Mr. Cavendish, I Presume (11 page)

Thomas felt the world dropping away. Every last moment, every memory, every breath of air that made him think he actually knew who he was—they all slid away, leaving him alone, stark, and completely without bearings.

“Your parents,” he said, and his voice shook like the wind. “Were they married?”

“What is your implication?” Audley snarled.

“Please,” Grace pleaded, jumping between them yet again. “He doesn’t know.” She looked at Thomas, and he knew what she was trying to tell him. Audley didn’t know. He had no idea what it meant if his birth was indeed legitimate.

Grace looked at him with apology. Because she was also saying that they had to tell him. They could not keep it a secret, no matter what the consequences. She said, “Someone needs to explain to Mr. Audley—”

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“Cavendish,” the dowager snapped.

“Mr. Cavendish-Audley,” Grace amended, ever the dip-lomat. “Someone needs to tell him that . . . that . . . ”

She looked frantically from person to person, and then her gaze finally settled upon Audley’s stunned face.

“Your father—the man in the painting, that is—assuming he
is
your father—he was his grace’s father’s . . .
elder
brother.”

No one said anything.

Grace cleared her throat. “So, if . . . if your parents were indeed lawfully married—”

“They were,” Audley bit off.

“Yes, of course. I mean, not of course, but—”

“What she means,” Thomas cut in sharply, because by God, he could not stand another moment of this, “is that if you are indeed the legitimate offspring of John Cavendish, then
you
are the Duke of Wyndham.”

And then he waited. For what, he wasn’t sure, but he was through with this. He’d said his part. Someone else could chime in and offer their bloody opinion.

“No,” Audley finally said, sitting down in the closest chair. “No.”

“You will remain here,” the dowager announced,

“until this matter can be settled to my satisfaction.”

“No,” Audley repeated, with considerably more con-viction. “I will not.”

“Oh, yes, you will,” she responded. “If you do not, I will turn you in to the authorities as the thief you are.”

“You wouldn’t do that,” Grace blurted out. She turned to the man in question. “She would never do that. Not if she believes that you are her grandson.”

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“Shut up!” the dowager growled. “I don’t know what you think you are doing, Miss Eversleigh, but you are not family, and you have no place in this room.”

Thomas stepped forward to intercede, but before he could utter a word, Audley stood, his back ramrod straight, his eyes hard.

And for the first time, Thomas no longer believed he’d been lying about his military service. For Audley was every inch an officer as he ordered, “Do not speak to her in that manner ever again.”

The dowager recoiled, stunned that he would speak to her in that manner, and over someone she considered beneath notice. “I am your grandmother,” she bit off.

Audley did not remove his eyes from her face. “That remains to be determined.”

“What?” Thomas burst out, before he had the chance to temper his reaction.

Audley looked at him with cool assessment.

“Are you now trying to tell me,” Thomas said disbelievingly, “that you
don’t
think you are the son of John Cavendish?”

The other man shrugged, suddenly looking more like the rogue he’d been playing earlier. “Frankly, I’m not so certain I wish to gain entry into this charming little club of yours.”

“You don’t have a choice,” the dowager said.

Audley glanced at her sideways. “So loving. So thoughtful. Truly, a grandmother for the ages.”

Grace let out the choked sound that Thomas would have made—in any other circumstances. No, he would have laughed aloud, truly. But not now. Not with a po-102 Julia

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tential usurper standing in his godforsaken drawing room.

“Your grace,” Grace said hesitantly, but he just didn’t want to hear it right now. He didn’t want to hear anything—no one’s opinions, no one’s suggestions, nothing.

Good God, they were all looking at him, waiting for him to make a decision, as if he were in charge.

Oh, now, that was rich. He didn’t even know who the bloody hell he was any longer. No one, possibly. No one at all. Certainly not the head of the family.

“Wyndham—” his grandmother began.

“Shut
up
,” he snapped. He grit his teeth, trying not to show weakness. What the
hell
was he supposed to do now? He turned to Audley—
Jack
, he supposed he ought start thinking of him, since he couldn’t quite manage to think of him as Cavendish, or God help him, Wyndham. “You should remain,” he said, hating the weary sound in his voice. “We will need—” Good Lord, he could hardly believe he was saying this. “We will need to get this sorted out.”

Audley did not answer immediately, and when he did, he sounded every bit as exhausted as Thomas felt. “Could someone please explain . . . ” He paused, pressing his fingers into his temples. Thomas knew that motion well. His own head was pounding like the devil.

“Could someone explain the family tree?” Audley finally asked.

“I had three sons,” the dowager said crisply. “Charles was the eldest, John the middle, and Reginald the last. Your father left for Ireland just after Reginald Mr. Cavendish, I Presume

103

married”—her face took on a visible expression of dis-taste, and Thomas almost rolled his eyes as she jerked her head in his direction—“
his
mother.”

“She was a cit,” Thomas said, because hell, it wasn’t a secret. “Her father owned factories. Piles and piles of them.” Ah, the irony. “We own them now.”

The dowager did not acknowledge him, instead keeping her attention firmly on Audley. “We were notified of your father’s death in July of 1790. One year after that, my husband and my eldest son died of a fever.

I did not contract the ailment. My youngest son was no longer living at Belgrave, so he, too, was spared.

Charles had not yet married, and we believed John to have died without issue. Thus Reginald became duke.”

There was a brief pause, followed by: “It was not expected.”

And then everyone turned and looked at him. Wonderful. Thomas said nothing, refusing to give any indication that she deserved a reply.

“I will remain,” Audley finally said, and although he sounded resigned, as if he hadn’t been offered a choice, Thomas was not fooled. The man was a thief, for God’s sake. A thief who had been given a chance to legally snatch one of the highest titles in the land. Not to mention the riches that accompanied it.

Riches that were unfathomable. Even, at times, to him.

“Most judicious of you,” the dowager said, clapping her hands together. “Now then, we—”

“But first,” Audley cut in, “I must return to the inn to collect my belongings.” He glanced around the draw-104 Julia

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ing room, as if mocking the opulence. “Meager though they are.”

“Nonsense,” the dowager said briskly. “Your things will be replaced.” She looked down her nose at his traveling costume. “With items of far greater quality, I might add.”

“I wasn’t asking your permission,” Audley responded coolly.

“Nonethe—”

“Furthermore,” he cut in, “I must make explanations to my associates.”

Thomas started to intercede. He could not have Audley spreading rumors across the county. Within a week it would be all over Britain. It wouldn’t matter if the claims were proved baseless. No one would ever judge him in the same way again. There would always be whispers.

He might not really be the duke.

There was another claim, hadn’t you heard? His
own grandmother supported it.

It would be a bloody nightmare.

“Nothing approaching the truth,” Audley added dryly, with a look in his direction. It made Thomas uncomfortable. He did not like that he could be read so easily. And by this man, most especially.

“Don’t disappear,” the dowager directed. “I assure you, you will regret it.”

“There’s no worry of that,” Thomas said, echoing what they all had to know. “Who would disappear with the promise of a dukedom?”

Audley seemed not amused. Thomas didn’t much care.

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“I will accompany you,” Thomas told him. He needed to take this man’s measure. He needed to see how he conducted himself, how he behaved with no female audience to woo.

Audley gave him a mocking smile, and his left eyebrow rose, just like—good
God,
it was frightening—

the dowager’s. “Need I worry for my safety?” he murmured.

Thomas forced himself not to respond. The afternoon hardly needed another fistfight. But the insult was acute. His entire life he had put Wyndham first.

The title, the legacy, the lands. Nothing had ever been about him, about Thomas Cavendish, a gentleman born in the English county of Lincolnshire; who loved music but abhorred the opera; who preferred to ride astride rather than in a carriage, even when the weather was inclement; who loved strawberries, especially with clotted cream; who had taken a first at Cambridge and could recite most of the sonnets of Shakespeare but never did, because he preferred to linger over each word in his own mind. It never seemed to matter that he found satisfaction in manual labor, or that he had no patience for inefficiency. And no one cared that he had never acquired a taste for port, or that he found the current habit of snuff asinine at best.

No, when the time came to make a decision—any decision—none of this had ever mattered. He was Wyndham. It was that simple.

And apparently, that complicated. Because his loyalty to his name and his legacy was unchecked.

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always did. It was laughable, really, too ironic to contemplate. He did the right thing because he was the Duke of Wyndham. And it seemed the right thing might very well mean handing over his very name to a stranger.

If he wasn’t the duke . . . Did that make him free?

Could he then do whatever he wished, rob coaches and despoil virgins and whatever it was men with no en-cumbrances chose to do?

But after all he had done, for someone to suggest that he would put his own personal gain above his duty to his family name—

It did not cut to the bone. It burned.

And then Audley turned to Grace, offering her that annoyingly smarmy smile, and said, “I am a threat to his very identity. Surely any reasonable man would question his safety.” It was all Thomas could do to keep his hands—fisted though they were—at his sides.

“No, you’re wrong,” Grace said to Audley, and Thomas found himself oddly comforted by the fervor in her voice. “You misjudge him. The duke—” She stopped for a moment, choking on the word, but then squared her shoulders and continued. “He is as honor-able a man as I have ever met. You would never come to harm in his company.”

“I assure you,” Thomas said smoothly, regarding his new cousin with a cool eye, “whatever violent urges I possess, I shall not act upon them.”

Grace turned her temper upon him at that. “That is a terrible thing to say.” And then, more quietly, so that only he could hear. “And after I defended you.”

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“But honest,” Audley acknowledged with a nod.

The two men locked eyes, and a silent truce was met.

They would travel to the inn together. They would not ask questions, they would not offer opinions . . . Hell, they would not even speak unless absolutely necessary.

Which suited Thomas perfectly.

Chapter 7

Your eye’s gone black.”

That was the first thing Audley said to him on the journey, nearly an hour after they’d departed.

Thomas turned and looked at him. “Your cheek is purple.”

They were almost to the posting inn where Audley had his belongings stashed, and so they had slowed their gait down to a walk. Audley was riding one of the horses from the Belgrave stables; he was, Thomas could not help but note, an extremely accomplished rider.

Audley touched his cheek, and not with any delicacy.

He patted it briskly, the three central fingers of his right hand. “It’s nothing,” he said, apparently assessing the injury. “Certainly not as bad as your eye.”

Thomas gave him a haughty look. Because, really, how could he know? The cheek was purple, quite liv-idly so.

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Audley looked at him with remarkable blandness, then said, “I have been shot in the arm and stabbed in the leg. And you?”

Thomas said nothing. But he felt his teeth clenching together, and he was painfully aware of the sound of his breath.

“The cheek is nothing,” Audley said again, and he looked forward anew, his eyes focusing on the bend in the road, just up ahead.

They were nearly to the posting inn. Thomas knew the area well. Hell, he owned half of it.

Or thought he owned it. Who knew any longer?

Maybe he wasn’t the Duke of Wyndham. What would it mean if he was merely another random Cavendish cousin? There were certainly enough of them. Maybe not as first relations, but the country was positively awash with seconds and thirds.

It was an interesting question. Interesting, of course, being the only word he could use that did not make him want to explode in mad laughter. If he wasn’t the Duke of Wyndham, who the hell was he? Did he own anything? Have a stick or stone or rubbly little patch of land to call his own?

Was he even still betrothed to Amelia?

Good God. He looked over his shoulder at Audley, who, damn him, looked cool and unperturbed as he stared at the horizon.

Would
he
get her? Lands, title, every last penny in his accounts—tally ho, mateys! Let’s toss in the fiancée while we’re at it.

And judging from Grace’s reaction to the annoying 110 Julia

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sod, Amelia would be head over heels for him at first sight.