Duke Of Darkness. Anabelle Bryant
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.
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