Duke of Deception

Prologue

Baltimore, near-coastal waters, 1809

The gentle thump of water against wood was the only indication that the sloop had taken a swell. The ship continued on its course without a moment’s hesitation while spars creaked, rigging groaned, and canvas snapped lightly in the wind. They were sounds that Captain Derek Wentworth usually found soothing, but they offered no such comfort tonight. Tonight his life would change, no matter what his decision, but he knew the choice he had to make.

The leather-bound journal, its gold buckle gleaming in the glow of yellow lamplight, stared back at him as if it had a life of its own. And it did. His father’s life. A life Derek had scorned. One he’d convinced himself he didn’t want.

And now it was his.

He closed the cabin door and tried to shrug off the weariness that clung to him like a shroud. All these years he’d waited for his father to contact him, to acknowledge his degree from Harvard or his accolades as a shipwright. In his dreams his father would apologize, begging forgiveness, admitting that banishment to America had been harsh treatment for a boy of fourteen who’d wanted nothing more than his father’s notice. But in his heart he’d always known his father would never utter such words, for the same reason Derek needed to hear them. Pride. They’d both had too much pride, and now it was too late. His father was gone. Without a word of apology or praise, without a goodbye.

And Derek was expected to take his place.

He reached for the package delivered by one of England’s finest ships. Inside the pouch, along with his father’s ring and seal, were the legal documents stating that he, Jonathan Derek Wentworth, was the eighth Duke of Dorrington.

He didn’t want to return to England this way. He had planned to return in glory, as a man his father respected, but after reading the journal, he realized he didn’t know what kind of man that was. He’d worked so hard to excel at his schooling and his business, wanting to show his father he’d outgrown his childish ways, needing to prove that when the time came, he’d be able to manage the vast Dorrington holdings. Yet according to the journal, his father had let those holdings, the finances, even family matters, go while he pursued traitorous criminals. His father had put his country first and all else second, while Derek had abandoned his country of birth for another. Or so it must have seemed when Derek stayed on in America after completing his education. But he hadn’t wanted to stay in America. His pride had kept him from returning to England without an invitation. That blasted pride.

Desolation seeped through him, making his limbs too heavy to lift. Until this moment he hadn’t realized how much he cared . . . about his father’s approval, about the family he’d left behind. He hadn’t known how much he cared about England.

A soft knock sounded, and the cabin door creaked open. His first mate, Michael Morgan, stood stalwart in the doorway, compassion etched upon his weather-beaten face.

Captain, have you made a decision? Are we heading home to Baltimore?

Derek was silent as thoughts swirled through his mind. Home. Was Baltimore home? His business he could sell, his estate and ships too. Pamela, whom he’d planned to marry, was already betrothed again, and not to the man Derek caught her in bed with, but to someone else. No, America wasn’t his home. There was nothing for him here.

With a heavy sigh he nodded. Yes, Morgan, I’m going home—to England.

Chapter 1

Nineteen-year-old Lady Louisa was destined to be the savior of Chelton. The villagers had pinned their hopes on her, their expectations, in fact, and as surely as the sun would rise, she would not let them down.

They’d first seen her when she was but six years of age when her father, Philip Barrick, the eleventh Earl of Chelton, brought her to Stonecrest Manor to live. She was a pretty poppet with her heart-shaped face, long, dark curls, and vivid blue eyes that shone with excitement, and it took little more than meeting the girl to know that she was exceedingly sweet-natured as well. At that time, the villagers expected Philip Barrick to be their savior, and, indeed, he seemed perfect for the role, notwithstanding the small truth that he had ignored his responsibilities to the earldom for nigh on fifteen years.

But the villagers were a forgiving people, mostly because they had no choice. They were stuck with Barrick as earl, assuming the gentleman satisfied the requirements of the strange entailment, and to their way of thinking, this earl could hardly be worse than the last. That gentleman had arrived each spring, one of a party of jackanapes with their ladybirds, and proceeded to spend the annual requisite month of residency drinking, shooting—in general, carousing—before dragging himself off to London, leaving the estate in a shambles. No one had cared when that earl quit showing up, not even when speculation rose that he had kicked the bucket. (Not that anyone thought the earl had hung himself; it was more likely the bucket had been full of ale and he’d drowned in it.)

Several years passed before Philip Barrick first appeared. He took stock of the place—or so said the tenants who still lived on Stonecrest land—and then he introduced himself around and made it known that he intended to restore the neglected manor so that he could settle there with his bride.

Barrick rode off in the direction of London. He wasn’t seen again for eight years.

In the meantime, those who’d become disgusted with their meager living gave up and moved away. Those with a trade to ply took to the road, bringing money back to their families in between situations. Stonecrest’s tenants, who at least had rent-free roofs over their heads, continued to eke out an existence by tending their gardens, trading food, and exchanging skills amongst themselves.

And then one day Barrick returned. He brought with him his six-year-old daughter, Louisa—Lucy, as he called her. By then the manor was uninhabitable, at least it wasn’t fit for a child, and so the two of them stayed only a day. But he was back within a sennight, alone save a work crew, and a month later the title and estate were his.

Before long, the villagers, having short memories when it came to the past and high hopes when it came to the future, decided that if they could choose their own earl, their choice would be Barrick because this gentleman had many qualities to recommend him. Unlike most aristocrats they’d known, he wasn’t afraid to get dirty; he toiled in the fields alongside his tenants and workers when necessary, and directed them when it wasn’t. He was not a high-stickler; he graciously accepted invitations to sup with the local families until the manor was restored and staffed. He was a loving father; he doted on his only child, bringing her along on visits to his tenants, and letting her play with their children.

But perhaps more to his favor than anything else was the simple fact that Philip Barrick was a charming man; he liked people and people liked him.

The future had looked bright. The new Lord Chelton kept busy improving his manor and fields. He hired local help, he purchased local goods. Stonecrest Manor was on the road to prosperity, and by extension, the village was too.

Then Lord Chelton went and got himself killed—gunned down by a highwayman in the middle of the day on a road so seldom targeted by thieves that no one could recall such a thing ever happening before. But happen it did, to everyone’s sorrow and dismay.

And so, all eyes turned to Lady Louisa, for the villagers knew that in accordance with the entailment, Stonecrest Manor would soon be hers. She was a young lady of fine character, responsible and compassionate, and they didn’t mind at all if she raced across the fields on her stallion, astraddle, in breeches. The village of Chelton would be saved from its demise; Lady Louisa would be their savior.

That the young lady they looked to for their salvation would be forced to sacrifice her future to ensure theirs never once crossed their minds.

Stonecrest Manor, Hertfordshire, England, 1811

Lucy’s first tingle of alarm came when she spied her uncle’s stylish carriage bustling along the lane toward Stonecrest Manor. Nathan Barrick, Earl of Chelton since the death of her father, abhorred the country, a fact he never failed to mention on his infrequent visits, the last of which was but a fortnight ago. For him to return so soon and at such a fast clip did not bode well.

Harry, make haste! she urged her newly hired footman, who was securing the last basket of foodstuff in the wagon bed. Harry turned from his completed task, his eyes widening at the sight of the carriage speeding toward the manor. His curious gaze settled on Lucy.

It is my uncle, Lucy said, apprehension gnawing at her stomach, and he cannot know what we are about.

If her uncle learned that she was sharing the manor’s food and other supplies with her tenants, he would withhold even more of the quarterly allowance, saying her extravagance was proof she didn’t need the funds. As it was, he pocketed a good fifty percent of the money meant for the manor, leaving Lucy to stretch every farthing to the end of its limits. She would not let her tenants go without the necessities, though, and since she couldn’t be honest with her uncle, she’d been forced to sneak behind his back. The tingle of alarm turned into a prescient shiver as she worried that he had somehow learned of her deceit.

Oh, dear, where is Bridget? On any other day her maid would have made her appearance within seconds of Harry’s arrival, or the arrival of any footman, for that matter. But on the one day that Lucy really needed her . . .

Before she could decide whether to send Harry looking for the girl or to go herself, the kitchen door flew open and Bridget flounced down the steps. She was sporting the bonnet Lucy had given her not an hour earlier, but the bonnet was all done up with new trim. The robin’s-egg blue of the ribbon was quite flattering to Bridget’s red hair and fair complexion. From the pose Bridget struck at the bottom of the steps, solely for Harry’s benefit, it was clear to Lucy that Bridget knew it too.

I was wondering if you needed anything before you go, my lady.

Though Bridget’s words were meant for Lucy, the maid’s eyes were fixed on tall, blond, handsome Harry.

Actually, Bridget, I’m afraid you and Harry must make the rounds without me. Lord Chelton will surely require my presence here.

A broad grin nearly split Bridget’s freckled face in half and she clambered up into the wagon within seconds, eager to be off. By the time Harry settled himself in place on the wagon seat, Bridget had slid over against him. Lucy restrained a half-hearted smile. Poor Harry. He had best get used to Bridget’s attentions. She wasn’t likely to turn them elsewhere while Harry was at Stonecrest.

Take the path through the woods past the old gardener’s cottage, she instructed the pair. You can begin your deliveries at the south end and work your way back. Stay off the lane whenever possible. It was imperative that her uncle not see the wagon full of foodstuff, and just as important that he not see Harry, else she would lose this footman to her uncle just as she had the last.

Don’t worry, m’lady, Bridget said. I know how to get to every cottage the back way. By the time we’re on the lane, there won’t be nothing in the wagon for Lord Chelton to see. As long as Harry can manage this heavy load, we’ll be just fine. Bridget took the opportunity to test Harry’s biceps, oohing as she did so. Harry blushed in response.

Lucy waved them off and turned resolutely toward the manor. Whatever matter had brought her uncle here, she must face it head-on.

She lifted her skirts and bounded up the back porch steps two at a time. Charging into the kitchen, she nearly collided with her aunt.

Lucy! Thank goodness! Relief melted the worry lines from Eleanor’s face. You know how Lord Chelton hates to be kept waiting. Oh, dear, she chided, taking in Lucy’s appearance, you’ve been to the stable again and that horse of yours has damaged another gown.

Lucy glanced at her skirts to see the pocket dangling by a few slender threads, and despite the trouble that loomed, she smiled. Ahote’s daily ritual of nosing into her pocket for his treat had created more than one casualty among her gowns, but breaking the stallion of that habit was proving difficult. Truth to tell, she enjoyed it as much as he did. She’d hidden apples in her pocket for Ahote since he was a colt, and although his head had grown while her pockets had not, she loved the game too much to give it up.

There was no time to change; she must face her uncle’s disapproval. But then, he seldom approved of anything about her, and her opinion of him was the same. Still, her disheveled appearance would only support the position he’d recently taken that she must marry. On his last visit he insisted marriage would put a stop to her unladylike behavior of cavorting about the countryside, involving herself in activities which only a man should engage in. Resentment surged at the recalled criticism. If her uncle cared half as much about his responsibilities to Stonecrest as he did about his prestigious title, she wouldn’t need to cavort about the countryside tending to estate matters.

Why should I care about his opinion of my attire? she asked her aunt. She mustered as much defiance as she could through her rising anxiety. When I think of how he has managed to undo all the good Papa did for this place, I could cry. But I’m not going to cry and I’m not going to let Stonecrest matters go untended simply because he thinks people will gossip about my behavior.

Darling, I understand how you feel, but you can gain nothing by obstinate behavior. Whether you like it or not, your uncle controls Stonecrest. If you wish to further your cause of seeing it a profitable estate, you cannot thwart his every command.

Eleanor smoothed Lucy’s hair. Perhaps a pretense of behaving as he demands would appease him. You’ll catch more flies with honey than with vinegar, she added as Lucy started in the direction of the study where her uncle waited.

As Lucy approached the hall, she straightened her shoulders with determination. It was time to speak the truth, time to tell him she had no intention of marrying, at least not until she inherited what was rightfully hers. Otherwise, his ridiculous game of presenting possible suitors, as he had on his previous visit, would go on and on. Although Stonecrest Manor would become hers whether she married or not, the dowry her father left her would go to her husband if she married before she was one and twenty. She needed that money to restore Stonecrest, and she couldn’t take the chance of losing it to a husband who might not share her desires. She had every right to make the decision to remain unwed for two more years. If her father hadn’t wanted her to have a choice, he wouldn’t have provided for it in his will.

Outside the study, she hesitated as she grasped the door handle. Her uncle had a way of manipulating situations and people. He’d had no problem convincing the court that Lucy’s guardianship should be turned over to him, even though her father had elected Eleanor and her husband, Harold, God rest his soul, to share that role. Lucy had been surprised at the time, having no idea why Nathan would take on such a responsibility since he barely had a relationship with Lucy or her father, but it hadn’t taken long for her to figure out Nathan’s scheme. Her uncle was a man without income but with a new title to support. Since the day he took over her guardianship, he had not only withheld half the manor’s allowance but most of her pin money as well, and he confiscated a good part of the harvest.

This made his edict that she must marry more confusing. If she married, Nathan would forfeit those gains to her husband. His action didn’t make sense.

Her heart was heavy as she realized just how difficult he could make the next two years if she didn’t do as he demanded. He could keep even more of the allowance, making it impossible for her to pay the few servants she had, each of whom was already doing the work of two or three, and he could steal all the harvest, leaving her and the tenants with nothing.

If only she were two years older. If only . . .

Don’t go wishing your life away . . . Her father’s image was suddenly before her, his tousled auburn hair glinting from the sun, an amused smile on his face. The vision was so real and so painful she had to close her eyes, willing it away.

So many times as a little girl she had wished aloud that time would pass quickly before some exciting event, and always his response had been the same. Don’t go wishing your life away, little one. Things will happen soon enough.

Her eyes filled with tears as the memories washed through her. He had loved her so much, taught her so much. And she’d never had any reason to doubt him.

But this time he would have been wrong. The next two years could not pass quickly enough.

"Betrothed?" Dumbstruck, Lucy simply stared.

Nathan Barrick preened, openly admiring his reflection in the gilded mirror displayed above the fireplace. He twirled a slightly mussed auburn curl into place before turning around to face her.

Yes, as I have just said. The Earl of Harlech made an offer, and I accepted. He stated it casually, as though he had announced a change in dinner plans. Your betrothal will be announced in three weeks, when Lord Harlech returns to London, and your marriage will take place before Season’s end. Your aunt can assist you with wedding plans, and you can, of course, hire whomever you need . . . 

His voice droned on, but Lucy couldn’t focus on the words. She was betrothed. Betrothed! Her uncle hadn’t presented a list of suitors as she’d expected him to do. He’d already chosen the man, and without any regard for her feelings, had agreed to the arrangement.

An arrangement she would be forced to endure for the rest of her life.

Her stunned disbelief turned to anger, and she found her tongue. "I will marry if and when I choose, and at this moment it is not my choice to marry Lord Harlech . . . or any other man!" Her heart pounded riotously, keeping her from drawing a steady breath. Thoughts raced through her mind, colliding with each other, one barely started before another took its place, each worse than the preceding one. But she would not let her uncle know the extent of her distress. She must, at all costs, keep her wits about her now.

She smoothed her skirts, hoping her uncle didn’t notice how her hand trembled. She could not marry, especially not a wastrel such as Lord Harlech.

"You know Papa’s will as well as I. I don’t need to marry, if I do not wish to. And I do not wish to. As disagreeable as it may be for me to answer to you for the next two years until I receive my inheritance, that is my plan, and you shall not gainsay me. So, if you are quite finished, I will be about my business." She arose with as much dignity as she could rally, determined to make her escape before her uncle could challenge her.

She wasn’t quick enough.

This conversation is not over! Nathan’s voice thundered through the room, stopping her before she had taken two steps. I’ve given my word and you will marry Harlech, I say. Do you understand? His face was red and tight with fury. "Because if you don’t, allow me to remind you of a little clause in your father’s will, the clause that gives your guardian the authority to make decisions for you, should your decisions be deemed inappropriate. I have friends with influence; it would be an easy task for me to have you found incompetent. And lest you are not thinking clearly, realize that Stonecrest cannot survive for the next two years without an allowance from me. If you refuse this offer, you won’t see another penny. He sneered at her. What shall you tell this band of impoverished peasants you call servants when you are forced to turn them out hungry?"

Lucy shrank back at the venom in his voice. She had not thought him capable of such cruelty, of such selfishness, but she should have. He had not bothered to hide his true nature; she had simply chosen not to see it for what it was. Remembering her aunt’s words of advice, she quickly decided that a pretense of going along with his plans might be the best avenue for her, at least until she could decide what to do.

I-I hadn’t thought of that, uncle. But I see what you mean. If I must marry, then I must. If you will excuse me, I’m very tired and should like to retire.

If you think to trick me, you’d best think again. Her uncle’s voice took on an ominous quality as he moved closer, his eyes narrowing to slits. Only inches from her face, he lowered his voice to a menacing whisper. Make no mistake. You will accept Lord Harlech’s proposal or I will ruin Stonecrest, now and forever.

Lucy drew her breath in a gasp. She could hardly believe such a threat, but the diabolical gleam in her uncle’s eyes supported his words. Unable to utter another syllable, she turned and fled.

How she made it back to her bedchamber, she didn’t know. Her legs were shaking so violently she could hardly stand, and she gave in to the weakness and threw herself across her bed, taking in deep gulps of air.

How could he threaten such a thing? He knew what Stonecrest had meant to her father, what it meant to her. She loved every inch of the hewn stone of the medieval manor. She found peace in its quaint stable, fertile lands, and pristine lake. She thought of the repairs and improvements her father had made, and she remembered her vow to carry on with his plans to restore the manor to its former glory so that the villagers and their tenants and servants could lead decent lives once again.

And her uncle would, with one swipe, destroy it all.

Her heart thudded in her chest. Her dowry was her fortune. Her father had given her a choice as to her future, and her despicable uncle would rob her of everything.

Anger replaced fear, and with the anger came determination. Her uncle would not win; she would not let him.

She arose from her bed and wiped away her tears. This was no time to cry. She must think clearly and analyze her options.

She must come up with a plan.

Chapter 2

The Grantham ball was the event of the Season. For the past half hour Lucy and Eleanor’s carriage had crawled along, keeping its place in an interminable line of conveyances, but they’d finally arrived at the Grantham’s town home. Carriages packed the street and footmen scurried to them, leading parties of elegantly dressed guests up the walkway to the open double doors. Lucy’s trepidation at putting her plan into action was momentarily forgotten as the excitement of attending her first ball obliterated all else.

She leaned toward the window to take in the scene. Light spilled from the ballroom windows, pooling like liquid silver onto gravel paths. Strains of music underscored by a current of voices drifted through open windows. Guests crowded the ballroom though it was only half past ten and the ball had just begun. Evidently no one wanted to miss a moment of this prestigious affair.

You must keep your shawl about you, her aunt said, a disapproving stare fastened to Lucy’s daringly low neckline, else every rake in London will be at your side.

Lucy did as her aunt bid, murmuring another apology for waiting until the very last minute to try on the gown. It wasn’t true. She had not waited until the last moment as she pretended to her aunt, but had, in fact, spent hours trying on each and every gown, all of them fashioned for her first Season, which had only just begun when her father was killed. Though two years had passed and Lucy’s girlish figure had blossomed into that of a woman’s, the elegant dresses still fit. Well, mostly.

The moment she saw her reflection in this gown, with its high cinched waistline and deeply cut square neckline, she knew it was exactly the thing to attract a rake. The shimmering pink set off her dark hair and pale complexion, but it wasn’t the color that would garner attention. It was the wide-ribboned waist and the underlying stays that forced her breasts upward until they threatened to escape the fabric altogether. She did worry she might get more than she bargained for—she’d not be able to take a deep breath the entire evening—and she wondered how she’d manage to dance without breathing. But she would make do. She must.

Her heart pounded as their turn came and footmen escorted them up the lantern-lit walkway. The thrill of attending the ball was quickly squelched when she recalled her purpose. She wasn’t searching for a handsome man to fall in love with and marry, as her father had so often teased her about during those happy months preceding her presentation. Indeed, if all went according to plan, no honorable man would ever look at her again.

For a few brief moments her heart ached as the anticipated consequences of her plan hit her anew, but she turned her mind from those thoughts. She’d made her decision; it was time to move forward. Now she must concentrate on finding her closest friend and conspirator, Sara Wharton.

She sneaked a peek at her aunt, then studied the crowd around them, relaxing with relief as she noticed several of the older gentlemen turning attentive gazes in their direction. Eleanor would be too busy warding off the advances of her own would-be suitors to pay attention to Lucy. Widowed almost two years, and with a trim figure, dark lustrous hair and violet-blue eyes, Eleanor was quite as beautiful as any young woman present, and the interest of the gentlemen was evident. Yes, Lucy thought, as a silver-haired gentleman with a determined glint in his eye made his way in their direction, her aunt would be quite busy indeed.

The instant they were through the receiving line, she searched among the hundreds of guests for Sara. A moment later she caught a glimpse of her in a gown of pale blue satin that complemented Sara’s slim figure and blond curls. Lucy smiled back gaily when her friend’s excited gaze fell on her.

As sweet and lively as she was pretty, Sara had been besieged by hopeful young men since her debut. She’d told Lucy she hadn’t accepted an offer because she was having so much fun, but Lucy knew Sara’s heart was set on Stephen Thurston, the Earl of Aster, who was expected to attend the ball. Sara’s note had been brief, but there was no mistaking the excitement with which she’d written, He’s in Town! He’s coming to the Grantham ball and bringing an American privateer!

Lucy’s scheme had blossomed at that moment, and thus began the flurry of notes between the two girls as Lucy shared her dilemma and secured Sara’s assistance. Sara, whose four gossiping brothers were also in town, assured Lucy she could quickly discover the latest on dit about the American.

As the dance ended, Lucy excused herself to her aunt and hurried in Sara’s direction.

Well? Lucy said the moment she reached Sara, whose porcelain skin was flushed a soft pink from dancing. Have they arrived?

Sara drew back in feigned shock, her eyes twinkling with good humor. What? A rake of the first order arriving at a ball before midnight? It could not be!

"He is a rake, then, and unmarried?" Lucy felt an almost dizzying wave of relief. A rake should be easy to entice, and an American would fit into her plan so much better than an Englishman would. An American would return to his own country. He wouldn’t be a constant in London society, his every appearance stirring up an old scandal again and again.

Sara smiled. Utterly and completely. According to my brother Ethan, this privateer has plundered more ships, seduced more women, and amassed a greater fortune than any man alive, and James complained that he is handsome enough to make the ladies swoon!

The sparkle in Sara’s eyes dimmed as she studied Lucy. Are you certain you wish to go through with this? Your reputation, Lucy. Once it’s ruined, you shall never have that back. Your whole life, everything as you know it, shall be gone. Can you not simply refuse to do your uncle’s bidding?

If only she could refuse as Sara suggested. If only life were that simple. Her dear friend was a sheltered young woman, as Lucy had been before her father’s death. If someone had told her two years ago that she would be forced to wed against her wishes, she would have thought him addled, but that was before she learned that some men would do anything for money. Her uncle had revealed his greed in countless ways already. Now that she’d fully considered his threat, she was certain that he and his foul friend Harlech had made an agreement to split her dowry. Why else would her uncle relinquish control of the estate?

I cannot refuse, she told Sara quietly. I did not wish to say so in my note, but my uncle has threatened to ruin Stonecrest if I challenge him.

But how? Sara’s brows drew together. Stonecrest will belong to you in two years. What can he possibly do between now and then to ruin the estate?

We are barely hanging on. It wouldn’t take much. Sara had no knowledge of running an estate; it was pointless to explain how Stonecrest tottered on the brink of ruin. Her uncle was spiteful enough to destroy the entire harvest and forfeit his cut rather than let the tenants sneak away with what little they did, and that meager harvest was vital to their families’ lives. If the tenants left, the fields and the small gardens would lay fallow. Her uncle might not even wait for the tenants to leave of their own accord. Perhaps he would drive them away by setting fire to a cottage or two. He would not have taken such care to whisper his threats to ensure the servants not overhear unless he meant to