The Way to a Duke's Heart: The Truth About the Duke

by Caroline Linden

  Charlie nodded absently. “Yes, yes. Draw a bath and bring a bottle of wine.” As much as he needed to see Tessa, he needed to clean up first.

  “Yes, sir.” Barnes took his coat and hat. “Lord Edward has arrived, my lord.”

  Charlie’s head jerked up. “Damn.” For some reason, it made him think of Gerard’s reaction to his own arrival in Bath. The de Lacey brothers, who’d gone months without a single letter exchanged, were now popping in for visits to each other at the most inconvenient moments. “Where is he?”

  “In the back parlor, sir.”

  Edward looked up when Charlie opened the door. He had a stack of papers in front of him, as usual. “Always hard at work,” said Charlie. “How are you, Edward?”

  His brother rose and shook his hand. “Well enough.”

  “And your wife? I trust you left her well?”

  There was no mistaking the light that came into Edward’s eyes. “Splendidly well.”

  Charlie nodded. “I thought as much.” He didn’t ask what had brought Edward all the way into Somerset. He didn’t have to.

  “I hope you’ve been half as well,” Edward said. “I wondered, and Gerard did, too, but we had no word.” Charlie made no effort to deny the implicit accusation. “In fact, I had the devil of a time finding you,” Edward went on, “given that Gerard only knew you were leaving Bath in pursuit of Hiram Scott. After you left town, he was able to discover Mr. Scott’s ironworks in Mells, which is where I went initially. When you weren’t there, I asked after the lady you followed, Mrs. Neville, and traced you to Frome.”

  “How is Gerard?” asked Charlie. “He wasn’t pleased to see me when I arrived in response to his summons, in your place.”

  Edward smiled. “He’s decided to buy a house in Bath. I believe his bride took a liking to the town, and they intend to stay.” Charlie nodded. His brother eyed him expectantly. “What have you learned, Charlie?” Edward finally asked bluntly. “I came because the hearing has been scheduled. Cousin Augustus’s contesting petition will be heard, and you must defend your claim—our claim.”

  Charlie turned and walked away, out of the house. Edward followed, but neither spoke until they reached the path along the brook, rushing past the old mill. “Dorothy is long dead,” Charlie said at last. “I have a letter from the curate of the parish where she’s buried, testifying to her date of death five months before Durham wed our mother. Unless Durham had another secret marriage that comes to light, there is no question of our legitimacy.”

  Edward nodded. “And have you dealt with Scott?”

  Charlie squinted at the sunlight flashing off the water. “Yes.”

  “Will anyone find the body?” Charlie glared at him. Edward just raised his brows. “I presume you put an end to him for blackmailing Father.”

  He heaved a sigh. “Scott wasn’t much to blame. He posted the letters, but he didn’t write them.” He paused. “Dorothy Cope—or Dorothy Swynne, as she was born—was his mother. Her youthful escapades in London were quiet family lore; when Father inherited Durham, she remarked that she might have been a duchess, and wasn’t that a grand joke? Scott was a boy, but he remembered. He thought she’d only had an affair with Father, or been courted by him; he had no idea they’d actually married. Although it seems clear she never thought the marriage was real, since she came back to Somerset and had a new husband and family by the time Father inherited Durham.”

  “And you found proof of all this?”

  He nodded. “Somehow Gerard unearthed the minister—if one could truly call him such—and got hold of his registers, including the one recording the marriage of Francis Lacey to Dorothy Swynne Cope. It also recorded the marriages of whores and children and people so poor they had to pay the minister on credit. Good God, Edward, can you imagine Father being married in a tavern by a charlatan of a minister?”

  “No. But I daresay we are all fools for love, in our own ways.”

  Charlie gave a huff of bitter laughter, thinking of Maria. “You’ve got the right of that.”

  “Mrs. Neville doesn’t seem a fool,” remarked Edward. “I daresay she’ll pull you out of it. I wish you very happy, Charlie.”

  His head whipped around. “When did you meet her?”

  Edward grinned like a cat that had just cornered a mouse. “Two days ago. She . . . mistook me for you, for a moment.” His grin grew wider at Charlie’s expression. “I quite understood why you hadn’t written us, after meeting her.”

  “I was busy,” said Charlie through his teeth, “hunting down a blackmailer and trying to save our inheritance.”

  “And I commend you for it,” replied his brother gravely. “She told me she helped you.”

  “Dash it all,” grumbled Charlie. “She’s brilliant, Ned—cleverer than you and far more beautiful.”

  “Yes, I believe she will make a fine addition to the family.” Edward turned and started back toward the house. “I enjoy this much more when you are the fool, sick in love,” he called back. “I shall go write to my wife and tell her to plan a dinner in honor of her future sister.”

  Charlie replied in vulgar terms, and listened to his brother laugh all the way to the house. A fool, sick in love; had he teased Edward so badly over his precipitous plunge into love and matrimony? Edward had almost married the wrong woman as well, before the damned Durham Dilemma upended the betrothal. Perhaps they were all the same: Durham, Edward, and now he himself, all sure of their own judgment and determination, all learning humbling lessons about love.

  Of course, it would be hard to regret anything if he ended as happily as Edward had.

  He went back into the house and up the stairs, where Barnes had a steaming bath waiting. On impulse he opened the satchel of documents Edward had given him all those weeks ago, digging through the papers until he found the letter. He had read it before, when his brothers arrived in London to break the news of Durham’s clandestine first marriage, but was in such a rage at his father then that he’d only gleaned the basic facts. Now he carried it to the table where Barnes had left the wine waiting, and stripped off his dusty, dirty riding clothes. When the heat of the bath had begun to soothe his sore muscles and he’d fortified himself with a glass of burgundy, Charlie unfolded his father’s last letter and read.

  My dear sons—

  I write this with a heart made heavy by regret for the actions detailed below. Of all the sins in my long life, this is the one I shall most bitterly lament, for the sin itself and for my inability to remedy it through my own efforts and repentance. For leaving this burden on you all, I am most humbly sorry.

  The source of my troubles was my own fiery nature. In my youth, long before Durham descended to me, I was a young man of some small fortune and no responsibility, and as such, took myself off to London, endeavoring to spend as much time as possible on all manner of frivolity. In the spring of 1751 or 1752, I met a young woman by the name of Dorothy Cope, called Dolly. She was a beauty, with wit and spirit and a welcome willingness to share my revels.

  Had I been older and wiser, or more sober, or simply more hesitant, I might have avoided all this trouble. Instead I soon thought myself passionately in love with Dolly, and devoted myself to winning her. She was trying to make her way on the stage, and in my vanity I thought she would surely see the benefit of my protection. Instead she spurned me as a boy not yet in possession of his fortune. It was entirely true; my father was still living, and made me a handsome but not excessive allowance. I was grand-nephew to the Duke of Durham, but had no expectation of succeeding to the title. Had I but taken her rejection with cold, clear-eyed calm, or even set myself to brooding in magnificent dudgeon, none of the following would have happened.

  When she would not become my mistress, I declared I was different from her other suitors; when she asked how, I said I would marry her. This she also refused with a laugh, which only inflamed me. I said it ag
ain and again until she finally consented. You, my sons, will note how foolhardy I was in pursuing a woman who did not want me, who had to be bullied into marriage. I was by no means an ineligible husband, being a gentleman of good birth and family connections with a comfortable income, even if it was not entirely my own then. You will also exclaim in shock at the manner of our union: in a tavern near the prison, by a knavish fellow in a parson’s robe, with only a half-drunk dockworker and the parson’s clerk for witness.

  I have endeavored to recall every detail about that ceremony. We both swore that we were aged 21, although Dolly had not yet reached that age, and that we both resided in London, although my home was properly in Sussex. The parson was one Rev. William Ogilvie—I recall that distinctly, as some merriment was made over the name sounding like the call of a bird—of Somerset. The dockworker was an illiterate fellow, paid two shillings to make his mark as witness. The clerk’s name I do not recall at all, if I ever knew it. The parson recorded the marriage in his register book and both Dolly and I signed our names. We all celebrated with a drink in the tavern, and Dolly and I took our leave of the Reverend.

  My folly was apparent in short order. My eyes had seen only so far as making Dolly my own; I had never imagined a life with her. We were both possessed of the same hot temper, and within weeks we were quarreling over the slightest thing. When she declared her intention of returning to her theater company and traveling the country with them, I insisted she would not. A terrible argument followed, in the course of which she said it would be better if we had not married, and in a fit of fury, I burned our marriage certificate, such as it was. Upon that, she proclaimed herself well-satisfied that we were no longer husband and wife, and I agreed, telling her to get out of my lodging. She packed her things and left, after heaping more scorn and abuse on my head, and I, to my shame, reviled her in turn.

  After this I returned to my old life—quite easily, as the few friends of mine who knew I pursued her believed her to be merely my mistress, even during our brief attempt at living together. When she left, they assumed it was nothing more than a woman turning her sights on a wealthier man, and I endured their teasing in silence. Bad enough to be left by a mistress of a fickle or mercenary disposition; worse still to have foolishly married her and been deserted by a wife of low class. Within a few weeks the affair was mostly forgotten. Only the landlady of our lodging had thought us married, and in those days it was not uncommon for a couple to claim a marriage where none in fact existed, or the only “union” between the two was a spoken promise.

  I did see Dolly once more. It was months after we parted, and our tempers had cooled by then. She had done well with her theater company and embraced the life; I heard from others that she had a wealthy protector, and indeed she was in fine trim when I encountered her by chance. Feeling some residual duty to her, I inquired if she were well and if she needed anything from me (by which I meant money); she smiled and said no, she had everything she wanted at the moment. We mutually agreed again that we had no connection, and that was for the best, and then we parted. I never saw or spoke or wrote to her ever again.

  For almost twenty years I did as I pleased, thinking little about her. It was a youthful mistake, best forgotten. I was never tempted to throw myself so rashly after a woman again, and never had the urge to marry. Not until Durham descended to me, quite suddenly and unexpectedly, did I dredge up more than a passing thought of Dolly. But a duke must marry; he must have heirs; and they must be legitimate. I confess I half expected Dolly to come forth upon my inheritance. To reject a gentleman of modest fortune was one thing, but to lay claim to the title Duchess of Durham might tempt even the most alienated woman. I waited, but she did not appear. As I turned my thoughts to marriage—I was then forty years old, and had little time to waste—I made efforts to locate her, which all failed. After twenty years of absence and two attempts to find her in order to secure a full and legal divorce, I persuaded myself she must have died, or left England, or fallen into such a life that I had nothing to fear from her. In time I took a wife—your beloved mother—and she filled her role to perfection, not the least in giving me you three, my dear sons. Decades marched on, and Dolly faded almost entirely from my memory.

  The first wretched letter arrived last summer, after I had fallen ill. It was short and shocking: someone claimed to know about Dolly. At once I sent out investigators to search for her again, to no more success than before. Another letter arrived, threatening denunciation, and then another demanding a large sum of money. Each letter taunted me for my unpardonable complacency over the years. I alternated between fury and despair; Edward, no doubt, remarked my agitation, but I kept the cause from him, and Charles and Gerard were mercifully away from home. Do not blame Mr. Pierce for not revealing it. I forbade him to tell you anything, even as I pressed him ever harder to search. It was all for naught. As I write this, I have found neither Dolly nor the man who claimed to know of her, and now it is too late for me to undo what I have done.

  Forgive me, my dearest lads. I have been betrayed by a young man’s foolishness and an old man’s pride. A better man would have confessed his dark secret at once, so that you might at least have had the chance to question me about it. I have waited too long; my time grows too short. The shame of leaving Durham to you under such a cloud overwhelms me. I have remade my will to secure as many benefits as I may to each of you, but am consumed by anguish for what you could lose if this vile blackmailer exposes me. I leave you everything I have that might possibly expose this villainy, and exhort you to finish what I could not. Durham was a prize I never expected to hold, but it has been my purpose in life these forty years. Fight for it; it is your birthright now, and each of you are more worthy of it than I ever was.

  I beg your forgiveness, though I do not deserve it, and remain ever your devoted father.

  Francis de Lacey

  Charlie laid the letter aside. Yes, he could forgive his father, finally, if only because he had been every bit as big a fool. Of all the misery that had sprung from his father’s ill-fated love affair, Durham’s had been greatest. He, Gerard, and Edward, though—once the initial blow faded—had come out better for it all. If not for the scandal, Edward would have married his first fiancée, and never met the fiery Francesca who bewitched him and captured his heart. Gerard would still be fighting the French, not setting up house for his wealthy bride, Kate, whom he’d married as a hedge against disinheritance, but with whom he’d fallen madly in love since. And he . . .

  He would never have been forced out into the desolate hills of Somerset, where a blunt-spoken, green-eyed temptress would call him indolent, talk to him of canals, and manage to invade his heart so thoroughly he couldn’t fathom living without her.

  And for the first time since he left Uppercombe, Charlie smiled.

  Chapter 23

  The next day did not begin well. Despite the need for haste, Edward made no complaint when Charlie said he must pay a call in Frome before leaving for London. He was grateful to his brother, but it turned out to be a pointless concession. Tessa and Mrs. Bates had left by the time he arrived at The Golden Hind, and there was only the briefest message left for him.

  We are departing in such a rush, my lord, wrote Eugenie Bates. Tessa explained it all to me, and I perfectly understand, but I do hope we will have the pleasure of seeing you in London! I am sure I’m not the only person who would be very glad to receive you.

  “Troubles?” inquired Edward mildly, watching him read.

  “I believe I’ve been rebuffed.” Charlie stuffed the letter into his coat pocket and tried not to show how bereft he felt. He had hoped to see Tessa before the long journey to London, and she had promised to wait for him. He knew that once he left Frome, there were be little time for anything other than settling the damned Durham Dilemma, and he’d so wanted one last blissful reprieve with her, even for a quarter hour. But now she was gone, with only a note from her compani
on, nothing at all of farewell from Tessa herself. What had happened? What, exactly, had Tessa explained to Mrs. Bates? Why hadn’t she waited? “They’ve already left for London.”

  Edward raised one eyebrow. “Ah.”

  Charlie glared at him. “What does that mean?”

  His brother rose from his seat in the inn’s parlor and gestured at the servant to bring his hat. “It means I recommend we start for London at once, before it is too late.”

  “Too late for what?”

  Edward put on his hat and took his walking stick, his expression serene but his eyes twinkling with glee. “For you to win her back, of course.”

  Charlie muttered a rude reply and strode out to the waiting carriage, very tempted to leave his brother behind.

  During the long drive, he had to tell Edward about Worley and Maria. It was a painful confession, but Charlie spared himself nothing. In the end, Edward was more understanding than anticipated. “I am hardly in a position to cast stones,” was his response. “I came far closer than you did to marrying the wrong woman—with Father’s approval, no less. Ironic, isn’t it, how the scandal has been almost a blessing in some ways?”

  “I thank God for it.” Charlie nodded at his brother’s raised eyebrows. “We all should, I suppose. Without it, we three would have gone on just as we were, never shaken from our paths. I cannot speak for you or Gerard, but I shudder to think what I would have missed, if that had happened.”

  “I had arrived at much the same conclusion,” Edward murmured after a few minutes. “Although it is easier to admit it now that you’ve solved the dilemma entirely—as I knew you would.” Charlie glanced at him in surprise. Edward nodded. “You’re a great deal like him, Charlie. Nothing sets either of you off like a challenge, the harsher the better. Father would be devilishly pleased that you were the one who saved Durham.”

  “Astounded, you mean.”

  “No, pleased.” Edward grinned. “And only mildly astounded.”