CHAPTER SIX
When a message arrived two weeks after Oliver had hired the Black Widow of Whitehall, as he sat in his library having a nightcap, he was relieved and quickly unfolded it and read:
Dear Duke,
I request your presence in my office at the Lyon’s Den tomorrow night at precisely ten o’clock. I have the perfect future duchess for you to meet.
Mrs. Dove-Lyon
He turned the note over and read it again.
So cryptic. No hint of who the lady might be.
He had nearly given up on hearing back from her, even though she said it could take a fortnight or more.
But he wanted to know where this lady came from.
Had she fallen out of the sky? His mind wanted to run away with all sorts of scenarios about who the lady was.
But he needed to trust Mrs. Dove-Lyon. She couldn’t exist as the proprietor of the Lyon’s Den and be touted as the best matchmaker to the ton if it weren’t true.
Wasn’t that why he’d gone to her? Because she was the best, and he needed the best if he ever wanted to marry again and produce an heir.
His eyes got lost in the amber liquid sloshing around in his glass. He wondered if he looked deep enough and close enough he would witness his future.
What an idiotic thought. He downed the smooth liquid and relished the burn in the back of his throat. Tomorrow? What the bloody hell would he do until the meeting? He could go to bed, for one thing, and get a good night’s rest so he wouldn’t be cranky tomorrow.
If he were a lady, he would call on friends for afternoon tea or go shopping on Bond Street.
But he was a man. Gentlemen weren’t supposed to share their feelings, worries, hopes, or dreams as ladies did.
They were to keep a stiff upper lip and appear strong at all times.
Although if he thought about it, he had dumped his woes on Hudson a time or two, and Hudson on him.
Perhaps keeping a stiff upper lip was only an illusion.
Perhaps he could pass the time going over his accounts, visiting his clubs, or his tailor.
None of which appealed to him. Then it occurred to him to send a note to Hudson in the morning, asking him to meet him at Brooks’s for luncheon.
That would waste a good portion of the day and keep his mind off the meeting.
It also marked the ten-year anniversary of a very bad, tragic day.
He didn’t want to be alone with his morbid thoughts.
He rose from the comfortable wing-backed chair and matching footstool facing the hearth and climbed the stairs to his chambers, where his valet, Byron, waited for him.
“Your Grace.”
“Just help me with my boots, and then you may go.”
“Yes, Your Grace. I ordered four bouquets from the hothouse to be delivered first thing in the morning.”
“Thank you. Have my horse brought around at eleven, and please tell Cook I won’t be home for luncheon.”
“Yes,” Byron said, looking worried, but wisely remained silent.
On this sad anniversary, Byron had cause to be concerned.
Usually, Oliver spent it alone in the library or at one of his clubs, getting deep in his cups, hoping to drown his sorrows.
It never worked. Most days, that part of his life felt like a dream that had happened to someone else.
But on that one day a year, or three days combined into one, to be precise, it smacked him upside the head and eviscerated his heart.
And that was without the guilt burning a hole in his belly.
All three of his wives were buried at his country home, Barrington Estates in Lancaster.
It was a terrible coincidence that they all died in the month of April.
He hadn’t planned a trip to his country estate, so he couldn’t visit their graves tomorrow.
Instead, he’d commissioned a fountain for his garden with each of his wives’ names etched on the base.
A small cherub statue bearing his son’s name, Oliver, sat nearby.
He was tired of having no place to mourn or speak to them, since he rarely visited Barrington Estates.
He now felt he had a place to honor them.
Oliver lay in his bed, staring up at the ceiling, hoping for sleep. He could hardly say he hadn’t slept in ten years, but it felt like it some days. The last thing he saw before drifting off was a lovely face peeking out of a doorway.
The sound of footsteps and a sudden burst of light had Oliver sitting up in bed, groaning and flopping back down, his arms stretched out to the side.
“How can it be morning already?” he groaned.
It felt as if he’d just fallen asleep. His mind was foggy, and his eyes were scratchy.
He was afraid it would be a long day and night.
“Good morning, Your Grace,” Byron said as he picked up the discarded clothing from last night. “It is nine, the same time I wake you every day. Breakfast is ready in the morning room. Would you like help getting ready?”
“No. As long as I have fresh water to wash up with, I’m fine, and you may go.”
“You do, Your Grace.”
After his valet left, Oliver climbed out of bed, made his way to the primitive water closet for his morning necessities, then into his dressing room to wash up and dress.
Oliver dressed in black and dark grey riding clothes and a white shirt.
He wrapped a black cravat around his neck to be tied later, sat on a stool, and tugged on his freshly polished black boots.
Feeling clear-headed now that he was up and moving, he hurried to the morning room.
He sat in his usual seat, picked up his copy of the London Times, and sipped the coffee a footman had set on the table in his direct line of sight.
The first sip made him sigh. There was nothing quite like the first cup of coffee of the day.
The same footman set a plate of eggs, kippers, and toast with jam on the table.
While he ate, he read the Times. More unrest and protests between industry professionals and the working class, who were losing their jobs to machines.
Not to mention the anger over the Corn Laws and the shortage and high price of grain.
Oliver did all he could when Parliament was in session, but there were too many greedy members in both the House of Lords and the House of Commons.
His eyes widened when they fell on a short write-up.
The Duke of Barrington has been seen socializing of late. Is he looking for his fourth duchess? Parents and Marriage Mart Mamas, keep your daughters close, or they could be the Duke of Doom’s next wife and cursed to an early grave.
He crumpled the paper in his hands and tossed it across the table.
“Bloody idiots!” he bellowed. Of all the days to write about him, it had to be today.
And curse the sun for shining and mocking him.
Wind-swept rain and thunderstorms fit this day and his mood.
He ate his food, cold, because he had read the paper instead of eating when it arrived.
Nothing he’d read in the Times was new to him.
He should cancel his subscription. That would tell them not to poke fun at a duke.
Damn it all to hell and back. He was a bloody duke. Where was his respect?
He did not take the article to heart. The London Times made fun of everyone, including the Prince Regent.
He should feel honored to be in such esteemed company.
His stomach tightened. But it wasn’t just a jest at his expense.
He could tolerate that. What he couldn’t tolerate was the mockery of Amelia, Hannah, and Rose and their deaths.
What heartless person could do that? All three young ladies had come from aristocratic families and deserved to be remembered for their kind smiles and gentle, giving souls.
Not as the cursed dead wives of the Duke of Doom.
He shoved his plate away, stood, and stomped out of the room into the entryway, where four bouquets of flowers were tied with ribbons, silently mocking him.
“No time like the present,” he mumbled as he bundled the flowers in his arms, made his way into the drawing room, and stepped through the double doors onto the veranda, down the stairs, and into the gardens.
He walked along a neat stone pathway into a clearing surrounded by hedges and several benches, where a large fountain stood.
He placed three bouquets at the base and traced each of his wives’ names with his index finger.
“I’m sorry. I failed you. All of you. I was unable to protect you from death. Please forgive me.
“Amelia, my first wife, your beauty was legendary. Your heart was generous, and your laugh, infectious. I truly miss you every day. You died trying to give me a son, but the good Lord took you both. I pray you have found peace.
“Hannah, my mysterious second wife. You were so alive, yet always wanting what lay over the hill and beyond, never satisfied with what I gave you. When you ran off with your lover, my head groom, I shouldn’t have been shocked, but I was.
When the news of the carriage accident came, I was riddled with grief.
I should’ve known better than to marry a girl so vibrant and alive.
You always wished for more. More than I was capable of giving.
I hope you have forgiven your father and me for negotiating our marriage, which led to your demise.