by Allison Lane
“I know, which is why I have a man watching this house and another outside my own. John will be safe. I will meet with the trustees tomorrow and press for an arrest. I’ve found no evidence that he hires others to carry out his plots – which is why no one noticed them previously – so holding him in prison should prevent further trouble.”
“Thank you.” Smiling in relief, she settled behind the coffee tray and poured a cup for herself.
Mrs. Truitt returned, her eyes aglow. “It’s him,” she breathed. “It’s really him, Miss Harper. I’ll never forget the day he fell into the fire. Thought I’d lose my post over it. I’d taken him down to the kitchen, for he dearly loved Cook’s scones. We’ll never taste the like again, now that she’s gone.” She sniffed. “Othmar liked his scones dripping with butter and honey. Not a speck of clotted cream or jam would he allow.”
“That hasn’t changed,” said Faith.
“Don’t that beat all.” She shook her head. “But that day… Othmar had the puppy with him. I swear I didn’t take my eye off them for a minute. Not even half a minute. A comment to Cook was all. But when I turned back, the dog was racing off to sniff the roast and Othmar right behind. He tripped. Tripped often in those days. His feet could never quite keep up with his energy.” She again shook her head. “Fell in the fireplace and caught his shirt on fire. ’Twasn’t ’til we tore it off that we saw the real damage. The ruckus Cook raised…”
“I can imagine.” Cook always overreacted to injuries, as she had cause to know.
“But I can’t believe he’s alive. We’d given up hope. I’m pleased as punch I can finally rub Smith’s nose in his own black theories – he swore up and down that the duchess lied to cover Othmar’s death and retain her own standing. Lord Chester would have seized any excuse to toss her out. But I never believed him. Not for a moment. ‘You mark my words, that woman died of a broken heart,’ I told him often enough. Yes, she had a chill, but Othmar had been gone so long that—” She broke off. “But there’s nothing we can do about her now. Thank God he’s alive. I’ve been terrified these last years that the title would go to Lord Chester. He’s not the man his father was, by all accounts. Nor his brother, either. Why the tales—”
“Coffee?” asked Faith, interrupting. Mrs. Truitt could talk the sun around without drawing breath.
“Don’t mind if I do.” She cocked her head. “What are you doing here anyway? I won’t believe the filth that Lord Chester was claiming, especially about our dear duke, but it does look odd, my dear.”
“I know, but I discovered that Lord Chester was stealing from the estate accounts and felt I had to bring the evidence to the trustees. They arranged to replace your stables a year ago, but Chester kept the funds for himself. The church roof, too.”
“You don’t say!”
“I do. Since I hadn’t the wherewithal for a hotel room, Mr. Lascar offered to help. A trifle unseemly, of course, but now that he turns out to be my guardian, there is no trouble. He’s finding me a post.”
“Ought to bring you out in town – or wed you himself.”
“Impossible.”
“Not in the least. You’re worth a dozen of Lady Catherine, my dear, though she’ll never admit it. Nose in the air every second of the day. The eighth duke never liked her. Some spat from childhood, or so they say, but he was a canny judge of character despite his youth. So don’t you listen to Lady Catherine, my girl. Jealous from the moment she laid eyes on you.”
“Absolutely,” said Ned, joining them. “And isn’t her nose out of joint these days!” He grinned. “Between the trustees and Lord Portland’s messenger, she’s fit to be tied. And when I tell her it’s true—”
“What’s true.”
“That the duke’s been found, of course. I started as a nursery footman, you know, and was with Nurse when they carried him up from the kitchen. What a day that was! But he survived and thrived, from all accounts. And to think he was actually at Westcourt and we didn’t even know it.”
“One of fate’s ironies,” said Faith. Would Portland have found him if she hadn’t had to escape Bitstaff? Without the duchess’s diary, they might never have known. She might even have succumbed to temptation and wed the architect. He would be less hurt by her deficiencies than a duke would.
Ned rattled on, relating the events of the last few days, aided by Mrs. Truitt.
Cook’s funeral had been well-attended despite Chester’s orders to the contrary. She’d been renowned for her pastries before illness had forced her to avoid ovens – heat too often brought on spells.
With Faith gone, Catherine had to see after the household herself. She wasn’t doing a good job of it. One of the maids had left rather than face her constant displeasure. But at least Chester had not yet turned off the staff, not even when service disintegrated after he’d tossed Faith out – she cringed at the risk they’d taken in showing their displeasure. At least with John in charge, they would be safe.
Bernard returned, tears in his eyes. “Proof that Her Grace chose right, though I wish I could have been with him all these years. The duke had arranged that I accompany—”
“The duke would have approved her change in plans,” said Faith. “With Mr. Goodman in the house, you could never have reached Scotland without being caught. Your silence about Francine’s destination was the greatest service you could offer. And it worked. She saw to it that he learned all that was necessary.”
“How do you know so much?”
“The duchess kept a diary. She hid it just before her death. I found it about a year ago but said nothing because I assumed he’d died in childhood – it was the only explanation I could imagine for why he hadn’t returned. If Lord Chester gained the title, my position would have been worse, so I selfishly hid the diary, never suspecting that it could have located him long ago.”
“Perhaps this was better,” said Bernard slowly. “He is more able to handle himself now, and Lord Chester will be occupied defending his own actions.” His eyes showed understanding and a trace of fear.
“We can only hope so.”
Before the others could ask questions, Mrs. Kemp returned. “Little Arnold. I never thought to see him again after Molly left. She always held herself above the rest of us, but I never suspected she was raising a duke.” She shook her head. “’Tis sorry I am she died, though. I’m the only one left of the six of us.”
Portland cleared his throat. “That settles it, then. Mrs. Parker knows him even without the scar, and she identified Molly Dingle as the woman she knew as his mother. So we can trace his life from cradle to present. Once you give your oath tomorrow, it will be done. My carriage will collect you in the morning.”
“He will wish to thank you,” said Faith as several faces fell. “Plan on coming here once the legalities are concluded.” She would leave word for Treburn when she slipped out tonight.
Portland’s eyes thanked her as he herded his charges away. Her invitation satisfied everyone while giving John the time he needed to digest this latest step.
* * * *
John clung to Faith as they headed upstairs. Every time he thought he’d accepted his fate, something else happened to overwhelm him. This time it had been Mrs. Truitt.
She’d broken down in tears the moment she’d seen his scar, gasping out a mishmash of thanks, praise, memory, and imprecation that had made little sense. He hadn’t known what to do. Words did nothing to soothe her, and he could hardly slide his arms around her when he was half naked.
Fortunately, Treburn had ushered her out.
Yet Ned hadn’t been much better, though at least he’d shed no tears. It raised questions about his return to Westcourt. He must meet dozens of servants, tenants, villagers, neighbors. How would they react? Euphoria wouldn’t survive long against thirty years of grievances. Replacing the inn’s stable was something he understood, but how could he evaluate complaints that didn’t involve buildings? He knew nothing about other subjects.
He faced other
problems, too. A duke did not relate to others in the same way as an architect. Every friendship, every acquaintanceship would change. And Chester…
Thank God for Faith. She was the one rock in his madly whirling world.
“That went well,” she said once they reached his room.
“Will it be enough?”
“It must.” She turned suddenly somber eyes on him. “Portland has witnesses from every stage of your life. He is even taking Soane’s valet with him tomorrow – the man helped you dress for the interview that won you that scholarship. Even the most fastidious gentlemen will find no holes. And they must agree that continued uncertainty is dangerous.”
“Very well. I will cease thinking about it until tomorrow. And for tonight, I checked the locks myself, so you can cease fretting.” He pulled her into a heated kiss.
Passion exploded, stronger than ever. Frustration transformed into desire so powerful he could barely stand. The flood he’d once watched sweep a wharf out to sea was a mere trickle compared to the torrent of his love. With Faith in his arms, he could accomplish miracles – even convince her to wed him.
Or so it felt tonight.
“Faith.” Her taste intoxicated him with the flavor he craved more than his next breath. She staggered as his hands raced over her, removing clothes. This wasn’t a night to be gentle. Storms were bursting inside him, shattering any hope of control. Desperation drove him. A desperation he finally understood.
Those birthday letters from his mother had nearly broken him. The love. The poignancy. The connection they formed with his past…
She’d written of the Willowby family. Not of its individuals, though they appeared often, but of its history, its strengths, and its weaknesses. Thus he now knew that Willowby men conceived one great love in their lives. Once formed, it dominated everything they did. That love superceded custom and manners and society’s dictates.
His father’s love had been for his mother, raising brows that only his title stilled. But Willowby obsessions were not always for women. A great-great uncle had loved thrills, especially those found around a gaming table. A cousin had loved tea in all its varieties, boring everyone he met with perorations on his special blends.
Chester loved power.
His own love was already established, and it wasn’t architecture, which surprised him. It was Faith. Nothing would keep him from having her. Not as a possession, for that would diminish her value, but as a partner.
It was a concept he would not have considered before reading his mother’s diary, but his parents had so clearly been partners that it seemed inevitable that he and Faith would be, too. Her intelligence was too useful to waste.
“I need you now. Right now.”
“Yes.”
Faith nearly melted under his onslaught, but she was determined to wrest from him as much pleasure as possible. By morning she would be gone. Lovemaking would never be the same again.
What she felt for him was special. She knew it, deep in her soul. He completed her in a way she’d not thought possible, filling spots that had remained empty since her parents’ deaths.
She loved him. Forever. But she could not have him. Not because of breeding or deformity or any other excuse. Couples had overcome such obstacles before, but only a deep, abiding love made it possible. A marriage where she loved and he did not would be worse than anything she could imagine. And she could not give him what he needed most. So she must leave.
But first she had tonight.
They came together in desperation, violent as any thunderstorm. Heat flowed straight to her belly, then burst out the top of her head with the force of a steam engine. Electricity sizzled along her nerves, smoking her senses as his hands raced over her body.
She rolled, fighting to give as much as she got. Over and over they scrambled, wrecking the bed as they fought for pleasure, climaxing together in a burst of joy greater than anything that had come before.
“Wonderful,” she panted as he lay gasping for breath next to her. “Glorious.” But she wasn’t yet satisfied. These memories must last a lifetime. Somehow, she must revive him enough to continue.
Her hand trailed down his chest, lower and lower yet, until she dragged her nails along his length and grasped him.
He stirred.
“Witch,” he panted as she squeezed.
“Don’t ever forget it.”
She stroked and caressed, thrilling to power as he returned to life. This final encounter deserved everything she had, so she opened her heart, letting her core revel in her love for him.
“Slow down,” he murmured. “This time we’ll savor.”
He rolled, pinning her beneath him while he indulged in a deep kiss, mesmerizing her, transfixing her with tongue and teeth, dragging her into a vortex of feeling divorced from the world.
Her mind melted as he tasted her lips, her throat, her breasts, casting her adrift on a sensual sea until she was so enervated that even the tiniest motion was impossible.
Stupefied, she tried to think – and failed. This wasn’t the overwhelming passion she’d felt earlier. Yet passion was there, in the subtlety of heat and touch, gathering power until she was ready to explode.
“Now,” she begged, forcing her hand to his shoulder. “Please!”
“Not yet.” John eased back, holding her on the edge, savoring the anticipation. It was a struggle. Wild beasts clawed at his guts, demanding relief. Never had he felt such a violent surge of hunger, not even half an hour ago before the climax that had nearly killed him.
But first he had to bind her.
Her lovemaking tonight was totally uninhibited. Such a gift had to come from love. Somehow, he would make her admit it. Somehow he would convince her of his.
If he lived long enough.
Her skin flushed bright with passion. Her heart beat frantically in time with his own.
“Now,” he commanded, sliding into her welcoming sheath. “You’re mine. Only mine. Now and forever.”
She clenched around him, her eyes going hot. But stubborn denial still lurked in their depths.
Damn Catherine for convincing her she was ineligible. He ought to wring the woman’s neck. His campaign would take longer than he wanted, for Faith would find it difficult to abandon beliefs learned over a lifetime.
But she would know his love if it was the last thing he did, he vowed as she writhed beneath him. She would believe in her worth and accept her destiny as he’d had to accept his.
Faith was his. Forever.
He crushed her mouth, abandoning all control as he pounded into her, reveling in her heat, her passion, and the dizziness that drove the last thought from his mind.
Her fingers clawed his back, driving him onward until they shattered together and fell into blackness.
Chapter Twenty-one
Montrose is three today. He thrives, yet I am empty. I know nothing of his life. Losing him hurts worse than I ever dreamed, though he would be dead had he stayed. I remind myself daily that it was the only way. Not knowing
where he is torments me, yet it controls my weakness. I would surely go to him if I could… Time creeps by. His puppy has long since grown. Buster sleeps on my bed, but it is not the same…
Duchess of Westfield, Apr. 1788
Chester slipped through the mews, careful not to disturb the horses. No one must suspect his presence – which was why he’d dispatched the vagrant loitering on the corner. The man had seen nothing before a blow knocked him flat, so it was safe enough. Or would be soon.
Fate had played him the worst trick yet. Everything had been set. Portland should have found evidence in Le Havre that Francine had passed through a week after leaving Westcourt, accompanied by a child and headed for her family’s home near Avignon. Judicious inquiries would then have discovered that the child had perished of smallpox in 1788 and that Francine herself had died during the revolution. Tragic, but hardly unusual.
But Portland had betrayed him. The idiot had not gone near Le
Havre in spite of compelling clues that should have led him there. It was frustrating enough that Portland had insisted on following the same stale path others had trod thirty years ago, for it delayed resolution of the problem. But then…
How the devil had he picked up Francine’s real trail after all these years? It wasn’t right.
Fate’s laughter rang in his ears, standing his hair on end and rippling chills across his skin.
He shook it away.
Fate remained on his side. She had to. She had always supported his struggle to claim his rightful place in the world. The dukedom needed a strong man at the helm, one who understood power and how to wield it. Only he could do so. Not his meek father, who felt comfortable only in the company of weaklings. Not his reformist brother, who actually advocated letting shopkeepers and laborers plan policy. And never an upstart who knew nothing about anything. Right-minded gentleman everywhere would thank him for preventing such a travesty.
So he must settle matters personally. Tonight would culminate a lifetime of battles to achieve his destiny. He’d paid too often for the mean-spirited attacks of others. Richard had always hated him, finally conspiring with their father to send him to Harrow instead of Eton, where every duke had been schooled. Fury still burned in his breast over the insult.
Then Richard had rushed a girl barely out of the schoolroom to the altar, planting a brat in her belly before the marriage lines were dry. Chester had been stuck in school with no way to protest. For nearly a year, he’d been locked in black melancholy and might have remained there if fate had not reminded him of his destiny.
It had started with a gaming debt. Melancholy had eroded his concentration until even using his own cards had not sufficed to win. He’d had to apply to Richard for an advance on his allowance.
Richard had refused. Worse, he’d vowed to cancel Chester’s allowance when the school term ended two weeks hence, then ordered him to accept a secretarial post with the East India Company.
