A Duchess in Name Read online

  “Did you find your gloves?” Gen asked, adjusting her hat. Dressed head to toe in her signature chic black, Genevieve Grantham looked like a glossy, elegant raven set down amongst the brightly colored shoppers.

  “I can’t find anything in this crush. The shops become so impossible during the Season. I’d better get home soon. No doubt my mother has made plans for me for the afternoon. Shall I see you all at the opera tonight?”

  “We’re going, aren’t we, Gen?” Grace asked.

  “Of course. And Amelia will be there, too, won’t you?”

  “Yes, Papa and I are going, but please tell me it’s not that dull one about the chap who kills himself for love.”

  “They’re all about that. And besides, nobody goes to the opera for the music.” Grace was nothing if not a realist.

  “The Season is in high gear,” Gen added. “All the most eligible men will be there tonight. It’s an excellent opportunity for all of you.”

  Victoria groaned. “No doubt I’ll spend the night dodging Lord Sturridge.”

  “I can’t believe he’s still after you. He’s three times your age and a drunk.” Grace peered at a rack of silk ribbons as she drew her gloves on.

  “Lecherous, as well. I haven’t had a conversation with him yet when his eyes actually met mine. They usually don’t get farther than my bosom.” By her mother’s twisted estimation, that was a promising sign.

  “Don’t marry him, Vic.” Amelia placed a hand on her arm. “Anyone but him.”

  “It has to be someone, and soon. The Polish count from last Season wasn’t good enough for Mother and neither was Sir Francis. She’s desperate to have it settled before the end of this Season.”

  “There are more promising options. One will turn up shortly.”

  “Thank you, Gen, but I’ve already resigned myself to the worst, so it doesn’t much matter who I marry. But back to the opera. It might be fun if you’re all there, and you can all conspire to keep me out of Sturridge’s withered clutches for at least one more night.”

  “Maybe we’ll all meet the men of our dreams there,” Amelia said with a wry laugh.

  Genevieve fixed them all with her uncompromising gaze. “For us, those men will stay in our dreams. We keep our feet on the ground and leave romance to other women.”

  None of them argued with her. They knew the truth as well as she did.

  * * *

  Hyacinth Carson had a dilemma. There were two options for the evening’s entertainment and a choice must be made. They could attend the opera, of course, where Lord Sturridge was sure to be in attendance. Victoria had managed to fend him off for over a year now, but Hyacinth was sure she could force the girl to see reason, if it came to it.

  She fingered an invitation to a dinner at the Sanfields’. She had it on good authority from one of her spies that the Duke of Waring would attend.

  The Duke of Waring was broke and everyone knew it. The eldest son had been all set to marry the wealthy Lady Phoebe Sheffield and restore the family fortunes, but he’d broken his neck in a hunting accident last year and that was the end of that. There was a younger son, though, living abroad in Italy and almost completely cut off from his family. Soon the duke would force the boy into marriage, and Hyacinth had been doing everything in her power to force him in Victoria’s direction.

  She’d been working on the Duke of Waring for months, sinking far more time and resources into pursuing his son for Victoria than any other man on her list. Waring had been broke before the son’s death, but now he was destitute. Hyacinth had made sure of it. He was most certainly desperate to marry his son to an heiress, but could they manage to steer the young man toward Victoria or would some other upstart millionaire swoop in and steal him away?

  Voices echoed off the marble entryway, and moments later, her husband, Phillip, entered the room in his usual blustering way. Phillip Carson was a tremendous presence, nearly as broad as he was tall, red-faced, with thinning hair atop his head, but with an elaborate blond moustache and bushy sideburns, as if to make up for that. There was very little Hyacinth found appealing about her husband outside of his money, but fortunately there was enough of that to make his other deficiencies irrelevant.

  “You were asleep when I got in last night, pet, but I have a present for you.”

  Hyacinth hiked an eyebrow but didn’t look up from her invitation. “Really?”

  “I’ve found Victoria a husband. Stitched up the deal last night. It’s as good as done.”

  She sat back with a start. “What do you mean, you’ve found her a husband?”

  “I mean, it’s all set. Shook hands with the boy’s father myself.”

  “How dare you take it upon yourself to make such a promise without consulting me? You know how hard I’ve worked on this.” Shooting to her feet, Hyacinth advanced on her husband.

  Phillip Carson laughed, as if enjoying a great joke upon the world. “I think you won’t be complaining about this bridegroom. The girl’s now all but betrothed to the Earl of Dunnley, heir to the Duke of Waring.”

  “You’d best not be teasing me, Phillip.”

  “D’you think I’d tease about a thing like matrimony, knowing your feelings on the subject?”

  “What... How did you manage it?” she finally sputtered.

  Phillip’s smile grew wide. He could take or leave Society, but business set his heart beating faster. Brokering a deal or besting a business opponent was the only thing that could put such a look of rapacious glee on his face.

  “Well, I ran into the good duke at the club last night and invited him to sit down to a game or two of cards. Waring’s a desperate man, as we both know. Even winning at a few hands of cards would give him a bit of scratch to keep things going for a while longer. And he did win. For a few hands. And then he began to lose.”

  “To you?”

  Phillip smiled in his wide, predatory way, his florid skin shining with a slight sheen of sweat. “I made sure of that. And when he was tapped out, he asked for a loan. No longer got anything to use to secure one, though. So I suggested his son.”

  “What do you mean, his son?”

  “I told him if he lost, his son would marry my daughter.”

  She looked away, pursing her lips. “So you won him in a card game.”

  “Don’t go getting missish on me now, pet. I got you what you wanted.”

  “I’m not. The heir to the Duke of Waring. Victoria will be a duchess someday. I couldn’t hope for better.”

  “Why are you still making that face?”

  Hyacinth waved her hand dismissively. “Only... Don’t tell Victoria how it came about. She can be so priggish. It won’t sit well with her, no matter the outcome.”

  “The man is a stranger. She’ll wonder at his showing up out of the blue to offer for her.”

  “I’ll take care of that. She’s always known any man marrying her would be doing so for her fortune, so it won’t surprise her. But don’t tell her what we did to bring it about. She’d make a fuss and she’s already wasted enough time.”

  “Very well. She need never know the details. So, pet, you’ve got what you wanted, a future duke for your daughter. Let’s hope it makes her happy.”

  Hyacinth tipped her head to the side. “How could it ever not make her happy? What else is there she could possibly want?”

  Chapter Two

  Corneto, Italy

  “Bloody hell.”

  Andrew Hargrave, the Earl of Dunnley, and the future eighth Duke of Waring, cursed as his trowel hit a stone and slipped, driving his knuckles painfully into the rock.

  He’d been working this area for three days, and he had nothing to show for the hours spent on his knees but a small handful of early Roman coins, and those were common enough to excite little interest. Still, he�
�d wash them up and send them to his sisters. Louisa and Emma would enjoy showing them to their school friends.

  Something more substantial would have to turn up soon or there was no way the Royal Society of Archaeology would finance the dig for another summer. They’d only done so in the first place because he wielded the power of the Waring title. The Society wasn’t at all convinced he was right about his theory that the undisturbed tomb of an Etruscan queen lay on this hillside, removed from the more well-known Tarquinia necropolis nearby. He and Randolph had stayed on through the winter, when other archaeologists had returned to England to write articles from the cozy warmth of their libraries, in an attempt to unearth something—anything.

  Muttering under his breath, he drove his trowel back into the cold earth with a bit more force than necessary. Losing their backing would be a disaster. He and his partner, Randolph, had shucked off their families when they’d come to Italy to pursue this dream, and while it had been liberating, it also meant they now supported themselves, stretching the grant money as far as possible to survive.

  If they couldn’t find a way to keep this going, he’d be forced to return to England. His life was here, his work was here, and so was his... Well, what he and Luciana had was difficult to define, but he had no intention of letting it go.

  When the light grew too dim to see by, he had to finally declare defeat and abandon the quadrant he’d been excavating. If there was any treasure in there to be unearthed, it would keep until tomorrow. Slowly, he unfolded himself and stood, brushing off dirt and dead grass. When he’d finished packing up his tools, the Italian hillside barely showed he’d been there at all.

  In the tent at the base of the hill, he found Randolph hunched over his traveling desk, making notes on a handful of pottery shards he’d dug up the week before. He was bent nearly in half, his tall frame far too big for the folding camp chair he sat on. His knees pressed against the underside of his little table.

  He glanced over his shoulder as Andrew entered the tent.

  “Any luck today?”

  “Just those coins from this morning, and that’s nothing, really.”

  When he and Randolph had arrived in Corneto with the theory they’d formulated together at Cambridge, loads of enthusiasm, and not much else, Luciana had been their salvation. Her husband, a local archaeologist of some minor note, had died several years ago, and he hadn’t left her much to live on. She’d been happy to come to work for them, assisting them in making the right local connections and helping set up their dig. And not long after that, she’d become Andrew’s lover.

  As he passed Luciana’s workstation, he squeezed her shoulder and she reached up to touch his hand with a smile. It was a comfortable, easy arrangement for both of them. Luciana was a bit older than he, and not looking for a commitment, only some security while they remained together. He wasn’t the first man she’d taken as her lover since her husband’s death, and he admired her open, artless approach to their relationship. He was extremely fond of her, especially as she wanted him only for himself, as disinterested in his title as he was.

  “We have to find something major soon or else the Society will withdraw its funding.” Andrew dragged a hand through his dark hair, shaking out some of the dust.

  Randolph scowled at his notes, but he didn’t respond. Keeping the dig going was just as pressing for him as it was for Andrew. If he couldn’t establish a name for himself in the field, he’d be forced back to England and his own unhappy future, taking orders in the church, as his family wanted and he most certainly didn’t.

  “I’m sure you’re on the right track,” Luciana said. “There’s so much evidence the Romans were here, you said so yourself.”

  “Yes, but the Romans were all over Italy. That doesn’t mean our Etruscan queen was here. Or if she was, that her tomb has survived intact.”

  “Don’t get discouraged now, Drew,” Randolph said, pushing back in his chair. “We’ll find something soon, I know it.”

  “Oh!” Luciana came to her feet. “I nearly forgot. The boy from the village came a bit ago with a telegram for you.”

  “For me?” No one ever reached out to him here, and certainly not by telegram. It was as if he’d fallen off the face of the world, utterly forgotten by everyone back in England, and he liked it that way.

  Luciana handed it to him, and he tore open the envelope.

  February 25, 1895, London

  There is an emergency. You are needed in London. Come at once.

  The Duke of Waring

  Unease unfurled in his belly. Generally, he ignored anything his father had to say, but that word—emergency. If something had happened to one of his sisters, if one of them was ill...

  “I have to go.”

  “Who is it from?” Randolph asked.

  “My father. He commands me home at once.”

  “Does he say why?”

  “No, and that’s what worries me.” He showed the telegram to Randolph, who read it, then shot him a knowing look.

  “I’m sure I can guess why he wants you home. Bloody hell, Andrew, the timing couldn’t be worse.”

  Yes, it was entirely possible this was yet another ploy to get him home so the duke could accost him about finding a rich bride, but what if he was wrong? He would never forgive himself if Louisa or Emma needed him and he wasn’t there.

  “I’m fully aware of the pressure we’re under here. And if this is just some trick on his part, I won’t stay. But if it’s something to do with my sisters...”

  Randolph frowned. “Of course. I’m sorry, Drew. I didn’t even think of that. Of course you have to go.”

  Luciana came up behind him and rubbed his arm. “Yes, go and see after your sisters. We’ll manage without you.”

  “I won’t leave you hanging. I’ll go and come straight back as soon as I’m assured they’re all right.”

  “Sound plan.” Randolph said. “Go on and pack. The sooner you go, the sooner you’ll return and we can get on with this. We’re close, Drew. I can feel it.”

  Randolph was so much more optimistic than he was, always ready to believe that happiness lay right around the corner. Andrew had lost that ability some time ago. Better to be braced for the bad than to count on the good and be disappointed. He’d learned that lesson from his family very early on and they’d never stopped reminding him of it.

  He picked up the three coins from this morning and tucked them into his pocket. They’d be his talisman while he was gone, his reminder that this was where he belonged, one for Randolph, one for Luciana and one for their lost queen.

  “Be careful they don’t sink their claws into you and keep you there,” Randolph said as Andrew turned to leave.

  He fingered the coins in his pocket. It would take a crisis of unparalleled importance to keep him in England any longer than absolutely necessary. “That would be impossible, I promise you.”

  * * *

  After stepping down from the carriage in front of the Mayfair townhouse, Andrew took a moment to stretch his back. He’d been traveling—either by rail or ship—for nearly two full days and he could feel it in his bones. What he wanted now was a hot bath, a large brandy and a stationary night’s sleep. But first he’d have to sort out exactly why he’d been summoned home with such haste.

  The front door opened and a footman appeared on the steps.

  “Lord Dunnley?”

  “I am.”

  It wasn’t surprising the man wasn’t certain of his identity. His father paid miserably and irregularly, so the servants changed over often. He didn’t know this one.

  Another footman appeared to take his bag.

  “Shall we bring in the luggage, Your Lordship?”

  “There isn’t any more.” At the man’s startled expression, Andrew continued. “I don’t plan on staying long. On
ly a day or two.”

  “Is your valet accompanying you?”

  “Don’t keep one. I’ll muddle through on my own, thank you.”

  “Very good, sir. I believe His Grace is in his study. He asked that you be shown in immediately.”

  He sighed wearily. Might as well get it over with as quickly as possible. “By all means, lead the way.”

  Their steps echoed in the cavernous entry hall as he followed the footman. He’d grown up in this house and he hated it. So formal and cold—exquisite, expensive and soulless, exactly like his mother, whose hand had created it. If it ever came into his possession, he planned to gut it or sell it.

  The duke wasn’t at his desk. He rarely was. He stood before the fireplace, crystal tumbler of Scotch in hand, staring up at the portrait of Edmund, Andrew’s dead older brother. The Duke of Waring was not the sort of man to mourn anyone, not even his adored eldest son and heir, so Andrew doubted that’s what he was doing now. It was more likely he was cursing Edmund for dying and leaving him saddled with only Andrew to inherit the title. Knowing how his father felt about bloodlines, the pain of that likely outweighed the loss of his eldest son.

  It gave him a momentary flare of satisfaction to know his father’s precious Waring bloodline would die with the current duke. And the title would die with Andrew. Good riddance.

  Waring glanced at him over his shoulder. “There you are.”

  “Here I am.” In life, Edmund had shared his father’s looks, the same sandy blond hair, ruddy complexion and hazel eyes. But Waring’s excesses were catching up to him in a way Edmund’s hadn’t had time to do. He looked older, as if he’d aged years in the many months since Andrew last saw him. His face was bloated and mottled, and he had pronounced bags under his eyes. Waring waved in the direction of Edmund’s portrait before he crossed to the sideboard to refill his glass. “He’d have been married to Lady Phoebe Sheffield by now, you know.”

  Andrew bit back a sharp retort. He hadn’t traveled all the way from Rome to London just to listen to all the ways he was failing to live up to Edmund’s legacy in his father’s eyes.