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M iles had been surprised he’d heard news so quickly.

A letter from the Peelers Investigative Service had stated there were two offspring.

A boy and a girl. Walters and Rutland had followed a trail from Quebec to Boston, where the late heir’s wife had family.

The marchioness had adopted her maiden name, Bernard, making it more difficult to locate her.

The next missive came from Graham Beaumaris, the new Duke of Shackerley. He pulled the letter from his pocket, reading the fine sprawling handwriting.

Dear Lord Wickton,

I would like to thank you for your diligent and successful search to find me.

I understand my grandfather is gone, and as you know, my father has passed, leaving me the heir to the Shackerley dukedom.

I will sail on the next packet, the Amity, arriving in Liverpool in early June.

If it is not too inconvenient, we would appreciate someone meeting us at the dock. I will be accompanied by my mother.

We are looking forward to meeting family, for we’ve so few relatives to call upon.

Your hopeful cousin,

Graham Beaumaris

Miles had studied the portraits at Shackerley Place. Would this man resemble his father? It would make it easier to identify him. He hoped the crest on the carriage would confirm his presence to meet them.

Approaching the gangway, he watched the hectic activity on deck.

He’d arranged earlier to have his cousins’ luggage brought to his coach.

The crews were moving trunks, supplies, and a variety of shipments, including livestock.

The docks were always chaotic, but there was a system for debarking.

The wealthier passengers would be first, followed by those in steerage.

When the poorer passengers appeared, he quickly scanned the deck to see who was left.

A slight young man with dark-blond hair, dressed in slightly outdated clothes, waved as he scanned the crowd.

He had a similar countenance to the late heir, strongly resembling the portrait Miles had seen in the gallery at Shackerley Place.

He assumed the dark-haired woman next to the duke was his mother, the marchioness.

With a sigh of relief, he waved back and caught his cousin’s gaze.

The young man smiled, lighting up his face, and Miles liked him immediately.

The mother and son made their way to the shore, Lady Greywood behind the duke.

As they stepped onto solid ground, her lids fluttered, her face turning white.

Miles stepped up and caught her as she fainted.

Scooping the woman up in his arms, he said over his shoulder, “Your Grace, it is good to meet you in person.” He nodded at the woman in his arms. “The sea does not agree with her?”

His cousin smiled, showing straight white teeth and a tiny dimple in his right cheek. “I’m afraid she’s been ill the entire voyage. I don’t think she’ll venture across the water again until some new mode of transportation is invented.”

“We have some brilliant scientists, but that may be quite a wait.” Miles nodded toward the coach. “Let’s get out of this throng. I have arranged for rooms at a nearby hotel with good brandy and a hot meal waiting.”

He gently laid the marchioness on the carriage bench. When she stirred, Lord Wickton patted her hand. “All will be well, my lady. We will get you something to eat and a bed to sleep in that doesn’t rock back and forth. You’ll be back to yourself in no time.”

The woman blinked, gasped, then searched for her son. “Where is… What happened?”

“Your son is behind me, and you fainted. I was able to catch you, so I’m happy to say no injuries occurred.” He took a flask from his pocket. “Would you like a drink? It’s strong but very smooth.”

“My s-son?” Lady Greywood looked over Miles’s shoulder. “Oh, my son,” she said, taking a healthy swallow before closing her eyes again.

Miles sat on the opposite bench, joined by his cousin.

He gave the ceiling several loud knocks, and the carriage lurched forward.

The new duke leaned toward his mother to steady her as she rolled perilously near the edge of the blue velvet-covered seat, then leaned his head back against the soft squabs.

“Thank you for meeting us, Miles,” he said, fatigue evident in his face. “It’s been quite an adventure so far.”

Miles was surprised at the use of his given name. However, being raised away from England, he assumed the ton’s protocol didn’t reign supreme in America. “It’s my pleasure, Your Grace.”

As the carriage rumbled through the streets of Liverpool, mixing with fine conveyances, hackneys, wagons, and carts, Miles studied his cousin.

Smooth unblemished skin spoke of his youth.

How old was he? Nineteen or twenty? He was slender and of medium height for a man, just a half head or so shorter than Miles.

His dark-blonde hair had lighter streaks running through it, tied back and tucked into his cravat, longer than the London fashion.

The duke would have much to learn before being presented to society.

“Please, call me Graham,” said his cousin with a smile.

“I would be happy to, in private,” agreed Miles. Graham was a handsome man, in an odd way. He wasn’t quite masculine, probably due to his age, yet not effeminate. “Our societal constrictions may be a bit more confining than what you are used to.”

Lady Greywood sat up, covered a yawn, then nodded.

“ Oui , I’m afraid I haven’t educated him on the rules .

I shall begin immediately.” She leaned forward and patted her son’s knee.

“You really should call him Wickton, my dear. Dropping ‘Lord’ still provides an intimacy without using his given name. And he would most likely be more comfortable calling you Shackerley once the matter is settled.”

“Settled?”

Miles noted the marchioness’s slight French accent, then explained, “Yes, you still need to be recognized as the true heir. We will submit the needed documents to the Attorney General. Once he has confirmed their authenticity, you will legally be the Duke of Shackerley. There is nothing wrong with using the title now since we shouldn’t have any impediments, according to my research and the investigation by O’Brien’s men. ”

His cousin went pale as he addressed his mother. “We have documents?”

“The marriage contract, of course, and a family bible given to your father by his mother. Your birth is recorded in it, along with your sister.” The marchioness cast her emerald-green eyes on Miles. “Will that be sufficient?”

“I believe so, added to the timeline I’ve created and the engraving on the marquess’s gravestone of husband and father .

” Miles grinned at his cousin. “Once you have the social protocol down, I think you’ll be quite popular.

The half-English duke raised in America and born from a forbidden love match. ”

“It does sound romantic,” murmured Shackerley. “How odd. My life has been quite the opposite until now.”

“Well, I hope it’s a change for the better.” Miles peered out of the carriage. “Here’s the hotel. I arranged for your rooms to be together, and a cold repast and hot water for a bath will be sent up as soon as we arrive. We will meet tonight for dinner in a private dining room.”

“That sounds wonderful. You are too kind,” said Shackerley, adding with an impish grin, “Wickton.”

The duke’s smile was infectious, and Miles grinned back, slapping his cousin on the shoulder. “You’re a quick learner.”

* * *

It took all of Gwen’s strength not to fall forward when the viscount slapped her from behind. Her mind was crowded with thoughts of this handsome man, documents, her mother, and rules . Why hadn’t her mother prepared her for this on the ship?

She inspected the sumptuous hotel, with thick red wool carpet that led across the lobby, gleaming planks where the carpet did not reach, plaster pillars, and large windows looking out onto the street.

The late afternoon sun spilled through the panes, dust motes dancing in the light.

Gwen blinked, saw her mother approaching the large staircase in front of them, adjusted her hat, and followed.

They were taken to rooms on the second floor.

Their chambers were lavish as well. Her room had a large four-poster bed, forest-green bed curtains, and a matching counterpane.

There was a wardrobe for her clothes, which had not arrived yet, a side table holding a pitcher and basin with a framed mirror above it, and a small table with two chairs.

The fireplace took up the wall opposite the bed, a metal tub sitting before it lined with bleached linen.

A tattoo on the door signaled her trunks had arrived. She let the young man in, and when he walked back to the hallway, she followed him to her mother’s room.

“Mama?” she called. “Your trunk is here.”

“Come in, dear,” came a muffled voice.

“Will we ever get used to such surroundings?” Gwen asked when they were alone, peering about the bedroom similar to hers but in a deep rose color. “Were you ever used to such luxury?”

“When I was young. It seems like another lifetime,” she answered.

“In France, my father was a comte and wealthy. But when we escaped the Terror, our family fled with practically nothing. We relied on the charity of others once in England. I was a na?ve young girl with fanciful thoughts of dances and finding love.”

“Is that why the duke was against the marriage? Because you were French?” she asked, seeing her mother in a new light.

“ Oui , he detested the French, and the Revolution only increased his hatred. I met your father at Hyde Park on a Sunday in June. He was the most handsome man I’d ever met, a prime buck, indeed.

” Her mother’s eyes sparkled at the memory, a smirk pulling at the corners of her mouth. “And a peacock if I ever saw one.”

Gwen laughed. “You changed that?”

Her mother shook her head. “Non, I’m afraid life did. Your father had some funds when we left England, but he wanted to invest in a timber business, so we learned to be frugal.”

“He’s quite handsome,” Gwen said nonchalantly, walking to the window and pulling back the curtain. “And kind.”

“The viscount? It’s a shame you’re a male, for you might have charmed him.” Her other raised one dark brow. “I wonder what he’ll think when he finds out?”

“He won’t until Graham is found. And then it won’t matter, for he is the actual duke.” Gwen spun around, remembering she was upset with Mama. “Why didn’t you warn me about all these details? At least living in America gives me an excuse to be ignorant of the English customs. But still!”

“I am sorry, sweet daught—I will have to watch that, won’t I?” Mama chuckled. “You’re a quick study. It’s not so difficult, and any mistakes will be attributed to your upbringing. I was going to educate you on the ship, but I was so busy dealing with a revolting stomach…”

Gwen rushed across the room and threw her arms around her mother. “I know. I’ve thrown us into this debacle and have no right to reprimand you.” She kissed the older woman’s cheek. “Thank you for going along with this. I realize now I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“We haven’t accomplished anything yet except escaping that horrid ship.”

“We’ve convinced Wickton,” she said and saw a suspicious twinkle in Mama’s eyes. “What are you plotting?”

“ Moi ? Nothing at all. Fate will decide what happens to us.”

Someone knocked at the door. “Hot water?” asked a maid on the other side.

Gwen let the maid in, who carried a bucket and several thick towels, followed by two lanky boys, carrying a bucket of hot water in each hand. “Will you need assistance, ma’am?” the girl asked Mama.

“ Non , I can manage.”

The maid seemed flustered at that. Obviously, titled persons usually required someone to bathe them. Ridiculous! thought Gwen as she intervened. “We have been on a crowded ship for weeks. Privacy and quiet will be a delight for a few hours.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the girl mumbled, leaving the towels on the edge of the tub and giving a curtsy. “We will return with more water and then leave you alone. The other tub has already been filled, Your Grace.”

Gwen blinked at the title. For the love of Hercules, this would take some getting used to.