by Amy Atwell
He recalled his mother. Blonde, lovely, heartless. She’d had all the golden good looks of the Coatsworth clan, but none of their warmth, certainly none of their honor.
“What was I thinking getting saddled with a child?” she’d said to him one day. She’d studied him as though he were a hat she might buy. Or not.
He’d been no more than six at the time.
She’d never held him, never comforted him, never engaged in conversation directly with him. If not for Father taking an interest in his upbringing, Derek might have rotted away in the nursery on Harley Street.
He hadn’t shed a tear for her when his father sat him down to explain that she’d been imprisoned and charged with murder.
“Did she truly kill a man, Father?” he’d asked. At the age of ten, he’d understood enough about death to fear it.
“I don’t know. But Derek, you must always remember this—she’s a good woman. She sacrificed for both of us. You must always remember that and always love her.” Father had left the room, his tears barely suppressed.
Derek sat for a long time and contemplated his mother, but no matter how he tried, he couldn’t find a reason to love her.
Father remained steadfast, even when she tried to accuse him of murdering her lover. No one believed her. Her trial was the talk of London, especially when she publicly named every man she’d ever bedded in an attempt to exonerate herself. In the end, they’d hanged her.
No, he refused to pass along her blood to future generations of Vaughan peers.
“Derek, you’re wool-gathering again.” Harry sounded amused. “I’ve proposed a toast, and you won’t even drink your own health.”
“I was thinking of my mother.”
Harry sobered at once. “Don’t torture yourself.”
“I grew to hate her, you know.”
“So did my father,” said Harry. “And he was her brother. He believed a fit of madness took her.”
Derek wished he could believe that, but she’d always been too cold, too calculating. Still preoccupied, he allowed Harry to push him into a chair.
“Tell me your tale,” Harry said. Gathering the wine bottle, he refilled their glasses, removed his coat, tossed a log on the fire and stretched himself comfortably in the chair opposite. Impatiently, he kicked Derek’s chair as a final prompt. “When did the old duke die?”
“A fire swept through Ambersley Hall, killing the whole family, in 1801.”
Harry sputtered his wine. “1801? That was four years ago. You mean to tell me they couldn’t get you word before now?”
Derek shrugged. “No one traced the lineage to Reginald Vaughan until last year. I’m told some poor soul was dispatched to India. He may still be out there beating the bushes for me.”
Harry whistled. “Must have left soon after me. I didn’t hear a thing about your father inheriting a dukedom.” He loosened his neck cloth. “So what are the holdings? What are you worth?”
“I have no idea.” Seeing his cousin’s raised brows, Derek continued. “The duke’s solicitor, one Mr. Nigel Minton, has gone to Ambersley. I met his son, young Percy, who acts as junior clerk for his father, but he wasn’t prepared to answer many of my questions. If I travel to Ambersley now, I should still find Mr. Minton there. Harry, I know you planned to leave for Bath tomorrow, and I’ve already delayed you—”
With a snort, Harry dismissed the concerned words. “As if I’d let you leave London alone. I’ll be happy to accompany you, Cousin. I’ll even fund the journey.”
“I’ll repay you—”
“Tush. Mother and I have plenty of money.”
“You must let me do something,” Derek said in earnest.
“You may introduce me to the first circles of polite society.” Harry grinned like a schoolboy and refilled their glasses. “Think of the horrified Mamas— ’There goes the duke’s cousin. Handsome and witty fellow, but poor soul, his mother married a tradesman, you know.’” He heaved a melodramatic sigh. “’Pity the duke allows him to come around.’”
Derek’s tensions eased beneath his cousin’s inanity. “Not only will you be allowed, you will be encouraged to bear me company.”
“Careful. Once word gets out, every long-lost relation you’ve never known will appear on your doorstep.” Harry wagged his brows.
A terse expletive escaped Derek as he sat forward.
“What’s amiss?” Harry asked.
“Lord Montrose told me last night that my stepmother is living at Ambersley with her children and plans to lay her debts at the duke’s feet.” Derek stared into the fire. Rosalie Vaughan could reveal him as a fraud, but if she’d done so, Minton would hardly be seeking him. He would have to go to Ambersley and confront her if he wanted to set things right.
Chapter 4
Ambersley, March 1805
The trip into Gloucestershire took the better part of a day by mail coach. Arriving at a noisy inn yard in the late afternoon, Harry suggested they get a good night’s sleep before turning Ambersley on its ear with Derek’s arrival.
Long after the inn quieted, Derek lay awake anticipating the next day’s meetings. By morning, his nerves were taut with indecision—a state of mind he hated—but ’twas impossible for him to know what was best to do until he understood the situation more clearly. A dukedom should provide well for Reginald Vaughan’s children, but not if mismanaged. He could hand it all to his half-brother, but Curtis was hardly more than a boy, and if gossips were to be believed, Rosalie had buried two bankrupt husbands.
His concerns mounted as he and Harry trotted their hired hacks along the winding drive flanked by pruned trees not yet in blossom. Derek noted vast meadows stretching to forest, a small lake and rolling slopes dotted with ornamental hedgerows and pockets of trees and shrubbery. As they rounded a bend in the drive, he took in his first view of Ambersley Hall situated atop a hill as imposing as any monarch on his throne.
Derek drew rein to study the four-story façade while his pulse settled. There was no denying the magnificence of the structure, though its once golden stone exterior was blackened with soot, while its gabled roof—or what remained of it—met the clouds at a defiant, if broken, angle. Windows that once beckoned weary travelers were bricked over, turning what should have been a home into a mausoleum. Nestled amid carefully manicured lawns and gardens, the flagstones before it swept clean, the Hall reminded him of a slow-healing wound that required time and tender care to restore it to its former glory.
The cool morning breeze buffeted him as he continued to stare, the noble home’s silent plea tugging at him until a whistling falcon overhead cut into his thoughts. Brushing off the tremor that traveled down his spine, he set his heel to his mount and drew abreast Harry.
“You’ve inherited a giant wreck,” his cousin quipped.
Derek remained silent, unwilling to give voice to his thoughts. Ambersley had rooted the Vaughan family for generations. How ironic that he’d been forced to come here and witness Reginald Vaughan’s heritage first-hand.
A blackbird’s warble welcomed them as they approached the Hall. Seeing no one but a scrawny lad as they dismounted, Derek pulled the reins over his horse’s head and tossed them to the child.
Harry did likewise. “Look alive there, boy.”
Derek raised a brow when the child missed grasping the second set. “Hold onto those horses ’til we return.”
Upon skirting the structure, Derek and Harry found Ambersley Hall as it had been left years earlier, a burned-out shell of a building abandoned by its occupants. Confused, they returned to the drive to find both horses grazing at the child’s feet.
“Boy!” Derek’s shout flushed a rabbit into a skittery dash across the lawn. One horse threw its head up in alarm, and the lad, unprepared, was literally yanked off his feet as he tried valiantly to hold onto the reins. The other horse shied at this further commotion, backing away as the boy’s feet struck the ground again and buckled.
With an oath, Derek dove into the chaos.
He grabbed the rearing horse’s reins with one hand and, with the other, lifted the child by the scruff before he got trampled. The second horse, snorting his contempt of the whole scene, jerked free from the boy’s grasp. Harry made a lunge for it, but the animal avoided him neatly and was last seen clearing a hedge.
Holding the first horse on a tight rein, Derek shook the boy’s shoulder. “Now see what you’ve done? What kind of a stable boy are you?”
The boy ducked his head as if he expected a blow. Not one to beat children, Derek loosened his grip. The child raised eyes as wide as any frightened animal. His clothes and face were dusted with dirt and grime, and this close, he smelled of manure.
“I’m not a stable boy, and it wasn’t all my fault.”
Derek’s brows knit. “Well, of all the impertinent—” His cousin’s burst of laughter drew his fire. “What do you find so amusing?”
“You, sir,” Harry replied, unabashed. “You can hardly call a child out because he’s honest. Besides, I don’t think the cursed beast suited you. You were too long in the leg for him.”
“And how do you propose we return to the inn? Ride double?” He’d all but forgotten the boy before him.
“I’m sure once we explain who you are, we’ll be able to find another horse. It’s a ducal estate, milord—you can’t convince me there are no horses here.”
Derek bit back the sharp set down he would have liked to give his younger cousin, deeming it inappropriate before the boy. He turned to interrogate the youngster, but Harry was quicker.
“What’s your name, lad?” he asked affably.
The boy studied Harry. “I’m Johnny. I’m apprenticed to Tom, the gardener.”
“Ah, a gardener’s lad, not a stable boy at all. I’ll wager you were mulching this morning.”
The boy nodded at this clever deduction as Harry tossed a look at Derek.
With a sigh, he redirected the conversation to important matters. “We believe some relatives may be staying here, a woman and her two children. Do you know them?”
“You mean the duke’s family? Oh yes, they live in the Dower House.”
“And where is that?” Derek asked.
Johnny pointed. “It’s that way, about a ten minute walk. I could show you the way if you like.”
“Thank you, but no.” Derek raised a brow at his cousin. “Are you coming?”
“You’ll want your privacy for such a reunion.”
Derek acknowledged the sense of this, though he doubted there would be any overflow of emotion at his return. With a curt nod, he marched off in the direction the boy had pointed, the horse following docilely in his wake.
Johnny watched him go, her own curiosity growing. Was it possible? “Is he the new duke, then?” she asked the blonde man.
With a startled laugh, the man replied, “He’s Baron Vaughan for the moment. Beyond that, we’ll see what the duke’s solicitor has to say.”
“Mr. Minton, you mean?”
“Yes, do you know him?”
“Aye, sir. Mr. Minton is in charge of Ambersley while the duke is away. He should be at the Dower House today. He comes every month for a few days.”
“Good to know.” The gentleman fished in his pocket until he withdrew two coins and held them out.
She’d never had money of her own, and she watched enthralled while he laid the pieces of silver in her palm.
“Here’s for your trouble, lad. Now, would you like to earn a bit more?”
Johnny nodded.
“While my cousin speaks with his family, I plan to catch that horse we lost. If you’ll lend me a hand, there’s another crown in it for you.”
Johnny grinned, and led the gentleman toward the east meadow.
~
Derek stared at the Dower House. Stone and trellised, the quaint cottage rose a mere three stories and could be considered small only by the very rich. While the burnt shell of the Hall had caused him grave doubts, the Dower House held much promise. The estate could be refurbished as a fitting home for the Vaughan children.
He climbed the wide stone steps and rapped on the varnished oak. In moments, the door opened on soundless hinges, and Derek found himself being perused by the hawk-like eyes—and nose to match—of an older stiff-backed gentleman.
“Mr. Minton?” Derek faltered when he noticed the other man wore gloves.
“No, sir. I would be Paget.” Derek detected a note of disdain in the response. And then Paget clarified. “The butler.”
“Ah.” Derek cleared his throat. “Would you tell her ladyship that Derek Vaughan has returned from India?”
With an almost imperceptible twitch of his brows, Paget bowed. “Welcome home, Your Grace. Please, follow me.”
Removing his hat, Derek allowed the butler’s deference to sink in. Despite the dignified reception, the butler had appraised Derek with caution. No doubt the butler knew of his murky parentage and feared the peerage’s reputation would suffer.
The butler led the way to a drawing room decorated in pale gold and cream. “I’ll inform Lady Vaughan of Your Grace’s arrival.” Paget bowed and quit the room.
Left alone, Derek scanned his surroundings with the care he’d give a battlefield. He presumed the two men depicted in portraits on the north wall were scions of the Vaughan ancestry. Judging by their clothes, they represented vastly different generations. Other paintings featured landscapes and a still life of a fruit bowl. The divan was upholstered in cream brocade, the floors looked recently waxed, and the Aubusson carpet was an extravagance to walk upon. Despite a limited knowledge of furniture, Derek recognized the spindle and finish work on the secretary in the corner as the hallmark of a master.
The room bespoke an elegance entirely casual with the wealth that made it possible. But a closer inspection revealed water stains on the east wall and a threadbare section of carpet artfully concealed by a small table. Turning to the fireplace, he leaned on the mantle to study the detailed mahogany carvings surrounding it. A rustling at the door made him lift his head.
Paget stopped at the open doorway to announce grandly, “Lady Vaughan, Your Grace.”
Rosalie swept into the room, still reeling from the news of Derek’s arrival. Seeing him posed by the fireplace, a hand on the mantle and one shiny Hessian resting on the fender as if he owned the place, made her nerves coil with frustration. He stood taller, stronger, fully a man now, and one about to gain untold power over her, unless she could prevent it.
Knowing Paget watched closely, she continued forward and embraced her stepson, pressing her cheek to his chest. “Oh, Derek, thank heavens you’ve returned safe. We were so worried.”
With a sidelong glance, she watched the butler back from the room. The moment the door clicked, she pushed away from Derek’s embrace. “I wondered if you would ever dare show.”
Derek spread his hands. “Ah, so the reunion was for the butler’s sake. I doubted my return would endear me to you.” He no longer sounded like the youth who’d retreated from her candor like a beaten cur. No, here stood a nobleman, set to embark on a new life with property, position and wealth on his side.
His return spelled ruin for her and for her son. But for Curtis’s sake—and Olivia’s—she would play the distasteful role of dowager. The situation demanded finesse, but she was accustomed to such difficulties.
“I am surprised to see you is all. We had no notion of what had become of you, whether you were even alive.”
“Harry traveled to India to bring me word.” A glimmer of the unsure boy quivered in his voice.
So, he still had an Achilles heel if she could expose it. “I’m glad you’ve come.”
He gave a sardonic laugh. “You surprise me. I thought you would be pleased to see me out on my ear. I didn’t exactly fit your notion of the ideal family.”
Rosalie sank into her favorite chair, a Queen Anne style fitted in gold damask. “Derek, I know you were hurt by what happened, but I was equally wounded by it. I braved your mother’s scandal w
hen I married Reggie, but to learn that she’d foisted you upon him when you were no more than a…a—”
“A bastard?”
“I would never say such a thing, but you are the son of a murderess.” She drew a handkerchief from her cuff and pressed it to her lips while she measured his reaction.
