Chapter 1
April, 1815
"Hell and damnation."
The words were muttered rather than shouted but were sufficiently shocking to cause Gerald Westall, secretary to William de Vaux, Duke of Belcraven, to look over at his employer. The duke sat behind his massive, carved desk attending to the day's correspondence. His spectacles, only ever used for reading, were perched on his long straight nose as he reread the missive which had caused the exclamation.
Mr. Westall, a long, thin gentleman who gave the impression of being stretched—like a figure in an el Greco painting—pretended to return to his own work, but his mind was all on the duke. Had those words been a sign of shock? Or anger? No, he thought. Amazement. The young man waited impatiently for his assistance to be sought so that he would learn the cause of it all.
He was to be disappointed. The duke put down the letter and rose to walk over to one of the long windows which overlooked Belcraven Park, seat of the family for three hundred years. Fifteen years ago, to celebrate the new century, hundreds of acres surrounding the great house had been brilliantly landscaped in the picturesque style by Humphry Repton. Four years ago, as part of the grand celebrations which had marked the majority of the heir to Belcraven, the Marquess of Arden, the lake had been enlarged. At the same time it had been further improved by the addition of an island, complete with a Grecian temple from which fireworks had been exploded. It was all very beautiful, but it was familiar, and Mr. Westall's employer was not in the habit of studying his estate.
There was little to be learned from the duke's posture. He stood straight with little trace of his fifty-odd years in his lean body. His unremarkable features as usual told no secrets. The Duke of Belcraven was, in his secretary's opinion, a cold fish.
As the duke's thoughtful silence continued, Mr. Westall grew concerned. If disaster had overtaken the house of de Vaux, would he fall along with the rest?
But that was ridiculous. The duke was one of the richest men in England, and Gerald Westall was in the best position to know his employer was not given to chancy investments or gambling. Nor was his beautiful duchess.
His son, though?
Mr. Westall was not taken by Lucien Philippe de Vaux, Marquess of Arden, a Corinthian Buck who had been born in silk, as the saying goes, and feared nothing and nobody. On his rare visits to the Park, the marquess ignored Westall's existence and treated his father with a formal courtesy which was as good as an insult. The secretary pondered the strange fact that fathers and sons of high degree seemed unable to rub along. Look at the king and the Regent—before the king went mad, that is. Perhaps it was because the heir was forced to wait on the father's death for his own real life to begin, and the father was all too aware of that fact.
For once, Mr. Westall was pleased he had his own way to make in the world.
But then again, he thought, looking at the duke's cool features, it must be hard to develop fondness for a man so lacking any kind of warmth. The marquess was warm enough with his mother, who had a very sweet nature. Very close they were. Well, Arden was known to be a devil with the ladies.
The duke turned at last.
"Mr. Westall, be so good as to send a message to the duchess to request a few moments of her time."
The secretary could find no clue in his face or voice. In fact, thought Mr. Westall as he passed on the instruction to the footman stationed outside the door, a stranger would have assumed that no matter of significance troubled the duke. And yet it clearly was not so. For him to visit the duchess at this time of day was a dramatic variation of routine. The mysterious letter must be to do with their son.
The dashing marquess had probably broken his neck in one of his madcap stunts and then where would they all be? The nearest relative was a second cousin. The house of de Vaux had passed the title from father to son for two hundred years without interruption. The marquess would be no loss, but the end of such a fine tradition was worth regretting.
When the footman returned to say the duchess was available at the duke's convenience and the duke went off to break the sad news to his wife, Mr. Westall was already checking the amount of mourning stationery in his desk.
* * *
The duke was admitted to his wife's airy apartments by her dresser who then discreetly disappeared. The duchess was sitting, needlework in hand, by the light of French doors which led to a balcony. The air was too chill for the doors to be open, but bright sunlight spilled in to give the illusion of a later season, and daffodils and hyacinth bloomed in pots to scent the air.
The duke admired the fact that, unlike so many women of her age, his wife did not avoid clear light, and he acknowledged she had no need to. Her face announced her fifty-two years and all the smiles and tears they had contained, but that did not detract from her beauty. Silver was steadily muting her bright gold curls, but her eyes were the same clear blue and her lips were still softly curved. He was taken back to the first time he had seen her, sitting in the garden of her parents' chateau...
"Good morning, Belcraven," she said in her soft voice, which still retained a trace of the French which had been her childhood tongue. "You wished to speak to me?" Her expression, as always these days, was gently courteous.
He wondered if there was any chance this miracle might mend things, but then he put such wistful thoughts away and walked forward to hand her the letter.
"Yes, madam. Read this, if you please."
The duchess adjusted the delicate gold-rimmed pince-nez she too was obliged to wear for fine work and concentrated on the letter. The duke watched her reaction carefully but saw no shock or pain, only mild surprise. When she finished she looked up at him with a smile.
"How very silly of her not to have applied to you before, Belcraven. What do you wish to do? I would be happy to have the girl here. She is your daughter, and I have missed having daughters around since Joanne was married."
The duke walked away from his wife's calm gaze and took again to perusing his estate. How foolish of him to expect his wife's outrage at this proof of his past infidelity, he thought. How foolish of him to want it. Yet, he longed for something sharp to finally break the icy shell that had encased his marriage for over twenty years.
"No," he said at last, "I do not want to bring my bastard daughter here, madam. I intend to arrange a marriage between her and Arden." He turned back to see his wife's reaction.
She lost the delicate color in her cheeks and seemed to age before his eyes. "Arden? But he will not do it, Belcraven. Only last week he wrote to say he was screwing up the resolution to offer for the Swinnamer girl."
The duke's nostrils flared in anger. "And why did you not tell me of this? Am I not allowed to take interest in my heir, even if he is no son of mine?"
The duchess's pale hand rose in instinctive defense against his accusation and then fell as she lowered her head. "No matter what I say of Lucien, good or bad, you make a quarrel of it. I only sought to keep the peace."
"Well," he said sharply, "you had better hope he has not committed himself to the chit, or there'll be no peace ever again."
Then he sighed and his face softened into weariness. He walked over to sit in the chair facing hers. "Do you not see, Yolande? This is the chance to put everything right, to correct our old mistakes. If your son marries my daughter the line can continue unbroken."
The duchess's hands were clasped tightly as she looked at him. "But these are people, William. People. Lucien has already given his heart. How do you know this girl, this Elizabeth Armitage, has not done so, too? How do you know," she asked desperately, "that she is your daughter at all?"
He looked away from her pleading eyes. "I will have enquiries made, but I believe it. Mary Armitage was extremely honest, if rather stupid. I think that was what drew me to her when we met by chance. After—"
He had begun to turn back to her and so caught the tautness in the duchess as she prepared for the old recriminations. He broke off what he had been thoughtlessly about to say.
"She was virtuous and honest," he continued awkwardly. He was, after all, a man discussing with his wife an act of adultery. "But she also had a kind heart. I was hurt by all that had occurred and she responded to my pain. The act wounded her, though. Wounded her soul. She would take no gift, however small..." He rubbed his temples fretfully. "I wish she had come to me for help when she found there was to be a child, but it is typical of her that she did not. She perhaps thought to spare me an encumbrance, but more likely she wanted to put the whole relationship behind her."
The duke took the letter from his wife's fingers and looked down at the wavering handwriting of the woman who had once, so briefly, been his mistress. "Her husband was a naval officer at sea at the time we met. Mary would not have been able to pass the child off as his. She must have been able to conceal the pregnancy from her friends and family. That must be why she enlisted the help of this friend who has raised the girl."
"And on her deathbed," said the duchess softly, "she realized her contributions to her daughter's upbringing would cease and asked you to undertake that duty. A conscientious woman, but as you say, a little stupid. If the girl is your daughter, she will perhaps resemble you. What then, William?"
"I am not the type to be so strongly resembled," said the duke dryly and the duchess had to agree. His hair was dark brown and straight, a little thin now and dusted with gray; his features and build were even and without any remarkable point; his eyes were blue-gray. Even if the girl was his image, it would scarcely be noticed.
With little hope, she tried again to dissuade him. "William, this will not work. What will the world say if our son marries a nobody?"
He smiled bitterly. "One thing about your son, madam,"—the duchess caught her breath at the pronoun—"is that no one will be surprised at anything he does."
"And if he refuses?" she asked bleakly.
The duke sat even straighter and resolve hardened his features. "Then I will disinherit him of all but the entailed property."
"No, William. You cannot!"
The large part of the family fortune was not entailed to the oldest son. The duchess knew that without it Lucien would never be able to maintain the great houses, the multitude of servants and dependents, the state expected of a duke.
"I can and I will." The duke rose to his feet. "I inherited a faultless bloodline and I will pass it on. If Arden does not understand this obligation, then he is unworthy of his position."
The duchess rose to her feet in alarm. "You will tell him?"
The duke raised his chin. "Of course I will tell him."
Tears glimmered in her eyes. It was the first time in years the duke had seen her cry. He turned suddenly away. "I have no choice, Yolande," he said softly.
"How he will hate us."
"You should have thought of that," the duke said coldly, "before you took Guy de St. Briac to your bed." With that he left the room.
The duchess groped for her chair and collapsed into it. Fumbling, she found her handkerchief to stem her tears. Indeed, if she had been gifted with foresight, she would have avoided St. Briac like the plague.
Guy de St. Briac had been her first love though, so gay, so charming, in the prerevolutionary gardens and ballrooms of France. Quite ineligible of course, but a heart-stealer all the same. When the duke—then the Marquess of Arden himself—had offered for her hand, Yolande de Ferrand had responded to her family's urging and accepted him. She had not been in love with him, for he was not dashing or handsome and his manner was reserved, but she had been happy with her parents' choice. She had come, quite soon, to love him in a mild sort of way; she had happily borne him four children, two of them healthy boys, William and John. Throughout those contented early years in England she had never given St. Briac a thought.
But then, as France began to disintegrate, she had met St. Briac again... Ah, he had been so distraught by what was happening to their homeland; she scarcely less so by the shadows gathering over the golden world of her youth. He had needed her so and she had still nurtured a trace of her girlhood dreams. William's absence in Scotland shooting grouse had provided opportunity.
It had only been the once, for Guy had been en route to a new life in the Americas. Only once. And it had served to show her that her feelings for her husband were not mild at all. She had thought for a while that her sin had been a blessing and had waited impatiently for William's return to express her newfound passion for him.
If only he had not broken his leg, then perhaps he need never have known. She would not have been sure herself. By the time they could share a bed again, however, she had been forced to confess to him her action and the consequences.
He had been so kind, she remembered as she swallowed back a new flood of tears. Hurt, but kind, and moved by her declaration of the deepest kind of love. He had accepted the unborn child as others had in such a position. It was not as if the child, if a boy, would be his heir...
Then there had been that dreadful accident. A nurse grown careless, two naughty boys playing with a boat, the three-year-old slavishly following the five-year-old.
Drowned. Both gone.
The tears were flowing again now as she remembered that tragedy, so much greater than the death of those two darling children. It had been the death of her marriage and all happiness.
She had been in her seventh month and had prayed that in her grief she would lose the baby. When that did not happen, she had prayed throughout her labor that she would bear a daughter. To no avail.
She had wondered what she would feel when she held such a misbegotten child, but she had found only the most overwhelming love. Perhaps it was the recent tragedy, perhaps the estrangement between herself and the duke. She was certain the bond she formed instantly with her last and most beautiful baby was nothing to do with St. Briac, though the duke may not have believed that.
She had suckled him herself, the only one of her children to have taken milk from her breasts, and wished desperately that she had felt this closeness with the others. She had resolved to suckle any future children, but there had been none. From that day on the duke had never come to her bed again.
The duchess shook her head as the old ache trembled inside her. She had thought age would have solved at least this problem. Every time she saw William, however, her love swelled up inside her. Even the sound of his voice could cause her heart to race. At least he had not put her aside, though the awesome formality he had built into their lives was a monstrous barrier. One day, she told herself, his presence a few hours of every day would be enough.
One day.
She forced herself to stop that line of thought.
The duke cast no doubt on the child's parentage, but he would not give him the family names. The babe had been christened Lucien Philippe Louis after her father, her uncle and the King of France. It had been considered a touching gesture of support for the embattled French aristocracy.
She remembered how everyone had commented on God's kindness to so quickly replace what they had lost. She remembered William stonily accepting all the muted congratulations.
They had been so young. She had been twenty-seven, the duke only thirty-one. Perhaps that was why they had been unable to handle the ruin of their lives.
Once the fuss was over, he had fled to Hartwell, the lovely small house in Surrey in which they had lived before he acceded to the title. There he had apparently sought comfort in the arms of an "honest" woman.
The duchess sighed. It was far too late to feel pain at that betrayal. Quite ridiculous too. Was the result, this Elizabeth Armitage, a blessing or a curse?
What William had hit upon was a solution, she supposed, but at what cost? Lucien would know what she had done. It would drive a greater wedge between him and his father. It would tie two people together in a marriage without love.
She must at least warn him.
She hurried over to her elegant escritoire and wrote a hasty explanation to her beloved son: to prepare him, to ask him to agree if at all possible, to beg his forgiveness. She rang the silver bell and a footman entered.
"I wish this note to go to the marquess in London," she said. Then, as the man turned to leave she added, "Has the duke sent a letter also, do you know?"
"I believe the duke is leaving for London at this minute, Your Grace."
The duchess turned to the window. Clear sunlight showed her the picture perfectly. A crested coach drawn by the six fastest horses in the stables was bowling down the driveway. She sighed.
"I do not think my letter is necessary after all," she said and took it back. When the man had withdrawn she tore it into pieces and threw it into the fire.
What would be, would be. The past twenty-five years, years without her husband's love and without hope of it, had taught her a certain resignation.