The Heir and the Spare (30 page)

In spite of Devon’s blank expression and seemingly relaxed pose, Emilia could feel the tension radiating from him. Phillip had turned pale. The glass of brandy he had been holding fell to the carpet with a muted thud, and the amber liquid spilled out. Phillip didn’t even seem to notice he had dropped it.

Marksmith broke the silence by clearing his throat. Everyone turned to look at him. “I’ll just go fetch the diary,” he murmured.

Neither twin spoke. Phillip was gripping the arms of the chair with such force that his knuckles had turned white. And Devon was just as rigid. Emilia reached to hold his hand, and it felt like stone in hers.

“Looks like we’re in for quite a storm,” Mr. Hampshire said, having spent the past moment staring out the window.

“Yes, it does,” Emilia replied, when it was clear no one else would respond. She looked out the window and saw dark gray clouds rolling across the sky and darkening the green of the lawn and surrounding gardens. It was early afternoon, but it was almost as dark as nightfall.

Finally Marksmith returned with an ancient leather-bound book. After a moment in which one could hear Phillip grinding his teeth, the solicitor finally opened the book to a page marked by a faded blue ribbon. And then he began to read aloud.

“You cannot believe that!” Phillip said loudly.

“There are many questions that arise from this,” Mr. Hampshire stated.

“The doctor and the nurse were sent away by the duke, for he blamed them, in part, for the loss of his wife. Neither are living any longer,” Marksmith said. “My own wife died a few days after the birth of the boys.”

“So you knew all this time,” Devon said quietly. “And you never said anything.”

“I had tried to speak to His Grace. He had no interest in listening to a servant. Even when I told him it was about his sons, he said they were none of my concern. A few years ago, I had resorted to leaving the diary where he might see it. It was always returned without comment. I was never aware that he eventually took the time to read it.”

“Apparently, he did,” Mr. Hampshire replied.

“Bloody hell! I am not going to be fooled by such a ridiculous attempt to steal what is mine,” Phillip shouted. “That diary could be a forgery. The old butler knows that I shall fire him upon receiving the title. He is only doing this to save himself!”

“Shut up, Phillip. You’re becoming hysterical,” Devon said.

“It is my sense of justice that led me to make this known,” Marksmith answered.

“Or did you forge that damned diary?” Phillip accused Devon.

“Forgery is not one of my many talents,” Devon said dryly.

“This book clearly bears the marks of age,” Mr. Hampshire said, fingering the brittle pages and holding the book out so the others could see the faded ink. “Since we absolutely must ensure that the dukedom is passed along to the rightful heir, forgive me, gentlemen, but we must check your backsides for this birthmark.” The solicitor seemed rather put out by such a chore.

“That really won’t be necessary,” Devon said.

“Absolutely not,” Phillip said firmly.

“If you both refuse, neither of you will be able to receive your portions,” Barnaby counseled. “I apologize, gentlemen, this shall be distasteful for us all.”

The brothers looked at each other with narrowed eyes and hateful expressions. Reluctantly, both of them stood up, burning with humiliation, and untucked their shirts. They each had the air of schoolboys about to be whipped for doing something naughty. Mr. Hampshire sighed at the task before him. He went to Phillip first, adjusting his spectacles to peer at his backside. Had the situation not been so fraught with tension and grave consequences, Emilia might have giggled at the comical way Phillip twisted around to inspect his own back, not unlike a dog chasing its own tail.

Her husband looked sober, mildly annoyed, and as dignified as one could, given the circumstances. She felt her cheeks become hot as she envisioned his body, trying to recall a birthmark.

Devon, for his part, could not look at his wife. It seemed utterly disrespectful, given that at the moment he was thinking of a former mistress who had often commented upon a certain birthmark on his lower back.

It was hard to think clearly when a heavy old solicitor was peering at one’s backside, but Devon knew two things. First, he would not take the title, which was apparently rightfully his. Second, he was only submitting to this because, while it would turn his entire world upside down, it would certainly do the same for his brother.

His younger brother. Funny, that.

“Well, it appears this one is the rightful heir,” Mr. Hampshire said, once again adjusting his spectacles. “I’ll just tend to the paperwork.”

Phillip turned to Devon, walking close to him, within inches of his face. “You are behind all of this aren’t you? The forged diary. Bloody hell. That is probably not even a real birthmark. The title, the estate, it is mine. Mine,” Phillip whined, sounding for all the world like a spoiled child having his favorite toy taken away. “Does no one else find his timing uncanny? Gone for years, only to return when the old man is on his deathbed?”

“He requested that I come,” Devon answered. “And now I know why.”

“I should have ensured that you were actually killed,” Phillip said.

“Instead of just telling everyone I was dead?”

“How was I supposed to know the old man would look into it? He never gave a damn about you.”

“He never gave a damn about either of us. And I don’t give a damn about the title and the inheritance. You can have it,” Devon said, folding his arms resolutely over his chest.

“What?” everyone else gasped.

“But we must ensure proper succession!” the solicitor said, mopping his brow with a handkerchief.

“What, are you taking pity on me now?” Phillip snarled.

“Not at all. I simply have no need for the mountain of debt that is mostly your own doing.”

“Well, maybe I don’t either,” Phillip retorted.

“I won’t accept it,” Devon said firmly. “It’s all yours. You might wish to brush up on your estate management, Your Grace,” Devon said mockingly with an obsequious bow, before stalking across the room, yanking open one of the French doors, and walking out.

Once outside, Devon broke into a run. He knew it was an immature thing to do, but he had to get out of that room. He had to get away from it all. Didn’t they understand that it wasn’t about the inheritance, but how everything he had known had been called into question? All those years of misery and torment, and for what? People bowing to him and calling him Your Grace in reverential tones for the rest of his life was supposed to compensate for the fact that he had always been alone with the nagging feeling of always being second best?

He ran faster, kicking up gravel along the path.

And he had seen those account books. God, he could just picture the years and years of long days and longer nights, sorting through everything, rather than making love to his wife. And much of the debt was Phillip’s, and Devon would be damned before he paid for his brother’s trinkets and gaming debts out of his own pocket. And all the while, he would be waiting for Phillip to figure out some horrid sort of revenge, which would undoubtedly occupy his every waking moment.

The maze was looming before him, and he did not slow his pace. He entered, taking a left, vaguely remembering the twists and turns from when he was a child. When he needed something to do when no one could bother with him. When he needed to hide from his brother. He recalled a time that Phillip had gotten lost in the maze. They had been ten. And Devon had found him, led them both out, when he could have easily let the fool spend the night lost and confused. He should have done so.

He turned right at the next corner.

He never should have returned to England. And to think his father knew. He had known, and deliberately set up this underhanded way of passing on the inheritance. It seemed fitting, considering his father’s obsession with the damned estate. Either Phillip inherited as expected, or, should Devon return, he would assume what was rightfully his.

No, he should never have returned. Except for Emilia. Perhaps he shouldn’t have been so quick to throw away the chance at the stupid title, if only because she might have fancied being a duchess.

Emilia. He heard her cry out his name. He stopped suddenly, sliding a little on the wet grass, but not falling. He waited for the thunderous sound of his breath to quiet so he could listen. She was calling his name. He started running again, this time following the sound of her voice.

They had all stood there in the library, utterly silent, as if listening to the echoes of the argument. A gust of wet wind stole through the room, entering through the door Devon had left open. Though she didn’t understand completely, Emilia seemed to be the only one in the room with a clue as to what he was feeling at the moment. His entire world had been spun around and around until there was only one constant thing.

Her. His wife. At the very least, she was going to show him, she had to tell him. And so she picked up her skirts and dashed outside after him.

She flew across the patio, down the stairs, sliding across the gravel before gaining her footing. She called out Devon’s name as she sprinted down the gravel path. Up ahead, she saw him run into the maze constructed of boxwood hedges that had grown over six feet in height. Blast. Hoping to catch up with him before they both were lost, she pushed herself to go faster.

There was a constant pounding, her heart no doubt. Each thump and pump grew louder until it could not be denied that the sound was of footsteps. Glancing behind, she saw Phillip in hot pursuit. “Devon!” she yelled.

The only response was a wet splat upon her cheeks. She looked up; those ominous gray clouds were starting to unload torrents of rain. With Phillip closing the distance, she had no choice but to dash into the maze and pray she could lose him, for it would be impossible for her to outrun him.

And so she dashed through, turning left, right, going straight ahead. The paths were narrow, and occasionally statues of Greek figures popped up in corners here and there. Branches and leaves brushed against her skirts and her cheeks. She took deep gasping breaths, inhaling the scent of boxwood and rain.

Phillip was horribly close to her now. He reached out and grabbed a handful of pale silver silk. She continued to run, and he was left with a handful of fabric that he let fall to the ground. She turned one corner, and then another, praying she would not encounter a dead end. Phillip reached out to grab her once again. While arching and twisting to escape his clutches, she slid going around the corner, twisting her ankle as she fell.

She collapsed in a heap upon the wet grass. She did not feel the cold, only a throbbing pain in her ankle. Just like the night she and Devon first met, she thought wildly.

“Exactly where I want you,” Phillip said, standing above her with a venomous gleam in his eye. “He’ll take what’s mine and so I’ll take what’s his.”

“No! No!
No!
” She struggled to stand, determined to ignore the pain. Her ankle refused to cooperate and she collapsed once again. As Phillip dropped to his knees before her, she reached under her skirts and yanked off a boot. He leered and leaned into her, grabbing a fistful of her wet hair to pull her face toward his. With all of her strength, she smacked him in the face with her boot and wished it were not made of the softest, finest leather.

But he did not let go. She shouted out her husband’s name. She grabbed a handful of Phillip’s wet hair and yanked it hard, and he swore loudly. And so they fought, twisting and pulling, falling back into the boxwood, the branches raking across their cheeks.

She was soaked and tired from the struggle, but she kept yelling her husband’s name, and she kept fighting as best she could. And then there was a hideous cracking sound and everything went black.

Devon found them just in time to see it happen. Emilia was struggling to keep Phillip away from her, from hurting her more, when her head hit the base of the statue. The sound of it made him want to be sick. But he couldn’t be. Not now. He couldn’t.