Chapter 22
London was nothing like Bella remembered. Although she had been born here, she and her father had moved to the country when she was seven. Her memories were hazy—her small bedchamber in their modest brick home, the hawker’s cries of “Fresh hot buns!” outside her window rivaling the church bell Sunday mornings, playing with the rambunctious neighborhood children, and the smell of flowerboxes in the spring.
They had left Wyndmoor Manor early the previous morning, had stopped at an inn for the night, and had pressed onward at the first touch of dawn. James, it seemed, was in a great rush to return to London. Bella had voiced no complaint. The hectic pace suited her, for each mile they put behind them hastened her distance from Rupert. London offered her a chance to hide and disappear amongst the hustle and bustle of the city. It also meant parting from James, but that would have happened whether or not she had stayed in Hertfordshire. He had a life here, and combined with his new title, his return was inevitable.
The city air was thick with the scent of coal smoke and impending rain. Sitting in the duke’s luxurious carriage, she looked out at the cobbled streets as they wove around ramshackle hackneys, two-wheeled gigs driven by young gentlemen, and heavy horses pulling brewers’ drays prodded by coarse tradesmen. They passed a coffeehouse and the aroma of freshly ground beans made her mouth water. In the distance, the city’s blackened chimneys grappled with church spires to crowd the hazy sky.
Harriet sat on the padded bench across from Bella, her gaze glued to the window, her fascination with the city evident in her expression. James rode Maximus beside the carriage. The women had protested, saying they would take a coach at the nearest posting inn, but James had refused, reassuring them he preferred to ride his horse.
The carriage stopped before an imposing structure built of stone, white brick, and marble. Letters etched in the stone proclaimed the building to be the Bank of England. To the east was the London Stock Exchange.
James dismounted Maximus and spoke through the carriage window. “I’ll be but a minute.”
Bella nodded and watched as James entered the bank. As soon as he was out of sight, Harriet opened the door and stepped down. “I’d best find us transportation. There are plenty of hackneys on this street.” Harriet shut the door, leaving Bella alone.
Minutes passed, and the temperature in the carriage rose. Bella’s nerves were tense. She needed to be on her way before what little strength she had evaporated.
At last, James emerged from the bank with a packet tucked under his arm. He opened the carriage door and handed her the packet. “Payment in full for Wyndmoor.”
“Thank you.”
“I shall escort you to wherever you choose.”
She tried to keep her heart cold and still. “No. We will be fine from here on. You need to attend the dowager duchess.”
“Then allow my driver and Bobby to accompany you.”
“That’s not necessary. We have more than sufficient funds to rent a hackney cab and find a house.”
She expected him to argue, but he offered her his arm instead. She accepted his aid and stepped from the carriage. A bright shaft of sunlight broke through the clouds and struck his dark hair and perfect features. He was so startling handsome that her heart jumped. She wanted to kiss his lips for the last time. It didn’t matter that they stood in a busy London street with passersby. The noise of the city thrummed in the background.
His expression shuttered, and he inclined his head toward the street. “Your cab is ready,” James said.
The parting is easy for him,
Bella thought,
and I feel as if I am leaving a part of my soul behind.
She turned and saw that Harriet had flagged down a hackney cab and the driver was loading their baggage on top. They had left items behind and had taken only what was necessary and manageable.
James opened the door of the hackney. As she moved to enter, he touched her cheek and raised her hand to brush his lips across the back of her fingers. Pain squeezed her heart.
Lifting his head, dark blue eyes probed to her very soul. “Never forget my offer. Send for me should you need to.”
Bella directed the driver straight to her childhood neighborhood—close to Portman Square and its magnificent mansions, but not so close as to be unaffordable by the working class. Time had changed the neighborhood, however, and the once well-swept cobbled streets were in disrepair, parts of them slick with horse dung and rotting refuse. Smocked tradesmen scurried about on their way to work, and children dressed in plain clothes rushed to the cotton factories.
The driver knew of a boarding house looking for a tenant and took them there. Bella stepped from the cab and looked up at a three-story red brick house with black shutters.
“You mean to stay here?” Harriet asked.
“It’s perfect. Rupert will never think to search here.”
The landlady was a thick-boned woman with an enormous bosom and lips set in a perpetual sneer. “Third floor is empty. Rent is due the first of the month. No exceptions.”
Bella paid the woman. It would do.
“What’s yer name?” the landlady asked.
Bella gave the first alias that came to mind—James’s suggested pseudonym for her writing career. “Mrs. Roundbottom,” she blurted out.
The woman hesitated for a brief moment, her thin lips twitching, before tucking the rent money in her bodice and handing Bella a key.
Bella let out a held-in breath. Reason warned they couldn’t stay in one place for long. If Rupert had inherited half of his twin’s resourcefulness, there was a good chance he could find them.
But at least James would be safe.
The mansion on Park Street was a massive pile of stone and marble. James had set foot inside before, of course, but only on rare occasions as a young boy when he had been summoned by the dowager duchess.
The old duke’s butler, Stodges, opened the door before James had a chance to knock. Straight-backed and serious, he had the look of a gunnery sergeant. The scowl James remembered as a youth, however, was a lukewarm smile today.
“Welcome, Your Grace,” Stodges said. “The dowager is in the silver drawing room.”
James nodded and followed Stodges across the marble vestibule. Priceless masterpieces from Rembrandt, Benjamin Marshall, Sawrey Gilpin, and Gerard Ter Borch hung on the walls. They turned down a hallway and James spotted a portrait of the old duke painted by renowned portrait painter Martin Archer Shee. The accuracy of the painting was remarkable and James stared at the dark, curling hair graying at the temples, aquiline nose, and mercurial blue eyes so similar to his own. The duke wasn’t smiling; rather his mouth was thin with a cynical twist, giving him the stubborn, yet arrogant look James remembered.
The irony of James’s current situation struck him. Just months ago he would have mocked anyone who even suggested he was the rightful heir. For his entire life, the mansion had been a taunting symbol of everything James had never been entitled to. He had been raised as the family outcast, only to suddenly learn that he rightfully
owned
it all.
Stodges opened the door of the silver drawing room, and James strode inside. Richly decorated with striped blue and silver silk drapes and a thick Oriental carpet, it was one of three drawing rooms in the house. The dowager duchess sat at a Roman-inspired pedestal card table with lion paw feet playing solitaire. As soon as she saw James, she set down her cards.
Stodges quietly departed and shut the door behind him.
Steel-blue eyes met James’s own. “So you’ve finally arrived. I thought you were wallowing away in a drunken stupor in that insignificant country estate.”
“What a splendid welcome. Did you not receive my note?”
She pushed back her chair and stood. “It’s been weeks. I expected you to come home sooner.”
Home.
This place was no more a home than the boarding school in which he had resided his entire childhood. The fact that his grandmother did not recognize this spoke volumes of her own character.
Her mouth thinned with displeasure, and she shot him a cool stare. “We have much to discuss. You have a responsibility to this house and the title.”
James made a show of glancing about the exquisite drawing room. “The mansion surely has suffered no ill effects during my absence. I’m confident you have kept all the servants in line.”
“Do not belittle me. You are now a
duke.”
“Yes, about that. Are you certain of my legitimacy?”
She appeared momentarily flustered. “I told you that your father confessed to me on his deathbed. I had a solicitor look into the marriage license and it was properly recorded.”
“Ah, I see,” he said softly, mockingly. “But numerous questions have been plaguing me these past weeks. Why tell anyone? It is no secret you have never approved of my existence. Why repeat what the old duke said? Why not take it to your grave? Gregory is still the old duke’s son, and the title would have passed straight to him with no one the wiser. After all, he was raised and groomed to be the duke.”
The dowager’s hand fluttered to her chest. “Are you suggesting I lie? My heart will surely break.”
“Please save your dramatics for Drury Lane. We both know your heart is as soft as a paving stone. You never act unless there is a beneficial purpose for you and your coveted status in the
ton.
”
James had wondered about the dowager’s true motives ever since she had stormed the Old Bailey Courthouse and delivered the news of his father’s death.
“Come now,” James prodded. “No one else is present, and you are free to speak the truth. It has to do with Gregory, doesn’t it?”
Her eyes narrowed to slits, and she pointed a finger at his chest. “Now you listen to me. Since the time of the first Duke of Blackwood, the title has passed straight from father to son, and I have a responsibility to ensure its integrity. You are the true duke.”
James didn’t doubt her. “And what of Gregory?”
“He’s not fit to bear the title,” she snapped. “He’s turned into a drunken wastrel and gambler. Worse, he’s been snared by the evils of opium.”
Opium!
When had Gregory begun to indulge in the highly addictive and destructive drug? James had suspected her reasons had to do with his half brother’s irresponsible behavior, but had little guessed the extent of his troubles.
The dowager stepped closer and raised her chin. “I realize you believe I neglected you as a child, but I have watched you grow into a man. Your education—which
I
paid for—and your training at Lincoln’s Inn have turned you into a shrewd and manipulative barrister. You would do the title justice, save one character flaw.”
He couldn’t help himself. His words were loaded with ridicule. “Please enlighten me as to which character flaw you refer, and I shall endeavor to exploit it at my leisure.”
“Don’t be daft. I’m aware of your rakish reputation, and I am not ignorant of the base needs of men. I also know of your aversion to marriage, which I suspect is due to your own parents’ short, unfortunate union. I wouldn’t dare ask you to curb your animalistic nature; however, you
must
marry and produce an heir. Thereafter, I trust you would exercise more discretion with your liaisons.”
He had prided himself on distancing himself from his family years ago, yet the speed at which his temper rose was startling.
Control, James. You must not let her get under your skin.
He took a breath, calming himself. She had said nothing that was not well understood. Most married men of the
beau monde,
and certainly the titled ones who married to increase their wealth, enhance their status, or both, took mistresses. After the precious male heir was born, many wives found lovers.
So why allow the dowager’s words to anger him?
It was the notion that after a lifetime of being ignored, he was now expected to jump and do her bidding when she snapped her fingers.
There was a knock on the door and Stodges stood in the doorway. “Lord Gregory, Your Grace.”
Gregory pushed past Stodges to march into the drawing room. Brown hair and eyes, he was dressed in trousers and a shapeless green coat that appeared three sizes too big. His pronounced cheekbones and sunken eye sockets reminded James of a cadaver.
Other than at the old duke’s funeral, where James had only glimpsed Gregory, James hadn’t seen his half brother in eight months, and he was struck by the change in Gregory’s appearance. He appeared to have lost at least four stone in weight.
James recognized the telltale signs—the sudden weight loss, the sallow complexion, the dry cracked lips, the bloodshot eyes. He’d had clients who had gone down the same slippery slope into ruin. Indulgence in alcohol, gambling hells, sex, food, or opium came to mind. One excess could bring about the haggard appearance, but any combination would quickly take its toll on a man’s health and mind.