Page 44 of The Rake to Rescue Her

Graveston stirred uneasily. ‘I’m sure I made no such threats.’

‘You did so to me. In any event, the Dowager did not stand to gain materially by her husband’s death. You, however, did. I understand you’ve accumulated some debts.’

‘How did you—?’ the Duke sputtered. Recovering himself, he said, ‘Nothing exorbitant.’

‘Then there’s the former housekeeper, who I understand was dismissed by your father for attempting to poison the Dowager. One would have thought, faced with the enmity of as powerful a man as a duke, she would have taken herself far, far away. Yet she stayed nearby, even coming and going to this house to visit members of the staff, all who were known to be loyal to you. If your father was poisoned, this woman, who had attempted it once before, who was discharged by your father and thus had a motive to wish him ill, had both access and expertise to do so. A woman who, I believe, you have reinstated in her former position as housekeeper. How much did you intend to pay her for her work, once all this was settled?’

‘Pay her for—?’ he echoed incredulously. ‘You can’t seriously contend that I had anything to do with my father’s death!’

Continuing as if he’d not heard, Alastair said, ‘The court might wish to have your father exhumed, though I understand coroners disagree on whether poison would leave any trace in someone this long buried. The court would certainly want to know more about your relationship with Mrs Heathson and why you reinstated a woman accused of attempting to murder your stepmother. And then there’s the matter of your mistress. Very expensive, I’m told, with a rapacious appetite for jewels. So expensive, you approached your bank in the City to borrow more funds.’

While Graveston gaped at him, Alastair shook his head. ‘I have to say, I don’t think it would look good. An heir in need of cash hiring a disgruntled former employee to do away with his father, then threatening the poor widow’s reputation to try to cheat her of her portion so he can drape diamonds around his mistress’s neck. The penny press would be salivating at the courtroom door.’

Leaving Graveston no time to reply, Alastair continued, ‘For the sake of argument, let’s say the assizes believed your version of events. There’s still the matter of a trial—in the House of Lords, which my uncle has run for years. I regret to say, he’s no admirer of your late father, either.’

The Duke was looking less certain by the minute. ‘Are you so sure the Earl would wish to become involved? After all, he didn’t lift a finger for his son Max. I expect he’d be even less inclined to be saddled with cleaning up your scandal.’

‘What’s one more scandal to a Rogue?’ Alastair asked with a shrug. ‘Besides, “cleaning up” is what my uncle does best. He thrives on it, or so he assured me when I warned him about possible proceedings.’

‘You’ve talked with him about this?’

‘Of course. I’d never have pressed forward in so critical a matter without his approval.’

After giving that a moment to sink in, Alastair changed tactics. ‘A distasteful business,’ he said with a dismissive wave of the hand. ‘It’s not seemly that the noble name of Graveston, the family of the Manningtons, who’ve served their country since the Conquest, should be associated with such a sordid tale. Nor is there any need that it should be. If necessary, however, I’m quite willing to match my witnesses against yours. It’s up to you.’

At that, he sat back and gazed out the window, calm, confident and at ease.

For a long time, the only sound in the room was the tick of the mantel clock. Finally, the Duke said, ‘What does the bitch want?’

‘If you take that tone,’ Alastair snapped, ‘I shall be forced to proceed regardless. I’m quite willing to let Society weigh my reputation against yours, in the court of public opinion or in the Lords. A hero of Badajoz, frequent leader of the “forlorn hope”, valiant defender of Waterloo against a provincial aristocrat who has done—what have you done? Ah, married a wealthy girl and attempted to coerce a helpless widow. Now, would you like to rephrase your question?’

His expression simmering resentment, Graveston stared at Alastair with sullen eyes. ‘What does the Dowager want?’ he said at last, enunciating each word separately, as if they were being pulled out of him.

‘She wants nothing. What I want, though, is merely what is due to her. She will waive dower, while you facilitate transfer of the reasonable amount already stipulated in your father’s will—yes, I’ve seen a copy of it, already filed for probate—plus what was bequeathed to Lord James. Who is, as you’ve pointed out, the son of a duke and should be reared as such. I want you to cease your harassment and abandon any attempts to prosecute her, a process that would in any event never get further than the local court you could control. Win a judgement against her in the Lords? That horse won’t jump, Graveston. You have the title and a lucrative estate. Why not show yourself worthy of both?’

The Duke sprang up and took a turn about the room. ‘Just—let her go, with no retribution? You cannot know what it was like to have your mother, who lived for your father’s approval and wanted only to please him, ignored, scorned, once he was besotted by her. I might have understood it if she seemed to care for him, for anything. But all she ever showed was an icy disdain. Still, my father was consumed by her! He had no time for me; I was packed off to school, and when I was older and protested his excessive absorption in her, he even raised his hand to me!’

Despite his disgust for the Duke’s campaign for revenge, Alastair could hear in the man’s voice the lingering pain of an abandoned boy who’d seen his beloved mother humiliated and discarded. He knew only too well how abandonment and humiliation could fester within, a canker in the gut.

‘It must have been difficult,’ Alastair said quietly, a reluctant sympathy tempering his disdain. ‘But that neglect was the fault of your father, not the Dowager, who had no more choice over your father’s actions than you did.’

‘Choice?’ he scoffed. ‘What was there to choose? He made her, the daughter of a nobody, into a duchess!’

‘Impossible as you—and he—seem to find it, she had no desire to be a duchess, as her behaviour made quite evident. But I understand the need to exact retribution for the unfairness of it all. I suggest a remedy with a more suitable opponent.’ Alastair lifted his hands and flexed them into fists. ‘Me.’

The Duke’s scowl turned to astonishment. ‘Meet you? For fisticuffs?’

‘We can resolve this here and now, man to man, out of the vulgar public gaze—more fitting behaviour for the heir to a great and noble title. Or we can have fisticuffs by lawyer, in full view of gawking spectators in the gallery of the Lords and in front of print-shop windows. That way, I promise you, you will surely lose, dragging your title and name into the mud when you do.’

Graveston frowned, looking furious—but uncertain. ‘You can’t seriously think a few well-placed blows could right all the wrongs done to me and my mother.’

‘Nothing can undo that—not fisticuffs, nor a public vendetta against the Dowager that would shame you more than it would her. All one can hope for is to assuage the sting of past injustice, and let it go,’ he advised, the truth of those words in his own situation resonating within him.

He held up his fists again. ‘That is, if you’re man enough. Or would you rather vent your spleen on a woman?’

‘I’m no coward, despite what you insinuate,’ Graveston snarled.

‘Then meet me. Expend that anger and resentment, and call it done.’

While Graveston appeared to weigh the matter, Alastair added, ‘It’s difficult to give up a grievance, especially one well founded. But it’s better for the soul.’

‘A ridiculous solution,’ Graveston muttered.

‘Perhaps. Before I leave you to stew in bitterness, might I ask the courtesy of knowing your intentions? If you won’t tell me, I shall feel compelled to proceed with the evidence I’ve gathered.’

Anger and frustration played across the face of a man too engulfed by tumultuous emotion to mask them. ‘Very well,’ he said at last. ‘Fisticuffs it is. Not here, though.’

‘Certainly not. I wouldn’t wish to damage any of your father’s carefully collected knick-knacks,’ Alastair said, running his finger over a vase on the table beside him.

‘Heathen!’ Graveston said with a reluctant smile. ‘That Greek hydria from the third century BC is probably worth more than your entire stable.’

‘Ah, a stable! That would be just the place.’

And so it was that the Duke of Graveston and Mr Alastair Ransleigh of Barton Abbey retreated to the stable, banished the gawking grooms and coachmen, claimed an unoccupied stall and proceeded to try to pummel out each other’s frustration.

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