The Ruined Duchess (The Scandal Sisters #1)

Prologue

In Memoriam of the 7th Duke of Ross, James Edgar Harding

I am highly put upon honoured to be forced permitted by the Royal Historical Society of snobs to record the passing of my depraved loving father not by blood , the 7th Duke of Ross. It is impossible for his countrymen to understand his lack of dedication and sacrifice for the Crown. He took a deep personal interest in the financial markets to improve his own the country’s coffers. He held the interest of his whores the people at heart and scoffed at exemplified the meaning of self-sacrifice to improve conditions for the poor. He will not be dearly missed by his beast of a doting wife, the Duchess of Ross, and his only bastard son, Nashford Xavier Harding.

DRAFTED OBITUARY FOR JAMES EDGAR HARDING 7TH DUKE OF ROSS, SEVENTEENTH DAY OF MARCH 1803 WRITTEN BY THE NEW INEbrIATED DUKE OF ROSS, NASHFORD XAVIER HARDING AND CORRECTED THE NEXT DAY AFTER HE SOBERED FROM HIS CELEbrATORY NIGHT OF DEBAUCHERY

APRIL 1803

“G ive it back. I don’t want it.”

His father’s solicitor scurried along behind the new Duke of Ross as he marched through the great hall. “Your Grace, the estate is quite vast.”

“It’s falling apart. The rugs are threadbare, the furnishings tattered, the walls are dingy with—is that supposed to be art?” His lip turned up at the sight of a child’s version of the Corra Linn, one of three waterfalls of Clyde painted directly on the walls in the hall. Before he could take his eyes off the monstrosity, something splattered on his head, seeping through his thick dark hair like an asp slithering through the overgrown fields around the loch.

He closed his eyes. The art wasn’t the only ghastly thing occurring in this household. So help him God, if that was bird shite from doves roosting in the roof, he would get his rifle and blast holes through the birds and the roof.

He looked up at the dripping ceiling and breathed a sigh of relief to discover it was only water saturating his scalp. “And there’s rain coming through the roof.” The pails scattered around the hall should have made the problem evident. It was the shabbiest estate he’d ever seen, and the fields didn’t look much better.

“The tenants pay their rent on time, and up until four years ago, the estate was doing quite well.”

He stopped and the barrister nearly ran into his chest as he turned around. As it was, the scrawny man with spectacles slipping down his nose fumbled the stack of papers in his hands. Several floated to the floor as Mr. Bremble swatted at them like a swarm of bees in the garden. He missed every damned one.

“What happened four years ago?”

“The lady of the house gave birth, suffered an affliction, and never recovered.” Bremble crouched to picked up the papers, but only succeeded in dropping more of his tiresome reports.

He should help him, calm the man’s nerves at the very least. He did neither. He was a Duke. “And …” He didn’t see what Mrs. Blair’s health had to do with the downfall of an estate. If it had been her husband’s health, well, that would be understandable.

“Her … ah … her lover, Mr. Blair refused to leave her side.”

Nash’s left eyebrow rose of its own accord. Bremble had caught his attention … for the moment. This was a part of the story he’d somehow missed. It was his understanding Lady Elizabeth Sinclair had scandalized the Ton when she’d married a mere mister some fifteen years ago. Mr. Duncan Blair had been a businessman who’d become wealthy at a young age and captured his bride’s heart when they were both quite young. The couple had been head-over-heels in love according to his own mother, who wouldn’t have known love if it bit her in the arse.

He searched his memory for an inkling of a scandal attached to the couple or the estate, but nothing came to mind. The estate had been built in the thirteenth century, or so the story went, and because of its location leading to the Highlands, it had been a vital piece of property to occupy in order to control Scotland. At least that’s the way it had been in centuries past. The last battle to occupy Urquhart had been fought in 1689, when supporters of the Protestant monarchy of William and Mary held off the Jacobites. The Protestants subsequently blew the castle to the ground.

From what Nash could see, it should have been left that way.

He didn’t want the blasted rubble. He turned away from the man who was trying to tell him he couldn’t give back a gift from the King no matter how much he wanted to do so.

He stopped Bremble’s tirade with the lift of his hand. “Lady Sinclair was married to Mr. Blair,” he corrected the older man.

Bremble shoved his spectacles up the bridge of his nose with his middle finger.

“Actually, I was the one to discover the marriage was not legal.”

“How is that possible?”

“That I determined it wasn’t legal?”

Nash nearly growled. “That the marriage wasn’t legal. We’re in Scotland.”

“But they were married in England.”

He was about done with this ridiculous trip. It was a waste of his time. “So they got married in England. They were married .”

“No bans were posted, and the vicar wasn’t a vicar.”

“Excuse me?” The man was talking nonsense.

“The couple was in a hurry to marry, and Mr. Blair acquired a special license from a questionable source. A friend of a friend who claimed a favor was due to him by the Crown—it was not. The license was forged. A ‘lark,’ the man confessed. If they had gone a few miles further to Gretna Green, the marriage would have been valid, but they stopped in Carlisle, where a town drunkard stumbled out of the rectory when they arrived and they mistook him for the vicar.”

The story sounded ludicrous. “How could they mistake a drunk for a vicar?”

“In his intoxicated state, the man soiled his own attire and borrowed the real vicar’s clothing. Since the vicar was his brother, there was no real crime—until he performed the marriage ceremony.”

“You must be joking.”

“I’m not, Your Grace.”

“You’re telling me that a self-made man of business believed he could obtain a special license, which he cannot as a mere mister, obtained the forged license, took his bride-to-be all the way to Carlisle to get married, stumbled across a drunk posing as a vicar, married the society miss, but not really.” He had to take a breath before he could continue. “Then he traveled to Scotland and lived with her for over a decade as man and wife … and it was only after their deaths that this came to light?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“How could the man be so stupid and still live?” He winced. The only reason he was here was because the man’s own stupidity had caused him to die, after becoming so inebriated he fell into the loch and drowned.

“They were said to be in love, Your Grace.”

Nash rolled his eyes. It was more likely the man couldn’t wait to get under the chit’s skirts, and she had been holding out. He had no doubt Blair hadn’t actually sat by her side while she succumbed to death and then mourned his wife’s passing. It just wasn’t done.

Nash knew the greed of self-made men seeking society misses with dowries. Mr. Blair had probably been celebrating his widowhood with whores, and lost track of what was important—his estate. “How did you find out about this?”

“I demanded a copy of the marriage license when Mr. Blair died.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Because the Duke held a standing IOU from Mr. Blair.”

Nash blew out a breath. “Of course he did.” Gambling was the one thing his father had done well. That and stealing what belonged to another.

“When I learned of Mr. Blair’s death,” Bremble continued, “your father instructed me to look into his background.”

“I’m beginning to lose my patience, sir. Why would my father care about Mr. Blair’s background?”

“I’m getting to that, Your Grace. Since the estate has brought in a tidy sum in the past, I suggested to your father that it could bring in a sizable profit once again if it were managed properly. I have always inquired upon the estates that would bring a tidy profit for the Duke when the Duke held an IOU. That’s how your father acquired so many estates.”

God save him from helpful solicitors. The man was more evil than his father.

He sighed and looked around the grand hall. He supposed the castle couldn’t be considered a rubble since it was made of ancient stone and it was said to have been fought over repeatedly for its strategic position on the road to Inverness. The view of Loch Ness was beautiful. Some may want to live in such a place … just not him. It would take far too much of his hard-earned money to repair the castle to its previous glory. He should decline to collect on the IOU and let the heirs of Mr. Blair keep the estate.

It was in his best interest. The road north was treacherous and his coach had thrown two wheels on the journey. He couldn’t imagine many of his mistresses wanting to travel to a drafty old castle on a bitterly cold loch which could only boast of a brutal and biting wind. His current mistress, Cecily, had found the trip to be unbearable. Her weak stomach and the frequent stops they’d made to accommodate her had turned it into a tedious three-day trip from Dumfries. It had also made him painfully aware of his need to be closer to London in order get away from the unpleasant side of traveling with a woman. He’d rather travel to a woman in the future.

“You're saying Mr. Blair owed my father the price of the estate?”

Bremble shook his head vigorously. “No, Your Grace. Mr. Blair owed your father one hundred pounds.”

“One hundred pounds? That’s it? Then tell me exactly how I came to acquire the entire estate?” he asked, even though he didn’t want the answer.

Bremble nearly preened as he stood up with his papers now neatly stacked in his arms. “Mr. Blair said there was no problem paying the debt, but he died and he didn’t have an estate manager to pay his debts. Your father?—”

At the sound of Nash’s growl, the solicitor cleared his throat and started again. “The previous Duke instructed me to advise the Crown of the debt owed, but when the Duke passed so suddenly, I was a bit busy to do anything about it. Then the King’s man of affairs contacted my firm regarding compensating you for finding the King that wonderful horse. Of course, I remembered the debt, and the lack of a legitimate marriage, and I suggested this piece of property be compensation, since it was scheduled to go back to the Crown anyway.”

Nash frowned. “Don’t the Blairs have daughters? In Scotland, the estate transfers to the daughters if there are no heirs.”

“Not to bastard daughters, it doesn’t.”

“Excuse me?” He seemed to be repeating himself, but Bremble didn’t mind. If anything, the man was quite pleased to discuss ad nauseum the subject of how he stole the children's birthright.

“Lady Sinclair was not married to Mr. Blair. The six daughters were not born in the marriage bed.”

A sick feeling knotted in his gut. “They’re bastards,” he clarified.

Bremble grinned. “They’re bastards.”

The man repeating his words made Nash suddenly understand his mistress’s weak stomach all too well.

Wailing broke through the air like a clap of thunder rolling through the Highlands. He looked up the stairs to see six sets of eyes staring down upon them. Six orphaned girls. The youngest appeared to be the source of the disturbance and continued with the racket as if someone was pulling her hair out by the roots. From what Nash could see, not one of the other girls standing near her was causing her any pain. If anything, they were attempting to comfort her. Four of the girls, became so engrossed in the youngest’s despair, they forgot about him and Bremble standing below.

The sixth set of eyes leading the pack, however, told another story. She couldn’t have been a day over fourteen and she was ignoring her sisters. She was a child, really, with a wild mass of auburn curls that reflected the untamed flame alight in her green eyes. He knew the color because unlike her younger siblings, this girl was focused of their presence, and from the anger marring her perfect complexion, he’d bet she’d been listening in on their entire conversation.

He met all six girls at the bottom of the steps and bowed. The wailing stopped. “Ladies forgive me for making your acquaintance without a proper introduction. I am Nashford Harding, Duke of Ross.”

All six girls stared at him now. The youngest one sniffled. Her hair was a bit darker than the rest without a hint of red in the long strands. The four girls consoling her had identical features with pale complexions and blond hair done up to make them look much older than what they actually were. Stick-figures that were currently all legs and arms, but no doubt would have captured many a buck’s attention if they were introduced to society when they came of age—which would never happen thanks to him and the imbecile standing next to him.

It was the oldest one, however, who captured his attention. On the cusp of womanhood, she was a mere shadow of her future self. No doubt by the time she reached her majority, she would be the type of woman to command the attention of every man when she made her way into a ballroom. He could imagine her storming the entrance and causing such a disturbance, the Ton could only stand by in awe of her tempest spirit. Fire glistened in her auburn curls, and upon closer inspection, it seemed to hold every shade of her siblings’ hair. As if the younger girls were but a small glimmer of her perfection …

… And she would no longer be allowed to enter society. Thanks to him.

At the age of twenty, he was a Duke. The title and responsibilities were his alone. No one would ever be the wiser to his true birth … and in turn, he had repaid the kindness of fate by ruining the lives of six young girls, all in the span of one month.

Bloody hell.