Page 31 of Dukes Do It Better
Earlier in the spring, George’s horse, Gallant, threw a shoe in the park, resulting in a grousing line beside the farrier appointment record. The expense was annotated with a complaint of his horse needing heavier shoes with which to step on him. Malachi grinned, but it faded when he skipped a few pages and ran across another appointment record.
In May of last year, George had visited his solicitor and drawn up a new will. Good thing he had, as tragically, the will had been needed within a year.
At the bottom of the page, George had written a single line. Father’s secrets die with me.
* * *
The house was too quiet. At sea, there was always noise. Even if it was merely the constant shush of waves, there were noises. Usually there were snores from the sailors off shift belowdecks, footsteps, rumbling laughter, and curses from the men. And that wasn’t even factoring in the crying gulls adding to the overall sounds of the sea.
This house? Silent as a tomb. The lease included staff, but other than maintaining the house and keeping the larder full, Malachi didn’t need them—much to the consternation of the housekeeper. For the first week, she’d waddled around muttering about feral bachelors, but now focused on managing the staff schedule. As long as Malachi held the lease, the servants had more frequent days off, and absolutely no one was upset about that.
After leaving the Trenton town house he’d made yet another fruitless visit to the government buildings. Admiral Sorkin’s secretary had been firm in his assertion that no earlier appointment was available, then promised again to send word to Malachi’s residence if the schedule changed.
He’d ducked into his solicitor’s office, but the man had been out. When Malachi had thrown the Trenton title around and demanded a meeting, the assistant had offered an appointment for later in the day.
All Malachi had to do was wait at home until then. Which was all well and good, but the only sound in the sitting room was his own breathing, and that was beginning to get on his nerves.
A messenger arrived with a note, and he welcomed the interruption. The wax seal hadn’t been stamped, so when he broke it, the blob of dried wax fell to the carpet. Out of habit, Malachi squatted to pick up the wax and throw it away as his eyes scanned to the signature.
Emma. He settled onto the carpet with a thud and read the note through, then studied it a second and third time.
Alton was much recovered and should be completely fine by tomorrow. She was looking forward to spending time alone with Malachi, and would he mind if she stopped by after her son went to bed?
All of that was well and good, but wasn’t what stole his breath. Disappointment had distracted him last night, but in the light of day, Emma’s note was a revelation.
Her penmanship was exactly what one would expect from a finishing-school-educated aristocrat’s daughter. Except, because she was Emma, she’d added extra flair to the mundane task of writing. The top of her S’s had a loop and the first letter of each new paragraph was slightly overlarge and slanted. Like an ancient illuminated manuscript, awaiting the addition of colorful unicorns or other such fanciful creatures.
Exactly like the journal he’d taken to sea with him. In fact, in the journal, the author occasionally decorated the first letter of a new entry, until the book felt like a combination journal and sketch pad.
“Holy hell,” he breathed. Sure, he’d wondered when Roxbury had run his mouth the night before. This was solid, though. In his hand, he held irrefutable proof.
To consider explanations in which Emma and the journal author weren’t one and the same seemed silly in light of this.
He knew far more about the lovely widow than she realized, which didn’t sit well. The woman was entitled to her secrets, although, granted, she seemed to have more than her fair share.
Malachi stretched out to lie on his back on the thick rug, staring up at the white plaster ceiling as his mind raced.
The journal had documented her life, for her private use, so didn’t elaborate on some things she referenced. Reading it had felt like picking up volume two of a novel without reading volume one first.
He had enough information to realize that Lady Emma Hardwick wasn’t what she seemed, and that she had reason to keep some things to herself.
That didn’t stop him from wanting to know everything. Discovering the author’s identity was the culmination of every hour he’d spent poring over those pages while underway. Every stolen bit of honest emotion he’d feasted on between the covers of her journal to comfort himself while alone in the Baltic.
A bark of disbelieving laughter escaped. To think, he’d debated whether he should try to find and reconnect with Emma or to search out the journal’s author the next time he was in Olread Cove. He’d lost sleep worrying over what to do with the book, contemplating if the writer might be as enchanting in person as her journal made her out to be.
The journal had seduced his mind months ago, and Emma had seduced his body with one smile. Discovering the women were the same was downright miraculous.
If you’d asked him last week if he’d leave the journal in London when he returned to sea, Malachi would have flatly refused.
Yet now he was planning to leave the journal’s author in a few short weeks.
The clock on the mantel chimed, and he sat up off the floor. It wouldn’t do to be late to his solicitor’s office after demanding an appointment with such high-handedness.
Then tonight, it would just be him, the lovely widow, and the bed upstairs. If the experience lived up to his memories of her, he didn’t know what he would do.
* * *
The Dukes of Trenton had used the same solicitor for decades. In part because of the man’s competency, yes. But Malachi suspected another factor was the aversion of the previous dukes to making sweeping changes. The finances of the estate were sound, because the investments were low risk. The properties were maintained, but rarely had modern conveniences.
