The Illegitimate Duke

by Sophie Barnes

  Steeling himself, he closed his hand around the calling card, crushing it in his fist. He then entered the parlor and saw that he’d been right in his deduction.

  Mr. Mortedge was Bartholomew.

  His father.

  “Ah! There you are.” Sitting casually with his legs stretched out before him, Bartholomew took a sip of the brandy he’d helped himself to.

  A chill gripped Florian’s spine. “What. Do. You. Want?”

  Bartholomew eyed him over the brim of his glass, grinned and set the piece of crystal aside. “Why, to see you of course! It is not every day a father has the honor of greeting the son who sent him to the gallows.”

  The reminder that they were so closely related disgusted Florian to no end. Gritting his teeth, he glared at the man before him. “I did what was right.” Ignoring Bartholomew’s comment would serve no purpose, and to suppose he did not hold a grudge would be equally futile. The only question now was what else Bartholomew intended to do about it.

  A smile slid across Bartholomew’s face. He was the perfect portrayal of a man at leisure and yet to presume he was not a dangerous predator ready to pounce would be a mistake. Many men had suffered before on account of his wrath.

  “You betrayed me,” Bartholomew told him with eerie calmness.

  “I cannot see how, since one must feel some sense of loyalty toward a person in order to do so.” Florian inhaled slowly, forcing himself to relax. “Since I feel nothing for you but revulsion, betraying you was never a real possibility.”

  “A fine comeback, I must say.” Bartholomew drummed his fingers lazily against the armrest, his hawkish eyes trailing Florian as he went to pour himself a much-needed drink. “You appear sturdier than I remembered—more masculine.”

  Florian glanced at him as he finished pouring himself a brandy. “And you look entirely different.”

  Bartholomew chuckled. “A bit of pig fat surgically stuffed into my cheeks has worked wonders in altering my appearance.”

  “Doesn’t sound like a healthy procedure,” Florian muttered.

  “It seemed a touch safer than risking the rope.”

  A grunt was the only response Florian would offer that comment. Downing his brandy, he poured another and considered the man who’d raped his mother decades ago. The full cheeks were not the only changes he’d made. He’d also grown an impressive beard, colored his hair to a shade not so different from his own, and procured a pair of spectacles.

  “I have to say that I’m a little surprised by your unwillingness to heed my warnings,” Bartholomew said. “You put Armswell and Lowell in danger. You’re lucky you don’t have to bury either one of them yet.”

  Florian stared at him. “What are you talking about?”

  Bartholomew scoffed. “You saved Armswell yourself, didn’t you? As for Lowell . . . It was fortunate Elmwood sprained his wrist on his way to the duel. Bloody bastard missed your brother entirely.”

  Surprise was dismissed by relief. Apparently Lowell had met with Elmwood while he’d been away on the ship, and he’d survived. “Thank God.”

  “I wouldn’t celebrate just yet if I were you,” Bartholomew said. “There are other ways to make you pay for what you did to me.”

  “I am a duke now,” Florian felt compelled to remind him, “and far beyond your influence or control.”

  The smirk forming on Bartholomew’s lips was not the least bit reassuring. “You think so, do you?” He gave a snort. “For years I’ve been trying to take control of St. Giles and push Guthrie out only to fail because of the information you gave Coventry about my taxes. Clever, I’ll grant you that, but if you think I will ever forgive you for working against me, then you are quite mistaken.”

  He stood and walked toward Florian much like a panther might prowl toward its prey. “Armswell thought he could wheedle his way out of my clutches as well.” He grinned, the beastly sort of satisfied grin one might expect from an evil genius. “It cost him his wife, you know.”

  Every particle of Florian’s body began to stiffen, from his toes all the way to each strand of hair. “What do you mean?” He asked the question not knowing if he truly wanted an answer. From what his mother had told him, Bartholomew had taken what he wanted because he’d threatened Lowell’s life. She had complied with his wishes and Armswell had allowed it because they’d felt they had no choice.

  “Do you honestly believe I would have done what I did on a whim?” The edge of Bartholomew’s mouth lifted ever so slightly, lending a secretive air to his countenance. When Florian failed to respond, he answered his question himself. “I never act without good reason.” The half smile transformed to a grin. “Nothing is random. I am not insane, and although you have clearly been led to believe so, I did not beget you on your mother simply to satisfy my lust. Ha! A man so easily swayed by any woman would not have been as successful as I.”

  Florian gaped at him. It was all he could do seeing as the life he’d come to know and trust was being picked apart before his very eyes. Nothing made sense, least of all the part about him wanting to hear what Bartholomew had to say next.

  “Armswell was weak, perhaps he still is, though he has had the sense to steer clear of me since our previous dealings.”

  “Previous dealings?” Dear God. What the hell had Armswell done?

  Bartholomew gave Florian a pensive look before nudging him aside so he could get to the brandy behind him. “He was young.” Speaking over his shoulder as if they were having a casual discussion, Bartholomew refilled his glass. He turned, paused to take a sip and then crossed the floor to reclaim the armchair he’d vacated earlier. “His father had tasked him with proving his worth by refusing to give him more than five hundred pounds of the family fortune. Sink or swim, he no doubt told him. Trouble was, Armswell had no sense for investment or any other means by which to replenish his coffers. Marrying your mother was an excellent solution to his financial troubles, albeit a temporary one. And since keeping up appearances was of the utmost importance . . .” He spread his arms and it all came together.

  “You lent him money.” The notion was too awful to contemplate and yet so obvious, Florian wondered why he’d never suspected it before. An answer came swiftly: because his mother had fed him a story that he’d believed without question—a story in which Bartholomew would be the only villain.

  “And since I do not appreciate it when those indebted to me refuse to pay, I must find some means by which to punish them properly. So . . . I took your mother and did my very best to ensure that Armswell would have to lay claim to a cuckoo.”

  “You ruined so many lives.”

  “And yet I am not the one to blame. Armswell is.” Bartholomew finished his drink and set his glass aside. “Had it not been for his stupidity, greed and lack of honor, none of this would have happened. You would not have been born, a fact I have largely ignored, though curiosity did compel me to seek you out on occasion. But, I would have left you alone, the victim of Armswell’s lapse in judgment and your mother’s fierce determination to do whatever she had to in order to save your brother. Now that you’ve crossed me, not once, but twice, I can no longer pretend you do not exist.”

  He’d proven this by hurting Armswell and Lowell. “What will you do?” Florian asked while doing his best to hide his concern.

  Bartholomew’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “Excellent question.” The amusement faded until he remained the face of all seriousness. “Pushing Guthrie out of St. Giles and claiming the territory for myself proved unsuccessful, but perhaps I should make one final attempt.” He gave Florian a pointed stare. “Have Carlton Guthrie arrested tomorrow by noon, and I promise I’ll leave you alone from this point forward.”

  “But I cannot simply—”

  “You’re a duke now, Florian. Congratulations, by the way. A man as powerful as you can no doubt see that this deed is done in a satisfactory manner.” Rising, he brushed his shoulders with his fingers, as if removing lint, and strode to the door. “I expect you
to meet with success, or face the consequences.”

  “And if I refuse?” Florian tried. “As you say, I am a duke. As such, I could decide to use my power on you.”

  Turning just enough to meet his gaze, Bartholomew sniffed and opened the door. “You might want to consider what the world will think of you if they discover how you were conceived. And if that’s not enough to convince you to help me with this, perhaps I’ll decide to be a little harsher with your loved ones. Just to dissuade you from issuing threats, hmm?”

  Bartholomew closed the door to the parlor as he left, leaving Florian alone in the silence that followed. Scandal would be unavoidable, the gossip and the social destruction relentless if the truth about him ever came out. Florian’s reputation would be destroyed while everyone related to him would bear the stigma of his disgrace, or worse, suffer annihilation at the hands of Bartholomew.

  Chapter 22

  A soothing piece of piano music sifted through the air, lending an atmosphere of casual elegance to the Red Rose. The exclusive club was one of few allowing both men and women to acquire memberships, but as Henry had said when he’d opened the place, “In my experience ladies enjoy spending money more than men. It would be foolish of me to deny them entry.”

  Arriving at the door to his brother’s office, Florian gave it a couple of raps and entered without bothering to wait for a response. Henry, seated behind his desk, stood the moment he saw him. “Florian! Thank God you’re back. I cannot tell you how relieved I am to see you looking well.”

  Florian nodded and met his brother’s gaze. “We need to talk,” he said.

  On the way over, he’d decided the best course of action from this point forward was absolute unwavering directness. Cutting across the floor, he dropped onto one of the black velvet chairs across from where Henry sat and regarded him closely. His handsome face, comprised of smooth princely lines, a full lower lip and raven-black hair, ensured he looked nothing like Florian. That no one had ever suspected they might only be half brothers was actually rather strange.

  “I’m still not sure who’s behind the attack on our father or—”

  “I am,” Florian said, cutting him off.

  “Really?” Surprise was evident in Henry’s expression.

  Inhaling deeply, Florian clutched the armrest, ignored what his revelation might lead to and spoke with absolute candor. “It is time for you to know the truth about me, Henry.” He paused, aware that this was his last chance to avoid the facts. Now was not the time for cowardice, however. Not when his family’s reputation and possibly even their lives were at stake. He needed council and after what he’d just learned from Bartholomew, he wasn’t sure he trusted his mother or Armswell to provide it. “You and I are only half brothers, Henry. Armswell is not my real father.”

  A moment passed, one in which awkwardness swept aside any lingering feelings of comfort.

  “What do you mean?”

  The disbelief in Henry’s voice was overpowering. He blinked, grinned as if Florian had to be joking and then, realizing he wasn’t, produced a thunderous expression so at odds with his characteristically charming one that Florian instantly cringed.

  But since there was no taking back the words now, the best way forward at this point was through explanation and apology. “Our mother was forced to lie with Bartholomew years ago.”

  “The villainous blackguard who allegedly lured the innocent into prostitution and had the Duchess of Coventry stabbed last year?” Henry’s voice rose, accompanying his increasing outrage. “That Bartholomew?”

  “I am afraid so. Yes.”

  Henry stared at him for a long, drawn-out moment before heaving a sigh and sinking back into his chair. “If the bugger was not dead already I would kill him myself.”

  “If you don’t mind, I would like to have the honor of doing so.” When Henry gave him a quizzical look, Florian explained, “Bartholomew wasn’t executed last year. Some other poor bastard was hanged in his place.”

  Henry stared at him, eyes shadowed by darkness. “Tell me this is a joke.”

  “I am no more pleased by the truth of it than you are, I assure you.” Sliding his palm across his face, Florian blew out a breath. “Claire did what she felt was necessary in order to save you when Bartholomew threatened your life.”

  “So this is my fault?” There was no denying the affront Henry felt at such a prospect.

  “God no!” That wasn’t at all what he wanted to suggest. “If anything, I fear it might be Armswell’s. He borrowed money from Bartholomew to cover his debts and then refused to pay it back.”

  “He’s always been lousy at keeping his affairs in order,” Lowell muttered. “I discovered as much when I came of age and he showed me the books. Didn’t take me more than a good half hour to see our family fortune was in dire straits. Hence my investment in this.” He spread his arms to indicate the business he’d built. “It was more than a flight of fancy, Florian. It was a necessity—my own personal safeguard against Papa’s mismanagement of the family assets.”

  “I had no idea. You never said.”

  Henry snorted. “Between the two of us, I rather think you’re more guilty than I of keeping secrets. How long have you known you weren’t Armswell’s son?”

  “Since my sixteenth birthday.”

  “Fourteen years and you never thought to tell me?” Disappointment filled Henry’s eyes along with a look of distinct betrayal. He shook his head as if in disbelief.

  “Discovering what Bartholomew did and that I was related to him was humiliating,” Florian tried to explain. “It tore me up inside, Henry, especially since I knew how others might judge me. I feared you would scorn me if you knew, and I dared not risk that.”

  “Christ, Florian. You’re my brother, no matter what.” Rising, Henry went to fetch a decanter from a nearby side table. He grabbed a pair of tumblers as well and brought everything over to the desk. “I only wish you’d confided in me sooner. But since you have chosen to now . . .” He poured a large measure of brandy into each glass and handed one to Florian. “I cannot help but wonder what prompted you to do so.”

  Tossing back his brandy for fortification, Florian told Henry about Bartholomew’s visit earlier in the day. “He threatened to expose me unless I have Carlton Guthrie arrested before noon tomorrow.”

  “Which might be possible,” Henry murmured. “The man has been suspected of all sorts of criminal behavior over the years, but the authorities have never found anything incriminating enough to lead to his arrest.”

  “Which probably means it won’t be possible for us to do so either unless we commit forgery or fraud, and I simply refuse to lower myself to such levels for any reason.”

  “So you’re preempting the inevitable by ensuring the family is warned and prepared.”

  “Precisely.”

  “I don’t suppose there’s a chance Bartholomew might be bluffing?”

  Florian shook his head. “No. I’ve just learned that he’s the one who had Armswell poisoned. He also arranged the duel between you and Elmwood. So I’m sure he’ll follow through on his threat if I fail to meet his demand.” He hesitated before saying, “There’s something else.”

  Henry eyed him warily. “Tell me.”

  “Bartholomew and Mr. Mortedge are one and the same.”

  “What? But that can’t be possible. I mean, he’s been out in public without anyone taking notice!”

  “The man is transformed. I hardly recognized him myself.”

  Henry shook his head. “It doesn’t seem possible.” Sighing, he gave Florian a serious look. “Anything I can do to help?”

  “Maybe. Bartholomew lost his fortune last year when he was arrested and yet he’s able to afford an exclusive town house. Something’s not right. If you can figure out how he’s financing his home and his investments, it might reveal that he’s guilty of fraud or theft, either of which could help with his arrest.”

  “We need absolute proof before we go to the authorities,
” Henry said, following his brother’s thought process. “The last thing we want is for him to go free again.”

  Florian stood and went to refill his glass. “I am sorry it has come to this.” He downed yet another brandy and set the glass on the sideboard next to the decanter. “I have to get over to the hospital now so I can warn the Duchess of Tremaine about the potential impact on St. Agatha’s.”

  “Any chance I might meet her one day?” Lowell asked in a pensive tone that denoted great interest. “Hardly seems fair of you, keeping her all to yourself.”

  “You’re welcome to join the committee if you like. Otherwise, you’ve little chance of seeing her unless you suffer an injury. She has a severe aversion to Society and rarely ventures out in public because of it.”

  “Hmmm . . . I wonder why.”

  “And I could tell you if I had the time, but I really ought to be on my way.” He bid a hasty good-bye and thanked his brother for the drink before dashing out of the Red Rose and heading toward the hospital.

  Arriving there, he climbed the front steps and entered the foyer where he almost collided with the Duke of Huntley, who was on his way out. “Florian!”

  “Your Grace.” Florian steadied himself with one hand on Huntley’s shoulder, dropping it as soon as he’d regained his balance. “My manservant said you wished to see me, so I was planning to call on you after checking up on things here.” He registered the duke’s expression which suggested a state of grief-stricken despair, and immediately stiffened with concern. “What is it? What has happened?”

  The haunted look in Huntley’s eyes was beyond disconcerting. “It is Juliette. I believe she may be dying.”

  There were times in Florian’s life, moments he could look back on in which he’d lost all hope, and moving past the bleakness had seemed impossible. One such moment had arisen when he’d experienced death as a child—the quiet passing of Roland, a beloved family dog. It had come again when he’d lost one of his own patients for the very first time. But it had never hollowed out his insides as much as it did right now.