The Theory of Earls (The Beautiful Barringtons Book 1)

by Kathleen Ayers

  Tony suspected the butler was lying. Fenwick knew everything.

  As he munched on a piece of bacon, he thought back to the mountain of scones and eggs Maggie had started consuming when they had breakfast together, which was nearly every morning. He should have guessed she was with child. He meant to beg her forgiveness for the way he’d spoken to her. And the utterly revolting thing he’d suggested in his horrible anger at her. At himself.

  Filled with self-loathing, he pushed aside his bacon.

  “You must be announced.” Fenwick was agitated and speaking to someone in the hall.

  “I don’t need an announcement.” Leo’s amused voice filtered toward Tony as his brother’s dark head popped through the breakfast room door.

  Leo rarely left his bed before noon. Maggie was nowhere to be found. Nor Daisy, her lady’s maid, for that matter. He threw down his napkin, glaring at his brother as Leo came in and sat down next to him.

  “Where is she?”

  “As a greeting, I thought for sure you could do better. You look like hell, by the way.” Leo’s pleasant manner held an undercurrent of hostility.

  “I fell asleep in my study, which is actually the parlor. Maggie needed a conservatory.” Tony waved toward the sideboard, anxiety clawing at him. His wife had left him. Not that he blamed her after he’d—Tony winced again at the things he’d said. She couldn’t have gotten far. “Breakfast?”

  “Thank you. I’m starving.” Leo sat down as a footman served him a portion of eggs and toast. “The jam as well.” He pointed.

  After a few minutes of watching his brother devour nearly everything on his plate, Tony finally spat out, “Where’s my wife? I assume you know, or you wouldn’t be here.”

  Leo sighed and took one more bite of his bacon before putting his knife and fork aside. Placing his fingers together in a point, he regarded Tony coldly.

  His brother was furious with him. Leo and he rarely argued, though they did have their disagreements. This was different. “Leo—”

  “I should beat you for the things you said to Maggie,” he said, all pretense at pleasantry gone. “I don’t care if you are going to be a bloody duke.”

  “I see you’ve spoken to her.” Shame filled him.

  “Yes, I have. I will only assume you were briefly out of your mind to have said what you did to Maggie. Who loves you despite every effort you’ve made to drive her away. You may have finally succeeded.”

  Tony rubbed at the sharp sting over his heart as he glared back at his brother. “You don’t understand.”

  Leo slammed his fist on the table. “I understand your hatred of the duke. He’s a selfish prick. A terrible human being. He’s done questionable things.”

  Much like I have.

  “You are punishing Maggie, not him. She is paying the price for your arrogance.”

  Just as my mother did.

  Tony took a deep, painful breath at the realization, seeing far too many comparisons between himself and his father. Or at least the arrogant man the Duke of Averell had been.

  “That you would be so selfish as to suggest such a despicable thing simply because your scheme against the duke might be infringed upon? Especially given you rut after her like a dog in heat?” Leo sneered at Tony in contempt. “You are becoming the very thing you hate.”

  Tony gripped his fork, resisting the urge to stab his brother with it. He didn’t care to have Leo come to the same conclusion as Tony had a moment ago. “Enough, Leo,” he snarled. “I take your point. I was angry and lost my temper. I didn’t mean it. I don’t mean it.”

  Leo calmed somewhat. “Maggie will not come home to you and I don’t blame her. She is angry and hurt. If you decide to fetch her—”

  “I have every intention of doing so.”

  “You should wait a week or two and then beg her forgiveness. She’s very upset and doesn’t want to see you at present. I hope you won’t be foolish, Tony. I’ve no desire to see you become one of those jaded rakes who skirts around the edges of ballrooms ogling the young ladies before returning home to their empty houses.” His brother stood and placed his napkin on the table. “I’m sure you can imagine where she is.”

  Tony sat back as Leo left the breakfast room, slamming the door behind him. He knew exactly where Maggie had gone, damn her. The one place he’d avoided for years. The last time he’d visited Tony had vowed never to return.

  Cherry Hill.

  41

  Maggie walked slowly up the stairs, holding on to the railing as she did so. Every time she made her way to the second floor, she was reminded these were the steps Katherine, Welles’s mother, had fallen down, and she took special care.

  A large male cat, one ear partially missing and black as coal, shot down the stairs, startling her. A shriek followed the cat’s departure, coming from the direction of the duchess’s rooms.

  Phaedra came around the corner, skidding to a stop as she narrowed her eyes. “Theseus!”

  Margaret bit her lip to keep from laughing. The big tomcat’s adoration of the duchess was well known among the household staff at Cherry Hill. No matter Phaedra’s best efforts, Theseus continued to leave gifts of dead birds and mice for the mistress of the house.

  Phaedra sped by her on the stairs. “Today,” she informed Margaret as she passed, “it was a mole. Mama was horrified. She may have fainted.”

  “I shall check on her.” Margaret turned sideways, placing a hand on the small bump of her stomach, and continued up the stairs.

  Margaret drank in the stunning beauty of Cherry Hill, the Duke of Averell’s seat. She tried to imagine Welles as a child, growing up in this enormous house, perhaps running outside to play soldiers with Leo. Comprised of three separate wings and constructed of stone, Margaret had not yet walked from one end of the house to the other. Though the estate was grand, the furnishings were warm and welcoming, instead of the pretentious formality she’d expected from a duke. The downstairs was paneled in dark woods and jewel tones, with plush carpets thrown over the heavy wood floors. Margaret’s rooms were bright and sunny and painted a lovely shade of cream with accents of rose and gold.

  Cherry Hill was a study in understated elegance, just like the Averell mansion in London. She thought her new mother-in-law had something to do with the warmth to be found in both places.

  Upon her arrival at Cherry Hill, Margaret had stepped out of the coach and immediately been embraced by the duchess and the rest of the family. The girls swirled around her, chattering and arguing. A splash of paint decorated Theo’s cheek. Romy had been making something with feathers, for they were stuck in her hair as well as that of Miss Nelson, who had apparently been assisting her.

  Phaedra had hugged her tight before taking off to run after Theseus, the cat.

  Margaret had sobbed at that first sight of them. She hadn’t been sure of her welcome but need not have worried. Romy had held her hand and admonished her not to cry.

  “It’s only that I’ve missed you all,” Margaret had said before bursting into tears again.

  The duchess had kissed her cheeks, cupping Margaret’s face between her palms. She wasn’t easily fooled. “My dear daughter. Welcome home.”

  It had been an emotional reunion, to say the least.

  Margaret continued to climb up the stairs toward the room at the far end of the hall, first stopping in to check on the duchess. Her mother-in-law was lying on a chaise lounge, one hand over her eyes, using the other to fan herself with a dramatic wave.

  “Your Grace?”

  “Good Lord, Margaret. Do you see the mole? The poor thing has more holes in it than one of Romy’s pincushions. And no eyes that I can see. I rang for a footman to dispose of the creature. What is wrong with Theseus? Why can he not thank me by purring quietly in my lap?”

  Margaret looked carefully around the room until she saw a dark pile of fur. Moving closer, she scrunched down to check for any signs of life.

  “Is it dead?”

  “Quite.” Margaret stoo
d. “Theseus is very devoted to you as evidenced by the gifts he brings.”

  “I would prefer an orchid. Or even a spray of violets.” A trickle of laughter escaped her. “I assume you are on your way to see Marcus?” The duchess’s pretty face grew anguished, and her lip trembled before she smiled bravely. “I’m sorry, my dear, I get melancholy. My husband would be very upset if he knew, so please let it be our secret. And remind His Grace,” she said, her voice rough with tears, “we are dining together tonight so he should look his best.” She winked.

  “I will make sure not to tire him, Your Grace.” Margaret stepped toward the door, eyes averted from the poor mole.

  Margaret had been prepared to hate the Duke of Averell, despite the affection Amanda and the girls had for him. She felt quite the opposite now. Whatever type of man Marcus had been, the selfish father Welles remembered, the man dying inside the lavish suite of rooms, was that man no longer. The duke and Margaret had become friends during her stay at Cherry Hill. She found him to be loving and affectionate, a man who adored his wife and daughters. After being introduced and learning Margaret had only just begun to play faro, the duke had taken it upon himself to teach her every card game and trick he knew. Which was substantial.

  The duke’s nurse, Gladys, came out of the double doors carrying a basin of water. She bobbed politely at the sight of Margaret. “Lady Welles. His Grace is expecting you. He says he will take you for every bit of your pin money.” She touched Margaret’s forearm. “I’ve given him his medicine. Don’t be alarmed if he nods off. I thought he should rest before dinner tonight with the duchess. He wishes to be at his best.” The nurse’s eyes grew watery, for she adored her charge as well.

  Margaret nodded. “I won’t, Gladys. Thank you.”

  She entered the darkened room, gratified to see the duke sitting up in bed, two fluffy pillows lodged firmly behind his back. He was already toying with a deck of cards, the elegant, tapered fingers trembling as he did so.

  “Hello, Maggie.” He looked up and winked at her, his wide mouth ticked upward in a smile she was more than familiar with. “I’ll take your pin money today if you aren’t careful.”

  The Duke of Averell was still a handsome, charming devil no matter the ravages of the disease which was slowly killing him. Just like his son. The eyes Welles had inherited from his father were still brilliant, the darkening rings of blue stark and glowing in his face, a sharp contrast to his withering, frail body. No matter the feelings of her husband for his father, it saddened Margaret greatly that the duke was not long for this world.

  “You’re very bold, Your Grace,” she said in a saucy tone. “I may have a trick or two up my sleeve.”

  A rumbling laugh came from him, another thing he had in common with his son, except the duke’s amusement ended in a bout of coughing. He waved toward a pitcher of water, and Margaret hastened to fetch him a glass. Holding the water to his lips, she watched him drink.

  Once the coughing subsided, he gave a great sigh and sat back, taking her hand in his.

  “Deal, my girl.”

  They played whist. The duke, she suspected, allowed her to win, for she only lost a bit of her pin money. After an hour or so, much sooner than Margaret wished, he laid down his cards and declared the game over for the day.

  “I find I’m very tired, my child.”

  She nodded and turned her head, not wishing him to see her blinking away tears. The duke’s face was etched with pain no matter how much medicine Gladys gave him.

  Margaret stood to leave, and the duke reached out, his fingers encircling her wrist. “Wait, daughter.”

  “Your Grace, would you like me to read to you? Perhaps play you something soothing?” The conservatory was directly below the duke’s rooms. Sometimes he asked her to play with the windows open so he could hear her.

  “No, my dear. Did you know my first wife was a pianist?” He shot her a look. “We’ve never spoken of the past, but perhaps we should. Time is running out and I wish you to know some things.” He winced in pain, lips tightening before he took her hand. “From my own lips. Amanda will white-wash my history because she loves me. Welles and Leo will paint me as the devil, which I fear is closer to the truth.”

  “Your Grace—” Margaret tried to dissuade him. His tone had all the makings of a deathbed confession, one she didn’t feel ready to hear.

  “I became a duke shortly before marrying Katherine,” he said without preamble. “I was arrogant,” he squeezed her fingers, “which I’m sure you find hard to believe. Handsome. Titled. I already had a reputation in London for the things I had done.” His eyes took on a faraway look. “I was a careless father with Welles. I was absent for most of Leo’s life, even though he was born on the other side of the estate. I was too busy being…a duke.” He waved his hand. “Feeling important. Having women throw themselves at me and men court my favor. I was a poor husband to Katherine. More terrible to Leo’s mother.” He paused as another fit of coughing plagued him.

  “We do not need to continue, Your Grace.” Margaret patted a napkin against his lips.

  “Oh, but we must. I will never have an opportunity to tell Welles or Leo.” He took her hand again. “You must not blame Welles for his aversion to me. I accept his hatred, though it pains me. You see, Welles adored his mother. She taught him the piano. Coddled him. I took that from my son.” A ghost of a smile crossed his lips. “Katherine saw him as not the duke he would be but the child he was, something my own selfishness and attention to duty did not allow. That Welles was a much gentler human being than the man you married. Another thing I took from him. But you see Anthony, I suspect. As Katherine did. It is a rare gift.” A choked laugh escaped him. “Much as Amanda sees me.”

  Margaret blinked back a tear thinking of her husband.

  I see you, Maggie.

  She had never thought the same in reverse. Never assumed it was anything but her talent on the piano which had brought them together; instead, it was something much more profound. And beautiful.

  “I wish to thank you for coming to Cherry Hill. Your presence brings joy to my family. And I especially thank you for the gift of my grandchild. I wish I was going to live—”

  “Your Grace.” She took his hands as tears ran unbidden down her cheeks.

  “Don’t you start behaving like Amanda,” he snapped. “Watering pots, all of you.”

  “I’m sorry, Your Grace.” He was telling her goodbye and Margaret was loath to hear it.

  “Amanda despairs of my passing, but it was a foregone conclusion from the moment we met. I’m many years her elder. Promise me you will forgive Welles for whatever he did to bring you here. I do not wish to be the cause of another estrangement. You love him. And he must love you greatly to have put aside his hatred of me to wed you.” His eyes were fluttering shut, his voice becoming thin. “I’ve left letters for both my sons.”

  “Your Grace, we can speak of this later.”

  “Amanda will not remember when the time comes,” he continued in a whisper. “My beautiful summer strawberry will be devastated that I have left her—a duchess without a duke to fuss over. The girls will be distraught. I expect Theseus will be the only one who will not take notice of my death.” A raspy chuckle sounded. “I must depend on you, my dear daughter, to take care of all the Barringtons in my absence.”

  Margaret pressed his hand to her cheek and nodded.

  “Especially Welles.”

  42

  I never expected to see this place again.

  Tony looked out the window of the coach as the estate of the Duke of Averell came into view. A thousand memories filled his mind. Racing on horseback across the fields. His mother taking him fishing at the small pond they’d just passed. Sword fighting with his best friend, the maid’s son, Leo.

  His mother dead at the bottom of the stairs awash in her own blood.

  Amanda would be furious he’d waited so long to come, he thought, as the coach began to ascend the long drive leading up to t
he house. Despite his brother’s advice to leave his wife be for a bit and Tony’s own reluctance at coming here, he should have left immediately for Cherry Hill. But he’d been a coward. Tony was deeply ashamed of the things he’d said, and he’d needed time to decide what he would say to the Duke of Averell.

  As it turns out, the speech Tony had practiced in his head wouldn’t be needed.

  The news that he was now the Duke of Averell had reached Tony at a coaching inn halfway to Cherry Hill, the messenger recognizing his coach. He’d sent the man ahead to inform Leo and continued resolutely on, wishing now that he’d forced Leo to come with him.

  As the coach rolled up the long drive, the main house came into view, as immense and majestic as it had been on the day he’d left, vowing never to return. One more thing to add to the list of things he’d promised never to do but had been forced to reconsider. Two nights ago, he’d played the Broadwood and drunk scotch while longing for his wife. He’d allowed the joy at having his own child blossom as his hands ran over the keys, the room filling with the sound of Chopin. He thought of his father and what he would say to him after all these years. Could he forgive the duke? Maggie would wish it, if only because it would bring Tony peace.

  When he’d finally made his way to bed, Tony had fallen into a deep slumber. He’d dreamt of his mother. Not of her death but of playing the piano and smiling. Then her face had become Maggie’s. He’d awoken feeling calm and ready to face the old duke.

  Now his father was dead.

  Servants in the duke’s livery, all wearing black armbands, rushed out to greet the coach. As the door opened, Graven, Cherry Hill’s butler, bowed.

  “Your Grace, welcome home.”

  Margaret sat in the conservatory, her fingers running over the keys, admiring the sound of the piano. The poor instrument had been woefully out of tune when she’d first arrived, which Romy had seized upon as an excuse for her poor playing. The duke had insisted the piano be tuned immediately for his new daughter-in-law.