The English Duke Read online

  Her father would no doubt approve of this journey. She could almost hear his words.

  Martha, I’m sure there’s a reason he never wrote. And one compelling him to refuse my bequest. You need only be patient for the answer to be revealed to you.

  She had a great deal of patience when it came to devising a tiny chain to stretch between the propeller and the gyroscope. She could sit for hours painstakingly forming the links with a tool and a magnifying glass. However, she didn’t have the same kind of tolerance for the duke’s actions.

  He’d harmed her father and she wasn’t about to flippantly forgive him.

  Although at one point he’d been interested in her father’s advances in torpedoes no doubt he’d changed his mind over the past year. Perhaps he was now involved in races, hunts, balls, and dinner parties. Something more fascinating to him than the product of a man’s mind and imagination.

  She’d never been more disappointed in one person in her entire life.

  The man she’d come to know in letters to her father had probably never existed. The eager young naval officer had disappeared to be replaced by a duke who looked down his nose at anyone of lesser rank.

  She didn’t want to meet the Duke of Roth. She certainly didn’t want to speak with him. Nor would she be burdened with corresponding with the man ever again.

  Josephine, on the other hand, looked ecstatic about the upcoming meeting. Excitement pinkened her cheeks and made her eyes sparkle like jewels.

  Her grandmother, dressed in black, which was the only color she’d worn for as long as Martha could remember, sat beside Josephine. Her sister was wearing a dark blue high-waisted traveling dress. Martha’s attire was similar but not as fashionable since her dress was at least three years old while Josephine had recently freshened her wardrobe. Martha’s bonnet was the match of her grandmother’s, not as flattering as the hat her sister wore, a small, attractive bit of straw and feathers set forward as if to accentuate the perfection of Josephine’s face.

  Josephine’s brunette hair was swept up and away, the better to reveal her beauty. Her eyes were deep green, the color of grass. Martha’s were a muddy brown and nondescript, a word she thought applied to the rest of her.

  She and Josephine were of a height, but her sister’s figure was perfect while hers was slightly heavier in the bosom.

  Marie had once made the comment that Martha was of English peasant stock, the perfect form for giving birth and suckling a dozen children. She’d been eighteen at the time and had only stared, hurt, at her stepmother.

  “Oh, Martha, we can’t all be beauties. Besides, we both know you’d be happier being your father’s assistant for the rest of your life. Balls and soirées are not your cup of tea.”

  She could still hear Marie’s trilling laugh and the words that had proven to be unfortunately prophetic. She wasn’t the type for a season. Look how disastrously it had turned out.

  She’d had three offers. The first was from a young man who’d been served up like a salmon on a salver by his mother. He’d spoken fewer than seven words during the whole of their acquaintance.

  Finally, in desperation, she had asked him, “Why do you want to marry me?”

  The poor thing had answered, “Because Mama says I must.”

  She’d prevailed upon her father to decline his offer immediately.

  Her second suitor had been a friend of a friend of the family. He’d been entirely suitable in many ways. He made a good income in the City. He was presentable and nearly handsome. He was, however, so dictatorial that she couldn’t tolerate five minutes in his company. When he wanted a glass of punch he decided she should fetch it for him. He wanted to go smoke a cigarillo and didn’t even explain why he abruptly left. He told her the colors he preferred in her dresses and how her hair should be arranged.

  She was not going to be dictated to by a husband. Her father had raised her to believe her mind was the equal of any man’s. She didn’t have to be subservient. Unfortunately, her suitor didn’t understand the idea of a woman refusing him.

  “Of course we’ll marry,” he said. “You’re not entirely a beauty, Martha. Plus, I understand you’ve put your mind to things not womanly in nature. However, a house full of children will rectify that, I think.”

  She’d come close to coshing him over the head with something heavy. It was Gran who’d saved her from doing bodily injury.

  The third supplicant for her hand had made no effort to conceal the fact that he was penniless. He was an earl, quite lovely to look at and charming. She was almost inclined to accept his suit, but for the fact she caught him with a maid on the terrace. The discovery had added to her knowledge in two ways. She evaluated men with a jaundiced eye now and she’d seen the actual act. He hadn’t been the least discreet and she’d been an unwilling voyeur.

  But for a chance encounter, she might have been married to the lecher.

  Josephine had ignored everything she told her about a season in London. Her warning about it being boring, endless, and painful from time to time, given that her shoes pinched and her corset was laced entirely too tight, had fallen on deaf ears.

  Her sister would probably enjoy London since she was Martha’s opposite.

  Josephine was beautiful and personable, exhibiting no hesitation when it came to social situations. Granted, the past year had been devoid of most encounters outside of the family, a complaint Josephine uttered often.

  Her sister seemed to have resented their father’s death—or its timing—especially since it coincided with what would have been her introduction to London. Save for that tragedy, she might already be engaged at the moment. Or, at the least, sighing over some young peer.

  It would be only a few months until Gran took her sister off to London to be paraded in front of the wolves of the Marriage Mart like a wealthy sheep. Josephine would, no doubt, handle herself well. Her sister had a great deal more inclination to flirt and to charm than she did.

  She was, perhaps, too literal, a fault she shared with her father. When someone told her the world was crashing down around their heads, she looked up at the ceiling. She didn’t speak in hyperbole. Nor did she understand the need for drama. Just state the facts, add some research to back up your hypothesis, and a solution would become obvious.

  “I really don’t see why it takes so long,” Josephine said.

  Her grandmother closed her eyes. Martha couldn’t help but wonder if Gran was trying to ignore Josephine.

  Amy only clutched the handle above the window. Poor thing was looking increasingly pale. Her grandmother’s maid had been with her for decades and was considered as much a friend as a servant. Amy also had a sunny nature, one that went perfectly with her round face and cute nose. She was most often smiling, at least when she wasn’t traveling. The rocking motion of the carriage, even their well-sprung vehicle, set her stomach to rolling.

  Martha sent her a bracing smile that Amy returned wanly. She’d accompanied them on this journey for Susan’s benefit, another fact about which Josephine complained. The two girls shared a maid, Sarah, who’d been left at home.

  “It’s not as if Amy is proficient at hair, Gran,” Josephine had said.

  “She doesn’t need to be,” Martha interjected. “We aren’t remaining at Sedgebrook. We’ll be there long enough to deliver Father’s bequest and that’s all. We’ll remain overnight at an inn, then turn around and come home.”

  Regardless of the initial plans, Josephine had packed not one valise but three, insisting she needed everything, even for an overnight journey.

  Martha blew out a breath and concentrated on the scenery. They were crossing a bridge now, quite a wide structure with a slight arch. She sat up, trying to peer through the struts for a view of the river. She’d expected a calm, easy-flowing stream and was greeted by a rushing torrent cascading over the rocks bordering it and looking as if it was racing to be somewhere on time.

  “Are we almost there, Gran?” Josephine asked, her voice sounding pet
ulant.

  “How should I know, child?” her grandmother asked. “I’ve never been to Sedgebrook, either. Charles said we should reach it shortly after midday and since it’s about that time, I would think we are close.”

  Martha had heard her father talk about Sedgebrook in rapturous terms quite unlike him. He’d seen the Duke of Roth’s seat once, as a boy, but he’d never forgotten the sight.

  “It isn’t simply the size of the place, Martha. There’s its dominance over the countryside. You can see the house for miles before you reach it.”

  He was right. As the carriage came over the rise, Sedgebrook appeared on the horizon almost like the sun at dawn. According to her father, work began on the house in 1653. It took a hundred years to finish Sedgebrook, or the lifetimes of three Dukes of Roth.

  Sedgebrook was built of a yellowish stone that had mellowed over the centuries. Near the roofline the color was deeper, almost brown. The house was an open square, with wings to either side, the baroque design adding a flamboyant touch. The main section was adorned with an enormous and opulent dome that was duplicated in smaller proportion on each of the wings. Statues of knights adorned the roof edge, appearing like a frozen army ready to defend.

  The Hamiltonian Hills behind the house had been named for the family and shone bluish gray as they approached. According to her father, the thousand acres surrounding Sedgebrook were comprised of paved walks, and two temples fashioned in the Greek style—the Temple of the Four Winds and the Temple of the Muses. Woodlands flanked the house, leading up to the terraces beside Hamilton Lake, a good distance away.

  From here she could see dramatic swaths of blue-and-yellow flowers planted in seemingly random fashion. Although she wasn’t familiar with some of the names, she knew bluebells and rhododendrons well enough to identify them. No doubt the formal gardens that had so impressed her father were behind the house.

  Josephine gasped beside her. Even Gran looked surprised, and she was rarely impressed by anything.

  Her own home was as much a paean to her family’s success. In the case of Sedgebrook, however, she thought the Hamilton family might’ve gone a bit overboard.

  It took an hour to reach the graveled approach, the carriage slowing as they entered the open square before the main building.

  Twin staircases met at the top landing in front of double doors that looked like hammered metal. The urns situated on every other step on both staircases were filled with bluish flowers.

  Beside her, Josephine sat up straight, her eyes sparkling with acquisitive interest.

  Their father had refused Josephine nothing. She wanted for no bauble, gown, slippers, toy, or amusement. Anything she desired was instantly hers. More than once Martha had wondered what Josephine would have done if they’d suddenly become penniless.

  Matthew York’s death had no effect on the family fortune. There was no title to go to a remote second cousin. No long-lost relative stood in the wings announcing he’d been given the brunt of the inheritance. No, it had been divided into four parts, equally shared by Gran, Josephine, Marie, and Martha.

  Perhaps Marie expected to inherit the majority of the fortune. On learning of the contents of the will, her stepmother had what she could only describe as a temper tantrum. To say Marie was disappointed was to vastly understate the obvious. After her emotional outburst was over, she sulked for days and would hardly speak to anyone.

  “It’s not the money,” Gran said when Martha expressed her confusion. “It’s the power. Now she can’t force anyone to do as she wishes.”

  Gran had smiled, then, and it occurred to Martha that the expression was a particularly triumphant one.

  Not long after that day Marie had decamped from Griffin House for France.

  Still, the sum they’d each inherited was more than they could spend in their lifetimes. With the freedom her father’s money would give her, she could finish his work. She needn’t get permission to hire the services of a clockmaker or obtain approval for more copper plates to be delivered to her father’s cottage.

  Josephine, too, had plans for her fortune. A magnificent, if delayed, debut in London and a husband. If necessary, she’d buy him.

  What a pity the Duke of Roth couldn’t be purchased. From Josephine’s gaping wonder, she’d quite fallen in love with the house.

  They pulled in front of the staircases, but no servant raced down the steps to greet them. In fact, it looked as if their arrival hadn’t even been noticed.

  She’d been so annoyed at the duke’s letter that she’d sent him a terse response in reply. The York family will be arriving by carriage on July the twelfth to deliver Matthew York’s bequest to the Duke of Roth. It was a perfectly bland letter, structured so as not to reveal her irritation.

  Would he remember they were to arrive today? Would he care?

  Josephine was using a handkerchief to dust the tops of her shoes. She’d already inspected her face in the carriage mirror, adjusted her hat, and ensured her appearance was as pristine as it could be after being in a carriage for the majority of the day.

  Her sister would always be beautiful regardless of the circumstances.

  As the carriage rocked to a halt, Josephine turned to her.

  “Don’t worry, Martha,” she said, smiling. “I shall charm the duke. After a few minutes in my company, he’ll be grateful we’ve come.”

  She didn’t know what annoyed her more: Josephine’s brash confidence or her suspicion that her sister was correct.

  “Your Grace, a carriage is approaching.”

  Jordan looked up from his whiskey to see Frederick standing at the door of his library.

  At the moment his majordomo was looking as disgruntled as he felt.

  “A carriage?”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  Damn, he’d forgotten.

  “The York family,” he said. “They said they’d be here today and they are.”

  “The York family?”

  He glanced over at Reese seated in the twin of the wing chair he occupied.

  “Matthew York’s family,” he said. “He and I conferred about the ship I’m testing. A brilliant man.”

  “I didn’t realize you knew York. The world lost a great inventor when he died.”

  Reese’s comment sparked his own interest. His friend had evidently been aware of the older man. Had Reese known about Matthew’s work on the torpedo ship?

  “Why is his family visiting?”

  He stood. “Hardly visiting. They’re bringing me Matthew’s bequest. Evidently, he wished me to have his notes and work. I don’t want them.” Reaching for his walking stick, he began the laborious and overly painful process to reach the door.

  Reese kept pace with him, no doubt thinking it a kindness. He wished the other man would go on ahead, but he was doomed to fail in that just like he’d done keeping the York family away.

  Walking was a horror for him, but at least he could do it now. The doctors had been doubtful he’d be able to from the beginning. He’d finally found a physician who was more optimistic. Or perhaps Dr. Reynolds had lied better than the others.

  “It’s a matter of time, Your Grace.”

  Time. How easily the physician had uttered those words. Time. It had taken time, all right. Ten months, two weeks, three days to get upright and shuffle one foot in front of the other. He still didn’t do it well. Nor would he, a judgment his ordinarily optimistic doctor had offered him on his last visit.

  “You’ve already accomplished much more than was thought possible, Your Grace. You should congratulate yourself instead of wishing for more.”

  “It isn’t more that I want, Dr. Reynolds. I want to be able to walk without a limp.” Without requiring a cane, or a walking stick as his housekeeper so quaintly phrased it. He wanted to be able to cross the room without people turning to stare at him, marking his passage, and noting how the effort to do so evidently pained him.

  “Your leg was shattered, Your Grace. There’s muscle damage and more
. I consider it a miracle you’re not confined to a wheeled chair.”

  “Then your idea of a miracle and mine differ greatly,” he said.

  He would have consulted another physician, but Dr. Reynolds was his third and the only one who’d given him any hope. The man had also furnished a tall, burly Swedish sadist by the name of Henry who insisted on pummeling him on a daily basis, stretching his leg over his head until he wanted to scream from the pain. But if anyone deserved the credit for his walking again, it was probably Henry, damn the man. If he’d made that remark, Henry would have smiled and insisted on another session.

  He’d made Henry his valet, reasoning the man could learn another skill and he could save on the expense of a manservant. Henry was still learning how to care for his clothes, but since Jordan eschewed social events, he didn’t give a flying farthing if his cravat was tied correctly. In addition, most of the maids at Sedgebrook sighed after Henry. The man had a handsome face and a remarkable physique coupled with a ready smile.

  Jordan finally made it to the door.

  “Go on ahead and greet them,” he said, hoping Reese wouldn’t insist on remaining with him each agonizing step. “Otherwise, Frederick will send them away and I’ll have to sort through hurt feelings.”

  “God forbid,” Reese said, smiling.

  “They’re only staying for a moment,” he added. “As long as good manners dictate they remain.”

  He’d offer them tea, but hoped they’d decline. An hour at most and they’d be gone. In a few days Reese would leave and he’d finally be alone. He wasn’t in the mood for visitors or even a friend at this point.

  Chapter 3

  No one greeted them as the carriage stopped. Finally, Charles descended from his driver’s perch, came around to the door and opened it, holding out his arm.

  Martha left the vehicle first so she could help Gran.

  “What should we do?” she asked after Josephine joined them. “Do you think he’s home?”