Defending the Duke (The St. Clairs Book 4)

Book 4: The St. Clairs

by Alexa Aston

Genres: Regency Romance; historical romance; Regency romance; duke; England; 1800s; romantic heroines historical; The St Clairs

Synopsis

Can love grow between a reluctant duke and an illegitimate shop girl?

Read Book 4 in the bestselling "The St. Clairs" series for free with Kindle Unlimited!

Anthony Godwin, trusted staff officer to the Duke of Wellington, returns from the Napoleonic Wars to learn both his father and brother are dead and he is the new Duke of Linfield. His anger and bitterness have grown through the years and he despises the Linfield name—because his father gave Anthony away when he was eight years old. Now he finds himself a part of the ton, with men seeking his advice and women vying to become his new duchess, all because of a title he now holds and never wanted.

Laurel Wright grew up in poverty. When her mother dies, Laurel learns she and her twin brother are the illegitimate offspring of the deceased Duke of Everton. Penniless and starving, she turns to the new Duke of Everton in desperation. Suddenly, Laurel is swept into a glittering, unfamiliar world as she is launched into the Season. Navigating her way proves daunting and when she is discovered in a compromising position with a man she's only met, it leads to a quick marriage in which both partners agree that love will never be a part of their relationship.

Anthony never wanted a wife and is abruptly saddled with one. He tries to keep his distance from the raven-haired beauty who is now his duchess, but Laurel proves to be irresistible. Passion erupts between them and he finds himself longing for a child, though he fights growing closer to this new wife.

Will Laurel and Anthony be able to put the past behind them—and let love rule their future?

Find the answer in bestselling author Alexa Aston's fourth book of The St. Clairs, Defending the Duke.

Each book in The St. Clairs Trilogy is a standalone story that can be enjoyed out of order.

The St. Clairs
Book #1 Devoted to the Duke
Book #2 Midnight with the Marquess
Book #3 Embracing the Earl
Book #4 Defending the Duke
Book #5 Suddenly a St. Clair (Coming soon!)

Release date: October 8, 2019

Publisher: Dragonblade Publishing, Inc.

Print pages: 250

Sample

PROLOGUE

Ridingham Academy—1795

 

Anthony Godwin stood in the headmaster’s office, having been summoned an hour earlier. He’d been told his father would soon arrive to take him away. Fear curled around his heart, almost choking the breath from him. But he wouldn’t apologize for fighting. It had been Rinson’s fault. Anthony merely defended himself.

A discreet knock sounded on the door and the secretary entered, saying, “His Grace, the Duke of Linfield, has arrived.”

The headmaster rose. Anthony saw nerves flit through the man as he put on a mask of bravado.

“Send in His Grace.”

Moments later, the Duke of Linfield entered. The room—and the headmaster—seemed to shrink in his presence.

“Good afternoon, Your Grace. Would you care for—”

“Is the boy staying at Ridingham or not?”

Anthony took note that his father referred to him as the boy.

Not his boy.

The headmaster flushed a dull red. “I believe it is in the best interest of the other boys at Ridingham Academy if Mr. Godwin finds another place in which to continue his education.”

“I’ll see him alone.”

Anthony swallowed. He locked his knees to keep from swaying. His father rarely spent any time with him. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time they had been alone.

The door closed and the duke finally turned his attention to his son. His eyes narrowed.

“Fighting? Again?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

He wished he could tell his father about the circumstances. How Rinson had bullied him relentlessly ever since he’d arrived at the school. The older boy taunted and belittled him. Stolen from him. Lied about him. Anthony had taken it, knowing older boys always did so to younger ones. Finally, though, Rinson had used his fists and Anthony had retaliated. He couldn’t help being a better fighter. None of that mattered, though. He already knew whatever he said would be met with hostility—or worse.

Indifference.

“No, sir.”

The duke sighed. “This will be the third school that has requested you leave.”

“I know,” he said sullenly.

“Belligerence doesn’t suit you,” his father noted.

His hands balled into fists.

“Anger can be an effective weapon,” the duke said, glancing at his son’s hands. “You are angry. Learning to harness anger is difficult but it’s a lesson you need to learn.”

Anthony had no idea how to do so. It seemed he had been born angry. Or made that way. His mother had died in childbirth after producing him. His father paid scant attention to him. His brother made his life miserable.

Craving his father’s attention, he bravely asked, “Could you teach me that lesson? How to rein in my anger?”

The duke looked at him as if he’d grown three heads. “Why on earth would I care to do so?” he asked, clearly baffled by the request.

“Because I am your son?” he offered, hoping for a scrap of recognition as to their relationship.

The duke’s jaw tightened. “I already have a son I teach everything to. My heir.”

“Theodore is nothing but a bully,” Anthony blurted out. “He’s bullied me ever since I can remember. You favor him.”

The duke’s eyes gleamed. “Of course, I favor him. And rightfully so. Theodore is a marquess. Heir to a dukedom. Most every man in England will be subservient to him one day. Only a handful of men will be his peer or outrank him. He’s been bred to bully others. To stand above all. To use the power he has now, power which will grow once I am gone and he becomes Linfield.” He paused. “I’ll always favor him over you. There’s never been any question in that regard.”

Anthony had always known his father preferred his brother but hearing the words spoken aloud hurt more than he could have imagined.

“But I’m his brother,” he protested. “Surely, he could be nice to me. I’m family.”

The duke snorted. “Theodore will never be nice to you. He’s scared to death of you.”

The remark puzzled him. “He’s four years older than me.”

His father assessed him. “He has good reason to fear you, Boy. You’re already far more clever than Theodore ever will be. Before long, you’ll physically catch him in height and weight and then surpass him. You’re even better looking. His ears stick out and with his thin hair, he’ll go bald by the time he’s thirty.”

The duke flicked a piece of lint from his coat. “He’s jealous of you and always will be. If he can bend you to his will, he’ll be able to do so with others.”

“I know he’ll be Linfield someday,” Anthony protested. “I never will. Can’t you make him—”

“Make him what?” the duke interrupted. “Like you? Love you?” He laughed. “Theodore will never have any kind feelings for you. Where you’re concerned, it’s pure jealousy. And hatred. He knows you killed his beloved mother.”

Anthony’s fists tightened.

‘You want to strike me. I know. It’s written all over you. You’ll need to learn to mask your emotions as well as manage your anger. The military will do that for you.”

He frowned. “What if I don’t want to be in the army?” he challenged.

“Second sons go into the military,” his father said, his tone revealing that Anthony would have no other option. “It will give you discipline. You’re a bright boy. If you could stop leading with your fists and think before you strike someone, you have the makings of being a leader.”

The duke turned and went to the door. “We’ll leave now. Your things have been collected.”

He followed his father to the carriage waiting outside. They climbed in and the duke immediately closed his eyes. Obviously, their conversation was over for now. For several hours, Anthony stared out the window. Wondering where his next school would be. If he would learn to control his temper. What life in the army would be like one day.

The carriage turned and he realized where they headed. He looked and saw his father’s eyes opened.

“We’re stopping to visit Aunt Constance?” he asked.

“More than that,” the duke revealed. “You’ll be living with her. She will manage everything. Find you a new school. That sort of thing.”

An uneasy feeling settled over him. “For how long?”

“Until you finish your education,” the duke said crisply. “You’ll spend your holidays with her. I’ll purchase your military commission once you’ve turned eighteen. Then you’ll be on your own.”

The duke’s words stunned him. “You’re . . . cutting me loose?”

“I have the son I need. I plan to spend all my time molding him into being the perfect Duke of Linfield. It’s going to take a huge amount of effort to do so. You’ve been far more trouble than I’d expected. I don’t wish to bother with you in the future.”

The carriage came to a halt. The door opened. His father gave him a pointed look so he rose unsteadily and moved toward the door, where he was hoisted to the ground by the footman. The door closed and Anthony looked inside the carriage. His father stared straight ahead. He realized he wouldn’t get a word of goodbye, much less any encouragement. His gut told Anthony he would never see his father again.

Good . . .

The driver set his trunk next to him. He caught the look of sympathy in the man’s eyes and quickly lowered his own, fighting back the tears that stung his eyes. The driver returned to his seat and, with a flick of the reins, the carriage set off again down the lane. Slowly, Anthony raised his eyes, watching it depart. As it rolled away, the anger that had existed within him exploded, burning as a roaring furnace, the blazing heat sweeping through him, claiming his soul. He no longer existed to his father, if he ever had. He silently cursed the man who’d played a part in giving him life, as well as his worthless brother. He didn’t need them. He would never think about them.

An arm went about his shoulders. He glanced up and saw Aunt Constance standing next to him. Tears brimmed in her eyes but she gave him a brave smile.

“I’m so glad you’ve come to stay with me, Anthony. I always wanted to have children. Now, I’ll have my own little boy to love.”

“Father never loved me, did he, Aunt Constance?”

She smoothed his hair. “He’s never loved anyone but himself. Not even your mother. And certainly not Theodore. I don’t think Linfield is capable of love.” She smiled brightly. “I think you’ll be better off without him.”

Anthony was eight years old.

 

 

CHAPTER 1

London—January 1816

 

Laurel Wright recorded each item and its price before placing it in the basket. She provided the total and waited expectantly for payment, knowing Mrs. Jones wouldn’t have enough money to pay the entire bill. She wished she could allow the woman to take all of the goods anyway but Mr. Cole had expressly forbidden her from doing so, stepping away from his policy of giving customers the privilege to purchase goods on credit and allowing them to pay at the end of each month. As of last week, everyone who entered the chandler’s store, whether they purchased cheese, bacon, or any other groceries, had to pay for all items bought before they left the premises. She feared too many people had taken advantage of Mr. Cole’s generosity and that was why he had to insist on payment in full. Since she managed his ledgers, she understood why he’d made the drastic change. It had cost them a few customers since the policy had gone into effect but at least there was coin in the till and Mr. Cole could pay his own suppliers in full for once.

The woman shook her head and took two items out of the basket. After contemplating for a few moments, a third joined the two on the counter. Laurel deducted the cost from the total bill and struck the goods from her list. The longtime customer nodded and painstakingly counted out what was due.

“Thank you, Mrs. Jones,” she said, smiling kindly. “I’ll see you next time.”

Mrs. Jones shrugged and shuffled from the store. Laurel replaced the withdrawn items on the various shelves and returned behind the counter. She closed the ledger, placing it and the till on the shelf beneath the counter.

The bell tinkled as the door opened again and she saw Mr. Cole had returned.

With Julius Farmon.

She suppressed a shudder and kept a bland expression on her face. Laurel hated Mr. Farmon with a passion. He had bought up much of the neighborhood and raised rents, including the tenement where she lived with her mother and brother. Their small abode barely was large enough for the three of them yet they paid the bulk of what they earned in rent. It had helped when Mama held a job but after her heart attack several months ago, the doctor had wanted Dinah Wright off her feet and out of the workforce. Her mother’s heart condition had weakened her to the point where she could no longer even sew on the side, which had supplemented the Wright family’s income. Now, Laurel and Hudson scraped together what they could to replace the missing income. She not only worked as a clerk at Mr. Cole’s but since she was good with numbers, she kept the chandler’s books for him, staying late after the store closed to work on them. The additional sewing her mother used to take on had now fallen to Laurel and she completed those projects late into the night.

Her brother had quit school last month in order to contribute more to the family’s income. Hudson had been a mudlark for many years while attending school, scrounging the Thames at low tide for things that might have washed ashore. He’d collected anything of value and sold it. Now, Hudson worked two jobs. During the day he was a coal porter, unloading coal from ships along the wharf and delivering it to customers. At night, he was a waterman, watering horses at cab stands. Laurel only saw him for a few minutes late at night before he fell into bed and occasionally in the morning before they both left for work. She kept telling herself this wouldn’t last forever. That Hudson would sit for the upcoming university exam and earn a scholarship and become someone important. His teachers had called him nothing short of brilliant and she was determined that he would make a better life for himself.

If her brother did win a place at university, she would be thrilled—but she worried about replacing his portion of their income when he left London. They barely managed as it was, with rent so expensive. Fortunately, Mr. Cole let Laurel take home some items that were just this side of going bad. If eaten right away, they didn’t usually cause any stomach problems. As far as clothing went, Laurel was able to sew the few things they needed. The modiste where Mrs. Wright used to work for many years still gave Laurel scraps to use for patching elbows and knees on her brother’s clothing. Or she had until her death two weeks ago. The shop had now closed.

Mr. Cole surprised her by turning the sign hanging from the door, indicating they were closed. It was only two in the afternoon. She couldn’t imagine why he would be closing at such an early hour. As he came toward her, she focused on her employer and not the man by his side. She could feel Mr. Farmon’s eyes assessing her but she ignored him, afraid she knew the reason why he accompanied Mr. Cole.

“Is something wrong, Mr. Cole?” she asked.

“We’ve business to discuss,” Farmon replied.

Reluctantly, Laurel looked in his direction. Farmon was a good two inches shorter than she was but she was tall for a woman. He was almost as broad as he was tall, with eyes black as night and a sour expression on his bloated face. Several rings adored his sausage-like fingers. Though he dressed as a gentleman, she knew of his immoral character and ill humor and just how dangerous he could be. Last month, the tavern owner two blocks away had balked at the increasingly large weekly payment Farmon demanded business owners pay him for the privilege of operating in this neighborhood. Farmon had visited the tavern and had his henchman hold the owner down while he cut out the man’s tongue, telling him this would prevent future complaints from being aired.

She’d also witnessed firsthand the terror Farmon brought. Their neighbor across the hall had injured his back at work and lost his job. Mr. Greenley owed Farmon a small debt and worried how he was to pay it. Julius Farmon had come in person to collect what was owed him. Seeing that Mr. Greenley wouldn’t be able to work anytime soon, he’d cut the man’s throat and taken his screaming six-year-old daughter from the tenement as payment. When Laurel asked her mother what Farmon intended to do with the young girl, her mother explained that she would be sold into prostitution.

Because of incidents such as these, Laurel knew to keep her distance from a man as evil as Julius Farmon. If he bought Mr. Cole’s chandlery, though, that would be difficult.

“Cole here tells me that you keep the books for him,” Farmon continued. “I’d like to see them.”

“Why would I show them to you?” she challenged.

The man’s eyes narrowed and she wished she’d kept quiet. Though she did her best to be kind to all and act demurely as a young woman should, this man ruffled her feathers. Laurel tended to speak her mind, which her mother constantly rebuked her for doing. She felt she was just as smart as her twin and didn’t believe she should remain quiet simply because she was a woman. Of course, society had different ideas regarding the role of women. Men ran the world and would never consider women to be their equals. She would do good to keep her thoughts to herself and watch her tongue in the future.

“Show him the ledgers, Laurel,” Mr. Cole said nervously.

She studied her employer, seeing the sweat beaded along his brow, though the mid-January winter day with its blustery wind had plunged temperatures to where water froze.

“Yes, Mr. Cole.”

Laurel retrieved the ledger under the counter and said, “If you’ll come with me, Mr. Farmon.”

She led him through the closed curtain and back to the space used as an office. It was here Mr. Cole wrote up the orders he placed and where she kept all her records—by customer, by month, and by year.

“How far back would you like to see?” she asked, keeping her voice even though her nerves were frayed.

“Three years.”

“Very well.”

She went to the shelves and pulled what Farmon wished to view, setting out the books in different piles and explaining to him how she accounted for various things.

When she turned to go, he said, “Stay.”

It wasn’t an invitation.

Laurel sat and watched as he flipped through different ledgers. He nodded to himself sometimes and clucked his tongue in disapproval twice. Every now and then, he would ask her a question and she was thankful she was able to answer it to his satisfaction.

Finally, Farmon closed what he perused and studied her. She felt herself grow warm under his intense scrutiny.

“You know numbers, I’ll give you that.”

“Women can add, you know,” she snapped, once again regretting her flare of temper.

His hand shot out and grasped her wrist. She froze. Her eyes met his and she saw he wanted to intimidate her. She swallowed and took a deep breath, trying to keep her fear locked away.

“How would you like to run this store?” he casually asked.

It would be a wonderful opportunity—if Julius Farmon wasn’t her employer.

“What about Mr. Cole?” she countered.

“I’m buying the chandlery from Cole,” he replied. “Since you’re familiar with everything and have a good system in place, you would be his natural replacement. I wouldn’t have to train anyone else.”

Excitement mixed with disgust. Laurel didn’t want to work for this man but if she ran the shop, it would mean more money. If Hudson did leave, she would be able to care for Mama.

Cautiously, she said, “I earn money both as a clerk and for keeping the books. What would my salary be if I managed the store?”

Farmon smiled, his teeth yellow and crooked. She shivered, sensing evil within him.

“The same.”

His answer startled her. Maybe he hadn’t understood her question and so she decided to clarify things for him.

“If I gained more responsibility by managing the place, I should be fairly compensated,” she pointed out.

“You would run it. And continue to serve as both clerk and bookkeeper.”

“Then why wouldn’t I receive more salary?” she asked, her voice rising in anger. “Because I am a woman?”

“Your salary remains the same.” An odd glow entered his eyes. “But I do have a way you could earn more. If you’d like to take advantage of a . . . unique opportunity.”

Her stomach twisted. “What would it involve?”

“Making me happy.”

She might be a young woman of eighteen but she’d grown up just the other side of poverty—and knew exactly what Farmon meant.

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” she said stiffly. She rose, hoping to throw off his fingers, but they still held her wrist firmly.

Farmon also came to his feet. “You are exactly who I want to service me. You will accept my offer. You’ll run the store by day and keep me happy at night. Both will keep you plenty busy.”

“No!” she said, jerking her arm away. “I am not that kind of woman.”

He laughed. “Every woman in your position is that kind of woman, Miss Wright. Despite your haughty airs and skill with numbers, look at you. That threadbare gown. The drawn look to your cheeks. Being too thin from not eating enough. And I hear that pretty mother of yours is doing poorly. Surely, you want to make sure she’s taken care of properly?”

His fingers slid to grip her forearm. His touch repulsed her. She took a step back, freeing herself.

“I repeat. I am not that kind of woman, Mr. Farmon.”

“You’re saving yourself for marriage?” he asked, a sly look in his eyes. “Too bad your mother didn’t.”

“Leave my mother out of it,” she snapped. “She is the best person I know. You aren’t fit to even mention her name.”

He took a threatening step toward her. “I’ve made my offer. The shop by day and me by night. I’ll even put you up somewhere so your so-called sainted mother won’t have to listen to your cries of ecstasy.” He paused. “It’s both, Miss Wright. Or no employment at all. My reach is far. I can make sure no one else hires you.”

Fury filled her. “My answer is no. I’ll never work for you or pleasure you. You’re a loathsome, disgusting fool.”

Laurel wheeled and before she could take a step, he was on her. Spinning her around. Shoving her against the wall. Pressing his body against hers. Forcing his tongue into her mouth. Nausea rose in her as violent shudders caused her to tremble uncontrollably. With all the strength she could manage, she boxed his ears and thrust her knee into his bollocks at the same time, just as Hudson had taught her to do. Farmon cried out and stumbled from her, murder in his eyes.

“You’ll regret what you’ve done, you little bitch. I’ll see you and your family evicted. Your sick mother dead in a ditch. That brother of yours transported to Australia. No one crosses Julius Farmon. No one!”

Laurel fled, her heart pounding violently. She ran down the corridor and threw the curtains aside, crashing into Mr. Cole.

He caught her before she fell. Sympathy filled his eyes.

“I’m sorry, Laurel.” He thought a moment. “Take whatever cash is in the till. Go,” he urged.

She grabbed the box and opened it, scooping out what she could and dumping it into her reticule, which sat next to the till. She hated to leave Mr. Cole but was afraid if she didn’t, something awful would happen to her. As it was, she’d made a target of her family with her refusal to become Julius Farmon’s mistress.

She left the store, blindly running, trying to put distance between her and that horrible monster.

But Farmon knew where she lived. Nothing happened in this neighborhood without him knowing about it. How long could she avoid him?

Finally, she slowed and took in her surroundings. She was only a few blocks from their tenement. She picked up her pace and reached home. What was she going to tell her mother and Hudson? Where would they go? How would they live?

She walked up the three flights of stairs and unlocked the door, her hands shaking, and locked it again before leaning against the door for support. She took several long, deep breaths, trying to clear her mind. She would figure a way out of the mess she’d created. She had all afternoon and evening to think about it before Hudson arrived home, tired and hungry. She had a brain, one as good as any man’s. She could do this.

Gradually, her racing heart slowed and Laurel stepped away from the door. She crossed the tiny room and stood before the closed bedroom door, the only other room. Her mother had been bedridden since the heart attack. She’d grown weaker and weaker and eaten less and less. Laurel feared her mother would waste away. Every night when she arrived home, Laurel feared she would find Dinah dead in her bed.

She pushed open the door without knocking, knowing if her mother slept that she wouldn’t hear the knock anyway. Her eyes adjusted to the dim room and she went and sat on the edge of the bed. Her mother’s labored breathing gave her pause.

“Mama?” she asked softly.

Dinah Wright’s eyes fluttered open. She smiled and for a moment, Laurel could see the great beauty Mama must have been years ago before poverty etched the lines into her worn face.

“Hello, baby,” her mother rasped. “How . . . was . . . your day?”

Tears filled Laurel’s eyes, thinking how Farmon’s offer had angered and humiliated her. “It was fine, Mama. How was yours?”

She couldn’t tell her mother that she’d been propositioned to become their landlord’s mistress, much less that she’d lost her job because she’d refused Farmon’s advances. Her head spun with worry, wondering how they would manage. Farmon’s words regarding her mother also bothered Laurel. She wanted to ask what he’d meant but her mother had long ago firmly closed the door to discussing the past. With the way Dinah Wright looked, Laurel didn’t have the heart to pursue the matter.

“I’m so tired,” Mama said, new lines creasing her brow.

“Can I warm some broth for you?”

“No. Just sit with me, Laurel.”

She slipped her hands around one of her mother’s cold ones, hoping to warm it.

“You’re so beautiful,” her mother said.

“No, you’re the beautiful one, Mama.”

“You look like . . . him.”

Laurel went still. Her mother had never spoken of their father. Never. When she and Hudson were young, they had asked why other children had a father when they didn’t. Her mother refused to speak about it, telling them they had her and each other and that was what mattered. As she matured, Laurel came to believe that her and Hudson’s father hadn’t wanted them. Or her mother. She didn’t know the circumstances of her and Hudson’s birth, only that their mother had raised them with an abundance of love and no help from the man who’d impregnated her. Despite Mama’s silence, Laurel had often wondered who her father might be. If he’d forced himself on Dinah. Or if he’d already had a wife. Sometimes, she pretended that he’d been the great love of her mother’s life but he’d been killed tragically. She wondered if her mother had given herself freely to him, only to never see him again. It was a mystery she’d thought would never be solved.

Until now.

“What did he look like, Mama?” she asked softly.

Mama sighed. “Like you. And Hudson. Hair black as midnight. Dark brows. And those eyes.”

Laurel knew how unique her eyes were because she saw them in Hudson every day. Both twins possessed eyes which were a brilliant emerald color. Though she’d seen a few others with green eyes over the years, none resembled the dazzling green the twins possessed.

“What was his name, Mama?”

“Not Wright.” Her mother grimaced. “I called myself that when I found I was with child. Hoping others would think I’d wed and that my baby would be legitimate.”

Mama had told them Hudson was her maiden name and that’s why she’d called her boy that. This was the first Laurel had heard, though, about her mother taking a name that wasn’t hers.

“Who was he, Mama?” Laurel asked. A part of her believed if she didn’t learn now, Mama might never reveal his identity.

Dinah’s hand went to her chest and she groaned. “It hurts. So much.”

“Your heart?”

Mama nodded.

She stood. “I’ll fetch the doctor.” Though what she would pay him with, she didn’t know.

“No. No doctor. It wouldn’t do any good. This is the end, my sweet child. Don’t go throw good money after bad.”

Laurel dropped to her knees, tears spilling down her cheeks as she gripped her mother’s hands.

“He’s dead. I read about it. I’m glad.”

She held her breath, afraid to urge her mother on. Afraid to finally hear the truth she’d longed to know.

“He hurt me.” Her mother’s voice trembled. “I didn’t want him. He came with his mistress but he wanted me instead. He took me in a back room while she was being fitted for a new gown.”

A wave of pain flooded her. “I’m sorry, Mama.”

Dinah smiled weakly. “It wasn’t your fault, my sweet. It was a few minutes that I’ve tried to forget but it gave me you and Hudson. I wouldn’t trade my two darlings for anything in this world.”

Her mother’s eyes closed. Laurel thought about what she’d learned. Her mother had worked for the same modiste from the time she was fourteen. If only she’d known, she might have gone to Madame and asked her if she knew anything about that long-ago day.

Dinah’s eyes opened again, this time wild with pain. She jerked her hands from Laurel’s and pressed them against her chest as she sat up, gasping.

“Mama!” Laurel cried. “No!”

She watched her mother collapse again into the pillow and grow still.

“Mama? Oh, Mama. No, no, no . . .”

Dinah Wright was gone—and Laurel still had no idea who her father had been.

 

 

CHAPTER 2

February 1816

 

Laurel handed Hudson their last apple. “Take it,” she ordered.

He started to argue and thought better of it. Ever since Mama’s death, things had gone from bad to worse. A man had showed up, demanding triple the rent they were used to paying. She knew Farmon had sent him and it was only the beginning of the harassment. When Laurel told the man she would need more time, he’d slapped her hard. Bruising had occurred around her eye and her face swelled on the side the blow landed. He’d laughed and told her he would return tomorrow and that she better have payment in full.

Or else.

Thank goodness Hudson hadn’t been home at the time. Her brother’s temper flared even more swiftly than Laurel’s did. He would have killed the man for touching her. She’d lied and told her twin that she’d slipped on the ice, causing the injuries to her face. As it was, Hudson wanted to murder Julius Farmon. After their mother’s burial, Laurel had confessed to her brother that she had no job to return to—and why. Her brother had cursed loud and long, telling her exactly what he would do to the man. She’d convinced him to stay far away from Farmon, explaining how Farmon had threatened to fabricate charges to be brought against Hudson so that he would branded a criminal and be transported halfway around the world. All the poor in London knew being sent to Australia was a fate worse than death. Only that knowledge had kept Hudson from finding Farmon and beating him senseless.

“I can’t lose you,” she’d told him. “Not after losing Mama.”

Knowing the danger they both faced, they’d moved their few possessions and taken a room in a boardinghouse miles away, hoping to hide from Farmon. Hudson continued to work his two jobs but Laurel hadn’t been able to find employment. She’d left without references and with Farmon buying out Mr. Cole, she had no idea where her former employer might have gone. She wouldn’t chance returning to the old neighborhood to ask anyone because she didn’t want informers to detain her.

“I’ll see you tonight,” her twin said. He squeezed her shoulder reassuringly. “I’m sure you’ll find something today, Laurel.”

With that, he left the room.

She waited a few minutes, making sure he was gone, and then went to the bed. Reaching her hand under the thin mattress, she withdrew a folded piece of parchment, the seal on it broken long ago. She sat on the bed, the only piece of furniture in the tiny room, and opened it. She’d read the brief letter so many times, the brutal lines were emblazoned in her mind.

 

Do not contact me again or you will regret it. It is your word against mine. I am a duke, a peer of the realm. You are a slut toiling in a shop. No one cares what you say and would never believe you over me.

My solicitor will be waiting for you tomorrow afternoon three blocks to the west of the dress shop. Make sure what he gives you lasts. No more will be forthcoming.

                                                                        Everton

 

Her heart told her the terse message came from her father. No, the man who had violated her mother. Laurel supposed once Dinah found herself with child, she must have tried to get in touch with her attacker, telling him of her circumstances and asking for monetary help. Though she must have received some compensation, based upon the contents of the letter, it was obvious this Duke of Everton chose not to take responsibility for forcing himself on a young girl. Laurel had never given any thought to the men and woman of the ton. They moved in a world of their own making, their lives never touching someone like her. Now, though, since she’d found this letter Mama had hidden for so many years, resentment filtered through her, eating away, knowing this lord had ravished her mother and never given a second thought to the offspring he’d created, much less claimed responsibility. She wouldn’t have expected a duke to give them his name but the aristocrat could at least have seen they were fed and clothed properly.

Desperation now forced her to act in an unsavory manner. She couldn’t find work. She wanted Hudson to have the chance to attend university. Though her mother had raised her to know right from wrong, hatred burned brightly inside Laurel for Everton and all those like him who took advantage of the less fortunate and tossed them away as if they were rubbish. Her mother had said the man who had hurt her was dead but there would be a new Everton. Most likely, her father’s son had taken his place in the House of Lords and assumed the title of duke.

Her half-brother . . .

A duke would have money. Lots of it.

And Laurel planned to blackmail him into giving her enough to ensure her and Hudson’s survival.

With a bit of money, Hudson could sit for the upcoming exams. Win a place at Oxford or Cambridge. They could leave London and take a room near the university. Her twin could attend classes. She would find work and keep house for them. The money she would ask Everton for would be a pittance to a man in his position—but it would help change the course of the twins’ lives. By leaving London, it would also guarantee that Farmon would never find them. He’d never be able to accuse either of them of wrongdoing. Once Hudson graduated, they could go anywhere in England. York. Canterbury. Leeds. They could make a new life for themselves—with just a little money from Everton to tide them over until they could stand on their own two feet again. It wouldn’t do for two bastards to make themselves known to Polite Society. Surely, a duke would part with a few pounds in order to avoid such a scandal.

Laurel was counting on it.

She folded the letter and slipped it into her reticule. Smoothed her skirts and pulled on Mama’s cloak, which was over two decades old. It didn’t matter that she didn’t cut a fashionable figure. What counted was that she would carry out her scheme without Hudson being any the wiser. She would get the money from this duke and they would escape the city and begin a new life.

If she could go through with blackmailing a peer of the realm.

She hated it had come to this. That Farmon drove her to do something she never would have done if she hadn’t lost her job. If Mama hadn’t died. Drawing on the little courage she had, Laurel left the room. She descended the stairs, wavering for a moment with dizziness. She hadn’t eaten in two days and the smell of the morning meal their landlady provided as an extra for the tenants who paid for it wafted through the air. Clutching the banister, she closed her eyes, steadying herself. After a moment, she’d recovered and continued down the staircase.

Laurel left the boardinghouse and headed for Mayfair, the winter wind biting her cheeks and numbing her fingers. She knew the area to be the most fashionable part of town. Somewhere, a servant or hansom cab driver would be able to tell her exactly which house belonged to the Duke of Everton. She would show him the letter the previous duke had written and threaten to reveal the existence of his bastard children unless this duke gave her ample payment. Then she would give him the letter and disappear. His reputation—and the dead duke’s—would remain intact.

She only hoped her plan succeeded.

***

Jeremy St. Clair, Duke of Everton, listened carefully to Matthew Proctor. His former tutor, who’d escorted Jeremy on his Grand Tour years before, had become estate manager of Eversleigh, the Everton country seat, and now functioned as Jeremy’s man of business.

While most of the ton didn’t bother to dirty their hands with matters of business, he thrived on it. His father, the previous duke, had squandered most of the St. Clair fortune. Jeremy had learned upon his father’s death how little was actually left. It had taken several years but he was blessed with a keen business acumen and patience. He’d restored the family’s wealth and hired Matthew to manage much of it on a daily basis. Still, he liked having his hand in all matters and made critical decisions when necessary.

“I think it is a wise investment, Matthew,” he said when his friend finished speaking. “Go ahead.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.” Matthew rose. “I’ll see you next week with my new report.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” Jeremy replied as he rose and the two men shook hands.

As Matthew left the large study, he was replaced by Jeremy’s favorite person in the world.

His duchess.

He’d wed Catherine four years ago but he’d been in love with her long before that. Circumstances beyond their control had separated them for several years. Jeremy had even married and had a daughter. After his wife passed, Catherine Crawford came back into his life—and everything from that moment on had been right. He loved her with a passion that could not be put into words. Catherine and their children were everything to him.

She crossed the room, as graceful as any duchess ever had been. His wife was beautiful and gifted.

Most of all, she was his. And he was hers.

His arms went about her. “Have I told you today that I love you, Duchess?”

It was a game they’d played since their marriage and he never tired of telling her those words.

Catherine’s eyes lit up. “I believe you did, Duke. Once when you woke me from a very deep sleep. Again, after you made love to me. Twice as we breakfasted. And when—”

He silenced her with a lingering kiss. He felt her melting into him and his arms tightened around her as he deepened the kiss. Her fingers kneaded his shoulders.

“Did you lock the door?” he murmured against her mouth.

“No. Because it’s almost time for tea.”

“Tea can wait,” he growled, kissing her again. He’d thought his hunger for her would end but it had only grown stronger over the years.

Catherine broke the kiss. “We have guests coming. Luke and Caroline.”

“They can wait.”

She laughed. “No, they can’t.”

“Then we can be late,” he suggested, kissing the tip of her beautiful nose.

“No, we can’t.”

“They’re newlyweds,” he protested. “They’re probably doing what we’re doing right now and will be late themselves.”

Her throaty chuckle made him want to gobble her up.

“A compromise,” he offered. “Shall we continue this after teatime, Duchess?”

She kissed him soundly. “Oh, I do like the idea of that, Duke.”

Jeremy released her but took her hand, entwining their fingers, the need to touch her too great. He led her upstairs to the drawing room.

“Can we at least kiss until they arrive?” he pleaded, bringing her hand to his lips and pressing a tender kiss upon her fingers.

“I thought you’d never ask.” She wrapped her arms around his waist and they lost themselves in one another.

After some minutes, he sensed the door opening and eased Catherine from him, turning his head and seeing his brother and sister-in-law had arrived. From the look of Caroline’s swollen lips, they’d done their share of kissing in the carriage on the way over.

“Good afternoon,” he said pleasantly and kissed Caroline’s cheek before giving his brother a bear hug.

“We’re the newlyweds,” Luke teased. “You’d think we’d have cornered the market regarding kissing.”

“Rachel and Evan have tried to keep up with us,” Jeremy said, referring to their sister and her husband. “You might be able to surpass them but my duchess and I are years of kisses ahead of you.”

They all laughed and seated themselves. Luke handed Catherine a box.

“I stopped at Evie’s Tearoom for a few treats,” he said. “Caroline had business with Mr. Walton. I made good use of my time and visited Mrs. Baker and Mrs. Stinch. When they learned we were headed to see you, they insisted on sending along something.”

Catherine opened the box. “Oh, you brought scones. How lovely.”

Luke took his wife’s hand and kissed it, then rubbed it against his cheek. “Caroline is still mad for their scones. It was the only thing she could keep down for a few months.”

Catherine smiled at her sister-in-law. “I’ve had the same problem. Especially with the twins. You are glowing, though, Caroline.”

Luke smiled. “She is radiant, isn’t she?”

“I don’t always feel radiant,” Caroline grumbled good-naturedly. “My ankles are thickening as fast as my waist. I’m more than ready for June to arrive.”

“So am I,” declared Luke. “Our first baby. Of many.”

Jeremy smiled. His brother had always been wild about children. For a few years, Jeremy had wondered if Luke would ever come to his senses and settle down. He’d been one of London’s most famous rogues, bedding women left and right. Thank goodness, Caroline had come into his life. Luke was positively batty for his wife.

As he should be.

“Do I have time to pop up to the nursery before tea?” Luke asked.

Catherine nodded. “You better make the time. The children would be positively crushed if their Uncle Luke didn’t visit them.”

“I’ll be right back,” he promised and left the drawing room.

Caroline patted her belly. “I can’t wait for Luke to see this little one. I’ve never known a man who adores children as much as he does. I think I fell in love with him as I watched Delia make him her own personal pony. He wrestled with Timothy. Read to Jenny.” She smiled at the memory. “He will be a wonderful father.”

Cor entered the room at that moment and Jeremy rushed to her. His grandmother had raised him and his siblings since each of the three had lost their mothers in childbirth. Now seventy-six, Cor was moving a little more slowly than in past years but her mind was still as sharp as a razor and her tongue could slice a man to pieces with little effort.

“How is my favorite grandmother doing?” he asked, taking her arm and leading her to a seat.

“Better now that I can visit with these two lovely ladies,” Cor replied. “How are you feeling, Caroline, dear?”

The women began talking and Jeremy’s mind wandered. The teacart arrived and Catherine busied herself pouring out tea.

“Shall I go drag Luke from the nursery?” he asked. “If I don’t, Caroline might gobble up all of the scones and he’ll have none.”

“Go ahead, Duke,” his wife encouraged, her eyes bright.

He knew she was thinking of what they’d be doing after teatime and winked at her.

“I’ll be back shortly,” he promised.

As Jeremy left the drawing room and closed the door, he went to the staircase and found Barton ascending it. He’d never seen the butler ruffled in all his years of service.

Until now.

“Barton? What’s wrong?”

“Your Grace . . .” The man’s voice faded. He shook his head. “I always feared this day would come.”

“You’re worrying me, Barton. Spit it out.”

“It’s the young lady, Your Grace.”

“What young lady?” he demanded.

“The young lady that wishes to see you.”

“Do you have her card?”

Barton grimaced. “She’s not that kind of young lady, Your Grace.”

By now, Luke descended the stairs from the nursery above. “What’s going on?” he asked.

“Barton is tongue-tied,” Jeremy complained. “About some young lady.” He faced the butler. “What does she want? And who is she, a woman without a calling card, and apparently no chaperone accompanying her?”

“I need to speak with you on an urgent matter, Your Grace,” a voice said.

Jeremy glanced to the stairs and saw the young woman in question marching up them. She reached the top and his heart began pounding rapidly as she approached.

“We have business to discuss,” she said crisply.

He hadn’t a doubt in his mind as he took in her appearance but it was Luke who found his voice first.

“My God—you’re a St. Clair!”