Or is he?
Sarani suppressed the clench of warning that gripped her spine. Now was not the time for doubts. She would use him to get settled in England, see Tej and Asha safe, and accept his help in determining the identity of the assassin if he tracked her to London.
Sarani repeated her mantras.
The betrothal is a means to an end.
The Duke of Embry is a means to an end.
* * *
Rhystan watched with a narrowed eye as Gideon expertly navigated the crowded Thames, the putrid stench of its riverbed climbing into his nostrils. He trusted his quartermaster’s skill as they steered toward the fairly newly constructed six-year-old Victoria Dock. Collisions happened frequently given the volume of movement on the river, but pillaging by thieves was more predominant, which was why he and several of his men kept a keen eye out as they sailed past nearby vessels.
His throat tightened as a cold sensation settled over his shoulders, the mantle of duke thumping over his shoulders like a salt-crusted, waterlogged blanket. London—it was the only place in all the world he truly didn’t want to be. On the sea, he was judged on his effort and worth as captain. Here, every step was measured, every action noted, but for the flimsiest of reasons. One wrong word and a goddamned scandal would be certain to ensue. He resented the charade with every bone in his body.
Scowling, Rhystan shook off his annoyance. The only solution was to make this visit as short as possible and be back out to sea where he belonged. He thought of his mother and sister, and guilt speared him. They’d done fine without him all these years. No sense changing something that wasn’t broken.
“See that the cargo is unloaded,” he shouted to Gideon once the Belonging was docked beside a massive steamship on the wharf.
The sale of the tea, spices, lace, and silks they carried would fetch a pretty penny. Fair trade was an important part of his shipping business, and though most of it was aboveboard with the Crown, Rhystan didn’t wear his trousers down around his ankles either. The taxes levied on merchant goods was astronomical.
“See you at the tavern?” his quartermaster asked.
Rhystan scrubbed at the several weeks’ growth of beard he’d acquired, knowing that he would have to break from their usual tradition. “Not today. I have to find my valet to make myself presentable and be off to Huntley House to make sure my mother isn’t on her last breaths as implied by her letter.”
“Is she?”
“You’ve met the lady,” Rhystan said. “What do you think?”
Gideon’s succinct opinion of the duchess, who had glared at him at the funeral as though she were facing him down at dawn, had hit the nail on the head—she was clever and manipulative to a fault, though her loyalty to her family was unquestionable.
“I think that she’s as fine as a farthing fiddle,” he said. “But I’m wagering she wants you to marry, settle down, and be duke.”
Rhystan’s mood darkened. “Precisely.”
“I’ll drink a pint to your sanity, then.”
“It will take more than a pint.” Rhystan sighed. “Put a round on the lads from me.”
With that, he donned his coat. He’d sent word of his impending arrival to his own private residence a carriage ride away in Mayfair, but if anything, they’d put into London early. His coachman might not yet be there.
And then there was the matter of his…fiancée.
As if his thoughts had conjured her, Sarani—blast, he had to stop thinking of her by that name now that they were in town—Lady Sara Lockhart strolled from belowdecks, her two servants in tow. Rhystan blinked. Unlike him with his unkempt appearance, she was the picture of perfect aristocratic elegance, dressed in a modest but stylish mauve gown trimmed in lace, with her rich, dark hair coiled into a low bun and loose ringlets framing her exquisite face. A fetching, feathered bonnet completed the picture.
Lord but she stole his breath.
Rhystan sucked in a sudden gulp of air. He was not the only one so affected. Several of his crew gaped openly, and even stoic Gideon wore a slightly bemused expression. Rhystan didn’t know which version of Sarani he preferred more—but whether she wore boy’s clothing or a fashionable dress, she captivated.
“Your Grace,” she said, approaching him and dipping into an effortless curtsy.
Inclining his head, he cleared his tight throat. “My lady, you look well.”
“I’ve a part to play, don’t I,” she said, the words soft and only for his ears. “And if London is anything like my court in Joor, we can be sure that curious eyes and inquisitive minds are already reporting on the prodigal Duke of Embry’s arrival, as well as the unexpected female passenger on his ship. Believe me, gossip will fly faster than a winter squall.”
He almost smiled at the choice of words. She was right, of course.
In retrospect, Rhystan would not put it past his mother to have made some grand announcement in the newssheets about her son’s anticipated return. Though she would not have known about Sarani or the fact that he would be arriving with a fiancée. The gratifying thought almost made him smile. A gleeful part of him could not wait to see his mother’s face.
Speaking of, he’d better make haste before she found her way to him before he was properly groomed and attired…before the Duke of Embry’s own costume was securely in place. His gaze scanned the clogged docks packed with dockworkers, wagons, coaches, and then traveled in reverse to stop on a handsome coach emblazoned with his ducal crest that was waiting a short distance away. He shouldn’t have been surprised. Even with an early arrival, his very efficient servants would have had someone watching for his appearance.
With a deep breath, he offered his arm to his future bride. “Shall we, then?”
“As you wish, Your Grace,” she replied, slipping a gloved hand onto his forearm.
Though he could sense her trepidation, there was no hint of it on her face. Her expression was serene, her chin held high. She carried herself with the easy elegance of a born aristocrat. Which she was. Hell, she was of royal blood, even though he knew some of the British nobility might not view it that way. Especially his mother.
Once more, he was struck by the similarities between the lives they led—both straddling two worlds in which neither of them wholly belonged. Both running from something. And they were about to pull off the coup of the season.
He was so engrossed in his own thoughts that he didn’t realize she was speaking as they approached the waiting ducal carriage, where his coachman and tiger stood, dressed smartly in their crimson and silver livery.
“Thank you for doing this, Your Grace,” she said quietly. “I shall endeavor to hold up my end of our bargain.”
“As will I.”
And he meant it. He would protect her if someone from Joor had followed her, though once they’d left St. Helena, neither he nor Gideon had seen any more of the ship that had been on their tail. There was the chance that it could have been pure coincidence. Either way, he would see Sarani safe and settled once they parted ways.
He had considered the fact that she could make the perfect wife for him. They could live separate lives—he on the sea, and she wherever she wanted. However, that solution would only be temporary, because eventually, there would be the matter of children.
His, to be specific. Despite his views on his father and the dukedom, he had a responsibility to continue the ducal line. And as much as he’d been at loggerheads with the former duke, Rhystan was deeply aware of his duty. He would need an heir.
And even though the idea of a tigress-hearted daughter with jet-black hair and fierce hazel eyes made his pulse leap, it was out of the question. Though a fake engagement and even a fake marriage were easy prospects, there was no way he would have a child with a woman he could never trust.
And Sarani Rao had broken his heart once.
He would never open
himself to the possibility again.
Thirteen
It was astounding what a full bath, a shave and trim by a devoted valet, and a wardrobe full of expensive, fashionable clothing could do. Despite the prevailing preference for facial whiskers—and the ton’s laughable notion of masculinity and vigor—Rhystan chose to be clean-shaven, though he did keep his hair on the longer side. The only way the thick curls could be tamed out of sea-blown wildness was with some length to them.
Within the hour, the Duke of Embry, brushed, groomed, and buttoned to within an inch of his life, was officially in residence at his house in Mayfair, and judging by the stacks of invitations he’d seen on the mantelpiece in the foyer, just about everyone knew it, too.
Ignoring his valet’s long-suffering look, he tugged at the narrow band of his necktie knotted and held in place with a diamond stickpin. “Must it be so tight, Harlowe?”
Giving one last look in the mirror and barely recognizing himself, he peered at his brother’s old valet. Harlowe had come into his employ after Roland’s death. Rhystan hadn’t had the heart to dismiss the man after he’d been in service for so many decades to the Huntley family. He’d known the man as a boy, and his dedication to the family had never wavered. He’d been tasked with nothing but waiting for the new duke to return to London.
“It must, Your Grace.” Harlowe squinted. “Unless you prefer a bow.”
Rhystan scowled. “The stickpin will do.”
The valet bowed. “Might I say how good it is to see you again and to have you home at last. The years at sea have been kind. You…” His voice broke as he fought to compose himself, the breach in decorum quite abnormal for a valet of Harlowe’s competence. “You look so much like him.”
It took Rhystan a moment to realize that the valet meant his brother, though he might well have meant the former duke, since both brothers favored their father in looks. He and Roland had resembled each other with their tawny hair and blue eyes, while Richard and Ravenna had taken the auburn hair and fair coloring of their mother.
With a trimmed beard and short-clipped hair, he would have been his father’s mirror image. Hence the shave and the overlong mane. He’d much rather look like a dockworker with his sun-streaked hair than see the face of his dead father in the mirror. Not that he didn’t hear the man’s voice in his head, condemning his son’s chosen lifestyle on a daily basis. It was a simple enough act of defiance, he supposed, now that he was the Duke of Embry. The old tyrant had finally gotten his way—Rhystan was well and truly in the ducal fold.
“Where is Lady Sara?” he asked Harlowe.
“She is in the gold room in the north wing, Your Grace.”
Rhystan shot the valet a blank look. Was he supposed to know where or what that was? He assumed a bedchamber, but it’d been years since he’d spent any length of time at this residence. He’d bought the house years ago, once he’d had his first financial windfall in shipping, with the idea that he’d never have to set foot in Huntley House—his family’s London home—or be forced to deal with the duke’s everlasting displeasure.
Even now, he could feel the man’s disappointment from the grave. Roland had been the heir, Richard, the spare, and Rhystan, ever the duke’s despair. The rebellious son who would never fit the mold of what his father wanted, never abide by the rules of an aristocracy he deemed backward and insular.
“The lady’s companion is in the adjacent blue room, Your Grace,” Harlowe went on, brushing an invisible speck of lint from the sleeve of Rhystan’s morning coat.
“Very good.”
For the sake of propriety—inasmuch as they could stretch the truth—Sarani’s lady’s maid would also serve as her companion. Despite their engagement, fake or otherwise, a woman could not remain in her fiancé’s residence overnight without a proper chaperone, and there was no way Rhystan was abandoning Sarani to the duchess at Huntley House. His mother, even on her rumored deathbed, would be ruthless.
He strode downstairs to his study and stared at the mountain of correspondence on his desk. Usually, he would receive a bundle of anything urgent at his château in France, but he hadn’t returned to the Continent in months, having chosen to stay in the Americas before the most recent and unexpected voyage back to India.
Roland’s man of business and longtime solicitor, Mr. Longacre, had done an excellent job of managing the various tenant estates. His reports were meticulous and detailed, and Rhystan had never had any reason to doubt the man’s abilities.
“Where is Longacre?” he asked over his shoulder, knowing his ever-efficient butler was hovering in the foyer. “I sent word to his offices that I wished to see him.”
Morton cleared his throat from the doorway. “He has just arrived, Your Grace.”
A tall, twitchy, bespectacled man entered the room, carrying a pile of ledger books in his arms. After dumping the books on the edge of the desk, he attempted a clumsy bow. “Your Grace, welcome home. I have sent you letter after letter with no response. The estates are in disrepair, and I’m at my wit’s end with the creditors.”
Rhystan frowned at the outburst, gesturing for the harried man to sit. Disrepair? Creditors? “Since when?”
“The Dowager Duchess of Embry assured me that you were aware of the situation.” He shuffled some papers in the pile and shoved one of the ledgers toward Rhystan, cracking it open to the last page. Rhystan was good with numbers, but even he had a hard time calculating the staggering losses accounted in one of the columns. He thumbed through the book, eyes scanning pages upon pages of meticulously itemized costs and sums in the negative.
His frown deepened as he reached for another ledger and flicked through the accounting. “How did this happen?”
“Lord Roland was in debt up to his ears, Your Grace. He and Lord Richard had several bad railroad investments go wrong when the railway company up and disappeared with their money. It was a secret that only came out after his death when his many creditors came calling. The dowager duchess ordered me to leverage the earnings of the ducal holdings and to increase tenant taxes. Many of the farmers have left, and the country staff has been culled significantly.” His face flamed with obvious embarrassment. “I, too, am owed several months of wages.”
Rhystan blinked in dumbfounded surprise—he’d known none of this. The duchess could have reached him at any time, but for whatever reason, she’d chosen to keep the state of their finances from him. Roland, the favored son, had thoroughly decimated the family coffers.
Why hadn’t he asked for help?
Pride, Rhystan supposed. Pride and stubbornness. No one wanted to ask the purported prodigal son of the family for a farthing, even if said son had enough fortune to share. The former duke, if he’d been aware of the misfortune, would have forbidden it for sure. His mother hadn’t let anything slip of the decline, and if it wasn’t for Longacre, Rhystan would never have been the wiser.
Was this behind her ploy of illness?
He released a breath. “Don’t worry, Mr. Longacre. I have more than enough funds to cover the debts and pay any outstanding wages.” With another longer glance to the totals in the columns, he wrote out a check to his bank, Barclay & Co., in London for a significant amount of funds to be paid to the bearer. “There, that should cover it. If you need more, do not hesitate to return.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.”
“And, Mr. Longacre,” he said as the man gathered his belongings. “Thank you for your discretion and long-standing constancy. In the future, please direct any and all financial or fiduciary concerns to me.”
“Of course, Your Grace.” Coloring at the unexpected praise, the solicitor paused at the door. “Do you intend to stay in London, then?”
Rhystan pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers and nodded. “For now.”
At least until the state of the dukedom was sorted out.
And God knew how long that wa
s going to take.
* * *
Sarani sighed with sublime delight as Asha brushed and dried her hair in front of the fire. She had just taken the longest, most decadent bath known to humankind. The bedroom she’d been shown to was tastefully opulent, but the sumptuous bathing room was what had knocked the wind from her lungs—all rich wooden paneling and hand-painted porcelain tiles, and almost as large as the connecting bedchamber.
It had lacked for nothing, including modern plumbing for not just cold but hot running water. The massive claw-foot tub had been designed with an ingenious gas heating device.
Sarani hadn’t been able to get out of her fine clothing fast enough, nearly ripping buttons in her haste. She’d languished in that gorgeous tub in the piping hot water until her skin had begun to protest and had only gotten out when Asha had murmured that His Grace would be expecting her shortly.
She hadn’t seen Rhystan since their arrival, and he had been mostly silent in the coach, a brooding expression on his handsome face. She suspected that being in England did not sit well with him, much as it didn’t for her, though for other reasons he had yet to share.
If he ever would.
In hindsight, she realized just how little she knew of the duke’s origins, other than that he was a well-born gentleman who’d been an officer in the Royal Navy once upon a time and was now a rich, powerful duke who captained a ship. Who clearly did not want to be in London.
His stilted behavior in the lavish coach on the way to his residence had indicated as much. Sarani had known Rhystan had deep pockets, given he owned his own ship, but the sight of the ducal crest emblazoned on the lacquered coach had been her first inkling that he didn’t exactly lack for fortune. Rather, if the luxurious coach and its liveried servants had been any signal, he was rather well-off.
“This is fancy,” she’d told him once they’d left the wharf to settle into the plush confines of the fine carriage.
A hint of color had brushed his cheekbones. “It was my father’s.”
“It’s very nice.” That had been an understatement. “Where are we going?”
The Princess Stakes Page 14
