When it came to relieving the duchess of her malaise, he’d known instantly the man to see. There was only one person who could help the duchess. Dr. Langley, the man he’d corresponded with for years whilst abroad. Pain alleviation was his specialty. Or rather, it had been. Because the man was apparently dead now.
The knots in his stomach squeezed tighter.
The good doctor been dead for some time, which didn’t make sense. Not one little bit.
Con had first heard of Langley when he read an article on pain mitigation in a medical journal. He’d found the topic fascinating so he had written to the author: a Dr. Langley of Brambledon, England. That one letter had spawned a long-standing communication. A fascinating string of communication, mostly discussing matters of medicine and treatment for the ill or injured.
Strange as it seemed, he had come to look forward to those letters, appreciating the man’s wit and anecdotes. He’d even referred others with medical concerns to Dr. Langley . . . to a dead man, evidently, as he had been deceased for the last five years.
“How is it the man is dead, but I have been communicating with him long after his death? Am I to believe I have been corresponding with a ghost?”
The girl winced and stared at him in mute misery. Her fire was gone. The fire he had witnessed burning so brightly at the pond—in the pond—was gone. Her color ran high then, her cheeks bright as apples, doubtlessly fed by her outrage. Although he did not think her temper alone had caused her flushed cheeks.
He suspected she was the sort of female who eschewed bonnets when she traipsed about the countryside. Bold lasses who climbed trees for no explainable reason and dropped into ponds undoubtedly spent a great deal of time traipsing and exposing their faces to the reticent English sun.
Presently, regret was writ all over her expressive face. It was extraordinary, really. He doubted there was ever an emotion she did not flaunt; hot words she did not bite back, an impulse she did not reject. Unlike himself.
All his life he had kept everything carefully tucked away. Emotion was not to be displayed. Reserve was the order of his life, taught to him first living with the Birchwoods, and then in the army.
Her sudden pallor mystified him. “Do my questions distress you?” he asked at her continued silence.
She moistened her lips. “I—”
The drawing room doors opened then. A well-heeled gentleman and lady entered the room arm in arm, both looking mildly intrigued as they glanced back and forth between Constantine and the girl.
He instantly knew the girl was related to the lady. They both possessed the same fine eyes and fair hair. The girl, however, was younger . . . shorter and curvier. She would fill a man’s hands.
As soon as the thought entered his mind, he cast it out. However beguiling her curves, she’d already proven herself a termagant and not at all to his tastes.
He preferred more mature women, sophisticated ladies prepared to enter into mutually satisfying liaisons devoid of unnecessary emotion. Women capable of conducting an affair in a dignified manner.
He did not believe in doing anything rashly, which made his sudden departure from Town and his sudden arrival here all the more uncharacteristic of him.
A couple years past, the good doctor had written to him informing him of his change of address. The man had not given any explanation and Con had not inquired. He’d thought perhaps he’d gone to live with a relation at this Haverston Hall. The doctor, he had assumed, was not a young man, after all.
Upon arriving in Brambledon, he’d learned that Haverston Hall was the home of the Duke of Warrington. A curious thing, but he had not let that give him pause. He had stopped at the pond to freshen up. He was covered in dust. He’d eschewed the train and ridden hard from London, after all. As he was here to ask a favor of Dr. Langley, he wanted to present himself well.
He’d toyed with the idea of writing a letter first, but thought it would be more compelling to present his case in person. He had also assumed, likely erroneously, that he would be more difficult to decline in person.
Perhaps Constantine would have his answers at last.
He eyed the formidable-looking gentleman and assumed him to be the Duke of Warrington who reigned over Haverston Hall. He had that air of nobility about him.
“Nora?” the lovely woman inquired. The fact that she was increasing with child did not distract from her beauty or grace. “Who is your guest?”
So the girl was named Nora—and apparently of some station from the way the refined and polished lady was looking at her in a familiar and intimate manner.
“Ehh . . .” Nora looked at him with a bit of alarm in her eyes, and it occurred to him that he had not even given her his name.
Warrington, presumably, stepped forward to rectify that situation. “I’m Warrington and this is my wife, the Duchess of Warrington.” He settled a hand under his wife’s elbow. “And you are, sir?”
“Sinclair.” He inclined his head. “Constantine Sinclair.”
“Oh! Colonel Constantine Sinclair?” The duchess perked up. “How delightful.” She looked to Nora. “Are you not delighted, Nora? It’s your Colonel Sinclair whom you’ve been writing to all these years!”
Your Colonel Sinclair.
Nora looked perfectly horrified at her sister’s choice of words.
He sank back on his heels and stared hard at the girl who gaped almost comically, her mouth clearly searching for words. Obviously she had no defense.
She had duped him. Mystery solved. Nora had been the one writing to him, pretending to be the late Dr. Langley. He didn’t understand why or to what end, but he vowed he would soon have an explanation from her.
“It was you? You’ve been writing to me?” he demanded, taking a step toward her and then stopping. Angry as he was, he did not wish to appear a charging bull. It was undignified and conduct he did not imagine fitting as Birchwood’s heir.
Her cheeks pinked up. “Yes,” she admitted.
He shook his head in disgusted awe. “All this time I thought it was Dr. Langley with whom I corresponded. Foolish, I suppose,” he said tightly, “to have made that assumption as each letter was signed from Dr. Langley.”
She winced at his derisive tone and gave a single resolved nod. “It is true. I signed Papa’s name.”
“You what?” the duchess exclaimed. “Oh, Nora. You didn’t!”
“The colonel wrote asking for some medical advice.” She shrugged, and that lighthearted action only inflamed his temper. For her this had been some little thing. An inconsequential game. Only for him, it was no game. For him it was a matter of life and death. Standing here, the hope he had placed in locating Dr. Langley withered a bitter end.
She continued, “Papa had died already, but I knew what to say . . . and how to respond to the colonel’s questions, and it was ever so much easier to reply as Papa. I didn’t expect a stranger would heed the advice of the late doctor’s daughter.” Her lips twisted a little as though she had firsthand experience with this.
“Indeed,” he muttered, feeling . . . betrayed. Perhaps it was not the most fitting descriptor, but it felt accurate nonetheless. For years now, he had penned letters to this female, believing he was communicating with a medical professional, a kind and elderly gentleman concerned with bringing goodness into the world by healing and saving lives. Constantine had been friendly. After a time, he had shared things. Details of himself and his inner thoughts . . . the hardships of living in strange lands, of taking orders without blinking, of leading soldiers into uncertainty, always under the cloud of danger.
None of it embarrassing precisely. He was embarrassed only now. She had made a fool of him. He’d believed he was writing to one person and in fact it had been her.
For years he had watched soldiers writing their letters over campfires to their sweethearts, to their families and friends back home. He had never had anyone to write to before. There had never been anyone out there who expected to hear how Constantine Sinclair was m
anaging through life—if he was managing at all. Until Langley. And that had turned out to be a lie.
Nora Langley (as he now knew her to be) turned her gaze back on him, and it was full of fiery challenge. “Admit it. What merit would you have given a young girl’s words on medical matters?” Was that a sneer in her voice? Directed at him? As though he had done something wrong here.
He stared back at her with her no small amount of incredulity.
Not even an apology for her deceit?
Not the faintest amount of repentance?
She was like no young lady he had ever met . . . certainly not like the gracious and properly circumspect Lady Elise whom he had spent much time with of late. No, Lady Elise was a paragon of virtuous womanhood compared to this.
Nora Langley had all the tenacity of a bulldog. She might be attractive with curves that appealed to many a man, but he could not stomach the sight of her knowing the treachery she had wrought. Presently he would prefer the company of a bulldog rather than face off with this unpleasant female.
“I admit nothing as I have no way of knowing what I would have done.” He did his best to get the words out with equanimity, revealing none of his ire. “I was never presented with the truth of the situation, was I?”
“Oh, Colonel.” The Duchess of Warrington clasped her hands together before her. “You have our deepest apologies. We so regret any inconvenience this has caused you.”
Inconvenience, indeed. He held up his hand. “No need.” He’d say anything to escape this drawing room and these people. At any rate, the duchess owed him no apology. The person who owed him an apology had yet to give one. “And I am no longer Colonel Sinclair, Your Grace. I’ve retired my commission and returned home.”
“I thought you were in for life? You claimed no interest in leaving the army.” Nora Langley looked at him as though he had somehow played a trick on her. Ironic, considering she was the proven liar here. Not him.
“Nora,” the duchess chided tightly under her breath. “Don’t pester our guest with prying questions.” Constantine supposed the tight smile fixed to her face was meant to look natural.
“I’ve had a change in . . . circumstance. I suddenly find myself heir to my father’s cousin. I was called home after the death of his sons.”
“Oh, such a tragedy.” The duchess sank down on the sofa with a properly contrite expression. “I’m very sorry to hear of your family’s loss.”
Nora gave a stiff nod of agreement. “Indeed. Very sorry to hear that, Mr. Sinclair.”
He acknowledged their words with a nod of his own.
Then the duke was speaking now. “What brings you here now, Mr. Sinclair?” The man was clearly intent on getting to the heart of the matter. “Is there something we might help you with?”
“Well, I’ve returned to England a few months past to find my cousin’s wife suffering from a mysterious ailment. She has seen several doctors, all to no avail.”
“Oh, dear.” The duchess shook her head. “How dreadful. To lose her sons and then be afflicted so.”
“She has had to endure much,” he agreed. “I hate to see the duchess in such anguish.”
“Duchess?” Warrington queried.
Of course it would come out. It’s who he was now. He didn’t revel in announcing his new rank, but he supposed it was unavoidable. “My father’s cousin is the Duke of Birchwood.”
“Oh, my.” The Duchess of Warrington’s eyes went round. “Then you are . . .”
“The heir to the Duke of Birchwood,” Warrington finished.
“Save me from another blasted duke,” Nora Langley muttered, almost too quiet for him to hear, but he was standing the closest to her. He heard her perfectly.
“Yes,” he allowed. “I am all they have left. And I want to help the duchess. I need to help . . .” He stopped. “I cannot abide to see her suffering. I had thought to fetch Dr. Langley. I can see now I should have sent word first.” God knew what kind of reply he would have gotten? The truth? Finally? No. She would have put him off with more lies. “I am sorry to have imposed.” He moved toward the door, eager to take his leave. “I won’t take up any more of your time.” Or mine. He turned to go.
“What are her symptoms?” the young Miss Langley asked abruptly.
He stopped and looked back at her. “I beg your pardon?”
“You mentioned this woman is suffering? In what manner?”
He looked from her to the duke and duchess. They did not seem surprised at Miss Langley’s question. “I don’t want to take up any more of your valuable time . . .” Or further waste his own.
“You came here for help.” She looked up at him with wide guileless eyes. “Permit me to help you then.”
“Nora is quite the healer, Mr. Sinclair. You’ve come all this way. You might as well sit with her for a spell before turning around and going home again. There is nothing Nora enjoys more than drowning herself in a mystery diagnosis. She is quite clever.” The Duchess of Warrington motioned at Nora with a gentle smile. “Perhaps you two should take a stroll and discuss it.”
He did not have time for this. “Oh, I really should get back—”
Warrington strode across the drawing room and opened a door leading out into the gardens. He motioned for Constantine and the young Miss Langley to venture outside.
With a terse nod, he gestured for her to precede him. He’d oblige the duke and duchess and then break away at the first opportunity. All was not forgiven or forgotten and he had no intention of paying heed to anything this charlatan had to say. He’d put all his hopes in coming here . . . and they’d been most miserably dashed.
She swept past him and he followed, closing the doors after them. He didn’t glance back at the duke and duchess. He expected it was the last time he would ever see them. Just as this was the last time he would ever see Miss Langley.
He had no room in his life for the likes of her.
Chapter 6
Nora strolled sedately through the gardens with Sinclair beside her, a veritable sycamore tree. She was accustomed to people towering over her. She was the shortest of her three sisters, and there weren’t many adults who did not stand above her. It should not have unnerved her that she had to tilt her head back to look up at him, but then everything about this man unsettled her—ever since she had dropped in on him at the pond.
And it turned out he was her Colonel Sinclair.
No. Not her colonel. He was not her anything. Only her nightmare come to life. She snorted. Indeed, that he was.
She had looked forward to his letters over the years. Above all her other correspondence, there had been something special about his communications. Excitement had thrummed through her when she tore through his envelopes and unfolded the crisp parchment to read his heavy scrawl.
Colonel Sinclair always took the time to share something of himself, where he was, how he and his men were spending their days. He could paint pictures with his words. His description of the rugged mountains of Greece and, more recently, the lush jungles of Bengal Duars, had fed her soul.
Confronted with the reality of him now: young and virile and handsome and heir to a dukedom . . . was jarring. She had thought the personal details, the humor and wit in those letters originated from a crusty old soldier. The mistake was hers. He had never stated his age. She had simply assumed. Incorrectly assumed.
She should never have carried on for so long with him. She had corresponded with others while also pretending to be Papa. It had seemed harmless and become a rather ordinary thing, penning letters and signing his name. An ordinary thing, but something she now keenly regretted.
Sinclair didn’t speak. His gaze scanned the gardens as though searching for something . . . an escape perhaps. He had wanted to leave. Her sister and Warrington had put a stop to that, however, and thrust her upon him.
Tension vibrated from him. His anger with her was palpable. She cleared her throat, determined to try and set matters to rights between them. She supposed she
owed him an apology. She had not managed that yet. Marian had apologized as though she had been the perpetrator and not Nora. That stung a bit.
As the youngest, Nora was accustomed to her sisters speaking for her whether she wished it or not. Of course, she usually did not wish it, but they had been doing that all her life, much to her annoyance. Her pride smarted every time, but there was naught she could do. This instance was no different.
She drew a great breath. Admitting when she was wrong wasn’t her strong suit. She knew that weakness of herself, but she would do this.
“I am sorry for my deception. I never imagined I would be confronted—”
“With the evidence of your deceit,” he bit back.
Heat flushed through her. “I never imagined my actions would harm anyone.”
He said nothing for a long moment and a quick glance revealed the taut lines of his face. Her words had not appeased him. In fact, they might have angered him more if the dull red creeping up the planes of his cheeks was any indication.
She cleared her throat. “I would like to be of help to you . . . and to your duchess. That is why you came all this way, after all,” she reminded him, pausing for a breath and studying him, gauging his reaction. “Of course, nothing quite compares to visiting a patient in person and performing a proper examination, but if you could relay her symptoms to me along with the duration—”
“Forgive me,” he cut in, his voice tight with exasperation. “But I find myself with limited trust when it comes to you. I have no intention of discussing the Duchess of Birchwood’s private health matters with you. I should like her to live, after all.”
“Oh!” Wretched man! She stopped and glared at him. “I know what I’m about, sir!”
The look he bestowed on her could turn water to ice. “What right have you to misrepresent yourself?” He sliced a hand through the air. “To lead people astray dispensing medical advice?”
“My advice is not faulty.” She resisted stomping her foot in childlike pique.
“No? Who’s to say?” He shrugged. “How would I know?”
The Duke Effect EPB Page 4