Last Duke Page 13

  “Impressive, wouldn’t you say?” Hollingsby inquired, watching Pierce’s unchanged expression.

  “The land itself? Or the fact that I control it?”

  “Both.”

  “Then my answer is yes and no. Yes, the land is impressive. Only a fool would remain unawed by its splendor. As for my controlling it, that I owe to an accident of fate. I neither earned it myself, nor came upon it through cleverness or cunning. Therefore, I feel little pride in the knowledge that it is mine.”

  Hollingsby shook his head in amazement. “You constantly astonish me, Thornton—er, Markham.”

  That declaration elicited the satisfied gleam Hollingsby had expected when Pierce first beheld his land. “Do I?” Pierce flashed him a broad grin. “Now that is a tribute to my skill. Rendering people off balance is a particular talent of mine, one of which I am quite proud.” He leaned back in his seat. “As for your uncertain form of address, let me ease your quandary. I’ve been Pierce Thornton for thirty years. I intend to remain Pierce Thornton.”

  “Your family name is Ashford,” Hollingsby protested.

  “My father’s name was Ashford. Mine is not. However, that is irrelevant for, if my paltry education serves me correctly, I can henceforth expect to be addressed as either Markham or Your Grace. Isn’t that right?”

  “It is.”

  “Then you call me Thornton. Or Pierce, my given name.”

  “But as you just pointed out—”

  “Why not dare to be different?” Pierce cocked a challenging brow in Hollingsby’s direction. “Or are you too steeped in the ion’s rules to risk it?”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I like you, Hollingsby. I think you’re a decent, honorable man. I also think you’re so dull it tires even you.”

  “Well, I—” The solicitor looked totally flabbergasted.

  “Tell me the truth.” Pierce leaned forward. “Don’t you ever contemplate what it would feel like to break all those rigid rules within which you live? To do precisely what you want to do, say what you wish to say?”

  “And lose the business of every noted gentleman in England.”

  “A few, perhaps. But most would stay. And do you know why? Because the highborn would be forced to give you something more than just their business, something that would ensure you their patronage for life.”

  “Which is?”

  “Their respect.”

  An instant of silence, broken by Hollingsby’s shout of laughter. “You’re teaching me to be a gambler.”

  “No. I’m teaching you to be your own person.” Pierce’s lips twitched. “And to be a good gambler.”

  Growing sober, Hollingsby studied Pierce for a long, thoughtful moment. “I serve the wealthiest, most renowned noblemen of the ton,” he mused aloud. “They pay me a great deal of money, rely heavily upon my legal skills, include me in their social gatherings. Yet, for the life of me, I cannot think of a single one of them I’d choose to call friend.” He shook his head and grinned. “You are by far the most irreverent, unconventional rebel I have yet to meet, the utter antithesis of those whose company I customarily keep.” His grin widened. “But, hell and damnation, I like you, Thornton. You might be just the fire needed to thaw a stuffy old man like me.”

  Fire? Pierce smiled. That was what Daphne had called him last night in the garden. Well, if he were the fire, she was the spark that ignited it.

  “Thornton? Have I offended you?”

  “Hmm? No, of course not.” Pierce temporarily relinquished last night’s memories. “If anything you’ve cheered me by proving I was right about you. Think of what we can teach each other: you can keep me on the proper ducal course and I can teach you to take risks, to venture from your narrow world on occasion.”

  “The manor is straight ahead,” Hollingsby interrupted, pointing. “Have a look.”

  Quietly, Pierce scrutinized the imposing Gothic structure, thinking it was much as he’d expected it to be: palatial in size, devoid of warmth, a series of gray turrets and spires amid colorful, carefully manicured gardens.

  “Magnificent, isn’t it?”

  “Actually, I prefer my own residence.”

  “Thornton, your lodgings in Wellingborough could fit into Markham’s morning room.”

  “True. But the warmth and comfort of that modest abode is worth more than all of Markham’s grandeur. Trust me, Hollingsby. To a man who’s spent most of his life on the streets, home is a gift to be treasured.”

  Hollingsby cleared his throat awkwardly. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean—”

  “No forgiveness is necessary,” Pierce assured him in a matter-of-fact tone. “I was merely pointing out that magnificence is a relative term.”

  “Agreed.” Hollingsby adjusted his waistcoat as the carriage rounded the curved drive and stopped before the entranceway doors.

  Barely had the horses come to a halt, when the manor doors were flung wide and a bevy of footmen scurried out to transport the duke’s luggage to his new quarters. One tall, dignified man in uniform remained at rapt attention in the doorway, presumably awaiting his master’s entrance.

  “That is your butler, Langley,” Hollingsby muttered as they alit. “He was with your father for thirty years.”

  “I see.” Pierce nodded, strolling forward to meet the man of whom Hollingsby spoke.

  “Your Grace.” Langley bowed deeply. “Welcome to your new home. I shall be proud to serve you as I did your father.”

  “Thank you, Langley.” Pierce extended his hand. “I shall rely heavily upon your knowledge of the estate and the staff as I learn my way about.”

  Langley stared at Pierce’s hand in utter stupefaction.

  “Go ahead. Grasp it. I’m told dukes’s hands closely resemble those of mortals in both shape and texture.”

  “I couldn’t, sir.”

  Pierce grinned. “Try.”

  Slowly, as if he were reaching into a blazing furnace, Langley extended his hand.

  Pierce clasped it. “Excellent. You’ve just passed two very important tests of mine.”

  “Tests, sir?” Retracting his fingers, Langley mopped his forehead with a handkerchief.

  “Yes. You’ve proven yourself to be both diligent and inventive. I will not work alongside a man who can’t carry out his tasks, nor one who does so without imagination. I’m now confident you and I will get on famously.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace.” The butler looked uncertain as to what he had done, but delighted to have done it. “Would you care to rest after your journey, or would you prefer to meet the staff now?”

  Pierce almost laughed aloud. Journey? It was ten miles from Wellingborough to Northampton. He traveled ten times that distance the nights the bandit struck. “As luck would have it, I’m not at all fatigued. I’d enjoy meeting Markham’s other residents.”

  “Very good, Your Grace.” Langley bowed again, this time with his hands firmly clasped behind his back. “I’ll summon them at once.”

  “I think you can safely dismiss the idea of suggesting to Langley that he call you by your given name,” Hollingsby noted dryly as the butler scurried off. “I don’t think he’d be receptive.”

  “Evidently not.” Pierce chuckled, wandering about the grand hallway, taking in the marble columns and priceless statues. “The trinkets in this room alone could feed a half dozen starving families for years.”

  “As I indicated, your father was an enormously wealthy man.”

  “So I see.”

  “The staff awaits you in the library, Your Grace,” Langley announced.

  Staff?

  Pierce would more aptly describe the hundred-some-odd uniformed servants who stood, straight backed, against the library wall as an army.

  “First, your valet, Bedrick.”

  “Welcome, Your Grace.” The lean, square-jawed man bowed. “I look forward to serving you.”

  “Bedrick. A pleasure,” Pierce acknowledged.

  “Mrs. Gates, your housekeeper,�
�� Langley continued, designating the buxom, gray-haired woman who reigned over the unending row of female servants.

  “Mrs. Gates.”

  “Your Grace.” She dropped a curtsy.

  Next came the coachmen and the head gardener, followed by an assembly of footmen, pages, grooms, gardeners, and gamekeepers, and a horde of housemaids, parlormaids, chambermaids, and scullery maids.

  “What the hell did my father do with all these people?” Pierce whispered to Hollingsby in between nods and smiles. “He was alone, without even a wife, for God’s sake.”

  “They represent status, Thornton.” The solicitor waited to reply until Pierce had greeted and dismissed his sizable staff. “The number of servants one has speaks clearly of one’s social and financial position.”

  “Markham was a bloody recluse!” Pierce exclaimed. Veering about, he stared after the staff as they hastened back to their respective tasks. “Why would a man who’d committed himself to self-imposed exile give a damn about his social position?” Even as he spoke, Pierce held up a silencing hand, checking whatever Hollingsby was about to answer. “Don’t bother. The unwritten rules of the nobility.”

  “If retaining so many servants troubles you, you could dismiss some of them,” Hollingsby pointed out.

  Pierce’s expression turned fierce. “And toss them into the gutter? Force them to beg for work where none exists? See them perish in the streets? Never. Langley!” he called after the retreating butler.

  “Your Grace?”

  “I’d like a complete written list of my staff, including their names and duties. This past half hour has confused me so thoroughly that I can scarcely recall my own name, let alone scores of others. I realize what I’m asking is a cumbersome task, but perhaps if you and Mrs. Gates do it jointly, you can have it to me in several days.”

  “Of course, sir. Will there be anything else?”

  “Not at the moment. Except perhaps some refreshment for my guest?” Pierce arched a quizzical brow in Hollingsby’s direction.

  “Nothing for me,” the solicitor demurred. “I’d best be getting back to Gantry in time for supper. As it is, the earl will be incensed that I missed his hunt.” Hollingsby’s teeth gleamed. “But he’ll recover. What I gained here today is far more important than anything I could acquire racing with a pack of hounds. I’m pleased you invited me to accompany you, Thornton.”

  Pierce’s eyes twinkled. “I understand, and I thank you for your assistance. Now, Langley will arrange for my carriage to return you to the ongoing festivities.”

  “Only until dawn. ’Tis all the time I can spare away from my practice. After which, I’ll return to London and be in touch.”

  “I look forward to it.”

  Left alone, Pierce gazed restlessly up and down the marble halls, wondering where one could find a warm and peaceful spot to think in this mausoleum.

  “Would you like some refreshment, Your Grace?” Langley reappeared to inquire.

  “Actually, yes, Langley. I’d also like a comfortable place to enjoy it. Any suggestions?”

  “The green room is quite pleasant, sir. It’s rather small and tends to catch a good deal of afternoon sunlight. Would that be-suitable?”

  “It sounds ideal. I’ll take my brandy in the green room.” Pierce frowned. “How does one locate the green room?”

  “Down the hall, sixth door on your right,” Langley replied.

  The green room, as it turned out, was the closest thing to a sitting room Pierce had seen at Markham thus far. Sinking into the tufted sofa, he leaned his head back, raising it only for an occasional sip of brandy.

  He had much to do, and a relatively short time in which to do it.

  Gantry’s house party would continue for days, but according to Daphne, her father intended to pack up his family and take his leave tomorrow. It wasn’t difficult to surmise what would happen next. Tragmore would return to his estate and beat Daphne senseless.

  Pierce had known from the moment Daphne described her father’s reasons for hitting her that Tragmore was far from finished. Pierce knew the man, had seen him in action for years. If the son of a bitch were angry enough to strike his daughter in the midst of a public event, to risk a scandal, he was more than furious. And there was no telling what he would do once he had Daphne in the prison of their home.

  Damn it! Pierce struck a velvet pillow with his fist. How could he prevent Tragmore’s brutality without further endangering Daphne? If he stepped forward and openly confronted the marquis, the scoundrel would viciously retaliate—not against Pierce, who dwarfed him in both size and power, but against Daphne. And, as Daphne had pointed out, the law was on her father’s side. The only way she’d be free of the marquis’s cruelty was to leave Tragmore.

  And the only way to leave Tragmore was to marry.

  Maybe he ought to have proposed the night before, when she was warm and soft in his arms, when her defenses were down, her body awakening. Maybe he’d made a mistake to wait.

  But it was too soon. She’d only just learned to trust him, to begin relinquishing her long-sustained inhibitions. If he frightened her off now, he might not have another opportunity to regain her faith. And he was far too good a gambler to take so stupid a risk.

  There was one thing more.

  Pierce was arrogant enough to want Daphne to wed him out of desire, not escape.

  He had to woo her slowly, tenderly. Yet there was no time for either, for there was no deferring Tragmore’s aggression. Further, the marquis would never willingly tolerate Pierce as a suitor for Daphne’s hand. He could be coerced, of course. Lord knew, Pierce had enough ammunition to do that. But that would eliminate Daphne’s freedom of choice, something Pierce refused to do.

  So how could he protect her? What ruse could he use?

  Tragmore’s first payment.

  Sitting bolt upright, Pierce seized the notion, wondering why he hadn’t thought of it earlier. He’d informed Tragmore he’d return at week’s end to demand a portion of the money he was owed. Very well, return he would. Tomorrow. And somehow, during that visit, he would accomplish the impossible. He would see Daphne alone, push her gently but inexorably toward the altar, and divert Tragmore enough, without compromising Daphne’s dignity, to buy himself time and, in the process, to keep Daphne safe.

  How he was going to do this he had no idea.

  By morning, he would.

  “The Duke of Markham to see you, sir.”

  Tragmore scowled at his butler. “The Duke of—” Sharply, he inhaled. “Send him in to my study.”

  “Very good, my lord.”

  Pierce stalked into the study and stopped, carefully scrutinizing the marquis. From the looks of things, he’d come in time. Tragmore’s expression was moody, not belligerent; pale, not ruddy, which assured Pierce that the bastard had not undergone a recent physical confrontation. That, combined with the fact that luggage was still being unloaded from the marquis’s carriage and carried through the manor, was enough to put Pierce’s mind at ease. Since returning from Gantry, Tragmore hadn’t had the opportunity to abuse his daughter.

  “I’ve scarcely entered my home, Thornton. What do you want?” Tragmore snapped.

  “I believe the proper form of address is Your Grace.”

  Daggers flashed in Tragmore’s eyes. “Markham is bad enough. Don’t expect anything more.”

  “I take it you’re not pleased with my announcement,” Pierce noted, propping himself irreverently on the edge of Tragmore’s desk. “Given the circumstances, I don’t blame you.”

  “I knew your father. Well. How he could have—” The marquis bit off his own words.

  “How he could have what? Bestowed his title, name, and fortune on me? I really don’t think he had a choice.”

  “He could have let his title die.”

  Pierce smiled bitterly. “Rather than entrust it to a worthless street urchin.”

  “Precisely.”

  “You’re quite outspoken for a man who has ever
ything to lose.”

  Tragmore’s eyes narrowed. “Haven’t you acquired enough money? Markham was one of the wealthiest men in England. Surely you don’t need my meager holdings as well.”

  “Ah, so you’re hoping I’ll abandon my plan to own you?” Pierce’s fist sliced through the air, striking the desk with an impact so savage Tragmore flinched. “Think again, you son of a bitch. If anything, I’m more determined than ever to collect. In fact, that’s why I’m here today. The first payment on your notes is due.” Slowly, Pierce held out his palm. “Now.”

  “You know damned well I don’t have it.”

  “Don’t you? How unfortunate.”

  “What are you going to do?” The hatred in Tragmore’s eyes was eclipsed by fear. “Ruin me? Publicly declare me bankrupt?”

  “That sounds splendid, but premature. I have yet to finish toying with you.” Pierce averted his head, openly surveying the room. “I’m sure, given a proper tour of your home, I can find one bauble or another to satisfy this week’s payment.” Coming to his feet, Pierce strolled about, lifting an occasional statue, running his fingers appraisingly along the carved trim of the walnut furniture.

  “Thorn—Markham, you can’t be serious! Surely you wouldn’t—”

  A knock sounded at the door.

  “Who is it?” Tragmore snapped.

  “Forgive me, my lord,” replied his butler, holding out a sealed missive. “But this message just arrived. It’s marked urgent.”

  “Fine. Give it to me.” Tragmore snatched the letter, tore it open and scanned its contents. Scowling, he stuffed the note into his pocket. “I have to go to London at once.”

  “A problem?” Pierce inquired smoothly.

  “None that concerns you.”

  “Perhaps I should be the judge of that.”

  “You hold my assets,” Tragmore hissed. “That does not entitle you to invade my privacy. My missives are for my eyes and my eyes only.”

  “I could argue that point, but it’s not worth the effort. Should the matter involve your finances, I shall learn about it directly.” Coldly, Pierce regarded his adversary. “I hope for your sake this is not merely an attempt to avoid settling your debt. Because, if it is, rest assured it will prove unsuccessful. I shall return to collect my payment the morning after next. Doubtless you’ll, have returned from London by then. And I’ll be waiting. Do I make myself clear, Tragmore?”