Edward sighed, not wanting to think about that. Durham was supposed to go to Charlie. “Some distant cousin. Augustus, I suppose.”
“Perhaps he’s the one who sent those letters,” said Gerard.
“Perhaps. Perhaps it’s the woman herself. Perhaps her children. Good God,” he said as the thought struck him. “You don’t suppose Father had other children?”
“Wouldn’t that cause a stir?” His brother gave a harsh crack of laughter. “Rather odd they haven’t come forward in all this time.”
“Rather odd our own father never mentioned the possibility of their existence.” Edward walked to the tall windows that overlooked the lush gardens his mother had designed and planted, and he himself had maintained. He felt at home in those gardens, at peace—usually. A hot fury burned in his chest that all this might be yanked out from beneath him and given to another. He had spent his life here, doing everything that was required. He was needed here. Without Durham, what would he be, where would he go? How could he face his fiancée, Lady Louisa Halston, and tell her he was no longer Lord Edward de Lacey, brother of the Duke of Durham, but just some bastard son with no property? The scandal over his father’s bigamy would be enormous. How could he ask Louisa to endure that gossip? It simply staggered the mind that Durham had kept a prior marriage secret, knowing it could have come to light at any time and upended everything in their lives. In that moment he was almost glad the duke was dead, because he would have surely doomed himself to hell for what he would say to his father now.
Gerard came up beside him. He tossed back the remainder of his drink with a flick of his wrist. “We’ve got to find Charlie.”
“So that he might offer his sage counsel and guidance, and exert himself to deal with the problem?” Edward muttered.
Gerard gave a snort. “Hardly. But it’s his problem, too—he’s got even more to lose than you and I do.”
“When has that mattered?” But he knew his brother was right. Of course they had to tell Charlie, and since Charlie couldn’t be bothered to come to Sussex, even for his father’s death, it appeared they would have to go to him. And perhaps this would actually spur their brother into some action that didn’t involve personal pleasure. Perhaps that was why Durham had been so desperate to beg Charlie’s pardon; he knew very well how terribly his eldest son’s life would change if he were to lose his name, his title, and his fortune.
Unfortunately, for all that their father seemed to think them better equipped to cope, he and Gerard would suffer much the same fate.
Because if they couldn’t disprove this shadow on their claim to Durham, they would all lose everything.
Chapter 2
They found Charlie, not in a gaming hell or a brothel, but quietly asleep in his own bed. Of course, from the number of empty wine bottles in the room and the items of female clothing that had obviously been left behind, Edward guessed it was mere chance that they’d found him alone. But still, it was convenient to have him where he ought to be.
“Get up, Charlie.” Gerard strode around the bedroom, throwing open the drapes and making a great racket. Edward had stopped to soothe the worried butler and was a few steps behind. Having assured the poor man that he wouldn’t be sacked for letting them disturb Lord Gresham, Edward sent the butler for some hot tea and followed, every bit as set on rousing his elder brother as Gerard was.
Charlie grunted and rolled over. “Go away,” he moaned. “I’m ill.”
“We can tell.” Gerard picked up something from the chaise and held it up: a lady’s silk stocking. “On death’s doorstep, obviously.”
Charlie squinted at the stocking, then closed his eyes again. “Agatha’s. Only she wears violet.”
“And I suppose Agatha gave you the pox or the consumption or whatever ails you.”
“I have a headache, you damned idiot.”
Gerard snorted. Edward gave him a quelling look. He had located a chair by now, and pulled it up beside the bed. “You’d better get well soon, Charlie. We’ve got a much bigger problem.”
“What? Oh yes, I got your note about Father.” Charlie blinked open his eyes again. “I suppose I’m too late to pay my final respects.”
“Indeed,” Edward said dryly. “By several days.”
“I assumed as much. Well, the old man will rest in greater peace for not having had to deal with me one last time.”
“On the contrary,” Edward replied. “He called for you desperately in his last hours.”
For a second Charlie’s face went still, and not for the first time Edward wondered just what had gone on between his father and brother. But Charlie just shrugged, his expression relaxing again. He stuffed another pillow behind his back and pushed himself up a little. “Then I’ll be on watch for his ghost, come to haunt me throughout eternity for denying him the pleasure of one last lecture.”
“You would deserve it,” said Gerard. “We had to tell him you were on your way.”
“No one asked you to lie for me.” Charlie shot him an insolent look. “It’s just one more sin for my collection: disappointing Durham on his deathbed.”
Gerard shot him a disbelieving look. “Have you lost every shred of care for our father?”
“Obviously,” said Charlie with a twist to his mouth. “But if he’s dead and buried already, and long past any groveling for forgiveness on my part, why must you rouse me from my sickbed?”
“You don’t look terribly ill to me,” muttered Gerard.
“Stop it,” Edward snapped. There was a feverish brightness to Charlie’s eyes, and when a footman slipped in with the tea tray, Charlie sat up to pour a cup, and sipped with alacrity. Unless the tea in the pot was really brandy, it wasn’t his usual behavior. Edward got up and closed the door securely behind the servant. “Charlie, I would be glad to leave you to your suffering, but you haven’t got time to be ill now. We—all three of us—have a serious problem, and time and secrecy are vital.”
Charlie leaned back against his pillows, looking tired again. “What is it? I’m sure I’ll be no help at all in solving it.”
“It turns out Father had a bit of a secret,” Edward said grimly, ignoring his brother’s attempt to dodge all responsibility. “A clandestine marriage some sixty years ago. He and the woman decided it had been a mistake and went their separate ways.”
“Really?” Charlie smiled in a vaguely bitter way. “Who knew the old dog had it in him?”
“He never divorced her.”
Charlie just looked at him, eyebrows raised.
“And he had no proof she died.”
It took a moment, then Charlie’s eyes closed. “Ever?”
“Ever,” Edward confirmed. “Let alone before April of 1774.” When Durham had wed his duchess, their mother.
For a long moment everyone was silent. “Well,” said Charlie quietly. “That is a bit of a problem, isn’t it?”
“Not for you, clearly,” exclaimed Gerard. “You’ve lost a dukedom, and all you can say is, ‘that’s a bit of a problem’? Are you mad? Don’t you understand what’s at stake here?”
“Gerard,” said Edward in warning. Charlie was still sprawled across his pillows as before, one arm draped over his forehead, but his hand had curled into a fist. Whether it was anger at Durham, or at their new circumstances, or at Gerard for baiting him, Edward didn’t know, but they didn’t have time for an argument. “No one knows just how deep the trouble is. Some months ago, Father began receiving letters from someone who hinted that the secret marriage wasn’t so secret after all, and that more trouble was waiting if Father didn’t pay.”
“Someone blackmailed Durham? How very ironic,” murmured Charlie.
“There was no proof of anything,” Edward went on sharply, glaring at Gerard to keep quiet. His younger brother snorted and stalked away to the window. They had agreed Charlie must be told, but Gerard was straining at the bit to do something, not keep talking. Perhaps he should have told Gerard to go ahead and charge off while he took care of tel
ling Charlie . . . Well, it was too late now. He plowed on with his explanation. “The letters arrived sporadically, beginning almost a year ago, and Father took extensive measures to discover the author, but could not. He also tried to discover if his first wife lived or died, but couldn’t find a trace of her, either. But still the letters came, four in all. Pierce handed them over, along with a letter from Father detailing his efforts. And now that Father’s dead, this person—or the woman, if she’s still alive—may announce this publicly. I’m sure you can guess what would follow.”
Charlie was silent for a moment. “Not everything was entailed.”
“No, the estate in Lincolnshire is clear, left outright to you. We each have a modest sum of money. But everything else . . .”
“Yes,” repeated Charlie. “Everything else.”
“That’s quite a lot,” said Gerard from across the room. Arms folded over his chest, he leaned against the window frame and fixed a hard look on both of them. “The name, for one thing. Legitimacy, for another. I don’t fancy being a bastard, let alone a bastard with only a thousand pounds a year. We’ve got to do something, and the sooner the better.”
“You could go shoot this woman and solve all our problems.”
“Charlie!” Edward scowled at him as Gerard bristled. “Do take this seriously. We could lose everything—everything, do you hear me?”
“Of course I heard you,” muttered Charlie. “But what do you suggest we do?”
“Engage the best solicitors in London at once. We don’t wish to challenge the will—right now it leaves everything to us, as expected, and a challenge will only tie up the estate. But if another claim is filed, we need to have our case prepared to counter immediately.”
Charlie lay back and stared at the ceiling. “That sounds reasonable.”
“It sounds slow.” Gerard came back across the room and sat on the edge of the bed, ignoring Charlie’s hissed curse as the mattress shifted under his weight. “What shall we do? Engaging a pack of solicitors is all very good, but then what—shall we three go on as if nothing is wrong? What if word of this leaks out?”
“Unless this woman comes forward, there is no problem.”
“This woman, or her heirs, or the blackmailer,” Gerard retorted. “You’re thinking too tamely. We could still end up decimated by gossip.”
“Gossip about what, Gerard?” Edward said testily. “Something that might never happen and hasn’t been uncovered in sixty years?”
“Gossip that we’re about to lose everything. You know as well as I do that the appearance of ruin is almost the same as ruin itself.”
“Then what do you propose we do?”
Gerard leaned back against the bedpost and propped one fist on his knee. “Find the blackmailer. That will put an end to it.”
“How do you plan to do it? Father searched for months and hadn’t a clue who it was.”
“It’s better than sitting around waiting for a sniveling lawyer to tell me what my fate is!”
Edward pinched the bridge of his nose and reined in his temper. It did no good to argue with his brother. He wished he could be a bit more like Charlie, who simply poured another cup of tea and leaned back into his pillows, watching with detached interest. “If you think you can find the blackmailer, Gerard, I will be the last to stand in your way,” he said. “In fact, I wish you the best of luck. But I cannot, in good conscience, leave us legally unprepared. If this woman—or her heirs, as you say—should come forward, I want to be ready. We’ll have to contest the validity of her marriage, and that will take time to prepare, no matter that she hasn’t lived as Durham’s wife in over half a century. Even if her heirs have no credible claim on Durham, we could still lose it to Father’s cousin Augustus if he files a rival petition to be granted the dukedom. In fact, even if you find the blackmailer and throttle him with your bare hands, if the man has solid proof his charges are true—and provides it to Augustus—we’re still in trouble.”
“Not if he never gets the chance to present it,” muttered Gerard grimly.
Edward clenched his jaw and turned to Charlie. “What do you think?”
His brother lifted one shoulder. “Both plans sound excellent to me. Gerard will go kill the blackmailer and you’ll raise an army of lawyers. Fine ideas both. I agree wholeheartedly.”
“And what do you plan to do?”
Charlie gave Gerard a smirk, and raised his teacup as if in salute. “Stay out of the way, of course.”
Gerard stared at him in astonishment. Even Edward was surprised. Charlie was acting as if he didn’t care at all whether he was the next Duke of Durham or an illegitimate son with only a single Lincolnshire estate. Deep inside his head, a little voice whispered that Charlie didn’t really deserve Durham, and it would serve him right if he lost it all. He certainly hadn’t valued it much to date. Part of Edward took some malicious glee in the thought of Charlie left with nothing but a small country estate whose income wouldn’t cover his tailoring bills. He could just picture his brother moldering away in Lincolnshire—lovely country, really, hundreds of miles away from the glittering splendor of London.
But of course, surrendering Charlie’s birthright would also have the unfortunate effect of surrendering his own. No matter how ungrateful or disinterested his brother was, Edward knew he still had to do everything in his power to keep Durham. It was the only life he had ever known, and he wasn’t giving it up just because his brother was a lazy sot. It would merely be one more time Charlie coasted along on the fruits of his efforts.
“Very well then,” he said in truce. “Gerard shall pursue the blackmailer. I’ll see to the solicitor. Charlie . . . carry on as you were.”
“Always planned to,” murmured Charlie, pouring more tea.
Gerard held up one hand as Edward started to rise. “And we must all pledge absolute secrecy. It would unleash a storm of gossip unparalleled in London’s history. Not a word of this unpleasant business to anyone—excepting of course whatever you must tell the solicitor. Agreed?”
Charlie shrugged. “Of course.”
Edward nodded. “Agreed, except . . . I must tell Louisa.”
“Louisa!” Gerard frowned. “Must you?”
“How can I not?” Edward frowned back. “She deserves to know.”
His brother looked unconvinced. “I know you care for her, but I suggest you reconsider. You’ll have to put the wedding off because of Father’s death, but there’s no need to tell her of . . . this.”
“Gerard, she is my fiancée,” Edward replied, each word coated in ice. “I cannot keep something like this from her.”
Gerard hesitated. “Perhaps you should, if you want to keep her as your fiancée.”
Edward stilled. “I will pretend I didn’t hear that,” he said quietly. “Louisa is a woman of understanding and discretion. Moreover, she is the woman I love, and the woman who loves me. I wouldn’t dream of keeping such a terrible secret from her.”
A dull flush burned his brother’s face. “Right,” he muttered. “I apologize. Do what you think is best.”
He nodded stiffly. “Accepted.” An awkward silence filled the room. Edward didn’t feel like breaking it. How dare Gerard imply Louisa wouldn’t stand by him? Theirs wasn’t an arranged marriage, but a love match. He hated to tell her, but it was inconceivable that he could keep such a secret from her. He would be distracted and busy, and she would notice that at the very least—and that was if the scandal didn’t burst over London like the fireworks at Vauxhall. Somehow it seemed incredible Charlie wouldn’t let it slip to someone. It would probably be a comfort, in fact, if Louisa knew; Edward wasn’t about to tell another soul, and he knew it would be a relief to confide in someone. And if the news did get out, she deserved to hear it from him.
Gerard cleared his throat and got to his feet. “Well, good. Glad we’re agreed. I’ll look over the blackmail letters again and get started.”
“Godspeed, and good luck,” said Charlie gravely.
&nb
sp; Gerard growled something rude under his breath. Edward glared at his older brother. “Thank you for sparing us a few moments of your time.” If Charlie heard the sarcasm in his voice, he didn’t respond to it. Edward followed Gerard from the room, closing the door behind him.
“I know he didn’t get on well with Father, but this is too much,” said Gerard, quietly seething, as they went down the stairs. “Is he too stupid to realize what this could mean, or is he just unspeakably indolent?”
“I don’t know, but it doesn’t matter.” Edward repressed any hint of the sympathy he felt with Gerard’s frustration. “We would press on no matter what Charlie’s attitude. And I cannot believe he doesn’t care at all.”
“What, then?” said Gerard in a sharp, low voice. They had reached the hall, and Edward motioned to the footman waiting nearby to bring their coats and hats. “Why can’t he even express the slightest dismay or outrage?”
“Because that’s not how Charlie is.” Edward raised his eyebrows. “Charles de Lacey, scoundrel and rake extraordinaire, show any concern? Don’t you remember when he lost his favorite horse in a wager to old Garston? Came home whistling as if he hadn’t a care in the world, but late that night I caught him staring at the portrait of himself astride that horse.”
Gerard sighed, some of his flush of anger fading. “Lord, I’d forgotten. And Garston made sure to ride the damned horse every time he called, didn’t he, just to rub it in Charlie’s face. He did love that beast.”
Edward nodded in agreement. He’d almost forgotten that story, too, but the look on Charlie’s face when they broke the news had summoned up the memory. His brother cared about things—some things—but for some reason laughed off everything.
Still, this was far more important than a lost horse. This was Durham itself. Whether Charlie cared or not, whether he exerted himself in any way or not, this wasn’t something either Edward or Gerard was willing to just let him suffer through and laugh off. “I don’t expect Charlie to do anything,” he said to Gerard. “In fact, it may be easier if he stays out of the way, as he said.”
One Night in London Page 2
