The footman asked if he wanted his greatcoat, but Paul kept on walking toward the stable at the back of Southart Hall. A groomsman caught sight of him and approached.
“Would you like a horse or carriage prepared, Your Grace?” The fact that Paul had come unannounced didn’t seem to faze the man. “You seem to be in a hurry, Your Grace. I’ll have your favorite ride saddled immediately.”
Within minutes, the man held the bridle of Amor, the white gelding. Paul simply nodded, then mounted the horse. The loyal steed quickly galloped through Mayfair without any encouragement.
The beast must know his every thought. Amor headed to the Duke of Renton’s home.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Paul didn’t wait to be announced. Instead, he barged into the inner sanctum of the Duke of Renton’s study and sitting room. He’d been there once as a young boy with his father. He gritted his teeth and dismissed the disgusting fallacy.
His father was the Duke of Renton.
Surrounded by opulent black, white, and gold appointments, the duke stood on Paul’s entrance.
Paul didn’t stop until he stood two feet away from the man with silvered-blond hair and blue eyes. They even shared the same build. Paul should have seen the resemblance before. If he had discovered the ugly truth earlier, he’d not have wasted his time in a desperate attempt to capture Southart’s attention. He’d always wondered why he didn’t resemble Robbie or his father. Nor did he favor any of his past ancestors. Most of them, including Robbie, had sable-colored hair and deep brown eyes.
Now he had his answer, but other questions had reared their ugly heads.
“Did you know?” Paul cursed himself for the transparency of his anger. His normal haughtiness, a trademark reaction that easily transformed into a curtain that hid his true sentiments, had inconveniently deserted him.
The Duke of Renton’s easy smile, one that resembled Somerton’s, faded on the older man’s face. Out of the corner of Paul’s eyes, he saw two men approach. With a snarl, Paul turned to greet them or, frankly, attack them. He couldn’t have planned a more fitting reunion when he met his father.
Before him stood his half brother, Somerton, with Pembrooke beside him. Paul had kept his anger under control during last evening’s dinner for Daphne’s sake, but today he’d let it loose with a hurl of insults to match theirs from last night.
“What are you asking?” Somerton growled in return.
“I’m not asking you anything but telling. You’re my older brother.” He let the heavy sarcasm roll from his lips. Though there was no humor in the situation, Paul laughed when he saw Somerton’s jaw drop. “Such a response does little for your looks,” Paul jeered. “If it’s any comfort, I had the same response, but managed to keep my mouth closed.”
Paul swept his gaze to Renton. “You owe me an answer. Were you aware that my mother carried your child?”
“No.” Eerily reminiscent of Paul’s own eyes, the duke’s blue ones widened in astonishment. He fell to his seat. “She never told me.”
His honest response told Paul everything. He clenched his fist to keep from tearing the room apart. The man had no idea he was his son.
Somerton placed his hand on his father’s shoulder in a show of support. Years ago, Somerton had shunned his father. Then after his marriage to Emma, Somerton had allowed his father back into his life. The two of them simply stared, as if he were a creature that had crawled from the bowels of hell.
The description matched his mood perfectly. He trained his gaze first on the man who had sired him, then on his new half brother. Their looks were familiar to him when he was younger, but he never for an instant thought the resemblance meant anything.
More fool he.
“Paul, come sit. Let’s discuss this like civilized men.” In an uncharacteristic move, Pembrooke placed a hand on Paul’s shoulder and squeezed.
Paul wanted to roar at the unfairness of it all. It had been years since his old friend had offered comfort like this. Once again, it was because of the old Duke of Southart’s belligerent behavior toward his younger son. Paul had never understood his father’s coldness, but how appropriate that today, the one day that held such great happiness for his future, now lay destroyed by his father’s actions. Like a mirror demolished into a million pieces, the day he had planned to ask for Daphne’s hand and receive her brother’s blessing had been ruined by his nemesis.
He stepped away from Alex. There was no comfort here, nor did he deserve it. His maniacal father had taught him to become a selfish bastard, one groomed day in and day out to disappoint others. How fitting. Since he was a bastard. Literally. Today, he’d prove the Duke of Southart’s opinion of him was correct all along.
He would have to renege on his promise of marriage to Daphne. His heart twisted with pain, but there was no other course.
For once in his life, Paul would think of someone else first. He’d take the necessary steps to protect Daphne and her future happiness. He’d not ask for her. After everything he’d learned today, he had nothing to offer her. If married to him, Daphne could only look forward to more heartache. She’d suffered enough pain in her life. He’d not add to her misery.
If they had a family, there would be nothing but heartache for all. Their children and their children’s children would be mocked and ridiculed. Any heir would be made a laughingstock as he tried to take their seat in the House of Lords. The love of his life would be cut directly. It made little difference Daphne’s friendships or the standing of her brother in society. The fact that her mother married his real father added more kindling to the fire of the scandal. Her cause for a home for unwed mothers would be scorned.
“The only thing that needs to be discussed is my behavior toward your sister.” Black despair promised no quarter. Why had he taken her innocence last night? Because he was every inch the same rake and blackguard as Southart. Indeed, Paul had learned from the best.
He bit his cheek as he realized there was still a chance Daphne would be tied to his loathsome self. If she was pregnant, he’d ruined her life. “I’ve decided not to offer for your sister, with what we’ve learned of the truth of my lineage.”
Without a hint of fury, Pembrooke studied him.
The words burned, but Paul continued, “A better husband awaits her. Someone she’d be proud to marry. I can’t ask her to ruin herself with me. If circumstances find her carrying my child, I’ll do the right thing. I’ll marry her, but then I expect you to call me out after the ceremony.”
Paul turned to leave, but Pembrooke’s hand shot out and stopped his departure. “You bloody bastard, she’s in love with you.”
“Exactly. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” he drawled with a distinct mockery in his voice. “I’m a bloody bastard. If she’s forced to marry me, challenge me to the death. Oh, and practice your aim. I don’t want to survive. Daphne will have everything she needs for a comfortable life, I promise you.”
Without a look back, Paul strode from Renton Hall. He’d made a promise to Daphne, and he’d see it finished.
He would find her diary today and put an end to her distress on that account.
For some reason, the thought offered little comfort. He might stop her worry over the loss of the journal, but she’d suffer from his break with her. He had little doubt she loved him.
If the news leaked about his birth, he’d be ruined. It was his rotten luck that he couldn’t renounce the title. Once declared the legitimate heir, he was stuck for life as the Duke of Southart.
But that fact didn’t negate the obvious. He wouldn’t taint her pureness with the stench of his birth.
He’d rip out his own heart first before he’d allow her to suffer because of the truth of his bastardy.
Which lead to the only truth he could rely on—his entire life was a lie, and he had no idea who he was.
* * *
As soon as Paul returned home, Ives greeted him at the door. “Your Grace, Griffin is waiting in the study f
or you. He found the boy.”
With a curt nod, Paul headed down the hallway. The cold pervaded every inch of him, since he’d ridden to the Duke of Renton’s home without the accompaniments of a greatcoat, gloves, and hat. He pushed his discomfort away. To consider such trivial matters was a waste of time. When he entered the study, his groomsman stood with his hat in hand.
“Tell me what you found, Griffin.” His voice had deepened from the cold, making his words curt. “Was the boy in Seven Dials?”
Without offense, the groomsman, who was slight of build but a master at managing the Southart cattle, simply nodded. “Your Grace, I’ve visited Seven Dials daily since your instruction with no luck. Then, as if he’d fallen from the sky, Garland returned to the cook’s room at the boardinghouse last night. She took him to work this morning.”
“Thank you for your hard work,” Paul said. “Have my carriage readied immediately. You’ll accompany me to the Reynolds.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” The groomsman nodded, then raced from the room.
For the first time that day, relief trickled through Paul. With any luck, he’d have his Moonbeam’s journal as promised. His heart tripped in his chest at the thought. Her diary was the only thing that kept her anchored to him. After he acquired it and returned it to her, there would be no more reason to see her. He fought the war of emotions raging through him. The fulfillment of his promise would be the last thing he’d give her.
He had to remember that she was better off without him.
Within a half hour, Paul strolled through the doors of the Reynolds.
The majordomo looked askance, then lifted one brow with a slight smile. “Good afternoon, Your Grace. I imagine you want your usual private room? I’ll tell Elsie you’re here.”
With a flourish that belied the large man’s size, Gilby swept a hand in front of him, beckoning Paul to lead the way. Without another word passing between them, Gilby escorted Paul to the same sitting room as before.
The same room where he’d first sparred with Daphne. A bottle of champagne waited for him just like the first time he was alone with her in the Reynolds. He wiped a hand down his face, hoping to ease his pain or at least brush away the memories until he could retrieve the diary. Only until it was securely in his possession would he allow himself to grieve over all he’d lost today.
“A glass of champagne, Your Grace?” Gilby asked.
Paul shook his head. “No, thank you.”
A terse knock sounded on the door, and Gilby answered it. Elsie stood outside holding the ear of a young boy, ensuring the squirming scamp wouldn’t escape. Gilby’s eyes grew wide. With an unmistakable high temper, the cook marched in dragging the boy behind her.
Paul nodded at Gilby, and the man left.
When they were all alone, Elsie bobbed a quick curtsy while holding tight to the boy’s ear. “Tell His Grace what you did.” Her fury made her cheeks flaming red.
Paul regarded the young man, who was pleasant of face. “I take it that this is Garland?”
Elsie nodded, then jerked his ear upward. “Show some respect. Bow and introduce yourself.”
The boy did as directed, even though the cook’s firm hold restricted his movements. Garland winced when Elsie pulled him into a deeper bow. Apparently satisfied with the boy, Elsie let go of his ear. For a moment, Paul had nothing but empathy for the boy as he rubbed his ear. The old Duke of Southart had favored the same corporal punishment when correcting Paul for his misdeeds.
“Where is the reticule that you stole from a young woman several days before Christmastide?” Paul asked. Keeping his voice deep and even, he didn’t want to scare the boy into not revealing the journal’s whereabouts, but the imp needed to know that what he did was wrong.
The boy pulled the wadded-up reticule out of his pocket and held it out to Paul. The boy’s wide eyes and the trembling of his arm confirmed what Paul suspected. The boy was terrified of him. “’Ere you are, my lawd,” he whispered.
Elsie made a move to grab the boy’s ear again but clenched her fists this time. “He’s the Duke of Southart. You address him as ‘Your Grace.’”
“Your Grace.” Garland’s gaze darted to the floor.
Paul took the reticule and checked inside. There was a pencil and several gold guineas jangled on the bottom.
But nothing else.
He returned his gaze to the boy. “Where is the journal?”
Both Elsie and the boy took a deep breath at the same time, then stood still. Every second of silence sounded like a death knell of failure.
“Tell him, Garland, and give him the money.” Elsie’s voice cracked with emotion. “He has the power to have you arrested for theft and thrown in the gaol or worse.”
With his face void of all color, Garland slowly raised his gaze to Paul. “I sold it to ’he fellah who owns ’he Midnigh’ Cryer.”
Paul clenched both fists to keep from roaring his rage. Of all the weasels in England the boy could have sold the journal to, Martin Richmond was the worst kind of nightmare. He had to discover how long the reprobate publisher had possessed it. Purposely keeping his voice calm, he asked, “When did you sell it?”
The boy’s chin wobbled, and his eyes filled with tears. “I sold ’im some o’ the pages righ’ b’fore Christmas. ’E bough’ ’he res’ ov ’he book ’his mawnin’.”
Paul exhaled and bit his cheeks to keep from punching a hole through the wall. If only he hadn’t taken the time to read the Duke of Southart’s bloody letter, he could have saved Daphne from more pain. Not only had he ruined her, but now she would be ridiculed unmercifully by all of London’s gossipmongers, too. God, could this turn any more morose?
The boy extended his open palm where five sparkling gold guineas lay in a neat row. “Your Grace, ’ere’s wha’ ’e paid me. Mr. Richmond is in ’he gamin’ room. You could buy it back from ’im.”
Paul made the mistake of looking at Elsie. With tears streaming down her face, the girl looked absolutely defeated. Enough lives had been ruined today. These two had nothing to fear from him. “Give the money to Elsie. It’s the least you can do for the aggravation you’ve caused her.”
The boy had the good sense to nod his head and handed the coins to Elsie.
Daphne had wanted to offer employment to this woman. Giving refuge to Elsie and the boy would be Paul’s way of honoring Daphne and her wonderful spirit. She wouldn’t want the cook or the boy to suffer for the trouble the street urchin had caused. There was only one thing to do.
“Miss Qulin, you’re a fine person for taking responsibility of the boy. You shouldn’t be working here. I’d like to offer you a position as an assistant to my cook. I’ll pay you the same wages as here for the start. We’ll see how you progress.”
“Thank you, Your Grace,” she gushed. Her sudden joy disappeared. “I can’t take the position, sir. I need to look after Garland. Even though he’s an imp, he needs me.”
Paul nodded. The young woman was a good role model for the boy. “He can come, too, and work in the stables. Report first thing in the morning.” He stared at Garland. “If you ever steal from me or from anyone again, I’ll throw you out, understand?”
The boy’s eyes flashed. “Yes, sir. You won’ regre’ it, m’lawd. I mean Your Grace.”
Elsie stood behind the boy with her hands on his shoulders. “Thank you, sir. Your kindness won’t go unrewarded.” She shuffled the young man out the door.
Just exactly who would reward him? He had a greater chance of receiving accolades from the devil than receiving any bounty of a spiritual kind.
Detached, as if watching the events from above, Paul exited and moved slowly toward the gaming floor ever closer to the roar of the crowd. At this time of day, most civilized men were at their gentlemen’s club or attending their wives during the midafternoon tea. The jackals who littered the floor of the Reynolds weren’t civilized. Like wild hyenas, they jostled for positions at the tables, then laughed at nothing but the macabre scene of
fortunes being lost.
Thankfully, Paul quickly found Richmond at one of the hazard tables. Wearing a black split-tail coat, matching waistcoat, and black breeches, he resembled one of the ravens that guarded London Tower. His personality matched the raucous birds—quarrelsome and opportunistic. Paul suppressed a surge of hatred and approached the publisher of The Midnight Cryer. Paul needed to be his most charming if he wanted to woo Richmond. He angled his way to Richmond’s side. Several greetings of “Southart” flitted past him. He ignored them all.
“Room for one more?” he asked as he sidled next to the man.
With a twist of his head, Richmond turned. His look of utter surprise transformed into pleasure, but the crooked, insincere smile ruined the effect. “Your Grace, how delightful to see you at your old hunting grounds. You seem to have regained your taste for the games of chance that you once so favored. Perhaps with your newfound title and wealth, fate will smile more favorably upon your gaming endeavors.”
“One can only hope,” Paul answered as his stomach roiled in revolt. God, how he despised the man with a passion. But for Daphne he’d go through this hell. “I’m not here to play.”
“What a surprise,” Richmond drawled. “For a common man such as myself, it’s amazing how often the titled seek me out.” He threw the dice down the table, and the crowd erupted in a roar. “My luck has been utterly amazing. I’ve won hundreds of pounds today, and now you’re here.” The same false smile creased his lips, but his eyes flashed with intelligence. “Let me guess what you want from me. Does it have something to do with the amazing journal I recently acquired?”
“You are as clever as a fox, or at least a raven.” Paul returned the same insincere smile. “Indeed. I might have some interest in acquiring it.”
The comparison of Richmond to a raven was rather astute, if Paul did say so himself. Richmond resembled the intelligent, cunning bird known for eating the decaying flesh of other animals. The carrion eater before Paul might masquerade as a man, but he also shared another behavior associated with the raven—he liked to collect shiny, bright things that didn’t belong to him.
The Good, the Bad, and the Duke Page 27