Destiny with a Duke (Dukes Done Wrong Book 5)

Book 5: Dukes Done Wrong

by Alexa Aston

Genres: Regency Romance; Regency romance; 1800s; romantic heroines historical; Regency Historical Romance; Dukes Done Wrong; Alexa Aston

Synopsis

Accused of something they never did. Five boys banished from their homes in disgrace, to the place where they find the brothers of their heart—and build new family ties that will last a lifetime.

A vicar trying to save his own soul. A widow who yearns for children. A darkness that can only be dispelled with the healing power of love . . .

William Finchley carries a secret from childhood which he has never shared with anyone, not even his closest friends. When his brother commits suicide, Finch becomes the new Duke of Sommersby. He attend his first Season with no plans to ever wed—until he meets Lady Pemberton, an optimistic, brave widow.

Victoria Samuel, Lady Pemberton, returns to Polite Society after a year of mourning a husband who was murdered by a whore. She yearns for children, which is the only reason she faces the gossiping ton, hoping to find a husband of good character.

Finch and Victoria are drawn to each other but Finch believes he is too broken and undeserving of love, even after he weds Victoria and then abandons her. Only when the mother he believes betrayed him shares with Finch how he should take a chance on the healing power of love does Finch decide to let his heart speak to Victoria.

Will Finch's courageous actions win Victoria back—or will she reject him, plunging him into eternal darkness?

Find the answer in Destiny with a Duke, Book 5 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.

Dukes Done Wrong
Discouraging the Duke
Deflecting the Duke
Disrupting the Duke
Delighting the Duke
Destiny with a Duke

Release date: November 18, 2021

Publisher: Dragonblade Publishing, Inc.

Print pages: 264

Sample

CHAPTER 1

Sommerville, Kent—August 1796

 

“How do you do that, Finch?”

William Finchley brushed a final stroke along the water in his painting and glanced to his older brother, Cyril. Though three years separated them, he was already as tall as Cyril.

“I’m not really sure,” he admitted. “I . . . just see it in my head. Something inside me tells me what to do. How to mix the colors. The type of brush to use. Where to place things.”

“I truly believe you could pursue art as a career,” Cyril told him.

“Aren’t I supposed to go into the military?” he asked.

For as long as he could remember, Finch had been told he would enter the army after university, just as his father had. He barely remembered Papa, who had died when a stray bullet had struck him during a training exercise in India when Finch was five and Cyril was eight.

That was when they had come to live at Sommerville. With the duke.

He shuddered.

“I know you are a second son, but just because it’s expected doesn’t mean you have to do what they say,” Cyril pointed out. “When I am the duke, I will have the power to help you. You can stay here at Sommerville and paint to your heart’s content. Or I could set you up in an art studio in London.” He thought a moment and his eyes gleamed. “Or you could go to Paris. That’s where all the great artists have learned how to paint. Maybe ten years from now, France will have calmed down and you could study there.”

Finch could think of nothing better than being able to paint all day. Or carve with wood. Even though he was athletic and grew restless if he sat too long, he enjoyed working with his hands. To be an artist would fulfill a dream he had never admitted he even held.

But it was foolish to think that would ever occur. Not when the duke controlled every aspect of their lives.

“He wouldn’t let me.”

Without saying his name, Cyril nodded. They both knew Finch spoke of the duke, their paternal grandfather.

Their father had been a second son and probably glad he was able to escape from being under the old man’s controlling thumb. Their grandfather insisted upon managing every aspect of Cyril’s and Finch’s lives, from the colors of the jackets they wore to when and how long they could ride their horses. He selected books for them to read and called them into his study to discuss the contents. The duke forbade any sweets to pass their lips. It was a miracle that he allowed Cyril to continue to play the violin and Finch the time to paint, the only things Mama insisted upon because they had been important to the boys’ father.

But the Duke of Sommersby did far more than that. As close as Finch felt to his older brother, he had never been able to share with Cyril everything that happened when Finch was called into the old man’s study. He was too ashamed. And it had gone on far too long. He didn’t know how to stop something that had occurred for the five years they had lived at Sommerville. When he turned ten a few months ago, he had promised himself that he would speak up and make Sommersby stop.

In the end, though, he hadn’t voiced his complaints. His courage fled and he submitted as he always had. He told himself he was too small to fight back. Every night before he went to sleep, Finch would think about the day he was tall and his gangly arms and legs had filled out with muscle. Then he would take on the duke and never be hurt again.

“He can’t live forever, you know,” Cyril pointed out.

Finch shrugged, thinking of the story he had studied in school last term from the Greek historian Herodotus, which included the proverb Whom the gods love dies young.

If that were true, the Duke of Sommersby would live to be a thousand years old.

When he said nothing, his brother added, “I will be the next duke, Finch. He won’t be around to beat us anymore.”

He shook his head sadly as he began cleaning his brush, wishing it were only his grandfather’s beatings he had to suffer. He knew Cyril suffered those, just as Finch did, when they didn’t give the right answer to a question the duke asked or they were too slow in their response.

The butler appeared. “Lord Cyril, His Grace awaits you in the library. He says you are to discuss King Lear with him.”

Cyril said goodbye and left with the butler, his head hanging, the life seemingly sucked from him as his shoulders sank.

Finch finished cleaning his brushes and set them aside. He left the painting on the easel so that it could dry. He had stacks of completed canvases in his room. Despite what Cyril said, he doubted anyone would ever want his work. Even his own mother didn’t. She would humor him upon occasion, telling him a piece was nice, but she never wanted to hang any of them in her rooms. It was something that angered him. Shouldn’t a mother be proud and want to display a landscape painted by her son?

He sighed, trying hard not to let his feelings get hurt. Perhaps his mother didn’t like what he painted. Logically, he could understand—and even accept that.

What he couldn’t understand was why she had never protected him.

Did she have an inkling of what went on behind closed doors at Sommerville? If she did, she had ignored it, sacrificing his innocence just so she could have a roof over her head. He had heard Mama say many times that if not for her father-in-law, she and her boys would have had nowhere to go after they returned to England from India.

He supposed Sommersby had taken them in when he did because Cyril had suddenly become the heir apparent. Not only had their father been killed in an accident, but the uncle they had never met had been shot and killed in a duel days before his brother’s death. Suddenly, the Duke of Sommersby, who’d had both an heir and a spare, now had only a grandson who would inherit the dukedom one day. Finch knew that was why they had been given a place to live. He had also heard over the years, thanks to eavesdropping, what the duel had been about and shared that knowledge with Cyril. Finch hadn’t quite understood what a mistress was, much less why two men would turn to guns over one, but Cyril had clarified the situation for him, explaining about what went on between a man and a woman and how many men of the ton engaged in affairs.

It disgusted Finch. He never planned to have a mistress. In fact, he didn’t even want to have a wife. He was never going to be the duke and be required to provide an heir. No, Finch would go off to the army and spend his days far away from Sommerville. Perhaps he would be sent to India, where he had been born and his father had served. Maybe if he were halfway around the world he could forget about everything that had been done to him.

He returned to his bedchamber, his belly growing queasy, knowing he would be summoned to the duke’s side within the next hour or so once Sommersby had finished quizzing Cyril. He settled himself in the window seat, a copy of Defoe’s Robinson Crusoe nestled in his lap. It was the latest assignment from the duke and one Finch actually had enjoyed reading. It was packed with adventures, unlike the dry sermons and boring histories he sometimes was required to read. He wondered if he and the duke would actually discuss any of the book.

Or get down to the usual business.

He leaned his head against the wall, closing his eyes, drifting away from Sommerville. Only a sharp rap on his door brought him back to the present. His gut tightened as the butler entered the bedchamber.

“His Grace requests your presence in his study, my lord.”

Always the study. Cyril was asked to the library but Finch was steered to the study, where the duke locked the door.

He rose, gripping his novel as he followed the butler downstairs and waited as the servant knocked on the door.

The moment he heard his grandfather’s voice call out to enter, his body no longer seemed his own. He put one foot in front of the other and stepped into the room. A fog seemed to descend upon his brain. Deep inside, Finch knew he did these things to protect himself. He would get through this encounter and then go and wash as usual, trying to scrub away the vileness that permeated him after these unholy meetings.

“Sit,” Sommersby commanded after he had locked the door and taken his seat.

Finch took the seat in front of the desk. The duke sat behind it. He wondered if his father had suffered through the same things and wished he could have five minutes with him again. Papa’s image continued to fade as time passed. Though Finch had tried to paint him from memory, the portrait always seemed off somehow.

“What did you think of the book?”

A part of him relaxed. They would talk about Crusoe’s adventures then. For a little while, he could put off the inevitable.

“It was very good, Your Grace.”

A sour expression crossed his grandfather’s face. “Good tells me nothing. Say it was interesting. Entertaining. Ludicrous. Boring. You must add color to your speech, my boy. Good is such pedestrian word choice. You can do much better, William. I demand it.”

Finch bit his tongue, wanting to tell this man he wasn’t his boy. He was his father’s boy and no other. That is why he demanded everyone call him Finch—because Papa had. He thought William too formal and had given Finch the nickname when he was still in the cradle. With Papa now gone, it was the only link he had with his father. Cyril always called him Finch and Mama usually did unless they were around the duke. He had slapped Mama when she had called him Finch. The old man said nicknames were childish and he would have none of that in his household.

Mama had never made that mistake again around the duke but she still called him Finch the few times they were alone.

“I asked you a question,” the duke said, his gaze penetrating Finch.

Guilt rose in him as he thought of how disappointed Papa would be in him. He remembered Papa as larger than life, a big man with a loud laugh and twinkling eyes. He would wish for any son of his to stand up for what was right.

What the Duke of Sommersby did was far from right.

Thoughts of his long-dead father filled Finch with determination. This would be the day he would finally say no. If he was forced, so be it. The time for silence and giving in was over. If the duke beat him to death, he didn’t care. It would mean his suffering had finally come to an end.

“Defoe’s work was amusing,” he said, gathering his courage, not knowing if he would strike the duke. Or run. Either way, he would take action.

Before Sommersby could continue, an odd expression crossed his face. Beads of sweat broke out across his wrinkled brow.

“I am dizzy,” he blurted out, clutching his arm and massaging it.

Finch sat there. The only thought that came to him was that he wouldn’t have to succumb to the usual treatment. He wouldn’t have to stand up for himself and argue. His grandfather looked fatigued, the color fading from his usually rosy cheeks. A sick duke wouldn’t be able to carry out his plans.

Sommersby stood, unsteady on his feet. He gripped the desk in front of him for support and then brought a hand to his chest.

“My chest,” he complained. “It is as if something is squeezing it. And my arm hurts.”

Suddenly, he went down, collapsing not in his chair but falling to the ground.

Finch leaped to his feet and hurried to the other side of the desk.

Sommersby looked up at him, desperation filling his eyes. “Help,” he croaked. “Get help.”

Finch stood rooted to the ground.

The duke wheezed, “I said . . .” His voice trailed off and he pushed both hands against his chest again, as if trying to tamp down the pain.

“No.” Finch said it quietly, void of emotion.

“You cannot do this,” his grandfather said, his tone attempting to muster enough menace to frighten Finch into action.

“No,” he repeated calmly, squatting close but just out of reach as the duke flung out a hand and tried to claw at his grandson.

“You hurt me every time I came through those doors. From the time I was five. I was a little boy. I am still a little boy. One who is your flesh and blood. One you should love.” He paused. “But you don’t. You only bring pain and humiliation. No comfort. No love.”

He rose, staring down as agony filled the old man’s face.

“Please,” the duke begged.

He shook his head. “I pleaded with you but you never listened to me. I won’t listen to you.”

With that, Finch returned to his seat, lifting the volume of Defoe he had left there and opening it. He ignored the gasps coming from behind the desk. The low moans. The mumbled curses. Instead, he read the words on the page, reading them aloud to block out what was going on in the room.

After several minutes, the noise ceased. He could hear no labored breathing. Quietly, Finch went and unlocked the door before going back to his seat. He returned to Defoe, this time silently saying the words in his mind.

A knock sounded on the door, bringing him out of the story. He forced himself to continue to stare at the page as he felt the door open and the slight rush of wind with the motion.

“Where is His Grace?” demanded Cousin Leonard.

The duke’s cousin had been staying at Sommerville the past week. He came every summer for a week or two and again at Christmas, having no family of his own.

“Behind the desk,” Finch said calmly.

Cousin Leonard’s puzzled look almost caused Finch to laugh but he kept a straight face as the man walked briskly across the room.

“No!” he cried, bending to the ground.

Finch went back to reading his book. He sensed movement around him. People coming and going. He continued to stare at the pages and turn them every now and then, ignoring the maelstrom surrounding him.

Then Mama touched his sleeve. “Finch, dear. Come with me.”

“Yes, Mama.” He rose dutifully and followed her from the room, which he observed was now empty.

They went to the drawing room, where Cousin Leonard paced. Cyril stood as they entered and hurried toward him.

“What did you do?” his brother demanded harshly, his face flushed with anger.

The question startled him. He thought Cyril would have been happy the old man was gone. The way his brother was glaring surprised him. Despite being brothers, they had never truly been close, especially since their return to England. Their interests were too varied.

“I am perfectly fine,” he replied, not answering Cyril’s question. He took a seat next to Mama.

Cousin Leonard ceased pacing and sat opposite them.

“What were you thinking, Finch?” he demanded.

Mama stroked his hair. “Finch was upset, weren’t you, darling?”

He sat, mute.

“His Grace fell from his chair—and you didn’t make a move to come to his aid?” the older man accused.

“No. He wanted me to read Defoe. That’s what I did.”

As he spoke, it was as if Finch floated outside his body. Cousin Leonard began shouting. Mama put an arm about Finch and kept talking. Cyril came and stood behind him, placing a hand on Finch’s shoulder, squeezing hard.

“Answer me!” Cousin Leonard demanded.

Finch drifted back into his body. “What?”

“You deliberately sat while your beloved grandfather died.”

“He wasn’t my beloved grandfather. He was my grandfather,” he said evenly. “Beloved is someone dear to you. I would say His Grace was unbeloved by me and everyone in this household.”

“See?” roared Cousin Leonard, spit flying everywhere. “This boy is a monster. He refused to lift a finger. His Grace might very well be alive if Finch had gone for help.”

“No, he wouldn’t have lived,” Finch told them. “He grabbed his chest. He was in pain. And then he was gone. At peace.”

The older man blinked in astonishment. “What kind of fiend watches his flesh and blood die before his eyes?”

“I didn’t see him die,” he said quietly. “I was reading as he told me to do.”

“He is mad,” accused Cousin Leonard.

Mama’s arm tightened about him. “No. He is in shock. Finch is a good boy.”

“Good boys don’t deliberately sit and allow a duke to die,” hissed Cousin Leonard. “He should be punished.”

“I am now Duke of Sommersby,” Cyril said firmly. “I will decide if Finch should be punished.”

Finch turned his gaze to his brother, the new duke. Cyril seemed to stand taller now. But when their eyes met, he saw the questions in his brother’s eyes. The doubt. Finch knew that Cyril believed his brother to have been wrong.

He wasn’t wrong. Sommersby deserved to die for everything he had done. No one would ever make him feel differently.

Cousin Leonard shook his head vigorously. “You might be His Grace, young man, but I control you—and the purse strings. Your grandfather’s will names me as the executor of the estate and guardian of you boys. I will make all decisions until you reach your majority at age twenty-one.”

He wheeled from Cyril to Finch. “As for you, I know exactly where you will go.” Cousin Leonard paused. “Turner Academy. It is where they send vicious little brutes.”

“No!” cried Cyril. “Finch and I go to school together. I won’t have us separated.”

Cousin Leonard’s eyes narrowed. “You will do as I say—or your mother will be out on her ear.”

Mama gasped. Cyril looked lost. Cousin Leonard smiled triumphantly. Finch knew the trump card had been played. He didn’t care where he went to school. He would never again suffer as he had under Sommersby’s hand. No one would ever have the power to hurt him again.

“It’s all right,” he told Cyril. “I want to go to Turner Academy and be with boys like me.” He turned and embraced his mother. “You won’t have to go anywhere, Mama. Cousin Leonard will take care of you. You can continue to go to London for the Season. Now that His Grace is dead, you can finally look for a new husband.”

Finch had overheard the duke telling Mama that he forbid her from marrying again and if she did, he would keep her sons from her. He had heard Mama crying and knew she was lonely ever since Papa died.

He stood. “I won’t go to the funeral. You can say whatever you wish, Cousin Leonard. I don’t care what you or anyone else thinks of me.”

The older man grabbed Finch by the shoulders and shook him violently. It was nothing compared to what the duke had done to him and Finch took it without speaking.

“You will remain in your room until I can ship you off to Turner Academy. And as long as I am in charge of this household, you will never set foot at Sommerville again. I won’t have you dirtying the Finchley name, nor will I have you exercise any undue influence upon His Grace.”

He realized Cousin Leonard now referred to Cyril. He gave his brother a sad smile and saw in Cyril’s eyes that something had changed between them. That Cyril had thought Finch was wrong not to act and try to save a man who had brought suffering to them both. In this moment, he felt as if they were no longer brothers. They were a duke and an unwanted relative. The bond Finch thought would never be broken now unraveled.

“I suppose you are right, Cousin,” Cyril said, relenting. He turned to Finch. “This is for the best. We will be apart for a little while and then when I reach my majority, you will be allowed to come home.” He paused. “I don’t understand why you did what you did, Finch. I hope that you will mature and eventually forgive yourself for your role in Grandfather’s death.”

Cyril might think he was sincere but doubt filled Finch. At this point, he never wanted to return to Sommerville again. Too many horrid memories filled him. Leaving for this new school would be a blessing. And if he lived to be ninety, he would never spend one day regretting what had occurred today in the duke’s study.

Finch turned his gaze to the man before him and smiled. “Then I guess this is goodbye, Cousin Leonard.”

He walked out and returned to his room. Relief swept through him. Mama now had a chance to find happiness again. Cyril would complete his studies through university. The boys could bide their time until Cyril reached his majority. Hopefully, by then, Cyril would see why Finch had acted the way he had and Cyril would find it in his heart to forgive his brother.

Most important of all, Finch was finally free.

 

 

CHAPTER 2

Markham Park—1804

 

Finch awoke, saddened that today would be his final one at Markham Park. While Wyatt was the vocal one and never shy about expressing how much he loved coming to stay with the Earl and Countess of Marksby, Finch believed he got the most from the annual visits. He had grown especially close with Lady Marksby, who also enjoyed painting. The two of them would gather their canvases and brushes and go outdoors every day, finding new things to paint. He would miss these summer visits and the company of the earl and countess. They had become almost like substitute parents to the Turner Terrors, especially since the pair had no children of their own.

He washed and dressed, placing the final items into his trunk since he and his fellow Terrors would be returning to Turner Academy after breakfast this morning. He breathed in deeply, savoring these final minutes of solitude. While he adored his friends and didn’t mind sharing a dormitory room with them all these years, this year’s visit to Markham Park had been special because Lady Marksby had seen that each boy had his own room for the first time, instead of sharing with another. Finch had enjoyed the solitude and having a room to himself as much as the visit itself.

He retrieved the painting resting against the wall and took it downstairs with him to the sunny breakfast room, hoping Lady Marksby would appreciate his efforts on her behalf.

As usual, he was the first of his friends to arrive. He had always been the early riser of the bunch and enjoyed coming down and breakfasting with his hosts before the others arrived.

“Good morning, Finch,” the countess greeted.

The earl turned from where he stood at the buffet. “Ah, good morning, Finch. Come, fill your plate.” Then he noticed the painting. “What’s that you have there?”

“It is a gift for Lady Marksby.”

“Oh!” Her face lit with pleasure. “Do bring it here, Finch. I cannot wait to see what you have created for me.”

He did as asked, turning it for her to see. He watched her face carefully and knew she was pleased as a slow smile spread across her delicate features.

She gazed up at him, tears brimming in her eyes. “This is lovely, Finch. Simply lovely. You know roses are my favorite. And you have captured quite a good likeness of me. Considering I never posed for you, I am even more impressed with your work.”

He had painted the countess sitting on a bench in her garden, rose bushes surrounding her.

“This won’t do,” Lord Marksby said sternly.

Finch’s gut tightened.

“This will be mine,” he proclaimed and then smiled.

The tension fled. He forced himself to release his fists, which had tightened with the earl’s words.

“You look so lovely in this, my darling. I simply must keep it for myself,” the earl told his wife. He bent and kissed her brow before seating himself at the table.

As Finch filled his plate at the buffet, Lady Marksby told him that he would need to paint something else for her.

“It must include roses, my dear boy,” she said, gazing at the painting. “You have a great eye for detail. Why, I feel as if I could reach out and touch each silky petal and find that it is real.” She smiled. “Thank you for placing me in blue. It is my favorite color, you know.”

He did, because she wore it most every day in varying shades.

“You are a very talented artist, young man,” Lord Marksby said as he buttered his toast and then frowned. “Art and the army don’t seem to mix.”

Finch had thought the same thing. While his four friends were all destined for the army after their university days, as was Finch, the thought had left him with distaste. He already had so much rage within him. He was afraid to have the government place a rifle in his hands because he might kill every man on the battlefield, be they friend or foe. He longed for a quieter life. One in which he could help the poor and oppressed. He wanted to be a champion for others since no one had been a protector to him.

“I agree, my lord,” he said, sadness filling him. “I have no choice, though. The plan has always been for me to enter the military.”

The only communication he had received in all his years at Turner Academy had come via a solicitor engaged by Cousin Leonard. It had arrived several months ago and told Finch he was to apply for admission to Cambridge. Finchleys had attended Oxford for generations. He assumed that was where Cyril attended university. Even now, all these years later, he wasn’t allowed to see or communicate with his brother.

The letter had also gone on to state that his university fees would be paid, along with a small stipend provided for housing. Since his four friends were all attending Cambridge, it hadn’t bothered Finch in the least that he would continue his education alongside the brothers of his heart.

The solicitor’s message closed with reminding Finch that a commission would be purchased for him when his university days were over. Instead of India, he now assumed that he and his companions would be stationed closer to home since Britain was at war with France. His gut told him the conflict wouldn’t be resolved anytime soon. Bonaparte seemed to believe he should rule all of Europe—and beyond. It would take England uniting with other countries to stop the little madman.

“What if you had a choice?” Lord Marksby posed, drawing him from his thoughts.

“A choice?” He shook his head. “I have no choice in the matter, my lord. My future has already been mapped out for me.”

“Has it?” the earl mused. “What if I had it within my power to give you another kind of opportunity?”

Curiosity filled him. “I would certainly entertain it, my lord.”

The earl took a sip of his coffee and set down his cup. “The living associated with Markham Park will be open in a few years. What would you think of becoming a vicar, Finch?”

The thought had never occurred to him. Being a man of the Church of England had never been an option he had considered. Third sons were traditionally destined for the cloth. His destiny had never lain in that direction.

It intrigued him, however.

“I see you as a sensitive soul, Finch,” Lord Marksby continued. “Physically, you would make for an excellent soldier. You also have the intellect and leadership skills to be a wonderful officer. I can’t help but think, though, how much better it might be for you to enter the ministry. You always look after the others, Finch. You have a kind and generous heart. Naturally, you would have a curate. He could take the burden of many of the mundane activities off your plate. You could help others and still have time for your art.”

“Why, Finch could sell his paintings and raise money for the church,” Lady Marksby proclaimed. “He would never need to beg his parishioners or you for money for a new roof. His art could pay for it.” She chuckled.

“You truly think this is a possibility?” he asked, tamping down the hope that sprang within him.

“The living is mine to give,” the earl said. “In a few years, it will be time for our current vicar to retire. I think you would make for an excellent replacement. And selfishly, it would allow us to keep you close. You know we look upon you fondly.”

He gave in to the hope that swelled within him. A chance for another way of life. One of his own choosing. Having the Marksbys nearby would be the proverbial icing on the cake.

“I accept, my lord, and I am terribly grateful.” He paused. “Might we keep this between us?”

“You don’t wish the other Terrors to know?” the earl asked.

“No. I want to keep this news to myself. In time, I will share it with them. For now, I want to cherish it. Mull it over.”

“Very well, my boy. If you change your mind, however, please advise me so that I can find another suitable candidate up to the task.”

Determination filled him. “I won’t change my mind, my lord. That, I can promise you. I look forward to this opportunity and am most grateful. I will finish university and then return to Marbury.”

Wyatt bounded into the room, Hart on his heels. They greeted everyone as the countess urged them to fill their plates. Soon, Miles and Donovan entered and breakfast became a lively affair.

When they finished eating, the five graduates of Turner Academy found their trunks had already been brought down. They said their goodbyes to Lord and Lady Marksby, all of them promising to write the pair and tell them about life at Cambridge and their studies.

Finch remained silent as the others talked on the hour’s coach ride back to Turner Academy. They would remain there another week before they left the school for a final time and settled in at university.

Mr. Smythe greeted them as they entered the foyer, trunks atop their shoulders.

“The horses are in sore need of exercising,” the servant told them. “They’ve missed the likes of you.”

“Then we should go for a ride,” Miles told the others. “Let’s take our trunks upstairs and head to the stables.”

Miles always assumed a leadership role among the five. He was never overbearing and they usually agreed to whatever plans he came up with.

They returned to the large room that had been home to them for the last eight years. While the school had emptied after the last term, with every pupil except the Terrors going home, the five had chosen to remain in the same oversized bedchamber. In fact, they had already sought lodgings together in Cambridge so they could remain physically close. Mr. Nehemiah and his wife, who served as the academy’s housekeeper, had gone to Cambridge themselves and returned to tell the boys that they had found suitable rooms for the group, as well as a woman to come in and clean for them twice a week.

They went downstairs as a group and, in the foyer, Mr. Josiah awaited them.

“Mr. Finch, might I have a word with you?”

He wondered what Mr. Josiah wanted and told the others, “Go ahead to the stables. I will catch up with you.”

Wyatt told him the direction they would ride and his four friends turned to head out the front door.

“Wait,” Mr. Josiah said. “I believe Mrs. Josiah might have a treat for you.”

Donovan beamed. “Follow me,” he said as he led the others from the foyer toward the kitchen.

Finch turned to Mr. Josiah, who said, “Please accompany me to the library.”

He fell into step with the older man. When they reached the first landing, Mr. Josiah stopped and faced him. A feeling of dread filled Finch.

“Your brother is waiting for you. I thought you should prepare yourself.”

A numbness filled him. In all these years, he hadn’t heard anything from Cyril. He supposed Cyril had been prevented from writing to him. Then it occurred to Finch that Cyril had recently celebrated his twenty-first birthday. He was the Duke of Sommersby in every capacity. Cousin Leonard would be making no more decisions.

Excitement mingled with a touch of trepidation filled him. What would it be like to see his brother after so many years? He had tried not to think of Cyril during his time at Turner Academy, especially because their parting had not ended on a good note. Finch had taken every thought and memory of his family and locked them away. Now, though, strong emotions which he couldn’t even name flooded him. Hopefully, his brother was here to extend an olive branch and, once more, they could be in each other’s lives. Get to know each other again after so many years apart.

“Come along,” Mr. Josiah said gently.

They reached the library and he hesitated outside its door.

“Go on,” the headmaster urged. “I know you have much to discuss. If you wish to talk about it later, feel free to seek me out. Good luck, Mr. Finch.”

He took a deep breath and pushed open the door. He spied a short, obese man standing at the window. The man turned. For a moment, Finch had no idea who this stranger was. Then he smiled and somewhere within the folds of fat of his face, he saw a glimpse of his brother.

“Finch!” Cyril cried, moving toward him.

He froze. Cyril had never been tall and leaned toward the chubby side. This man, though, was vastly overweight. He couldn’t imagine why his brother had eaten his way into such a body. Finch had never been one to judge another by his physical appearance but shock filled him at the changes in Cyril since they had last seen one another eight years ago.

“Finch,” Cyril said again as he reached him, throwing his arms about Finch and embracing him.

It took everything he had to bring his own arms up to take hold of this stranger.

Cyril pulled away. “You are so tall—and handsome. My little brother has become a man.”

“Would you like to sit, Your Grace?” he asked formally, uncomfortable in the presence of a man Finch had loved as a boy, one who had changed so much.

“Please. None of that,” his brother chided.

“Sommersby then.”

His brother sighed. “I thought I could remain Cyril to you. Even Mama hasn’t called me Cyril since I became the duke. I am always Sommersby to her.”

Hearing about his mother caused a deep sense of anger to surge through him. Logically, Finch knew the woman probably had no idea of what her younger son had suffered at the old duke’s hands. He hadn’t confided in Cyril about it, much less addressed the matter with his mother. Yet resentment toward her burned within him, wishing she would have simply known and stepped up to protect him.

He led Cyril to where a few chairs stood and they sat. Cyril’s body took up the entire chair, much of his bottom spilling over the seat’s edge. For a moment, Finch wondered if the chair might hold his immense girth—or if it would break.

“Mama took your advice. She wed again the year after you left,” Cyril informed him. “She is now Countess of Wallingford. She and the earl, who is a decent chap, have a daughter.”

Surprise filled him. “I . . . we . . . have a half-sister?”

“Yes. Antonia. Mama said it was a beautiful name for a beautiful baby. Wallingford said it was a mouthful and sounded too cold. He called the girl Nia and it stuck.”

“How old is Nia?”

“She is six now. Wallingford already had two grown sons when they married. He dotes on Nia. You will like her.”

“I doubt I will meet her,” he replied. “I want nothing to do with Mama.”

Cyril frowned deeply. “You can’t blame Mama for Cousin Leonard sending you away. She was as much under the former duke’s thumb as the rest of us. She couldn’t have stopped anything. She had no legal rights.” He sighed. “That is why I am here today.”

His brother tried to lean forward and then gave up. “I am at Oxford. It is where you should be. Oh, I know you were told to seek admission at Cambridge but we Finchleys go to Oxford. As a duke, I can arrange for you to attend university there. We will live together for a year, while I finish up my own degree. I will choose what you will study. You have been away a long time. I will introduce you to my circle. They will accept you, of course, because I am a duke.”

Finch didn’t want to be with his brother. Even though Cyril had only been a child and powerless to stop Cousin Leonard from sending Finch away, some resentment was harbored within him. When he first arrived at Turner Academy, he had longed for Cyril to sneak a letter to him. When none had come, he gradually put aside thoughts of Cyril until he never thought of his brother at all. For Cyril to turn up here, after all this time, and begin plotting out Finch’s future, didn’t sit well with him. He certainly didn’t need this stranger to supervise his studies, much less force friends upon him. Cyril’s entire attitude rubbed him the wrong way. Finch realized he didn’t want to have anything to do with someone from his past.

“I have plans to go to Cambridge with my friends,” he explained calmly, not wanting to alienate his brother or seem ungrateful for his offer. “We already have arranged rooms.”

“I see.”

An uncomfortable silence blanketed them.

“You like these boys?” Cyril finally asked.

“Very much. I shared a dormitory room with them my entire time at Turner Academy.”

Cyril frowned. “What was it like? I heard awful rumors of this place. Cousin Leonard warned me to never tell anyone you were here. He did not want your behavior reflecting poorly upon me and our family’s name. I said you were quite ill and being educated at home by a tutor. It is all we could think of. Especially after your ungentlemanly behavior regarding Grandfather.”

His brother’s priggish words cut Finch to the quick. He gripped the arms of his chair, his knuckles growing white.

“I never thought you, of all people, would judge me harshly,” he said, his voice rising. “You were there, Cyril. You suffered the beatings. The belittling. You know he was an awful man.”

“Don’t take offense, Finch,” Cyril said quickly. “I don’t wish to speak of these things. I merely was made aware by Cousin Leonard of my standing in Polite Society as the new duke and had to protect my reputation. I do not fault you in any way.” His eyes seemed to narrow, though with all the folds of fat, they were already mere slits to begin with. “I disliked Sommersby as much as you did. Perhaps even more so.”

“I doubt that,” he said boldly. “You do not know what I suffered at his hands.”

Cyril’s expression grew pained. “I am sorry. I know I never walked in your shoes. But you, little brother, have never walked in mine.”

Finch felt the gulf widening between them. He felt helpless to stop himself from drifting away.

“So, you are determined to go to Cambridge with a bunch of ruffians?” Cyril finally asked, his tone haughty and condescending.

“None of them are bad boys,” he defended. “They accepted me from the beginning. They were accused of things they never did.”

Cyril snorted. “Or so they say. Will you even be prepared for the rigorous work at university after so many years spent at such an inferior place?”

His temper flared. “I will have you know that my coursework at Turner Academy was more demanding than I expected. I am fully ready to take on whatever is thrown my way at Cambridge. In fact, it will seem easy after the level of difficulty I have encountered during my days here.”

Finch stood. “Thank you for coming to see me, Sommersby. I am grateful that you will provide me with the funds for my university education.”

Cyril struggled to free himself from the chair and finally succeeded. “You are different, Finch. Harder. More difficult than when you were younger. These friends you speak up for undoubtedly have had a poor influence upon you.”

He never thought himself as being difficult. The fact Cyril now said this convinced him the breach between them would not be mended anytime soon.

Still, he offered his hand to his brother. “Thank you for coming, Your Grace.”

His brother took it and they shook.

“If you care to, you may write me,” Cyril informed him. “Mama would also appreciate a letter from you.”

He doubted it. His mother had moved on to a new life with a husband and child. The last thing she wanted was to receive word from a wayward son who had been sent away years ago.

“You are welcome to come home to Sommerville at Christmas,” Cyril said stiffly.

“Thank you for the invitation but I must respectfully decline.”

Cyril’s lips flattened. “Then I suppose this is goodbye.”

“It is,” he affirmed. “I will escort you to your carriage.”

As they made their way downstairs slowly, Cyril’s girth impeding every step he took, Finch was grateful Mr. Josiah had steered the other boys to the kitchen. If they had left through the front doors, they would have seen the ducal carriage. As it was, he had no intention of telling any of them about this disappointing visit.

Once outside, it took two footmen and the driver to hoist Cyril up the steps and into the waiting vehicle. As the carriage drove away, Finch offered a lukewarm wave. He realized someone was beside him and turned, seeing Mr. Josiah standing there.

“Was it not a successful visit?”

“No, sir. Not in the least. Sommersby may be family because we are related by blood but I found my true family here, at Turner Academy.”

He wrapped Mr. Josiah in a bear hug, holding on and blinking back tears.

“I assume you wish to keep this visit from His Grace from the others?”

“Yes. Most definitely.”

Mr. Josiah did not look at him with pity. Instead, he gave Finch a brilliant smile. Suddenly, all seemed right in his world again.

“Why don’t you come to the kitchen? Mrs. Josiah has baked a cake. You can tell the two of us about your time at Markham Park.”

Finch followed the headmaster inside, vowing never to think of Cyril again.