“What in heaven’s name does that mean?” Teresa frowned at the words and looked back at the scrap of paper. Who knows? And what do they know?
She checked over the rest of the names: Luke, Lady Felicity, Lady Philomena, Lady Elspeth, Lord Thomas. None of them had asterisks beside their names, nor any further notations. Teresa had always noticed that, where Lord Harpington’s hair was fair, the rest of his siblings were darker in coloring. However, having fair hair was not so peculiar, considering the Duchess possessed golden curls, too.
“But what does it mean, “borne of a tragedy.” What tragedy?” The Duke and Duchess were still alive, and she had never heard anyone mention an untimely death in the family. A sudden, harrowing thought struck her—but what if Lord Harpington does not belong to the Duke? What if that was why the Duchess had made a point of noting his fair hair?
Teresa’s eyes flickered towards the letters. Unable to help herself, she reached for the one marked “Luke” and flattened it out on the bureau:
My darling boy,
If you are reading this, then it means the moment that I have feared the most has come to pass. It means that you have come to learn of my deepest, darkest secret, and it means that I am no longer able to keep it locked away inside my heart, never to see the light of day again. There will be another letter like this for your brother, though I have yet to write it, as of my writing this.
Allow me to tell you an uncomfortable story, in the hopes that it will help you to understand why this secret has been kept from you, for all these years. It happened whilst I was engaged to be married to your father. I was young and foolish, and too headstrong for my own benefit. I did not want to enter into a marriage of convenience, but my mother and father insisted upon the union. You see, I loved another. At least, I thought I did.
His name is of little consequence, and so I will not tell you that. After all, it does not matter now, for he is dead and gone. Instead, I will refer to him only as “O.” Three months prior to my wedding to your father, and still awaiting the banns, that gentleman whom I thought I loved came for me in the night and urged me to elope with him. Stupid as I was, I went with him.
We stopped at a roadside inn on the way to Gretna Green. There, he asked if we might consummate our union, before we were wed. I refused, for though I was headstrong, I still had some sense of honor, and did not wish to have that taken from me before I was his wife. He became angry when I continued to refuse him. I had never seen such fury in his nature before, though I believe, now, that it had always been there; I had simply been too blinded by infatuation to see it.
I attempted to run from him, but he was too strong. I must be brutally honest with you, if I am to gain your understanding, and so I apologize for what I am about to say. “O” forced himself upon me, and I could do nothing but scream and cry as he took my honor from me. I must have fainted during that terrible ordeal, for when I awoke, he was gone.
I returned home in shame, though I managed to reach the house before anyone learned that I had disappeared into the night. I kept the secret to myself. However, as my wedding to your father drew closer, I began to feel unwell, and I knew, without a doubt, that I was with-child.
I did not want to begin my marriage to your father in dishonesty, and so I spoke with him about what had occurred. I expected he would break off our engagement, but he did not. Instead, he asked me for the name of the gentleman who had done this and sought him out, vowing to allow me the justice I deserved for having endured such horrors. A duel took place. Your father was injured, and “O” suffered a wound to the chest, from which he later died, through an infection that could not be tamed.
The duel was covered up, and your father received no punishment for his part in it. Every day leading up to our wedding, I feared he would cast me aside. Instead, he spoke with me in the gardens of this house and told me that he would raise my child as his own, because I had not asked for this. He is, and has always been, a good man. He said he would defend me from any scandal and claim the child as his own. We crafted a plan that would keep it secret, which is why everyone has always believed that Edmund was born prematurely.
I suspect your father loved me then, before I understood what true love was, and wanted to shield me from harm. He has kept his promise all these years, though he has not always treated Edmund as though he were his own. You must not blame him for that—he has done everything possible to be the father he vowed to be. But Edmund is not his blood, and that has troubled your father for a long time. Especially as the two of you grew older, and he realized that he would be leaving the dukedom to an heir that was not his.
We have spoken about it at length, and your father always used to insist that he would not take the dukedom from Edmund, but when he looks upon you, Luke, I believe he wonders what might be possible. I fear his mind may be changing, which is why you must assure him that you do not want the dukedom, and that you will see no other heir but your brother.
You see, when your brother returned from the war, injured and suffering, your father spoke with several lawyers about the possibility of changing the line of succession from Edmund to you. I was not aware of it until I discovered a letter between your father and his lawyer. I was distraught and urged your father to reconsider. He promised that he would, but that concern lingers still.
Edmund is not the man he was when he departed, we all know that. His mind is afflicted, as well as his leg. Your father claimed he did it for insurance, in case Edmund could not be restored to health or had to be put in a sanitorium. He told me he had witnessed your brother suffering night terrors, which had prompted him to look into the matter. He later added to his reasoning and told me he no longer believed Edmund to be capable of providing an heir, from what he had been informed of by Doctor Partridge.
I forced him to cease his exchange with the lawyers, and I believe that he has, but you must be my ally in this, too, for your brother’s sake. You are the rightful heir, that may be true, but I know you do not want it. And I pray, with all my heart, that you do not seek to take it from Edmund, as I have said. None of this is his fault. He did not decide this fate. That was all my doing—the foolish actions of a silly girl, who did not know the dangers of gentlemen until it was too late.
And I pray that, one day, you will be able to forgive me for keeping this secret from you. I am the only one to blame. The responsibility lies solely with me. Do not punish Edmund for my crimes, and do not change your feelings towards him—he will always be your brother. It would break my heart to see this tear my family asunder, after so long. I have managed to stop your father for now, but I may need you in the future, to strengthen our cause.
I love you, my darling son.
Yours in Faith,
Your Mother.
Teresa sat back in her chair, entirely at a loss for words. This seemed like a cruel jest of some sort, instead of the stark facts. Her eyes glanced over the scrap of paper once more, her mind whirring. Who knows of this? Evidently, the Duke and the Duchess both did, but who was the scrap of paper referring to? Lord Harpington or Luke?
If Luke knew, and had kept it from his mother, to spare her untold suffering, then Teresa’s admiration for him increased tenfold. For it would mean that he had discovered the truth and had not breathed a word, knowing that it would destroy his entire family. In that single act, if that was what had happened, it showed that he truly did care for his brother and was doing as his mother had asked. Keeping the secret.
But why would the Duchess have written, “he knows”? Did that mean that the Duchess had found out what Luke might have learned, and the two of them had skirted around the subject, keeping their knowledge to themselves until they needed to step in to stop the Duke from pursuing a change to the heirdom? Or was it Lord Harpington who knew?
No, that cannot be it. If Lord Harpington knew that he was not the Duke’s son, then he would have made it known. He would have leapt upon the chance to accuse the Duke of showing favoritism for that very r
eason. He would have fought to prevent the Duke from trying to take what had been promised to him. Truly, given his behavior and his pain at being treated unfavorably, it seemed as though he was entirely in the dark about his true heritage.
Then again, it would certainly have explained the continuous competitiveness between the two half-brothers. If Lord Harpington knew he was not the Duke’s son, it could well have spurred him on to do everything within his power to prove himself worthy of that position. Especially to his father, to convince him to leave the heirdom as it was. A trait that he had certainly revealed, during the time that Teresa had been at the Rowfex Estate.
“Luke would have told me, if he knew.” Teresa felt certain of it. Truthfully, she could not make head nor tail of the piece of paper, nor whom it referred to. The deeper she delved into it, the less sense it made. For many reasons, she did not believe it could be Luke who knew. But, for equally as many reasons, she did not believe it could be Lord Harpington who knew the truth.
I must take some time to think this over. Shaking her head, she picked up the small stack of curling, old letters and unfastened the ribbon. She knew it was wrong to pry in the Duchess’ personal correspondence, but she could not help herself. She had to know if there was more information within those letters, that might lead her towards an answer. Otherwise, she would never figure this puzzle out.
If the person who knew the truth was someone outside the family, then it might be the very person who had taken Luke. After all, if they held a secret like that over the heads of the Rowfex family, then they would certainly be able to ask for a large sum to buy their silence. Luke’s life would come at a steep price, and Teresa hoped the Duke and Duchess had it in them to pay it.
Otherwise, this family will crumble, and Luke… Luke will die if they cannot pay. She did not need any confirmation of that, for she felt a pit of dread in the depths of her stomach that told her it was the truth. Time was running out for Luke and the Rowfex family, and Teresa needed to find the Sphinx before there was none left.
Chapter 27
Luke squeezed his eyes shut as the knife came closer, until he could feel the edge of the blade against his skin, cold and threatening. The second highwayman grasped him tight, so he could do nothing to fight back. His mind focused on Teresa, and her naked body on the bed beside him. The way she tasted, the way she smelled, the warmth of her skin and the way she moved as he pleasured her. He wanted that to be his last thought, so he might die with happiness on his mind, instead of impending doom.
He braced for the cut that would kill him, but it did not come. Instead, he heard a rough, sawing sound. He opened his eyes as Stuart stepped away, clutching a clump of hair in his hand.
“Ye didn’t think we were goin’ te kill ye just yet, did ye?” Stuart gave a sharp bark of a laugh. “Oh no, we’ve got more in store for ye, ye can bet yer life on it.”
“What do you want with my hair?” Luke frowned, his heart thundering in his chest. He had been so sure that his life was about to end.
“Never ye mind,” Stuart replied.
“Please, Stuart, do not do this. Do not punish me like this. Release me and I will see to it that you are well rewarded.” Luke paused. “And if you cannot do it for me, then do it for Miss Dowels. She told me what you said to her—that she reminded you of your own daughter. She will be worried sick, Stuart. Let me go to her. Or, at least, let me write to her and tell her that I am alive.”
Stuart glared at him. “Shut yer mouth, M’Lord, else I’ll shut it fer ye.” Without another word, he turned on his heel and left the room, with the other highwayman in tow.
Exasperated, Luke sank back against the filthy wall and tried to think. Through the pain and the anger, a thought emerged, crisp and clear. There was only one reason that Stuart would have taken a lock of his hair. They intend to blackmail my family. And he guessed what leverage they would have, though he had no idea how the highwaymen could have discovered the truth. Indeed, he had never told a soul about it, not even Teresa.
It all began to make sense to him. If they did not know what he knew, then they would have targeted Edmund instead, being the heir to the dukedom. However, if they had learned of Edmund’s true heritage, then he would be of no use to them. In their minds, Luke would be the valuable one—the true heir to the Rowfex dynasty. It would not matter to them, that he did not want to be duke, and that he did not want to take that from his brother.
Moreover, they would have that terrible secret to hold over the Duke and Duchess, to ensure that they were suitably remunerated for their efforts. Pay the price, or we reveal the secret and kill the true heir, leaving you with nothing. If they knew that his father had attempted to legally change the line of succession, that made even more sense. Luke’s heart lurched, for that meant that they may target Thomas next, once they were done with him.
How could they know? He thought of the book that his mother had taken from the drawing room and wondered if that was how they had learned of it. If Stuart had freed himself from the outbuilding, then he could well have investigated the house for any intelligence that could be used against the family. He could even have watched them through the drawing room window. It was something of a stretch, but it seemed like the most logical reasoning.
I am sorry, Mother. If this is the truth of our situation… I am sorry beyond belief. He had learned the secret after discovering a letter that was addressed to him, amongst his mother’s belongings. He had been looking for something else, though he could not remember what, when he had found it. No sooner had he read the letter than he had vowed to stay silent and replace the letter, as though it had never been touched.
He had not wanted to trouble his mother by revealing what he knew, though he had secretly resolved to ensure that the dukedom went to Edmund, when the time came. He had even gone so far as to snoop into his father’s correspondence, to make sure the exchange with the lawyer really had ended. It had, as far as he could tell. The dukedom was Edmund’s, by right, no matter who his father really was. Luke would never have taken that from him.
He had reasoned, even then, that it was not his secret to reveal, since it did not affect him in the slightest. He did not want the dukedom. He wanted his brother to remain the heir. So, what reason had he had, to admit what he knew, and cause hurt to everyone? Regardless, it looked as though the Sphinx might be planning to do just that.
* * *
Teresa had sifted through the stack of letters, trying to find something useful, but none of them had held anything of importance. They were just letters to an old friend, speaking of banal things and personal troubles. She had all but given up when she came to the very last letter in the pile. It was newer than the others, the paper still crisp and clean.
Flattening it out, she began to read:
My journal is not safe, but I must write this to rid myself of the emotions that torment me. I fear Edmund and Luke both know the truth. I came to sort through my personal effects and found several letters out of place. Someone has opened the letter I addressed to Luke, and the one I addressed to Edmund has gone. I have turned the study upside-down, but I cannot find it anywhere. They know… I am sure of it. Although, neither of them has mentioned it, nor has their behavior towards one another changed.
There has already been a strange conflict between them for some time, long before I discovered that these letters had been tampered with. So, that cannot be the cause of it, though I suppose it would be easier if it were. I wish, so very much, that they could be as they were when they were children. They adored each other then. Luke admired Edmund as though Edmund were a hero. When did that change?
I think I must be a coward, for I lack the courage to ask them what they know. I keep hoping they may come to me, in private, to reveal what they learned, but they have not. They are the same as they ever were, which is all the more perplexing. I suppose I shall have to be patient and wait for them to come to me when they are ready. I only hope that I do not lose all sense of my san
ity before then. To have kept this secret for so long, I do not know if I am relieved or panic-stricken to finally have it revealed.
Archibald has not continued his exchange with the lawyer, so there is some comfort in that. I should have rewritten the letters, I suppose, and removed that entirely. I knew Archibald would see sense. He was merely worried for his lineage, as any father, and any head of a dynasty must be. Yet, at least it is now resolved, so I may assure Edmund of his position if he should ever come to me about it.
I just wish they would be honest. Then again, they have always been thoughtful young gentlemen. Perhaps they do not want to cause me injury by admitting what they did, and what they found. I have raised them well. Too well, perhaps.
Maybe, just maybe, they remain silent on the matter because it does not matter. Maybe, Luke wants Edmund to keep what he always thought he would have, as I know he does. Maybe, Edmund has seen that, and has decided not to act on what he knows. Or, perhaps, they have discussed it in private and have resolved it between themselves. I know Luke will fight for his brother to keep his place. Edmund must know that, or else he would have done something.
An Untamed Governess For The Rogue (Steamy Historical Regency) Page 22
