A Diamond for a Duke : Book 4: Camellia: Clean Regency Romance (A Duke's Daughters - The Elbury Bouquet)

by Arietta Richmond

  It was galling to even have to contemplate asking, but he could not allow everything he had worked for, everything old Mr Bentick had worked for – the man’s legacy, which he had inherited – to be destroyed because a few arrogant and selfish Lords hadn’t paid their bills.

  Thomas found himself worried – more so than he had been since the very first day that he had entered this shop, as a hopeful fifteen-year-old apprentice. He did not want to ask for more funds from his investor – they had not yet been paid back more than a pittance, in recognition of the funds they had put in before, and he was concerned that, should they realise how desperate he was becoming, they might wish to withdraw their investment entirely – which would leave Thomas with no choice but to sell the business.

  He knew that many of the ton were good people, who paid their bills, and treated others well, but he had, by bitter experience now, come to know that there were some whose arrogance and greed led them to disregard others, and assume that they could postpone the payment of bills indefinitely, without regard for the impact that had on the shopkeepers they did not pay.

  Fleetingly, he wondered what his life would have been like, had his father chosen to acknowledge him and support him openly. Many aristocratic men did exactly that with their illegitimate children, and those children went on to fine careers and good marriages. His father, for whatever reason, had not done so – had, in fact, made sure that Thomas’ very existence was hidden from all but a small number of people. At least the Duke had sent money to support his mother, and rented a house for her, until her death. It was something, Thomas supposed, and better than having been abandoned to live on the street.

  He pushed the thoughts away – there was no point going over ‘what-ifs’ about the distant past. He closed the ledger, and slipped it back into the drawer of the counter, just as the bell on the door jingled.

  Looking up, he smiled – this customer was well-known to him, and a man he respected. A man who paid his bills, and a man who performed, however quietly, an invaluable service for the Crown.

  “Good afternoon, Mr Black – I trust that you are well this day, despite the crispness of the weather?”

  “Indeed, I am, Lord Setford, and pleased to see you, as I always am. What can I do to help you today?”

  “I’ve come to see you for the purpose of discussing some new ‘special’ items, similar to the canes you created for me recently. Oh, and to pay my account, of course.”

  Lord Setford reached into his pockets, and drew out a flat leather folder, from which he produced a draft upon his bank, and handed it to Thomas. Thomas accepted it with a bow, and slipped it into the drawer with his ledger. He did not, with this man, need to check the amount. It would be correct, and the funds would be paid upon presentation of the draft, with no difficulties. Thomas knew that the sum was substantial, for the work he had done for Lord Setford was unusual, and required significant skill – skill he was proud to possess.

  The canes he had created for the man were specialised sword canes, each with a distinctive decorative silver head, which also provided a hidden space for storing small objects. Thomas had never enquired as to exactly who used the items which he made for Setford, but he had come to understand, over time, that the Baron was a spymaster for the Crown, or similar, and that items Thomas made might be used by many men in the service of their country. It was satisfying to know that his work assisted in that endeavour.

  “My thanks, my Lord. I most deeply appreciate that you always pay on time.”

  Lord Setford regarded him with his piercing grey eyes, his head tilted slightly to one side. Thomas felt as if the man could see his thoughts, could see just how grateful he was, to have those funds. It would delay the desperate measure of requesting more from his investor, at least for a few more weeks.

  “I make a point of it. No man should suffer for the sake of my inaction. But now, let us discuss the new items I would like you to make. These are a wholly new commission, something we have not attempted before.”

  From that slim leather folder, Setford withdrew another sheet of paper, and laid it on the counter, before slipping the folder back into his pockets. Thomas bent over the paper with him, eager to see the sketches, and to understand the new challenge that faced him.

  <<<>>>

  Damien looked at the unassuming building before him. It was well maintained, on a street which was a respectable address for such a business, and presented to the world a small hanging sign, proclaiming it to be the premises of Swithin and Baillieu, Solicitors. After a moment of contemplation, Damien went up the steps, and rapped the knocker upon the door.

  It was answered by a plainly dressed young man, with the ink stained fingers of a clerk.

  “Might Mr Swithin be in?”

  Damien handed the clerk his calling card, and watched as the young man’s eyes widened when he read it.

  “Yes, Your Grace,” the man bowed, “Please do come in.” he showed Damien to a small room, set to the side just inside the door. “If you will wait, I will inform Mr Swithin that you are here.”

  Damien nodded, and the young man rushed off, leaving him to contemplate the room around him. It was obviously designed to be used for just this purpose – meeting with any client who called, without requiring that they be exposed to the busy interior workings of a legal office. A desk graced one side of the room, with chairs set either side of it, and a small couch was placed beneath the window, with a side table nearby. A sideboard held books, and a decanter of brandy.

  He settled on the couch, and waited. He was here as a matter of impulse. Weeks spent considering what he should do had yielded no decision, and as he had left the house that morning, intent upon final arrangements for a small Christmas dinner party for his sisters- there would be no guests, but they deserved some acknowledgement of the festive season – he had found Mr Swithin’s card in his pocket. In that moment, he had been struck by the idea that he should simply speak to Mr Swithin again. So here he was.

  The door opened, and he rose.

  “Your Grace – what can I do for you? Do you have news for me, with respect to Mr Black?”

  “Not exactly, Mr Swithin – but he is the reason I am here today.”

  Mr Swithin closed the door behind him, and gestured towards the desk.

  “Please, be seated, Your Grace, and explain.”

  Damien settled onto the well-padded chair which sat before the desk, and Mr Swithin stepped around and sat opposite him.

  “I wanted, Mr Swithin, to ask you some further questions about Mr Thomas Black. I admit that, when you called upon me some weeks ago, I found myself startled by what you revealed. And the more I have thought about it since, the more questions have arisen in my mind.”

  “I will answer whatever I can, within the bounds of my responsibility to him, as my client.”

  Damien nodded, pleased with that answer, for it showed that Mr Swithin took the care of those who employed him seriously.

  “Then let me be blunt, and lay before you my first question – one which underlies every other thought which I have on the matter. How can I be sure that the man you deal with, as ‘Mr Thomas Black’ is actually my illegitimate half-brother, and not a money grabbing opportunist, who hopes to swindle his way into funds?”

  “A wise consideration, Your Grace – but a fear which is most definitely unfounded. When the young man first came to me as a client, he was introduced by a seamstress – whose business matters I already handled – who had known his mother since well before his birth, and could attest to her identity, and his. At that point, the mother was recently deceased. But that aside, Your Grace, there is also the fact that the resemblance between you, and Mr Black, is quite… distinct.”

  Damien stared at the man, shocked.

  “He… looks… like me?”

  “He does. Without the scar, of course. And I gather that both of you look somewhat like your father. There is, to my mind, no question about his authenticity. I have done work o
n his behalf for seven years now, and have found him, at all stages, to be hardworking, honest and intelligent.”

  “If that is the case, why did my father not ever acknowledge, until his will, that the man existed? After all, it is not uncommon for men of the aristocracy to acknowledge their by-blows. Yet my mother implied… Beyond that, what I do not understand, if what you say is true, is why he did not come forward earlier – surely he would have heard the gossip which went around London after the terms of my father’s will became known?”

  “As to why your father did not acknowledge him – I cannot know. You would have more insight into that than I could ever hope for. But Mr Black knew, from when he was a child, who his father was, and that he would never actually meet the man. Apparently his mother made that abundantly clear to him, and simply told him to be glad that the Duke provided a house and funds for them, while she still lived. He owns a quite successful business, and had never expected to have any contact with your father, or with you. But his business, like so many others, suffers at times from a lack of ready funds, due to the unfortunate proclivity of some of the younger men of the ton for not paying their bills. Which is what has tipped the balance now. Initially, he had thought to never claim the bequest, for he did not wish to be noticed and gossiped about. But now – he has reached a point where funds are necessary.”

  “You are certain that he really is my father’s son?”

  “Yes, I am. This is not the opportunism of some profligate – this is the desperation of a good honest business man, who is in difficult straits. He asked me to contact you, because, much though he does not wish to disrupt his life or yours, if your father’s bequest might get him out of his current difficulties, then he needs it. He needs, at least, to know what it is.”

  Damien gave a snort of half laughter.

  “None of us know what it is. An explicit condition of the bequest was that the seal could not be broken upon the document which details it, except in Mr Black’s presence. I thought at first to contest that, but my mother, who was but weeks away from death herself, begged me to leave well alone. I was curious, but I acquiesced – after all, it was tantamount to her last wish. She also asked, then, that I not seek to find Thomas Black.”

  The bitterness rose in Damien as he spoke, the memory of his last few conversations with his mother painfully sharp in his mind.

  “Why would she ask that? Surely, by then, with the Will having been read, the gossip was already starting?”

  “Oh, it was, indeed. But she asked it because she did not want to be reminded, in her last days, of what had brought her decades of pain. For I discovered then, that she had known of it, known of the boy’s existence, from the start – and had demanded that he not be mentioned, and that it all be kept secret – and had, in some way she would not explain, made certain that it stayed secret, all these years. Those secrets overshadow my childhood, in a most disturbing manner.”

  “I imagine that such discoveries were not pleasant, in your time of grief. But now… with both your mother and father gone… is it not, perhaps, time to bring closure to this, and allow Mr Black to hear what has been bequeathed to him?”

  “I do not know that there is anything which can bring closure to such a situation. I think, however, that I would like to see this man, before I make my final decision – to see this resemblance you speak of, for my own reassurance. You say that he owns a business? What manner of business might it be?”

  “A Gentlemen’s Outfitters, specialising in custom pieces. It is located just off Bond Street. Bentick and Black, Gentlemen’s Outfitters.”

  “Bentick?”

  “The old man who originally owned the business. Thomas went to him as an apprentice, and Mr Bentick, who had no living family, left the business to him, when he died two years ago.”

  “So things have worked out well for him, despite my father’s disinterest in his existence? But the business is in trouble now?”

  “Yes – he has done well, and would not have any difficulties, but for one or two bad debtors.”

  “I believe that I might wish to see this business. I will contemplate that idea, and let you know if I decide to visit it. If I do, I will need the exact direction.”

  “Of course, Your Grace. I will be happy to help if that is your decision. And may I reiterate – I am utterly certain that this man is your half-brother, and an honest man.”

  “Thank you, Mr Swithin.”

  <<<>>>

  Lady Prunella Danby grimaced as she sipped her tea. It was about as pleasant to the taste as she imagined dishwater might be - that was, of course, because the leaves had been reused three times.

  The need to economise had become so stringent that she could no longer pretend that there would be a magical resolution to her situation. After twenty-one years of funds arriving every month, for this last fourteen months there had been nothing. That was not unexpected – and she had been putting money aside for many years, in preparation for this time.

  What was unexpected, however, was just how rapidly that money had been used up. When funds had arrived each month, her expenses had seemed reasonable – but with no income, it was abundantly obvious that reasonable had been redefined.

  There was nothing for it. She would have to do something – most likely something drastic.

  For the ten thousandth time or more, she cursed her sister’s weakness, which had destroyed both of their lives. Then she lifted her chin, and forced her expression to calm – she would do as she had done, from that first dreadful day when Augusta had come to her in tears, and pretend to be serene, whilst doing whatever it took to survive.

  Chapter Three

  From under lowered lashes, Camellia studied the man opposite her, all the while pretending to be focussed on the food on her plate. In one way, she was amused – trust Bella to have achieved the coup that half of London had been trying for, for over a month now. The man she studied was the Duke of Blackwater – a fellow guest this evening at Bella’s dinner table.

  He was just as intriguing as he had been the first time that she had seen him, at a Ball some weeks before Christmas. He smiled politely, but it seemed a rather shallow expression, pasted onto his face out of necessity, rather than from any true enjoyment of the moment. His conversation to that point had been minimal – everything that might be expected, and nothing which revealed in any way his true thoughts about the world.

  Thoughts which she found herself insatiably curious about, simply because they were so obviously hidden. She had never before met a man quite like him. Turning her eyes back to her plate, she took another mouthful of the rather exquisite fish – Bella’s cook was at least as good as theirs!

  She suspected that Bella was as curious as she was, for, moments later, Bella’s clear voice slipped into the quiet of the room.

  “Your Grace, now that you have returned to society after your mourning, do you have any specific plans for the next year?”

  The Duke swallowed, and set his cutlery down carefully, before regarding Bella with a somewhat stern expression, which tightened the line of his face, and made that scar seem all the more obvious. Camellia had the feeling that he rather desperately did not want to have to answer, but that politeness, and perhaps something more, required him to speak.

  She watched him, more openly now, and waited, with the oddest sense that what he was about to say would affect her life in some significant manner.

  <<<>>>

  Damien swallowed. The fish was excellent, and he rather regretted being forced to cease eating it long enough to politely reply to the Duchess’ question. Still – he must do what was needed to ensure that his sisters had the best possible advantages in life. He took a mouthful of wine, considering how best to phrase what he needed to say.

  His first instinct was to refuse to answer, to refuse to allow prying into his private life – but to do so would not help his sisters at all. He forced that terribly false smile to stay on his face, forced the bitter anger
and frustration back deep within him, and schooled his voice to softness.

  “I do, as it happens, Your Grace.”

  “Might we be a little less formal? It seems silly for us all to be ‘Your Gracing’ each other all the time – and in this house we are usually outrageously informal. I would be happy for you to call me Bella.”

  Damien looked at her, feeling genuinely shocked. It was not often that anything shocked him – not since the revelations of his father’s betrayal of them all – but this did. He did not know, he realised, how to relate to a person of the ton, when they chose not to abide by ‘the rules’. Which was most darkly amusing, as he himself often chose not to abide by those rules.

  He swallowed another mouthful of wine.

  “Err… I am honoured, Bella. Perhaps you would call me ‘Blackwater’?”

  “As you wish. My husband often prefers to be called Hartswood. Men are so unused to using their forenames. But I interrupted you – you were about to tell us of your plans for the coming year.”

  So… he was not to escape. He had hoped, for a moment there… sternly, he reminded himself that Georgette and Marie needed him to charm, and be polite.

  “Indeed. While I have had ample time during my mourning to delve into the running of my estates, that year and more of relative seclusion has not in any way reacquainted me with the latest in society – especially given that I was out of the country for the two years before that. And now I find that to be a significant disadvantage – not just for myself, but for my sisters, who will be coming out this Season.”

  “I see – yes, that would be difficult, after so much time away.”

  “It is rather a… challenge… shall we say. For my grandmothers are both gone to God, my mother’s eldest sister has retired from public life, and her middle sister has been estranged from our family since I was a child. My father had no sisters. So I find myself in an awkward position. Whilst Mrs Chadwicke is completely respectable as a companion for my sisters, she is not of the status required to sponsor their launch into society. Hence, I am in the difficult position of needing to find a Lady of the ton who is generous enough to assist.”