The Confessions of the Duke of Newlyn

by Bronwyn Scott

  ‘You have the twins,’ Vennor reminded her.

  She shook her head. ‘It’s not the same.’ The twins, Isabella and Catherine, were still at home and wouldn’t be out for another two years. There was a great chasm in age between her almost twenty-one years and their newly turned sixteen—a far larger chasm than the decade that spanned the difference between her and Vennor. ‘I miss my sisters,’ she confessed. They’d gone ahead into marriage and motherhood without her. ‘It’s not that I can’t ride over and see them when I’m home. It’s not the distance. It’s hard to explain. I visit them, but I no longer share their lives. Their lives are shared by others now. To be honest, a part of me envies those husbands and babies; I’m angry at them for stealing my sisters away from me.’

  She let out another breath of frustration. ‘Sometimes I think I’m only considering Lord Hayes because he’s the means by which I can catch up to them.’ She could follow her sisters into matrimony and motherhood, no longer left behind. ‘Don’t you feel the same, Ven? Your friends have married.’ Surely, he felt the loss of them.

  ‘I do.’ Vennor pulled the phaeton over to the verge and set the brake. ‘I miss them and envy them their wives, their children, their purpose.’ He jumped from the high seat and came around to help her down. Did she imagine it, or did his hands linger at her waist? They stood close, shielded by the carriage from passers-by, her skirts brushing his boots, his eyes steady on hers, two blue flames, and her pulse raced as it had last night. It was becoming a most disturbing new reaction to her old friend.

  His hands flexed at her waist and she was aware of the silence around them, the distant trill of birds in the trees, the rippling susurration of the stream beyond the verge. ‘Missing them, wanting what they have, those are not reasons to throw yourself into marriage any more than filling my nursery is a reason for me to do the same.’ His voice was low, for her alone. ‘Promise me, Marianne, promise me you won’t marry to satisfy your parents or society, or because you feel you have to catch up to your sisters.’

  The knuckles of his hand skimmed her cheek, sending a little frisson of warmth through her. For all the secrets they’d traded over the years and all the confidences they’d shared, he’d never talked to her like this, never looked at her like this, before. ‘You are too precious, Marianne, to throw yourself away in a lukewarm match. Promise me.’

  She was tempted to say something slightly flippant like ‘you’ve been asking for a lot of promises of me lately’, but the look in his eyes decided her against it. This was no laughing matter and he was in earnest. ‘If there’s no one who catches my fancy? Who makes my heart pound? Then what?’ she asked softly.

  ‘Then don’t wed, Marianne. Don’t settle,’ Vennor whispered treason.

  ‘My parents would not like hearing you give this advice.’ Oh, how she wished she could follow it. Wasn’t it the very counsel of her own heart? She shook her head. ‘My mother has been clear this Season that they’ve tolerated my “experimental tendencies” long enough. I believe her words were, “Now it’s time to grow up and put aside childish things”.’ It was time to conform after a lifetime of nonconformity. She’d grown up being the ‘different Treleven’. She was a writer when her sisters were all musicians. She loved the glamour of the Season where all her sisters preferred the quietude of Cornwall. Difference was tolerated only to a certain degree and she knew she’d been afforded a good deal of grace in that regard. But that grace had run out.

  ‘Ah...’ Vennor’s single word carried a wealth of intuition with it. ‘You’re not the only one crossing the Rubicon this Season, it seems.’ Something stirred behind his blue eyes, a consideration that both thrilled and unnerved her. What did he mean by that comment? Perhaps she would pursue it later. She did not want to be distracted from the issue at hand, whatever that was.

  ‘But Rubicons are not what you wanted to talk about.’ Marianne stepped back and he released his hold on her waist. ‘You said you had a proposal for me. What is it?’

  ‘Something I should have discussed a long time ago.’ He gave her a wry smile. Her heart gave an odd lurch and for a moment she had a wild notion of Vennor making a proposal to her in truth. To save her from settling, perhaps? ‘Would you help me pack up my parents’ things? I should have done it ages ago, but I can’t do it on my own.’

  He wanted her to help him pack? Marianne blinked, clearing away her fanciful vision. She took a moment to gather her words and hide her...her what? Disappointment? Shock? Had she wanted Vennor to declare himself in some way? Was that the reason for her racing pulse? In all logic, though, there were no grounds for such a proposal. They were friends. Friends told each other secrets. Friends did not propose to one another. ‘It would be my pleasure,’ she said softly. ‘I’ll bring my mother. She’ll be an invaluable help.’

  She understood it was a privilege to be let into what had become the very private world of Vennor Penlerick. He’d not allowed people to mourn with him, to help him when his parents had passed. That he’d asked for her help was proof of their deep friendship and the trust that went with it. She should be pleased. ‘This is a big step, Ven. Why now?’ There was a tightness at his mouth despite his smile. Whatever had prompted his decision, it had not been an easy one to make, one that he was still struggling with.

  ‘Spring fever, I suppose. It’s the season for new beginnings.’ He used one hand to gesture to the trees with their green leaves. ‘There are new buds and new foliage. If we were in the countryside, there would be baby sheep and goats, calves and foals. There is newness everywhere except in my house. I looked around the place this morning, truly looked around, and realised my house wasn’t a home any more. It needs life, Marianne.’

  She sensed there was more to it than that, but she didn’t push. Vennor would reveal his thoughts when he was ready. This was clearly a difficult step for him to take, but a necessary one. She would do her best to help him take that first step back to really living, back to being happy, back to being the Vennor she remembered, who laughed without provocation, who found joy in the simplest of pleasures, who didn’t face the world with a bland mask of urbanity. She reached for his hand and gave it a supportive squeeze. ‘We’ll come in the morning.’

  Chapter Five

  He had come to visit Miss Treleven and she had the audacity to be out! Justin Moore, the fifth Viscount Hayes, slapped the bouquet of flowers against his trousers, scattering blooms on the pavement in his abject disappointment. If she’d been out shopping, he could have tolerated it. Women lived to shop, after all. But out driving with His Grace, the Duke of Newlyn, he could not.

  Hayes called to his driver, giving an address on the East Docks, a place where he’d be welcome and where comfort could be had. He slammed the carriage door shut and settled back against the cushioned seats, anger fuelling the whir of his mind. He’d been making exceptional progress this month with Miss Treleven. It was all the talk at White’s. He was enjoying this rare bout of popularity brought on by his association with the Incomparable. There were even wagers in the betting book—not if she would accept his proposal, but when—proof of how far his suit had come and how well it had been received. His courtship was a well-placed master stroke to capture the Season’s reigning Incomparable. She needed to marry. Her star was at its zenith and everyone knew she’d get no better offer than a viscount.

  No one thought there were any ‘ifs’ left to argue about. Or at least they hadn’t until Newlyn had started making the rounds in May. It was too bad the reclusive duke hadn’t stayed in seclusion. Hayes tugged at the cuffs of his shirt so they peeped out an equal distance from the blue superfine sleeves of his jacket. He had originally ignored the alarm bells rung by Newlyn’s presence. After all, Hayes had been at Miss Treleven’s side in April, having come up to town early for that express purpose. He had been established before Newlyn had even ventured from the town house. Besides, Newlyn had had ages to woo Miss Treleven based on the
ir family association and he hadn’t made a move. That he was squiring her about on the rare occasion he put in an appearance was nothing more than duty.

  No, he hadn’t been worried and wasn’t worried now, he reminded himself. However, it was becoming deuced annoying to lose her regularly for supper, to have Newlyn come waltzing into a ball at the last minute, as he had last night, and claim the prized dance while other men had worked for her attentions all night. And it wasn’t just supper dances now, was it? She was out driving with the man, being seen with him in the park. People would start to wonder if there wasn’t something more than duty behind it and, if they wondered about that, they would start to doubt him.

  He couldn’t afford the doubt, not if it came from the men to whom he owed money, men who had taken his upcoming engagement as collateral against sums advanced. Miss Treleven’s dowry was respectable, but that wasn’t what he’d promised against. He’d promised against the other intangibles that came with wedding her and geographically settling himself firmly in the territory of the Cornish Dukes, ready to take advantage of opportunity when it came. And it would come. He had plans, a reckoning three generations in the making, and a deathbed promise to his grandfather to uphold. The Penlericks had taken enough from the Moores over the years. It was time for a little payback.

  Hayes lifted the window curtain long enough to ascertain his location and let it drop. He was nearly there. His blood started to hum at the prospect of Delilah’s, his whorehouse of choice on the East Docks. Elise would be surprised to see him. It had been two years. A slow smile spread across his face as his hand moved to his member, rousing himself. ‘Steady, boy,’ he murmured. He had two years’ worth of tricks learned on the Continent to add to his repertoire of skills and appetites. Elise would earn her keep.

  His carriage pulled to a halt and he was quick to jump out and dismiss his coachman with instructions to return in three hours. There was no sense in having his coach linger and risk discovery. The whole point of frequenting Delilah’s was to avoid discovery. If he wanted it known he visited brothels, he’d stay in Mayfair. He found it useful that the ton regarded him as a very traditional peer and an upstanding Tory. He preferred it that way. Jock Treleven would not approve of his dirty little secret.

  He inhaled the smell of brine and humanity as he rapped on the door. The East Docks hadn’t changed one bit. They still stank. The stench would be all over him by afternoon’s end, but never mind. He’d be home in time to clean up and sup before attending the evening’s entertainments, his anger at Marianne Treleven’s duplicity spent most avidly here instead of ruining his reputation for even-temperedness in London’s ballrooms.

  He was quickly let in by the large bouncer who guarded the door. Delilah’s was nothing more than an old converted warehouse, exposed brick walls and women in various states of dingy undress lounging on ratty sofas. What the place lacked in décor, though, it made up for in discretion. Delilah herself swanned forward to greet him in a low-cut red gown made of cheap silk. ‘Milord, you are returned. Shall I have Elise wait for you in her room?’

  ‘Yes—and send up a riding crop. I’m sure she’s been very naughty while I was away.’ He mounted the stairs, his blood running hard now, his arousal rampant against his trousers. Half the thrill would be in laying that crop against the creamy smoothness of Elise’s buttocks until she cried out from the sting of it. The other half was in knowing the ton didn’t suspect a thing about his proclivities. Having a secret life was often its own aphrodisiac; it was what made it possible to get through insipid evenings filled with debutantes who were more like wax figurines from a museum. Outside Elise’s door, he paused to give his arm an experimental swing. He felt alive again.

  * * *

  The house was a mausoleum. Marianne felt it the moment she stepped into the hall of Newlyn House. She’d not been here since the funeral wake for the late duke and duchess. Vennor had not exaggerated. The heels of her shoes gave an echoing click on the black-and-white tiles, the only noise in the house. Not even Honeycutt who’d answered the door had made a sound.

  ‘Lady Treleven, Miss Treleven, what a delight to host you today.’ Honeycutt helped them with their shawls as Marianne gave the hall an assessing glance. It was a visual affirmation of the silence, devoid of any signs of life. The console along the wall was polished to a sheen, but it was missing warmth; there was no vase, no flowers that might offer a touch of domesticity, or a sense of welcome for a visitor.

  Marianne exchanged a look with her mother and began making a mental list. She had three items on that list by the time Vennor joined them in the hall. ‘Lady Treleven,’ he greeted her mother, ‘thank you for coming and you, too, Marianne. I hope I haven’t displaced any plans?’ His tone was light. By all accounts, he might have been as he always was, full of humour and confidence, but Marianne saw the tell-tale tightness at the corners of his mouth, as only a close friend might.

  Her heart went out to him. He’d not arrived at this decision easily. This was hard on him. But so, too, must be seeing the house this way, living in it this way; Newlyn House had once been lively and inviting; it had exuded the personalities of the Duke and Duchess themselves. That personality had died with them. Yet Marianne had a sneaking suspicion that the house hadn’t changed since the day the Duke and Duchess had walked out and never come back. Vennor was surrounded by the past, by the last moments of their lives. How did a man face such a dilemma? To pack up the memories of his parents in order to move forward, or to honour those memories by leaving things as they were? She did not envy Vennor the choice.

  ‘I thought we might start upstairs in the wardrobes. You’ll know what is best saved or given away.’ He gestured to the stairs and ushered them ahead of him, but Marianne turned to Honeycutt before she ascended the steps. ‘Please send to the flower markets. I want bouquets for all the public rooms.’

  Honeycutt made a small bow in her direction, relief on his usually stoic face. ‘With pleasure, Miss Treleven.’

  Vennor gave a low chuckle behind her. ‘You’ve been here five minutes and you’re already giving orders.’

  Marianne lifted her chin in teasing superiority and shot him a glance over her shoulder. ‘It’s why you asked me to come, isn’t it? I’d hate to disappoint you.’

  Whatever levity they’d manage to conjure up died the moment they opened the door to the late Duchess’s chambers. Stepping inside was overpowering. They were assailed by memories of the woman they’d known. The room smelled of her, the faint scent of rosewater lingered in the musty, closed rooms. It felt like her, too. Her things lay about the room as if waiting for her return—the hairbrushes and perfume vials at the vanity, the dressing gown that lay on the bed. Marianne swallowed hard. No wonder Vennor hadn’t come in here. One could almost believe the Duchess would come out of the dressing room at any moment and sweep them into one of her famous hugs. ‘Vennor and I will do the Duchess’s chambers. Mother, if you could take some maids and do the Duke’s?’ She turned to Vennor. ‘You need to establish yourself in the ducal chambers as soon as they’re ready. They are yours now.’ By rights, he should have been in them years ago, another sign of how deeply entrenched his grief was.

  She started with the gowns. The Duchess had possessed exquisite fashion sense. Her gowns carried a timeless quality to their design that kept them in fashion even after three years. ‘You should make gifts of some of these. We’ll select a few to give to her lady’s maid and to the other maids if you wish. They can remake them or sell them to a second-hand shop for extra money.’ Marianne handed the gowns to Vennor one by one. ‘Arrange piles on the bed; one for the maids, one for charity and one to pack away.’

  Having a purpose helped Vennor relax and some of the tightness left his mouth. ‘You’re good at this. I know how to balance estate ledgers and write legislation, but I haven’t the foggiest idea how to clean out a woman’s closet.’ He tried for a laugh.

  ‘Well,
I do.’ Marianne smiled encouragingly, ‘This first batch will be for the maids.’ She laid the gowns across his arms, telling stories as the pile grew, recalling this dress and that—the lavender dress the Duchess wore to her coming-out ball, the green gown she wore to the art show at Somerset House—and commenting on the Duchess’s oft-complimented style. ‘Even in Cornwall, I envied her carriage ensembles whenever she called.’

  She was rewarded with a smile from Vennor. ‘You make remembering a blessing, not a curse.’

  Marianne laid the last of the gowns in his arms. ‘I’m glad. She wouldn’t want you to be sad, Ven.’

  Vennor deposited the gowns on the bed and returned for more. ‘I’m not sad, I’m mad. I’m angry.’ He leaned against the door frame, his blond hair falling forward in his face. She fought the urge to push it back, to mother him just a bit, but he wanted pity no more than she did. ‘I keep asking myself why would anyone want to kill them? What did they ever do but help others?’

  ‘Street thugs don’t make such distinctions.’ Marianne hated the pain on his face. It was such a handsome face, it deserved to be smiling. ‘Thugs don’t know their victims.’ She paused at the emotion flickering across Vennor’s face. ‘They loved you, Vennor. You were the best of sons.’

  Vennor shook his head as she handed him the Duchess’s jewel case to take into the bedroom. ‘I should have been better.’ There was that bitterness again, the bitterness that had crept into him since their deaths. Most people didn’t notice. He didn’t let them. He was so...careful...with what he let everyone see—even his friends. Perhaps especially his friends. This was a rare moment when his guard was down as they settled on the bed with the jewel case. She saw the naked honesty of his words and was tempted to take advantage of his vulnerability and see what lay beneath the bitterness. But she knew Vennor too well. He would not welcome the intrusion. If she pushed, she would lose him. It would be better to wait and let him come to her with the things that weighed on his mind and his soul, even though her impatience argued she’d already given him three years. How much more time could he want? Her curiosity needed to take second place to his need.