The Guardian Duke: A Forgotten Castles Novel

by Carie, Jamie

  Her husband looked askance at his wife but remained quiet. The domestic tiff restored Alex's sense of normalcy and sent a calming wave through her spine, allowing her legs to work properly again. She gave them a tight smile, reached out again, and wiggled her fingers. "My letter, if you please."

  Roman passed the thick vellum into her hands.

  "The paper is so fine," Mrs. Peale murmured with wide eyes and batting lashes. She leaned toward Alex as if to read it with her, but Alex just waved it toward them and backed away.

  "It's nothing to get excited about, I'm sure. An old—very old—relation, the duke. He's probably heard of my parents' recent adventure and is inquiring as to their success." Alex gave them a vapid smile and turned toward the door, saying over her shoulder, "Nothing to be concerned about, you know." She waved and then turned and fled into the bright sunshine of the autumn day.

  She didn't think, only hurried at a near run until she reached the edge of the village. There was a small, circular grassy spot where someone had placed a bench in front of the town well. It had become a wishing well over the years, mostly attended by the children of Holy Island. Alex had tossed in her share of coins over the years but hadn't visited recently. It somehow seemed the perfect place to read the duke's first letter.

  With shaking hands and a racing heart, she flipped it over and studied the turquoise-colored wax with the Duke of St. Easton's seal. A unicorn on one side and a bull on the other. In the middle was the shield with a great crown above it. Unicorn . . . the symbol brought images of purity, dreams, and a magical quality to mind. The bull was strong, full of wealth and male protective strength. She ran her finger gently over the wax impression. What a unique mix of gifts. It sounded powerful and a bit intimidating.

  With a deep breath she pried up the wax with her fingernail. She slipped the seal into the pocket of her dress, wishing to save it to study later, and opened the thick writing paper the color of cream. She smoothed out the folds of the best stationery she'd ever seen and lifted the page to read.

  10 September 1818

  From the office of the Duke of St. Easton, His Grace, Gabriel Ravenwood

  Alex sucked in and held a breath at the address. How someone such as he could have anything to do with her was beyond reasoning!

  Madam,

  I deeply regret the cause of our recent introduction and am as surprised as you must be at our ancestral tie. Upon the prince regent's order, I have spent considerable time investigating the claim of your parents' deaths and their current estate. (Do not ever put in writing again what you wrote about our most honored monarch, do you understand me?) I have been astounded on both accounts. Firstly, your parents have had no contact with anyone known to us in nearly a year. Does this not surprise you? You mention your lack of faith that they are deceased and I am sure it is difficult news to accept, but a year is a very long time to have someone's relatives come up missing. Please advise if there is something you know that I do not. In the meantime, I think it wise to continue as the prince regent deems appropriate with my taking charge of your estate and well-being.

  This brings me to the other surprise of my investigation into the Featherstone affairs. It would appear that your parents have been hiding, hoarding perhaps, a very large fortune. I tell you this only in the vein of protecting you from fortune hunters should the news come out. You, my dear Lady Featherstone, are the sole heir to lands and moneys that I must confess nearly equal my own. And my dear, I am among the wealthiest of Englishmen at this time. Do be careful.

  As to your allowance. I am currently preoccupied with some important matters or I should call you to London. For now, stay put and do as you have been doing, taking care of that island and your herds of sheep (yes, I've inquired as to your activities). I have included some of the money you requested for your management of the estate. Should you need more, write to me, of course, but I must say, any good manager could do very well, even increase profits, on what I've sent you. Let's see what you can do with it, shall we?

  Your servant,

  St. Easton

  Alex's hands shook and her eyes blurred as she read the cold words again and again, the bank notes falling from her lap to the ground.

  He hadn't said those things!

  Her parents dead and he the sole guardian to her fortune? A very great fortune? Why hadn't she known? She looked down at her dress, more a servant's garb than something a grand lady would wear. Why hadn't they told her?

  Oh! She looked up toward heaven and shook her head. There was only one thing she was certain of after this day: She despised the all-knowing, seemingly almighty Duke of St. Easton.

  She rushed home to write him back.

  Dear Mr. Duke,

  Thank you so much for the kind words and monetary addition to our larders. I am so sorry you are currently too preoccupied with what must be a horror of social events and business dealings of your own that you cannot extend me more than a mere letter of instruction and a few pounds to a lone woman suddenly bereft of her family. I shall do my best to stretch my allowance to cover the costs of the estate. Be assured, I am trying to comprehend it all and keep you in my prayers. Your care of me has been most considerate. I confess a lack of knowledge as to a guardian's responsibilities, but I'm sure your attention to my needs has been sufficient. The prince regent himself would likely agree should he hear of it. I thank God for you, Your Grace, as I have no one left to me. And I do continue to pray for you. As my family now, I must love you with all that is patient and kind.

  Your ward,

  Alexandria Featherstone

  Alex's lips curled in a satisfied smile as she folded the letter, dribbled wax from her bedside candle onto the fold, and pressed her own seal, the Featherstone seal, onto the wax.

  He might be a duke.

  But he had no idea who he was dealing with now.

  Chapter Five

  Uncle Gabriel! Uncle Gabriel, come see!"

  His niece, a five-year-old with blonde hair like dandelion fluff, turned and looked up at him with a cherub's face.

  He paused, turned toward her as if in slow motion. But it wasn't Felicity he saw, it was his father. He looked different, bright and peaceful. He smiled at Gabriel, a kind smile, one he'd never seen on his father's face while alive. The moment caught in his throat and left him bereft, unmoored, filled with confused sadness.

  The desolate feeling woke him in a cold sweat. He reared up, his gaze swinging around the room. Was his father here? Could it be possible? Of course not. He looked down with a heavy sigh. There was no one in the room but him. It was a dream, just a dream.

  With a great sigh he fell back onto his pillows, raking his hand through his short black hair. What a strange dream. His niece here and talking to him. That feeling of family. And his father at peace, at rest like that? Was he in heaven? It seemed unfathomable that his father could be that man in the dream. Hugh Ravenwood, the sixth Duke of St. Easton, had always been a dispassionate man, stoic, somber, but always dependable, always there for them. There had been comfort in that. A wave of grief washed over Gabriel, surprising him. He hadn't consciously missed his father in a long time. Must be the weakness, the new vulnerability he felt with his current "condition."

  He rose with a sigh, walked over to the water basin, and plunged his hands into the cool water left by his servant. He splashed a little onto his face to awaken, then ran his fingers over his stubbly chin. A shadow from the far side of the room flickered against the wall. Must be his valet stirring against the early morning sound. He turned his back to the approaching figure.

  He didn't need help.

  And he certainly didn't want company.

  Shrugging away from the man and his morning toilet, he took up his riding costume and slipped into the clothes. Feeling like a child escaping his parents, he fled the room, boots in hand, his stocking fee
t not making the least sound to wake the servants ever abroad. At least he hoped he was quiet.

  When he reached the outside, he smirked, slipped into his boots, and breathed deeply of the cool morning air. A carriage clattered by. He watched it pass, not hearing it but feeling the vibration from the cobblestones run from the heels of his boots up the bones of his body. He knew what it should sound like and made the mental connections so he felt he heard it. He was almost able to convince himself of it . . . but then the voice of reason, or the voice of despair, he didn't know which, mocked him.

  You didn't hear anything. It was true. He only saw the flash of black wooden lacquer, only remembered how it should sound.

  A moment of bleak despair streaked through him. You'll never be the same. Just face it. This is your life now. You are changed . . . broken . . . different.

  He had to fight it. He couldn't surrender to these thoughts of weakness. He had to find a new normal he could live with. "No!" he muttered.

  Gabriel Ravenwood, one of the most powerful men in England, looked around in anxious fear as to who might have heard him. He gripped the railing of the steps with one hand, slapped on his new-styled hat that was more stovepipe than tricorn, and commanded his legs to walk. It didn't matter that he couldn't hear anything, no it did not matter . . . it couldn't matter . . .

  He hurried down the street toward his usual haunt on Tuesday mornings—the famed fencing yards of Roberé Alfieri. They had a weekly appointment and Gabriel didn't want to stir up gossip with more absences. He opened the gate, not hearing the click-clack of the latch. Not hearing the thud of the gate shutting behind him. Hearing nothing but sensing a rhythm in his feet as he walked up to the door. It was strange, not hearing his footsteps ring out against the cobblestone walk, but he shook it off.

  Those in his household that knew of his affliction had advised he not venture out alone. He had assured them that he could and would. Now he was faced with the reality of it. Deep breath . . . stop. Deep breath. He raised his hand to the knocker. Wait. He'd never before bothered to knock. Don't deviate from normal. Be normal. Act normal. And they might believe you.

  With a deep breath and a silent wind whirling the autumn leaves around him, he pushed through the door and stood, blinking like a newborn, on the threshold of what was now his life.

  Within minutes he suited up in his fencing costume and entered the grand ballroom where Roberé staged his battles. It felt familiar . . . safe somehow to be swathed in leather, a caged mask over his face, the weight of the sword at his side. He pulled forth the sword, called a small sword due to its lighter weight and shorter blade as compared to the rapier, and warmed up by thrusting and parrying with an imaginary partner. He had to imagine the familiar and satisfying swoosh, as he would have to imagine the clang when he engaged with Roberé. Where was the man? He slowed down, realizing he was breathing too hard, often turning this way and that as he could not hear his opponent, his instructor, enter the room.

  It was a grand, domed-ceiling room, a former royal palace in the old days. Now it served various purposes, housing circus animals in the upper floors that the public flocked to see, meeting rooms in the lower two floors for various clubs and groups, but the ballroom had been appropriated by the aristocracy for training the elite. Gabriel had been training here for years, with the only man in England left to teach him anything, Roberé Alfieri, an Italian of varied history and reputation. No one knew who he really was, but after seeing him wield every kind of blade from dagger to broadsword, no one cared. Gabriel had been intent on besting him with the small sword for the last year.

  A flash of movement from the corner of his eye had Gabriel turning toward the master swordsman as he entered from a side door. He was wearing all black, a closely fitting shirt and breeches, black stockings, and soft-soled shoes. His sword swung from one hand while he walked as if it weighed nothing and he wore the usual devil-may-care smile on his face. He said something but was too far away for Gabriel to try and make it out by reading his lips, something he still wasn't very good at.

  Shrugging off the comment, he ignored it and plunged on with the ruse that nothing had changed. "Good day, Monsieur Alfieri. I'm afraid I have rather a busy day planned." He lifted his sword in salute. "Shall we?"

  Roberé crooked one brow, a look of curiosity in his eyes sending a shaft of unease through Gabriel's spine. Roberé bowed his head in acquiescence though. A second later he lunged at Gabriel and the fight began.

  A succession of quick parries moving up and down the ballroom floor commenced. But Gabriel knew this was just exercise to prepare them for the more-advanced moves. He took deep breaths and concentrated on the feel of metal meeting metal instead of the fact he couldn't hear the usual clangs and bell-like ringing that accompanied the sport. Like music, swordplay had a tempo, each move a beat and then double beats when an incoming attack was parried. Double-time again when he responded with a riposte. He allowed a crack of a grin.

  He could still do this.

  Sweat dripped down the middle of his back and down one cheek. The vibration of his opponent's sword meeting with his became a new kind of sensory experience, replacing sound. His vision seemed sharper somehow—as if he could slow the movement of the incoming blade for a brief second and respond faster and with more accuracy. They both began to breathe heavy and deep as they moved about the room.

  A sudden thrust from Roberé caught his shoulder. Gabriel sank into a low squat, spun, and rose with a thrust of his own. Roberé deflected it and returned the riposte with quick thrusts, quicker than Gabriel remembered him ever doing. The man was unbelievably fast. Too fast.

  Fear threatened him, beckoning him to give in to the master's skill. Then something rose within him, a greater desire than he'd ever had to best this man and prove there was nothing wrong with him. With a growl from deep in his throat, he concentrated on the cadence of the move, putting the dance back into the powerful thrusts and focusing less on the incoming blade and more on perfect footwork. It started to work. He was backing Roberé across the room, almost to the wall.

  A sudden spark of yellow burst through the air with the clang of the swords meeting. It stretched into a line and then, as if exploding, turned into droplets of color in his peripheral vision. It faded before he was even sure he'd seen it, but with the next clash of steel there were more. Several quick parries and it was as if they were standing in yellow raindrops that disappeared before he could track their progress. He became distracted and clumsy.

  Roberé took advantage of the moment. He thrust . . . hard . . . brought the edge of his blade to Gabriel's throat, both of them panting, Gabriel wide-eyed with shock and confusion. The colors disappeared as fast as they had appeared. Roberé leaned into Gabriel's face and grinned, pressing his sword just hard enough to prick the skin as he had done to him countless times.

  Roberé cracked a smile. "Give up, Your Grace?" his lips said.

  Gabriel backed away and bowed. "Well done, Monsieur Alfieri."

  Roberé said something else, but Gabriel couldn't quite make it out so he only nodded again. "I must be on my way. Until next time." He didn't wait for a response, just turned to go, hoping the man didn't say anything else. Hoping he wasn't being too strange or rude.

  What had just happened? He hardly knew what to think of it. And thinking of it sent prickles of a new kind of fear down his spine. He squeezed the bridge of his nose, took a deep breath, and then concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other instead of standing like a buffoon on the front lawn.

  The air was crisp and windy, drying the sweat on his face as he walked back to his house. On most Tuesdays he would stop in to his club to gather the latest news after his fencing lesson. Impossible now. How long would he be able to keep up this charade? He should leave London for a while. Go back to Bradley House in Wiltshire and hide out until his hearing returned.

  What if
it doesn't return?

  He ignored the question, thinking instead of his favorite room in Bradley House: the music room. Over the years he had hired some of the most famed composers, from Beethoven to Clementi and opera singers from around the world to come and play for him. It was the one thing he'd never been able to master—music. He'd tried to learn to play the pianoforte and the violin to no success. He'd taken extensive voice lessons from famous teachers—and watched their faces wince and grimace. The one thing he loved above all else and he was miserable at it. He could manage to keep a beat, but not much else.

  Thinking of beats he felt the cadence of the sword fight rush over him. Those streaks and dots of color. What were they? Should he ignore what had happened? Anxiety gnawed at his stomach. The fact that it might have something to do with his brain didn't escape him. The doctors were worthless, the lot of them. He'd studied biology and every other branch of science known to man. Something was wrong with his brain, not his ears. He was certain of it . . . in his gut. But he didn't want to be. Big, deep breath. Just keep breathing. No sense conjuring up demons bent on making him mad!

  He picked up his pace as his brownstone came into view. Then he saw his mother's carriage in front of his house. So, the dowager duchess was here to check on him. It was a wonder he had dodged her this long. She was bound to have heard of the tragedy from the grapevine of servant gossip at the very least. Wonderful. Just what he needed.

  The idea of turning around and heading to his club, or anywhere else, entered his mind but he took a bracing breath and trudged forward. May as well get it over with.

  Moments later he walked through the great hall and handed over his hat and cloak to his butler. "Her Grace has called?"

  Hanson bowed and nodded his head. "She is in the front salon." He pointed in the general direction of the room and spoke slowly so Gabriel could read his lips. "Would you like tea brought in?" He made the motion of holding a teacup and bringing it to his lips, which he pursed as if taking a sip. It galled him, the way the servants had changed to accommodate his "condition," but it did help him understand them.