Rake to Riches (The London Lords Book 2)

by Nicola Davidson

  Unless…she had come to introduce her betrothed?

  Stomach churning, he leaned forward, straining to hear the conversation in the hallway.

  “Thank you, my lord,” said a woman, easily identifiable as Louisa. “For everything you have done.”

  “You have my thanks too,” said a deep, accented voice. American? “Although I have no idea why I’m here in your home, Standish. Yours was the second note I received today, strangely enough. The other was from the Earl of Westleigh, asking me to call on him and his wife at my earliest convenience for an important meeting. Do you know him? Oh? Your foster brother, eh? Remarkable. Must say, never thought I’d be so popular here in London. Good evening to you.”

  George reached for the bedpost and gripped it hard. There was something about the unknown man’s baritone-laced words that both soothed his mind and tightly encircled his heart. That voice. Somehow he knew that voice, even though he’d never been to the colonies.

  “Come in here, your grace,” said Louisa. “There is someone you need to see without further delay.”

  “Very well,” said the duke affably. “I get the impression my instep might suffer if I do not. Would that be the case, young lady? Or a worse fate?”

  “I like science, so definitely worse,” Louisa replied with a laugh, and George let out a ragged breath. Those hadn’t sounded like the words of a possible fiancé. More like an indulgent father, or kindly uncle. And Louisa’s laugh hadn’t been at all flirtatious. More…affectionate, again, as to a well-liked relative.

  What the fuck was going on? The Donovans weren’t connected to any dukes. And as far as he was aware, she didn’t know any Americans…wait. Mannering. The lost duke had returned from the colonies. But how the hell did she know him? And why would she bring him here?

  Hauling himself to his feet, George inched his way around the end of the bed to get a glimpse of Louisa’s companion.

  And froze.

  For one long moment, time seemed to stop as his gaze took in the huge man standing just inside the doorway. Tall. So very tall his head would have cracked the frame if he hadn’t ducked. Silver-touched blond hair. Jade-green eyes.

  A man who would be his own fucking mirror image in about thirty years time.

  George reached out a hand, unable to get a single word past the boulder lodged in his throat, but his heart screamed one word over and over. FATHER.

  The duke stared back, his face twisted with shock and confusion. Then he dropped to his knees and clutched his head, his skin deathly pale and his breathing shallow pants.

  “Your grace!” shrieked Louisa, crouching to assist him.

  But Mannering waved her away, his gaze locked on George. “I remember. I remember everything. I didn’t before, only little snippets. Like portraits that were gone in a second. Please believe that…son.”

  A guttural sound tore from George’s throat, part shout, part wild sob, and he staggered forward. “Is it really you, or am I dreaming? Say it again. Say I’m your son.”

  Slowly, the duke got to his feet and walked toward him. Holding out his arms. “Georgie. My son. My son.”

  Blinded by tears, barely able to breathe as his entire body shook with pain and joy and relief and the unimaginable lightness of a terrible weight finally lifted, George half-stumbled, half-fell into the warm, secure embrace. “Father.”

  Louisa was sobbing beside him, but as he turned to reach for her, she swatted him away. “Don’t stop hugging your p-papa, you damned idiot c-cretin.”

  Mannering chuckled, the sound just as watery. “The words of a good woman…Emily. George, where she? Where is my Em? And Linny? I’ve been deliberately separated from you all. I’m going to tear apart my mother and cousin for their evil fucking lies…”

  George swallowed hard. How the hell could he explain the horrors of the last twenty years to a man whose “death” had begun them? “Caro is married to my friend Stephen Forsyth, Earl of Westleigh. That is why he sent you a note. They are expecting their first child any week now. You are going to be a grandfather! Stephen is a good man. The best. And he loves Caro madly. They are quite stomach-churning together. And ah—”

  “Where is my wife?”

  “Bloody hell,” said Louisa, her eyes huge. “Two husbands.”

  The duke shook his head, his lips contorted in a feral snarl. “No. One husband. Me.”

  “Mama was forced to wed,” whispered George. “A week after you…after the shipwreck news. Sir Malcolm Edwards, a senior magistrate. Your family arranged it with an iron-clad contract. He…he adopted Caro and me. We never knew who your family were. Weren’t allowed to know. We all had to carry his surname…”

  “Christ. I didn’t think I could hate them more, but I was wrong. Was…was this Sir Malcolm good to you?”

  George hesitated. A brave man would lie and spare his innocent father from the hideous truth. And yet he couldn’t make himself say the words. “Ah, he…”

  “Don’t even think about lying to me, George Henry. I’m your father and expect honesty.”

  Bowing his head, George wordlessly loosened the belt from his robe, and shrugged it from his shoulders. Then he turned around.

  Louisa screamed, then clamped her hands over her mouth to muffle the sound, her whole body swaying.

  Mannering swore bitterly, over and over. “Georgie. My son…I can’t…fuck. Did he do that to Em as well? To Linny?”

  “Not like this,” whispered George. “Sometimes he bruised them, but he preferred to torment and intimidate. Destroy anything they loved. Drawings. Trinkets. Even pets. And we were so poor. We had so little…”

  A roar of pure rage escaped his father’s mouth before he pressed his fist against it, and inhaled deeply several times. “It won’t ever be like that again. Not now. Emily will take her rightful place as my duchess. And you’ll have everything owed you as heir.”

  George blinked as black dots swam in his vision again. “Heir?”

  Louisa cleared her throat and rested a light hand on his uninjured shoulder. “Well, of c-course! I take it, your grace, that the twins were born in w-wedlock?”

  “Most certainly.”

  “Then…then you are the legal heir, George, making you Lord…oh d-dear, I’m so terrible with the p-peerage. What is the correct title?”

  His father smiled, and the warmth of it was like another embrace. “The heir to the Mannering dukedom is the Earl of Trentham. Your title, son. Plus all the income and property that accompanies it. I shall file the necessary paperwork immediately to have you recognized. Mr. George Edwards can be just a memory. From now on you shall be Lord George Grenville, Earl of Trentham.”

  “George Grenville,” George repeated, his voice slowly gaining strength as he said the unfamiliar but fucking wonderful combination over and over. He had a name. His own honest-to-God true name. And not a murky past, but a lineage to trace back well into history. “George Grenville. George Grenville.”

  “Indeed, my lord,” said Louisa, as she suddenly moved back from him and clasped her hands. Her smile strained. Her gaze wary. “Your whole life is going to change.”

  George frowned, his joy tempered.

  What the hell was wrong with her?

  ~ * ~

  George was now a wealthy earl. Heir to a dukedom.

  Like a damned bloody fool, in her haste to reunite him with his father, she hadn’t stopped to consider that particular aspect at all.

  Actually, she’d barely taken a breath for hours. Not only had she successfully escorted Caro home to Lord Westleigh and provided a succinct explanation when all her friend could do was sob into her husband’s shoulder, she had then sprinted here to Hastings House and convinced a surprisingly unsurprised Lord Standish to send a messenger to the nearby Grenville townhouse. For what seemed like eternity, Louisa had paced the foyer and inwardly pleaded for the duke to arrive, while waving away the servants’ offers of refreshments or a chair in the parlor. She couldn’t do anything as difficult as eat or sit.r />
  And then Mannering had been standing in front of her, a polite, if baffled, smile on his face, and the resemblance had struck her like a physical blow. Bloody hell, what he must have thought of her in those first few moments. Sweaty, incoherent madwoman would have been accurate. But amidst the babble there had been two words that caught his full attention: the past. And he’d agreed to accompany her upstairs to meet Lord Standish and his bedridden houseguest.

  But now father and son were reunited, and the facts of George’s future had been laid out, it hit her with the force of a spring tide—this would spell the end for them. Because George’s wit, charm, and looks, now with an ancient title and a future coronet for his wife? With many properties and a substantial income? He could have any woman he wanted. Hell, probably even a princess. He didn’t need her money. And he certainly wouldn’t choose an outspoken, unladylike, scientifically minded merchant’s daughter when he could have a beautiful, accomplished, highborn darling of the ton.

  Despair clawed Louisa’s soul, and she stumbled to her feet. “You two will have so much to talk about. Twenty years is a long time. I should…I must go.”

  Mannering frowned, the expression so similar to George’s her heart ripped in two. “Must you? I owe you a great deal, Miss Donovan, for being such a good friend to my son. Although I believe friends doesn’t begin to describe your relationship.”

  Blinking back more tears, when she’d already been such a hopeless watering pot, Louisa forced a smile. “Perhaps another day, your grace. You and George need to talk. And you might have to carry him, but do go and see Caro and Lady Ed…er, the duchess, at once. This is family time. Not for me.”

  “Lou,” said George forcefully. “Stay.”

  Oh God. When he called her that…it sounded like he cared a great deal. Maybe reuniting him with his father was enough to forgive her past sins. Like putting him in the path of Lord Kildaire. Saying awful things. Hitting him at the Bruce’s ball. But it was unlikely she would ever forgive herself for striking a man who had been repeatedly tortured. To think all this time his big, strong back had been silently carrying such a horrific secret. No wonder he hadn’t taken his shirt off around her, ever. Far more than the class difference now yawning like an abyss between them, the shame hurt so badly, she couldn’t face him. She was unsuitable in every way to be in George’s vicinity.

  “No, no. My parents will be expecting me for supper. I’ll see you soon. I promise.”

  Bobbing a curtsy, she fled the room. It was fortunate she’d been to Lord Standish’s townhouse a few times now, and at least knew how to get back to the main foyer without too much thought. There were that many bloody hallways and doors and antechambers; in her current fragile state, she might have got lost forever and been found as a pile of bones in a few decades or so.

  “Miss Donovan? Are you all right?” said Lord Standish’s butler, Jensen, as she practically came to a skidding halt in front of him.

  “Quite well,” she mumbled. “But I just realized the lateness of the hour. My parents will be expecting me home for supper, and they abhor tardiness. Would you hail a hackney for me?”

  The silver-haired man pursed his lips. “His lordship instructed that one of his own carriages be made available when you wished to depart. Are you sure you are all right, miss? Lord Standish would be most displeased if I neglected your welfare in any way.”

  Louisa blinked in surprise. “I didn’t, er, know he cared so much.”

  Now Jensen looked almost startled. “You are a special friend of Master George—er, Lord Trentham’s. And Lady Westleigh. And if you’ll forgive the personal observation, you helped save Lord Trentham’s life, and reunited him with his father. Which makes you a true lady, and a valued member of the London Lords’ inner circle.”

  Good grief. Everyone was determined to make her cry today. “I’m no lady, I’m a merchant’s daughter,” she choked out. “And I’m the reason Geo—Lord Trentham was hurt in the first place. Could you please, please call that carriage? I need to go at once.”

  Jensen’s brow furrowed, but he clicked his fingers and two footmen appeared. “Ready a carriage and escort Miss Donovan back to her parents’ townhouse. Thank you.”

  The footmen bowed and hurried away. A quarter hour later she was safely ensconced in a luxurious but thankfully unmarked carriage, and on her way home. The last thing she needed at the end of all this was her mother seeing the Standish crest and leaping to a thousand wrong and unwanted conclusions. It was going to be bad enough breaking the news to her that Mannering was decidedly unavailable.

  A near manic laugh escaped. All the occasions when her mother wasn’t waxing lyrical about bloody Kildaire, she’d been contemplating marrying Louisa to George’s father of all people.

  Letting her head fall back on the marvelously comfortable leather squab, Louisa closed her eyes in sheer weariness. More than just the events of today, she’d hardly slept since they had returned to London. But it seemed George was going to be fine with Dr. Murray and Victoria Murray’s expert care. The thought of keeping her distance cut to the bone, but she didn’t deserve to be around him. Not really.

  A sob caught in her throat; only the thought of the footmen and driver muting a prolonged and very loud wail. She was doing the right thing by stepping well away. And broken hearts mended in time, apparently.

  All too soon, the carriage pulled up in front of her parents’ townhouse, and Louisa climbed out and trudged toward the front steps.

  “Good evening, Miss Donovan,” said the butler with a bow, and she smiled wanly, only wanting to collapse into her bed and not wake up for a hundred years.

  “Louisa! There you are! Where on earth have you been?”

  Oh God.

  “Out, Mother,” she said, pushing past her and making her way toward the curved staircase.

  But Margaret Donovan wouldn’t be put off. “Out where? With whom?”

  Louisa turned and glared at her. “The Duke of Mannering and the Earl of Trentham.”

  “Really? How wonderful! Er, who is the Earl of Trentham? I don’t believe I know that title.”

  “Mannering’s son,” she bit out, her heart breaking all over again.

  “What? The duke is married? But—”

  “Here is the gossip that only a handful of people know, Mother. The lost duke was a third son, married with two children when he allegedly died. Now he is in the process of reuniting with them, and it will be the biggest scandal to hit London in forever.”

  “How could it be?”

  “Because the Duchess of Mannering is Emily, Lady Edwards, and the two children are Caroline and George. Yes, George Edwards is the Earl of Trentham.”

  For the first time ever, Margaret Donovan stood speechless, her mouth opening and closing like a landed trout.

  Smiling grimly, Louisa continued up the stairs.

  “Louisa!” shouted her mother eventually. “You come back down here and join your father and me for supper. He will want to hear every word of the tale, at once. Oh, my word. New gowns. You’ll need another new wardrobe and comportment tutor if you are going to be spending time with the heir to a dukedom...Louisa, come back!”

  Studiously ignoring the increasingly high-pitched words, Louisa walked on until she reached the blessedly quiet sanctuary of her bedchamber. Tearing off her elegant gown with her bare hands, she then attacked her stays with a pair of Belinda’s sewing shears. Finally she pulled on a nightgown, and crawled into bed.

  The best day of George’s life was the ruination of hers. And there was nothing she could or would do to stop what had been started. Once he found a proper countess, all she would have for comfort was the memory of those all too brief moments of bliss in Gloucestershire.

  Beating her innocent pillow with a closed fist, hating her own weakness, Louisa wept.

  This was truly it. The beginning of the end.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The rowboat moved toward the heavily shadowed and long abandoned docks in t
he pre-dawn gloom much like Percival imagined a sea snake would: leisurely, near-soundlessly, and with deadly intent. Especially when it carried a passenger more akin to a reptile, and ready to wreak cold-blooded vengeance.

  He didn’t allow himself the luxury of shuddering, either in fear or because of the frigid temperature. Demonstrating any kind of weakness in front of this man would be a mistake. For heaven’s sake, he had four heavily armed footmen waiting thirty feet away atop an unmarked carriage, and still felt unsafe. At least he had a lantern, larger than normal, which provided a warming halo of light. Far more refined than the flaming torch resting at the bow of the small vessel.

  A looped section of rope flew from the rowboat, neatly encircling a half-broken post and assisting the vessel to draw close to the lower wooden pier. Far too soon for his peace of mind, heavy footsteps echoed across the creaking timber of the weathered and rotting structure.

  Percival inclined his head, carefully respectful. “Sir Malcolm. I trust your voyage wasn’t too arduous. My sincerest apologies for the delay; I sent assistance as soon as I learned that Kildaire was responsible for your, er, predicament, and where he held you.”

  The bald-headed, violet-eyed demon ignored the words. “Where is he? Where is the Irishman that I am going to take great pleasure in gutting very, very slowly? Tell me his exact location.”

  “I understand your anger, but do not trouble yourself with the marquess. We have a far greater problem.”

  Sir Malcolm Edwards’ soulless gaze lanced through him. “I suggest, Mr. Grenville, if our partnership is to continue, you do not ever tell me what to trouble myself with. Kildaire and his circle of depraved sodomites sent me a blackmail letter. Broke into my home. Destroyed my library. Caused me injury. And when I again refused to dance to their tune, abducted me and held me in a filthy cellar in Calais—”

  “I know, which was both terribly wrong and—”