Heaven Sent the Wrong One

by VJ Dunraven

  Chapter 19

  Confessions and Atonements

  Allayne steeled himself as he walked into his father's study. A week had passed since he learned that Richard and Jeremy drugged and carted him off to Grandstone House after his drunken gambling at White's. They had taken him hostage sans his clothes for two days and pressed him on the details of his affair with a certain Miss Anna Banana.

  Dammit—he should have known better than to trust Richard's scheming daughter, Diana. After all, he had a sister who was of the same mold. Nonetheless, his friends failed to extort any more information out of him and reluctantly released him once they realized all future inquisitions would be for naught.

  But that didn't mean they had given up.

  Allayne narrowed his eyes at the three men inside the room. Obviously, all of them were onto him again. His father, Viscount Rose sat behind his desk, while Jeremy sat on a chair opposite him. Richard stood leaning on his shoulder against the fireplace mantle with his arms crossed on his chest, watching him as he advanced towards them.

  "Ah—a grand meeting. Are all of you here to reprimand me of my behavior?" Allayne veered towards the sideboard and poured himself a brandy. "May I offer you gentlemen a drink?"

  "We would rather speak with you sober," Viscount Rose said in a grim tone.

  Allayne met his father's eyes across the room. He could not remember the last time he'd seen him so grave. The viscount normally had an easy disposition, which many observed Allayne had inherited. However, today, his sunny personality was replaced by a rare brooding temperament.

  Allayne set his liquor glass down on the mahogany sideboard and leveled his gaze at his friends.

  Richard pushed himself away from the mantle and took a few steps towards him with his hands behind his back—an aristocratic pose that Allayne recognized as his way of gearing up for battle. "We are concerned about your condition," he began.

  "Why?—What about it?" Allayne stubbornly tilted his chin.

  "As of late, you have not been conducting yourself as a proper gentleman," Richard replied with those piercing blue eyes of his, cutting through him.

  "However I conduct myself in society is none of your concern!" Allayne's baritone escalated a notch. Richard's diplomatic manner of handling an interview could be vexing, especially if he was the recipient.

  "That's where you're mistaken, my friend," Richard said calmly, unfazed by his impetuous remark. "You are a partner in our enterprises. Your behavior is critical in carrying out your duties."

  Allayne snatched the brandy on the sideboard and drank it all in one burning gulp, before replacing the glass with a loud clink. "Fuck you, Richard!"

  "Allayne Cassius Carlyle!" The viscount bellowed, abruptly surging from his chair. "You shall observe propriety in this house!" Allayne muttered a curse under his breath and plunged his hands through his overly-long hair. He stood quietly for a moment, then, drew a heavy breath before saying, "Pardon me—Papa, Richard."

  Richard nodded and the viscount sat back on his chair with a frown. He knew why his papa was here. His friends were smart enough to call on him for aid in case the need to pacify him arose.

  "Don't be angry, old chap," Jeremy said. "Our concern for you is not just out of your responsibilities for the business, but also out of affection—as your family and friends."

  Allayne slumped on the chair opposite Jeremy, propping his elbows on his knees as he rubbed his face with his hands. "I know—I'm sorry," he replied throatily.

  "Tell us, then—" Richard said. "What's troubling you?"

  "Is it a lady—this Miss Anna Banana?" Jeremy added.

  "God Almighty—I hope it is," Viscount Rose exclaimed. "So your mother and I can rest in peace knowing that a betrothal and an heir would soon be forthcoming."

  Allayne swept his gaze at the eager faces of the men in the room. They would never stop pestering him until they finagled the details they sought from him. The most practical way he could get them off his back would be to tell them the truth—or at least some of it.

  "Alright," he said with a sigh. "Miss Banana had been the cause of my misery—but I regret to disappoint you, Papa." He stood up and strolled towards the open window overlooking Grosvernor Square Gardens. "Unfortunately, my relationship with Miss Banana proved to be unsuitable."

  "Whatever do you mean—unsuitable?" The viscount asked. "Is it a matter of birth? Is she involved in a scandal? How did you cross paths with her? Good Lord—she's not one of those French demimonde preying on men of the upper class—is she?"

  Allayne chuckled blandly without taking his eyes off the view outside, littered with passing carriages and people strolling on the promenade. "It doesn't matter where we met, I assure you—she's not a courtesan nor my mistress. However, she is low-born and belongs to the working class."

  A stretch of silence ensued.

  The viscount finally cleared his throat. "I suppose,—well,—Son, I suppose if you truly wish to be with this gel,—er,—Miss Anna—is it? Perhaps we can,—er—devise a way to—ah,—to—"

  "To make her appear suitable," Richard interjected.

  "It would be difficult, but I imagine it can be done," Jeremy said.

  "Er—yes, I suppose," Viscount Rose concurred. "It will involve a great deal of lies and rehearsals, but we might just get away with it—so long as your mother doesn't discover the ruse or she'll send us all to Hades. We'll have to unravel the facts gradually to her. I'm sure she'll come around."

  Allayne shook his head with another hollow chuckle, turning from the window to face his father and friends. These men love him—no matter how sentimental that may sound—that they were willing to take essential steps to support him. His father's astonishing acceptance of the situation and his friends' loyalty and genuine concern for his happiness touched a place in his heart.

  "I appreciate your suggestions, but I'm afraid—" Allayne lifted his gaze to the ceiling and heaved a lungful of air to disguise the sudden tightness in his chest, "I,—your proposal is unnecessary. Anna—" he swallowed the mass blocking his throat, "—doesn't return my affections."

  Another gaping silence followed his declaration.

  "She doesn't? Why in God's name does she not?" The viscount straightened in his seat after recovering from the fleeting period of shock. "You are the son of a viscount! My heir! You're one of the wealthiest men in England! I do not comprehend why she would reject you."

  Allayne winced at the memory of what had transpired in Bath—of course, he knew the reason. Anna thought he was a simple valet. Penniless and without any consequence. Surely, if she knew who he truly was, she would never dream of leaving him.

  But as luck would have it, she probably woke up that morning and realized she was consigning her future with a man of dim prospects. Somewhere between the thought of a lifelong commitment with him, trapped in backbreaking toil or running away to find a worthier protector—her true colors rose and she chose the latter. The love she professed so vehemently to him turned out to be nothing, but a passing fancy uttered during the height of passion—an empty promise easily swayed and discarded to the lure of other men with more gold.

  He should be thankful for discovering her duplicity early on—before his involvement with her became too extensive. The revelation of her superficial affection saved him from investing much time and trouble in making their relationship work. He should consider it a blessing—even though her measure of him in terms of coin—hurtled him to the depths of hell.

  Allayne looked his father in the eye. "Whatever her reasons are, I do not intend to pursue her any longer," he said with determination. For no matter how much he wanted Anna, he simply could not accept a woman who loved him based on his status and wealth.

  Ironically, he remembered the way his sister Cassie shone with happiness as she gazed at Jeremy with open adoration on that beautiful spring day, when they arrived at Waterford Park after a morning of target practice. He could still distinctly recall thinking, it must be nice to ha
ve someone waiting home for him,—someone who loves him that way; without any pretenses, without a second guess. Someone whose strong, pure kind of devotion could withstand the passing years.

  Yes—it must be nice.

  With a twinge of guilt, he reflected on how he had likewise been pathetic and attempted to leave. But by God—it only took him over a half hour of weakness, before he realized he couldn't live without her. No matter how poor she was. No matter if, she was relegated into service to his class. He went back for her—only to be confronted by the reality that she left him long beforehand.

  Her abandonment felt like a sharp slap on his face. It had stung for weeks, spreading like smoldering tinder encroaching on his skin until it finally scorched his heart. The pain was so acute it could only be deadened by his precious ally—the fragrant, full-bodied brandy, which even now, peered at him through the crystal decanter on the sideboard with tempting amber eyes.

  The viscount rose from his chair and stood before him with a kindly paternal regard. "I'm sure you'll find another, my son," he said in a soothing tone, reaching out to squeeze his shoulder.

  I don't want another! Allayne rebelled in his mind, clenching his jaw to keep himself from pouring out his true feelings.

  "What are you going to do now?" Jeremy asked.

  Allayne paused for a moment before responding. "I've been thinking of traveling to America to see to our business affairs. I know I've been remiss in asset recovery as of late, but I plan to put everything in order once again."

  Jeremy and Richard exchanged anxious glances.

  "We'll come with you," Richard said.

  "Thank you—but no. You have wives and children to take care of and I need time alone. Oh, for Christ's sake—" Allayne glared at both men. "Will you please quit looking at me as if I'm the Undertaker? I'm not going to murder anyone—yet—unless the bastards piss me off."

  "That's what we're worried about," Jeremy said.

  "When will you sail?" Viscount Rose asked.

  "In five days. I've already made the preliminary arrangements, and yesterday, our secretary booked my passage."

  "When are you coming back?" Richard asked.

  Allayne studied the intricate patterns on the Aubusson carpet before replying, "When I'm ready."

  "Which is—?" Jeremy arched a dark brow at him.

  "I don’t know," Allayne said, in a bleak tone.

  Silence fell once again in the room.

  ~

  In the luxurious drawing room of Weston Court, Alexandra sat ramrod straight on the settee opposite the chair occupied by her most ardent suitor, the Duke of Redfellow. Not far behind her, her new maid, Polly, sat knitting a sock in the corner.

  "I hope I am not boring you with my tales of adventure," the duke said.

  "Oh, no, Your Grace," Alexandra replied. "Your stories are quite extraordinary."

  She had spoken the truth. These days, confined at Weston Court with nothing else to do except retch and stuff herself with all the bonbons and kippers she could get her hands on, the duke's company had been a most welcome respite.

  Alexandra regarded the elderly gentleman with renewed curiosity. Amongst her suitors, he was the only one whom she was genuinely fond of. Regrettably, he was also her only suitor who was in his twilight years.

  For today's visit, the duke recounted his exploits during his younger days in Africa. His saga held Alexandra enthralled and the misadventures with his old friends kept her laughing with glee. For as long as she could remember since she turned three and twenty, four years ago, each appointment they'd had, had been filled with lively discussions of cultures abroad, highlighted by the duke's first-hand explorations.

  "Ah—we shouldn't have brought the monkey with us back to England," the duke was saying. "The first thing he did was invade the kitchen and eat all of Cook's stock of fruits. Then, he had the audacity to fling a banana peel at my butler's face when he tried to catch him."

  Alexandra chortled. She could just imagine the stern butler's chagrin at having the slimy peel plastered upon his nose.

  "Mister Bardot—God rest his soul," the duke said. "He threatened to resign the following day, forcing me to choose between him and the monkey."

  "What did you do?" Alexandra asked in earnest.

  "I chose both," the duke laughed. "But, I had to send the monkey to one of my estates in the wild country so he could have the run of the land."

  Alexandra listened in fascination as the duke narrated stories of the monkey's new domain. In spite of his age, the duke seemed years younger when he reminisced about the past. She felt sorry that she hadn't been born earlier. She would have fancied meeting him in his prime—for he was intellectual and very much a gentleman.

  Even now, in his golden years, he still looked handsome, with a full mop of perfectly groomed silver hair, which she assumed must have been blond at one time. His attire was impeccable and his build slender, though his gait reflected his advanced age and he supported himself with an exquisitely carved, gold cane. He had hazel-colored eyes, but Alexandra suspected that they must have been green at some point. Without provocation, the duke's neatness, scholarly interests, and deportment reminded her of the one person she would rather forget.

  Alexandra shook herself away from the memory. She was being ridiculous. Why couldn't she focus on anything except Andrew? Yesterday, she cried like an imbecile when she saw the stable groom's golden retriever because its coat reminded her of Andrew's hair! The day before that, she bawled in the dining room—in the middle of luncheon—because the indentation on the bottom of the apple she was eating reminded her of Andrew's dimples! That morning, she almost gave Cook an apoplexy when she wept over the breakfast kippers—because she suddenly remembered that they were Andrew's favorite.

  Dear God, she would soon go mad if this foolishness did not stop.

  "Are you alright, my dear?" The duke asked.

  She realized she had stared blankly into space and the duke must have noticed her remoteness. To salvage the situation, she asked without much thought, "Your Grace, if you will excuse my indelicacy—but I'm wondering why you never married?"

  The duke chuckled from his chair. "Ah yes—the inevitable question." He gripped his cane and stood up, ambling his way to gaze into the fireplace. "Forgive my coarseness, but when I was younger, there was never a shortage of women at my behest. Marriage simply never appealed to me—I did not have enough time to indulge in romance. I was too preoccupied with my travels. There were too many adventures to embark on, too many things to discover, too much wealth to make. Before I knew it, my heyday had gone by and most of the ladies who would have me were only after my title and my purse."

  "You never had anyone? Perhaps—someone more special than the others?" Alexandra pressed with avid interest.

  "You are—a romantic, my dear Lady Alexandra," the duke glanced sideways at her. "Very well. Once—long ago—I fell in love with the beautiful Lady Marjorie."

  Alexandra gaped at him. "My mother's sister?"

  "Your aunt," the duke smiled wistfully, turning his gaze back into the dancing flames in the fireplace. "But I was too young and a fool. I left and traveled the globe. I made her wait too long. By the time I returned, I learned that her father had wagered her to that cur, James Huntington, the Marquess of Waterford at the time. He and I were enemies and he had always wanted what was mine. He forced her to marry him by threatening to confiscate her father's estate as payment for the gambling debts her father owed him. I didn't hear the news until it was too late. The mail was incredibly tardy in the faraway places I journeyed. They wed a fortnight before my arrival in England."

  "My God," Alexandra whispered. "I never knew."

  "It's old history," the duke shrugged, and from where she sat, Alexandra could see the slight bump on his throat go up and down. "In a lifetime of triumphs, it's my only deepest regret."

  "I'm sorry," Alexandra said softly.

  "Don't be," the duke shifted to look at her. "Marjorie is p
robably turning in her grave because I've elected to propose marriage to you—her niece—who is forty-two years my junior." His weathered face broke into a grin.

  Alexandra couldn't help but share his wry humor. True—their age difference was outrageous, which prompted her to ask, "But why now, Your Grace? And why me?"

  "If we may have some privacy," the duke glanced at her maid knitting in the corner.

  Though it was considered inappropriate, Alexandra nodded her permission to take her leave.

  Polly hastily gathered her yarns, curtsied, and left the room.

  The duke made his way back to his chair. "As you are well aware of, I am the last of the Strathearns. Upon my death, the Dukedom of Redfellow will pass on to my cousin, Blake Norton, who is next in line. However, I do not intend to see the affluence I've worked hard for, to simply land in the hands of a wastrel like Blake. The man is irresponsible and a gambler. He reminds me of James. He will plunge the dukedom into perdition if he inherits the title. The only way for me to save the dukedom is to marry and produce an heir. But I must select a bride whom I can trust—and I like you. You remind me of my Marjorie." The duke regarded Alexandra intently. "I don’t have much longer to live, Lady Alexandra. I could feel it in my bones with every passing day. Allow me to be blunt—my frail condition prevents me from begetting an heir."

  "You mean—you no longer can—" Alexandra felt the rush of warmth in her cheeks.

  "Correct," the duke interjected solemnly.

  "I-I-I—" Alexandra grappled for the right words to say in her embarrassment, but none would come forth.

  "My Lady," the duke gazed at her with the fondness one might see between a parent and a child before continuing, "As my wife, even without an heir, you will inherit all my un-entailed properties and monies, the sum of which is staggering. However, if we secretly adopt a child and present him as my heir, both of you will be entitled to the totality of my bequest. The Dukedom of Redfellow is one of the most powerful, prosperous dukedoms in England. I ask that you allow me to offer it to you in honor of your Aunt Marjorie—the only lady who should have been my duchess."