A Fiery Escort For The Roguish Marquess (Steamy Historical Regency)

by Scarlett Osborne

  He stopped abruptly.

  The Duke was waiting at the front door, his arms folded across his chest. He looked up and down at Ernest’s sodden, mud-splattered clothing.

  “Come inside, boy,” he said stiffly. Ernest caught the faintly threatening edge to his voice. “We need to speak.”

  Chapter 30

  Ernest stepped inside the house, leaving trails of silvery water on the floorboards.

  “Clean yourself,” said the Duke, his voice expressionless, “and then come to the smoking room.”

  Ernest pulled off his muddy boots and trudged upstairs. He hung his wet clothes over the chaise to dry and changed into a dry shirt and trousers.

  Slowly, reluctantly, he made his way down to the smoking room.

  He knows about the theater. He knows about Rachel.

  He felt a knot in the pit of his stomach.

  Good lord, I’m a grown man. Why does my father have so much power over me?

  The Duke was waiting in his armchair, a glass of port in his hand. A second glass sat on the table beside him. He gestured to Ernest to take it.

  Ernest took the glass and sat in the chair beside his father. He sipped slowly. He had not been expecting a glass of port. He had been expecting cold words, fierce eyes. Had been expecting the Duke to throw things and demand an explanation for his son’s most offensive and inappropriate behavior.

  Perhaps his father did not know about his visit to the theater after all.

  The Duke looked curiously at Ernest, fixing him with dark eyes. “What were you doing out riding in the rain?”

  “I needed the air,” said Ernest, “needed to clear my head.”

  His father gave a short chuckle. “And you thought to do it by riding halfway to Cornwall? Only you, my boy…”

  Ernest smiled crookedly. It had been a while since he and his father had just sat and spoken in their smoking room like this. Just the two of them alone, without a throng of drunken lords in tow, or kitchen maids swanning around them at the dinner table.

  Ernest felt the anxiousness in his stomach begin to dissipate.

  “Have you spoken to Lady Katherine?” asked the Duke after a moment.

  Ernest felt a sudden tide of relief.

  Ah, that’s what this is about. Lady Katherine. He knows nothing of Rachel.

  “Yes, sir. At the garden party. I asked her forgiveness for my behavior at her father’s ball.”

  The Duke swallowed a mouthful. “Good. And I trust she gave it?”

  “She did.” Ernest managed a smile. “She fears her father will marry her to the Duke of Harrington.”

  The Duke gave a sudden, booming laugh. “Little wonder the poor girl is willing to accept your apology.”

  Ernest felt the corner of his lips turn up. He had missed this, missed his father, missed his nearness, his confidence.

  He felt suddenly close enough to the Duke to blurt out the question that had been gnawing at him since Rachel’s night with the Baron.

  “Do you know the Viscount of Annerley?”

  He watched his father’s face carefully. The Duke snorted into his port, his smile disappearing.

  “I’ve had the misfortunate of meeting the man, yes.” He narrowed his eyes. “Why do you ask?”

  Ernest shrugged. “I just heard talk of the man recently. I thought perhaps I remembered you speaking of him.”

  The Duke poured himself a fresh glass of port. “That’s unlikely,” he said dismissively.

  “Is that so?” Ernest pressed. “I thought I’d heard that the two of you were friends.”

  This is dangerous ground. But I need to know more. I need to know if Father knew of Mother’s dalliance with the Viscount…

  “You’re mistaken,” said his father. “The Viscount and I have not been friends for many years.”

  “Why not? Did something happen?”

  The Duke set his glass on the table with a sharp crack. A hardness fell over his eyes and, Ernest regretted pushing the issue.

  “You were at the Theater Royal two nights ago,” the Duke said suddenly, “with a woman.”

  Ernest felt suddenly hot.

  The Duke’s eyes were blazing. The camaraderie between the two men had vanished.

  Ernest felt a fool. He knew this game of his father’s. He knew this little trick of his of drawing his son close and causing him to lower his guard, before delivering the brutal, knock-out blow. He knew of this little trick and had fallen for it anyway, the way he always did.

  He took a mouthful of port, met his father’s eyes.

  “Yes,” he said finally. “I was.”

  Suddenly he was a child again, staring up at the fierce eyes of his father after he had cut a hole through the hedges to see what was on the other side.

  The Duke sipped his port. He set the glass back on the table and folded his hands across his middle. After what felt like an eternity, he asked, “Who was she?”

  Ernest sat stiffly on the edge of the armchair, his spine rod-straight and his mouth dry. He would not lie to his father. And he would not lie about Rachel. She was worth far more than that. She was worth the glare he knew would appear in the Duke’s eyes. Worth the shame of disappointing his father.

  “She was an escort.” He kept his gaze steady, despite the fire in his cheeks.

  For a long time, the Duke said nothing. He took another long drink. “A man has his needs, I suppose,” he said finally. His voice was strangely, eerily calm.

  The eruption was coming, Ernest felt sure of it. He knew how these things played out. The longer the silence, the bigger the outburst. And this would be an outburst to end all others. There would be flashing eyes and shouted cursing, claims that Ernest had betrayed his family name. This would be an outburst there would be no coming back from.

  He waited. Waited. His palms prickled with sweat.

  There was no outburst.

  “This is not like you, Ernest,” said the Duke. “This is not like you at all.”

  Ernest leaned back in his chair and let out a long breath. “No,” he managed.

  It’s not like me at all.

  But how could he tell what that even meant, when he no longer had a sense of who he was? He felt out of place in this home, this life. He felt lost, purposeless.

  He wanted to feel alive, the way he had when he had been studying, the way he had when he’d been fighting for his country.

  The way I’d felt when I was around Rachel Bell.

  He pushed the thought away. Now was really not the time…

  “I’m sorry, Father,” he said finally. “I know I’ve let you down.”

  The Duke hummed. “Yes,” he said. “Yes indeed.” He took a pipe from the side table and opened his carved tobacco box. He filled the pipe and lit it carefully. He leaned back in his chair and inhaled deeply, before blowing a long line of smoke into the air. “I’m worried for you,” he said finally. “Very worried. You’re an intelligent, likable young man, Ernest. You have a great future ahead of you. I don’t want you to waste that.” He took another long draw on the pipe, following it up with a loud cough. “I just want to see you happy.” He paused, then eyed his son. “Happily married in a life of your own.”

  Ernest hesitated. “You believe marriage will make me happy, Father?”

  The Duke nodded. “I do.”

  Ernest peered at him over the top of his glass. He thought of his silent, colorless mother. Thought of the way he had not seen his parents exchange more than cursory greetings for longer than he could remember. “And you, Father?” he said pointedly. “Did marriage make you happy?”

  For a long time, the Duke said nothing. “Perhaps not as happy as I had hoped,” he admitted.

  He is honest, at least.

  “But fatherhood brought me great joy.”

  For a long time, Ernest didn’t speak. “Even though you lost Unity?” he asked finally.

  The Duke tossed back the last of his port and set it on the table. “You’ve been restless of late,” he s
aid, gliding past Ernest’s question. “Don’t think I’ve not been aware of it. I can see this life is not enough for you. And I honestly think what you need is a family of your own.” He blew a cloud of smoke in Ernest’s direction. “With luck, word will not get back to Lady Katherine about your little dalliance at the theater. No doubt she’ll still have you if it spares her from the likes of the Duke of Harrington.”

  “I don’t love Lady Katherine,” Ernest said bluntly. “I am not sure I even like her.”

  The Duke snorted. “Love. Put that foolish notion out of your head, boy. There are few men among us who truly love their wives. That’s just the way things are. But with luck, Katherine will provide you with a fine heir. That’s where the love in your life will come from.”

  * * *

  Ernest found himself pacing across the smoking room. His father had long since retired to bed and he’d not seen his mother since he’d returned from his ride. He could hear a distant clattering from the kitchen beneath his feet.

  The smell of his father’s pipe smoke lingered in the room. Ernest found himself replaying their conversation in his head.

  I’m worried for you…

  It had been a miracle, Ernest knew, that his father had managed to remain so calm in the face of all he had discovered. It had been a miracle he’d not tossed his son from the family.

  The Duke’s concern for him, Ernest could tell, was deep and genuine.

  Was his father right? Would having a family of his own bring him the joy he craved? Would it still this restlessness inside him?

  The Duke’s words echoed in his head.

  “There are few men among us who truly love their wives. That’s just the way things are.”

  Ernest had been determined to be different. One of those lucky few. He wanted marriage to a lady he felt excited to be around. A lady who made his heart thump and his skin burn.

  But he could see now that such a thing was not possible. The only person who made his heart thump and his skin burn was Rachel Bell.

  And that could never be.

  Never mind the gaping social divide between them, after their night at the theater and his fussing over her underskirts, she would not even open the door to him.

  He dropped into an armchair and stared into the glowing remains of the fire. How could marrying Katherine still the restlessness within him if he were to spend his entire marriage thinking of Rachel?

  He had caught sight of it, what it might be like to spend his life with a wife he loved. Had caught a fragile, fleeting glimpse of it when he’d sat in that theater box with his fingers laced through Rachel’s. And now he had seen that, felt that, how could he possibly settle for less? Better he had no wife than a wife he didn’t care for.

  He thought of his words to Lady Katherine at the garden party,

  “I’ve no plans to marry.”

  He had blurted the words out to fill the awkward silence that had fallen between the two of them. But had he actually meant them?

  He found himself thinking of his mother. If the stories—and the letters—were to be believed, she had had a man who had loved her, and she had chosen to marry another.

  Did my mother love the Duke? Or the Viscount?

  Perhaps neither.

  Ernest longed to ask his mother such things, but knew, of course, it could never be. Asking the Duchess to dig into the past any further would destroy her, he felt sure of it.

  He thought of the way his father had flared up when he had mentioned the Viscount’s name. The two men had clearly not been friends. There had been a rivalry between them, perhaps. And from the look on his father’s face, Ernest could guess it had been a bitter one.

  He realized he was pacing again. He had not even noticed himself begin to do it. He strode upstairs for his coat, then slipped from the house. He needed to know more about his mother and these two men.

  Perhaps the Baron of Clement could help him.

  Chapter 31

  This was no time for games. No time for elaborate covers and ruses and escorts. He just needed answers.

  Ernest found the Baron at the Grand Hotel, sprawled out at the Whist table with a glass of brandy in his fist.

  An easy man to find once you know where to look, Ernest thought wryly. The Baron was taking up at least two chairs. The buttons on his waistcoat looked as though they might go flying across the bar at any moment.

  Ernest waited until the Baron had finished his game, then followed the man to the bar. “Lord Clement.”

  The Baron turned. He pushed a shag of gray hair from his eyes and looked up and down at Ernest. “I know you.”

  “Yes, I believe you do.” Ernest held out a hand. “My name is Ernest Jackson. I’m the son of Algernon Jackson, the Duke of Armson.”

  The Baron wrapped a meaty hand around Ernest’s and shook firmly. “Ah yes. Of course. You were a scrawny teenager when I last saw you, Lord Jackson. I must say, you’ve filled out somewhat since then.”

  Ernest hid a wry smile. The Baron had filled out somewhat since their last meeting too, though in slightly different places.

  He nodded toward the bar. “A drink?”

  The Baron nodded. “Whiskey.”

  Ernest bought the drinks and handed a glass to the Baron. He nodded to a table in the corner of the hotel. “May we speak?”

  The Baron sipped noisily. “As long as you keep me watered with this whiskey, my boy.” He gave a chuckle, and lowered himself into the chair, the seams of his trousers straining. He scratched his chin with a fat finger.

  For a fleeting moment, Ernest pictured those fat fingers working their way over Rachel’s lithe body. Sickness rose in his throat.

  How could I have let her do such a thing for me?

  Ernest forced himself to focus. “I’ve questions you might help me with. About my mother, Lady Sarah, and the Viscount of Annerley.”

  The corner of the Baron’s lips turned up. “The Viscount of Annerley again,” he said. “Why does it seem as though everyone is suddenly interested in this man?” He chuckled to himself, as the pieces of his thoughts came together. “That little cuckoo in the red dress was your doing I suppose. You send her out doing your bidding?”

  Ernest felt a knot of guilt tighten inside him.

  Sent her out to do his bidding.

  Yes, that was exactly what he had done. Coming from the Baron’s lips, it felt like the greatest abomination. He closed his eyes for a moment.

  “You knew the Viscount,” he said, pushing past the question.

  The Baron nodded.

  “And you know my father.”

  Another nod.

  Ernest leaned forward in his chair. “Were the two men friends? Did they get along?”

  The Baron snorted. “The Viscount and the Duke? Not for a moment.” He let out a hearty chuckle. “We couldn’t leave them in the same room alone for fear of them engaging in a spontaneous duel.”

  Ernest rubbed his chin. Just as he suspected.

  “I see. And what brought about the rivalry?”

  The Baron gave a toothy grin. “Two young, strong-willed men. Who needs a reason?” He sipped his drink and leaned back in his chair. It groaned ominously. “Of course, the situation only worsened when your mother appeared on the scene.”

  “The Viscount loved my mother,” said Ernest.

  “That he did. But it was the Duke who won her hand.”

  “Did my father seek to marry her just to spite the Viscount?” Ernest asked.

  The Baron laughed. “Of course! Can’t say I blamed him, though. The Viscount was as cocky as you like over the whole affair. He was sure Lady Sarah would accept his hand. Went about speaking like she was his wife already.” He chuckled. “I weren’t the only one who quite enjoyed seeing the Duke take him down a peg or two.”

  He took a mouthful of whiskey and leaned forward. Ernest caught a waft of sweat and pipe smoke.

  “She was a fine prize, your mother. A great beauty in her time. And the daughter of a Duke, herse
lf. Right from the beginning, the Viscount made no secret of the fact that he was in love with her. But he and the Duke were bitter rivals. Your father would have done anything to take the man down.”

  Even marry a lady he didn’t love.

  Ernest felt a sudden pang of sympathy for his mother. How dreadful it must have been to be little more than a prize to be battled over.