Page 3 of Devoted to the Duke (The St. Clairs 1)

Chapter Two

Jeremy St. Clairwatched the streets of London pass by from the carriage, happy to be in familiar surroundings once more after a year abroad. The sound of English being spoken was sweet music to his ears. He turned to his companion, Matthew Proctor.

“Are you happy to be on English soil again?”

“Safely on English soil,” the bespectacled tutor noted. “I hope the English—and Russians—can dispatch Bonaparte soon. If they do, we must go out again and see the cities you should have been exposed to. Especially Paris.”

“The Little Corsican has dragged the fight out for years,” he said. “I was a boy when he was named First Consul. He’s amassed and consolidated his power and gobbled up land during all that time. At least we got to see some of Europe. The few parts not affected by the war.”

Matthew shuddered. “Dodging a few shady situations along the way, Jeremy.” He paused. “Forgive me. We are in London. I should address you as Lord Sather once more.”

Irritation prickled through him. “You will do no such thing, Matthew. After all our adventures together, we are as brothers.” Though once the words were out of his mouth, a dark shadow crossed Jeremy’s mind. Once, he’d had a brother. Timothy.Hewas the true Marquess of Sather. It should be Timothy who became the next Duke of Everton. Not Jeremy.

“It probably doesn’t matter, Lord Sather,” his friend continued. “We do not run in the same social circles. I doubt we will meet again after today.” The tutor smiled. “Unless one day you wish me to tutor your son, the future Marquess of Sather. I would be happy to do so, knowing he would be as inquisitive and agreeable as his father.”

“To have a son would mean I must marry.” The thought of having any child startled him.

“And you will. Your father will expect it of you. His Grace will want the St. Clair line to carry on.”

“Father has done his best to see that occur,” he said lightly, thinking of the three marriages and the three dead wives. “Luke could always take my place,” he added, referring to his half-brother, who was eight years his junior.

“The mighty Duke of Everton wants his heir apparent to become the next duke. That’s you, my lord. You’ve a steady head on your shoulders. You will do a fine job when the time comes.”

In a way, Jeremy wished Luke could leapfrog over him and take on the responsibility of becoming the next in line. At only fifteen, his half-brother was brash and bold and would carry none of the doubts the more serious-minded Jeremy did. Ever since Timothy had drowned, making the second St. Clair son next in line for the title, Jeremy had questioned why he had survived and why he had to take his brother’s place. Once, he had been happy and carefree, without worries—until that day when he’d dragged into Eversleigh, soaked to the skin and half out of his mind.

The day Timothy died.

The carriage pulled up in front the London townhome of the St. Clairs. Turning to Matthew, he offered his hand.

“I suppose this is goodbye.” As they shook, Jeremy added, “We’ve never talked about it before. What will you do now, Matthew?”

“Return to Cambridge. See if they have any positions open for a well-traveled tutor.” He laughed. “There are always young men in need of someone to guide and instruct them during their university studies. Even one who can get them out of the occasional scrape.”

Jeremy thought a moment. “You will need a reference. I will write a glowing one, of course.”

“That would be much appreciated, my lord,” Matthew said solemnly.

It pained him to hear his companion of the past year withdraw and speak so formally, as if Matthew and his brilliant mind could ever be subservient to anyone. True, they had known one another for several years, throughout Jeremy’s time at Cambridge, but they had spent over a year in one another’s company and become the closest of friends. He understood, though, the class system that ruled England. Jeremy had been born into a family of wealth and position. Matthew was the son of a clergyman.

“It’s too late in the afternoon to catch a post coach to Cambridge. Would you come in and stay the night? That way, I could write your letter of recommendation and send it with you tomorrow.”

Doubt filled Matthew’s eyes. “It’s a most generous offer, Lord Sather, but I would be more comfortable staying at a nearby inn. I will drop by tomorrow morning, however, to collect the reference. If that’s convenient for you, of course.”

He knew he wouldn’t be able to convince his friend to stay and decided to let the matter go.

“Very well. I’ll tell the driver to take you to a local establishment. Would you at least come for breakfast, Matthew?”

“I think not, my lord. Why don’t you leave the letter with your butler? I’ll collect it from him.”

Jeremy touched Matthew’s shoulder. “I will see you in the morning,” he said emphatically and climbed from the carriage.

He instructed the driver as to which trunk was his and the man retrieved it. A footman had already stepped outside and hoisted it to his shoulder as he greeted Jeremy. Paying off the driver, Jeremy instructed him to an inn less than a mile away, where the man could drop his remaining passenger.

The carriage drove off. He waved at Matthew, who nodded at him. Jeremy realized a door closed on this chapter in his life. He faced the house, three stories in height and located in one of the most suitable squares in London. Steeling himself, he followed the footman inside.

Barton, the butler who had been with the St. Clair family for many years, greeted him.

“Good afternoon, Lord Sather. It is very good to have you home.”

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