The Confessions of the Duke of Newlyn

by Bronwyn Scott

  The thought made him smile as he let her bright chatter wash over him. This was in part what he’d come for, to be some place that felt like home, a place where he wasn’t judged, where he wasn’t the Duke, where people weren’t looking to him to make decisions. He’d spent much of his childhood at the Treleven home in Cornwall, surrounded by the girls and all the noise and love of their household. He’d never felt like an only child—not with six ‘sisters’. Perhaps that had been his parents’ intention to make up for what he lacked by way of siblings. If so, it had served him in good stead as an adult. Here was a place he could be himself.

  Lady Treleven opened the reading room door. ‘Marianne, look who’s here,’ she sang out cheerily. ‘What a pleasant surprise.’

  One look told him Marianne disagreed. Marianne didn’t think his intrusion was quite so pleasant. Vennor saw her startle, then saw her cast a guilty look at the newspaper clippings spread out on the table. ‘Vennor, what are you doing here?’ He heard the nervous catch in her voice as she rose, moving towards them—or was it that she was moving away from the table? He’d wager she was hiding something. His curiosity regarding the table grew.

  ‘I was in the neighbourhood and thought I’d drop by.’ He resisted the tug on his arm attempting to lead him away from the table. What did she not want him to see?

  ‘I’ll send up some tea,’ Lady Treleven offered. ‘I am sure you won’t have eaten yet, Vennor, or, if you have, you’re hungry again. You’ll have to excuse me, I’ve a charity meeting at Lady Bretton’s.’

  He waited until Lady Treleven’s footsteps had faded on the stairs before he made his move, snatching up a news clipping from the table. ‘What are we working on here?’

  ‘Give me that!’ Marianne grabbed for it but he held it out of reach with a laugh. Suddenly, they were young again, living only in the moment. Vennor darted away, putting the table between them.

  ‘Vennor, if you don’t give that to me right now, I’ll tell Lady Lester you want to dance with all her daughters at the next ball!’ Marianne threatened, her dark eyes blazing as she chased him down. She leapt for it again, a most unladylike jump, but to no avail, except to force him up against a wall. Her body pressed to his in the most noticeable way and her breasts—very nice, round, firm breasts, he might add—thrust taut against the bodice of her gown as her arm stretched towards the clipping.

  ‘You wouldn’t dare,’ Vennor breathed, trying to defend himself against the dual threat of Marianne’s suddenly noticeable breasts and Lady Lester’s daughters. The Lester girls were no mean commination. There were five of them, each one more ill-mannered than the last, the bane of any ballroom.

  ‘Don’t try me on this, Vennor. Give it to me. Now.’ Marianne was ferocious as she held out her hand for the paper. He was familiar with this ferocity of hers. One summer she’d thrown his clothes in the river when she’d discovered he’d gone swimming without her.

  He relented—at least he meant to relent—but, as he handed the paper over to Marianne, his eyes lit on the headline.

  Vigilante stops robbery on the East Docks!

  Out of reflex, his hand closed about Marianne’s wrist. ‘What is this?’ But in his gut, he knew what it was. She was pursuing the Vigilante despite her promise last night. Anger began to simmer low in his belly. No matter what his own private agenda was regarding the Vigilante, he’d extracted that promise from her last night for her own good, in order to keep her safe, Did she not see that? Less than a day later she’d broken her word. She’d never intended to keep it.

  ‘Marianne,’ he growled, ‘have you broken your promise?’ They weren’t playing any more. In his desire to protect them both, the words came out more harshly than he’d anticipated. Marianne paled, either from his tone or from discovery.

  * * *

  Somehow breaking a promise was worse than telling a lie. Breaking a promise to Vennor was even lower than that. Marianne felt her face flush, embarrassed at having been caught out. ‘I promised you I’d do nothing rash. Hunting the Vigilante from my reading room is hardly dangerous.’ Marianne wound a long red curl around her finger.

  ‘Then why the need for the subterfuge?’ Vennor’s blue stare was penetrating. Marianne fought the urge to fidget, reminding herself she wasn’t a little girl any more. The ten-year difference in their ages was no longer an insurmountable chasm. They’d become equals in adulthood as well as friends. This morning, however, it was easy to forget that. Up close like this, the new awareness hummed between them. She was cognisant of his height, of the breadth of his shoulders, the physical power of him that accompanied the low-toned growl of disapproval. ‘It’s what you mean to do with the research that’s the problem, Marianne. You don’t intend to leave the project here in the reading room.’ While she’d appreciated his ability to know her mind so well last night, it was an inconvenient talent this morning.

  ‘How do you know that?’ She tested his surety with a question. Perhaps he was merely fishing for a confession.

  He wasn’t bluffing. ‘You curl your hair when you’re nervous or hiding something.’ Vennor flashed her an apologetic smile. ‘Sorry, it’s the curse of having a long acquaintance with someone.’ The moment relieved the tension of the brewing quarrel as the tea tray was delivered. It occurred to her as they took their seats in the cosy bay of long windows amid the rays of morning sun and wisps of teapot steam that Viscount Hayes would never know her half as well; all her quirks and tells would mean little to him. Some piece of her would be lost with Hayes.

  ‘I didn’t want to lie to you.’ She poured out the tea, with an eye to Vennor’s perennial sweet tooth—one cube of sugar and a splash of milk. ‘It was just that you were so adamant that I not do it.’ She passed him the cup and saucer with its painted blue violets. ‘I’ve always been able to count on your support, but you made it clear I did not have it in this endeavour. What was I supposed to do? I can’t just give up.’ She took a sip of her own tea and fixed him with a stare over the delicate rim as she drew her battle lines. ‘I have to do this whether you like it or not.’ She didn’t need his support, but she did need his understanding.

  ‘Why?’ came the simple question. Marianne wished the answer was as straightforward.

  ‘I think this is my last chance, Ven. This is my third Season and I have a viscount at my feet. To refuse him and return for a fourth Season will raise questions, to say nothing of the financial expense for my parents.’ She paused. They’d been more than generous with her, but her mother had made it clear that her patience was running out. A girl in her third Season must wed or be viewed suspiciously. Popularity would not protect her then. ‘If I cannot make a breakthrough with my writing this Season, I think I must set those ambitions aside and choose the traditional path.’ That was the gentle ultimatum she’d arrived at last night. She had considered Vennor’s caution about the Vigilante and decided she could not give in to it.

  Vennor’s expression softened and she shook her head. ‘I don’t want your pity, Ven. This is what the world is like for women.’ It wasn’t fair. A woman had only two choices: marriage or outcast. In her opinion, both choices marginalised a woman’s potential. ‘We’re not all dukes who can choose what they want to be and do.’ Even second sons had more choice than she did as to how her life was arranged.

  Vennor was quiet, thoughtful. ‘It’s not pity, Marianne. It’s appreciation. I wish the world were different. Maybe it will be, later, although that does you little good now,’ Vennor said at last. ‘But why him, a man who immerses himself in the slums and violence? For all you know, he’s a madman. Perhaps there’s another story out there to chase?’ The last was wishful thinking on Vennor’s part, though. She’d racked her brains before coming up with even this idea.

  ‘He’s not mad, Ven. He’s a very good man,’ Marianne said quietly, eyeing Vennor with questions of her own. If he knew her down to the curling of her hair, she knew him just as well.
The ‘curse of long friendship’ went both ways. Mad was a strong word. Vennor was usually not a judgemental man and she admired that about him. That he should use such a word without substantive evidence was out of character. But there was no reason for it that she could think of outside his concern for her well-being.

  ‘You’re romanticising him, like half of London.’ Vennor cautioned.

  ‘No, I’m not.’ She set down her teacup and held out her hand. ‘Would you let me show you?’

  Chapter Four

  Vennor surveyed the reading room table, a long, polished mahogany affair, covered in three years’ worth of clippings with a certain amount of trepidation. Marianne had made good use of that length this morning, arranging the clippings in chronological order. He scanned the headlines as she talked.

  Masked man averts attack in Hyde Park! Masked man strikes again!

  ‘These are the early accounts, the ones where he hadn’t acquired a moniker yet or a routine.’ She led him down the table, an underlying excitement in her voice. ‘Then look what happens. He settles in. “The Vigilante Patrols Covent Garden with a Vengeance!” “The Vigilante Patrols the East Docks!” “The Vigilante Seen in Seven Dials.” He left the safer environs of Mayfair’s fringe and devoted himself almost exclusively to the London slums.’

  Marianne was talking about the dates now, but his thoughts and his gaze were drifting from the clippings to her face. She was stunningly beautiful in her passion for the subject, her dark eyes alight with intelligent thought. It was like seeing her for the first time as the reporter she was meant to be.

  ‘Some have already speculated about who the Vigilante is.’ She picked up a clipping to illustrate her point. ‘Some think he’s a criminal himself, while others think he’s from the stews. But I think he might be more than a crime fighter. I think he might be a revolutionary.’ He had seen her impassioned for a cause before, from begging him to splint a duckling’s wing when she was six to raising funds for Christmas baskets in Porth Karrek. But he’d never seen her like this—emotions and logic working together. It was impressive, really. She was impressive. No wonder she was frustrated. She had the ability to be an amazing reporter if given the chance...which she wouldn’t be.

  ‘What?’ Marianne broke off her explanation. ‘You’re staring, Ven.’ She rubbed her cheek. ‘Do I have something on my face?’

  ‘No, I was just caught up in the story,’ Vennor stammered, caught off guard by the interruption. Caught up in her was more the case. ‘Go on, you were saying he might be a revolutionary. How do you reason that?’ He wanted to hear her interpretation, despite the element of awkwardness in hearing himself described when he knew better. He wasn’t half the man she thought he was, just a man looking for justice, a man looking to make sense of a world which for him had been upended three years ago, a man who no longer knew who he was so he took refuge behind a mask.

  ‘It’s in his code. He is no respecter of class in the best sense. He protects the poor when no one else does. The constabulary hardly raise a finger in the places he frequents. Last night, he protected a flower girl, someone the finer world views as no better than a prostitute. He stood up for her because she deserves protecting, no matter the circumstances of her birth.’

  Marianne paused and fixed him with her blazing gaze. ‘Let me ask you this, Ven, as a man with a title. Would any of the lords in my court have done the same? I have no doubt Lord Hayes would stand up for me should I be unsuitably approached, but I am a lady of gentle birth. Would he have even looked twice at the flower girl in distress? Or, worse, would they have seen her distress and assumed she somehow deserved the poor treatment she was given? My point is this: without the Vigilante, the flower girl has no recourse to help or opportunity simply because of the luck of her birth.’

  ‘You admire him,’ Vennor said quietly when she had finished.

  ‘I envy him,’ Marianne corrected. ‘He has purpose in his life, like you and the Cornish Dukes.’

  Vennor smiled wryly. He thought so, too. It was the very reason he was loath to give up the mask. She was wrong about the latter, though. The Cornish Dukes, his circle of fathers and sons, had purpose, but not him. She gave him too much credit there. But she’d also given him an opening in which to make his argument. If she wouldn’t leave the Vigilante alone for her own sake, perhaps she would for the Vigilante’s sake. ‘If you admire him, why do you want to unmask him?’

  ‘A hero should be acknowledged,’ Marianne replied, stacking up the clippings in careful order. ‘It might even bring awareness to his cause, gain him a wealthy benefactor.’ Little did she know that he needed neither.

  ‘If he wanted to be acknowledged, he wouldn’t wear a mask,’ Vennor argued. ‘Have you thought that unmasking him might be the end of him? Then where would your revolution be?’ Where would his cause be? There’d be social scandal in the ton, to say nothing of the retribution he might face from the crime lords whose industry he’d disrupted.

  Tell her, his conscience whispered more insistently. Tell her and protect yourself. She wouldn’t dare expose you.

  But she would be furious he’d hidden it from her and her plans would be ruined. Those were just the considerations of what it would do to their relationship. There was also the fact that he hadn’t even told his best friends. Inigo, Eaton and Cassian had no idea of the masquerade. He felt no small twinge of guilt over that. Perhaps he ought to tell them first, if he told anyone? There were practical considerations, too, such as how did one simply insert that bit of information into a conversation? Yet it was hard to let the opportunity slip past him. He owed it to her. At some point, he should tell her on principle alone. She’d laid her soul bare for him today. It had taken courage to share her thoughts on a subject she knew they disagreed on. Yet she’d trusted their friendship enough to do it. She would not understand why he couldn’t do the same. Still, he’d not come here to argue with her. He’d come to apologise and he hadn’t done that yet.

  He handed her the last of the clippings. ‘You’re very good at your craft, Marianne. You are far better than a columnist, I need you to know that. I also need you to know that I believe in you even if I can’t support you going after the Vigilante. I see why you want to do it. He’s all any of the ladies talk about. But it’s not safe for you and, in the end, if you did find him, I want you to consider the danger unmasking poses for him as well.’

  Marianne gave a slow, considering nod of her head. ‘What if I didn’t unmask his identity? What if I were to do a series of interviews with him? The public could learn more about him, I could prove to my editor I can be more and he can keep his identity hidden.’

  ‘You would still have to find him and there is danger in that,’ Vennor reminded her. Normally, he applauded Marianne’s tenacity and creativity. Not so today. He wished there was a way to distract her from this course, another task he might set in her path that would give her the purpose she sought.

  Vennor shifted his stance, stepping out of the sun’s glare. The sun had moved, too, and now it flooded the room in full, turning the entire reading room into a place of cosy warmth. Like the hall downstairs, this room, too, was so unlike his house with its pristine, untouchable museum quality. One did not live in his house. And perhaps he hadn’t been. Perhaps it was time for that to change. Maybe Marianne was the person to do it. He held out his hand. ‘Come for a drive with me. I’ve brought the phaeton and the weather’s brilliant. I’ve got a proposal for you.’

  * * *

  Marianne let the spring breeze bathe her face as they drove. It felt good to be out of doors. It felt good to be with Vennor without the constraints of the ballroom and its tension. Last night had been...different, throwing into sharp relief what sitting on the high seat of Vennor’s phaeton represented. If she accepted Lord Hayes when he proposed, everything would change. This would change. There would be no more drives in the park with Vennor, no more tête-à-têtes beside fo
untains, no more confiding of secrets, no more arguing in the reading room. A certain chapter of her life would close.

  Vennor nudged her toe with his boot as they tooled through the park gate, the place still deserted at this time of day. ‘What are you thinking, Marianne? You are miles from here.’

  ‘Can’t a girl enjoy the weather?’ Marianne slanted him a teasing look from under the brim of her straw hat.

  ‘I might believe it if I thought that was the case, but you were thinking.’ He smiled back, looking entirely boyish and entirely too handsome as the breeze played with his hair, golden blond in the sunlight. The sight of him almost took her breath away, as did the realisation: what a handsome husband he would make someone. It was no wonder hostesses begged for his presence at their parties. The wonder was that she hadn’t noticed, really noticed, the firm cut of his jaw, the slight squaring of his chin with its subtle dimple, the blueness of his eyes and the faintest of lines that had begun to web at the corners—further proof that they weren’t children any more. She would be twenty-one in a few weeks, which meant he would be thirty-two in August. There was certainly nothing childish about Vennor Penlerick—he was full-grown and in his prime. Was this how other women saw him? As a man?

  Marianne sighed. ‘I was thinking how this is likely our last Season. I might marry Lord Hayes and you’ve got to marry someone. You’ll be thirty-two, Ven.’ She’d been so caught up in the drama of her own situation she hadn’t thought about his. It was a marvel he hadn’t married already, given his unique circumstances. ‘I think we’ve put it off as long as we dare. The others have married.’

  He looked over at her, his brow furrowed. ‘I thought you weren’t sure you wanted to marry at all.’

  ‘I’m not sure I do,’ Marianne affirmed, thinking out loud. ‘It’s just that I don’t like being left behind and that’s what’s happened. The town house is quiet this year.’ Her three older sisters had married and had residences of their own now. None of them had come up to town. It was just her and her parents.