Page 4 of The Scandalous Love of a Duke
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A brush in his hand, John lay on his stomach, cautiously sweeping sand away from the painted wall-plaster of the tomb they had discovered four days earlier. The colours were so bright they could have been painted days ago.
‘My lord!’ John looked across his shoulder. Mustafa, his man servant who usually stayed in camp, was looking through the couple of feet-wide hole John and others had dug through from the entrance.
‘My lord! This letter came from England.’
Mustafa waved the thin paper as though it were something wonderful.
John glanced at his chief excavator. ‘Yassah, would you carry on without me?’ He shuffled backwards out of the tomb into the blazing midday sun.
As he stood, he brushed the sand from his clothes, then took the letter. It had a mark showing it passed through Alexandra a month ago. He recognised the writing as his stepfather’s. In England, his family would be on his stepfather’s small estate today, celebrating Christmas. On occasions he had spent Christmas with them. Most often, he had been forced to spend it with his grandfather. Either way, Christmas did not bring forward many fond memories.
John broke the red wax seal that had held the letter closed on its long journey.
His grandfather would be horrified if he saw the calluses on John’s hands.
Glancing up, John thanked Mustafa and then began walking towards the canopy his men used at prayer times.
He stopped in its shade and opened the letter. A second separate folded sheet fell out. He held that aside and read.
The letter was dated August, months ago.
Dear John,
I have grave news regarding your grandfather…
John read the letter stiff with shock. His father’s words were carefully couched but the meaning was clear, the Duke of Pembroke was dying.
He could be dead by now,John thought, his hand covering his mouth.
His lips were dry, and the sun beat down on his back, but inside he felt like ice. His hand swept back his hair.
This meant he had to go back. He had been bred to take over his grandfather’s title and estates. The choice was no longer his.
It struck him, he should be feeling grief. Sadness. He did not. He had never cared for the old tyrant. But he did feel strangely suspended, as though time had stopped. As though it would never start again. He did not want to go back.
John looked at the other letter and saw Mary’s effervescent writing. Mary was his eldest sister, the first child of his mother’s second marriage. She was just sixteen, approaching her first season in London high society.
She had clearly written in a hurry, scribbling a note to include in her father’s letter. She told John she needed her big brother home to lead her in her first waltz. She vowed she wouldn’t dance a single one unless he came.
Their grandfather’s death would postpone her debut, she obviously did not know he was ill, or the Duke had not been at death’s door when this was written.
Whatever the situation, John would not shy from his responsibility, he had to go back.
‘Mustafa!’ John turned.
3
LONDON, ENGLAND
April, four months later
John’s ship docked in London just as twilight darkened into night. A light drizzle was falling as he descended the gangplank.
It felt odd stepping onto the dock, like travelling back in time. It was over seven years since he had stood on English ground.
He remembered the callow youth who left here – the boyish fool.
