My Dearest Friend (Books We Love Regency Romance) (2 page)

Change?
My God, what a change, he thought. Will this emptying grief never lessen? It was not only that Stefan was dead but the manner of his dying. Stefan, the younger brother, so gay and carefree, who had gone to defy Old Bony in the Peninsula. Who would have thought such a brilliant flame could have been so callously extinguished? He had been young and vital and enriched the lives of all whom he encountered. Was it any wonder that he could not reconcile himself to his young sibling’s death?

A cannonball had inflicted such devastation on Stefan’s vigorous frame, leaving no hope for recovery, but still, against all odds, he had lived. When the troops had been forced to move on, he had been placed in a lonely garret in the care of his aide and a local medic to await the inevitable end.

He waited, his senses dulled with laudanum to ease the pain and calm his ranting, knowing it was but a matter of time. In rare lucid moments, he had cried out against the futility of attempting to prolong the life of the tangled wreck that had once served him as a body, wishing only for a merciful release.

That release came one morning, when left alone during a bout of sanity. His thoughts at their clearest, Stefan had taken the opportunity afforded by a discarded pistol that had been left within his reach, to end his existence.

Robert would never know whether the weapon had been left at his brother’s bedside by design or by a careless act, he only knew that its owner, whoever it might be, had earned his eternal gratitude. He could not bear to contemplate the agony Stefan had endured, wishing only that he had been at his side to ease those last few days of life.

The grim lines about the duke’s mouth betrayed his thoughts as he strode homewards. He relived his years of oneness with Stefan, knowing they had been as close as two brothers could be. It was as if a part of him had died too in that country so far away, strewn with the horrors of war. A war in which his brother would have played no part if he had not succumbed to Stefan’s pleading and bought him his commission in Kincaid’s Brigade. Was it any wonder that he should now feel this void, his grief too deep for tears?

To the outside world, he presented a façade, retreating further into himself, protecting himself with a barrier of indifference, determined that none should witness his sorrow. He was a proud man and cared not to share his grief with others.

Arriving some short while later at Blake House, Robert surprised a sleepy porter who had looked for his master’s return by coach. However, he cut short the man’s profuse apologies with a
curt order for his curricle to be brought to the front within the hour. His grace was intending a journey out of London.

Taking the stairs to the upper
story two at a time, he called for the attentions of his valet, demanding that no time should be lost in the preparations for his departure.

After issuing final orders to his butler, the duke, resplendent in a many caped drab driving coat over a coat of olive superfine, biscuit colored breeches and gleaming top boots, descended the steps from Blake House and mounted his curricle.

Seeing his master’s darkened mood the groom, who had been standing at the horses’ heads, hastened to take up his post at the rear of the vehicle. He leapt to his perch just as his grace released the lash from his whip and skillfully cracked it above the leaders’ heads, deftly catching the thong as the horses moved forward at a brisk trot.

Once free of the confines of the dusty London streets, Robert sprang his horses and with the groom perched precariously behind, he drove his curricle at a breakneck speed toward Stovely Hall, his country seat.

He paused only as often as was necessary to change horses, eager to reach his destination before the light should fail. It had been at Stovely that he had been informed of Stefan’s death and this would be the first time he had traveled to his estate since. He knew not why he felt this sudden desire to visit it once more, only that he wished for its tranquility, hoping in some way to heal his tortured thoughts.

It mattered not that he had absented himself from the estate for almost six months. He paid his staff well and knowing the vagaries of his moods, the hou
sekeeper, Mrs. James, kept the Hall forever in readiness for his return. She never knew whether he would arrive alone or with company, therefore, the house was always well tended.

Stovely Hall was set in magnificent grounds a short distance from the coast
, but the duke was impervious to its beauty when he halted his curricle, just as the light was beginning to fade, before the Palladian frontage. Hesitating slightly, he allowed his eyes to wander over the impressive house of varying antiquity, not daring to dwell on the memories the mere sight of it evoked.

The groom dismounted from his post and went immediately to the horses
’ heads.

         
“Take them to the stables,” his grace ordered, alighting from the driving seat and handing the vehicle over to the groom’s care.

As he mounted the stone steps to the large front door, it opened immediately as if his coming had been anticipated hourly, the footman in attendance showing no surprise at his master
’s arrival.

His grace, entering the hallway and drawing off his driving gloves, allowed this stalwart individual to divest him of his driving coat and issued instructions that Mrs. James should attend him in the library immediately.

The housekeeper, entering the room a short while later, found her employer standing before the fire she had ordered set earlier in the day. He stood with one arm resting on the mantle whilst extending the other to the flames and did not immediately look up as she entered. Mrs. James stood respectfully awaiting the duke’s notice and it was a few moments before, as if suddenly made aware of her arrival, he turned toward her.

“Ah madam,” he said, turning from the fire and taking the winged chair at its side. “Be so good as to arrange some refreshment and have it served here in the library. I intend to stay only a few days and I would be grateful if you would keep town hours. I will take my m
eals in the small salon, not the dining room; there is no need for the formal as no one else will be here.” He paused. “I trust that my brother’s apartments have been kept in the manner I instructed?”

“
But of course, your grace,” Mrs. James replied, bobbing a slight curtsey. “The rooms have been aired and dusted but nothing has been altered. You will find no change there, I do assure you.” She noted the pallor of the duke’s countenance, and her heart went out to him, knowing she could do nothing to help him. What could anyone do in the face of such unrelenting grief? “Perhaps your grace would like a glass of wine or claret? The day is chill and you have had a long journey.”

“A glass of brandy would serve better. The hour is late and once I have had some refreshment I will retire.” The duke turned his gaze toward the fire, an indication that the interview was at an end.

“As your grace wishes,” Mrs. James said, again dropping a slight curtsey, and retreating to the nether regions to supervise the preparation of supper. She sent a footman to the cellar to procure the brandy and ordered it to be presented for the duke’s approval. However, later that evening, she confided to the cook that she had never seen the master look so drawn; adding that although she had served him supper, as he had instructed, he had hardly touched the meal.

***

The rivulets of rain cascaded down the casement in Stefan’s bedroom and the duke, watching their progress, felt that they singularly suited his mood. He had refused breakfast. Immediately on rising, he had sought the portals of Stefan’s apartment thinking that here at last he might find some peace, but this was not to be. Instead, the torments began anew, and as he sat in the window seat watching the rain and the distant waves beating against the shore his thoughts gave him no respite from his tortured mind. The fact that, had he not purchased the commission, Stefan would have undoubtedly joined the ranks, did naught to reconcile him to the situation.

When the news of Stefan’s fate had first reached him he had been devastated and had attempted by various means to find the details of his death. However, nothing could prepare him for the torment he would fall victim to upon receiving the report from his brother’s aide and, even now, his grieving conscience would allow him no reprieve.

He had read and re-read the scrawled lines that he had found amongst Stefan’s belongings, which had been returned during his absence, and they tore at his heart.

    Death is swift, sweet and kind,

   
A comfort to my fevered mind,

   
That I might find solace in its depths,

  
For all eternity.

   He rose impatiently to pace between hearth and window until, becoming fretful of the confines of the room, he flung open the door. Entering the hall, despite the tempest of the day, he called for his horse to be brought from the stables. Perhaps a ride along the cliffs would alleviate his mood, finding in activity some sort of release from the agony that threatened to engulf him. Perhaps it had not been wise to attempt to return to Stovely so soon, but how long would it be before he could forgive himself, before he could become reconciled to the part he had played in Stefan’s fate?

* * *

What had been intended as a stay of only a few days became a protracted visit, the duke preferring solitude and the calm atmosphere of Stovely to the bustle of the city. Within three days of his arrival, he sent a missive to his secretary in London instructing him to return his winnings to Lord Harwood. Knowing the agony of mind the young lord would be suffering, he would not have it that he should labor under the belief that he had lost all for longer than was necessary.

The days turned into weeks and the first signs of spring started to form but still it brought no desire to return to London and he put all thoughts of it from his mind. For those who looked to see him in the clubs and gaming houses, it would seem that he had vanished from the face of the earth and his absence ceased to be commented on or his presence e
xpected. Instead, he sought solace in riding out each day, driving himself and his mount to the point of exhaustion. He became a familiar sight galloping along the cliff tops regardless of weather, the locals likening him to a banshee. With cloak flying, impervious to the terrain, he drove his horse on, only checking their speed when obstacles dictated.

It was on his return from one such excursion, that he received a letter from Sir Richard and taking it into the library he sat by the fire to read it. However, the information contained in the scrawled pages considerably saddened him. After the usual pleasantries, Sir Richard wrote that Lord Harwood, far from benefiting from the lesson he had attempted to teach him, had continued to gamble, losing heavily. After several attempts at the card tables to bring his fortune about and failing, he had died in a gaming-hell brawl over a dispute of his debts.

“Young dolt,” expostulated Robert to the empty room, tightly balling the velum in his fist. He sat forward and threw the offending missive into the fire, watching as the hungry flames devoured it. “It would seem that there are those destined for self-destruction no matter how one tries to alter the course of fate.” He rose and poured himself a glass of brandy before going to his desk to pen a reply.

* * *

Some weeks later, when he had retired to his office with his agent intent on dealing with matters of the estate, Robert received news of a visitor.

“A Miss Chandler wishes to see your grace,” informed the footman standing just within the door
.

The duke frowned, aware of a feeling of irritation and laid aside his pen. Turning to his agent he said, “I don’t recall a Miss Chandler. Should I?”

“The lady begs to speak to your grace, says it is a matter of some urgency, sir,” informed the footman.

“
Then show her into the drawing room, I will be with her directly,” replied the duke, and bowing, the footman left immediately to do his bidding.

Once more addressing his agent
, Robert asked, “Do we know a Miss Chandler, Stevens? Upon reflection, I can vaguely remember the name of Chandler but I know not in what connection. Is she one of my tenants, I cannot recollect anyone of that name amongst my acquaintances?”

“
She is certainly not one of your tenants, sir,” replied Stevens, equally at a loss as his employer.

Issuing a sound of impatience, Robert rose from his seat; he did not welcome the interruption.
“Her arrival is somewhat of a mystery then. Whatever the reason for her visit I will deal with it as expediently as possible. I’m in no mood for petticoats.”

He strode from his office, his steps ringing ominously loud on the marble tiling in the
great hallway. He had not changed from his morning ride and was not attired for receiving female company. Indeed, he had no desire for it and found the visit irksome in the extreme, the mere thought of it trying his patience severely.

Grasping the handle of the drawing room door, he snapped it open with some force, the sound of its opening taking the occupant quite by surprise. She turned sharply from the window where she had been viewing the grounds and her startled violet eyes instantly met his. She was a petite, fashionable young lady of one and twenty and immediately he was aware of her heart-shaped face and delicate features. She had an abundance of dark chestnut hair that was confined beneath a sapphire velvet tricorn and her blue velvet riding habit had a light covering of dust, which proved that she had ridden to
Stovely rather than traveling by carriage, as was the usual wont of young ladies of fashion.