Bride for a Duke

by Bryn Donovan

  She took a deep breath, wrapping her shawl tighter around her shoulders as she started to climb the narrow, steep path. She was being ridiculous, of course. She needed to do this alone. But it was obvious to her that her regard for him was waxing, not waning, with every minute that she spent in his company. A regard that could simply go nowhere, and she must put behind her, well and truly.

  She must keep her eye on the prize. The prize, that she might discover what happened to the De Vere family. That she might finally discover what had happened to her all those years ago, when she had been little more than a baby.

  The cottage looked deserted as she approached it. It was rundown, half-covered with twisting brambles that had obviously not been tended to in many years. The paint was peeling off the boards, hanging in long strips like lolling tongues. But the decrepitude of the house contrasted with the stunning location. Perched right on the edge of the cliff, the blue ocean spread in every direction around, almost overwhelming her eyes.

  She approached the back door with trepidation. Mary-Anne had told her that the man who lived here was very old and didn’t like visitors. How was he going to react to her knocking at his door?

  She took a deep breath, then knocked loudly, calling out, “Hello? Mr. Allen?”

  There wasn’t a sound from inside. She knocked again, almost hurting her knuckles. And once more. Her heart plummeted. Perhaps he wasn’t inside; perhaps he was out walking. Or perhaps he was inside, and simply hadn’t heard her. Or he didn’t want to answer the door.

  She tried again, almost pummelling on the door in her desperation, waiting for a response. Eventually she turned away, so disappointed that tears stung her eyes. She would try again tomorrow. And the day after that. It was all she could do.

  She was halfway down the ramshackle garden path when she froze at the sound of a voice behind her.

  “Who are you?” The voice was gruff, thickened with age. “What are you doing here?”

  She slowly turned around. An old man was standing in the doorway, leaning heavily on a walking stick. He had wisps of snowy white hair, and a thickly creased face with watery blue eyes. Those eyes were regarding her sharply. Warily.

  “Mr. Allen?” Her voice was breathless.

  He nodded slowly. “Yes, I am Kenneth Allen,” he replied, frowning. “I ask again, who are you, and what do you want? You shouldn’t be here…”

  Abigail took a deep breath, walking toward him. “My name is Abigail Clark,” she said, her heart pounding hard in her chest. “And I think that you might know what happened to the family that used to live at Dudley House. The house that the Duke of Wycliff now calls home.”

  He looked shocked. “Why do you want to know?”

  She took another deep breath. “Because, Mr. Allen, I believe that I might be a part of that family. And that Dudley House might have been my own home, when I was just a little girl.”

  He brought her into the kitchen, putting a black kettle onto the wood stove to boil. Abigail sat down at the round kitchen table with shaking hands as he prepared the tea. They didn’t speak again until they both had cups.

  “I must say, you have knocked me sideways,” said the old man, shaking his head. “I have not thought of the De Vere family in many years. So many, that I had almost forgotten that bad business entirely.”

  Abigail’s heart lurched. “So, you did work for them, then?”

  He nodded. “I surely did, miss. For thirty years, I was the head gardener there. And I probably would have been there longer, if everything hadn’t happened the way that it did.”

  She felt herself trembling from head to toe. “What happened to them? Why did they leave Dudley House?”

  He sighed heavily, sipping his tea, before placing the cup down. “It wasn’t called Dudley House, back in those days. It had always been known as De Vere Lodge since it was built, back in King James’s time. The De Vere’s were an old aristocratic Cornwall family, that have lived here for generations.” He paused. “The name of the house was only changed after the current duke’s grandfather took possession of it, back in 1796.”

  Abigail’s heart beat faster. De Vere Lodge. She recognised the name, in a way that she did not understand at all.

  “It was old Lord De Vere’s fault,” continued Mr. Allen, shaking his head. “In his later years, he developed a taste for cards and dice, racking up gambling debts.” He paused. “One of those debts was a substantial one, to the old Duke of Wycliff, the current duke’s grandfather. The family coffers were almost deplete by then; they were growing more impoverished by the day. Such a proud family, who were reduced to selling off the family silver. Lady De Vere, the mistress of the house, even sold her jewellery, bit by bit, but it was never enough.”

  Abigail’s heart was thudding so hard the sound seemed to fill the small room.

  “They tried to pay the old duke off,” said Mr. Allen. “But it was never enough. Until one day, he arrived on their doorstep with an offer for Lord De Vere.” He paused. “The servants at the house couldn’t speak of anything else the next day, which is how I learned what the meeting had been about. Apparently, the old duke had demanded Lord De Vere’s beautiful young daughter, the Lady Margaret, as payment for the rest of the debt.”

  “Did Lord De Vere accept?” asked Abigail, her eyes wide with horror.

  “To his credit, he did not,” said the old man. “The old duke was seventy by then, a widower for many years, and Lady Margaret was only two-and-twenty. She was also already engaged, to a local man. A love match. Lord De Vere told the old duke that he would never have his daughter. The old duke was furious, at first.”

  “What happened then?” Abigail’s voice was a whisper.

  “Well, strangely enough, he calmed down, and seemed to accept it,” said Mr. Allen, his lips thin. “He agreed to the debt still being paid off, bit by bit. Lady Margaret married her love, Mr. Edwin Blackmore, and they lived in harmony at De Vere Lodge with Lady Margaret’s parents. In time, they had a daughter, who was doted upon by her parents and her grandparents. All seemed well…”

  “But it wasn’t,” whispered Abigail, her eyes wide.

  The old man looked at her sharply. “No. They say that revenge is a dish best served cold, and the old Duke of Wycliff waited many years to exact his.” He paused. “One day, the family awoke to a solicitor pounding at their door. The house had been taken, to cover the rest of the debt to the old duke. The family had to leave, immediately, basically flee with only the clothes on their backs.”

  Abigail took a deep breath. “What happened to them?”

  Mr. Allen’s face darkened. “It was a bad business,” he whispered. “A very bad business, indeed. The family left, in two carriages, heading to London to stay with relatives. Lord and Lady De Vere were in the first, and Lady Margaret and her husband and child, in the second.” He paused. “Only one carriage arrived at their destination. Mr. Blackmore, Lady Margaret, and their young daughter were never seen again…”

  Abigail’s mind was whirring now. She felt sick.

  “No one knows what became of the young family,” continued the old man darkly. “It broke Lord De Vere’s heart. He died within months, a broken man. The Duke of Wycliff took possession of the house, changing its name, dismissing all of the old servants, and replacing them with new ones. That was why I left, but to tell the truth, I wouldn’t have wanted to stay on after it all, anyway. To serve such an evil man would have made my blood boil.”

  Abruptly, Abigail stood up, walking across the room to gaze out the small window at the sea. Something was happening to her. Something most alarming.

  Flashes of memory were surging into her mind, so vivid that she lurched, gripping the windowsill. A carriage, traveling in the dark. A man, sitting across from her, who took out a dark object. Feeling so very scared as she clung to the woman, who she called mother. And then, the door of the carriage opening, and she was being hurled out into the darkness…

  It all slotted into her mind. It had be
en there all along, it seemed, waiting to be remembered. She was the daughter of Mr. Edwin Blackmore, and Lady Margaret, and they had been traveling in that carriage toward London, after being forced from their home. Her mother had thrown her from the carriage, in desperation. For Abigail knew now that what that man had been holding was a gun.

  Her mother had been trying to save her life.

  She cried out then, in pure agony. All those lost years, when she had thought that her parents had abandoned her. They had never done so. They had loved her, more than life itself. And it had been that love, which led her to become an orphan at St. Jude’s. An orphan, but at least alive. For she knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that she would be as dead as her parents if she had remained in that carriage.

  The old duke had ordered the murder of that young family. To exact more revenge upon Lord De Vere for refusing to give him Lady Margaret, all those years before. To make Lord De Vere suffer, in more ways than one. The loss of his beloved ancestral home, and also, the loss of his daughter and granddaughter.

  She turned back to the old gardener, who was staring at her, his face pale.

  “What was the name of Lady Margaret’s daughter?” she whispered, as tears streamed down her face.

  He sighed deeply, almost shuddering. “Her name was Abigail, miss. The same as yours.” He stood up slowly, clutching his walking stick. “I recognized you from the moment I saw you in the garden. You are the spitting image of your mother. The same hair, the same eyes…”

  Abigail gasped, almost blinded by tears. The old man knew it was her, as well. He had known it was her from the moment he had seen her, and as he told this tragic story to her. The story of her life.

  There was a sudden, sharp rap on the cottage door.

  They both jumped. The old man stared at her for a moment, before hobbling with his walking stick toward the door and opening it.

  The Duke of Wycliff stood there, his tall, powerful frame filling the doorway.

  “May I come in?” he asked, staring past the old man into the room. He had seen her. And he didn’t look happy, at all.

  Chapter Ten

  James kept staring at her, feeling his blood reach boiling point. She looked shocked to see him there, standing in the doorway of this old cottage. She obviously hadn’t realized that he had followed her here, on her long walk along the narrow path, to this spot.

  He had thought it odd when she announced her intention to take a solitary walk that morning at breakfast. It had just been something in her demeanour. She had talked quickly and had been unable to meet his eye. All of his doubts about her had risen to the surface, compounded by the fact that he had questioned the maid that attended her, just before he had come into the dining room that morning.

  The housekeeper had informed him that the girl, Mary-Anne, had suddenly taken ill the day before. He had put two and two together – it must have been the maid who had taken the key to the attic and let her in. When questioned, the girl had crumbled, saying that Lady Clara had begged her to show her the attic. The lady was inexplicably interested in exploring an old trunk that was there, a trunk that contained belongings from the family that had previously lived here, many years ago.

  He had been astounded, of course. Why did she want to rifle through an old trunk in his attic? She had not been honest with him in the least.

  He had followed her here, intent on knowing what she was up to. At first, he had been content to wait outside, after she had entered this house. But as more time had passed, his fury had overtaken him. He had to confront her. He had to know why she was in this obscure cottage.

  All manner of possibilities scurried through his mind. Was she perhaps a thief, and the person who lived here her accomplice? Were they plotting a robbery of Dudley House together? Had her tour of the attic been a reconnaissance mission, to find valuable items that might be spirited away without his knowledge?

  Who exactly was this woman? Was she even Lady Clara Nightingale, at all?

  He stared at her now. She was crying, tears streaming down her cheeks. He was shocked to find his first instinct was to go to her and comfort her, despite his rage. He swallowed it down, with difficulty.

  “Lady Clara,” he said, through gritted teeth. “I think that you and I should have a talk.”

  She didn’t refuse him. She simply nodded, following him outside the cottage. At the door, she turned to the old man who had opened it to him. “Thank you,” she whispered, clutching his hands. “You cannot know how much this means to me, to finally know.”

  The old man had nodded, a little fearfully. “The truth always comes out in the end…”

  James glared at them. What new trickery was this?

  He took her arm, guiding her down the garden path and along the track leading back toward Dudley House, before he stopped, turning on her.

  “You had better explain yourself, my lady,” he said darkly. “I know that you deliberately sought entry to my attic to go through my possessions. The maid told me everything.” He took a deep, ragged breath. “And why are you here, at this cottage? Who is that old man?”

  She shuddered, the tears streaming down her face anew. For a moment, she simply gazed at him.

  “Yes,” she whispered, wiping away the tears with the back of her hand. “I cannot keep it up any longer. Not now that I know the truth…” Her voice faltered for a moment. But then she squared her shoulders, looking him straight in the eye. “My name is not Lady Clara Nightingale, Your Grace. It is Abigail Clark, and I am that lady’s maid, sent here to impersonate her, while she is elsewhere.”

  “What?” he stammered, fresh fury surging through him. “You are an imposter?”

  She nodded slowly. “I am.” She shuddered again. “Lady Clara did not wish to come here, you see. She is in love, and wanted to go to her sweetheart in Scotland, while her parents are abroad. She came up with this idea, for me to come in her place, so that her parents would never know that she had defied them…”

  “You are a maid?” he breathed, his eyes wide, traveling over her. “A lady’s maid?”

  She nodded again. “I am, Your Grace. I was reluctant to do what Clara wanted me to, at first, but she is very persuasive. She taught me how to act, and talk, and walk. She made me into a lady.” She hesitated. “I was so very scared, and felt so guilty, after I got to know you. I knew that you would be angry if you discovered this…”

  “By the deuce I am angry,” he said, gripping the tops of her arms roughly and shaking her. “You gain entry into my home by deceit, and what were you doing in my attic? Are you a thief, and is that old man your accomplice?”

  “No, Your Grace,” she whispered, her face twisting. “I am no thief.” She took a deep, shuddering breath. “As soon as I got to this part of Cornwall, and saw the house, I started to feel like I had been here before, you see. I am an orphan, raised in London, and remembered nothing of my life before it. But I became convinced that I had been in Dudley House before, somehow. When Mary-Anne told me of the trunk in the attic – that it belonged to the family that had lived there before yours – I had to see what was in it.”

  He stared at her, so shocked he didn’t know what to say for a moment. His head was spinning with her revelations. She was an imposter, a mere maid. She had been working in cahoots with the real Lady Clara to fool him. How could he trust a single thing that came out of her mouth?

  “Go on,” he said in a low voice. He might as well hear the rest of her story, before he decided what to do.

  “I found a painting,” she continued, her voice catching. “A painting of a young family, that shook me in a way that I cannot explain.” She paused. “I also found an old earring. A match to one that I have had since I was orphaned. I found it in my pocket when I woke up at St. Jude’s as a four year old, with no memory of how I had got there, or what my life had been, prior.”

  “What?” he breathed, his eyes widening, gripping her arms tighter still.

  She took another deep breath. “Mar
y-Anne could tell me nothing further about any of it, but she did know that there was a man who had served in the house before the current family took possession of it, and might be able to tell me about it.” She paused. “Mr. Allen, whose home I have just visited. That is the reason I came out on this walk this morning, to talk to him, and see if he knew anything which might shed light on who I truly am.”

  He frowned. “And what did he say?”

  “He told me a shocking story, Your Grace,” she said slowly, her blue eyes so wide, they looked like saucers. “A story of how your own grandfather took possession of the house, because a man called Lord De Vere owed him a lot of money. Your grandfather basically kicked the family out, but it was not just because of money. Your grandfather had wanted the daughter of the house, the Lady Margaret, as payment years before, and was denied…”

  James felt rage bubble to the surface again. “You dare to slander the name of my grandfather?”

  She looked frightened but determined. “It is the truth, Your Grace. The family were sent away, in two separate carriages. One of which never made it to its destination. Lady Margaret, her husband, and her young daughter were never seen again.” She paused. “I started to remember it all, as it was told to me. I remembered that carriage ride, as a very small child. I am the daughter of Lady Margaret, you see. And I know what happened.”

  He stared at her, astounded. First, she claimed to be a maid, and not Lady Clara. And now, she was telling him that she was the daughter of someone who had resided at Dudley House prior to his family taking possession of it. An orphan, who had suddenly remembered her past, triggered by being here.

  It was all so fanciful as to be ridiculous. And yet he kept gazing at her, unable to put a stop to it all.

  “There was a man in that carriage, with my family,” she said slowly. “A stranger to me, who drew a gun, telling us that we were going to meet our maker.” Her face was sickly pale as she spoke. “I was sitting on my mother’s lap, so very frightened. She slipped the earring I told you about into the pocket of my jacket, and threw me out of the carriage, in order to save my life.” She sobbed. “She did the right thing, for my parents were never seen alive again. They were murdered…at your grandfather’s order.”