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Northern England, near the border

M iles, Viscount Wickton bent low to hear the dying man’s words. He clutched a signet ring in his bony hand, pushing it at Miles.

“Take it,” the Duke of Shackerley rasped, his pale face ghostly in the darkened bedchamber. “You’re my heir. You will be the next duke.”

“I am hoping you recover, Uncle,” Miles said, taking the heavy piece of jewelry. Great-uncle to be precise. His grandfather’s brother.

“If you’re ever…” The duke drew in a shallow breath. “In need of… anything—” The old man succumbed to a bout of coughing. “They will help.”

Who will help? Miles didn’t foresee any trouble except finding his cousin, the true heir to Shackerley Place. But the long-lost marquess had not been seen or heard of in over twenty years.

“I’ll keep it safe.” He tucked the heavy piece inside his coat and sat back down in his chair.

The room was lit by a large fire, the huge tester bed and its curtains casting eerie shadows across the room.

No windows were open, drapes were pulled, and the heat was suffocating.

Miles pulled at his cravat as he stared at the pile of blankets and the counterpane, practically burying the man in fleece.

A bloodhound lay beside the man, one long ear flopped upon his master’s belly. His uncle stroked the liver-colored dog. “I thought we’d grow old together, Harry. I apologize for leaving you so soon.”

Harry? Was he talking to his dead heir? “I shall try to find your son.” No! he thought. The demmed dog is Harry.

Shackerley shook his head. “Gone.”

“We must be certain?—”

“Dead to me!” These words came out with surprising force, considering his uncle’s condition.

The hound whined and licked the duke’s gnarled hand.

“Yes, yes, I understand.” But he didn’t. How could anyone name their dog after someone and still hold a grudge for over two decades? “You must rest now.” Miles patted his great-uncle’s hand, the parchment-like skin cold to the touch. It won’t be long, he thought with a sigh.

* * *

Mr. Garner woke Miles early the next morning. A maid followed behind to start a fire in the hearth.

“My lord, I believe he has passed,” the butler said with a bow.

His silver hair was a bit mussed, his cravat not tied perfectly.

The deep purple beneath his eyes told of the long vigil he must have spent over his employer during the night.

It was the first time he had seen the man step out of his role of austere servant.

Miles met the physician an hour later, who confirmed the death. “I will notify the local magistrate. Is there anything I can do for you, my lord?”

“I don’t believe so, but I thank you. His papers should be in his study and in proper order, according to his solicitor.” Miles walked the doctor to the entry hall. “Please let the magistrate know I will be here for at least a few weeks.”

“Certainly. And my condolences.” The physician put on his hat and trotted down the portico steps.

Miles stood a long time in the doorway, gazing out on the expansive courtyard and front lawn.

It was a beautiful and extensive estate, close to the border, with a generous annual income.

He should be thrilled to be inheriting the title and property.

He’d worked hard enough restoring his own after his father was almost ruined by bad investments during the war.

That was behind him now, and Wickton House and the estate’s profits were increasing each year.

Not that he couldn’t use the wealth of the dukedom, but he was no longer knee-deep in debt and had paid off the last of the vowels two years ago.

He loved his country seat, the childhood memories there, the camaraderie of the tenants and villagers at the annual harvest gathering.

It was also closer to London, where he took his seat in the Lords seriously.

He meandered into the library, his hands clasped behind his back as he studied the shelves of books.

There had not been much time for reading over the past five years, though Miles enjoyed print of any kind.

He’d had to suffice with newspapers and a few agriculture and animal husbandry books.

Now he might have time to indulge himself.

After looking through his great-uncle’s estate ledgers.

Two hours later, he shut the leather-bound book with a soft thud , and stood, straightening his waistcoat.

His uncle had spoken the truth. A copy of a report had been in a drawer, telling of the death of the Marquess of Greystone, the duke’s estranged son.

A gravesite had been found in Quebec with his name.

He peered at the dark storm clouds gathering over the distant hills as fat drops of rain splattered against the window panes.

A fitting day for death. Miles wondered about the marquess’s wife.

The stone had called him husband and father.

There was a second report detailing the search for the marchioness, but she had disappeared.

It seemed after several years, the duke had ended the investigation.

“Is there anything I can get you, my lord?” asked Garner from the door.

Miles looked over his shoulder and shook his head. “No, thank you. If there is no one else expected, I would suggest you take the afternoon off and get some sleep. I’m sure there’s a footman who can take over.”

The butler opened his mouth to disagree, but Miles stayed him with a hand. “You won’t be any good to me if you’re exhausted. And considering the extra duties I’ve just inherited, I will be depending on you and the steward.”

Relief washed over the older man’s haggard face. “Yes, my lord. I will send the housekeeper in with tea.”

Miles nodded, then remembered a note on his great-uncle’s desk. “Wait, Garner.” He called back the butler. “I am supposed to contact the Duke of Cranbrook with any questions. It has something to do with the ring my uncle gave me. Is Cranbrook’s estate close?”

“His Grace is our neighbor,” answered Garner. “He also is head of the duke’s association that is behind the signet. I am sure a courtesy call to relay the news of your uncle’s passing would be appreciated.”

* * *

The next day

“Lord Wickton,” announced the footman.

Miles entered the study and paused. It was a sumptuous room with thick Aubusson carpet, costly oak paneling, and an intricately carved desk large enough for Miles to sleep on.

The desk was littered with books and papers, indicating the Duke of Cranbrook was not in his dotage.

He had assumed the duke to be the same age as his great-uncle.

This man was much older than Miles, but there was nothing aged about him.

Besides the gray hair, his hazel eyes brightened with curiosity as Miles approached.

“Shackerley’s nephew, I presume?” he asked in a booming voice, standing to hold out his hand. “Take a seat. Brandy?”

The duke motioned to the footman, who immediately went to the sideboard to pour two brandies. When both men had been served, the footman silently backed away and closed the door.

“I’m sorry to meet under these circumstances,” began Miles.

“He’s gone, then, eh?” The duke obviously was used to getting straight to the point. “Good man, Shackerley. Stubborn, but he had integrity.”

“Yes, Your Grace. He passed last night.” Miles sipped from the crystal glass, appreciating the good French liquor. “I?—”

“Gave you the ring, I see.” The duke nodded at Miles’s right hand, the signet with the engraved WD resting on the fourth finger. “Good.”

“What does the ring mean, exactly?”

“WD is for Wayward Dukes. Many years ago, I thought it would be nice to have a small alliance… for dukes only. If one of our peers found himself in need of assistance, he could call on his fellow dukes, no questions asked. The ring will identify you to others.” Shackerley smiled.

“Welcome to the club, Wickton. Though I should be calling you Shackerley.”

Here was his opening. “Your Grace, I was wondering, to that end, if you might be able to help me.”

The bushy gray brows furrowed as the duke nodded. “Certainly. You need only ask.”

“Do you know any of the background between my great-uncle and my cousin? His son?” Miles didn’t like to gossip, but this was a different matter. He had to be sure there were no other legal heirs to the dukedom. It was a matter of honor.

“The only foolish act Shackerley ever committed. Casting out your heir because of a woman. Nonsense.” Cranbrook leaned forward, the creases around his eyes deepening.

“I told him to go after the boy. He could have found a way to get rid of the chit. Or ignored her. She may have been a good breeder and given him a dozen boys. Who knows?”

Miles nodded. “I would like to. I can’t, in good conscience, take this title seriously until I’m absolutely positive my cousin is dead, and he had no sons.”

“There was an investigation, not too long before Shackerley succumbed to his bed. I don’t know if he had second thoughts about his son, but I do believe he wondered about a grandson.

The report said the Marquess of Greywood had died.

A headstone had been discovered in Quebec, using the family name Beaumaris.

” The duke smiled. “While your integrity is appreciated, it’s not necessary.

Would you feel better if you traveled to Canada and saw it yourself? ”

“No, it’s not that… I saw the report. It’s the disappearance of his wife. She was never found. How do we know there were no offspring from the marriage?” It would haunt Miles until he knew for sure. He might have second cousins living unbeknownst to him.

“Shackerley truly believed that Frenchwoman was only after the family coffers. As I said, if the stubborn man hadn’t let his temper get away, the whole situation might have resolved itself.” Cranbrook held up his glass, silently asking if Miles wanted another drink.

With a nod, he handed over his glass. “You wouldn’t happen to know a good private investigator, maybe a Bow Street Runner, who would consider traveling to Quebec and poking around?

” Miles wouldn’t feel guilty spending Shackerley’s money on such a venture since it would be the old man’s grandson who would benefit.

If not, it would end up Miles’s blunt anyway.

The duke paused in his pour for a moment, harrumphed , then finished pouring.

As he handed Miles back his glass, he smiled.

“As a matter of fact, I do know someone. An old Runner from Ireland who did some work for me years ago. He runs the O’Brien Investigative Services, sort of a family-run business.

If anyone can find this possible heir, it would be one of his boys. ”

“Based in London?” asked Miles, already composing a letter in his mind.

“Same house in Cheapside since he moved there over thirty years ago. Quite a character.” The duke sipped his brandy. “I’ll write you a letter of introduction. You can send it along with your inquiry. No use making a trip to London if he won’t take the case.”