The Confessions of the Duke of Newlyn

by Bronwyn Scott

  ‘How could you disappoint her? She loved you, Ven,’ Marianne murmured.

  ‘I wasn’t taking my position as an heir seriously and pursuing marriage. I was in my late twenties, the only male of the line, really, and I was resolutely refusing to do my duty, my most important duty.’ It hurt him to admit it. ‘I quarrelled with her over it constantly. She was right to want it. I was selfish. None of my friends had married. Why should I? Of course, no one expected Eaton to marry because of his sterility, but I conveniently overlooked that when making my arguments.’

  ‘Happy families quarrel, too, Ven, I assure you. I have five sisters and there’s always something fractious brewing. It doesn’t mean we love each other less,’ Marianne consoled.

  ‘Well, I felt as if I’d failed her. More than just escaping the matchmaking, I’d volunteered to go to the docks because I wanted to get back at them both for pressuring me. I wanted to say, “See, I am making something of myself, Father, by taking an interest in the dukedom and in doing so it is forcing me to disappoint Mother.” I had some idea of playing them off against one another. In retrospect, it was petty of me. I hugged my mother and I shook my father’s hand, told him to have a good evening and that I’d see him the next day at White’s for drinks. I never saw them alive again.’ He had seen them, of course, lying in the alley.

  Vennor’s voice caught on the last, emotion threatening. ‘They were stupid words. Stupid, stupid words,’ Vennor growled, his breath ragged. ‘I should have told my mother I loved her. I should have told my father how proud I was to be his son, what an inspiration he’d been to me. I should have told them how much I loved our little family, the walks we took at Karrek Sands, the picnics in the Trevaylor Woods, and that I was so grateful for them. I should not have begrudged their efforts to help me be my best. There was so much I should have said, Marianne, and so much I should have done.’

  And now, nothing could bring them back.

  So potent was the thought it might as well have been spoken out loud.

  * * *

  ‘They knew all those things, Ven.’ Her heart was breaking for him, for this strong, devoted man who’d borne so many secrets alone these past years. It tore at her that he thought he had to carry them alone. She understood better now the reasons for that urbane mask he wore and perhaps even the reasons why he wore the Vigilante’s mask as well.

  ‘It seems the least I can do is solve the mystery of their murder and bring to justice whoever did that to them.’

  ‘And to you,’ Marianne added. Whoever had done this had hurt him as well. She wanted revenge for that, for having had the carefree friend she’d once known stolen and turned into a secret-keeping duke who felt he had no choice but to live in darkness. There was brokenness in Vennor. She saw that now. How perceptive her mother had been. He needed to grieve his parents and he needed to forgive himself. Only then could he move forward. ‘If you’d been there, you could have been killed, too. There’s no guarantee your presence would have changed anything.’

  He grunted at that. ‘The odds would have been even, two on two. There were two of them. The one who held my mother and the one who stabbed my father. Bow Street likes to pretend it’s not clear there were two, but I saw it plain tonight. It could not have been just one.’

  ‘Ven, do you think solving the mystery will bring you peace?’

  ‘It will bring justice,’ Vennor countered swiftly with a touch of fierceness.

  ‘That’s not the same thing,’ she argued softly. Justice would bring closure to the tragedy, but it would not necessarily bring absolution.

  ‘It might be all I can have, though.’ His voice was hoarse with emotion.

  ‘And the Vigilante? What can he have? What happens to him once this is done?’ It was all of a piece, the Vigilante and the search for his parents’ killers, but the Vigilante had become more than just the search. Did he see that? ‘I think the Vigilante will be missed should he disappear. People count on him.’ She thought of the Vigilante’s Post in Blackwell where people pinned their grievances and needs. ‘What will happen to the Mrs Simons of the world without the Vigilante?’ The Vigilante might have started out as a clue seeker, but had rapidly become more. It was clear from her interviews that the people of the neighbourhoods he frequented relied on him for justice, for succour. He was their gateway to a better life.

  ‘I don’t know. I haven’t figured that out yet.’ He reached for her, kissing her softly on the mouth. ‘There’s a lot I haven’t figured out.’

  ‘I know what you mean.’ Marianne gave a soft laugh, awareness rippling through her body as he moved over her. Her arms went around his neck. He meant to make love to her again. She stretched luxuriously beneath him in anticipation.

  The lovemaking was different this time. Gone was the tension of earlier, replaced by a slower pace, a languid exploration where neither was in a hurry to reach completion, although when completion did come it was just as overwhelming as it had been the first time, though with a bittersweet edge to it. The night was passing. She would have to leave the warmth of his body, the safety of this room where nothing else mattered, and make her way home.

  * * *

  Vennor helped her dress, his fingers lingering on the broken fastenings of her gown. He called for his coach and insisted on accompanying her home. He would not hear of her making the short journey to Curzon Street alone. She dozed against his shoulder on the drive, her body lapping up the warmth of his a little while longer. She would have liked to have driven like that for ever, the sky hinting towards grey, the city quiet except for the occasional rumble of carriages bringing late-night revellers home and Vennor beside her. She said as much. ‘Shall we just keep driving?’

  ‘Where to?’ Vennor laughed.

  ‘Anywhere, far from here.’ Some place where there were no proposals from eager viscounts, or dead parents to mourn, or past regrets to forgive, or complicated futures to contemplate.

  ‘That would only be fun for a while. You would miss everyone.’ Vennor yawned and peered out the window. ‘We’re here. Shall I see you in?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, it would only complicate things. If anyone asks, I’ll think of something to say.’ She’d have to be careful with her dress. There were a few hooks missing and her maid would notice.

  ‘Marianne...’ Vennor said.

  ‘No, say nothing, Ven. I thought we agreed we don’t have it all worked out. We don’t have to have all the answers tonight. Let tonight be enough on its own.’ She kissed him swiftly on the mouth, one last time. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  She made her way into the house, feeling Vennor’s gaze on her back. She smiled, a sense of completion and peace filling her to know Vennor wouldn’t leave until she was safe inside. Of course he wouldn’t. He’d fought for a flower girl. What more would he do for a woman he cared for?

  Across the street, stiff from a long night’s vigil, two figures hurried off into the fading darkness, free at last from their task.

  * * *

  Whack! His arm brought the crop down across her buttocks, anger riding him hard, hard enough to have him seeking Elise out before noon. The informants had brought awful news. Miss Treleven had come home at dawn in Newlyn’s carriage. Whack! The air in the room whistled gratifyingly. Elise shrieked, but he would not stop. Marianne Treleven had played him, begging for more time, suggesting maidenly modesty at making a hasty match, leading him on, making him believe she would accept a proposal at the Season’s end, only to run straight into Newlyn’s arms.

  It seemed to be a recurring theme, the Moore men losing their women to the Penlerick males. His grandfather had lost his true love to Alfred Penlerick, Vennor’s grandsire. That had been the beginning of the Moore troubles. It seemed Alfred Penlerick had not been content with stealing Evangeline Warnick from Henry Moore, but had gone on to defeat his grandfather at every turn—denying funding for roads that would hav
e made transportation of goods from his grandfather’s remote mills less costly, voting down legislation that would have lowered workers’ wages, thus enabling his grandfather to turn a larger profit. The list of grievances was long, leading to the current financial situation of his viscountcy.

  Exhausted finally, Hayes laid aside the crop, breathing hard. Elise was sobbing. ‘Dry your tears,’ he scoffed. ‘I paid you plenty.’

  She lifted her head, the red curls of her wig falling forward over her shoulders, a new fire in her eyes. ‘You pay me for keeping your secrets. You pay me for finding you men to do who knows what. You pay me to dress up as some debutante who has eluded you. But you do not pay me enough to whip me within an inch of my life. I will not receive you again.’

  ‘Oh, very good, my elusive debutante is something of a spitfire, too.’ Hayes laughed dismissively at her chagrin. ‘I do like a challenge.’ Not that this was much of a challenge. He had used her hard this morning, an outlet for his anger over Marianne’s betrayal. But whores were simple creatures to understand. It all came down to money and the occasional promise a man never intended to keep. Elise wanted more money. He would supply it. Even in his straitened circumstances, he was rich compared to a whore.

  He tipped her chin up to meet his gaze with a hard thumb and forefinger. ‘You’re lucky I like you and I don’t take the crop to you again, this time for your own insubordination. You think to blackmail me with my secrets. But you’ve forgotten one thing. You have no enforcement. Who would you tell? Who would believe you? Besides, what would you tell them? That I, a nobleman, asked you to find me a couple of men who could gather information? You don’t know what for. You know nothing of interest to anyone. You don’t even know my name.’

  ‘I could tell them about last time,’ she argued in a surprising show of spirit. ‘You had someone killed. It’s why you went away.’

  Did she think that was leverage? He withdrew a knife from a sheath in his coat, a long slender, wicked blade for slicing. ‘If you tell anyone, I would kill you before questions could be asked, just for betraying me.’ He smiled and re-sheathed the blade. ‘It’s good to be clear about these things, Elise, don’t you agree? We must always know where we stand with one another.’ He might need to kill her anyway. She’d been defiant yet again. It meant she was thinking and thinking in a woman was always dangerous. Thoughts of freedom wouldn’t be too far off. Women must always be managed.

  As for Marianne, he would still marry her, although he’d rather not have been forced to take Newlyn’s leavings. Did she think the loss of her virginity—if that was what indeed had happened in the interim between leaving the ball and arriving home—would dissuade him? Hardly. He was after much more from her than a body in bed. He would marry her even if she were a dowd simply for her property and her place in Cornish society.

  Chapter Seventeen

  He should offer to marry her. It was what a man did when he had compromised a virgin, even if she’d been the one to proposition him. Vennor stared at the blank sheet of paper before him on a blotter at his desk, the pen idle in his hand. It was nearly noon and he’d been staring at the sheet for an hour. He’d not slept when he returned home. He hadn’t even tried. He sat up instead, watching the sun rise and replaying the night in his mind. He’d replayed it all through breakfast and was still replaying it, still wishing he’d handled things differently.

  There were things he should have said to her, things they should have talked about, the business of post-coital expectations and such. He was not so out of practice that he didn’t know his duty. But Marianne didn’t want his duty and he was in no position to offer it even if she did. He would, however, if he thought for a moment she wanted a proposal. Of course, should circumstances require a proposal, regardless of what either of them preferred, he’d make it. If there were to be consequences, a child, from last night despite his precautions, he would do the right thing.

  A child. That would certainly change everything. What they wanted as individuals would cease to matter. Vennor fiddled with his pen, picturing Marianne large with that child, picturing the child born, wrapped in a white blanket in Marianne’s arms, then in his arms. A child who would not die, who would want for nothing, who would carry on the legacy of the Newlyn dukedom. A son with Marianne. Joy was followed by regret. A baby. Another person to fail, yet being with Marianne last night had been the most peaceful he’d felt in ages and he wanted it again.

  ‘Your Grace,’ Honeycutt interrupted his thoughts. ‘You have visitors. The Earl of Tintagel has arrived, along with Viscount Trevethow, the Marquess of Lynford, and their wives. Miss Treleven is with them, too. I have taken the liberty of setting extra places for luncheon.’ Honeycutt could barely repress his glee over the thought of serving luncheon for eight. It was a dead giveaway. Vennor knew immediately what had happened. Marianne had ambushed him. He set aside his pen and smiled.

  The drawing room was a cacophony of laughter and exclamations. The noise of it could be heard down the hall, growing louder as he approached. Vennor had just a moment to survey the joyous melee inside before they noticed him, a moment to commit it all to memory, this joyous reunion of best friends: Cassian, tall and broad, looking confined in town clothes, but happy as he embraced Eaton, equally as tall and broad, his dark curls already escaping their careful combing; Eaton turned to embrace Inigo who was, as usual, immaculate and well groomed.

  Their wives stood aside in their own cluster, looking like a spring bouquet in their pretty muslins, Marianne at their centre, her hair bright, her smile wide as she showed off the newly wallpapered drawing room. She looked as though she belonged here, not just in his house, but in his life, among his friends, among their wives, as if she were meant to take her place among the Cornish Dukes. It was a dangerous thought coming on the heels of his other thoughts this morning, thoughts of a future, of children.

  This was not how he had imagined seeing her for the first time after last night, surrounded by friends, with no chance for privacy and the discussion that must take place. There was also the issue of the woman’s note from the East Docks. He was going to need Marianne’s help with that. Yet he could have watched her ceaselessly, noting every nuance, the way she tossed her head when she laughed, how she touched people, an easy tap here, a heartfelt squeeze there. She emanated abundant joy. She’d brought her joy into his house and now she’d brought his friends. Despite other pressing matters, Vennor could not begrudge her the little ambush-cum-reunion, although he did wonder what had brought it on.

  Cassian caught sight of him at the door. ‘Vennor, there you are, old chap!’ Within a handful of strides, Cassian reached him, enveloping him in a tight embrace—the first of many, as he was swallowed up by his friends. Eaton followed Cassian, then Inigo, and then the wives came with kisses all in turn—Eliza, Penrose, and Audevere. Their welcome was overwhelming. Marianne slipped a hand through his arm in support when the greetings were over, perhaps understanding how he’d feel. The four heirs had not been all together since the funeral. He’d seen Inigo in town and he’d seen Cassian when the Hawaiian royals had been in London. But having everyone together in the same room was a novel occurrence.

  It was Marianne who got everyone settled at the table outside in the garden for lunch, taking advantage of the excellent weather. There was so much to catch up on, Vennor didn’t know what to ask first. Lunch passed in a haze of titbits. There were children to discuss: Cassian had a son named Collin Richard for Cassian’s brother and for Vennor’s father; Eaton had a stepdaughter, Sophie, who lit up his face whenever he spoke of her. There were projects to discuss, too: Eaton’s mining schools, and Cassian’s nearly completed Cornish pleasure garden. A lump formed in Vennor’s throat when he surveyed the table, seeing physical proof of his friends’ good fortune. He was happy for them, but envious, too.

  ‘You’ve been reinventing the world with all of your reform legislation,’ Cassian said during a lull in the con
versation.

  ‘Father’s legislation,’ Vennor corrected. ‘I have managed to pass his projects, slowly but surely.’

  Cassian slapped him on the shoulder. ‘You are too modest, Ven. You’ve done important work these past years. Your father would be proud. Now we have to get you home to Cornwall to work your magic there.’

  Vennor gestured for the footmen to refill the wine glasses, the cold white going down impeccably with the chilled shrimp and poached salmon Cook had served for lunch. ‘Is that what’s behind the visit? You’ve all come to drag me home?’ It was congenially said for all its boldness. Vennor hazarded a look at Marianne at the other end of the table. How much of a hand had she had in this part of the ambush as well? She met his eyes and gave a small shrug.

  ‘It’s been three years,’ Eaton put in with equal congeniality and boldness. ‘I imagine there are some folks who are hungry for a look at your face.’ Like land stewards and tenants. Vennor knew exactly the people Eaton meant. But there were people here who needed him, like the anonymous woman on the docks. Who would help them if he left the city?

  Sensing a change in the mood of the table, Marianne rose. ‘Ladies, perhaps I can show off the rest of the house. We’ve just finished the ballroom. The chandelier is a treat.’