Dying for a Duke
By Emma V. Leech
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Published by: Emma V. Leech.
Copyright (c) Emma V. Leech 2017
Cover Art: Victoria Cooper
ASIN No.: B073RT8D2T
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners. The ebook version and print version are licensed for your personal enjoyment only. The ebook version may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share the ebook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is inferred.
Table of Contents
Dying for a Duke
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Epilogue
A Dog in A Doublet
Want more Emma?
About Me!
Other Works by Emma V. Leech
The Key to Erebus
The Dark Prince
Acknowledgements
Dying for a Duke
Chapter 1
“Never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.” - John Donne
Benedict Rutland, the Earl of Rothay, looked across the carriage at his mother, Lady Lucilla Rothay, and his eyes narrowed with suspicion. She was undoubtedly up to something.
The idea gave him a prickling sensation down the back of his neck and he adjusted his perfectly tied cravat with irritation. At the age of forty five and with five living children to her name, she really had no business looking as she did. She had been considered a diamond of the first water in her youth and in truth little had changed. She looked barely a day over thirty and was a magnet for trouble.
“What’s disturbing you, mother?” Benedict asked, his nerves not soothed in the least by the way she leaped in her seat at the sound of his voice. Her wide aquamarine eyes widened yet further with alarm.
“W-what could be the matter, dearest?” she said, sounding nervous and terribly guilty. “I mean, apart from this dreadful funeral today and this awful black!” she said, plucking despairingly at the black crepe of her dress. “I shan’t wear it a moment longer than I must,” she added with a determined set to her jaw. “Anthony was always perfectly monstrous to me and I won’t go about looking hagged to death on his account. If it wasn’t bad enough when your father died!”
Benedict held back a sigh. There was no point in remonstrating. She had adored his father even though he’d been more than twenty years her senior, that much he knew. He had no doubt the black dresses brought back unhappy memories for her even though it had been ten years now since his father passed. “Yes, mother, but he was father’s nephew. You must show respect.”
She made a very unladylike noise of disgust and looked away from him. He didn’t, however, believe for a moment that it was the funeral that was making her twist her rings around her fingers and practically tie her black gloves in a knot.
“It’s not that blasted poet is it?” he demanded. If it wasn’t bad enough that the house was always full of dashing young blades on his sister’s account - who had inherited her mother’s extraordinary good looks - half of them were there to worship his mother. The young poet who was less than half her age was undoubtedly the worst, and the most determined.
Lucilla gave a gurgle of laughter, her aquamarine eyes alight with mischief. “Oh poor dear Ezra. He’s such a lamb.”
Benedict held his tongue against the comment that came to mind about serving him sliced with mint sauce. It wouldn’t help.
Benedict had become the Earl of Rothay at the tender age of nineteen and found his family had been plunged into huge debt by both of his parents’ gambling and frivolity. He discovered that they were both generous to a fault and spendthrift to a point that sickened him. He’d had a rude awakening when he found himself head of a large family who were all looking to him to make it alright, and without a feather to fly with. Only the timely death of his mother’s youngest brother, his Uncle George, had saved them. George had never married and had made his fortune in India. He’d died a tragic death at far too young an age, and had left everything to Benedict.
It seemed a terrible thing to Benedict that another tragedy was the source of their reprieve, but he’d had no time to spare on sentiment. Even his uncle’s fortune, whilst it cleared their staggering debts, was not enough to support them all. But with some judicious investment and an iron fist on the family purse, Benedict had pulled them back from the brink. No amount of lectures or waving of horrifying bills in front of his mother’s lovely face had the power to change her ways though. She would cry - very prettily - in the face of his anger and beg forgiveness, and then do it all over again.
He wondered what bills she was hiding now, and if that was the reason for her fidgets.
“How much, LuLu?” he asked, softening his tone with the pet name all of her children and close friends used for her.
Eyes of such startling innocence that every alarm bell rang a peal over him, blinked with astonishment. “Oh, it isn’t money, Ben, dear,” she said, biting her lip and looking down to rearrange the drapes of her dress into a more pleasing fall of material.
Benedict gave an inward groan of despair. “What then?” he demanded. “You’d best get it over with. You know you’ll have to tell me in the end.”
She swallowed visibly and looked up at him, her lovely face full of pleading. “You must see that I didn’t have a choice, dear. I mean he is my brother after all, and that poor girl. I can’t imagine what her life must have been,” she said, sighing and shaking her head.
“Oh good God, if this is to do with Uncle Edward, the answer is no! There never was such a shocking loose screw.”
“Benedict!” his mother replied, clearly aghast and dismayed. “How can you say so? He’s such a dear man, and such fun.”
Benedict snorted in disgust. Uncle Edward was fun, that was true enough, he was also the most appalling rake with a dreadful reputation. “Wait a minute,” he said as his flickering suspicions flamed brighter. “What girl? Don’t tell me some woman has got her clutches into him?”
“Oh no, dear, not that.” His mother cleared her throat and looked away from him and back to her rings, twisting the large diamond his father had given her the year before he died. “Only ... wel
l you know he married that widow, and she had a daughter already. Well her mother died just a year or so after they married and so dearest Edward has brought the girl up single handed.”
“And what, pray, does that have to do with us?” Benedict asked with a sinking feeling and a tone that made his mother’s beautiful face blanch.
A stubborn look that boded ill flitted across her face and she crossed her arms. “Well, the poor creature has been following the drum nearly her whole life. She must be twenty or so by now, and never had a come out! Can you imagine, Benedict? The poor creature trailing after the army for years during that dreadful war. My heart just bleeds for her.”
“As does mine,” Benedict replied, well aware that he sounded as though he didn’t give a hoot, which was far closer to the truth. “But I still don’t see what affair it is of ours? What the devil have you done?”
“Why she’s family, Benedict!” Lucilla exclaimed with reproach.
“No she isn’t,” he retorted. “She’s my uncle’s step-daughter.”
“But Eddie positively dotes on her, darling. Loves her as his own child, he told me so. So you must see I couldn’t refuse him.”
“Oh God, no,” he said, groaning and rubbing a hand over his face in despair. As if he didn’t have enough with his eldest sister, Cecily, who at seventeen was set on giving him heart failure. Not to mention the dreadfully mischievous twins, Honesty and Patience, who were just fourteen and looking as though they would finish the job in a couple of years’ time. Honesty and Patience, he thought with a snort of desperation. His parents had quite a gift for irony. At least young Jessamy didn’t cause him too much worry except for falling out of trees and cheeking his tutor.
But now, on top of that he was to have another foolish young girl thrust under his protection who would no doubt need chaperoning and guarding from rakes and scoundrels. And that was without even considering his mother! It was the outside of enough.
“What, exactly,” he demanded with a tone that dripped ice. “Have you agreed to?”
“To ... to bring her out into society,” Lucilla said in a rush, raising her chin with defiance. “And he’s my brother, so I don’t see why you must make a fuss.”
“No, I don’t doubt that,” he replied with such a bitter snap to the words that his mother’s eyes glittered and she looked away from him. He sighed and reached out his hand to her. She pouted for a moment before taking it.
“I haven’t seen her since she was a child,” she admitted. “But she was an adorable little thing. Blonde and blue-eyed, perfectly angelic, Benedict. I’m sure she’ll be a sweet girl, and dear Eddie assures me she won’t give us a moment’s trouble.”
Benedict mentally consigned his uncle to the devil but forced a smile to his lips. “I’m sure you’re right, mother.”
Lucilla sighed with pleasure. “Oh I am glad you aren’t cross with me, Ben, darling. I do so hate it when you get on your high ropes.”
Benedict gritted his teeth and with what he considered a heroic effort of will, said nothing.
“What is she called then,” he asked. “This new family member we are to take to our bosoms?”
Lucilla gave him a sceptical look, quite rightly suspecting him of sarcasm. “Phoebe Skeffington-Fox.”
Benedict snorted and his mother frowned. “That’s my family name and a very old and distinguished one at that. I shan’t allow you to mock it.”
“I wouldn’t dare, LuLu. So when is she arriving?” he asked, assuming that he had a week or two at least to resign himself to the idea.
“Tomorrow,” Lucilla said with a sparkling smile. “I declare, I’m so excited!”
“To ...” Benedict began and then snapped his mouth shut. Because really, what was the point?
“Have you considered, mother, that the family is in mourning and the season is over? We won’t be able to present her before next year.”
Lucilla waved her hand. “All the better,” she said, beaming. “She’ll have time to get to know people and accustom herself to polite society before having to face all that.”
Benedict muttered dark thoughts under his breath as the carriage rocked to a stop and the door was opened. He walked down the steps and handed his mother out of the carriage, nodding at family members as they began to gather.
Looking around the sea of black, he searched for the head of their large and powerful family. At the age of seventy-eight, Sylvester, the fifth Duke of Denholm, was still a rather impressive figure, though he was a shadow of the man he had once been. All of the Rutland men tended to be large and powerfully built and Sylvester had been a hulking bear of a man in his prime, both in character and build. But of all his descendants, Benedict resembled him the most.
Uncle Sylvester had always been a larger than life presence and someone to be relied upon. His own father had been fun and full of life, but never around when Benedict had needed him. Sylvester had taken him under his wing and treated him as his own son, better than he’d treated any of his true sons in fact.
“Ben!” his uncle boomed, holding out his hand to him. “Thank God! Get me away from these blasted toad eaters and fools will you, boy! Damned if I can stand another moment.”
Benedict repressed a smile at the furious looks from his uncle’s immediate family that happened to include the man’s younger son and grandson. He gave Sylvester a reproving look and offered his arm. Sylvester limped away from the gathering and Benedict could feel the glowering stares burning a hole in his back.
“Can’t you be civil for five minutes, you old goat?” he said, shaking his head at his uncle who just snorted.
“Damned if I will. Not much time left, shan’t spend it talking to people I can’t stomach.”
“John is your son,” he replied, with just a touch of disapproval. He found it hard to muster more than that as he himself couldn’t stand the man. “And we are burying his older brother today. Perhaps you could be just a little more sympathetic.”
“Bah!” Sylvester exclaimed. “We never could stand each other, everyone knows it. Don’t expect me to weep over his coffin now. If there’s one thing I can’t abide it’s liars and cheats. Anthony was both and there isn’t a scrap of use in denying it. I didn’t like Anthony and he didn’t like me. He’s dead and I’m sorry for it, but I can’t pretend my heart is broken.”
Benedict nodded, knowing it was true enough and then hesitated before he voiced the niggling doubt in his mind. “Didn’t you think it a bit ... odd, though?”
Sylvester’s shrewd green eyes looked into his, a glitter of satisfaction in the surprisingly deep emerald. “Too smoky by half,” he muttered, nodding. “Glad you thought so too, my boy. I told ‘em, but the coroner wouldn’t have it. No evidence of foul play. Accidental death was their verdict.” He gave Benedict a disgusted look. “Damned fools! No way Tony could have turned that blasted curricle on that road. I may not have liked him but he was a nonpareil. I’ve never seen a man like him for handling a whip.”
“Nor me,” Benedict replied, frowning. “But if it wasn’t an accident?”
“Don’t know,” Sylvester replied with a sigh. “He had enemies did Anthony, a man like that always will. Never did know when to hold his blasted tongue.”
Benedict hid a smile at that and looked up as the bells began to ring.
“Ah well,” Sylvester said, sounding suddenly a touch melancholy. “Best go and get this over with then.” He was silent for a moment as they walked to the church doors, hobbling on his gouty leg. “Get me out of here soon as you may, there’s a good lad,” he asked, his voice rather frailer than Benedict had ever heard it before. “Can’t stand to see that wretched grandson of mine strutting about now he’s a marquess.”
“Of course, Uncle.”
Sylvester nodded, satisfied. “Thank you for inviting me to stay with you,” he added. “Must admit the idea of that gloomy house on my own wasn’t a fond one. But be dashed pleased to see your mother. Looking in fine twig today I must say!”
> Benedict chuckled and nodded as Sylvester’s eyes took in his mother’s lovely figure with an appreciative eye. “And she’s very much looking forward to seeing you, Sir.”
With a sigh Benedict steeled himself for the coming ordeal, and not just the funeral. God alone knew what chaos Sylvester and his mother could create together. With a smirk of satisfaction he wondered if Phoebe Skeffington-Fox had the slightest idea of what she had let herself in for.
Chapter 2
“What dire offence from am’rous causes springs,
What mighty contests rise from trivial things.” - Alexander Pope
“She’s here!” squealed Honesty who had been standing guard at the window with her twin, Patience, since early morning. “Oh I say, Jessamy, come and look at this, what a carriage!”
Benedict repressed a sigh as Jessamy scrambled onto the window seat beside his sisters.
“Oh, Ben, do come and see,” called Jessamy, his big eyes popping in his head. “What a bang up turn out!”
Benedict’s lips twitched but he frowned. “Will you three get down from there? What on earth shall Miss Skeffington-Fox think of you all if you stand there gaping like the circus has come to town?”
Scowling and muttering the children came away from the window, casting their big brother reproachful glances as they went to the front door to greet the new arrival. The footmen crossed the marble-clad entrance hall and flung open the doors of the house on Grosvenor Square.
Standing beside his mother to greet Miss Skeffington-Fox, Benedict could forgive his younger siblings their enthusiasm. The lady’s shiny new chaise was drawn by four perfectly matched greys and the accompanying baggage and valises that attended her arrival. It was quite beyond anything Benedict had seen in all his life. His instinctive disgust at such obvious expenditure was quite halted, however, at the sight of the lady herself. Dainty, gloved fingers accepted the footman’s hand and a vision stepped down from the carriage.
For just a moment it was quite possible he forgot to breathe.
“Well I never,” his mother whispered beside him. “But then I did say she was angelic.”
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