Page 40 of A Duke in Disguise
She gave him a gentle smile. “It really isn’t, though.”
“Bol—” He cleared his throat. “Balderdash. If this all goes pear-shaped, I supposed I’ll be locked up in a lunatic asylum as my father was.” He settled gloomily into a corner of the stiff drawing room sofa and downed a glass of whisky.
The following morning an elderly woman was presented to him as Lady Staffordshire. He had a vague sense that he ought to recall this name, but he had met and heard of so many people this past week, he simply could not keep track. She was plump and short, with pure white hair. “Oh my,” she breathed, clasping his hand. “The very image of his father. You weren’t exaggerating, Caro.”
“This is your grandmother,” his aunt said. “How was your journey from Yorkshire?” she asked the lady.
“I came as soon as I got your letter,” Lady Staffordshire said, not letting go of his hands or looking away from his face. “And I’m so glad I did.”
They drank tea, discussed the badness of the weather and the warmth of the fire, and after a quarter of an hour they all rose to their feet.
“Staffordshire will support your claim,” his grandmother pronounced. “What does the duke have to say?”
Lady Caroline shifted in her seat. “He’s very unwell and refuses to meet with us.”
“Insist upon it. You must not waste any time, Caro. It will look very bad indeed if the duke dies without acknowledging Montagu.” She didn’t stumble over the title, but Ash couldn’t imagine ever getting used to it. “You must avoid the appearance of anything cloak and dagger. Besides, he may well wish to see his grandchild. I have half a dozen of my own, but he has none.”
“If I had snarled and cursed, would she have declared me an impostor?” Ash asked his aunt after the older woman took her leave. Could he then have packed his bag, leaving behind his new coats and pantaloons along with this hateful title that people insisted on using, and returned to Holywell Street?
“Oh, no,” she declared promptly. “That would only have made her even more certain you were a Talbot.”
They caught one another’s eyes and laughed. It was the first time Ash had truly laughed in the week he had been living at Arundel House. He felt the ache in his sides, and when he looked at his aunt, he saw that she was nearly doubled over in laughter. She, too, had gone a long time without laughing.
“If you had insulted her appearance and thrown a vase it would have quite sealed the matter. In fact, perhaps that’s what you ought to do in the courtroom.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said dryly.
Ash had often felt unmoored without a family or a home. Without anyone or anywhere he belonged to, and with a body that sometimes seemed intent on killing him, he had often felt like a visitor everywhere he went—estranged from the living, dreading the moment the people he cared for would cast him off and the body he lived in would finally betray him. He hadn’t let himself get too comfortable, hadn’t let himself form connections that would trick him into thinking he belonged.
But looking at his aunt he knew he belonged here. It wasn’t just the fact that her nearly black eyes were identical to his own, it wasn’t just the family connection—one could share blood with any stranger on the street and not have it matter in the least. But Lady Caroline had shown him a duty. Maybe this was the answer to why Ash was here in this body, in this world, in the first place.
Or maybe he was here to simply be his aunt’s nephew, to prove to her that her family wasn’t entirely rotten, to prove that she had done a good deed twenty years ago by sending him away.
“When can we expect”—Ash still did not know what to call the man—“my uncle?”
Lady Caroline frowned. “As soon as tomorrow, depending on how muddy the roads from Leicestershire are.”
“We ought to stay at a hotel,” Ash said, giving voice to a worry that had been niggling at his mind since his arrival at Arundel House. “My uncle will not take my presence calmly.” That was an understatement. He half expected his uncle to murder his aunt and Ash himself without delay. He did not seem to be a man who could be relied upon to make wise decisions.
“I will not leave this house,” Lady Caroline said with more firmness than he expected. “It’s my home as much as it is Robert’s, and more so since I’ve had the running of it for the better part of two decades.Hehurtme, Ash. I will not scurry away any longer.”
“Quite,” he said, unable to contradict her.
“Nor will I leave my father without protection. He’s not a good man, but he’s helpless. Speaking of which, Lady Staffordshire was quite right. We need to speak with the duke before Robert returns.”
After a few hours of messages sent back and forth via the duke’s grim-faced valet, the duke sent word that he would receive Lady Caroline and Ash.
“Over there is the portrait gallery,” Lady Caroline said as she led Ash to the floor of the house that was reserved for the duke. “Most of our better art is at Weybourne Priory but we have a Reynolds and a Gibbs here, as well as a small pair of Gainsboroughs. Watch your step on that carpet.”
Ash knew she was going on in this way to distract him from what was about to pass, but soon enough a liveried servant appeared to usher them through a sitting room and into a large, darkened bedroom. The curtains were drawn, the air was close, and on a large bed hung with velvet curtains lay a small, wizened figure.
“Father,” Lady Caroline whispered. “Here’s the man I told you about.”
The old man’s skin was pale and papery, but his eyes were bright and unclouded by age. He looked at Ash. “Jamie,” he said in a voice rusty with disuse.
“No, Papa, not Jamie.”
“Course not,” the duke said, his eyes focused now on Ash. “Jamie’s son. The one you got rid of.”
