Jilting the Duke

by Rachael Miles

  Chapter Three

  Charters twisted his spyglass. Lady Wilmot was in her library, reading. He could observe her so easily. Yet she had no idea he existed, much less that they had business together.

  From his rooms, he could see her garden and her library. Well, the rooms weren’t really his—just an empty house with insufficient locks and heirs abroad.

  He had his own house in London, the one that came with his earldom. But if he used it, he’d have to resume his real identity as well, and he’d grown to like playing Charters. The disguise was simple, but a complete deception once in place: a pair of tinted spectacles, a wig of long brown hair pulled back in a pigtail, and thick-soled shoes with variable heels to make him limp. As he’d learned in the wars, he was more himself as Charters than as “his lordship.”

  No, before the ton knew “his lordship” had returned, this business needed to be settled. Unresolved for too long, it put all his plans at risk.

  He hadn’t expected Lady Wilmot to return to England so quickly after her husband’s death. But one could turn events into opportunities. She’d left so few servants behind at her villa that it had been easy to search. But the papers were not there. Wilmot had always sent his coded documents home in duplicate, each set carried separately by whatever unsuspecting fool he could conscript. Wilmot would send the key to decode the documents by a third method, equally inscrutable. Charters had acquired one copy of the document when he intercepted the courier, but the second copy and the code key had eluded him. After months spent waiting for the second set to arrive at its destination, Charters had decided to find the papers himself.

  Back in London, anticipating that Wilmot might have sent the papers to his solicitor, Charters had found employment as a clerk with Leverill and Cort. It hadn’t been luck that the firm had needed help. Rubbing the thick, raised scar on the back of his left hand, Charters thought of the clerk he’d replaced, a callow country youth lonely for home and willing to see traitors in Aldine’s wealthy clients. Charters had intended simply to pay the clerk for information. But the boy had grown suspicious. Even so, the clerk had not expected Charters to throw him over the bridge into the Thames. The boy had even held out a hand as he fell, as if Charters would reach out and save him. At the water, the body had broken against a floating log. The log tipped and rolled with the weight, and the body had disappeared into the dark waters below. Another opportunity.

  But even at Aldine’s, Charters had still failed to find the papers.

  Charters took one more look through his spyglass at Lady Wilmot. These were his favorite moments, setting traps as his quarry remained unaware. By the time Lady Wilmot realized she was in danger, she would not be able to escape. Did she know she had the papers, and what they meant? Or was she simply unfortunate? Either way, he would enjoy watching her play the game.

  Chapter Four

  With trembling hands, Sophia picked up Tom’s letter to read it again.

  My dearest Sophia,

  On the anniversary of my death, I write from beyond the grave to remind you of my love—and your promises.

  If you have not already set aside your mourning, it is time. It does not honor my memory to bury yourself away. Cast off your sadness and live, if not for yourself, then for our son.

  You have promised to return to society. When you do, men will vie for your hand, whether to gain your beauty or your wealth. Naturally you will consider Ian’s interests when you choose a husband, but I enjoin you: only marry a man who respects you, your education, and your intelligence.

  You have promised to provide Ian with a male guardian, a surrogate father to aid him as he grows to manhood. You know my choice. No one will take his obligations more seriously than Aidan. His very name as guardian will offer Ian the protection I cannot; it will provide Ian with alliances and connections he will need in manhood. At the same time, I know this guardianship raises specters you are unready to face. So, I have lifted the burden of your promise and invoked the guardianship myself. Unless Aidan refuses—and he will not refuse—he will share our son’s care until Ian reaches his majority. You may not forgive me for this decision, but I hope with time you will see its wisdom.

  Your other promises I leave to your heart and conscience to fulfill.

  I would like to believe that I could protect you and Ian from beyond the grave as I have done in life. But that is likely the wishful thinking of a man who has valued you, and your friendship, more than almost any other relationship in his life.

  All will be well. Remember this, and that I have loved you and our son.

  Tom

  Sophia turned her head toward the garden, toward the bed of pansies, marigolds, and forget-me-nots, and wept.

  * * *

  Some time later, Dodsley brought her a note on a silver tray. Breaking the dark wax seal, she found one sentence in the middle of a large expanse of white paper. An expensive use of paper, she thought, before the words registered.

  “I shall call upon her Ladyship tomorrow at two. Forster.”

  Perfectly appropriate, with an ease of command suitable to his rank. The note a superior would send to a subordinate. There was no suggestion of their past intimacy and no hint of future amicability. No suggestion he’d seen her only hours before. With one signature, Forster—as Sophia steeled herself to think of him—established the limits of their relationship.

  But he also prompted her to action.

  Within fifteen minutes, she had called for her carriage, sent a message to Ian’s tutor that she would return by dinner, and changed into appropriate dress for the forty-five-minute carriage ride to the home of her sister-in-law.

  Ophelia Mason lived in the rural village of Kensington, some six miles away. Sophia wished she had someone to confide in other than Tom’s unrufflable sister. Sophia needed a friend who hadn’t loved Tom deeply and who wouldn’t care that she had sometimes resented her husband for ignoring her wishes. But she couldn’t think of any woman outside of Tom’s sisters whom she knew well enough to burden with her troubles.

  As she climbed into the carriage, musty from lack of use, she wished that she could take a horse instead, but full mourning disallowed it. On a horse, she could feel the wind in her face. Her first horse, a Spanish gray mare named Cob, had been a present from her uncle. Though too old for the hunt, Cob had loved to run, and Sophia, riding astride like her cousins, would let the horse run long and fast. Suddenly, she remembered Aidan racing beside her. She had held Cob back enough to let Aidan think he’d won, then she’d spurred the horse forward to victory. At their goal, she hadn’t known to play coy, to wait until he helped her down. On dismounting she found him already beside her, laughing, calling her his “self-sufficient Sophia” and claiming the victor’s kiss, even though he’d lost.

  She opened the curtains of the coach to watch the town slip into countryside, her thoughts turning back to Tom’s guardianship plan and how she’d only agreed because she had no choice.

  Three weeks before his death, Tom had handed her tickets to take her and Ian back to England. She’d refused. “We can’t leave you, Tom, not when . . .”

  “Not when I’m dying.” Tom never had any trouble speaking the truth. Placing his hands on her upper arms, he’d made her look into his eyes. “The Carbonari talk revolution and nationalism all around us. As long as I am alive, my friendships with the Bourbon ministers protect us. But support for the Italian nationalists grows each day, as does sentiment against Ferdinand’s British and Austrian allies. You and Ian must go home.”

  “No.” She’d held her hands up in refusal. “Revolution is years away. Our friends will warn us when it’s time to leave. And Ian will not understand. Both you and I know the pain of losing a father so young, how we would have traded anything for another year, or another day. . . .” She’d let the words drift off. Watching Tom slip away had taken all her strength.

  “Death is never easy.” Tom had spoken softly. “Ian must learn his own country, not this mongrel society
we have created for him.”

  Sophia bristled. “Our life here is a hybrid, like our roses. From our Italian friends, he has learned to live joyfully; from our English friends, he has learned to be circumspect.”

  “Then we will go together.” He’d pulled out a third packet of travel papers. “In six-week’s time, we will have the best weather and the quickest winds; we should be in England within ten days.”

  “If the trip doesn’t kill you, the climate in England will. Either way you cut short our time. Propose some other plan.” Her hands tightened behind her back.

  He’d watched her silently, then explained his four requirements. Each one, a promise she had to make.

  Be established in London within a month of my death.

  Live in London for at least part of each “season.”

  Take up your place in the bon ton.

  At the third requirement, she’d objected. “I was an orphaned parson’s daughter; I don’t have a place in society to take.”

  “Yet Ian will need you to know and be known. In London, you were admired for your poise and your bearing. Here, invitations to your dinners were much prized. Set your mind to this, and you will create a community—perhaps form another salon. Besides, you will not be alone: my sisters and your cousins will ease the way. Finally, within a year, you must call upon Aidan and ask him to serve as Ian’s surrogate father.” His hand lay on the tickets, his blackmail. He’d sat so still that she should have realized that he would not survive another year.

  “No.” She’d turned away, hiding her face. “We’ve heard the rumors even here: he’s grown hard, unforgiving, more like Aaron than Benjamin. If you want Ian to be guided by someone from your boyhood, Colin is well respected for his amiability, and Seth already manages your estate. Of my relations, Malcolm is devoted to his new wife’s boys. Any would be more suitable.”

  Tom had shaken his head in firm refusal. “Of my Somerville cousins, none were closer than Aidan and I. He must have felt our marriage a betrayal. We must, if that is true, try to undo the damage.”

  “Sometimes the damage of the past cannot be undone. And you will not be there. Only I will.” She had met Tom’s eyes. “You don’t know what you are asking, or what it will cost.”

  “I do know, but it will be worth the cost, for Ian as well as for you.”

  The soft Italian breeze had carried the scent of rain through the open doorways facing the loggia. Sophia had suddenly realized that Italian rain smelled nothing like rain in England. The rain in Naples always had a hint of spice, of the dust that sometimes rained from nearby Vesuvius and fertilized the cultivated land. Rain in England smelled fertile, like field upon field of pasture, of crops not yet come in for the harvest, of waiting in the summerhouse with Aidan for a storm to end. She preferred the Italian rain: it held no memories and offered no secrets.

  She’d looked at the set of botanical illustrations she’d just finished. “What about your book? If you die before it is finished, should I promise to see it through the press?”

  “That needs no promise, for you will do it whether I ask or not.” Tom had smiled. “The others are burdens. But, Sophia, knowing I have your promises will allow me to die easy.”

  “Then I promise.” There was nothing else to say.

  And then Tom was dead.

  * * *

  “What was Tom thinking, Ophelia?” Sophia embraced her sister-in-law. “Aidan isn’t a knight in shining armor. In fact if the rumors are true, he’s far from honorable. I’m not sure that Tom was entirely himself when he put Ian under Aidan’s control.”

  “My dear, Tom didn’t give Ian over to Aidan. You are also his guardian. But I’m afraid this partnership might be my fault.” Ophelia patted the open space next to her on the couch, and Sophia sat beside her. “When we were in Italy, Tom asked me all the latest news about Aidan, and I must admit I glossed over his more scandalous moments. Had I known Tom’s intentions, I would have been less generous.”

  “It wouldn’t have mattered.” Sophia wiped away angry tears with the back of her hand. “Tom would have believed the good, justified away the bad, and ignored the middle. Most of the time, I found that endearing. Now . . . if he weren’t dead, I’d kill him myself.”

  Ophelia drew several handkerchiefs from her sewing stand and tucked one into Sophia’s hand. For a moment, the women sat in silence, Ophelia’s hand placed comfortingly on Sophia’s.

  “You must admit, my dear, this arrangement offers advantages,” Ophelia reasoned. “If anything were to happen to you, your brother would catch the scent of money and appeal to Chancery to serve as Ian’s guardian over whomever you might have chosen. But Phineas will not cross Aidan. Since he has become duke, Aidan’s natural magnetism has grown into an ease of command.”

  Sophia wiped her eyes with the corner of the linen. “I wasn’t thinking of it that way, but yes, you are right. As for Aidan’s ‘ease of command,’ you should have seen his note. One can’t call it a summons, since he’s coming to me. But he expects compliance all the same.” She rubbed the handkerchief between her fingers, distracting herself with the ornate curves of monogrammed initials. An A was obvious and an F, then with an artist’s eye, she followed the line of the intertwined S. In shock she realized the shape of the pattern. “Oh, my word . . . Phee! Aidan has been to visit you!?”

  “Oh, dear, forgive me.” Ophelia swept the soiled handkerchief from Sophia’s hand and tucked it out of sight. “When Aidan came to us after Tom’s death, I cried on his linen. I keep forgetting to return it.” Ophelia handed Sophia a new handkerchief. “After our parents died, we girls didn’t live only in London with Aunt Millicent. We spent summers with Tom and our Somerville cousins. Even now, Aidan often acts as our brother. He escorts us to balls when Sidney is obligated at Whitehall, and he always dances with Kate and Ariel in the second half.”

  “Of course, I should have realized. Forgive me, I’m simply . . .” Sophia searched for the right word.

  “Overwrought, my dear. You’ve had an unwelcome surprise,” Ophelia offered with characteristic good sense. “But how do you intend to convince Aidan to reject Tom’s plan?”

  “I thought I’d appeal to his bachelor instincts, ask him to be Ian’s guardian in name only, visiting as he sees fit when he is in town, advising me on whatever matters he finds important, but leaving the day-to-day oversight to me.” Sophia watched Ophelia’s face hopefully. “If that fails, I would suggest that, given his reputation, his brothers or my cousins would more suitably fill the role of mentor for a young boy.”

  Ophelia looked pensive, her straight auburn hair, unencumbered by a cap, twisted into a high bun. The gray ribbon banding her head was the only trace of half-mourning. “Aidan’s reputation as a rake aside, he takes responsibilities seriously. He’s never failed when we’ve called on his help. In fact, I was unable to say anything against Aidan when Tom asked because . . .” Phee shifted in her chair. “I suppose it won’t hurt to tell you.”

  Phee looked for assent from Sophia, who nodded.

  “We arrived in Naples so unexpectedly because we left London in haste. Ariel’s season had been lovely until she confided in that foolish gossip Susan Flanders the news of Tom’s settlements on her and Kate. Suddenly every penniless scoundrel found my sisters the most attractive morsels on the market. One, George Winthrop, decided to convince Ariel to marry him by abducting her from Lady Mallory’s ball.”

  “Abducting?”

  “If Aidan hadn’t noticed Ariel was gone, well, she would have been ruined, or worse, married to a wastrel and a reprobate. Aidan found me, just as a footman delivered a message that Ariel, feeling ill, had caught a ride home with Lady Balmoral. When I tried to ask questions, the footman turned away without answering. Aidan pulled the footman into a withdrawing room and sent me to find Malcolm.

  “By the time we returned, Aidan had the full of Winthrop’s plan. Aidan and Malcolm caught up with Winthrop’s carriage not too many miles out of town, with Ariel, still
unconscious from a bump on her head. We feared that Winthrop might try to force the marriage, claiming he’d compromised her. We’d already received your letter urging us to visit, so we came to Naples.”

  Sophia shook her head, refusing Ophelia’s positive view of Aidan’s character. “In Ariel’s case, a young woman he cared for was endangered. But Aidan doesn’t know Ian. If he wished to act as father to a young boy, he would have married by now and begun a family.”

  “Yet Ian needs someone he can ask all those pesky questions boys come up with,” Ophelia suggested gently.

  “And what will Aidan teach him? The best brothels in town? Isn’t that what all aristocratic men teach each other at their clubs?”

  “I don’t think Aidan frequents brothels,” Ophelia offered lightly. “He usually has a mistress.”

  “Of course, that’s better,” Sophia said with some bitterness. “Ian can learn that gentlemen aren’t expected to regard their wives with the same attention they give their light o’ loves.”

  “Well, a mistress disobliges no one if the man is unmarried.” Ophelia nodded to the footman who had come to the door with a tea service. He placed it on the tray before her. “Bentley, would you call my sisters to tea?”

  “From what I’ve heard”—Ophelia lowered her voice until the footman had pulled the door shut behind him—“the demimonde have been waiting for months to see who would gain his patronage. In fact, we have a pool going on who will be his next liaison. I believe Lady Belmont is a favorite, but Sidney thinks . . .” Ophelia stopped at Sophia’s silence. “Oh, dear, this doesn’t help, does it? To know that people speculate over which woman he will next take to his bed.”

  “Who tells you such things?” Sophia felt her face turn warm.

  Ophelia grinned. “You’d be surprised the information one can pick up over cards at a ball. And Sidney listens at his club. Thank goodness, he isn’t a prude about sharing details! I dare say he enjoys the chatter more than I do. He always quizzes me about what we ladies have discussed at tea!”