“This is the current duke, the twenty-fifth Duke of Morley.” They stopped in front of a life-sized portrait of the spindly-looking man who’d greeted her earlier. He was younger in the portrait since his hair was dark, whereas now it was entirely white. But he wore the same ill-pleased expression that all the other men wore.
Next to him hung the portrait of a more pleasant-looking young man with watery eyes and a slightly vapid, but dissipated expression. The housekeeper did not comment and passed him by. Next to it was a grey space where a portrait must have once hung.
“It is being restored,” Mrs Stanyon explained. “And this one, here, is the Earl of Threthewick.”
Arabella gasped.
For the charming smirk that greeted her was none other than Philip Merivale’s.
Chapter 17
“Idon’t understand.” Arabella clasped and unclasped her hands. “This makes little sense.” After the gallery, Mrs Stanyon had taken her to a salon, where the duke was waiting for her in a fauteuil, a blanket covering his legs.
“First, some tea.” The old duke lifted a finger, and Mrs Stanyon brought them cups of tea and a plate of biscuits. “To fortify your mind. It must have been a shock.”
Indeed. Arabella had never fainted in her life, but when she met Philip’s jade-green eyes in the portrait, she’d almost toppled to the ground.
“I cannot begin to tell you how morose and difficult my life has been. When my own flesh and blood denies me, when my plans are thwarted, leaving a bleak and lonely future, only death to look forward to. But now I see Fortuna’s wheel is finally turning in my favour. What a joy it is to have you here, Lady Arabella.”
She nearly sprayed a mouthful of tea across the tea table. Arabella spluttered an answer. Mrs Stanyon handed her a damask napkin. She covered her mouth.
A gleam of enjoyment lit up his grey face. That crafty old man. He’d known who she was all along.
“Oh, yes, Lady Arabella. Did you think I’d not recognise your name? You are the sister of the Duke of Ashmore. One of the most powerful men in the country.” He looked pleased. “Why are you parading about as a governess in my grandson’s employ?”
“Because I was bored with my life. I want to work.” She’d blurted it out without thinking. She wanted to prove herself useful in life, that she could be more than just an ornament in a drawing room, but she wasn’t about to say that.
“What nonsense. Work! I’ve never heard such a thing in my entire life. What does your esteemed brother say to that, I wonder?”
Arabella looked at him, alarmed. He raised his bony hand to appease her. “Never worry. Your secret is safe with me. But you must know you cannot hide quality in a pile of manure. Your lineage is everywhere, in your entire being. The way you move your head — yes, like this, precisely — the way you curl your lips in disdain. How you speak and pronounce your ‘r’s. It is in your blood. You can’t hide it or deny it no matter how hard you try. Quality and breeding, down to the marrow. I approve.” He clucked his tongue. “This is the lesson my boy refuses to learn. He tries so hard.” He shook his head.
“Tries so hard to do what?”
“To be a commoner,” he said mournfully. “A lower-class rat of the gutter.”
Arabella drew her brows. “You shouldn’t say that.”
“Ah, but it is true.” He took a slurpy sip of his tea and pulled his lips into a line of disgust. “Mrs Stanyon, how long have you worked here?”
“Nearly twenty-three years, Your Grace.”
“Twenty-three years and you still don’t know how to prepare my tea?” He set down his cup with a clatter. “It is a hideous brew. It needs more sugar.”
“Yes, Your Grace. But you know what the doctor says —”
“Balderdash. I want my tea as usual, or you are dismissed.”
Mrs Stanyon handed him a second cup. “This time it has the right amount of sugar. But it is poison for your heart, says the doctor.”
“Let an old man have his tea the way he enjoys it. God knows there is such little enjoyment left in this miserable life of mine.” He spilt half of the content with his shaky hands as he drank, then leaned back in his chair, satisfied. “Aah. Precisely as I have been drinking it these past seventy-six years of my life.” He turned to Arabella. “I started drinking tea when I was four.”
That meant he was—
“I am eighty.” A bitter smile crossed his face. “I have had a long life, Lady Arabella. I have never lacked in anything. My marriage was arranged. It was loveless, but then, one does not expect to marry for love, does one? The duchess did her duty and promptly gave birth to two strapping boys. Twins. She conveniently died three years ago.”
Arabella gasped.
“Are you shocked? It is the truth. It is better this way. We made each other’s lives miserable.”
