Page 8 of Nothing Compares to the Duke
Nick’s dark brows arced up. “How steep were the debts?”
Rhys turned to Nick, intending to offer one of his charming smiles. His typical devil-may-care reassurance that all was well in hand. But the muscles of his face rebelled.
Weariness washed over him and honesty was the only thing that took no effort. “Apparently mountainous.”
Nick let out a heavy sigh.
“Is there more?” Rhys had known the two men long enough to sense there was a great deal Tremayne and Iverson were leaving unspoken.
“You agreed to fund two other inventors after Carthorpe,” Nick said. “They’ve received nothing yet, but Iverson and I can see to your share between us.”
Rhys tried to concoct reasonable excuses, rationales for why his accounts had been drained and he’d somehow been too busy to notice. But they knew his reputation. His ducal town house was such a mess from the last party, he’d been forced to host this one at Lyon’s.
They deserved more than justifications.
“I’m sorry,” he heard himself say. The words were unfamiliar and felt misshapen on his tongue.
He lifted his head. Both men deserved more than a simple apology. All of society knew he was a man who sought recreation rather than rectitude every dayof his life, but perhaps it was time to stop playing a role and assume the responsibilities he’d become so good at outrunning.
Casting a glance at Tremayne, he caught his own reflection in the gilded mirror on the wall. Dark circles smudged the skin under his eyes. His hair wasn’t its usual artful tumble. It was downright disheveled. And the snow-white collar of his shirt was dotted with blood.
Iverson took two steps closer and surprised Rhys by placing a hand on his shoulder. “Whatever’s troubling you, we wish to help.”
It was tempting to confess the truth to both of them. But if his father had taught him anything, it was to never admit weakness.
Sensing his friends’ stares, Rhys wielded the familiar skill of scoffing at whatever challenge came his way.
“If you’re any example,” he told Tremayne, “a man can become a decent duke in a matter of weeks.”
The smile came slowly, inch by inch, but eventually softened Tremayne’s grim expression. “I became a duke as you did. Unexpectedly and long before I was prepared to assume any such responsibility. Embracing duty didn’t come easily. I credit my wife with whatever decency I’ve managed.”
“Having known you for years before you met her,” Iverson quipped, “I agree she deserves a great deal of credit.” He turned a sardonic look Rhys’s way. “I suppose you’ll be needing a wife soon yourself. Any likely prospects in the countryside?”
An image filled Rhys’s mind, a memory so sharp, he felt a stab of pain under his ribs.
Auburn curls, green-gold eyes, a contagious laugh, and a smile that came rarely with others but easily with him. She would be there when he returned to Essex, but Miss Arabella Prescott would have no smiles for him anymore.
He pushed the thought of her away. As he had for five years.
“Let me find my feet before I get myself leg shackled.” He gestured vaguely and drew in a deep breath. “I must go to Edgecombe. Whatever I find at the estate is mine to sort out.” He pointed at Iverson and then Tremayne. “I will repay you both. The dukedom’s debts could not have drained my accounts entirely. I maintain others. I may be a reckless pleasure-seeking fool, but I know a man shouldn’t put all his coin in one purse.”
Iverson stared at him for a long silent moment, assessing him, then turned his back on Rhys and filled a glass from the drinks cart. Several glasses. One for each of them.
“Safe travels, Claremont,” Iverson said as he handed Rhys a half-filled tumbler.
“I have some notion of what awaits you.” Nick stepped forward to take his glass and lifted it in a toast. “Good luck, my friend.”
Rhys swigged back his finger of whiskey and savored the trail of heat racing from his throat to hismiddle. He needed a bit of fire in his belly. Nothing but his own selfish indulgence had motivated him for years. Exhaustion still nipped at him, worry still rode his shoulders, but he managed a grin.
“They do say I’m a very lucky man.”
Chapter Two
August 1848
Hillcrest estate, Essex
With a satisfying swipe of her pencil, Arabella Prescott struck another task off her list as she strode toward the dining room. Her family’s long-planned house party was imminent, and Bella’s list had been a long one. She loved helping her mother with party preparations, or any project that involved order and structure.
