Clara, Lenora, and Margery let loose low groans. There was little they wanted less than to be forced to listen to the dowager’s musings on the “Reigate Conundrum,” as she had begun to call it.
Aunt Olivia, however, either did not hear their collective—albeit quiet—protests or chose not to heed them. Knowing her great-aunt, Clara rather thought it was the latter. “It is tragic, to be sure,” she said with a frown. “The elder duke passed away a decade and a half or so ago of apoplexy or ague or something similar.”
The two diseases were not at all alike. But just as she had done when Aunt Olivia had last recited her limited knowledge of the Duke of Reigate’s tragic family history, Clara refrained from pointing that out.
“He had four sons. The eldest inherited the dukedom, very quickly becoming the greatest wastrel the world has ever seen, and was dead within a few years at the hands of a jealous husband. Lord Kenneth took on the title and gambled away most of what was left of a once expansive fortune before he, too, died, this time in a drunken carriage race. Lord Sylvester did attempt to recoup his brothers’ losses by aligning himself with the daughter of some neighbor of theirs. But he was not the brightest, and while picking wildflowers for his prospective bride he stepped off a cliff.”
As it had before, the simple retelling of that long list of lives cut short made a chill sweep over Clara. She wrapped her shawl more firmly about her shoulders as if to ward off the remnants of the tragedy that surrounded the family.
“But for the life of me,” Aunt Olivia continued, her tone turned sharp in her frustration, “I cannot recall a single thing about the fourth son. It was like he disappeared into thin air after his father’s death. Neither the duchess nor his brothers ever mentioned him.”
Again that ache in Clara’s chest for Mr. Nesbitt—er, the duke. She blew out a frustrated breath, her fingers playing over the calfskin cover of the book she had picked up to read yet had left unopened. If she were at all brave, she would just call the man Quincy and be done with it.
But the thought of speaking his name made her shiver once more, this time with a disconcerting heat. She moved the shawl away from her neck, suddenly overwarm as she thought of her lips and tongue caressing his name. Such an intimate thing she could not think of doing. Not with him.
To distract herself, she focused on the cold facts of the perplexing case. She did not doubt her great-aunt’s memory of the Duke of Reigate’s family. The woman had the sharpest mind Clara knew, and could recall the smallest, most unimportant details with frightening ease.
And the timing of it all matched perfectly with the history she recalled hearing from Peter. He had first met his friend upon his own escape from England fourteen years before. Both men, mere boys at the time, had found places with an American sea captain, had sailed for Boston, and had quickly grown close. What had followed was years of friendship, with the two not only growing up together, but later becoming business partners in a lucrative real estate endeavor.
It was entirely possible His Grace was indeed the missing fourth son. If so, why had he left? And why did it appear as if his family had erased him from their minds as easily as the tide erases writing in the sand?
All of a sudden Freya, who had been napping beside her mistress, stirred. She lifted her head, her over-large ears swiveling toward the hall. The women stilled, even Aunt Olivia going quiet. In the silence they could hear the faint sound of boots on the polished floor.
“Finally,” Aunt Olivia muttered.
Before Clara could think to quiet her great-aunt, the two men filled the doorway.
That they appeared tired was an understatement. Both were slightly disheveled, dark smudges beneath their eyes. But there were smiles about their mouths, proof that their talk had done some good.
Too late, however, Clara registered that Peter’s was decidedly lopsided and almost—silly?
“Lenora,” Peter said with a husky intimacy that had Clara’s cheeks flaring with heat. “Damnation, you’re beautiful. Quincy, look at my beautiful wife.”
“I see her,” his friend murmured with amusement. He grinned as Peter went to Lenora on slightly uneven feet.
“I would ask you to forgive Peter,” he said as he took the chair indicated by Aunt Olivia—one much closer to Clara than she was comfortable with. “But I am the one who needs your forgiveness. I’m well aware of his disinclination for strong drink, yet I did not dissuade him from imbibing with me.”
Peter scoffed. “I’m notthatdrunk.”
Lenora, who was busy fending off her husband’s amorous affection, rolled her eyes. “As I can only assume your inebriated state has to do with Quincy’s news, you are forgiven.Ifyou can behave.”
At once Peter straightened, though the sage nod he gave her nearly had him tipping right back into her. “Anything you say, my love. And as you are all no doubt waiting on the story behind Quincy’s news—and my head is spinning at a frightening speed—I’ll leave the floor to my friend here.”
But Aunt Olivia was through with waiting. She rounded on the duke. “Are you or are you not the missing fourth son of the Duke of Reigate?”
There was a flicker of pain in the man’s eyes. “I see you recall the history with impressive clarity,” he replied. Then he flashed her a devilish grin that did not fool Clara one bit. “Not that I’m at all surprised. I would never underestimate you, my lady.”
“Don’t pour that charm on me, m’boy,” she said with an arch of her brow. “You’ve kept me waiting long enough while you got my nephew here drunk out of his mind.”
“I amnotdrunk,” Peter repeated before looking to his wife with a frown. “Am I talking too loud?”
“Hush,” the viscountess said before turning back to the duke. “Out with it. And no more of your prevaricating.”
His attempts at levity were gone in an instant. “I suppose there is no sense in delaying it. I am the missing son,” he replied quietly.
Aunt Olivia fairly puffed up at that. “And you all thought I was losing my mind,” she said to the room at large. “I am not so old that I do not recall such an important detail as the old duke having four sons and not three.”
Again the pain in his face. Clara realized in a horrified instant that, having been separated from his family by an entire ocean for so long, he would not have learned of his siblings’ deaths until today. His shock at his new status confirmed that he had not believed it possible. How devastating must it be to lose nearly your entire family in an instant?