“E.W. are the initials of a Mister Edward White. He is a middle-aged man, with a receding hairline and a paunch of a stomach. In short, a man of no particular consequence.”
Pen wanted to protest, but he lifted a hand. “Let me finish. He is not your guardian. As I said, this Edward White is just an average sort of man. What gives him consequence is the man he works for.”
Suddenly Pen’s heart thudded in her chest. “Who?”
“The Duke of Rochford.” Alworth said heavily.
Her mind reeled with confusion. “I don’t understand.”
“I am afraid to have to tell you that your mysterious guardian, Marcus Smith, seems to be none other than Marcus Downing-Smith, the Duke of Rochford. This seal is certainly his. I’m very sorry, Pen.” There was an expression of sympathy in his slate grey eyes.
“It cannot be.” She licked her dry lips. “Marcus is no duke! You must be mistaken.”
“My dear boy, I wish I were. I wouldn’t wish that man to be anyone’s guardian. But it would make very much sense. Your guardian was in India at about the same time Rochford was. No one knew he returned with a ward, but it is possible. It is also very likely he’d have wanted to adopt an alias abroad.”
“Why?”
“He never told you why he was in India?”
Pen shook her head. “He was a family friend. He was my friend. He was just there. Many men are in India, so why not him, too? He said he worked for the East Indian Company.”
Alworth shook his head. “Dished you up a Banbury tale right there. He never had to work in his entire life. Had to leave the country rather quickly, though. After he’d seduced the Earl of Essex’s wife and shot him in the, um, er, behind. The scandal was all over the papers. Mind you, he was no duke back then, but the Earl of Fenton.”
Pen’s mouth fell open. “That was Marcus? I refuse to believe it.”
“He’s done a lot worse. The string of his misdeeds would fill an entire book. It’s not without reason he is called the ‘Wicked Duke’.”
“No. No. No!” Pen shook her head vehemently. “You must be mistaken!”
Alworth looked at her with something akin to pity. “I am sure it must be a shock to you, but there is no doubt it is him. It also explains why he’s had to distance himself from you. In fact, that he did so is a credit to Rochford. He might care for you, after all.”
“I don’t understand. What do you mean?”
“By keeping himself at a distance, he might be trying to prevent his reputation from besmirching yours. Mind you, this is just conjecture on my part. It would be entirely out of character for him to care about anyone’s reputation, his own or others.”
Her mind refused to register the significance of his words. This was not true. It was a nightmare! Her beloved Marcus a wicked duke? Impossible.
“You’re wrong. I’m certain you’re entirely wrong.” Her voice sounded flat.
“Pen—”
She backed away. Suddenly, it was all too much. She couldn’t bear the solicitous expression in his knowing eyes. It was unbearable.
“Leave me alone.” She stormed out of the room, nearly ramming into a gentleman who was about to enter. He jumped back, astonished.
Pen ran blindly down St. James’s Street, past people and carriages. Her steps slowed as she walked to Bird Street and stared at the townhouse where Marcus used to live. It was a simple, ordinary kind of house. Certainly not the abode of an earl or a duke.
It was impossible. It had to be.
But what if it wasn’t? What if Alworth was right?
Marcus a duke. A wicked duke.
She felt hysterical laughter well up. She choked it down. The people who passed her by threw her odd looks.
After she’d regained her composure, she concluded that there was only one thing for her to do.
She had to go to the Duke of Rochford’s residence to see him herself.
