Duke Of Darkness

“Her staff acted on her wishes and she has already been placed in the ground. Naturally, the legal proceedings, the will and her estate ...” Derwent’s voice dropped off as if waiting for some signal to continue.

Devlin digested the news with solemn acceptance. Aunt Min was his only blood relative; feisty dear woman and sister of his late mother. While she lived only two days’ travel from London, he hadn’t seen her as often as he’d liked. He should have made more of an effort. Blast, he’d never even known she’d fallen ill, never mind he’d not visited her estate in over three years. A fleeting pain whipped through his chest. She was one of the few people in his life who accepted him for who he was and did not try to make him bend. He would truly miss her.

Unanswered questions tangled with remorse at the unexpected news of her passing. He walked to the sideboard and poured a short drink.

“Brandy, Derwent?” The solicitor would not remark on the emotion heard in the words, not if the man valued his position.

The solicitor shifted in his chair, indecision evident on his sallow face. “It is highly unusual for me to accept—”

“Do you want it or not?” He wouldn’t waste energy standing on convention.

When the man gave further pause, Devlin strode forward and pushed a snifter into his hand. “It’ll do you good.”

He sat in the leather chair behind his desk and stared at the fire another moment before he returned his attention to the solicitor, his face clear of all feeling.

“Is my signature required somewhere?” Only a simpleton would miss the controlled tone of the question. The meeting would be all business from here out.

“Actually, I only have a partial amount of the paperwork. There seems to be a complication.” Setting the untouched snifter on the desk, Derwent picked up his brown leather case and fumbled through a ridiculous amount of folded paper and well-worn files.

In an exercise of patience, Devlin removed the snifter from the mahogany desktop and returned both glasses to the tray on the sideboard. An undercurrent of anxiety scratched at his skin from the inside out, to grieve, if only a little, for the loss of his aunt. She had lived to eighty-two. A rich, full life.

When he spoke, his voice sliced the air, as he was anxious to dispatch the man and reclaim a little solitude. “What kind of complication?”

Derwent’s Adam’s apple bobbed with unnatural vigour as he suffered an audible swallow. He mustered the courage to reply despite the indecision that sketched worry lines across his face. Indeed, Devlin heard the man’s voice crack.

“There is her estate, The Willows, and all entitlements that follow to you.”

Again the solicitor hesitated and Devlin’s temper steeped. “Continue.”

His stern order reverberated across the quiet room. Why was there need for all this secrecy? His aunt was the kindest person he’d ever known, and that included all memories he held of his mother. Aunt Min proved a loving, generous woman who stalwartly refused to believe an iota of ill feelings of anyone. What could cause Derwent to stall with such trepidation?

“And then there is the matter of your aunt’s ward, Your Grace.”

If Devlin hadn’t been staring at the man, drilling him with the intensity of his obsidian eyes, he might have believed he’d misheard, yet the words had been processed with the utmost clarity. He needed another brandy. “Her ward? You must be mistaken. My aunt never mentioned a ward. Besides, who in their right mind would entrust a child to a woman of advanced age? Granted, Aunt Min was the very picture of gentleness, but still …” His voice trailed off as he considered the absurdity of the situation. It had to be a mistake. A ward? Unlikely.

“No, I have the documents here.” Derwent flustered through his leather bag. “The papers do not explain much, I will admit, and the whole arrangement seems a bit vague, but it is valid nonetheless.” The solicitor paused and pulled a large file full of papers from his satchel. He opened it at an awkward angle on his lap as if in fervent search of something. “Aha.”

Upon hearing Derwent’s triumphant exclamation, Devlin raised his eyes from where he studied the flames in the firebox.

“I knew I would find it. There is a letter to you, left in your aunt’s bedchamber and discovered upon her passing.”

The solicitor offered a long thin envelope in his direction. Devlin peered at the foolscap, debating whether or not to accept it, but then palmed the document and tucked it into the blotter of his desk mat. The action troubled Derwent.

“Aren’t you … aren’t you going to read it?”

Unsure of exactly what the envelope might contain, Devlin was damn well sure he wanted to open it in private. With the goal in mind, he made quick work of dispatching his solicitor, ringing for Reeston, and reclaiming his seat behind his desk with the efficiency of a sword parry.

He stared at the envelope in contemplation then finally broke the seal. He smoothed the vellum out before him. His aunt’s familiar penmanship met his eyes and for a moment, a tiny niggling of emotion welled in his chest. He clamped it down without question and began to read.

Dearest Devlin,

If you are reading this letter, then I must apologize. I am sorry I have left you alone in this world. The Wharncliffe history has not been kind to you. You have weathered the scorn and scandal of many years, none of which you brought upon yourself. I hope over the years our relationship has served as a balm for the harsh realities that have made up your short thirty years.

When you are old, like I am, and you stop to reflect on your life, I hope you have little to regret, little that you’d wish to alter. Time moves so very quickly, it seems only a short time ago that I held you close as a tiny lad. But I no longer have the energy to express the joy you’ve brought to me over the years; instead I ask one final favour.

A few years ago, I was entrusted with a responsibility I’ve kept close to my heart. I now ask you to serve in my absence. Alex has had a troubled past and needs a kind and understanding guardian who offers acceptance and does not beleaguer with questions. I ask that you offer the same kindness I’ve shown you and guide my ward into society, help to arrange a respectable, agreeable marriage match. It is a large responsibility but one I can depend on you to carry through. Thank you, Devlin.

With loving gratitude,

Aunt Min

Devlin stared at the foolscap long after he’d finished reading. He knew without a doubt his aunt had cared deeply for him, as if he were her son, and yet to entrust him with this responsibility jarred his brain. Nothing in the letter indicated the age of the child, the moniker Alex, the only clue.

Still the idea was not completely undesirable. He liked children well enough. That is, as long as they went home after an hour or so. Years ago, a few of his acquaintances succumbed to the parson’s mousetrap and found marital bliss. Their children littered his lawn during summer picnics and romped through the gardens. Their antics could almost be considered charming. Of course, he’d never contemplated having one of the little creatures himself. In fact, he’d taken every measure to ensure it never happened.

How bad could it be? He would teach the lad to play chess and fence; to perfect the ideal golf swing. Reluctance faded and Devlin Ravensdale, only Duke of Wharncliffe, warmed to the idea with a wry smile, and relished the thought of what the ton would say of his newfound responsibility.

Chapter Three (#ue668a58f-1832-5aef-9b17-3d2707c32383)

The following morning, Devlin’s booted feet clipped a persistent rhythm on the cobbles as he walked with purpose to the stables, a man on a mission. He’d instructed Reeston to have his most comfortable carriage made ready, his finest team, and a footman to accompany him to Aunt Min’s estate. Two days’ ride was not worthy of his biggest barouche as its cumbersome construction would hamper his travels, but he wished to make the best impression upon his new ward and did not know what baggage the young man might possess. Out of use for a number of years, the barouche appeared worse for the wear. Nevertheless, it would serve his purpose.

London wasn’t known for favourable weather, and the grey haze that filtered sparse rays of sunlight reminding him of the poor sleep he’d suffered the night before. After receiving such distressing news in twofold yesterday afternoon, he should have anticipated he would suffer the tremors. And yet even though he’d taken a late night brandy and retired early, he doubted thirty minutes passed before the episode began.

It was the same every time, although the degree to which the attack gripped him varied on occasion. He inevitably awoke with little remembrance, aside from his sweat-drenched night clothes and knotted bed linens. Reeston interceded when possible, his butler ever alert since Devlin suffered his worst episode a number of years ago.

On that evening he’d awoken the entire household with his nightmarish sounds, his thrashing causing the water pitcher and vase of flowers on the nightstand to crash to the floor. Unfortunately the episode occurred during a house party at the country estate of a friend. The details of his experience whipped through the servants like wildfire to extend to every guest in attendance and perpetuate the rumours of his madness.

And while there was no way to prevent an episode, Devlin surmised the tremors were prone to thrive when his underlying thoughts, more than his most immediate worries, were at unrest. Perhaps whenever he faced an unpleasant situation or butted nose to nose with a problem he could not solve. The few doctors whom he’d bothered to consult offered little advice. Instead, the episodes enabled him to become more comfortable within the life he’d established on his estate and supplied another reason to rarely leave home.

As he neared the stable, the barouche pulled forward, the Wharncliffe crest lacklustre in the mocking morning haze, a shadowy echo of his disposition. Orion, his horse, led the team. He was a prime example of a stallion and not just a fast ride, but a significant investment. When put to stud, the stallion would produce a stable full of excellent horseflesh.

Devlin reached up with his left hand to offer Orion’s nose an affectionate rub, as his right worked to check the bridle. Then he climbed the extended steps and settled inside just as the coachman fastened his case. With a sharp whistle, they lurched forward.

The ride proved uneventful through most of the first day with only his muddied thoughts for consideration. Saddened by the reason necessitating the journey to The Willows, he was curious of the lad he’d meet upon arrival and more than a bit plagued by his neglect.

How inexcusable that he’d practised such selfish complacency in his familial duties. His aunt deserved better; and it wasn’t as though he hadn’t had the time to spare. Often hours, days, blended together in monotonous routine with only an occasional chess game with Reeston or late dinner conversation spent in the kitchen with Cook to separate one week from another. Yet he had no ready answer aside from his desire to remain withdrawn within the sanctity of his dim existence.

Now, not far from his destination, the view from the barouche window appeared ominous. Black clouds obliterated any attempt at sunlight and the wind threatened a storm. Perhaps if he ordered the coachman to push the team harder, they would outrun the oncoming weather.

And then the worst happened. A sudden boom of thunder startled the horses and they reared, forcing the clumsy barouche to sway heavily to the right, a resounding crack was heard soon after. It was unmistakable to anyone familiar with vehicles. The carriage wheel had splintered and broken. The coachman jumped down into the steady rhythm of rain to make quick work of assessing the damage, only to report they could proceed no further.

Damn it all to Hades. Devlin scowled at no one in particular, and welcomed the foulest of moods. Determined to make it to The Willows before nightfall, he disconnected Orion from the team and barked directions to the coachman. Then donning his greatcoat and beaver hat, he galloped through the wind gusts like a man bent for hell. He travelled for more than an hour when he discerned his aunt’s estate perched on a small hill north of where the road turned. It appeared much as he remembered, a shadowy memory of the proper tutor house he knew as a child. He urged Orion through the pelting rain, aware the horse needed rest and anxious, too, to be out of his sodden clothes. His black hair whipped about his head as a strong burst of wind stole his hat and he tightened his jaw with determination, his clothes drenched for no help of the greatcoat that hung like a heavy burden across his shoulders.

Were anyone to view the rider who rode like a demon towards the little manor on the hill, they might experience an intense premonition of dread. They would wonder at his intentions, as lightning flashed brilliant and jagged through the sky, and thunder vibrated through the earth with tremulous anger, and they would label him insane for pursuing his journey in such miserable weather, but Devlin was not to be stopped. He leapt free before Orion slowed, and paused only long enough to lead the animal to shelter near the side of the estate, as no one came out to greet him. Then he moved with sure steps to the front door of the manor house, and dropped the knocker twice, eager to be out of the elements.

Grimley opened the door with haste and Devlin stepped inside. The wind followed on his heels to unsettle a few calling cards that remained on a salver near the entryway.

“Your Grace, we were not expecting you in such weather. You are drenched to the bone. You will catch the ague.”