The Way to a Duke's Heart: The Truth About the Duke (20 page)

He grinned. “Why, thank you, madam! Now let us buckle down, so that I might have some influence to wield and not be left a pig farmer.”

Tessa laughed. “It looks like you’ve already begun! Behold the pig on that journal.”

“Is there?” He turned it over. All the registers had suffered some degree of water damage, and this one bore a dark stain in the rough shape of a pig. He chuckled. “So I have! You may address me as Charles, Farmer of Pigs.”

“I’m sure you’d be quite good at it, if you decided to make a go of it.” With these matter-of-fact words, she bent her head over her own register and went quiet.

“Yes, ma’am.” Still grinning, he followed suit, wondering how on earth he could find so much enjoyment in this task, simply because she was here, when it had seemed the grossest abomination just a few days earlier when he faced it alone.

It was just over an hour later that he found it. A faint grin still curving his lips, Charlie stole another look at Tessa—radiant in the sunlight, and more beautiful than ever with that expression of focused concentration on her face—and turned another page. When he looked down, his father’s name leaped off the paper at him, faded and small but undeniably familiar. For a moment he stared in disbelief; the signature below was different than he remembered, but of course his father had been Durham Charlie’s whole life, not Mr. Francis de Lacey, as he had been when he signed this register in 1752.

“Tessa,” he said quietly. He couldn’t take his eyes off the record. He could hardly breathe for a moment. Here, in faded ink, was the key to his fate, the proof that his father really had stood beside a high-tempered actress in a Ludgate pub—he flipped to the front of the register to determine that—and married her, for better and for much, much worse.
Joined in Matrimony this 12th day of June, Francis Lacey, bachelor, and Miss Dorothy Cope, spinster.
“I’ve found it.”

She was at his side in a moment. “Oh, my,” she whispered. “There’s why you couldn’t find her.” In the register, the bride’s name had been originally written as Dorothy Cope, as his father had remembered. But then someone had drawn a line through the name Cope and written, in tiny, cramped letters, the name Swynne above it. The woman’s signature below it, in a small round hand, clearly read Dorothy Swynne.

“Swynne, not Cope,” Charlie murmured. “I wonder who changed it, and when.”

“It only matters what happened to her,” said Tessa, practical as ever. “At least you can look for the right person now.”

Charlie shook off the daze that had fallen over him at the sight of his father’s signature, so strong and youthful, dashed off in a fit of reckless love, never guessing how it would cloud his life for decades to come. “Yes,” he said. “And I know where to start.”

Chapter 17

T
he next morning Charlie dressed like a duke. His usual sartorial standards had relaxed in the country, but now he returned not only to his best London form, but exceeded it. Barnes was in raptures, shaving him with unusual care and bringing out a box of jeweled pins and watch fobs. By the time Charlie surveyed the result in the cheval glass, he impressed even himself.

He drove into Mells and found Scott in his offices at the foundry, all too pleased to see him. “Come in, my lord, come in.” Scott rushed to pull a chair forward. “May I offer you a refreshment?”

Charlie waved it aside. From the corner of his eye, hanging just outside the window, he could see the carved wooden sign:
SCOTT & SWYNNE, IRON MANUFACTORS.
“No, today I’ve come to do business.”

“Excellent!” Scott’s smile brightened and his gaze sharpened. “I’m delighted to hear it.”

“I thought you might be,” murmured Charlie. “Tell me about your foundry. Is it a family business?”

“Indeed, sir. Three generations. My grandfather started it.”

“Scott, or Swynne?” asked Charlie on impulse.

Scott blinked, but only in mild surprise. “Swynne, actually. My mother’s father. My father joined the foundry when he married her, and took it over when my grandfather died.”

Charlie nodded, putting things together in his mind. At last the connection emerged. “And now it is yours.”

The other man looked a bit perplexed. “Yes. My father is rather elderly, and stepped aside some years ago.”

“Hmm.” Charlie took a turn around the room, thinking hard. “Very good.”

“Have you any other questions?” asked Scott after a moment. “If you would care to see the complete account books, brought from Poole by Mr. Tallboys, I would be happy—”

“What of the locks?” asked Charlie abruptly.

Scott seemed to freeze for a moment. “What of them, sir?”

“I heard of only one trial,” Charlie replied. He finally took the seat Scott had pulled out earlier. “Were more done?”

Slowly Scott sank into the chair opposite him. “Yes, partial trials, primarily to refine the design of the gates.”

“I presume you are satisfied with how the designs work.” He paused, and repeated something else he’d learned from Tessa. “There is a rather large drop over the course of this canal, so efficient locks are vital to its success. You must understand my concern.”

“Of course. I assure you, the locks will be ready to perform as expected, my lord.” Scott’s smile was a bit stiff at the corners. He was lying.

It gave Charlie a moment’s pause. If he could tell Scott was lying now, what did that mean about the other times he’d tried to trip up the man about the blackmail? Or was it obvious now merely because he knew it was a lie, thanks to Mr. Lester?

Charlie shook off the doubt. Scott had posted those blackmail letters, and one way or another, he meant to make the man squirm until he confessed or exonerated himself.

“May I put you down on our list of shareholders?” Scott asked at his silence. He pulled a bound book from a drawer and looked up, his polished smile back in place. “If you’ve no other questions, that is.”

Charlie inclined his head and moved in for the kill. “By all means.” He watched Scott uncap his ink and dip the nib into it, waiting just until Scott set the pen to the paper. “I suppose you had better use my new title. Now that my father has died, I shall soon become the Duke of Durham.”

Scott looked up, raw astonishment stamped on his face. “The Duke of Durham? Why—Your Grace—I’d no idea!”

“No?” Charlie’s smile was thin and cool. “I thought you might have suspected.”

“Indeed not, sir!” exclaimed Scott. “How could I have?”

Charlie watched him closely. Scott was obviously taken by surprise, but displayed no sign of panic or guilt. That made no sense. Either Scott had known all along who he really was, and thus had plenty of time to prepare for this confrontation; or only just this moment discovered the subject of his blackmail had turned the tables on him, meaning he should, presumably, be in a state of some alarm. Instead Hiram Scott appeared merely disconcerted, a little embarrassed, even a little delighted. Nothing at all like the subtle unease he’d shown over the locks. “There was mention of it in the papers.”

“Ah—yes, yes, I did see something about the name, now that you mention it . . .” Scott cleared his throat. “I’d no idea you were the heir, my lord—Your Grace.”

“In fact I am.” Charlie paused. “You may have heard of some uproar attached to the title.” Something flickered over Scott’s face—but still not alarm. It was infuriating. Charlie wanted him to writhe like a worm on the hook, to know he’d been caught and was about to face retribution. “Rest assured it won’t affect my decisions today.”

“Why, how should it? I’m sure I didn’t presume so,” burst out the other man in surprise too obvious to be feigned. “I don’t follow London gossip out here in Somerset. And either way, I’m a businessman; as long as a man has honest coin to invest, I’ll deal with him, no matter what his personal troubles. Who hasn’t had a spot of trouble over a woman or a hand of cards now and then?” He chuckled, giving Charlie a knowing look.

“Quite so. You looked concerned. I merely wished to allay any fears you might have about my ‘honest coin.’ ”

Scott chuckled, apparently at ease again. “From the Duke of Durham? No, I think not. Your Grace’s estates and position is well-known, even in these rustic parts.” He leaned forward with an ingratiating smile and lowered his voice. “In fact, I feel some small connection to Your Grace. It’s an old family story, and I daresay has gathered some embellishment over the years, but it might amuse you. My mother once was acquainted with your father.”

Charlie kept his face impassive even though he’d just been thoroughly shocked. Was Scott about to carry on his blackmail demands
now
, face-to-face? The man had to be the most brazen—or inept—criminal in the history of Britain. “Indeed,” he said, falling back on his lofty, bored tone. “How so?”

“Well, I daresay it wasn’t the most refined connection.” Scott chuckled again. “I understand they met in London when your father was a young man and my mother was a beautiful young girl, and . . . well. She remembered him quite fondly. I was just a boy when she died, but I remember her laughing in delight when she discovered he’d inherited a dukedom. ‘I might have been a duchess,’ she used to say. ‘I almost landed myself a duke.’ ” He beamed. “Isn’t it odd we should meet all these years later, and come to do business together?”

Charlie didn’t move a muscle. If he so much as shifted his weight, he was sure he’d not be able to stop moving until he pounded in Scott’s smug face. How dare the scoundrel laugh and make light of Durham’s clandestine marriage, as if his father’s folly was one grand joke. How dare he send blackmail letters threatening to ruin his and his brothers’ lives, and then sit there grinning like a cat in the cream. “Your mother was Dorothy Swynne,” he said.

“Well—why, yes, she was!” Scott smiled in pleased surprise. “Dare I hope your father remembered her? It would have gratified her immensely if he had.”

“Yes, Mr. Scott, he remembered her. All too well.” Charlie drew the first blackmail letter from his pocket and laid it on the table, letting it fall open. The cursed words were still sharp and clear:
I know about Dorothy Cope.
“As you ensured he would.”

The other man’s face was comically blank as he looked at the letter. “I beg your pardon, sir—what do you mean? Who is Dorothy Cope?”

Charlie drew out the second hateful letter and put it on top of the first.
Your secret will be exposed.
“She signed the register as Dorothy Swynne, but my father knew her as Dorothy Cope. The postal clerk in Bath remembered you. He gave my brother your name after your recent visit to that city. We haven’t tracked down a postal clerk in London who will swear you sent the other letters, but the writing is the same.” He added the third and fourth letters to the stack, never once taking his gaze from Hiram Scott. He left these folded, but knew every word by now.
Five thousand pounds in gold coin will buy my silence, left at the grave of James Addison Fletcher, St. Martin’s churchyard. The past is never forgotten; I will ruin you.
“I do believe blackmail is illegal,” he added.

The color drained from Scott’s face as he looked at them. “My lord—Your Grace—I—I don’t know what you mean,” he stammered. “Blackmail? I
never
—not under
any
circumstances—”

“Perhaps you’ve forgotten what was in the letters? By all means, read them again. Consider their import carefully.” Charlie clasped his hands around the head of his walking stick.

Scott wet his lips. He had recoiled in his chair when Charlie brought out the letters, but now slowly reached out and chose one at random. He flipped open the broken seal and read the single line within. “I didn’t write this,” he said, breathing hard. He snatched up another. “Nor this one.” He seized the other two and read them all again. “Your Grace, I swear to you, I didn’t write these letters!”

“But you sent them.” Charlie pasted a studious frown on his face and tilted his head back. “If you didn’t write them, who did?”

Scott dropped the letters and put his hands down flat on the table, as if grappling for balance. He looked as if he might cast up his breakfast all over the table. “His Lordship,” he croaked. “He’s the only person . . .”

“His Lordship,” Charlie said scornfully, although his heart sank at the words. There was someone else—of course . . . But the question of whom wiped away any elation at the prospect of discovering the truth. Charlie had a bad feeling he knew what name Scott would say; he’d heard it in Bath, although only in passing, and he’d brushed it aside, telling himself it was too incredible, merely a coincidence. Perhaps he’d been wrong all along . . .

But he kept his attention focused on Scott. “This sounds like evasion. You sent someone else’s letters, and yet knew nothing of their purpose?”

“No, no, I did it purely as a favor.” Scott eyed the letters with dismay. “If I’d know—if I’d had any idea what he wrote, I never would have sent them!”

“I find that very hard to believe. You’re not the soul of honesty, are you? Telling Mrs. Neville you’ve got a full slate of subscribers when you’re actually scraping for funds and calling for more capital from current investors. Trying to extract an investment from me, knowing full well your primary investors are beginning to demand their money back because the locks are proving too expensive and difficult to build. You’re a swindler, Mr. Scott, and swindlers go to prison.”

Scott jerked his gaze up. His initial dismay heated into anger. “Are you calling me a liar?”

“And a blackmailer,” agreed Charlie.

“Who told you the locks are failing? We’ve had a few troubles, but with some time—”

“I don’t care about the canal,” said Charlie curtly. “Only these letters.”

“I didn’t write them! I had no idea what was in those letters, or I should never have sent them! How dare you call me a swindler—”

“I dare because this
threat
you sent my father has caused a bloody lot of trouble!” In the blink of an eye Charlie lost his poise and shot out of his chair, slapping his hands down on the table and leaning toward Scott with murder in his heart. “When did your mother die?” There was still a chance this could come out right. Scott said he’d been a child, and the man was probably a good decade older than him. As long as Dorothy had died before April of 1774, Durham’s marriage to his duchess would be legal and binding; Charlie and his brothers would be his indisputably legitimate heirs. It all hinged on the date . . .

“How dare you—” began Scott furiously, but Charlie cut him off.

“I can ruin you,” he promised in a low, hard tone. “I can, and I wouldn’t lose a minute of sleep regretting it. When did your mother die?”

“ ’Seventy-three!” shouted Scott. “In November of ’seventy-three. She caught a chill in the first frost.”

Seventeen seventy-three. Charlie inhaled a ragged breath. The date sounded like an amen to a long, desperate prayer. His shoulders slumped and he hung his head as the pulsing fury inside him bled out; 1773. “Thank God,” he muttered.

Scott shoved back his chair and lurched to his feet. “I regret my participation, however unwitting, in your troubles, but you have gone too far, sir!”

Charlie took a deep breath. “Allow me to explain. You are not my adversary, it seems.” He took his seat again. He found he wanted to know the entire story, and now that he knew what happened to Dorothy Cope, there was no reason to keep it silent. “Your mother did not merely know my father; it was not merely an affair. For a few weeks in 1752, they were married.”

Scott had been eyeing him with a mixture of distrust and dislike, but now his jaw dropped open. “What?”

“She didn’t mention that? Perhaps not, if she had also married again.” Charlie shrugged. “It was a Fleet marriage. All I know of the matter is what my father wrote on his deathbed, begging pardon for keeping it secret for so long.”

Scott flushed. “You have proof of this, of course.”

“I have my father’s letter detailing their marriage and parting, and the register recording their names, signed by their own hands. You may see it if you wish.”

“Merciful heaven.” The man had gone gray. “But then—that makes my mother a bigamist,” he said slowly. “And my brother and I . . .”

Charlie gave him a level look. “Bastards? Yes, I understand that’s what it means.” All too well, in fact; until this moment, Charlie had feared, deep down, that it would come out the other way, that he, Gerard, and Edward would be the ones proven bastards, cut out of the succession and disinherited from their father’s wealth. He didn’t know what he would have done had Scott named a date after 1774 for his mother’s death, but now it didn’t matter—thanks be to all the saints in Heaven. It allowed him to feel some sympathy for the man across the table from him. He inclined his head. “I apologize for any roughness of my manner, in the heat of anger.”

“Good God,” whispered Scott, looking thoroughly stunned. “She never told us . . .”