Page 1 of The Duke Who Loved Me (The Duke's Estates 1)

One

Three days after he inherited the title Duke of Tereford, James Cantrell set off to visit the ducal town house just off London’s Berkeley Square. He walked from his rooms, as the distance was short and the April day pleasant. He hoped to make this first encounter cordially brief and be off riding before the sunlight faded.

He had just entered the square when a shouted greeting turned his head. Henry Deeping was approaching, an unknown young man beside him.

“Have you met my friend Cantrell?” Henry asked his companion when they reached James. “Sorry. Tereford, I should say. He’s just become a duke. Stephan Kandler, meet the newest peer of the realm as well as the handsomest man in London.”

As they exchanged bows James silently cursed whatever idiot had saddled him with that label. He’d inherited his powerful frame, black hair, and blue eyes from his father. It was nothing to do with him. “That’s nonsense,” he said.

“Yes, Your Grace.” Henry’s teasing tone had changed recently. It held the slightest trace of envy.

James had heard it from others since he’d come into his inheritance. His cronies were young men who shared his interest in sport, met while boxing or fencing, on the hunting field, or perhaps clipping a wafer at Manton’s shooting gallery, where Henry Deeping had an uncanny ability. They were generally not plump in the pocket. Some lived on allowances from their fathers and would inherit as James had; others would have a moderate income all their lives. All of them preferred vigorous activity to smoky gaming hells or drunken revels.

They’d been more or less equals. But now circumstances had pulled James away, into the peerage and wealth, and he was feeling the distance. One old man’s death, and his life was changed. Which was particularly hard with Henry. They’d known each since they were uneasy twelve-year-olds arriving at school.

“We’re headed over to Manton’s if you’d care to come,” Henry said. He sounded repentant.

“I can’t just now,” James replied. He didn’t want to mention that he was headed to Tereford House. It was just another measure of the distance from Henry. He saw that Henry noticed the vagueness of his reply.

“Another time perhaps,” said Henry’s companion in a Germanic accent.

James gave a noncommittal reply, wondering where Henry had met the fellow. His friend was considering the diplomatic corps as a means to make his way in the world. Perhaps this Kandler had something to do with that.

They separated. James walked across the square and into the narrow street containing Tereford House.

The massive stone building, of no particular architectural distinction, loomed over the cobbles. Its walls showed signs of neglect, and the windows on the upper floors were all shuttered. There was no funerary hatchment above the door. Owing to the eccentricities of his great-uncle, the recently deceased sixth duke, James had never been inside. His every approach had been rebuffed.

He walked up to the door and plied the tarnished knocker. When that brought no response, he rapped on the door with the knob of his cane. He had sent word ahead, of course, and expected a better reception than this. At last the door opened, and he strolled inside—to be immediately assailed by a wave of stale mustiness. The odor was heavy rather than sharp, but it insinuated itself into the nostrils like an unwanted guest. James suspected that it would swiftly permeate his clothes and hair. His dark brows drew together. The atmosphere in the dim entryway, with closed doors on each side and at the back next to a curving stair, was oppressive. It seemed almost threatening.

One older female servant stood before him. She dropped a curtsy. “Your Grace,” she said, as if the phrase was unfamiliar.

“Where is the rest of the staff?” They really ought to have lined up to receive him. He had given them a time for his visit.

“There’s only me. Your Grace.”

“What?”

“Keys is there.” She pointed to a small side table. A ring of old-fashioned keys lay on it.

James noticed a small portmanteau sitting at her feet.

She followed his eyes. “I’ll be going then. Your Grace.” Before James could reply, she picked up the case and marched through the still-open front door.

Her footsteps faded, leaving behind a dismal silence. The smell seemed to crowd closer, pressing on him. The light dimmed briefly as a carriage passed outside. James suppressed a desire to flee. He had a pleasant set of rooms in Hill Street where he had, for some years, been living a life that suited him quite well. He might own this house now, but that didn’t mean he had to live here. Or perhaps he did. A duke had duties. It occurred to him that the servant might have walked off with some valuable items. He shrugged. Her bag had been too small to contain much.

He walked over to the closed door on the right and turned the knob. The door opened a few inches and then hit some sort of obstacle. He pushed harder. It remained stuck. James had to put his shoulder to the panels and shove with the strength developed in Gentleman Jackson’s boxing saloon before it gave way, with a crash of some largish object falling inside. He forced his way through but managed only one step before he was brought up short, his jaw dropping. The chamber—a well-proportioned parlor with high ceilings and elaborate moldings—was stuffed to bursting with a mad jumble of objects. Furniture of varying eras teetered in haphazard stacks—sofas, chairs, tables, cabinets. Paintings and other ornaments were pushed into every available crevice. Folds and swathes of fabric that might have been draperies or bedclothes drooped over the mass, which towered far above his head. There was no room to move. “Good God!” The stale odor was much worse here, and a scurrying sound did not bode well.

James backed hastily out. He thought of the shuttered rooms on the upper floors. Were they all…? But perhaps only this one was a mare’s nest. He walked across the entryway and tried the door on the left. It concealed a larger room in the same wretched condition. His heart, which had not been precisely singing, sank. He’d assumed that his new position would require a good deal of tedious effort, but he hadn’t expected chaos.

The click of footsteps approached from outside. The front door was still open, and now a fashionably dressed young lady walked through it. She was accompanied by a maid and a footman. The latter started to shut the door behind them. “Don’t,” commanded James. The young servant shied like a nervous horse.

“What is that smell?” the lady inquired, putting a gloved hand to her nose.

“What are you doing here?” James asked the bane of his existence.

“You mentioned that you were going to look over the house today.”

“And in what way is this your concern?”

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