My Duke, The Stranger (The Wicked Dukes Society #4)

Chapter 1

One

“Isolde, if you might come and see me now,” her father, Vicar Whitmore, called from his office. “Thank you, dear.”

Isolde’s ten-year-old sister, Marianne, and her seven-year-old brother, Thomas, were curious.

“Can we come, too?” Marianne asked, tugging on her sleeve.

“What does he want?” Thomas asked with a hint of worry. “Father isn’t in trouble, is he?”

“No, no,” Isolde assured her younger brother.

“I am certain that he is just checking on us, that’s all.

Nothing to worry about.” She touched her brother under the chin and made sure to smile.

Hopefully, that would be enough to calm him.

“Marianne…” She looked at her younger sister.

“Take Thomas outside. It is too nice a day to be cooped up indoors.”

Marianne did not look as though she meant to obey the request. Her expression hardened as Isolde turned to face the open doorway into their father’s office. She was clearly worried, which made Isolde smile.

She is like me in so many ways… even if there is nothing that she can do, I know that would not stop one as stubborn as she. Yes, so much like me…

“Enough of that.” Isolde looked at her younger sister with kind eyes and what amounted to a dismissive smile, one that told her sister not to worry so much. “Take Thomas outside, enjoy the day. I’ll join you as soon as I see to Father.”

“Fine,” Marianne said with some reluctance. “Thomas, come on.” Marianne took her brother’s hand and dragged him toward the front door.

As they went, Thomas looked back at Isolde, partly confused and partly worried.

It broke Isolde’s heart to see her brother like that, because one so young as he should not live in a world where he needed to worry about things beyond his control.

He should want to go outside and play and have fun.

In a just world, that’s all that would be on his mind.

But where does it say that the world is just?

It was only once her younger brother and sister had gone that Isolde turned to face her father’s office. She took a moment and braced herself for whatever was to come; worrying was what Isolde did, and that was how she kept this household afloat.

Her heart thumped against her chest, and had Isolde been a different type of person, she might have descended into a panic that would undo her. But such was Isolde’s life; all that she had been through in her twenty-two years meant she did not have the luxury of such things.

Thus, with little choice and knowing she needed to face this head-on, she firmed herself, took a deep breath, and walked into her father’s office.

“Ah, good,” her father said when he saw her.

A warm smile took his aged face, and reached his tired eyes.

At that moment, he almost looked like the man she had once known to be so full of life that hardly a day went by without her hearing his laughter filling their small home. “Close the door, won’t you?”

As quickly as the light had filled her father’s eyes, it faded, returning him to the withered old man that he had lately become.

Much like a flower without soil and sunlight, he was decrepit and fading—not even bothering to pretend that this was only a phase that he might soon get over. Those days were long behind him.

And then, as if to prove the point, he started to cough violently. Each one made Isolde wince, and how she wished that there was something she could do.

Once, there might have been… now, it is just a matter of time.

The door closed softly, and Isolde turned back, keeping to the other side of the room as if she meant to flee when the opportunity came.

She had a sense that something was very wrong.

The reason for this caution was not due to her siblings’ worry, but the presence of the man who sat across from her father.

“Miss Whitmore! Oh, it has been too long.” Mr. Harwood stood up as soon as he laid eyes on Isolde. “Remind me, when was the last time we spoke to one another?”

“It has been years now, I am sure,” Isolde said nervously. “I pray that my father has done nothing wrong.”

“What? Oh, no,” he chuckled. “Nothing like that. Forgive me, please, for this random visit. I can only imagine what must be going through your head.”

Mr. Harwood was a man whom Isolde knew well enough, if not by sight, then certainly by reputation.

He was the same height as she was—rather small for a man—but with a belly that put her own father’s to shame.

His head was balding, which only served to draw attention to the liver spots that peppered his pate, and his jowls were thick and heavy.

And while he was clearly in good health—having as much money as he did certainly helped—he was somewhere in his sixties. .. possibly older.

What Mr. Harwood was most known for, however, was his position on the estate. He was the local Justice of the Peace, in effect the arbiter of law and order, and an unannounced visit from him was never a cause for celebration.

That was why Isolde had spent the last ten minutes in a state of nervous worry, doing what she could to ease her siblings’ fears, while wondering what on earth might have happened for this man to walk through her front door.

Nothing good, I am sure…

“If it concerns my father’s debts, I can assure you that we are working to cover them,” Isolde spoke carefully.

Her eyes flicked to her father as she tried to capture a sense of what was going on.

“And surely, such a matter is not cause for one of your standing to intervene. We were led to believe that we had time to—”

“This has nothing to do with debt collection,” Mr. Harwood assured her. “Although…” He looked at her father and chuckled. “Perhaps it does, in a way.”

“Please, Isolde, take a seat.” Her father gestured to the seat across his desk, the one beside Mr. Harwood.

“I would rather stand, thank you,” she said.

Mr. Harwood chuckled further. “Oh yes, just as I remember. You always had a spark about you, Miss Whitmore. A light in the darkness, needed in these hard times.” His beady eyes roamed her body as if with hunger, and Isolde shuddered.

“Father, what is going on?”

“It is best if you sit for this, Isolde,” her father sighed, looking frailer than ever.

“As I said, I would rather stand.”

“What if I lead by example?” Mr. Harwood groaned as he sat back down, and the seat groaned with him.

“I was just speaking with your father, Isolde, telling him of how impressed I have always been with his gumption… his never-say-die attitude, that no matter how hard things are, he has kept his parish kicking along as if the sun shines upon him always.”

“And I was telling Mr. Harwood that you, Isolde, are the reason for that.”

“I…” She licked her lips as her mouth turned dry. “I do what I must, Father. We all do. No more, no less.”

“And she is modest,” Mr. Harwood said happily. “Not to mention…” His eyes roamed her again. “… beautiful. Oh yes, exactly as I remember. Perhaps more so, now that she has become a woman.”

When Isolde had first been told that Mr. Harwood had come to see her father, she worried that it was on account of her father’s troubles.

He was the vicar of their parish. It had fallen into destitution these last few years, and things had become so bad that every day was a struggle to keep their heads above water.

Isolde did what she could, of course. While money was scarce, love and sacrifice were not.

They opened their doors every day, welcoming the poor and the wealthy alike, always there to offer their services because that was what mattered most. They fed the poor, helped to clothe the homeless youths who lived across the estate, and Isolde even hosted educational lessons for those who wanted them.

Alas, good intentions could only do so much, and there were few about who would waste their money donating to a parish that was on the brink of despair. Money had been borrowed, was now owed, and every single day that passed was one closer to what Isolde suspected might be the end of them.

Isolde’s initial fear was that Mr. Harwood had come here to close their doors himself… only now, as she considered the situation further, she was taken by the sudden suspicion that he had an ulterior motive. One that, to be honest, struck fear into her unlike anything she had ever felt before.

“As I was explaining to your father,” Mr. Harwood began. “Times are hard here, as you are more than aware. It is a shame, as I know the good work you do. Alas, we live in a world where profits are what rule the day, and good intentions do little to put food on the table.”

“There is no shame in helping others,” Isolde said, still from across the room. “Nor do I regret anything that we have done. We might not have much, but we have that.”

“I could not agree more,” Mr. Harwood said as if he believed it.

“Truly, I want this parish to continue in its work. I, more than anyone, have my finger on the pulse of the tenants that live across this estate, and not a bad word can be said against you or your father. You are loved, Miss Whitmore. Truly.”

“Perhaps tell that to the duke,” Isolde said before she could stop herself.

Mr. Harwood grimaced and shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Yes, well, His Grace is…” He cleared his throat. “He has other concerns that extend beyond a single parish. If he could help more, I am sure that he would.”

Isolde scoffed before she could help herself.

“Isolde,” her father warned her. “Now is not the time.”

The parish that Isolde’s father ran was located on the edges of Blackthorne Estate, meaning that it fell under the tenancy of the Duke of Blackthorne.

Isolde had met the duke only once in her life, two years ago now, when her father had started to become sick.

It was also when their parish had begun struggling to keep its doors open.