“Good God, your aunt should be here,” he said, frowning down at the pair so cozy on the sofa. “This is hardly proper.”
Alexander stood, and Elsie immediately missed his warmth. “My apologies, sir,” he said, his hand still holding hers. Her father’s eyes drifted to those hands clenched so tightly together, as if he were there to rip them apart.
Suddenly, her father’s face changed, almost fell, as if the effort to maintain his stoic manner was just too much. “If not for Mary...” he began, then stopped abruptly. “I do not mean to be an ogre, to be a Montague, keeping two people in love apart. I have no choice in the matter.”
Elsie felt her eyes burn with unshed tears. “I do understand, Father, even if I dislike it. I wish you could stand up to Kingston.”
Her father’s face paled slightly. “It has nothing to do with my standing up to him. It has to do with eighty thousand pounds that he gave me in good faith.”
Elsie gasped. “Eighty.
Thousand?
”
“And it’s all gone. Do you think this house, these grounds, your education, the balls, the town house in London, my stables, would have been possible without such an influx of funds?”
“I knew there was money involved but I never imagined...” Elsie felt sick to her stomach. Her father could never hope to pay back such an enormous amount, even if he sold every bit of property he owned. “It must have been an important vote.”
“At the time, I was the last hold-out. I am ashamed that my vote was bought, but at the time I thought I could give you and Christine and your mother a better life. A happier life.” He hung his head, and Elsie’s heart ached for him, but she couldn’t help thinking how unfair it was that all hinged upon her marrying someone she’d been engaged to since childhood.
Her father let out a bitter laugh. “The money wasn’t enough. It felt dirty, somehow. But then he upped the ante, you see. He promised that one of my daughters would one day be a duchess.” He shook his head. “I could not say no.”
“Your daughter will still be a duchess, sir, no matter what happens,” Alexander said, his tone brooking no argument.
“How can you say such a thing?”
“Because you must, Elsie. It is part of our promise to each other, remember?”
Elsie swallowed down a thick lump in her throat. He was right. No matter what happened with Alexander’s quest, she would one day be the Duchess of Kingston. She had promised, after all.
Chapter 21
Wallace Crowley hadn’t felt so energized since he’d been in his early thirties. Imagine bringing down a duke and his overpriced lawyers in one fell swoop. It was downright intoxicating.
Crowley was an intelligent and perceptive man. He prided himself on his ability to read people—even those who worked hard to not be read—and he had no doubt the duke would present a bit of a challenge. He loved challenges. He knew, for example, that His Grace had granted his request for an appointment simply out of curiosity. A man such as the Duke of Kingston was forever cloaked in his own sense of security. No one he’d ever met deserved to be brought down as much as Kingston. The more he’d learned about what the duke had done to his son, the more determined he became to set things right. It had become nearly as personal to him as it was to Alexander.
Crowley wore his brown frock coat, his finest boots, his newest pair of gloves. On his head he wore a fine silk top hat that his wife had told him was quite dashing. In one hand he carried an ivory and gold-handled walking stick; in the other hand, he carried proof that the Duke of Kingston was perhaps the coldest bastard in all of Britain. It had been remarkably easy to find proof that His Grace had fabricated his son’s death.
Apparently, the young boy had died in a fire that never happened in a school that never existed. Odd that.
What a thrill it had been when Hampton had come into his office, his face flushed with triumph, and slapped the documents on his desk. The death certificate stated clearly that Alexander Wilkinson, ten-year-old son of the Duke of Kingston, had succumbed to a fire at the Billingford School in the town of Fishings.
There was a slight problem with the document. Not only was there no such town as Fishings in all of England, no Billingford School had ever been registered and certainly no fire ever reported. He could not wait to tell the Duke that he had proof his son had never died—at least the way described in the death certificate—and proof that he’d been paying for the room and board at an asylum for that dead son for the past twenty-two years.
It was wonderfully diabolical and Crowley couldn’t wait until he presented his evidence to the Duke.
Kingston had a headache, and so he rubbed at his temples and squeezed his eyes shut tightly to relieve the pain. He did not have time to be in pain. With that thought, he glanced at his secretary, busily scratching away, his thinning hair hanging in unfortunate strands across his bald pate. It looked greasy and unkempt, and Kingston pressed his lips together in distaste.
He would have fired Farnsworth long ago if the man hadn’t been so efficient and loyal. And quiet. Yes, quiet. He never spoke unless Kingston asked a question, never inquired about his health or family, never argued about any task given him, including breaking off with Kingston’s latest mistress. He hadn’t time for that nonsense and Jilly was getting tiresome.
A quiet knock sounded on the door, which Kingston ignored. Farnsworth jumped up from his small desk and went to the door to speak softly to someone on the other side. Kingston was hardly aware of Farnsworth’s footsteps as he walked to his desk.
“A Mr. Crowley is here to see you, Your Grace. You have an appointment with him at ten o’clock.” Farnsworth snapped open his watch. “It is one minute ’til. Shall I bring him in, Your Grace?”
Kingston sighed, irritated, and nodded. He had no idea why a solicitor who was not his own would care to speak to him. Perhaps it was over some land matter or a business dealing with a client. No doubt someone was trying to get more money out of him than was due, rot them. They wouldn’t succeed. They never did.
He frowned over a proposal written by the steward of his property in Weston, a request that a windmill be replaced. Everyone was forever asking for money or favors or time. He put that request in a growing pile for Oscar to handle. Kingston liked to keep his son busy and out of trouble, not like the ne’er-do-wells spawned by so many of the aristocracy. When he died, his son, as inept and slow as he was, would be ready to take over his duties. When Kingston lifted his eyes, standing before him was a well-dressed white-haired man who looked vaguely familiar.
“How can I help you, Mr. Crowley?”
“Your Grace,” the man said, bowing with just the proper depth. “I am representing a gentleman by the name of Alexander Wilkinson, who is filing a petition with the House of Lords regarding his rightful claim of title. It is our contention that Mr. Wilkinson is actually the true Marquess of Hathwaite and your heir.”
The blood drained from Kingston’s head so quickly, he momentarily heard nothing but roaring in his ears and felt as if he actually might keel over. His hand clenched convulsively on his desk as he tried to regain control after hearing the name of his long-dead, not-so-dead son. It took him perhaps two seconds before he’d regained control of himself, and he nodded slightly, congratulating himself on recovering so quickly. Crowley, the fool, appeared not to have noticed his reaction, and was droning on about something. Kingston swallowed.
“I beg pardon, sir, but am I to understand that you are here representing some pretender claiming to be my son? My son died more than—” He paused, quickly calculating the years.
“Twenty-two years ago,” the solicitor supplied.
Kingston flushed. “Yes. Twenty-two years ago. How dare you!”
Crowley gave him an almost pitying look, there and gone so quickly, Kingston wasn’t even certain he had seen it.
“I do beg pardon, sir. Perhaps you were unaware that your son did not die,” Crowley said with maddening patience. “If that is so, you likely have an explanation as to why you’ve been paying room and board at an idiot asylum—Wickshire Asylum—the same asylum where you—” Crowley stopped, and made a great show of looking at the pages in front of him. “No, not you, your secretary, a Mr. Farnsworth, brought Alexander twenty-two years ago.”
“I have made several charitable contributions to many institutions over the years,” the duke said imperiously.
“Of course. Quite commendable of you, Your Grace. But please indulge me. Could you explain a death certificate for your son, which claimed he was killed in Fishings at Billingford School?”
Oh, shit
. Kingston gave Crowley a look that had sent more powerful men than this solicitor scurrying from his study, but the man simply smiled as if he were touched in the head. “My son’s death was exceedingly tragic.”
“Perhaps in your grief, you forgot the town where the school was located. And the name of the school itself. For neither has ever existed.”
Kingston, like Crowley, was a shrewd man. He knew when he was defeated, so he sat back in his chair as if he hadn’t a care in the world. “File your petition,” he said. “It should be amusing.”
Crowley gave him such a look of triumph that, just for a moment, Kingston felt a frisson of fear go up his spine. Then he remembered who he was, whom he had in his pocket, and knew no matter how true everything Crowley said was, they would never get the votes.
“Your Grace, I do wish you would reconsider, for your sake. This is damning information and would no doubt tarnish your stellar reputation,” Crowley said with just the smallest hint of irony. “Regardless of who your friends are now, I will win in the end and your son’s rightful place in society will be restored.”
“Never.”
Crowley gave him an assessing look. “I am curious, sir, as to why you would do such a thing. Your son is a fine young man, quite intelligent and well spoken. I don’t know a man in this kingdom who wouldn’t be proud to call him son.”
“Get out,” Kingston growled, and stood up abruptly. “Get out of my house. File your petition. I’ll see you in hell before that boy is named my heir. In hell,” he said, ending on a shout that even to Kingston’s own ears sounded a bit maniacal.
Crowley merely smiled and bowed. “As you wish.”
After the solicitor had gone, Kingston sat down in his chair, staring at the door where the man had disappeared, breathing heavily. His eyes flickered to Farnsworth, who sat as still as a statue, pen in hand, eyes wide, skin sickeningly pale.
“Sir?” he asked, his voice shaking even on that single syllable.
“Send for Lord Hathwaite,” Kingston snapped. “And then send for my solicitor.”
Farnsworth hastened out of the room, and five minutes later, the duke’s youngest son appeared before him, looking nervous and uncomfortable, which only made his mood darker. Henry, no matter how he’d scowled, had never feared him.
“I’m afraid we have to move the wedding up,” he said, as if discussing a business meeting. “I’ve just been informed that there is a pretender claiming to be Alexander, which as you can imagine could have grave implications for your future. I’d like to get you married before such gossip does irreparable damage and tarnishes your wedding.”
His son stood there, mouth gaping open like a fool. “Did you hear me? Go. Get a license. You’ll be wed by the end of the week.”
His son turned to go, then stopped. “If it is a pretender, as you say, why must we rush things? Wouldn’t that simply lend credence to this man’s claim? I would think the last thing we should do is hurry the wedding.”
Kingston’s eyes shifted away from his son for an instant before hardening with resolve. “Don’t think,” he sneered. “Just do as I say.”
Elsie’s cheeks were flushed from the exertion of walking up and down the stairs, but she felt more jubilant than she had in days. Finally, she was getting better, growing stronger. Her vision was nearly perfect, her lungs allowing her to breathe almost normally. Soon, she would go out to the garden by herself and feel the sun on her face once again. By the time Alexander returned, she would very nearly be her old self.
Thoughts of Alexander were never far from her mind. She worried about him, missed him even though she’d seen him only yesterday, but refused to think about what her life would be like should he fail to prove his identity. Nights were long and lonely, days interminable. She wished she could squeeze her eyes closed and make this terrible time pass, until the day of her wedding, when he would stand at the altar smiling at her. The first time she was able to leave her room, she’d walked to the guest room where they had spent so many beautiful hours together. She’d touched the counterpane, pressed the cold pillow beneath her hand, her heart aching.
One of the worst parts was that she had no one to talk to about him. Even now, her father refused to discuss him, and her aunt Diane, who had postponed her trip to Bamburgh when she’d become ill, had no knowledge of him. Her father thought that the fewer people who knew, the better. Just in case.
How she hated this silence, this pretending Alexander wasn’t the duke’s heir. She knew. That should be enough.
Aunt Diane, oblivious to her mental torment, couldn’t understand her complete lack of interest in planning for her wedding. To her aunt’s eyes, she was a sullen creature who simply did not appreciate her good fortune. So Elsie did try to show some interest. When her aunt prattled on about Lord Hathwaite, Elsie envisioned Alexander, not Oscar. She refused to believe Alexander would fail in his quest.
Elsie had just finished walking down the stairs for the second time, which turned out to be a mistake. She was nearly shaking with fatigue and her legs felt as if they might crumple beneath her.
“Elsie, there you are.” Her aunt, wringing her hands together worriedly, rushed to her side. “His Grace is here,” she whispered, “and he has some extremely disturbing news.”
Elsie, already winded, suddenly found it near impossible to take a breath.
“Oh, dear,” her aunt said, seeing her reaction. “It’s not as bad as all that. It’s not as if the wedding is called off.”
Elsie felt a sudden sense of foreboding. She could count on one hand the number of times His Grace had visited Mansfield Hall, and on those occasions she had been well aware of his visit in advance. “What has happened?”
Her aunt’s eyes were stricken, and Elsie’s fear only grew. What if he had found out about Alexander? What if he were here to threaten her father? Elsie swallowed and lifted her chin, ready to face whatever it was, knowing she would have to be strong.
Diane led her to her father’s study, moving quickly down the dimly lit hall as if the duke were behind them chasing them. Elsie quickly grew out of breath. “Please, Aunt, I cannot keep up.”
Diane turned, looking stricken. “I’m so sorry, dear. Take your time.”
Elsie leaned one hand on the wall, catching her breath and trying to calm her wildly beating heart, while her aunt hovered nervously next to her. “Can’t you please tell me what has happened?” Elsie asked.
“It is best that His Grace tell you this,” she said, and hesitated. “It’s about your wedding.”
Elsie’s eyes grew wide and her fears grew tenfold. Pushing off the wall, she entered her father’s study, praying she could face whatever was coming. The last thing she expected was for Kingston to rise and smile kindly at her.
Taken aback, Elsie found herself smiling back and dipping a curtsy. “Your Grace, what a wonderful surprise.”