“Too much, too fast?” The man’s dark brows drew together. “Let’s start with the main, then. Do you know who you are?”
“Captain Lord Cheverley.” Chev hated the implied question in his voice.
The man, however, was pleased. “That’s right. Though, to be fair, I might not have recognized you but for the helpful bit of artistry on your ankle. Do you know me?”
“Do I?” Chev asked. “Know you?”
“I should hope so. Though, if you’ve forgotten, proper introductions are in order.” The man cleared his throat. “The Duke of Hurtheven”—he inclined his head—“at your service.”
Chev blinked again. “Hurtheven?”
“Last time I checked. And you should know, you laughed like a madman after seeing me in my first set of parliamentary robes.” His grin returned. “Bad form, that.”
“You looked preposterous,” Chev said, again, without thought.
Then, recollections rolled past like alabaster marbles, zig-zagging through time and flashing with head-splitting brilliance. Hurtheven in his robes. Hurtheven and another man, witnessing his wedding. Penelope, heavy with child and begging him not to go. The thunder of cannons. A vast darkness. A vicious sea. As best he could, he sorted them in time.
“I was in a raft.” Why had he been in a raft? “Then, there was a man...and a woman...and...” a cat?
He hated cats. He was clear about that much, at least.
“Yes. Right again,” Hurtheven said. “A man. And a woman.” He lifted a brow. “I don’t suppose you had a choice who fished you from the sea, but next time I would be obliged if you wash up closer to someone less grasping. You cost metwogold guineas, you know.”
“Gold guineas?” What kind of fisherman demanded gold from a duke?
“Well...” Hurtheven paused, “...if you prefer to be exacting—one guinea was for your person, the other to secure their silence.”
“Silence?” Cheverley asked. “Why?”
“I told you.” Hurtheven made an exasperated sound. “You’re dead.”
“Explain,” Cheverley said through gritted teeth.
“Well, I couldn’t have those greedy bob tails realize they’d fishedyouout of the channel. You bet your Hessians they’d have demanded more than two guineas for the heir apparent to the Duke of Ithwick, and two was all I had.” He glanced askance. “Bad night at the tables.”
Heir?Cheverley coughed. “Not...heir.”
“You aren’tnow,of course. You are dead. The distinction of heir presumptive, therefore, belongs to your son.”
His son?His heartbeat surged. Yes. Hedidhave a son, didn’t he?
Thaddeus.
He strained to recall a face. But, no. He’d never met his son.
The old wound broke open and other memories spilled forth.
He’d eloped to Scotland without his father’s consent and then further enraged the duke by beginning to work a separate estate made irrevocably his because of a clause in the duchess’s marriage contract.
Naively, Chev believed the estate would place his family beyond the duke’s power.
Then came the duke’s ultimatum—either Chev take a naval commission, or face a lawsuit challenging his marriage and potentially making a bastard of his child, already well on the way.
At first, he’d gambled the duke would come to his senses and place family above pride and relent.
His Grace had not.
When Chev reluctantly accepted the commission, his father demanded he not return until he had proven himself. Chev left, determined to rise above his father’s power by becoming the greatest naval hero England had seen since Raleigh. And then—
