2. Chapter 2
Four months later . . .
It was too early in the morning for Thomas’s eyes to be playing tricks on him. Certainly there was only one maid standing beside him with an outstretched full cup of sherry, but he saw two. The last thing Thomas needed was to multiply the amount of women vying for his attention.
“Can I interest Your Grace in another cup of sherry?” the pretty maid asked in a soft whisper.
Thomas nodded. He was already seeing double—what could one more drink hurt? “Please, and thank you.” He blinked hard, hating that he’d allowed his demons to answer for him. But he’d come here to forget his troubles. It didn’t seem to be working.
He turned to his partners at the card table. “This is my last hand today.” The gentleman’s club at White’s only admitted the highest ranking of society, and as the Duke of Fenleigh, Thomas had found many acquaintances amongst the set. However, there were few he claimed a close kinship with.
His current partners at whist were a cheery lot. They were all a little in their cups even though it was still early in the day, but Thomas would hazard a guess that none of them were quite as foxed as he was.
What was the point of drinking more if the memories of his parents wouldn’t leave him be? Moreover, what would they think of him if they could see him now? Maudlin was not a good look.
Thomas knew it was his time to exit. The thrill of staying late for a few hundred more pounds just didn’t appeal to him anymore. He didn’t need the money, or the ridiculous headache that would follow if he didn’t stop drinking soon.
The elderly Mr. Williamson put a hand on Thomas’s shoulder. “You’re calling it quits, already, Fenleigh?”
“I probably should.”
“We all should, but you’re the only one who walks away from money you know you’ll win. I can’t understand it by half.” Mr. Williamson looked at him with a crease in his brow, adding yet another wrinkle to his age.
Thomas side-stepped the comment. “The day my choices make sense is the day I’ll eat my hat.
I can’t stay put in one place for long. I’ve got to be moving and doing.
” Where he was going and what he was doing .
. . he had no idea. Truthfully, he could hire out almost everything he had to do except for voting in parliament.
He won the game, and no one was surprised. Thomas pushed himself up and his hip bit into the table. What was the point of walking around drunk if his memory was still so keen?
A group of men in the corner were whispering behind their cups and not so subtly looking at him.
Odd, that. Thomas waved to them, and they all ducked their heads as if they hadn’t seen him.
No, it wasn’t that—they acted as if they didn’t want to be seen with him.
Wonderful. What rumors were flying around about him now?
And how long would it take for them to die down this time?
A stiff April breeze greeted Thomas as he pushed out of the building.
It was a blessing, really. The cool air heightened his dulled senses just enough for him to realize that it was not only the group of men at the club that found him fascinating today.
Well, more fascinating than normal—as a duke, he endured people’s eyes upon him wherever he went—but when there was a rumor about him, the stares always felt different.
Today, as he strolled along St. James Street, an older gentleman made eye contact with him, jumped, and then crossed to the opposite side of the road.
What precisely was going on? He’d been in the gossip column often enough, but not for anything that would make people avoid him altogether.
He supposed he’d made some people angry.
Probably Lord Chilcott. Just a couple weeks ago, he and Lord Chilcott almost came to fisticuffs over a dance partner, but he’d thought that particular storm had blown over.
Not permanently, of course, Thomas would harass the man again.
It was what they’d done to each other these past fifteen years, ever since Thomas’s world had been tipped sideways.
The pompous baron had nothing better to do than annoy Thomas at every turn, and the act was getting old. It was a pity they were related.
The problem was, Lord Chilcott had a silver tongue.
He wound up trouble easier than the Prince Regent spent money.
Thomas was certain that whatever dirty business Lord Chilcott was stirring up, he would hear about it sooner than later.
He took the steps up to his London townhouse two at a time and tripped on the last one right into the arms of his faithful butler, Alby, who let him in and divested him of his hat and gloves.
“How was White’s today, Your Grace?” Alby asked with a bow.
Thomas watched as a maid disappeared around the corner with a footman and a poorly concealed giggle. Thomas decided not to comment on the familiarity between the two servants. Laughter was good, healthy. As was a romantic attachment at their ages. In fact, he felt a stab of jealousy for them.
That was ridiculous. They were servants, and he had everything.
Thomas took a deep breath and looked back at his more subdued and elderly butler. “Almost much the same as it usually is. Ought it to have been different?”
Mr. Alby’s usually cheery eyes were far more concerned over Thomas’s answer than they typically were. He knew something. Thomas could feel it. He might even be able to sort it out if his head wasn’t spinning. Definitely one drink too many.
Mr. Alby tipped his head back and forth as if unsure how to answer.
Thomas motioned to the corridor just off the entryway; they passed an incredibly large painting of the seaside as he turned into his personal study. “Sit,” Thomas instructed his butler.
The elderly man remained standing. “You know I won’t, Your Grace.”
Thomas smiled a little. “What good is it being a duke if even your own servants don’t do your bidding?”
“It must be a cross to bear,” Mr. Alby answered drily, but with a hint of a smile.
There it was again, that jealous stab into Thomas’s chest. Mr. Alby had to be seventy, employed by the family for as long as Thomas could recall, with hardly ever a day off and ghastly hours when it came to Thomas’s schedule.
There was nothing to envy in the man—but it was there, gnawing at his chest like a hungry animal.
Was there a secret to happiness in being a servant that Thomas didn’t understand?
“Well, you’d best close the door. I’d like to hear it all if you would.” If Mr. Alby was to remain standing, so would Thomas.
Mr. Alby obeyed the directive and stood with his hands clasped behind his back, as if he were dictating the menu for the evening meal. “There have been whisperings, Your Grace.”
Thomas nodded, expecting this. “And what do the whispers say?”
“They say there is reason to believe you were involved in hiding French spies in the war. Treason, Your Grace.”
Treason? He held a hand to his head, willing Mr. Alby’s form to come into focus. Surely he hadn’t heard him correctly. “Someone suggested I hid French spies?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“An act of treason?”
“Indeed, Your Grace.”
Thomas’s jaw went slack. There was always something people talked about.
Thomas was a duke after all, and there weren’t many of them.
But ever since the Duke of Gilfordshire had married, more of the talk tended to circulate Thomas’s direction.
Was getting married what it took to become uninteresting?
Thomas didn’t know, and he wasn’t willing to test his theory.
But treason? Really? The Monteclare family had been loyal to the crown for hundreds of years.
Awarded a dukedom for that precise reason.
The accusation was beyond ridiculous. He sat down in the leather chair that had seated two dukes before him and laced his fingers together atop his desk. “Tell me everything you know.”
Mr. Alby outlined the information he’d heard in great detail—which made Thomas’s brain hurt all the more.
Apparently the housekeeper had heard from the seamstress, who had heard the owner of the millinery, that there was a group of gentlemen preparing to take a case before the Justice of the Peace .
. . or something along those lines. Most people who heard the news acted with great surprise—as they should—it was false to the bones of it.
Thomas looked Mr. Alby right in the eyes, which was a hard thing to do with a servant; they always tended to bow and shy away from interacting with him. “Who started it?”
“The general consensus is that the case is being headed by your cousin, Lord Chilcott, Your Grace.”
The air whooshed out of Thomas’s lungs. It was just as he’d thought.
The baron could convince a fish it was a bird if he wanted to.
All he needed were a few people without the energy to think for themselves, and he had a following.
Thomas pinched the bridge of his nose. “You are dismissed, Mr. Alby. Thank you.”
Once the butler had closed Thomas in his office, Thomas rested his head in his hands. It was all well and good to spar with one another in parliament, or to steal a dance from one another at a ball. Annoying, certainly, but fair. This level of competition was clearly getting out of hand.
The memory of Thomas’s uncle raised its head like an ugly gargoyle.
The feeling of betrayal and manipulation by his own family and a most trusted servant still had hooks in his soul.
But the experience had made Thomas wiser, more cunning, and less trusting.
He’d erected firm walls between himself and his uncle, and that included severing one of Thomas’s greatest friendships with his cousin, Ron.
Now that the nefarious uncle had passed on, Ronald had come into his title as the current Lord Chilcott.
The past still sat between them as thickly as the River Thames, and stunk just as badly, too.
He reached for the decanter of brandy he kept in his bottom drawer but stopped himself. He needed to clear his head, not make it even worse. Actually, what he really needed was for Lord Chilcott to be provided with someone else to pester.
Thomas deserved a break from his cousin’s machinations. He grabbed again at the decanter and took a small swig of the brandy despite knowing it wouldn’t help.
Glancing out the window, he saw his footman and maid out in the back garden.
The footman was parading in front of her like a puffed-up aristocrat, and she was laughing without reserve.
He hoped his servant wasn’t impersonating him, but even if he was .
. . it was funny to watch. How would it be to be able to laugh and tease without anyone watching your every move, ready to take advantage?
He sat up taller, an idea taking place in his mind.
Servants were able to move about and do their work without hardly anyone noticing them.
They weren’t under constant criticism like Thomas always was.
And no one really took notice of them when they moved about town.
They were always there, but more invisible to the higher-ranking members of the ton.
They were invisible to all the people Thomas wanted to avoid.
That could be the answer to his predicament.
Thomas needed a break. He needed a break from Lord Chilcott, and parliament, and his monotonous life.
He needed a break from all the alcohol he was accustomed to consuming and from women throwing themselves in his path on the off chance he might start thinking more seriously on matrimony.
No one paid any mind to servants for that sort of thing.
Besides, people didn’t necessarily need him around.
Except for his staff, he supposed. So, what if he simply ran away?
The last place anyone would look for a duke would be in the servants’ quarters.
It wouldn’t hurt to lie low for a time. Lord Chilcott couldn’t pester him consistently if he couldn’t find him.
Thomas stood and began to pace the small study.
He placed the decanter on the desk and stared at the brown glass until it came into focus.
Ha! If he was thinking clearly enough to make that glass come into focus, he was certainly not as foxed as he’d thought.
He could do it: become a servant. He could live a life of anonymity, less pressure, and more freedom.
He glanced down into the garden at the young couple again.
He could investigate this type of happiness for himself.
As appealing as becoming a servant was, he knew it couldn’t last forever. But all Thomas needed was a little time. He could hide away and deny his cousin the pleasure of harassing him. Ron had no evidence anyway; his ridiculous accusation would blow over.
Thomas took another long gulp of his brandy, relishing the burn in his throat. So much for stopping drinking at White’s. How had he come to rely on the practice so heavily? He kept telling himself he was going to stop drinking, but drink was so convenient to dull his thoughts.
If he was living like a servant, he wouldn’t have the coin to continue the habit. It might be the easiest way to change. To become the man his father would have wanted him to be.
Could he give up his pampered life for a time and live among the lower class?
No one would miss him. His parents were gone, he had no siblings, no woman he was courting.
He was a single man with every opportunity available to him should he care to take it.
He smiled. The obscurity of the idea made it all the more appealing.
He didn’t even want to sleep on the decision. Everything about it felt right.
Thomas Monteclare, Duke of Fenleigh, was about to disappear.