Last Duke

by Andrea Kane

  “You also vowed to destroy my father.”

  An ironic light dawned in Pierce’s eyes. “At the time, I didn’t realize he’d already destroyed himself.”

  “I agree with Daphne,” Elizabeth abruptly concurred. She raised her chin, drawing strength from the vicar’s loving nod. “Harwick can’t hurt me any more than he already has. But he can hurt others. Don’t allow it, Pierce.”

  Contemplating Elizabeth’s heartfelt words, pondering the absolute selflessness demonstrated by both Daphne and her mother, Pierce felt a fierce, overwhelming surge of pride. “Take all my money, Tragmore. It matters not, for I’ll still emerge the winner.”

  “What nonsense are you spouting?” Tragmore demanded. “Are you changing your mind? Are you refusing to—”

  “Sir?” Prudence, who had slipped away, unspotted, tugged at Tragmore’s coat. “Don’t be angry.” Her voice was a whisper of sound over the shouts of the adults and the pounding construction.

  “What?” Tragmore jerked around, staring down at Prudence as if she were filth.

  “Don’t shout,” she murmured again. “ ’Specially not at Daphne. She’s a snowdrop.” Her little face brightened. “You can ’old my doll,” she offered, extending her flaxen-haired treasure to him. “She’ll make ye feel better.”

  “How dare you approach me, you dirty urchin!” Tragmore bellowed, shoving Prudence and the doll away. “Remove your vile plaything from my presence.”

  “Ye don’t understand.” Patiently, Prudence repeated herself, again proffering her beloved toy. “She’ll make ye feel less angry. She makes my sister stop cryin’—and me, too. Take ’er.”

  With a roar of anger, Tragmore slapped the doll from Prudence’s hands, sending it tumbling, face down, in the dirt.

  “My Daphne!” Prudence shrieked, snatching it from the ground. Her eyes widened with fear as Tragmore bore down on her.

  “This will teach you to disobey me!” he roared, slapping her so violently he propelled her backwards directly into the plow horses.

  Whinnying their protest, the horses reared, wrenching at their harnesses and stretching the connecting rope beyond its endurance.

  Tragmore was oblivious to their frenzy. All he saw was the wretched child on whom he intended to vent all his pent-up rage.

  His hand raised again.

  “No!”

  Daphne didn’t realize she’d screamed. The world converged into one scene: her father striking Prudence’s doll, thrashing Prudence, and it was twelve years ago again, at the House of Perpetual Hope, and Prudence was Sarah.

  Back then, Daphne could do nothing.

  Now, she could.

  “Leave her alone!” Springing forward, Daphne snatched Prudence in her arms, darting away from her father’s impending assault.

  The rope snapped.

  “Look out!” a workman shouted.

  It was too late.

  The heavy wooden beam crashed down, smashing full force onto Tragmore’s head.

  Silently, he crumpled.

  23

  “I SHOULD MOURN HIM. But I don’t.”

  Daphne stared out over Markham’s gardens, gripping the rail of the morning room balcony.

  “No, sweetheart, you shouldn’t.” Pierce wrapped his arms about her from behind. “We only mourn those who are deserving. Tragmore was a monster. Death cannot alter that fact.”

  Turning into her husband’s arms, Daphne closed her eyes. “I’ll never forget how horribly he died,” she whispered. “His skull crushed beneath that beam.”

  “No, you won’t,” Pierce agreed, grateful that he’d shielded Daphne from viewing her father’s mangled body firsthand. The memory of his gruesome death would dim that much faster with no hellish image to haunt her. “You won’t forget,” Pierce murmured again, pressing her closer, “but it’s been a mere week. In time the pain of remembering will ease. Trust me. There are things I never dreamed I could recover from, and I have.”

  Daphne tilted back her head. “Father poured out horrid admissions to you that day, and yet, rather than becoming enraged, you seemed vindicated. As if all the anger were draining from within vou.”

  “It was.” Pierce threaded his fingers through Daphne’s hair, a look of wonder in his eyes. “I never would have believed it myself. For years I’ve plotted, envisioning that final confrontation, the day I would reveal to Tragmore all I knew while bringing the scoundrel to his knees. I mentally enacted the scene hundreds, perhaps thousands, of times. Had you asked then, I would have sworn I’d die before conceding to his demands. But when that day of reckoning finally arrived, when I confronted my past head on, I suddenly discovered it no longer mattered. Because I now have something more powerful than hatred to live for. And that something is right here in my arms.”

  Daphne rose up to kiss him, her gaze filled with pride and love. “Your boundless courage never fails to astound me. Of all the magnificent deeds you’ve performed as Pierce Thornton and as the Tin Cup Bandit I think relinquishing your past is the most heroic.” She lay her hand against his jaw. “Our babe might not yet realize it, but his father is an extraordinary man.”

  A shadow crossed Pierce’s face.

  “You’re thinking of your own father,” Daphne ventured.

  “It’s the only piece of the past I have yet to come to terms with, perhaps because I don’t fully understand it,” Pierce admitted quietly. “And after the things Tragmore said last week—” Wearily, he rubbed his temples. “I don’t know what to think.”

  “It did sound as if your father was perhaps not quite the monster you believed him to be,” Daphne suggested.

  “He turned his back on me, damn it!”

  “That indicates weakness, not cruelty.” Daphne clutched her husband’s forearms, determined to complete his healing process, to offer him the peace he craved. “Pierce, you told me yourself the late duke seemed disinterested whenever he and Father met with Barrings, that Markham spent most of his time wandering about the workhouse—‘merely looking,’ were your exact words. My father’s boast just before he died confirmed what you and I had already concluded. Markham’s visits to the House of Perpetual Hope were solely to assure himself of your well being. Compensation was certainly not a factor—not when he was losing money by paying Father to conduct the illegal dealings with Barrings. Nor was cruelty a factor.” Seeing Pierce’s puzzled look, she added, “When you accused Father of thrashing the workhouse children, did you not contend that he’d returned to do so on occasions other than his weekly meetings with Barrings?”

  Slowly, Pierce nodded.

  “Was the late duke present during those beatings?”

  “No.”

  “So there’s every reason to assume he knew nothing about them.” Daphne counted off on her fingers. “Consequently, it appears your father accepted no payments, struck no children, and had no active interest in keeping Barrings in the headmaster’s office. Nor was he aware of Barrings’s and Father’s brutal treatment during his absence. He only wanted a reason to see his son. No, Pierce, that is not the behavior of an uncaring man. Only a vulnerable one.”

  “True.” Pierce inhaled sharply. “Which brings to mind the one unanswered question that continues to plague me. Tragmore claimed he blackmailed Markham to keep him involved in the workhouse scheme.”

  “I remember.” Daphne nodded thoughtfully. “Father said Markham lost interest, presumably when you ran away from the workhouse, and he found the means to rekindle that interest.”

  “Yes, but with what did he blackmail him? What threat did he use? Damn!” Pierce released Daphne and turned away, a tormented look in his eyes. “Over and over we continue to speculate. But that’s all it is, speculation. I wish I knew what Markham had been thinking. Perhaps then I could find some peace.”

  “I believe I can help you on that score.”

  Both Pierce and Daphne turned to see Hollingsby standing in the doorway.

  “Forgive me for intruding. And don’t blame Langley. He d
id his job flawlessly, insisting that you were not yet receiving any visitors.” The solicitor’s lips curved into a grin. “But I’ve been sharpening my timing. I waited until Langley took one of his infrequent breaks, then showed myself in. And evidently, my timing is better than I realized.” He strolled over, laying his portfolio on the desk. “I have a letter here that I believe will provide you with the peace you seek.”

  “You’re not a visitor, Hollingsby. You’re a friend,” Pierce responded at once. “And you’re always welcome in our home.” His brows drew together. “A letter?”

  Hollingsby extracted two envelopes, simultaneously inclining his head in Daphne’s direction. “I’d like to express my sympathy on your father’s untimely death.”

  “Thank you, but it isn’t necessary.” Daphne crossed the room, pouring two glasses of brandy and handing them to Pierce and Hollingsby. “We all know what kind of man Father was. I wouldn’t wish so violent a death on anyone, but to feign mourning would be absurd. In truth, what I’m feeling is a combination of deep sadness and deep relief. Sadness at the ugly waste Father made of his life, and relief that Mama, and all the others who were subject to Father’s cruelty, are finally free.”

  “You’re an astonishing woman,” Hollingsby replied admiringly. He stared into his drink, then raised his gaze to meet Daphne’s. “I’ll be blunt. What I have to show Pierce involves your father. If you’d prefer not to be present—”

  “No.” Staunchly, Daphne went to her husband’s side. “I’ll stay.”

  Waiting only to see Pierce’s nod of agreement, Hollingsby extended the first sealed envelope. “The late duke left specific instructions that I deliver this letter to you only upon and immediately following the Marquis of Tragmore’s death.”

  With a start of surprise, Pierce set down his drink and accepted the envelope, tearing it open and smoothing out the handwritten sheets it contained. Then he sank down onto the settee, gesturing for Daphne to sit beside him. She complied, and together they read his fathers words.

  My dear son Pierce:

  You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to address you as such, to shout to the world that you—and your mother—are mine. But some realizations come too late, as it is only at the end of one’s life that one can truly assess what is important and what is trivial. Apologies are meaningless, for no words can recapture what has already been lost, nor mend pain too deeply inflicted to heal. Just know that I have suffered greatly by my own stupidity and weakness, for I denied myself a life with the woman I loved, as well as the chance to know the child we shared.

  How proud I am that you have inherited your mother’s compassionate heart and strength of character, for your children will never know the agony of desertion I allowed you and Cara to bear.

  Enough empty regrets. The fact that you’re reading this letter means that Tragmore is gone, and his threats can no longer harm us. In looking back, I realize what a fool I was to trust him. My only defense is that, in my colossal naiveté, I truly believed him to be a friend.

  Let me explain my imprudent actions of three and twenty years ago, in the hopes that you will comprehend, if not understand.

  The letter went on to reiterate the details Tragmore had flaunted before he’d died: that Markham had approached him out of a desperate need to visit the workhouse and under the guise of overseeing a friend’s child, that Tragmore had conjured up the idea of accompanying him in order to himself conduct illicit dealings with Barrings, and that, once Pierce had escaped the confines of the House of Perpetual Hope and Markham had wanted to extricate himself from the whole situation, Tragmore had refused to allow it.

  Eagerly, Pierce turned the page, searching for the answers he so desperately craved.

  Tragmore didn’t give a damn if I continued accompanying him to see Barrings or not. All he wanted was my ongoing payments for his initial assistance and my ensured silence about his illegal activities. He revealed to Barrings that I was considering backing out of our arrangement, embellishing on my notification by adding that I planned to report their unlawful transactions to the authorities—something I’d never threatened, nor even considered. Of course, Barrings panicked, as Tragmore knew he would. The two of them confronted me, announcing that, should I refuse to agree to their demands, Tragmore would go to the House of Lords and disclose the entire scheme, except that he would proclaim me its perpetrator and he and Barrings the shocked and innocent parties who had denounced my illegal dealings and now sought justice. Barrings would, of course, support Tragmore’s claim. With such weighted evidence, my family and my reputation would be destroyed.

  It wasn’t worth the risk, Pierce. It was far easier to just pay Tragmore his cursed money and be done with it. And not only to protect my family name. You would also be in peril, should I refuse. You see, by now I understood the way Tragmore’s mind worked. He wouldn’t stop at condemning me before the House of Lords. If I refused to comply with his wishes, he’d dig into my past until he discovered my true reason for visiting the workhouse. And then, you’d be exposed to his blackmail—something I refused to permit. So I agreed to their terms, and started my private search for you all over again. Had I located you immediately, I assure you, you would not have spent those long years on the streets. I would have found a way to help you, no matter the cost. But by the time I unearthed your whereabouts, you were no longer a crafty pickpocket, but a shrewd young man, well on your way to success. The manner in which you assessed your investments, carefully and accurately selecting the lucrative ones and dismissing those that were unprofitable, reminded me a great deal of myself. You were a force to be reckoned with. You still are. Consequently, son, you didn’t need my help.

  Nor did you need me.

  ironic, isn’t it, that it is now I who need you?

  At this point, Pierce raised his head, realization jolting through him like gunfire. “Hollingsby, the day you read me the codicil, I recall your saying my father had kept a perpetual, though discreet, eye on me after I’d left the workhouse and that he therefore knew of my keen mind and suitability to run his estates and businesses.”

  Hollingsby nodded. “And he did, as you can see for yourself. I also told you he planned to approach you personally, but his illness thwarted him. Read on, and you’ll find that to be true, as well.”

  Pierce lowered his head and resumed.

  I can’t give you back the years, Pierce. Nor can I bring back your beautiful mother and beg her forgiveness for being the selfish, weak man who cast her aside. All I can give you is the knowledge that I was a heartless fool, and that I deserved neither Cara nor you by my side. Also know that I recognized these facts long ago, and that what kept me from riding to Wellingborough all this time and acknowledging you as mine was shame. Not shame for you, but shame for myself and for my cowardice. You see, I hadn’t the courage to face the hatred in your eyes when I told you who I was. And now, when I’m even willing to risk your enmity so that I might once stand before you and call you son, I fear it’s too late, for each day I grow weaker, less able to leave my bed. So heed my words, Pierce, lest I die before having the chance to say them aloud.

  You’re an extraordinarily fine man, son. One who’s survived the depths of hell and flourished, both in spite of it and because of it. Never doubt your worthiness, for if any man can call himself noble, it is you. Be armed with that knowledge, for I’m proud that my blood flows through your veins. And now, in the event that you are seeing this letter before your two-year term as the Duke of Markham is complete, read my final note to you, left in Hollingsby’s capable hands. But remember, whether or not you choose to remain the Duke of Markham, you will always remain my rightful heir—an honor, indeed, not for you, but for me.

  With great affection, Your father, Francis Ashford

  For an endless moment Pierce stared down at the pages, his fingers trembling as he folded them.

  “Pierce?” Daphne touched his face. “Are you all right?”

  “I’ve lived
thirty years believing he didn’t care enough to acknowledge me,” Pierce replied in a choked voice. “Even after I’d heard the terms of the codicil, I assumed he’d only made those stipulations because he wasn’t alive to be humiliated by heralding his bastard son.”

  “He was terrified you’d reject him,” Daphne returned softly. “He was also terrified of my father’s blackmail, not only for himself, but for you. The duke was protecting you, and in his way loving you. Those were the reasons he never came forward, not cruelty or disdain. My God, Pierce, surely you see how proud he was of you. It’s evident in every word he’s written.”

  “Yes. It is.” A muscle worked in Pierce’s jaw. “What final note is he referring to?”

  “This one.” Hollingsby proffered the second sealed envelope. “The day I revealed the terms of the codicil, you asked me if your father had made provisions in the event that you remained childless or produced a daughter rather than a son.

  “I remember. You told me the duke had left a sealed envelope for me to open after the two-year period had passed.”

  Hollingsby nodded. “This is that envelope. It is your final communication from your father.”

  “But two years haven’t elapsed.”

  “True. But Tragmore’s death makes the waiting period unnecessary, as your father stipulated when he entrusted the letter to me.” Silently, Hollingsby pressed the envelope into Pierce’s palm. “Open it.”

  Dazedly, Pierce tore open the envelope.

  Pierce, it began:

  If you’re reading this letter, I must presume that either two years have passed since you’ve assumed your rightful title, or Tragmore is no longer alive to threaten your well being. Whichever is the case, I can at last rest in peace. With you at the helm, Markham has doubtless thrived, as have my businesses. Quite possibly, you have a child of your own now, and a wife who loves you as you deserve. For the sake of your happiness, I hope so. For the sake of the codicil’s terms, however, it matters not.