Page 6 of The Duke's Return
Too many people were already doing that. Very loud people, too, which Julian needed to do something about. He was beginning to realize he’d had too easy a life. Getting into trouble was one matter. But getting out was proving to be much more complicated.
Mr. Winfield swallowed loudly as he admitted, “Well, yes, among other things.” He hastily went on as Julian stared. “There’s been official inquiries established that require your attention. These reference your conduct, for which you have been absent, your estate, which is left very much in the hands of your family, and your responsibilities as the Duke of Southwick, which is… well, difficult to prove when you are away.”
Meaning they are suggesting I am not fit for the dukedom. And here I thought the only trait I required was being sired by the previous duke within the bounds of marriage. What a fool I am.
And his wife would not be thrilled. How she didn’t know, he couldn’t comprehend. Perhaps she lived as a hermit in the middle of the city. Or else she was waiting for the perfect opportunity to call him on his word.
He groaned and leaned his head back to stare at the ceiling. Dark wood covered it, carved into sharp curls and curves at the edges. Very fine artwork, he noted. How had he never noticed it before? It was an awful habit to be missing so much for so many. All his life he had dismissed expectations and what the world wanted of him. His stewards and solicitors managed his work well enough. So where had he gone wrong?
It might not be so troubling if I was not married. But a wife creates a bit of a muddle here. Showing up to prove my existence may not be enough after all.
“Tell me,” he said while rubbing his face, “how public is it?”
“Your Grace?”
“How public,” Julian repeated loudly this time, “are the accusations and inquiries? Does everyone know?”
Hesitating, Mr. Winfield eventually answered by saying, “I don’t rightly know. There has been nothing said in the papers. But it is thetonyou speak of, and one never knows what rumors they might latch onto at any given time.”
But of course word would get out. Julian knew already there was much being said. His name would be dragged through the mud. Even if they survived this, which they would, there might be lasting damage. He could survive it, but his wife shouldn’t have to.
At least, he thought, it couldn’t get any worse.
Then a knock came at the door.
He winced. “Come in.”
And there stood his steward, Mr. Edgar Rogers. The man had tiny eyes that blinked often as he looked at Mr. Winfield and then back to him. “Your Grace. You are here. Er, welcome home.”
“What is it, Mr. Rogers?” Julian tried to smile and waved the man in.
“I brought some papers that Mr. Winfield was asking about,” his steward said. “We were discussing the investment you had planned to… well, I’m afraid you’ve hit a roadblock.”
Julian glanced at Mr. Winfield who looked utterly miserable. “How big of a roadblock?”
“Very big,” the man responded dourly.
“And I’ve just received correspondence from Southwick. Your tenants are… well, they’re rebelling.”
He dumped his head in his hands, elbows on the desk. “How perfectly lovely. Do they know what they’re rebelling for?”
As the two men began to explain the parts of the story they knew, Julian could only see that his problems were growing by the minute. It felt like he was being hunted, a target on his back that made his spine itch most awfully. He had come with the intention of presenting a united front with his wife and putting away some ridiculous accusations and gossip to rest.
I’ve been married for a year and even in my absence, I am doing everything wrong. This union was meant to be a clean arrangement. It sorted out Southwick for me and that was allI needed. My title should have never come into question. Any damage here could now hurt her. I care not about disgrace, but I will not break my word.
Several newspaper clippings were tossed his way, an array of political rivals and gossips writing about his past scandals and the new ones. Suddenly, the ton was circling him like wolves.
CHAPTER 3
Genevieve fanned herself in the warm room as she studied a lovely landscape painting that felt slightly at odds with the lighting in the gallery. She didn’t like it but couldn’t quite put her finger on it. The golden hay, perhaps, or the farmer’s cap didn’t settle right with the candlelight.
“Art like this needs to be seen in proper daylight,” she said decidedly. “I understand how sunlight risks the integrity of the paint, but truly, I do think the candlelight ruins it. Don’t you?”
But Phoebe Delacourt, the only daughter of the Earl of Denshire, wasn’t paying attention. So Genevieve elbowed her. “Oh! Sorry, dear, what was it?”
She forced a smile as she eyed her hands. “Don’t worry about it, Phoebe, I know I can go on for hours in a space like this. You’re a proper dear for letting me ramble on. But is something amiss to have you so distracted? You don’t usually start complaining until after two hours.”
“Yes, I suppose. It only feels like there are people watching us,” her friend said after a wary moment. “Do I have something in my hair?”
