The Way to a Duke's Heart: The Truth About the Duke (25 page)

Eugenie, on the other hand, had recovered hope by
the morning. She took one look at Tessa’s expression at breakfast and said in
her comforting way, “It shall be such a pleasure to see Lady Woodall again, and
the children! And Lord and Lady Marchmont will be there as well. You are right
to return to your family, dear, and I am certain Lord Gresham will waste no time
in calling upon us.”

Tessa managed only a thin smile. “Perhaps you are
right, Eugenie.”

They reached London late in the afternoon after two
long, dusty days of travel. For once Eugenie hadn’t said a word of complaint
during the journey, not that Tessa would have heard her anyway. She was sunk too
deep in her own gloomy thoughts to be companionable, and Eugenie seemed to
realize it. “He’ll call,” she’d said confidently at random intervals. “I know he
will, Tessa dear.”

She didn’t know what to say to that. Perhaps? That
he might come, if he had time to spare? Should she laugh and say she hoped he
would come but they mustn’t get their hopes up? Or should she just agree with
Eugenie and let it go at that, with no mention of all the reasons he might well
never come to see them?

Her head ached by the time they reached St. James’s
Square, where Louise had taken a house. Eugenie murmured something about how
pleasant the square itself was, but Tessa didn’t even look. She climbed down
from the carriage, as exhausted and sore as if she’d walked from Frome.

Louise was in high spirits when they went inside
the house. “I’ve been expecting you for days now,” she cried, pressing her cheek
to Tessa’s and then embracing Eugenie. “Well, my dears, haven’t we got a very
pretty arrangement here? I’m so glad to have you both, now it feels like
home!”

Tessa managed a lackluster smile as she pulled
loose the ribbons on her bonnet and handed it to the waiting footman. “Thank
you, Louise. It is good to be here at last.” But it wasn’t. She would much
rather have stayed in Frome, or even better, hidden away at Mill Cottage for
another few decades, with Charlie all to herself. Even Rushwood would have been
better.

Louise frowned, inspecting her. “What’s wrong? You
don’t look well. Good heavens, Tessa, have you caught some wretched canal-worker
illness? I told you it was foolishness—”

“Louise dear, how are the children?” Eugenie asked
quickly. “I’ve missed them! I’m sure they’ve grown so in the last month, I shall
hardly recognize them.”

“They’re perfectly well. I can’t think why they
aren’t down here already,” Louise said, still watching Tessa sharply. “I’m sure
they heard you arrive . . .” Even as she spoke, there came the sound
of running feet, and with a chorus of happy cries, Louise’s children burst into
the hall.

Tessa turned at once to embrace her nieces, Pippa
and Helen, and greet her nephew Thomas, now taller than she was. She was
unquestionably glad to see them; her nieces and nephew were lovely children and
she adored them all. As they chattered excitedly about their trip to London, and
Pippa’s finger getting smashed in the carriage door and the goose that chased
Thomas and the very elegant people who lived all around them now, Tessa dimly
heard Louise scolding Eugenie. The older lady’s reply was too soft to hear, but
Tessa knew from her sister’s gasp what Eugenie had told her. A gentleman. An
attachment. An indiscretion. But no betrothal. Poor, poor Tessa.

She resisted the urge to turn around and dispute
it. She was a grown woman, supposedly a widow, and her life was her own. She had
never expected a proposal from Charlie. It was nothing like when she’d been so
foolish over Richard Wilbur. Even before she knew about the dukedom, Tessa had
known Charlie wouldn’t marry someone like her. She might be a viscount’s
daughter, but her papa was a countrified, rather ordinary viscount, more at home
walking his fields with the dogs than in a drawing room. Her mother had been a
banker’s granddaughter, with the dowry and head for business to make the family
comfortable but certainly not fashionable. Louise was the closest member of the
family to good society, and even that was rather tenuous; Viscount Woodall had
hardly moved in the first circles. The Marchmonts were simply not good ton, and
Tessa was well aware that her family’s lack of status was only the first of her
personal deficiencies.

Her affair with Charlie had been a pleasant
diversion, nothing more; once he was back among his own set, he’d wonder what he
ever saw in her. And if by some chance he did care to see her again, he would
have to seek her out. Even she knew ladies in London didn’t chase after
gentlemen, no matter how well acquainted they were. She could hardly explain to
everyone that he was her lover, or that she had utterly lost her heart to him.
The first would scandalize her family, and the second . . . the second
was no one’s concern but her own.

As soon as the housekeeper offered to show her to
her room, Tessa said she was tired and wanted to rest, hurrying upstairs to the
room prepared for her. She even turned the key in the lock, but it was no match
for Louise. Her sister knocked and knocked and threatened to send for a
physician if Tessa didn’t let her in, so finally she opened the door.

“What happened in Frome?” Louise demanded at once.
“Eugenie said something occurred.”

“Yes,” said Tessa without looking at her. “The
canal was a sad disappointment. William will have to find another investment,
for I wouldn’t let him send ten shillings to Mr. Scott. The man’s a
charlatan.”

“Pooh on the canal,” said Louise crossly. “You know
I don’t care about that. What else?”

Tessa steeled herself. “Eugenie made the
acquaintance of a gentleman, Lord Gresham. Did she not tell you? It was the
crowning glory of her trip.”

Louise’s eyes narrowed. “Lord Gresham,” she
repeated. “Lord Gresham, the heir to the Duke of Durham, who was the most
eligible man in all England until a few months ago, when the greatest scandal in
living memory engulfed him?”

“In living memory?” Tessa said, striving for
disinterest. “I thought that fuss over the Duke of York and Mrs. Clarke selling
army commissions was only last year . . .”

“You know what I mean.” Louise waved her hand
impatiently. “What happened in Frome? And how on earth does it involve the Earl
of Gresham?”

Tessa went to the window and stared out. The lovely
green of St. James’s Square was visible, barely, if she looked far to the right.
Through the ripples of the glass, it had an unreal, fairy look about it, a
distant oasis of lush, peaceful green. She thought of the refuge behind Mill
Cottage, where the willows grew in the ruined old mill and the brook ran past
and where Charlie had called her darling, then had to close her eyes for a
moment. “Lord Gresham was there to look at the canal. He called on me and
Eugenie a few times, which was very kind of him; Frome is possibly the quietest
town on earth, Louise. It was terribly inconsiderate of you to make Eugenie go
along just because you wanted her out of your way.”

Louise put her hands on her hips. “Tessa, tell me
now,” she said through her teeth. She made no effort at all to deny the charge
about Eugenie, which indicated how serious she was.

Tessa took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.
“Eugenie thought he paid me some interest,” she said at last. “But I am
convinced he meant nothing by it.” Her heart hurt as she said it, even though
she told herself it was factually correct. The only sort of interest Louise
would be interested in was a proposal of marriage, and Charlie hadn’t made
one.

“The new Duke of Durham paid you attention,” said
Louise as if she couldn’t believe her ears. “The Duke of Durham.”

“Well, he isn’t the duke,” Tessa pointed out. “He
is still Lord Gresham. Eugenie and I didn’t even know about the Durham Dilemma
until . . . later.”

“When did you know?” Louise caught her hesitation.
“After what?”

After he kissed her. After he made love to her.
After he made her feel justified for her actions to Richard Wilbur, not like a
half-mad betrayed spinster. After she lost her heart to him. “After we knew him
a bit,” she said. “You know I never pay attention to gossip.”

“Never pay . . . ?” Louise gaped at her.
“Tessa! The Durham Dilemma? How could you not remark that?
Everyone
is talking of it!”

“Eugenie didn’t know of it, either,” Tessa defended
herself. “No one in Frome was speaking of it, I assure you.”

Louise put her fingertips to her temples. “Very
well,” she said, her voice gone higher with strain. “You didn’t know. With you,
it might be true. But then—” She inhaled and exhaled loudly. “Then how
acquainted were you with him?”

Tessa turned back to the window. “He was there to
see the canal,” she said quietly. “That’s what he told us. He assisted Eugenie
when she felt unwell, and then he continued his kindness. He drove me to see Mr.
Scott once or twice, as he also had business with the man.” She gave a slight
shrug. “Then he left to return to London.”

“Yes,” said Louise. “He must come back to London
for the trial before Parliament on whether he shall inherit or not!”

“It’s not a trial,” said Tessa without thinking.
“It’s a hearing before a committee.”

“You knew!” Louise screeched in triumph. “I knew
you knew more than you let on! How well did you become acquainted? My heavens,
Tessa, he’s the most talked about man in England! Do you realize what this could
mean for us? Assuming he wins this trial or whatever it is, he’ll be the
Duke of Durham
! Do you understand what that means,
Tessa?”

It meant he could have his pick of all the women in
England. Charlie would have been hard for any woman to refuse even as a
penniless scoundrel with no assets but his charm and his looks; possessed of an
ancient, illustrious title and all the wealth that went with it . . .
He would forget her name within a week. Tessa laid her palms against the cold
windowpanes and bit down hard on her lip, trying not to betray any sign of her
feelings.

“We must be delicate about this,” Louise was
saying, although her voice brimmed with joy. She started pacing, wringing her
hands. “We must arrange a public meeting, where he can acknowledge you—oh, I’m
so glad you’ve come to town, dear, darling Tessa! This will establish us in the
very best circles! And once we’re publicly acquainted, we shall invite him to
dine—”

“No,” Tessa said harshly, rounding on her sister.
“You will not. If you try to push me into his path, I will leave London and
never return, even if I have to walk all the way to Rushwood.”

Louise blinked in astonishment. “What happened,
dear?” Comprehension finally seemed to be emerging from the haze of delight over
the prospect of a ducal acquaintance. “Did he lead you on?”

Her breath seemed to have caught on something in
her chest. It hurt to inhale, and her throat burned. “No.”

Her sister frowned. “Did he trifle with you?”

“No.”

“Then what happened?” cried Louise, frenzied with
curiosity.

Tessa opened her mouth to reply, but no words would
come.
I fell in love,
she wanted to say.
I fell in love with him but even if he loved me, it’s not
meant to be.
But her throat tightened up and she snapped her mouth
shut.

Louise’s face changed. “Oh, my dear.” She looked as
though she might burst into tears, and then she opened her arms. Louise loved
nothing more than a tragic drama, Tessa told herself, but somehow she went into
her older sister’s arms and took the comfort they offered.

Chapter 22

C
harlie left Uppercombe in a somber but turbulent mood. He rode aimlessly at first, needing some peace to absorb the news. Eventually he realized he had wandered far from the road home, too far to return that day. A small inn provided a perfect haven as he tried to think of what he should do next. It was a hard blow to learn he might have a son who would always belong to another man—and a man like Worley at that. He didn’t get much sleep, kept awake by that thought and by remembrances of his own father. Durham had been stern and demanding, but Charlie had known he cared for all three of his children. He’d been exacting, but never cruel. Charlie hadn’t always thought the duke’s punishments were merited, but he also acknowledged that he got into the most trouble of the Durham boys. And of course, his father’s greatest sin—denying him Maria—turned out to be no sin at all, but a mercy.

There was something very humbling in the realization that his father had been more like him than he knew. Charlie wondered how he would have reacted if Durham had confided in him, when he was deep in the throes of his passion for Maria, about Dorothy. If that admission of weakness and foolishness would have knocked some sense into him, and at least kept him from succumbing to momentary madness three years ago with Maria. It could have prevented all this scandal and upheaval, and allowed his father to die in peace. He had been as impulsive and shortsighted as any young man, and even more so under the influence of infatuation, but there was no question that his father’s heavy-handed discipline had also spurred him to rebellion many times, before and after Maria. It was uncomfortable to peer into his own juvenile mind and examine his motives. How many of his actions had been driven purely by the desire to prove himself independent of his father’s whim?

He delayed an extra day at the inn, excoriating himself for being petulant and obstinate. If he had only humbled himself to return home, even years after the break, to ask his father for an explanation, this all might have been avoided. It was lowering to admit he had been just as bad as his father in clinging to his pride, each determined not to concede to the other. Charlie realized he had no trouble doing this before other people; in fact, he had deprecated himself many times in his pursuit of Tessa, and not found it galling at all. Edward always insisted their father was fair-minded, and he’d explicitly told him that Durham wished to see him. It was the hardest realization of all: that his father might have wished to remedy the breach, to apologize or at least to explain, and he had ignored it. What was the discomfort of traveling with a broken leg, after all, compared to the reconciliation and peace he might have granted his father at the end? He could barely stand to think of how Edward had said the duke called for him in his last hours.

And what would Tessa think of him now? The whole scandal had been his fault, because of his recklessness. Gerard was liable to punch him in the face, and Edward would castigate him for being so idiotic, and he would deserve both. But if Tessa looked at him with disgust and loathing when she heard the full story . . . he didn’t know how he would bear it.

He reached Mill Cottage late in the day, dismounting and handing his horse to the boy who came running. He trudged toward the house, his heart and mind still heavy with the results of his journey. He had to tell his brothers that everything had been his fault, however unintentionally. He had to tell Tessa—God above, he needed to see Tessa. He told himself she would understand. Everything else seemed to make more sense after he talked it over with her, and he hoped desperately this would be the same.

“Welcome home, my lord,” said Barnes, waiting for him in the doorway.

Charlie nodded absently. “Yes, yes. Draw a bath and bring a bottle of wine.” As much as he needed to see Tessa, he needed to clean up first.

“Yes, sir.” Barnes took his coat and hat. “Lord Edward has arrived, my lord.”

Charlie’s head jerked up. “Damn.” For some reason, it made him think of Gerard’s reaction to his own arrival in Bath. The de Lacey brothers, who’d gone months without a single letter exchanged, were now popping in for visits to each other at the most inconvenient moments. “Where is he?”

“In the back parlor, sir.”

Edward looked up when Charlie opened the door. He had a stack of papers in front of him, as usual. “Always hard at work,” said Charlie. “How are you, Edward?”

His brother rose and shook his hand. “Well enough.”

“And your wife? I trust you left her well?”

There was no mistaking the light that came into Edward’s eyes. “Splendidly well.”

Charlie nodded. “I thought as much.” He didn’t ask what had brought Edward all the way into Somerset. He didn’t have to.

“I hope you’ve been half as well,” Edward said. “I wondered, and Gerard did, too, but we had no word.” Charlie made no effort to deny the implicit accusation. “In fact, I had the devil of a time finding you,” Edward went on, “given that Gerard only knew you were leaving Bath in pursuit of Hiram Scott. After you left town, he was able to discover Mr. Scott’s ironworks in Mells, which is where I went initially. When you weren’t there, I asked after the lady you followed, Mrs. Neville, and traced you to Frome.”

“How is Gerard?” asked Charlie. “He wasn’t pleased to see me when I arrived in response to his summons, in your place.”

Edward smiled. “He’s decided to buy a house in Bath. I believe his bride took a liking to the town, and they intend to stay.” Charlie nodded. His brother eyed him expectantly. “What have you learned, Charlie?” Edward finally asked bluntly. “I came because the hearing has been scheduled. Cousin Augustus’s contesting petition will be heard, and you must defend your claim—
our
claim.”

Charlie turned and walked away, out of the house. Edward followed, but neither spoke until they reached the path along the brook, rushing past the old mill. “Dorothy is long dead,” Charlie said at last. “I have a letter from the curate of the parish where she’s buried, testifying to her date of death five months before Durham wed our mother. Unless Durham had another secret marriage that comes to light, there is no question of our legitimacy.”

Edward nodded. “And have you dealt with Scott?”

Charlie squinted at the sunlight flashing off the water. “Yes.”

“Will anyone find the body?” Charlie glared at him. Edward just raised his brows. “I presume you put an end to him for blackmailing Father.”

He heaved a sigh. “Scott wasn’t much to blame. He posted the letters, but he didn’t write them.” He paused. “Dorothy Cope—or Dorothy Swynne, as she was born—was his mother. Her youthful escapades in London were quiet family lore; when Father inherited Durham, she remarked that she might have been a duchess, and wasn’t that a grand joke? Scott was a boy, but he remembered. He thought she’d only had an affair with Father, or been courted by him; he had no idea they’d actually married. Although it seems clear she never thought the marriage was real, since she came back to Somerset and had a new husband and family by the time Father inherited Durham.”

“And you found proof of all this?”

He nodded. “Somehow Gerard unearthed the minister—if one could truly call him such—and got hold of his registers, including the one recording the marriage of Francis Lacey to Dorothy Swynne Cope. It also recorded the marriages of whores and children and people so poor they had to pay the minister on credit. Good God, Edward, can you imagine Father being married in a tavern by a charlatan of a minister?”

“No. But I daresay we are all fools for love, in our own ways.”

Charlie gave a huff of bitter laughter, thinking of Maria. “You’ve got the right of that.”

“Mrs. Neville doesn’t seem a fool,” remarked Edward. “I daresay she’ll pull you out of it. I wish you very happy, Charlie.”

His head whipped around. “When did you meet her?”

Edward grinned like a cat that had just cornered a mouse. “Two days ago. She . . . mistook me for you, for a moment.” His grin grew wider at Charlie’s expression. “I quite understood why you hadn’t written us, after meeting her.”

“I was busy,” said Charlie through his teeth, “hunting down a blackmailer and trying to save our inheritance.”

“And I commend you for it,” replied his brother gravely. “She told me she helped you.”

“Dash it all,” grumbled Charlie. “She’s brilliant, Ned—cleverer than you and far more beautiful.”

“Yes, I believe she will make a fine addition to the family.” Edward turned and started back toward the house. “I enjoy this much more when you are the fool, sick in love,” he called back. “I shall go write to my wife and tell her to plan a dinner in honor of her future sister.”

Charlie replied in vulgar terms, and listened to his brother laugh all the way to the house. A fool, sick in love; had he teased Edward so badly over his precipitous plunge into love and matrimony? Edward had almost married the wrong woman as well, before the damned Durham Dilemma upended the betrothal. Perhaps they were all the same: Durham, Edward, and now he himself, all sure of their own judgment and determination, all learning humbling lessons about love.

Of course, it would be hard to regret anything if he ended as happily as Edward had.

He went back into the house and up the stairs, where Barnes had a steaming bath waiting. On impulse he opened the satchel of documents Edward had given him all those weeks ago, digging through the papers until he found the letter. He had read it before, when his brothers arrived in London to break the news of Durham’s clandestine first marriage, but was in such a rage at his father then that he’d only gleaned the basic facts. Now he carried it to the table where Barnes had left the wine waiting, and stripped off his dusty, dirty riding clothes. When the heat of the bath had begun to soothe his sore muscles and he’d fortified himself with a glass of burgundy, Charlie unfolded his father’s last letter and read.

My dear sons—

I write this with a heart made heavy by regret for the actions detailed below. Of all the sins in my long life, this is the one I shall most bitterly lament, for the sin itself and for my inability to remedy it through my own efforts and repentance. For leaving this burden on you all, I am most humbly sorry.

The source of my troubles was my own fiery nature. In my youth, long before Durham descended to me, I was a young man of some small fortune and no responsibility, and as such, took myself off to London, endeavoring to spend as much time as possible on all manner of frivolity. In the spring of 1751 or 1752, I met a young woman by the name of Dorothy Cope, called Dolly. She was a beauty, with wit and spirit and a welcome willingness to share my revels.

Had I been older and wiser, or more sober, or simply more hesitant, I might have avoided all this trouble. Instead I soon thought myself passionately in love with Dolly, and devoted myself to winning her. She was trying to make her way on the stage, and in my vanity I thought she would surely see the benefit of my protection. Instead she spurned me as a boy not yet in possession of his fortune. It was entirely true; my father was still living, and made me a handsome but not excessive allowance. I was grand-nephew to the Duke of Durham, but had no expectation of succeeding to the title. Had I but taken her rejection with cold, clear-eyed calm, or even set myself to brooding in magnificent dudgeon, none of the following would have happened.

When she would not become my mistress, I declared I was different from her other suitors; when she asked how, I said I would marry her. This she also refused with a laugh, which only inflamed me. I said it again and again until she finally consented. You, my sons, will note how foolhardy I was in pursuing a woman who did not want me, who had to be bullied into marriage. I was by no means an ineligible husband, being a gentleman of good birth and family connections with a comfortable income, even if it was not entirely my own then. You will also exclaim in shock at the manner of our union: in a tavern near the prison, by a knavish fellow in a parson’s robe, with only a half-drunk dockworker and the parson’s clerk for witness.

I have endeavored to recall every detail about that ceremony. We both swore that we were aged 21, although Dolly had not yet reached that age, and that we both resided in London, although my home was properly in Sussex. The parson was one Rev. William Ogilvie—I recall that distinctly, as some merriment was made over the name sounding like the call of a bird—of Somerset. The dockworker was an illiterate fellow, paid two shillings to make his mark as witness. The clerk’s name I do not recall at all, if I ever knew it. The parson recorded the marriage in his register book and both Dolly and I signed our names. We all celebrated with a drink in the tavern, and Dolly and I took our leave of the Reverend.

My folly was apparent in short order. My eyes had seen only so far as making Dolly my own; I had never imagined a life with her. We were both possessed of the same hot temper, and within weeks we were quarreling over the slightest thing. When she declared her intention of returning to her theater company and traveling the country with them, I insisted she would not. A terrible argument followed, in the course of which she said it would be better if we had not married, and in a fit of fury, I burned our marriage certificate, such as it was. Upon that, she proclaimed herself well-satisfied that we were no longer husband and wife, and I agreed, telling her to get out of my lodging. She packed her things and left, after heaping more scorn and abuse on my head, and I, to my shame, reviled her in turn.

After this I returned to my old life—quite easily, as the few friends of mine who knew I pursued her believed her to be merely my mistress, even during our brief attempt at living together. When she left, they assumed it was nothing more than a woman turning her sights on a wealthier man, and I endured their teasing in silence. Bad enough to be left by a mistress of a fickle or mercenary disposition; worse still to have foolishly married her and been deserted by a wife of low class. Within a few weeks the affair was mostly forgotten. Only the landlady of our lodging had thought us married, and in those days it was not uncommon for a couple to claim a marriage where none in fact existed, or the only “union” between the two was a spoken promise.