A Duke Too Far

by Jane Ashford

  Also by Jane Ashford

  The Duke’s Sons

  Heir to the Duke

  What the Duke Doesn’t Know

  Lord Sebastian’s Secret

  Nothing Like a Duke

  The Duke Knows Best

  The Way to a Lord’s Heart

  Brave New Earl

  A Lord Apart

  How to Cross a Marquess

  Once Again a Bride

  Man of Honour

  The Three Graces

  The Marriage Wager

  The Bride Insists

  The Bargain

  The Marchington Scandal

  The Headstrong Ward

  Married to a Perfect Stranger

  Charmed and Dangerous

  A Radical Arrangement

  First Season/ Bride to Be

  Rivals of Fortune/ The Impetuous Heiress

  Last Gentleman Standing

  Earl to the Rescue

  The Reluctant Rake

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  Copyright © 2020 by Jane LeCompte

  Cover and internal design © 2020 by Sourcebooks

  Cover art by Alan Ayers

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  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

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  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Excerpt from An Inconvenient Duke

  One

  Two

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  Prologue

  He should never have eaten that eel pie, thought Peter Rathbone, Duke of Compton, as he strode along the London street toward St. James’s Square. It had tasted all right, but three hours later, his innards were uneasy. He put a hand to his midriff as he walked. Unfortunate that this should happen just now, when he was on his way to an important appointment.

  Well, he would endure. He sprang from a long line of stalwart folk. They’d come over with the Conqueror, gone on Crusades, swung broadswords in various battles, borne generations of children, and held their lands through civil war and plague. He might be the last Rathbone, but he wasn’t going to cast up his accounts over a damned fish pie. He hoped.

  He’d been walking for hours on this filthy March day, despite the tendrils of icy fog that pervaded London, ever since his uncomfortable meeting with his banker. His family had been banking with Coutts since they began keeping their money in banks rather than a simple strongbox in the muniments room. The representative there had been respectful, but he’d made it clear that there was no more to be wrung from the overdraft. Regretfully, he could not help Peter with the improvements he wished to make on his acres.

  The long trip to plead his case in person had come to nothing. So Peter had walked, grappling with various knotty problems, and only noticed he was famished when he passed a pie shop. Cheap and filling fuel, he’d thought. Both of which had proved true. And possibly lethal as well, he concluded with a humorless laugh that ended in a resounding belch.

  Perhaps he should have sent his regrets to the Earl of Macklin about this mysterious dinner. Food was the last thing he wanted just now. But Peter didn’t receive invitations from a leader of society every day. Or any day, really, since he lived in Shropshire. A man on the edge of ruin was not sought after by the haut ton, even if he was a peer of the realm. He had seen the earl, who had happened to be present when Peter called on relatives of his mother—a visit that had not gone well. But he couldn’t imagine why the older man had asked him to dine. Of course it wasn’t a case of help for his situation. Peter knew that very well. But he couldn’t afford to ignore such a connection. So he was going, even if he felt sick as a dog.

  Stepping into the brightness of White’s made him stop and blink, dazzled by the ranks of candles. Rich wooden paneling, a hum of conversation, clinking glasses, and warmth replaced the icy fog. He’d never been here before. His grandfather had been a member. Both of them, actually, if he remembered correctly. His father, who’d disliked London, had never bothered to join any club.

  Savory smells rode the air. Usually welcome, tonight they made him feel even more queasy. He would rise above his stomach, Peter told himself. Metaphorically, if not literally.

  A servitor took his much-worn greatcoat, hat, and gloves, leaving Peter in his one decently fashionable coat, black, purchased for his father’s funeral. Worn with gray pantaloons, this was the only ensemble he had that was worthy of White’s. And his shirt only just made the grade. The place teemed with dandies and Corinthians and others who paid vast sums to their tailors. And then there was Peter, whose attire barely sustained the character of a gentleman. Following a waiter into the dining room, he swallowed a hint of bile. “Where is Lord Macklin?” he asked the man.

  “There,” said the waiter, indicating a small party in a private corner.

  Peter easily identified Arthur Shelton, Earl of Macklin, from his one previous sight of him. Not only was he the oldest of the trio ahead, but he exuded an easy authority. Old enough to be Peter’s father, his hair showed no gray. He looked strong and assured and…trustworthy somehow. He was talking to two younger men, closer to Peter’s age. The shorter one had a snub-nosed face, dun-brown hair, and dark eyes. The other was ruddy, with reddish hair and a choleric manner. Macklin looked over the latter’s shoulder, spotted Peter, and nodded.

  Peter joined them. Lord Macklin acknowledged him with a smile. His face showed few lines, and those seemed scored by good humor. He gestured toward the snub-nosed man. “Daniel Frith, Viscount Whitfield.” He named the other as Roger Berwick, Marquess of Chatton. “And Peter Rathbone, Duke of Compton,” he told them.

  Peter greeted the others. He didn’t know any of these gentlemen, and he still had no idea why he’d been asked to dine. Whitfield and Chatton looked a bit older than his twenty-four years. Their curious gazes told him nothing.

  His innards heaved. He tapped his fingers uneasily on his flanks and looked away. The room was filled with diners. The rich smells of food swirled around him. His gaze passed over a mirror hanging on the wall, and returned. He looked as uneasy as his midsection felt, Peter thought. No Adonis at the best of times, his long, somewhat bony face showed strain. He should have had a haircut; his black hair was too long. And his hazel eyes, which often spar
kled with humor when he examined his own reflection, were full of anxiety. So would his companions’ be, Peter thought, if they were worried about shooting the cat in White’s, at the Earl of Macklin’s table. Should he mention the eel pie? No. Not while they were anticipating their dinner.

  Peter turned back. The redheaded fellow, Chatton, who looked almost as dyspeptic as Peter felt, gave him a positively vulpine smile. Peter suppressed a start.

  “And here is the last of us,” said Macklin. “Gentlemen, this is my nephew Benjamin Romilly, Earl of Furness.”

  The new arrival resembled his uncle, similar coloring and frame and features in a younger generation. He looked startled and not at all pleased to see the party, however. As far as Peter could tell, none of them were well acquainted and none had expected to see the others. This was distinctly odd. It would have been quite interesting if he’d felt better.

  “And now that the proprieties are satisfied, I hope we can be much less formal,” their host added after providing the others’ names to his nephew.

  They stood gazing at one another. It was the sort of august company a fellow would like to impress, Peter thought. As he was unlikely to do even at the top of his form, not to mention in his current condition. His stomach twisted. He would not moan!

  “Sit down,” said their host, gesturing at the waiting table. As they did, he signaled for wine to be poured. “They have a fine roast beef this evening. As when do they not at White’s? We’ll begin with soup, though, on a raw night like this.” The waiter returned his nod and went off to fetch it.

  He didn’t dare swallow a morsel of beef, Peter thought. The mere idea revolted. He might just manage soup. Perhaps wine would help. Could he drown that wretched pie? He drank.

  “Vile weather,” Whitfield said. The others agreed.

  He should say something, Peter thought. Not just sit writhing in his chair. “A fine claret,” he contributed.

  The rest merely nodded as bowls were set before them.

  Peter toyed with his broth as the others spooned it up. Chatton leaned forward as if to speak, and then seemed to forget what he’d meant to say. He downed his wine instead. He was immediately given more. Like him, the other young men were taking full advantage of the claret. Peter tried a bit more as his full bowl was removed.

  A waiter set a steaming plate before him. The beef was thick and juicy, perfectly cooked. The roast potatoes looked crisp and savory, the carrots seared sweet. Peter didn’t dare taste any of it. Horseradish sauce! He clamped his teeth and held quite still.

  The others tucked in. Frith in particular seemed to enjoy his dinner. Peter cut bites and pushed them about, trying to give the impression of eating.

  “No doubt you’re wondering why I’ve invited you—the four of you—this evening,” Macklin said. “When we aren’t well acquainted.”

  Chatton leaned forward again. He looked like a fellow who wanted an explanation.

  “You have something in common,” Macklin went on. “We do.” He looked around the table. “Death.”

  What? Peter wasn’t sure he’d heard that correctly. He wasn’t familiar with the conversational habits of the leaders of the ton, but he was pretty certain they didn’t usually drop the word death at the dinner table. Peter was aware that he had the social graces of…someone with no social graces. But the other young men looked equally surprised.

  Macklin nodded across the table, indicating Furness. “My nephew’s wife died in childbirth several years ago. He mourns her still.”

  The man glared at his uncle, clearly not pleased with having this information shared with strangers.

  The earl turned to the viscount. “Whitfield’s parents were killed in a shipwreck eight months ago on their way back from India,” he continued.

  Whitfield looked around the table. Bewildered but determined not to let on, Peter judged. “Quite so,” said Whitfield. “A dreadful accident. Storm drove them onto a reef. All hands lost.” He shrugged. “What can one do? These things happen.” His expression suggested that he didn’t wish to say any more about this subject.

  “Chatton lost his wife to a virulent fever a year ago,” Lord Macklin said.

  The marquess positively bared his teeth. “I didn’t lose her,” he replied, his face reddening alarmingly. “She was dashed well killed by an incompetent physician and my neighbor who insisted they ride out into a downpour.”

  This Chatton had difficulty with his temper, Peter decided. He’d take care not to cross him. But now he’d best brace himself for the inevitable.

  “Compton’s sister died while she was visiting a friend, just six months ago,” their host finished.

  His preparation did no good. Peter flinched. “She was barely seventeen. My ward as well as my sister.” His innards spasmed, sharper for a rush of sadness and guilt. He rested his head in his hands. He couldn’t help it. Just for a moment. This was turning into one of the most trying evenings of his life. But none of that. He straightened. “I ought to have stayed with her,” he said. “I wouldn’t have allowed her to take that cliff path. I would have…done something.” Which was a wish rather than a reality. Delia had never heeded his advice. Much less his orders. And she’d ignored her host’s clear warnings about the dangers of the path. Still, Peter had been responsible for her, and he’d fallen short.

  “I’ve been widowed for ten years,” said Macklin gently. “I know what it’s like to lose a beloved person quite suddenly. And I know there must be a period of adjustment afterward. People don’t talk about the time it takes, different for everyone I imagine, and how one deals with it.” He looked around the table. “I was aware of Benjamin’s bereavement, naturally, since he is my nephew.”

  Furness visibly gritted his teeth. Peter thought he was going to shove back his chair and stalk out. Whitfield looked ready to do the same. But the earl spoke again before they moved.

  “Then, seemingly at random, I heard of your cases, and it occurred to me that I might be able to help.”

  “What help is there for death?” said Chatton. “And which of us asked for your aid?” he muttered. “I certainly didn’t.”

  Whitfield pushed a little back from the table. “Waste of time to dwell on such stuff. No point, eh?”

  A belch rose in Peter’s throat, sour, unstoppable. There was no choice about releasing it. He tried to make it sound like a mournful sigh. Deuce take it, he was mournful.

  “Grief is insidious, almost palpable, and as variable as humankind,” said Macklin. “No one can understand who hasn’t experienced a sudden loss. A black coat and a few platitudes are nothing.”

  “Are you accusing us of insincerity, sir?” Chatton had clenched his fists on either side of his plate. His face was as red as his hair, and he looked as if he’d be delighted to punch someone. Peter edged away from him.

  “Not at all,” answered the earl. “I’m offering you the fruits of experience and years of contemplation.”

  “Thrusting them on us, whether we will or no. Tantamount to an ambush, this so-called dinner.” Chatton glared at each of his companions in turn.

  “Nothing wrong with the food,” said Whitfield, soothing. “Best claret I’ve had this year.”

  “Well, well,” said Macklin. He didn’t seem bothered by their responses. “Who knows? If I’ve made a mistake, I’ll gladly apologize. Indeed, I beg your pardon for springing my idea on you with no preparation. Will you, nonetheless, allow me to tell the story of my grieving, as I had hoped to do?”

  Peter was fascinated by the offer. If only he felt better, he’d have been happy to listen.

  “And afterward, should you wish to do the same, I’ll gladly hear it,” added the earl. He smiled.

  Macklin had a wisely benevolent smile. He looked like the father any man might wish to have, Peter thought.

  The earl said his piece. And then the others spoke, briefly, with varying
degrees of enthusiasm and candor. When his moment arrived, Peter surprised himself by coming very near tears. He hadn’t talked to anyone about Delia’s sudden death. He’d had no one to confide in. Macklin’s sympathetic manner and the other men’s openness gave him a place to speak his regret. The outpouring nearly overset him. Why must he feel ill on this night, his every move curtailed by physical discomfort? Even so, he appreciated the chance to express his sorrow about his sister.

  When they were done, Peter returned to his inexpensive hotel and gave in to his condition. Through a miserable night, he vowed over and over never to touch another eel pie as long as he lived. But despite these trials, he felt better than he had in months when he started for home a few days later.

  One

  Kneeling on the floor in the doorway of a bedchamber in his decaying pile of a house, Peter whittled at a sliver of wood. The panels of the door had shrunk, and the latch no longer caught properly, which allowed the door to drift open at the slightest breeze. As if a ghostly presence was slipping inside, Peter thought, though they had no known ghosts at Alberdene. Perhaps the place was too dilapidated even for the departed.

  Still, the errant door would be disconcerting for a guest, should he ever have any. He slipped the small slat into a narrow cavity to the left of the latch, wiggling it to fit. This third time, it did, pushing the latch out a bit. He tried it. The door closed properly now, and held. He shook it to make certain, opened it, shut it, opened again. The slat showed no sign of movement. Yes. He’d done it.

  Peter savored this tiny triumph. He liked working with his hands, and in recent months he’d been overcome by an impulse to repair, going so far as to assemble a personal tool kit from various sources about the estate. His crumbling home provided endless opportunities to indulge himself. Besides latches that wouldn’t close, there were doors that stuck, cracked windowpanes, loose floorboards that creaked and tripped up the unwary, stair treads that could not be trusted, and chairs that threatened to collapse when sat upon. And these were just in the modern, habitable wing of Alberdene. The older parts of the place had much bigger problems, too large for him to tackle, though he was learning to lay brick, to the amusement of the local stonemason. Still, it was satisfying to do what he could—to mend a small hurt in the midst of so many defects he could do nothing about.