Chapter Two
It appears that after a rather short search, the man of the hour has been found.
The heir who will be taking on the mantle of the next Duke of R.
is none other than a son of unknown parentage, rumored to have been sired by a blacksmith.
This author has learned the man has been made aware of recent good fortune and will be traveling to Hollyhead House shortly to claim it.
Upon hearing the news, Lady C.N. swooned so heartily she required both a good dousing with cold water and smelling salts to come to.
Readers who have been familiar with my column know that the men of the ton also refer to Lady C.N.
as the “Lady Icicle.” This recent news is of a particular shock, as we long assumed that her heart was frostbitten by the Earl of H.
, who continues to languish in France with an Italian dancing girl.
She is recovered, but perhaps not for long.
The man in question is unattached. With this news, the Earl of H.
might want to grace our shores with some haste sooner than later.
Is it possible the blacksmith’s son could not only win a dukedom, but the Lady Icicle as well?
You can be sure, dear reader, that this author will be keeping you abreast of the entire scandalous situation…
“Will you be gone long?”
“Not three weeks and I’ll be back!” And not a second over, Justin Wright thought to himself.
This was all a large misunderstanding that would be swiftly remedied so his life could continue unperturbed.
He flipped open his pocket watch to check the time and then snapped it shut again. The coach was five minutes late.
“I should have told you. I should have prepared you better for this moment,” his mother said. She’d been pacing the morning room in her London house all afternoon.
“You’ll wear a hole in that carpet,” Justin said. “You know how he loved it.”
That got her to stop for a moment, and smile.
“Of all the things he brought us from India, how has this wretched carpet managed to stay the course for so long?” she asked, gesturing to the multicolored fabric that matched hardly anything fashionable.
But somehow, Mrs. Alice Nichols had made the best of it, turning what most people would have considered a lost cause into something beautiful, just as she’d done so many times before.
Now in her late forties, Mrs. Nichols was still the lovely woman she’d been when his father ran away with her all those storied years ago.
Though her mahogany hair was shot through with gray, her green eyes retained their youthful spark which helped her rule over her family with a gentle gravitas and sense of humor that made them all fall in love with her.
“Oh Justin,” she said, her eyes glazing over once more with unshed tears. “Your father and I tried to tell you so many times when you were growing up. But you were so focused on your studies, and by the time the duke had remarried we thought for sure there’d be another son born…”
“Alice, please,” Justin said, throwing her a wide smile, dampening his annoyance with the delayed coach. “I understand the position you and Father found yourselves in was… unusual at best. This was a one in a million shot. Now that it’s happened all we can do is push forward—”
“And not look back,” his mother finished. “You are so like your father at times, my dear.”
Justin made no move to correct her. That was one secret he’d always known—Charles Nichols was not his father by blood. He’s your father by heart, Alice would remind him. Eventually, that became true.
“Rothesay!”
His brother-in-law, Anthony Morgan, strode into the morning room, ready to embrace him. Justin’s sister waddled in after her husband, eight months pregnant. Full-blooded Nicholses were also rarely on time.
Justin groaned, “Please don’t call me that.”
“Don’t call you that?” Anthony said. “There’s a duke in the family now! People will need to start bowing to you!”
“We always knew you had a bit of regality in you, but goodness gracious!” his sister, Penelope, added with a huff. “I’m glad we caught you before you set off.”
“I fully intend to make sure everything is sorted out. I won’t be a duke for much longer, if I can help it, at least.”
Anthony threw his sister a quizzical look. “I’m not sure one can hand an investiture back to His Majesty.”
“Oh, I’m certain there’s a very distant relative rubbing his hands together readily enough,” Justin replied. “The upper crust love having more titles foisted on them, I’m sure.”
“Well, apparently you’ve already caused a stir amongst the toffs,” Penelope said, a sly smile spreading across her lips.
“Don’t tell me you’ve been reading that trash again,” Anthony grumbled, leaning on a doorframe.
“What trash?” Justin asked, loosening his cravat.
“One man’s trash is another woman’s well-deserved pastime, no?
” Penelope answered, thrusting a brochure at her brother.
“Lady Prudence writes the society column for the Times. Of course, no names are mentioned, but apparently the son of a blacksmith taking over the Rothesay Dukedom was enough to cause Lady Cordelia Nichols to faint.”
“You don’t say…” Anthony said, reaching forward to Justin’s outstretched hand, plucking the brochure out of it. He rifled through the paper himself.
“Lady Prudence said you were the first man she’s ever swooned over.
Been through three London seasons with quite a few proposals and turned all of them down.
Apparently she’s nicknamed Lady Icicle. Though it may have to do with pining over the Earl of Halton, who’s been engaged in a prolonged visit to France, most likely due—”
“Good lord, Ellie, with all of that knowledge, Scotland Yard should employ you as a spy,” Justin said, grimacing. “Have you been feeding them information about me?”
Penelope blushed. “Well, if nothing else, it will be good background information for you. I’m sure those ladies are coming up with schemes as we speak to dupe you out of your birthright.”
Justin felt a pit settle in his stomach at her words.
It was bad enough having his partners at the firm regard the news with disbelief, but his family speaking openly about the inheritance was making it too real for him.
Part of him was sure he would arrive at Hollyhead, after nearly thirty years of running away from it, only for someone to tell him it was a mistake.
And if it wasn’t… well then, fate had a cruel sense of humor.
The news had turned his carefully crafted life upside down and it had not even been twenty-four hours.
He’d taken a leave of absence from work and had to hide out at his adoptive mother’s house to escape reporters and nosy neighbors.
Now he’d packed every piece of clothing, alongside his drafting tools and other architect’s instruments, into a traveling case.
Who knew what kind of calamities awaited him in Hertfordshire?
Hollyhead hadn’t been kind to him before, and he had an inkling it wouldn’t be any more accommodating now.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to accompany you?” Alice asked in a measured voice, though the glaze of pity in her eyes betrayed her. After all these years, that look still managed to make him feel like the begging little urchin he once was, knocking on the kitchen door for scraps of food.
Finally, Justin heard the coach arrive in front of the townhouse.
“For the last time—” Justin said, though he was interrupted by a knock at the door. Picking up his traveling case, he moved into the foyer. “This is not my birthright, I am not a duke, and Cordelia Nichols will be happy to know that I will be selling Hollyhead as soon as possible.”
At that Anthony smiled broadly, his sister laughed, but his mother cast her eyes downward.
“Mark my words! I will be back before May Day with everything sorted out.”
*
“What’s going to become of us then?” Portia asked, her tongue dripping with acid. “He’ll throw us out on the street, surely.”
Cordelia pushed away the Lady Prudence section of the Times to reach her cup of tea. “Portia, how many times do I have to tell you not to read the drivel they publish in that so-called newspaper?”
“It’s true! Well, most of it anyway. She even knew about your fainting spell after Will’s funeral. There must be a mole amongst our neighbors. How many were there that day anyway?”
Cordelia felt the beginnings of a headache throb in her temples.
Closing her eyes, she fought the urge to rest her head in her poached eggs.
She’d not had a moment’s respite since she fainted nearly a week ago.
Cordelia spent her days organizing Hollyhead and her nights thinking about leaving it.
It was as though she’d become stuck in an infinite time loop that Hermione spoke about after they attended a scientific lecture in London last season.
The dark spots under her eyes, stretching out like deep blue puddles, were evidence enough that time was marching onward, not to mention Portia’s plans to retain control of Hollyhead, which seemed to be growing more diabolical each day.
She was trying her best, but the mask was close to falling off again.
“I think maybe thirty… no, forty?” she replied to her sister.
“Say that again, but face me,” Portia said.
Cordelia turned face to face with her sister, but instead, she shrugged her shoulders.
“Lia, this is important! If we find the mole maybe we can get in touch with Lady Prudence and ask her to issue a correction! It’s impossible that a blacksmith’s son would be one to take over the Rothesay title!
” When Portia was excited, her speech tended to become more stilted.
A footman glanced over at them curiously, but one reproving look from Cordelia had him snap his head back to face the window.
The pounding was becoming more pronounced as she reached for Portia’s hand. At that moment, Hermione and Bea entered the dining room.
“What’s g-going on?” Hermione asked, eyeing her sisters.
“Nothing. Portia and I were discussing plans for the arrival of the new duke,” Cordelia said, as cheerfully as she could manage.
Hermione’s face darkened. At her words, Portia stood up abruptly, snatching up the copy of the Times and striding out of the room.
“W-we aren’t going to be p-put out, are we?” Hermione asked.
“Someone is going to put us out?” Bea echoed, looking over at Cordelia in alarm.
“Of course not! We are going to have a polite chat with the new duke, and he will ensure that we are taken care of. Father has put something aside for us in his will; everything will be fine.”
Hermione stared down at her unbuttered toast. “But will we be able to stay at H-H-Hollyhead?”
The question was akin to a punch in the gut. The headache was starting to blur the edges of her vision. Standing, Cordelia managed a tight smile. “Hermione, we will have a frank discussion with the new duke, and I am sure all will be well.”
The answer did not seem to settle her younger sister, but she still nodded her head. Bea, who was still too young to fully understand the consequences of the past week, happily tucked into her breakfast.
“Hermione, please try not to worry. We will always have each other. I promise you that.”
Hermione nodded her head again, maudlin. Gripping the edge of the table, Cordelia took in a deep breath and then left the breakfast room. She needed fresh air, and fast. The laces on her corset were suddenly and unbearably tight.
“Oh, Lady Cordelia!”
Without looking, she knew it was Mrs. Norris, their chatelaine. She had been put into an absolute tizzy since news of the Blacksmith Duke broke.
“Are you sure we should allow the… the man to sleep in the duke’s bedchamber?” Mrs. Norris asked, her voice rising to an alarming pitch. She raised her skirts to keep up with Cordelia’s pace.
“Yes, Mrs. Norris. All accounts say that he is the new duke, and so he should be referred to as such.”
“Oh Lady Cordelia, I am sure he will not know the difference if we put him in one of the back rooms, wouldn’t you agree?”
“As much as I would like that, Mrs. Norris, we were raised better than that.”
“But—”
“Mrs. Norris, please prepare the duke’s room. If you need me, I will be finishing my embroidery of the reflecting pond in the library,” Cordelia said, opening the glass door that led out onto the lawn.
“Oh, but Lady Cordelia, that’s an odd way to get to the library!”