The Heir

Good riddance, Cheevers concluded as he showed himself out. There were some accounts that even the thriftiest Yorkshireman’s son was happy to close.

Thirteen

“WELL?”

Wilberforce Hammond James, ninth Earl of Helmsley, carefully composed his features before turning to face the man who’d thrust open the interior door to the study. He did not face a pretty sight. Hedley Arbuthnot, Baron Stull, was nearly as round as he was tall, and he wasn’t exactly short.

Worse, he was untidy. His cravat showed evidence of the chicken he’d consumed at lunch, the wine with which he’d washed down the chicken, and the snuff with which he’d settled his understandably rebellious stomach. That stomach, Helmsley knew, was worked incessantly.

But Stull, who was at least ten years Helmsley’s senior, had two qualities that appealed, despite his appearance, lack of couth, and tendency to flatulence. First, he was free with his coin when in pursuit of his own ends, and second, he was as determined as a bulldog.

“Well, what?” Helmsley flicked an imaginary speck of lint from his sleeve.

“Where are the girls?”

“Mayfair,” Helmsley said, praying it was true.

“Best get packing then,” Stull said, sniffing like a canine catching the scent of prey. “To Mayfair it is.”

“He’s been gone for hours.”

A

“He said we weren’t to hold meals for him,” Dev reasoned. “Meals, A

“He romped Pericles this morning, when it was cooler,” A

“I’ll go to the mansion and find out what’s what,” Val said. “When His Grace and Westhaven go at it, they are usually loud, ugly, and to the point. A

He shot Dev a sympathetic glance but knew his brother would not have offered to investigate. Dev did not show up at the ducal mansion uninvited or unexpected, and Val wasn’t about to ask him to break that tradition now.

The library door opened, and Westhaven strode in, surprising all three occupants.

“What’s wrong?” Dev asked. “Don’t tell me His Grace got the better of you.”

“Well, he did,” Westhaven said, going straight for the whiskey decanter, pouring one drink, knocking it back, and pouring another.

“Westhaven?” Val asked cautiously. But it was to A

“For once,” he said, “His Grace was blameless. You were investigated by a man named Benjamin Hazlit, who is legendarily thorough and legendarily discreet. He was on the Moreland payroll, but at my mother’s request, not the duke’s. I did not become aware of this until I had shouted dear Papa down with every obscene expression of my petty, selfish frustrations with him. I ranted, I raved, I shouted, and I told him…”

A pin could have dropped while Westhaven stared at his drink.

“I told him I was ashamed to be his son and heir.”

“Ye gods.” Val went to the brandy decanter. “About time somebody set him straight.” He handed drinks all around but saw Dev was staring at Westhaven with a frown.

“The old windbag got the last word somehow, though, didn’t he?” Dev guessed while A

“I sincerely hope,” Westhaven said, pi

“He’s still alive?” she said, drawing three pairs of eyes.

“He was demanding his personal physicians at full bellow when I left,” Westhaven said. “I’ve sent Pugh and Hamilton to him and left very strict orders he is not to be bled, no matter how he rants and blusters.”

“Are you sure it was real?” Dev asked. “I would not put chicanery past him.”

“Neither would I,” Val said, eyes on Westhaven’s face.

“I am sure it was real though I am not sure how serious it was. I am sure he thought he was dying, and of course, he still might die.”

“He will die,” Val corrected. “We all will. What makes you think he wasn’t faking?”

“I’ve seen him morose, playful, raging, and—with Her Grace—even tender,” Westhaven said, “but in thirty years of memory, I ca

“I recall his rows with Bart,” the earl went on, shoving back to sit on his desk. “I used to think Bart was half-mad to let the old man get to him so. Why didn’t he just let it roll off him, I’d wonder. I’ve realized though, that there is a kind of assurance to be had when you take on His Grace, and he doesn’t back down, doesn’t give quarter, doesn’t flinch or admit he’s wrong, no matter what.”

“He’s consistent,” Dev admitted. “Consistently exasperating.”

“But he’s always the duke,” Westhaven said. “You never catch him breaking role, or doubting himself or his God-given right to be as he is.”

Val took a thoughtful swallow of his whiskey. “If the duke falls, then what?”

“Long live the duke,” A

Westhaven just nodded, seeming relieved she’d deal with the practicalities.

The evening unfolded as A

Val elected to stay at the mansion, agreeing to send word if there was any change in the duke’s condition, while Dev went off to inform their half-sister, Maggie, of the duke’s heart seizure. When Westhaven returned to his townhouse, it was late enough that A

She was dressed in only her night rail, wrapper, and slippers when she met him, and heedless of any prying eyes or listening ears she wrapped her arms around him as soon as he was near enough to grab.

“He looks like hell, A

“And you are a little scared, too,” A

“What else did Her Grace warn you about?” the earl asked, letting A

“It is too hot to go about in your finery,” A

He’d stood there in the foyer like a tired little boy, and let her fuss with his clothing. She piled his clothing over one arm, laced her fingers through his, and towed him unresisting into the peaceful confines of his home.

The warmth of A

“My grandfather died just a couple of years ago,” A