By Hazel Statham
Digital ISBN
Kindle 978-1-77299-434-6
EPUB 978-1-77299-472-8
Copyright by Hazel Statham 2014
Cover art by Michelle Lee
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
London, January 1812
The candles burned brightly in the sconces set about the smoke-filled gaming room of Regan’s, the latest and most fashionable gaming hell to open its doors to the cream of London society. The clock in the main entrance hall had struck the hour of four some while since and still a small crowd stood transfixed about the table occupied by the two gamesters. All other play had been suspended and an air of hushed expectancy filled the room.
“Is it Lear’s intention to break the boy?” whispered a small dandy to his companion. “I swear I’ve never seen him play so deep. It’s a devilishly one-sided game, and still his luck holds.”
A fellow spectator, who craned his neck the better to view the game in progress, turned sharply and admonished him to “Hush!”
Placing his cards on the table, Robert Blake, Duke of Lear, drew the pile of notes and gold coins toward him, adding them to the already considerable amount that lay on the green baize. His countenance remained impassive, his mood unreadable.
Lord Julian Harwood, the young man who sat opposite him, ran his finger nervously around his neck cloth, his handsome young visage appearing flushed in the bright candlelight. Taking a handkerchief from his pocket, he mopped his perspiring brow, eyeing his opponent with a great deal of resentment.
“Enough?” queried the duke indifferently. “Do you find yourself out of funds?”
“You need not concern yourself, I have funds enough,” replied Harwood, straightening in his chair and feigning nonchalance.
His grace collected the cards and shuffled them with an experienced hand. “You appear surprisingly eager to squander your inheritance my young friend.”
The scowl on the young lord’s brow deepened perceptively. “Damn you, Lear, just deal the cards and save your concerns for those who would value them. I do not!”
There was an almost tangible tension in the room and a murmur ran amongst the spectators. Sir Richard Austin, a tall, fair-haired man of fashion with pleasing features, placed his hand on the duke’s shoulder and bent to whisper into his friend’s ear. “Have done, Robert. It does no good to fleece the boy.”
The duke gave him no answer, but returned to the game in hand. A waiter shouldered his way to the duke’s side and prepared to replace the bottle of brandy at his elbow, but his grace, wishing for no diversion from the cards, waved him aside with an impatient hand.
Lord Harwood finally won a hand and an appreciative murmur ran through the spectators. Throwing his cards onto the table, he turned triumphantly toward the duke. “As you see, Lear, I come about. My luck has finally changed. Look to yourself now, sir.”
His grace bowed slightly in return and replied in his cool way, “May I suggest that we call a halt to the play for this evening? It will give you the chance to recoup your resources. However, should you desire a rematch; I will place myself at your disposal at any given time or place.”
“I desire no rematch, sir,” his lordship responded hotly, his face turning an unhealthy shade of puce. “We will have this matter over with now. You must and will give me the opportunity to come about. You owe me that at least.” In a show of bravado, he leaned back in his chair, straightening his shoulders. “I suggest that we stake all on one final hand. Or is it that now you see that the luck runs in my direction, you have no nerve for the game?”
Murmured comments were heard amongst the spectators, exclaiming at the scarcely veiled insult, but his grace appeared without interest. “Whatever you wish. It matters not to me. Either way I am willing to oblige.”
Sir Richard, standing behind his friend, uttered an admonitory comment and the duke turned sharply in his chair to face him. “Have done, Rick. I know what I’m at. If my play is not to your liking, then you are not compelled to stay to witness it.”
“Well I don’t like it, I don’t like it above half,” replied Sir Richard in reproving undertones.
The duke’s attention was recalled to the table as Harwood dealt the cards and a hush once more fell over the hardy few onlookers who remained. The cards were played and when the duke finally placed his hand face-upwards upon the table, Harwood sat back, his once flushed countenance now deathly pale.
An excited hum of comments erupted amongst the spectators as the young lord reached for a scrap of paper and wrote out his final note of hand.
Pushing away his chair, he rose unsteadily to his feet and, thrusting out his arm, let the note drop to the table. “I wish you good night, sir,” he said, bowing stiffly and, turning on his heel, he made his departure. Those spectators who witnessed his leaving did so with mixed emotions, not least of all Sir Richard.
* * *
The cold grey light of dawn was breaking over the skyline when the two friends left Regan’s portals. Sir Richard shivered and drew his satin-lined cloak closer about his slim figure as he entered the waiting coach, but the Duke of Lear seemed impervious to the sharp frost in the air. The indifferent street lighting revealed him to be a tall, athletic man in his early thirties, with dark hair cut fashionably short, almost aquiline nose and a wide, well-shaped mouth. However, it was the eyes, set beneath slightly winged brows, which took the face out of the ordinary. They were of a particular shade of green that often mirrored his emotions and when lit by a rare smile, completely transformed his austere visage. Few however, ever having had the privilege of viewing this transformation.
Entering the carriage, he cast aside his cloak and cane and lounged back against the velvet squabs, rocking only slightly as his coachman sprung the horses in the deserted streets.
The duke made himself more comfortable, easing his position slightly so that his powerful shoulders rested against the corner of the coach. He stretched his long legs before him, his hands thrust deep into his pockets.
Although the interior was deep in shadow, in the fitful light of a passing lantern he became aware of his friend’s frowning scrutiny, sensing rather than seeing that Sir Richard’s eyes never left his face.
The Duke of Lear’s dark countenance remained impassive. “It would seem that once more I incur your displeasure, Rick,” he drawled. “Of late I can do naught else. Tell me, what despicable deed have I performed now?”
“Damn you, Robert, you’re a cold fish, make no mistake,” Sir Richard expostulated. “I suppose you will tell me you didn’t realize that you have taken young Harwood for every farthing he possesses?”
“As much as that?” the duke responded, raising his brow. “I hadn’t thought to keep a strict tally. I’m obliged that you did. I take it then that my winnings are considerable, as the Harwood estates are extensive.”
“Nom de Dieu!Surely you realized when you were taking his notes of hand how matters stood. How could you have allowed the play to become so deep?”
“My dear Rick, you talk as if it was I who forced the odds, but I can assure you, you wrong me. It was Harwood’s suggestion that the bank should play so high.”
“A young pup fresh on the town. You could give him ten years, Robert. Ten years of experience…”
“Experience that cost me dearly,” purred the duke. He took a snuffbox from his pocket and traced the design with a long slender finger devoid of rings. “However, it is here that I must disillusion you, my dear friend. My motives are not as worthy of contempt as you believe them to be. Now I will explain...”
Sir Richard would have spoken, but Robert raised a hand to silence him. “Hear me out and then you will understand my actions,” he ordered shortly. He paused slightly before recommencing in a more even tone. “When I was just such a callow youth of four and twenty, but recently come into my fortune and fresh on the town, I found myself in exactly the same straits. However, the hand that fleeced me belonged to a hardened gamester, a hawk, whose sole purpose was to relieve me of my inheritance. In Harwood, I saw history preparing to repeat itself and I determined that if he were of a mind to dispose so readily of his fortune it would be preferable that he relinquish it to me than to some less principled gamester. In fact, the type of hawk whom I fell prey to, whose main aim is to target the young and inexperienced. It is not my intention to keep my winnings. Indeed, once he has had time to reflect on his stupidity all will be returned to its rightful owner and he will be that much the wiser for the experience. I managed to come about, believe me, so read me no lectures on that head, my friend.” He paused before adding in his deepest tones, “I would have hoped that you had more faith in me than to believe me capable of such infamous dealings. Obviously I was wrong.”
“I cannot say that I approve of your methods, for fact is I don’t,” Sir Richard said with some force, appearing unrepentant of misreading his friend’s actions. “You’ve changed, Robert. God how you’ve changed!” He watched the duke as he flicked open the lid of his snuffbox and, with an elegant turn of the wrist, partook of its contents, then he continued, “I wish I could say you were still the man I knew six months ago, but fact is I can’t.”
“You amaze me,” replied the duke coldly, replacing the box and taking a handkerchief from his pocket to lightly dust his fingers. “I’m totally unaware of this great change of which I am accused. Behold, am I not the same man you have known these eight years or more?”
“Not the man I had grown to respect,” Sir Richard replied, averting his gaze.
“And what pray have I done of a sudden to destroy this respect, my friend?”
“It is not of a sudden, Robert, it’s ever since…”
The duke’s faced hardened and he raised an enquiring brow. “Ever since...?” he prompted.
Sir Richard sat slightly forward in his seat the better to view his companion. “I must speak the truth and I will. You have not been the same man since news came of Stefan’s death. I realize it was a terrible shock. You were so close, but...” seeing the stricken look upon the duke’s face, he fell silent. Despite the fact that they were at odds, he had no wish to wound his friend by evoking memories of his brother’s tragic death. “Forgive me, Robert,” he stammered. “My outburst was unforgivable. I should not have spoken. Not at all the thing. Private grief. Quite understandable.”
The duke sat as if turned to stone and an uneasy silence fell between them. The only sound being the horses’ hooves as they echoed through the empty streets. Suddenly, sitting forward in his seat, Robert called to his coachman to halt, flinging wide the door before the horses were brought to a clattering halt. “My man will take you to your lodgings,” he snapped over his shoulder as he sprang lightly into the deserted roadway and set out on foot.
His black evening coat was no proof against the sharp wind that whipped about him but he paid it no heed, his mind being otherwise engaged with thoughts of his brother. He strode on in the general direction of Blake House not caring that he should prove a strange sight in this less opulent part of the city as the tradesmen awoke and set about their duties.
Change? My God, what a change, he thought. Will this emptying grief never lessen? It was not only that Stefan was dead but the manner of his dying. Stefan, the younger brother, so gay and carefree, who had gone to defy Old Bony in the Peninsula. Who would have thought such a brilliant flame could have been so callously extinguished? He had been young and vital and enriched the lives of all whom he encountered. Was it any wonder that he could not reconcile himself to his young sibling’s death?
A cannonball had inflicted such devastation on Stefan’s vigorous frame, leaving no hope for recovery, but still, against all odds, he had lived. When the troops had been forced to move on, he had been placed in a lonely garret in the care of his aide and a local medic to await the inevitable end.
He waited, his senses dulled with laudanum to ease the pain and calm his ranting, knowing it was but a matter of time. In rare lucid moments, he had cried out against the futility of attempting to prolong the life of the tangled wreck that had once served him as a body, wishing only for a merciful release.
That release came one morning, when left alone during a bout of sanity. His thoughts at their clearest, Stefan had taken the opportunity afforded by a discarded pistol that had been left within his reach, to end his existence.
Robert would never know whether the weapon had been left at his brother’s bedside by design or by a careless act, he only knew that its owner, whoever it might be, had earned his eternal gratitude. He could not bear to contemplate the agony Stefan had endured, wishing only that he had been at his side to ease those last few days of life.
The grim lines about the duke’s mouth betrayed his thoughts as he strode homewards. He relived his years of oneness with Stefan, knowing they had been as close as two brothers could be. It was as if a part of him had died too in that country so far away, strewn with the horrors of war. A war in which his brother would have played no part if he had not succumbed to Stefan’s pleading and bought him his commission in Kincaid’s Brigade. Was it any wonder that he should now feel this void, his grief too deep for tears?
To the outside world, he presented a façade, retreating further into himself, protecting himself with a barrier of indifference, determined that none should witness his sorrow. He was a proud man and cared not to share his grief with others.
Arriving some short while later at Blake House, Robert surprised a sleepy porter who had looked for his master’s return by coach. However, he cut short the man’s profuse apologies with a curt order for his curricle to be brought to the front within the hour. His grace was intending a journey out of London.
Taking the stairs to the upper story two at a time, he called for the attentions of his valet, demanding that no time should be lost in the preparations for his departure.
After issuing final orders to his butler, the duke, resplendent in a many caped drab driving coat over a coat of olive superfine, biscuit colored breeches and gleaming top boots, descended the steps from Blake House and mounted his curricle.
Seeing his master’s darkened mood the groom, who had been standing at the horses’ heads, hastened to take up his post at the rear of the vehicle. He leapt to his perch just as his grace released the lash from his whip and skillfully cracked it above the leaders’ heads, deftly catching the thong as the horses moved forward at a brisk trot.
Once free of the confines of the dusty London streets, Robert sprang his horses and with the groom perched precariously behind, he drove his curricle at a breakneck speed toward Stovely Hall, his country seat.
He paused only as often as was necessary to change horses, eager to reach his destination before the light should fail. It had been at Stovely that he had been informed of Stefan’s death and this would be the first time he had traveled to his estate since. He knew not why he felt this sudden desire to visit it once more, only that he wished for its tranquility, hoping in some way to heal his tortured thoughts.
It mattered not that he had absented himself from the estate for almost six months. He paid his staff well and knowing the vagaries of his moods, the housekeeper, Mrs. James, kept the Hall forever in readiness for his return. She never knew whether he would arrive alone or with company, therefore, the house was always well tended.
Stovely Hall was set in magnificent grounds a short distance from the coast, but the duke was impervious to its beauty when he halted his curricle, just as the light was beginning to fade, before the Palladian frontage. Hesitating slightly, he allowed his eyes to wander over the impressive house of varying antiquity, not daring to dwell on the memories the mere sight of it evoked.
The groom dismounted from his post and went immediately to the horses’ heads.
“Take them to the stables,” his grace ordered, alighting from the driving seat and handing the vehicle over to the groom’s care.
As he mounted the stone steps to the large front door, it opened immediately as if his coming had been anticipated hourly, the footman in attendance showing no surprise at his master’s arrival.
His grace, entering the hallway and drawing off his driving gloves, allowed this stalwart individual to divest him of his driving coat and issued instructions that Mrs. James should attend him in the library immediately.
The housekeeper, entering the room a short while later, found her employer standing before the fire she had ordered set earlier in the day. He stood with one arm resting on the mantle whilst extending the other to the flames and did not immediately look up as she entered. Mrs. James stood respectfully awaiting the duke’s notice and it was a few moments before, as if suddenly made aware of her arrival, he turned toward her.
“Ah madam,” he said, turning from the fire and taking the winged chair at its side. “Be so good as to arrange some refreshment and have it served here in the library. I intend to stay only a few days and I would be grateful if you would keep town hours. I will take my meals in the small salon, not the dining room; there is no need for the formal as no one else will be here.” He paused. “I trust that my brother’s apartments have been kept in the manner I instructed?”
“But of course, your grace,” Mrs. James replied, bobbing a slight curtsey. “The rooms have been aired and dusted but nothing has been altered. You will find no change there, I do assure you.” She noted the pallor of the duke’s countenance, and her heart went out to him, knowing she could do nothing to help him. What could anyone do in the face of such unrelenting grief? “Perhaps your grace would like a glass of wine or claret? The day is chill and you have had a long journey.”
“A glass of brandy would serve better. The hour is late and once I have had some refreshment I will retire.” The duke turned his gaze toward the fire, an indication that the interview was at an end.
“As your grace wishes,” Mrs. James said, again dropping a slight curtsey, and retreating to the nether regions to supervise the preparation of supper. She sent a footman to the cellar to procure the brandy and ordered it to be presented for the duke’s approval. However, later that evening, she confided to the cook that she had never seen the master look so drawn; adding that although she had served him supper, as he had instructed, he had hardly touched the meal.
* * *
The rivulets of rain cascaded down the casement in Stefan’s bedroom and the duke, watching their progress, felt that they singularly suited his mood. He had refused breakfast. Immediately on rising, he had sought the portals of Stefan’s apartment thinking that here at last he might find some peace, but this was not to be. Instead, the torments began anew, and as he sat in the window seat watching the rain and the distant waves beating against the shore his thoughts gave him no respite from his tortured mind. The fact that, had he not purchased the commission, Stefan would have undoubtedly joined the ranks, did naught to reconcile him to the situation.
When the news of Stefan’s fate had first reached him he had been devastated and had attempted by various means to find the details of his death. However, nothing could prepare him for the torment he would fall victim to upon receiving the report from his brother’s aide and, even now, his grieving conscience would allow him no reprieve.
He had read and re-read the scrawled lines that he had found amongst Stefan’s belongings, which had been returned during his absence, and they tore at his heart.
Death is swift, sweet and kind,
A comfort to my fevered mind,
That I might find solace in its depths,
For all eternity.
He rose impatiently to pace between hearth and window until, becoming fretful of the confines of the room, he flung open the door. Entering the hall, despite the tempest of the day, he called for his horse to be brought from the stables. Perhaps a ride along the cliffs would alleviate his mood, finding in activity some sort of release from the agony that threatened to engulf him. Perhaps it had not been wise to attempt to return to Stovely so soon, but how long would it be before he could forgive himself, before he could become reconciled to the part he had played in Stefan’s fate?
What had been intended as a stay of only a few days became a protracted visit, the duke preferring solitude and the calm atmosphere of Stovely to the bustle of the city. Within three days of his arrival, he sent a missive to his secretary in London instructing him to return his winnings to Lord Harwood. Knowing the agony of mind the young lord would be suffering, he would not have it that he should labor under the belief that he had lost all for longer than was necessary.
The days turned into weeks and the first signs of spring started to form but still it brought no desire to return to London and he put all thoughts of it from his mind. For those who looked to see him in the clubs and gaming houses, it would seem that he had vanished from the face of the earth and his absence ceased to be commented on or his presence expected. Instead, he sought solace in riding out each day, driving himself and his mount to the point of exhaustion. He became a familiar sight galloping along the cliff tops regardless of weather, the locals likening him to a banshee. With cloak flying, impervious to the terrain, he drove his horse on, only checking their speed when obstacles dictated.
It was on his return from one such excursion, that he received a letter from Sir Richard and taking it into the library he sat by the fire to read it. However, the information contained in the scrawled pages considerably saddened him. After the usual pleasantries, Sir Richard wrote that Lord Harwood, far from benefiting from the lesson he had attempted to teach him, had continued to gamble, losing heavily. After several attempts at the card tables to bring his fortune about and failing, he had died in a gaming-hell brawl over a dispute of his debts.
“Young dolt,” expostulated Robert to the empty room, tightly balling the velum in his fist. He sat forward and threw the offending missive into the fire, watching as the hungry flames devoured it. “It would seem that there are those destined for self-destruction no matter how one tries to alter the course of fate.” He rose and poured himself a glass of brandy before going to his desk to pen a reply.
Some weeks later, when he had retired to his office with his agent intent on dealing with matters of the estate, Robert received news of a visitor.
“A Miss Chandler wishes to see your grace,” informed the footman standing just within the door.
The duke frowned, aware of a feeling of irritation and laid aside his pen. Turning to his agent he said, “I don’t recall a Miss Chandler. Should I?”
“The lady begs to speak to your grace, says it is a matter of some urgency, sir,” informed the footman.
“Then show her into the drawing room, I will be with her directly,” replied the duke, and bowing, the footman left immediately to do his bidding.
Once more addressing his agent, Robert asked, “Do we know a Miss Chandler, Stevens? Upon reflection, I can vaguely remember the name of Chandler but I know not in what connection. Is she one of my tenants, I cannot recollect anyone of that name amongst my acquaintances?”
“She is certainly not one of your tenants, sir,” replied Stevens, equally at a loss as his employer.
Issuing a sound of impatience, Robert rose from his seat; he did not welcome the interruption. “Her arrival is somewhat of a mystery then. Whatever the reason for her visit I will deal with it as expediently as possible. I’m in no mood for petticoats.”
He strode from his office, his steps ringing ominously loud on the marble tiling in the great hallway. He had not changed from his morning ride and was not attired for receiving female company. Indeed, he had no desire for it and found the visit irksome in the extreme, the mere thought of it trying his patience severely.
Grasping the handle of the drawing room door, he snapped it open with some force, the sound of its opening taking the occupant quite by surprise. She turned sharply from the window where she had been viewing the grounds and her startled violet eyes instantly met his. She was a petite, fashionable young lady of one and twenty and immediately he was aware of her heart-shaped face and delicate features. She had an abundance of dark chestnut hair that was confined beneath a sapphire velvet tricorn and her blue velvet riding habit had a light covering of dust, which proved that she had ridden to Stovely rather than traveling by carriage, as was the usual wont of young ladies of fashion.
The sight of her discomfiture checked the duke. “Miss Chandler, forgive me. It was not my intention to startle you,” he said somewhat mollified, as he executed a short bow. “Will you not be seated? I am informed that you have need to speak to me on a matter of urgency.”
“It is not my wish to intrude, your grace,” she said in a pleasantly low voice as, turning toward the hearth, she took the proffered chair. She smoothed her skirts before raising her eyes once more to meet his. “Indeed if there had been any other course open to me, I can assure you I would not have troubled you. As it is, when you know the whole, I’m sure you will understand the need for my visit.”
“Firstly allow me to order you some refreshment,” Robert said, with what he hoped was a little more civility, regretting his previous discourtesy. He rang the bell to summon a footman before taking the chair on the opposite side of the hearth. “You must forgive me, Miss Chandler, I have become unused to company these past weeks, and I’m afraid my manners have suffered in consequence. However, it was not my intention to make you feel uncomfortable and I apologize. It was unforgivable of me.” Then as a footman entered, “Would you take tea or do you prefer a glass of ratafia?”
“Tea, if you please, your grace.”
The duke nodded to the footman who retreated immediately to procure the desired refreshment.
He sat back in his chair. “Now in what way may I be of assistance to you?” he enquired, raising his brow slightly.
“Were it that simple, sir,” she replied. “But firstly I must introduce myself to you, I am Jane Chandler and my brother Harry and I live at Grebe Manor some miles distant from your boundaries.” She looked expectantly at him, as if hoping for some recognition of the name.
The duke’s brow furrowed, even upon meeting his guest he was no further toward recognition. “I must be honest and tell you that try as I might I find I cannot recollect...”
“We do not go about much in society, sir,” she offered in explanation. “Indeed, we live very quietly, but I had hoped that you would have heard of Harry. He serves in Kincaid’s regiment, as did your brother. They were, in fact, fellow officers.”
At the mention of Stefan, the duke abruptly sat upright in his chair, his attention immediately riveted on his companion. “He served with my brother? Then he must have mentioned Harry in his letters. I beg your pardon, Miss Chandler, the possibility of the connection never occurred to me.” Dropping his voice he asked, “Are you aware of my brother’s death?”
“I am, sir, and I’m truly sorry.” Her cheeks colored with confusion and she half rose as if to go. “Forgive me your grace, it is wrong of me to trouble you at such a time.”
Sitting hastily forward the duke raised a hand to forestall her movement, the thought that he had discomfited her proving most unwelcome. “Please excuse me, Miss Chandler, I did not mean to sound so brusque. You must tell me of your plight. Is it in some way connected with your brother?”
Jane resumed her seat and the duke saw the tears that threatened to overflow at any moment. He rose and crossed the hearth, proffering his handkerchief. “Come, my dear, you must not distress yourself, it is not necessary. It was most uncivil of me to bark at you so.Please allow me to apologize.”
A knock came on the door and Mrs. James entered bearing the required refreshment. She had heard that the master had a female visitor, an unusual occurrence at Stovely, and curious as to the young lady’s identity, she had waylaid the footman to bring the tray in herself.
“Here is the tea, it will help you to regain your composure,” said Robert softly, returning to his seat. He allowed the housekeeper to serve them and accepting his cup continued his scrutiny of his companion.
When Mrs. James had retired from the room, Miss Chandler appeared restored to some equanimity, the warming liquid doing much to help revive her spirits. She attempted a wan smile as she laid aside her cup. “I can assure you, sir, I’m not usually prone to such shows of emotion but I’m come to the end of my tether. I just do not know which way to turn. Indeed, you are my last hope.”
“Then we must see what is to be done. If it’s within my power, I will assist you in any way I can.” It took him somewhat by surprise to hear himself uttering these words. It had been the furthest thing from his mind when he had first entered the room but his companion presented such a disconsolate figure that the words came unbidden and he suddenly realized that he desired nothing more than to be of assistance.
Miss Chandler seemed to hesitate slightly, confining her gaze to the carpet and pleating the handkerchief the duke had given to her. “It is for Harry that I ask your assistance, sir,” she said, raising her eyes to his face. “I know not what to do. I have received a message from Spain saying that he has sustained severe injuries. I do not know the extent of his wounds, but the surgeon says he would not survive the long overland journey back to England, his only hope being to return by sea. His injuries occurred at the storming of Badajos on the 7th of April; it is now the 24th. It has taken almost two weeks for the message to reach me and I have been trying in vain these past three days to find a captain who will sail to Lisbon, but no one is willing to take the risk of entering enemy waters. I was hoping, sir, that you may have heard of Harry from your brother and would be able to use your influence to secure a craft for me. Your word carries so much more weight than mine. I have the means to hire a vessel if you would but lend me your support.”
“Is it Lisbon where he is held?”
“No, sir, I must travel overland to Elvas where he is being cared for by his batman at an inn.”
“And who travels with you?”
“No one, I travel alone but will manage quite creditably if I can but find a craft prepared to undertake the journey.”
The duke was silent for a moment, a frown creasing his brow, then of a sudden he rose to stand facing the hearth. With hands held tensely behind his back he gazed unseeing into the blaze.
“I have a yacht at anchor in Portsmouth Harbor,” he said unexpectedly, turning to face her, The Mistral. I will place her at your disposal, Miss Chandler. You will find my captain will be more than ready to receive your instruction. I will make sure of it.” He raised his hand as she tried to protest. “There’s no need to distress yourself; your brother must be brought back to England as quickly as possible. He cannot be left abandoned in a foreign country.”
“Sir, it was not my intention to ask this of you, only your support,” she cried, a flush rising to her cheeks, her agitation clear in her voice. “I cannot expect such generosity. Indeed, I cannot accept it, you are far too kind. You didn’t even know of our existence until I came to your door. Your support in hiring a vessel is all that’s necessary, I do assure you.”
He came to stand before her, smiling briefly in an attempt to reassure. “That may be so, Miss Chandler, but there is no need to put yourself into such a taking. I have a solution to your problem and am willing to help you resolve it, so no more need be said. There is no necessity to continue your search for a vessel when I have one that is lying idle. When do you wish to depart for Lisbon?”
Relief flooded through her at the duke’s words, bringing an upsurge of gratitude and she sat forward in her eagerness. “As soon as the journey can be arranged, your grace. I dare not delay. Too much time has been wasted already.” She smiled shyly and half extended her hand but realizing the impropriety of the action, withdrew it almost before it had left her lap. Dropping her voice she said, “I cannot thank you enough, sir. Indeed, how can I ever repay such a debt of kindness?”
Her gesture had not gone unnoticed and Robert hastened to reassure her, not wishing her to feel in any way beholden to him. “There is no debt involved, I am only glad that I can offer a solution. We cannot allow another young life to be lost; therefore, speed is of the essence. To make the best possible time you must leave on the morning tide. I take it that you rode over from Grebe Manor. Did your groom accompany you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You should remain here but send your man back to collect whatever is necessary for the journey, and then he must return as quickly as possible. You needs leave here before daybreak to catch the tide. In the meantime, I will send instructions to Captain Storey to have The Mistral ready to sail and to follow your instructions to the letter. Now will that suffice, or have you any other requests?”
Miss Chandler rose from her seat, smiling at her host. “That will certainly suffice, your grace, but I will trespass on your good nature no longer, I will return to the Manor to arrange things myself and you may be assured that I will not miss the tide. The journey will take my mind off other matters, matters that I dare not contemplate. I am sure you will understand that I prefer to be active at such a time as this and then I am not wont to dwell on possibilities.”
“As you wish, but I can assure you that Stovely is at your disposal should you change your mind.”
She held out her hand to bid him farewell. “I thank you, sir, but I will set out immediately so that I may reach the Manor before the light starts to fade.”
He took her hand in both of his and firmly clasped her fingers. “I wish you well in your mission, my dear,” he said with some sadness. “Would that I had been granted a like opportunity in Stefan’s case.”
She guiltily withdrew her hand and in an instant was gone, leaving Robert to make such arrangements as were necessary.
* * *
Returning to his office, the duke penned a letter to his captain with orders to prepare to sail on the morning tide and calling for a footman dispatched it immediately. His mind too preoccupied with Miss Chandler’s plight and having no desire to continue with estate matters, he dismissed his agent and instead repaired to the library.
Seated in a large leather chair, he gazed pensively out of the window and allowed his thoughts full rein. He could scarce believe that his visitor’s predicament should have affected him so, but there rose in him a determination that, if it were within his power to prevent it, another young man would not suffer Stefan’s fate. There was no doubt in his mind that Harry should be, must be, returned from Portugal but he was also aware of the difficulties that would be faced in the process and the uncertainty of the journey’s outcome.
His thoughts turned to Miss Chandler and her obvious determination to succeed. However, he thought her plan to travel alone was as foolhardy as it was impractical and it weighed heavily on his mind. He could not quite define what opinion he had formed of her, knowing only that she evoked a response in him. Indeed, there was no other young lady of his acquaintance who would have shown such strength when faced with a like predicament. However, far from viewing it as a lack of delicacy of mind he thought it to be applauded, believing it to be proof of a devoted and caring nature.
But then, my reading of the female character is not to be trusted