Duchess in Love (2 page)

T
here was no ignoring the fact that he had landed in England, Camden Serrard thought gloomily as he shook rainwater from the brim of his hat. His Italian boots squelched through rivers of mud. The rain was coming down so hard that the air had turned white, and he couldn't see the end of the track leading from the dock.

“Look out, sir!”

He swung about, but not in time to avoid a pig eagerly bolting for freedom. Sharp little hooves trotted across his mudsplattered boots faster than he would have thought possible.

Cam continued walking grimly toward lights that indicated some sort of hostelry. Why the hell they had to land here, in a godforsaken dock on the far side of
Riddlesgate,
he didn't know. The captain of
The Rose
had blithely announced that he'd made a small error in navigation, excusing himself with the claim that London was a mere hour by coach. From Cam's point of view, London might be in the next continent, given the muddy salt flats that stretched in every direction as far as the eye could see.

He ducked his head as he entered and was rather dismayed to realize that while his man Phillipos had arrived before him and presumably bespoke a room, the pig had also joined the company and was rooting around a chair. Other than Phillopos, the pig, and the innkeeper, the room held only one customer, a fair-headed man who was reading by the fire and barely looked up when Cam entered.

John Mumby, the innkeeper, rushed forward when he saw the broad-shouldered aristocrat standing in his doorway. “Good afternoon, Your Grace! It is an honor—a true honor—to welcome Your Grace to my humble inn, the
Queen's Smile
. May I serve you some refreshment?”

Cam slung his cloak over Phillipos's waiting arm. “Whatever you've got,” he said flatly. “And don't address me as Your Grace, if you please.”

Mumby blinked but quickly recovered. “Of course, my lord,” he said, beaming. “Yes, sir. Coming right up, sir. Lord Perwinkle, I'll have to ask you to remove that pig. We don't allow livestock in the public room.”

The fair-haired man looked up, aggrieved. “Damn it, Mumby, you just told me to leave the beast where it was. You know the blighted animal doesn't belong to me.”

“Your coachman paid for him,” the innkeeper said with irrefutable logic, “and I've no doubt but what he'll come back for him as soon as your axle is fixed. If it's quite all right with you, sir, the boy will put him in the back shed.”

Perwinkle nodded, and a boy tucked the piglet under his arm and headed into the rain.

Cam threw himself down in a comfortable chair before the fire. It did feel good to be back in England. Last time he'd been in the country he'd been as raw as a rag, eighteen years old and full of rage…but even so he remembered with deep affection the smoky, wheatish smell of an English
pub. Nothing like it, he thought as Mumby put a foaming mug of ale in his hand.

“Or would you prefer a spot of brandy?” the innkeeper asked. “I admit, sir, that a friend of mine drops off a bottle now and again…through the back door. Nice stuff, even if it is French. Goes down a fair treat.”

Likely the captain, Cam thought idly. Smuggling brandy, the impudent sod. No wonder we landed at the back of beyond. He took a deep draught of ale. Superb ale, and a smuggled brandy. Life was improving.

“I was thinking of roast pheasant to start,” Mumby said anxiously, “and perhaps a little fresh pork to follow.”

“How fresh?” Cam asked. He didn't necessarily wish to see Perwinkle's piglet served up for dinner.

“Killed just last week,” Mumby affirmed. “Been hanging, it has, and it's just reached perfection. My wife cooks a sweet pig, sir. You can depend on that.”

“Right. And the brandy when you have a moment.”

“Yes,
sir
!” Mumby chorused, seeing a shiny pile of coins growing in his mind's eye.

One thing led to another, one of which was the discovery that the inn had a dartboard. As the evening wore on, it turned out that Lord Perwinkle was not only an expert with a dart, but he had a veritable passion for fishing, a passion shared by Cam. And by the time it transpired that Tuppy Perwinkle and Cam had attended the same school, separated by a mere five years, the two had achieved a state of intimacy found only among those raised in the same nursery or pickled in the same French brandy.

In fact, when Mumby inquired whether Cam wished to hire a coach at first light, the duke refused. It had been a weary journey from Greece, all of forty-five days and a storm around the Bay of Biscay. There was plenty of time to meet his ball and chain, and he didn't feel any need to rush to London.

Tuppy agreed with that, having misplaced his own wife a few years before. “She left in a huff for her mother's and never returned. Having tired of her complaints, I did not retrieve her. And so it's been ever since.”

“Tell my solicitor to come to me,” Cam told Phillipos. “I pay the man enough. He can join me for breakfast.”

Phillipos never ceased to admire his employer's ability to put away the best and show no effect the next day. Even so, he doubted whether the duke would really wish to see a solicitor at first light, given that a third bottle of brandy stood uncorked and waiting. But he bowed and sent off an urgent message to the metropolis, requesting the presence of Mr. Rounton, Esq., of Rounton & Rounton at a breakfast meeting with his esteemed client, Camden Serrard, the Duke of Girton.

As a matter of fact, Phillipos had no cause for alarm.

Edmund Routon, the Duke of Girton's solicitor, was not a foolish man. He had had abundant—far too abundant—acquaintance with the duke's late father. And on the off chance that the present duke was anything like his forebearer, Rounton had no intention of arriving until the early afternoon, when the man was as mellowed by food as possible.

Around two o'clock a starched and gleaming Rounton descended from a coach, uncomfortably aware of a flutter of nervousness in his stomach. Interviews with the duke's father had been a trial, to put it mildly. In a nutshell, the old duke seemed to specialize in projects that wandered from allegiance to the rule of law, and he would explode with rage on hearing the slightest disagreement.

On the surface of it, the present duke seemed a different kettle of fish from his sire. “Good afternoon, Mr. Rounton,” he said, bounding out of his chair. He had the same dark eyes as his late father, although they were rather more cheerful. The old duke looked like Beelzebub, what with his nasty, sooty eyes and white complexion.

Rounton bowed. “Your Grace, it is indeed a pleasure to see you in such fine health and returned to your native land.”

“Yes, well,” Girton replied, waving at a chair. “I won't be in England for long, and I need your help.”

“If there is anything I can do, of course, I am more than willing, Your Grace.”

“Do stop ‘your gracing' me, then,” his client said. “I can't stand formality.”

“Of course, Your—of course.” He eyed the duke's casual attire. No coat! And his shirtsleeves rolled up, showing muscled forearms. In all truth, Rounton found such informality quite unattractive.

“I mean to annul my marriage,” Girton began. “I shouldn't think it will take too long, under the circumstances. Everyone knows that it wasn't a real marriage, and never has been. How long do you think it will take to draw up the papers?”

Rounton blinked. The duke continued blithely, “And I might as well see Bicksfiddle while I'm there. Not that I plan to make any changes to his management. He has been making a surprising amount of money. But I do want to ensure that it's all in fine fettle for Stephen.”

At that the solicitor's mouth fell open.

“I shall settle a good amount on my wife, of course,” Girton added. “She's been remarkably nice about the whole thing.”

Mr. Rounton shook himself. “You wish to annul your marriage, Your Grace?”

“Exactly.”

“And did I understand that you wish to transfer your estate to your cousin…the Earl of Splade?” The man looked perfectly sane, if a bit unconventional. He was downright messy, the way his hair bristled up in that queer way, but he didn't appear drunk.

“The estate and the title will ultimately be Stephen's or
his son's, at some point. I make no use of it. Swore to my father my word that I wouldn't touch his estate, and I've never taken a penny from it.”

“But…what—your heir—your wife—” Rounton spluttered.

“I have no heir other than Stephen,” Girton pointed out. “And I don't have a wife in more than name. Given that I have no intention of marrying again, I would like to dispense with the estate as soon as possible.”

“You wish to annul your marriage, but you do not have another wife in mind.”

The duke began to show signs of impatience. “As I said.”

“Preparing the annulment papers is a relatively easy task, Your Grace. But such a process takes a great deal of time to effect. Much longer than a week.”

“Even in our situation? After all, I haven't seen my wife since she was, what—eleven or twelve years old? There can't be anyone foolish enough to think the fiasco was ever consummated.”

“I doubt that will present a problem given that your wife was so young,” Rounton replied. “However, the process requires the confirmation of Parliament
and
of the Regent. It could not happen readily. I am afraid that you must consider a longer stay in this country.”

“Can't do it,” Girton returned promptly. “I have work to do in Greece.”

“Surely—” Rounton put in, desperately.

“No.” And the solicitor could see he meant it. “I go into a frenzy if I'm away from my studio too long. You wouldn't want a mad duke roaming the English countryside, would you?” Girton stood up. The interview was clearly over. “Why don't you see how far you can get in the next few days? If I sign the papers, surely you could take care of it on your own.”

Rounton rose slowly, his mind dancing over the thousands of legal obstacles that lay ahead of him. “I shall need to speak to you frequently before you leave the country,” he said, rather anxiously.

“I believe I'll stay in this inn for a night or two,” the duke said. “I hear there's some very good fishing just to the north. Why don't you investigate the process, and return here tomorrow?”

“I will do my best,” Rounton replied. The young duke
was
like his father: they both wanted impossibilities, and wanted them yesterday.

“Then I shall look forward to seeing you for dinner. And thank you very much.” The duke bowed.

 

B
ack in London, Rounton settled into his comfortable office in the Inns of Court, and thought long and hard about the situation. He could see as clear as day that the duke was going to annul his marriage and then run back to the fleshpots of Greece, or whatever he had been doing over there in the last twelve years. And there would go the dukedom of Girton.

His father and his father's father had served the Dukes of Girton. And Edmund Rounton would be damned if he'd let it be thrown aside by an arrogant young whippersnapper who cared only about shaping bits of marble, and didn't understand the importance of his own title.

“I can't let the boy do it,” he muttered, walking around his desk. It was a serious matter, letting an ancient and honored dukedom fall into new hands.

Naturally he could understand why the man went abroad in the first place. Rounton never forgot the dizzy rage in the youngster's face as he muttered his vows, marrying a young girl whom he had thought was his first cousin until that very morning. It didn't surprise him when the bridegroom fled
out a window after the ceremony and was never seen in England again. Not even when his own father was dying.

“Godspeed his soul,” Rounton said reflexively, and then added, “the old bastard.”

Besides, Girton's only heir was the Earl of Splade, although as a Tory representative for the Oxfordshire district, Splade had long refused to use his title. Not that it mattered, because Splade was no better than his cousin. He was never going to get married. Too interested in politics. He was older than Girton anyhow. Must be thirty-six, if he was a day. Splade would fall dead on the floor of the House of Commons; Girton would continue his merry, unmarried debauchery off in Europe; and the dukedom would be gone. Doomed. Dead.

Rounton himself had failed to produce a male heir, and so the equally old and honored firm of Rounton & Rounton was due to fall into strangers' hands as soon as he retired. At the thought a stab of pain shot through his stomach. Rounton sighed. Let Girton do as he wished. Throw away his lineage. The hell with it.

He opened up the newspaper that lay on his desk, neatly ironed and waiting. His doctor had suggested that calm activities such as reading would soothe his recurrent bouts of dyspepsia. For a few moments he stared listlessly at “General Observations About the Town,” mechanically reading down a list of frivolous activities performed by frivolous persons. Suddenly a passage jumped out at him:

Rounton's eyes narrowed, and he forgot the burning in his stomach. Energy ran through his limbs. He wouldn't retire until he saved the Girton lineage. It would be his final act of loyalty: the last and best gift to the Dukes of Girton from the loyal Rountons.

At least he himself had made a decent attempt to produce a little solicitor to inherit the firm. He and Mary, bless her heart, had been unable to have youngsters; well, so be it. But the duke had a perfectly good young wife sitting around, and he could damn well try to breed with her before he went back to the continent.