An Affair in Autumn

by Jennifer Haymore

  A Year Without a Duke

  The duke has died. Long live the duke! The only problem is no one knows who the new Duke of Beckworth is. All of England wonders, but no one more so than the people who depend upon Beckworth for their livelihood. In 1816, a year so cold that the word “summer” is a cruel joke, that livelihood is even more uncertain. However, they are all about to find out, with the duke away, there is nothing more warming than scandal and love…

  Jilted in January by Kate Pearce

  Forbidden in February by Suzanna Medeiros

  Seduced in September by Genevieve Turner

  An Affair in Autumn by Jennifer Haymore

  A Duke by December by Sabrina Darby

  First Digital Edition, February 2016

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, 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 the author.

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  To learn more about Jennifer Haymore and for more information about A Year Without a Duke, visit:

  www.jenniferhaymore.com

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  An Affair in Autumn

  Jennifer Haymore

  Caroline Addison, Lady Whytestone, has some important news to deliver to her old friend—he has inherited a dukedom! He could be in New York or perhaps in South America, but no matter. Caro is an independent woman, so who says she can’t indulge in a little adventure and travel across the Atlantic—and maybe across a continent—to find him?

  On a mission to locate the new Duke of Beckworth, Lord Marcus Hawkins boards a ship bound for America and finds himself trapped with his childhood friend-turned-enemy, Caroline Addison, who happens to be in search of the very same man. Caro is headstrong, frustrating, selfish, wickedly intelligent, and so damn beautiful, Mark can’t see anything but her when she’s near. Torn between wanting to kiss her senseless and wanting to strangle her, Mark has no idea how he’s going to survive the long weeks of travel ahead.

  Henrietta Pemberley

  Housekeeper, Beckworth Park

  My dear Mrs. Pemberley,

  Such exciting news! After months of attempting to ascertain whether the late Duke of Beckworth had a single living male heir, I believe we might have found him! But I hesitate to celebrate prematurely because it appears the young man, who bears the duke’s family name of Hughes, has resided in the wilds of America for many years.

  One can only hope he has survived the experience...

  At first, I intended to write to the New York residence of Mr. Hughes, but there is always the fear that a letter bearing such important news might go astray. I was reluctantly contemplating an arduous sea journey when an old friend of Mr. Hughes, Lord Markus Hawkins, offered to go in my stead. An offer I was delighted to accept.

  The journey will take some weeks, and as the weather is particularly unpleasant it might be a long while before we hear any more. But let us look on the bright side, my dear lady. The search for the duke might almost be over, and your loyalty to the family and the estate will be rewarded.

  I remain your affectionate correspondent and, dare I say, friend?

  Reginald Tompkins, Esq.

  Richards, Thistlewaite and Tompkins Solicitors

  Temple, London

  Chapter One

  Caroline Addison, Lady Whytestone, adored spending her late husband’s money. She’d devoted the past year to getting rid of all of it, in fact, but so far she’d only managed to reduce his fortune by a small percentage.

  She smiled as the man sitting across from her stood, his rosy face shining with exuberance, clutching the note to his chest. “Thank you. Thank you so much, my lady. I am certain this will cover the expenses for our new building.”

  “I hope so, Mr. Sullivan, but if you find it falls short, please let me know, and I’ll see what I can do.”

  Caro rose to shake hands with the man. When the door closed behind him, she sank back into her chair and laid her hands flat on her desk—the desk once belonging to her husband—a rare feeling of contentment washing through her.

  She was a wicked woman, but vengeance, even upon a dead man, was ever so sweet.

  She’d just donated a very large sum of money to a Catholic-run school for foundlings. Most foundlings were fatherless children abandoned by their frightened and hopeless mothers, and the late Lord Whytestone had detested illegitimate children. He’d told her once that all bastards had a pure evil in them that resided in them from birth because the evil of their parents’ unwholesome deed took root in them at the moment of conception.

  Above all, Lord Whytestone had despised Catholics, believing them abominable in their thinking and blaming them for the majority of wrongs in the history of the world.

  Certainly the man was rolling over in his grave knowing his precious money was supporting two such abhorrent causes.

  So this felt like a large victory for Caro. Two victories for the cost of one, she thought. And she’d done a good deed to boot because she felt nothing of the vitriol her husband had, either for those unfortunate enough to be born destitute and illegitimate or for those who followed the Catholic faith.

  She truly wanted to help those less fortunate than herself. And now, because she had more money than she knew what to do with, it was easy for her to do so.

  A knock sounded on her door, and when she told the person to enter, the door opened to reveal Charles, one of her footmen. “Excuse me, my lady, but you’ve another visitor.”

  Her brows rose in surprise. She hadn’t expected any callers after Mr. Sullivan. “Do I indeed? Who is it?”

  “Lord Markus Hawkins, my lady.”

  Instant stiffness froze Caro’s muscles. What on earth was he doing here?

  Narrowing her eyes in speculation, she nodded slowly. “Very well. Show him in.”

  Her voice was clipped. She hadn’t meant to sound like that that. She never spoke brusquely to her servants.

  Charles nodded and closed the door gently behind him.

  She never thought she’d see Mark again. Their last parting was years ago, and it had not been on good terms. Well, more truthfully, it had been on absolutely terrible terms. She’d called him a pompous, arrogant bastard, and he’d flung back that she was a spoilt, selfish shrew unworthy of a man as good and honorable as Nathaniel Hughes.

  Nate. She closed her eyes briefly, combating the spark of sadness that shot through her. Lord, how she missed him. Truth be told, she’d missed both men. Mark and Nate had been out of her life for too many years. Nate had gone away permanently to make a life for himself in America, and Mark had become a world traveler, spending most of his time on adventures abroad. Not that he ever would have considered coming to visit her during his short visits home.

  But he was here now. Curious.

  She rose, smoothing down her skirts as C
harles knocked softly, then opened the door once again and stepped back to allow Mark entrance.

  She stood very still as he walked into the room. Good God. He was at least twice as thick as the last time she’d seen him, but it appeared as though he hadn’t an ounce of fat upon him. It was all muscle that strained against the seams of his perfectly tailored coat and the thighs of his trousers.

  She quickly raised her gaze to his face. It seemed to have improved with age, much as the rest of him. Light crinkles formed around his dark eyes. His cheekbones were high, his brows heavy, his chin square. He was, from top to bottom, an intensely masculine specimen.

  But she wouldn’t allow that to affect her. She never had, after all. He’d always been handsome.

  “Lord Mark,” she said, glad the snappishness had left her voice. She sounded smooth and refined, just as the widowed wife of a viscount should.

  “Lady Whytestone.” There was a hint of irony in his voice that raised her hackles instantly. But she had no intention of showing that either.

  They stared at each other for a moment. Then she gestured to the chair on the opposite side of her desk. “Please sit down,” she said politely, as if this were a formal business meeting. As if she had some idea of what on earth had brought the man to her doorstep. She’d honestly believed he’d actively avoid her for the rest of their lives.

  He complied, and she sat as well. Another long stare passed between them as they assessed each other. There was so much there—so much history and so many things said and unsaid. But it was all so long ago.

  It was quite unsettling.

  “I heard about your husband’s death last year, my lady,” Mark said. “My condolences.”

  She looked down at the desk. “Thank you.”

  An awkward silence passed. She felt Mark’s gaze on her, studying her. What did he see? Nothing good, she imagined. He’d always thought the worst of her.

  Taking a deep breath, she looked up and met his eyes. “Can I offer you tea?” Then she remembered his preferences. “Or coffee?”

  “Coffee, yes, please. Thank you.”

  He spoke politely and aloofly—just like the third son of the Duke of Trent should, she thought wryly. Clearly he’d had some practice since she’d last seen him. Mark had been a youth with a sharp tongue, a wicked sense of humor, and steel-strong opinions that he never failed to share. He seemed more serious now, more cautious, all that carefree youthfulness erased by the heavy lines of maturity.

  She rang the bell, and the footman appeared almost immediately. “Coffee please, Charles. For both of us.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “That will be all.”

  Charles slipped away, closing the door behind him.

  Caro drew small circles with her fingertip on the shiny walnut surface of her desk and decided that though Mark would never appear in her home without very good reason, she’d attempt to make polite conversation. “I was told you’ve been touring the world. Have you come home for good, or do you plan to resume your travels at some point?”

  “Well, I wish I’d been touring the world. But in fact I was only on the Continent, and in India for a short time. And… no. I don’t think I’m home for good. Not yet, in any case.”

  “I see. Where are you off to next?”

  His eyes were dark and serious. “America, perhaps.”

  She sat up a bit taller. Nate was in America—or at least he was still there the last time he’d written her. “Oh?” she asked carefully.

  Mark took a long breath. Then he folded his hands—his big, long-fingered hands—on her desk. “It’s about our old friend, Nathaniel Hughes. You remember him, I assume?”

  Intense annoyance shot through her at his sarcasm, followed quickly by a jolt of alarm. Her gaze shot up from where she was staring at his hands. “What about him? Has something happened?”

  “Yes, but probably not what you think.”

  “What is it?”

  Mark leaned forward. “Were you acquainted with the Duke of Beckworth?”

  “What does this have to do with Nate?” Truly, she had no interest in the pompous windbag that had been the Duke of Beckworth. Whenever she’d been in his presence, the man had pinched her bottom incessantly. Her friends complained of the same behavior. She’d no idea how he managed it without anyone but the victim knowing—but he did, always.

  “Focus. The Duke of Beckworth. Did you know him?”

  Caro seethed. She’d always despised how Mark patronized her. She ground her teeth. “I am focused,” she bit out. “I’m worried about Nate. What he could possibly have to do with that old lecher is beyond me.”

  Mark’s lips curled up in a sarcastic smile. “Oh, you’d be surprised.”

  “Surprise me then.”

  “Are you aware of what happened to the duke?”

  She sighed, wishing he’d just get to the point. “Of course.” Everyone had heard about what had happened to Beckworth. “He choked on a chicken bone—at least that’s the rumor—back in—when was it? Last summer?”

  “Right. But he left no heir apparent, as you might recall, and a frantic search for the true heir ensued.”

  “Yes, yes,” Caro said impatiently. “Last I heard, there was no one. Every branch of the family ended in barrenness, sadly.”

  “Not every branch.”

  Caro frowned.

  “The Duke of Beckworth’s family name is Hughes.”

  Realization began to dawn. Caro’s mouth fell open. “What are you saying?” she whispered.

  “I’m saying that Nate is the heir to the Duke of Beckworth.”

  There was a long silence as Caro tried to process this. It seemed improbable—no, impossible. Nate had been poor as a child—extremely poor when compared to Mark and Caro. Mark was the son of a wealthy duke. Caro’s grandfather had been an earl, and Caro’s father had always presented the pretense of being wealthy.

  She and Mark had known aristocratic blood flowed somewhere in Nate’s veins, but he’d been the poor relation and had never associated with those distant relatives who preferred to ignore his small, simple, penniless family.

  Her lips twisted. Mark was prone to joking. This must be one of his jokes, as ill timed and strange as it was. “You cannot be serious.”

  “I’m completely serious,” he said flatly.

  Just then the coffee arrived. They sat in silence as the footman placed the silver service on Caro’s desk. She thanked him, he exited, and Caro poured coffee into the thin porcelain cups, then took one for herself and set the other before Mark. She took a sip and found that it tasted, as always, like old shoes. She never understood why Mark had grown so fond of the stuff.

  “Good God,” she whispered as he took a small swallow. “Are you certain?”

  “I’m absolutely certain.”

  “How is it possible?”

  “I wouldn’t have thought it was possible either, but Theo worked it all out. Here.” Mark drew out a piece of parchment from his pocket. He unfolded it and laid it upon Caro’s desk, smoothing it flat.

  A name was written in large, bold print at the center of the paper: Cecil Hughes, Duke of Beckworth: 1765-1816. Extending from the name in all directions was a multitude of lines that led to other names, then others. Most of these paths ended in large Xs. There was only one that ended at another name down in the far corner of the sheet. The name was boxed and underlined: Nathaniel Hughes: 1787-.

  “Theo has verified every link and every ancestor,” Mark said. “It is confirmed. Nate is the heir.”

  Still staring at the sheet of paper, Caro pressed a hand to her heart. This had too many implications to consider without completely overwhelming her. And if Lord Theo Hawkins, Mark’s younger brother, had confirmed it, she knew it must be true. Theo was a mathematical genius, and he’d always approached everything with a precision Caro had never seen in anyone else—he was the kind of man who wouldn’t make a proclamation like this unless he knew it to be true.

  “Nate is t
he only grandson of the old duke’s great-grandfather’s youngest brother’s second son,” Mark told her.

  She shook her head, her mind boggled. She couldn’t follow that convoluted relationship, either in words or on the scrawling handwriting on the page. “Have you… have you sent him a letter?”

  Mark pursed his lips and shook his head. “No.”

  “Why not?” Urgency welled inside her. This was important—it was vital that Nate be informed of this as quickly as possible.

  “Well, that’s the problem. And why I’ve come to you.” He leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. “He stopped writing to me some years ago. I have no idea how to find him.”

  She blinked at him. “Why did he stop writing you?” Mark and Nate had been more like brothers than friends. She couldn’t fathom why Nate would cease communications with him.

  A muscle twitched in his jaw as he ground his teeth. “That’s none of your concern, Lady Whytestone.”

  Oh. Whatever it was, it was clearly still a sensitive subject for him. She gazed at him impassively.

  “I came here to ask you if you’ve heard from him recently.”

  “I have, in fact,” she said.

  Mark released a sigh of relief and nodded. “Can you tell me where he is?”

  “Of course. I’ll show you the letter. I just received it three weeks ago, though it was written over a month before that.” She opened the top right drawer of her desk and sifted through the pile of correspondence there. It didn’t take long to find it—Nate’s letter was near the top. She pulled it out and handed it to Mark, who unfolded it and read it.

  Dear Caro,

  I hope this letter finds you well, and that your family is in good health and high spirits.

  With the war finally over, I have at last returned to the North. My sojourn in the western territories was fascinating and unlike anything I have ever known. There are spots of civilization, but much of it is quite wild and skirmishes with the native population are frequent.