Duke of Deception (Wentworth Trilogy) (7 page)

“I didn’t accept; Uncle Nathan did. H-he threatened to take Stonecrest from me if I don’t do as he says.”

Eleanor’s jaw dropped. “That’s ridiculous! Why did you not tell me of this? It’s preposterous for him to say such a thing. Stonecrest belongs to you, married or not, and Nathan cannot take the property away from you.”

“He didn’t exactly say he would take it. He said he would destroy it, and that I would lose my dowry as well.”

“The man is insufferable,” Eleanor fumed. “Do you not see why he had this conversation with only you, darling? He knows he cannot support such claims. He can no more get his hands on that money than he can Stonecrest Manor.”

“He most certainly can if I’m declared incompetent. He could take control of everything then, for as long as I remain unwed.”

“Did he threaten . . . ?” Eleanor’s eyes widened in horror.

Lucy shook her head and gathered her thoughts. She couldn’t tell her aunt the truth. There was nothing Eleanor could do, after all, not against a man such as her uncle. And Eleanor would be even more suspicious, knowing that Lucy would never agree to do as her uncle demanded.

“You know as well as I that when it comes to legal matters, Uncle Nathan has a way of getting what he wants. Even if it doesn’t come to that, I still have to worry about his withdrawing financial support. He said so. Without his help, I can’t feed the few servants I have, let alone keep the tenants from starving. He keeps so much of the manor’s allowance now. I admit I don’t know what to do.”

“Oh, darling,” Eleanor said, rubbing her temples. “I fear for you. I do. I know how you’ve set your heart on fulfilling your father’s dream. But you’re a young woman at the most exciting time of her life. You should be worrying about what to wear to the next social event or how to manage three suitors who come calling at the same time. Instead your mind is filled with schemes to help your tenants. It’s not right for you to carry this burden. Your father would never have wished it. You are just one person, and a woman, at that. You have short-changed yourself by thinking no man will take up your battles. Some man might, and with the two of you striving together, who knows what you could achieve for Stonecrest.”

“That is the fairy tale,” Lucy replied quietly. “In truth, the nobility do not care for tenants and servants and quaint little village businesses. They spend their money gambling and drinking and . . . well, taking part in every self-gratifying activity.”

“Your father was titled.”

“He did not act the way most titled men do.”

“Perhaps not during the years after you were born, but before that, he surely did. He had all the manners of the aristocrat, both good and bad, and by bad, I do mean gambling and drinking and womanizing.”

“Perhaps for a very short time while he was sowing his wild oats, as they say.”

Eleanor shook her head. “If that was the case, then he had fields full of wild oats to sow, for those wild days of his lasted for fifteen years. I think it fair to say that had he never met your mother, he would have been sowing his oats until the day he died, which would have occurred most likely from overdrink or a duel with a jealous husband. As for his love of Stonecrest, he had refused the property previously.”

“That can’t be true.”

“But it is true, darling. I wouldn’t say it otherwise. Your father wasn’t interested in Stonecrest and the tiny village of Chelton until he fell in love with your mother and wanted to make a home with her. He wouldn’t even accept the title because with it came the requirement of living at Stonecrest Manor for at least a month each year.”

Lucy shrugged as though she didn’t care, but in truth her aunt’s words upset her very much. “I can’t imagine why you’re telling me this. It has nothing whatsoever to do with my wish not to marry.”

Eleanor sighed. “I think it does. I suspect you compare all men to your father and find them lacking, but you are wrong to do so. The man you compare all other men to never really existed. He was never perfect. No man is.”

Tears filled Lucy’s eyes. Tears for the father she had lost, for the husband she would never have, for the children she would never bear, but she knew she couldn’t change those things. Her uncle would see her wed to a gentleman of his choosing, if any would have her, and all she could do was ensure that none would. But she could tell her aunt nothing of her plan. As much as it pained her, she must tell her another lie.

She swallowed her tears and cleared her throat. “Lord Vanburton is partial to me, and he might solve my dilemma, were he to offer before my betrothal is announced.” She pictured the young marquess, heir to the Bellingham dukedom as he had appeared at the Grantham ball. Sara had insisted he would offer for Lucy if she encouraged him, but there was no point. If her suspicion that her uncle planned to split her dowry with her husband was true, Nathan would never approve Lord Vanburton. The marquess was an honorable man; he would expect to receive the dowry in full, to be used for the benefit of his marriage. She could not be certain of her uncle’s motive, of course, but she could not take the chance.

“So that is your plan?” Eleanor asked. “To work on Lord Vanburton next week at the party?”

Lucy nodded slowly. “He doesn’t need my money and he is a kind man. I think he would be amenable to my plans regarding Stonecrest, especially once he visits the place.”

Eleanor’s face sagged with relief. “An excellent plan. He was much taken with you last night, to be sure—two dances and many long stares in between. I admit I am relieved.” A glorious smile brightened her face. “Oh, darling, for the first time in months, I am hopeful of your future.”

Lucy dropped her gaze, unable to bear her aunt’s joyous expression. Guilt consumed her, settling so heavily upon her chest that she thought she might suffocate from it, but she reminded herself she had no choice if she were to thwart her uncle and keep her money. Her heart was breaking for her aunt, but she couldn’t take chances where Stonecrest was concerned.

There was nothing she could do but press forward with her plan.

T
he Bellingham garden was renowned throughout England, but had only been so for the past twenty years. In 1604, the first duke installed a rather large baroque-style garden displaying a myriad of fountains, statues and, of course, formal walkways, each set at a perfect right angle to another. Succeeding dukes, or sometimes duchesses, added various compositions of their own without touching the previous design, and as the lineage of dukes increased, so did the garden. The ambiance, however, did not.

When Lady Gwendolyn Godwin became the sixth Duchess of Bellingham, she vowed to change that, and so she did. What had once been a hodgepodge of styles was now a magnificent blend in both beauty and scent, covering more than one hundred acres.

Lucy had long wished to tour the garden, but now that she was finally there, the reason for her presence quashed any excitement she might have felt over seeing her wish come true. The same lack of enthusiasm did not extend to her dear friend Sara.

“Oh, my,” Sara whispered in awe. They stood before the great iron arch that marked the garden’s formal entrance. Glorious cascades of miniature red roses in all stages of bloom draped the arch, tumbling forth, tier upon tier.

Lucy leaned in close, letting the sweet fragrance envelope her. “How beautiful. I should love to plant these at Stonecrest, in that patchy area beneath my bedchamber window. Wouldn’t they be perfect along the wall there?”

“Hmm . . . that patchy area,” Sara said. “The one you leap onto after sneaking out your window?” She gave Lucy a mischievous grin as they passed under the arch. “I daresay something a little less thorny than roses ought to be planted there.”

Lucy chuckled. “You know very well I did that but once and you would have done it too if you had a nasty uncle who locked you in your room.” The locked door had been another attempt on her uncle’s part to keep her from her “unladylike” pursuits, which were nothing more than taking care of estate matters, and he’d been outraged by her boyish prank of climbing down the oak tree to escape.

“Just think, Sara. If everything goes according to plan, I shall have all the freedom I need from now on, but . . . ”

“But what?”

Lucy shook her head. “I really don’t see how it can all go according to plan. Rather, what I mean to say is I don’t have a very good plan. Success depends on my powers of . . . ” She stopped momentarily and arched her brows, then flashed Sara a sheepish smile. “My powers of
persuasion,
if you will, and I know little about that subject. If only I were more like Bridget.”

Both girls smiled at the memory of Bridget’s arrival to Lucy’s room with three trunks and six young footmen carrying them. “My lady,” Bridget said the moment she sailed through the doorway, eyes wide, “did you see that statue? Almost naked, it was—and in the main hall too!”

Before Lucy could chastise the girl for her outburst, Bridget had forgotten about both the statue and her mistress, directing her attention back to the six young men, looking them up and down one by one. Lucy’s chagrin turned to resignation as she and Sara looked on. They both knew Bridget would pick out the young man she wanted and would somehow communicate that information to him within seconds. And of course the favored young man would not disappoint her.

Lucy sighed. If only it were that easy for her. “I wish this party were over,” she said.

“I shall remind you of what your father always said . . . ”

“Yes,” Lucy replied, her voice catching. She touched her locket, which carried a painting of her father and mother—the only likeness she had of her mother—on their wedding day. “I miss him, Sara. I keep waiting for the pain to pass, but it never does. He loved me, with all my faults and without judgment. I shall never have that again, at least not if all goes according to plan. Perhaps it is for the best. Everyone I love leaves me.”

Sara slid her arm around Lucy’s waist. “Your father didn’t choose to leave you and neither did your mother. And I do believe your aunt loves you in exactly that manner. I know it’s little consolation, but I love you. You are my very dearest friend, and I shall always consider you so. Never forget that, especially when my actions might seem to prove otherwise . . . I mean, if I cannot . . . Oh, you do realize my parents will be difficult about this, do you not?”

Indeed, Lucy could hardly bring herself to think of it. Sara’s parents would forbid her to see Lucy after this week. She stopped to examine a splash of brilliant color on a nearby shrub, so Sara couldn’t read the sorrow in her face.

“I know. I wish I had another choice, but I don’t. I’ve no doubt my uncle will carry out his threats. For all I know, he might anyway, but I am doing what I must. The future of many depend upon it. But there!” She put on a brave smile. “Enough about that. I’ve had scarcely a bite of food since early this morning and I’m absolutely famished! Let’s join the others for tea.”

Derek stood frozen on the other side of the hedge. He had hesitated in his stroll upon recognizing Lady Louisa’s voice, struggling with the three options available to him: make his presence known with a simple clearing of his throat, walk quickly away so that he could not hear the conversation, or follow along on his side of the hedge and eavesdrop. He had quickly decided upon the latter. He couldn’t be seen through the dense, woody barricade, and though it wasn’t the gentlemanly thing to do, he eased his conscience with the reminder of his noble purpose. He hoped the girls would not see the top of his head, though, for the shrubbery was not quite as tall as he, and he would certainly not creep along like a common thief.

He was glad now that logic had bested good manners.

What the devil was Lady Louisa talking about? What kind of threat had her uncle made, and whose futures were at stake? The entire conversation was a bizarre one for two young ladies of society, and his earlier resolve to look into Nathan Barrick’s situation was strengthened.

E
leanor sipped her tea as she congratulated herself on finding the only seat in the main drawing room where she could observe the décor and guests without being set upon by well-meaning gentlemen. The ladies she had joined were delightedly sharing gossip. An occasional “La!” accompanied by a widening of her eyes was enough to secure her place in the conversation.

Her afternoon walk had been curtailed by a heavy-set man with fat fingers and several chins who’d been determined to speak with her but was disinclined to walk. She almost told him a walk might do his chins some good, but she didn’t of course; that would be rude. When she was finally able to extricate herself and start again, she saw another man heading directly toward her, so she turned quickly about and escaped into the house. There was something about the word
widow
that brought out the pity in men, she supposed, because she’d been plagued by one gentleman after another, and the first words out of each man’s mouth was a comment about her husband’s unfortunate death.

The only unfortunate thing about Harold’s death was the fact that he’d left her without any funds, having gambled away every bit of her inheritance, just as he had her dowry. She wondered what sort of reaction she’d get if she said as much to the next man who felt it his duty to console her.

She chided herself at the ungrateful thought. It was kind of the men to be so solicitous, but still, she was glad to have a few minutes to sip her tea and take pleasure in the furnishings.

Four tables held massive sterling tea services, giving Eleanor a brief pang of regret over the loss of her own beautiful set which had been snatched up, as were all of her cherished belongings, by creditors in the days following Harold’s death. She wouldn’t allow the same thing to happen to Lucy. Lord Harlech was a gambler, known to be light in the pockets and heavy in notes. That Harold had known of such unsavory habits amongst his peers had not given Eleanor a second thought until she realized upon his death that he would, of course, have known because of his own connection to that world.

That Lord Harlech was a drunkard, however, had been her own observation of the man in society. On the morning he’d come to call in London, Eleanor had taken one whiff of the stale whiskey fouling his breath, and held her own breath through most of the short conversation.

Lord Vanburton, on the other hand, seemed a very good sort of man, but she knew better than anyone that a man’s character was not easily determined by a few brief meetings in public places. She hoped that by the end of the gathering she would know if the young lord was a suitable candidate for husband to her beloved niece.

A set of double mahogany doors framed by an antique marble doorcase opened into a sculpture gallery, where the overflow of guests congregated. A second set of matching doors led to the magnificent gardens. It was this second set that drew Eleanor’s attention when Lucy and Sara came strolling through them arm in arm. Lucy was up to something. Eleanor was sure of it. She looked from one girl to the other, sensing the conspiratorial nature between them. Whatever the prank, both girls were involved.

When a few minutes later Captain Wainright entered through the same set of doors, her gaze flew to Lucy to see if the privateer’s entrance was expected. Perhaps the girls had been spying on him. There was no mistaking the physical attraction between Lucy and the captain, and Eleanor had been a little concerned when she heard he was attending the party with Lord Aster. But Lucy, who was greeting Lord Vanburton, didn’t give as much as a glance toward the doors. Eleanor relaxed. There had been no tryst and evidently no spying. Her imagination was getting the better of her.

The American was handsome as always but her appreciation of his form and features was subdued by a puzzling sense of recognition. As she studied his easy movements, it occurred to her that for an American captain he seemed completely at ease among English society. He fit in as though he belonged, having just the right mixture of arrogance, worldliness, and polite good manners that were hallmarks of the nobility. She watched as he executed an elegant bow to the Duchess of Bellingham, catching her hand and pressing it with a kiss as he looked up and flashed a roguish smile, a lock of his dark hair dipping onto his brow.

And Eleanor nearly fainted.

That roguish smile with seductive eyes that looked up from beneath a lock of hair. She remembered where she had seen it before, and yet she could not believe it. It could not be true . . . could it?

She quickly calculated the years. The boy she met had been but four and ten then, only beginning to find his way into a manhood that would one day include a dukedom, and that was sixteen years ago. She’d been visiting the Duchess of Dorrington, who expressed a fear that her elder son would be sent away, for the boy had been expelled from school yet again.

From what Eleanor had gathered, the young man had done little to avoid that outcome. In the short month since his return home, there had been some sort of scandal involving a widowed countess of more than twice his age. Eleanor hadn’t known the particulars, but she’d been able to guess at them. During her own introduction to him, the young heir had bowed deeply and pressed a lingering kiss to her hand. He had looked up at her, a seductive smile upon his lips, a lock of his thick, dark hair dipping onto his brow, and that smile of seduction told her more than any rumor could have.

And now he was here, pretending to be an American privateer. Or perhaps he was an American privateer. She had no way of knowing, but one thing she did know. His name was not Derek Wainright, it was Jonathan Wentworth, Duke of Dorrington.

Uneasy, she watched him complete his solicitations and take a drink from a footman’s tray. A scowl darkened his face, and she looked in the direction of his stare only to find it directed at Lucy, who was chatting with Lord Vanburton. She looked back at the captain. His scowl had deepened.

Her disquiet turned to apprehension. What kind of game was he playing, and what did it have to do with her niece? She struggled to make sense of the situation. Was he after Lucy’s dowry? She could hardly believe that. His family holdings were perhaps the largest in England now, and according to gossip, Jonathan Wentworth was the reason for that. Some said the old duke had been on the brink of financial ruin and his prodigal son had worked like a fiend to turn the fortune around. No, surely, it couldn’t be the money.

The captain finished his drink and took another, continuing his scrutiny of Lucy and her party of friends. His features were hard, his jaw clenched; indeed, he was glaring. Eleanor wondered what would cause him to react in such a manner to an innocent conversation. He was clearly jealous, but why? Had something happened between him and Lucy? She frowned at the thought. Lucy was attracted to the man, whether she believed herself to be so or not, but given her feelings on marriage, and the fact that she hoped to obtain a declaration from Lord Vanburton . . .

An unwelcome thought flashed through Eleanor’s mind. Perhaps Lucy was a conquest to this man. Perhaps she had made it clear she wasn’t interested, and he was exactly the type of man who must conquer every female. At least those were the rumors about both the captain and the young boy she remembered. But were those rumors true? She did not know the answer, but she would very soon, even if it meant paying a visit to Dorrington.

D
erek examined the marquess as he conversed with Lady Louisa and her friend, Lady Sara. The gentleman seemed to know Lady Louisa a little too well, leaning in to speak particularly to her, and smiling a bit too much at her responses. Indeed, his behavior was rude, considering that he, as much as his parents, was a host of the event, and should, therefore, display equal attention to his guests. Lady Sara must have felt the same way, as she soon took her departure and wandered in the direction of another party.

Looking away only long enough to filch a snifter of brandy from the tray of a passing footman, he continued his appraisal. Though Stephen approached and Derek carried on a conversation with him, he found his mind and eyes wandering to the lovely Louisa, who seemed to take great pleasure in her conversation with Lord what’s-his-name, her eyelashes fluttering up at him, that sweet little smile appearing more and more often as she listened to the idiot.