The Way to a Duke's Heart: The Truth About the Duke (26 page)

I did see Dolly once more. It was months after we parted, and our tempers had cooled by then. She had done well with her theater company and embraced the life; I heard from others that she had a wealthy protector, and indeed she was in fine trim when I encountered her by chance. Feeling some residual duty to her, I inquired if she were well and if she needed anything from me (by which I meant money); she smiled and said no, she had everything she wanted at the moment. We mutually agreed again that we had no connection, and that was for the best, and then we parted. I never saw or spoke or wrote to her ever again.

For almost twenty years I did as I pleased, thinking little about her. It was a youthful mistake, best forgotten. I was never tempted to throw myself so rashly after a woman again, and never had the urge to marry. Not until Durham descended to me, quite suddenly and unexpectedly, did I dredge up more than a passing thought of Dolly. But a duke must marry; he must have heirs; and they must be legitimate. I confess I half expected Dolly to come forth upon my inheritance. To reject a gentleman of modest fortune was one thing, but to lay claim to the title Duchess of Durham might tempt even the most alienated woman. I waited, but she did not appear. As I turned my thoughts to marriage—I was then forty years old, and had little time to waste—I made efforts to locate her, which all failed. After twenty years of absence and two attempts to find her in order to secure a full and legal divorce, I persuaded myself she must have died, or left England, or fallen into such a life that I had nothing to fear from her. In time I took a wife—your beloved mother—and she filled her role to perfection, not the least in giving me you three, my dear sons. Decades marched on, and Dolly faded almost entirely from my memory.

The first wretched letter arrived last summer, after I had fallen ill. It was short and shocking: someone claimed to know about Dolly. At once I sent out investigators to search for her again, to no more success than before. Another letter arrived, threatening denunciation, and then another demanding a large sum of money. Each letter taunted me for my unpardonable complacency over the years. I alternated between fury and despair; Edward, no doubt, remarked my agitation, but I kept the cause from him, and Charles and Gerard were mercifully away from home. Do not blame Mr. Pierce for not revealing it. I forbade him to tell you anything, even as I pressed him ever harder to search. It was all for naught. As I write this, I have found neither Dolly nor the man who claimed to know of her, and now it is too late for me to undo what I have done.

Forgive me, my dearest lads. I have been betrayed by a young man’s foolishness and an old man’s pride. A better man would have confessed his dark secret at once, so that you might at least have had the chance to question me about it. I have waited too long; my time grows too short. The shame of leaving Durham to you under such a cloud overwhelms me. I have remade my will to secure as many benefits as I may to each of you, but am consumed by anguish for what you could lose if this vile blackmailer exposes me. I leave you everything I have that might possibly expose this villainy, and exhort you to finish what I could not. Durham was a prize I never expected to hold, but it has been my purpose in life these forty years. Fight for it; it is your birthright now, and each of you are more worthy of it than I ever was.

I beg your forgiveness, though I do not deserve it, and remain ever your devoted father.

Francis de Lacey

Charlie laid the letter aside. Yes, he could forgive his father, finally, if only because he had been every bit as big a fool. Of all the misery that had sprung from his father’s ill-fated love affair, Durham’s had been greatest. He, Gerard, and Edward, though—once the initial blow faded—had come out better for it all. If not for the scandal, Edward would have married his first fiancée, and never met the fiery Francesca who bewitched him and captured his heart. Gerard would still be fighting the French, not setting up house for his wealthy bride, Kate, whom he’d married as a hedge against disinheritance, but with whom he’d fallen madly in love since. And he . . .

He would never have been forced out into the desolate hills of Somerset, where a blunt-spoken, green-eyed temptress would call him indolent, talk to him of canals, and manage to invade his heart so thoroughly he couldn’t fathom living without her.

And for the first time since he left Uppercombe, Charlie smiled.

Chapter 23

T
he next day did not begin well. Despite the need for haste, Edward made no complaint when Charlie said he must pay a call in Frome before leaving for London. He was grateful to his brother, but it turned out to be a pointless concession. Tessa and Mrs. Bates had left by the time he arrived at The Golden Hind, and there was only the briefest message left for him.

We are departing in
such
a rush, my lord,
wrote Eugenie Bates.
Tessa explained it all to me, and I perfectly understand, but I do hope we will have the pleasure of seeing you in London! I am sure I’m not the only person who would be very glad to receive you.

“Troubles?” inquired Edward mildly, watching him read.

“I believe I’ve been rebuffed.” Charlie stuffed the letter into his coat pocket and tried not to show how bereft he felt. He had hoped to see Tessa before the long journey to London, and she had promised to wait for him. He knew that once he left Frome, there were be little time for anything other than settling the damned Durham Dilemma, and he’d so wanted one last blissful reprieve with her, even for a quarter hour. But now she was gone, with only a note from her companion, nothing at all of farewell from Tessa herself. What had happened? What, exactly, had Tessa explained to Mrs. Bates? Why hadn’t she waited? “They’ve already left for London.”

Edward raised one eyebrow. “Ah.”

Charlie glared at him. “What does that mean?”

His brother rose from his seat in the inn’s parlor and gestured at the servant to bring his hat. “It means I recommend we start for London at once, before it is too late.”

“Too late for what?”

Edward put on his hat and took his walking stick, his expression serene but his eyes twinkling with glee. “For you to win her back, of course.”

Charlie muttered a rude reply and strode out to the waiting carriage, very tempted to leave his brother behind.

During the long drive, he had to tell Edward about Worley and Maria. It was a painful confession, but Charlie spared himself nothing. In the end, Edward was more understanding than anticipated. “I am hardly in a position to cast stones,” was his response. “I came far closer than you did to marrying the wrong woman—with Father’s approval, no less. Ironic, isn’t it, how the scandal has been almost a blessing in some ways?”

“I thank God for it.” Charlie nodded at his brother’s raised eyebrows. “We all should, I suppose. Without it, we three would have gone on just as we were, never shaken from our paths. I cannot speak for you or Gerard, but I shudder to think what I would have missed, if that had happened.”

“I had arrived at much the same conclusion,” Edward murmured after a few minutes. “Although it is easier to admit it now that you’ve solved the dilemma entirely—as I knew you would.” Charlie glanced at him in surprise. Edward nodded. “You’re a great deal like him, Charlie. Nothing sets either of you off like a challenge, the harsher the better. Father would be devilishly pleased that you were the one who saved Durham.”

“Astounded, you mean.”

“No, pleased.” Edward grinned. “And only mildly astounded.”

“There you go,” said Charlie at once. “I wasn’t sure we were speaking of the same man.”

Once they reached London, as expected, it was a frenzy. Every newspaper and gossip sheet was full of the Durham Dilemma, with excited descriptions of the dueling heirs, as one rag labeled Charlie and his cousin Augustus, who had also petitioned the Crown for the dukedom. The lawyers were practically living in Durham House, and they fell on Reverend Ogilvie’s register and Mr. Thomas’s letter like a horde of locusts. Every day, the barrister, Sir Richard Chalmers, came to prepare the case, with the supervision and insight of the attorney, Sir James Wittiers, and Charlie spent hours closeted with them, reviewing every word of his petition to the Crown. It was already facing intense scrutiny, and a single mistake in the lineage exposition now could undo all the good of Mr. Thomas’s letter. In addition, a steady stream of callers passed through the drawing room—from genuine friends come to offer support, to rabid curiosity seekers come in search of spectacle—and Charlie had to receive them all with the austere composure of a duke. At this stage, he knew that nothing must be left to chance, and presenting the image of a duke, calm and utterly assured of his right to the title, would reinforce the hard evidence he had for the committee.

But worst of all, he couldn’t visit Tessa. To call on her now would mean turning the blazing glare of public attention on her, and he couldn’t do that. He struggled to put his thoughts into a letter, but found no way to write what his heart felt. He wondered how she was, if she had grown any fonder of London. He wondered if she’d ever found a good source of coffee, and if she liked it better than what he made for her. He wondered if she really had left him, preferring that their affair remain a secret, fleeting thing. He didn’t think about that possibility for long, though; as more and more of his honors and responsibilities settled upon him, the more certain he became that he wanted Tessa at his side to share them. Every time the lawyers raised an argument, he wished he could puzzle it out with her. Every night when he watched Edward head to his own suite, arm in arm with his own wife, Charlie wished he had Tessa’s hand in his. He missed her more than he’d ever thought possible.

Finally, in desperation, he turned to his Aunt Margaret, Lady Dowling, running down the stairs to stop her when he learned she had just called on Francesca, Edward’s wife. Aunt Margaret was his father’s younger sister, but nothing like Durham. From the moment she learned of his break with Durham eleven years ago, Margaret had opened her home and her arms to him. Of all his family, she alone seemed to understand him, and Charlie hoped this would be no exception.

“I need a favor,” he said bluntly, deeply relieved to catch her without her friend Lady Eccleston. Lady Eccleston was a charming woman, and very amusing when one wanted to trade gossip, but Charlie thought he’d rather publish his intentions in the gossip papers than tell her. Lady Eccleston never could keep a secret.

“Anything,” his aunt said at once. “Shall I send for Dowling?”

“No, I ask it of you.” He hesitated. “There is a lady . . . Well, I haven’t had a moment to spare since arriving in London, but I want to know . . . Well, I want to know if she’s well,” he finished lamely. “Would you call on her and send my compliments?”

“I am to be an emissary,” she said in some surprise. “Who, pray, is this lady?”

“She’s not like London ladies,” he said, fixing a stern look on his aunt. “And I prefer her that way. If you alarm her on any count, I shall never forgive you.”

“Go on.” Margaret looked highly intrigued now.

“The moment I can call on her, I will,” he went on. “If I went now, it would draw an unseemly amount of attention to her, and I don’t want to expose her to that.”

“Consolation to every woman’s heart,” his aunt murmured.

He flexed his hands, which he’d curled into fists. “So you think I ought to go, no matter what? Hang it all, I should. I’ll tell Chalmers and Wittiers to bugger themselves for an hour—”

Margaret laughed. “No! Of course I will go to her. But you must tell me who she is.”

Charlie gave a shame-faced grin. “Oh, right. Tessa Neville. The woman I hope to marry.”

T
he commotion began not long after Tessa returned from her morning walk. Louise wasn’t keeping a carriage or horses in town, so the main exercise available was walking. After a couple of days, Tessa began to miss the wild hills around Frome more than she ever would have expected. There was no peace in London; everywhere she walked, at every hour, there were hundreds of people about. She felt oppressed by the tall, close houses with the long windows that seemed to peer down upon her as she paced the pavements around Pall Mall. The parks were better, but then Louise fretted that she was so far from home, and might get lost or set upon by footpads, or even worse, miss a caller at home. A compromise was finally brokered by Eugenie, where Tessa would take two turns around St. James’s Park with Mary in tow and then content herself at home for the rest of the day.

The truth was, Tessa didn’t care when or where she walked; she only wanted to leave London. She knew Charlie had arrived—all the newspapers were full of it, reporting in breathless, overwrought detail about his demeanor and activities and the upcoming hearing about his title—but he hadn’t come to see her. Not even a note had arrived in St. James’s Square. She told herself he was much too busy, as she’d known he would be, but that didn’t offer any comfort at all. Even Eugenie had quit mentioning his name, and if Eugenie gave up hope, Tessa knew it might as well have become an impossibility.

Tessa wasn’t good at wrestling with her emotions. Normally she considered her options, practically and rationally, and then acted. Being caught in this half-life, desperately longing to see him yet afraid of what he might say if they met, wishing she could flee to Rushwood as much as she wanted to stay in London where there was still a chance he might visit, was shredding her nerves and paralyzing her from any action at all, which was utterly foreign and demoralizing. In addition, there were no accounts for her to mind in London, no problems to solve, no organization to oversee, nothing at all to distract her from her misery. Louise wanted her to attend soirees and pay calls on people she didn’t know and sit in the parlor, sedately embroidering. Tessa began to think she really would go mad, and then that it wouldn’t be so bad, as a bout of madness would persuade Louise that she must go home with William.

She was staring blindly at the pages of one of Eugenie’s novels when the uproar broke out below. Uproars were not uncommon in Louise’s house—William had removed himself to a hotel after a violent tempest over some dresses made up too snugly to fit—and Tessa had long since decided her best course was to avoid them entirely. But that was scotched when Eugenie knocked on her door and barged in, bright pink and out of breath.

“Oh my dear,” she gasped, “oh,
my dear!
”

“What is it?” Tessa asked in genuine concern. She put aside her book and got up to urge Eugenie into a chair. “Has something happened?”

Eugenie nodded, fanning herself with her handkerchief. “Oh, yes—or is about to—oh, I don’t know! But I wanted to warn you—”

“Of what?” Tessa could barely speak; her heart leaped into her throat. Had Charlie come? She didn’t even dare ask the question.

“Not Lord Gresham,” said Eugenie, sending her heart back down with a thud. “But almost as incredible—oh, dear, you must prepare yourself—”

“For what?” Tessa began to panic. She ran to the window and craned her neck to peer out. A town coach stood in the street below, but she couldn’t see any identifying marks. “What, Eugenie?” she demanded, whirling back around.

Before Eugenie could find breath to reply, there was another furious knock on the door and Louise burst in. “Oh my stars!” her sister cried in a whisper. “The Countess of Dowling is below, asking to see you!”

Lady Dowling was Charlie’s aunt. A slow burning knot of hope ignited in Tessa’s chest. “Now?” she asked stupidly.

Louise rounded on her, white-faced and determined. “Yes, now! Fix your hair!” She seized the bell and nearly tore it off the wall. “Tell Mary to find a decent dress. Pinch your cheeks. Eugenie, you’re also wanted.” The older lady’s mouth dropped open, and the pink drained from her face. “I’ve never met a more elegant lady—her dress! Heavens above, if only she had called a week ago, when I might have changed my order for that sapphire riding habit to have such a collar! And her manner—so elegant! I daresay that drawing room has never held such a noble personage in all its history!” Louise advanced on Tessa, her rapture turning into fierce admonition. “Tessa, if you bear me any sisterly love at all, be gracious and polite. Lady Dowling is bosom bows with Lady Eccleston, who is nearly the hub of all gossip in London. They move in the highest circles. I have no idea why she’s come to see you, of all people, but please, please,
please
impress her!”

“I know who she is, Louise.” Tessa ignored the rest of her sister’s plea. “She is Lord Gresham’s aunt.”

Louise froze, her eyes perfectly round. “His aunt,” she whispered numbly. “His aunt.”

“Am I really wanted?” asked Eugenie in a small, stunned voice.

“Yes,” said Louise in the same blank tone.

Tessa inhaled deeply. She had no idea why Charlie’s aunt might have come to see her, but she wasn’t going into the parlor alone. “Yes, Eugenie, you must come with me. We mustn’t keep the countess waiting.”

They went downstairs together, Eugenie wringing her hands, Tessa pale and rigid with nerves. At the drawing room door, she smoothed her hands down her skirt, took a deep breath, and went in. “Good day, Lady Dowling.”

A handsome older woman turned at her voice and smiled. Her silver hair was arranged simply but elegantly, and her dress was the same, a dark blue pelisse that Tessa would have liked to own herself. Her blue eyes twinkled kindly. “Mrs. Neville, Mrs. Bates. Do forgive me for imposing on you.”

“Not at all.” Tessa came forward and dipped her curtsy. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“Oh my, yes, indeed, my lady,” added Eugenie, hovering close to Tessa’s side. “A
pleasure
.”

“Not half so great a pleasure as I feel, to meet you,” replied the lady. Her sharp gaze touched Tessa’s face a moment before moving to Eugenie. “I’ve been told we have much in common, Mrs. Bates. My nephew has told me about his meeting with you. I do hope he wasn’t impertinent.”

“Oh, no, my lady, he was decorum and charm itself!” cried Eugenie, blushing pink again. “The model of a gentleman!”

Lady Dowling laughed. “I am relieved to hear it! He’s as dear to me as my own son is. Indeed, I would never presume to call upon you if he had not assured me you wouldn’t think it too much amiss.”

“Not at all,” said Tessa, wishing she could simply ask why Lady Dowling had come. “I hope—I hope he is well,” she couldn’t resist saying.