The Good, the Bad, and the Duke

by Janna MacGregor

  “Somerton, you were always a loyal friend, at least until I made it impossible. I should have paid that debt to you sooner.” The act still made Paul flinch at his selfishness. “Your friendship and my disregard will always be a regret I’ll carry.”

  Somerton nodded in acknowledgment of Paul’s shortcomings. “Your efforts to make things right between us has brought many joys to my life. I’m married to the woman of my dreams, and I’ve been able to repair the broken relationship I had with our father.”

  Would he ever be able to consider Renton as his father?

  As he gazed at Somerton, he viewed their resemblance to each other. Daphne’s words haunted him. It was true that he favored his mother, but his height could only come from Renton. Once he told his tale to Richmond, the reprobate would likely root around like a mole until he discovered the relationship that existed between him and Somerton. The truth of Paul’s birth wove a horrid web of destruction for everyone he cherished.

  He did care for Somerton and Emma and their children along with Alex and Claire and their family, too. Above all, he loved Daphne. The familiar ache of want twisted his insides. Desires and wants weren’t gifts he was entitled to receive. “Somerton, your acceptance of me as your half brother is … I truly appreciate your sincerity. However, I think you should reconsider having a relationship with me. When I talk to Martin Richmond, it will impact your family.” Paul shifted his gaze to Pembrooke. “And yours.”

  Against the sofa, the marquess reclined in a pose matching Paul’s position. “What is it exactly you want that Richmond has?”

  “Something of your sister’s that I promised I’d see returned to her.” Paul didn’t flinch when Alex’s eyes narrowed.

  “Daphne?”

  Paul nodded.

  “Tell me.” Pembrooke’s voice was eerily quiet.

  “Something that was stolen from her. Something she values greatly,” Paul said.

  Taken aback, Alex’s face turned white. He leaned forward with his elbows resting on his knees. “Is that why you’re willing to ruin your life?”

  “I don’t believe I’ll ruin my life,” he drawled. “It was already ruined for me by the previous Duke of Southart.”

  “Is that why you broke with Daphne?” Pembrooke asked.

  “Among other reasons.” Paul ran a hand down his face and exhaled. “The church’s stand on the laws of consanguinity would forbid marriage between siblings.”

  Devan put his hand up to stop Paul. “That’s only if there’s blood shared. For instance, if Somerton had a sister you couldn’t marry her, as you’d be half siblings. But there’s no blood between you and Pembrooke. More important, no blood shared between you and Daphne.”

  Paul rose from the sofa to stoke the fire. The domestic act gave him a purpose—at least for the next several minutes. “What difference does it make? It’s done.”

  Somerton scowled. “It makes a hell of a lot of difference. You simply cannot capitulate to The Midnight Cryer’s publisher and give him the facts of your birth.”

  “I’m not giving him anything. I’m exchanging something of value for something invaluable.” Protecting his beloved’s peace of mind was priceless to him.

  But he’d still be leaving Daphne to defend herself against the rumors. He stared at the fire without feeling any warmth. He’d already destroyed her. God, everything he touched he ruined.

  “Your rendering of the situation”—Pembrooke rose and stood beside him—“is nonsensical. Such an act would forever make you an outcast in society, not to mention cast doubts on the Southart duchy.”

  Hot anger exploded in Paul’s gut. “I don’t give a damn about the duchy!”

  “You do, my friend,” Pembrooke said. “Whether you carry any Southart blood in your veins is immaterial. You’ve grown up a Southart, and the future of the great title and estate rests with you. People rely on you for their livelihoods and the livelihoods of their children. In the short amount of time you’ve been the duke, you’ve done marvelous things. You’ve created a charity that all of London is talking about. Your efforts in the House of Lords are nothing but awe-inspiring. The Duke of Langham already sees you as a powerful ally for the important legislation he wants passed. That’s not something to throw away.”

  Devan nodded solemnly. “What Pembrooke says is all true.”

  Somerton walked to Paul’s other side. “If you do this, you’ll throw away everything.”

  “Including my sister. You’ll break her heart all over again,” Pembrooke added softly. “She loves you. She proved it when she rallied the entire family to accept the invitation to attend your upcoming charity soiree.”

  Paul’s gaze shot to Pembrooke. “She convinced you, Somerton, and the rest to support me?”

  Alex nodded. “I was against it, but Claire, Emma, my mother, and the Duchess of Langham informed me they were attending with or without my acquiescence as a way to support you.”

  “No wonder I love her,” Paul murmured to himself. She’d brought Pembrooke and Somerton back into his life. A month ago, he would never have conceived that these men would gather around him in a show of support—in a show of friendship. But for how long? Bitterness stole what little relief he found at that truth. Once he told his tale to Richmond, his old friends could do nothing but distance themselves and their families from his taint.

  Every inch of him ached with longing to hold her one last time in his arms. But he didn’t deserve such comfort or her. She was pure and he was spoiled to the core like a worm-infested rotten apple. No matter what, for the rest of his life his black heart was hers.

  By his father’s words and his own actions, he’d lost her. He closed his eyes as the emptiness surged through him threatening to drown him. Once again, his selfishness threatened to take control. His bereavement would have to wait until he’d finished his promise to her.

  “I’m sorry, but I see no other way than to speak to Richmond.” The steel in Paul’s voice meant no one could convince him otherwise.

  The wood in the fireplace collapsed signaling his defeat. Sparks flew upward through the chimney trying to escape the devastation that would result from his actions tomorrow.

  Devan took a deep breath, then exhaled loudly. “Thankfully, I’m here. Only a vicar could come up with this solution, and I’m happy to be of assistance.” He paused dramatically, then rested his gaze on Paul. “When I was at university, I became what one might consider a guardian angel to the boys who couldn’t quite, how shall I say, muster the grades to proceed to divinity studies. I saw the injustices and made it my mission to right the wrongs.”

  Pembrooke exhaled a loud, long-suffering breath. “And the point of this tale?”

  Devan ignored the interruption. He stood and approached the fireplace to stand with the three men. “I developed a useful skill to help my fellow students. I learned how to break into the provost’s office and change the grades. Thus, I helped my friends in their darkest hours.”

  “How in God’s name does changing grades help Southart?” Somerton queried.

  “We’ll break into The Midnight Cryer’s offices this evening and steal whatever you’re looking for,” Devan cheerfully offered.

  Pembrooke’s eyes widened.

  Somerton grimaced and slowly shook his head in apparent disbelief.

  The walls of the study suddenly closed around Paul. For a moment, he couldn’t catch his breath. “No,” he whispered.

  “The idea has merit,” Pembrooke offered.

  “It’s too dangerous,” Paul retorted. “If we’re caught your reputations will be shattered, not to mention Richmond would press charges and report about the proceedings every day with a smile on his face.”

  “We could be in and out within a half hour,” Devan announced.

  “I’m willing,” Somerton said.

  “Have you lost your minds?” Paul’s voice rose in defiance. “Even if we’re not caught, Richmond will know who did it.”

  “What could he do then?�
� Alex asked. “Nothing. He’d have no proof and no”—he batted his hand through the air like he was swatting a fly—“whatever it is you’re rescuing for Daphne. I’m not going to let you risk this alone if you’re doing this on my sister’s behalf.”

  “Southart, this will work. If anything goes wrong, I’ll take full responsibility.” Devan put his arm around Paul’s shoulder. “Trust me, my friend.” Devan addressed Pembrooke and Somerton, “Since Lady Daphne is busy elsewhere, might either of you know if there are any extra Cavensham heiresses hiding somewhere in the proverbial family tree? I find I’m in need of one myself.”

  Pembrooke shook his head, and Somerton chuckled.

  All three men, his friends, had come together to help him for Daphne’s sake. There was nothing else he could do. He nodded, then the four of them proceeded to plan their evening.

  * * *

  The dinner tray still sat covered on the table in her sitting area. Daphne hadn’t asked for it, but Mavis had quietly brought it in after Daphne had sent word that she’d didn’t feel well and wouldn’t be joining the rest of the family for dinner.

  To say she was under the weather didn’t accurately describe her mood. She felt swept away by a wave of epic proportions, the upheaval something she couldn’t grasp how to fix. Paul believed his life was worthless because he was a bastard. When she’d explained it didn’t make any difference to her, she wasn’t at all certain he listened—or if he did that he accepted any of what she was saying.

  She pulled the drape in the window seat aside. Night had fallen over London, and the dark gray gloom outside was a perfect companion for her this evening. Earlier Margaret and Truesdale had stopped by for a brief kiss. Though children, they knew she was heartbroken and both gave her an extra hug this evening before saying good night.

  She shut her eyes and allowed a lone tear to escape. How could she have been the happiest she’d ever been in her life and now faced the ultimate heartache because of the same man? A man she loved with every ounce of her being. Once again, feelings of invisibility threatened. Desperate to protect herself from the pain, Daphne brought her hand to her chest. The feeble effort provided little relief. Inside, her heart was torn apart, leaving her with the tatters.

  A soft knock broke her concentration. Absently, she called out, “Enter.”

  “Hello, darling.” Her mother’s sweet voice broke the silence in the room.

  Slowly, Daphne turned and faced her mother. She shook her head to keep a shuddering sob from escaping. “He broke our betrothal today.”

  In an instant, her mother was by her side, and Daphne found herself enfolded in her mother’s warm embrace. Normally, her mother’s touch comforted, but tonight it did little to tame the disquiet that currently dominated her thoughts.

  “Mother, I—” She turned toward the window to stifle another sob that rose in her throat. With several shallow breaths, she managed to tamp down the urge. “Yesterday Paul asked me to marry him and told me he’d talk to Alex. Earlier today he called and said he couldn’t marry me.” She cleared her throat, then captured her mother’s gaze. There was no sense avoiding the pain. “He—he told me he loved me, and I believe he does. But…”

  What could she say? It was his secret to tell.

  “Oh, darling.” Her mother’s eyes glistened with tears. She patted Daphne’s hand in reassurance. “Your Southart received some startling news, and Renton has been devastated by it as well. This won’t be easy.”

  “I don’t know what to do. My place is by his side. I want to comfort him.” She caught her mother’s gaze. “I love him.”

  “Darling”—her mother took a deep breath—“Southart is angry and said things.” Her mother grabbed her hand tighter. “Paul wanted Alex to call him out for … ruining you. Your brother was to visit Southart tomorrow after he had some time to think things through.”

  “Oh, my God.” Tears welled in her eyes. One drop slipped free. “He made me feel alive. He gave me my life back.”

  Her mother slipped a handkerchief into her hand. Daphne accepted it and wiped her face.

  “Well, you’re not the first woman who slept with her betrothed.” Her mother pursed her lips. “I wish you would have waited. What’s done is done.” She waved a hand in the air. “We’ll save that discussion for later. We have more important things to discuss.”

  When her mother took her into her arms again, her familiar scent of peonies did little to relieve her anguish. She’d lost him. Stabs of grief assaulted her. She had suffered heartache before, but nothing as debilitating as what she was experiencing now.

  Her mother’s inner strength and beauty were simply remarkable, but her devotion to her family was a force to be reckoned with. Soon, Mavis delivered a tea tray. Daphne’s mother dismissed the maid with a smile, then turned to Daphne.

  “Let’s have a cup of tea, shall we? Cook made your favorite, apple tarts.” Holding her hand, her mother led her to her slipper chair, then poured them both a steaming-hot cup of tea.

  “I must share something with you.” Her mother took a sip of tea, then set her cup down. “I loved your father.” She didn’t wait for a response. “We were friends, but I never gave him my heart. Of course, we were proud and happy when we had three beautiful children.”

  Caught off guard at the frankness in her mother’s tone, Daphne simply stared before responding, “Why are you sharing such an intimate detail?”

  “Because I’m married to a man now who makes me happier than I’ve ever been in my life. I love Renton with every beat of my heart. When I saw you and your reaction to seeing Paul insulted at the dinner table”—a gentle smile creased her lips—“I recognized how much you loved him.”

  Daphne shook her head in answer. “He wants nothing to do with me. I’m at a loss at what I should do.” She hung her head in defeat. “Mother, he doesn’t even want to see me. He informed me that he found something I’d lost.” Her hand covered her mouth. Once Paul gave her the journal, he had no more reason to contact her. The journal, which would always remind her of Alice, would now represent the loss of Paul. She let her hand fall to her side in resignation. “But he’s not even going to give it to me. He’s asking his vicar friend, Mr. Farris, to deliver it to me.”

  “He’s hurting, and because of his pain, you’re hurting, also. You’ve got to fight for your future, fight for your love.” Her mother reached forward and patted her knee. “Convince him he’s worthy to fulfill the responsibilities of the dukedom. You must convince him that you’re destined for each other.”

  The affection in her mother’s gaze brought the hot sting of tears to her eyes. “What if he rejects me?”

  “Sweetheart, if he’s your true love, then you need to fight with everything you possess to make him understand how rare your love for one another is. Something that great is worth the risk of rejection, don’t you think? You’ll never know if you don’t try.” Her mother leaned close and pressed a gentle kiss on Daphne’s cheek, then studied her. “My Daphne of years ago, that feisty young girl who took tablecloths for the greater good, was a mighty defender. She’d have fought for this man if she wanted him.”

  Daphne released a sigh, then stood and walked to the window. A brilliant moon took command of London’s night sky, leaving the city painted in a sea of inky blue. Her astute mother spoke the truth. Daphne had allowed her strength and sense of self to wither. Now was not the time to withdraw into the comfort of invisibility again. Everything in the universe had aligned so they could be together. He needed her as much as she needed him. Whatever she had to do, she’d win him back—convince him their love was worth fighting for—no matter the cost.

  “You possess a canny, may I say an almost wily, sense of how to slip into Southart Hall. Surely, with all your practice, you can find a way to see him?” Her mother lifted a brow.

  The old, invisible Daphne would have been horrified at the gentle reprimand in her mother’s voice. The new Daphne relished the advice and embraced it wholeheartedly.
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  She held her head high. If need be, she’d set up a blockade in front of every door of Southart Hall. He’d have to emerge sometime.

  When he did, she’d be there.

  * * *

  Cold, the kind that seeped into your bones and made you believe your toes and fingers were detached, permeated Paul’s unmarked carriage. He sat next to Pembrooke, and Devan and Somerton faced him in the rear-facing seat. With a whispered command and a pull of the reins from the driver, the matched team of horses slowed to a stop in the narrow passage between Martin Richmond’s offices and the next building directly across the alley. Without a word, the men descended from the carriage.

  A street urchin no more than nine or ten years of age watched the proceedings. Paul nodded at one of his groomsmen, who then approached the lad. As soon as the boy saw the groomsman start in his direction, he ran. Paul exhaled, and a cloud of mist surrounded him.

  “Your Grace,” another groomsman whispered. “Shall I follow the boy?”

  Paul glanced at his companions, then shook his head in answer. He and his companions, all larger than life, were dressed in black greatcoats and beaver hats. The sight probably scared the boy into running to the nearest church for sanctuary. Besides, the quicker Devan broke in, the quicker they could leave.

  With Somerton holding a lit lantern over his head, Devan made quick work of the lock. With an echoing click, the door opened, and the four of them entered. Pitch-black except for the illumination their two small lanterns offered, the office itself held little warmth.

  “Let’s split into two groups,” Devan whispered. “What does the journal look like?”

  “I’m not certain.” Paul reached and touched Devan’s arm. “If you find it, don’t look inside, understand?”

  “How will I know if it’s the right one if I don’t look inside?” he offered with a shrug of his shoulders.

  “It’s a journal. Probably a leather-bound book.” Paul glowered at him. “Don’t open it. I promised her.”

  Pembrooke’s gaze jerked to Paul. “For God’s sake, what has she written?”