Page 31 of The Duke Disaster (The League of Extraordinary Widows #1)

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O liver stalked into his club, nodded to a few gentlemen with whom he was marginally acquainted, and then moved to his usual seat before the fire. After asking for a brandy, he settled and opened the newspaper, listening to the muted sounds of those talking around him.

The last few days since the opera had been disjointed .

His first inclination after that terrible argument, having witnessed Atherby’s machinations, had been to go to Celia, but knowing her temper and his own unbelievable stupidity, Oliver was certain Kemp might greet him at the door with pistol in hand.

Also, there was the matter of Kensworth, Claremont, and Percival.

Celia had not asked for a champion, but Oliver meant to be hers anyway. They could argue about it later if she ever deigned to speak to him again. He sent her four dozen apricot roses, carefully removing all the thorns himself, as he’d done before.

My autumn. I beg your forgiveness.

Oliver had allowed Atherby to stew for a bit, knowing Helen had probably informed him of their conversation at the opera. It was the least he could do, given the earl’s overzealous efforts to make his daughter a duchess. He was unsurprised when Atherby had arrived at the door two days after that terrible night and in a less than conciliatory mood, solicitor behind him and marriage contract in hand.

Atherby had made his demands clear. The duke had given the impression he meant to offer for Helen.

“Sign the marriage contracts today, Your Grace, or you will force me to give Helen to Lord Digby,” Atherby had threatened. “He has offered for her, and I have run out of excuses to refuse him.”

Clever Atherby. He had hedged his bets, so to speak.

“Well, in that case, I don’t dare stand in the way of Lady Helen’s happiness.” Oliver gave him a nod. “What will Rathbone say?”

Atherby’s cheeks flushed.

“Oh, did you not realize I knew about Rathbone? Or Digby? There might be others.” He rolled his shoulders carelessly.

Atherby’s chest puffed. “I don’t know what you imply, Your Grace.”

“Servants talk, Atherby.” Primarily to Edmonds, who should have been a spymaster, with the way he collected information from his network of footmen, cooks, maids, and stable boys. No wonder his butler hadn’t cared for Helen. He’d had good reason.

The earl sputtered, the color on his cheeks turning to deep plum. He’d been holding out for a duke for Helen and had, in all likelihood, already informed his friends in Parliament that he would soon have Hartwood’s influence to wield. Digby was merely an earl.

“You will regret this, Your Grace,” Atherby fumed.

“I don’t believe I will, my lord. Good day.”

Edmonds had practically skipped as he showed Atherby and his solicitor to the door.

There was no hesitation in making up his mind this time. No waffling about as he had done with Helen. His father, Oliver thought, would have approved. After suffering through a terrible childhood at the hands of the duchess, being her husband must have been far worse. His mother had been a cold void of a human being. Empty inside. Incapable of affection.

Love, Oliver had been instructed, was an affliction affecting those with little discipline and self-worth. An illusion created by poets so they could support their pathetic existences. Excess emotion of any sort was to be avoided. Dukes did not indulge in such frivolity.

Nor a duchess, apparently.

But Oliver had known love, only it had taken time—and Celia—for him to realize it. Not from the duchess, never her. But his father. Douglas Barnes had loved Oliver, though the duchess had done everything in her power to convince Oliver he had not. And, he suspected, Father had loved that young woman he’d sacrificed his life for on that terrible day.

Sarah. Her name was Sarah.

Oliver, now that he allowed himself to remember, had been introduced to her, once, during a harvest festival, well before he’d inherited. He’d been barely out of the nursery and thought her merely another woman from the village. But when Father had been laid to rest, Sarah had stood at the very edge of the mourners until the duchess had had her forcibly removed by a footman. Later that day, Oliver had witnessed Sarah, draped over his father’s grave, weeping inconsolably.

The duchess, on the other hand, had never shed a tear for her husband.

The carriage driver, the one who’d probably been aiming for Sarah but killed the duke instead, had never been found. Nor the carriage. The entire incident reeked of something the duchess would have done.

Just when I think I could not despise my mother more.

“Your Grace, I understand you’ve asked after me.” A voice interrupted his thoughts. “It has been some time since we’ve seen each other.”

Oliver looked up to see a well-dressed gentleman, a touch of gray at his temples. Vaguely familiar. There was only a slight resemblance to Celia in the shape of his mouth and the hazel of his eyes, which lacked her sparkle.

“Lord Kensworth.” He motioned to the empty chair. “Please, join me for a brandy.”

Celia’s brother gave a deep sigh as he took a seat. “I’ll assume this is about my sister, Mrs. Barnes,” he said with resignation. “I’ve heard the gossip, but I fear there’s little I can do. She’s never cared for my opinion.”

“Yes, Mrs. Barnes has proved to be a challenge.” Oliver chuckled softly to put Kensworth at ease. He had considered everything Shaddick told him at the opera. He’d listened to that horrible argument with Celia replay in his head, hearing her anger and pain. Now he wanted to hear what Kensworth had to say about his sister and Percival.

“Indeed, Your Grace. She’s always been a trial. An unwelcome inheritance, of sorts.” Kensworth smiled, relaxing against the leather of the chair. “You are fortunate not to have been saddled with an unruly sibling.”

Unwelcome inheritance . The same words Oliver had once used to describe Celia.

“So you foisted her on us, Kensworth.” He waved a finger in mock shame. “Quite unfair.”

“Your cousin needed her, as you know, Your Grace.”

Oliver didn’t know. He was hoping to be enlightened.

“Rest assured, Your Grace, I never spoke of the accident. Not then or now.” Kensworth leaned in, lowering his voice. “I saw”—he waved a hand between his thighs—“the damage. Claremont swore us all to silence. Paid off the farmer who owned the thresher. I didn’t touch a drop of spirits for years after. But Monroe…” His brows lifted.

“Ah, yes. Monroe.” Oliver sipped his brandy. A thresher?

“Threatening to tell half of London Barnes couldn’t—well it was unwise, considering the reach of the Barnes family.”

“Completely,” he agreed, giving nothing away.

If he read Kensworth correctly, Percival had been relieved of his manhood by an accident with a thresher. While foxed. Oliver didn’t really need the details. And this Monroe, who apparently had witnessed the accident had decided years later, to blackmail Percival and tell all of England he couldn’t…perform. The scandal would have been enormous. The Barnes name tainted. Claremont must have been terrified.

“Your cousin reminded me I owed him a favor.” Kensworth laughed softly.

“More…distant relation,” Oliver corrected absently.

“He did help me with Latin the last two years at Harrow, else I would not have made it through.” Celia’s brother laughed once more, the idea of trading his sister to a man who could never truly be her husband because he’d once been tutored in Latin, utter hilarity.

“But Percival couldn’t be a husband to her.”

“I doubt she ever realized it.” Kensworth tapped his temple. “As I’m sure you’ve realized, my sister isn’t known for her intelligence.”

No. Only her heart. Which I may have broken.

“Claremont came up with a way to silence Monroe’s threats. I was only too happy to help when he inquired about Celia. Spared me the expense of a London Season for her, at the very least. I despaired of ever finding her a husband, with her temperament.”

She never even had a Season. The brandy burned a hole in his stomach.

“Clever of you, Kensworth.” Oliver gave him a thin smile.

“The whispers about Barnes stopped once he wed Celia and paraded her about London, just as Claremont said they would. After all, she was pretty enough, despite that orange hair. And my sister adored Barnes. Pity he perished in India. But at least his reputation was spared any indignity.”

This was the betrayal Shaddick referred to.

Claremont had declared that Percival must find a wife to stop Monroe’s threats. And Kensworth, the cad, had seen an opportunity to rid himself of Celia. Never mind that he was dooming her to a lonely, childless existence, devoid of affection or even companionship. As long as the Barnes reputation was spared any taint.

Oliver wanted to slam Kensworth’s face into the table between them.

Celia had never known about Percival’s condition, believing the ridiculous lie that she’d been wed for a wager. Instead, she’d spent years thinking she was repulsive. Unappealing. Unworthy of the great Barnes family.

Oh. Celia. I’m so sorry.

Oliver no longer wondered at Celia’s behavior towards the Barnes cousins, only that it hadn’t been worse.

My autumn. Forgive me.

The truth was that Celia might never forgive Oliver for his arrogance. His judgement of her. Honestly, Oliver wasn’t sure he could ever forgive himself. And Claremont? That sanctimonious windbag had much to answer for.

Kensworth finished his brandy, oblivious to Oliver’s mounting anger. Rising from his chair, he bowed and took his leave, smiling the entire time. He assumed, incorrectly, that he had a friend in the Duke of Hartwood, having been of service to the Barnes family.

Oliver couldn’t wait to ruin him.

But Claremont would be first.

The following day, Oliver was ushered into Lord Claremont’s drawing room. He looked around at the robin’s egg-blue of the walls and the lavishly appointed furnishings. The mark of the duchess was in every swath of fabric and chair. Celia had lived here during her marriage to Percival, firmly fixed beneath the thumb of the man who was the source of her misery.

“Your Grace.” Lady Claremont hastily came to her feet, leaving her embroidery discarded. “Good morning.”

“Good morning, my lady.” He had no qualm with Dulcetta. Claremont’s wife had only been doing as her husband instructed. She was a timid thing, painfully thin with the fading beauty of old lace. The duchess must have terrified her.

The conversation with Kensworth had been illuminating. Infuriating. Now Oliver was determined to hear from Claremont’s own lips how he’d destroyed Celia’s future without a thought.

“Your Grace.” Claremont came to the door, butler trailing behind. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“Apologies, Claremont. But this is a matter of some importance.”

“Please tell me this is not about Mrs. Barnes and her unexpected departure from the opera the other night.” Claremont gave him a resigned look. “Atherby was most distressed when she left so abruptly. Rude to depart without a word. But then, her manners have been sorely lacking for years, even after my wife’s attempts to correct her.” He waved a hand towards Dulcetta, who was studying one of the cushions on the settee.

“You and Atherby decided to take matters into your own hands, didn’t you?” Oliver said casually. “At the opera.”

“To spare you having to do so, Your Grace,” Claremont stated. “As your cousin?—”

“Yes, you become more distant by the moment.”

Lady Claremont made a small noise of distress. “Please excuse me,” she stood, embroidery clutched in one hand. “I’ll leave you to your discussion.”

“Sit, my lady. This concerns you as well.” Oliver paced around the room like a caged animal.

Paling, she took her seat once more.

“Your Grace—” Claremont started.

Oliver held up his hand. “First, I will warn you both, do not dare lie to me. I would hate to leave your heir with little to inherit. Or have your two younger sons lose their diplomatic posts. Do I make myself clear?”

“Of course,” Claremont said with a huff. “But I’ve no idea what it is you think I’ve done, Your Grace.”

The scheme Claremont had concocted to spare his brother’s reputation was worthy of the duchess, though he suspected she’d done far more questionable things under the guise of protecting the exalted Barnes name. The duchess wouldn’t have batted an eye at stealing Celia’s future to protect the family.

And with great shame, Oliver admitted that once, he might have done the same.

My autumn. He absently pressed a palm to his heart. I will make this right .

Lady Claremont fell back against her incredibly proper cushions.

“Whatever that terrible creature has told you,” Claremont sputtered. “Is complete fabrication.” The weak chin jutted forward. “Mrs. Barnes has always been prone to fancy. Such a vapid creature of glaring stupidity, she?—”

“Cease talking,” Oliver snapped, furious. “Percival had an unfortunate accident while attending Harrow. One that precluded him from any sort of physical relations, let alone fathering children. You paid to keep the details of the accident quiet.”

Lady Claremont shut her eyes. She appeared to be in danger of fainting.

“I did,” Claremont said with a nod. “You would have done the same. A mockery would have been made of the Barnes name. Percival spent years cultivating the reputation of a rakish bachelor after Harrow to avoid such a possibility. My brother had already decided to leave England when one of his former classmates started spreading gossip. Declaring that if Percival was really a man, he’d be wed.” Claremont’s mouth tightened. “I merely recommended he find a stupid young girl from the country who knew no one in London. Preferably one who had not made her debut. Who was too na?ve to question…the situation at hand.”

“One whose family would never sue for an annulment over wedding under false pretenses,” Oliver finished.

“Kensworth and Percival were friends. He had a much younger sister, one he was anxious to marry off.” His lips thinned into a tight line. “We came to an agreement.”

“Who made up the story of the wager, you or Percival?”

“He had to…give some good reason why he couldn’t consummate their marriage.” Claremont fell into a chair, glaring up at Oliver. “A wager seemed fitting. I regret if Mrs. Barnes was hurt during the course of her marriage to Percival, but her feelings were a small sacrifice in comparison to the disaster facing the Barnes family. I could not allow our name to be sullied. The duchess instilled in me a sense of duty to this family. I did what had to be done. She was young. Biddable. I kept her under our roof where we could watch her and ensure she didn’t get into trouble.”

“You mean take a lover.”

“The sheer humiliation,” Claremont hissed. “Imagine, some gentlemen ascertaining that she was a maid after having been wed to Percival? Or possibly bearing a bastard child?” He shook his head. “I could not allow it. What I did, I did for the family. To protect us. But over time she…became disobedient. Defiant. Made friends with those two questionable women…” He snapped his fingers.

“Lady Hye and Lady Glenville,” his wife supplied quietly.

“And demanded to venture out on her own. Which I forbade. The risk was too great. But I did not anticipate my brother’s death. Becoming a widow gained her freedom, though I tried to stop it, Your Grace. When the talk started, I immediately informed you. I kept you abreast of what was happening in London.”

“That you did,” Oliver agreed.

Claremont assumed Oliver approved of his actions. That his annoyance was only because he hadn’t been informed of Percival’s situation and Celia had caused gossip.

“When she moved out, when her mourning period was coming to an end, her behavior became brazen. Outlandish. Tossing herself at every man she saw fit. She wouldn’t listen to reason.” He gestured to his wife. “Lady Claremont tried. But Celia didn’t care about the family’s reputation. Or her own.”

“Your Grace,” Lady Claremont interjected, “I realize you are not completely pleased with our deception. We should have told you. But this is all water under the bridge, so to speak. Whoever she took as her initial companion ,” she colored. “Obviously did not take note.”

A wave of guilt assailed him. I bloody well should have noticed.

“Celia has taken so many lovers, her reputation so tarnished, that even if she spoke of the…state Percival left her in, no one would believe her.” Lady Claremont clasped her hands.

Claremont nodded. “Do not be distressed, Your Grace. Percival’s secret is safe. No shame will come to the family name. But the matter at hand must be dealt with, which is to find Celia a husband. The sooner she is wed once more, the better off we will all be. Especially you, Your Grace. You can distance yourself from her.”

“Lord Claremont is correct, Your Grace. You must convince her to wed. It would be best for all concerned. Especially Lady Helen.”

Won’t they be surprised when news of Helen’s betrothal to Digby makes the papers .

Oliver nodded politely. He didn’t blame the Claremonts entirely, though they certainly had much to answer for where Celia was concerned. They’d been unnecessarily unkind, as had Percival. But in the end, it was the duchess who was responsible. She’d groomed every cousin to believe that nothing and no one mattered more than the Barnes name and influence. Oliver was an example of her best work.

“Thank you for your devotion to the family, Claremont.” Oliver’s tone bled sarcasm, but Claremont preened all the same.

“Your Grace.” He bowed.

Claremont would find, in future, that his position within the Barnes cousins would be greatly diminished, despite that devotion. His finances were likely to suffer. A pity.

“Oh, and I agree, Claremont.” Oliver took his leave, anxious to be gone from this house and the cloying regard of Claremont and his wife. “Mrs. Barnes must be convinced to marry. I’ll ensure that she does.”