The Duke of Debt

by Kate Pearce

  They’d made good time on the roads and were at least fifteen miles away from the house in London. Margaret contemplated the flames and for the hundredth time since she’d left, pictured her husband’s face when she’d told him she was leaving. He’d masked his dismay quickly, but she knew that at some level she’d hurt him and that he was struggling with how to respond to her.

  She’d half hoped he would tell her that he loved her, but why would he when everyone he loved in his life had repudiated him in some form or other? His older brother, his father, Frederica…

  Did she really believe he had left Frederica pregnant, thus forcing her to marry his father? The more Margaret considered Frederica’s words, the more unlikely they became. And why hadn’t she been brave and told Alistair what had been said? Why had her much-vaunted plain-speaking and honesty deserted her? Because she’d been afraid, that’s why, afraid of what she might have seen on his face—that she wasn’t good enough.

  If Alistair knew about the child, then what was there left to say? And if he didn’t know? Surely it wasn’t her business to inform him. Margaret sipped her tea. Perhaps that was what Frederica had counted on all along—that Margaret’s unwillingness to test the strength of Alistair’s affection for her would tear them apart.

  But she hadn’t even given Alistair the opportunity to state his feelings, had she? She’d given him an ultimatum, had run away, and allowed him to hide from her behind his charm. If they were to have any kind of marriage together, she had to be honest with him. If he didn’t love her, she would accept that, and be grateful for everything else he gave her that she already missed.

  A bargain was a bargain.

  Margaret set the cup down. “I’ve been a fool.”

  “I beg your pardon, your grace?” Eileen looked up from her folding.

  “I need you to go and tell our coachman that we will not be proceeding farther on our journey north tomorrow. We’re going back to London.”

  Chapter 20

  Pritchard finally turned up around five in the evening, and Alistair let Lottie deal with him. He had watched from an upstairs window as the grinning fool exited the house with the forged notes in his pocket, leaving his witnessed signature on the copy of the letter Lottie had asked him to sign.

  Alistair hadn’t yet had time to speak properly with Lottie as Francis had whisked him away to Whites for the evening, and then taken him to a series of financial meetings the next day that had kept him remarkably busy and focused. He suspected his friend was driving him deliberately hard until he could bear dealing with the fact that he’d allowed his duchess to leave him without saying a word about how he really felt.

  He’d already decided that, as soon as Nash said Phoebe was fit to travel, he was going to return home to Hellsdown Park, find his duchess, and make everything right with her—if she’d let him. Not seeing her, not touching her, not laughing and working alongside her, had left such a hole in his life and in his heart that he couldn’t imagine not being with her again.

  He spent the afternoon with his solicitor, going through the evidence against Dr. McNeil and his stepmother, settling on which legal avenue to pursue against them. He’d already decided to take Francis along with him when he finally confronted Frederica and the doctor. He’d definitely need a witness.

  He returned to the house as it was getting dark, and paused on the step to admire the welcoming lights before the butler let him in. Margaret had provided the staff and the necessary authority to make the place function again, but without her it was not the same.

  “Dinner is just about to be served, your grace, if you wish to go through?” the butler murmured as he relieved Alistair of his hat and coat.

  “Thank you, I will.” He still needed to speak to Lottie. Phoebe had mentioned that she might come downstairs to dine, and he couldn’t miss that.

  “Good evening, everyone.” He paused in the doorway, his startled gaze drawn to the foot of the table where his duchess was sipping her soup. She looked up and smiled at him, her gaze steady, and his whole world righted itself. She was here; she’d come back to him.

  “I apologize for my absence for most of the day.” He took his seat at the head of the table between Lottie and Joseph Lang. “Did anything of interest occur?”

  Phoebe tittered and covered her mouth with her hand.

  “Nothing in particular,” Francis commented as he lifted his wine glass to toast his friend. “Although, I do need to leave for Millcastle tomorrow, because Caroline will surely murder me if I miss our child being born. If you wish me to accompany you anywhere, can you make it happen soon?”

  Alistair’s gaze slid to his duchess, who was finishing her soup. “Thank you for everything that you have done, Francis, but I don’t think I will need your services, after all. I suspect her grace would be more than willing to accompany me to visit Lady Hellion this evening.”

  “Shall we, duchess?”

  Alistair placed Margaret’s hand on his sleeve and headed for the front door. She hadn’t had the opportunity to speak to him privately yet, and she still wasn’t sure what she would say to him, anyway. His unguarded expression when he’d seen her sitting in her usual seat at the table had been worth everything.

  He helped her into the carriage and got in behind her. The moment the door shut, he picked her up, dumped her on his lap and kissed her hard.

  “Don’t you ever bloody walk away from me again,” he murmured, his voice rough. “Fight me, shun me, hate me, but don’t ever leave. I can’t bear it.”

  She struggled to free her arm, but only so that she could wrap it around his neck and keep him where she needed him.

  “God, I’m so sorry, Margaret, I’m a fool, I—”

  She pressed her gloved fingers to his lips. “Shall we agree that we are both fools?”

  “I’d certainly prefer not to be the only one,” he replied, his expression wry.

  “Can we also postpone this very important discussion until we have seen Lady Hellion?”

  “Why?” His blue gaze was intent.

  “Because there are certain… things that we need to clear up with her.”

  “What the devil has she been saying to you?” Alistair demanded.

  The carriage drew to a stop, and Margaret slid off his lap. “Why don’t we ask her that together?”

  As Alistair knew the way to Frederica’s suite, and he was a duke, no one challenged them as they went up the stairs and knocked on the relevant door. Dr. McNeil, who wasn’t wearing his coat or a cravat, immediately recoiled after opening the door.

  “Good Lord, I thought you were one of the maids.”

  Alistair moved swiftly past him. “Good evening. I’m glad you are here. I wanted to speak to you and Lady Hellion about Phoebe’s current condition.”

  Frederica appeared in the door of the bedroom, her expression aggrieved.

  “What on earth do you want at this hour of the night?”

  Alistair reached back and took Margaret’s hand. “As I just told your doctor, I wished to speak to you about Phoebe, but I’d also like to know why you upset my duchess the other night.”

  Frederica’s smile was aimed at Margaret. “Did you tell him? I’ll wager you didn’t because you don’t really want to know the answer, do you?”

  Alistair turned to Margaret. “What did she say?”

  Margaret gathered her courage. “Lady Hellion claimed that when you went back to India she was with child, and that she married your father because she had no other choice.”

  Alistair glared at her. “And you damn well believed her?”

  “She was very convincing.”

  “Of course she was! Haven’t you worked out that she is a master dissembler? She said that to upset you, and to make you doubt me.”

  He turned back to Frederica. “What utter balderdash. Firstly, I didn’t bed you. I was far too young and idealistic. Secondly, even if I had, if you’d written to me, I would’ve done everything in my power to come back and marry you.”


  “Lady Hellion did tell me in my medical capacity that she had once been pregnant, your grace,” Dr. McNeil volunteered. “She also told me that the child was yours.”

  “Of course she did,” Alistair said. “Did the child live?”

  “No, I understand that her ladyship had a miscarriage early on in the pregnancy just after her marriage to your father.”

  “That is true. I was devastated.” Frederica, who had sunk down onto the couch, dabbed at her eyes.

  “Seeing as you’d achieved your object and become the Marchioness of Hellion I doubt that,” Alistair said, which even made Margaret wince. “I’ll wager you told my father it was his child, didn’t you?”

  “I did what I had to do to survive after you refused to listen to my pleas and stay in England!” Frederica said. “I begged you not to go back, but you abandoned me!”

  “I was in the army, Frederica,” Alistair said helplessly. “You can’t just… leave.”

  “I am tired of everyone blaming me for merely doing my best to survive!” Frederica continued. “It’s hardly my fault if men always let me down.”

  Faced with such monumental self-absorption, Margaret could only shake her head. The fact that she had almost allowed Frederica to ruin her marriage was rather embarrassing.

  Alistair met Margaret’s gaze. “Now that we have cleared that matter up, can we move onto the issue of Phoebe’s health?” He turned back to the doctor and his stepmother. “I have reason to believe that while Phoebe was in your care, she was being poisoned.”

  “What on earth are you talking about?” Frederica gasped and pressed her hand to her breast. “Now you’re going to accuse me of being a poisoner? When will my torment end?”

  “Would you like to comment on the issue, Dr. McNeil?” Margaret kept her attention on the doctor, who had gone pale. “We have expert witnesses who will testify that Phoebe was indeed the victim of an attempt to poison her with arsenic.”

  Frederica turned to her doctor. “Don’t listen to them, my dear sir. There are no such tests or witnesses.”

  Dr. McNeil cleared his throat. “Actually, there are, my lady.” He looked briefly down at the ground and then up again. “If I confess, will that absolve Lady Hellion?”

  “Why would you wish to absolve her?” Margaret couldn’t keep quiet. “If you did what you did with her permission and encouragement?”

  Frederica had gone very still.

  “Perhaps I did it so that she would turn to me and love me?” Dr. McNeil swallowed hard and looked over at his employer, who was studiously avoiding his gaze. “I swear that she never told me directly to do anything.”

  “Again, I doubt that is true, and I hope that if this comes to trial, then you will confess the full truth.” Alistair gestured at the door. “There is a man waiting outside to escort you to Bow Street Magistrates’ Court where you will be able to make a full statement about the charges I have laid against you.”

  Alistair walked back to the door and opened it. After a murmured conversation, a man wearing the uniform of a Bow Street Runner escorted Dr. McNeil out.

  Even as the door shut, Frederica was on her feet heading for Alistair. “You must believe that I didn’t know! I have looked after Phoebe most faithfully and was eagerly anticipating her Season in London. Why would I wish her dead?”

  Margaret held her breath as Alistair looked down at his stepmother.

  “If you don’t wish to be caught up in another scandal, I suggest you leave London, go home, pack your things, and leave for an extended tour of the continent.”

  “Or what?” Frederica was crying now, her hands fisted at her side. “What worse thing can you possibly do to me than accuse me of murder and evict me from my home?”

  Alistair slowly took out a piece of paper from his inside coat pocket and unfolded it. “This is a statement from Phoebe. Would you care to read it?”

  Frederica grabbed the paper and read it through. “More lies!” She ripped it into shreds. “There! That’s what I think of your sister’s jealous plot against me.”

  Alistair stepped back and reclaimed Margaret’s hand. “Good evening, my lady.”

  “You can’t just leave me!” Frederica shouted.

  She was still screeching as Alistair guided Margaret out of the room, down the stairs, and into their waiting carriage. He let out a shuddering breath as they pulled away.

  “What did the letter say?” Margaret had to ask him.

  “Phoebe insisted on writing a statement that said that not only had she seen Frederica doctoring her food and drink, but that she also suspected her of poisoning my father.”

  Margaret slapped his sleeve. “And you let her go?”

  He glared at her and rubbed his arm. “Of course not. After the authorities have dealt with Dr. McNeil, they’ll be coming back for Frederica Hellion.”

  He frowned. “Not that it will be easy to prosecute a peeress. From what my barrister told me, such a thing is rarely attempted. I hope that just the threat of being brought to trial will persuade Frederica to leave the country. If she does choose to stay, or tries to return too quickly, we will hopefully have built a strong enough case to attempt to prosecute her to the full extent of the law.”

  “What if Dr. McNeil accepts the blame and refuses to incriminate his employer?” Margaret asked.

  He grimaced. “Then we are in the basket.”

  “That’s not good enough.”

  “I know.” He inclined his head, his expression quizzical. “Now, as to you believing that I had not only bedded her, but fathered her child…”

  Margaret grabbed hold of his waistcoat. “Don’t you dare—”

  He bent his head and kissed her, and the rest of her sentence was lost in the wonder of his mouth.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered against his lips. “I should not have run away from you.”

  “And I should not have allowed that woman to control my father and my sister for so long. I was a fool and a coward.” He held her gaze. “If there is any way to bring her to justice, I swear I will pursue it with all my might.”

  She kissed him, and, for a long while, there was nothing else that mattered except being in his arms and being alternately scolded and loved.

  “As soon as Phoebe is well, we will all go back to Hellsdown Park,” Alistair said as they arrived home. “Nash says that it will take her months to regain her full strength, and that the fresh air up north will do her the world of good.”

  “I am more than willing to leave London,” Margaret confessed. “Although I suspect we will have to come back down next year for Phoebe’s debut and my appearance at the queen’s drawing room.”

  “That’s a year away; let’s not bother ourselves over that.” Alistair kissed her cheek. “Did Lottie tell you that she delivered the money to Pritchard?”

  “Yes, she did. From the sound of it, she was far more convincing than I would ever have been.”

  “I should have had faith in you and let the scheme progress in the first place.”

  “And I should have told you what I was doing.” Margaret sighed. “So much for honesty.”

  “Here’s some honesty for you.” He cupped her face in his hands and gazed into her eyes. “I love you, Margaret Jane Blackthorn Haralson.”

  For a moment she wanted to tell him that it wasn’t necessary to say the words, that she wasn’t yet worthy of them, that—

  “Duchess, I’m waiting.”

  Behind his lightly uttered command, she heard his uncertainty echoing hers and bravely met his gaze.

  “I know.”

  He frowned. “What do you know?”

  “That you love me, and that I love you, too.”

  “I knew it!” His smile reemerged and became triumphant. “Now to get you into bed so that I can prove it to you for the rest of our lives.”

  I hope you enjoyed reading The Duke of Debts as much as I enjoyed writing it. If you want to know when the next book comes out, please join my mailing list. T
urn the page to read an excerpt from The Lord of Lost Causes, book one in the Millcastle series.

  Best

  Kate

  Excerpt – The Lord of Lost Causes

  Millcastle Series, book 1

  Copyright © 2018 by Kate Pearce

  Millcastle, England 1831

  “If you will just wait a moment, Mr. Keswick, I’ll have the money for you directly.”

  Billy Keswick blew his nose in his grimy handkerchief. “Can’t wait much longer, lass. I have rents to collect from fifty households before dinner, so you’d best be quick about it.”

  Despite his warning, he took a seat at the table, and planted his booted feet squarely on the scarred wooden surface. He was a rotund man with a reddish complexion, and a straggly mustache stained with tobacco. He was also the man who inspired terror in the motley inhabitants of the dilapidated properties in the Three Coins area of Millcastle, where Caroline and her family had been reduced to living.

  Caroline desperately searched the dresser for the earthenware jar that last night had contained the exact amount for the weeks rent. Under the all too appreciative leer of Mr. Keswick, she gathered her skirts, and clambered up on one of the rickety chairs to search the shelves more thoroughly. But there was no sign of the jar and, more tellingly, there no was no sign of her mother who was supposed to be home watching the stew. The meager fire was almost out, and belched puffs of smoke into the draughty air that sidled under the warped front door.

  Caroline took a deep breath and slowly descended from the chair before turning to face her unwelcome visitor. She forced herself to smile.

  “I wonder if my mother thought to take the rent, and bring it to you herself? She might have missed you on her way through the streets.”

  Mr. Keswick spat on the bare well-scrubbed floorboards and loudly cleared his throat. “I did see your mam, but she was heading down Gower Street toward the church.”