Page 1 of Forever and a Duke (The Bridewell Sisters #1)

PROLOGUE

O ctober 1890

Griffin Kingsley, the recently minted Duke of Edgerton, was cold, exhausted, and very probably going to die. Given how recklessly he’d lived the last few years of his life, it was a mystery to all good society how he’d made it to six and twenty unscathed.

His devil-may-care nature might be forgivable if his foolishness didn’t touch anyone else. But tonight, his impetuous choices affected more than only him. In a burst of clarity, he realized they always had. Every mistake that had led him to this misty and damnably cold Hampstead field in the dead of night had brought his best friend too.

“We need to end this. Now.” Something was wrong. He felt it in his gut—a gnawing certainty that everything about this moment would have irreparable consequences. “We need to call off.”

Leo Bridewell, loyal to a fault and far too willing to follow Griffin’s lead, spluttered in protest. “You want to beg off? What about a Kingsley never backs down ?”

“A fool’s philosophy. A wise man knows to choose his battles. And, besides, you’re not a Kingsley.”

“An honorary Kingsley.” He tipped a crooked smile. Their friendship had been so long and steadfast, they referred to each other as brothers. “You won two duels last year.”

“They weren’t truly duels and there was no winning. I punched Rockford in the nose, and he threatened to shoot me before passing out from too much gin. Wilcox and I met in the dead of night, but he collapsed from fright, and his second was too sensible to pick up the pistol in his stead.”

“You never told me any of that.”

“Why embarrass either of them with details? Rockford drinks too much, and Wilcox’s bark is far greater than his bite.” Griffin leaned in, clutching his friend’s sleeve. “But Basil Pomeroy is a madman. He won’t back down, and you won’t survive this.”

“I’m a good shot.”

“To hell with precision. It’s cold and dark, and we need to call off. Leo, this is a bloody mistake.”

Griffin knew about mistakes. He’d made more in his life than he could possibly list—he’d overspent, he hadn’t studied as he should have, he hadn’t spent time with his mother before he lost her, and he’d bedded widows when he was too drunk to even remember their names afterwards.

The Kingsleys were a family of mistake makers. It was almost a family curse—and sometimes with deadly consequences.

His uncle had made the mistake of riding a barely tamed horse across a sodden field in a lightning storm. His father had made the mistake of never speaking to a physician about the sharp pains in his side until it was too late. And his brother had been fool enough to take a drunken midnight dip in the ducal estate’s pond. The absinthe he’d guzzled caused him to forget he had no earthly notion how to swim.

Perhaps the curse continued down to new generations because Kingsleys were too bloody bullheaded to learn from their predecessors. Because here he was. Drunk. Cold. Regretting everything that would come next.

If Leo died tonight, it wouldn’t simply be a mistake. It would be a tragedy.

“Don’t do this, Bridewell.” He gripped his best friend’s arm harder to emphasize his seriousness. “Please.”

Seriousness was a rarity between them. They loved nothing as much as being jolly. Laughter and gaiety were the hallmarks of their nearly two-decade friendship. And tonight, being as Leo rarely took Griffin seriously, especially when they were both full of whiskey, he feared his words would have little effect.

Leo shot him a squint-eyed look in the moonlight. “You don’t think I can best him?”

“This isn’t about besting him. A wise man would walk away. He’ll hate that most of all.” Griffin glanced over his shoulder at the man pacing in the long shadows across the field. “Pomeroy is here to draw blood.”

“As am I,” Leo said, chuckling darkly. “Teach him to insult Miss Fairchild.”

“Eliza Fairchild is not your betrothed! She’s not even a woman you’re seriously pursuing. She’s sure as hell not worth losing your life.”

“It’s the prinsh…” Leo cleared his throat, though they both knew well enough that it wouldn’t clear the drunken haze. “The principle,” he said more clearly. “Pomeroy is a brute.”

At the sound of footsteps thudding across the grass, Griffin spun, then stepped forward to shield Leo.

“It’s Halford,” Leo said.

Griffin strode forward to meet Pomeroy’s second. He didn’t know Lord Halford well, but he suspected the man was no keener to cart off a dead friend than he was.

“I’m doing my utmost to convince Bridewell to call off,” he told his fellow second.

In the moonlight, the lean nobleman arched both dark brows in surprise. “Is he willing? Because I doubt Pomeroy would be. He sent me over to insist we delay no further.”

Griffin swallowed hard. Bile pushed back, rising in his throat. A glint of metal caught his eye. Pomeroy stood with his pistol clutched in his hand.

“You tell him the Duke of Edgerton has called off. Take him home.” He’d possessed his late brother’s title for less than a year, and this was the first time he’d tried wielding it to force matters to his liking, as his father had been so skilled at doing.

“No!” Leo shouted. “Take your places, gentleman. There will be no calling off.”

Somehow, Griffin’s words had carried on the breeze and Leo heard him. Bloody rotting hell.

Griffin swung back and began rushing toward Leo. Fear froze his heart in his chest when Leo bellowed across the field, waving the pistol in his hand.

“Stop!” The shout burst from Griffin as Leo raised the pistol.

He lurched toward his friend, determined to knock the weapon from his grip.

Then the night exploded with a vicious crack. Before Griffin could reach him, Leo jerked back. Time slowed. Griffin held his breath as Leo toppled to the ground.

Shouts rang out behind him. Griffin rushed to his friend. He rolled Leo onto his back and only began to breathe again when Leo looked back at him.

“Should have listened?—”

“Someone get a bloody doctor!” As he screamed, he shrugged off his coat and laid it over Leo. Then he removed his neckcloth, pressing it to the spot where the bullet had struck him in the chest. “Hold that tight.”

“Pomeroy’s bolted. Took my damned carriage,” Halford called breathlessly, his voice pitched high.

“Take mine and fetch a doctor,” Griffin told him.

“Would it not be quicker to take Bridewell to one?”

After a moment’s hesitation, weighing the fear of whatever pain they’d cause Leo, Griffin agreed.

“Help me lift him.”

Halford took Leo’s legs. Griffin lifted him under his shoulders.

Leo hissed in pain as they made their way to Griffin’s carriage, and somehow even that reaction reassured Griffin that Leo would get through this. His friend was strong and almost as bullheaded as the Kingsleys.

Halford shouted up the name and direction of a physician. Griffin offered the nobleman a nod of thanks.

They laid Leo on one bench and Griffin sat opposite him, leaning forward. He kept one hand on the cloth covering Leo’s wound and the other wrapped around his friend’s hand, squeezing tight to remind Leo he was not alone.

“We’ll get you stitched up,” he vowed.

Leo’s eyes fluttered closed.

“How much farther?” Griffin barked at Halford.

“Left up the lane and we’ll be there.”

“Leo, only a few moments longer.”

His friend’s eyes opened again, wide now. His skin had gone terrifyingly pale.

“I’m here,” Griffin assured him. “And we’ll soon get you put to rights.”

Leo tipped his head to look at Griffin. “Take care of my sisters.”

“You’ll bloody well take care of those hoydens yourself.” He attempted the words as he usually would, with a teasing lilt, but his throat burned. His voice emerged as a rusty rasp.

“Promise,” Leo urged, trying to lift his head, the muscles in his neck straining.

“You have my promise, damnit.”

Leo’s body seemed to melt against the cushioned bench, then his eyes drifted closed once more. His fingers slackened in Griffin’s grip. A breath shuddered from his lips, and then—nothing.

Griffin knew in that instant, his best friend was gone.