The Heir and the Spare (14 page)

“In novels, you can never be sure a person is dead until there is a corpse,” Emilia pointed out.

“Why would any sane person fake his death?” Annabelle asked.

“Now that I think about it,” Lady Palmerston mused, “it occurred shortly after the scandal with the Duke of Grafton.”

“The truth did come out about that one, did it not?” Lady Stillmore said. “Always does.”

“What scandal?” Annabelle asked.

“Lord Phillip, apparently, preempted the Graftons’ wedding night. Naturally, a challenge was issued. The duel was fought, and Grafton nearly died of his wounds. Prinny got wind of it and summoned Phillip. He claimed that his twin had fought the duel on his behalf. As evidence of guilt, he pointed out that his twin had fled the country,” Lady Palmerston explained.

“Shortly thereafter, we all learned that the poor brother had drowned in the Atlantic,” Lady Stillmore added.

“Well, who did fight the duel?” Emilia asked.

“No one knows. To this day, no one knows,” Lady Stillmore answered.

“So you both are suggesting that this twin did not, in fact, die,” Emilia summarized. “And we presume that after all this time, for some mysterious reason, this twin returned. That he has gone about as Phillip, misleading everyone, especially myself.”

“Oh my.” Annabelle sighed.

“Well, where is he then?” Emilia demanded.

Marksmith chose that moment to enter with the tea tray. He dawdled as much as he could, but the women did not utter a word in his presence. He resumed his post outside the door and continued to listen.

“We’ll find him, my dear,” Lady Palmerston said. “And then . . .”

“I will not marry him either,” Emilia stated. “Clearly, he is not a trustworthy person. And please, do not make me marry Phillip. Send me back to America if you must.”

“Oh, you will certainly not marry Phillip, if only because I do not fancy him as one of my relations. As for the other one . . .”

“What is his name, anyway?” Emilia asked.

“Was it David?” Lady Stillmore suggested.

“No. Let me think . . .” Lady Palmerston paused for a moment. “Devon. Devon Kensington, back from the dead.”

“Not for long,” Emilia muttered.

“The question remains of what we are to do,” Lady Stillmore pointed out. “Shall we all depart now?”

“That might raise suspicions,” Lady Palmerston answered. “No, we must simply behave as if nothing has happened.”

After ensuring her niece was tucked away in her bedchamber to rest, Lady Palmerston decided to seek out the butler. She hoped to press him into answering some of her questions. And, Lord in Heaven, did she have questions.

On her quest, however, she stumbled upon something more interesting than the butler. Whilst taking a leisurely stroll down the second floor hall, she paused at the sound of men’s voices. Naturally, she followed the sounds. They were coming from behind the doors of what she surmised from the intricate engravings led to the duke’s chamber.

“You are supposed to be dead!”

Lady Palmerston immediately recognized Phillip’s voice. This was certainly the most interesting thing she had ever heard him say. She pressed her ear up against the door.

“I assume that as the instigator of that particular lie, you would not be such a fool as to believe it. Or has wishful thinking gotten the better of you?” This man’s voice was slightly different, but not much. Lady Palmerston assumed it was the long-lost twin.

“What the hell are you doing here anyway?”

“Perhaps you might have noticed that our father is dying. I have come to say good-bye.”

“How did you know?” Phillip asked.

“Letter from Marksmith.”

“Oh, really?”

“Apparently, at least someone thought to question your report of my death. Marksmith told me our father hired investigators to look into it, and of course they found that I was still very much alive. Marksmith wrote months ago, saying Father’s health was failing, and that he was asking for me, and that I was to come home.”

“But
why
? What possible use could the old man have for you?”

“You’ll have to ask him.”

“I’m not wasting my breath talking to the senile old bat! Why did you come here? You know he never liked you.” Phillip’s tone was becoming more emotional by the moment, but the other one never lost his cool. Impressive.

“That is entirely possible, and probably true.”

“You always did whatever he wanted,” Phillip muttered.

“Like fight that duel as you?”

“Go to hell. I want you out of my house.”

“Are you not familiar with the inheritance laws of this country? Just to refresh your memory, this is not your house until our father passes on. Until that happens, I have every right to stay. I choose to exercise that right, whether you like it or not.”

Lady Palmerston then heard a roar of rage, undoubtedly from Phillip, and the crash of a piece of furniture being toppled.

She strolled away. It never ceased to amaze her what one could learn by walking around quietly and eavesdropping at house parties.

His Grace was aware of yelling nearby. He wished it would stop. Rather undignified thing to do. Especially from his heir. He squinted at the figure before him, and recognized one of his sons pacing, red faced and hollering. That was his heir, was it not?

A thought entered through his mind, a vague recollection of writing a letter to one of his sons. He forgot which one he had written it to, and if he had sent it, or where he had placed it. But he could not focus with that racket. And so he shut his eyes and allowed his mind to drift away.

Phillip
was determined to salvage something of this wretched day. After the confrontation with Miss Highhart, and then with his detestable twin, he had made the mistake of opening those letters, which were indeed tradesmen’s bills. What possessed him to ask for the account books, he did not know. When he looked at the numbers on the pages, he was reminded exactly why he generally pretended they did not exist.

He fired the estate manager.

He ranted and yelled at his father, blaming him for the decline. The old man sat stony and mute, with a faraway look in his eyes. At the end of Phillip’s tirade, the duke replied in his raspy old voice, “Phillip, I do think it’s time you take a wife. I should like to see the estate secure before I go.”

And so Phillip threw a lavish dinner party that evening. He invited the local gentry, in addition to the guests he was already entertaining. For reasons he could not fathom, but was glad for anyway, Miss Highhart remained. And so she sat across from him at the dinner table. The duke sat between them, at the head of the table.

Each of the seven courses was highly praised; to Phillip they tasted like desperation. He, like his guests, washed down every morsel with the fine vintages from a now nearly barren wine cellar. He had outdone himself, they said. His chef was a treasure.

Miss Highhart would not meet his eye, from the first course to the last.

His twin did not choose to put in an appearance.

It was a rankling thought he could not dismiss. And seated by Miss Highhart, who would not speak to him, and his father, who did not utter a single syllable throughout the meal, Phillip had little to distract him.

They remained for the sake of appearances. This excuse was unanimously agreed upon by the Stillmore women, Lady Palmerston, and Emilia. Though it was not discussed, they were all waiting for the mysterious twin to make an appearance, or at the very least be discovered.

Emilia, however, wasn’t quite sure she wanted him to be found. She was certain he was exactly like Phillip— deceptive, lying, evasive, and all too at ease manipulating innocent young women to suit his agenda. Did she really need another man like that? She thought not.

At any rate, she could not sneak off in search of him with her aunt, Annabelle, and Lady Stillmore surrounding her. But she saw their sly glances around the room. Their trips to the retiring room took rather long, too. They were all watching and waiting. Emilia was tired of it.

She pleaded headache and fatigue. Her aunt escorted her to her room and made her promise that she would not, under any circumstances, leave the room alone, nor would she allow anyone to enter. Once her maid, Meg, arrived, Lady Palmerston returned to the party downstairs.

“Why aren’t you at the party?” Meg asked, removing Emilia’s hairpins. “You should be dancing with handsome young gentlemen and enjoying yourself.”

“I’m rather tired,” Emilia said.

“Well, I’m sure your aunt will fill you in on all the gossip,” she said, running a brush through Emilia’s hair.

“Meg, can I ask you something? It will be between you and me. Our secret.”

“I’m not sure I like the sound of that, but go on.”

“Is Phillip’s twin brother staying in the house?”

“My, you take after your aunt. She already asked me about that this afternoon.”

“And what did you tell her?”

“That the staff has been sworn to secrecy on the matter,” Meg said gravely.

“Naturally. And . . .” Emilia prompted.

“He is staying in a chamber on the third floor. From what I gather from the servants here, he arrived at the house last night, after being in London for a few days. It seems he has been dividing his time between here and there. Only the butler attends to him, so none of us have gotten so much as a glimpse. Apparently he and Lord Huntley detest each other—so we have all placed bets on how long it will take them to come to blows. I believe Lord Devon mostly spends his time with his father.”

“His chamber is on the third floor?” Emilia said.

“Don’t you get any ideas! Your aunt said you weren’t to leave this room.”

“She said I wasn’t to go alone.”

“Oh, no. I’ve worked for your aunt for six years now, and I would hate to lose my position. I’m sorry, Miss Emilia. But you really ought to just stay here. Get a good night’s rest. Now shall I help you out of that gown?”

“No, I shall manage. Thank you, Meg.”

She shouldn’t go, of course. This very afternoon, she had promised herself that she would behave as a proper young lady. Hadn’t she learned by now that no good came of being alone with a gentleman?

But how on earth was she to sleep, knowing the answer to her questions was just one floor above? How could she possibly resist such an opportunity to have a conversation and clear up the misunderstanding? That was all that had to happen. She would return to her room in a few moments’ time and sleep peacefully.

She picked up the brass candlestick on her bedside table. Peeking out her door to make sure no one was about, and moving slowly so as not to extinguish the candle, Emilia made her way down the hall and up the stairs.

The third-floor hallway was long, dark, and musty, as if no one had been there for years. There were at least a dozen closed doors. She forced herself to tread slowly and softly, even though she was now feeling quite giddy. Finally, she came to the last door, which was slightly ajar. A sliver of light slipped out, hitting the hem of her gown. She paused for a second, took a deep breath for courage, and then pushed open the door.

Emilia stood in the doorway, drinking it all in. There was a fire in the grate. Moonlight spilled into the room, resting on the exact replica of Phillip. A man with the same dark hair, although his was mussed up as if he had dragged his fingers through it every so often. His shirt was unbuttoned, offering her a glimpse of a tan, muscular torso. After a moment, she averted her eyes, for the sight of his bare chest made her feel warm all over. She needed to keep her wits about her.

She also noticed that this man was reading a book.

“You must be the other one,” Emilia said. He was startled enough by her to drop the book. He did not move to pick it up. He remained seated, lit by moonlight and fire.

“Miss Highhart,” he said, sounding faintly surprised. He recovered though. “So we meet again.”

“We do, don’t we?” she replied. “How kind of you to acknowledge that for once.”

“Indeed,” he said dryly. “And again, you are alone when you ought not to be. You might want to be careful about that. You might not care for the consequences when you eventually get caught.”

“I have already been caught,” she replied, thinking of this afternoon. Fortunately she had only been discovered by her friends.

His expression was inscrutable.

“I suppose congratulations might be in order, then,” he said flatly.

His words were courteous, but his manner was rude. She didn’t deign to respond.

“Why did you make me promise not to kiss you again?”

“For your own good. Just as I am telling you to leave right now, for your own good.”

She didn’t move, even though she was now beginning to think it was a very good idea to do so. He was surly, annoying, rude, and impossibly handsome. Her legs would not move.

Devon considered his options. He could remain in the damned chair until the chit gave up and left. But he could see, plain as day, the absolute determination on her face to remain until she got what she wanted out of him. Although what, exactly, that was, he did not know.

He also saw the swells of her breasts peeking from the cream-colored lace edging on the bodice of her dress. He saw the way the fabric of the gown hugged her figure. And then her hair—it was the color of a flame viewed through a glass of champagne. Red, gold, intoxicating, and falling around her face and down to the middle of her back. All of these things told him he should not, under any circumstances, move from his chair. Because if he did . . . God help them both if he did.

Was she now engaged to Phillip? She said she had been caught. They had been at the ruins today. When he had ridden by, he had caught a glimpse of them standing alone in the old banquet hall. Devon knew his twin. He also knew that Miss Highhart liked kissing.