The library at Avondale House was a thing of beauty.
Someone, or, more accurately, a long line of someones, had taken great pains to select and assemble a stupefying collection. There were manuscripts centuries old, and aside from the glimpse into the past they provided, the hand lettering and illuminations made them works of art in their own right. There were treatises on agriculture and veterinary care. Books about the creatures of the world and the exotic lands in which they were found. Collections of maps and drawings. There were entire shelves of novels, plays, and poetry, and dissertations on history and politics. Clara rather thought she could live out the rest of her life in this room and not be unhappy.
The staff, efficient as always, had pulled the curtains from the tall windows that lined the south side, and the early-morning sunlight flooded in to reveal a cavernous room that was positively gleaming. Three long tables were positioned in the center, each with lanterns and candelabras resting on its polished surface and each with a collection of beautifully matched chairs surrounding it. Larger, upholstered chairs were scattered around the grouping, fairly begging a body to curl up within their comfort with a good book.
It was this room that had been the deciding factor when Clara had gone looking for a house to let for her summer program. Well, that and the fact that the Earl of Rivers had gifted them the use of Avondale. Apparently he was exceedingly grateful to her brother for his attention to and treatment of his many ailments, and he had offered his Dover estate to Haverhall as a favor. Which pleased Clara to no end.
Many other homes had spacious and refined accommodations and efficient and capable staffs, but none had a library like this. Her students spent a great deal of time here, and Clara wondered if the elderly Earl of Rivers truly comprehended what a treasure he possessed in this house. It was one of many that he owned, though it had been years since he’d been well enough to make the trip to the coast.
Clara wandered over to a pretty rosewood writing desk, positioned in a sunbeam, and ran her hand over the smooth surface before picking up a delicate glass ink pot. It, like everything else in the library, was in a state of readiness, sparkling and newly filled with ink. She would have to add a footnote to Harland’s report and express her appreciation of the dedication and attention to detail that the staff—
“Was that the Duke of Doxies I saw you speaking to in the driveway last night?”
Clara jerked and nearly dropped the inkpot on the immaculate rug under her feet. With great care she replaced it on the desk and turned.
“Rose. I didn’t hear you come in.” She eyed her sister, who was leaning just inside the door, her arms folded over her chest, a cynical smirk twisting her delicate features.
“I gathered.” Rose stepped farther into the library, and the sunlight coming in through the window set alight the loose strands of strawberry-blond hair that rested along her cheek. “Was I correct?”
Clara frowned. “About what?”
“The Duke of Doxies. Here, down in Dover.” Rose paused. “Hmm. I feel like that could be the beginning of a very fine limerick.”
Clara frowned at Rose’s tone. “The Duke of Holloway is indeed in Dover,” she said evenly. “And yes, I was speaking to him.”
“Why is he here? Spying on his sister?”
Quite possibly. “Lady Anne, it seems, failed to mention to the duke that she would be spending the summer here with us when she made the required arrangements. He discovered her plans only after she left.”
Rose’s elegant brows lifted. “Hmm. I’m beginning to like Lady Anne more and more.”
Clara sighed.
“Let me guess. His Grace stomped all the way out here to drag her back to London?”
Clara sighed again. “Worse.”
“Worse? What could be worse?”
“He’s here to stay.”
“At Avondale?” Rose’s voice was an octave higher than usual.
“At Avondale,” Clara confirmed.
“Why? Surely he can spy from a distance?”
“The Earl of Rivers has requested that he evaluate the property. Lands and stock and such.”
“Now?” Rose looked horrified. “When is he leaving?”
“I don’t know.”
“His presence is rather inconvenient, don’t you think?”
“We’ll work around it.” Clara tried to inject some confidence into her words. “He invited us to dinner tonight.”
“Dinner?” Rose cocked her head, seemingly unimpressed. “How does that improve anything? And have you forgotten that this man once tried to make a fool out of you? I was there, if you recall.”
“Good Lord, Rose, that was ten years ago.”
“And I remember very clearly that he behaved like a damn swine.”
“A great deal has changed since then.” Clara scowled. “And when you’re done with my sister, Circe, I’d like her back so that I can have a civilized conversation.”
Rose unfolded her arms and sighed. “Fine. I apologize.”
“Thank you. So did he, you know.” She hadn’t told Rose the details of the conversation she’d had with Holloway in the museum, and she didn’t care to examine the why of that too closely.
“Who?”
“The duke. Apologized for his actions that night.”
Rose leaned on the back of a gold-and-blue brocaded chair. “Was he drunk?” she speculated into the silence. “When he apologized, I mean. That he was drunk back then is rather a given.”
“He was not drunk now or then,” Clara replied evenly. “I would imagine he apologized because he is no longer a boy. He is a man willing to take responsibility for his actions and make amends for those that may have been unwise. He has been nothing but a perfect gentleman.” She winced inwardly, wondering if her defense of the duke sounded too fervent.
“A perfect gentleman?” Rose’s smirk returned. “That’s not how I’ve heard him described.”
Clara pinned her sister with a quelling look. “By whom?” She regretted that question the second it was out. For their purposes it didn’t matter if the Duke of Holloway was the devil himself in disguise or if he danced naked around bonfires fornicating with the queen and her entire court. So long as he stayed out of their way.
Rose raised her hands in mock defense. “The ladies who have graced my old London studio. Not that anyone was complaining,” she said. “On the contrary, his rumored lack of…gentlemanly habits between the sheets was being extolled.” She let her hands drop and ran her fingers over the stitched braid along the back of the chair. “Discussed at great…length.”
“The ladies who frequent your studio should pay heed to the fact that their conversations are probably not as private as they would like to think,” Clara admonished, trying to ignore the heat that had suddenly ignited deep in her belly.
Rose sniffed. “I’m just the humble artist. If I repeated everything I heard, I would probably be accused of being a spy and hanged for treason by half the members of Parliament, the House of Lords, the army, and most definitely the navy. Sailors are a sentimental lot when it comes to wives and mistresses and wishing to have a memento in their image. It’s intriguing what secrets pass for pillow talk.”
“I’ll take your word for it.” Clara made a face.
“I’ve never done a portrait, boudoir or otherwise, on behalf of the Duke of Doxies,” Rose mused.
“Holloway,” Clara corrected sternly.
Rose ignored her. “It can’t possibly be from lack of money, even given what I charge. I wonder if it’s because he can’t decide which mistress is his favorite? Or if by the time I was finished painting one, he’d already have moved on to the next?”
“I find your sudden zeal for spiteful gossip rather unbecoming, Rose.” Annoyance was prickling, and Clara decided it was because Rose was being so contrary. It certainly had nothing to do with who August Faulkner chose to keep company with.
Rose looked away, her features drawn. Clara studied her younger sister, seeing the tautness in her petite body and the way her fingers were curled along the back of the chair, and she suddenly understood.
“The Duke of Holloway is not the same as Anthony,” Clara said gently. Though the resemblance was there, both in appearance and, it would seem, rumored popularity with women.
“Of course not. The Duke of Doxies does not appear to be dead yet.” Rose’s lips twisted.
Clara looked down at her hands. Rose’s fiancée had broken not only her heart but her trust as well, and had he not been killed at Waterloo, Clara might have done it herself. And while Clara didn’t really know Holloway intimately enough to pass judgment on his true character, there was no conceivable way he was as contemptible as the late Anthony Gibson. “Rose—”
“Who doesn’t appear to be dead yet?” Harland Hayward asked as he strode into the room, pulling off his coat as he came. “Bloody warm out there already,” he grumbled as he dropped the offending garment on the surface of one of the long library tables and looked at his sisters expectantly.
“The Duke of Holloway,” Clara said with a sigh.
“The Duke of Holloway was indeed very much alive last time I saw him,” Harland said with a slight frown. “In London. Though that was a good while ago.”
“So you didn’t see him last night?”
Harland stared at her. “Last night?”
“The duke is not in London,” Rose offered. “He’s here.”
Harland blinked in confusion. “The duke’s in Dover? And he’s dying?”
“Ooh, my limerick keeps getting better and better,” Rose murmured.
“He’s not dying,” Clara told Harland, ignoring her sister. “He’s here on business for the Earl of Rivers.” That seemed like the simplest explanation at the moment.
Harland flopped into one of the upholstered chairs and ran his hands over his face. “So he doesn’t need me to save him. Good. That’s one less thing for me to do. I don’t need or want to know anything else.”
Clara studied her brother. He looked exhausted. His hair, darker than Clara’s but still possessing the same red highlights, was disheveled and in need of a scissor. He had pronounced shadows under his eyes, and the angles of his face had become sharper, his long, muscle-roped limbs leaner. “Did you even sleep last night, Harland?” Clara asked.
He made a derisive noise and let his head tip back on the chair, closing his eyes. “I’ll sleep when I’m dead. Too much to do right now.”
“Harland—”
“The duke has invited all of us to dinner,” Rose piped up. “Tonight.”
“Tonight?” Harland’s eyes popped open. “Why?”
“Because he’s here, he asked, and one generally tries not to offend dukes by refusing their invitations. It did not seem advantageous.” Clara felt her pulse skip. Which was unacceptable, because that meant that somewhere deep down she believed that he had asked her to dinner for the sake of asking her to dinner. To spend more time with her, or some other foolish nonsense.
“You accepted, then?” It wasn’t really a question.
Rose blew out a disgusted breath. “Of course she did. You can share a carriage.”
Harland frowned. “Wait, what do you mean when you said that he’s here? In Dover?”
“Avondale,” Rose corrected waspishly. “His Grace is moving in.”
“What?” She saw her brother’s hands curl into fists before they relaxed again almost immediately.
Clara grimaced. “He’s staying at the dower house.”
“Why? And how long does he intend to stay?” Harland didn’t sound happy.
Clara sighed wearily. “I’m not sure. Rivers asked him to take a look at the land and livestock.”
“Now? Why?”
Clara threw up a hand helplessly, ignoring the pointed look Rose was giving her. “Both of you can ask Rivers the next time you see him.”
Harland seemed to be waging a war within himself to find words. “Damn his titled timing all to hell,” was what he finally came up with.
“Language,” Clara admonished half-heartedly. “But agreed.”
“Did he say anything else?”
“He hoped you would be available for a hand of loo.”
“Loo?”
“Or whist.”
Harland pinched the bridge of his nose. “Bloody hell, Clara.”
Clara didn’t bother to hide her own displeasure. “I couldn’t very well demand that he leave, now could I?”
“You could have,” Rose said, jumping back into the conversation. “You just didn’t.”
Harland closed his eyes. “Clara is right, Rose. One does not simply order dukes about. But dammit, having August Faulkner here is the last thing we need.”
“I didn’t realize that you don’t have a very high opinion of him,” Clara said, and she could hear the edge of accusation in her own words. “You and Rose seem rather united on that front.”
Harland opened his eyes and sat up. “On the contrary,” he said. “The man’s raw ambition has made him quite formidable. You will not meet a more ruthless, cunning adversary than Holloway when he goes after something he wants. He may hold the title of duke, but for all that, he is completely self-made. That is not something that one should ever dismiss lightly.” He shifted his attention to Rose. “You disagree?”
“Self-made?” Rose repeated with disbelief. “Come, Harland, dukes are not self-made. They’re victors in the game of accidental birth.”
“Did you know his father was in debtors’ prison?” Harland asked, giving Rose an irritable look. “Ten years before Faulkner became a duke.”
Clara stared at her brother. Even Rose looked surprised. Holloway would have been fifteen when his father had been incarcerated.
“I didn’t know that,” Clara said.
“No, I don’t suspect many people do. At the time he was only a distant footnote on the ducal family tree and therefore of little interest.”
“But why was his father in prison?”
“I imagine the same reason everyone else winds up in Marshalsea.”
“But surely someone in the family would have wanted to assist to keep him out of prison? If only to preserve the family name?”
“For whatever reason, that did not happen. His father was estranged.” Harland shook his head. “But that’s not the point. My point here is that August Faulkner, in five years, managed to make enough money to pay off his father’s debts and buy his release. Two years after that, he had made enough to purchase back the lifestyle that his family had once enjoyed. Not that his father lived long enough to appreciate it much. As I understand it, the man never did recover his health once released.”
“How do you know all this?” Clara asked.
“I attended his father as a medical student while he was in prison,” Harland said. “He suffered from dropsy.”
Rose sniffed. “Was it cards or horses?”
Harland frowned. “What?”
“Did the duke get lucky at a gaming hell or a racetrack? After all, that is how men like him—”
“The duke has made his money on industry. He buys broken things and breaks them apart further before building them back up into profitable ventures.” He looked faintly troubled, even though his words held respect. “His empire is bigger than most people realize. Much, much bigger. If we possessed even a fraction of his capital…”
“Still no word from London?” The familiar foreboding settled heavily in Clara’s gut.
Harland scrubbed his face with his hands before letting them drop. “Not yet. If I thought it would help, I would stand on the edge of the London Docks and wait for those damn ships. But that’s all I would be doing. I can do more to help here than there.”
“I have two sittings this week,” Rose said. “And two more next week. All have agreed to pay up front. I’m sorry I can’t paint faster—”
“Stop it.” Harland cut her off. “We’ve all discussed this a hundred times. We’re all doing everything and anything we can.”
“‘The end crowneth the work,’” Clara murmured.
Rose shot her a long-suffering glance. “Do we really need another Elizabethan quote?”
“The woman managed to keep her head and her throne while living amidst a pack of jackals.”
“I’d settle for my head and the surety that there will be a roof over it in a year’s time.” Rose sighed.
“Let’s change the subject, shall we?” Harland suggested. “Before we all drown in self-pity.” He glanced at Clara. “Where, exactly, is our dinner invitation with the illustrious duke?”
“The Silver Swan.”
Harland seemed to perk up at this. “Well, then. As much as I rather resent His Grace’s presence, at least he has good taste in food.”
Clara turned to Rose. “Will you come with us?”
Rose looked down. “I think I’ll need the time to finish setting up my studio,” she said.
“I can help you. The students have a free morning, and I’m not meeting with them until—”
“No, thank you. I’ll take care of it.”
Clara recognized the stubborn shade to Rose’s tone. She glanced at her brother for help, but Harland was already pulling his coat off the table where he had left it.
“You may wish to change your mind once you remember how good French wine tastes, Rose,” Harland said.
“I don’t think so.”
“Suit yourself. I assume we’ll leave from here,” Harland tossed over his shoulder, already halfway out the door. “What time?”
“Six,” Clara told him. “Where are you going now?”
“An appointment,” he replied vaguely, not breaking stride.
“For what?” Clara called after him, but he was already gone. “Why does he keep doing that?” she asked into the silence.
“Disappearing?” Rose moved past her and shrugged. “I don’t think I want to know.”