Andrea Kane (12 page)

But the unresolved questions persisted.

“Mr. Thornton?”

Pierce blinked, returning to the present, meeting Hollingsby’s quizzical gaze. “Hmm?”

“Are you well? You look a bit green.”

“I’m fine.” Pierce’s jaw tightened fractionally. “You were saying about the Duke of Markham?”

“Yes, well, the poor soul passed away several days ago. No one has been notified because, quite frankly, he hadn’t any friends or known living relatives. In truth, he hadn’t even ventured from his estate in more than ten years.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. But what has it to do with me?”

The solicitor shifted uncomfortably. “More than you could ever imagine.” He cleared his throat. “Any way I phrase this, it’s going to come as a shock.”

“Then I suggest you merely state what you must.”

“Very well.” Hollingsby gripped the edge of his desk. “As of two days past, you are the Duke of Markham.”

A ponderous silence.

“Is this some kind of a jest?” Pierce managed at last. “Because I’m decidedly unamused.”

“I assure you, Mr. Thorn—er, Your Grace, this is no jest. If you’ll allow me to—”

“I’ll allow you to nothing.” Pierce was on his feet, striding toward the door. “You’ve obviously received some gravely erroneous information. I didn’t even know the Duke of Mark—”

“Did you know Cara Thornton?” Hollingsby asked quietly.

Pierce came to an abrupt halt. Turning, he stared at the solicitor through furiously narrowed eyes. “You’d best have a damned good reason for speaking my mother’s name. She’s dead. If you’ve been paid to sully her character—”

“Cruelty is not my forte, sir. Nor am I so badly in need of funds that I would compromise my integrity. I assure you, no one has paid me to ruin your deceased mother. Quite the contrary, in fact. Now, will you sit and listen to what I have to say?”

Like a prowling tiger, Pierce crossed the room and perched, whip taut, on the edge of the chair.

“Thank you,” Hollingsby said, resettling himself and pointing to the pages in his hand. “I have here a letter and a legally binding codicil to the Duke of Markham’s will. Several months ago he summoned me to his manor, where he asked me to draw up the papers. I complied. It is my opinion that he meant to send for you in order to reveal the contents himself. Unfortunately, he took sick shortly after the papers were executed, with an illness from which he never recovered. Therefore, you are hearing this information today for the first time.”

“What information?”

“The late Duke of Markham was your father.”

Father.

The word hit him like an avalanche, its odious shock waves crashing through Pierce in harsh, physical blows.

“The letter is written in the duke’s own hand,” Hollingsby was continuing. “I can attest to that. Of course, you’re welcome to read it yourself, and the codicil as well, after I’ve had the opportunity to explain its terms and conditions. First, however, I’d like to clarify your true origins by recounting the details of the duke’s letter.” When he was greeted with nothing but silence, Hollingsby looked up, taking in Pierce’s rigid jaw. “Are you all right, sir?”

“Go on,” Pierce ordered through clenched teeth.

Hollingsby nodded, skimming the first page he held. “The duke met your mother some two and thirty years ago in a London pub. It was a dismal time of his life. He was estranged from his duchess, embittered by the knowledge that she seemed unable to give him a child. Your mother was a young and beautiful tavern maid, filled with vitality, hope, and passion. Markham fell in love with her on the spot.

“Over the next six months he returned to the tavern, and Cara, as often as he could, casting protocol and consequence to the wind, heeding only the dictates of his heart.”

“But consequence caught up with him,” Pierce interrupted, the heinous pieces falling rapidly into place. “He filled my mother’s belly with his child, then cast her aside and returned to his rightful title, his rightful position, and his rightful wife.”

Hollingsby nodded again, scanning that section of the letter. “Yes. Markham says himself that he was weak. Much as he loved Cara, he couldn’t bring himself to sacrifice everything and endure ostracism and scandal. So he turned her, and their unborn child, away.

“But, try though he would, he couldn’t forget them, nor would his conscience allow him to rest. After months of internal struggle, he went in search of Cara, only to find she’d lost her job and vanished. He panicked, and began an investigation of her whereabouts. It took months before he discovered her and the son she’d borne him living at the House of Perpetual Hope in Leicester. His intentions were to forsake everything and come forward to claim them.

“It was at that time his duchess announced she was with child. Needless to say, that altered everything.”

“Needless to say,” Pierce bit out, venom burning his throat.

“Markham had no choice but to commit himself to his wife and unborn heir. However, that didn’t prevent him from worrying over Cara and their son. He sent money as often as he could—anonymously, of course—and prayed that it reached them.”

“It didn’t.”

Hollingsby flinched at the hatred in Pierce’s tone. “Then the duke received a report of Cara’s death. At that point he knew he had to do more.”

“More than what? More than allow her to waste away and die in a workhouse? More than condemn his son to hell?”

“He began making personal visits to the workhouse,” Hollingsby responded. “The letter is vague about what explanation he gave the headmaster, but clearly no one knew his true reason for being there.”

“Which was?”

“To check on his son—Cara’s son.” The solicitor lifted his gaze, blanching beneath Pierce’s frigid stare. “You.”

“How touching.” Abruptly, Pierce rose, turning his back to Hollingsby. “And, having seen me, was he deeply moved? Did he make any attempt to free me from the prison I was living in?”

“He couldn’t. If he had—”

“If he had, everyone of importance would have known he’d fathered a bastard,” Pierce supplied with brutal accuracy. “And that might have angered his duchess and compromised the position of his legitimate heir. Right, Hollingsby? Isn’t that what you’re saying?”

“Yes. That’s what I’m saying.”

Slowly, Pierce pivoted, his jaw working convulsively. “Had the duke’s son not perished in a riding accident, we wouldn’t be having this conversation, would we?”

“Yes, I believe we would. Markham made it clear to me that, even had you not been his sole heir, he was determined for you to know your true parentage.”

“What a fine man. I feel infinitely better knowing I carry his blood in my veins.” Pierce swallowed. “What else are you responsible for relaying to me before I walk out and dismiss everything you’ve said?”

“Sir,” Hollingsby walked to the front of his desk, the document clutched in his hands. “I understand your shock, even your anger. But I don’t think you understand what I’m telling you. You are the duke’s only surviving child. Were it not for you, the Ashford name would die along with your father. It is imperative that you assume his title.”

“Imperative? I think not. No, Hollingsby, I decline the honor.”

The solicitor gaped. “Have you any idea what you’re refusing? The size of the estate you stand to inherit? How vast were the duke’s wealth, his land, his influence?”

“I don’t give a damn.”

“But His Grace wished—”

“His Grace wished?” Pierce exploded, advancing toward the disconcerted solicitor. “His Grace wished? What about my mother’s wishes? What about my wishes? He condemned us to rot in a filthy, diseased workhouse without so much as a second thought. And now, with my mother cold in her grave, he wants to welcome me to his coveted world? To acknowledge me as his son? Now that he himself is dead and gone, and the ensuing scandal can no longer hurt him? Now I’m to step forward and proudly assume the role of the Duke of Markham—because
he
wishes it?” Eyes ablaze, Pierce kicked a chair from his path, then veered toward the door.
“My
wish is for the filthy blackguard to burn in hell. And, if there is any justice at all, he already has. Good day, Hollingsby.”

“There’s more,” the solicitor said quietly.

Pierce swung around. “Find another victim.”

“Please, Mr. Thornton. I have yet to enumerate the terms and conditions I spoke of.”

A harsh laugh erupted from Pierce’s chest. “Terms and conditions? Don’t bother. I’ve denounced the title.”

“Please, sir. I beseech you. My job is to relay the specifics of the codicil. What you choose to do about them is your concern.”

Pierce sucked in his breath, struck by the truth of Hollingsby’s plea. Markham’s coldhearted negligence was not the solicitor’s doing. “Very well, Hollingsby. Come to the conclusion of this nightmare.”

“Thank you.” Turning the page, Hollingsby shoved his spectacles back up on his nose. “The codicil states the following: In order to retain your newly acquired title and to permanently reap the benefits and privileges thereof, you must fulfill two stipulations. First, you must not only accept the title of the Duke of Markham, but you must assume all related responsibilities for a minimum of two years. That means living at Markham, overseeing the estate and the servants, supervising the businesses—”

“You’ve made your point. And the other stipulation?”

“Second, you must marry and produce a legitimate heir to the dukedom.”

“A legitimate heir. In other words, not a bastard like me,” Pierce clarified, bitterly precise.

“Correct.”

“Tell me, Hollingsby, what if my duchess turns out to be as uncooperative a vessel as Markham’s was? How many years did you say it took her to conceive? Or perhaps my duchess will be totally barren? Or, heaven forbid, she might bear me a daughter rather than a son. Have you considered that?” Pierce demanded mockingly. “What if I myself am incapable of fathering a child? It does happen, you know. Then what? All Markham’s provisions will have been for naught.”

“The duke considered that. During my final visit to Markham he presented me with a sealed envelope, instructing me to lock it in my office strongbox, to be removed precisely two years from the day you accept your rightful position as his heir. At that point, should any of the circumstances you just described exist, I am to send for you and reveal the contents of the letter, assuming, that is, you’ve fulfilled all your other ducal obligations during the prescribed time.”

“And if, over the two-year period, I do produce the necessary heir?”

“Then the provisos contained therein will be declared null and void, and I shall give the envelope to you, unopened, to do with as you wish.”

“The son of a bitch thought of everything, didn’t he?”

Hollingsby wet his lips. “To resume the codicil’s terms,” he pushed on. “During the two-year probation period you’ll be furnished with a generous weekly allowance of ten thousand pounds.”

“Ten thousand pounds?” One brow rose. “How charitable.”

“Finally, once the two years have elapsed and presuming you’ve fulfilled both conditions, you are free to recommence your old life or continue your new one. In either case, you will have full access, within reason, of course, to the Markham funds, heirlooms, property, etcetera, for the rest of your life, and your son will be groomed as the future Duke of Markham.”

“Lucky lad.”

“Indeed,” Hollingsby agreed, tactfully ignoring Pierce’s cutting sarcasm. “No expense will be spared—”

“How much do all these assets amount to?” Pierce interrupted suddenly.

“Pardon me?”

“I want to know exactly how much my poor mother was being denied.”

A pause. “If you’re asking what the total worth of the duke’s estate is, it’s in excess of twenty million pounds.”

“Hell.” Pierce raked furious fingers through his hair. “Bloody, bloody hell. If the spineless coward weren’t already dead, I’d kill him myself.”

“Nevertheless, now that you’ve heard all the facts, I’m certain you’ve amended your earlier decision.”

“I’ve amended nothing.” Pierce yanked open the door. “Tear up that bloody codicil, Hollingsby. I don’t need or want one shilling from the scum who sired me.”

“Think about—”

“It’s too late.” Pierce stalked out without a backward glance. “Thirty years too late.”

P
IERCE HAD NO IDEA
how many trips his carriage had made around Town, nor how much time had passed since he’d stormed from Hollingsby’s office. Pausing only to purchase a bottle of whiskey, he’d climbed into his carriage and ordered his driver to circle the congested London streets until otherwise advised. Sliding to the far corner of the seat, Pierce then proceeded to toss off half the contents of the bottle while staring moodily out the window, his thoughts slamming against his brain like a hammer. we? A duke?

Never.
Never.

To hell with Markham. To hell with his title, his money, his name. To hell with—

His father.

Fortifying himself with another deep swallow of whiskey, Pierce forced himself to confront the situation and its consequences.

The Duke of Markham was his father.

All the pieces fit: his mother’s talk of her nobleman lover, Markham’s consistent but inexplicable workhouse visits, the background details Hollingsby had just revealed.

The story was true. Pierce’s instincts confirmed that without question. Much of it was also unsurprising. After all, he had always known of his noble lineage, just as he’d long ago discerned his sire’s reasons for denouncing him and abandoning Cara. Having a name to put to the anonymous blackguard who’d sired him was unexpected, but inconsequential at this point in his life.

But having a face to accompany the name, especially Markham’s face, now
that
was disconcerting. How vividly he recalled those brooding eyes, that air of reserve. God help him, he could even see the resemblance. Yes, now that he knew the truth, Pierce realized the likeness between him and Markham was startling.

But even that was endurable.

What was unendurable, unconscionable, untenable, was what the arrogant bastard demanded of him now.

After a lifetime of rejection, to become a son.