The Heir and the Spare (32 page)

His nose, which once reeked of nobility, now had an odd slant and bump to it. It had taken him a while to adjust to seeing his reflection in the mirror. His damned twin had tried to reject the title, and then Prinny got involved, but one thing had
not
changed, however: Phillip was still the heir.

He cast another glance at the pile of bank notes on the table. Lord Althorp had wagered his boat. Visions of cruising on the Thames flitted through his mind. Reminding himself to focus on the game, he looked at the cards in his hand. They were playing vingt-et-un, and he held an ace and an eight. Not bad. Probably wouldn’t win, though.

As Lord Essex, acting as dealer, made the rounds among the other gents, Phillip knocked over the glass of brandy before him, trying to make it appear an accident. It tumbled to the floor, and rather than allow a footman to tend to it, he bent over to retrieve it himself. And as the other gentlemen laughed at his clumsiness, he smirked, slipping a jack out of his sleeve and slipping the eight under the carpet.

He declined another card at his turn. The dealer moved on. And then it was time to reveal.

The first gent showed seventeen, the next, nineteen. Phillip commanded his pounding heart to be still, but damn, if he didn’t just love the thrill. Never mind that there surely had to be over a thousand pounds in that pot, and it would soon be his. He threw down his cards. Twenty-one. Murmurs all around. The last man threw down his cards. Nineteen. A king, a seven, and a two. And to think, he could have won fairly, had he drawn that two.

“Well, it looks like Huntley is the winner. For once,” Essex said dryly.

“Not so fast,” Althorp said. Eyebrows shot up all around the table. “Look at Martinson’s hand,” he urged.

They did, seeing a jack of spades and the seven of clubs. He was seated directly next to the dealer, and therefore had been the first to receive his cards. All eyes turned to Phillip’s hand, and his heart stopped beating for a moment. Damned jack of spades.

“Quite a coincidence,” Phillip said as lightly as he could manage.

“I think not,” Althorp stated. He was not taking this bold move simply because his boat was at stake, although if pressed he would admit that he would rather hand it over to anyone but Huntley. No, he had been waiting for this opportunity ever since Phillip had ruined his sister at her coming-out ball. Phillip had denied it and refused to marry her. She was now a full-fledged spinster living in the country, ignored by all those she had thought to be her friends. Regardless of whether or not Phillip had actually ruined her did not matter to him. His sister’s chances at marriage had vanished, and the way she lifelessly haunted the country estate broke his heart. He had always felt like a failure of a man for not fighting for his sister’s honor. And now he had his chance.

“Are you aware of what you are suggesting?” Phillip asked coldly.

“I’ll see you at dawn.”

Phillip left the club immediately and went straight to Parkhurst’s apartment, waking him in the middle of the night.

“What did you do now?” Parkhurst yawned.

“I need you to be my second,” Phillip stated.

“Bloody hell, Phillip. I know I’ve gone along with your schemes before, but I just don’t know if I’m up for it.”

“What do you mean, ‘not up for it’? You have to do this for me.”

“My mother was here today. She said that if I continued to sully my reputation, and therefore my chances at marriage, by associating with a ‘man of your reputation,’ she would cut me off.”

“Damn, Parkhurst. She’ll never find out. No one involved is going to tattle to your mother, and no one else will know.”

Parkhurst did protest, but nevertheless, found himself getting dressed and muttering about it. As it was nearly dawn already, they took Phillip’s carriage to the field.

“Now why are we doing this?” Parkhurst yawned again.

“Althorp said I cheated at cards.”

“Well, did you?”

“Doesn’t signify now, does it?” Phillip snapped. Parkhurst took that as a yes. Oh, Christ, if his mother found out about this . . .

Althorp was waiting on the field almost hidden in the deep fog that enveloped everything. They eyed each other warily as Althorp’s second brought out a box of pistols. Phillip took one of them at random. The thing was heavy in his hand, but cooling to his clammy palms. With bleary eyes, and a mind fuzzy from the aftereffects of a night of drinking and fretting, he loaded his weapon.

Phillip watched Althorp trudge to the far end of the field. He looked at Parkhurst, who yawned again and motioned for him to get on with it. “Stupid jack of spades,” he muttered as he stomped to his end of the field.

The grass was wet from a recent rain, and the notorious London fog was so thick Phillip could barely see. Stomping along, his mind lost in fuzzy thoughts, he felt his boot catch on a tree root. Flailing wildly as he lost his balance, he tensed his muscles in an effort to gain control over his body. He fell, landing upon his arm holding the gun.

Upon hearing a thud, followed by a muffled shot and a piercing shriek, Althorp cursed. Bloody fool was supposed to wait. Cheating at cards and at a duel, ruining innocent young women, did the man have no sense of honor? He crossed the field in a rage, only to see Phillip lying face-down, blood oozing from him. The fool had shot himself.

Devon awoke with a start at dawn, his heart inexplicably pounding with fear. He immediately looked at Emilia, slumbering peacefully beside him. He looked around their bedroom. He listened for unusual sounds—someone breaking into their home, or a cry of distress. But he heard only the soft breathing of his wife.

Forcing himself to relax, telling himself it was just nothing, he pulled Emilia to him. He closed his eyes, but was unable to sleep because he knew something was wrong. When there was a knock on the door to their suite sometime later, Devon pulled on a robe to answer it.

“A letter. Arrived by special messenger. Says it’s urgent.”

Nodding, Devon took the letter, holding it for a moment before opening it. He knew, just knew, that Phillip was in some sort of trouble. He opened it.

Phillip’s new home was a town house only a few blocks from the Buckingham residence, which Devon and Emilia now occupied. Rather than wait for his carriage to be brought round, Devon ran.

He arrived slightly out of breath. The door opened before he knocked, and the butler, without a word, showed him to where Phillip lay on the bed. It all seemed vaguely familiar to Devon. He imagined this was what it had been like after he was wounded in that duel.

Candles that dripped wax onto the bedside tables provided the only light. Parkhurst and a doctor stood around the bed. Devon walked across the room to where Phillip’s body was sprawled on a mass of sheets and blankets. His twin’s skin was ghostly white, his eyes were closed, his breath was ragged. Devon looked at Phillip’s torso, where spots of blood were seeping through the bandages and the sheets.

“What happened?”

“Duel. Tripped, shot himself,” Parkhurst said from the shadows on the other side of the bed.

“The bullet went straight through his shoulder,” the doctor added.

“How is he? What are his chances?”

“He’ll be all right as long as the wound does not become infected.”

Devon sat gently on the corner of the bed, and Phillip rolled his head to the side to look at him with eyes blood-shot and dark. Instinctively, Devon took his hand. He had not seen his twin since the day of the funeral, when Devon offered to shake his hand good-bye and Phillip refused. This time, Phillip squeezed his hand.

Pain was etched into Phillip’s features: his eyes, the crinkle in his brow, in that broken nose.

“You’re going to be fine,” Devon said.

“I don’t deserve to be fine,” Phillip said, his voice strained.

“No, but you will be anyway. Just to annoy me,” Devon replied. And Phillip managed something like a smile.

“I didn’t think you would come.”

“For better or for worse, we are always brothers.”

“So is this better or worse?”

“I don’t know.”

“Will you stay for a little while? And if I live, and you remind me that I asked you to, I’ll have to hurt you.”

“Sure. Promise never to mention it again.”

Devon stayed, and found himself actually fearing for his brother’s life. They had spent twenty-five years despising each other. This morning, they had spoken their first civil words to each other. There was potential there, and it would hurt to lose it.

One week later, Devon said good-bye to his twin.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Phillip said, standing on the docks and looking at the ship he was about to board that would take him to Paris.

“Kensington family tradition. Fight duels and flee the country,” Devon replied.

The
occasion was the annual Carrington Ball, and thus, the start of yet another season. Lady Palmerston stood at the periphery of the ballroom and watched the couples dancing, watching one couple in particular, with a gleam in her eye.

The 18th Duke of Buckingham was holding his duchess far closer than was proper. Not to mention that he was looking at her in such a way that, had they not already been married, would have been grounds for a very hasty wedding. They turned, and she saw her niece’s face—beaming and radiating complete happiness.

And with her beloved husband as her dancing partner, Emilia hadn’t missed one step or stumbled at all.

They had much to be happy about. Harold Highhart had settled permanently in England to be near his daughter. Diamond Shipping had been sold for a large profit. Harold and Devon, working together, had saved the Buckingham estate from ruin. But Devon and Emilia’s true pride and joy was their little girl, now three months old. Lady Palmerston had never been overly fond of small children, but this one was an exception. She adored the little Eldora, not just because her parents had seen fit to name the darling after herself.

“Hmmph,” she muttered with a smile. Things had turned out splendidly, and she wouldn’t help but congratulate herself for her part in making it happen.

“Are you ready to go home yet, darling?” he asked his wife, pulling her even closer during the waltz, if such a thing was even possible.

“We just arrived. We haven’t even said hello to anyone!” Emilia said.

“So?”

“Well,” Emilia stated with a smile, “I do hate being away from Dora.”

“Me too.”

A short while later, they were looking down at their infant daughter, who was fast asleep. She seemed to sense the presence of her parents and woke up with a howl. Emilia picked up her little squawking daughter, with her pure blue eyes and red fuzzy hair, and settled into a chair to nurse her. Devon muttered about having to attend to something and left the room.

As Emilia was tucking her daughter in, a servant arrived with a note. She read it with a laugh.

She pushed open the library door, smiling at the memory of the night they had first met. He was there, leaning against the desk. With a wicked smile, she locked the door behind her.

“Hello, dear wife,” he said.

“Hello, dear husband. What is all this?” she asked, looking around at the candles, and flowers.

“Oh, just the scheming of a besotted husband.”

“I quite like it.” Walking over and wrapping her arms around him, she whispered, “Do you have anything else planned?”

“Mmm, yes,” he murmured, his lips brushing against hers. With his arms wrapped around her waist, he pulled her close. “First I am going to kiss you,” he said, before their mouths crashed together for a deliciously scorching kiss. “And now,” he whispered, “I am going to ravish you as I wanted to the first night I saw you.”

“And like I wanted you to,” she said softly.

“I love you, Em,” he said softly, gazing into her eyes.

“I love you, Devon,” she replied, smiling at him.

Devon waltzed her around the library and over to a couch before the fire, where they made long, loud, passionate love in a most compromising position. This time, they were not disturbed.