The Dissolute Duke. Sophia James
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sat in the library of the Carisbrook family town house in Mayfair and looked at the three Wellingham brothers opposite him.
His head ached, his right leg was swollen above the knee and the top of his left arm was encased in a heavy white bandage, as were his ribs, strapped tightly so that breathing was not quite so agonising. Besides this he had myriad other cuts and grazes from the glass and wood splintering as the carriage had overturned.
But these injuries were the very least of his worries. A far more pressing matter lingered in the air between him and his hosts.
‘You were dressed most inappropriately and Lucinda was barely dressed at all, for God’s sake. The scandal is the talk of the town and has been for the past week.’
Asher Wellingham, Duke of Carisbrook, seldom minced words and Tay did not dissemble, either.
‘Our lack of clothing was the result of being thrown over and over down a hill in a somersaulting carriage. One does not generally emerge from such a mishap faultlessly attired,’ he drawled the reply, knowing that it would annoy them, but short of verifying their sister’s presence at his party he could do little else but blame the accident.
‘We thought Lucinda had gone with Lady Posy Tompkins to her aunt’s country home for the weekend. I cannot for the life of me imagine how instead she ended up alone in the middle of the night with the most dissolute Duke in all of London town and dressed as a harpy.’
‘Did you ask her?’
‘She can remember nothing.’ Taris Wellingham broke in now, his stillness as menacing as his older brother’s fury.
‘Nothing?’
‘Nothing before the accident, nothing during the accident and nothing just after the accident.’
Hope flared. Perhaps it might give him an escape after all. If the lady was not baying for his blood, then her brothers might also give up the chase should he play his cards well.
‘Your sister informed me that she was trying to reach the Wellingham town house after being separated somehow from her friend. She merely asked me to give her a lift home and I immediately assented.’
‘Her reticule, hat and cloak were returned to us from your country seat. A coincidence, would you not say, to be left at the very place you swear she was not.’
Cristo Wellingham’s voice sounded as flat as his brothers’.
‘Richard Allenby, the Earl of Halsey, has also told half of London that she was a guest at your weekend soirée. Others verify his story.’
‘He lies. I was the host and your sister was not there.’
‘The problem is, Duke, Lucinda is facing certain ruin and you do not seem to be taking your part in her downfall seriously.’
Taylen had had enough.
‘Ruin is a strong word, Lord Taris.’
‘As strong as retribution.’
Asher Wellingham’s hand hit the table and Tay stood. Even with his arm in a bandage he could give the three of them a good run for their money. The art of gentlemanly fighting had been a lesson missing from his life, the tough school of displacement and abuse honing the rudiments of the craft instead. Hell, he had been beaten enough himself to understand exactly the best places to hit back.
‘We will kill you for this, Alderworth, I swear that we will.’ Cristo spoke now, the sound of each word carefully enunciated.
‘And in doing so you may well crucify your sister. Better to let the matter rest, laugh it off and kick any suggestions of misbehaviour back in the face of those who swear them true.’
‘As you are apt to do?’
‘English society still holds to ridiculously strict rules of conduct, though free speech is finding its way into the minds of men who would do better to believe in it.’
‘Men like you?’ Taris stood. His reported lack of sight was not apparent as he stepped towards the window, though Tay saw the oldest brother watch him carefully.
Care.
The word reverberated inside him. This was what this was all about, after all: care of each other, care of a family name, care in protecting their only sister’s reputation from the ignominy of being linked with his.
Protection was something he himself had never had. Not from his parents. Not from his grandmother. And particularly not from his uncle. It had always been him against a world that hadn’t taken the time to make sure that a small child was cherished. The man he had become was the result of such negligence, though here in the salon of a family that watched each other’s backs the thought was disheartening.
He made his way around a generous sofa. ‘I have an errand to attend to, gentlemen, and I find I have the need of some fresh air. If you will excuse me.’
‘What do you make of him?’
Asher asked the question a few moments later as Cristo crossed to the cabinet to pull out a bottle of fine French brandy.
‘He’s hiding something.’ Taris accepted a drink from his brother. ‘For some reason he is trying to make us believe there was only necessity in our sister’s foolish midnight tryst in the carriage with him and that she was never at Alderworth.’
Cristo swore. ‘But why would he do that?’
‘Even a reprobate must have his limits of depravity, I suppose. Lucinda’s innocence may well be his.’ Taris drank deeply of the brandy before continuing. ‘He studies the philosophy of the new consciousness, which is interesting, the tenets of free speech being mooted in the Americas. Unusual reading for a man who purports to be interested in nothing more than sexual mayhem and societal anarchy.’
‘I don’t trust him.’ Asher upended his glass.
‘Well, we can’t hit a man wrapped in bandages.’ Cristo smiled.
‘Then we wait until they are removed.’ There was no humour at all in the voice of Asher Wellingham, Duke of Carisbrook.
Lucinda wheeled herself to the breakfast table, her muscles straining against the task and her heart pounding with the effort. It had been almost two weeks since the accident and the feeling that the doctor had sworn she would recover was finally coming back, though she had been left with a weakness that felt exhausting and a strange and haunting melancholy. Now she could walk for short distances without falling over, the shaking she had been plagued by diminishing as she grew steadily in strength. The wheelchair was, however, still her main mode of getting about.
Posy had spent much of the past week at the town house, her horror at all that had happened to Lucy threading every sentence.
‘I should never have taken you to Alderworth, Luce. It is all my fault this happened to you and now … now I don’t know how to make it better.’ Large tears had fallen down her cheeks before tracing wet runnels on the pink silk of her bodice.
‘You did not force me to go, Posy. I remember that much.’
‘But while I was safely locked away in our bedroom, you were …’
‘Let’s not allocate any more blame. What is done is done and at least I am regaining movement and energy.’
It had taken Lucinda a good few days to convince her friend that she held no malice or blame, Posy’s numerous tears a wearying and frustrating constant.
Asher was sitting in the dining room, reading The Times just as he usually did each morning, and he folded the paper in half and looked closer as something caught his interest.
‘It says here that the Earl of Halsey has suffered a broken nose, a black eye and twenty stitches in his cheek. The assault happened in broad daylight four days ago in an altercation outside the livery stables in Davies Mews right here in Mayfair. There were no witnesses.’
His glance