyes widened. He released his arm. “Yes. How did you know?”

  Nathaniel scrubbed his chin with the back of his hand in disbelief. Matthew wasn’t going to believe this but apparently Georgia, that freckled street rat who only ever gave them both trouble, was set to marry his nephew. “I heard about it back in New York. From yam sellers to the boys alike. Is he all right?”

  “He has long since regained most of his memory, but for some reason, much of his trip to New York—anything before the accident—doesn’t exist. He doesn’t remember meeting you.”

  “Christ.” It would seem everyone’s mind was unstable these days. Knowing he might as well get to the point, he muttered, “I should probably admit that I’ve actually been in town for some time.”

  “What do you mean? Why haven’t you—”

  “Because I needed time to wade through this mess on my own whilst I also earned some money. At first, I was intent on leaving London and going straight to Venice to retrieve the man who held me hostage to prove my claim. I decided against it, however, because in doing so, it would have created another set of ungodly complications for you, Yardley and my mother. So I decided to approach my father on my own and take it from there. And I did. Yesterday. As expected, it didn’t go well. He denies everything, and with him denying who I am, and there being no painted likeness of me in existence, I can’t readily prove to anyone I’m really Atwood, can I?”

  The duke set a fisted hand against his mouth. After a long moment, his hand fell away. “But I can prove it. And I will. First, I need to find Yardley. You two can talk whilst I run about and tend to guests before people commence wondering what is going on. Stay here.” The duke stepped out, sliding the study doors closed behind himself.

  Nathaniel sighed and scanned the study lined from floor to ceiling with shelves of old, leather-bound books. He stilled, his gaze falling on the only painting to grace the room. He made his way toward it and lingered before it in a half daze, completely submerged in disbelief.

  He stared up at a pretty, dark-haired woman whose gloved hand was propped against a tree just beyond a rose garden. She was dressed in a flowing pink gown, which barely allowed the tips of her white slippers to peer out.

  Though the woman didn’t smile, those large grey eyes stared out at him with a strong, shining presence that choked him into remembering the only person who had ever mattered. His sister. His mother had been far too occupied in trying to convince his father she was worthy of his love.

  He remembered a girl of sixteen. Not…not this. He fisted both hands. So many years erased. And he would never get them back. All he had left of Auggie now was a crypt. A crypt he had yet to visit and doubted he would ever be able to visit, given he hadn’t even been able to read her diary.

  His father had taken everything away from him. Everything.

  And for it, he would die. Tonight.

  The doors of the study slid open, announcing someone had entered the room. The doors slid closed again and the floorboards creaked.

  Nathaniel sensed someone lingering behind him.

  “No portrait did her justice,
” a male voice humbly offered.

  Nathaniel turned and faced his nephew.

  The yellowing glow of the study’s candles illuminated a shaven, lean face and grey eyes.

  Nathaniel gripped the hilt of a dagger that was attached to the leather belt on his hip, wishing he had been part of this family Auggie had created for herself.

  “I’m your nephew.” Yardley eyed the dagger. “Yardley.”

  “I know who you are. We met. Back in New York.”

  Yardley hesitated, then blurted, “Forgive me for not being able to remember. I had an incident that—”

  “I know. You needn’t worry. I’m not all that memorable, anyway.” And I’ll be dead for what I plan to do. “Allow me to get to the point of my visit tonight, nephew of mine. One I have yet to convey to your father. After a less than constructive meeting with my father yesterday morning, who refused to let my mother see me, I have decided to kill him. Tonight, actually. After he leaves this house and heads into his carriage. And I intend to have all of London witness it. Why am I telling you this? Because when you are brought before the jury, I don’t want there to be any doubt as to what my motives were. Tell them it wasn’t revenge but a savage need for peace.”

  Yardley stared, his features tightening. “Don’t do this. Killing him will only see you hanged.”

  “Exactly. Peace.”

  His nephew edged toward him. “Killing him and then getting yourself hanged will change nothing.”

  Nathaniel flexed his leather gloved hands. “I know.”

  “Uncle. If you do this, you will not only destroy yourself, but you will ruin my father, and me, as well. You’ll also be destroying the wife I hope to take and the children I hope to have. All we would ever know and hear and see would be the blood you rashly spilled and the mess you leave for us to mop up.”

  Waking up thinking he was still in a cellar was the real mess Nathaniel had to live with for the rest of his days. He pointed to his own head. “I am not going to live inside this head a breath more.”

  “No one understands you more than I. Believe me. Living within a head you would rather step out of is a curse of the worst sort, but there are ways to allay the misery. But not like this. You will find it through the support and love of your family.”

  As if his father knew spit about support or love. “The Sumners are not my family.”

  “Right you are in that. The Sumners are not. But we are. I am. My father is. My father loves you, given all that you represent. He loves you enough to unearth his own wife’s remains, which I know will kill him, considering what she meant to him. Despite that, you mean to dirk him? You mean to dirk the last person who remains standing in your corner in order to entertain some morbid urge for revenge?”

  Nathaniel’s heart pounded in disbelief. “He means to disturb my sister’s grave? I won’t have it.”

  “’Tis the only means we have of proving your legitimacy. My father told me about my grandfather denying your legitimacy, but this would prove it. ’Tis the only known portrait of you in existence with a label of your name and it lies buried with my mother.”

  Nathaniel closed his eyes, feeling the world sway. “She was buried with my portrait?”

  “That she was. She carried you upon her lips and within her heart until her last breath was taken and spent her entire life wanting to find you. If you don’t mean to honor the living, Uncle, I ask that you at least honor the dead. My mother deserved as much.”

  Nathaniel squeezed his eyes tighter and swung away. Poor Auggie. Poor, poor Auggie had suffered as much as he had. A soul-wrenching clarity descended, almost making him stagger. He was damned either way. Whether his father lived or died, the truth would have to stay buried or it would ruin them all.

  He had to be stronger in this. He couldn’t submit to revenge and destroy what little remained of his sister’s family. He had to protect them and was therefore going to have to settle on crushing his father another way. The only way he knew how. By taking back his name before all of London.

  After a long moment of silence, he turned back and unfastened the leather belt from around his hips. He folded the belt around the sheath of his dagger and held it out. “Take it before I use it.”

  Yardley grabbed hold of the belt and dagger and shook his head. “You need to find peace.”

  Nathaniel set his shoulders and rounded on him. “I hear death is a nice long sleep. Sounds peaceful enough to me.”

  Yardley let out a breath. “Take back the life that was so maliciously taken from you and create something worthier. Surround yourself with people who will love you and support you whilst taking your place back in our circle where you belong. That is how you will find and know peace. Give yourself a chance to know it. Consider starting a family and commencing anew.”

  A gargled laugh escaped him. “Taking an aristo for a wife, who’d never understand the chaos within me, would only beget children whose bedtime stories would involve my nightmares. I don’t think so.”

  Turning toward him, Yardley offered in a sympathetic tone, “You underestimate a woman’s worth and her ability to redefine a man. A woman can give you hope in a world that has none. She can fight for you when you have ceased fighting for yourself and everything you believe in.”

  Nathaniel glanced toward him, rather intrigued. “Smitten, are you?”

  “Beyond. You should be so lucky.”

  Nathaniel smirked. Oh, to be stupid again. And to think that the poor bastard was set to marry Georgia. He refused to believe it. “Distract me. What’s her name?” Because he still refused to believe it.

  “Her real one? Or the one she is parading under? For I will confess I am about to marry two women for the price of one. She is divine intervention. I have never known anyone or anything so exquisite.”

  Georgia, Georgia, Georgia. She was going to make a mess out of his nephew’s life. He was going to have to do something about that. “I could use a little divine intervention.” Nathaniel strode back toward him and leaned in, looking to rattle the boy who knew nothing about him or the fact that he knew Georgia. “Would you be willing to share her with your uncle from time to time? When I’m feeling particularly lonely? Or are you the territorial sort?”

  Yardley tossed aside the leather belt and blade with a resounding clatter and stared him down. “Do I look amused?”

  Nathaniel snorted and patted his cheek. “Now, now, you aristos are so easily ruffled. I was joking.”

  “Were you?” Yardley reached out and gripped his shoulder hard, digging the tips of his fingers into the flesh beneath. “Don’t cross the only family you have left, Atwood. Don’t even joke about it.”

  Nathaniel liked this boy. He was fierce and loyal and honest. Few men were. “You needn’t worry, nephew. I only cross those that cross me. And you haven’t crossed me…yet.”

  Flinging his nephew’s hand away, he walked backward toward the entrance of the study, knowing he had a name to resurrect. And he was going to do it by not only letting everyone know who he was, but by taking the championship so he had money to support his new identity—the aristocratic boxer. “I think I’m going to like London. There are just so many civilized people crawling around my boots looking to lick them clean.” Like Weston. “Now if you’ll excuse me…I intend to find myself a dance partner and scare the shite out of people.”

  The duke was going to love this.

  Swinging away, Nathaniel slid open the doors with a sweep of his arms and strode down the corridor toward the ballroom. The best revenge without spraying a drop of blood would be to take back his name.

  And he was doing it. Now.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Woman, the fountain of all human frailty!

  What mighty ills have not been done by woman?

  Who betrayed the Capitol? A woman.

  Who lost Mark Antony the world? A woman.

  Who was the cause of a long ten year war,

  And laid at last Old Troy in ashes? Woman!

  �
�P. Egan, Boxiana (1823)

  KNOTTING BACK HIS hair with the twine he always kept on his wrist, Nathaniel adjusted his great coat and entered the massive expanse of the ballroom. Gold-and-ivory-accented walls and vast, sweeping ceilings trimmed with carvings loomed before him with a splendor he hadn’t known in ages.

  He scanned bodies of satin, silk and lace weaving about before him and strode past an assembled group of older gentlemen with crystal flutes in their white-gloved hands. Their grey bushy brows rose in unison as they lowered champagne glasses and scanned his appearance.

  Though he wanted to punch those round faces in, one by one, like tankards off a bar, based on their expressions alone, Nathaniel opted to coolly incline his head, instead. He had a name to resurrect and maiming old people of nobility was not the way to go about doing it. “The name is Atwood, gentlemen. Lord Atwood. How are you?”

  They gaped.

  “Lord Atwood?” one of the men asked in a startled tone. “Such blasphemy. Lord Sumner’s son is dead.”

  Nathaniel leaned in to the old man, his voice turning to steel. “And how do you know that? Did you attend my funeral? Was there ever one?”

  All four gentlemen continued to gape.

  Still staring them down, Nathaniel added, “Rumor has it I’m very much alive.” With that, he strode past them and into the masses, leaving them to come to their own conclusion.

  As Nathaniel moved deeper into the crowd countless men and women whisked forward and back across the dance floor beyond, advertising extravagant coifs and lavish ensembles drenched with emeralds and diamonds and rubies.

  The boys back in New York would have coughed their brains out in an effort to rip off jewels from so many female necks.

  Setting mud-stained leather-gloved hands behind his back, he glanced toward the nearest wall. Overly coiffed young women and their terse chaperones pressed themselves and their full gowns against the wall upon seeing him, their ostrich fans stilling against both chins and bosoms.

  Their astounded rouged faces reminded him of the Venetian carnival masks Casacalenda would wear to entertain him in the cellar by recreating Italian theatrical parodies for him whenever he got bored.