Page 3 of My Disastrous Duchess (The Untamed Ladies #2)

F rom the look of things, no one except Alexander had walked this path for decades.

A sleepy chapel rose behind him, dawn clinging to its stonework.

A round stained glass window shone faintly in the light, pointing out toward the village Lover, where Alexander had ridden from.

He had started his walk at the lychgate, continuing down the stepping-stone path with his arms crossed in front of him.

It was a cold and grey morning, a nasty chill seeping through his velvet greatcoat and penetrating to his bones.

The last time he had visited the chapel, a year ago to the day, the Lover parish vicar had been around and had spotted him and chatted a while.

This morning, Alexander came early in hopes of not being seen.

The vicar was a gentle but observant man who supposedly rose late, and Alexander wouldn’t put it past him to tell all the locals about the Duke of Langley’s surprising return visits to their inconsequential little churchyard.

He cast a glance behind him to check on his horse, having tied the gelding to a post further down the chapel lane.

They were set to arrive at Somerstead Hall before noon, where Carlisle was waiting for him, unaware of the detour he had taken on his way up from London.

The rest of his complement, hired by Carlisle, was still waiting at the inn a few miles back, unaware that their charge had slipped from their grasp.

The hedges grew wildly toward the back of the churchyard.

Alexander navigated the path carefully as his destination came into view: a modest headstone, tucked into the farthest corner of the yard.

There was no name on the stone, only a small songbird etched into the slate, denoting the grave as that of his mother’s, if his research was to be believed.

Not even afforded the dignity of having a grave marked with her own name , Alexander thought, stood upright before the resting place.

He scowled as he observed the fields past the stone fence.

Did my father love her so little as to disgrace her like this?

Or was it the opposite? That love compelled him to let her spend the rest of time in peace, knowing that if his wife’s family found her grave, they would discover the truth and order it demolished?

The memories Alexander had of his mother were few and far between.

He had often wondered whether any of them were real, or just the products of his imagination, combined with the few stories he had heard about Celeste.

She was vivid in his mind’s eye. He could see her dark hair, so much like his own, her delicate fingers, traveling across the keys of a pianoforte.

He swore he could even remember the small London apartment where he had spent the first few years of his life – a lavish little abode outfitted with silken sheets and fine furniture, the smell of incense lingering on the cushions of their bed.

He frowned. Celeste had been far from a famous singer, known only for her affair with the Duke of Langley.

She could never have afforded an apartment like that all on her own.

It must have been their love nest – hers and his father’s – until Alexander was born there and all the love disappeared from it, becoming just a nest for the songbird and her chick.

Minutes ticked past as he stood in quiet contemplation before the grave. A prayer emerged in his mind, not for peace, but for answers.

The letter from Mr. Ripley still burned a hole in his vest pocket, its contents etched into his memory.

The Somerton family had their own genealogist – a close friend of Carlisle’s who knew everything about their history but couldn’t be trusted.

Ripley was also something of a genealogist, though more of an investigator than a historian, a former Bow Street Runner known for his discretion.

The handsome price of which , Alexander thought, will be worth finding out the truth about that artwork.

The Rousseau painting had tormented him every day since Alexander had first laid eyes on it.

He had conducted his own private investigation at Somerstead without arousing suspicion, having determined that his father had been the one to hang it, and that Carlisle only knew that much about it.

His uncle, thank God, hadn’t asked any further questions.

The connections to his mother had been too great to ignore, and the secrets that had been unearthed in the last year alone had been worth the effort.

The painter had likely been none other than his mother herself.

She had no known siblings, and her parents and only uncle had died long before it had been painted.

Extracting the letter from his pocket, Alexander gave it another glance. Ripley’s latest note about the investigation had been brief. No signature, no date, no way to connect the investigator to Alexander...

“ Trail continues to Le Havre. Delays. Journey to France unnecessary. Mademoiselle B confirmed no attachment to R. Call Miss S from London?”

Still, Alexander would burn it once he reached Somerstead, unsure how to feel about seeing another parchment curl and blacken, taking with it his latest hopes for closure.

He looked down at the grave, the moss covering the headstone, the snowdrops pressing through the earth, wondering what exactly he would find if he fell to the ground and started clawing away the earth himself.

Le Havre, he thought, remaining patient, for now. If you are there, I will find you. And if you are not, I will keep looking for you until one of us is dead.

A week later, Alexander looked out over the view of Salisbury, focused on the cathedral spire in the distance.

Carlisle – who was currently in London on some university errand – had taken him to the cathedral more times than he could count, trying to leverage his connection to the Duke of Langley to get a closer look at the Magna Carta.

It had worked, naturally. Few things could be refused to a duke, even by the clergy – and even one with a troubled history like Alexander’s.

Truth be told, Alexander didn’t feel so much like a duke at that moment as a boy on his Grand Tour, with the way Simon and Bastian were prattling on behind him.

A plume of smoke drifted in front of his eyes, obscuring his view of Salisbury. Storm clouds were rolling in, the same color as the smoke. He waved it away and turned with a scowl toward his associates, occupying one of the balconies on the top floor of Salisbury’s Assembly Rooms.

“A stench like that could knock a man sideways,” he complained, interrupting an incredibly important conversation about Italian actresses. “They’ll have to air the room once you make your entrance, Stockton.”

“Spoilsport,” Simon said. He looked proudly at his cigar, turning it toward the dying strains of light in the sky.

“I brought it back directly from Virginia. The marvels a man can find there... Can’t entice you to take a puff?

Those Americans know a few things about liberation – and libations – let me tell you. ”

“What I know of the Americans suggests as much, and yet I would sooner smoke the sweepings of the coach that brought you here,” Alexander said.

“Those sweepings would be less likely to kill you,” Bastian added, shooting a concerned glance at Simon’s prized cigar. He groaned as Simon breathed smoke into his face. “I fear I must agree with Langley on this one, and — oh, would it kill you to smoke in the direction of the wind?”

With a tremendous laugh, Simon stepped aside, shuffling past Bastian as he settled on the opposite side of the small balcony.

Bastian shot Alexander a wry grin from beside him.

He was shorter than Alexander by a head – most people were – and hung himself over the railing to look down at the street below.

A parade of carriages had lined up before the building, expelling finely dressed aristocrats.

“Good Lord. How I despise Salisbury society,” Bastian said, straightening. “If my mother could be convinced to live anywhere else than her dower house out by Laverstock, I doubt I would ever return to this accursed place.”

“Would you head to Virginia?” Alexander asked.

“You must be joking. Risk the chance of being stuck abroad with Viscount Stockton for months on end? I’d sooner die,” Bastian protested.

Alexander couldn’t blame him. Simon was his oldest friend, but he was also insufferable at the best of times.

“I’m surprised you’re not in London. The MPs can scarcely spare you for a summer, which begs the question.

What the deuce is the Duke of Langley doing in the country at a time like this? ”

That was a much more complicated question than Bastian knew.

Alexander wished he had been in London, far from Somerstead Hall, where it was generally too quiet and the people were probing, too familiar with one another for their own good.

It was challenging for him to conduct his political activities from afar.

There were only so many speeches he could draft against Liverpool while he was away, legislation he could agonize over.

He had occupied himself with estate management for the time being, but working with his land agents was a chore he did not relish.

It was his duty to return to Wiltshire every so often – but that was not what had brought him home this time.

The truth was a secret he couldn’t afford to share yet, not even to his closest friends.

His mind turned back to the churchyard, the grave that everyone had forgotten for so long, and the skeletons that had been buried with its memory.

“Can a man not move freely round the country?” It was a pitiable defense, and Alexander made a mental note to come up with a decent lie as soon as possible. “We must all return to roost sooner or later.”