The Scandalous Love of a Duke (2 page)

He stopped in its shade and opened the letter. A second, separate folded sheet fell out. He held that aside and read.

The letter was dated months ago, in August.

His father’s words were carefully couched, but the meaning was clear, the Duke of Pembroke, John’s grandfather, was dying.

He could be dead.

Lord!

John’s fingers covered his mouth. His lips were dry, but inside he felt like ice, even in the heat. His hand swept back his hair.

He had to go back. He’d been bred to take over his grandfather’s estates. The choice was no longer his.

Then it struck him, he should feel grief. He did not. He cared nothing for the old tyrant. But he did feel strangely suspended, as though time had stopped. As though it would never start again.

John looked at the other letter and saw Mary’s effervescent writing. She was his eldest sister, the first child of his mother’s second marriage. She was just sixteen, approaching her first season.

She’d clearly rushed to write, scribbling a note to include in her father’s letter. She told John she needed her big brother home to lead her in her first waltz. She vowed she wouldn’t dance a single one unless he came.

Their grandfather’s death would postpone her debut, she obviously did not know he was ill, and so perhaps the Duke had not been at death’s door.

Whatever, John had to go back.

“Mustafa!” John turned.

London, April, Four months later

John’s ship docked in London just as twilight darkened into night. A light drizzle was falling as he descended from the gangplank.

England.

It was over seven years since he’d stood on English soil. It felt odd stepping onto the dock, like travelling back in time.

He remembered the callow youth who’d left here. He wasn’t that child anymore.

One of the crew had called a hackney carriage. It waited before him, its oil lamp glowing into the now full darkness. He gave the address to the driver then climbed in. A few moments after he’d clicked the door shut, the carriage jarred into movement, rocking over the cobbles.

He’d not sent word ahead. There’d seemed little point when he’d arrive just as fast.

He lifted the curtain and looked at the passing streets.

They’d left the narrow backstreets of the slums near the docks and now they were progressing into the more affluent areas of London.

He’d had months to get used to the idea of coming home. He had accepted it. But it did not mean he was looking forward to it. He would be weighed down by duty here.

John’s heart drummed steadily in his chest. Was his grandfather alive or dead?

The carriage turned a sharp corner and John caught hold of the leather strap.

The streets were quiet, virtually dead. Early evening in Mayfair was not a social hour. People would be dining now, before they went out. All John could hear was the sound of the carriage horses and iron-rimmed wheels on cobble.

He didn’t even know if his family were here, but he was heading for his grandfather’s townhouse. It seemed the best place to start.

A few minutes later, the hired carriage drew to a halt and John looked from the window at his grandfather’s palatial town residence. It was set back from the road and guarded by iron railings, taking up one entire side of the square.

John had found it oppressive as a child. As a youth he’d been more impressed. As a man it simply seemed ostentatious.

John climbed out onto the pavement.

He’d left his luggage at the docks to be sent on.

The light drizzle had not eased.

He paid the driver.

The man tipped his hat.

John looked up at the house as the hackney pulled away. The knocker was in place, someone was home.

He took a deep breath and then jogged up the pale stone steps. When he reached the top he lifted the lion-head brass knocker and struck it down thrice, then stepped back a little and waited.

It was several moments before it opened.

Finch, the man who’d been his grandfather’s butler for as long as John could remember, stood in the hall. John watched recognition, and then shock, dawn on the butler’s face. He’d never seen Finch’s upper lip show any expression before.

“Good Lord – I mean come in, my Lord. You were not expected?”

“No, I travelled at the same speed as any message; I saw no point in sending word. My luggage will follow. Tell me who is currently at home?” He already knew his grandfather yet survived, otherwise Finch would have said Your Grace.

“Their Graces, the Duke and Duchess, my Lord, and the Duke and Duchess of Arundel.” His grandparents then, and his uncle and aunt. John’s heart pounded. Finch then nodded to a footman, obviously sending him somewhere to announce John’s arrival. But even as he did so there was a shout from above.

“John.”

He looked up as his name echoed off the black and white marble beneath his feet and the decorative plaster all about him, and saw his Uncle Richard, the Duke of Arundel, descending the wide curving stone steps briskly. This man had been like a father to John before John’s mother had come back. But he had aged. His hair was peppered with grey and his face more lined.

“Thank God. We had no idea if you had even received Edward’s letter.” John saw relief in his uncle’s eyes as he neared and then he smiled. “It is good to have you home, John”

John met Richard at the bottom of the stairs, and took his hand to shake it, but Richard also gripped John’s shoulder. An uncomfortable feeling tingled through John’s nerves. He was unused to being touched. No one had touched him in four years.

“You have changed, John. Grown up, I suppose.”

“Uncle—” John began, only to have his speech halted by a wave of his uncle’s hand.

“No uncle, just Richard now we are both men.”

John smiled, “Richard, it is good to see a familiar face. The journey was long and I’ve no idea of how things stand.”
How is the Duke?
He didn’t say the last, he didn’t know how to.

“Things stand not well, John.” Richard slung an arm about John’s shoulders and drew him to the stairs. “I’ll take you up. The family will be pleased to see you, your mother particularly.”

“And my grandfather?” John had to ask.

“He is near the end,” Richard answered, his arm falling as they began climbing the stairs. “He has been holding on for your return, I think. He will want to speak to you at once. I’ll tell him you are here. He is much changed, John. He’s been ill for many months.”

John nodded sharply, angry at the emptiness in his chest and the anxiety stirring in his stomach.
For God’s sake, I am a man full grown now. I need not fear him.

“Why not wait with your grandmother and Penny. They will be overjoyed you’re home. I’ll come and fetch you.” His uncle must have seen something of John’s feelings.

John felt like the child he’d been when he’d left. The child his uncle had always seemed to pity. He nodded though, and walked on along the familiar hall as Richard turned the other way.

John’s head was suddenly full of pictures from the past. The most acute being the day his mother and his stepfather had come here to fetch him during that troubled tenth year of his life. The day he’d been returned to her after the scene which haunted him.

She’d taken John from school previously, in the middle of the night. John’s stepfather had been with her then, but he’d been a stranger to John at the time. They’d travelled north for miles and then she’d married that stranger.

It was only a couple of weeks after that John’s grandfather had come to take him back.

The day his mother had collected John here, his grandfather had acknowledged her for the first time.

The drawing room door was ajar. John could hear the women talking.

“I have no idea what else to do. He will see no other physician but he is so obviously in considerable pain and yet he will not take laudanum,” John’s grandmother was saying. Her voice sounded weak and worried.

Both she and his aunt Penny had been mothers to him until he’d been ten. His grandfather’s monster wanted to roar even now, and yell at them when he entered; why had they needed to be? Why had his mother not been here? He’d never understood who to blame for his loss.

He thrust his maudlin childish thoughts aside and pushed the door wider to enter. “Grandmamma. Aunt Penny.”

Both women stood, exclaiming at the sight of him then crossing the room, their eyes wide. He had shocked them.

“Grandmother,” he kissed the back of her fingers, bowing, but when he rose he saw tears in her eyes, and then he hugged her gently and pressed a kiss on her temple before letting her go.

“Oh John, your grandfather will be glad.
I
am glad. It is good to have you home. You look well. Your journey was not too difficult?”

“My journey was long, and difficult, but that is travelling, and particularly in winter. It is good to see you too, Grandmother. You have not aged a day.”

She smiled. “Flatterer.”

“You have an air of mystery about you now, John, and I think it suits you,” his aunt said.

John turned to her, smiled and opened his arms.

She hugged him. “Ellen must be overjoyed.” She was crying too when she pulled away and she reached for a handkerchief.

“I have not seen Mama yet. I thought it best to come here first. Is she in town?”

“Oh John, yes, she is in town, and she will never forgive me for seeing you first.”

“I shall have Finch send word,” his grandmother said. “The whole family are in London…”
Because of my grandfather’s illness?
“I shall have him contact them all.”

“John.”

John turned to face Richard who stood at the open door.

“His Grace wishes to see you.”

A moment later, John was walking back along the statue-lined hall beside his uncle.

“How long is he likely to live?”

His uncle glanced sideways. “It could be hours or days or weeks, John. There is no certainty. He has defied a hundred predictions already.”

John nodded, feeling his anxiety rise again.

“You have nothing to fear,” his uncle stated more quietly.

John was thrown back into the position of a ten-year-old child.

Richard rested a palm on his shoulder.

John shrugged it off. He was not that child anymore, and if his grandfather was so close to death, he needed to earn respect not pity. “I am half his age and in my prime. He is on his deathbed. He can hardly dominate me now.”

“I was not challenging you, John,” his uncle answered with a smile. “I know you are capable, but I also know how cutting his words can be, pay no mind to them. I have never done so.”

John tried to recognise Richard’s good intent but only felt discomfort. He felt emotionally naked here. He was not used to the feeling. He was no longer used to people who knew him so well. He did not like it.

Richard knocked on the door of the state bedchamber and waited to be called in.

John’s heart raced when Richard turned the handle.

The red and gold decoration in the room was subdued by the low light. Just two candles were burning, one on either side of the bed, casting shadows. The canopy towered above them, and long curtains fell to the floor at either side, screening his grandfather from view. But John could hear his laboured breathing, and the chamber had the putrid smell of sickness.

His grandfather’s valet stood across the room and another man was beside the bed. The physician?

“Your Grace, I have brought John.” Richard moved forwards.

John followed.

The Duke of Pembroke was propped up on pillows and his head lay back, as though he could not lift it. He was extremely thin, a ghost compared to the statuesque giant who’d intimidated John as a child. He
was
unrecognisable. His skin was grey and his cheeks sunken. His hands, which rested on the red cover, were skeletal.

The old man took a breath, which looked painful, and lifted his hand an inch from the bed. He breathed John’s name and then it fell.

John passed his uncle, moving to take his grandfather’s hand. He pressed a kiss upon the bony knuckles. “Your Grace.”

“My… boy.” The words were barely audible as he fought for breath.

“John.”

John turned to see Richard had brought a chair for him. He sat, still holding his grandfather’s hand, and rested an elbow on the bed, leaning forwards.

“Grandfather, I was sorry to hear your situation.”

A condemnatory sound escaped the old man’s lips “Because… it… meant… you… must… come… home… Sayle.” The Duke was the only one who called him by his token title, the Marquess of Sayle.

“Because it meant you were dying,” John corrected. “I do not relish that, Your Grace. True, I do not hunger for the reins of the dukedom, but nor do I wish to see you gone, you are my grandfather.” It was probably the most honest statement he’d ever made to the old man. It was about bloody time he spoke truthfully.

“Unlikely… But… now… you… are… back… I… may… go… in… peace.”

“And that is equally unlikely.” John smiled as he met his grandfather’s gaze. The old man’s body may have been weakened, but his direct gaze and the mind behind it had not.

“Enough… of… your… cheek.”

John smiled more broadly. “So do you wish to know what I have been up to in my absence?”

“I-know… your… mother… has… read… your… letters… to… me—” the Duke’s words were cut off by a painful sounding cough.

John rose and pressed a hand on his grandfather’s shoulder. “Perhaps I ought not disturb you.”

The Duke’s fingers lifted from the bed. “Stay,” he breathed.

John sat again.

“I… have… waited… for-you. You-must… speak-to… Harvey… about… business—”

“I am sure I shall manage, Grandfather.”

“I… know… you… shall.”

John smiled again. That was possibly the only compliment he’d ever heard from this man.

“I’ll leave you to it,” Richard said. The Duke’s gaze reached across John’s shoulder, then John heard the door open and shut.

As soon as it did, the Duke’s hand moved and touched John’s forearm which rested on the bed. “But… you… must… promise-me…
one
…
thing
. You… will… not… wed… beneath… you. You… must… choose… a… wife… to… preserve… the… bloodline.”

John felt his face twist in disgust. Even now, even on his deathbed, the old man sought to cast orders and manipulate John’s life. Still, when the time came to set up a nursery, John would have plenty of choice from those in his own class. With a self-deprecating smile, he nodded. What did he care, it would not matter who he picked.

“
You swear
,” his grandfather pressed on a single breath.

“I swear,” John answered, his smile falling. He knew the old man’s game but chose to play.

“Now… talk …  to… me… of… what… you… have… done. I… will… listen.”

John smiled again and leant back in the chair, folding his arms over his chest and stretching out his legs.

He spoke of Europe, of what he’d made of it, the things he’d seen and done, and he made his stories humorous and even made the old man express a muted laugh. It ended in another visibly painful coughing fit, at which point the old man’s valet stepped forward to plump the pillows and make the Duke more comfortable. John would have left, but his grandfather once more bid him stay.

John changed his subject to his true passion, to Egypt, and began talking about the place and people, about the amazing artefacts and architecture of that ancient world. He talked of the finds he was shipping home.