Her aunt appeared at her side, and Hawthorne turned his eyes to her. "You have returned, Lady Saxby. Rest assured, your charge was in good hands. I rescued her from the chocolate kisses. She did not have a single one."
"Gracious, my lord," Aunt Grace said, "I do owe you my deepest gratitude, because we all know that one kiss is never enough, and they are, oh, so dangerously sweet. A lady must watch herself."
He smiled with amusement at Aunt Grace, then bowed to both of them. "Good evening, ladies."
Her aunt watched him leave. "My, what an incredible man, Rebecca. No wonder you never forgot him."
"And you are terrible, Aunt Grace! What you said about the chocolate kisses! I could brain you!"
Her aunt ignored her admonishment. "I suspect he never really forgot you either, dear, and I predict you will be seeing him again."
Rebecca leaned close. "Sooner rather than later, it appears, because he has invited us to stay at the palace for the week."
Grace shot her a quick look. "You don't say. In that case, I suppose I don't need to be giving you any more advice, do I, child? You obviously have a natural talent." She lovingly patted her hand. "Well done, Rebecca. We have crossed the first threshold. I believe we are one step closer to your future happiness."
But after all the deprivations in her life so far, it had almost been too easy, Rebecca thought, with a strange and unexpected niggling of doubt. She thought of the old adage: too good to be true, and hoped it would not apply to her fairy-tale dreams of this man-and of the grand, passionate, perfect love she desired.
That night, after all the guests and family members were asleep in the palace, the duke, wearing only his nightshirt and cap, slid quietly out of bed and lit the lantern. Carefully picking it up by the squeaky handle, he padded across the dark chamber to his slippers by the door, then slid his bare feet into them and gazed anxiously about the room. He raised the lamp and peered through the dim golden light at the wood-paneled walls. His brows pulled together in a frown, his mouth fell open. His breath came faster in the chill of the night air.
He hastened to the door and ventured out into the dark corridor, looking both ways before he stepped softly to the right, quickening his pace while he checked over his shoulder. Carrying the lamp to the end of the hall, he stopped there and held it high before the massive gilt-framed portrait of the second Duke of Pembroke.
His Grace stared at it for a moment, then quickly shook his head before starting off toward the south wing. He passed a number of the guest chambers, glancing briefly down at the brass knobs on the doors as he passed.
"Yes, it is a very good time," he said.
He continued on, reaching the main staircase and hurrying down to the ground floor, his thin nightshirt flapping about his legs as he went.
He raised the lamp again and looked around the great hall. "No, Brother Salvador, not that way. This way." The duke slowed his pace at last and shuffled into the gallery. "Now let me tell you about young Rupert," he said. "He was a very good boy, but no one seems to remember him. No one except for me."
He walked the long length of the gallery, and the glow from his lamp seemed to bring the portraits back to life in the dark.
Chapter 7
"At least we have until winter," Blake said to Vincent over the breakfast table the next morning, before any of the guests joined them in the room.
Vincent chuckled bitterly. "Good God. Leave it to you to find the silver lining in hell."
Devon walked into the room and met Vincent's dark gaze. His brother, seated at the white-clothed table with a plate of eggs and sausage before him, paused with his fork in midair, then lowered it with a noisy clink upon the fine china. "I believe I've lost my appetite."
Exhausted-for he had been up all night, his thoughts bouncing back and forth between his father's insane demands and the stimulating allure of Lady Rebecca-Devon went immediately to the sideboard for coffee. "Don't miss out on a hot breakfast on my account, Vin. You know I'm not worth it."
He could feel his brother's gaze at his back while he poured himself a cup, then he took a seat at the table across from him. They glared at each other. Vincent picked up his fork again and resumed eating.
"We were just discussing Father's intentions to see all four of us married by Christmas," Blake said.
Devon curled his hand around his hot coffee cup. "I have news about that. Early this morning, just before dawn, Father came to my room and informed me that he would offer a reward to each of us if we marry before the end of the Season. Five thousand pounds in a lump sum on the wedding day."
Blake whistled. "That's a hefty sum. He is losing his mind, isn't he?"
"Five thousand pounds you say," Vincent sat back in his chair.
"Garrett must be informed of the situation as soon as possible," Devon said.
"The last time we heard from him," Blake replied, "he was somewhere in the Greek Islands enjoying the Mediterranean wine. He won't be pleased to hear this."
"I doubt he'll even care," Vincent said. "He's already declared he wants nothing from Father. He'd be just as happy to stay in Greece and let us all drown in the bloody flood."
Devon brought his hand down flat upon the table. "There is no flood."
"You don't say," Vincent replied with sarcastic bite. "Look, it's your fault the old man went so nutty in the first place," he said. "You weren't here to witness his wrath after you left. He probably burst something in his brain from all the ranting he did."
Devon gazed out the window at the rain pelting down upon the devastated garden terrace, filling the deep holes with water, the wind howling through the trees.
Yes, perhaps part of their father's madness was his fault, for he had disappointed him more than ever that last day, walking out after what he'd done and leaving the country without a word. He had abandoned them all.
You are no longer my son.
He was not proud of his prolonged absence from England, he never had been, but he'd always known his exodus was necessary. He'd needed to go off alone and suffer for a while, to wallow in his shame before he could finally distance himself from certain events. He'd had to do that before he could return home and fulfill his duty to the family.
He looked at his brother-the brother he had betrayed. "You are correct in that regard," he said. "I am to blame for the sorry state of affairs here at Pembroke."
Vincent set down his fork again and leaned back in his chair. "Bloody well right."
"No, Devon," Blake said, interrupting. "Our father's madness is not your fault."
"And what is the point, exactly?" Vincent asked.
Devon tapped a finger on the table, thinking for a minute. "Whether Father is sane or mad, he has taken legal action to change his will, and it appears we are all in a bit of a bind."
"Brilliant deduction," Vincent said.
Devon met his brother's burning gaze across the table. "I've been awake all night thinking about this and what must be done. I have been absent for the past three years and have avoided my responsibilities." He paused a moment, looking up at his mother's portrait over the fireplace, which had been painted just before her wedding day. "But I am home now, and I will do what I must. I will remain here at Pembroke to marry and produce an heir." They both stared at him with surprise in their eyes. "What the two of you decide to do is your own choice. I will not force a future upon you because of our father's preposterous belief in a family curse." He took another sip of coffee, then spoke quietly and pensively. "Perhaps in time the promise of a grandchild from me will be enough to pacify him, and I will be able to talk him out of this nonsense about a curse, and get him to change his will back to the way it was. Perhaps we can get him proper treatment. That is what he needs above all."