The Duke of Darkness

by Cora Lee

  “You must stay here at Ithwick,” Mrs. Renton said, her pale eyes wide. “The duchy is without a duchess. The duke has lost his sense. Thaddeus remains too young to assume an heir’s duties, and I am certain those…those…” Mrs. Renton gestured to the window, “…men mean to destroy everything that’s left!”

  Moving to the window, Penelope’s gaze found the duke’s closest male relatives apart from her son. The elder was Mr. Anthony, who, as a descendant of the last duke’s brother, was next in line to inherit after Penelope’s son. The younger was a more recent arrival, the duke’s sister’s son, Lord Thomas.

  Absurd for those gentlemen and their friends to be littered about the lawn in winter, despite the unusually warm weather. Ridiculous, too, to be having a weighted disc throwing competition while attired in the latest, highly impractical fashion.

  Penelope touched one of the pins in her tightly knotted hair and then rested her hand against the neckline of her outdated muslin. Unexpected discomfort blossomed in her chest. Hot, outsized discomfort.

  Had Mr. Anthony, Lord Thomas, and their friends no shame? Even now, beyond the restless channel, young men were sacrificing their lives defending these craggy shores in a war that had already cost Penelope her husband.

  “It appears to me”—Penelope’s voice tinged with bitterness—“Mr. Anthony and Lord Thomas’s only aspiration is a perpetual, decadent house party.”

  “It is worse than decadence! It is unnatural ambition.”

  Unnatural ambition? Pen knew them to be irresponsible, certainly, but to accuse them of intentionally usurping the duchy’s power?

  “Don’t you see?” Mrs. Renton asked. “Mr. Anthony brought suit to have your husband declared dead—you need look no further for evidence.”

  Penelope turned. “Mr. Anthony claimed the suit was necessary in order to free funds for Thaddeus.” That was, however, before they’d discovered the surprise codicil to Cheverley’s will granting Penelope full possession of Pensteague.

  “Mr. Anthony,” Mrs. Renton replied, “also claims His Grace is in complete accord with every decision he makes. But, you’ve seen for yourself—His Grace’s words are unintelligible. As for Lord Thomas, he often returns late”—Mrs. Renton lowered her voice—“smelling of tipple and perfume.”

  Penelope frowned. The amorous exploits of her husband’s cousin weren’t any of her concern.

  On the other hand, she could not deny His Grace’s troubling condition. The duke’s blank stare had sent shivers through her spine. For the first time, she’d felt a measure of compassion toward the tyrant.

  But compassion for the duke and a willingness to intercede on his behalf were two very different positions.

  “If those actions weren’t awful enough,” Mrs. Renton continued, “several women have left our employ so distressed they did not request references. The remaining women serve as mistresses and little else.”

  Penelope’s flush spread to her cheeks. A man had to be vile-hearted to take advantage of anyone in their employ in such a way. “If you would, Mrs. Renton, supply the names and direction of those who left. I will provide references for them from Pensteague.”

  “Thank you, Lady Cheverley.” Mrs. Renton bobbed a short curtsey. “But what of Mr. Anthony and Lord Thomas?”

  Penelope gazed back out to the lawn. Were they merely reckless libertines as she’d long assumed, or were they greedy, dangerous men emboldened by the duke’s illness, Thaddeus’s youth, and his mother’s perceived lack of connections?

  Anthony had come to Ithwick following the duke’s sudden illness and—at Piers’s request—had taken over the duties of steward. After Pier’s death, Lord Thomas had arrived. They’d been indifferent to Penelope and only cursorily interested in Thaddeus, and she was happy enough to allow things to remain as they were.

  But what if they were intentionally robbing Ithwick? What remedy could she bring? She’d need solicitors, barristers, and witnesses to bring suit.

  Though Pensteague thrived, she returned every sixpence earned to the estate…the only way she could care for the wounded seamen who regularly appeared on Pensteague’s doorstep.

  She’d taken the land her husband, Cheverley, had been granted as part of his mother’s marriage settlement—a small cottage with surrounding forests and wastes—and transformed it into a thriving estate with choice livestock, crops, fallows, and coppiced wood. She’d raised Thaddeus without assistance from his ducal grandparents. She’d remained dutiful and loyal to Cheverley—and, by extension the duchy—all while striving to provide the wounded seamen Pensteague sheltered the dignity of a generous livelihood. And now, Pensteague was hers and hers alone.

  Why should she place all she protected and all she’d built at risk?

  “Mrs. Renton,” she began, “you’ve always shown me kindness—”

  “You were devoted to young Lord Cheverley,” Mrs. Renton interrupted, sniffling. “I had hoped—”

  “Allow me to speak plain.” Penelope’s own dashed hopes were difficult enough to bear, thank you. “To Lord Cheverley’s family—everyone but the late duchess—I have always been an interloper. It is not my place to interfere.”

  “But there is no one else,” Mrs. Renton replied. “Mr. Anthony acts as if he is master of Ithwick. You are the only one who can stop him.”

  “Mr. Anthony has been inclined to be pompous for as long as I have known him.” But pompous and criminal did not negate one another, did they?

  Pen attempted to rationalize again. “Isn’t it natural Mr. Anthony take an interest in running the estate? He is, after Thaddeus, the next in line to inherit.”

  “Mr. Anthony and his coterie are draining the coffers. They are depleting the livestock. Their mismanagement is so severe, long-time tenants are choosing not to renew their leases. Please help us, Lady Cheverley. If you do not protect Ithwick, I fear there will be nothing left for young Thaddeus to inherit.” Mrs. Renton paced the length of the rug, paused, then glanced up at a painting. “If Lord Cheverley were here now, it’s what he would wish you to do.”

  Pen’s lips flattened at the invocation of her husband’s name. Reluctantly, she turned her gaze to the painting she’d avoided since entering the room—a portrait of Cheverley and his older brother as boys.

  Though in the portrait, Cheverley’s pale blonde hair had yet to darken, his stance already hinted at future swagger. His sheepish half-smile acknowledged worlds he had yet to understand, let alone conquer, but his pale blue eyes alit with a sickle-sharp cunning and an insatiable thirst for adventure.

  A thirst that would rob her of a husband and Thaddeus of a father.

  Tears pricked the corners of her eyes. Foolish, foolish man.

  She did not, however, regret their brief affair and whirlwind marriage. The experience had been transformative and grand—to the extent her sixteen-year-old mind could comprehend grand—a rush that had taken her from the threshold of womanhood to the full blossom of her feminine power. And what followed, though unpleasant, had been the gauntlet that formed her character.

  She sighed.

  Thirteen years had passed since she’d seen her husband, six since he disappeared off the coast of France, though she hadn’t known the gut-wrenching details of his final hours until the recent trial to prove his death.

  Cheverley’s ship had left the Channel Fleet on orders to capture a French privateer. Soon after the privateer was won, Chev ordered his first mate to sail home the prize. Then, a sudden storm parted the ships, pushing the HMS Defiance off her reckoning by three degrees. But three mere degrees had altered the ship’s course enough for the naval gunner to meet a gruesome, rocky end.

  In the horrible hours it took the hull to break to pieces, Chev sent part of his crew in a cutter, hopeful they’d find harbor. He remained with his ship…exactly what Penelope would expect of her husband—always certain he could find or forge a way, always driven to display mythic heroism, even at the expense of those he held dear.

  In this case, Che
v failed. The cutter capsized. The few survivors drifted for days before being rescued. As for Cheverley…after reviewing the evidence, a judge declared him dead. No man, he said, could have survived the wreck.

  Then again, her husband had not been just any man.

  A burst of low, male laughter rose up from the lawn.

  “They laugh while they drain the duchy dry,” Mrs. Renton murmured. “They wouldn’t have dared to set foot in the house in the first place if…if…”

  “…If Lord Cheverley were here,” Pen finished quietly.

  Yes, she was weary. Yes, she could not spare the expense.

  But could she truly turn her back on this part of her husband’s past, forever denying skeletons that were not so much in a cupboard as atop a neighboring hill?

  “Perhaps,” Mrs. Renton whispered, “Lord Cheverley will yet return.”

  Penelope’s neck prickled.

  If she were honest, on nights when the moon’s glow brightened the sheets of her marriage bed, loneliness pierced her heart like one of her husband’s hand-crafted arrows, and she sometimes allowed herself to imagine Cheverley would return. …

  “Mrs. Renton”—she squelched irrational hope—“we must be careful what we wish. If Cheverley survived, a terrible fate must have befallen him. If he is alive, he is suffering.”

  She turned away from the portrait.

  What would Chev have wanted her to do? If he were here, he would have wanted her to remain tucked up in the proper little jewel casing he’d prepared while he forged forth to set everything to rights in a spectacular show.

  But he wasn’t here. He hadn’t been here for thirteen years.

  The better question was—what did she wish to do? How much of what she’d built in Cheverley’s name could she risk?

  She turned about, taking in the ducal library and considering the stern faces of her husband’s ancestors glaring down from centuries past.

  If Mr. Anthony and Lord Thomas were corrupt, what would she be teaching Thaddeus if she remained ensconced in comfort while corruption flourished?

  Corruption bred fear. Fear bred distrust, anger, divisions and even—if left unchecked—bloodshed.

  She did have a responsibility, loath as she was to admit it. Whatever the cost now, it would pale in comparison to the future cost if these men succeeded in fully usurping the duchy’s power. She must find a way to root out and remove the corruption. Not only for Thaddeus’s sake, but for the sake of those, like Mrs. Renton, whose livelihoods depended on Ithwick.

  “Mrs. Renton, I concede.” Lord help her. “Thaddeus and I will take up residence at Ithwick, care for the duke and keep a close eye on Mr. Anthony and Lord Thomas. Having the heir and his mother present should gentle the worst of their conduct.”

  “And if they ask why?”

  “I will tell them I intend to weave a shroud for Cheverley on the medieval loom upstairs.”

  “Bless you, my lady.” Mrs. Renton’s brows knit. “But is it wise to bring young Thaddeus? As Thaddeus’s guardian, Lord Thomas could make trouble.”

  Let him try.

  “Thaddeus goes where I go.” In fact, Thaddeus was so protective, she couldn’t have confined him to Pensteague if she wished. “Besides, both the duke and Lord Thomas serve as guardians. Thomas cannot assert himself without exposing the duke’s state. And, in a few months, Thaddeus will be fourteen—old enough to choose his own guardians.”

  She recast her gaze toward the group of gentlemen below. Another drunken cheer rose from the lawn.

  “You needn’t worry any longer, Mrs. Renton.” She spoke with bravado she did not feel. “I will become Ithwick’s unlikely champion.”

  But were her adversaries indolent man-children, or were they a crawling nest of vipers?

  And, if they were a nest of vipers—she chilled—which would be the first to sting?

  ***End of excerpt His Duchess At Eventide (A Legend To Love series) by Wendy LaCapra***

  About the Author

  A graduate of the University of Michigan with a major in history, Cora is the 2014 winner of the Royal Ascot contest for best unpublished Regency romance. She went on a twelve year expedition through the blackboard jungle as a high school math teacher before publishing Save the Last Dance for Me, the first book in the Maitland Maidens series.

  When she’s not walking Rotten Row at the fashionable hour or attending the entertainments of the Season, you might find her participating in Historical Novel Society and Romance Writers of America events, wading through her towering TBR pile, or eagerly awaiting the next Marvel movie release. If you’d like to find out more about Cora or her books you can sign up for her newsletter, or connect with her on Facebook, Twitter, Goodreads, and Bookbub.

  Other Books By Cora Lee

  Maitland Maidens series

  Sweet Regency romance novellas to lighten your heart.

  Save the Last Dance for Me

  When Lady Honoria Maitland reunites with her old friend Benedict Grey, she proposes an arrangement: a faux courtship that will smooth wallflower Benedict’s re-entry into society and appease her dying father. But Honoria’s clever plan failed to account for Benedict’s heart...or her own.

  Back In My Arms Again

  When James discovers a powerful lord is threatening to take his farm and ruin his family, he realizes he needs an influential ally. Cecilia knows she can provide him the monetary and social support he needs if they marry, but will he accept such an offer from the woman who broke his heart?

  The Heart of a Hero series

  What if superheroes were mortals who lived and loved during the Regency?

  No Rest for the Wicked

  A solicitor by day, Michael Devlin spends his nights protecting the people of The Liberties...until his estranged wife turns up with a summons from Sir Arthur Wellesley. A spy for Sir Arthur, Joanna Pearson Devlin has been tasked with escorting Michael to Cork to join Wellesley’s intelligence gathering ring. Can Michael and Joanna learn to trust each other again and help Sir Arthur fight Napoleon?

  The Good, The Bad, And The Scandalous

  Andrew Elliott, Earl of Hartland is no stranger to scandal. He fights crime in armor of his own design and celebrates his achievements with the merriest of widows. What the ton doesn’t know is that Hart has received a warning: danger is heading for London and it’s looking for Sarah Shipton.

  Sarah discovers her mother’s bookshop is failing and they will soon have nothing to live on. So when the Earl of Hartland offers for her, she agrees to the marriage. But marrying Hart throws Sarah from the frying pan of imminent poverty into the fire of a world filled with science and peril she never knew existed.