Chapter 19
Nineteen
My dearest Iseabail,
I know your heart is questioning everything I have put into motion. I had every intention of finding you the perfect husband, until that ever-challenging lady named Fate stepped in and delayed my grand plan. I then had to set into motion a more devious and selfish plot. I married you and attached you to a dying man who could not give you the large family and security you so rightfully deserve.
Please do not fret over Cousin Henry’s inheritance. He should have never been in line to the Dukedom, and he and his family have been compensated well in my will. Caerlaverock and all my estates should have gone to my son.
When I was a young man, I fell in love. She was the catch of the Season and I dare say she fell in love with me as well. However, a man stepped in and publicly compromised her. Her parents demanded a special license be procured and before I knew of the trouble she was in, they were wed.
To make matters worse, she was carrying my child, my son and heir. To my dying day, my beloved despised me for not rescuing her from the clutches of an evil man. I don’t blame her. From her perspective I took her virginity and abandoned her.
I failed her and our son, and when I attempted to claim the two of them, she denied me. My only recourse was to remain friends with her husband, and in turn, be a part of my son’s life as he grew into a man. I never told my son he was mine for fear that my own selfish reasons would haunt his mother. Only two people knew of my son’s true heritage prior to the deterioration of my health. However, when a man faces his mortality, many things he thought he could accept in life, become completely unacceptable in death.
I sought Mr. Forrester’s legal opinion on how my heirs might one day have their rightful inheritance. We decided it was imperative that one other person be brought into my confidence, as my plan would require her assistance. If you’re reading this, the lovely Lady Drake is standing by your side and will explain all that I dare not put into writing.
I would ask this one thing: If you do find yourself to be with child while still bearing my name, please do not remarry until after my heir is born. I hope that fate has finally turned in my favor while I am in my grave, and that you will restore the proper line to the Dukedom of Nithesdale.
Your ever grateful husband,
Nithesdale
—A deathbed letter from Edward Charles Hancock, Duke of Nithesdale, to his wife, Iseabail Hancock, Duchess of Nithesdale, January 1810
N ash slid out of the saddle and patted Tyr’s sweaty neck. Hard and fast on a new path, his ride had been almost as exhilarating as the ride Iseabail had taken the previous night. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he thought about the way in which she had ridden him. Wild and free, her hair flowing with the firelight glistening off the small beads of sweat forming on her body. Her beautiful breasts bouncing, she’d relentlessly challenged his stamina. She had been glorious. And perhaps a bit exhausted, otherwise she would have met him.
“Did you see Mr. Jarvis this morning?” Nash turned toward Mr. Forrester who spoke from the edge of the barn as if he was deathly afraid of the animals, or perhaps him.
“Yes, he’s become odious.” He’d been approached by Henry Jarvis while sitting at the breakfast table. Jarvis had made a glutton of himself at the buffet while making lascivious comments about Iseabail. It had taken every last ounce of his control to quit the room before he pummeled Jarvis to a bloody pulp. There was too much at stake to make that mistake. As he led Tyr into the barn, his boots collected mud the entire way.
“He’s the reason the Duke married the Duchess.”
Nash turned to look at Mr. Forrester who was being more candid than he thought possible. "I thought he married her to give her a home and a chance at a future.”
“That is true, but it was also his attempt to keep Mr. Jarvis from squandering the estates and placing the staff and tenants in the precarious position of having an irresponsible duke controlling their futures.”
It was the exact type of maneuver Nash had been doing since he’d bungled the deal with the Blair family home at Urquhart. “He’s protecting Caerlaverock.”
Mr. Forrester nodded. “Exactly what he taught you to do with your estates.”
He and Nithesdale had shared the opinion that the Ton had squandered enough money and ruined too many futures all in the name of pleasure. It was also a reminder of his own need to come clean with Iseabail. He owed her and her sisters an apology for his ignorance and the carelessness of his youth eight years ago.
“The Duchess has returned to Caerlaverock.”
He spun around. “She what?” Her man of affairs had all his attention now. Tyr nudged him hard, but he ignored the horse at his back who needed a good brushing down.
“It seems the repairs have been made to the roof at Caerlaverock. She received a missive this morning that said Her Grace may return home. Since Mr. Jarvis had sent for a doctor to examine the Duchess, she left before he could arrive.”
He balked at the audacity of the man telling a duchess to do anything. “The man is not her husband, or a prince. He’s still a mere mister.”
Forrester sighed. “No. He is something much worse.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
Forrester looked at him as if he was a naive schoolboy, despite Nash being older. “One word from Mr . Jarvis, and the lineage of the Duchess’s babe will be put into question. He has already sent for a doctor to run tests. Those so-called tests could cause her to lose the baby. She will not take that chance, Ross.” Forrester pulled a piece of paper out of his jacket. He starred at it, turning it over and over as if trying to decide what to do with it, before he finally looked up and held it out to Nash. “She trusts that you will not be careless with this. I hope her faith is rightfully placed.”
Nash bristled and took the letter with the reluctance of a condemned man approaching the gates of Saint Peter before he’d had the opportunity to atone for his sins.
She was his . If there was a babe, the child was his . To hell with everyone else.
He heard rather than saw Forrester retreat as he gazed down at the delicate scroll of his name written on the front of the correspondence. Nash —not Ross, not The Duke of Ross, but the name she used at their most intimate moments. Part of him was jealous she trusted Forrester with her most intimate secrets, yet he also knew it galled Forrester that she trusted Nash at all. That alone made him want to pound on his chest and claim dominance. No matter how much faith she had in Forrester in the past, the man hadn’t shared her bed.
“Will you be going back to Caerlaverock as well?” he asked.
“The Duchess is a lady. She will not put her reputation at risk. She travels alone with Lady Drake.” There was a warning in his voice that made Nash bristle once more. He was not to follow.
Nash turned away before Forrester said anything else as his groom approached. “Take care of Tyr for me, would you, John.”
“Of course, Your Grace.”
John led away the stallion, who protested with a flick of his head and a snap of his teeth. The groom merely laughed and cooed right back at him. “Och, you’re a mean beastie with a loyal heart, you are, Tyr. Leave His Grace in peace for once, will ya?”
Nash tried to smile, but his lips wouldn’t curve. Not with every one of his fears waiting for him inside the envelope in his hand. He took a long breath and let it out slowly before walking over to a copse of trees and sitting down on a fallen log. The cold damp chill in the air warned of snow coming in fast from the Highlands, and he could only pray Iseabail made it back to Caerlaverock in one piece.
He opened the letter, peered at the graceful scrolls of her handwriting without taking in the meaning behind the words as he tried to absorb everything about this woman who had come to mean more to him than he thought possible. He blinked, and then started reading from the beginning, his blood freezing as if rigor mortis had taken over his body. His beating heart stood still in his chest, refusing to acknowledge the pain, the anguish he never thought he was capable of feeling.
She was truly gone.
* * *
Nash found himself at house party he no longer wished to attend while sitting at a card table with a man he despised. Jarvis was rubbish at cards. He always had been, and it seemed Whist was still a weakness his boyhood friend could not conquer. Since his earliest childhood memory, Nash could recall besting Jarvis in every game they’d played, despite Nash being younger. It had rankled the man’s pride at every turn, and yet still he challenged.
“One thousand pounds.”
Nash upped ante. “Two thousand pounds to the winning team.”
Simon’s brow lifted, and he smirked as he increased the bet again. “I’m feeling lucky. Three thousand.”
Viscount Alford, sitting between him and Simon, coughed. “Too rich for my blood.”
Alford’s partner Jarvis, however, wiped his brow and then looked at the viscount. “We have them beat three to one.”
“Ah, ah, ah.” Simon waggled his finger back and forth at the two men. “No commenting about the game or your cards. That’s against the rules.”
Jarvis looked at his cards and then looked to Nash and Simon. “You’re both bluffing.”
Nash shrugged. “Perhaps.”
Thoroughly enjoying himself, Simon took a drink of his brandy and sighed with appreciation. “This reminds me of our childhood.”
“It reminds me of your arrogance,” Jarvis snapped.
Nash pushed to get him where he wanted him. “The game, gentlemen. Are you in, or will you bow out?”
“Yes, Jarvis. Do you dare play without the dukedom in your pocket?” Simon taunted.
“It’s a done deal, Astley.” The sneer in his tone already betrayed his belief that he was better than Simon. A belief Jarvis had always held. At one time Nash would have dismissed the comment as male rivalry. Their antics had seemed harmless as young men, but now … it seemed one of them had not known where to draw the line.
“I didn’t see either of you willing to sneak into the Duke’s study and pilfer some of his fine brandy.”
It was Nash’s turn to laugh. Not that he felt any humor in the situation. On the contrary. “You were the heir to a dukedom, what could possibly stop you from inheriting?”
“A damn climbing whore thinks she has a chance,” Jarvis muttered.
Nash’s fists knotted and Simon kicked him hard on the shin. It should have brought pain, he felt nothing but a desire to squash Jarvis like the maggot he now knew him to be.
“I’d say this brandy would rival the old Duke’s. Wouldn’t you, Nash?” Simon’s question brought him into focus.
“Quite,” he breathed through clenched teeth. “I understand you must wait to see if the Duchess is with child before you inherit, Jarvis.”
“I have it on good authority she is not. Nor has she been able to bribe anyone into her bed to pawn off a bastard as the next Duke.”
“Perhaps a female heir? If she had a girl, the child would inherit the estates and lands in Scotland.”
Jarvis sneered. “She’s not pregnant, but if she is somehow able to produce a girl, the little bastard will not live long enough to inherit.” The table grew quiet and the viscount pulled at his cravat.
As if he suddenly realized he said far too much, Jarvis qualified his statement rather poorly. “We all know how many low-borns die after birth. It’s the weak blood flowing through their veins.”
It was Simon who broke the silence with his laughter. “Those damned bastards are sneaking their way into the Ton by any means necessary. I understand there was even an earl who brought a bastard home from every British colony his position as the regent’s ambassador took him.” He raised his brow. “And his Indian countess passed them off as her own.”
Nash was the only one to laugh at Simon’s jest even if he felt no humor in it. The first time he’d heard Simon mock his family’s heritage had been at the Astley dinner table during a holiday break from university. The table of bi-racial children, along with the Countess, had roared with laughter. Nash had nearly choked to death on the piece of mutton he’d ingested. Tonight, he could only hear blood roaring a battle cry through his heart.
“I beg your pardon, Simon. I meant no offense.” Jarvis cowed ever so slightly. He was after all, still a mister to everyone else at the table.
Nash somehow raised a brow, which did nothing to disguise the menace in his voice. “Did you mean to offend the Duchess, then?”
“Of course not.” Jarvis cleared his throat uncomfortably, yet the sudden gleam in his eyes made Nash’s skin crawl. “How about we make this game more interesting.”
What was Jarvis up to now? Had Nash not raised the stakes high enough? “What could be more interesting than playing for blunt?” he asked.
Jarvis smiled. “Why don’t you put the papers for that horse of yours on the table?”
He scoffed. “Tyr? You can’t even go inside the stables without Tyr nearly breaking down his stable door. What makes you think you could own him?”
“Oh, I won’t own him. I’ll sell him to the glue factory.”
Nash’s stomach turned. Jarvis knew exactly how much Tyr meant to him, but if Nash backed out now, he would not only look like a coward, he wouldn’t be able to exact the revenge he sought. Yet to gamble money was one thing, to gamble with the life of his horse …
“You love your horse as much as I love my money. Now you see my dilemma.”
Simon interjected. “Gentlemen, I believe we have taken this a bit too far.”
Nash gritted his teeth. It had to be done. He would not lose. “Two thousand pounds and Tyr against your four thousand pounds.”
Jarvis sputtered. Alford looked as if he might suffer from apoplexy.
“You can’t be serious?”
“I assure you I am.” He was deadly serious about making things right within the world … at least in Iseabail’s world. His child would also be safe after this evening’s events. Just one sleight of hand, and fate would intercede. For there were no bounds to Jarvis’s narcissistic tendencies—he couldn’t accept failure at cards any more than he could look in the mirror and see his true self. For Jarvis, both images would be warped into something far better than what reality exposed to the rest of the world.
As if sensing the pending drama, other members of the house party started to take notice of the play at hand. A crowd began to gather, and Nash cursed his error. He had not considered an audience, and now the idea he received from watching the Duchess cheat at cards, wouldn’t work. The card tucked up his sleeve would have to remain out of play. Blast it all.
“Since this has become a Duke’s wager,” his lip quirked in feigned humor, “I propose the game be between you and me. I will give you the three-to-one score you currently hold, with the winner taking the pot when one of us reaches five. Simon and Alford are no longer a part of this game, or our wager.”
“Now see here—” Simon started.
“I regrettably withdraw,” Alford interjected while wiping sweat from his brow. He was up and out of his chair before Jarvis could speak.
Simon rolled his eyes and left the table to refill his glass.
At the age of sixteen, the three of them had relied on gin for most of their revelry with a stolen nip of the good stuff here and there. Since then, Jarvis liked the good stuff, and he’d never known when to stop while he was ahead. Each time they drank, Jarvis would imbibe beyond his capacity. He’d suffered the worst after their nights of drinking than any of them, thanks to his inability to decline a challenge.
If the past were to repeat itself?—
Jarvis took the challenge in front of him. “Four thousand pounds it is,” he spit out.
“Are you good for it?”
“I’m the heir to Nithesdale—of course I’m good for it.”
“Just so, I think a marker is required. I’ll of course do the same.” His voice didn’t reflect the queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. He was putting Tyr’s life on the line, but it was either that, or his child’s.
“Fine.” Jarvis scribbled on the piece of parchment Simon handed him. “You’re bluffing. Bluffing. I’ll be two thousand pounds richer and your horse will be glue by the time the evening is over.” Jarvis’s expression held a maniacal element that would make a lesser man squirm.
The fool.
With a grand flourish meant to inflame his opponent’s nervous tendencies, Nash turned over the last card of his deal—the trump card turned out to be a two of hearts.
Two heartbeats come together to create one . He would not lose his child to this man.
A crush of people surrounded the table to watch the high stakes at play. Jarvis immediately played the ace of diamonds and took the first trick. He played the king of diamonds and grinned in triumph. Nash nodded in acknowledgment of his success and watched Jarvis scoop up the trick. Simon was now at his back and muttered a curse.
“Feeling his loss already, Astley?” Jarvis asked.
“Actually, I just remembered a prior engagement that I don’t want to miss. I’m afraid I must leave the two of you to Duke this out amongst yourselves.”
Jarvis grinned. “I like the sound of that.”
Nash rolled his eyes and focused on the cards at play. “Tell Marabella hello.”
Simon grunted before leaving the room.
“Marabella DiSimone, the opera singer?” Jarvis nearly drooled.
“Yes.” There was no need to feign boredom with talk about his former mistress. Nash had recommended her to Simon prior to his trip to Caerlaverock. Marabella had been a delight, but that had been before Iseabail.
Somehow the Duchess had changed him. Once she entered his life, he understood the difference between sex and making love. The passion between them felt deeper, more meaningful and real. It was like comparing gin to the best port Nithesdale had stashed away in his study. One was good when he didn’t know anything better, but with one taste, the other was something he wanted to experience for the rest of his life. Funny how Nithesdale had hidden both from him, and now there was only one that he couldn’t live without.
He wanted Iseabail for the rest of his life. He hoped she felt the same. But first he needed to ensure she was never put in danger again.
“Would you like an introduction?” Nash took two tricks without Jarvis batting an eye, his focus remained on thoughts of Marabella.
“You would arrange that?”
“I’m sure Astley would be amenable. That is, after you inherit.”
Jarvis smiled and Nash took another trick. “I’m feeling very lucky, right now, Nash.”
He nodded despite the familiarity grating his every last nerve, and said, “As you should.”
Less than an hour later Jarvis was feeling anything but lucky.
“We have a winner!” Mr. Forrester announced as he clasped Nash’s hand above his head, and the crowd began to applaud.
“It seems you owe me four thousand pounds.” Nash picked up the promissory note and waved it in the air for the crowd to appreciate. Polite applause turned into jeers. Pats on the back were plentiful, and Nash accepted congratulations with modesty.
Glass shattered as Jarvis wiped the table with a backwards swipe of his arm. Cards scattered, and a lady squealed as brandy splattered her gown. Jarvis raged as he knocked his chair to the floor in more of a drunken state than even Nash had realized.
“You coward—you—you—” Jarvis slurred.
“I wouldn’t finish that sentence if I were you, Henry . Unless, of course, you would like to meet me at dawn.” His tone lowered to a growl. Meeting Jarvis at dawn would be a dream. With his propensity to want to shoot at another person, Nash was certain Mr. Forrester would volunteer to be his second.
“Of … of course not.” As if suddenly realizing his mistake, Jarvis bowed his head. “My apologies, Ross.” Jarvis glanced at the crowd who eagerly waited for more, their desire for blood palpable.
And Jarvis knew it. He leaned over the table. “If I might have a word in private.”
“Of course,” Nash agreed.
“Right this way, gentlemen. You may use Lady Drake’s study,” Mr. Forrester interjected, with more steel in his voice than Jarvis held in his entire body.
Nash pushed back from the table and allowed Jarvis to proceed him—the last position Jarvis wanted to be in. It was as if he was afraid Nash might strike him from behind. But a knife to the back was more Jarvis’s style, not his.
Mr. Forrester opened the door to the study, the crackling in the grate and the sounds of Jarvis’s heavy breathing the only sounds to fill the room. Nash couldn’t have been more pleased.
“I expect the two of you will conduct yourselves as gentlemen in Lady Drake’s home.” When both men nodded in agreement, Forrester continued. “Then I will leave you to discuss business.”
Nash nodded and Jarvis made a beeline to the decanter on the sideboard before Forrester pulled the two doors closed.
Jarvis turned back to him and downed a glass of brandy before speaking. “I don’t have four thousand pounds.”
“I didn’t think you did.”
“Then why did you allow me to bet?”
“I am not your mother or your father. You are a grown man.”
“But I have children!” Jarvis wiped spittle from his chin with the back of his shaking hand.
“And a wife, yet that did not stop you from betting, attempting to take a mistress, or implying the Duchess of Nithesdale’s unborn babe would die a premature death.” The anger roiling through his body slipped through the cracks. Nash’s fist blasted Jarvis’s nose before he even realized he’d lost control. If the ass hadn’t hit the floor on the first punch, Nash would have followed it up with another. Instead, he watched his childhood friend clutch his bloodied nose that was dripping on his cravat, waistcoat, and the carpet. He’d have to buy Lady Drake a new rug. He hoped it didn’t hold any special meaning for her.
“What was that for?” The nasal quality of Jarvis’s voice grated Nash’s nerves.
Nash flexed his fist. “Stand up and I’ll explain it again.”
When it was clear Jarvis would not be getting up, Nash bent over him. He should have taken pleasure in the way Jarvis flinched, but all he truly wanted to do was pummel the man.
“Heed my warning, Jarvis. Regardless of whether the Duchess of Nithesdale is carrying Nithesdale’s child or not,” his child , “you will steer clear of her and Caerlaverock. You will not go there before or after the child’s birth. You will not send an agent, a spy, a maid, or a footman to harm the Duchess or her child. Understood?”
“Y-yes.”
Nash pushed Jarvis away with such force, his head hit the wall with a thud. “Then you will disappear to your country home with your wife and children and never say an unkind word about the Duchess or Nithesdale’s heir again. If …” Nash leaned in closer to get his point across and poked Jarvis in the nose. He whimpered, and for the first time Nash saw the blood on his hand from grabbing Jarvis’s cravat. He suddenly had no stomach for the sight of it, or the man he’d once called friend. He wiped the blood from his hand on Jarvis’s shoulder, smearing bloody fingerprints across the tan wool of his jacket.
“If you do, I will call in this marker and send you to debtors’ prison.”
“You wouldn’t!”
The outrage in Jarvis’s voice mirrored his own, but Nash’s anger was on the verge of turning extremely violent. He took a step forward and grabbed the coward’s cravat once more, to hell with the blood. “It’s either that, or pistols at dawn. You choose.”
The color drained from Jarvis’s face. He knew exactly how good Nash was with a pistol. Nithesdale had taught them both. If Jarvis chose the latter, his blood wouldn’t just be spilling from his nose, it would be pouring from his chest.
“I … I will leave in the morning.”
Nash pushed him away. This time Jarvis’s head hit the floor. He winced but didn’t utter a sound. “You’ll leave before dawn or meet me in the mews. Your choice. Either way, you won’t ever mention the Duchess’s name or her child again. Understood?”
“Of … of course.”
He lifted a brow.
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Nash turned and strode from the room. It was high time he took on the role of the Duke of Ross in more ways than one. Especially since he had a woman to claim, and hopefully a child on the way.