“Go on,” Pierce ordered through clenched teeth.
Hollingsby nodded, skimming the first page he held. “The duke met your mother some two and thirty years ago in a London pub. It was a dismal time of his life. He was estranged from his duchess, embittered by the knowledge that she seemed unable to give him a child. Your mother was a young and beautiful tavern maid, filled with vitality, hope, and passion. Markham fell in love with her on the spot.
“Over the next six months he returned to the tavern, and Cara, as often as he could, casting protocol and consequence to the wind, heeding only the dictates of his heart.”
“But consequence caught up with him,” Pierce interrupted, the heinous pieces falling rapidly into place. “He filled my mother’s belly with his child, then cast her aside and returned to his rightful title, his rightful position, and his rightful wife.”
Hollingsby nodded again, scanning that section of the letter. “Yes. Markham says himself that he was weak. Much as he loved Cara, he couldn’t bring himself to sacrifice everything and endure ostracism and scandal. So he turned her, and their unborn child, away.
“But, try though he would, he couldn’t forget them, nor would his conscience allow him to rest. After months of internal struggle, he went in search of Cara, only to find she’d lost her job and vanished. He panicked, and began an investigation of her whereabouts. It took months before he discovered her and the son she’d borne him living at the House of Perpetual Hope in Leicester. His intentions were to forsake everything and come forward to claim them.
“It was at that time his duchess announced she was with child. Needless to say, that altered everything.”
“Needless to say,” Pierce bit out, venom burning his throat.
“Markham had no choice but to commit himself to his wife and unborn heir. However, that didn’t prevent him from worrying over Cara and their son. He sent money as often as he could—anonymously, of course—and prayed that it reached them.”
“It didn’t.”
Hollingsby flinched at the hatred in Pierce’s tone. “Then the duke received a report of Cara’s death. At that point he knew he had to do more.”
“More than what? More than allow her to waste away and die in a workhouse? More than condemn his son to hell?”
“He began making personal visits to the workhouse,” Hollingsby responded. “The letter is vague about what explanation he gave the headmaster, but clearly no one knew his true reason for being there.”
“Which was?”
“To check on his son—Cara’s son.” The solicitor lifted his gaze, blanching beneath Pierce’s frigid stare. “You.”
“How touching.” Abruptly, Pierce rose, turning his back to Hollingsby. “And, having seen me, was he deeply moved? Did he make any attempt to free me from the prison I was living in?”
“He couldn’t. If he had—”
“If he had, everyone of importance would have known he’d fathered a bastard,” Pierce supplied with brutal accuracy. “And that might have angered his duchess and compromised the position of his legitimate heir. Right, Hollingsby? Isn’t that what you’re saying?”
“Yes. That’s what I’m saying.”
Slowly, Pierce pivoted, his jaw working convulsively. “Had the duke’s son not perished in a riding accident, we wouldn’t be having this conversation, would we?”
“Yes, I believe we would. Markham made it clear to me that, even had you not been his sole heir, he was determined for you to know your true parentage.”
“What a fine man. I feel infinitely better knowing I carry his blood in my veins.” Pierce swallowed. “What else are you responsible for relaying to me before I walk out and dismiss everything you’ve said?”
“Sir,” Hollingsby walked to the front of his desk, the document clutched in his hands. “I understand your shock, even your anger. But I don’t think you understand what I’m telling you. You are the duke’s only surviving child. Were it not for you, the Ashford name would die along with your father. It is imperative that you assume his title.”
“Imperative? I think not. No, Hollingsby, I decline the honor.”
The solicitor gaped. “Have you any idea what you’re refusing? The size of the estate you stand to inherit? How vast were the duke’s wealth, his land, his influence?”
“I don’t give a damn.”
“But His Grace wished—”
“His Grace wished?” Pierce exploded, advancing toward the disconcerted solicitor. “His Grace wished? What about my mother’s wishes? What about my wishes? He condemned us to rot in a filthy, diseased workhouse without so much as a second thought. And now, with my mother cold in her grave, he wants to welcome me to his coveted world? To acknowledge me as his son? Now that he himself is dead and gone, and the ensuing scandal can no longer hurt him? Now I’m to step forward and proudly assume the role of the Duke of Markham—because he wishes it?” Eyes ablaze, Pierce kicked a chair from his path, then veered toward the door. “My wish is for the filthy blackguard to burn in hell. And, if there is any justice at all, he already has. Good day, Hollingsby.”
“There’s more,” the solicitor said quietly.
Pierce swung around. “Find another victim.”
“Please, Mr. Thornton. I have yet to enumerate the terms and conditions I spoke of.”
A harsh laugh erupted from Pierce’s chest. “Terms and conditions? Don’t bother. I’ve denounced the title.”
“Please, sir. I beseech you. My job is to relay the specifics of the codicil. What you choose to do about them is your concern.”
Pierce sucked in his breath, struck by the truth of Hollingsby’s plea. Markham’s coldhearted negligence was not the solicitor’s doing. “Very well, Hollingsby. Come to the conclusion of this nightmare.”
“Thank you.” Turning the page, Hollingsby shoved his spectacles back up on his nose. “The codicil states the following: In order to retain your newly acquired title and to permanently reap the benefits and privileges thereof, you must fulfill two stipulations. First, you must not only accept the title of the Duke of Markham, but you must assume all related responsibilities for a minimum of two years. That means living at Markham, overseeing the estate and the servants, supervising the businesses—”
“You’ve made your point. And the other stipulation?”
“Second, you must marry and produce a legitimate heir to the dukedom.”
“A legitimate heir. In other words, not a bastard like me,” Pierce clarified, bitterly precise.
“Correct.”
“Tell me, Hollingsby, what if my duchess turns out to be as uncooperative a vessel as Markham’s was? How many years did you say it took her to conceive? Or perhaps my duchess will be totally barren? Or, heaven forbid, she might bear me a daughter rather than a son. Have you considered that?” Pierce demanded mockingly. “What if I myself am incapable of fathering a child? It does happen, you know. Then what? All Markham’s provisions will have been for naught.”
“The duke considered that. During my final visit to Markham he presented me with a sealed envelope, instructing me to lock it in my office strongbox, to be removed precisely two years from the day you accept your rightful position as his heir. At that point, should any of the circumstances you just described exist, I am to send for you and reveal the contents of the letter, assuming, that is, you’ve fulfilled all your other ducal obligations during the prescribed time.”
“And if, over the two-year period, I do produce the necessary heir?”
“Then the provisos contained therein will be declared null and void, and I shall give the envelope to you, unopened, to do with as you wish.”
“The son of a bitch thought of everything, didn’t he?”
Hollingsby wet his lips. “To resume the codicil’s terms,” he pushed on. “During the two-year probation period you’ll be furnished with a generous weekly allowance of ten thousand pounds.”
“Ten thousand pounds?” One brow rose. “How charitable.”
“Finally, once the two years have elapsed and presuming you’ve fulfilled both conditions, you are free to recommence your old life or continue your new one. In either case, you will have full access, within reason, of course, to the Markham funds, heirlooms, property, etcetera, for the rest of your life, and your son will be groomed as the future Duke of Markham.”
“Lucky lad.”
“Indeed,” Hollingsby agreed, tactfully ignoring Pierce’s cutting sarcasm. “No expense will be spared—”
“How much do all these assets amount to?” Pierce interrupted suddenly.
“Pardon me?”
“I want to know exactly how much my poor mother was being denied.”
A pause. “If you’re asking what the total worth of the duke’s estate is, it’s in excess of twenty million pounds.”
“Hell.” Pierce raked furious fingers through his hair. “Bloody, bloody hell. If the spineless coward weren’t already dead, I’d kill him myself.”
“Nevertheless, now that you’ve heard all the facts, I’m certain you’ve amended your earlier decision.”
“I’ve amended nothing.” Pierce yanked open the door. “Tear up that bloody codicil, Hollingsby. I don’t need or want one shilling from the scum who sired me.”
“Think about—”
“It’s too late.” Pierce stalked out without a backward glance. “Thirty years too late.”
7
PIERCE HAD NO IDEA how many trips his carriage had made around Town, nor how much time had passed since he’d stormed from Hollingsby’s office. Pausing only to purchase a bottle of whiskey, he’d climbed into his carriage and ordered his driver to circle the congested London streets until otherwise advised. Sliding to the far corner of the seat, Pierce then proceeded to toss off half the contents of the bottle while staring moodily out the window, his thoughts slamming against his brain like a hammer. we? A duke?
Never. Never.
To hell with Markham. To hell with his title, his money, his name. To hell with—
His father.
Fortifying himself with another deep swallow of whiskey, Pierce forced himself to confront the situation and its consequences.
The Duke of Markham was his father.
All the pieces fit: his mother’s talk of her nobleman lover, Markham’s consistent but inexplicable workhouse visits, the background details Hollingsby had just revealed.
The story was true. Pierce’s instincts confirmed that without question. Much of it was also unsurprising. After all, he had always known of his noble lineage, just as he’d long ago discerned his sire’s reasons for denouncing him and abandoning Cara. Having a name to put to the anonymous blackguard who’d sired him was unexpected, but inconsequential at this point in his life.
But having a face to accompany the name, especially Markham’s face, now that was disconcerting. How vividly he recalled those brooding eyes, that air of reserve. God help him, he could even see the resemblance. Yes, now that he knew the truth, Pierce realized the likeness between him and Markham was startling.
But even that was endurable.
What was unendurable, unconscionable, untenable, was what the arrogant bastard demanded of him now.
After a lifetime of rejection, to become a son.
Abhorring the highborn, to become a duke.
A shout from ahead brought Pierce up short. As he watched, a dirty lad of perhaps twelve darted down Regent Street, weaving his way among the pedestrians and carriages, a wallet clutched in his hand. In his wake, a distinguished gray-haired gentleman waved his fist furiously, bellowing for the authorities, urging a small group of sympathetic onlookers to apprehend the culprit.
They’ll never catch him, Pierce thought, mentally gauging the distance between the boy and the oncoming mob. At least not if he’s any good. If he knows what he’s doing, in precisely twelve paces, he’ll veer down Conduit Street and duck down that tiny alley just shy of the corner. It’s so narrow no well-fed person can fit. By the time the crowd gives up trying, he’ll have scaled the low wall at the alley’s end and be long gone.
No sooner had Pierce assessed the situation than the urchin came to a halt, and swerved down Conduit Street. Five steps in he flattened his skinny frame against a brick wall and slithered down the nearly invisible alleyway.
Moments later, as Pierce’s carriage rumbled by the cross street, the raging masses were still gathered at the alley opening, commanding the lad to emerge with the stolen wallet.
The boy was safe—this time.
Pierce leaned his head back against the cushion. How many this times had there been for him? How many escapes had he made down that very alley, his heart pounding so furiously he feared it might burst? How many almosts, when he’d nearly been caught?
For the two years following his flight from the workhouse, he’d survived on the streets, picking pockets, making his bed on piles of rags, stealing crusts of bread from Covent Garden in the pre-dawn hours. How many nights had he lain awake, weak to the point of delirium, shaking so violently with cold and loneliness and dread that death actually would have been welcome?
But life had prevailed. At least for him. He’d always been one hell of a gambler, steered by infallible instinct as he bet on everything from when a particular winter’s first snow would fall to who would receive the next whipping from Barrings. At the workhouse, his stakes had been food. In the streets, they became money. No longer mere sustenance, but survival.
And survive he had, doubling and tripling his stolen pound notes with each successful wager, earning the respect of London’s notorious thieves as he relieved them of their spoils, hoisting himself from the hopelessness of his plight.
Never forgetting that others hadn’t been so fortunate.
How many children had died, were still dying, on London’s thriving streets?
Lord, if he could only spare them that fate.
But even The Tin Cup Bandit’s stolen jewels together with Pierce’s acquired affluence weren’t enough. Hundreds of thousands of pounds were needed to reach the vast number of starving people. It was so bloody frustrating. If only he had greater influence, greater wealth, greater access—
Reality exploded like gunfire.
He did. Or rather, he would as the Duke of Markham.
Suddenly all vows of “never” faded as the monumental truth struck home. For years he’d sought ways to help. Now the ultimate opportunity was being handed to him with but a few annoying stipulations to impede his path. And he was turning his back on it? Was he mad?
Squelching the bitter protests still clamoring inside him, Pierce forced himself to weigh the facts with unemotional objectivity.
He was being offered a dukedom and all its privileges.
His refusal was based primarily in pride and deep-seated anger. That, and the repudiation of a way of life he abhorred.
The way of life—where was it written he had to emulate it?
If he’d learned anything from his years of poverty, he’d learned that titled wealth bred its own set of rules. Therefore, if the new Duke of Markham chose to mingle with riffraff, scandalously refuse the “right” invitations, and disburse his money in an unorthodox manner, who would dare challenge his eccentricity?
As for pride and anger, wouldn’t accepting the terms of the codicil appease both? After all, as the Duke of Markham he’d be accepted in the very houses he robbed, privy to the details of the aristocracy’s latest acquisitions, their most valuable jewels. He’d hear firsthand who’d won at Newmarket, played the highest stakes at White’s, invested wisely and well.
Consequently, the Tin Cup Bandit could escalate his number of burglaries, taking the ton by storm and utterly annihilating their fortunes. By combining the bandit’s spoils and his own allocated ten thousand pounds a week, Pierce could ensure that England’s workhouses thrived.
Not to mention the sheer joy of flaunting his newly acquired blue-blood status in Tragmore’s face and reminding the blackguard that a duke most emphatica
lly outranked a marquis.
Yes, the final victory would indeed be Pierce’s.
Conversely, what exactly would he be relinquishing?
Two years of his life. Two years to live at Markham’s wretched estate, run his businesses, direct his staff of servants. Two years to make his assets prosper.
Pierce lowered the bottle of whiskey thoughtfully. That task posed no foreseeable difficulty. After all, business ventures were his forte. He’d honed his investment skills over long, hungry years, ultimately earning a sizeable sum of his own. He’d make Markham’s bloody fortune flourish. In fact, he’d leave it healthier than ever. Two years hence, Markham’s assets would reach new heights, and his own commitment would be satisfied.
Not quite, Pierce reminded himself. In order to retain permanent access to the Markham fortune, he had also to produce an heir. A legitimate heir.
Which meant taking a wife.
Pierce frowned. The thought was distinctly unappealing. Given his double identity and his illegal missions, he needed his freedom. Hell, the Tin Cup Bandit notwithstanding, Pierce wanted his freedom. So whomever he selected as his duchess would have to tolerate his independence, at least for two years.
Two years? Pierce sat up with a start. Marriage couldn’t be negated as easily as business ventures. Even if his wife were willing to go her own way once she’d completed her task, she would be bound to him forever, bearing not only his name, but his child.
Daphne.
Her image came as naturally as the vision of her by his side, and Pierce felt his heart lift for the first time since the day’s madness had begun. Daphne—his wife, his duchess, the mother of his child.
An intrigued smile curved Pierce’s lips. Perhaps the notion of marriage was not so unattractive after all, he mused, digesting this new and fascinating possibility. If he had to be permanently tied to one woman, who but Daphne could fill that role?
Would Daphne want to fill that role? Even with the powerful pull that drew them together, it was far too soon for her to have considered anything as significant as marriage. And while Pierce was worldly enough to discern the rarity of what hovered between them, Daphne was young, inexperienced. So how could he expect her to comprehend the magnitude of what occurred when they met, spoke, touched?