by Amy Atwell
“No, I am,” Derek replied as he sought his thin-shouldered secretary. “Mr. Pritchard, remind me to send his Royal Highness a thank you for his kind invitation.”
“When will you be leaving for London, my lord, if I might ask?” Paget asked.
“Oh, not for some time. There’s far too much work to do around here. Gentlemen, let’s get back to it.” He returned the missive to Paget. “I’ll read those later. Oh, and if you could drum up some cold ale for everyone, it would be much appreciated.”
Paget nodded and strode down the stairs. In the kitchen, he relayed what he’d just seen to Tom. “My first impression of His Grace may have been a trifle hasty.” He added darkly, “Lady Vaughan would have had her bags packed within the hour of receiving such a note.”
Tom had to agree. Listening to Johnny’s tales of the new duke, he could tell she thought he was a paragon. Still, he reserved his own judgment.
But the next afternoon, Tom whistled a joyous tune as Johnny raced ahead of him into the cottage.
“Look, Martha, look!” Johnny jumped up and down and pointed to him.
Tom held out a silken purse that was heavy with coin.
Martha stared at it. “Whatever in the world—?”
“Four years’ wages,” Tom said simply and watched Martha’s eyes overflow. “Mr. Minton brought the money from London, and every one of the staff got paid. His Grace said he wanted to do right by us, and that’s why we’re doing the repairs on the Hall ourselves.” His eyes rested on Johnny’s shining face. She’d made the duke a hero, he knew. Had the time come to tell her the truth and restore her to her family? A picture of Lady Vaughan came to his mind, and he realized His Grace would never be responsible for raising a little girl—that charge would fall to Lady Vaughan.
Besides, would Johnny even remember—or accept—that she was Miss Amber? With a heavy heart, Tom resolved to hold their secret fast.
~
Restoring life to Ambersley Hall brought meaning to Derek’s days. He welcomed the hard work and the growing camaraderie with the staff. It helped him bear the stilted, mostly silent meals he shared with Rosalie and her children. He would have liked to befriend his siblings, but Rosalie guarded them as though he might poison them in her absence.
His evenings were filled with quiet hours. He used his time reading, or occasionally, like tonight, calculating the sums it would take to repay all his debts. In lighter moments, he could appreciate the irony of inheriting a prestigious title and no means to provide for himself, much less those around him. But this evening, seized with disappointment, he went to the stables for solace.
As he strolled through the honeysuckle-scented evening, he reminded himself why he was masquerading as a duke. Repairing the Hall had become a Herculean task, one he was determined to see completed. Providing for Curtis and Olivia’s future, that was far more important than any personal wishes Derek had.
Inside the darkening barn, he discovered Johnny. “You’re out late.”
Johnny motioned toward the harness room. “I brought the cat supper.”
“Everyone looks after everyone else here at Ambersley.”
“Yes, Your Grace. Tom says we all have to stick together during hard times.”
Derek sighed. What a simple world this boy lived in. Not easy, but simple.
“Cushing says Sabu is going to race against other horses and win a lot of money for you.” Johnny went to Sabu’s stall and held out his hand.
“Careful, he bites.”
“He knows I don’t play those games. See?” Johnny turned his back to Sabu who snuffled his hair until the boy giggled.
“I fear Sabu won’t be racing this season. There’s no money left at the moment to pay for the entry fees, so we’ll have to wait until next year.”
Johnny’s happiness collapsed into a frown as he considered Derek’s words. “You paid the staff their wages instead of taking Sabu to the races.”
Surprised the boy had gleaned the facts so quickly, Derek shrugged. “A gentleman must always pay his debts, Johnny. Remember that.”
The boy thought about this. “How does a duke make money?”
Derek laughed darkly. “Normally, a duke is born with money. He invests it, gambles it, earns rents on his property, he marries a rich wife—”
“Are you going to marry a rich wife?” Johnny interrupted.
A vision of Helena Thorne flashed in his mind. Marry you? You have nothing to offer.
He’d been stung by her response, for he had believed she loved him. Nothing but myself, he’d told her.
Who will marry you on those terms? she’d responded coldly.
Focusing on Johnny’s face, Derek shook himself from the unpleasant reverie. “No. You see, most dukes aren’t saddled with a home that practically burned down or a staff who hasn’t been paid in four years. I cannot make money fast enough to pay my debts, and no woman wants to marry me while I’m camped out in the servants’ wing.”
“Would Sabu win lots of money at the races?”
“If he won, there would be lots of money.”
“Oh.” With no more than that, Johnny kissed Sabu’s nose and left with a nod. Derek shook his head over the little boy who seemed so wise.
The next morning, he sipped his tea at the kitchen table while scanning the latest issue of The Times. As Mrs. Chalmers removed his plate, he heard the distinctive sound of Paget clearing his throat. Derek lowered his paper to find Paget, Mr. Pritchard, Rory, Stokes, Mrs. North and Tom Bendicks standing before him. Johnny hovered in the shadows.
“Did I request an assembly this morning?” Derek asked, setting the paper aside.
Paget looked back at his compatriots, who all nodded.
Tom gently elbowed the butler in the ribs. “Go on. Give it him.”
The old hawk hesitated before placing a familiar silk purse on the table.
Derek’s brows knit. “What does this mean, Paget?”
“Your Grace, the staff has unanimously voted to return two year’s wages to you so that you may enter Sabu in the Goodwood races.” He nodded to the purse and bowed slightly. “With our compliments, sir.”
Derek looked again at the purse, then back to the sea of serious faces. “How did you—?”
“Johnny told us you didn’t have the entry fee.” Tom Bendicks worried his hat in his hand.
“Johnny.” Derek pointed to the floor before him until Johnny stepped forward timidly. “I told you that in confidence.” Unsure whether the boy knew what that meant, he added, “As when a friend tells another friend a secret.”
The boy glanced over his shoulder at Paget and the rest before turning to Derek again. “They’re your friends, too.”
Silence hung in the kitchen while he gazed at the little boy then up to his nervous benefactors. He wanted to laugh but couldn’t get a deep enough breath past the constriction in his throat. Surely he wasn’t getting sentimental over a bag of coins given to him by a handful of servants. He barely knew these people.
He cleared his throat. “Very well, I will accept this on Sabu’s behalf. But, this is a loan, and even if Sabu loses, I will pay you back in time. If he wins, you will each earn a bonus. Now I expect most of us have work to do.”
The staff scattered with smiles on their lips leaving only Johnny behind. The boy held out a single crown to him.
“What’s this?”
“I wanted to give some money, too. I earned this from Mr. Harry.”
Derek took the coin without a word and surrendered the field to sentimentality.
Chapter 7
London, July 1805
Derek returned from Goodwood with a winning horse, a heavier purse and the Prince’s personal invitation to join him at Carlton House at the end of the Season. His Highness was in the throes of redecorating and eager to display his latest additions to an intimate gathering of cronies. The invitation surprised Derek, but the Prince ignored his protestations.
“Nonsense, of course you’ll come. Always
counted Ambersley as a friend. Besides, Richmond pointed out that little stallion of yours. Wouldn’t be putting him out to stud any time soon, would you?”
“I hope to race him another year.”
“Good, good. Bring him to Ascot. If he does well there, I may have some mares for him.”
“Your Highness is too kind.” Derek bowed and accepted the invitation.
“Not married, are you Ambersley?”
“No, sir.”
“Good. No wives at this gathering. Bring a guest if you like.”
Upon his return to Ambersley, Rosalie voiced her outrage. “You cannot afford to send me and the children to Grosvenor Square, but you can come and go as you please.”
“I go at the summons of Prince George,” he corrected. “And I won’t open the house with only a fortnight left to the Season. I’ll stay with Aunt Bess and Harry.”
This made the situation more palatable to her. “You must make a good impression on His Highness. Invite him here—”
“With the Hall like it is? Not to mention I couldn’t afford to feed him.” Derek snorted and walked out.
He was a bit unnerved when he and Harry arrived at Carlton House. He’d expected a formal supper, where the merits of the new furnishings and décor were discussed, followed by quiet music and cards. Instead, they were ushered to the main ballroom where a rousing event with an extended buffet, an orchestra and dancing was already underway. Belatedly, Derek realized every other gentleman invited had brought his mistress.
His initial embarrassment was quickly doused when Harry burst into laughter so loud it drew attention their way.
“Hush, you fool,” Derek whispered fiercely while he tried to control his own mirth. “Maybe we should bow out of here quietly.”
“Never.” Harry dabbed at his damp eyes. “There’s far too much potential here. You outrank most of these men, you’re half the age of some of them and you’ve no lady on your arm. Let us see how many of these little birds will willingly feed themselves to a new cat.”
Sobering, Derek scanned the sea of young beauties in their daringly low-cut gowns. “A faithless mistress is less worthy even than a faithless wife.” Spying the Prince, he squared his shoulders and ushered Harry forward for introductions.
His Highness greeted them both warmly and accepted Harry’s presence without question. Then he eased Derek’s nerves by personally introducing him to the other gentlemen present. Granted the Prince’s patent approval, Derek was assured acceptance by all, regardless of what stories they may remember of his family’s past.
Nearly three hours later, Derek stepped onto the balcony to escape the heat of the dancing, the crush of laughing bodies and the candles’ glow reflected in the many mirrors. Here a soft breeze refreshed him and offered a few moments of solitude. He’d lost track of Harry. His cousin had captured the interest of more than one female tonight, and Derek could only hope he wouldn’t be asked to act as second in a duel at dawn.
“We meet again, Vaughan.” The familiar voice from behind mocked him.
Turning, he discovered his nemesis, Lord Worthing.
They watched each other, eyes level, while the muted strains of the orchestra played within.
Worthing’s eyes flickered. “Forgive me. I mean Lord Ambersley.” He inclined his head.
“I wasn’t sure you’d acknowledge my claim,” Derek said softly.
“Prinny has already done so. I’ll appear churlish if I don’t follow suit.” Worthing’s teeth glinted in the moonlight as he smiled. “Though I’m rather aggrieved to find you, a half-brother born on the wrong side of the sheets, claiming a family title older than mine.”
Wary at this seeming admission, Derek asked, “Do you have proof?”
“That my father sired you? No.” Worthing’s eyes narrowed in the darkness. “Do you?”
“No.”
“Perhaps we don’t share blood, only an uncanny resemblance.”
Derek wished this were so, but Worthing’s frown meant he agreed it wasn’t likely.
After a moment, Worthing said, “I will share this—my father visited her in her jail cell once. He said she kept a diary, and she swore she would leave her sad story for all to read.”
Derek’s whole body tensed at this unwelcome news. “I knew naught of any diary.”
Worthing rearranged the cuffs of his shirt and coat as if he had no other care in the world. “Perhaps your father burned it.”
Derek could only hope, but then he remembered Rosalie telling him of his bastard birth. She’d said she and his father were going through papers—had she seen Alicia Vaughan’s diary?
Worthing stepped closer. “I’ll not have the Trevarthan name dragged into scandal again. Should you ever find her diary, destroy it.”
“Did you fear I would demand your family acknowledge me?”
“I rather thought you’d blackmail us.”
Derek’s fingers closed into fists before remembering he could hardly throw blows at another guest in Carlton House.
“Of course, now Father’s dead, and since you’ve inherited Ambersley, you need nothing from my family.” Worthing leaned close. “I suggest we grant each other distance. Regardless of our titles, Trevarthans don’t mix with Vaughans.” He looked past Derek’s shoulder and straightened. “Nor Coatsworths.”
With a nod, Worthing shouldered past Derek to return to the ballroom. He didn’t acknowledge Harry at all as he passed.
Harry approached Derek with a glance back over his shoulder. “Same old Trevarthan.”
Derek silently disagreed. The St. John Trevarthan who’d warned him tonight was subtly different than the tormentor from his youth. The mystery was whether this new St. John was an improvement.
~
The following day, Derek stopped at Vaughan House in Harley Street, where he searched for any sign of his mother’s diary. On this he agreed with St. John—such a volatile document should be destroyed at once. No good could come from publishing Alicia Vaughan’s memoirs. The ton would sooner castrate him than see their families’ good names dragged back through such notorious scandal.
But the document was nowhere to be found, and Derek was forced to return to Ambersley empty-handed. Though it was the last thing he wanted to do, he broached the topic of the diary with Rosalie.
Her eyes narrowed shrewdly at his question. “How did you learn of it?”
“Worthing mentioned that his father once saw it. Do you know what has become of it?”
She pursed her lips. “Reggie mentioned her diary, but I never saw it.”
“Has it been destroyed?”
“I don’t know. Awkward for you if it hasn’t. Perhaps awkward for Worthing as well?”
Derek regretted bringing St. John’s name into it. Still, if Rosalie had the diary, she would have put it to use long before now. He let the matter drop, though it plagued the edges of his mind like a tender bruise that refused to heal.
Despite the uncomfortable situation with his family, Derek drew solace from working on the estate. He marveled at each new experience the changing seasons of his first year introduced—frost gilding the ground to crunch beneath the coach wheels before the first dusting of snow, a new crop of bleating calves and lambs, the burst of flowers and birdsong as spring warmed the land and summer took hold. Through it all, he continued to lead repairs on the Hall as he could afford them, just as he continued to give silent thanks that Minton had yet to find any sign of Miss Amber.
Following a successful race meeting at Ascot in June, Derek opened the house in Grosvenor Square for two months and invited Rosalie and the children to London.
Rosalie arrived with alacrity and wasn’t the least distressed when Derek announced his intention of returning to Ambersley. Having sole reign in Grosvenor Square suited her purpose. She’d bided long enough, and she lost no time renewing acquaintances.
One of the first notes she sent was to the Marquess of Worthing. His punctual arrival the next day brought a smile to her lips as
they seated themselves in the elegant drawing room.
“I believe we may be able to assist each other,” she said without preamble.
He raised a brow at her. “How so?”
“Derek tells me Alicia Vaughan’s diaries may be of interest to you.”
“He said he doesn’t have them,” the marquess said in a bored tone.
“He doesn’t. But what if I did? The information therein might be valuable to many.”
“Not the least of all would be your son.”
