A Stroke of Luck (11 page)

"Prestwick! It is about time you showed up. I vow, I thought you would
never
arrive!"

"There were moments, Aunt Hermione, when I felt the same way," murmured the duke as he bent to kiss his great aunt's cheek.

The dry irony of his words sailed right over her head. "You can afford to dawdle, luxuriating in the pleasures of London without a thought to the troubles others may be facing," she groused. "Hmmph! With all your well-tended estates and well-filled coffers, you need never worry, while some of us must face the prospect of being turned out of hearth and home." She gave a shake of her bejeweled lorgnette. "Really, I would have expected you to show a bit more concern about the fate of your family!"

An angry winking of emeralds and rubies nearly blinded him, clear evidence that the dowager Viscountess Farrington was hardly in danger of having to till the fields for her supper.

He gave an inward sigh, tempted to point out to her that as the manor house in which she now sat had never been hers in the first place, she could hardly complain of being in danger of losing hearth and home. However, after a moment's consideration, he discarded the notion as a waste of breath. Reason was a foreign concept to his late mother's aunt by marriage—as was the idea that her ducal relative was not personally responsible for any inconvenience that popped up in her life. Between the brisk efficiency of his man of affairs and the occasional draft from his bankers, he usually managed to deflect her more outrageous demands with a minimum of disruption to his own life.

Unfortunately, in this particular case, the involvement had been unavoidable.

This time, the sigh was an audible one. Much as the duke had been fond of his feckless Uncle Aubrey, he rued the day he had agreed to become involved in his convoluted personal affairs. Indeed, he did not even recall having done so! No doubt he had been preoccupied with his music, and had simply signed whatever paper had been waved under his nose.

That should teach him to pay more attention to practical matters, he thought wryly. Beginning with wills and travel plans.

"Prestwick!" Another loud greeting, this one a good deal more jovial than the first, interrupted the duke's reverie. "Knew you would turn up to put an end to this unpleasantness!"

As he had done on more than several occasions in Town when his cousin, the honorable Harold Greeley had gotten himself into some tawdry scrape.

The young man fancied himself quite a dashing young blade, with a flair for style and wit. He was sadly mistaken on both counts, thought Prestwick with a twinge of annoyance. Indeed, the duke went out of his way to see that their paths rarely crossed in Town.

"You see, Grandmama, I told you there was nothing to worry about," continued the baronet, giving another hearty pump of Prestwick's hand. "I say, Twick, is that a new variation of the Mathematical that you have devised?" He leaned in closer to inspect the snowy twist of linen. "Do promise me you'll teach me the knack of it, eh? My friends will be green with envy if I show up sporting the latest style devised by the Distinguished Duke."

Finding his cousin's compliments as oily as the Macassar dressing that anointed his carefully combed curls, the duke recoiled slightly and disengaged his fingers from the young man's grasp. "Harold," he murmured in curt greeting. "I am here, but I really have no idea what I am expected to do regarding the problem. I could make little sense of the letter from Uncle Aubrey's lawyer, other than to understand there is some question as to the inheritance."

"Fool!"

Prestwick wondered whether the epithet was meant as much for him as his uncle's longtime advisor.

"There should be no question at all," went on Lady Farrington. "Harold is quite clearly the next in line, while this other... person is nothing but an adventurer, come out of nowhere to present a patently false set of marriage lines in hopes of stealing away what is rightfully ours."

"Well, then, it sounds very forthright," replied the duke. "Things should be resolved in trice."

As he turned to pour himself a glass of sherry, he noted that Lady Farrington shifted uncomfortably in her chair. "Hmmph! You know the dratted legal profession. Those odious men are always wont to make things a good deal more complicated than they should be. You must do something, Prestwick."

His brow shot up. "And what is it I am supposed to do, Aunt Hermione, that a phalanx of trained legal experts cannot be counted on to accomplish?"

She gave an impatient wave of her hand. "Use your influence."

By that, he assumed she meant money.

"After all, a duke wields a great deal of power."

"Not the power to change the laws of the land," he said quietly. "If there is a legitimate challenge, it will have to be settled in the courts."

"But that is just it! The scoundrel is not legitimate! He is naught else but the by-blow of Henry's younger son."

"That should be easy enough to prove," replied the duke. He took a sip of the sherry, savoring both the nuttiness of the amber spirits and his great aunt's growing discomfiture. Although the names and nuances of her branch of the family tree were unfamiliar to him, he knew enough of her meddling ways to sense there was something havey-cavey at the root of this discussion. "Shouldn't it?"

Her cheeks turned a mottled red, but at a warning cough from her grandson, she fell silent with a moue of displeasure.

"Actually, Prestwick, what Grandmama means is, we were hoping you might help settle this private family matter quietly, without going through a long ordeal in the courts." He smiled. "I'm sure neither of us wants to get his hands dirty with the sordid details."

"Yes," snapped Lady Farrington. "We were counting on you to make them go away."

"Go away?" murmured the duke, feeling a trifle confused.

She held up the piece of paper that had been resting in her lap and shook it in the air. "That is what I have been trying to tell you, Prestwick! They are coming here!"

What the Devil was she talking about? he wondered.

Or, more precisely, whom?

Harold must have caught the crease of the duke's expression, for he hastened to explain. "Our lawyers had naturally advised the firm handling Uncle Aubrey's affairs to reject the other, er, claim out of hand. However, the upstart has apparently refused to take no for an answer. Grandmama just received a letter from our lawyers in London informing us that he is planning on arriving at Highwood Manor any day now, in order to present the so-called proof of his being next in line for the title and lands."

"You cannot imagine how extremely vexing it is!" sniffed Lady Farrington. "And extremely awkward. Especially at this particular time."

"And why is that?" inquired the duke, though he had a sneaking suspicion he was going to be sorry he asked.

"Oh, well, as to that..." She exchanged an uneasy glance with her grandson before pasting on a bright smile. "Knowing the sort of company and activities a gentleman of your refined tastes is used to in Town, we feared you might find it much too dull here in the country. Alas, Highwood Manor is too small to play host to a proper house party. So, I took the liberty of writing to one of your close acquaintances, who happens to own a large estate close by, suggesting that a gathering of your friends might be a welcome distraction. After all, the Season is almost at an end."

"Which friend?"

Her smile became more pronounced. "Lord Ellesmore."

Prestwick's fingers tightened upon the glass. Good Lord, this journey was fast becoming more hideous than a descent through Dante's twelve circles of hell.

His relative was always looking to further her own consequence, and that of her grandson, by using the family connection to a duke to gain admittance into the highest circles of the
ton
. But this was outside of enough. He had not imagined even she would have the audacity to try to ingratiate herself with such a notorious high stickler as the Marquess of Ellesmore.

Apparently he had underestimated her gall, he thought to himself. It was clear that she had gotten wind of the
ondits
flying about Town linking him with the eldest daughter and was looking to squeeze whatever advantage from it she could.

"You really should not have gone to the trouble," he said through gritted teeth.

"Oh, no trouble at all, Prestwick," assured Harold, missing the thinly veiled sarcasm in the duke's voice. He gave a knowing wink. "No doubt you would not wish to be away from the lovely Lady Catherine for too long a time, eh?"

Prestwick's features hardened at the show of unwelcome familiarity. He put down his drink and straightened to his full height before fixing the young man with his most freezing look. "I cannot imagine why you presume that, cousin."

"I-I thought... this is, I was under the impression..." stuttered the young man, his expression becoming far less certain under the duke's cold gaze. "Er, perhaps I was mistaken."

Without answering, Prestwick made a show of adjusting the set of his freshly starched cuff. His great aunt's mistake, he vowed to himself, was in thinking he could be twisted around her little finger like a piece of limp linen. In the past, he had tolerated the encroaching behavior of his relatives out of a sense of duty—and, if truth be told, because it had been easier to allow himself to be manipulated into allowing the occasional favor than to face an unpleasant scene. However, it suddenly bothered him greatly that they assumed he was too much of a coward to resist their machinations.

His fingers then moved to the single fob hanging from his watch chain, deliberately lingering over the ducal crest engraved upon its surface. "I applaud your discretion in putting off any sort of party here at Highwood, Aunt Hermione," he said softly. "At least until the legalities have been sorted out."

"B—but surely you cannot think we are in any danger of losing this all to a mere nobody?" Lady Farrington's voice was shrill enough to set the Staffordshire figurines on the side table to rattling.

"We shall just have to wait and see, won't we?"

* * *

"Straighten your jacket, Nonny." Zara ran a critical eye over her brothers. "And Perry, wipe the smudge of dirt from your cheek."

There was little she could do about the threadbare state of their attire, or the battered appearance of the hired cart that was slowly wending its way up the curved drive. However, she could ensure that the three of them approached the coming meeting with their chins up. Not, she reminded herself as she smoothed a crease from her faded muslin skirts, that first impressions would matter much. They were hardly going to be afforded a warm welcome—unless one counted the rather pointed hints contained in the last letter that suggested the three of them go straight to Hell.

The much-folded paper crackled in her pocket. Her relatives had made it clear through their solicitors that they would rather see her and her brothers go to the Devil than allow them to set foot on the disputed estate. However, after much prodding, her father's solicitor had admitted that Nonny had just as much right as they did to take up residence there until the dispute over the legitimacy of her father and mother's marriage lines had been settled. Mr. Behan had, however, gone on to advise her against such confrontation. Indeed, he had hinted that her only hope of ending up with so much as a penny was to accept the offer of a compromise.

Ha!
And Hell might freeze over! She and her brothers had come too far and endured too many hardships to be intimidated by power and privilege. If their rightful expectations were to be sunk upon the treacherous shoals of Society's intrigue and innuendo, she was determined not go down without putting up a good fight.

"Here you be." The driver was already urging the horse into a shuffling walk as she and her brothers scrambled down from the cart.

Zara paused no more than a fraction before marching up the steps and taking hold of the polished brass knocker.

The echoing raps died away into a lengthy silence.

"Er, perhaps no one is at home," said Nonny, shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other.

"Oh, they are home." She hammered out another flurry of knocks.

"What if they won't open the door?" Perry was staring at the thick oak paneling with some trepidation.

Seeing the uncertainty in their eyes caused her to push aside her own inner doubts. Her family had been adrift for far too long. Come Hell or high water, she refused to be denied the safe harbor that was theirs by all rights. "Then we shall go in by the windows," she said loudly. "Like we did on Genoa, when the innkeeper tried to lock us out of the room we had paid for."

"Right." Bucked up by her show of spirit, Nonny straightened his sagging shoulders. "That vine of wisteria looks able to hold my weight—"

Resorting to such extreme measures proved unnecessary as the hinges swung open with a sharp grating of metal on metal.

"Yes?" The butler's voice was just as rough-edged.

"The new Baron Kenworth has arrived."

Before the man could recover from his obvious shock, she elbowed her way past him.

"B-but..."

Zara put down the weathered canvas bag of her belongings with what she hoped was a show of nonchalance and began removing her tattered gloves. "Kindly have one of the maids take our things upstairs. Any of the bedchambers will do for tonight. On the morrow, we can choose our permanent quarters. Hot water for baths would be welcome as well." Ignoring the butler's feeble attempt to speak up, she gave an airy wave. "And please have tea brought around right away. It has been a long journey and we are quite famished."