I Love the Earl (10 page)

“You’ve got it all worked out, haven’t you,” he said in amusement.

“Not at all! But since you liked my idea about tending goats so much—”

He hauled her across the seat to kiss her soundly. “Enough about the goats. Let’s think of some happier ideas for enduring this journey across England.”

She smiled up at him. “I’m sure we’ll do very well, between the two of us.”

E
PILOGUE

Four months later

The thick letter didn’t look extraordinary. It was posted from Holborn, with no indication of its import.

“What can this be?” Rhys held it up questioningly. “An acquaintance of yours?”

Margaret read the name. “No. I’ve no idea.”

He broke the seal and began to read as Margaret slipped a bite of bacon under the table to the stray dog she’d adopted. The poor thing had been living in the stables, but seemed to recognize Margaret as his saving angel. He was never far from her feet.

They had settled into life in Wales rather easily. The house had been spared the infestation of cupids, and, aside from the crumbling east wing, was habitable once the roof was patched and the burned timbers cleared from the front façade. Rhys plunged back into managing his lands, and now flocks of sheep covered the hills—not his own sheep, but tenants’. In the spring he would be paid a harvest of lambs, to begin anew, and this time, he vowed to Margaret, they wouldn’t be grazed in any low-lying areas.

It felt almost right to sink back into the economy she had practiced before the Durham inheritance upended her life. Margaret paid her own accounts again, did her own mending, and tended her own kitchen garden. She supposed it would horrify the people who had invited her to their balls and masquerades in London, but she rather liked the days, with her duties beyond what dress to wear, and even more so the nights, when Rhys returned home to make love to her with very unfashionable passion. He laughed that they would have been thrown out of society sooner or later anyway, for he couldn’t keep his hands off her, which was simply not done by earls.

Even with that economy upon them, though, there was always a little bacon to spare for the dog. She would have to think of a name for him, since he didn’t appear to be running off any time soon. Not that any dog she’d ever met would run away from bacon. She was feeding him another tiny tidbit when Rhys said her name.

“Maggie,” he said blankly. “
Maggie
.”

“What is it?” She got up and rushed around the table to read over his shoulder, only to gasp aloud.

Francis was paying her dowry, in full. Even more, he had provided a separate dower for her, including a choice property in Cavendish Square in London. The letter was from the attorney laying out the terms, and included documents for Rhys to sign in acceptance.

“He relented,” she said softly.

“He did indeed,” Rhys muttered, scanning through the documents. “To a generous degree.” He turned over the last page, and a folded separate letter fluttered out. “This is for you,” he said, handing it to her.

Margaret unfolded the paper.
I was wrong
, it read simply, in Francis’s sharp, bold writing.
I wish you every happiness.
Her throat felt tight, and she gave a little gasp as her eyes filled with tears. That meant more to her than the money. Every month she’d written to him about her new life, but he never responded, until now. She’d missed her brother.

“I see I shall have to add Durham to my prayers after all,” said Rhys gently, watching her. “If he’s made you smile, I cannot hate him.”

“No, don’t hate him,” she said, dabbing at her eyes. She was glad to have her brother’s blessing at last, but his funds were very welcome as well. “Bless him with every breath, for now we shall have a new roof.”

Her husband stared at her for a moment, then threw back his head and laughed. “And a goat! We can name him Francis.” He pulled her into his lap. “How does it feel to be a wealthy woman?”

She smiled up at him. His skin was even darker now that he spent his days outside again, but his eyes still twinkled as wickedly as ever at her. “Lovely. Although not half as wonderful as it feels to be loved by you.”

The Duke of Durham has a scandalous secret, long-buried but not completely forgotten. And after a lifetime of waiting, it’s about to emerge to haunt his three sons, who each have to risk everything to discover The Truth About The Duke.

Neither wealth nor beauty will help Lady Francesca Gordon rescue her underage niece Georgiana from a cruel and selfish stepmother. Only London’s best solicitor can win her custody of the girl. But when Edward de Lacey, son of the powerful Duke of Durham, hires away the one man who can do the job, Francesca decides that Edward himself must champion her case . . . if only she can win over the dashing lord’s stony-walled heart.

But Edward has reason to be guarded: London’s tabloids have just exposed his father’s secret first marriage, throwing both his inheritance and his engagement into jeopardy. Yet when Francesca offers a one-of-a-kind chance to undo the newspapers’ damage, Edward is forced to agree to a partnership . . . and now, each moment together feeds the flames of his scandalous longing for the passionate, sensitive widow. But when Georgiana disappears, fate hands them the ultimate test—leaving their fragile love hanging in the balance.

Read on for a sneak peek at
One Night in London
by Caroline Linden,

coming in September 2011 from Avon

T
he Duke of Durham was dying.

It wasn’t spoken of openly, but everyone knew. With quiet steps and whispered instructions the servants were already preparing for the mourning. The solicitor had been sent for. Letters had been urgently dispatched to the duke’s other sons, one in the army and one in London, summoning them home. Durham himself knew his death was nigh, and until a sudden attack of heart pains the previous evening, he had been approving the funeral arrangements personally.

Edward de Lacey watched his father doze, the gaunt, stooped figure propped up on pillows in the bed as he struggled to breathe. The doctor had assured him there was no hope, and that the end was swiftly approaching. Edward would be very sorry to lose his father, but there was no question that the duke’s time on earth was spent.

Durham stirred. “Charles?” he said faintly. “Is that you?”

Edward moved forward. “No, sir,” he said quietly. “Not yet.”

“I must . . . speak . . . to Charles,” his father gasped. “Need . . . to—” He raised one hand and clutched weakly at Edward’s sleeve. “Get Charles . . . you must.”

“He’s on his way,” promised Edward, although he wasn’t sure of any such thing. He’d filled the letter to his brother with the direst language possible, but that could only have any effect after the letter found its way into Charlie’s hands, and even then Charlie might be too drunk to understand that he must come home immediately, let alone actually make the journey. Edward clasped his father’s hand between his own and expressed his hope, rather than his expectation. “He will surely be here at any moment.”

“I have to tell him . . .” Durham mumbled fretfully. “All of you . . .”

Edward waited, but his father just closed his eyes, looking anguished. Unwillingly Edward felt a flicker of petty annoyance; always Charlie, the firstborn, even though Edward was the son who was always there when the duke wanted him. He shoved it aside. It was unworthy to think such a thought as his father sank closer and closer to mortality. “Tell me, sir,” he whispered. “I will tell Charlie in the event . . .”
In the event he doesn’t arrive in time.
“I will make sure he knows as soon as he arrives, if you should be asleep then.”

“Yes . . .” came the duke’s soft, slurred voice. “Sleep. Soon. But not . . . without . . . telling Charles . . .” He sighed, and went so still Edward feared the worst for a moment, until the faint rise of his father’s chest proved him still alive.

In the utter quiet of the room, a distant drumming sounded. Hooves pounding hard up the gravel drive, Edward realized, at the same moment his father bolted upright in bed. “Charles,” croaked the duke, his face ashen. “Charles—is it he, Edward?”

Edward rushed to the window in time to see the rider’s scarlet coat before he flashed out of sight beneath the portico in front of the house. “It’s Gerard, Father.”

“Ah,” said Durham, slumping once more into his pillows. “A good boy, Gerard.”

Edward smiled wryly at his father’s masked disappointment. He was glad his younger brother, at least, was home. “I’ll go fetch him right up.”

“Do that,” murmured Durham. “I will be glad to see him. And Charles . . . Charles will be here soon?”

“At any moment,” Edward said again as he slipped through the door and held it for the doctor to take his place in the room. He reached the top of the stairs just as his brother came running up.

“Am I too late?” demanded Gerard.

Edward shook his head.

Gerard exhaled and ran one hand over his head. His dark hair was damp with sweat, and dust covered him from head to toe. “Thank God. I’ve been riding all day; probably damn near killed the poor horse.” He glanced at Edward. “Charlie?”

“No sign of him, as usual,” muttered Edward as they walked down the hall. “Father’s been calling for him for two days now.”

“Well, some things never change.” Gerard sighed and pulled loose a few buttons of his coat. “I should wash.”

Edward nodded. “I had all the rooms prepared. But Gerard—hurry.”

His brother paused on the threshold of his bedchamber. “He’s really dying, then?”

It did seem incredible, even to Edward. Durham had been a vital person, every bit as robust and daring as his sons. Since the death of the duchess over twenty years ago, the household had been a preserve of male pursuits, and no one pursued them harder than Durham himself. Edward was almost eighteen before any of the brothers could outshoot their father, and they outrode him only when the doctor flatly ordered His Grace out of the saddle at the age of seventy after a bad fall injured his back.

But now Durham was over eighty. He was an old man, and had been dying for the better part of a year. Gerard just hadn’t seen the decline. “Yes, he’s really dying,” Edward said in answer to his brother’s question. “I would be surprised if he lasts the night.”

When his younger brother slipped into the sickroom a few minutes later, Edward had already returned to his post by the window. Durham had told him to wait there, to announce the moment Charlie arrived. He wondered what his father wanted so desperately to tell Charlie; God knew Charlie hadn’t cared much for anything the duke had had to say for the last ten years or so, and apparently still didn’t. But whatever final words Durham had for his heir, they were obviously of tremendous importance. When he heard the creak of the door at Gerard’s entrance, Durham lurched up again and cried out, “Charles?”

“No, Father, ’tis Gerard.” Not a trace of offense or upset marred Gerard’s soft tone. He crossed to the bed and took his father’s hand. “Edward wrote me some nonsense that you were ill,” he said. “I came to thrash some sense into him.”

“But why did you not bring
Charles
?” whispered the duke in anguish. “Ah, lads. I have to tell Charles . . . ask his forgiveness . . .”

That was new. Edward abandoned his window post as Gerard shot him a curious look. “Forgiveness, Father?”

A tear leaked from the duke’s eye, tracing a glistening path down his sunken cheek. “I must beg pardon of you all. I didn’t know . . . If only I had known, in time . . . You, Gerard, will come out well enough—you always do—and Edward will have Lady Louisa . . . But Charles—Charles will not know what to do . . .”

“What do you mean?” Edward had to admire his brother’s calm, even tone. The duke’s demeanor was raising the hair on the back of his neck.

“Edward . . .” Durham reached feebly for him, and Edward stepped forward. He knelt beside the bed, leaning closer to hear the duke’s quavering voice. “I know you would forgive me, and even know what to do . . . Forgive me, I should have told you earlier . . . before it was too late . . .”

“Told me what, Father? What is too late?” Edward fought down a surge of apprehension. Behind his back, Gerard hissed quietly at the doctor to leave.

“Tell Charles . . .” rasped the duke. An ominous rattle echoed in his breath. “Tell Charles . . . I am sorry.”

“You will tell him yourself when he arrives,” Edward said. Gerard crossed the room in two strides, but shook his head as he gazed out the window facing the road from London. Edward turned back to his father. “Rest yourself, sir.”

“Rest!” Durham coughed, his entire body convulsing. “Not until you grant me forgiveness . . .” His blue eyes were almost wild as he stared at Edward.

“I—” Edward stared. “Yes. Whatever it is, Father, I forgive you.”

“Gerard,” cried the duke.

“You know I will forgive you, sir.” Gerard had come back to the bed. “But for what sin?” Even he couldn’t joke now.

“I tried . . .” The duke’s voice faded. “The solicitor . . . will tell . . . Sorry . . .”

Durham never spoke with any clarity again. He slipped in and out of consciousness the rest of the day and night, and finally breathed his last in the darkest hour of the night. Edward slumped in the chair next to the bed and listened to the silence when the tortured breathing finally stopped. Gerard had been sitting with him until a few hours ago, when he finally went to bed, exhausted from his hard ride. The doctor had long since dozed off, and Edward saw no reason to wake him, either. Durham had lived a long and full life, and suffered the last several months of it in pain. It was a kindness that he was at peace now.

Slowly he levered himself upright in the chair and leaned forward to take his father’s hand. It was still warm; it felt just as it had for the last year or so, when the wasting illness had taken hold of the duke and shriveled his flesh. But there was no strength in it, and never would be again. “Fare thee well, Father,” he said quietly, and laid the limp hand back on his father’s chest.

The duke’s solicitor, Mr. Pierce, arrived the following day. He had handled the Durham affairs for twenty years, as his father and grandfather had done before him. Edward was waiting in the front hall when his carriage pulled up to the steps.

“I see I should begin with condolences,” Pierce said, glancing at the black crepe already on the door. “I am very sorry for your loss, my lord.”

“Thank you.” Edward bowed his head.

“His Grace sent full instructions, as always. I was delayed a day, gathering everything he wished me to provide you.” Pierce paused. “I will be available as soon as you wish, of course.”

“My brother, Lord Gresham, is not yet here. Captain de Lacey and I are in no hurry to proceed without him.”

Pierce nodded. “As you wish, sir.”

“There is just one thing.” Edward raised one hand. “My father was quite agitated near the end, begging us to forgive him, but he wouldn’t say for what sin. He said you would explain.”

Pierce looked startled. “He didn’t—he didn’t tell you?”

“Tell us what?” Gerard was coming down the stairs, buttoning his scarlet jacket.

“Welcome home, Captain. My deepest sympathies,” said the solicitor with a quick bow.

“Thank you, Mr. Pierce.” Gerard turned to Edward. “The mysterious sin?” Edward nodded once, and Gerard fixed his penetrating gaze on Mr. Pierce again. “Do you know what Durham meant by that?” he asked in his usual direct way.

Mr. Pierce’s eyes darted between the two of them. “Yes,” he said. “I believe I do. I have a letter, as well as many other documents from His Grace, which will explain everything—as much as can be explained. But I think we should await Lord Gresham so that you might hear it, and the contents of His Grace’s will, together.”

“God only knows when Gresham will find his way out to Sussex,” said Gerard. “My brother and I would like to know now.”

“Yes,” Edward said when the solicitor shot a questioning look at him. He and Gerard had been unable to guess what Durham meant, and it was bothering Gerard as much as it was him. Over breakfast they agreed that since Durham had pushed the task onto the solicitor, it was undoubtedly some matter of inheritance. Perhaps their father had imposed some onerous conditions in his will or made some unexpected bequests—but that, of all things, was something completely in Durham’s power to change, and have no need of forgiveness. They were both at a complete loss, and very impatient to know the answer.

Mr. Pierce drew in a deep breath. “His Grace wished you to hear it at once—all three of you, since it affects you all.”

“Now, Mr. Pierce,” snapped Gerard.

“If you please,” Edward added more politely. “On this we do not wish to wait.”

“Your father—”

“Is dead,” said Edward. “I believe you are in my brother’s employ now—at the moment.”

Everyone knew Edward ran Durham, right down to which flowers were planted in the gardens. Everyone knew Charles, the new duke, wouldn’t give a damn which solicitor handled his affairs. If Edward wanted to sack Pierce, Charles wouldn’t lift a finger in protest. And Mr. Pierce knew just how profitable it was to handle Durham’s legal affairs. He hesitated only a moment, glancing from Edward to Gerard and back.

“The trouble is,” the solicitor began in a lowered voice, “it is not a well-defined problem; it stems from events many, many years ago, and unwinding the knot after so long has proven very difficult.”

“What knot?” growled Gerard.

“There is a chance,” said Mr. Pierce, as though choosing each word with care, “a very small,
remote
possibility, although it is impossible to ignore, that . . .”

“What?” prompted Edward sharply when the man hesitated again. This was doing nothing to ease his bad feeling about anything.

“That you—all of you, I mean—may . . . not be . . . able to receive your . . . full inheritances.”

“What?”

“Explain.” Edward held up one hand to quell Gerard’s outburst. “Why not?”

Mr. Pierce winced at his cold tone. “His Grace was married before he wed your late mother, the duchess,” he said, almost whispering. “Long ago.” He paused. “He and the young lady both decided the marriage had been a rash, youthful mistake and they parted ways.” Another pause. “But . . . there was no divorce.”

He didn’t need to say more. The implications came at Edward in a blinding rush. He looked at his brother, whose expression reflected his own dawning horror. Holy God. If Durham had been married . . . If his first wife had still survived when he married again . . . when he married
their mother
. . .