“He was a decade too late!” Ian gritted. “My father was the rightful heir, and that old bastard never relented until after he died.”
“I’m well aware of that. However, that’s not the point, Ian. You’ve lost the battle to remain distant from him. You must lose it with the grace and dignity of your noble lineage, as your father would have done. You are rightfully the next Duke of Stanhope. Nothing can really change that. Furthermore, I fervently believe your father would have forgiven the duke if he’d had the chance that you now have.”
In restless fury Ian shoved away from the wall. “I am not my father,” he snapped.
The vicar, fearing that Ian was vacillating, said pointedly, “There’s no time to lose. There’s every chance you may arrive at your grandfather’s only to be told he’s already done what he said he meant to do last week—name a new heir.”
“There’s an equally good chance I’ll be told to go to hell after my last letter to him.”
“Then, too,” said the vicar, “if you tary, you may arrive after Elizabeth’s wedding to this Belhaven.”
Ian hesitated an endless moment, and then he nodded curtly, shoved his hands into his pockets, and started reluctantly up the stairs.
“Ian?” he called after him.
Ian stopped and turned. “Now what?” he asked irritably.
“I’ll need directions to Elizabeth’s. You’ve changed brides, but I gather I’m still to have the honor of performing the ceremony in London?”
In answer his nephew nodded.
“You’re doing the right thing,” the vicar said quietly, unable to shake the fear that Ian’s anger would cause him to deliberately alienate the old duke. “Regardless of how your marriage turns out, you have no choice. You wreaked havoc in her life.”
“In more ways than you know,” Ian said tersely.
“What in God’s name does that mean?”
“I’m the reason her uncle is now her guardian,” he said with a harsh sigh. “Her brother didn’t leave to avoid debts or scandal, as Elizabeth evidently thinks.”
“You’re the cause? How could that be?”
“He called me out, and when he couldn’t kill me in a legitimate duel he tried twice more—on the road—and damned near accomplished his goal both times. I had him hauled aboard the Arianna and shipped off to the Indies to cool his heels.”
The vicar paled and sank down upon the sofa. “How could you do a thing like that?”
Ian stiffened under the unfair rebuke. “There were only two other alternatives—I could have let him blow a hole through my back, or I could have handed him over to the authorities. I didn’t want him hanged for his overzealous determination to avenge his sister, I just wanted him out of my way.”
“But two years!”
“He would have been back in less than one year, but the Arianna was damaged in a storm and put into San Delora for repairs. He jumped ship there and vanished. I assumed he’d made his way back here somehow. I had no idea,” he finished as he turned and started back up the stairs, “that he had never returned until you told me a few minutes ago.”
“Good God!” said the vicar. “Elizabeth couldn’t be blamed if she took it in her mind to hate you for this.”
“I don’t intend to give her the opportunity,” Ian replied in an implacable voice that warned his uncle not to interfere. “I’ll hire an investigator to trace him, and after I find out what’s happened to him, I’ll tell her.”
Duncan’s common sense went to battle with his conscience, and this time his conscience lost. “It’s probably the best way,” he agreed reluctantly, knowing how hard Elizabeth would undoubtedly find it to forgive Ian for yet another, and worse, transgression against her. “This all could have been so much easier,” he added with a sigh, “if you’d known sooner what was happening to Elizabeth. You have many acquaintances in English society; how is it they never mentioned it to you?”
“In the first place, I was away from England for almost a year after the episode. In the second place,” Ian added with contempt, “among what is amusingly called Polite Society, matters that concern you are never discussed with you. They are discussed with everyone else, directly behind your back if possible.”
Ian watched an inexplicable smile trace its way across his uncle’s face. “Putting their gossip aside, you find them an uncommonly proud, autocratic, self-assured group, is that it?”
“For the most part, yes,” Ian said shortly as he turned and strode up the stairs. When his door closed the vicar spoke to the empty room. “Ian,” he said, his shoulders beginning to shake with laughter, “you may as well have the title—you were born with the traits.”
After a moment, however, he sobered and lifted his eyes to the beamed ceiling, his expression one of sublime contentment. “Thank You,” he said in the direction of heaven. “It took You a rather long time to answer the first prayer,” he added, referring to the reconciliation with Ian’s grandfather, “but You were wonderfully prompt with the one for Elizabeth.”
18
It was nearly midnight four days later when Ian finally reached the White Stallion Inn. Leaving his horse with a hostler, he strode into the inn, past the common room filled with peasants drinking ale. The innkeeper, a fat man with a soiled apron around his belly, cast an appraising eye over Mr. Thornton’s expensively tailored charcoal jacket and dove-gray riding breeches, his hard face and powerful physique, and wisely decided it wasn’t necessary to charge his guest for the room in advance—something at which the gentry occasionally took offense.
A minute later, after Mr. Thornton had ordered a meal sent to his room, the innkeeper congratulated himself on the wisdom of that decision, because his new guest inquired about the magnificent estate belonging to an illustrious local noble.
“How far is it to Stanhope Park?”
“ ’Bout an hour’s ride, gov’ner.”
Ian hesitated, debating whether to arrive there in the morning unannounced and unexpected or to send a message. “I’ll need a message brought there in the morning,” he said after a hesitation.
“I’ll have my boy take it there personal. What time will you be wantin’ it taken over t’ Stanhope Park?”
Ian hesitated again, knowing there was no way to avoid it. “Ten o’clock.”
* * *
Standing alone in the inn’s private parlor the next morning, Ian ignored the breakfast that had been put out for him long ago and glanced at his watch. The messenger had been gone for three hours—almost a full hour more than it should have taken him to return with a message from Stanhope, if there was going to be a message. He put his watch away and walked over to the fireplace, moodily slapping his riding gloves against his thigh. He had no idea if his grandfather was at Stanhope or if the old man had already named another heir and would now refuse to see Ian in retaliation for all the gestures of reconciliation Ian had rebuffed in the last decade. With each minute that passed Ian was more inclined to believe the latter.
Behind him the innkeeper appeared in the doorway and said, “My boy hasn’t yet returned, though there’s been time aplenty. I’ll have to charge ye extra, Mr. Thornton, if he don’t return within the hour.”
Ian glanced at the innkeeper over his shoulder and made a sublime effort not to snap the man’s head off. “Have my horse saddled and brought round,” he replied curtly, not certain exactly what he meant to do now. He’d actually have preferred a public flogging to writing that curt message to his grandfather in the first place. Now he was being brushed off like a supplicant, and that infuriated him.
Behind him the innkeeper frowned at Ian’s back with narrowed, suspicious eyes. Ordinarily male travelers who arrived without private coach or even a valet were required to pay for their rooms when they arrived. In this instance the innkeeper hadn’t demanded advance payment because this particular guest had spoken with the clipped, authoritative accents of a wealthy gentleman and because his riding clothes bore the unmistakable stamp of elegant cloth and custom tailoring.
Now, however, with Stanhope Park refusing even to answer the man’s summons, the innkeeper had revised his earlier estimation of the worth of his guest, and he was bent on stopping the man from trying to mount his horse and galloping off without paying his blunt.
Belatedly noting the innkeeper’s continued presence, Ian pulled his scowling gaze from the empty grate. “Yes, what is it?”
“It’s yer tick, gov’ner. I’ll be wantin’ payment now.”
His greedy eyes widened in surprise as his guest extracted a fat roll of bills, yanked off enough to cover the cost of the night’s lodgings, and thrust it at him.
Ian waited thirty minutes more and then faced the fact that his grandfather wasn’t going to reply. Furious at having wasted valuable time, he strode out of the parlor, deciding to ride to London and try to buy Elizabeth’s uncle’s favor. His attention on pulling on his riding gloves, he strode through the common room without noticing the sudden tension sweeping across it as the rowdy peasants who’d been drinking ale at the scarred tables turned to gape in awed silence at the doorway. The innkeeper, who’d only moments before eyed Ian as if he might steal the pewter, was now standing a few feet away from the open front door, staring at Ian with slackened jaw. “My lord!” he burst out, and then, as if words had failed him completely, the stout man made a sweeping gesture toward the door.
Ian’s gaze shifted from the last button on his glove to the innkeeper, who was now bowing reverently, then snapped to the doorway, where two footmen and a coachman stood at rigid attention, clad in formal livery of green and gold.
Unconcerned with the peasants’ gaping stares, the coachman stepped forward, bowed deeply to Ian, and cleared his throat. In a grave, carrying voice he repeated a message from the duke that could leave no doubt in Ian’s mind about his grandfather’s feelings toward him or his unexpected visit: “His Grace the Duke of Stanhope bade me to extend his warmest greetings to the Marquess of Kensington . . . and to say that he is most eagerly awaiting your convenience at Stanhope Park.”
By instructing the coachman to address Ian as the Marquess of Kensington the duke had just publicly informed Ian and everyone else in the inn that the title was now—and would continue to be—Ian’s. The public gesture was beyond anything Ian had anticipated, and it proved two things to him simultaneously: first, that his grandfather bore him no ill will for repeatedly rejecting his peace offerings; second, that the wily old man was still keen enough in his mind to have sensed that victory was now in his grasp.
That irritated Ian, and with a curt nod at the coachman he strode past the gaping villagers, who were respectfully tipping their caps to the man who’d just been publicly identified as the duke’s heir. The vehicle waiting in the inn yard was another testament to his grandfather’s eagerness to welcome him home in style: Instead of a carriage and horse he’d sent the closed coach with a team of four handsome horses decked out in silver trappings.
It occurred to Ian that this grand gesture might be his grandfather’s way of treating Ian as a long-awaited and much-loved guest, but he refused to dwell on that possibility. He had not come to be reunited with his grandfather; he had come to accept the title that had been his father’s. Beyond that, he wanted nothing whatever to do with the old man.
Despite his cold detachment, Ian felt an odd sensation of unreality as the coach pulled through the gates and swept along the drive of the estate that his father had called home until his marriage at the age of twenty-three. Being here made him feel uncharacteristically nostalgic, and at the same time it increased his loathing for the tyrannical aristocrat who’d deliberately disowned his own son and cast him out of this place. With a critical eye he looked over the neatly tended parkland and the sprawling stone mansion with chimneys dotting the roof. To most people Stanhope Park would look very grand and impressive; to Ian it was an old, sprawling estate, probably badly in need of modernization, and not nearly as lovely as the least of his own.
The coach drew up before the front steps, and before Ian alighted, the front door was already being opened by an ancient, thin butler clad in the usual black. Ian’s father had rarely spoken of his own father, nor of the estate and possessions he’d left behind, but he had talked often and freely of those servants of whom he was particularly fond. As he ascended the steps Ian looked at the butler and knew he had to be Ormsley. According to Ian’s father, it was Ormsley who’d found him secretly sampling Stanhope’s best French brandy in a hayloft when he was ten years old. It was also Ormsley who took the blame for the missing brandy—and its priceless decanter—by confessing to drinking it himself and misplacing the decanter in his inebriated state.
At the moment Ormsley looked on the verge of tears as his damp, faded blue eyes roved almost lovingly over Ian’s face. “Good afternoon, my lord,” he intoned formally, but the ecstatic expression on his face gave Ian the impression the servant was restraining himself from wrapping his arms around him. “And—and may I say—” The elderly man stopped, his voice hoarse with emotion, and cleared his throat. “And may I say how very—how very very good it is to have you here at—” His voice choked, he flushed, and Ian’s ire at his grandfather was momentarily forgotten.
“Good afternoon, Ormsley,” Ian said, grinning at the look of sublime pleasure that crossed Ormsley’s lined face when Ian knew his name. Sensing the butler was about to bow again, Ian put out his hand instead, forcing the loyal retainer to shake hands with him. “I trust,” Ian joked gently, “that you’ve conquered your habit of overindulging in French brandy?”
The faded old eyes brightened like diamonds at this added proof that Ian’s father had spoken of him to Ian.
“Welcome home. Welcome home at last, my lord,” Ormsley said hoarsely, returning Ian’s handshake.
“I’m only staying a few hours,” Ian told him calmly, and the butler’s hand went a little limp with disappointment. He recovered himself, however, and escorted Ian down a wide, oak-paneled hall. A small army of footmen and housemaids seemed to be lurking about, ostensibly dusting mirrors, paneling, and floors. As Ian passed, several of them stole long, lingering looks at him, then turned to exchange swift, gratified smiles. His mind on the looming meeting with his grandfather, Ian was oblivious to the searching scrutiny and startled glances he was receiving, but he was dimly aware that a few of the servants were hastily dabbing at their eyes and noses with handkerchiefs.
Ormsley headed toward a pair of double doors at the end of a long hall, and Ian kept his mind perfectly blank as he braced himself for his first meeting with his grandfather. Even as a boy he’d refused to permit himself the weakness of thinking about his relative, and on those rare occasions when he had contemplated the man he’d always imagined him as looking rather like his father, a man of average height with light brown hair and brown eyes. Ormsley threw open the doors to the study with a flourish, and Ian strode forward, walking toward the chair where a man was leaning upon a cane and arising with some difficulty. Now, as the man finally straightened and faced him, Ian felt an almost physical shock: Not only was he as tall as Ian’s own 6’2”; to his inner disgust, Ian realized that his own face bore a startling resemblance to the duke’s, whereas he’d scarcely resembled his own sire at all. It was, in fact, eerily like looking at a silver-haired, older version of his own face.
The duke was studying him, too, and apparently reached the same conclusion, although his reaction was diametrically opposite: He smiled slowly, sensing Ian’s ire at the discovery of their resemblance to each other. “You didn’t know?” he asked in a strong baritone voice very like Ian’s.
“No,” Ian said shortly, “I didn’t.”
“I have the advantage of you, then,” the duke said, leaning on his cane, his eyes searching Ian’s face much as the butler’s had done. “You see, I did know.”
Ian stolidly ignored the mistiness he saw in those amber eyes. “I’ll be brief and to the point,” he began, but his grandfather held up a long, aristocratic hand.
“Ian, please,
” he said gruffly, nodding to the chair across from him. “I’ve waited for this moment for more years than you can imagine. Do not deprive me, I implore you, of an old man’s pleasure at welcoming home his prodigal grandson.”
“I haven’t come here to heal the family breach,” Ian snapped. “Were it up to me, I’d never have set foot in this house!”
His grandfather stiffened at his tone, but the duke’s voice was carefully mild. “I assume you’ve come to accept what is rightfully yours,” he began, but an imperious female voice made Ian swing around toward the sofa, where two elderly ladies were sitting, their fragile bodies all but engulfed by the plump cushions. “Really, Stanhope,” one of them said in a surprisingly sturdy voice, “how can you expect the boy to be civil when you’ve quite forgotten your own manners? You haven’t even bothered to offer him refreshment, or to acknowledge our presence to him.” A thin smile touched her lips as she regarded a startled Ian. “I am your great-aunt Hortense,” she advised him with a regal inclination of her head. “We met in London some years back, though you obviously do not recognize me.”
Having met his two great-aunts only once, purely by accident, Ian had neither animosity nor affection for either of them. He bowed politely to Hortense, who tipped her head toward the elderly gray-haired lady beside her, who seemed to be dozing, her head drooping slightly forward. “And this person, you may recall, is my sister Charity, your other great-aunt, who has again dozed off as she so often does. It’s her age, you understand.”
The little gray head snapped up, and blue eyes popped open, leveling on Hortense in wounded affront. “I’m only four little years older than you, Hortense, and it’s very mean-spirited of you to go about reminding everyone of it,” she cried in a hurt voice; then she saw Ian standing in front of her, and a beatific smile lit her face. “Ian, dear boy, do you remember me?”
“Certainly, ma’am,” Ian began courteously, but Charity interrupted him as she turned a triumphant glance on her sister. “There, you see, Hortense—he remembers me, and it is because, though I may be just a trifle older than you, I have not aged nearly so much as you in the last years! Have I?” she asked, turning hopefully to Ian.