A Duchess to Remember (2 page)

The pearls felt alive in Cecily’s hands as she carried them to her cousin. Standing behind Lavinia, she took several seconds to summon the will. Then she reached up to her relation’s superior height and used her fingertips to brush away the bright curls that tumbled in an arranged profusion from an ornate bandeau.

Carefully, Cecily draped the pearls around that slender neck. She fastened the diamond clasp and let the necklace drop against the milky perfection of Lavinia’s nape.

Lavinia preened as if Cecily had set a crown upon her head.

When she couldn’t stand the sight of her cousin admiring herself in those pearls any longer, Cecily said tightly, “The diary. Now, if you please, Lavinia.”

“Ah. Yes, of course.” She made a twirling motion with her index finger. “Turn your back.”

Cecily nearly rolled her eyes. She already knew Lavinia’s hiding place. She’d discovered it as a curious child. Somehow, she doubted Lavinia would have changed it since then. She lacked the imagination.

However, Cecily did as she was told and listened while Lavinia moved around her dressing room for an inordinate amount of time.

Before Cecily’s patience gave out entirely, Lavinia brought the diary. She all but tossed it at Cecily before returning to the looking glass to continue admiring her reflection.

With shaking hands, Cecily clutched the diary to her. Her fingertips tingled as she smoothed them over the tooled leather binding. If Lavinia had found this, might there be other possessions of her brother’s lying discarded, unloved somewhere in this house? She’d thought Bertram and Lavinia had taken everything of value for their own use and burned or sold the rest.

Now, the notion that this was not the case sprang to her mind. Remembering the last letter she’d ever written to Jonathon, Cecily felt a cold hand clamp around her heart.

“Do you happen to know what became of the rest of my brother’s papers?” she asked. “I should like to have the letters I wrote to him.” She hesitated. If Lavinia knew how badly Cecily needed to retrieve that one letter in particular, she’d surely withhold it.

She tried to keep her voice light. “Did you happen to find any correspondence with the diary?”

Lavinia frowned. “No, nothing like that. What on earth do you want with letters
you
wrote?”

Cecily ignored that question. “What about his scientific notes and such?”

Surely Bertram and Lavinia had no use for those.

“Oh”—Lavinia gave a Frenchified shrug of her shoulders—“someone came looking for all Jon’s papers and I said he might take them with my goodwill. But that was years ago.”

Lavinia had sold them, Cecily deduced. She would never part with anything without demanding a price. What if the letter were among those papers? Dear God, the scandal if the letter were published did not bear thinking about.

“Who was it?” asked Cecily. “Was he an acquaintance of Jonathon’s?”

“It was the Duke of Ashburn, if you
must
know.” Lavinia’s tone was careless but she didn’t fool Cecily. “Such an attractive man. That dark hair. And those eyes!”

Astonished, Cecily repeated, “The Duke of Ashburn? What could he want with Jonathon’s papers?”

“How should I know?” Lavinia rolled her eyes. “But when a duke makes such a request, you don’t deny him. Particularly
that
duke.”

Cecily could well believe it. Ashburn’s was the kind of autocratic personality that brought Cecily out in a rash. Oh, she didn’t know him, but she knew who he was. A power broker with a finger in every imaginable pie. His reputation for omniscience rivaled Montford’s. In fact, it was said Ashburn had become quite a thorn in Montford’s side when it came to politics.

“Those papers were likely to have been valuable,” said Cecily coldly. “I trust His Grace paid you handsomely for them.”

Lavinia glanced away, but not before Cecily detected a triumphant sparkle light the countess’s eye. She concluded that a handsome sum had indeed changed hands. She also deduced that Lavinia had not seen fit to pass this information on to her husband. She’d spent the proceeds on new gowns or squandered them on the gaming tables, no doubt.

“When did this occur?” asked Cecily, frowning. “I didn’t know His Grace was acquainted with Jonathon.”

“Oh, yes, I believe so. It was very soon after Jonathon’s passing.” Lavinia picked up a strand of the pink pearls and ran them against her teeth with a
clack-clack-clack,
her lips drawn back in a slightly terrifying grimace.

“In fact,” said Lavinia, “it was the Duke of Ashburn who brought us the news of Jonathon’s death.”

*   *   *

Cecily lost no time in more conversation with Lavinia. She sped back to her bedchamber, nearly tripping over the flounced skirts of her sprigged muslin gown in her rush.

She gained her room and plumped down on the bed, holding Jonathon’s diary to her chest as if his spirit resided between its tooled leather covers.

She tried to calm herself. This was only a diary, after all. It could not bring her beloved brother back.

She hadn’t wept when they told her Jon was dead. She’d been ten years old and Jonathon was her world. The loss seemed to swallow her whole; the pain too great for tears. So she’d buried that jagged agony deep inside herself and never exhumed it.

Until tonight.

He’d been four-and-twenty to her ten. Almost a father figure, but not forbidding or aloof the way her guardian, the Duke of Montford, was. Nor had he been absentminded like their scholarly papa, who’d died along with their mother in a carriage accident when Cecily was six. Jonathon was simply the best, most beloved brother in the world.

And then his mad intelligence, his brilliance and exuberance were gone, incinerated in a fire that tore through his laboratory one bright summer day.

Bertram and Lavinia had taken possession of Jonathon and Cecily’s home immediately. Cecily needed them to look after her, they’d said.

She hadn’t needed them. She’d needed Jon.

Days later, the Duke of Montford had swooped down and plucked her from this place like an eagle bearing off his prey. Only to tuck her safely in a cozy nest with his other orphaned chicks.

A trite metaphor. One could scarcely equate the palatial Harcourt with a cozy nest, nor her confident, vibrant Westruther cousins with helpless fledglings. And she herself had been far from docile on the way to London. She’d given Montford a hellish journey, used every opportunity to ruffle his dignified feathers, made several determined attempts at escape.

But Montford had been unmoved by her antics. Looking back, she rather thought they’d amused him. Now, she enjoyed the challenge of making Montford smile at her tricks. Then, she’d found his equilibrium infuriating.

And here she was, twenty and making her debut this spring. And at the height of the season, she was to be married to the man her parents had chosen for her when she was little more than an infant.

She looked down at the journal’s brown leather cover. Why hadn’t Lavinia sent this to her years ago? Cecily had so little to remember Jonathon by. Bertram inherited everything that was Jonathon’s, even her brother’s personal belongings. She wondered exactly how many of Jonathon’s writings Lavinia had cold-bloodedly sold to the Duke of Ashburn.

One thing was certain: Cecily needed to retrieve that letter.

Perhaps there was no need for concern. Perhaps the letter had been overlooked, discarded, buried under a superfluity of other documents and notes Jonathon had amassed over the years.

But she could not be sure, could she? What if the forthcoming announcement of her betrothal caused someone to make the necessary connection? If that letter became public, her chances of marriage would be ruined.
She
might be ruined into the bargain.

Running her fingertips over the diary’s tarnished clasp, Cecily paused.

Ought she to open it? Diaries were private things, after all. She’d not have dreamed of reading it if Jon were alive.

But the longing for him was so strong that such scruples seemed irrelevant. She needed to read his thoughts, hear his voice, if only through his words on the page.

She muttered, “You wouldn’t mind now, though, would you, old thing? I know you would not.”

With a deep, unsteady breath, Cecily opened the diary. She hoped for something. She didn’t know what. A connection, perhaps? A balm to the ache inside her that never went away?

The scant lines of bold, hasty handwriting did not comfort her or assuage her lingering grief. Disappointment spiked through her. The diary was little more than an appointment book. All these places and times at which her brother had been alive and present. And now, no more.

Her brow furrowed as she scanned the pages. One item repeated—she flipped back and forth—monthly. Hmm. The Promethean Club. What was that? She’d never heard of it before.

Clearly, it was not an ordinary gentlemen’s club like White’s or Brooks’s, for its meetings were held at Ashburn House, the town residence of the Duke of Ashburn. Cecily thumbed through more pages but couldn’t find any other details that would enlighten her.

Ashburn had become a recurring theme in this particular story. What did he have to do with Jonathon? What did he want with Jonathon’s papers?

She needed to find out. But most of all, she must get that letter.

Chapter Two

London, spring 1816

Rand, Duke of Ashburn, eyed his nineteen-year-old ward. Lord, male adolescents were even more tedious than the fresh-faced debutantes Lady Arden insisted on throwing at him this season.

“Of all places to accost me and demand money, surely a ball must be the worst,” Rand remarked.

He’d called for his carriage, his coat, and his hat and stood in the entry hall of Lady Eversleigh’s house, waiting for them to be fetched. If he had to waste much more time on this discussion, he’d be late for the meeting of the Promethean Club. As he was to host the meeting, that would be bad form. Besides, a fascinating development had made him anticipate the gathering with more than usual interest.

Rand watched the flush rise in his cousin’s face with a sense of fatalism mingled with distaste. He detested public scenes. Or scenes of any variety, for that matter.

Stiffly, the young man said, “I should scarcely accost you here were you ever at home to me when I call.”

And if you ever called on me for reasons other than money, I might be at home to you more often.

Boredom crept over Rand. “Your financial woes are not of the smallest interest to me, Freddy. Last time, I warned you I’d no longer pay your debts if you continued along your present habits of extravagance. You said you’d go to the Devil your own way. Well,
bonne chance,
my dear cousin. I’m not stopping you.”

His young relative forced the words out between rigid lips. “But it’s a debt of honor, Your Grace—”

“Oho, Your Grace, is it?” said Rand, grimly amused. “Come off your high horse, Freddy. It doesn’t suit you, believe me. If you can’t stand the nonsense, don’t play.” Mildly interested, he added, “To whom is this debt owed?”

“The Earl of Davenport.”

Now that
was
interesting. “Exalted company you keep,” Rand remarked.

In Davenport’s shoes, Rand or any other gentleman worthy of the name would have found a way to avoid gaming with a nineteen-year-old greenhorn. But Davenport had lately developed the habit of fleecing the young, wealthy, and inexperienced gentlemen who thought themselves far cleverer at games of chance than they were.

Rand would not go so far as to accuse Davenport of cheating, but such behavior might get him ejected from his clubs if he wasn’t careful. If the earl wasn’t careful, Rand might see to it himself.

“And, er, exactly how much do you owe Lord Davenport?” he asked his cousin.

Freddy’s expression turned first hopeful then anxious. The lad hadn’t quite grown into his Adam’s apple; it bobbed with distressing prominence as he swallowed hard. “R-rather a large sum, one might say.”

“Indeed?” Rand waited.

“One thousand pounds!” Freddy blurted out.

Rand had expected worse. “How unfortunate for you,” he said politely. “Will the earl wait until next quarter day?”

“Of course he won’t!” Freddy said, clearly amazed at Rand’s obtuseness. “Everyone knows a debt of honor must be paid at once.”

“Everyone but you, it seems,” said Rand. “Or did you rely on me rescuing you, yet again? I meant what I said, Freddy.”

“But that was over tradesmen’s bills! No one cares if they go unpaid.”

“I expect the tradesmen care,” said Rand, but his relative took no heed of that interjection.

“Damn it, you’re a cold fish, Rand. I ought to have known you wouldn’t help me,” Freddy said.

“If you had, you might have curbed your gaming habits,” agreed Rand. “And don’t think for one moment of going to moneylenders to solve your problems, because you’d only replace them with far greater ones. Besides, and far more terrifying, if you do that, I will hear of it and then you will have me to deal with.”

Freddy’s shoulders slumped. “So what am I to do?”

Rand flicked a piece of lint from this dark sleeve. “Sell off your horses. They ought to bring in sufficient funds, I should think. I’ll even find you a buyer if you like. You may be a cloth-head when it comes to cards, but no one can fault your judgment of horseflesh.”

“Obliged to sell my horses like some moth-eaten bankrupt?” Freddy demanded, outraged. “Why, I’m the heir to a dukedom!”

With that statement, his own mortality slammed into Rand like a fist. Provoked and annoyed that the silly boy had landed such a blow without even knowing it, Rand managed a short, mirthless laugh. “Don’t count on stepping into my shoes, Freddy. I’ll be married by the end of the season.”

Ruefully amused at his own absurd vulnerability—he was only nine-and-twenty, for God’s sake!—Rand watched his relative storm off.