The Lost Duke of Wyndham (25 page)

To the door on the right.

“Jack?” she said softly, pushing the door open a few inches.

He was sitting in a chair, facing the window, but he turned quickly and stood at the sound of her voice.

She let herself in and closed the door gently behind her. “Your aunt said—”

He was right there. Right there in front of her. And then her back was against the door, and he was kissing her, hard, fast, and—
dear God
—thoroughly.

And then he stepped away. She couldn't breathe, she
could barely stand, and she knew she could not have put together a sentence if her life had depended on it.

Never in her life had she wanted anything as much as she wanted this man.

“Go to bed, Grace.”

“What?”

“I cannot resist you,” he said, his voice soft, haggard, and everything in between.

She reached toward him. She could not help it.

“Not in this house,” he whispered.

But his eyes burned for her.

“Go,” he said hoarsely. “Please.”

She did. She ran up the stairs, found her room, and crawled between her sheets.

But she shivered all night.

She shivered and she burned.

C
an't sleep?”

Jack looked up from where he was still sitting in his uncle's study. Thomas was standing in the doorway. “No,” he said.

Thomas walked in. “Nor I.”

Jack held out the bottle of brandy he'd taken from the shelf. There had not been a speck of dust on it, even though he was quite certain it had gone untouched since his uncle's death. Aunt Mary had always run a pristine household.

“It's good,” Jack said. “I think my uncle was saving it.” He blinked, looking down at the label, then murmured, “Not for this, I imagine.”

He motioned to a set of crystal snifters near the window, waiting with the bottle in hand as Thomas walked across the room and took one. When Thomas returned, he sat in the study's other wingback chair,
setting his snifter down on the small, low table between them. Jack reached out and poured. Generously.

Thomas took the brandy and drank, his eyes narrowing as he stared out the window. “It will be dawn soon.”

Jack nodded. There were no hints of pink in the sky, but the pale silvery glow of morning had begun to permeate the air. “Has anyone awakened?” he asked.

“Not that I've heard.”

They sat in silence for several moments. Jack finished his drink and considered another. He picked up the bottle to pour, but as the first drops splashed down, he realized he didn't really want it. He looked up. “Do you ever feel as if you are on display?”

Thomas's face remained impassive. “All the time.”

“How do you bear it?”

“I don't know anything else.”

Jack placed his fingers to his forehead and rubbed. He had a blistering headache and no reason to suppose it might improve. “It's going to be hideous today.”

Thomas nodded.

Jack closed his eyes. It was easy to picture the scene. The dowager would insist upon reading the register first, and Crowland would be right over his shoulder, cackling away, ready to sell his daughter off to the highest bidder. His aunt would probably want to come, and Amelia, too—and who could blame her? She had as much at stake as anyone.

The only person who would not be there was Grace.

The only person he needed by his side.

“It's going to be a bloody circus,” Jack muttered.

“Indeed.”

They sat there, doing nothing, and then they both looked up at precisely the same moment. Their eyes met, and Jack watched Thomas's face as his gaze slid over toward the window.

Outside.

“Shall we?” Jack asked, and he felt the first glimmerings of a smile.

“Before anyone—”

“Right now.” Because really, no one else had a place at this table.

Thomas stood. “Lead the way.”

Jack rose to his feet and headed out the door, Thomas right behind. And as they mounted their horses and took off, the air still heavy with night, it occurred to him—

They were cousins.

And for the first time, that felt like a good thing.

 

Morning was well under way when they reached the Maguiresbridge church. Jack had been there several times before, visiting his mother's family, and the old gray stone felt comfortable and familiar. The building was small, and humble, and in his opinion, everything a church ought to be.

“It does not look as if anyone is about,” Thomas said. If he was unimpressed by the plainness of the architecture, he did not indicate as much.

“The register will likely be at the rectory,” Jack said.

Thomas nodded, and they dismounted, tying their horses to a hitching post before making their way to
the front of the rectory. They knocked several times before they heard footsteps moving toward them from within.

The door opened, revealing a woman of middling years, clearly the housekeeper.

“Good day, ma'am,” Jack said, offering her a polite bow. “I am Jack Audley, and this is—”

“Thomas Cavendish,” Thomas cut in, nodding in greeting.

Jack gave him a bit of a dry look at that, which the housekeeper would surely have noticed if she hadn't been so obviously irritated by their arrival.

“We would like to see the parish register,” Jack said.

She stared at them for a moment and a half and then jerked her head toward the rear. “It's in the back room,” she said. “The vicar's office.”

“Er, is the vicar present?” Jack asked, although the last bit of the last word was covered by a grunt, brought on by Thomas's elbow pressing into his side.

“No vicar just now,” the housekeeper said. “The position is vacant.” She walked over to a well-worn sofa in front of the fire and sat down. “We're supposed to get someone new soon. They send someone from Enniskillen every Sunday to deliver a sermon.”

She then picked up a plate of toast and turned her back on them completely.

Jack looked over at Thomas. Who he found was looking over at him.

He supposed they were just meant to go in.

So they did.

The office was larger than Jack would have ex
pected, given the tight quarters of the rest of the rectory. There were three windows, one on the north wall and then two on the west, flanking the fireplace. A small but tidy flame was burning; Jack walked over to warm his hands.

“Do you know what a parish register looks like?” Thomas asked.

Jack shrugged and shook his head. He stretched his fingers, then flexed his feet as best as he could within the confines of his boots. His muscles were growing tense and jumpy, and everytime he tried to hold still, he realized that his fingers were drumming a frantic tattoo on his leg.

He wanted to jump out of his skin. He wanted to jump right out of his—

“This may be it.”

Jack turned. Thomas was holding a large book. It was bound in brown leather, and the cover showed signs of age.

“Shall we?” Thomas asked. His voice was even, but Jack saw him swallow spasmodically. And his hands were trembling.

“You can do it,” Jack said. He could not fake it this time. He could not stand there and pretend to read. Some things were simply too much to bear.

Thomas stared at him in shock. “You don't want to look with me?”

“I trust you.” It was true. Thomas could not think of a more inherently trustworthy person. Thomas would not lie. Not even about this.

“No,” Thomas said, dismissing this entirely. “I won't do it without you.”

For a moment Jack just stood there unmoving, and then, cursing under his breath, he went over to join Thomas at the desk.

“You're too bloody noble,” Jack bit off.

Thomas muttered something Jack could not quite make out and set the book down, opening it to one of the first pages.

Jack looked down. It was a blur, all swirls and dips, dancing before his eyes. He swallowed, stealing a glance at Thomas to see if he'd seen anything. But Thomas was staring down at the register, his eyes moving quickly from left to right as he flipped through the pages.

And then he slowed down.

Jack clenched his teeth, trying to make it out. Sometimes he could tell the bigger letters, and frequently the numbers. It was just that they were so often not where he thought they should be, or not
what
he thought they should be.

Ah, idiocy. It ought to have been familiar by now. But it never was.

“Do you know what month your parents would have married in?” Thomas asked.

“No.” But it was a small parish. How many weddings could there have been?

Jack watched Thomas's fingers. They moved along the edge of the page, then slid around the edge.

And flipped it. And stopped.

Jack looked at Thomas. He was still.

He'd closed his eyes. And it was clear. On his face. It was clear.

“Dear God.” The words fell from Jack's lips like tears. It wasn't a surprise, and yet, he'd been hoping…praying…

That his parents hadn't married. Or the proof had been lost. That someone, anyone, had been wrong because
this
was wrong. It could not be happening. He could not do this.

Just look at him now. He was standing there bloody well
pretending
to read the register. How in God's name did anyone think he could be a duke?

Contracts?

Oh, that would be fun.

Rents?

He'd better get a trustworthy steward, since it wasn't as if
he
could check to see if he was being cheated.

And then—he choked back a horrified laugh—it was a damned good thing he could sign his documents with a seal. The Lord knew how long it would take to learn to sign his new name without looking as if he had to think about it.

John Cavendish-Audley
had taken months. Was it any wonder he'd been so eager to drop the Cavendish?

Jack brought his face to his hands, closing his eyes tight. This could not be happening. He'd known it would happen, and yet, here he was, convinced it was an impossibility.

He was going mad.

He felt like he couldn't breathe.

“Who is Philip?” Thomas asked.

“What?” Jack practically snapped.

“Philip Galbraith. He was a witness.”

Jack looked up. And then down at the register. At the swirls and dips that apparently spelled out his uncle's name. “My mother's brother.”

“Does he still live?”

“I don't know. He did the last I knew. It has been five years.” Jack thought furiously. Why was Thomas asking? Would it mean anything if Philip was dead? The proof was still right there in the register.

The register.

Jack stared at it, his lips parted and slack. It was the enemy. That one little book.

Grace had said she could not marry him if he was the Duke of Wyndham.

Thomas had made no secret of the mountains of paperwork that lay ahead.

If he was the Duke of Wyndham.

But there was only that book. There was only that page.

Just one page, and he could remain Jack Audley. All his problems would be solved.

“Tear it out,” Jack whispered.

“What did you say?”

“Tear it out.”

“Are you mad?”

Jack shook his head. “You are the duke.”

Thomas looked down at the register. “No,” he said softly, “I'm not.”

“No.” Jack's voice grew urgent, and he grabbed Thomas by the shoulders. “You are what Wyndham needs. What everyone needs.”

“Stop, you—”

“Listen to me,” Jack implored. “You are born and
bred to the job. I will ruin everything. Do you understand? I cannot do it. I
cannot
do it.”

But Thomas just shook his head. “I may be bred to it, but you were born to it. And I cannot take what is yours.”

“I don't want it!” Jack burst out.

“It is not yours to accept or deny,” Thomas said, his voice numbingly calm. “Don't you understand? It is not a possession. It is who you are.”

“Oh, for God's sake,” Jack swore. He raked his hands through his hair. He grabbed at it, pulled entire fistfuls until his scalp felt as if it were stretching off the bone. “I am
giving
it to you. On a bloody silver platter. You stay the duke, and I shall leave you alone. I'll be
your
scout in the Outer Hebrides. Anything. Just tear the page out.”

“If you didn't want the title, why didn't you just say that your parents hadn't been married at the outset?” Thomas shot back. “I asked you if your parents were married. You could have said no.”

“I didn't
know
that I was in line to inherit when you questioned my legitimacy.” Jack gulped. His throat tasted acrid and afraid. He stared at Thomas, trying to gauge his thoughts.

How could he be so bloody upright and noble? Anyone else would have ripped that page to shreds. But no, not Thomas Cavendish. He would do what was right. Not what was best, but what was right.

Bloody fool.

Thomas was just standing there, staring at the register. And he—he was ready to climb the walls. His entire body was shaking, his heart pounding, and he—

What was that noise?

“Do you hear that?” Jack whispered urgently.

Horses.

“They're here,” Thomas said.

Jack stopped breathing. Through the window he could see a carriage approaching.

He was out of time.

He looked at Thomas.

Thomas was staring down at the register. “I can't do it,” he whispered.

Jack didn't think. He just moved. He leapt past Thomas to the church register and tore.

Thomas tackled him, trying to grab the paper away, but Jack slid out from his grasp, launching himself toward the fire.

“Jack, no!” Thomas yelled, but Jack was too quick, and even as Thomas caught hold of his arm, Jack managed to hurl the paper into the fire.

The fight drained from both of them in an instant, and they both stood transfixed, watching the paper curl and blacken.

“God in heaven,” Thomas whispered. “What have you done?”

Jack could not take his eyes off the fire. “I have saved us all.”

 

Grace had not expected to be included in the journey to the Maguiresbridge church. No matter how closely involved she had become in the matter of the Wyndham inheritance, she was not a member of the family. She wasn't even a member of the household any longer.

But when the dowager discovered that Jack and Thomas went to the church without her, she had—and Grace did not believe this an exaggeration—gone mad. It required but a minute for her to recover, but for those first sixty seconds it was a terrifying sight. Even Grace had never witnessed the like.

And so when it was time to depart, Amelia had refused to leave without her. “Do not leave me alone with that woman,” she hissed in Grace's ear.

“You won't be alone,” Grace tried to explain. Her father would be going, of course, and Jack's aunt had claimed a spot in the carriage as well.