The Duke (31 page)

“Now, that boggles the mind,” Bertrand said.

“Shut yer trap, Bertie,” Lady Adella said. “Well, my fine English duke, who's so damned generous?
What about my other girls? What about Brandy, who's so old she's nearly a spinster now?”

Brandy, who knew every one of her grandmother's vagaries in all their infinite variety, said, “Am I really almost a spinster, ma'am?”

“Hush yer smart mouth, girl. Well, yer grace, what brilliant scheme have ye concocted for them?”

“I think,” the duke said slowly, frowning down at the parten bree on his plate that now looked very unappetizing, “that there's just one thing I can do.”

“Aye? What the devil is it?” Lady Adella said, leaning forward so far that the beautiful Norwich shawl Ian had given her was nearly in the gravy.

The duke sighed. “‘I suppose,” he said, “that I'll just have to marry the spinster. At least since I'm her guardian, I won't have to worry about being turned away. Yes, that's what I'll do. I'll sacrifice myself and marry the spinster. It will be difficult, but it's just, it's right. I'll do it to please you, Lady Adella.”

“Marry Brandy?” she screeched. The tips of the shawl were in the gravy. “Ye can't marry her. Damn ye, it isn't funny, and I'm not at all amused. Ye marry my granddaughter?”

“Ian, are you—” Bertrand stalled.

“Oh, Brandy, ye a duchess and I'll be a countess. We'll be famous for our salons. Everyone will want to meet us. All the ladies will copy our style. Just imagine.”

“I'll be doubly damned,” Claude said. “But perhaps his grace is jesting?”

“Oh, no,” the duke said. He continued, “As to Fiona, I think we'll give her a few years yet before we find her a husband. Ah, here is Crabbe with the champagne. Perfect timing, Crabbe.”

“I've never been tipsy before,” Constance said. “But tonight just might be my first time.”

Although Lady Adella dutifully toasted the
repeated announcement of each happy event, it was obvious that she wasn't happy. When Claude chanced to say again, “I'll be damned. I shall be the Earl of Penderleigh,” she turned on him, thumping her champagne glass down so hard the delicate stem broke.

“Shut up, ye bloody fool. Ye're just like old Angus, forever boasting that
he
was the lord of the castle, when nothing could be further from the truth. Ye know well that I was always both master and mistress, and will continue to be so after the duke has left us. I'll continue to play the bagpipes, and ye'll dance to my tune.”

Ah, so that was it, the duke thought, and looked toward Claude. This should prove interesting. He also hoped that he wouldn't be disappointed in Claude. He watched as Claude drew back his shoulders, looking positively dignified. He said with devastating calm, “Ye've always been a power-mongering old witch, lady. Aye, Old Angus allowed ye to play off yer tricks, holding us all on a tight rein, making us dance or cower as the mood struck ye. Ye're nothing now except the
dowager
countess of Penderleigh, and as such, why, I think the best place for ye is in the dower house.

“However, lady, if ye make a push to mind yer tongue and grant me the proper respect and deference due to the Earl of Penderleigh and the head of the household, I suppose that I'll let ye stay in the castle.”

Lady Adella's face was purple with rage. Ian would have applauded Claude's speech except he was afraid Lady Adella would expire on the spot.

“Ye said to me yerself, lady,” Claude continued in a low voice, “that it was time for ye to make retribution. The duke has done yer work for ye. And don't get him wrong, lady, if ye don't do as ye should, he'll take it out of yer hands and do it for ye.”

Bertrand sat forward in his chair, his eyes on Lady Adella. “Will ye tell us now about my grandfather Douglass, Lady Adella? Will ye tell us why the old earl suddenly disinherited him?”

“A
ye, lady,” Claude said. “It's time ye made a clean breast of it. I've hated the secrets. They've festered in the castle walls themselves as well as in my heart. Go ahead, for if ye don't, I shall. After all, if it hadn't been for ye and yer uncontrolled, hotblooded ways—”

“Shut yer mouth, Claude.” Lady Adella sank into her chair. She closed her rheumy old eyes. “Ye're a whiner, Claude, always have been. I told Douglass never to tell ye, that it wouldn't end well if he did. Ye see now that I was right.”

“I think it's ended very well,” Bertrand said. “Everything will be as it should have been in the first place. The line has been reestablished. Tell me, Father, tell me why we were disinherited. I don't wish to wait until ye're on yer deathbed.”

“Aye,” Brandy said, sitting forward, her elbows on the table, “tell us, Uncle Claude. After all, ye could be struck by lightning and then none of us would ever know.”

Lady Adella clutched her broken champagne glass and stared down at it. “Nay, Claude, close yer mouth. Ye'll not get it right. I'll tell everyone now. As ye know, being the eldest son, Douglass should have inherited the title and ye, Claude, should have followed
neatly after him. I was much younger then, ye know, and Douglass was a man, unlike that weak, rutting Angus, his younger brother. Aye, we became lovers and none were the wiser for it until the old earl caught us in the hayloft. A terrible temper the old earl had, and he beat Douglass until he was nearly senseless. He severed the line on that day, disinherited his firstborn son and all his descendants. Angus never knew the reason, the gloating prig. His father decided I'd learned my lesson. He didn't want poor Angus to be hurt that his wife had played him false.”

“My father, Douglass, told me this on his deathbed,” Claude said. “By that time ye were old, Lady Adella, and I could scarce believe him. I looked at ye and I just couldn't believe that any man would have ever wanted to make love to ye. But it was true.”

The duke, now worried about Lady Adella, said, “Perhaps I should more closely inquire into Brandy's antecedents. All these secrets, all this intrigue, why, who knows from whose seed she sprang?”

He achieved the result he'd hoped for. Lady Adella whipped up her head and looked at him with fire in her eyes. “I'll thank ye to watch yer tongue, my fine duke. It's possible that there's dirty linen somewhere in yer closet as well.”

“I'll thank ye not to say anything about dirty linen, lady,” Claude said sharply. “Douglass married and I was born in wedlock.”

“Yer grace,” Brandy said, “perhaps we could go to the drawing room. Connie can play the pianoforte for ye. Everyone can become calm again. Everyone can regain his balance.”

“I'll be damned,” Claude was heard to say several more times that evening.

Lady Adella recovered herself by bedtime. Ian heard her say as she rubbed her gnarled hands together, “A countess and a duchess. Aye, I've done
well by the both of the girls. And I'll do well by Fiona, too.”

It was with a good deal of regret that Ian kissed Brandy outside her bedchamber door, then opened the door and shoved her inside. “Saturday,” he said, sounding to be in extreme pain. “I can wait until Saturday.”

“Don't I have a say in this?”

“No. Go to bed. By yourself. Be quiet. Kiss me again.”

 

“If I may congratulate yer grace,” Fraser said after saluting the duke in his usual manner with his garden trowel, his round face split with a smile.

“Thank you, Fraser. Is Bertrand about? Or is he mooning over his future wife?”

“He's having his lunch, yer grace. Mooning as well, I imagine. He just holds up a fork and looks off into space and grins like a madman. As to Master Claude—well, yer grace, ye can well imagine that he slept very little last night. Master Bertrand said that all he could do was sit in front of the fireplace, mutter to himself that he was going to be the Earl of Penderleigh, slap his hand on his knee, and talk about fate.”

Ian laughed. He followed Fraser to the parlor, where Bertrand was indeed sitting motionlessly, not eating, his food untouched, just staring out the window into Fraser's beautiful garden. He looked up at the duke and gave him a fat grin.

“Ian, come in, come in. Fraser, bring his grace some of yer excellent scones and strawberry jam. Like me, his grace must keep up his strength—trying times ahead for the both of us.”

The duke sat himself across from Bertrand at the small circular table and said after Fraser had left the parlor, “More trying than you imagine, Bertrand. And
that is why I am here. Just how does one procure a special license in Scotland?”

Bertrand raised a startled eyebrow. “I had no idea that ye wished to move forward so quickly.”

“I don't wish to give Brandy any time to change her mind. There's also the matter of a parson.”

“Yer scones, yer grace,” Fraser said, moving quietly to his elbow. The duke nodded and said no more until Fraser had once again taken his leave.

“Well, ye know that Percy and Joanna are to arrive today. Do ye wish to avail yerself of their parson?” He shook his head. “Lord, I can't wait to see the look on Percy's face.”

“Actually, I'm expecting him to be well behaved, at least in front of his betrothed. This is important to him. Yes, he'll be polite and suave.”

“Aye? What is it, Fraser?” Bertrand asked, turning in his chair.

Fraser was frowning. “I don't rightly know, Master Bertrand. Wee Albie came with a message fer his grace.” He extended a folded sheet of paper toward the duke.

“What the devil?” Ian took the paper from Fraser and spread it out on the table before him. He read the large, scrawled words once, then yet again, unable to believe what he was seeing.

“. . . if ye wish to see Brandy alive again, ye will come unarmed and
alone
to the abandoned wooden barn that lies just to the west of the high cliff road. . . .”

“Fraser, fetch Wee Albie. At once.”

“Aye, yer grace.”

“Good God, Ian, what's the matter? What is that letter?”

Ian shook his head as Wee Albie, his elbow firmly held by Fraser, shuffled his huge feet into the room.

The duke raised the folded paper. “Where did you get this?”

Wee Albie blanched at the harshness of the duke's voice and looked wildly toward Bertrand.

“Quickly, Albie. Who gave you this letter for the duke?”

“A man what were muffled to his ears, yer grace. He said it were a matter of greatest urgency. He said ye'd want it faster than Satan wanted souls.”

“Ian, for God's sake.”

“Excuse me, Bertrand,” the duke said, striding quickly to the parlor door. “Don't tell anyone of this. Hopefully I will be with you again soon.”

The duke slammed out of the dower house and broke into a run back to the castle. When he gained his bedchamber, he ignored Mabley's startled jump, grabbed his small ivory-handled pistol, and slipped it into the top of his hessian. He forced himself to be as calm as the scrawled words flashed again and again into his mind: “. . . if ye wish to see Brandy alive again . . .” It was a madman, a Scottish madman. One of the Robertsons, it had to be. But which one? It made no sense. In ten minutes, he was jerking the bridle over Hercules's head. He pulled the saddle girth tight, swung into the saddle, and dug his heels into Hercules's sides.

Hercules snorted, whipped up upon his hind legs, and crashed down, only to find his master's heels in his sides again. He hurtled forward, barely checking his long stride as Ian veered him off the graveled drive toward the cliff road.

 

Brandy became aware of something sharp digging into her cheek and slowly opened her eyes. She groaned as a jagged pain pounded in her temple,
unable for the moment to bring her mind back into her body. As the pain receded, she gingerly placed her fingers against the side of her head. The discomfort against her cheek, she discovered, was from loose straws of hay.

“I thought perhaps I'd killed you.”

She looked in the direction of that low, calm voice, that very English voice. Giles Braidston was sitting across from her on a bale of hay, a pistol held loosely in his hand.

“Giles? Whatever are you doing here? What are you saying?”

“You're a bright girl, Brandy. What do you think?”

She stared at him, willing her wits to sharpen, willing her brain to forget the pain in her head. She said slowly, “I was standing at the cliff edge, watching Fiona on the beach—” She rubbed her hand against her temple. “I heard something, a sound that didn't quite belong. I turned, but I wasn't fast enough. Someone hit me on the head with a boulder. Then there wasn't anything.”

“I had to strike you with the butt of my pistol.”

She stared at him. “How stupid we've all been,” she said, surprised at the detached calm of her own voice. “How utterly blind.”

“Perhaps, Brandy, but I prefer to think that my plan is rather brilliant. As you say, no one in Scotland thought to suspect an Englishman—an Englishman, I might add, who is also the duke's own first cousin.”

“On the beach—it was ye, Giles. Ye shot Ian in the back.”

“Yes, and had it not been for your interference, I should now be the Duke of Portmaine. I was extremely annoyed with you, Brandy, throwing yourself over him as you did. I couldn't get another clean shot. I couldn't shoot you because I knew I would be
suspected. None of you bloody Robertsons would kill each other.”

She looked about her, realizing almost at once where she was. “So, Giles, I'm yer bait.”

“Yes, rather neat, isn't it? I haven't a doubt that Ian is riding like the very devil right now to get to you. He must fail. He will fail. Indeed, your duke has finally come to the end of his charmed existence.”