The Birthday Scandal (10 page)

“Not Uncle—the next duke. Emily’s taken a notion that the moment the Fletchers hear about Cousin Gavin, a mere earl will be out of the running. And I must say Athstone makes a tempting prospect.”

Emily choked on a sip of tea. “Athstone?
Tempting
? Compared with an earl in his fifties, yes, but—”

“A marquess, soon to be a duke,” Lucien said. “If it’s a title they’re trying to capture, there’s nothing higher’ except a royal duke, of course.”

“What female would
want
one of the king’s sons?” Isabel murmured.

“But a duke—or even a duke’s heir—marrying the daughter of a mere baronet?” Lucien went to the door and called out for Chalmers.

“Don’t be such a snob, Lucien.”

“Anyway, he’s not a duke,” Emily argued. “Or even a marquess, officially. He’s an upstart with an accidental title.”

“I think he’s charming,” Isabel said.

Silence dropped over the breakfast room for half a minute. If Isabel was comparing Gavin to Maxwell, Emily thought, she had a point. But in Emily’s mind,
charming
and
Gavin Waring
were two terms that could never belong in the same sentence.

“Oh, quite charming,” Lucien muttered. “He’ll probably end by beguiling Uncle Josiah into leaving him the lot after all, and the rest of us will be just as high and dry as ever.”

“Lucien!” Isabel scolded. “I thought the two of you were getting on quite well last night. What happened?”

“Nothing.” He had the grace to look ashamed of himself. “Very well—it’s Uncle Josiah’s money, and we shouldn’t count on a thing. But I’m telling you—if we each end up with nothing more than a thousand guineas and Uncle’s good wishes…”

“A thousand guineas may not look like much to you,” Emily said crisply, “but I assure you it would make a great deal of difference to me in Barton Bristow.”

“And to me.” Isabel sounded almost absentminded as she stared out the window.

“Besides, Lucien, you’re at least assured of the entailed property. Neither Isabel nor I have expectations.”

“You know I’ll take care of you,” Lucien said. “Chiswick will always be your home.”

“I could hardly move back to Chiswick if Chloe Fletcher is there. And your resources may be stretched thin if our father has a second family to provide for.”

Isabel seemed to shake herself. “Listen to us! We’re letting the very idea of a stepmother put us at dagger’s point with each other, as well as with our father.”

“Well, that tears it,” Lucien said cheerfully. “There’s no other road I can see but to match her up with Cousin Gavin. He needs a wife. We might be fortunate, if he falls head over heels in love with Miss Chloe.”

The idea of the match had been Emily’s own—and she still thought it a good one. But somehow, she didn’t feel quite as cheerful about the notion anymore.

A
t Gavin’s request, Chalmers showed him up to the duke’s bedroom. Weybridge’s valet opened the door and escorted Gavin across a sitting room even larger than the one in his own suite to a corner of the new wing. Up two steps from the bedroom was one of the towers of the original castle. Even larger than it had looked from outside, the tower room was fitted up as an office, with a tidy desk standing near a window facing out over the lake and the valley.

In the huge scarlet-draped bed, the duke was sitting up with a tray across his knees, a stack of pillows at his back. “About time you showed up,” he growled.

Gavin bowed but said nothing. The valet brought a small straight chair and set it down with precision beside the bed. The duke waved a hand at it; Gavin waited till the valet had gone before he seated himself. “May I enquire how you are feeling this morning, Your Grace?”

“Well enough that you needn’t make plans just yet to change the colors in my bedroom.” The duke shifted against his pillows and his tray rocked alarmingly. One of the dogs sprawled in front of the fire got lazily to his feet and came over as if to check for fallen crumbs. Finding none, he studied Gavin with dark, liquid eyes, then poked his cold nose into Gavin’s palm.

“Enough, Balthazar,” the duke said, and the dog retreated. “The grooms you sent to the village are now housed in the quarters for outdoor servants, in the stable wing. And as for your mistress…”

“I trust she, too, will be adequately cared for?”

“I took care of her, all right.” The duke shot a sideways look at Gavin. “It appears you enjoy telling cock and bull stories, because there was no such female at the inn.”

“She must have grown tired of waiting for me and found another protector.”

“Didn’t take her long,” the duke grunted. “Twelve hours or so. She must have heard from someone in the village that I’m not expected to die for a few days yet, and thought she might do better for herself.” He glared at Gavin. “I’ll thank you not to carry on trying to pull whiskers on me, sir.”

“I shall bear that in mind, should I be tempted to lie to you in the future, Your Grace.”

“Hmph,” the duke said. A little silence fell. He twisted his cup round on the tray. “There’s something I didn’t ask my solicitors to discover. Didn’t particularly want them to know.”

Gavin listened with rapt interest. Considering all the questions he’d already answered for the solicitors, what could possibly be so sensitive it had to remain between the duke and his heir?

“Were you involved in the late dust-up between our countries? Or I should say, between your former home and this one?”

The duke might not have asked for the information, Gavin thought, but he’d lay odds the solicitors knew. “Would it matter if I was?”

“To the title, no. To me, yes.”

“I did not bear arms against England, Your Grace,” Gavin said carefully.

“Ah. So you did respect your heritage.” The duke leaned back against his pillows and waved a languid hand toward the tower room. “Look in the top left drawer of the desk. There’s a red velvet box.”

“I did not say I wouldn’t have taken up arms, had the conflict continued,” Gavin warned. But he rose and went to the desk. He was more interested in the papers spread across the blotter than in whatever lay in the drawer. Taking a quick look wasn’t prying, exactly; the pages were right there, out in the open, where he could scarcely avoid seeing them. The top layer appeared to be some kind of map of the estate, with water courses and lanes marked.

The red velvet box was easy to spot, for it was right at the front of the drawer. It was small and square, the sort of box that usually held jewelry. Gavin looked at it with trepidation. So young Hartford had been right about the duke starting to bring pressure on him to marry.

Gavin made a private bet with himself that the ring inside the box would be studded with diamonds, and probably a lot of them. Nothing less would do for a family as grand—or as self-important—as the Weybridges seemed to be.

He carried the box across to the bed and held it out to the duke, balanced on his open palm.

“It’s not going to bite you,” the duke said. “Open it.”

Gavin pressed the catch and popped the lid. The ring inside did not glitter or catch the light from the window. There were no precious stones after all, only a crest deeply engraved in the fat gold surface.

“The Marquess of Athstone’s signet ring,” the duke said. “Hasn’t been out of that drawer since I put it away the day I moved into this room.”

When he had become the duke. Gavin stared at the ring. Suddenly it felt heavy—as if the weight of the job had come to rest in the visible symbol cupped in his hand.

“I suppose the scribes at Debrett’s, with their long scrolls and dusty record books, would say it can’t be official until I actually turn up my toes. But I’d only make myself look a fool if I took a young wife now, and the result would be the same. I must say Chiswick did me a favor there. Not that I was planning to do anything of the sort—though why he’s willing to put himself forward as a laughingstock is beyond me. But that brings me to the point.”

Gavin braced himself.

“Chiswick does make a degree of sense about the importance of continuing the line.”

“I understand why it matters to you, sir.” Gavin kept his tone level. “But surely you aren’t shortsighted enough to believe that I have acquired the same sense of duty, family, and lineage in a matter of days that has been bred into you all your life.”

The duke’s beady gaze rested on him. “It’ll come with time, and maybe before you expect. Your heritage will win out. In the meantime, look around. Get your feet wet.”

“And here I thought you’d demand I marry immediately and start producing little duke-lings.”

“If I thought you’d bend to my will,” the duke said frankly, “I might. But all I ask is that you remain open-minded and not tie yourself to anyone without consulting me.”

“Then we understand each other quite well, Your Grace. What you mean is that I must not tie myself to a woman who doesn’t meet your specifications.”

“There are good reasons for seeking my approval. You would do well to think of your future comfort when you wed.”

Gavin let a hint of irony creep into his voice. “Oh, I shall, sir, believe me.”

“I mean in other places besides bed. A woman who knows as little as you do about the society you’ve entered would be no help to you. You’d end up miserable.”

“Am I right in guessing that you have someone already in mind? Your niece, perhaps?”

“Emily?” The duke gave a harsh bark of laughter. “God, no! After what happened to Emily…No, she’ll never marry. And it’s just as well she doesn’t, for she’d make a man’s life a living hell.”

Gavin didn’t doubt it. Lady Emily had started off by snapping at him, and now she was practically ignoring him—which was something of a benefit. The duke’s attitude was a surprise, but he was relieved to know that on this one point he and the duke were in agreement.

Still, he found himself wanting to know.
What happened to Emily?

Before he could decide whether it was wise to ask, the duke had gone on. “This party on Saturday next, for my birthday—”

“There is to be a party, Your Grace? This is the first I’ve heard of it.”

“Must have forgotten to bring it up last night. A garden party followed by a ball, in fact. It will also be a presentation of sorts for you—introducing you to all the families in the county.”

Gavin could see the way the wind was blowing. “Including all their daughters, I suppose.”

“Wouldn’t be much of a ball without young people to dance. You’ll do your duty, of course—substituting for me in the host’s role, since I can hardly waltz the night away. And if one of them should strike your fancy…”

“I am certain that before the night is out I shall be consulting you about the suitability of my chosen bride,” Gavin murmured.

“Don’t go trying to run a rig on me now, I beg. And stop dilly-dallying and put that ring on.”

“You’ll grant, Your Grace, that your plan does sound rather like a fairy tale.” Gavin reluctantly took the signet from the box. “Falling in love during a ball.”

“Left hand, pinky finger. Easier to take it off to seal your letters, if you wear it there. See if it fits.”

Gavin was startled when the ring slid into place as if it had been made for him, for his hands were bigger than the average man’s. The gold quickly warmed to his body heat, but he felt as if it had grown hot—a brand upon his finger, marking him for all time.

“Wear it always, and keep it safe, until the day comes that you put on this ring instead.” The duke waved his left hand. The signet on his finger—larger and showier than the one Gavin wore—caught the light. “Then stow it away to give to your son when he reaches his majority.”

A son who would also have to carry this burden. Gavin tried not to sigh. The duke had been right about his growing awareness of duty, family, and lineage. The weight pressed down on him.

“And now the matter of the name. We’ve been Mainwarings since the dawn of time, and going around calling yourself Gavin Waring won’t do.”

“It is my name. My great-grandfather sought a simpler life when he left England.”

“Your great-grandfather was a scoundrel who sought to escape the law,” the duke said frankly, “so don’t tell me he changed his name because he was some sort of idealist. You’re a Mainwaring now, and that’s the end of it.”

“I shall consider the matter,” Gavin said diplomatically. “If I might ask a question, Your Grace?”

“I suppose there’ll be no stopping you, so go ahead.”

“Do the ladies—Lady Isabel and Lady Emily—know that you have planned a ball?”

“No idea. Why?”

“I suspect they have brought no finery they would feel suitable for such an event.”

“Why talk to me about it?”

Gavin’s self-control cracked. “Well,
I
can hardly provide them with dresses!”

“I should think not. Quite expensive, what the ladies like to wear—as I expect you’d know if you
had
stashed a turtledove at the village inn. Though I must say I like you better for showing a little spirit.”

“Surely you do not want your nieces to appear less well turned out than the other ladies at your party.”

“So you think I should dress them myself? I suppose you have a point. Speaking of being well turned out, I have reconsidered the matter of your wardrobe. You may give my steward the reckoning for your clothing—I assume you know how much it runs to?” The duke’s tone hardened. “And I suppose for the curricle and horses as well.”