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Authors: Jamie Carie

BOOK: The Duchess and the Dragon
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His.
Inheritance.
He lurched back toward the men, trying to wear the familiar devil-may-care attitude but feeling like a carefully constructed house of cards whose bottom strut had been jerked away.
His eyes were drawn to the desk where the destruction of his life lay. The new will, confident in its strong, slashing handwriting, glared at him. The desk, a work of art, made of ebony wood covered with tortoise shell and inlaid with gilded brass, mocked him. A jade sculpture of a Chinese dragon stood on one corner, ornate and ferocious in design. It used to frighten him as a child.
Now he knew there were far more terrifying things in life than dragons.
A marble quill and ink set stood now silent near the top center edge.
Weapons used to destroy his future.
A clear glass sphere sat on the other corner along with several dogs, some intricate blown glass, some porcelain, others pewter and silver—all made in the image of his father’s only passion outside power and wealth: his dogs.
His father’s favorite, Hunter, had received the attention and praise Drake had longed for as a child. He had been secretly glad when the dog died, but it hadn’t mattered. There was little Drake could do to earn a word of praise from the stoic Ivor Weston, fourth Duke of Northumberland.
Now Drake realized it was far worse than he had suspected. His father hadn’t just disliked him. He’d harbored a deep hatred for his son. The question remained: Why?
Drake stared at the pages willing them to reveal some clue. His father’s handwriting, so stark and clear, proved he had been keen until his last breath. The hope that he had gone mad held no relief. Nothing could explain what he had done—expect pure maliciousness. Drake, his hands now braced on each polished edge, stared at the desk, in the room his father loved, and felt his barely constrained hurt and rage break through the barrier of his will. With a violent roar, he swept the pages and decorative accoutrements onto the floor. Glass and porcelain shattered; papers fluttered through the air like the feathers of a bird caught mid-flight by a bullet.
He swung around to face his startled friends. He’d let the caged animal out, but he no longer cared. Let them pity him. “There must be a way out of this! I refuse to let him do this to me!” Looking at the barrister he commanded, “Burn the will. We will use the other. The one you wrote up years ago. No one will know.”
Albert only shook his head and looked down. “Nasty business, that. Can’t do it.”
Charles leapt up, clearing his throat, then made for the crystal decanter to pour a stout drink. Avoiding the broken glass, he picked his way back to Drake’s side. “Easy, man,” he said in a voice meant to soothe, “drink this.”
Drake shook his head as if clearing it from a fog, took hold of the drink, and gulped it in one swallow. Hot talons of fire burned his throat, but he was glad. Glad of any sensation other than the dark pit of despair that awaited him. Setting the glass down on the now barren desk, he walked to a chair and sat. He closed his eyes and then dropped his head into his hands, no longer trying to make sense of it all, only knowing searing pain.
Charles cleared his throat. “Look here, Albert, is there nothing we can do? No way around the will?”
Drake looked up, saw Albert’s gaze dart around the room as if it could help him. Shaking his head he said finally, “I am afraid not, the will is very clear, supersedes the other. The ducal estate and title is to be given to the, um, the cousin, Lord Randolph.” His voice lowered as he corrected himself. “His grace, Randolph Weston.” He mopped at his damp brow with his ever ready handkerchief as his eyes wandered over to the crystal decanter as if he, too, needed a drink.
Drake stood abruptly, “Do not call him by that title within my hearing, do you understand? Never again.”
Albert nodded and continued. “Sorry, but you must accustom yourself to hearing it. It will soon be common knowledge.” Albert shook his gray head and looked at the floor. “If only you had a brother, then we could at least keep it in the immediate family.”
Drake’s head shot up. “What was that?”
Albert reddened, a vein pulsing blue in his forehead. “I am sorry, my lord. Pointless to think, much less speak of such things.”
“What is this about a brother?”
“Only that if you had a legitimate brother, my lord, your cousin would then become heir presumptive and the title and estate might go to the sibling as the next of kin after you.”
“Your father hasn’t a pregnant mistress hidden around the place, has he?” Charles drawled from his chair.
Drake rose and began pacing the length of the carpet. Giving Charles a scowl, he directed his question to Albert. “How so, when my father dictated in his will that everything be given to my cousin?”
“The king would doubtless override the will if a more direct heir were discovered. A few carefully placed words and documents, birth records and such, and I believe King George would look the other way and allow the sibling to inherit.” Albert shrugged. “Alas, there is no other heir.”
Drake stopped pacing in front of Albert and looked into the old man’s face with a slow smile. “Perhaps there will be.” He spoke more to himself than the others. “Yes, a dear, little brother.”
Rubbing his chin thoughtfully, he felt his smile grow. Of course. It was perfect. The best part of this plan was that his father, for all his wealth and determination, would not have the last laugh after all.
That distinct pleasure would belong to Drake.
Chapter Two
The men stared at Drake Alexander Weston, Earl of Warwick, wide-eyed. He had cracked, the disappointment too much.
Drake knew that’s what they were thinking and gave them the same smile he’d worn since he was ten, the world-weary smile of omniscient confidence. “Who knows of my father’s death?”
The two men exchanged glances. The duke’s body lay in the next room. The physician had been sent for, but little else was done as they had been so intent to carry out those last words.
Charles spoke up first. “Aside from the three of us?” He shrugged. “A couple of household servants and soon Doctor Canton. The man has only been dead a little above an hour.
I thought we would notify the parson first thing in the morning.”
Drake raised his hand. “No. No one is to know anything yet.”
Charles stared hard at his friend. “What the devil are you thinking of, Drake?”
“We will keep the old man’s death a secret—” he couldn’t restrain a smile; this was too perfect—“until I can marry.”
“Marry?” Albert frowned at him. “What good will that do?”
“No good at all if I marry as myself.”
His friends’ expressions told him they feared for his sanity.
“However, a great deal of good—” he drew out the suspense—“should I marry as my father. Even more good when I produce a child. Namely, my brother.”
Albert choked on his water. Charles stared at Drake in wide-eyed disbelief. “You can’t be serious. It will never wash. First off, how do you propose to keep the old man’s death a secret?”
“As it has been stated many times before,” Drake said sardonically, “I am, in appearance at least, the very image of my father. With a little theatrical makeup and some padding—” he shrugged, looking down at his wide chest and flat stomach—“I will look enough like him to make an occasional appearance. From a distance, of course. I am quite certain I can even fool the servants.”
Charles shook his head, “And what of the servants who know? You’ll never be able to keep news of this import quiet. You’re talking out of desperation, man!”
“The desperate are often the most cunning.” Drake wasn’t in the least deterred. “Listen to me. My servants are completely loyal to me. I am certain I can depend upon their cooperation. The doctor, however, will have already been told and will have to be bought.”
“But how . . . ?”
Drake ignored Charles’s sputtering confusion. “I will marry immediately, as my father, and upon finding the most fertile noblewoman in all of England, I will, God willing, bring a son, a dear baby brother, into this world. A short time later, my father will die from a withering disease that has kept him ill and in bed for months. The end result will be that my brother will inherit the dukedom. I will, of course manage the estate for him until he comes of age, at which time I will turn it over to him.” After finishing his case Drake looked at his friends, satisfaction filling him, replacing the despair. He almost chuckled aloud, knowing this was the final and most perfect irony of all.
“I will give up what is rightfully mine to one person and one person only. My own son.”
THE DAWN, THREE days later, found Drake on the third story balcony of Alnwick Castle, having a hearty breakfast of ham, eggs, buttered toast, potatoes thick with cream, and coffee. Whenever he was home and the weather permitted, he took his morning meal outdoors: on a balcony, terrace, or one of the many garden spots. He preferred these places over the stuffy red-and-gold dining room he shared with his father on rare occasions.
This morning he was engrossed in his newspaper, calm as any other morning. And why not? Having convinced Charles and Albert of his scheme he had little doubt he could convince others. And convince them he had. He smiled in memory, the words of the newspaper in front of him growing dim. Soon after their conversation had ended, Drake called the servants who knew of Ivor’s death to the study. They were given a condensed version of the plan and asked for loyalty, even as a weighty purse of leather was pressed into each hand. The doctor had been a bit harder to convince, but Drake was certain he could depend on him now that he had silenced the man’s conscience with an even heavier purse. The good doctor would never have to treat another case of consumption or deliver another baby as long as he lived if he didn’t want to.
The next step in this lunacy was to locate some padding, cosmetics, and the wherewithal to use them. The unaware servants were told his father had gone to London for a few weeks. Drake calculated that would give him time to prepare and practice for the appearances he would make as his father. But the greatest challenge would be to find the perfect woman who would pose as his father’s wife. Ivor should fall in love while in London, he mused, and come back remarried. The question was . . . to whom?
Drake allowed his mind to travel over the faces of the women in his life—beautiful women of varied backgrounds and temperaments, but having in common the grasping, avaricious character that dominated the ladies of his set. There had been many over the years, but many more opportunities for romantic liaisons that he had flatly refused. He was as calculated in his dalliance as he was in every other aspect of his life. He could have—perhaps even
should
have—chosen one of them to become his bride by now. But he’d enjoyed the life he led too much to consider that it could change so completely.
Still, now that he had to choose one and quickly, he found himself unable to do so. Lana, his current mistress, was an earl’s daughter. She would be delighted—no, ecstatic. But he didn’t think he wanted to trust such a secret with her. She was too demanding, too moody, and much too talkative. He needed a quiet woman—submissive and sweet. Someone who would accept this scheme and him as a temporary husband without questioning him to death over it. Once the child was born, Ivor could be put to rest in truth, and Drake would end his relationship with the woman. He would live in London, visiting occasionally to watch over the upbringing of his son.
Or rather . . . his brother.
He chuckled. It
was
preposterous, when he thought of all the implications. But the woman would remain a duchess, living here in the splendor that was Alnwick Castle. He was confident he could find any number of females willing to accept the terms of such a bizarre proposal.
Rubbing his freshly shaved chin, he leaned back in his wrought-iron chair and contemplated his other feminine acquaintances. He really should marry a virgin. Had to be certain it was his child that inherited the dukedom. And, much to his surprise, he realized he wanted someone who would be faithful, at least for the duration of the scheme. An innocent who would bear him a child and then become a rich dowager duchess, raising her child in the quiet countryside of Northumberland.

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