Duke of Deception (Wentworth Trilogy)

Title Page

Duke of Deception

Stephie Smith

Wentworth Publishing

Melbourne, Florida

Ebooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared, or given away; any of these actions will be an infringement on the copyright of this work.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons either living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights are reserved. No part of this book shall be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Copyright © 2012 by Stephie Smith

www.StephieSmith.com

eBook ISBN-978-0-9797034-3-0

Wentworth Publishing

P.O. Box 123

Melbourne, FL 32902-0123

There are many people I wish to thank, for without them, I might have given up before publishing this book. They are . . .

– my sister Pam, because she always knows the perfect word but especially because she kept asking for the next chapter, which meant I had to write it;

– my brother-in-law, Darryl, master of many skills, one of which is plotting, for without his suggestion, my hero might still be wandering around Scotland, searching for buried treasure;

– my sister Sherry, who called when she finished reading the draft, crying and saying she couldn’t believe I could write such a wonderful book (???);

– Helen Breitwieser, whose belief in the story renewed my own; and

– my editor, Beth Hill, whose edits and suggestions made this a better book.

This book is dedicated to Judith McNaught, whose wonderful historical romances have brought me so very much pleasure and continue to bring me pleasure as I reread them every couple of years. In fact, Ms. McNaught may be responsible for my foray into romance writing, for if she had continued to publish historical romances, I might never have felt the urge (nor had the time) to write my own.

A desperate young woman . . . Lady Louisa Barrick will do anything to save her estate and the village that depends on it, but when she tries to use a rakish privateer in her scheme, things don’t turn out as planned.

A duke masquerading as a privateer . . . Jonathan Derek Wentworth has a scheme of his own:  to track down the ton-based smuggling gang responsible for his father’s death. When he’s caught in a compromising situation with Lady Louisa, he decides it’s better to marry her than to risk being ostracized by the London society whose invitations are vital to his plan. But Louisa refuses to marry him, unless he meets her terms, one of which is a month-long reprieve from consummation.

Intent on seduction, Derek doesn’t count on his unexpected jealousy wreaking havoc with his emotions, his marriage, and his masquerade. Lucy, still grieving the death of her father, wants desperately to avoid another heartbreak, but fears she may have schemed herself into a marriage with the one man destined to break her heart: a man who isn’t what he seems, who obviously can’t be trusted, and who will surely leave her the first chance he gets.

Baltimore, near-coastal waters, 1809

T
he gentle thump of water against wood was the only indication that the sloop had taken a swell. The ship continued on its course without a moment’s hesitation while spars creaked, rigging groaned, and canvas snapped lightly in the wind. They were sounds that Captain Derek Wentworth usually found soothing, but they offered no such comfort tonight. Tonight his life would change, no matter what his decision, but he knew the choice he had to make.

The leather-bound journal, its gold buckle gleaming in the glow of yellow lamplight, stared back at him as if it had a life of its own. And it did. His father’s life. A life Derek had scorned. One he’d convinced himself he didn’t want.

And now it was his.

He closed the cabin door and tried to shrug off the weariness that clung to him like a shroud. All these years he’d waited for his father to contact him, to acknowledge his degree from Harvard or his accolades as a shipwright. In his dreams his father would apologize, begging forgiveness, admitting that banishment to America had been harsh treatment for a boy of fourteen who’d wanted nothing more than his father’s notice. But in his heart he’d always known his father would never utter such words, for the same reason Derek needed to hear them. Pride. They’d both had too much pride, and now it was too late. His father was gone. Without a word of apology or praise, without a goodbye.

And Derek was expected to take his place.

He reached for the package delivered by one of England’s finest ships. Inside the pouch, along with his father’s ring and seal, were the legal documents stating that he, Jonathan Derek Wentworth, was the eighth Duke of Dorrington.

He didn’t want to return to England this way. He had planned to return in glory, as a man his father respected, but after reading the journal, he realized he didn’t know what kind of man that was. He’d worked so hard to excel at his schooling and his business, wanting to show his father he’d outgrown his childish ways, needing to prove that when the time came, he’d be able to manage the vast Dorrington holdings. Yet according to the journal, his father had let those holdings, the finances, even family matters, go while he pursued traitorous criminals. His father had put his country first and all else second, while Derek had abandoned his country of birth for another. Or so it must have seemed when Derek stayed on in America after completing his education. But he hadn’t wanted to stay in America. His pride had kept him from returning to England without an invitation. That blasted pride.

Desolation seeped through him, making his limbs too heavy to lift. Until this moment he hadn’t realized how much he cared . . . about his father’s approval, about the family he’d left behind. He hadn’t known how much he cared about England.

A soft knock sounded, and the cabin door creaked open. His first mate, Michael Morgan, stood stalwart in the doorway, compassion etched upon his weather-beaten face.

“Captain, have you made a decision? Are we heading home to Baltimore?”

Derek was silent as thoughts swirled through his mind.
Home.
Was Baltimore home? His business he could sell, his estate and ships too. Pamela, whom he’d planned to marry, was already betrothed again, and not to the man Derek caught her in bed with, but to someone else. No, America wasn’t his home. There was nothing for him here.

With a heavy sigh he nodded. “Yes, Morgan, I’m going home—to England.”

N
ineteen-year-old Lady Louisa was destined to be the savior of Chelton. The villagers had pinned their hopes on her, their expectations, in fact, and as surely as the sun would rise, she would not let them down.

They’d first seen her when she was but six years of age when her father, Philip Barrick, the eleventh Earl of Chelton, brought her to Stonecrest Manor to live. She was a pretty poppet with her heart-shaped face, long, dark curls, and vivid blue eyes that shone with excitement, and it took little more than meeting the girl to know that she was exceedingly sweet-natured as well. At that time, the villagers expected Philip Barrick to be their savior, and, indeed, he seemed perfect for the role, notwithstanding the small truth that he had ignored his responsibilities to the earldom for nigh on fifteen years.

But the villagers were a forgiving people, mostly because they had no choice. They were stuck with Barrick as earl, assuming the gentleman satisfied the requirements of the strange entailment, and to their way of thinking, this earl could hardly be worse than the last.
That
gentleman had arrived each spring, one of a party of jackanapes with their ladybirds, and proceeded to spend the annual requisite month of residency drinking, shooting—in general, carousing—before dragging himself off to London, leaving the estate in a shambles. No one had cared when
that
earl quit showing up, not even when speculation rose that he had kicked the bucket. (Not that anyone thought the earl had hung himself; it was more likely the bucket had been full of ale and he’d drowned in it.)

Several years passed before Philip Barrick first appeared. He took stock of the place—or so said the tenants who still lived on Stonecrest land—and then he introduced himself around and made it known that he intended to restore the neglected manor so that he could settle there with his bride.

Barrick rode off in the direction of London. He wasn’t seen again for eight years.

In the meantime, those who’d become disgusted with their meager living gave up and moved away. Those with a trade to ply took to the road, bringing money back to their families in between situations. Stonecrest’s tenants, who at least had rent-free roofs over their heads, continued to eke out an existence by tending their gardens, trading food, and exchanging skills amongst themselves.

And then one day Barrick returned. He brought with him his six-year-old daughter, Louisa—Lucy, as he called her. By then the manor was uninhabitable, at least it wasn’t fit for a child, and so the two of them stayed only a day. But he was back within a sennight, alone save a work crew, and a month later the title and estate were his.

Before long, the villagers, having short memories when it came to the past and high hopes when it came to the future, decided that if they
could
choose their own earl, their choice would be Barrick because
this
gentleman had many qualities to recommend him. Unlike most aristocrats they’d known, he wasn’t afraid to get dirty; he toiled in the fields alongside his tenants and workers when necessary, and directed them when it wasn’t. He was not a high-stickler; he graciously accepted invitations to sup with the local families until the manor was restored and staffed. He was a loving father; he doted on his only child, bringing her along on visits to his tenants, and letting her play with their children.

But perhaps more to his favor than anything else was the simple fact that Philip Barrick was a charming man; he liked people and people liked him.

The future had looked bright. The new Lord Chelton kept busy improving his manor and fields. He hired local help, he purchased local goods. Stonecrest Manor was on the road to prosperity, and by extension, the village was too.

Then Lord Chelton went and got himself killed—gunned down by a highwayman in the middle of the day on a road so seldom targeted by thieves that no one could recall such a thing ever happening before. But happen it did, to everyone’s sorrow and dismay.

And so, all eyes turned to Lady Louisa, for the villagers knew that in accordance with the entailment, Stonecrest Manor would soon be hers. She was a young lady of fine character, responsible and compassionate, and they didn’t mind at all if she raced across the fields on her stallion, astraddle, in breeches. The village of Chelton would be saved from its demise; Lady Louisa would be their savior.

That the young lady they looked to for their salvation would be forced to sacrifice her future to ensure theirs never once crossed their minds.

Stonecrest Manor, Hertfordshire, England, 1811

L
ucy’s first tingle of alarm came when she spied her uncle’s stylish carriage bustling along the lane toward Stonecrest Manor. Nathan Barrick, Earl of Chelton since the death of her father, abhorred the country, a fact he never failed to mention on his infrequent visits, the last of which was but a fortnight ago. For him to return so soon and at such a fast clip did not bode well.

“Harry, make haste!” she urged her newly hired footman, who was securing the last basket of foodstuff in the wagon bed. Harry turned from his completed task, his eyes widening at the sight of the carriage speeding toward the manor. His curious gaze settled on Lucy.

“It is my uncle,” Lucy said, apprehension gnawing at her stomach, “and he cannot know what we are about.”

If her uncle learned that she was sharing the manor’s food and other supplies with her tenants, he would withhold even more of the quarterly allowance, saying her extravagance was proof she didn’t need the funds. As it was, he pocketed a good fifty percent of the money meant for the manor, leaving Lucy to stretch every farthing to the end of its limits. She would not let her tenants go without the necessities, though, and since she couldn’t be honest with her uncle, she’d been forced to sneak behind his back. The tingle of alarm turned into a prescient shiver as she worried that he had somehow learned of her deceit.

“Oh, dear, where is Bridget?” On any other day her maid would have made her appearance within seconds of Harry’s arrival, or the arrival of any footman, for that matter. But on the one day that Lucy really needed her . . .

Before she could decide whether to send Harry looking for the girl or to go herself, the kitchen door flew open and Bridget flounced down the steps. She was sporting the bonnet Lucy had given her not an hour earlier, but the bonnet was all done up with new trim. The robin’s-egg blue of the ribbon was quite flattering to Bridget’s red hair and fair complexion. From the pose Bridget struck at the bottom of the steps, solely for Harry’s benefit, it was clear to Lucy that Bridget knew it too.

“I was wondering if you needed anything before you go, my lady.”

Though Bridget’s words were meant for Lucy, the maid’s eyes were fixed on tall, blond, handsome Harry.

“Actually, Bridget, I’m afraid you and Harry must make the rounds without me. Lord Chelton will surely require my presence here.”

A broad grin nearly split Bridget’s freckled face in half and she clambered up into the wagon within seconds, eager to be off. By the time Harry settled himself in place on the wagon seat, Bridget had slid over against him. Lucy restrained a half-hearted smile. Poor Harry. He had best get used to Bridget’s attentions. She wasn’t likely to turn them elsewhere while Harry was at Stonecrest.

“Take the path through the woods past the old gardener’s cottage,” she instructed the pair. “You can begin your deliveries at the south end and work your way back. Stay off the lane whenever possible.” It was imperative that her uncle not see the wagon full of foodstuff, and just as important that he not see Harry, else she would lose this footman to her uncle just as she had the last.

“Don’t worry, m’lady,” Bridget said. “I know how to get to every cottage the back way. By the time we’re on the lane, there won’t be nothing in the wagon for Lord Chelton to see. As long as Harry can manage this heavy load, we’ll be just fine.” Bridget took the opportunity to test Harry’s biceps, oohing as she did so. Harry blushed in response.

Lucy waved them off and turned resolutely toward the manor. Whatever matter had brought her uncle here, she must face it head-on.

She lifted her skirts and bounded up the back porch steps two at a time. Charging into the kitchen, she nearly collided with her aunt.

“Lucy! Thank goodness!” Relief melted the worry lines from Eleanor’s face. “You know how Lord Chelton hates to be kept waiting. Oh, dear,” she chided, taking in Lucy’s appearance, “you’ve been to the stable again and that horse of yours has damaged another gown.”

Lucy glanced at her skirts to see the pocket dangling by a few slender threads, and despite the trouble that loomed, she smiled. Ahote’s daily ritual of nosing into her pocket for his treat had created more than one casualty among her gowns, but breaking the stallion of that habit was proving difficult. Truth to tell, she enjoyed it as much as he did. She’d hidden apples in her pocket for Ahote since he was a colt, and although his head had grown while her pockets had not, she loved the game too much to give it up.

There was no time to change; she must face her uncle’s disapproval. But then, he seldom approved of anything about her, and her opinion of him was the same. Still, her disheveled appearance would only support the position he’d recently taken that she must marry. On his last visit he insisted marriage would put a stop to her unladylike behavior of “cavorting” about the countryside, involving herself in activities which “only a man should engage in.” Resentment surged at the recalled criticism. If her uncle cared half as much about his responsibilities to Stonecrest as he did about his prestigious title, she wouldn’t need to “cavort” about the countryside tending to estate matters.

“Why should I care about his opinion of my attire?” she asked her aunt. She mustered as much defiance as she could through her rising anxiety. “When I think of how he has managed to undo all the good Papa did for this place, I could cry. But I’m not going to cry and I’m not going to let Stonecrest matters go untended simply because he thinks people will gossip about my behavior.”

“Darling, I understand how you feel, but you can gain nothing by obstinate behavior. Whether you like it or not, your uncle controls Stonecrest. If you wish to further your cause of seeing it a profitable estate, you cannot thwart his every command.”

Eleanor smoothed Lucy’s hair. “Perhaps a pretense of behaving as he demands would appease him. You’ll catch more flies with honey than with vinegar,” she added as Lucy started in the direction of the study where her uncle waited.

As Lucy approached the hall, she straightened her shoulders with determination. It was time to speak the truth, time to tell him she had no intention of marrying, at least not until she inherited what was rightfully hers. Otherwise, his ridiculous game of presenting possible suitors, as he had on his previous visit, would go on and on. Although Stonecrest Manor would become hers whether she married or not, the dowry her father left her would go to her husband if she married before she was one and twenty. She needed that money to restore Stonecrest, and she couldn’t take the chance of losing it to a husband who might not share her desires. She had every right to make the decision to remain unwed for two more years. If her father hadn’t wanted her to have a choice, he wouldn’t have provided for it in his will.

Outside the study, she hesitated as she grasped the door handle. Her uncle had a way of manipulating situations and people. He’d had no problem convincing the court that Lucy’s guardianship should be turned over to him, even though her father had elected Eleanor and her husband, Harold, God rest his soul, to share that role. Lucy had been surprised at the time, having no idea why Nathan would take on such a responsibility since he barely had a relationship with Lucy or her father, but it hadn’t taken long for her to figure out Nathan’s scheme. Her uncle was a man without income but with a new title to support. Since the day he took over her guardianship, he had not only withheld half the manor’s allowance but most of her pin money as well, and he confiscated a good part of the harvest.

This made his edict that she must marry more confusing. If she married, Nathan would forfeit those gains to her husband. His action didn’t make sense.

Her heart was heavy as she realized just how difficult he could make the next two years if she didn’t do as he demanded. He could keep even more of the allowance, making it impossible for her to pay the few servants she had, each of whom was already doing the work of two or three, and he could steal all the harvest, leaving her and the tenants with nothing.

If only she were two years older. If only . . .

Don’t go wishing your life away
. . . Her father’s image was suddenly before her, his tousled auburn hair glinting from the sun, an amused smile on his face. The vision was so real and so painful she had to close her eyes, willing it away.

So many times as a little girl she had wished aloud that time would pass quickly before some exciting event, and always his response had been the same. “Don’t go wishing your life away, little one. Things will happen soon enough.”

Her eyes filled with tears as the memories washed through her. He had loved her so much, taught her so much. And she’d never had any reason to doubt him.

But this time he would have been wrong. The next two years could not pass quickly enough.

“B
etrothed?” Dumbstruck, Lucy simply stared.

Nathan Barrick preened, openly admiring his reflection in the gilded mirror displayed above the fireplace. He twirled a slightly mussed auburn curl into place before turning around to face her.

“Yes, as I have just said. The Earl of Harlech made an offer, and I accepted.” He stated it casually, as though he had announced a change in dinner plans. “Your betrothal will be announced in three weeks, when Lord Harlech returns to London, and your marriage will take place before Season’s end. Your aunt can assist you with wedding plans, and you can, of course, hire whomever you need . . . ”

His voice droned on, but Lucy couldn’t focus on the words. She was betrothed.
Betrothed!
Her uncle hadn’t presented a list of suitors as she’d expected him to do. He’d already chosen the man, and without any regard for her feelings, had agreed to the arrangement.