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And it did hurt, truthfully, to think of
Trudy leaving. His daughter. His one and only child. She wasn't the
child he wanted or the child he felt he deserved. She was so…
annoying at times. And sick. The doctor's bill alone to keep her
healthy was more than he cared to think about. Still, he could tell
she loved him with her whole heart, just like her mother. He didn't
despise his daughter, but he wasn't proud of her either. She had
only had one suitor come calling in the past few weeks, and it was
that William Haddington, Anthony's son's friend. Then again, that
had been very fortuitous on Frederick's behalf.

The worst part of Trudy leaving was only a
week before, he'd paid for her coming out party. She was to debut
at her first ball tomorrow night. He'd spent a lot of money on her
party, money he couldn't ever get back, but it would be well worth
it.

She'd be gone.

Emma would have to go to the ball.

She'd just "happen" to run into Vaughan
Wexley, son of Anthony, and they would just happen to fall in
love.

The pieces had all been set. The plan had
been set in motion for years. Telling Cecelia had been the last
step. Now that horrible trip into his past had gone and it was time
to look into the future. What better way to get justice than to
hurt their children?

He only wished Anthony had been alive to see
this.

Frederick Dodsworth took the last gulp of
whisky and threw the glass into the fire.

He loved his life.

A Renwick House Novel

by Rachel Van Dyken

An Unfortunate Turn of Events

Cough, cough,
cough
. "So,
you see, my boy, there
isn't another option. I am at the end of my life and in need of
this final boon in order to pass into the land of our
ancestors."

Benedict Devlyn, Duke of Banbury, was
determined not to roll his eyes as he squinted at his
more-than-healthy aunt. "Forgive me, but I highly doubt the
sniffles will be the death of you. Unless you have some other sort
of illness that has you spouting off nonsensical death wishes. Oh
wait, yes, did your dog bite you? And it's become infected? Yes,
must be it. That's why you're dying, certainly not from sitting too
near Lady Renwick when she was ill last week."

"Impetuous man, look at me!"

He
was
looking at her. And all he saw
was a woman at the prime old age of one and seventy, with the
uncanny ability to hug a man so tightly he nearly lost whatever
food he'd managed to shovel in during tea while the witch discussed
the importance of her dog. Well, that and he had the sneaking
suspicion that for one reason or another, she was lying through her
teeth. For his aunt, of all people, to summon him wasn't normal.
Nor was answering her every beck and call something he made a habit
of doing.

For one thing, it was common knowledge that
she was slightly mad, and for another, he and his aunt hadn't been
on speaking terms since last season when he'd decided he would
not
take her dog to Almacks — to her great disappointment.
She'd been feigning near death ever since.

Her coughing brought him back to the present.
Peculiar that it was now changing to a more drastic coughing fit
than before. "Is that all then? You wish for me to go find a girl
and be done with this whole Devil Duke business?"

"Before I die!" Aunt Agatha interrupted,
thrusting her hand into the air. "You are a stain upon the family
name."

The witch didn't mince words, did she?

"I see," he said, though truthfully he didn't
see. After all, his reputation had been legendary. Every young buck
wanted to be him, and every high-stepping mama who threw her
debutante his way was given ruin and disaster in return. After ten
years of his infamous exploits, women not only gave him the cut
direct, but he had it on good authority they now placed his name
next to
devil
on all of the finishing school lists when
warning debutantes against ruin. In his mind, it was an
accomplishment of gigantic proportions.

She trained a cold glare on him, momentarily
giving Benedict pause. "Is that it then? You will never marry, even
if it's my dying wish? And you plan to enjoy the short years you
have left living a life that even the devil himself wouldn't
approve?"

Truly, it wasn't as bad as all that. She was
given to exaggeration. If he
was
that bad, well, he wouldn't
be accepted into Society.

And he was accepted everywhere.

He lifted his eyebrows silently prompting her
to continue speaking. When she didn't, he said, "Well, as you can
see, I am firm in my belief that I will not change. Good day." He
made a move to leave.

She coughed and held up her hand.

Patience was not one of Benedict's virtues,
nor was being used by any sort of woman, especially one who still
held a grudge the size of London. Devil take it, a blasted dog at
Almacks? To see him married before she died? Clearly his aunt was
mad. Perhaps they had room in Bedlam for one more…

"I truly am dying." Agatha held a trembling
hand to her face and winced.

"Ah yes, forgive me for forgetting that minor
detail." He took a seat opposite her and waited.

"Hmmph." Agatha crossed her arms and coughed
again. "I need to see you settled down before I die, Benedict. My
acceptance into heaven depends on it."

That, he believed.

"And what will you give me in return for my
obedience? After all, who knows what kind of notion you're bound to
get, considering you've been cooped up in your bed all day with a
head cold What's to say you won't demand I suddenly begin sprouting
children all over the place? Or take up dog breeding? Or, heaven
forbid, offer a smile?"

Aunt Agatha had the good sense to blush
before answering. "Believe me, Benedict, finding a bride may prove
more difficult than you realize. The idea that you think this to be
easy is quite laughable, if I do say so myself."
Cough.

Laughable? Truly? Biting back a curse, he
turned around and ran his fingers through his hair. Mad, his aunt
was truly mad. Either that or she had a death wish. How was it that
his aunt had the nerve to insult him when the rest of the
ton
was so deathly afraid of him and his reputation that he
was rumored to be the spawn of Satan himself?

Not that it kept any sort of married female
away from him. Laughable? His aunt didn't know what she was talking
about. Perhaps she was truly dying, for the day a woman had the
audacity to say no to the Devil Duke would also be the day he would
promptly eat his shirt and buy a lap dog.

"And I've already done all the work for you,
my boy!"

Why was he not surprised? She probably had a
special license underneath that dratted chair she was sitting in,
as well.

"And who is to be the victim, Aunt?"

Did her eyes just twinkle? Impossible! The
woman was seldom amused. "Lady Katherine Bourne. I do believe you
are acquainted, though I also have another female in mind,
considering Lady Katherine is a little high in the instep for you,
my boy, but not so much for another young fellow I know."

If he'd had a drink in his hand this would
have been the opportune moment for him to throw back the remaining
contents or slam it against the floor. As it was, he was having a
devil of a time keeping himself from cursing in the presence of his
aunt, even though one could hardly call her a lady with the way she
threw around French expletives.

"You truly mean for me to align myself with
that, that…" Obviously his mind was having trouble conjuring up an
adequate word to describe the girl in question. So much, in fact,
that he could only concentrate on the simple idea that his aunt
wanted him in the same room as the chit.

"She's lovely," his aunt pointed out. "And
need I remind you that she's a Kerrington? Why, every young man
within the city wants to be with the Kerrington family. They are,
after all, closely related to the regent himself, and I'm not one
to brag—"

Benedict stopped listening when the word
lovely
was mentioned. It seemed this would be the opportune
time to remind his aunt of her need for an heir, or at least nieces
and nephews to dote on. It certainly would not take place with the
Bourne chit!

"Absolutely not," he interrupted, or at least
he hoped he was. Nothing made him happier than interrupting his
aunt when she spoke.

Her eyes narrowed. "I don't understand."

Typical, the word
no
wasn't in her
vocabulary.

"I mean," Benedict sent up a silent prayer
for strength, "That I wouldn't marry the chit if you offered me all
the money in the world!"

"She's beautiful!"

"She's as clumsy as she is mad!" Benedict
roared.

His aunt squinted and tossed her head from
right to left, most likely trying to give him the impression she
didn't agree, though it seemed that she was closer to having an
apoplectic fit than arguing.

"I disagree." She lifted her chin in the air
and sniffed. "You have no proof she did those dreadful things.
After all, it has been three years since you've seen her! She's a
girl of three and twenty now! Nearly on the shelf."

"I wonder why," he muttered under his
breath.

"Oh posh, how much harm could she have
done?"

"Harm?" Benedict repeated. "Harm?"

"You said that."

"Harm," he said again, mainly to provoke his
aunt. At her scowl, he continued, "She nearly killed me—"

"Truly you exaggerate."

It was obviously time for a drink; Benedict
walked to the sideboard and poured three fingers of brandy. "I
hardly exaggerate the story. Need I remind you there were
witnesses? The girl followed me home. Hid, Aunt! Hid in the bushes
and nearly scared my horse out of its wits, tossing me from its
back! I was bedridden for a week!"

"Silly accident." His aunt waved it away.

"On our second meeting," he continued,
gaining more courage to argue from the amber liquid swirling in his
belly, "she decided to race Lord Rawlings through the fields of the
estate and nearly fell of her horse! I had to rescue her,
naturally, because Rawlings had so obviously bested her, and when I
came upon the fair damsel, she told me to stop, and at that precise
moment, I was hit in the face with a tree branch!"

"Again, I'm sure it wasn't on purpose."

Benedict growled low in his throat.
"Bedridden, again, three days. Need I go on?"

"Oh, please do." Aunt Agatha sipped her tea.
"I do love to hear of your exaggerations. It's as if someone is
telling me a bedtime story."

Benedict held up his finger and pointed at
his aunt. "The third and final time I was in that girl's presence,
and notice I say girl because to call her a woman would be an
insult to the sex, I offered to dance with her. Wanted to bury the
hatchet and all that. We danced, she was amiable, and then she
looked faint. I, being the gentleman that I am…" Aunt Agatha
coughed. Saucy wench. "Took her to the outside air. Upon reaching
the balcony she leaned over and dropped her reticule. I leaned down
to fetch it and managed to topple over onto the ground. Somehow
hitting my head a third time. Truly, I'm lucky to be alive."

"Aren't we all so thankful that you are,"
Aunt Agatha said dryly.

"I won't do it." He poured some more brandy
and repeated that same sentiment over and over again.

And when he left, his head ached something
fierce. Even the girl was plaguing him from afar. He wouldn't do
it. Couldn't do it. He would simply have to find someone else. And
fast, for his aunt had something up her sleeve this Christmas, and
he wasn't all that sure he wanted to be caught with his drawers
down.

Benedict approached the
following
night's ball with as much enthusiasm as a criminal
facing the hangman's noose. At this point, he would have welcomed
such an end.

He wore his ducal frown, and managed to get
in a few distinct growls at his footman before he made his way up
the marble steps into The Duke of Montmouth's townhouse.

It was to be the first ball hosted by the
duke and his bride, and although it was a time of merriment, all
Benedict could truly think of was the fact that the word
merriment
began with
merry
, which of course reminded
him of being married, which then made his head hurt, and for some
odd reason gave him the distinct impression that he was about to be
injured for the fourth time.

Benedict made his way directly to the whiskey
and poured himself a healthy glass, not turning to his right or
left to make conversation. His sole focus was on the dry liquid as
it poured down his throat. It was his job to be scandalous. He knew
drinking so early in the evening would be frowned upon, but he
didn't give a whit about anything except forgetting he had to
participate in the night's festivities.