“My brother, Lord Gresham, is not yet here. Captain de Lacey and I are in no hurry to proceed without him.”
Pierce nodded. “As you wish, sir.”
“There is just one thing.” Edward raised one hand. “My father was quite agitated near the end, begging us to forgive him, but he wouldn’t say for what sin. He said you would explain.”
Pierce looked startled. “He didn’t—he didn’t tell you?”
“Tell us what?” Gerard was coming down the stairs, buttoning his scarlet jacket.
“Welcome home, Captain. My deepest sympathies,” said the solicitor with a quick bow.
“Thank you, Mr. Pierce.” Gerard turned to Edward. “The mysterious sin?” Edward nodded once, and Gerard fixed his penetrating gaze on Mr. Pierce again. “Do you know what Durham meant by that?” he asked in his usual direct way.
Mr. Pierce’s eyes darted between the two of them. “Yes,” he said. “I believe I do. I have a letter, as well as many other documents from His Grace, which will explain everything—as much as can be explained. But I think we should await Lord Gresham so that you might hear it, and the contents of His Grace’s will, together.”
“God only knows when Gresham will find his way out to Sussex,” said Gerard. “My brother and I would like to know now.”
“Yes,” Edward said when the solicitor shot a questioning look at him. He and Gerard had been unable to guess what Durham meant, and it was bothering Gerard as much as it was him. Over breakfast they agreed that since Durham had pushed the task onto the solicitor, it was undoubtedly some matter of inheritance. Perhaps their father had imposed some onerous conditions in his will or made some unexpected bequests—but that, of all things, was something completely in Durham’s power to change, and have no need of forgiveness. They were both at a complete loss, and very impatient to know the answer.
Mr. Pierce drew in a deep breath. “His Grace wished you to hear it at once—all three of you, since it affects you all.”
“Now, Mr. Pierce,” snapped Gerard.
“If you please,” Edward added more politely. “On this we do not wish to wait.”
“Your father—”
“Is dead,” said Edward. “I believe you are in my brother’s employ now—at the moment.”
Everyone knew Edward ran Durham, right down to which flowers were planted in the gardens. Everyone knew Charles, the new duke, wouldn’t give a damn which solicitor handled his affairs. If Edward wanted to sack Pierce, Charles wouldn’t lift a finger in protest. And Mr. Pierce knew just how profitable it was to handle Durham’s legal affairs. He hesitated only a moment, glancing from Edward to Gerard and back.
“The trouble is,” the solicitor began in a lowered voice, “it is not a well-defined problem; it stems from events many, many years ago, and unwinding the knot after so long has proven very difficult.”
“What knot?” growled Gerard.
“There is a chance,” said Mr. Pierce, as though choosing each word with care, “a very small, remote possibility, although it is impossible to ignore, that . . .”
“What?” prompted Edward sharply when the man hesitated again. This was doing nothing to ease his bad feeling about anything.
“That you—all of you, I mean—may . . . not be . . . able to receive your . . . full inheritances.”
“What?”
“Explain.” Edward held up one hand to quell Gerard’s outburst. “Why not?”
Mr. Pierce winced at his cold tone. “His Grace was married before he wed your late mother, the duchess,” he said, almost whispering. “Long ago.” He paused. “He and the young lady both decided the marriage had been a rash, youthful mistake and they parted ways.” Another pause. “But . . . there was no divorce.”
He didn’t need to say more. The implications came at Edward in a blinding rush. He looked at his brother, whose expression reflected his own dawning horror. Holy God. If Durham had been married . . . If his first wife had still survived when he married again . . . when he married their mother. . .
The solicitor was still speaking. “Unfortunately, recent letters received by the duke made clear this marriage was not as forgotten as His Grace had believed, and implied the woman might still be alive. His Grace expended a great deal of effort and expense trying to locate her—”
“Are you saying,” said Gerard in an ominous voice, “our father was a bigamist?”
A fine flush of perspiration broke out on Mr. Pierce’s forehead. “That has not been proved.”
“But it is a distinct possibility.” Gerard stabbed one finger at the man. “And you didn’t tell us!”
“I was expressly ordered not to, sir!”
“What do the letters say?” demanded Edward. He felt struck numb. It was one thing for Gerard not to have known; Gerard had been on the Iberian Peninsula until two months ago, and then with his regiment at Dover. It was even understandable that Durham would have kept it from Charlie, even though he was the heir apparent. Charlie wouldn’t have taken it well, or been much help in getting to the root of the problem. But his father had kept this dreadful secret from him, from the son who had stayed at his side and managed his estates and dined with him every evening and cared for him in his final illness. Of all the people Durham might have trusted enough to confide in, Edward thought he would have been the one.
Apparently, he was wrong.
“I have brought them, as His Grace instructed.” Mr. Pierce indicated his bulging satchel apologetically. “I believe he wished to take care of the problem himself and spare all three of you any uneasiness, my lord.”
Great lot of good that did, thought Edward bitterly. “We’ll look at them later,” he said, masking his emotions with effort. The butler stepped forward at his wave.
“Thank you, my lord,” said Pierce with a bow. He followed the butler up the stairs, his relief evident in his quick step. Edward strode after his brother, who had turned and left the hall. Gerard was already pouring a drink when Edward stepped into the drawing room.
“The bloody scoundrel,” muttered Gerard.
“Father, or the solicitor?” He closed the doors behind him. No need to titillate the servants further.
“Both.” Gerard swallowed his brandy in one gulp and poured another. He raised one eyebrow at Edward, who shook his head. “But mostly Father, I suppose. What the bloody hell was he thinking?”
“I have no idea, and I was right here all the time.”
His brother glanced at him, apology flickering in his eyes. “I didn’t mean that. Just . . . What kind of fool keeps that secret?”
“A fool who doesn’t want to look like one,” said Edward. “Or an old fool who still thinks he can control everything.”
“Bastards,” Gerard said, and Edward flinched at the word spoken aloud. “We’ll be bastards if this woman turns up alive. All this” —he swept one hand around to indicate the room, the house, the estate— “will go to someone else.” He paused. “To whom would it go? I can’t even recall.”
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 needed. 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, Edward 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 had come 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, Edward 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.
Gerard de Lacey is a man of action, determined to save his family from ruin—and find himself a wealthy wife, just in case. Katherine Howe is a quiet widow with an independent fortune, desperate to avoid a distasteful second marriage by finding a husband of her own choosing. After an unorthodox proposal and a hasty wedding, they’re off to Bath in pursuit of the blackmailer threatening Gerard’s inheritance. Should love grow out of this most convenient of marriages, one can only Blame It on Bath.
Don’t miss BLAME IT ON BATH, coming in March 2012 from Avon Books.
About the Author
Caroline Linden knew from an early age she was a reader, but not a writer. Despite an addiction to Trixie Belden and Nancy Drew, she studied physics and dreamed of being an astronaut. She earned a math degree from Harvard College and then wrote software for a financial services firm, all the while reading everything in sight but especially romance. Only after she had children, and found herself with only picture books to read, did she begin to make up a story of her own. To her immense surprise, it turned out to be an entire novel—and it was much more fun than writing computer code. Now the author of seven books, she lives with her family in New England. Please visit her online at www.carolinelinden.com.
Also by Caroline Linden
One Night in London
You Only Love Once
For Your Arms Only
View to a Kiss
COPYRIGHT
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
I LOVE THE EARL. Copyright © 2011 by P. F. Belsley. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub Edition August 2011 ISBN: 9780062109477
Print Edition ISBN: 9780062115751
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