Back turned, refusing to acknowledge them, he knew he was being rude.
He didn’t care. This was an intrusion on the only safe place he had left.
Rising slowly, rolling out his neck, Paul put on his hat before addressing Slim and the strangers. “Slim, I didn’t realize you were taking clientele at this hour. How innovative.”
“You see, Mr. Fell,” said Slim, “they insisted they had important business with…”
“No doubt. But must it be conducted here, and now?”
Being the good friend that he was, Paul understood the tension in the situation intuitively, for which Lee was thankful. Save the charwoman, there was nobody present who would tattle, run to sell the tale.
But all the same, this rankled.
You’ll have to turn around sometime, he thought.
“Yes, I’m afraid so.”
That was Clyde, Thomas’ steward. It didn’t bode well, for it meant there was official business underfoot.
Paul’s eyes flickered down to meet Lee’s, and he grimaced in sympathy.
Thinking nonsense to distract himself from the very strange present, Lee wanted to ask if Paul had ever thought about taking a role. He seemed to be projecting his voice marvelously. But he’d only ever assisted behind it.
Heaving a large sigh, Lee shifted at last and stood up.
Clyde, Slim, and a stranger—the man who had spoken first, if Lee had his guess—stood in the pit, outlined by the candlelight from the cheap tapers Lee had brought up to the stage so he could work without wasting too much of the house’s better resources.
The men gazed at Lee and Paul.
No one knew what to say first.
Irritated by their staring, Lee cleared his throat. The stranger’s brow furrowed in consternation, while Clyde smiled apologetically.
“Well, what strange circumstance has brought you?” Lee said. He was in no mood to humor long silences. Looking perplexed, Slim was in step between the steward and the stranger. They drew closer to better hear Lee.
Time was, I could have filled this space with my words.
Clyde answered. “Your Grace, we—”
“Clyde, you have known me too long to mistake me for the Duke of Welb—” as Lee halted himself in shock, realizing what must have happened. Paul uttered a tiny noise of nervousness or distress. Lee was not certain which, although he assumed it was sympathetic.
That was precisely the problem. Clyde did know him.
Clyde would not make a casual mistake in address.
Ever.
“I apologize, Your Grace,” said Clyde. “The timing of the occasion means that there was no leisurely way in which we could manage—”
“How?”
“I beg your pardon?” Clyde exchanged a worried look with his unnamed companion.
“How did he die? I saw him only a fortnight ago.”
Lee ignored Paul’s look of horror, which mirrored how he felt. If they’d shown up like this with so little pomp or warning, Thomas must have gone in a ghastly way. Even though there was no love lost between them, Lee would not have wished a terrible accident, a traumatic death, on Thomas.
“Your Grace, I should introduce myself as the late duke’s valet, Mr. Charles Mason.” Mr. Mason gave a small bow, touching his black forelock. “That is why we have come to you in this obtrusive manner.”
“How did you know I would be here?”
“His Grace’s diary. It mentioned…” Mason took a moment. “Your haunts.”
“And you simply struck upon the right one?” Skeptical, Lee cocked his head. Even now, he sometimes wondered, idly, if Thomas had had more to do with Father’s discovery of his double-life. Maybe not… but perhaps his gambler friends know more about me, now? It was possible. At present, it might not be terribly important how Clyde and Mason had found him.
“We tried the pub first,” said Clyde. “The Rose?”
“The Wilted Rose,” said Lee.
“Yes, Your Grace,” said Mason. Lee appraised him, trying to keep from jumping to a conclusion of dislike. Not every valet was close to his employer.
He could not imagine the role would be pleasant under Thomas. So, he decided to give Mason the benefit of the doubt. “Perhaps I meant more to my brother, after all, if he mentioned my inconvenient vocation in his notes. I cannot recall telling him anything of use. Maybe,” said Lee, “he was having me watched, or listening to gossip.” He did not care—not truly—but he could not help being snide.
“Lee,” murmured Paul.
He couldn’t tell if it was meant to chastise or soothe. “What?”
“Nothing.” Kindly, Paul put a hand on his shoulder in a nonverbal warning. “Just…”
Lee shrugged it off. He might want kind words and the comfort offered by a trusted confidante, but he could not yet take them. There was one thing he could think of that would make dire matters worse: scrutiny.
“Does anyone else know, Clyde?”
“No, Your Grace.”
“It isn’t in the public eye—in any way?” He could not quite see how, as the townhouse was a private residence and it was still early in the day. Still, he had to ask.
“No,” said Clyde. “We’ve treated things with the utmost discretion.”
“It can’t have been in the papers. Not so soon,” said Paul, adding, “not that you really read them.”
It was true. After effectively leaving the ton, he cared little for society or scandal pages, and life as a soldier had soured him on word of fighting, of war. It left little to read.
“When?” croaked Lee.
“This morning,” said Clyde.
“I found the late duke in bed, not responding to any noise or movement,” said Mason. “He is—was—prone to sleeping heavily, so at first I thought little of it. I left him to go about some of my duties, and one of the maids discovered that he was actually…”
“Dead?” asked Lee. He could picture it as easily as a scene. The maid, scuttling in with a tea tray—and who knew, she might even have prepared the tea since Mrs. Yarrow was gone—and shrieking to find her master’s lifeless corpse. Lee did not blame Mason for failing to check on Thomas, who probably drank himself to sleep night after night.
Perhaps he should feel worse. Perhaps he should feel pity. But he only felt fear.
“Yes,” said Mason.
“We don’t know how, Your Grace,” added Clyde. The insinuation was clear. What he meant was, they didn’t know if it was natural or intentional. Those were the two options, after all. But the way Clyde said it confirmed what Lee suspected: that his brother might very well have killed himself. Who knew how much he’d consumed, or even if he chose to consume drink and something else together.
He was a man in debt, a proud man who felt he did not have options.
Instead of voicing any of this, Lee said, “Stop calling me that.”
Clyde winced minutely.
“Please,” Lee added. “Lord Valencourt is a little better, but not that.”
Your Grace was Father; it was Thomas.
It was not him.
*
If one could be both a decent man and thankful that one’s brother had died in a specific location and not somewhere else, Lee was. The thought of having to travel to Whitwell for something like this made him nearly queasy with apprehension. It had been a lifetime since he’d been back. He was grateful that he had only to travel within London.
Soon, you’ll have to go whether or not you want to.
As the carriage approached the townhouse, he pursed his lips to keep from sighing. He could not imagine his life anywhere but in this city, and he’d worked very hard to ignore what he’d experienced early in his time on earth. Father’s signet ring was cold and heavy in his palm. He held it gingerly, like it was a rose he did not want to crush. But in truth, he wished he could fling it out of the window and into the dreck that lined the gutters. Neither Clyde nor Mason would meet his eyes.
Clyde knew him well enough to u
nderstand that this damned title was both the last thing he thought he would get, and the last thing he would want to have.
He could not remember a time when he’d wanted to be the duke. If he ever had, it must have been soundly squashed by both his father and his brother.
If he was not mistaken, Clyde felt sorry for him.
Mason, on the other hand, was an unknown entity. What must he think of this new duke who’d lived most of his adult life in not just obscurity, but with a willful disavowal of what society said even spare sons should do? Lee was already planning on what he could do to downplay his prior life. It was fully possible that no one important knew he’d been sent into the army because he dared to be a thespian under cover of a false name.
That was how ashamed of him Father had been. He wouldn’t have told a soul.
It was equally possible that no one would ever make the connection between who he’d been until an hour ago and the Duke of Welburn. He would simply have to wait and see. He was certain that Paul would have told him if anyone who was someone had known of his shocking deviance in either case. The man was a walking encyclopedia of relevant societal knowledge.
There was a small flurry of activity outside the townhouse. Lee looked to Clyde, who was sitting opposite him. Clyde’s lined, rodent-like face was oddly gentle. “The doctor.”
“Oh, of course.”
“I don’t want to be indelicate, but do you wish to greet the, er, very few servants as their new duke? That can wait until later, if you wish.”
“I’d prefer to wait,” said Lee. He’d prefer to do it never. But if he had to choose, he would defer the action.
Clyde nodded. He would not say what all three of them most likely knew in one way or another: Thomas was not a man beloved by his staff or servants, and especially not by those who were left from his purge. They would not be in mourning in their hearts and, most likely, they would welcome the advent of a new duke.
Anyone must seem better, thought Lee. He snuck a glance at Mason, who had remained relatively impassive throughout the journey. His expression had not changed at Clyde’s words.
They were met by footmen when the carriage stopped, the same young men who’d been present for Mrs. Yarrow and Clements’ ejections. Upon alighting, Lee was met with bows and mumbles of “Your Grace”.
Things were, as perhaps they were bound to be, taking on the patina of a nightmare.
“Shall we go directly to his room?”
Clyde inclined his head in assent.
Mason nodded, and said, “I shall accompany you, Your… Lord Valencourt.”
“Meanwhile, I will be organizing the documents you shall need to see, and sign, and…” Clyde trailed off. He did not have to explain why he looked so somber. The estate was a ghost of its former self. Lee knew that. “Well, we have plenty to discuss and I trust you will appreciate my guidance?”
Lee nodded. Never, he was sure, had a man felt less ducal. He’d already been dressed in attire that was somewhat passable, thank whatever guardian angels he still possessed. But even that was years old. Paul had stepped in and helped him look less bedraggled, tying his cravat with more skill than a paid valet. Mason seemed hesitant to put himself forward for the service just yet, and silently looked up at the new duke and his friend as the cravat was tied.
It was all very bizarre with Slim, Clyde, and Mason still in the pit, and Lee and Paul onstage.
Then again, I shouldn’t be surprised at his skill. Paul had much practice at dressing himself—he’d woken up in strange beds all over London.
He wished his friend was able to accompany him now. But that would have been regarded as supremely odd. He remembered thinking a fortnight ago how the townhouse felt like a tomb. Now, he thought coolly, it rather was, a home that had never seemed as warm as a home should, a home that contained more acrimonious memories than good ones.
He mounted the stairs before Mason and reached Thomas’ bedroom—his, now—a room that was bathed in thin sunlight that battled its way through cloud cover. Things were askew and untidy, as though its occupant was not dead, but only sleeping.
He took normal footsteps toward Thomas and wondered if that made him heartless. No, he told himself. He had just seen more dead bodies than he’d ever imagined he would.
Someone, perhaps the doctor, had left him in his nightclothes, but atop the faded green coverlet and white sheets. His hair, unfashionably long and always curly to the point of wild, framed a face that looked no less pale than it had in recent memory.
The only clue that this was a corpse was the pallor of Thomas’ lips, which had gone gray. Even that just made him look ill rather than dead. Lee was almost certain that if he stood there long enough just staring, Thomas would lunge up with a growl and reprimand him for it.
Mason lingered behind him. “I don’t wish to intrude.”
“You are intruding on nothing,” said Lee. “We were not close.”
Cautiously, Mason said, “Yet you don’t seem pleased to have inherited the title.”
“I’m not, if you want the truth.” Lee turned to him and smiled just slightly. “My father was always very adamant that I was merely the spare, but he would never have dreamed that his heir would allow himself to get to this state.” There were uncorked decanters on the bureau and an open bottle of wine on the nightstand. Lee touched the signet ring in his pocket. Thomas’ hands were too bony and thin to wear it properly. “Tell me something, Mason.”
“What do you wish to know?”
“Were you fond of His Grace?”
With an impassive set to his face but a telling disdainful look in his eyes, Mason shrugged. “He was not a kind man.”
Lee knew that he wasn’t, but for a servant to say so was proof. “May I ask why you say so?”
Mason was, possibly, skeptical of Lee’s sincerity or motive for asking. He frowned.
Lee wanted him to be candid, so he clarified, “I should not say such things in front of my brother’s body, but our father goaded him into cruelty directed at me. I am not surprised that you were not close. That he was not… kind to you.” He glanced at Thomas, again, then returned his attention to Mason.
It was not hard to guess that Mason had been ill-treated at Thomas’ whim, but like many others, he had little choice but to accept the treatment or risk living on the street. Lee surmised that his brother liked having a valet who was cowed.
But Mason did not strike him as meek. Merely tolerant due to a lack of options.
“He was prone to fits of temper,” said Mason, metering out each word judiciously. “As things began to decline for him, both in the area of his health and his finances, he took to imbibing.”
“And I take it that this worsened his fits of temper.”
“Indeed.”
Sighing, Lee said, “Well, I do promise you that if you elect to stay in my employ… you won’t be ill-used.” Mason’s emotions were still inscrutable, for the most part. But Lee wondered if he didn’t spy a little relief in his face. “I want to make amends for my brother’s actions.”
He would not pry, although he itched to know more. Mason was unfathomable. He spoke like an educated man and carried himself with more refinement than the majority of the upper set. He might have been physically mistreated, but Thomas did not appear to have the vigor necessary to assault a healthy man. No, decided Lee, the abuse must have been emotional.
“Thank you, Your Grace. I haven’t the intention of leaving your household.”
It was at that moment that the doctor, an impossibly tall man who had hunched shoulders, reentered the bedroom. “Your Grace?” His words were more of a question than a statement, and Lee nodded.
“I am Lord Emilian Valencourt, the Duke of Welburn.” How bizarre those words felt on his tongue. Still, he made sure to speak up.
The doctor dipped into a bow. “My name is Dr. Sands, Your Grace. I am sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you,” said Lee. He stopped fiddling with the signet ring.
Accidental? thought Lee.
“I don’t understand.” There was much he didn’t understand today. Last night, his greatest worry was whether or not a backdrop of the Alps would dry properly by the time it was needed for a set tomorrow.
Today.
Mason said, helpfully, “His Grace was prone to pains, and he had been taking laudanum for quite some time.”
Slowly, Lee began to grasp what they were saying. Thomas had always been a drinker. So, he had essentially drunk himself to death. More accurately, he’d killed himself by drinking too much and taking his medicine. No doubt, the strain of having gambled away the viability of the estate had taxed him, too. His eyes fell again on his brother’s still form.
The tiniest snarl of pity made its way through his mind, before his reason took over. And now he’s left you to clean up his mess! He could not lose his temper in front of these men, and especially not Mason, who would now be his valet.
“I did not realize the extent of his drinking,” Lee said.
“I have been his personal physician for months. I often cautioned him against it.” Dr. Sands removed his spectacles and rubbed them on the hem of his sleeve. “I do not believe it is sinful, necessarily, but I have seen its effect over the long term.”
Suddenly, Lee had no desire to be in the presence of his dead brother, who had piled so much responsibility at his feet because he had not been able to deal with it as he should have. “Please, may we carry on our discussions elsewhere? I believe my steward is waiting for me and I do not want to delay him more than I must.”
“Of course, Your Grace.” Dr. Sands stepped into the corridor with Mason as Lee took one long, last glance at Thomas, unsure of what to feel or what to express. Or how to do either. It was a rare sensation for a man whose mind was so nimble with words that others sometimes asked him to do them the favor of drafting letters or simply telling them what to say.
Lee quietly shut the door.
Whatever Dr. Sands said to him as they made their way to the ground floor, he was certain he did not retain any of it. The man was not full of platitudes, but he seemed interested in explaining Thomas’ health—or lack of it—and how that contributed to his death. For Lee’s money, his death was neither premature nor unexpected, if this was how he’d been treating himself. And there was no polite way to say that he and his brother had not possessed the kind of relationship where one could admit one’s problems to the other.
Duke of Misfortune Page 5
