Page 9 of Defending the Duke (The St. Clairs 4)

Chapter Three

Laurel hadn’t knownhow to address a duke until she heard the butler speak to the tall, dark-haired man. And then another man just as tall and broad and dark-haired appeared as she moved up the staircase. She’d been afraid if she continued waiting downstairs that the servant would return and either say the duke wasn’t in—or he’d refused to see her. She thought she better take the initiative and seek out Everton.

Before she was thrown out.

He could still do that, she knew. Desperation had pushed her to this peer’s doorstep and up his staircase into the sanctity of his home. The next few moments would be critical, though.

“I need to speak with you on an urgent matter, Your Grace,” Laurel said, pleased that her voice was firm and even. “We have business to discuss.”

The butler had already eyed her oddly when he’d opened the door but now both these powerful men looked at her in astonishment. Her confidence began to falter. Then one of them spoke.

“My God—you’re a St. Clair!”

Her chin raised a notch as she studied them and they her. She immediately knew why the man knew who she was. Both he and the duke he stood next to possessed the same, vivid emerald eyes that she and Hudson did. It was as if she wore a banner proclaiming she was a bastard daughter of the family. No wonder the butler had seemed flustered when she appeared at the duke’s door. He had known exactly where she came from, if not her name.

The slightly older one, the duke, looked to the butler. “Thank you, Barton,” he said, dismissing the man. Obviously, he didn’t want a servant to overhear their conversation. The butler nodded and slipped away.

The duke turned to her. “I am Jeremy St. Clair, Duke of Everton.” He indicated the man on his left. “This is my brother, Luke, Earl of Mayfield.”

Laurel didn’t know how to react. The duke waited for something which she didn’t know to do. Finally, he reached for her hand and clasped it, bowing to her. Releasing it, the earl did the same. She found herself flustered. Looking into these men’s faces was like seeing a different, older version of Hudson. It rattled her—and she couldn’t afford to lose her wits. Not when she was about to propose blackmail.

But how exactly was she to bring up such a sordid matter?

“Our grandmother is in the drawing room down the hall, along with our wives, taking tea. Would you care to join us?” the duke asked pleasantly, as if bastards dropped by on a weekly basis.

“Very well,” she said curtly, trying to hide the nerves that were causing her legs to go wobbly.

The duke offered his arm. “May I escort you there?” he asked politely.

“Of course,” Laurel replied.

She lifted her hand, not exactly sure where she was supposed to put it. The duke placed it on his forearm and led her down the hall, the earl trailing after them. They arrived at a door and the earl hurried to open it and ushered them in.

As they entered, she saw the room was enormous. Ten families could live within it. Thick rugs covered the floors. Plush furniture placed in groupings for conversation filled the spaces. Artwork on the walls showed lush landscapes. Laughter came from the far side and she observed three women engaged in conversation. When they drew near, all talking ceased. The younger two women, both in their twenties, smiled tentatively at her.

But it was the older woman, the duke’s grandmother, who commanded Laurel’s attention.

Her grandmother...

“You’re a St. Clair,” she proclaimed. “What’s your name, Child?”

“Miss Wright,” she managed to get out.

“I suppose my son was your father.”

She stiffened her spine. “I don’t know, my lady. I never knew anything about him. I only recently discovered his name to be Everton and that he was a duke.”

Curiosity filled the old woman’s face. “How did you learn of him? Did your mother finally tell you?”

“My mother is dead,” she said flatly. “I discovered a note in her belongings after she passed.”

“Might I see this note?” the duke asked.

“Let Miss Wright sit first and take a cup of tea,” the beautiful woman with abundant auburn hair said, giving Laurel a warm smile. “She looks as if she could use one. I am Catherine St. Clair, Miss Wright, the Duchess of Everton. Won’t you please join us?”

Laurel knees were quaking now. Sitting sounded like a very good idea. Suddenly, nausea and dizziness filled her as these strangers all stared at her. She started to speak and then felt herself go limp. The last thing she heard was someone shouting to catch her.

When she came to, she was lying on a settee. The duchess and the other woman, whom she assumed was the earl’s wife, hovered nearby. She could tell the younger woman was with child.

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