Page 30 of Dukes Do It Better
There was more conflict. But as he mulled it over, some of the tension in his gut eased. He blew out a sigh and let the feelings come.
Truth: Malachi needed his command back.
Second truth: he wanted time with Emma—more than one night.
Third truth: getting one meant losing or delaying the other.
There was no simple solution he could see. No clear way forward beyond doing what he could with the time given.
And today, that meant searching the study again.
That damn book had to be in the house. It had to be.
In this room, Malachi felt like an interloper in a way he didn’t anywhere else in the house. Grief was impossible to hide from here.
George was everywhere. Notes in his hand scattered over the desk. A stack of books he’d last read rested in a basket near the closest bookshelf. Mother had told the staff to leave the room alone, except for the basic dusting needed to keep the fine layer of coal in the London air from settling on the furniture. Not knowing what else to do, Malachi inspected the basket of books, then found their places on the shelves. On the far wall, beside the globe, their ancient atlas stood open to the two-page world map.
As Malachi ran a finger over the familiar image, he noted the faint pencil checks over the cities where they’d traveled as a family.
Madrid had been a wonderful time.
The post in Calais had been short-lived because of Napoleon.
Athens had been pleasure, not business. Weeks spent rambling with his brother over sun-bleached ruins etched against impossibly blue skies.
A town on the western English coast was marked in ink, and Malachi smiled. That trip, just Father, him, and George, had been idyllic. Imagining George circling the town in ink made a warmth bloom in his chest.
“Yes, George, that place was special. I’m glad you thought so too,” he murmured.
George might have been a bit of an uptight perfectionist, but he’d been a good brother. A good man. A good duke.
Malachi was a captain. George was Trenton. To take his brother’s title felt wrong in every way.
With a shaky finger, Malachi flipped the pages of the atlas over until he found the map of the Baltic region. As before, pencil checks showed where Father served in the diplomatic office. Except there were additional marks where the family hadn’t been stationed. All coastal towns, following the edge of the sea, then along the waterway to the North Sea and Atlantic.
They’d never been stationed along the coastline of Sweden. But Malachi had taken port there several times. He’d posted regular letters home to his brother, sent from whatever waterfront town he’d been closest to. With new eyes, Malachi studied the map and its many checkmarks. Slowly, a ball of grief loosened in his chest, replaced by a bittersweet ache. George had tracked his voyages.
His brother had loved to travel, but once their mother returned to London after Father passed away, George’s world had been reduced to this atlas, books, and these four wood-paneled walls.
And Malachi’s letters, apparently.
Sitting in this study living vicariously through letters was an awful thought. And if he didn’t convince the Admiralty to let him return to the Athena, his life might end up exactly like that.
Closing the atlas, Malachi went to work searching the drawers of the desk.
The task was tedious, monotonous, and methodical. Every seam of every drawer needed to be inspected. Each book had to be opened, searched, and replaced.
After a solid half hour of carefully setting each item back exactly in its previous location, it dawned on Malachi that he didn’t need to hide his tracks. Technically, this was his study now. These books and this desk belonged to him. It still felt wrong to claim the space. Especially when he didn’t want it, or anything it entailed.
He rubbed a palm over his beard and shoved his hair back. Patting his waistcoat, he curled his lip. Damn. The scrap of ribbon he usually kept at hand to tie his hair back was gone. The wide, shallow drawer in the middle of the desk had some bits and bobs rattling about, and a black leather-bound volume with gold foil edges at the corners. The drawer didn’t offer up a useful piece of string, but the black book had a red ribbon marker inside he could appropriate for the task. As he reached for it, excitement teased the edges of his fingers. Was this the bank book? Had it been here in this desk all along?
He flipped open to the page with the ribbon and read. Disappointment replaced hope. George’s writing filled each page in what appeared to be the world’s most boring journal. A business diary, perhaps? Malachi scrunched his brow. Why would a man need a record of which Monday in September he’d paid the butcher, when the account books were right there with the same information? Leave it to George to double up on the record keeping. At least his brother hadn’t left Malachi with a financial disaster to reconcile.
Taking a seat at the desk, he tugged the ribbon free and tied back his hair, then flipped to the middle of the book to read a few more pages. Dull and not terribly noteworthy, overall. These pages would be his life if he couldn’t convince the Royal Navy to give him back his ship.
Yet, these neatly documented pages were a reflection of George’s world, just as the atlas was Malachi’s. Here and there a personal note jumped out, warm and lifelike amid the dry recording of business tasks and chores.
An amusing line about a conversation at a dinner with Lady Amesbury and Lady Carlyle last year. Lady Carlyle, wife to Emma’s brother, would now be Lady Eastly. Strange, and yet not unexpected that they socialized in the same circles. “Charming, hilarious, and genuinely good” was how George had described the women.
