Griffith thrust his hand out. “I don’t know whether to shake your hand or strike you,” he said, taking Robson’s hand in a firm grip. “What’s this about? Why does my uncle want me now?” When he couldn’t care less twelve years ago. “And why are you his errand boy?”
“It’s not your uncle anymore,” Robson explained as they began to walk down the hallway toward the exit. “Frederick’s the duke now.”
Griffith froze. “Frederick? How on earth did he get the title?”
“The way most people inherit things,” Robson replied in a dry tone. “People die, and then relatives get things. It’s the way the world works, Griff.”
Oh. The surprise of seeing Robson after all these years receded as Griffith processed this new and more startling information. Frederick, his cousin, was the Duke of Northam now. Many people had to have died in the interim. He had been away for a long time, hadn’t he? Nor had he cared to follow anything that was happening in his family, so it should not be a surprise that things had changed so much.
But it was a surprise.
“To rephrase the question, then, what does the duke want with me?” When he did see Frederick, he’d make certain to tell him to bugger off with whatever it was he wanted.
Robson turned to look at Griffith. “Don’t you realize? You’re the heir now, Griff.”
Griffith felt as though he’d been pummeled in the chest and had all the air knocked out of him. The heir? To something he neither hoped for nor had ever imagined?
“And,” Robson continued in a softer voice as though he knew what Griffith was thinking, “Fred is sick. So there’s a bit of urgency to it.”
Sick? The third musketeer? No, it couldn’t be. None of this could be happening, Griff thought to himself. Not Robson retrieving him from jail, not being told he was the heir, not hearing that Fred was ill.
But even as he denied it, he knew it was the truth. And he knew just how he felt.
“Fuck.”
Robson chuckled grimly. “That’s one way of putting it.”
“He’s gone?” Della frowned at the officer, who frowned right back. “But where?”
“I couldn’t say, ma’am,” the officer said, in a tone that indicated not only couldn’t he say, but he absolutely could not care either.
Della had made certain Sarah was recovered, then stepped outside of their London town house to find her way to naval prison. It had taken a lot of questioning to figure out just where the viscount-captain had been taken; it wasn’t as though Della had ever known anything about the Navy, much less where they took people they arrested.
The building she was directed to was squat and forbidding, and even normally fearless Della had to take a deep breath before entering. The inside of the building was just as unpleasant as the outside, built of stone and grimness. The few windows were small, letting in a tiny portion of the already meager London light.
“Hmph.” Della whirled around, gesturing to her maid to follow her.
That she needed a maid to accompany her everywhere when she was already ruined, for goodness’ sake, irritated her, but Sarah had pointed out that it would reflect badly on the Society for Poor and Unfortunate Children, where both she and Della taught, if Della was seen gallivanting about London on her own. And she’d said “gallivanting,” which had made Della laugh.
Sarah and Della shared a fondness for idiosyncratic phrasings.
“Where to now, my lady?” Becky sounded anxious. Not surprising, since she was barely sixteen years old, and was intimidated by the thought of being a duke’s daughter’s lady’s maid, a fact she’d reiterated several times to Della.
Becky had been one of their first rescues when they’d arrived in London. She had been lured from the country with the promise of employment, only to discover when she arrived that employment was a genteel name for prostitution. She was sweetly pretty, with enormous blue eyes and a chin that seemed made for quavering.
“We’re going to find this Viscount Whatshisname,” Della replied determinedly. Because without him, Sarah might never know what happened to her beloved Henry.
At least in Della’s own case, she knew perfectly well what had happened to her not-so-beloved Mr. Baxter: he’d stolen her jewels and snuck off in the middle of the night, leaving her and their daughter, Nora, to fend for themselves. She didn’t need to know any more than that. Just as she didn’t need to recall Lord Stanbury’s title, even though of course she did; he was just another man, a gentleman, and the last thing she wanted or needed was a man. Ever.
Which was why she addressed him—in her mind, at least—so cavalierly. It was her own tiny rebellion, even though the gentleman in question was like her, as evidenced by his being a sea captain, not a bored aristocrat.
She was too protective of herself and her family to give anyone the benefit of the doubt again.
“How can we find him, my lady?” Becky’s tone was even more apprehensive, if possible. Perhaps because in their short time together Della had already done and said things that were not at all ladylike?
But she wasn’t a lady any longer, no matter what her title might say. She was a ruined woman, and so if it turned out that a merchant was cheating the Society by padding the bill, Della was going to call him out. And if some uncouth men decided to comment on Della’s and Sarah’s appearances while they were out walking with their charges? She was damned well going to say something about that too.
What was the point of being ruined if you couldn’t speak your mind?
“We’re going to the Duke of Northam’s town house.” Her sister Olivia had provided all of the information Della wanted, and more, in a frantically scribbled note in response to Della’s letter asking for information on the viscount-captain. She could hear the words as Olivia would speak them, and smiled at how good it felt to be reunited with her sisters, even Ida, who tended to deliver lectures no matter what the circumstances.
It was endearing, Della had to admit. If also obnoxious.
“A duke?” Becky sounded wondrous now instead of terrified.
“Yes, a duke.” Della couldn’t help how grumpy she sounded. She wished this captain had not been a nobleman as well—a noble captain had to be a relative anomaly. It was just her luck that her captain was also a member of the aristocracy.
When she had a moment, she’d ask Sarah to calculate those odds. Sarah was much better at maths than Della.
But in the meantime, she would be braving the lion in his den. Or the viscount in the duke’s town house, to be more accurate.
Roar.
The last place he’d ever wanted to set foot in again was this house. Home to so many bad memories. Where his father had berated him for not paying proper deference to his uncle. Where he’d spent a few holidays being neglected or chastised.
Where he’d seen the merchants banging at the door, clamoring for payment, as the house’s inhabitants mocked them as they drank champagne.
Where he’d seen female servants suddenly discharged because of an unfortunate incident that had been caused by his father or his uncle.
Where he’d grown to hate who he was, and what he was supposed to be, so much so that he had escaped with nothing but a vague urge to head to the sea.
The house itself wasn’t much changed, at least not from the outside. It looked more welcoming, however; was that because Griffith knew his father and uncle were gone? And that Frederick was here?
He took a deep breath as he lifted the massive brass knocker and dropped it down. He heard the clang resonate within, then heard the snick of the door being unlocked. He braced himself for . . . something.
A return to his life, even if it was just for a few moments. Though he had the terrible suspicion that walking into the house, acknowledging the reality, would irrevocably alter his future.
“I’m here to see Fre—the Duke of Northam,” he announced, his gaze sweeping the entranceway. There were more signs that things had changed for the better here—the footmen standing at attentio
n didn’t look as though they were being hunted. More as though they were being treated properly.
A maid holding a huge bouquet of flowers curtseyed on her way through the room. She didn’t look beleaguered either.
And the butler who’d answered the door seemed as though he was in command, not as though he were waiting for some crisis to occur.
“I’m Cap—Viscount Stanbury. Mr. Robson told me the duke wishes to see me.”
And I him, Griffith thought to himself. Even though the prospect of seeing Frederick after all these years felt both wonderful and horrible.
The butler’s brow rose a fraction, but he merely cleared his throat. He nodded at Griffith, gesturing toward a door at the other end of the hall. They walked, their footsteps echoing on the parquet floor.
“Viscount Stanbury, Your Grace,” he announced as he opened the door.
Griffith tensed when he saw Frederick. Robson hadn’t exaggerated. Frederick was clearly ill. How long did he have?
Damn it, he hadn’t asked Robson enough questions. He’d been too busy wondering if he should punch his friend for returning him to this life.
Priorities, Griffith, he reminded himself.
Frederick sat in a Bath chair, a blanket draped over his knees. He looked far thinner than Griff had ever seen him.
You’ve been away far too long, a voice admonished inside his head.
The room was on the ground floor, an office that had clearly been converted into a bedroom. Because Frederick couldn’t walk up the stairs?
Griffith felt the implacable truth of it settling around him like a vise. Fred was ill, and Griffith was the heir. His future was unspooling in front of his eyes, and it felt like a death sentence.
There were throw rugs tossed on the floor, a large bed at one end of the room, an imposing desk at the other end. Bookshelves lined the walls, and a small table holding an array of bottles containing a variety of colored tinctures stood in one corner.
“Griffith!” Frederick’s voice, at least, was still exuberant. “Come here, it has been far too long.” Echoing the voice in Griffith’s own head.
Griffith drew nearer, his gaze searching his cousin’s face. Older, of course. Thinner. His face was nearly gaunt. But his eyes were still smiling, his mouth widened into a delighted grin. He stretched his hand out for Griffith to shake.
The last time Griff had seen his cousin was twelve years ago. Fred had been with him the night he’d left, had pressed a wallet full of bills into his hand, waving Griffith’s protestations away. Back then, Frederick had been a reasonable specimen of the British aristocracy, with wavy blond hair, a medium build, and an easy smile.
Now only the easy smile remained. His hair was darker and thinning, and it was clear his body was wasting away from whatever disease was afflicting him.
“It’s good to see you, Fred,” Griffith said, releasing his cousin’s hand. “Or Your Grace, I should say?”
Frederick waved his hand. “None of that polite stuff here, Griff. I’m still me and you are still you, I see.” He looked him up and down. “A captain in the Royal Navy now?” He looked over at the butler. “Get Lord Stanbury a chair, for goodness’ sake. And not my kind of chair,” he continued, winking toward Griffith.
The butler nodded, then dragged a large armchair over, one that would nearly accommodate Griffith’s size, to Frederick’s side.
“Sit!” Fred commanded.
Griffith seized on the opportunity to lighten the mood. Or his mood, at least. “Always telling me what to do,” he said with a grin, crossing one leg over the other. “And now you’re the duke.”
Frederick nodded. “And you’re my heir.”
“About that,” Griffith replied, his moment of humor receding. “What the hell happened to your brothers?”
Frederick regarded Griffith as though he were stupid. Which, given what he’d just asked, wasn’t that far-fetched. But Griffith had avoided reading the papers from home so he wouldn’t have to stumble across mention of his past, so of course he’d missed this information.
“Daniel died of influenza just soon after you left, and Richard went to India to make his fortune, where he got shot and killed.”
“I’m—I’m sorry,” Griffith said.
Fred shook his head. “Don’t be. Daniel was too stubborn to come in out of the rain, while Richard was a foolhardy idiot. The dukedom would have suffered if either one of them had inherited.”
“It wouldn’t have been any worse than when Uncle Richard had the title,” Griffith said bitterly. Frederick nodded in brief acknowledgment. He’d known what was happening too, but he hadn’t gotten as much abuse as Griffith. Nor had he fought back so hard. “But what about you?”
Frederick’s expression was rueful. “I am a decent enough duke, I suppose. But as Robson likely told you, and you can tell for yourself,” he said, gesturing toward himself, “I won’t be the duke for long. That is why I need you.”
Griffith’s breath caught at how blithely Frederick referenced his forthcoming demise.
“You don’t need me,” Griffith blurted out, a blind panic making him freeze in his chair. Knowing, even as he spoke, that there was no way he could refuse this. Not when Fred needed him. “I’ve got work, Fred. I can’t inherit.”
He’d lose his ship, his men, his captaincy. The things that made him feel as though he weren’t an enormous waste of human on this earth, as his parents and his uncle had always inferred when they hadn’t been actively telling him that. The only thing that had ever truly mattered to him.
And if he wasn’t at sea, who would help those people who couldn’t help themselves? He hadn’t been able to help people less fortunate than he when he’d lived here before. But since leaving, he’d felt a moral imperative to do whatever he could to help people who needed it. Sometimes it felt like a compulsion, as though he was trying to correct what had happened in the past when he didn’t have any power.
“You’re the heir, Griff. It’s that simple. You can’t refuse, not without upending the whole system.” Frederick spoke in an urgent tone. Articulating what Griffith already knew.
Griffith rose, unable to sit still any longer. Arguing even as he felt the vise tighten. “I’ve already upended the system.” He turned to Frederick, his hands held palm up. “For God’s sake, I left over twelve years ago. Nobody has called me ‘my lord’ or even knows who I am in the Navy. I got to where I am on my own merit, not because of some title. I cannot go back to this world, your world.”
The silence hung in the room, Frederick looking thoughtful as he processed what Griffith had said. At least he was listening. Fred had always listened to him.
“No,” he said at last. “I’m sorry, Griff, I really am, but you have to. It’s not something you can simply turn down.” Echoing Griffith’s own thoughts. “Even if you went back to being a captain, you’d still be the Duke of Northam. Even if that’s the last thing you want.” He paused and took a deep breath. “I’m dying, Griffith. It might not be soon, but it is coming. And I will not leave everything to fall apart, not when I worked so hard to build it up.”
Griffith stared at his cousin, hearing the truth in his words. I’m dying.
“You knew it would happen eventually,” Frederick continued. “It’s just a bit sooner than you might have wanted.”
Griffith suppressed a snort. Because “a bit sooner” was a lot closer in time than “never.”
“But let me show you,” Frederick said. He gestured to his chair. “Push me out the doors. We can tour the estate.”
Griffith walked over and gripped the handles on the back of the chair. He gave a hesitant push, then increased the force of his push at Frederick’s sigh of exasperation.
“I’m not going to die right now, I promise. Not before showing you what I’ve done.” He sounded proud, and Griffith felt a glimmer of something—was it hope?—that this wouldn’t be as bad as he feared.
Griffith wheeled Frederick out onto the terrace, taking in the view. It was
lovely here. It always had been, even through the times of neglect.
“Over there,” Frederick said, pointing to the left, “is where I put in a small garden for the household staff.” He swept his hand to the right. “And I’ve given the house where my father had his parties to the local parish. I believe they are going to set up a school there. I certainly never wanted to set foot in that house again, and I couldn’t stand to see it just be vacant.” He turned to look up at Griffith, an earnest expression on his face. “We’ve done so much more with the country estates too. I know neither one of us spent much time there growing up, but they were in terrible disarray. We’ve changed that. Robson acts as my eyes and ears, and we’ve made improvements. More can be done, Griffith.” He had a look of fierce intensity on his face, and for that moment, it seemed as though Griffith could feel Frederick’s passion.
“Not that I have a choice,” Griffith said at last, “but I’ll do it.” Because you need me to. Because people are now relying on the Duke of Northam to be more than just aristocratic deadweight. Because it’s the right thing to do.
Although the thought of remaining here made him almost physically ill. He wished he could enlist a first mate in this venture as he could at sea. This he’d have to do on his own.
Which would leave him vulnerable in this new world.
“My only requirement is that you seek more doctors’ advice.” Because he wanted Frederick to live, of course, but he also did not want to inherit too quickly.
Frederick responded with that easy smile. “Yes, if that is your stipulation. Not that they’ll suddenly give me a clean bill of health.” He nodded in satisfaction. “I knew you would say yes. You’re too good a man.”
Griffith snorted. “Tell that to the naval authorities.”
Frederick gestured for Griffith to wheel him back in. “What did you do anyway?”
Griffith guided the chair back into the room. “The usual. Refusing to let an injustice stand, thumbing my nose at the authorities.” He released his hold on the chair and sat back down on the sofa. He crossed his arms over his chest and cocked an eyebrow at his cousin. “Given that, are you certain you want me as your heir? I’m bound to do something to set someone’s teeth on edge.”
Never a Bride Page 3