The Duke's Secret Heir

by Sarah Mallory

  There was the hint of a smile in Tony’s voice as he replied, ‘As a matter of fact, I do, Your Grace.’

  ‘Then answer me one question,’ said Max. ‘Why, since she professed to love me more than life itself, did she not tell me I had a son?’

  Tony did not flinch under Max’s searching stare, but there was no mistaking the sympathy in his face as he shook his head and said sadly, ‘That I do not know, Your Grace.’

  * * *

  Another dinner to be endured and house guests to be entertained. Ellen changed into a fashionable white-satin robe trimmed with gold chenille, draped with a green crape sash which was pulled in around the high waist and fastened on one shoulder with a large emerald brooch. Emeralds also glinted at her neck and ears. They winked back at her when she looked in her glass, reminding her of the laughing glint she had surprised in Max’s eyes occasionally when he looked at her. But not any more. Stifling a sigh, Ellen put on her long gloves, fixed her smile in place and went downstairs.

  Ellen was introduced to Lord This and Lady That, to simpering misses and knowing matrons, all friends of the Dowager. The last to be introduced was the Honourable Giles Wendlebury, the Dowager’s younger brother. He was as thickset as Dorcas was thin and, in contrast to his sister’s pale complexion, his face had the ruddy glow of a heavy drinker. He squeezed Ellen’s hand as he lifted it and pressed a wet kiss upon her gloved fingers.

  ‘So this is the new Duchess. Delighted to meet you, Your Grace. And now Max has brought you home perhaps we will have more parties at Rossenhall. You might even be able to find me a rich wife. Old Max would appreciate that, ain’t that so, Duke?’

  He laughed heartily and Ellen glanced at her husband. Max was talking with Mrs Ackroyd and affected not to hear, but she knew from the stony look on his face that he was not amused by his brother-in-law. Well, at least they were in accord upon that. She smiled, murmured something innocuous and moved on.

  To Ellen’s mind the party was too loud and cheerful. The men behaved with a false bonhomie that she could see Max disliked and when Jamie was brought into the drawing room the ladies cooed and petted him in a way that made the little boy squirm. It was all so disingenuous. Max studiously avoided Ellen’s eye, but she knew in her bones that he hated it as much as she. Their guests admired the house, applauded the dinner, praised their host and complimented their hostess. Mrs Ackroyd had little time for such insincerity and confined most of her remarks to her hostess, but even this did not help Ellen, for the weight of unhappiness pressing upon her heart cried out to be shared and there was no time for such a luxury now.

  * * *

  At last the interminable evening was over. All the guests except Mrs Ackroyd retired, the Dowager graciously offering to accompany her guests, since she had to pass their chambers on the way to her own apartments in the west wing. The Duke was also eager to quit the room.

  ‘I shall leave you, too,’ he said with a brief smile that covered both his wife and Mrs Ackroyd, sitting together on a sofa. ‘I am sure you will be pleased to have a little time to yourselves.’

  With a bow he was gone and silence fell over the room.

  ‘How very considerate,’ remarked Mrs Ackroyd. When Ellen made no reply she continued, ‘Perhaps he thinks if he leaves us alone you will tell me why you are so unhappy.’ Ellen’s eyes flew to her face and she nodded. ‘You may be able to hide your sorrow from everyone else, but I know you too well, Ellen. Have you quarrelled? I was surprised when the Duke announced he would be leaving Rossenhall so soon after the ball.’ She reached out and took Ellen’s hands. ‘Come, love, you were always wont to confide in me and you can do so now.’

  It was too much. With a shuddering sob Ellen threw herself into her arms and Mrs Ackroyd held her, crooning softly. It did not last long and soon Ellen was drying her tears and apologising for her weakness.

  Mrs Ackroyd patted her hands. ‘Do you know, that is the only time I have seen you cry, apart from the first day you arrived at my school, a homesick little girl who had never known a mother’s love. You have always kept your true feelings hidden behind a smile. So I know something must be very wrong.’

  ‘It is.’ Ellen wiped her damp cheeks. ‘Max did not come to find me,’ she confessed, ‘we met by chance in Harrogate and when he found out about Jamie, he thought I was deliberately hiding the boy away from him.’

  ‘But you had written to him, telling him about James.’

  ‘He never received my letter.’

  ‘But you explained that you had tried to contact him?’

  ‘He would not believe me, without proof.’ Ellen sighed. ‘I had thought, hoped, that things would improve once we were under the same roof, working together. I thought we could learn to be happy, but it has not been so. He cannot forgive me.’ Her head bowed as fresh tears welled up. ‘He is going away because he thinks I shall be more comfortable without him. In fact, it will be the opposite.’

  ‘My love, you cannot take all the blame for this estrangement.’

  Ellen raised her head at that. ‘I can and I will. If I had not been foolish enough to doubt him, if I had done as he asked, returned to Portsmouth in an English frigate and waited for him, this could never have happened.’

  ‘You must tell him again that you wrote to him,’ said Mrs Ackroyd. ‘And that you also contacted the late Duke. I will vouch for it.’

  Ellen shook her head. ‘He would merely think I was trying to put the blame on to his brother, who is no longer here to defend himself.’ She saw the sparkle in her friend’s eyes and clutched her hands. ‘Promise me you will say nothing, ma’am. Max thinks badly enough of me as it is. I will not make it any worse.’

  Mrs Ackroyd looked closely at her for a long moment. At last she said, ‘Tell me, Ellen, do you still love him?’

  ‘With all my heart.’

  ‘Then tell him so, my dear. You were always one to keep your feelings hidden, to smile when you felt like crying, but now you must tell him the truth.’

  ‘But what if he spurns me again?’

  The older woman squeezed her fingers. ‘What if he does not?’

  * * *

  Max deliberately extended his morning ride to keep him away from the house until well past noon. He had no wish to spend more time than was necessary with the Dowager’s friends. Ellen’s step-mama was on a protracted tour of the north and she had declined his suggestion to invite other members of her family to Rossenhall for the ball, so Max could then hardly refuse to let Dorcas fill the guest rooms with her cronies. Thankfully they were confined to the west wing, so with any luck he could avoid seeing them until tonight’s grand dinner. Truth to tell, he wanted to avoid everyone for a while.

  Yesterday’s conversation with Tony refused to leave him and he went over it in his head as he cantered away from Rossenhall, Jupiter covering the ground with his long, easy stride. The sun had passed its zenith before the confusion in his mind settled. He had been too hard on Ellen. Perhaps he was even being too hard on himself. He knew there was some truth in what Tony had said about all those desperate military campaigns: a lesser commander might well have lost even more men. As Max acknowledged that fact, the weight on his spirits eased a fraction. It was wrong of him to blame Ellen for his actions and he must ask her to forgive him. But the devil on his shoulder demanded if he could forgive her for concealing the fact that he had a son.

  But she said she had written to him.

  Max frowned. He had blamed her for not trusting him, for believing he would deceive her. Surely he must now give her that same trust. Yet Hugo would have told him if any such letter had arrived. One letter might have gone astray, but two? Perhaps... For the first time he allowed himself to consider other possibilities. Ellen would not lie, he would stake his life on it, but could he trust his own judgement, where his Duchess was concerned? Every fibre of his being told him he could.
He touched his heels against Jupiter’s flanks, anxious to see Ellen, to make his peace with her.

  * * *

  Max reached the stable yard just as Tony was dismounting.

  His steward nodded towards his sweating horse.

  ‘You have been riding hard, Your Grace.’

  ‘Yes, I have urgent matters to attend.’

  ‘Then let us walk to the house together.’ Tony fell into step beside him. ‘Is it anything I can help with?’

  ‘No. That is...’ Max wavered as a thought struck him. ‘Your predecessor kept meticulous records of all the correspondence here, is that not so?’

  Tony laughed. ‘Aye, Your Grace, Atherwell kept everything. Letters received, copies of letters sent, laundry lists. There’s boxes full of it in the small anteroom beside the library. I have been going back through it, trying to weed out the dross and clear some space, but I have by no means finished.’

  ‘Have you gone through the papers for four years ago? From January 1807, to be exact.’

  ‘Why, yes, I have.’

  ‘And was there...?’ Max paused, took a breath. ‘Did you find anything pertaining to my wife, my marriage?’

  Tony threw him a glance, clearly guessing the reason for Max’s question. ‘No, Your Grace.’

  The letters must have gone astray. Max no longer doubted that she had written. He had spent long enough now in Ellen’s company to know she would have wanted him to know about Jamie. He would trust her with his life. The revelation was like a weight lifted from his shoulders and it took him a moment to realise his steward was still speaking.

  ‘I beg your pardon, Tony, what was that?’

  ‘I said there might be something amongst your brother’s private papers.’

  Max stopped. ‘Private papers?’

  ‘Why, yes. They are in a separate trunk, but I do not have access.’ Tony looked genuinely confused. ‘I thought you had the key, Your Grace. If not, then it must still be with the Dowager.’

  Max did not need proof that Ellen had tried to contact him, but there was another, darker suspicion that he needed to allay. With a nod to Tony he set out to find his sister-in-law.

  * * *

  Dorcas was in the hall, preparing to walk in the gardens with her guests. Max indicated by a look that he wanted to speak to her and she excused herself from the chattering throng.

  ‘I understand my brother’s private correspondence is locked in a trunk in the library.’ She immediately looked wary and he said impatiently, ‘I would like the key to it.’

  ‘I am about to take everyone out of doors, can it not wait?’

  ‘No, it cannot.’

  ‘But why do you want the key? It contains only Hugo’s private papers. Mostly our correspondence when we were first married. There can be nothing in there to interest you.’

  ‘No?’

  Her eyes slid away from his.

  ‘I... I am not sure just where to lay my hands on the key, can you give me a little time to find it? Until after dinner, perhaps.’

  ‘No, Dorcas.’ Max’s instincts were screaming at him. ‘You will find me the key now, if you please, or I shall break open the lock.’

  * * *

  The library anteroom was lined with shelves, half of them piled high with a haphazard collection of boxes and papers while the rest, where Tony had been at work, were filled with orderly boxes, each one clearly labelled. Max easily found the large metal box containing his brother’s private papers and carried it across to the small desk. Then he took the key Dorcas had so grudgingly given him and fitted it into the lock.

  In the top of the box were Hugo’s journals. Max pulled one out and flicked through the pages. His brother had always been more of a sportsman than a scholar and he was not surprised to see it held only a sentence or two on each page, and sometimes a whole week between entries. For the first time he allowed himself to admit that Hugo had been more interested in the esteem that came with being Duke than in looking after the estates. He searched for the journal containing entries for 1807, but there was nothing of interest. He stacked the books on the desk and lifted out the papers beneath. There were a few bundles neatly tied together, early letters between Hugo and Dorcas. Max quickly put these to one side and began to make his way through the remaining pile of correspondence.

  Everything was in a rough order, beginning with a few letters of condolence upon the death of their mother, while they were both at school. Then Max’s occasional letters from Oxford. Max had gone there just as his brother was leaving. Hugo had learned to run the estate while Max finished his studies and joined the army, where he received rapid promotion. He sifted through the papers: invitations, family letters and his own infrequent notes. A few words had been scratched on each one by Hugo, instructions to the steward on how to respond. Max realised now that he had not received one personal note from Hugo once he became Duke, not even when Max had been injured in battle. Fred had described his family as cold and Max could see it now. Cold and unfeeling. How different from the warmth that Ellen had brought to Rossenhall. To his own life.

  He worked quickly through the pile, his frown deepening. Six years ago—condolences upon their father’s death. He went slower until he found his letter explaining that he would be going to Sicily with his regiment. He had been unable to tell his family anything more, it was a highly secret operation, not even the English Consul would be told.

  He put the paper down carefully, scanning the next and the next. Ellen had returned to England the following January, when the records still showed him to be in Sicily. Was it any wonder she had thought ill of him? As he turned over another sheet his breath caught in his throat.

  The letter from Ellen was dated June 1807. It described her marriage and her current condition and she asked for the Duke’s help in finding Major Max Colnebrooke. It was brief, barely filling one side. On the other was the direction, and across one corner a few lines in Hugo’s untidy scrawl, instructions to Atherwell on how to respond.

  Tradesman’s chit. Make it plain neither she nor her bastard are welcome here.

  Max stared at the date against the response. It was only weeks after he had been home on leave. He had told Hugo he had been in Egypt, although he had not mentioned his marriage. Max had preferred to conduct his search for Ellen privately and, if he couldn’t find her, well, at least his humiliation would be a secret. But even so why had Hugo not written to him? He must have known there might be some truth in the letter.

  Tradesman’s chit.

  Ellen had used that same expression to describe herself. Had Atherwell been crass enough to use his master’s derogatory term in the reply he had sent her? Max knew he was more than capable of it. To Hugo and his wife breeding was everything, they believed their blood was superior. His mouth twisted. He had seen enough blood during his years in the army to know that wasn’t true. Would it have made any difference if Hugo had known that Ellen was one of the wealthiest heiresses in England? He doubted it.

  Max went back to the pile of letters. Ellen said she had written twice. He turned over leaf after leaf, finally coming full circle. He was reading condolence letters again, this time for Hugo’s untimely death. Most of the letters were addressed to the widowed Duchess, only a few directed to the new Duke. All carried a brief instruction from the Dowager for Atherwell to reply.

  Max felt again the blow of Hugo’s demise. Not so much grief as guilt. Guilt that he should be inheriting, that he had not perished on the battlefield. He had not been able to face returning to Rossenhall and had used his military duties as an excuse. After all, Atherwell had been steward for thirty years, he and Dorcas would manage very well without him. It wasn’t until the death of the old steward last winter that Max forced himself to return and he had brought in Tony Grisham as his steward. It must have been at that point, when Dorcas handed over
responsibility for running the estates to Tony, that these private letters had been locked away.

  Max scraped up the sheets into a pile and was about to put them back into the box when a folded letter dropped on to the desk. He recognised at once the neat, sloping hand that had written the direction. He picked up the letter. It was addressed to the Duke of Rossenhall. The seal was broken and he slowly unfolded the paper.

  He read the date on the letter three times: fifteenth of March, 1810. Three weeks after Hugo’s death. He swallowed hard and read the formal words of sympathy on the loss of his brother and then stopped at the final sentences.

  I beg you will forgive the presumption, but despite assurances to the contrary I believe that you are the same Major Colnebrooke with whom I was acquainted in Egypt. I thought it only right that you should know, Your Grace, that you have a son. James is a very happy, healthy little boy. I ask nothing from you, but I am writing in the hope this knowledge may be a comfort to you, as it is to me.

  The page shook in his hand. Here it was, proof that she had not abandoned him. She had even given her address in Harrogate. But Dorcas had scrawled thick, angular letters across the top of the sheet.

  Received: 20th March.

  Answer: None required.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The house was very quiet when Max left the library. He suspected that he was the only one who was not in his room, changing for dinner. He made his way quickly to the Dowager’s apartments. She was resting on her chaise and sat up with a jolt as he entered without knocking.

  ‘Heavens, you startled me! What do you mean by bursting in like that?’

  He glanced at the hovering maid. ‘Leave us.’

  Dorcas eyed him nervously. ‘I hope you are not going to shout, Max, for I have the headache. If it is about the money I have given Giles then you have no cause for complaint, it came from my widow’s jointure, not the estate.’

  ‘I have not the slightest interest in your brother.’ He ignored the vinaigrette bottle that she was waving ominously and held out the letter. ‘Why did you not tell me about this?’