The Dutiful Duke Page 13

  "What is its name?" Amanda demanded with delight. "Is it pretty?"

  "I do not know since I haven't seen it," he answered patiently. "As to the pony's name, that is for you to decide. It is the owner's responsibility to name her mount."

  "Then I shall call her Pegasus," Amanda announced with a decisive nod. "What is your horse called, Uncle?"

  "Mahdi," he answered, smiling at the memory of his hot-tempered Arabian bay. "It is an Arabic word meaning 'one who is rightly guided.' It is not, I fear, a fitting name for such a stubborn and willful beast. Mind you don't go near him unless I am with you," he warned, well acquainted now with her penchant for mischief. "He's dangerous."

  "Yes, sir," Amanda agreed, playing with the folds of his cravat. "Uncle Wyatt, may I ask you a question?"

  He tensed, sensing the conversation was about to change, and in a direction he might not like. Amanda wouldn't look him in the eyes, and that alarmed him more than anything. He slipped a gentle hand beneath her chin and tilted her face up to his.

  "You may ask me anything you want, Amanda, whenever you wish," he said quietly, his eyes meeting hers. "I promise I will always answer. All right?"

  She nodded solemnly. "All right."

  "What is it, poppet?"

  "Why did you hate my mama?"

  He stared at her in shock. "What?"

  She gave an uncomfortable shrug. "My aunt said you did," she insisted, her bottom lip quivering. "She said you didn't want us, and that we mustn't bother you. The man who visited us said it, too."

  "What man?" Wyatt demanded, feeling as if he'd just walked into the middle of a play in which the performers were speaking some unknown tongue he was expected to decipher.

  "That man," Amanda repeated with marked patience. "He came to our house before Mama died, and he said bad things to her and made her cry. I hate him." She added this last with a fierce scowl that was a perfect imitation of Wyatt's own.

  "If he made your mama cry, I do not blame you," Wyatt said, giving her a distracted pat. "What did this man look like? Can you describe him to me?"

  Amanda frowned, squeezing her eyes shut. "He was tall," she said thoughtfully, "and he had funny hair. It was black like yours, but it had white in it, too. And he wore spectacles," she added, her eyes opening. "He kept polishing them when he was talking to Mama and my aunt."

  A cold fist of rage slammed into Wyatt's stomach at Amanda's artless description. "I see," he said at last, his voice tight with the effort of maintaining control. "When did this happen, Amanda? Do you remember?"

  "It was after Papa died. I heard Aunt telling my mama it was because his fence was broken."

  "His fence was broken?" Wyatt repeated, wondering if he had missed something.

  Amanda nodded. "Uh-huh."

  Wyatt continued to try to fathom what she meant. "Mend his fence?" he asked, her meaning finally becoming clear. "Your aunt said the man came to see you so that he could mend his fences?"

  "Yes, I heard her say it was time his nibs got off his high horse and mended his fences, and that blood was thicker than water." Her face clouded over as a sudden though occurred to her. "Is his nibs that man's name? It sounds dreadfully silly to me."

  "No, Amanda," Wyatt told her, his cold voice giving no indication of the white-hot fury simmering within him. "That is not the man's name."

  "Oh." She considered his reply. "Do you know who he is, then?"

  Wyatt's answering smile was chilling. "Yes, poppet. It appears that I know exactly who he is."

  "If Your Grace would but wait one moment, I can explain everything," Duncan Elliott said, his cultured voice smooth as he studied Wyatt over the rims of his spectacles. "This is nothing more than an unfortunate misunderstanding, I assure you."

  "There's been a misunderstanding, all right, and you're the one who made it!" Wyatt snapped, his eyes filled with contempt as he paced the elegant confines of the office.

  He'd come to Elliott's rooms directly from the Portham Academy, where he'd spent the morning questioning Mrs. Langston. The knowledge of how badly he'd been betrayed by a man he trusted had left him reeling. In addition to the messages from the academy which Elliott had kept from him, there had been several letters from Amanda's mother informing him of her situation. He had still been recovering from that shock when the schoolmistress had let slip one final bit of information.

  According to Amanda's aunt, Christopher had written him shortly before being posted to America, apparently hoping to mend the breach between them. From the dates Mrs. Langston gave, Wyatt realized he'd either been in the country or at his lodge in Scotland at the times the letters were mailed, and that they had been forwarded to Elliott with the rest of his correspondence.

  "I realize you are upset, Lord Tilton." Mr. Elliott had removed his spectacles and was wiping them with his handkerchief. "But you must understand that I was acting only in your best interests. I don't know what this foolish schoolteacher told you, but—"

  "She told me Christopher tried to contact me!" Wyatt roared, the pain of it almost more than he could bear. "He wrote me, damn you, and you kept his letters from me!"

  "I was protecting you from his importuning!" For the first time a note of panic was evident in the solicitor's demeanor. "He had squandered his inheritance and was demanding more!"

  "My God, do you think a few pounds mattered to me?" Wyatt balled his hands into fists. "He was my brother, and had he asked it of me, I'd have signed the entire estate over to him without a word of protest."

  "Perhaps he had better claim to it."

  Wyatt's head jerked back at the poisonous words. "What the devil do you mean by that?"

  A look of cold cunning flickered across Elliott's harsh features and was gone. "Why nothing, Your Grace," he replied, his dark eyes enigmatic. "I was but observing that second sons often want more than is good for them."

  Wyatt gave the solicitor a sharp look, suspecting he was lying. It was there in his smooth voice, and in the calculating smile that played about the corners of his mouth. It was as if he was privy to the black secret that had haunted Wyatt through most of his life, and for a moment he was strongly tempted to shake the truth from Elliott. He even took a menacing step forward before his common sense reasserted itself.

  Don't be an idiot, he told himself harshly, slowly unclenching his hands. Of course Elliott didn't know the truth. How could he? Even he didn't know what the truth of his parentage was. But the man had lied to him, and because of that Wyatt fixed him with a cold look.

  "You may consider our association at an end," he told the solicitor, turning his back on him as he crossed the room to gather up his hat and gloves from a chair. "I will have my man of business pay you whatever sums you may still be owed."

  Elliott's face lost its fatuous smile. "Your Grace?"

  Wyatt settled his hat on his head. "I told you once what I would do if I discovered you had deceived me," he said, pulling on his gloves. "Be grateful I don't do worse."

  The chair clattered to the floor as Elliott pushed himself to his feet. "Curse you, you can't do this!" he raged.

  Elliott's audacity brought a dangerous look to Wyatt's eyes. "I am warning you, Elliott, you had best mind your tongue," he said, his voice soft with menace. "I've no desire to strike a man so many years my senior, but I won't be spoken to in such a fashion."

  "You won't be spoken to in such a fashion?" Elliott repeated, his lips twisting in a sneer. "And who are you to be demanding anything of me?"

  Wyatt's heart began hammering. "I am the duke of Tilton," he said coldly, wondering again just what Elliott knew. He felt as if he was on the edge of a dangerous precipice, and the worst part was not knowing if he should step back . . . or forward.

  "Are you? Are you really so sure of that, Your Grace?" Elliott turned the term of respect into the vilest of insults.

  Abruptly Wyatt tired of the cat-and-mouse game Elliott was playing. He moved forward without warning, grabbing the other man by the front of his jacket. Everything
, even his grief and fury over Christopher, was forgotten in his determination to know, at last, the truth he had been seeking all his life.

  "Tell me the truth, blast you!" he demanded, shaking the solicitor as a terrier would shake a rat. "Am I a Perryvale?"

  Duncan gazed into Wyatt's face, his eyes full of hatred and triumph as he slowly smiled. "No," he said softly, "you are not."

  Chapter 9

  Wyatt stared at him, his hands falling useless at his side as the solicitor's taunting words rang in his head. A crude oath formed on his lips and he whirled away, stalking over to the row of arched windows that dominated the far wall. He stood looking down at the noisy street with unseeing eyes, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths while he sought to control the emotional storm raging inside him. Now that he'd heard what he'd always suspected, it was as if he'd been laid open by a broad sword, and the pain and vulnerability were almost unbearable.

  When had he first suspected? he wondered bleakly. Had it been the first time he'd looked down at his infant brother's face and heard the whispered comments about "true" Perryvales? Or had it been when he was six and he'd heard his mother taunting his father with her many affairs? He'd been too young then to fully comprehend her meaning, but he'd known a hurt and a dread that had never left him. He had always wondered, always feared, and now he knew. He knew . . .

  He turned to face Elliott, his expression carefully controlled. "How long have you known?" he asked, his voice devoid of emotion.

  Elliott's eyes were filled with malicious pleasure. "Longer than you may suspect," he said smugly.

  "And how did you come by this knowledge?" Wyatt demanded, fighting the urge to plant his fist in Elliott's face. "Did my father tell you?"

  Elliott gave a harsh laugh. "Hardly," he said, and Wyatt wondered at the enmity in his voice. "I never had the privilege of meeting the duke. But I assure you, my information comes from an impeccable source."

  "Who?"

  There was a long silence as Elliott studied him. "I don't believe I shall tell you," he said at last, venom dripping from his voice. "At least, not until I am ready."

  Such blatant insolence made Wyatt take a step forward. "I am warning you, Elliott," he began in a harsh voice, "you had best tell me what I want to know, or—"

  "Or what?" Elliott interrupted with a mocking laugh. "You're hardly in any position to utter threats . . . Your Grace. Only think what will happen to your safe, secure little world if I decide to tell the truth."

  Wyatt stopped, his face paling not with fright, but with fury. Whether he was a Perryvale or not, he still had his pride, and he was damned if he'd let an overweening mushroom like Elliott bully him. He drew himself up to his considerable height, fixing the solicitor with a contemptuous look.

  "You may tell the world what you please, for all the good it will do you," he said coldly. "Without proof there is nothing you can do. I, on the other hand, can do you a great deal of harm, and with very little effort. Something you would do well to remember, Mr. Elliott."

  Elliott's face flushed a dark, angry red. "Bastard!" He spat out the word like a challenge.

  Wyatt smiled coldly. "Apparently," he said, masking his pain behind a show of indifference, "but I am a bastard the world accepts as the duke of Tilton. Cross me again, and I will destroy you."

  After leaving the solicitor's office, Wyatt returned to his home on Berkeley Square. As he expected, the house was in chaos, and he was able to slip unobserved into his study. Once inside he poured himself a glass of brandy and swallowed it in a gulp before pouring another. The liquor burned its way down his throat, bringing a warm glow to his stomach. He was raising the glass to his lips for another sip when he remembered the gentle admonishment Ambrose had given him the night he had learned of Amanda's existence.

  "I know you miss Christopher, but you'll not find him in the bottom of a brandy bottle however hard you may try."

  He closed his eyes as pain exploded in him, and he hurled the glass against the wall. It shattered into a hundred shards, and he took comfort in the small act of destruction. When he opened his eyes again, they were dark with despair.

  He remembered what Mrs. Langston had told him, and his chest squeezed tight with pain. Christopher had not hated him; the thought was almost as sweet as it was agonizing. His brother had tried to end their quarrel prior to sailing for America, but due to Elliott's machinations the letters had been kept from him.

  Why? he wondered bleakly. Why should Elliott hate him so? And the solicitor did hate him, he acknowledged with a heavy sigh. It had shone in his dark eyes, and in the contempt dripping from his voice as he'd taunted him about his irregular birth. What could he have done to earn such enmity?

  He was still wrestling with these questions and what he should do when there was a tap at the door. At his command, Nia entered.

  "Good afternoon, Your Grace," she said, hurrying forward to greet him, a list clasped in her hand. "I was wondering if I might have a word with you."

  "Certainly, ma'am," he said, hiding his emotions as he indicated one of the many chairs. "Pray, will you not be seated?"

  Nia accepted the chair, her gaze flying to Wyatt's face. He sounded as composed as ever, but her instincts told her something was amiss. "Is everything all right, my lord?" she asked, studying him anxiously. "You haven't learned anything else about the men who attacked Lady Amanda, have you?"

  "No more than we already knew," he answered, wishing he could tell her about the confrontation with Elliott. He longed to share his pain and confusion with someone, but everything was still too fresh, and in any case, it wasn't really her concern. To keep himself from blurting everything out, he turned the conversation to what he considered a safe topic.

  "Speaking of Amanda, how is she?" he asked, leaning back in his chair. "She hasn't had a relapse or some such thing?"

  "Amanda is fine," Nia assured him, wondering what he was hiding from her. "She is quite recovered, and driving us all mad with her demands to be let out of bed. The move has her beside herself with anticipation. Something about a pony, I believe?" She arched an eyebrow at him in a teasing manner.

  "I had my steward purchase her a suitable mount," Wyatt explained, narrowing his eyes as he studied her. He thought she looked tired, and regretted asking her to assist with the move. He might have known she would take on more than was good for her.

  "That would explain it, then." Nia accepted his statement with a light laugh. "She says she has named it Pegasus."

  "A fitting name for a horse," Wyatt agreed. "It will be interesting to see what you will name the mount I have decided to purchase for you," he added, then settled back to watch her reaction. She did not disappoint him.

  "My mount?" Nia jerked her head up. "You bought me a horse?"

  He inclined his head. "Since my mother died a number of years ago, there were no mounts at Perryvale suitable for a lady. I instructed Ferguson to purchase a mare for you so that you could accompany Amanda on her rides."

  Nia glared at him, knowing she had been neatly outmaneuvered. By telling her the horse was being provided so that she could ride with Amanda, he had made refusing the animal impossible, and if the complacent gleam in his ebony eyes was any indication, the wretch knew it. For a moment she toyed with the idea of refusing anyway, but she dismissed the notion with a sigh of regret. Given yesterday's events, such behavior would be juvenile at best, and she forced a grateful smile to her lips.

  "That is very good of you, Your Grace," she said, her teeth clenching with the effort. "I have missed riding very much, and I shall look forward to a nice gallop."

  Wyatt was well-bred enough not to gloat. "You must let me ride with you," he said, wisely hiding a smile. "Perryvale is lovely in late spring, and I would like to show you about."

  "I shall look forward to it, my lord," Nia answered, wondering if he would look as handsome in riding clothes as he did in morning dress. The thought was most disconcerting, and she hastily lowered her eyes to the forgotten
list in her hand.

  "I have all of Amanda's things packed," she began with brisk efficiency, "and both Mrs. Mayton and I are certain we shall have all in readiness by tomorrow. Will you be traveling to Perryvale with us, or separately?"

  The question made Wyatt frown. "With you, of course," he said coolly. "Do you think that after yesterday I would allow either you or Amanda out of my sight?"

  Nia was disconcerted to hear herself included in his vow of protection. "Certainly I knew you would be making the journey with us," she replied, hiding her confusion behind a hasty smile. "I was merely wondering if you would be riding in the carriage with us. Mrs. Mayton mentioned you usually take several coaches with you when you travel."

  "I will ride with you for the most of the journey," he said, accepting her explanation without argument. "I'm bringing my stallion back with me, and I'll ride him part of the way. Traveling in coaches doesn't always agree with me, and I don't wish to disgrace myself," he added with a self-conscious shrug.

  Nia was intrigued by his wry comment. Most men of her acquaintance would die sooner than admit to such a weakness, and she admired him for his honesty. "What time do you wish to set out?" she asked, turning her attention to her list. "According to Mrs. Mayton, Perryvale is a good six hours' drive from London, and we will need to leave early if we wish to arrive by dinner. Unless you prefer to spend the night on the road?"

  "We will leave directly after breakfast," he said firmly. "I detest public inns, and I've no desire to expose Amanda to their dangers at her tender age."

  They spent the next quarter hour going over the other items on the list. At last everything was arranged to Nia's satisfaction. There was only one more matter left to discuss, and much as she hated upsetting the duke, Nia knew she had no choice. Setting the list aside, she folded her hands in her lap and drew a steady breath.

  "You Grace, might I ask you something?"