by Julia Quinn
He was looking at one of the church registers. The dates were wrong, though. Jack’s parents would have married in 1790, and these were all far too recent.
Thomas looked over his shoulder to say something to Jack, but he was standing stiffly by the fire, his shoulders drawn up toward his ears. He looked frozen, and Thomas realized why he had not heard him moving about the room, looking for the register.
Jack had not moved since they had entered.
Thomas wanted to say something. He wanted to stride across the room and shake some bloody sense into him because what the devil was he complaining about? He, not Jack, was the one whose life would be ruined at the end of the day. He was losing his name, his home, his fortune.
His fiancée.
Jack would walk out of this room one of the richest and most powerful men in the world. He, on the other hand, would have nothing. His friends, he supposed, but they were few in number. Acquaintances he had in abundance, but friends—there was Grace, Harry Gladdish…possibly Amelia. He found it difficult to believe that she would wish to see him after all was said and done. She would find it too awkward. And if she ended up marrying Jack…
Then he would find it too awkward.
He closed his eyes, forcing himself to refocus on the matter at hand. He was the one who had told Amelia that she must marry the Duke of Wyndham, whoever that might turn out to be. He couldn’t bloody well complain because she followed his instructions.
Thomas put the parish register back on the shelf and pulled out another, checking the dates that led each entry. This one was a bit older than the first, concluding at the very end of the eighteenth century. He tried another, and then a fourth, and this time, when he looked down at the careful, elegant handwriting, he found the dates he was looking for.
He swallowed and looked at Jack. “This may be it.”
Jack turned. The corners of his mouth were pinched, and his eyes looked haunted.
Thomas looked down at the book and realized that his hands were trembling. He swallowed. He had made it through the day up to this point with surprising purpose. He’d been a perfect stoic, prepared to do what was right for Wyndham.
But now he was scared.
Still, he pulled from his reserves and managed an ironic smile. Because if he could not behave like a man, then what was left of him? At the end of the day, he had his dignity and his soul. That was all.
He looked up at Jack. Into his eyes. “Shall we?”
“You can do it,” Jack said.
“You don’t want to look with me?”
“I trust you.”
Thomas’s lips parted, not quite in surprise—because, really, why wouldn’t Jack trust him? It wasn’t as if he could alter the pages right there in front of him. But still, even if he was terrified by the outcome, wouldn’t he want to see? Wouldn’t he want to read the pages himself? Thomas could not imagine coming all this way and not looking down as each page was turned.
“No,” Thomas said. Why should he have to do this alone? “I won’t do it without you.”
For a moment Jack just stood there unmoving, and then, cursing under his breath, he went over to join him at the desk.
“You’re too bloody noble,” Jack bit off.
“Not for long,” Thomas muttered. He set the book on the desk, opening it to the first page of records. Jack stood beside him, and together they looked down at the tight, sensible penmanship of the Maguiresbridge vicar, circa 1786.
Thomas swallowed nervously. His throat felt tight. But he had to do this. It was his duty. To Wyndham.
Wasn’t that his entire life? Duty to Wyndham?
He almost laughed. If ever anyone had accused him of taking duty too far…
This had to be it.
Looking down, he turned the pages until he found the correct year. “Do you know what month your parents would have married in?” he asked Jack.
“No.”
It was no matter, Thomas decided. It was a small parish. There were not many weddings.
Patrick Colville and Emily Kendrick, 20 March, 1790 William Figley and Margaret Plowright, 22 May, 1790
He moved his fingers along the page, sliding them around the edge. Breath held, he turned the page.
And there they were.
John Augustus Cavendish and Louise Henrietta Galbraith, married 12 June, 1790, witnessed by one Henry Wickham and Philip Galbraith.
Thomas closed his eyes.
So this was it. It was gone. Everything that had defined him, everything he possessed…
Gone. All of it.
And what was left?
He opened his eyes, looking down at his hands. His body. His skin and his blood and his muscle and bone.
Was it enough?
Even Amelia was lost to him. She’d marry Jack or some other, similarly titled fellow, and live out her days as some other man’s bride.
It stung. It burned. Thomas could not believe how much it burned.
“Who is Philip?” he whispered, looking down at the register. Because Galbraith—it was Jack’s mother’s name.
“What?”
Thomas looked over. Jack had his face in his hands.
“Philip Galbraith. He was a witness.”
Jack looked up. And then down. At the register. “My mother’s brother.”
“Does he still live?” Thomas didn’t know why he was asking. The proof of the marriage was right there in his hands, and he would not contest it.
“I don’t know. He did the last I knew. It has been five years.”
Thomas swallowed and looked up, staring off into space. His body felt strange, almost weightless, as if his blood had changed into something thinner. His skin was tingling and—
“Tear it out.”
Thomas turned to Jack in shock. He could not have heard correctly. “What did you say?”
“Tear it out.”
“Are you mad?”
Jack shook his head. “You are the duke.”
Thomas looked down at the register, and it was then, with great sadness, that he truly accepted his fate. “No,” he said softly, “I’m not.”
“No.” Jack grabbed him by the shoulders. His eyes were wild, panicked. “You are what Wyndham needs. What everyone needs.”
“Stop, you—”
“Listen to me,” Jack implored. “You are born and bred to the job. I will ruin everything. Do you understand? I cannot do it. I cannot do it.”
Jack was scared. It was a good sign, Thomas told himself. Only a stupid man—or an exceedingly shallow one—would see nothing but the riches and prestige. If Jack saw enough to be terrified, then he was man enough for the position.
And so he just shook his head, holding Jack’s gaze with his own. “I may be bred to it, but you were born to it. And I cannot take what is yours.”
“I don’t want it!” Jack burst out.
“It is not yours to accept or deny,” Thomas said. “Don’t you understand? It is not a possession. It is who you are.”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Jack swore. His hands were shaking. His whole body was shaking. “I am giving it to you. On a bloody silver platter. You stay the duke, and I shall leave you alone. I’ll even be your scout in the Outer Hebrides. Anything. Just tear the page out.”
“If you didn’t want the title, why didn’t you just say that your parents hadn’t been married at the outset?” Thomas shot back. “I asked you if your parents were married. You could have said no.”
“I didn’t know that I was in line to inherit when you questioned my legitimacy.”
Thomas stared down at the register. Just one book—no, just one page of one book. That was all that stood between him and everything that was familiar, everything he thought was true.
It was tempting. He could taste it in his mouth—desire, greed. Fear, too. A galling dose of it.
He could tear out that page and no one would be the wiser. The pages weren’t even numbered. If they removed it carefully enough, no one would realize it w
as gone.
Life would be normal. He would return to Belgrave precisely as he’d left, with all the same possessions, responsibilities, and commitments.
Including Amelia.
She should have been his duchess by now. He should never have dragged his feet.
If he tore out that page…
“Do you hear that?” Jack hissed.
Thomas perked up, his ear instinctively tilting toward the window.
Horses.
“They’re here,” Thomas said.
It was now or never.
He stared at the register.
And stared.
“I can’t do it,” he whispered.
And then—it happened so fast—Jack pushed by him, knocking him aside. Thomas just managed to snap his face back when he saw Jack with his hands on the register…ripping it apart.
Thomas hurled himself forward, landing hard on Jack as he tried to grab the torn page from his fingers, but Jack slid out from his grasp, launching himself toward the fire.
“Jack, no!” Thomas yelled, but Jack was too quick, and even as he caught hold of his arm, Jack managed to hurl the paper into the fire.
Thomas staggered back, horrified by the sight of it. The center caught the flame first, bursting a hole through the middle of the page. Then the corners began to curl, blackening until they crumbled.
Soot. Ashes.
Dust.
“God in heaven,” Thomas whispered. “What have you done?”
Amelia had thought that she’d never again have to ponder the words worst day and of my life in the same sentence. After the scene in the Belgrave drawing room, when two men had nearly come to blows over which one of them would be forced to marry her—well, one didn’t generally think such depths of humiliation could be achieved twice in one lifetime.
Her father, however, had apparently not been informed of this.
“Papa, stop,” she pleaded, digging in her heels—quite literally—as he attempted to drag her through the door of the Maguiresbridge rectory.
“I’d think you’d be a bit more eager to have an answer,” he said impatiently. “God knows I am.”
It had been a dreadful morning. When the dowager discovered that the two men had ridden off to the church without her, she went—and Amelia did not think this an exaggeration—berserk. Even more chilling was the speed with which she recovered. (Under a minute, by Amelia’s estimation.) The dowager’s rage was now channeled into icy purpose, and frankly, Amelia found this even more frightening than her fury. As soon as she found out that Grace did not intend to accompany them to Maguiresbridge, she latched herself to Grace’s arm and hissed, “Do not leave me alone with that woman.”
Grace had tried to explain that Amelia wouldn’t be alone, but Amelia was having none of that and refused to leave without her. And as Lord Crowland would not go without Amelia, and they needed Mrs. Audley to direct them to the proper church…
It was a crowded carriage that made its way to County Fermanagh.
Amelia was wedged in on the rear-facing seat with Grace and Mrs. Audley, which would have been no trouble whatsoever except that she was facing the dowager, who kept demanding that poor Mrs. Audley update her on their progress. Which meant that Mrs. Audley had to twist, jostling into Grace, who jostled into Amelia, who was already overly tense and apprehensive.
And then, as soon as they arrived, her father had grabbed her by the arm and hissed one last lecture in her ear about fathers and daughters and the rules governing the relations thereof, not to mention three full sentences about dynastic legacies, family fortunes, and responsibilities to the Crown.
All in her ear, and all in under a minute. If she hadn’t been forced to endure the same set of directives so many times in the past week, she would not have understood a word of it.
She’d tried to tell him that Thomas and Jack deserved their privacy, that they should not have to discover their fates with an audience, but she supposed the point was now moot. The dowager had charged ahead, and Amelia could hear her bellowing, “Where is it?”
Amelia twisted, facing Grace and Mrs. Audley, who were following several horrified paces behind. But before she could say anything, her father yanked hard on her arm, and she went stumbling over the threshold behind him.
A woman stood in the center of the room, teacup in hand, the expression on her face somewhere between startled and alarmed. The housekeeper, probably, although Amelia could not inquire. Her father was still dragging her along behind him, determined not to allow the dowager to reach Thomas and Jack too far ahead of him.
“Move,” he growled at her, but a strange, almost preternatural panic had begun to set in, and she did not want to go into that back room.
“Father…” she tried to say, but the second syllable died on her tongue.
Thomas.
There he was, standing in front of her now that her father had hauled her through the doorway. He was standing very still, utterly expressionless, his eyes focused at a spot in the wall that held no window, no painting—nothing at all, save for his attention.
Amelia choked back a cry. He had lost the title. He didn’t have to say a word. He did not even have to look at her. She could see it in his face.
“How dare you leave without me?” the dowager demanded. “Where is it? I demand to see the register.”
But no one spoke. Thomas remained unmoving, stiff and proud, like the duke they’d all thought he was, and Jack—good heavens, he looked positively ill. His color was high, and it was clear to Amelia that he was breathing far too fast.
“What did you find?” the dowager practically screamed.
Amelia stared at Thomas. He did not speak.
“He is Wyndham,” Jack finally said. “As he should be.”
Amelia gasped, hoping, praying that she’d been wrong about the look on Thomas’s face. She did not care about the title or the riches or the land. She just wanted him, but he was too bloody proud to give himself to her if he was nothing more than Mr. Thomas Cavendish, gentleman of Lincolnshire.
The dowager turned sharply toward Thomas. “Is this true?”
Thomas said nothing.
The dowager repeated her question, grabbing Thomas’s arm with enough ferocity to make Amelia wince.
“There is no record of a marriage,” Jack insisted.
Thomas said nothing.
“Thomas is the duke,” Jack said again, but he sounded scared. Desperate. “Why aren’t you listening? Why isn’t anyone listening to me?”
Amelia held her breath.
“He lies,” Thomas said in a low voice.
Amelia swallowed, because her only other option was to cry.
“No,” Jack burst out, “I’m telling you—”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Thomas snapped. “Do you think no one will find you out? There will be witnesses. Do you really think there won’t be any witnesses to the wedding? For God’s sake, you can’t rewrite the past.” He looked at the fire. “Or burn it, as the case may be.”
Amelia stared at him, and then she realized—he could have lied.
He could have lied. But he didn’t.
If he’d lied—
“He tore the page from the register,” Thomas said, his voice a strange, detached monotone. “He threw it into the fire.”
As one, the room turned, mesmerized by the flames crackling in the fireplace. But there was nothing to see, not even those dark sooty swirls that rose into the air when paper burned. No evidence at all of Jack’s crime. If Thomas had lied—
No one would have known. He could have kept it all. He could have kept his title. His money.
He could have kept her.
“It’s yours,” Thomas said, turning to Jack. And then he bowed. To Jack. Who looked aghast.
Thomas turned, facing the rest of the room. “I am—” He cleared his throat, and when he continued, his voice was even and proud. “I am Mr. Cavendish,” he said, “and I bid you all a good day.”
And th
en he left. He brushed past them all and walked right out the door.
He didn’t look at Amelia.
And as she stood there in silence, it occurred to her—he hadn’t looked at her at all. Not even once. He had stood in place, staring at the wall, at Jack, at his grandmother, even at Grace.
But he’d never looked at her.
It was a strange thing in which to take comfort. But she did.
Chapter 20
Thomas had no idea where he intended to go. When he moved through the rectory, brushing past the housekeeper, who’d gone from disinterest to unabashed eavesdropping; when he walked down the front steps and into the bright Irish sunlight; when he stood there for a moment, blinking, disoriented, he only had one thought—
Away.
He had to get away.
He did not want to see his grandmother. He did not want to see the new Duke of Wyndham.
He did not want Amelia to see him.
And so he hopped on his horse and rode. He rode all the way to Butlersbridge, since it was the only place he knew. He passed the drive to Cloverhill—he was not ready to go back there, not when the rest of them would be returning so soon—and continued on until he saw a public house on his right. It looked reputable enough, so he dismounted and went in.
And that was where Amelia found him, five hours later.
“We’ve been looking for you,” she said, her tone trying to be bright and cheerful.
Thomas closed his eyes for a moment, rubbing one finger along the bridge of his nose before he replied. “It appears you have found me.”
She sucked in her lips, her eyes resting on the half-empty tankard of ale that sat before him.
“I am not drunk, if that is what you are wondering.”
“I would not fault you if you were.”
“A tolerant woman.” He sat back in his chair, his posture lazy and loose. “What a pity I did not marry you.”
Not drunk, perhaps, but he’d had enough alcohol to have become a little bit mean.
