The Duke said nothing. He looked over his shoulder to where Jones was standing at the bottom of the staircase. “Leave us,” he barked.
“She’s here, sir,” Jones said gruffly. “Unity. She—”
“I said leave us.” The Duke didn’t look back at his footman. He kept his eyes trained on his son.
Ernest felt wild anger beat around inside him. “How did you find Rachel?” he asked, his voice coming out thin. His breath was short and fast. “How did you know she was helping me look for Unity?”
“I had my footman follow you the night you ran from the Earl of Landon’s ball. I knew you couldn’t be trusted. Especially not after you found that cursed chest of your sister’s.” The Duke snorted. “Imagine my surprise when my footman told me he’d followed you all the way to Bethnal Green.” He spat the words out as though they were poison. “And to the home of an escort, nonetheless.” His eyes fixed on Rachel, dark and hard.
“After that night, I sent my footman out to follow her again,” the Duke continued, his eyes not leaving Rachel. “And I find out that not only is this wench seducing my son, she is also helping him hunt down his missing sister.” The Duke reached into his pocket and slid out a pistol. He raised is slowly, training it on Rachel. She let out a tiny murmur of fear.
“A wench like her needs to be stopped.”
Ernest’s heart shot into his throat. He stepped in front of Rachel, his eyes hard on his father. “You’ll have to kill me first,” he hissed.
The Duke laughed coldly. His eyes were dark and cold. The eyes of a stranger. “Always the honorable young man, aren’t you Ernest. Will you truly risk your life to save a lowly escort?”
“Yes,” he hissed. “I’d do it a thousand times over.”
The Duke snorted. “Where is your sister?” he asked, his words dripping with hatred.
Ernest stared back at him. He shook his head.
“Tell me where your sister is, boy. Or I’ll be forced to do something rash.”
Ernest could hear Rachel’s breath rattling behind him. He reached back and gripped her wrist in a vain attempt to reassure her. The Duke took a step toward them.
He fired a wild shot over Ernest’s shoulder. It lodged in the wall and sent shards flying. Rachel let out a panicked cry.
“Tell me where your sister is!”
“I’m here.”
Ernest abruptly turned as Betsey stepped from the guest room. “Don’t shoot them,” she said. “Please.”
The Duchess hurried out of the room after her, her face ashen and her eyes wide.
The Duke turned slowly and trained the gun on Betsey. “Little Unity. My, how you’ve grown.” He looked up and down at her, taking in her patched skirts and threadbare cloak. He gave a short chuckle before his eyes grew dark and hard again. “Your brother was a fool to bring you back here.”
Betsey said nothing. She glared back with hot, dry eyes.
“How can you raise a gun to your own child?” hissed Ernest. “What kind of monster are you?”
The Duke laughed again. “She is no child of mine.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Ernest saw his mother’s jaw tremble.
“Your whore of a mother tried to play me for a fool,” hissed the Duke. “She married me knowing well she was already carrying a child.” His eyes flashed. “Carrying the bastard child of the Viscount of Annerley.” He stepped close to the Duchess, his eyes hard on hers. “He never loved you, Sarah. You were nothing but a prize to be won. You know that, don’t you.”
The Duchess shook her head. “No,” she croaked. “You’re wrong. He loved me. And I loved him.” She lifted her chin. “If the choice had been mine, I would have married him in a second.”
“Mother?” Ernest demanded. “Is that why you gave Unity up? Because she was the Viscount’s daughter?”
Tears spilled down the Duchess’ lined cheeks as the Duke loomed over her. “I had no choice. Your father…he wanted her gone. He was afraid the Viscount might come back and claim her. He was afraid people would find out she was not his daughter.” She coughed back a sob. “He was afraid everyone would find out about the shame I’d brought to this family.”
She turned back to glare at her husband, her eyes glassy and unflinching. “He lied and told everyone, Unity had died,” she continued, eying the gun in the Duke’s hand. “Even had a headstone made for her. Had Reverend Williamson conduct a service. He told me I was to give her away, said we were to do our best to forget she had ever lived.” She swiped at the tears that were now falling freely down her cheeks. “I resisted for as long as I could. Kept her at the house with me, making sure no one ever saw her outside the manor. And then…” She choked back a violent sob.
“And then what, Mother?” Ernest pressed.
The Duchess turned to look at Betsey, a fresh flood of tears spilling down her face. “I caught him standing over your bed with a pillow in his hand. I screamed at him to stop. I told him I would give you away at once if only he would let you live.” She began to sob uncontrollably. Betsey let out her breath. She reached across and felt for the Duchess’ hand.
Ernest felt his stomach roll.
Betsey looked up at the Duke with fierce eyes. “You tried to kill me as a child?” she hissed. “What kind of monster are you?”
The Duke chuckled, waving his gun beneath her nose. “You’re a fool to have come here, girl,” he said darkly. “I should have killed you then, and I will happily kill you now. You know far too much. I’ll not have shame brought to my family because of you.”
Ernest lurched forwards suddenly, snatching the gun and trying to wrestle it from his father’s hand. He felt a sudden flash of white-hot pain as the Duke’s fist connected with the side of his head. He stumbled forward in shock, his mother’s cries ringing in his ears.
“How dare you!” the Duchess shrieked. “How dare you lay a hand on your own son!”
When Ernest looked back at his mother, there was a ferocity in her eyes he had never seen before. She stood in front of Betsey, her arms outstretched, trying to shield her from the Duke. “If you hurt one of my children again,” she hissed. “I will kill you. Do you understand me?”
The Duke snorted. “Get out of my way, Sarah.”
Her eyes flashed. “Never. I let you win once, and I will never let you come between my children and me again.”
The Duke took a step closer to her, the gun taught in his fist. “And how exactly do you plan to stop me?”
He cocked the trigger, aiming the gun over the Duchess’ shoulder at Betsey.
Ernest kicked hard, striking his father on the side of his knee. With a cry of shock, the Duke stumbled, his shot flying wildly. The Duchess screamed and fell to the floor.
“Mother!” Ernest dropped to his knees beside her. A bloom of blood was spreading across her shoulder. Betsey yanked off her neckerchief and pressed it hard against the wound. Rachel shook Ernest’s arm frantically.
“Your father,” she hissed.
Ernest whirled around to face the Duke. He was fumbling in his pocket for his powder flask and hurriedly reloading the pistol. Ernest stepped between the nose of the pistol and his sister. He heard a groan of pain from the Duchess.
A thin smile turned the Duke’s lips. “So you’ll do this then, will you?” he said. “Risk your life for the sister you barely know?”
Ernest held his gaze, his heart thumping. “Yes.”
The Duke chuckled. “You’re a fool, boy. I ought to kill you, too. I’ll not have you bring shame to this family by spending your nights in the arms of an escort.”
Ernest glared at him, unflinching. “I love her,” he said. The words spilled out without him having any thought of it. Behind him, he heard Rachel’s sharp intake of breath.
“You love her.” The Duke snorted. “Then you’re even more of a fool than I first believed.”
Who was this man, Ernest wondered, that stood before them with a pistol aimed at his own son? How could he never have seen the truth o
f who his father was? How could he have been so desperate for this man’s approval?
I almost gave up Rachel on account of his wishes…
Ernest eyed the tall glass vase on the sideboard opposite him. Could he reach it? Strike the duke and knock the gun from his hands? He had to try. He sucked in his breath and lurched suddenly toward the sideboard. He heard the roar of gunfire as he tumbled to the floor.
He waited for the pain.
It didn’t come.
Instead, he heard the cry of the Duchess, the gasps of Betsey and Rachel.
On the floor beside him lay the Duke, blood pooling across his chest. Beside him lay his pistol, blackened and smoking. The acrid smell of smoke hung in the air. Ernest’s breath came hard and fast.
“What happened?” coughed Rachel.
On his knees, Ernest hunched to peer at the pistol. “The gun,” he said. “It misfired.” He tried to cough the smoke from his lungs. “He must not have loaded it correctly.” He stayed on his knees and closed his eyes momentarily, trying to steady himself. A strange stillness hung over the house.
“Is he dead?” Betsey asked after a long silence.
Ernest turned to look at his father. His eyes were open and glassy, the crimson stain at his chest beginning to spread. He nodded. “Yes. He’s dead.” He reached over and closed the Duke’s eyes.
Slowly, dizzily, Ernest climbed to his feet. He felt a hand around the top of his arm. Rachel stood beside him, sliding a hand around his waist to steady him.
Ernest looked down at the Duchess. Her eyes were wide with shock, beads of sweat glistening on her forehead. He could see lines of blood escaping out from beneath the neckerchief Betsey was holding to her shoulder. The sight of her snapped him back to reality.
“I’ve got to fetch the doctor,” he said. “We’ve got to get my mother help.”
Chapter 47
Ernest pushed open the door of the Duchess’ bedroom. His mother was lying on her back, with her grey hair fanned out across the pillow. Her skin was pale, but the expression of grave anxiety was gone. In its place, a look of peace.
“The doctor expects you to make a full recovery,” he told her. “But he’s asked that you get as much rest as possible.”
The Duchess smiled and nodded weakly.
Ernest sat on the edge of the bed, gently touching the wrist of his mother’s injured arm. On her other side sat Betsey, the Duchess’ hand in both of hers.
“What of Jones?” asked the Duchess.
“He confessed to everything,” said Ernest. “He told me Father was paying him well to follow Rachel and keep track of our search. He claimed he wanted no part in the kidnapping, but the Duke threatened to take away his job.” He tried to give his mother a reassuring smile. “I told him I’d take it no further if he left the house immediately. He’ll not be bothering us again.”
The Duchess sighed heavily. “The man spent more than thirty years in your father’s service. He was the most loyal and trustworthy of his footmen. I always thought him a decent man. But it seems I was wrong.” Her voice dropped slightly. “Or perhaps I was not the only one afraid of your father.”
“I wish you’d told me,” Ernest said gently. “I wish you’d told me what he forced you to do. I wish you hadn’t had to carry all that alone.”
The Duchess’ hand tightened around his. “I wish I’d told you, too, my darling. But I was so afraid of what your father would do if he found out.” She blinked back a tear and cast her eyes to Betsey. “I saw what he was willing to do to my Unity. I couldn’t bear for him to hurt you too.”
Ernest closed his eyes for a moment. His thoughts were knocking together.
“But it’s all over now,” the Duchess continued. “And Graceton Manor will finally have a good and honest master.” She smiled at Ernest.
He drew in his breath. Yes, this was all his now. His father’s house, his father’s title. The thought of it was far too overwhelming to take on right now.
“What of the other man?” asked Betsey. “Was he Jones’ son like Rachel claimed?”
Ernest nodded. “He lost his job a while back. Jones claimed he needed the money.”
Betsey let out her breath. “What desperation will make people do.”
Ernest said nothing. He thought of Rachel and the way she had agreed to take Jones on as a client. He pushed the thought away.
Never again, he told himself.
“So, Rachel is safe?” asked Betsey.
Ernest nodded, feeling the relief of it in his chest. “Yes. Rachel is safe. Now my father is gone, she has no reason to be afraid.”
Their mother looked from one of them to the other. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, “for everything.”
“None of it was your fault, Mother,” Ernest said gently. “You had no choice.”
“I should never have lied to you. I should have told you the truth about your sister.” She blinked back her tears. “But I was so ashamed of the things I’d done. I blamed myself for all of it.”
The Duchess turned her head on the pillow and smiled up at Betsey. She ran a feathery hand down her cheek.
“Mrs. Miller was my lady’s maid,” she told her. “She and her husband were unable to have children of their own.” Her voice wavered. “She was so good to you when you were a baby, so sweet, so gentle. When I knew I had to give you up, I asked her if she’d take you.” She wiped away a stray tear. “I swore her to secrecy. I told her to lie to you about who your birth mother was. I told her to lie about ever having worked at Graceton Manor. I knew the truth would put you both in danger.” Her hand tightened around Betsey’s. “I asked that Mrs. Miller never tell me where she had taken you. I knew I would not be able to help coming to visit you if I knew where you were. And I couldn’t risk the Duke finding out your whereabouts. He had only spared you on the condition that you no longer be a part of our lives.” She sniffed. “He told everyone you were dead. And he told me we were to act as though it were the truth.”
Ernest thought back to that night when he had wandered into the guest room looking for his lost fencing saber. The night he had found the chest full of Unity’s clothes. How could he have imagined pulling that chest from the wardrobe might lead them here?
“I’m sorry, Mother,” he said. “For digging up the past. For causing you so much pain.”
The Duchess gave an airy laugh, her face lighting in a way Ernest had never seen before. “Pain? Oh no, my darling. You’ve made me happier than I ever thought possible. You can’t imagine how much I’ve longed to see the two of you in the same room. I never dared believe it might be possible.” She sniffed, squeezing Betsey’s hand. “I never thought I would see you again.”
Betsey smiled. “I used to play in the rose garden here.”
The Duchess gave a sudden, joyous laugh. “Yes, yes my darling, you did. You just loved the scent of them. I had our gardener, Mr. Owen, cut off the thorns so you wouldn’t hurt yourself.” She shifted against her pillow and winced at the pain.
Ernest pressed a gentle hand to her uninjured shoulder. “You ought to rest a while, Mother. Try to sleep.”
The Duchess nodded wearily. She let out a long, contented sigh and closed her eyes. Almost immediately, she was breathing deeply and rhythmically, lost in sleep.
Ernest glanced at Betsey. It was the first time they had been alone together since their revelation, and he felt slightly uncertain around her. “Will you come downstairs?” he asked tentatively. “Perhaps I can show you around the house?”
“Soon,” Betsey smiled. She nodded toward the Duchess. “I think I’d like to stay with her a while.”
“Of course.” Ernest stood, careful not to wake his mother. “How do you feel?” he asked her. “I know this all has been…” He faded out, unable to find the right words.
Betsey gave a faint smile. “I don’t know. I…” She took a long breath. “This is all so much to take in.”
Ernest touched her shoulder gently.
Betsey looked up at h
im. “I’m sorry about your father,” she said.
“My father tried to kill you,” said Ernest. “My father was the reason you grew up not knowing your family.” He felt a dull ache inside him. My father was a monster.
“Yes.” Betsey’s voice was low. “But he was still your father. And I’m sorry for your loss.”
My loss.
Yes, there was an ache of grief there, sitting not so far beneath the surface. But it was not grief over the Duke’s death. It was grief at the loss of the father Ernest had known. The grief that the illusion had been torn away, revealing the terrible truth beneath.
A Fiery Escort For The Roguish Marquess (Steamy Historical Regency) Page 27
