The Heir and the Spare (7 page)

“Right,” Phillip said absentmindedly. He must have been out of his mind drunk that night. He looked warily at the glass of brandy and his hand, and didn’t quite feel like finishing it.

Devon left London the morning after the ball. His brother had lived up to, or rather down to, his expectations. But then again, Devon had, too. He hadn’t ruined that redhead, but he had come close.

And he didn’t even know her name.

That first night, he couldn’t think about anything other than her mouth. Learning her name seemed far less important that kissing her. Plus, he never expected to see her again. But then he did, and by then it was too late to ask for her name and still maintain his little masquerade.

As Devon’s carriage rolled through the lush English countryside, he forced himself to think of something else. He looked out the window as the carriage slowed. They were driving past the Maidenhead Inn, which was just an hour away from Cliveden, where his father was spending the last days of his life. What he had told George had been the truth. He did not want his real identity known. Phillip had informed the world that he was dead, and also let it be known that Devon had fought that duel on his behalf. He did not fancy meeting the Duke of Grafton at dawn once again. He still bore a scar from the first time and consideredhimself lucky to have escaped with just that. Plus he had a life in America now. There was no point in coming back from the dead if he wasn’t planning to stay.

But considering how the old duke had made his loathing for his younger son clear from the start, Devon wondered why he had bothered to return. Marksmith, the family butler, had written saying his father was dying and had been asking for him. Devon wasn’t sure he believed it, since his father had never shown much interest in him before. Apparently his father was the only person who’d given no credence to Phillip’s story about Devon’s death. Or perhaps the story had been his father’s idea to begin with.

He never understood why his father favored Phillip. Nor did he understand why after all these years he still wanted his father to be proud of him. Would a pat on the back and a “well done, son” be too much to ask for?

But Devon had done well for himself. He had defied every expectation for a younger son by not joining the army, not entering the clergy, and not wedding an heiress so he might live leisurely for the rest of his days. Instead, he had sullied his aristocratic hands in trade. And now he was wealthy in his own right, and, more important, he had earned his own sense of self-worth. That, apparently, had been left behind in America. It occurred to him that he had hoped his father would be impressed with the wealth he had earned. More likely that the old man would die of shock and mortification over the fact that his son worked for a living. But it was a chance he would take.

He seemed to be taking a lot of chances lately. Last night, for instance. Waltzing in front of the ton. And with a beautiful woman, nonetheless. Damn, what had he been thinking?

Simply that he wanted her. It occurred to Devon that his situation was the very reason a man didn’t kiss innocent women. It just makes a man want more, and the only way to get more is to get married. Unfortunately, he was not sold on the idea of marriage. Not now, probably not ever.

But still . . . there was just something about her—she didn’t bother acting coy or alluring. She didn’t bat her eyelashes or feign prudery when he pulled her close. He also sensed that there was more to her that no one ever noticed—more than the distracting red hair and the falter in her steps. And she was beautiful, right down to the smattering of freckles on her nose.

He adored the way she stumbled from time to time. And he hated that he wanted to be there always to make sure she didn’t fall.

But the sweetness of the memory gave way to the horrid reality. She might truly fancy Phillip. If that were the case, then the perfect kiss they had once shared was nothing at all, and he was an utter fool to want her.

Or perhaps it was Devon that she really wanted, and she was understandably confused.

It didn’t matter. He couldn’t do anything about it anyway. He kept repeating that to himself, waiting for the thought to take hold, until the carriage was rolling down the long drive flanked on either side by enormous old oak trees. The house loomed ahead—ancient, stately, and enormous. Alighting from the carriage, he looked around at the expanse of lawn and the tumbling overgrown hedges that had always been perfectly maintained in his youth.

The large, carved wooden doors opened. Marksmith could not completely maintain his usual stoic and stony expression. He was the only person outside the family who could ever differentiate between Devon and Phillip, and the only person who showed Devon preference. It drove Phillip crazy, and even as a young boy he would always threaten to fire Marksmith once he inherited his title.

“Lord Devon! Welcome home. We had expected you a few days ago.”

“How is my father?”

“His mental faculties are questionable. His condition is worsening,” Marksmith said in a lowered tone, “but he is still up and about. In fact, he is in the library now. And, Lord Devon, when you have a moment, there is something I must discuss with you.”

“Of course,” Devon replied. He paused on the threshold before entering. When he left, he had vowed never to return. But then Marksmith had tracked him down and written to him.

At first glance, the great hall was the same as it had always been. The walls and ceiling were covered in the same dark wood paneling, the grand staircase was still lined in a crimson carpet. But where the fabric was once bright and plush, it now looked worn and faded. The portraits of the Kensington ancestors decorated the walls, looking down at him with perpetual disapproval. The suit of armor worn by the first Duke of Buckingham still stood guard outside of the library doors.

Devon paused in the entryway to the library, a large room with thousands of leather-bound volumes on shelves that covered three walls from floor to ceiling. The French doors leading to the patio were shut, but offered a glimpse of vast lawns, the hedgerow maze, the gardens, and the Thames in the distance. There was a fire slowly burning, and his father sat on the leather couch before it. Devon took a deep breath and strolled into the room.

“Hello, Father, how are you?”

“Eh? Phillip?” The duke squinted his eyes at his son. “Thought you were in London,” he muttered.

“It’s me. Devon. Your second son.” The words tasted bitter in his mouth, when, really, he ought to be used to it by now. But somehow just stepping into this old house made him feel like a child again—awkward and eager to please, but not sure how. Devon settled into a leather chair facing the couch and looked closely at his father. The tower of terror he once was had vanished; he was now naught but an old man, faded and worn, like the house itself.

“It’s good to have you back,” the duke said, staring into the fire. “Phillip, you spend far too much time in London. A proper gentleman does not neglect his estate . . .” His voice trailed off.

And for a moment there, Devon had thought his father had been pleased to see him. He caught himself on the verge of sighing, of letting go of the hope that things would be a little bit different, maybe even a little bit better. He left the library without another word and then climbed the stairs to the third floor, hoping to find his old bedchamber.

It was still there and clearly forgotten. The curtains were drawn, the room was dark, and the air was dank and musty. There was a layer of dust upon every surface and the furniture had been covered in old sheets. Though, to be fair, he hadn’t spent a night in this house since he had been sent off to Eton. He, and Phillip, too, had quickly learned that it was far preferable to spend school holidays with friends.

Devon turned, hearing Marksmith clear his throat behind him. They had just prepared a room for him on the third floor. A guest chamber.

As the afternoon sun was setting, Devon found himself with the odd sensation of having nothing to do. He had toured the house, noticing the paint chipping off the walls in the ballroom, while other rooms had been shut off completely. Inside, the furniture had been draped in white covers. It was depressing.

He walked out to the stables, which were, like the house, slightly tattered around the edges. The horses within, however, were superb specimens of their breed and clearly well cared for. But that was Phillip for you. The stables themselves wouldn’t win Ascot, but the horses might. Coming in first was all that mattered.

Devon saddled up a black stallion and took off at a full gallop down the drive, the horse’s hooves kicking up pebbles behind him. He didn’t look back at the house.

Riding over the grounds, he noticed they were nothing like they had been in his youth. A few paths were somewhat maintained, but most were so choked with branches and foliage one could barely pass through. The pastures were nearly empty, save for a few lazy animals. Had there been a market for the weeds that overran the fields, they would have been growing a fortune.

Later, after being informed that his father was resting, Devon tracked down the estate manager, seeking an explanation for the disintegrating condition of the house and grounds. His father had always ruled his estate with an iron fist, overseeing even the smallest detail. His pride and joy had been showing off his wealth. Clearly, his father was in worse health than he had thought. Devon dismissed the nagging thought that perhaps he should have returned home sooner.

“Well, you know how His Grace is,” the manager began. He was a small, porky fellow, clearly nervous by Devon’s inquiries. “And the state of his health, of late . . . I don’t think, if I may say, that His Grace felt up to the task of managing the estate. The problem isn’t
me
, you understand. In fact, I had suggested that His Grace delegate some responsibility to Lord Huntley.”

“And?” Devon prompted.

“It was two months ago. Your father seemed to have forgotten who Lord Huntley was.”

“And you have not contacted my brother at all?”

“I did take the liberty of sending him a letter, in the hopes that he would speak to His Grace. It is Lord Huntley’s inheritance after all . . .” the manager said.

“Indeed it is,” Devon said dryly, wondering why he was even having this conversation.

“Without direction, I was unable to make any decisions regarding the estate.”

“Of course. And being in my father’s employ for . . .”

“Ten years.”

“Ten years. You are surely aware that he values this estate more than anything.”

“Of course.”

“So that is why you have allowed all the buildings to fall into disrepair, and why our flocks have dwindled down to nothing, and why, essentially, there has been virtually no income from the lands to support my father and brother.”

“Yes, well, there is an income. Smaller than what they may be accustomed to, but it is certainly enough to live on,” the man said haughtily.

“I see,” Devon said. “Leave the books with me.”

“But I can only take direction from His Grace.”

“Of course. If you keep that up, there will be no estate for you to manage.”

The man, in all his ineptness, took the hint, leaving the books and a mountain of reading.

At least it was something to do.

Arthur Phillip Archibald William Kensington, Duke of Buckingham, remained in the library, utterly confused. He was always confused these days. One of his sons had returned, of that he was certain. Which one, he could not be sure.

Had it been Phillip, playing a cruel joke, pretending to be his twin? They were always pretending to be the other, the duke thought. No wonder he could never keep them straight.

Or had Devon returned? Or was he dead? The duke had known once, but could not remember now. But if he had come home, alive, then that changed everything. That much he remembered.

Phillip
awoke with a throbbing headache and a strong urge to cast up his accounts. Dear God, what had he done last night? He groaned. If he felt like this, he must have had a smashing time indeed. He rang for his valet, who appeared but a moment later.

“What did I do last night?” he asked groggily, with shuttered eyes.

“I believe you and Parkhurst spent the better portion of the evening at a gaming hall,” Jeffries answered.

“Did I win anything?”

“I cannot know, my lord. But you did come home at dawn with a female companion.” Phillip rolled over and noticed the bed was empty.

“Where is she now?”

“She left, my lord.”

“Did you get her name?”

“Mrs. Roth, an actress. She is performing this evening in
Twelfth Night
at the Rose Theater. Shall I send her a note on your behalf?”

“No. But send a note to Miss Highhart. See if she wants to go to that play tonight.”

“Of course.”

“And some tea. With brandy.”

“I shall return in a moment,” the valet said, closing the door softly behind him.

“What a dreary day,” Emilia muttered. She was sitting by the window, staring outside more often than at the book open in her lap. She had already read it, twice, during the crossing, but she hadn’t any new books. And the new Darcy Darlington story wouldn’t be published until tomorrow. And so she kept watch in case Phillip decided to brave the weather. Even after the tea-spilling incident a few days ago, he had called on her two other times. He brought flowers and boxes of chocolates, making her want to fly at him and shout, “Kiss me, you fool!” Of course, she could not with her aunt present. Besides, he was charming and pleasant and talkative, and seemed to have overcome his fascination with his fingernails. He just didn’t affect her as he had done those few other times.

But he had not attended the Misses Alcourt’s poetry reading, which perhaps was just as well. Not only had the original poems been bland (and that was putting it nicely), the few bachelors who attended were nearly crushed in the swarm of the young ladies and their marriage-minded mamas. Nor did Phillip attend the dinner hosted by Lady Wentworth, a nice enough affair, even if the woman really ought to hire a decent cook. But Phillip had waltzed with her (once) at the Ravensdale Ball, and (once) again at the Crawford soiree. Each time, he maintained a proper distance between them, leaving her to wonder if his reputation was exaggerated, and if she had imagined that sensational second waltz. As a week had now passed since that night, and since there was no betrothal to announce, Emilia assumed a few people were paying their losses.