Deflecting the Duke (Dukes Done Wrong Book 2)

Book 2: Dukes Done Wrong

by Alexa Aston

Genres: Historical Romance; Regency Romance; Regency romance; Dukes; Regency Historical Romance; Dukes Done Wrong; historical romance releases; Alexa Aston

Synopsis

An angry army spy who becomes a reluctant duke. A virgin widow who seeks a husband who will give her children. An attraction that leads to passion . . . and love . . .

Wyatt Stanton served as a spy for Wellington until he receives word of his brother’s death. Reluctantly, he returns to England as the Duke of Amesbury and to Amberwood, a place he once loved and was banished from after his brother falsely accused Wyatt of burning down the family stables with over two dozen horses inside. His soul seared by war, the man who lived for danger must now become a member of Polite Society and find himself a duchess so he has an heir.

Meadow Grant’s father sold her to Lord Selfridge so he could pay his gambling debts. Selfridge collects beautiful things, and Meadow is the most beautiful girl of the Season. Once he possessed her, Selfridge lost interest and moved on to other things. Now a widow, the resilient Meadow is ready to make her own choice this time and find a husband who yearns for children as much as she does. Though attracted to the Duke of Amesbury, he is far too arrogant and conceited for her tastes, even if he does kiss well.

Wyatt is bored with all the younger women on the Marriage Mart, but he believes the beautiful and more mature Lady Selfridge fits his idea of a suitable duchess. The fact that he is attracted to her and she gets along well with his friends only confirms she is the one. Meadow wants to be courted, though, and Wyatt is up to the challenge, relentless in his pursuit, even liking how Meadow makes him work to earn her favor.

Though neither looks for love, will the reckless Wyatt and spitfire Meadow realize love has found them and will flourish, given the chance?

Find the answer in Deflecting the Duke, Book 2 in Dukes Done Wrong.

Each book in Dukes Done Wrong is a standalone story that can be enjoyed out of order and can be read for free in Kindle Unlimited.

Series Order:

Book #1: Discouraging the Duke

Book #2: Deflecting the Duke

Book #3: Disrupting the Duke

Book #4: Delighting the Duke

Book #5: Destiny with a Duke

Release date: August 24, 2021

Publisher: Dragonblade Publishing

Print pages: 260

Sample

CHAPTER 1

Amberwood, Kent—July 1796

 

Wyatt Stanton stood before his father, the Duke of Amesbury. He had stopped listening to his father’s rant because it was always the same. Wyatt was impulsive. Reckless. Selfish. The lecture never changed. Only the circumstances.

This time, he had been called before the duke because he’d gotten into pies which Cook had baked. They had been cooling when he spied them. Cherry was his absolute favorite and the temptation to taste it had proven too great. Soon, red juice had run down his chin, staining his cravat and shirt and the fingers he used to gobble up the pie. He’d moved on from the cherry to the apple one and then the peach. By the end, all three pies had been devoured and his stomach ached as he stood in the study, trying to look contrite.

“The pies were for our guests tonight,” the duke continued. “Not meant for the likes of you.” Amesbury frowned. “You are far too rash, Wyatt. Did you not think of how hard poor Cook worked to bake them? Or how if your wrongdoing hadn’t been discovered, we would have had no dessert to offer our guests?”

He wanted to say that most of his father’s friends were too fat and didn’t need any slices of pie but refrained from doing so.

“I don’t know what I am going to do with you,” the duke said, throwing his hands helplessly into the air. “Thank God you are away at school most of the year.”

Wyatt preferred school to life at Amberwood. He had nothing against the estate itself. In fact, he thought it was situated on a pretty piece of land and that most of its tenants were decent and kind. It was his family he couldn’t abide. His father tended to be a perfectionist and was never satisfied with anything his younger son did. His mother simply didn’t care about anyone but herself. And at nine years older, Clive was a stranger to him. His brother had never played with Wyatt or allowed him to be around when Clive’s friends visited. They were strangers to one another.

For these reasons, Wyatt had learned to create his own fun—which usually turned into mischief. He didn’t think he was badly behaved for a ten-year-old boy. Just lonely and in need of entertainment.

He did like Cook, though, and said with sincerity, “I am sorry, Father, for eating all of Cook’s pies. I know she works very hard for our family.”

The duke sniffed. “Well, this isn’t the first time you have proclaimed to be sorry for being so thoughtless. Go to your room. You are restricted to it and the schoolroom for your meals for the next week.”

“A whole week? But can’t I ride at least?” he protested, knowing it would be like a death sentence to be confined to his room during the beautiful summer days of Kent.

“You may not,” his father said sternly. “Go. But first apologize to Cook.”

“Yes, Father.”

Wyatt left the room and made his way to the kitchens. He spied Cook and went to her, wrapping his arms about her. She was the only one in the household who had ever showed him any kind of affection. A hug from her could chase away the dark storm clouds of any sad day.

“I am very sorry, Cook,” he told her. “I truly mean it. It’s just that cherry is my favorite and your crust is so light and flaky. I couldn’t help myself.”

She squeezed him to her ample bosom. “That’s all right, Lord Wyatt. I’d rather you like my pies than not. What’s the punishment this time?”

“A week in my rooms,” he said glumly. “And it’s summer. I will go mad being kept inside.”

“No restrictions on your meals?” she asked.

“No. Just that I take all of them in the schoolroom.”

She hugged him again. “Then I’ll see that you have pie every day, my lord.”

Wyatt thanked her profusely and took the back stairs to his room, passing his favorite maid along the way.

“Hello, Joan,” he said.

“Good afternoon, Lord Wyatt,” she said cheerfully. “In trouble again?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t worry. Your punishment will be over quickly. And school will start before you know it. I know you miss your friends.”

She was right. He did miss his friends and wished the new school term would hurry up and arrive.

“Stay out of trouble, my lord,” she said and continued down the stairs.

Wyatt arrived in his room and threw himself onto the bed. He pillowed his hands beneath his head and stared at the ceiling.

He must have fallen asleep because when he opened his eyes, his stomach growled. He went across the hall to the schoolroom and found a tray on the table. Despite having eaten three whole pies, he was already ravenous again. He knew it was a growth spurt because he kept needing new trousers all the time.

After he finished the meal, he wandered back to his room and played with his toy soldiers for a while. Bored, he read a chapter in the book resting by his bedside but it didn’t hold his attention. He closed it and sat by the open window, watching as the summer sun sank below the horizon. He continued watching as the night came to life, with the hooting of an owl sounding nearby and various creatures scurrying about in the bushes. Eventually, the two carriages carrying the dinner party guests departed.

For an hour, he stared out the window and decided he should turn in for the night. Then movement caught his eyes. He spied Clive, his fingers around some female’s upper arm, dragging her along. She stumbled and fell to her knees. Clive yanked her back up. As he did, Wyatt saw it was Joan.

Where was his brother taking the maid?

A sick feeling washed over him. He’d heard murmurings from the servants about his brother’s bad behavior. Several maids had up and quit in the last few years. One had been let go. Thanks to eavesdropping, he learned the unmarried girl had been with child.

His brother’s child.

Naturally, Clive had not been held accountable for his misdeeds. He continued to strut about as if he had done nothing wrong in ruining a young girl’s life. Wyatt knew his father would never have paid to see the girl and her child taken care of. To do so would admit wrongdoing on Clive’s part—and the duke would never want his heir associated with a bastard child.

Now, he worried that the same thing would happen to Joan. The servant had always been friendly and hardworking. It wouldn’t be fair for Clive to force himself on her. Especially if it cost her livelihood and meant she would birth a bastard. Wyatt was young but he knew how all levels of society would reject Joan if she had a baby out of wedlock. She would be shunned. No man would marry her. He couldn’t stand the thought of her suffering so.

He had always possessed a strong sense of right and wrong. Despite his father’s edict that he was confined to his room, Wyatt couldn’t let this happen. He had to intervene and protect Joan.

Opening his door, he glanced out and saw the hallway deserted. He knew with his parents’ guests now gone, they would have retired to their separate chambers. Slipping down the staircase, he reached the bottom floor and crept out the door, closing it softly behind him. Fearful of what might already have happened, he ran toward the stables. It was the direction Clive had headed and Wyatt figured it would give his brother the privacy he wanted.

He reached the open doorway, peering inside. Though darkness surrounded him, he could see light coming from the far end. Anger surged through him.

Without lighting a lantern, he moved along the pathway, his hand brushing against each stall he passed as horses nickered at him.

As he came closer, he heard Joan begging.

“Please, my lord. Please. Don’t. I don’t want this. It hurts.”

Wyatt heard a slap. “Shut up, you little bitch. You know you wanted this. Sashaying past me all those times, your plump little rump calling out for my attention.”

Joan whimpered as Wyatt reached the doorway and stared at the scene before him.

Clive sprawled atop the maid, his trousers pushed past his knees. He kept ramming into Joan. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she squeezed her eyes shut.

“Stop!” he cried.

His brother growled, whipping his head to face Wyatt.

“Get out of here,” he said, his voice low and deadly.

He looked to Joan. The front of her gown was torn open, her breasts spilling out, parts of them marred with what looked like bite marks. Her skirts were hiked to her waist. She shook her head at him.

“Leave, my lord,” she urged, her eyes dead and empty, so unlike the girl he saw every day. “You’re too young to see this. You don’t belong here.”

“You heard her,” Clive said.

He stood his ground. “She doesn’t want you to keep hurting her.”

His brother’s smile sent a chill running down Wyatt’s spine. “She loves this, Wyatt. All women do. They say they don’t because all women are liars. That’s a good lesson for you to learn, little brother.”

“You are hurting her, Clive. Get off. I won’t leave until you do,” he said bravely, though his legs shook.

Clive roared with laughter. “You are just a scrawny little boy. One who always finds himself in trouble. Leave now—or I’ll show you exactly what trouble is.” He paused. “I am going to be Duke of Amesbury one day. You don’t want to cross me.”

“I’m not leaving,” Wyatt said stubbornly.

His brother’s eyes darkened with anger, his cheeks growing red and splotchy. “Then I will make you.”

Clive scrambled off Joan. As he did, he knocked against the lantern sitting on the ground. It fell into the hay, which immediately caught fire.

Clive jerked up his trousers as Joan rolled away from the fire. The edge of her skirts had brushed against it, though, and her clothing began to burn. She screamed and began hitting the flames with her hands.

Wyatt rushed toward her but Clive slammed his fist into Wyatt’s face. The blow knocked him to the ground. Clive kicked him repeatedly and he felt his ribs snap. He cried out in agony.

Suddenly, Clive rushed away and Wyatt saw that the stall was becoming engulfed in flames. Joan leaned down and latched on to his elbow, bringing him to his feet.

“Come, my lord. We must get out of here and sound the alarm.”

“Clive must’ve done that,” he said, holding his hand against his broken ribs to cradle them as they stumbled from the enclosed space.

Already, dark smoke billowed through the air, causing them both to cough as the blaze quickly engulfed the stall they had inhabited moments ago.

“Run!” Joan cried. “We must get out.” She coughed deeply and gasped for breath.

Horses neighed shrilly as they made their way down the row of stalls. Wyatt wanted to stop and open each one but the maid kept pulling him along. They reached outside and her fingers dug into his flesh as he tried to turn and race back inside.

“I can’t let them burn,” he shouted.

“You’ll die if you go back,” she warned. “I must leave you. Promise me you’ll stay outside.”

He saw her bruised cheek and the swelling about one eye.

“What will you say?”

“That I fell down the stairs. You mustn’t say differently. Lord Clive will already have it in for you, interrupting him like you did.”

“I didn’t keep him from hurting you,” Wyatt said, tears rolling down his cheeks.

“You tried. No one else would have,” she said simply and released him, turning away and rushing away from the stables but not heading toward the house.

He wondered why until he saw servants running his way. Shouts and confusion abounded as they tried to form a line and pass buckets of water along it in order to put out the fire. He moved away from the burning structure, the sound of the dying animals tormenting him, echoing in his ears as he collapsed to the ground.

He hadn’t saved Joan, who’d lost her innocence to Clive. He couldn’t save their horses. He fought against the helplessness that coursed through him, his sobs lost in the chaos as the stables burned to the ground.

“Here he is!” a voice called out.

Wyatt looked up and saw his brother hovering over him.

“You’re in for it now,” Clive said, his loathing obvious.

Staggering to his feet, still holding his side, he said, “Why? I didn’t do anything. You’re the one who knocked over the lantern.”

Suddenly, he felt his father’s presence and turned. The duke looked at him with such hatred that Wyatt shrank back.

“You would blame your brother for this?” his father roared.

“Clive started the fire,” he insisted.

Amesbury slapped him. It hurt Wyatt’s pride as much as his cheek. “You don’t believe me? He did this, Father. Clive. He was—”

“You are a monster,” Clive said, cutting Wyatt off. “Starting this blaze. All our horses are gone. Thousands of pounds worth of horseflesh burned to a crisp. And you would blame me? You are despicable, Wyatt. I am sorry I am related to you.”

“But—”

“Stop,” the duke said, glaring at him. “Just stop, Wyatt. Your mischief has gone far beyond fun and games. Tonight, you have destroyed valuable property. Cost the lives of two dozen horses.”

“But I didn’t—”

“Silence!” His father shook his head. “The only reason you won’t hang is because you are the son of a duke. A worthless, bloody fool that I never wish to see again.”

“Father, please,” Wyatt begged.

“No. No more from you. Ever. I have my heir. I have no need of you.”

“Don’t abandon me,” he pleaded. “I’ve done nothing wrong. I’m telling the truth.”

Amesbury closed his eyes and then opened them slowly. Wyatt shivered as his father gazed upon him.

“You are dead to me as of this night. I won’t ignore my duty to you. God knows I wish I could. But I can cast you from this family for your thoughtless, reckless, damaging behavior. You are poison to everyone you meet and no longer my son.”

The duke glanced to Clive. “Take this boy to his room and see he’s locked inside. Place a footman to guard the entrance. He is a danger to us all.”

Clive roughly grabbed his arm. “Come along,” he ordered and began dragging Wyatt toward the house.

He heard a loud noise and looked over his shoulder. The stables collapsed inward. The panicked noises from within ceased at once. Only the burning fire continued.

As Clive marched him back to the house, Wyatt felt the eyes of everyone they passed on him, knowing they would all believe he had caused this massive death and destruction.

Clive tugged him inside the house, which was eerily silent, all the servants having fled outside to help fight the fire.

“Are you satisfied with yourself?” he asked his older brother. “Blaming a boy for what a man did. Except you aren’t man enough to claim responsibility.”

Clive snorted. “You’ve always been a troublemaker. This was too easy to set at your doorstep, little brother.”

“Joan can tell them the truth,” he said stubbornly. “She saw everything.”

“She won’t talk. If she does, I will slit her throat.”

Cold spread through him, hearing Clive talk so candidly of murdering their maid. He realized if the servant stuck up for him, it would be a death sentence for her. His heart wanted her to do so but his head knew he must trade his reputation for her life.

“Don’t hurt her. I will accept the blame if you promise never to touch her again.”

They had reached his bedchamber and Clive said, “That’s easy to do. She wasn’t any good anyway. Inside now.”

Clive opened the door and shoved Wyatt in. The door slammed behind him and he heard the lock being turned.

His father had disowned him. Everyone thought his behavior criminal.

Wyatt sank to the floor and curled up in a ball, wishing he had died along with all the horses.

 

 

CHAPTER 2

September

 

Two months had passed. Wyatt had seen no one but servants during his confinement. With school starting soon, he wondered if he would be allowed to go or if he would remain locked in his room indefinitely.

A light tap sounded on the door and it swung open quickly. Joan hurried inside and closed it behind her.

He rushed to her and threw his arms about her. The maid hugged him tightly and then released him.

“I’ve come to say goodbye to you, Lord Wyatt.”

“Are you . . .” His voice trailed off. He couldn’t say the words.

“No,” she assured him. “I am not with child.”

“Where are you going?”

“I’m going to be a dairy maid for one of the neighboring farmers.”

Disappointment filled him. He knew it was a giant step down for a duke’s parlor maid but he understood why she had to leave Amberwood.

“I also came to apologize to you.”

Her words puzzled him. “For what?”

Her face flushed with guilt. “I didn’t stand up for you. I could have come forward. Told His Grace who really started the fire and deserved the blame.”

“No, you did the right thing, Joan. My father would never have believed you. He would have sacked you without references. Besides, Clive told me if you did speak up, he would cut your throat.”

Her eyes widened. “You believed him.” It wasn’t a question.

“I did. It’s a good thing you are leaving Amberwood. With him here, you aren’t safe. He might take it in his head to have his way with you again.”

Tears brimmed in her eyes. “I thought so, too. He’s avoided me so far. I know he’s off to university again soon but I just couldn’t take the chance, my lord.”

“I understand. Thank you for coming to tell me goodbye.”

He wished he could do more for her and remembered he had a few coins stashed away and went to the drawer where he kept them. Removing them, he placed them in her hands.

“It’s not much. I have never been one to save my coin.”

“I cannot accept this, my lord.”

“Please do. It’s all I can do for you. I am so sorry my brother hurt you, Joan.”

She wiped the tears from her face. “I will never forget your kindness and generosity, my lord. You are the true gentleman. Not Lord Clive.” She gazed at him wistfully. “I only wish you could be the duke one day and not your brother.”

He shook his head. “I would never want to be a duke,” he said vehemently.

She bid him farewell and slipped from the room. He was grateful she was gone when their butler appeared.

“You have been summoned to His Grace’s study, my lord.”

Trepidation filled Wyatt as he followed the servant downstairs. He had thought he would never see his father again. Hope filled him. Maybe his father had forgiven him. Maybe Clive had done the right thing and confessed to his careless actions.

When he entered the study, though, he saw the stern look on his father’s face and knew no forgiveness would be forthcoming. He went and stood before the man he’d never truly known. Amesbury had kept to himself and spent very little time with Wyatt. He had heard his father tell others that he had no patience with children and he only spent time with Clive because he was the heir apparent.

“You are here so I may inform you that I am fulfilling my duty to you, you worthless piece of scum. Polite Society would frown upon me if I abandoned you. You will be educated at my expense—but you will never be allowed to set foot upon Amberwood lands. Ever.”

Wyatt didn’t really care. Amberwood was just a house. He had always known that one day he would leave it because he knew Clive would never allow him to stay once their father passed.

“You will be attending Turner Academy. My solicitor found the school. It is a place where wicked boys are sent.”

He didn’t protest, clamping his jaw so no words would spill out.

“You will remain at this place during holidays. Clive and I agree that you are no longer to be recognized as a member of the Stanton family, though you will be allowed to retain usage of that surname. You are not to tell anyone you are related to either of us. You are never to speak of Amberwood as your former home. You will leave Turner Academy and continue your education at university before entering the army.”

“Will you purchase my commission?” Wyatt asked, having known for several years as a second son that he was destined for the military.

“My solicitor will handle that affair.”

Relief swept through him, knowing he could enter the army as an officer and gentleman, despite the circumstances.

The duke studied him. “You never looked a thing like me. Or your mother and her side of the family, for that matter.”

The mention of his mother did not stir his heart. She had always been cold toward him and hadn’t made any attempt to see him these past two months.

“I doubt you are mine.”

His father’s words struck an almost physical blow and Wyatt recoiled.

“Remember, once you leave this house tomorrow, you are never to acknowledge our relationship. I will provide for you financially, but you are cut off socially from all members of this family.”

He held his tongue, knowing if he said the wrong thing, his future might be endangered. Instead, he bowed his head and then nodded curtly.

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

“You are dismissed.”

Wyatt left the room and returned upstairs to his bedchamber. At least he had learned where he was being sent and knew the expectations required of him. He wouldn’t think about the other boys who might be sent to such a place. What they might have done. All he knew was he would finally be free of this place, one he never wished to see again.

***

As the carriage turned into the drive, Wyatt spied the imposing building in the distance and knew they had arrived at Turner Academy. His eyes cut to his traveling companion, the family butler, who hadn’t spoken a word since they’d entered the vehicle early this morning.

The driver brought the carriage to a halt and a footman opened the door. Wyatt exited without a backward glance and the footman shut the door.

“Greetings!” a man called out as he came toward them. “I am Mr. Smythe. Welcome to Turner Academy.”

“Hello. I am Lord Wyatt Stanton,” he told the servant.

“You will be Mr. Wyatt here,” Smythe informed him. “The academy chooses not to recognize titles.”

The man’s words surprised him but he welcomed them all the same. He would be a boy without a family. Having no title would help him distance himself from where he had come and he wouldn’t have to explain who he was—or wasn’t.

The footman retrieved his trunk and Smythe insisted upon taking it, handling it with ease. He led Wyatt through the front door and up a wide staircase.

“You are new to our school and will be placed in a room with four other boys who also are in their first year at Turner Academy.”

He wondered what those four might have done to be exiled here but kept silent.

They went the length of the corridor, stopping at the last door on the left.

“This is yours,” Smythe said, opening the door and ushering Wyatt inside.

A boy with blond hair sat on a bed, his hands braced against his legs and his eyes cast downward. He remained still, not acknowledging their presence.

“Your bed is here,” the servant said, indicating one.

He saw his name on a placard above the bed. At least this would be one less thing to fight about. Boys at school always tussled over different things. Assigning them beds was already a brilliant move and would cut down on tension.

“Let me know if you need anything, Mr. Wyatt. There’ll be a schoolwide assembly in an hour in the ballroom downstairs. Please be prompt.”

“Thank you, Mr. Smythe,” he said, meaning it.

The door closed and he sat on his bed, looking in the direction of the silent boy. He wondered why the boy had been sent to Turner Academy. Had he done something heinous? Or had he been a mere inconvenience and sent here in order to be out of the way.

“I’m Wyatt,” he said.

The boy didn’t answer.

Wyatt glanced up and saw William Finchley on the sign, identifying who the boy was.

“I’m ten,” he added, thinking William Finchley looked to be close to his age.

Still no reply.

The door swung open and another new pupil appeared with a different servant carrying in his trunk.

“This is Mr. Hart,” the servant announced. He tilted his head. “This is your place,” he told the newcomer.

Wyatt saw the placard read Aaron Hartfield.

The servant rested the trunk on the ground at the foot of Hart’s bed. “Don’t forget the assembly I mentioned.”

“I won’t. Thank you.”

Once the door closed, Wyatt took a step forward and stuck out his hand. “I’m Wyatt Stanton.”

Shaking it, Aaron said, “Don’t ever call me Aaron. I despite that name. The first thing I need to see about is having that changed.” He pointed to the plaque. “I go by Hart. That’s my name.”

“Good to meet you, Hart,” he said sincerely. He liked this boy.

“What about him?” Hart asked, curiosity written on his face as he stared at the silent boy.

“He hasn’t said a word.”

Wyatt sat on his bunk and Hart did the same. They talked for a few minutes, neither revealing much about his past. He wondered if they would all be wary and on their guard and prayed that, somehow, he could make friends with at least one of the boys who lived in this room.

Then another boy arrived with Mr. Smythe, who warned him not to be late to the assembly before he left the room.

Knowing this one was Miles since Smythe placed the trunk where Miles Notley would sleep, Wyatt strode toward him, offering him his hand.

“I’m Wyatt. Wyatt Stanton. They say I burned down our stables and killed all our horses. I didn’t. It was my idiot brother’s fault.”

There. It was out in the open. He’d talked a good fifteen minutes with Hart and knew whatever each had done hovered over their heads. Wyatt refused to spend the rest of his life dithering around. It felt good to announce what he was falsely accused of.

Miles looked at him with a bit of surprise and then determination filled him. Wyatt knew this boy would also speak his truth. Guilty of a crime or not, he decided he would accept this newcomer.

“I appreciate you being frank. My older brother shot and killed my younger brother. He’s a marquess and my father’s favorite. Ralph blamed me—and no one dared to question his version of the events.”

Immediately, Hart joined them and offered Miles a hand.

“I’m Aaron Hartfield. My friends call me Hart.” He studied Miles. “I hope we can be friends.”

Miles asked why Hart was at Turner Academy, a topic Wyatt and Hart had avoided before this new boy’s arrival.

Hart snorted. “It seems we three have something in common. My older brother, Reginald, pushed my baby brother into the water. Percy was scared. Always hated the water. Reg thought he’d force Percy to finally conquer his fear. Instead, Percy’s neck was broken and he drowned before I could reach him. Guess who got the blame?” Hart shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. I hate the lot of them anyway.”

Wyatt took in the fact that both of these boys had lost their younger brothers and had been wrongly blamed for it. He sensed these two had been protective of their little brothers and carried a sense of having failed to keep them safe.

“Do they want you back?” Miles asked, glancing from Wyatt to Hart.

He wondered if Miles was in the same position and had been told he couldn’t return to his home because of his misdeeds. Wyatt swallowed hard and shook his head.

Hart jumped in. “You mean are we allowed to go home? Not me. My father, the Duke of Mansfield, washed his hands of me. He hasn’t spoken a word to me since Percy died. His solicitor is the one who told me I would be attending school with a bunch of wayward, wicked boys. And that I am not welcomed at Deerfield ever again.”

Though upset by Hart’s familiar story, relief flooded Wyatt. “Thank God. I thought I was the only one who had been banished for good. I live—lived—at Amberwood, about ten miles southeast of Maidstone. Our family butler delivered me here. My parents have disowned me.”

Wyatt went into an imitation of his father’s final speech to him and his companions recognized what he did.

Then Miles glanced toward the silent boy and asked he if talked.

“Not yet,” Hart replied.

Another pupil was shown in, making Donovan Martin the final arrival. He introduced himself. Hart and Miles did the same, and Miles asked the newcomer what he had done to be placed at Turner Academy.

“Nothing,” Donovan said, belligerence in his voice.

“No one is sent here without doing something,” Wyatt quietly said. “Or being accused of something they never did.”

Hurt filled Donovan’s face. Miles quickly assured the boy, telling him, “If you’re ever ready, we’re here to listen.”

Donovan stepped away and went to his trunk, moving things about as they watched him.

“It was my mother.”

As tears filled his eyes, the dark-haired boy explained how on one of their frequent walks through the forest, his mother had accidentally stepped into a poacher’s trap. Donovan had gone for help but the duchess lost a good deal of blood. The doctor recommended amputation, which the duke had forbid.

“Infection set in. She ran a high fever and became delirious. And then she died.” Donovan paused. Wyatt felt the boy’s hurt and wanted to comfort him.

“That’s why I’m here. Father can’t stand the sight of me.”

As Donovan angrily wiped away his streaming tears, he said he never wanted to see his father and brother again. Wyatt understood—and in that moment, he knew not only would this boy be his friend, but the others would, as well.

“We’re here for you,” Hart told Donovan. “We’ve all been done wrong. We may not have our families anymore—but we have each other.”

They all looked to the fifth boy in the room, who had remained silent throughout all they had revealed to one another.

“Won’t you join us?” Miles asked.

Finally, the blond boy lifted his head. Wyatt recognized the immense pain that filled William Finchley as he came toward them and took a step back, welcoming what he hoped would no longer be a stranger to their circle.

“I’m Finch,” the boy said after a long pause. “William Finchley. And I don’t give a damn about what any of you did or didn’t do.” He stared hard, his eyes flicking over each of them. “I sure as hell won’t ever tell you why I was sent here.”

Donovan was the first to speak. “You don’t need to. You’re here. And you’re with us. That’s all that matters. We’re all new here. That’s what Mr. Smythe told me. I think we could all use a few friends.”

“Whether you did anything or not, you’re a part of us. We’re all stuck here together. We might as well make the best of it,” Miles told Finch. “Agreed?” he asked the others.

“Agreed,” four voices echoed.

Miles thrust out his hand and Wyatt placed his atop it. The others did the same until all the boys were connected

“To the Turner Terrors,” Miles proclaimed.

“The Turner Terrors,” they replied, warmth filling Wyatt as he spoke the new nickname bestowed upon the five standing here.

“To the Turner Terrors,” Miles declared.

United as one, they made their way downstairs to the assembly. With Miles on his right and Finch on his left and Donovan and Hart just beyond them, Wyatt felt a trickle of hope run through him. Hope that he wouldn’t be alone. That he now had brothers of his heart.

 

CHAPTER 3

Sussex—February 1810

 

“You should prepare yourself, Lady Selfridge,” Dr. Mobley said. “Your husband hasn’t long to live.”

Meadow fought to keep the nervous giggles from erupting. They had plagued her from the time she was a small child and always struck her at the most inappropriate time.

Husband.

That was laughable. Lord Selfridge was her husband in name only. They had been wed six years and had yet to consummate their marriage. With the physician’s news, she would now become a widow—and still be a virgin.

She moved to the window and glanced out, trying to compose herself. She was known for her composure. Her serene, placid nature. She ran a peaceful household and visited their tenants frequently, nursing the sick among them, helping to deliver babies, and spending time with the women, especially new mothers. Something she had longed to be on that morning she had spoken her wedding vows.

Before her marriage, Meadow learned that she had been sold to Viscount Selfridge by her father, who perpetually was in debt, thanks to his love of gambling. Lord Selfridge was only too eager to acquire her but had no interest in her once he owned her. It was the same with other things he collected. Chess sets. First editions of books. Snuff boxes. He would pay for items and artfully arrange them for display—and immediately lose interest in them. Meadow had been one of the things he had collected and then pushed to the side, leaving her at his country estate for the entire length of their marriage, while he spent a majority of his time in London. When Selfridge did visit the country, he would spend hours locked in his study, a place even the servants weren’t allowed to enter.

“My lady?”

She turned to face Doctor Mobley. “I quite understand. Do you have any special instructions for me, Doctor?”

“Only to make his lordship as comfortable as possible, my lady. Sit with him if you are up to it. He is already confused, which is one of the symptoms of the pneumonia in older patients.”

“I have done everything I can to reduce his fever,” she shared.

He shook his head, pity in his eyes. “I am afraid there is very little any of us can do at this point.” The physician cleared his throat. “I will be back at this time tomorrow though I am not certain your husband will make it until then.”

“I understand,” she said solemnly, swallowing the giggle dancing in her throat.

“Good day, my lady.”

Dr. Mobley left and Meadow hurried to a cushion sitting in the nearest chair. She buried her face in it, erupting in laughter. Finally, the fit subsided and she returned the pillow to its chair. Composing herself, she left the drawing room and made for the viscount’s bedchamber.

Selfridge’s valet sat by her husband’s bedside and she told him, “Get some rest. I will call if I need you.”

“Yes, my lady.” The servant left without argument, his weariness apparent.

Meadow took the seat the valet vacated and studied the man in the bed. When they had wed, Selfridge had been thirty years her senior, handsome for a man approaching fifty, with beautiful, silver hair and a trim figure. The man she now observed had wasted away. His hair was dull and matted, his cheeks flushed with a high fever. Even in sleep, he trembled with chills though sweat poured from his body.

She placed her palm against his brow and found it scalding. Dipping a cloth into a basin of water next to the bed, she bathed his face and watched as he frowned. His lips had turned blue, as had his fingernails, one of the signs the pneumonia had reached its last stage before death occurred.

Selfridge opened his eyes and stared vacantly at her, as if trying to remember who she was. She remembered Dr. Mobley mentioning possible confusion.

“It is Meadow,” she said and then corrected herself. “Lady Selfridge. Your wife.”

The last time he had addressed her as Meadow had been when repeating their wedding vows. To the servants, he called her Lady Selfridge. The few times they were alone, he referred to her as Wife.

Misery filled his face. “What’s wrong with me?” he asked feebly.

“It is the pneumonia, my lord. You have a high fever.” She brushed the damp cloth across his brow again.

“Stop that,” he ordered.

Meadow withdrew the cloth and rested it beside the bowl as he began coughing. She handed him a handkerchief. After the fit subsided, he passed it to her and she saw the dull green mucus mixed with blood.

“I’m dying?” he finally asked.

“Yes, my lord,” she replied evenly.

His symptoms had only started three days ago and hadn’t worsened until yesterday. Suddenly, Meadow realized that with her husband’s passing, she might have nowhere to go. The heir to the viscountcy was a nephew she had met at her wedding and hadn’t seen since then. Once he was notified that he was the new Viscount Selfridge, she most likely would be asked to leave. Her parents were dead, her mother dying after the last of half a dozen miscarriages when Meadow was twelve. Her father had passed two years ago. With no son, the earldom had gone to a cousin fifteen years older than she was, and she hadn’t heard a word from him since that time.

Where would she go?

She chided herself silently for only thinking of herself when the man in the bed probably had less than a day to live. Still, he had presented her with no jewelry during their marriage. The thought would never have occurred to him. Everything in this house, beyond her clothes, would belong to the next Viscount Selfridge. Panic rose within her.

Then she relaxed. Tilda would take her in. Her cousin, only a year Meadow’s senior, was now the Countess of Marshmore. They had been close growing up and even made their come-outs together though Meadow had only been to a handful of the Season’s events before her father insisted she wed Lord Selfridge. The couple had retired from London society after their hasty marriage and never participated in a Season again. At least she hadn’t. Selfridge had gone to town numerous times over the years without her for long stretches, always in search of new items to collect.

She and Tilda still exchanged letters, though, several times a year. Meadow knew her cousin would offer her a place to stay. Knowing Tilda, she would push for Meadow to re-enter Polite Society as quickly as possible and find another husband.

It wasn’t a bad idea. This time, she was free and could make her own decision. Marry a man of her own choosing.

And finally have the children she so desperately desired.

“You’re my wife, you said?” her husband asked, studying her closely.

“Yes, my lord. We have been wed six years.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-four.”

“Hmm.”

Another round of coughing occurred, weakening him further. She bathed his face again with fresh water, his skin blazing to the touch.

“Sell the collection,” he mumbled.

“The collection, my lord?” she asked. “You have several. Everything you have accumulated will belong to the next Lord Selfridge.”

“They like you, don’t they? The servants. The tenants. I remember that. They always tell me so.”

His words pleased her since she had devoted herself to those on his estate.

He began to shake violently and Meadow pulled the bedclothes up to his neck.

“Thank you,” he wheezed.

“I am here for you, my lord. Let me know what you need.”

“I wish I remembered you,” he said sadly. “Are you my daughter?”

Sadness washed over her. “No, my lord. I am your wife.”

“My wife.” He mulled that over. “When I am gone, where will you go?”

She shook her head. “I have no idea. Probably to my cousin.”

“Sell the collection,” he repeated.

“You collect many things.”

Including me.

“Sell it,” he insisted. “In my study. The chest in the corner. The key is in the vase on the table by the window. Sell it—and you will have more than enough. Tell no one.” He swallowed, clearly in pain. “Kibbard wants it.”

Meadow couldn’t imagine what he referred to or who Kibbard might be. She had never been inside the viscount’s study during all the years of their marriage. He went there frequently after dinner and remained inside for hours anytime he was in the country. She had always wondered what he did behind closed doors.

“Rest now,” she urged, watching as he closed his eyes.

Over the next several hours, his breathing grew more labored and his fever spiked. He murmured incoherently for several minutes before another coughing spell struck, exhausting him. When it finished, he gazed up at her with sad eyes.

“Who are you?”

Those were his last words.

His eyes closed and he took a single breath before he shuddered and grew still. She waited a moment and then touched her fingers to his throat. Finding no pulse, she placed them under his nose and found no air came out. She rose and pulled the rope, summoning their butler, who appeared with the viscount’s valet.

“Lord Selfridge has passed,” she announced to them. “Please send a message to Dr. Mobley to that effect and to the vicar. Ask that he come tomorrow morning and meet with me regarding his lordship’s funeral service.”

“Yes, my lady,” the butler said. “We shall prepare the body. Might we do anything for you?”

Dry-eyed, she said, “No, thank you. I will leave you to your task.”

Meadow left the bedchamber and roamed the halls for several minutes, stretching her legs and clearing her head. She had no appetite, despite not having eaten since early that morning. She decided she should go to bed. First thing tomorrow, she would write to the new Viscount Selfridge.

Returning to her bedchamber, she paused at the door, remembering her husband’s words.

Sell the collection.

Curiosity overwhelmed her. She wondered what the viscount might have collected and pored over in his study all those many hours. Of course, she wouldn’t think of selling it and keeping the profits. Whatever it was, it belonged to the heir since it had been purchased with estate funds. Still, she wanted to see what her husband referred to.

Heading downstairs, Meadow opened the study door for the first time and entered the chilly room that had been her husband’s sanctuary, feeling guilty as she closed it behind her. She glanced about the room and spotted the table sitting by the window. Crossing the room, she picked up the vase, Grecian in style, and turned it upside down. A small key fell into her palm. Nervously, she turned and found a battered chest in the corner of the room, looking out of place among the rest of the room’s elegant furnishings.

She went to it and dropped to her knees. Inserting the key in the lock, it turned easily. She lifted the lid and saw stacks of lithographs lying within it. Lifting the one on top of the first stack, her jaw dropped as she viewed it.

It was a picture of a couple doing something incredibly lewd, something so unfathomable that she blinked rapidly several times, trying to make sense of it. She set it aside and picked up another one. Then another. Each scene depicted naked people, sometimes a solitary figure but more often two people. Not all were English. Some of the lithographs portrayed couples from the Far East.

Embarrassed, she quickly replaced the lithographs and shut the trunk, locking it again.

This was what Selfridge had spent hours looking upon each night after they dined?

Meadow’s face grew hot with embarrassment. Obviously, he had been collecting the lithographs for quite some time to have amassed so many of them. She guessed there must be hundreds within the ancient chest. If she left them for the next Selfridge, what would he think of her? Her husband? Would he go and blab what he had found to Polite Society? If he did, her reputation would be ruined. Thoughts of marrying again would be impossible. If any gentleman of the ton thought she had viewed this sordid collection with her husband, much less acted out the various scenes depicted, she would become a pariah.

No, no one must ever see these lithographs. Ever.

Should she call for a servant to light a fire so she could burn the assorted pictures?

Meadow rose to summon one and then caught herself. Selfridge seemed to think the collection was worth a great deal. He said it would be more than enough. But how was she to go about finding Kibbard, whoever he might be? Was he the seller of such wicked goods? Or a collector as Selfridge was? Either way, it would be foolish to burn something that might be so valuable, though she couldn’t imagine the kind of person who might enjoy looking at such things.

Pocketing the key, she left the study in search of a footman. When she found one, she brought him back to her husband’s study and directed him to bring the trunk to her bedchamber, even waiting for him to lift it and escorting him there. She had him place it behind her dressing screen and then thanked him.

“I am sorry to hear his lordship is gone, my lady,” the footman told her.

“Thank you,” she said and showed him out the door.

As Meadow closed it, she leaned against it and took a deep breath, relaxing as she did. Though her future was uncertain, she was finally free of her husband. She had been isolated in the country for many years. Now, she would have a chance to return to society and make a match.

Freedom tasted sweet as she twirled and fell on her bed, allowing her laughter to finally be released.