His Duchess at Eventide: A Legend to Love (Mythic Dukes Book 2)

by Wendy Lacapra

  “Mrs. Renton, I concede.” Lord help her. “Thaddeus and I will take up residence at Ithwick, care for the duke and keep a close eye on Mr. Anthony and Lord Thomas. Having the heir and his mother present should gentle the worst of their conduct.”

  “And if they ask why?”

  “I will tell them I intend to weave a shroud for Cheverley on the medieval loom upstairs.”

  “Bless you, my lady.” Mrs. Renton’s brows knit. “But is it wise to bring Master Thaddeus? As Master Thaddeus’s guardian, Lord Thomas could make trouble.”

  Let him try.

  “Thaddeus goes where I go.” In fact, Thaddeus was so protective, she couldn’t have confined him to Pensteague if she wished. “Besides, both the duke and Lord Thomas serve as guardians. Thomas cannot assert himself without exposing the duke’s state. And, in a few months, Thaddeus will be fourteen—old enough to choose his own guardians.”

  She recast her gaze toward the group of gentlemen below. Another drunken cheer rose from the lawn.

  “You needn’t worry any longer, Mrs. Renton.” She spoke with bravado she did not feel. “I will become Ithwick’s unlikely champion.”

  But were her adversaries indolent man-children, or were they a crawling nest of vipers?

  And, if they were a nest of vipers—she chilled—which would be the first to sting?

  Chapter Two

  Lungs—Cheverley inhaled—on fire.

  He came fully awake, coughing like a man possessed. Air pricked in his chest, stubbly as a beggar’s cheek. Every attempted inhale thrust another shard of glass between his ribs. If only he could sit, he could...

  He expelled a guttural oomph as his chin landed in straw. Yes. Pain rippled through his bones. Right.

  No arm.

  Yet, somehow, the sensation of a hand remained, right down to the jarring ache in his non-existent—though strangely fisted—fingers. He rolled onto his back and blinked into the dim light breathing in air thick with tallow’s heavy scent. Above him, a roof of thatch. Beneath him, stillness.

  He’d made his way to land, at least.

  “He’s back.”

  A man’s voice. Not one Cheverley recognized. English, though. Which was an immense relief...for unclear reasons.

  “Lord have mercy.” A woman. “T’ain’t right. He was dead, he was, when you pulled him out the water.”

  Out of the water.

  He frowned.

  Where had that come from? He didn’t give a sixpence about grammar. What passed for English on his ship would have curled a schoolmaster’s toes—not counting the sizable portion of the crew who had other native languages.

  Wait... His ship? Was he a captain, then?

  “He looked dead at first,” the man agreed. “But he’s coughin’ now, ain’t he?”

  He was. He snatched another illusive, rasping breath.

  “Should have left him. You ain’t got no reason t’be dragging in strays like you do.”

  A cat’s hiss suffused the shadows. He shivered.

  “Go on,” the man cooed. “She’s all talk.”

  The feline mewed.

  “Mark me, lass,” the man continued, “they’ll be a prize for this one.”

  The woman snorted. “I ain’t no lass. And that one ain’t worth a half-penny. Can’t you see he’s missing his arm?”

  The man grasped his ankle and twisted. Chev cried out, punctuating with a kick.

  “Areeah! Stop that.” The man lowered his voice. “Look here. That is the Hurtheven crest. No telling the other two—his scars cut right through. I wager he’s quality, though.”

  Chev stilled. Hurtheven...?

  “Quality?” The woman harrumphed, dismissive. “What’s he doin’ with his clothes all tattered, then? He ain’t nothin’ more than a fisherman. Or worse.” She paused. “He could be from the other side.”

  What did she mean, the other side? He concentrated. Ah, yes. War. Between the kingdom and France.

  Chev lifted his head. “Not”—he coughed—“French.”

  “You see?” The man said.

  The woman folded her arms. “Just what a...Frenchman would say, ain’t it?”

  Good Lord.

  “What’s this here on your ankle?” The man tapped Chev’s bone.

  Cheverley yanked back his leg. As he stared down at a trio of crests, two faces from his boyhood pieced together.

  “Hurth...Hurtheven,” he repeated the title the man had supplied.

  Yes, one of the faces was Hurtheven. Hurtheven—whom he’d met...at Eton? That sounded correct. Hurtheven...who was a good sort, even if he had been mad enough to insist the three of them scar their ankles with pins and ink. It had stung, damn it all.

  He frowned again.

  How had he remembered that detail? And what of the other boy? He touched the second crest. The boy’s family title remained elusive, but as he touched the third, the name of his own family seat came rushing back.

  Ithwick.

  Suddenly, he knew he was Captain Lord Cheverley, the second son of the Duke of Ithwick—not that he was going to proclaim the fact to these two. He didn’t know where he was. He barely knew who he was.

  Hurtheven would have to be enough.

  “I work...for”—Almighty! Every dammed word was a struggle—“the Duke...of Hurth...even.”

  “Knew it!” the man crowed.

  “Pfft. You said he was quality. Not that he worked for quality.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” the man replied. “Hurtheven’s sure to give a prize. A shilling at least.”

  “A tuppence at best. What good’s this one to anyone, let alone a duke?”

  “Hurtheven will...reward. Get word... Please.” Forcing out the final word, Chev collapsed.

  He closed his eyes against a wave of nausea. The louse had better provide a reward, even if it had been a long time since they’d seen one another.

  But why?

  He couldn’t remember, and the reason was important. Very, very important. There were other things he should remember too. Things even more vital.

  The image of a woman shimmered beneath his lids. A woman with blonde hair, smooth as corn silk. Graceful and willowy yet brimming with a determination that was the essence of life.

  Penelope. His wife.

  A prize he had whisked away to store and to protect.

  In his memory, his lips touched her collarbone before sliding over to the adjacent valley in the v at the bottom of her throat.

  Heaven.

  His longing stretched out into the ether, grasping for balm that could soothe his soul. What returned, however, was a sense of foreboding.

  He closed his eyes. Another woman’s image replaced Penelope. A woman with dark hair and a voice that cut like a metal scourge.

  Tu n’es rien. You are nothing.

  Her whisper sliced through his ears. His blood went cold. His breath lodged in his throat. Then, oblivion claimed him once again.

  ~~~

  The ship had resumed rocking.

  That, however, hadn’t felt like the list of a ship. And even a gale couldn’t cause a rumble like—bam.

  The back of Cheverley’s head smacked against a hard surface.

  St. George’s dragon.

  He winced.

  Only, had St. George killed a dragon? Or, had it been St. Michael?

  No. Not St. Michael. His heart surged as another memory slipped into place. The other Michael, the archangel...he killed the dragon. But maybe St. George had also—bam.

  His nonsensical thoughts arrested.

  “Christ!” he cursed.

  He ached all over. And someone had left an anchor on his chest. Though, the weighted spot was rather small to be an anchor. Instinctively, he swatted. Air, of course.

  Wrong arm.

  “Keep still, would you?” The voice came from far away, not in proximity but in time.

  With concentrated effort, Cheverley lifted leaden lids. He was in some sort of a carriage. A long one. Curtained.
Black. No benches.

  Bam—hell and damnation. Was he in a hearse? A moving hearse?

  He struggled to rise. The anchor still did not move. He squinted, parsing the shadows. The anchor was a hand, and the hand was unquestionably attached to a man crouching at his side.

  The man was large. Herculean, almost, though his glinting buttons suggested he was far from common.

  “What the devil?”

  The man’s teeth flashed as he smiled. “Not the devil, though some suggest I am related to him.” He lifted one brow. “And, when you rise from the dead, you’re bound to increase their certainty.”

  Pardon? “Not dead.”

  “Yes.” He sighed. “I am afraid you are. As far as the law and your family are concerned, anyway.”

  The man’s words sent warning through Cheverley’s blood, though his voice—not just the tone, but his way of speaking—felt very familiar.

  “You needn’t worry.” The anchor tapped against his chest. “We’ll do something about the ‘your being dead’ part...after we take care of your problems with the Admiralty.”

  The man clucked his tongue.

  “You are in a good deal of trouble, you know—not that I should be surprised.” He held up a finger. “At sixteen, you stole a carriage and eloped with the daughter of a pig farmer,” a second finger joined the first, “at twenty-three, just before disappearing without a trace, you demanded I meet you in enemy waters so you could amend your will, and, now,” he held up a third, “on the cusp of your third decade, you wash up in rags with little more to say to your rescuers than my name. Which means,” The man’s face loomed, “you’ve placed me in a good deal of trouble, too.” A crease marked his patrician chin. “I detest trouble.”

  No, you don’t. Chev’s answer formed without thought. You revel in trouble.

  Chev blinked.

  “Too much, too fast?” The man’s dark brows drew together. “Let’s start with the main, then. Do you know who you are?”

  “Captain Lord Cheverley.” Chev hated the implied question in his voice.

  The man, however, was pleased. “That’s right. Though, to be fair, I might not have recognized you but for the helpful bit of artistry on your ankle. Do you know me?”

  “Do I?” Chev asked. “Know you?”

  “I should hope so. Though, if you’ve forgotten, proper introductions are in order.” The man cleared his throat. “The Duke of Hurtheven”—he inclined his head—“at your service.”

  Chev blinked again. “Hurtheven?”

  “Last time I checked. And you should know, you laughed like a madman after seeing me in my first set of parliamentary robes.” His grin returned. “Bad form, that.”

  “You looked preposterous,” Chev said, again, without thought.

  Then, recollections rolled past like alabaster marbles, zig-zagging through time and flashing with head-splitting brilliance. Hurtheven in his robes. Hurtheven and another man, witnessing his wedding. Penelope, heavy with child and begging him not to go. The thunder of cannons. A vast darkness. A vicious sea. As best he could, he sorted them in time.

  “I was in a raft.” Why had he been in a raft? “Then, there was a man...and a woman...and...” a cat?

  He hated cats. He was clear about that much, at least.

  “Yes. Right again,” Hurtheven said. “A man. And a woman.” He lifted a brow. “I don’t suppose you had a choice who fished you from the sea, but next time I would be obliged if you wash up closer to someone less grasping. You cost me two gold guineas, you know.”

  “Gold guineas?” What kind of fisherman demanded gold from a duke?

  “Well...” Hurtheven paused, “...if you prefer to be exacting—one guinea was for your person, the other to secure their silence.”

  “Silence?” Cheverley asked. “Why?”

  “I told you.” Hurtheven made an exasperated sound. “You’re dead.”

  “Explain,” Cheverley said through gritted teeth.

  “Well, I couldn’t have those greedy bob tails realize they’d fished you out of the channel. You bet your Hessians they’d have demanded more than two guineas for the heir apparent to the Duke of Ithwick, and two was all I had.” He glanced askance. “Bad night at the tables.”

  Heir? Cheverley coughed. “Not...heir.”

  “You aren’t now, of course. You are dead. The distinction of heir presumptive, therefore, belongs to your son.”

  His son? His heartbeat surged. Yes. He did have a son, didn’t he?

  Thaddeus.

  He strained to recall a face. But, no. He’d never met his son.

  The old wound broke open and other memories spilled forth.

  He’d eloped to Scotland without his father’s consent and then further enraged the duke by beginning to work a separate estate made irrevocably his because of a clause in the duchess’s marriage contract.

  Naively, Chev believed the estate would place his family beyond the duke’s power.

  Then came the duke’s ultimatum—either Chev take a naval commission, or face a lawsuit challenging his marriage and potentially making a bastard of his child, already well on the way.

  At first, he’d gambled the duke would come to his senses and place family above pride and relent.

  His Grace had not.

  When Chev reluctantly accepted the commission, his father demanded he not return until he had proven himself. Chev left, determined to rise above his father’s power by becoming the greatest naval hero England had seen since Raleigh. And then—

  Then what? Nothing came.

  But he was in rags. So, not Raleigh.

  And—he grimaced—Hurtheven had said heir.

  He was certain he hadn’t been heir, which meant... “My brother?”

  “Devil take it. I’d forgotten you wouldn’t know.” Hurtheven gripped Chev’s shoulder and bowed his head. “Piers is gone.”

  “How?”

  “Nasty bit of bad luck.” Hurtheven winced. “He was wandering through the woods at Ithwick and stepped into a nest of adders, poor chap. Two days passed before they found him. Coroner wasn’t sure if it was the snake bites or the cold damp that got him—likely a bit of both. I am sorry, Chev.”

  Loss settled over Cheverley. Ah, Piers. His brother had loved his woodland rambles.

  How could it be Chev had survived war and disaster while Piers had been killed by something so common in Cornwall as a few snakes and a bit of rain?

  “Her Grace, the Duchess of Ithwick,” Hurtheven continued, “passed away last year. Grief, the physician said, as if such a thing were possible.”

  Chev swallowed, roughly.

  “The duke lives, though he is, I understand, not well. In the absence of an adult heir, your cousins have become”—Hurtheven cleared his throat—“quite solicitous.”

  Both his brother and his mother were dead? He finally grasped Hurtheven’s meaning. He must have been declared dead, too.

  He wasn’t dead. He’d been lost at sea.

  That’s what had happened. He’d been lost at sea for... Months? Years? More? Anyway, he’d been desperate to get home from...?

  He shook his head, coming back to the idea that his wife and son believed him to be dead.

  Lost was an unfinished sentence; Dead, a conclusive period. The end to one sentence so that another one could begin. If he were dead, his belongings would have been disbursed and his wife...

  Good God. Was Pen still his wife? “Penelope?”

  “Alive.” Hurtheven’s gaze slid away. “Hale, the last time we met.”

  “But is she...is she...?”

  Hurtheven grimaced. “I judged it impertinent to ask if she’d been faithful. But she is unwed.” He flashed a look. “At present.”

  At present? Chev coughed. “And what of my son?”

  “Thaddeus”—Hurtheven’s expression softened—“is a healthy lad. If you can call a young man of thirteen a lad.”

  Thirteen? Chev grasped his head between his thumb and forefinger. He’d been
apart from his family for thirteen years?

  Impossible, but true.

  He was not a lost man found, but a dead man resurrected. His mother and brother, gone. His father dying. A son he did not know on the cusp of manhood. And a wife...

  Not wed. Yet.

  His whole being hung from yet, swaying like fresh kill on a gamekeeper’s hook. He massaged his temples.

  Had he really believed, even for a moment, she could have been pining for him all this time?

  “Better I hadn’t returned.”

  Hurtheven inhaled sharply. “How dare you suggest Pen would be better off if you were, in fact, dead?”

  Bitterness twisted Chev’s features. “Not worth a half-penny, the woman said.”

  “What woman?”

  “The grasping, greedy bob tail.”

  Hurtheven snorted. “If I’d known how she felt, it would have saved me a good deal of blunt.”

  Nothing about this circumstance was amusing in the least. Even if Pen were to have held out hope—“How is my wife to feel when this”—Chev lifted his severed arm—“is returned to her?”

  Hurtheven examined Chev’s raised arm with interest. Then, he met Chev’s gaze. “You speak,” he said, “as if you were a stray package. You are her husband. Her beloved husband.”

  “I am not the man she married.”

  “I should hope not! She married a randy sixteen-year-old buck with a good deal more brawn than brain.”

  Chev’s startled cough ached in his ribs. “Whoreson,” he said with affection.

  “Chev.” Hurtheven lifted a lip. “I knew you were in there.”

  Cheverley’s sense had started to return, anyway. Wearily, Chev set aside questions too unanswerable for his throbbing mind.

  “Where are we going, anyway?” he asked.

  Hurtheven raised an imperious brow. “Demanding, aren’t you?”

  “You don’t have a destination in mind.”

  “I most certainly do! My plan—brilliant for being hastily put together, I might add—begins at the Admiralty.”

  The Admiralty. Chev nodded. Of course. He’d remembered he was an officer. A captain. He squeezed his eyes closed. And his ship—the HMS Defiance—a slight, fast beauty with a mast as tall as—