Last Duke Standing

by Cheryl Bolen

  “Yes. All his family are.”

  “What of Lady Georgiana?” Hickington asked.

  Alex blew out a breath. “I had the unenviable task of telling her. Thankfully, the lady did not display the waterworks I’d dreaded.”

  “She is a most singular lady, to be sure.”

  It was then that Alex recalled the acquaintance between the lady and this man. “Though she’s distressed, she was most anxious to assist me when breaking the sad news to our sisters.”

  “So she’s in London?”

  “Yes.”

  “I must call on her.”

  “She’s not seeing callers yet. Her trunks have not arrived.”

  Hickington’s brows dipped. “Did she accompany you to London?”

  Was the man eager to malign Lady Georgiana’s character? Alex glared at him for a moment before he responded. “She accompanied me—and Lord Slade.” After that, he had no more questions for Hickington, who proved to be the only member of Freddie’s shooting party to come to White’s that night.

  Later, while riding home, he and Wycliff discussed the suspects. “I cannot imagine any possible motive for Lord Hickington to want to kill your brother,” Wycliff said.

  “I know.”

  Before Wycliff left the carriage, Alex said, “Not even my sisters have been told about the suffocation. Everyone is to think Freddie died of natural causes.”

  Chapter 7

  Oh, how Georgiana wished Angelique were in London! It had become vastly unpleasant to wear the same two dresses day in and day out—especially without washing them. Georgiana even contemplated trying her hand at washing one, but such a skill was completely beyond her realm of experience.

  She rather fancied she did possess the skills necessary to survey and catalogue the contents of the two bulging trunks of Freddie’s papers. Doing so had kept her up until three this morning, and she still lacked any sense of accomplishment. All she’d managed to do was to scan a document long enough to ascertain the subject and the sender and to attempt to sort it accordingly.

  Lack of table surface for all the categories, though, proved a problem. She resorted to combining various senders together. There were piles for each member of the shooting party, a stack for Mrs. Langston, and Freddie’s sisters’ letters now reposed in stacks in the two trunks. Tradesmen’s accounts were sorted by subject.

  Though she would never admit it to anyone, she was inordinately curious about matters she had no right to be—reading letters from the actress who’d been Freddie’s mistress. It took tremendous discipline on Georgiana’s part not to have read them already.

  Hands on her hips, she stood gazing along the expansive dinner table, wondering what would be the best method to permanently save all these piles. Poor Freddie. He wouldn’t like his papers left unguarded so higgledy-piggledy for even the servants to see.

  The door opened, and Roberts announced the Duke of Fordham.

  It was not yet noon! He was not behaving very dukishly. Didn’t he know that dukes never rose at so early an hour? And he not only was awake, but he was also dressed and presumably fed and was paying calls! His habits must have been shaped by his years as an officer in the Peninsula. “Oh, dear. Do have him come here.”

  Her first errant thought was another lament that she had no Angelique to render her more attractive. Which was a hideously hedonistic thing to ponder under such grave circumstances. She really was a terrible person. Freddie was better off dead than married to one as insensitive as she.

  A moment later the duke entered the sunny chamber, his gaze traveling over the length of the mahogany table before greeting her. “Have you even slept?” he asked.

  “Not a great deal. I was unable to pull myself away until sometime this morning. Then when I went to bed, my mind would not oblige. It kept thinking of ways to better organize these papers.”

  “I understand why Freddie wanted you for this commission, but I’m certain he wouldn’t have wanted you to lose sleep over it.”

  She shrugged. “You have discovered my deplorable single-mindedness. Of course, your brother was too well aware of my silly obsessions.”

  “You make your . . . talents sound like vices when they’re far from it.”

  “You are much too kind, your grace.” She shrugged. “Enough about me. I’m eager to hear what you might have learned at White’s last night. Should you like to sit down?”

  He grinned. “What? And have you sitting there thinking of all you could be accomplishing with your mounds of papers if you didn’t have to entertain me?”

  How could this man have come to understand her so thoroughly in so short a time? It was almost as if he were reading her mind. Even as he’d spoken, she’d been unfolding a letter to see the signature. She laughed. “By the way, your grace, the letters you wrote to your brother repose on the sideboard. I’ve found quite a few more.”

  He strolled to the sideboard, eyed them, and nodded. “At least he kept them. I wondered if he destroyed them whenever he was out of charity with me.”

  “Brothers may have spats with one another—my brothers certainly do—but deep down they love each other. I know Freddie loved you.” A slight prevarication. Freddie only discussed his youngest brother when he was out of charity with him. “Do tell me about White’s last night.”

  “There’s not much to tell. The only member of the shooting party there was Hickington—upon whom I forced my acquaintance. I asked him a great many questions, and he was most obliging. I did learn that Sir Arthur was in the chamber next to Freddie. I suppose I could have learned from the housekeeper where each guest was that night, but proximity has little relevance.”

  “True. Any person in the house that night had equal opportunity to steal into Freddie’s chamber after everyone had gone to sleep. By the way, did you ever speak to Freddie’s valet?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was it your brother’s custom to lock his bedchamber door?” she asked.

  “He said since Freddie had so many servants coming and going and since the house itself was locked every night, Freddie never locked his door.”

  “I wonder if his friends knew this.”

  “I wondered the same thing,” he said. “I’ve been told from two sources that all the fellows were heavily in their cups that night.”

  She stared coldly at him. “Since you were there, I should have thought you’d already know that.”

  “But I never saw Freddie or his guests. Lord Slade and I were there to draft a bill, and we only left the library to go to our beds. We’d arrived that afternoon whilst Freddie was out shooting. You must know how vast Gosingham is with nearly three-hundred chambers. I never even heard another voice.”

  “When did you go to bed?”

  “We worked in the library until midnight—considerably after members of the shooting party retired.”

  “And I’d guess those in the shooting party went into a sound sleep as soon as they laid upon their beds.” Her brows rose. “But, of course, since this was a premeditated murder, the killer must have faked being bosky.”

  “Good point.”

  She was still distressed that one of Freddie’s guests—or his brother—could have killed him. Her stomach went queasy, her pulse accelerated, and the idea of being in the same chamber with any of them now sent a bolt of fear through her. “I don’t think I can tolerate being in the presence of any of them.”

  He shot her a sympathetic gaze. “Hickington wished to pay you a call to offer his condolences. I told him you weren’t receiving callers as your trunks hadn’t arrived. I . . . did have to apprise him of the fact you came to London with me—and Lord Slade. Since Lord Slade’s character is unimpeachable, his presence should protect your reputation.”

  “I have little thought for my own character. Now that Freddie’s dead, I cannot imagine marrying, and if I did, most gentlemen could ignore a bit of tarnish to get their hands on my dowry.”

  “Even with no dowry, you would have no difficulty ca
pturing a man’s heart. I do believe you’re the only woman Freddie ever fell in love with, and he had a large field from which to choose.”

  An amused expression on her face, she turned to him. “Pray, your grace, besides my dowry and my rank, do you really find I have attributes?” Now why had she gone and asked such a coy question? Given this man’s previous honesty with her, she fully expected him to embarrass her with brutal frankness.

  His gaze met hers then lazily travelled the length of her body. Her cheeks grew hot. There was something seductive about the way he so slowly regarded her. When he finally looked up, his eyes were hooded and his voice husky. “Men will find you lovely.”

  She was speechless. His words were like a caress. She felt as if her heart were expanding out of her chest. How could this man who had obviously held her in disfavor speak so . . . so admiringly?

  Clearly, she must redirect the conversation before she turned into a heap of porridge. “You’ve never been more kind, your grace. Now . . . how can I keep from having to be near any of those wretched men?”

  “I could try to put the word out at White’s. I feel as if I’m duty bound to protect you—for Freddie’s sake.”

  Perhaps she just might melt into that heap of porridge. “I declare, your grace, you are robbing me of breath with your uncharacteristic gallantry. I am most appreciative.” Why this sudden kindness toward her? Was it possible he was responsible for Freddie’s death and was trying to divert her suspicions away from him?

  “I’m not being gallant. I spoke the truth.” His gaze fanned over the dining table where unsorted papers still mounted in its center, and smaller, sorted stacks lined the perimeter. “I knew you’d want to know what I learned at White’s. Now I need to set in motion plans for the by–election to replace my seat in the House of Commons. If I can be of any service, my lady, you must summon me.” He bowed.

  She offered her hand, and he brushed his lips to the back of it. Most men of her acquaintance never actually touched her hand with their lips. Unaccountably, she felt that mushy feeling once more. Even fresh from the school room, she’d never experienced such foolish physical reactions to a member of the opposite gender.

  Before he reached the door, a volley of voices filled the entry hall. Mama! She’d arrived much sooner than expected.

  When the dowager saw the duke, she shrieked. “Merciful heavens! He’s risen from the dead!”

  Georgiana was quick to intervene. “No, Mama, this is the brother of the late duke.” She turned to the new duke. “Your grace, I’d like to present to you my mother, Lady Hartworth.”

  He bowed, kissed the dowager’s hand, and spoke to the older woman with great civility. Lady Hartworth, in turn, responded most favorably, fluttering lashes over sparkling blue eyes.

  “His grace has been most helpful to me,” Georgiana explained. “You know the late duke made me the custodian of his papers.” She waved her hand toward the dining table.

  “Dear me, that’s a vast amount of papers for one who died so young! I don’t envy you the task, dearest.” Lady Hartworth turned to the duke. “No one is better qualified than my daughter to perfectly organize your late brother’s papers. You will learn that in addition to beauty, Georgiana’s possessed of many extraordinary qualities.”

  “Mama! I beg you not boast about me. His grace will be sure to stay away from Hartworth House throughout our duration here—and just when he’s finally warmed to me.”

  The dowager’s brows lowered. “Why wouldn’t he warm to you? Men have always adored you.”

  Georgiana’s eyes narrowed. “We will not stay in London if you persist in your effusive praise of me. I am most sincerely embarrassed.”

  “But, my darling, you could not be so cruel to me. It’s been more than a year since I’ve left stuffy Alsop. You know how I’ve longed to be here in Paris.”

  “London, not Paris.”

  “Oh, dear, did I say Paris? Yes, I believe I did.” Lady Hartworth turned to the duke. “Please do not think me in my dotage. I know perfectly well what I mean to say, but since my affliction, the words do not always cooperate.”

  “I could never think you in your dotage, my lady. It’s difficult to believe you’re even old enough to be Lady Georgiana’s mother.”

  A smile on her face, the marchioness sighed. “Alas, she was my first—and I was very young.”

  “Your stupendous debut is still remarked upon,” he said.

  Which was true. The legions of men who had been captivated by Mama’s beauty were still spoken of in drawing rooms and gentlemen’s clubs. Georgiana had always lamented that she did not inherit her mother’s fair blonde beauty. The only physical similarity between them was their petite size.

  Long before she was stricken with apoplexy, Mama had carelessly milked her delicacy as a monk his piety. Georgiana, on the other hand, eschewed being helpless and thrived as an authoritarian firstborn. Even with Freddie, it was Georgiana who had made all the decisions on when and where they were to be married and what would be the terms of the marriage contracts.

  “Your grace is too kind,” her mother said with a great deal more fluttering of her lengthy lashes—another physical trait Georgiana had inherited, without the flirtatiousness. “Your . . . wife is a most fortunate woman, to be sure,” Lady Hartworth said to the duke.

  “Alas, there is no wife, my lady,” said he.

  To Georgiana’s mortification, her mother gleamed, flashing a smug glance at her daughter.

  The duke went to leave. Georgiana could not recall when she had ever been more embarrassed. Mama was most overtly throwing her at the eligible duke.

  Georgiana’s mother pouted like a small child—a child accustomed to getting her way. “I was so hoping you could stay, your grace.”

  “You must have many things to see to after your long journey,” he said. “And you must be very tired. If you will permit me, I should be honored if I may call on you ladies tomorrow.”

  Beastly man! Why did he have to behave so graciously?

  Her mother only too cheerfully consented.

  Once he was gone, Georgiana scolded her mother. “I was serious when I said I will not hesitate to take you back to Alsop if you don’t stop trying to force a romance with me on the new Duke of Fordham. It’s not something I want, nor is it something he wants, and I am bereft of words to explain how mortified I was over your blatant glorification of me.”

  “But, dearest, the man’s perfect for you.”

  Georgiana scowled. “No more.”

  A moment later she told her mother she’d moved her bedchamber to the morning room to spare her stair climbing.

  “You really are the most thoughtful daughter.” The dowager sighed. “It’s some compensation for having a half-wit as a daughter-in-law. And to think . . . she’s the one who replaced me as Marchioness of Hartworth!”

  For once, Georgiana could not refute her mother’s criticism. Her sister-in-law, while not a bad person, truly was in want of a brain. It had become most difficult to live with a woman who made such a great many unsound decisions.

  Such a misalliance as her brother had entered into could have been avoided if there had been no pressure for hasty weddings—which were all the fashion. Georgiana was a proponent of long engagements to give the couple enough time to know if they were compatible. Marriage was too important a sacrament to sentence oneself to a lifetime with a fool.

  She took her mother’s slender arm and led her toward the former morning room. The moment they entered the chamber Lady Hartworth frowned. “The draperies must be replaced! Look how they clash with my lovely pink.”

  “They will not be replaced. Our goal is to get you back in your own bedchamber, to restore your ability to climb stairs.”

  The dowager shook her head. “I daresay those days are behind me. I could fall and break my hip or other bones and then be truly crippled.”

  “I won’t allow you to speak as if you’re in your dotage. Just a few months ago you were still in your
forties—much too young to capitulate to such infirmities.”

  Her mother collapsed onto her chaise. “Is anything more exhausting than travelling? The new duke was right. I am tired. I will own, I didn’t want him to leave. I have bawled all week that you’re not going to be a duchess, and now I have renewed hope.”

  “Mother! You cannot mean you’re already scheming for me to marry! And to Freddie’s brother! You’re humiliating me. Listen. To. Me. I am not interested in marrying anyone, and I pray you don’t forget I’m in mourning. And one more thing—the new Duke of Fordham doesn’t even like me!”

  “Foolish girl. All men adore you.”

  “Freddie told me his youngest brother only has eyes for fair complexioned blondes, and I gather from the time I’ve spent with him, strong women like me annoy him.”

  “But, my darling, I’m a strong woman, but your father never knew it. I never said, I am going to do such and such. Instead, I would lower my lashes and speak in my most helpless voice and say What do you think I should do, my love? I always got my way. That’s being a strong woman.”

  “I am cursed with being hopelessly honest. I could never be like you.”

  “You affront me! I do not lie.”

  “Forgive me. I did not mean to imply that you’re dishonest.”

  Lady Hartworth sighed. “I only want what’s best for my children. I do so worry about Philip, and it’s such a pity Hart is married to that horrid woman.”

  Georgiana, too, worried about her youngest brother, who was an officer in the Peninsula, but she no longer worried about the marquess. “Don’t feel badly for Hart. He’s happy. He seems to be in love with Hester in spite of her shortcomings, and they adore those children.”

  Lady Hartworth shuddered. “Rotten children.”

  “You shouldn’t say that. You know you love them.”

  “How unnatural I would be if I didn’t! But it is trying to be around the little hellions.”

  “I know.”

  Lady Hartworth closed her eyes. “The late duke was not your husband. You’re not required to mourn him.”