At precisely seven of the clock, a leather portfolio and Gabriella’s sketchpad and pencils neatly tucked beneath his left arm, Max rapped upon Hartfordshire’s stout door. Dead silence met his knock, and after a couple of minutes, he pounded the door a jot harder.
He’d never been inside Hartfordshire Court and had no idea if the house’s layout prevented the servants from hearing a knock upon the entrance. Another extended moment passed before the door finally swung open.
A plump, slightly breathless maid holding a candlestick bobbed a curtsy. “Your Grace.” She swept her arm to the side, indicating he should enter. After setting the taper down, she managed a timid smile and accepted his hat and gloves.
“Thank you,” he intoned, more formally than he’d intended. To his ears he sounded like a bloody, pompous windbag. Not the impression he wanted to make at all. He tried again, this time offering a cordial smile. “That’s very kind of you.”
Her unplucked eyebrows skittered upward, and she gawked at him as if he were dicked in the nob before finally murmuring, “Not at all, Your Grace.”
It wasn’t bloody kind of her. It was her job, as they both knew full well.
“Yes. Well…” He cleared his throat, turning his head and listening for voices. “I appreciate it nonetheless.”
Now she did gape at him as if he were stark-raving mad. Dukes didn’t go about complimenting servants for mundane tasks.
For God’s sake, man. Shut up. You’re babbling like a tabby.
“Miss Breckensole’s drawing supplies.” He passed them over as well. He retained the portfolio, and though the maid eyed it curiously, didn’t offer to take the case.
Were the servants aware of what tonight’s visit was truly about? Entirely possible in a household of this size.
After a long blink, she placed his possessions and the sketchpad and pencils upon a marble-topped hall tree stand and collected the candlestick. “The family awaits you in the drawing room. This way, if you please.”
And even if he didn’t.
So Breckensole didn’t even permit candles lit in the entry. More evidence of his miserliness. Still, it wasn’t Max’s business whether the pinch-penny lit one or a hundred candles for his guests.
Uncharacteristic nerves pattered along his spine as he followed the maid’s brisk pace.
Likely, she was needed in the kitchen to finish the meal’s preparation. He hadn’t been surprised the Breckensoles didn’t retain a butler. His man of business had reported they kept a small staff of four: A cook, this maid of all work, the injured groomsman, Jackson, and the stable lad who’d led Balor to the small stables positioned to the back and left of the main house.
The single candle threw weird, tremulous shadows along the sparsely furnished corridor. Dark wainscoting—walnut?— covered the lower third of the passageway, and faded floral wallpaper, the upper two thirds. A lone painting of a Dutch landscape interrupted the monotony.
At the drawing room door, the maid paused after sending him an uncertain glance. She knocked lightly, then leaned in and pressed the handle. “His Grace, the Duke of Pennington.”
Dead silence met her announcement as four wary gazes took him in: Breckensole’s blazed with hatred, his wife’s blatant distrust, Miss Ophelia’s accusation, and Gabriella’s brimming with sadness.
I could have loved you.
“Adel,” Mrs. Breckensole said. “Please light the hall sconces.”
“Yes, Mrs. Breckensole.” The maid dipped her chin and after another swift glance about the tension-filled room, made her escape. No doubt the kitchen gossip would include the family’s less than warm welcome.
Gabriella, wearing an extremely becoming pale pink gown trimmed in ivory lace, her hair piled atop her head with jaunty curls framing her face, and pearl earbobs dangling from her dainty ears had never appeared more lovely. Slightly pale, but supremely composed, Gabriella being Gabriella, broke the awkward silence.
She sunk into a graceful curtsy which Max acknowledged with a bow. “Your Grace, I believe you are already acquainted with my grandfather, Harold Breckensole.”
Not exactly acquainted. There’d never been a formal introduction in all the years their properties had paralleled each other. They’d seen the other in the distance, of course, but the first unfortunate meeting had occurred the other night. Nevertheless, determined to be at his most charming for her sake, he angled his head. “Sir.”
He received a stony glower in greeting.
Splendid. Things were off to a romping, jolly good start.
Gabriella’s mouth flattened minutely, and he could’ve sworn she sent her grandfather a reproachful glance. Easier to catch flies with honey and all that, her silent message implied.
She was all the sweetness Max needed to persuade him to do almost anything.
“Please permit me to introduce my grandmother. Your Grace, Irene Breckensole. Grandmama, Maxwell, Duke of Pennington.” Simple and direct without embellishment or pretense.
He bent into a formal bow, and Mrs. Breckensole deemed to lower her chin a fraction. Something in the handsome woman’s frosty gaze sent prickles of unease up and down his spine.
Neither Mr. or Mrs. Breckensole had bothered to rise as he was accustomed to, and he wasn’t certain whether he was more amused that his title didn’t impress them in the least or miffed at their insolence. Then again, Mrs. Breckensole was still recovering from her bout of ill health.
Her husband, on the other hand, was just being an ornery ass. In a word, himself.
Max angled toward Miss Ophelia and bowed again. “Miss Ophelia.”
“Duke.” Her curtsy was so shallow as to be just this side of rude.
What had he expected? That they be giddy he’d deemed to call upon them?
Another stilted silence filled the room--evidently the fire the only thing capable of moving or showing any degree of cheer. Hell, Breckensole had yet to speak a word, although had his glare been a weapon, Max would’ve been eviscerated upon entrance.
Gabriella tapped her toes, back and forth, back and forth. Was she even aware she had that nervous quirk? When she caught sight of his slight grin and his pointed stare at her slippers, she stopped at once. Rather than off-putting or annoying, he found the trait endearing.
Wasn’t he a completely besotted bumble-brain? And it was quite the most puzzling, incredible thing.
Still, his reason for being here wasn’t pleasant. He breathed out a silent sigh. There was no point in waiting until after dinner and extending everyone’s discomfort to say what he’d come to say. Lacing his fingers together behind his back, he splayed his legs. “I think it best for all if I speak directly.”
Breckensole snorted, and Miss Ophelia placed a hand on her grandmother’s shoulder in a reassuring fashion.
“Wouldn’t you prefer to wait until after we’ve dined?” The look Gabriella leveled him suggested she thought whatever he had to say might put them off their food.
Or maybe they plan on poisoning me and thereby eliminating their problem altogether. Max wasn’t serious, of course. She would never countenance such malevolent behavior.
Breckensole, on the other hand, certainly appeared up to the task. Max eyed the man’s fingers, looking for a poison ring. The safe at Chartworth Hall contained one, and he’d always wondered which duke it had belonged to and if he’d ever used if for nefarious means.
Harnessing his wayward thoughts, he procured his diplomat’s smile, and Gabriella’s eyes rounded then shrank into contemplative slits. “I’ve had all afternoon to reconsider”—he made certain to emphasize the word— “the circumstances, and I’ve concluded—”
Harold Breckensole made a hostile, animalistic sound deep in his throat. With some effort, he stood and stabbed a wobbly finger at him. “We know precisely what your ignoble intentions are, you blackguard. But before you proceed with your demands, you had best read this.” He produced a wrinkled, yellowed rectangle from within his outdated coat pocket, the fabric a peculiar fa
ded brown much like weak tea.
A letter?
Holding the scrap of paper as if it were a rapier, a smug smile wreathed Breckensole’s face.
“Grandpapa, I thought we agreed to wait until after we’d dined.” Gabriella clasped her hands, tension making her fine cheekbones stand out. The smattering of light freckles on her nose contrasted starkly against her alabaster face.
“Why? Let’s be done with this falderol and the false niceties. We can all appreciate this is not a social call, no matter how politely masked.” Breckensole waved the foolscap, and it crackled in protest. “Then I can send this bounder on his way, eat my dinner, and actually enjoy my meal.”
When Max made no effort to cross the room to accept whatever the correspondence was, she glided forward, the epitome of womanly grace. She’d have made a magnificent duchess, and his heart panged again that it would never be so. He’d had but one chance for this woman’s love, and in his mistaken quest for honor, he’d callously dashed it to ribbons.
She accepted the paper from her grandfather. Edging that obstinate little chin up, she crossed to where Max stood, her skirts swishing around her ankles. Ankles which he knew to be dainty and well-formed. Lips slightly pursed, which only served to remind him he’d tasted their deliciousness but a few hours ago, she held the letter before her.
“I do believe it would be beneficial for you to read this before you proceed.” Over her shoulder, she spared her grandmother a short, pointed glance before addressing him again. “I only learned of this particular after I returned home today, else I would’ve apprised you of its existence.”
Gratitude for her loyalty, no matter how misplaced, bloomed behind his ribs. She tried indirectly to warn him, and that could only mean the contents were rather damning. From Breckensole’s gloating smirk, rather somewhat more than damning, Max would vow.
Something close to compassion tinged her self-assurance, but she met his gaze straight on. Fearless, was his Gabriella. He’d never known a time it wasn’t so.
“What is it?” He skeptically eyed the note clasped between her fingers. No name or address appeared on its aged face, and mustiness wafted upward from the crumpled missive.
“It’s a letter, Your Grace,” Mrs. Breckensole put in, her tone clipped and guarded. “Written by your grandmother when she was the duchess.”
He jerked his head up from inspecting the paper. First, he searched her gratified countenance before gravitating his focus to Breckensole’s smug expression that all but screeched, “I’ve-got-you-by-the-ballocks-now.” Prickles of unease zipped along Max’s spine for the third time in less than a half hour, and goose pimples raised from wrist to shoulder. He laid his portfolio on a nearby chair then studiously brushed a piece of lint from his sleeve.
He wasn’t going to like this.
After a side-eyed glance at Gabriella and her twin, he flexed his jaw.
No, he wasn’t going to like this in the least. He still intended to relinquish all claim to Hartfordshire Court, so whatever the letter said was moot.
He hoped.
“Your Grace.” Gabriella fluttered the missive toward him, and he reluctantly accepted it.
“Why would you be in possession of a letter from my grandmother, Mrs. Breckensole?” he asked.
“I was her companion before I married.” Mrs. Breckensole patted Ophelia’s hand still resting upon the elderly woman’s shoulder. “She trusted me absolutely, because she knew I’d never betray her. I was to have delivered that letter, but a series of calamitous events prevented my doing so.”
That sent his eyebrows crashing together. How had his man of business not uncovered that detail? That very vital detail, indeed? Even now, Mrs. Breckensole defended his grandmother, and that more than anything, convinced him she spoke the truth.
Spine rigid, jaw tight, and white-knuckled hands clasped before her, Miss Ophelia claimed a spot on the striped sofa. That she felt the need to sit disturbed him even more.
He turned the missive over, searching for a name or address or anything on the reverse side. Nothing. That suggested something clandestine. Warning bells began to toll, first a gentle chime, but gradually increasing into a discordant cacophony. “To whom did she entrust you to deliver the letter?”
Breckensole planted his palms on his thighs, leaned forward, and blurted, “Reverend Michael Shaw. Her lover, and your father’s true sire.”
Those last four words, ringing extraordinarily loudly in the similarly unnaturally still room, tilted Max’s world on its axis. His hearing grew muffled, as if he’d submerged beneath the bathwater. He shook his head to dislodge the wool and hauled his focus to Gabriella, silently asking for confirmation that he’d heard correctly.
Even before pity softened her eyes and framed her mouth, he appreciated he had. Heard every damning word perfectly clearly.
Reverend Michael Shaw was killed in a duel. Margaret is dead. She was with child.
His grandfather’s journal entries also confirmed the truth.
Compassion shone on Gabriella’s face.
After all Max put her through and had threatened to do, she commiserated with him? It only reinforced her goodness, and the oddest urge to laugh engulfed him. Instead, he unfolded the worn, thickly creased paper, the rustling oddly ominous. Only the longcase clock in the corner’s tick-tocking disturbed the dense quiet.
That and Breckensole’s heavy breathing. The air whistled in and out of his nose in a fashion that made Max yearn to offer his handkerchief and demand the old man blow heartily. Or take a pair of embroidery scissors to his hair-clogged nostrils and groom a pathway the air might enter and exit through with a greater degree of ease.
Training his attention on the short missive, he recognized the penmanship as that which he’d seen inside the cover of numerous books within Chartworth’s extensive library. His grandmother’s delicate, rather flourishing hand.
The note was short. A mere two lines: A time and location for a clandestine meeting. Grandmother and this Michael Shaw had planned to run away together.
Max read it again. And again. And again.
Off guard, his lungs cramping as if he’d been kicked in the ribs by a team of draft horses, he meticulously refolded the note. Doing so gave him something to focus on besides the tumult careening about in his head and his inability to draw anything but little puffs of air into his lungs.
Grandmother had meant to leave his grandfather. Father wasn’t Grandfather’s progeny.
His head spun from trying to sift fact from fallacy, and again, an absurd urge to laugh assailed him. “But why is the letter still in your possession?” he at last managed to ask. No hint of the turmoil within reached his modulated voice.
“I never had a chance to deliver it. As I said, circumstances prevented my doing so.” Sadness tempered Mrs. Breckensole’s tone.
“Why not?” What other shocks was awaited him?
She stared into space; sorrow etched upon her aged features. She’d cared for his grandmother. Truly cared for her. The knowledge startled and humbled him.
“Somehow your grandfather learned that they intended to run away, and he challenged the reverend to a duel.” She shifted her gaze to him for a moment. “I doubt the man had ever touched a pistol, let alone fired one, and the duke likely knew it as well.”
Max swallowed the bile burning his throat.
“It was to have been to first blood.” Mrs. Breckensole shifted her focus away again. “But the reverend died instantly from a bullet to his heart. Sorrow drove the duchess slightly mad, and she attacked her husband. Tried to stab him with a letter opener.”
“Holy God,” Max whispered.
She jutted her chin upward, reminding him of Gabriella. “I witnessed the act myself and sorely wished she’d succeeded. The duke locked her in her chamber for a month, permitting no visitors, no bathwater, no fires or candles, and only gruel and stale bread for her to eat.” Her voice grew raspy and her eyes watery. “Such cruelty to that gentle soul, and
she was with child too.”
God, his grandfather had been a tyrant. A fiend. Surely his soul had been blacker than the devil’s himself.
It didn’t escape Max that his grandfather’s journal had made no mention of any of this. What else had he left out? Neither did it pass his notice that Mrs. Breckensole had been crafty enough to know that such a letter might be of worth at a later date. What other reason could there be for hiding it away for decades? He was about to ask that very question, when her next words tied his tongue.
“I’ve always suspected he pushed her down the stairs and to her death in one of his fits of rage. For that babe she carried wasn’t his either.” She looked straight at Max, her eyes slits of accusation and condemnation. “’Twas guilt and a raging fury that he was forced to claim another’s seed as his heir that turned him into a drunkard and opium addict. Not devastation.”
The emotions skating across Maxwell’s face tore at Gabriella’s composure. She’d wanted him to be taken down a notch, longed for him to understand how she felt, but this comeuppance brought her no joy. No sense of satisfaction. Because the plain, inarguable truth was, when he hurt, so did she.
A fierce, ache burned in the depths of her being. And that suggested she was beyond—way beyond, in fact—I could have loved you Maxwell and had come full circle to, I do love you. So very much, that each beat of my heart is agony.
Statue stiff, he clenched the paper. His eyelids drifted closed, the fringe of his lashes, thick and dark across his high cheekbones. He didn’t argue, which suggested he believed the letter’s legitimacy. The long ago, undelivered note to a lover now fisted in his grip might well be what it took for him to cry off. To change his mind about reclaiming Hartfordshire Court, marriage to her, and all the rest.
This was the miracle she’d prayed for. The means to save her home and her family. So why did tears blur her vision? Why did she want to wrap her arms around Maxwell and comfort him?
“Gabriella, take the letter before he destroys it,” her grandfather ordered, a hint of panic in his tone as if the thought had just occurred to him.
What Would a Duke Do? Page 15
