Page 2 of Falling Into Bed with a Duke
The door swung open, and a decrepit old man stood there, his black jacket and waistcoat faded and threadbare. “May I be of service?”
“Charles Beckwith to see the Marquess of Marsden. I’m expected.” With a practiced flick of his wrist, Mr. Beckwith produced his card.
Taking it, the white-haired butler opened the door farther. “Come in, and I’ll alert his lordship to your arrival.”
As grateful as Nicky was to get out of the wind, he wished he’d stayed where he was. The entryway was shadowed and just as chilly as outside. The butler wandered away into a darkened hallway that Nicky feared led into the very bowels of hell about which his nanny had warned him. He could see no end to it. A quick glance at the twins did not reassure him. They looked as though their wariness had increased tenfold. As for his own, it was at least double that. He wanted to be strong, brave, and courageous. He wanted to be the good son, to please his father, but staying here would kill him. He was sure of it.
They waited in the oppressive quiet. Even the tall clock in the hallway wasn’t ticking, its hands weren’t moving. The silent sentry caused a shiver to race up Nicky’s spine.
A tall, thin man stepped out of the sinister-looking hallway. His clothes hung on his frame as though they had been fitted for a man twice his size. Although his cheeks and eyes were sunken, and his hair was more white than black, he didn’t really appear particularly old.
Beckwith snapped to attention. “My lord, I’m Charles Beckwith, solicitor—”
“So your card said. Why are you here?” The rasp of his voice hinted that it wasn’t accustomed to being used.
“I brought the lads.”
“What use have I for lads?”
Beckwith pulled back his shoulders. “I sent you a missive, my lord. The Duke of Ashebury, the Earl of Greyling, and their wives were tragically killed in a railway accident.”
“Railway. If God meant for us to travel in such contraptions, He’d have not given us horses.”
Nicky blinked. Where was the man’s sympathy and sorrow at the news? Why was he not offering comfort?
“Be that as it may,” Beckwith said evenly, “I had expected to see you at the funeral.”
“I don’t attend funerals. They’re ghastly depressing.”
Nicky didn’t think truer words could have been spoken. He’d hated the one for his parents. During the wake, he’d wanted to open the casket to be sure they were there, but his nanny had told him that he wouldn’t recognize them. His parents had been burned to cinders. They knew which body was his father’s because of his signet ring, a ring that Nicky now wore on a chain about his neck, but how did they know that the woman they’d buried with his father was really his mother? What if she wasn’t? What if she wasn’t with him now?
“Which is the reason that I’ve brought the lads to you—since you didn’t retrieve them yourself,” Beckwith said.
“Why bring them to me?”
“As I stated in my missive—”
“I don’t recall a missive.”
“Then I offer my apologies, my lord, for its being lost in the post. However, both the duke and earl named you as guardian of their sons.”
As though only just becoming aware of their presence, Marsden homed his dark green eyes in on them. Nicky felt as though his heart had been stabbed with a poker. He didn’t want to be left in the care of this man, who didn’t seem to possess an ounce of kindness or compassion.
Furrowing his brow, the marquess gave his attention back to Beckwith. “Why would they be foolish enough to do that?”
“They obviously trusted you, my lord.”
Marsden cackled as though it was the funniest thing anyone had ever said about him. Nicky couldn’t bear it. Rushing forward, he balled up his fist and punched the marquess in the gut, again and again.
“Don’t you laugh,” Nicky cried, mortified that tears were burning his eyes. “Don’t you dare laugh at my father!”
“Easy, lad,” Beckwith said, pulling him back. “Nothing is accomplished with fisticuffs.”
Only that wasn’t true because the marquess had stopped laughing. Breathing heavily, Nicky was prepared to go at him again if he had to.
“Sorry, boy,” the marquess said. “I wasn’t laughing at your father, merely the absurdity of my seeing to your care.”
Ashamed by his outburst, Nicky turned away, taken aback when he spotted the scraggly boy—wearing only breeches that looked to be too small and a white linen shirt—crouched behind a large potted frond. His long black hair fell into his eyes.
