The Duke (Daughters of Dishonour #2)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

M ayfair, London, March 1813.

Elspeth Keating, or Elsie to her friends and family, had reached London. The bright sparkling centre of the society. It was soon to be the start of the Season—the height of fashion for the whole world, the ton , the home of grand masquerades, and all things elegant. She had been a romantic for all her twenty-four years, so Elsie was excited about the possibilities of balls, an opportunity to sway on the dance floor to a melodic piece of music, whilst a handsome lord whispered sweet nothings to her. And failing that, at least she would be able to see some of the beautiful dresses the ladies of the beau monde wore.

One look at her older sister, Margot, told Elsie that this was not why they had come to London. But it was hard to remember such things when the carriage they were in rattled noisily past tall townhouses, their glass windows sparkling in the lights of the carriage, untold parties hidden away in them. Elsie felt butterflies bubble up inside her.

“It will be a great change from Berwick-upon-Tweed,” Elsie said. This was an understatement as nothing could be more different from journeying to a duke’s house, witnessing some of the Season in such contrast to their quiet, seaside hometown of Berwick-upon-Tweed, where they’d left their parents and younger brother, William.

“Indeed.” Margot sucked in her breath. She looked tired, and as much as she tried to hide it, Elsie could tell her sister was worried. This journey was doubly taxing for her—it had been revealed via letter that Vicar Arthur Keating, the man who had raised Margot, was not her father. In fact, Margot’s real father was Algernon Fitzsimmons, Duke of Ashmore. The duke had written, commanding Margot’s presence in London, and Margot had arranged to go with Elsie as her enthusiastic companion. To Elsie’s mind, Margot was her sister, regardless of who her father might be, and nothing would change that. It might explain why Margot was a good nine inches taller than Elsie’s diminutive build. Otherwise, they both had brown hair, and a similar colouring, although occasionally Elsie resented Margot’s green eyes compared to her own boring brown.

This was to be a great adventure, anything to get away from the predictability of home, arguing with their annoying younger brother, or worse, the possibility of being sent off to Edinburgh to stay with Grandmother Keating. As well as being a romantic, Elsie had an audacious streak, and to her mind, London was the perfect place. Margot had decided that they were destined for a spinster’s existence. Her sister was set on that future for them, although why Elsie’s pretty, clever, and sharp sibling wanted to limit her life so much was daft. As much as she fought against the idea, Elsie feared, deep down inside her, this would be her fate too.

“I think we’re nearly there,” Margot said. She too had been tracking the changing buildings and then looked across at Elsie, the nerves, the concern, and fear visible.

All Elsie wanted to do was reach forward and tell her sister that, if the old duke wasn’t kind or decent and didn’t honour Margot as much as he should, then Elsie would be happy to kick His Grace in the shins. Regardless of whether she would be thrown in the stocks or tower. It would be worth it.

On their arrival at Bolton Street, Elsie let Margot take the lead—it made her sister feel in control. Besides, Elsie reminded herself, she was there as support and could only attack the old duke if he was truly mean to Margot. But there was no sign of such brutality upon being ushered inside the smart townhouse, of which the style, to Elsie’s eyes, was stunning. The home had everything—luxurious carpets, vibrantly coloured wallpapers and richly appointed wooden furniture in every room. A sudden bolt of anxiety twisted through Elsie, a selfish one, that Margot would love this world more than the vicarage they had been raised in and leave her behind to become a ton -ish lady.

There seemed to be some surprise amongst the duke’s household at Elsie’s presence. What if they sent her away?

On entering the duke’s study, Elsie was struck by how much older the duke looked. Ill and drained despite only being in his fifties, he looked at least ten years older, and dread seemed etched on his face. Given Margot’s height, he wasn’t very tall. His eyes darted between the two of them, and he frowned, seeming to be caught between which one he should be looking at, before settling on Margot.

During the following interlude, Elsie tried to stay as quiet as she could, leaving Margot to confront the man who was her father. The duke seemed rather caught on discussing “his” Julia—which was what he kept calling their mother despite Margot’s request to refer to their mother as Mrs. Keating. To Elsie’s mind, it was clear the duke still held a candle for their mother.

The interlude was a brief one, but they were informed there was the promise of an inheritance for Margot.

“I will tell you everything when I know you a little better.” The duke’s tone was final. “Dinner will be at eight o’clock. Tomorrow I will have my papers in order. You are dismissed. ”

Margot got to her feet. She could see her sister was done with the discussion, and when they slipped out of the study, Margot squeezed her hand.

There was a servant waiting in the hallway, who Elsie recognised as the butler. The man said, “This way to your chambers.” Elsie felt another strange pulse of worry, never having the privilege of her own bedroom before. She had always shared with Margot, for all their lives, both at the vicarage and when they had gone to Edinburgh.

Margot gave her an encouraging smile. “We will meet for dinner.”

Elsie was led to her chamber, and once inside threw herself down on the bed, without even bothering to remove her boots, closed her eyes and willed away her troubles.

To her mind dinner was a dull affair, with the duke asking a few sparse questions before launching into his plans for Margot. She would receive a Season. Elsie sat up straighter, happy at the idea of what her sister might enjoy. It would be lovely if Margot might find someone of interest to her. Of all the men they’d seen in Edinburgh, not one had been right. For all her severe properness, Margot deserved some fun, and perhaps the duke was going to deliver on some of his parental responsibilities.

“Elsie needs to have one too,” Margot said. “If I am to be escorted by your chaperone and have these things, as well as posing as your goddaughter, then Elsie should have the same.”

It was a touching moment, and Elsie was about to refuse, but then the duke nodded, and Margot shot Elsie a happy look. Excitement danced through Elsie, and this agreement seemed to symbolise the end of the meal because the duke escorted them through the house, towards the stairs.

As they walked in silence, there came the sound of a raucous noise from a neighbour’s party.

Ashmore said distastefully, “Oh that is Langley, just another one of his parties. You had best avoid him when you’re out and about. He’s got a frightful reputation as one of the fastest young men in Town.” With that, the duke waved them upstairs. Elsie wondered how on earth he could be so dismissive of such a scandalously interesting person.

Nonetheless, she returned to her bedroom where she fell into a dreamless sleep, but this was interrupted when screams woke her. Stumbling from her chamber, Elsie staggered down the staircase towards what sounded like her sister shouting, horror beating through her at what might greet her.

It was not a sight she could have ever imagined: the duke, a man she had barely met, lay sprawled out on the carpet, the butler propping him up.

Hurrying over, Elsie saw the injury, the pooling blood, and her eyes lifted to meet the butler’s. “Has a doctor been sent for?” Elsie’s voice was faint, and she slowly looked down at His Grace. The man was wan, his eyes frantic, and Elsie took his hand.

“My sister?—”

“She will find him,” the duke said, and when Elsie looked up, it was to see the butler nodding. Margot had gone after the attacker? Was she mad? Elsie tried to pull away, but the duke’s grip was tight. “Look after her. She is so like her mother. Tell her—tell her—I’m sorry for what I did to her.”

That look of his would stay in her mind for hours, and Elsie hoped her mother would not mind her saying, “I forgive you.” She squeezed his hand.

His gaze softened, and Elsie watched in distress as he slipped away from her before the doctor arrived. When the physician was present, voices echoed and bounced around her until Elsie could hardly think straight. She had never seen anyone die before, and when his unresisting hand was pulled from hers, Elsie slipped quietly away and found an armchair to be alone in. Tears burnt at the back of her throat, but she stayed where she was, eaten alive with worry for Margot.

When her older sister returned, she was immediately ushered away to deal with everything, and it was not until Margot sought her out that Elsie felt a moment of solace. That was when the tears came.

The next day was a blur of activity to Elsie, much of which made little sense to her until she realised she was in the duke’s study listening to her sister and His Grace’s solicitor discussing the next best course of action—which apparently involved Elsie going to Cornwall on the mission of retrieving the duke’s heir.

Hardly listening to the conversation between the two, Elsie’s sadness, her shock at the death, and all those hopeful dreams of a fine Season in Town vanished, to be replaced with the miserable task of finding what sounded like an elderly cousin in the depths of Cornwall.

“This journey would be greatly beneficial to us all.” Margot’s green eyes bored into Elsie. When she looked at the lawyer, Mr. Holt gave Elsie a rather dismissive shake of his head, clearly doubtful that she should go.

Mr. Holt’s doubts were Elsie’s motivator. “Give me the papers, and I will leave on the morrow. After all, I can be trusted to keep the matter quiet,” Elsie said, drawing herself up to her full height of five feet and one inch. She looked down at the pages the solicitor handed her, and the address—Tintagel Manor. It sounded ominous, and she thought it would probably have at least one leak, and perhaps several ghosts. If anything sounded as if it belonged in a gothic novel, surely it was Tintagel Manor?

Elsie slipped from the room with the task of repacking her bags and the promise from her sister of exchanging correspondence whilst she was away. To Elsie’s mind, this seemed unlikely. After all, she would be arriving in Cornwall to almost immediately turn back around with the errant heir. She barely had time to meet Mrs. Bowley, her sister’s chaperone for the Season, before the duke’s carriage was prepared, and the following morning, Elsie found herself making slow progress towards the vehicle.

Pushing her feelings aside, Elsie waved out of the window to her sister, before turning to look at the maid who’d been sent as her companion, Samson.

“I ain’t never left London, miss,” Samson said rather mournfully, her youthful face making Elsie feel suddenly old.

“Don’t worry,” Elsie replied as the carriage rattled them through London and out towards the wilds of Cornwall. “I am sure it will be quite fascinating.”

The two journeys could not have been more different. The one from the north to London had been filled with nervous excitement. This journey towards the manor house and the new heir, without her sister, felt fraught with danger. As much as she clung to the knowledge that the private carriage was far superior to the public, she was still exhausted, and poor little Samson cried at night, which did not help matters. All in all, they made a rather sad pair as they journeyed down towards Tintagel Manor.

On leaving Exeter, there was a delay with the carriage, and when they eventually set off, thick grey clouds had flocked in, and all too soon heavy drops of rain were pelting their carriage. Having decided that this journey was simply going to be difficult, Elsie set about attempting to cheer Samson up. It did little good. Her maid remained nervous and sullen. After a little while even Elsie fell silent.

“What’s that noise?” Samson’s question jerked Elsie out of her reverie. At first, given Samson’s anxious character, Elsie assumed that it was probably nothing more than the wind. As she listened to the whirling sound of rain, the beating noise of the storm against the side of the carriage walls, and the horses’ whinnying, she knew there was something else mixed in there too.

Leaning forward in her squab seat, she pushed the shutter open to better see outside. At least, that had been her plan, but in truth, it was hard to see. The thick wall of oppressive rain made the darkened outside look as if it were the gloomiest and drabbest setting that Elsie had ever seen. Having been raised so close to the Scottish border, Elsie had assumed nothing would compete with the bleakness of Scotland—she was learning something new looking onto the moors of Cornwall.

“There it is again,” Samson said. “It sounds like a wolf. Are there wolves down here?”

Elsie stopped herself from sighing and said, “The last wolf died in England over a hundred years ago.”

“Then what’s that sound?” Samson was right. There was a whiny noise, which blended with what sounded rather like a baby crying.

Glancing outside the window again, Elsie thought she saw some movement. Someone or something was trapped out there. It was perhaps one hundred and fifty feet from her, close to an outcrop of trees and what appeared to be a rock formation—a darting flash of white. Elsie was sure she’d seen it even if it was just for a second. So, she pounded on the roof of the carriage and was pleased when the vehicle drew to a halt.

“What are you doing?”

“I think there’s a creature in danger out there,” Elsie said. “I mean to help.”

Samson made a half-hearted snatch at Elsie, which Elsie ignored as she scrambled out of the carriage. It was hard to move and talk, but she made her intentions clear to the driver despite not fully understanding his yelled response. She set off, away from the relative safety. The bracken caught at her dress, and the wind whipped against her face, half blinding her and slowing her progress down. Beneath her feet, the ground was made up of dense moss, wet mud, and slippery grasses. Stubbornly, Elsie continued. She had not made a difference to the poor dead duke, but now she would.

The brambles and thorns caught at her, pulling at her old travelling dress, the bog catching at her stride. At least she could now see with utter certainty there was an animal there on the rock. It was a dog, its wet fur tangled in the thorns. The animal’s crying was louder and more desperate.

“I’m coming,” Elsie muttered as she hurried over the wet rocks towards him, a jarring pain shooting up from her ankle as she felt her foot twist beneath her. If anything, the rain seemed to increase its tempo in an attempt to stop her progress.

On reaching the dog, she found him to be damp and slippery. It was too dark to make out his breed. Elsie set about trying to free him from the thorns. The animal was far too excited, jumping and licking at her face in gratitude despite still being trapped.

“Calm,” she yelled into the wind, but the dog took no notice. Desperately, Elsie searched around the animal’s body, finally pulling his little body free. Out of the brambles, the dog leapt on her, causing Elsie to stumble backwards, landing painfully against the wet stones.

Her anguished cry echoed before it, too, was snatched up by the wind.

“What the hell do you think you are doing?” A harsh masculine voice cut into Elsie’s attempts to stand up. For a moment, she thought it had to be the driver, but when she looked up, staring through the heavy rain, she could make out the dark shape of a man on a huge horse. His face was obscured, so all Elsie could see was his imposing black outline against the stormy background as his furious question echoed around her.