Page 7 of The Brooding Duke's Fateful Letter
Charlotte watched as her stepmother came out of the room before her father had the opportunity to say any more. He followed his wife, and when she turned to face him, she graced him with her best performance. Charlotte had seen her become ill and faint so many times to get her way, this was no different.
She had been only eight when her mother had been murdered. The man who did it walked free while Charlotte was in a prison of grief. Her father had remarried when she was only ten years of age. Her stepmother had shared in her older stepsister’s dislike of her. She could have seen it as nothing else when they had made her their servant in her father’s absence. It would have been nice if they at least liked her.
“You look unwell my beloved. I apologize to have upset you so.” He said with concern.
She did not correct him.
“I should make it through yet another of your mistakes,” she replied dramatically.
“I will send Charlotte in Bethany’s stead. My only condition is that the courtship last a month. I don’t want her stuck with a man she is incompatible with.”
“That is wonderful news my love. You will soon see that this is all for the best,” she said sounding well recovered.
“I hope you are correct. Although I did make a promise, there’s something that feels out of place.”
Charlotte put her hand over her mouth to conceal her sobs. She felt betrayed that her father would not choose her over that woman.
I won’t do it, I just won’t! I don’t care how unfashionable or unreasonable it is. I will marry for love. And what does ‘a man like him mean’? What kind of monster are they sending me away to! Charlotte thought as she made her way to her room. This was not the twenty-fifth birthday present she had hoped she was getting the following month!
***
Henry
The duke rode as quickly as what was fair to his horse. But the letter had found The Wentworth Manor in good time and he could merely stand there and watch his destiny sealed before his eyes. He watched as the letter was handed over to a servant at the door. His response was to seize the letter and leave. His body however stood rigid as a statue.
He turned to make the long journey back home. By carriage it would take two days and two nights. With a horse and rider it could almost be halved.
“Your Grace, the main way back to the estate is rather well traveled today.” The duke’s usual traveling companion, Byron, told him. He had been informed of the duke’s whereabouts and had immediately gone to find him. He was one of the few men that knew the duke’s secrets. It had been out of necessity in order to move outside the estate. Byron was a man twice the duke’s age. He wore a well-groomed mustache while the duke found it an annoyance to have any facial hair.
“Then what route shall we take?” the duke enquired.
“That is the hindrance, Your Grace. The only other way is a rather perilous one. Those who have used it say thieves are around every corner and that the path is overgrown,” Byron replied.
“Could we not just move away from the path in order to avoid other people traveling?”
“Yes, Your Grace. I just fear that we might not be able to conceal your identity very well.” Byron said carefully.
“It would have been better to have come with the carriage,” said the duke.
“Indeed Your Grace,” Byron said with a sigh.
The duke looked down for a moment and then nodded. They took the path that few would, let alone a duke. The path looked like any other though it did have a strange silence to it. They went well into the evening before they decided on a place to rest for the night. The next morning, they set out again. They were barely an hour into the voyage, when it seemed trouble was ahead.
The duke rode ahead and saw three men stealing from another carriage. His hand went to his waist where he kept his pistol. It was something he did not travel without.
“Stop! What you are doing.” The duke said as he pointed his pistol in the direction of the three men. They looked at each other and sneered.
“What are you and that little pistol going to do? We would not want you to dirty those fancy boots, would we boys?” the one man said to his two laughing companions.
“I believe the gentleman asked you to make your departure,” Byron said as he came to stop his horse next to the duke’s. The three men looked at each other and went to draw their weapons. The duke was faster and shot the gun from one man’s hand and shot another grazing his shoulder. Byron disarmed the third. They surrendered and left as quickly as their shaking legs could carry them. Then one of them turned back for a moment.
“I thought your face looked familiar,” he yelled from a distance away.”
“We do not know one another,” the duke yelled back.”
“Perhaps Henry Morehead, Duke of Devonshire, yet I know who you are. It seems as though you have made a miraculous recovery. It also seems this knowledge is somewhat of a secret.”
The duke went after him without hesitation, but the men knew the path better and managed to escape quickly.
