The Mistress Diaries (Love at Pembroke Palace Book 2)

by Julianne MacLean

Of course, Devonshire was a duke. He could do as he pleased. In Vincent’s case, his father would have to accept Cassandra, and in addition, the duke would have to convince the world to turn a blind eye to her previous status as a mistress, which could not be kept secret because Letitia knew of it. Therein lay the problem.

  Feeling restless, Vincent slipped out of bed and picked up his discarded clothing. He dressed quietly in the darkness, then stood over Cassandra for a few minutes more.

  The sheets were tangled around her long shapely legs, her moist lips were parted, her tousled hair spread out on the pillow like shimmering waves of silk. He let his gaze travel up the enticing length of her body, then his eyes came to rest on her face.

  A vivid memory came to him—of the moment at the palace when he had burst into the nursery to find Cassandra standing over the cradle with June in her arms. She had feared that he would not let her leave with her daughter. How he had resented her that day for her optimistic ideas about love. It had forced him to examine more closely his own dark and cynical beliefs.

  But how beautiful she had looked—her blue eyes flashing with determination to survive and love her child on her own terms.

  Cassandra had always been proud. She had never been weak, not even while asking for his help, pleading with him to raise her daughter—which could not have been easy when he had been so heartless and cruel, and when she had despised him, and justifiably so.

  He knew she no longer despised him, and he now understood that love between them was inevitable and worth fighting for. So, there was at least some progress to celebrate. A great deal of it, in fact, if one remembered the man he had been not so long ago.

  But it was not enough. He wanted more than just Cassandra’s passions. He wanted her love—the kind of love only she could give. He wanted security, commitment, promises—and not the sort of promises written out by a solicitor.

  God! He could not believe he was even thinking these things! In the past month he had been turned upside down on his ear. He wanted his daughter to know who he was, and he wanted Cassandra’s heart, promised to him forever—happily, willingly, respectably, without guilt, for the rest of their days. He wanted no other woman but her. He supposed it was all he had ever wanted as a younger man—to be a devoted husband and to marry for love. That was the real Vincent Sinclair, as his mother had so wisely pointed out to him earlier in the day.

  The sheer white curtain at the open window billowed inward on a breeze, and seconds later he felt its coolness pass over his skin. Glancing one last time at Cassandra on the bed, he debated whether he should slip back in and sleep all night beside her...

  He decided against it, however, for he could not bear this sense of limbo any longer, with his future dictated by a father who was going mad, and a mercenary fiancée who cared for no one but herself.

  The time had come to do what he had been avoiding since the moment he learned he had a child. He would have to ask for help—from the brother who had once betrayed him.

  Chapter 17

  Sometimes when he touches me, I feel as though all my sins have been forgiven. But other times, when I am alone, I wonder if I am dreaming all of this and will wake up one morning to find myself back in that cold boardinghouse, alone and bereft.

  —from the journal of

  Cassandra Montrose,

  Lady Colchester,

  July 8,1874

  Vincent arrived back at the palace at two in the morning. By then the cool spring breezes had disappeared and the night air was deathly still. Thunder rumbled softly in the distance. Would there be rain? he wondered uneasily, looking up at the cloudy black sky as he led his horse into the stables. If so, he hoped the timing would not coincide with Letitia’s departure from the palace. Such an ill-timed rainstorm would surely send his father somersaulting over the edge of sanity.

  A short while later, Vincent walked through the palace, checking to see if anyone was still up in the drawing room. The room was empty, the fire in the grate nothing but a pile of ash and the lamps all put out.

  He went to the billiards room next, then the library and the study, but all the rooms were dark.

  Too impatient to wait until morning, he went to his brother’s bedchamber, paused briefly outside the door to contemplate how he would explain himself to Devon, then simply knocked. Receiving no answer, he knocked a second time, and heard some anxious whispering and the sounds of the bed creaking.

  The door opened a crack, and he met his brother’s intense, concerned stare. “Vincent. Has something happened?”

  Vincent took in a breath, realizing only then how strange this must seem, for he had not knocked on his brother’s door in years, and certainly not at two in the morning. They hated each other.

  “I apologize for the interruption, but—”

  Detesting every minute of this, he stopped suddenly. This was madness. It was the middle of the night. This was the brother who had once stolen the woman he loved. He could not possibly confide in him. Vincent pushed his hair back off his forehead.

  “I shouldn’t have knocked,” he said. “Forgive me.” He turned to go, but Devon came out into the corridor.

  “Wait.”

  Vincent stopped and turned. His brother was wrapped in nothing but a sheet.

  “Let me put something on,” he said. “Meet me in the library in five minutes.”

  Vincent hesitated briefly, then nodded and left.

  Devon was still tucking a wrinkled, full-sleeved shirt into his trousers when he walked into the library a short time later.

  “I apologize,” Vincent said again, holding out a glass of brandy to his brother, who was more or less his mirror image. Their height was the same, and Devon possessed a similar broadness about the shoulders, and sported a dark, wavy mane of hair as well. “It didn’t occur to me that you are still on your honeymoon. I have been rather preoccupied.”

  Devon accepted the glass. “If my wife has anything to say about it, I may still be on this honeymoon fifty years from now, so it’s just as well you did not wait.”

  Vincent could not deny that he resented his brother’s good fortune, especially now, when he was so very far from his own. “You are a lucky man.”

  Devon eyed him curiously. “And may I presume that is why you knocked on my door just now—because you are not presently feeling so lucky?”

  All the weight of the world seemed to descend upon Vincent’s shoulders at that instant, and he sank into a chair. “I am feeling that damn family curse like a noose around my neck.” He frowned. “I know things have been unpleasant between us lately, Devon, but I don’t know where else to turn.”

  Thunder rumbled ominously, far off in the distance, and Vincent realized just how long it had been since he’d had a conversation with his brother that did not involve a verbal attack of some kind.

  To his credit, for once Devon did not offer his customary brilliant, all-knowing wisdom or disparaging advice. He merely sipped his brandy and asked, “What can I do?”

  Vincent looked up. “I presume you know the situation.”

  “That Lady Colchester is in the dower house with your child? Yes, I am aware.”

  “And did you know that Letitia is also aware of her presence there?”

  Devon nodded. “From what I understand, your very accommodating fiancée has agreed to turn a blind eye to Lady Colchester and all your future mistresses.”

  Vincent took a drink. “There will never be any other mistresses.” For a long moment he sat in silence, then at last looked up. “May I be so bold as to ask...would Rebecca ever agree so openly to turn a blind eye to that sort of thing?”

  Devon laughed out loud. “The woman would have my balls in a bucket if I was unfaithful to her. Not that it would ever happen. I would never be so inclined. Rebecca has made me believe in the natural fidelity of true love.”

  Vincent loo
ked down at his brandy. “Every man should be so fortunate, to have such a wife.”

  “Or such a mistress?”

  Vincent slouched back in the chair and spoke with conviction. “That is my problem, you see. It is my mistress I want as my wife.”

  Devon studied him. “But does she want you as a husband?”

  “I don’t know yet,” Vincent replied, taking another drink. “But if I were free to woo her—honorably—I think I might be able to convince her that I am worthy.”

  He had convinced her of a great many things since the day she arrived at Pembroke Palace, despising the very ground he walked on. He had just come from her bed, after all.

  “Do you love her?” Devon pointedly asked.

  “Yes,” Vincent replied without hesitation, “and I do not think I could bear the loss of her.”

  Finishing his drink, Devon set down his glass and strolled to the window. He clasped his hands behind his back and looked out at the dark sky, which was flashing like distant cannon fire on the horizon.

  “It can be difficult sometimes,” Devon said, “or even painful, when one person loves more passionately than the other.”

  Vincent understood that his brother was referring not only to Cassandra, but to the woman who haunted both their pasts—the girl Vincent had loved his entire life, since he was a boy, and had intended to marry.

  Perhaps it was time he accepted the fact that MaryAnn had never loved him the way he loved her. She had loved another. And that other man—Devon—had not loved her the way she had loved him. The scales had been all askew in that horrible, tragic love triangle.

  “I am aware of that,” Vincent said. “But this is different. There is no shortage of passion on either side. But Cassandra has been to hell and back because of me. I must step in and make an honest woman out of her.”

  Devon turned to face him. His eyes held a hint of amusement. “You wish to be her knight in shining armor, then?”

  “As you were, with your own bride,” Vincent reminded him. “You cannot deny you rode to Rebecca’s rescue—quite literally, I believe—the first time you met her. And that particular good deed has not ended badly.”

  “Not badly at all.” Devon sat back upon the windowsill. “Now that I recall, I knocked Letitia over onto her backside when I was galloping past her in Rebecca’s direction. Figuratively, of course.”

  “Ah yes. She slapped your face in this very room.”

  “It was well worth the sting, I assure you.”

  Vincent gulped down the last of his brandy. “I would give anything to know the freedom of that sting, Devon. I just don’t know how to get there. There is Father to consider, and you and Blake and Garrett. I do not wish to let you down.”

  Another flash of light lit the clouds on the horizon and flickered almost gracefully into darkness.

  “I could talk to Father on your behalf,” Devon said, “but I have tried before to convince him to free all of you, and he would not budge. He is like a mule when it comes to this ridiculous curse.”

  “Sometimes I think the only way one could ever succeed in changing his mind would be to convince him that Letitia is part of the curse, not the cure to it.”

  Devon narrowed his gaze. “You may have an idea there, Vincent. We could fight fire with fire.”

  “Or in this case, madness with madness.”

  “Yes, but how?”

  Vincent turned his eyes to the window. “It looks like there is a storm coming. Father believes in signs. Perhaps there is a way to use this weather to our advantage.”

  Just then a few hard raindrops pelted the glass like flying pebbles, and a sudden, heavy downpour followed. It hissed and roared like an angry beast. Vincent joined Devon at the window, and they watched the trees bend and blow in the darkness. The panes rattled in front of their faces.

  “Would you look at that,” Devon said. “Just what we were hoping for. Sometimes I wonder if there are in fact cosmic forces at work here. Honestly, what are the odds?”

  Vincent raised an eyebrow at him. “Please, not you, too.”

  Devon smirked. “Do not worry, Vin. I am a man who lives according to facts, not sorcery.” He raised his chin to gesture at the window. “And what is going on out there is nothing more than a theatrical display of our nation’s standard springtime weather.”

  They both sipped their brandy for a few moments.

  “But there is another type of display,” Devon said warily, “that might cause problems for you, even if you are fortunate enough to win Father over and escape your betrothal to Letitia.”

  “What is that?”

  “The scandal, Vincent. Surely you have considered it. It would be no small matter to restore Lady Colchester’s reputation. Not only has she given birth to your child illegitimately, but Mother tells me she was disowned by her family and spent the past year living in almost complete poverty, working in a hat shop.”

  Vincent swallowed over the bitter taste in his mouth—which was quite a common occurrence lately, every time he imagined Cassandra’s suffering. “That is all true,” he said. “And I have no illusions. I know a scandal will be unavoidable, and sadly, even though he is the duke, Father doesn’t have the presence of mind or the cleverness to squash it. It is too late to keep it secret. Not only does her family and brother-in-law know of it, for they were the ones who tossed her into the street, but Letitia knows, too.”

  “And we can hardly trust Letitia to keep her mouth shut.”

  “Hardly.” Vincent took a drink.

  “Do you have any kind of plan that might at least diminish the gossip?” Devon asked.

  “Only this: we will do what any sensible army would do in the face of such a foe. We will retreat from the battlefield, or in our case, go abroad or hide away in the country for a while. A long while. I have already purchased the perfect house, and to be honest, Devon, the scandal doesn’t frighten me. Society can go to the devil for all I care.”

  “But what about Cassandra?” Devon asked. “Perhaps it will matter to her. She might think herself unworthy and may not wish to sully our family name. She might be unhappy.”

  “I will make her happy.”

  “I have no doubt you will do your best, and perhaps love will be enough for the two of you. But what of June? Surely you would not wish to see her ostracized all her life. You have her future to think about as well.”

  Vincent sat down and exhaled heavily. “Perhaps in time it will blow over. It’s not as if no man has ever married his mistress before. It’s been done. Hell, the Prince of Wales was in court just a few years ago for adultery. It won’t stop him from being king.”

  “No, it won’t.” Devon finished his brandy and set it on a table. “Maybe there is hope. One day, I will be duke, and when that day comes, you have my word I will embrace both you and Lady Colchester, and with the Pembroke dukedom behind us, we shall not retreat. Your daughter and all your future children will have a great and powerful family behind them. You won’t have to weather this alone.”

  Vincent rose to his feet and looked out at the storm, realizing how remarkable this moment was, as he stood without hostility beside his brother.

  He turned to Devon. “I owe you my thanks.”

  “I haven’t done anything yet.”

  “Nevertheless, your understanding means a great deal to me.”

  Devon met his gaze. “There is no need to thank me, Vincent. We both know I owe this to you.”

  Lighting flashed again, followed almost instantly by a deafening thunderclap that shook the foundations of the palace. They both looked outside.

  “Good Lord,” Devon said. “That was something.”

  “The entire household will be awake now.”

  But something caught Vincent’s eye in the distance. “What is that?”

  There was another flash of light—a small
, flickering glow of pale yellow, close to the ground.

  “Is it fire?” Devon asked.

  Vincent cupped his hands to the glass to reduce the reflections obscuring his view. “I believe it is. Lightning must have struck something.”

  Horror reeled in the pit of his stomach. “Where?”

  He knew exactly where.

  Whirling around, he took off at a run, aware of Devon following close at his heels as he headed for the dower house.

  Chapter 18

  How clearly I remember my hostility toward my husband’s mistress. I used to pray that she would leave him and that he would return to me for solace. I cannot pretend that I do not worry that Lady Letitia might one day feel that way about me.

  —from the journal of

  Cassandra Montrose,

  Lady Colchester,

  July 8,1874

  By the time Vincent reached the dower house, his horse was lathered and he was drenched in cold rain and sticky mud. The oak tree in front of the house was ablaze like a giant torch, illuminating the black smoke roiling over the rooftop. The front window of the second floor was broken, and the room inside was aglow.

  He tossed a leg over the saddle and hit the ground at a run. He dashed up the steps and through the front door, where he met Aggie Callahan in the hall with June in her arms. His heart squeezed with relief at the sight of his daughter safe from harm.

  “Take her outside,” he said, “and down to the river to wait. My brother Lord Hawthorne is on his way in the coach and will arrive at any moment. He will see to your safety. Now quickly, where is Cassandra?”

  Miss Callahan’s eyes were wild with fear. “She went back upstairs to wake the other servants. I told her I would go, but she insisted!”

  No more than a second later he was at the top of the staircase, swinging around the banister and running down the smoke-filled corridor toward the back stairs. “Cassandra!” He saw smoke rolling out from under a closed door—her bedchamber —but ignored it and continued on his way to the servant’s quarters. “Cassandra!”