Project Duchess. Sabrina Jeffries
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who they are. I hope you told her I’d rather focus my energy on my estates.”
“I did. She didn’t believe me. She never does.”
“Yet she sent you over here to engage the leader of this secret cabal of debauchery. She makes no sense.”
“The gossip only made her more eager to marry me off to you. Hmm.”
“She’s probably afraid I’ll spend all my wealth on ‘licentious’ living before you can grab me and my dukedom for our progeny.”
“Or she thinks that a man with such ungoverned desires would be easy to manipulate. She ought to know you better than that. I certainly do. There isn’t a single ungoverned thing about you.” Vanessa tapped her finger on her chin. “Then again, there’s another possibility—that Mama started the rumor about the cabal herself.”
“To what end?”
“By making you sound unappealing, she hopes to eliminate my competition.”
“I hate to tell you, my dear, but rumors of a man’s wickedness rarely seem to eliminate the competition. If that was your mother’s plan, it’s a foolish one. And it proves my opinion about gossip: Rumors are nothing more than entertainment for the bored. If people in society would put a tenth of the energy they expend in—”
“I know, I know—we’re all frivolous, with not a whit of usefulness between us,” she said archly. “You’re the only one with any sense.”
When her maid looked as if she might explode with holding in a laugh, he shot Vanessa a rueful glance. “Do you think me as pompous and arrogant as all that, pet?”
“Worse.” Then she softened the accusation with a smile. “And on that note, I shall leave you.” Her maid cleared her throat, and Vanessa said, “Oh, I almost forgot! I have this for you.” She fished a sealed letter out of her reticule. “It came to us rather than you. Which is curious. Perhaps your mother heard you hadn’t been here in weeks. Though why she thought we would see you any more often is anyone’s guess.”
He ignored the sudden tightness in his chest. “You know perfectly well why.”
With a sigh, Vanessa stepped nearer to speak in a low voice meant only for his ears. “Must you still punish your mother?”
“Don’t be nonsensical,” he said lightly, to hide the guilt that swamped him. “I’m not punishing her. Besides, she has her other children to keep her company. She doesn’t need me fawning over her.”
Vanessa sniffed. “As if you would ever fawn over anyone. And yes, you are punishing her, whether you admit it or not.”
The pity shining in Vanessa’s eyes made him regret having said anything about his mother.
He reached for the letter, but Vanessa wouldn’t release it. “She does love you, you know.”
“I do.” What else could he say? He loved her, too, in his own way.
Grey started to shove the letter into his coat pocket, then paused. The missive seemed awfully thin for one of Mother’s. With a sense of dread, he opened it to find the briefest of messages:
My dearest Grey,
I regret to inform you that your stepfather has passed away. The funeral is at Armitage Hall on Tuesday.
With much love,
Mother
P.S. Please come. I can’t do this without you.
Grey stared numbly at the words. Maurice, the only father he’d ever really known, was dead.
Please come. I can’t do this without you.
Holy hell, Mother must be devastated.
Apparently, his distress showed in his face, for Vanessa snatched the letter and read it, then lifted a horrified gaze to him. “Oh, Grey, how awful. I’m so very sorry.”
“Thank you,” he muttered, though he felt like a fraud. He’d barely seen Maurice since the family’s return from Prussia a few months ago. He had let his bitterness keep him away, and now it was too late.
She was now rereading the letter with a furrowed brow. “Maurice . . . that would be Sheridan’s father, right? I suppose he will now become duke.”
The odd note in her voice arrested him. “Sheridan? Since when are you so chummy with my half brother? You only met him once.”
“We’ve met thrice actually,” she murmured. “We even danced together twice.”
Uh-oh. Sheridan had best watch himself around Vanessa. When she fixed her affections on a man, she could really dig her teeth in. “Don’t tell me he’s the ‘poet’ you have your eye on.”
His sharp tone made her glance up. “Don’t be ridiculous. Sheridan doesn’t have a poetic thought in his head.”
She was right, but how had she known that? “You’ll have to call him Armitage now that he’s duke.”
“All the more reason for me not to have an interest in him. I will never take a duke for my husband, no matter what Mama wants. You’re all too . . . too . . .”
“Pompous and arrogant?”
As if realizing she shouldn’t be insulting a man who’d just lost a close relation, she winced. “Something like that.” When he said nothing, she added, “You certainly have a number of dukes in your family.”
“That’s what happens when one’s mother marries well three times.”
“She’ll be leaving quite a dynasty behind her. Some would say that’s excellent planning.”
“She didn’t plan on being widowed thrice, I assure you,” he said sharply.
Vanessa looked stricken. “Of course not. I’m sorry, Grey, that was most thoughtless of me.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “No, it’s . . . I’m just unsettled by the news.”
“I’m sure. If there’s anything I can do . . .”
Grey didn’t answer, his mind having already seized on the reminder that Sheridan had become Duke of Armitage. Maurice had only been duke a few months, and now Sheridan was being forced to take up the mantle. His head must be reeling. Grey needed to be at Armitage Hall, if only to help Sheridan and Mother with the arrangements for the funeral on Tuesday.
Wait, today was Sunday. But which Sunday? Damn it, had he already missed his stepfather’s funeral?
“When did this letter arrive?” he asked.
It was the maid who answered. “I believe it was this past Friday, Your Grace.”
“That’s right,” Vanessa said. “Friday.”
Armitage Hall was near the town of Sanforth. If he caught the footmen before they unpacked his trunk, Grey could be changed into his mourning clothes and back on the road in an hour. He’d easily reach Lincolnshire by tomorrow. “I must go,” he said, turning for the door.
“I’ll go with you,” Vanessa said.
“Don’t be absurd,” Grey snapped before her maid could protest. “You will go home as usual and tell your mother I wasn’t here. You have the perfect excuse for missing me this time. Just say I’d already been notified of my stepfather’s death and had left for Lincolnshire. Understood?”
“But . . . but how could you have been notified if I hadn’t yet brought you the letter?”
“Say that the servants told you I’d already received one here.” His common sense finally asserted itself. “Indeed, I probably have, since I haven’t looked at my mail yet. Mother wouldn’t have left anything to chance. She would have sent multiple notices.” No matter how distracted by grief she might be.