Duke of Renown

by Aston, Alexa

  Burton found the spice cake to his liking and said, “Your cook must give ours this recipe.”

  As teatime ended, Phoebe grew concerned that Borwick and Nathan hadn’t yet returned. She hid her anxiety as she walked her guests to the door.

  “Thank you for coming.”

  She and Letty embraced and the butler opened the door. It took her aback to see a man standing there, his fist raised to knock on the door.

  “My lady? Lady Borwick?” he asked anxiously.

  “Yes, I am Lady Borwick,” she replied warily.

  “Might I come in?” he asked. “I am Dr. Morris.”

  “Did my husband send you?”

  This man wasn’t their usual physician. She had told Borwick she would take care of arranging to see a doctor.

  “In a way,” he replied vaguely.

  “Come in,” she invited, confused by what he’d said.

  Letty slipped her hand around Phoebe’s and said, “I am Lady Burton. This is my husband, Lord Burton. I am Lady Borwick’s sister.”

  “Very good,” the doctor said, looking slightly relieved. He turned to Phoebe. “My lady, I’m afraid I am the bearer of bad news. And there is no easy way to tell you.”

  Her heart quickened. “Just say it then.”

  “Lord Borwick and your son were in a carriage accident.”

  She tightened her grip on Letty’s hand. “Where are they? I must go to them at once.”

  “That is not possible, Lady Borwick.” Sadness blanketed the doctor’s face. “I’m afraid your husband and son did not survive.”

  Her entire body went numb, cold seeping in as if it were a blustery winter day. “What?”

  “Your son died instantly. Lord Borwick lingered a bit. I was passing by and saw the accident occur. I rendered aid as best I could.” Morris shook his head. “My condolences.”

  “No,” Phoebe moaned, dropping to her knees. “No.”

  Burton and the butler rushed to her, grasping her elbows and trying to bring her to her feet. She grew lightheaded, dizzy, and then queasiness filled her. Then an awful cramping clawed within her. She groaned.

  “My baby!” she cried. “No, no, no . . .”

  Something warm spilled from between her legs, dribbling down them. She felt herself being lifted and carried up the stairs as everything went black. Then someone was shaking her. A cup was held to her lips.

  “This will calm you, Lady Borwick,” the awful man said. The one who’d told her about Nathan and Borwick.

  The doctor forced her to drink it. Shadows huddled around her as the cramps grew stronger. She was losing her unborn child and couldn’t stop it. Bitter tears spilled down her cheeks.

  Then darkness crept over her and dragged her under.

  Chapter Two

  Spain—August 1812

  Another day in hell.

  Captain Andrew Graham urged his men on, their third assault of the day. Weariness filled him, yet as a British officer and leader, he encouraged the soldiers to push onward. The sounds of war assaulted his senses. Swords clanging. Cannons firing at regular intervals. Cries from the injured—and dying. He ignored it all, continuing to swing his sword, cutting down men both left and right. Sweat dripped into his eyes, stinging them. He blinked rapidly, not able to take the time to wipe a sleeve across his face, else a blow of steel might be the last of him.

  From a distance, he heard the sound of retreat being called by the enemy. Relief swept through him, knowing he wouldn’t lose any more of his men today. The opponent that rushed toward him froze in his tracks, having reached Andrew.

  “Go!” he shouted at the man.

  The soldier hesitated a moment and then lowered his sword. As scores of men turned to flee, Andrew saw something in this man’s eyes, however.

  “Don’t,” he warned as the man tried to thrust his sword a final time.

  To stop him, Andrew sank his own blade into his enemy’s belly. His action halted his opponent. Confusion—then pain—filled the man’s face.

  “I told you to go,” he said quietly, bitterness filling him as he placed his boot flat against the injured man’s hip and pushed hard. The solider fell to the ground that already ran red with blood as Andrew claimed his sabre again.

  “I told you to go,” he repeated, anguish in every word.

  This soldier would have lived to fight another day. He might have survived this interminable war. Gone home to his sweetheart. Or wife and children. Instead, his greed at wanting to take one more life cost him his own.

  Turning, he surveyed the battlefield as men retreated both to the north and south. His eyes swept across the still forms as far as the eye could see. He should be hardened to war by now after five years. It might be another five—even longer—until the threat of Bonaparte was put down and Andrew could return to the green fields of his beloved England.

  With a heavy sigh, he made his way back to give his third and final report of the day to Colonel Symmons, his commanding officer. He passed men bearing wounded soldiers on stretchers, their agonizing cries adding to his heartache.

  “Andrew!” a voice called.

  He turned and saw the Marquess of Marbury headed his way. Sebastian was an old chum of his from their university days. Together with Jon, another Cambridge friend, and George and Weston, whom he’d attended both Eton and Cambridge with, the five had spent years together studying, laughing, and talking incessantly about the fairer sex. Only he and Sebastian had entered the army after university. The other three men, now all dukes, had remained in England. In this moment, Andrew longed for those simple days of sitting for examination and celebrating afterward at the local alehouse with his comrades.

  “It’s good to see you survived today’s skirmishes,” he said, shaking his friend’s hand. Then he noticed the change in his Sebastian’s uniform. “You’re a major now! Congratulations.”

  Sebastian shrugged. “I think enough of the officers ahead of me have been killed in action. With their ranks thinning, I’m just at the right place in the right moment.”

  “You’ve always been much too humble,” Andrew chided. “If there is a break in the action, we should celebrate your promotion, Major.”

  “I’d like to catch up,” Sebastian said. “I have much to tell you. I’ve been appointed to Wellington’s staff.”

  Andrew beamed. “Then we have even more to celebrate. I must go and make my final report of the day to my commanding officer. I’ll look for you later, all right?”

  The two men parted. Before he reported to Symmons, Andrew made a detour toward the surgical tents. After their second charge, Andrew had witnessed the fall of Thomas Bagwell. The young private had earned a special place in Andrew’s heart and he’d thought to ask Bagwell to be his batman since his was retiring at the end of next month. Having seen Bagwell’s leg injury, he didn’t know if the young man had survived or not.

  He entered the first of the two tents where operations occurred. The tinny smell of blood assaulted him. Making his way to the surgeon operating, he asked, “Did Private Bagwell come through here?”

  The weary man looked up. “What injury? I don’t know names anymore. They come and go too fast, Captain.”

  “His leg. The right one. Bagwell has carrot orange hair.”

  The surgeon nodded toward his right. Andrew saw a huge mountain of severed limbs, the legs still wearing their boots. He pitied the poor souls who would be required to strip the boots and bury the limbs.

  “I amputated his leg. He’ll be that way if he made it,” the surgeon added, indicating the exit to the tent. “Try one more over. The hospital.”

  “Thank you.”

  Andrew quit the tent and went to the hospital, walking rows of cots as men moaned. Then he spied Bagwell’s familiar mop of hair and knelt next to him.

  “It’s Captain Graham, Thomas.” He took the private’s hand. “How are you?”

  With a crooked grin, Bagwell said, “I’m right well, Captain. Missing a leg and all, but I’ll get
by.”

  He knew Bagwell came from a dairy farm near Hertfordshire and wondered how easy it would be to milk a cow sitting on a stool with only one leg for balance.

  “Chin up, Bagwell. I’ll come to see you tomorrow.”

  The young man grimaced and then said, “Thank you, Captain.”

  Andrew left and made no other stops as he headed to Colonel Symmons’ tent. He fell in line, no one joining him after he arrived, so he was the last to enter the officer’s tent. He gave his report, estimating the number of casualties in his unit and citing two individuals for exceptional bravery during action.

  “Thank you, Captain Graham,” said the older man. He paused and studied Andrew for a moment and then said, “I have a letter for you, Captain.”

  The colonel picked it up from a pile of papers before him. Handing it over, he said, “Read it here—then we will speak.”

  Curiosity filled him as he looked at the letter, the handwriting unfamiliar. Why would he need to read it and then discuss the contents with Symmons? Andrew broke the seal and his eyes fell to the signature, seeking a clue as to the sender’s identity.

  Lord Raymond Barrington.

  The nobleman worked in London’s War Office. He was also the oldest friend of the Duke of Windham, Andrew’s father. Trepidation filled him.

  Captain Graham –

  I am sorry to be writing to you under such circumstances. I have not seen you for many years but your father has kept me apprised of your endeavors for king and country. Know that your service is much appreciated by the citizens of England.

  Having said that, I regret to inform you of two grievous events, both related, and both affecting you and your future.

  Your brother, Ward, was involved in a tragic accident in his phaeton and was buried at Windowmere this morning. When news of this first reached your father, Windham suffered a heart attack. According to the doctors, he is on his deathbed in London.

  That leaves you, dear boy, as the new marquess and heir apparent. Even if your father survives, he will be in no state to see to the many affairs being the Duke of Windham entails and if the doctors are to be believed, you will become the new duke sooner rather than later.

  I have taken the liberty of writing your commanding officer, informing him of the situation. You’ll need to sell your commission and return home immediately. Send word to me once you reach London in order to inform me of your father’s health. I will do all I can to help you make this transition.

  Yours sincerely,

  Lord Raymond Barrington

  Shock filled Andrew. Then anger set in. Ward had always lived on the edge, taking unnecessary risks. The so-called phaeton accident was undoubtedly a race gone awry. Knowing his older brother, Ward had pushed the horse and vehicle beyond their limits. His careless actions had caused his death. It shouldn’t surprise anyone. Ward had lived in luck for too many years. His recklessness had finally caught up to him.

  It was his father’s health which concerned him now. The duke had always been physically and emotionally strong. He’d outlived two wives, both of whom died in childbirth, the first when she birthed Andrew and the second delivering his half-brother, Francis. Windham had always been larger than life. To see how Ward’s death had affected his father pained Andrew.

  What Lord Barrington left unsaid was that Andrew better not get himself killed, else Francis would inherit the dukedom. His half-brother was immature, irresponsible, and none too bright. He’d been tossed out of Cambridge. At least that’s was what their father had shared in a letter to Andrew. He suspected things were far worse, but the duke had always turned a blind eye to his youngest, allowing Francis free rein to do whatever he pleased.

  Colonel Symmons cleared his throat. “I see you’ve finished. Lord Barrington also wrote to me and I understand you are to resign your commission immediately and return to England. I can help arrange your transport.” He paused. “I am sorry for your loss, Graham. I lost my own brother and it’s never easy. I hope His Grace will recover quickly. But if not, you have the fine makings to be a duke.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Andrew replied with a sinking feeling. He only hoped to arrive at their London townhome to see his father one more time.

  *

  It took Andrew a week to reach London. Colonel Symmons had helped him to arrange transport on a vessel bound for southern England. He had arrived with the clothes on his back, a spare shirt, and his razor. His commanding officer had even given him pocket money to help him reach London. He now disembarked at the docks and walked off the ship with nothing but a small satchel, all he had to show for five years at war against Bonaparte. He’d left England with a light heart, prone to teasing others. He returned now at twenty-seven, feeling twice his age, no spark of fun left within him. He’d witnessed too many deaths to ever think to smile again.

  London’s streets teemed with others as he made his way from the docks. Before long, he spied a hansom cab and flagged it down.

  “Returning from the war, Captain?” the driver asked with a friendly smile.

  “Yes,” he replied curtly.

  Once upon a time, he would have carried on a conversation with this man. Today, he was too weary to engage in small talk. Andrew boarded the vehicle and gave his father’s London address. The cabbie merely nodded and climbed into the driver’s seat and they were off. As they made their way through the streets, he thought how civilized things seemed. Well-dressed people going about their business. Carriages making their orderly way down the streets. Stalls open, people shopping for wares. He closed his eyes and rubbed them, still seeing bloodshed and hearing cannon fire in his head. He shook off the thoughts. He was home now. Where he’d longed to be for so long.

  But not under these circumstances.

  I need to prepare myself, he thought. Especially since from Lord Barrington’s description, he should expect the worst.

  Arriving at Belgravia, he emptied his pocket and handed over the last of his coins.

  “No need, sir,” the driver said, refusing to take the money offered. “You’ve been at war. Fighting for the rest of us.”

  “I insist,” Andrew said. “You need to make a living.” Then he noticed the cabbie was missing a hand and understanding flooded him.

  “The war?” he asked.

  The man nodded. Glancing down at his missing hand, he said quietly, “I’ve learned to live without it. I care for my horse and all the equipment. When it gives me a bit o’ trouble, I just think about all the men in my squadron who weren’t as lucky to come home as I was.”

  “Do you have a family?”

  “I had my parents but they both died while I was on the Continent. No wife or children. And now?” He shrugged. “Who’d have me?”

  Andrew made an instant decision. “I would. What’s your name, Soldier?”

  “Robbie Jones, Captain,” the driver replied, his posture indicating he was unsure of what Andrew wanted.

  “Do you like driving, Robbie Jones?”

  “I do, Captain. As I said, I’ve learned to adjust.”

  “My father is the Duke of Windham. I’m sure he could use an additional driver. I’d be happy to extend an offer of employment to you. Unless, of course, you enjoy what you do now, working independently.”

  Robbie broke out in a huge grin. “I’d love to come work for the duke. I rent this buggy and horse and most of what I earn goes toward that.”

  “Well, then return your horse and vehicle at day’s end and report to this house tomorrow morning. Ask for me. I can’t guarantee you’ll always stay in London. We have several estates throughout England and you might be sent to one of them.”

  “Fine by me, Captain.” Robbie grew serious. “I can’t thank you enough, Sir. Life is hard, being as I am and on my own. To have a meal each day and a roof over my head means the world to me.”

  Andrew offered his hand and they shook. “Then I’ll see you tomorrow, Robbie. I’ll know more about your duties by then.”

  Tears miste
d the former soldier’s eyes. “Thank you, Captain. God bless you.”

  He watched the driver depart and felt good that it was within his power to change at least one veteran’s life for the better. He went to the front door and rapped. It opened and a smiling Whitby greeted him.

  “My lord, it does my soul good to see you.”

  For a moment, Andrew froze. Then he realized he was no longer Captain Graham or even Mr. Graham. He was a marquess.

  Destined to be a duke.

  Thrusting out his hand, he shook the butler’s offered hand. “It’s been quite a while, Whitby.”

  “It has been that, my lord. Do come in. Let me take that for you.” The butler’s face showed a moment of astonishment at how light the satchel was.

  “I didn’t have much to bring home, Whitby,” Andrew explained.

  Only memories . . .

  “If you’d like, I’ll have the tailor come around tomorrow, my lord. Would you care to use the one your father or brother uses?”

  Knowing Ward’s taste ran to the fashionable and flamboyant and his father was always conservative yet elegantly dressed, he said, “I’ll go with Father’s man.”

  “Very good, my lord. I’ve had Mrs. Bates prepare your room for you. Would you like a bath first or would you rather see His Grace?”

  “His Grace.”

  “Follow me.”

  Whitby handed off the satchel to a nearby footman and they ascended the stairs. Andrew found he approached his father’s rooms with trepidation and prayed Windham would recover from this recent heart attack. It had been too many years since they’d seen one another. All he wanted was a bit of time to spend with the man he worshipped.

  Arriving at the suite of rooms designated for the duke, Whitby opened the door. The butler’s sympathetic look told Andrew all he needed to know.

  “Thank you, Whitby. I’ll take it from here.”

  With a deep breath, Andrew strode through the rooms and reached the bedchamber. Steeling himself, he turned the knob and entered the room.