The Duke Knows Best

by Jane Ashford

  “Have you nothing to add?” Flora asked Robert. “There must be some way that you made all this possible.”

  Robert shook his head. “I’m speechless. I only wish I’d found such a gift to give to you.”

  Flora had to blink quickly then.

  Verity leaned close to Randolph. “Do you think one can burst with happiness?” she asked.

  “You’d better not,” he teased. “I have a great many plans for later.”

  “I might need help with my laces,” she murmured in his ear.

  “My fingers are yours to command. Always.”

  They might have stood gazing into each other’s eyes forever. But one of Verity’s somewhat tipsy cousins offered a toast. “To Lord and Lady Randolph.”

  The others echoed him and sipped champagne.

  “Lady Randolph.” Verity tried the new title on her tongue, a little dubious.

  “It’ll sound well on accounts of your travels,” Randolph suggested. “Sell more books.”

  Verity’s answering smile was all he could desire, for the moment.

  Read on for a peek at Book 1 in Jane Ashford’s

  brand-new Lovelorn Lords series

  The Loveless Lord

  Available August 2018 from Sourcebooks Casablanca

  As Benjamin Romilly, fifth Baron Furness, walked down Regent Street toward Pall Mall, tendrils of icy fog beaded on his greatcoat and brushed his face like ghostly fingertips. The rawness of the March evening matched his mood: cheerless and bleak. He couldn’t wait to leave London and return to his Somerset home. He’d come up on business—annoyingly unavoidable—not for the supposed pleasures of society. His jaw tightened. Those who complained that town was empty at this time of year were idiots. Even though walkers were few in the bitter weather, he could feel the pressure of people in the buildings around him—chattering, laughing. As if there was anything funny about life. It grated like the scrape of fingernails across a child’s slate.

  Some invitations couldn’t be refused, however, and tonight’s dinner was one. His uncle Macklin was the head of his family and a greatly respected figure. Indeed, Benjamin felt a bit like an errant child being called on the carpet, though he could imagine no reason for the feeling. He didn’t see his uncle often. Well, lately he didn’t see anyone unless he had to. He walked faster. He was running late. He’d had trouble dragging himself out of his hotel.

  He turned onto Piccadilly and was instantly aware of several figures clustered in the recessed entry of a building on the right, as if the light from the tall windows could warm them. Ladybirds, not footpads, Benjamin recognized, even as a feminine voice called out, “Hello, dearie.” One of them moved farther into the strip of illumination that stretched from the window, her appearance confirming his judgment.

  Benjamin strode on. She hurried over to walk beside him. “A fine fella like you shouldn’t be alone on a cold night,” the woman said. “Look at the shoulders on him,” she called to her colleagues. “And a leg like a regular Adonis.”

  “No, thank you,” said Benjamin.

  She ignored him. “Such a grim look for a handsome lad. Come along, and I’ll put a smile on your face, dearie. You can believe I know how.” She put one hand on his sleeve to slow him and gestured suggestively with the other.

  “I’m not interested.” Paint couldn’t hide the fact that she was raddled and skinny. Gooseflesh mottled her nearly bare breasts, on display for her customers. She must be freezing, Benjamin thought. And desperate, to be out on a night like this one. He pulled out all the coins he had in his pocket. Shaking off her hand, he pushed them into it. “Here. Take this.”

  She quickly fingered them. “Ooh, you can get whatever you want for this, dearie. Some things you haven’t even dreamed of, mayhap.”

  “Nothing.” Benjamin waved her off and moved on. Some plights could be eased by money, he thought. There was a crumb of satisfaction in the idea, when so much misery was intractable.

  “Think you’re so grand,” the woman screeched after him. “Shoving your leavings at me like a lord to a peasant.”

  Benjamin didn’t bother feeling aggrieved. It was just the way of the world. Things went wrong. Good intentions got you precisely nowhere. And he didn’t blame her for resenting the position she’d found herself in. He pulled his woolen scarf tighter about his neck and trudged on.

  Stepping into the warmth and conviviality of White’s was like moving into a different world. The rich wood paneling and golden candlelight of the gentlemen’s club replaced the icy fog. There was a buzz of conversation and clink of glasses from both sides of the entryway. Savory smells rode the air, promising a first-rate meal.

  Surrendering his coat and hat to a servitor, Benjamin was directed to a private corner of the dining room, where he found his uncle standing like a society hostess receiving visitors.

  Arthur Shelton, Earl of Macklin, was nearly twenty years Benjamin’s senior, but he hardly looked it. The sandy hair they shared showed no gray. His tall figure remained muscular and upright. His square-jawed, broad-browed face—which Benjamin’s was said to echo—showed few lines, and those seemed scored by good humor. Benjamin shook his mother’s brother’s hand and tried to appear glad to be in company.

  “Allow me to introduce my other guests,” his uncle said, turning to the table behind him.

  Benjamin hadn’t realized there was to be a party. If he’d known, he wouldn’t have come, he thought. And then he was merely bewildered as he surveyed the three other men who comprised it. He didn’t know them, and he was surprised that his uncle did. They all appeared closer to his own age than his uncle’s near half century.

  “This is Daniel Frith, Viscount Whitfield,” his uncle continued, indicating the fellow on the left.

  Only medium height, but he looked very strong, Benjamin observed. Brown hair and eyes and a snub nose that might have been commonplace but for the energy that seemed to crackle off him.

  “Sir Roger Berwick,” said his uncle, nodding to the man in the center of the trio.

  This one was more Benjamin’s height. He was thinner, however, with reddish hair and choleric blue eyes.

  “And Peter Rathbone, Baron Compton,” said their host.

  Clearly the youngest of them, Benjamin thought. Not much past twenty, he’d wager, and nervous looking. Compton had black hair, hazel eyes, and long fingers that tapped uneasily on his flanks.

  “Gentlemen, this is my nephew, Benjamin Romilly, Baron Furness, the last of our group. And now that the proprieties are satisfied, I hope we can be much less formal.”

  They stood gazing at each other. Everyone but his uncle looked mystified, Benjamin thought. He felt as if he’d strayed into one of those dreams where you show up for an examination all unprepared.

  “Sit down,” said his uncle, gesturing at their waiting table. As they obeyed, he signaled for wine to be poured. “They have a fine roast beef this evening. As when do they not at White’s? We’ll begin with soup, though, on a raw night like this.” The waiter returned his nod and went off to fetch it.

  The hot broth was welcome, and the wine was good, of course. Conversation was another matter. Whitfield commented on the vile weather, and the rest of them agreed that it was a filthy night. Compton praised the claret, and then looked uneasy, as if he’d been presumptuous. The rest merely nodded. After a bit, Sir Roger scowled. Benjamin thought he was going to ask what the deuce was going on—hoped someone would, and soon—but then Sir Roger took more wine instead. All their glasses were emptied and refilled promptly.

  It wasn’t simply good manners or English reticence, Benjamin concluded. Uncle Arthur’s innate authority and air of command was affecting these strangers just as they did his family. One simply didn’t demand what the hell Uncle Arthur thought he was doing.

  Steaming plates were put before them. Eating reduced the necessity of talking. Benjamin a
ddressed his beef and roast potatoes with what might have appeared to be enthusiasm. The sooner he finished, the sooner he could excuse himself from this awkward occasion, he thought. He was about halfway through when his uncle spoke. “No doubt you’re wondering why I’ve invited you—the four of you—this evening, when we aren’t really acquainted.”

  Knives and forks went still. All eyes turned to the host, with varying degrees of curiosity and relief.

  “You have something in common,” he went on. “We do.” He looked around the table. “Death.”

  Astonishment, and denial, crossed the others’ faces.

  The older man nodded at Benjamin. “My nephew’s wife died in childbirth four years ago. He mourns her still.”

  In one queasy instant, Benjamin was flooded with rage and despair. The food roiled dangerously in his stomach. How dared his uncle speak of this before strangers? Or anyone? All Benjamin asked was that people let him be. Little enough, surely? His eyes burned into his uncle’s quite similar blue-gray gaze. Benjamin saw sympathy there, and something more. Determination? He gritted his teeth and looked away. What did it matter? The pall of sadness that had enveloped him since Alice’s death fell back into place. He made a dismissive gesture. No doubt his tablemates cared as little for his history as he did for theirs.

  Uncle Arthur turned to the man on his left. “Frith’s parents were killed in a shipwreck eight months ago on their way back from India,” he continued.

  The stocky viscount looked startled, then impatient. “Quite so. A dreadful accident. Storm drove them onto a reef.” He looked around the table and shrugged. “What can one do? These things happen.”

  Benjamin dismissed him as an unfeeling clod even as his attention was transfixed by his uncle’s next bit of information.

  “Sir Roger lost his wife to a virulent fever a year ago.”

  “I didn’t lose her,” this gentleman exclaimed, his thin face reddening with anger. “She was dashed well killed by an incompetent physician, and my neighbor, who insisted they ride out into a downpour.”

  He looked furious. Benjamin searched for sadness in his expression and couldn’t find it. Rather, he looked like a man who’d suffered an intolerable insult.

  “And Compton’s sister died while she was visiting a friend, just six months ago,” his uncle finished.

  The youngest man at the table flinched as if he’d taken a blow. “She was barely seventeen,” he murmured. “My ward as well as sister.” He put his head in his hands. “I ought to have gone with her. I was invited. If only I’d gone. I wouldn’t have allowed her to take that cliff path. I would have—”

  “I’ve been widowed for ten years,” interrupted their host gently. “I know what it’s like to lose a beloved person quite suddenly. And I know there must be a period of adjustment afterward. People don’t talk about the time it takes—different for everyone, I imagine—and how one copes.” He looked around the table again. “I was aware of Benjamin’s bereavement, naturally, since he is my nephew.”

  Benjamin cringed. He could simply rise and walk out, he thought. No one could stop him. Uncle Arthur might be offended, but he deserved it for arranging this…intolerable intrusion.

  “Then, seemingly at random, I heard of your cases, and it occurred to me that I might be able to help.”

  Benjamin noted his companions’ varying reactions: angry, puzzled, dismissive. No one, not even his formidable uncle, could make him speak if he didn’t wish to, and he didn’t.

  “What help is there for death?” said Sir Roger. “And which of us asked for your aid? I certainly didn’t.” He glared around the table as if searching for someone to blame.

  “Waste of time to dwell on such stuff,” said Frith. “No point, eh?”

  Compton sighed like a man who despaired of absolution.

  “Grief is insidious, almost palpable, and as variable as humankind,” said their host. “No one who hasn’t experienced a sudden loss can understand. A black coat and a few platitudes are nothing.”

  “Are you accusing us of insincerity, sir?” demanded Sir Roger. He was flushed with anger, clearly a short-tempered fellow.

  “Not at all. I’m offering you the fruits of experience and years of contemplation.”

  “Thrusting them on us, whether we will or no,” replied Sir Roger. “Tantamount to an ambush, this so-called dinner.”

  “Nothing wrong with the food,” said Frith, his tone placating. He earned a ferocious scowl from Sir Roger, which he ignored. “Best claret I’ve had this year.”

  Benjamin grew conscious of a tiny, barely perceptible, desire to laugh. The impulse startled him.

  “Well, well,” said his uncle. “Who knows? If I’ve made a mistake, I’ll gladly apologize. Indeed, I beg your pardon for springing my idea on you with no preparation. Will you, nonetheless, allow me to tell the story of my grieving, as I had hoped to do?”

  Such was the power of his personality that none of the younger men refused. Even Sir Roger merely glared at his half-eaten meal.

  “And afterward, should you wish to do the same, I’ll gladly hear it,” said Benjamin’s uncle. He smiled.

  Uncle Arthur had always had the most engaging smile, Benjamin thought. He suddenly recalled a day twenty years past, when his young uncle had caught him slipping a frog between a bullying cousin’s bedsheets. That day, Uncle Arthur’s grin had quirked with shared mischief. Tonight, his expression showed kindness and sympathy and the focus of a keen intellect. Impossible to resist, really.

  In the end, Benjamin found the talk that evening surprisingly gripping. Grief had more guises than he’d realized, and there was a crumb of comfort in knowing that other men labored under its yoke. Not that it made the least difference after the goodbyes had been said and the reality of his solitary life descended upon him once more. Reality remained, as it had these last years, bleak.

  One

  Benjamin rode over the last low ridge and drew rein to look down on his home. It was a vast relief to be back, far from the incessant noise of London. The mellow red brick of the house, twined with ivy, the pointed gables and ranks of leaded windows, were as familiar as his own face in the mirror. Furness Hall had been the seat of his family for two hundred years, built when the first baron received his title from King James. The place was a pleasing balance of grand and comfortable, Benjamin thought. And Somerset’s mild climate kept the lawn and shrubberies green all winter, though the trees were bare. Not one stray leaf marred the sweep of sod before the front door, he saw approvingly. The hedges were neat and square—a picture of tranquility. A man could be still with his thoughts here, and he longed for nothing else.

  He left his horse at the stables and entered the house to a welcome hush. Everything was just as he wished it in his home, with no demands and no surprises. He’d heard a neighbor claim, when he thought Benjamin couldn’t hear, that Furness Hall had gone gloomy since its mistress died. He could not have cared less about the fellow’s opinion. What did he know of grief? Or anything else for that matter? He was obviously a dolt.

  A shrill shout broke the silence as Benjamin turned toward the library, followed by pounding footsteps. A small figure erupted from the back of the entry hall. “The lord’s home,” cried the small boy.

  Benjamin cringed. Four-year-old Geoffrey was a whirlwind of disruptive energy. He never seemed to speak below a shout, and he was forever beating on pans or capering about waving sticks like a demented imp.

  “The lord’s home,” shouted the boy again, skidding to a stop before Benjamin and staring up at him. His red-gold hair flopped over his brow. He shoved it back with a grubby hand.

  Benjamin’s jaw tightened. His small son’s face was so like Alice’s—it was uncannily painful. In a bloody terror of death and birth, he’d traded beloved female features for an erratic miniature copy. He could tell himself it wasn’t Geoffrey’s fault that his mother had
died bringing him into the world. He knew it wasn’t. But that didn’t make it any easier to look at him.

  A nursery maid came running, put her hands on Geoffrey’s shoulders, and urged him away. Staring back over his shoulder, the boy went. His deep blue eyes reproduced Alice’s in color and shape, but she’d never gazed at Benjamin so pugnaciously. Of course she hadn’t. She’d been all loving support and gentle approbation. But she was gone.

  Benjamin headed for his library. If he had peace and quiet, he could manage the blow that fate had dealt him. Was that so much to ask? He didn’t think so.

  Shutting the door behind him, he sat in his customary place before the fire. Alice’s portrait looked down at him—her lush figure in a simple white gown, that glory of red-gold hair, great celestial blue eyes, lips parted as if she was just about to speak to him. He’d forgotten that he’d thought the portrait idealized when it was first finished. Now it was his image of paradise lost. He no longer imagined—as he had all through the first year after her death—that he heard her voice in the next room, a few tantalizing feet away, or that he would come upon her around a corner. She was gone. But he could gaze at her image and lose himself in memory.

  * * *

  Three days later, a post chaise pulled up before Furness Hall, uninvited and wholly unexpected. No one visited here now. One of the postilions jumped down and rapped on the front door while the other held the team. A young woman emerged from the carriage and marched up as the door opened. She slipped past the startled maid and planted herself by the stairs inside, grasping the newel post like a ship dropping anchor. “I am Jean Saunders,” she said. “Alice’s cousin. I’m here to see Geoffrey. At once, please.”

  “G-geoffrey, miss?”

  The visitor gave a sharp nod. “My…relative. Alice’s son.”

  “He’s just a little lad.”

  “I’m well aware. Please take me to him.” When the servant hesitated, she added, “Unless you prefer that I search the house.”