“Give it up. Come live at Southart. The duchy’s rectory is a lovely place, and you could settle into a life that I guarantee will be fulfilling. You’ll have my wretched soul to watch over. That should keep you busy until the end of your days.”
When Devan examined him with a razor-sharp gaze, prickles of unease raised the hair on the back of Paul’s neck. An image of Devan pulling away the layers of sins and misdeeds while trying to find something redeeming inside increased Paul’s discomfort. Such a task as finding anything worthwhile in his rotten soul would take the vicar years or, most likely, eons.
“That came out of the clear blue. Feeling nostalgic this time of year, my friend?” Devan tilted his head.
“Hardly. I received another note and vowel from my father addressed to ‘The Great Disappointment, my baseborn son.’ The solicitor sent it over this morning.”
“Christ,” Devan said. “Your father’s cruelty knows no bounds. What’s the amount of the vowel?”
“I owe the Reynolds fifteen pounds. This makes the third one in three weeks. He’s haunting me from the grave.” He laughed, but the sound held no humor. “The vowels are all such little amounts. Why did he save them? I could have paid these amounts years ago.”
Devan shrugged his shoulders, but his gaze never left Paul’s.
“I’ll tell you why. He’s humiliating me.” Paul allowed his carefully constructed image of a bored and pampered aristocrat to melt away. He commanded a deep breath to dampen the bite of pain that appeared at the most inopportune times. On most occasions, he managed to tame the misery residing close to his every thought and deed. This moment was a watershed. His grief over his father’s sudden death was a constant mystery. He and his brother had been close for siblings, but his father had treated him as if he were something the cat had dragged into the house in the blackest part of night. When Robbie had discovered Paul’s beating by their father’s hand over the brandy prank, Robbie had entered their father’s study and not emerged for an hour.
Their father had never touched him again.
Nevertheless, his father found other ways to punish Paul. The constant look of disgust on the duke’s face whenever forced to address his younger son’s misdeeds always reminded Paul of someone holding his nose so as not to suffer contamination from the stench. His father continued to find more ways to torment Paul beyond the grave. The old duke’s personal solicitor had written that he possessed a personal letter addressed to Paul from his father. Once he returned from holiday, he’d deliver it himself and answer any questions Paul might have.
He’d always wondered if it wasn’t some divine plan that his father had died within days of Robbie’s passing. It ensured his father was never disappointed in him again—ever.
Perhaps the heavens thought the old duke needed a permanent hiatus from Paul’s mischief, or it took pity on Paul and swept the curmudgeon into its welcoming arms.
Most likely, it showed that maybe his father had no interest living in a world where Paul was his only son.
When Paul’s mother had been alive, she’d spent every available moment with Robbie and him, which was very unusual for a duchess. Once Robbie had reached the appropriate age, the duke had insisted his heir leave the nursery. Paul would have been lost if it hadn’t been for his mother’s tender attention. However, all that changed less than two months later when she’d succumbed to an illness and died within days.
Paul would have been inconsolable, since their father never much acknowledged his grief over his duchess’s death. But Paul’s brother had defied their father and spent the next month in the nursery and schoolroom proving his stalwart love for his little brother.
Even still, Paul missed the stoic, regimented old duke. The daily challenge of getting a rise out of the old man and watching his visage turn fifty hues of scarlet had been Paul’s favorite pastime.
“I need your friendship.” The burn inside the middle of his chest threatened to take his voice away. “I kept my sanity through mourning because of you,” he said in a low tone.
Devan placed his crystal glass of brandy on the side table and approached. He rested his hand on Paul’s shoulder and squeezed. “You had plenty of friends. The problem with you, Your Grace, is that you’ve bloody rejected the ones closest to you.”
Paul choked on his champagne. The vile curse coming from his friend’s mouth didn’t shock him, but the truth of Devan’s words stole his breath. Indeed, he’d destroyed nearly every relationship he’d ever had except his brother’s and Devan’s friendships. Though Devan was a vicar, he still counted as a true friend, but maybe because of his profession he possessed more tolerance than most.
“Don’t mince any words in consideration of my tender feelings.” Paul cleared his throat. “I’ve told you those friendships are gone forever.”
“No.” Devan smirked, then huffed a dismissal. “You’re making it too easy on yourself. You’ll never be happy unless you try to repair those friendships you’ve ruined.”
“It’s hopeless.” Paul took another sip of champagne.
“Hardly,” Devon cajoled. “When you approached the Duke of Langham, he was very willing to support you and your hospital charity.”
“He wanted something in return. My support for his upcoming bills in the House of Lords.”
Devan rolled his eyes. “That’s the way the members of Parliament work together. Plus, Pembrooke attended your speech in the House of Lords before the winter break. Last week, Somerton sat with Pembrooke at White’s while you read the evening post at the next table. Five years ago, such a thing wouldn’t happen.”
“Pure coincidence. Neither spared a glance my way.” Paul shook his head. “How do you know such things?”
“The Earrrrl of Larrrrkton made mention.” The roll of the r’s in the title emphasized Devan’s contempt for his oldest brother. “Even a man of the cloth has to go home every once in a while and make amends for his transgressions. Larkton wanted my head for refusing to marry the lovely Miss Barbara Overfield.”
Paul whistled softly. “I admire your brother’s good taste. She’s one of England’s wealthiest heiresses and of marriageable age. Now that the Cavensham heiresses have been gobbled up, there aren’t many left.”
“Call me old-fashioned, but I believe there should be some attraction between a couple. She constantly chatters. Between the two of us, neither of us would ever let the other get a word in edgewise.” Devan returned to collect his brandy and sat in front of the blazing fireplace at a small ebony table with an intricately carved chess set. “Besides, you’re wrong. If you consider familial relations by marriage, there’s a new Cavensham heiress. Remember Lady Daphne Hallworth?”
“Only in the loosest of terms.” What a liar. Yes, he still remembered her as a young girl, one he spent many an hour teaching to play chess and whist. He rubbed the scar on his cheek courtesy of the magpie. She thought him noble that day, and it was one of his fondest memories. He couldn’t recall anyone ever thinking of him that way since. Then, when he’d seen her at the Duke of Langham’s home, her happiness at meeting him had made Paul feel mighty—almost as if he could become chivalrous—until she bore witness to his shame.
“Details, old man,” Devan said. “She’s Lady Pembrooke’s sister-in-law and the stepsister-in-law to Lady Somerton, both former Cavenshams. The lovely Lady Daphne recently came into a fortune left to her by her late aunt on her mother’s side. Close to forty-five or fifty thousand pounds if The Midnight Cryer has it right.”
“I’d heard rumors.” Paul tipped the glass and finished the rest of the champagne.
“She’s a beauty with a handsome fortune plus a dowry to match.” Making himself at home, Devan arranged the chess pieces to his liking. “I’ve met her several times at ton events, but once the new Season rolls around, if I’m still in London, I plan to become better acquainted.”
Paul’s gut twisted into a knot. An intense flame of dislike coursed through him at his friend’s brazen declaration.
They both knew that Devan craved financial freedom from his brother, but the pious bastard wasn’t worthy of touching one obsidian-colored hair on her head.
Who was he to judge?
He let out a silent sigh. He’d pursued marriage with Lady Claire Cavensham and Lady Emma Cavensham, all in an effort to win his father’s approval. His father wanted one of his sons to marry into the Cavensham family as a way to align the Southart and Langham dukedoms. With Robbie’s sickness, that left Paul with the duty. But he’d failed miserably by insulting one, Lady Claire, the previous Duke of Langham’s daughter, then summarily being dismissed by the other, Lady Emma, the current Duke of Langham’s daughter. His floundering efforts with the Cavensham heiresses had kept the London gossips twirling in unabashed glee for months. Not to mention, it’d kept the pockets of Martin Richmond, the publisher of The Midnight Cryer, flush with cash.
“I see the gleam in your eye.” Coaxing Paul to join him, Devan waved his hand in front of the board. “Before you get any ideas in that ducal brain of yours, clean your house. Pembrooke and Somerton may not feel comfortable with you, but you can change that. Set things right with them before you try to steal the lovely Lady Daphne from me.”
The muscles in Paul’s jaw tightened until his teeth gnashed together. “You see intrigue in the least likely of places.”
“In all the years we’ve played ‘Would You Swive?’ you’ve placed the Duchess of Langham, the Marchioness of Pembrooke, the new Duchess of Renton, the Countess of Somerton, the Marchioness of McCalpin, and all her lovely sisters in the ‘gladly’ column. You’ve even included the queen, my own mother, and my sister in the ‘out of respect’ column at the risk of my wrath.” Devan narrowed his eyes. “All those times, you’ve never made mention of Lady Daphne. Oversight? I think not.”
“I thought we only played with married women.” When the full force of his friend’s examination fell on him, Paul adjusted his stance to withstand the all-seeing gaze. “Lady Daphne’s a young girl.”
“What rock have you been hiding under? There are whispers she’s permanently on the shelf since she’s twenty-five. Rumor has it that she believes no man is good enough to marry. She always keeps herself separated from the crowd and finds the highest perch to peer at the throng whenever she attends an event. She almost appears as if she was looking for someone.” He shook his head slightly. “I’ll try my hand at bringing her down from her nest. In my opinion, she’s not too young or too old. Like Goldilocks’s memorable words of wisdom, she’s just right, and the perfect marriageable age, Your Grace,” Devan mockingly offered, then resumed setting up the chessboard.
“What makes you think I’d be interested in her?” Paul flicked an imaginary piece of lint from one of his sleeves, then straightened his cuffs. He bit the inside of his cheek at the nervous tic.
“Your response makes me wonder about your real interest in the lady,” Devan said.
Paul flipped the tails from his expertly tailored dress coat as he sat down. “Pembrooke would slaughter me if I even looked in her direction.”
“White or black?” The joyful clicking of the marble pieces stilled as Devan finished arranging the board.
“Black. In my house, black moves first. It goes with my personality.”
“As you wish, Your Grace,” Devan taunted.
The room quieted except for the cheerful pop from the crackling flames in the fireplace. After they had made several moves each, the vicar directed all his attention at Paul. “Have you thought about how you’re going to keep your promises to your brother?”
On his deathbed, Paul’s brother had made him promise he’d reform his wicked ways and be the duke both Robbie and their father expected. Paul ran his hand over his face in a poor attempt to wipe the grief and memories aside. Robbie had been his champion, the only one who believed there was any good in Paul.
Now it was doubtful that anyone did.
Even he doubted his own worthiness.
Devan stared out the window into the black night.
“Looking for divine inspiration?” Paul asked.
“No, God doesn’t mingle in matters such as yours. You have to be your own savior. The hospital and your work to build political alliances in the House of Lords are an excellent start. But you never know what the future holds. Perhaps there’s a great woman for you, one who will lead you on a merry chase?” Eventually, Devan returned his attention to Paul. “My friend, a woman who believes in you would provide all the more reason to get your house in order.”
Paul tapped his finger twice against the top of the black queen. “You may have a point with your observation regarding Miss Barbara Overfield.”
Devan’s eyes widened. “You weren’t to infer I meant her.”
“I’m not referring to Miss Overfield. Didn’t you say that neither of you would allow the other a word in edgewise?” Paul exhaled a breath feigning exasperation. “I meant you don’t know when to stop talking.”
As he watched Devan flounder for a witty response, Paul considered all the reasons why he had to attain order in his house before he’d consider marriage. First, he had to finish his father’s silly game of running around London and paying gambling debts. Second, he had more than enough to keep him occupied, namely his estates and his work in the House of Lords. Third, and most important, he didn’t want any distractions as he tried to mend the broken relationships he left in his wake before he took his title.
Daphne Hallworth was the last person in the world he’d consider as a suitable bride.
Her family hated him.
Chapter Two
The next day
The Marquess of Pembrooke’s London residence
“Nooooooo, Truesdale!” The volume of Lady Margaret’s wail bordered on a bloodcurdling scream. A banshee would seek shelter from the noise that erupted from Lady Margaret’s mouth.
Daphne stopped mid-stride.
The piercing sound echoed repeatedly, almost growing in volume as it ricocheted through the Pembrooke home’s entry.
The cacophony created by numerous servants who were tasked with organizing the luggage immediately halted.
Ignoring everyone but her twin brother, she pushed him in the chest. “Don’t,” she yelled. I don’t want your smelly pug next to Minerva.”
The servants froze in the atrium as if suspended in time. Various chests, bags, and other items that would accompany Daphne and her family to their ancestral home, Pemhill, for the Christmas holidays rested on their shoulders or in their arms. No one dared moved for fear another shrill shriek was forthcoming. Even the stoic and regimented butler, Simms, who’d served the Pembrooke family for years, grimaced at the earsplitting sound that had emanated from Margaret.
The household had become an unruly madhouse when everyone—Daphne, her family, and the servants—had gathered in the entry this morning. Trunks, toys, and valises lay scattered and piled in the center of the black and white marble atrium floor. Claire and Alex’s twins, Lord Truesdale and Lady Margaret, had placed their pets next to each other in the center of the room. Truesdale’s pug, Percival, and Lady Margaret’s cat, Minerva, detested each other. Throughout the morning, each had growled or hissed in the other’s direction from their respective cages, adding to the mayhem.
The stillness in the room vanished when Lord Truesdale answered Margaret’s push in the chest with one of his own. “Maggie, Percival was here first. Minerva doesn’t belong here.”
“Don’t call me Maggie. I hate that name.” Another howl of frustration erupted from Margaret, who did what only a four-and-a-half-year-old could do in such a situation.
She dropped to the floor in a heap and sobbed.
Daphne rushed to pick up her niece while dodging a footman who held her trunk on his shoulder.
“My lady, pardon me. I didn’t see you. Where shall I put your things?” the liveried footman asked. Apparently, he thought it safe to approach the little girl.
Margaret threw her arms around Daphne’s neck an
d started to bawl. She gently patted her niece’s back. “Shh, it’s all right,” Daphne soothed. She turned her attention to the footman. “Just put them under the stairs for now.”
He nodded as if nothing were amiss, then headed in the opposite direction.
“Greene, over here. I need your help,” another footman called out. With the crisis averted, the servants continued their work.
Daphne ignored the shouts and thumps of trunks being set on the floor. “Sweetheart, it’ll be fine. They won’t ride together in the same carriage on the way to Pemhill.”
Margaret wiped her nose across Daphne’s blue velvet traveling gown. “But Minerva’s unhappy, Aunt Daph.”
“I’ll take her.” Alex appeared from nowhere and picked up Margaret from Daphne’s arms. “Last night both of them were so excited for today. I doubt between them they got a wink of sleep.”
“Remember how we used to be before Christmas? They’ll sleep the entire way to Pemhill.” Daphne released Margaret to Alex, then discovered her sister-in-law, Claire, beside her with a sleeping Truesdale in her arms.
“He surrendered first,” Claire said.
“Darling, let me take him,” Alex offered. “He’s too heavy.”
“You can’t hold both,” Claire answered as she bent her head and pressed her lips on top of her son’s forehead. While still holding Truesdale, she bent and pressed another kiss to Margaret’s cheek. The little girl closed her eyes, then tucked her head next to her father’s neck, crushing his cravat.
Just then, the door flew open, bringing a brisk winter breeze into the entry along with Daphne and Alex’s mother, the new Duchess of Renton. Her husband, the Duke of Renton, stood by her side.
“Good morning, darlings. Have we missed anything?” the duchess called out. When she saw a sleeping Margaret and Truesdale in their parents’ arms, she smiled. “My little lambs are exhausted, aren’t they?”
Alex kissed his mother’s cheek while holding Margaret. “Welcome to the madhouse, Mother. Renton, see what you married into?”
The Good, the Bad, and the Duke Page 3