“Getting out of here,” she said tersely. “I won’t stay another night—ever.”
When she was through collecting the sparse belongings she wanted to convey with her, she turned and stared challengingly at her friend. “I will die before I ever show one ounce of remorse over his death.”
CHAPTER ONE
London
November 1818
Justin Devlin, eighth Duke of Whittington, threw the article down in disgust. He wasn’t usually given to reading gossip rags, but one had been strategically placed on his desk. Edward was most likely the culprit. He pressed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger while his other hand gripped the back of his neck, massaging tense muscles. He’d sailed into harbor the day before, and months of fatigue lurked beneath the surface.
Pushing back from his desk, he got up and strode over to the liquor cabinet where he poured a brandy. He downed the contents in one swallow and set the glass down with a resounding thud.
Case had done it this time. Up to his ears in scandal. Scandal—it was a word never before associated with his family name, yet now his younger brother had managed to change it all in a few short months.
The Countess of Penroth. Her husband of less than a year had died tragically when his ship went down at sea, and instead of mourning him, she appeared night after night at society balls on the arm of his brother. Her refusal to observe—no, respect the mourning rituals was unprecedented in London society. Such behavior was beyond deplorable.
He and Case were close. Just two years apart, they had grown up as inseparable companions. He knew Case better than he knew anyone else, or so he thought. Surely there was a perfectly reasonable explanation for his brother’s part in this whole debacle.
“Your grace, your carriage is ready.”
Justin turned to see Edward, his family’s butler for three generations, standing solemnly in the doorway. His age was a highly guarded secret, but Justin swore he had to be over one hundred. Most butlers were referred to by their surname, but Justin didn’t even know what it was. He had been simply Edward since Justin’s grandfather had hired him over fifty years ago.
“Thank you, Edward. I am going to the club for lunch and then out riding.”
“Very good, your grace. Dinner will be served at the usual time, unless you have other wishes.”
Justin nodded and walked out to where the carriage awaited him.
London had changed little in his absence, he observed as his carriage rolled down Piccadilly. The same hustle and bustle abounded daily on the crowded streets. He swallowed his irritation as the carriage ground to a halt, hindered by the crush of traffic. Despite the chill of the mid November air, he wished he had taken his mount. It certainly would have been quicker, and he wouldn’t have to return to his stables before he went out riding. He sank back into the plush squabs, waiting for travel to resume.
Why couldn’t Case have stayed at Whittington where he had been when Justin left for India? Then Justin could have foregone London entirely and escaped back home to Yorkshire. The idea of immersing himself in society even for a little while was not an appealing prospect. He knew eventually he would have to come to London to find a wife, but that was a few years away, and the idea of a loveless match for the sake of heirs depressed him. For now he was content to retire to his estate and lead a quiet life.
A half hour later, the carriage finally rolled to a stop in front of White’s, and Justin entered the doorway of the gentlemen’s club. He was greeted enthusiastically and welcomed home with great aplomb. His favorite dish, beef loin in a sherry sauce, appeared at his table within a few moments of his sitting. It was good to be home, he decided, even if home was temporarily London while he got to the bottom of this whole business surrounding the countess.
“Whittington! By Jove, itisyou.”
He looked up to see Lord Darvington standing over his table. Justin invited him to sit, and he readily complied. Lord Darvington had been a close friend of Justin’s father before his death fifteen years earlier.
“How have you been, old boy?” the older man asked as he rested both hands atop the ornately carved handle of his cane.
Justin suppressed a grimace. Not many people would take the liberty of calling him anything but your grace or Whittington, but Lord Darvington had called him old boy for as long as he could remember, and somehow he didn’t envision that changing.
“Heard you sailed in from India,” the earl continued, breaking into Justin’s thoughts.
“Yes, I arrived yesterday.”
“Then I don’t suppose you’ve yet heard about the scandal your brother is causing,” he said casually, a sharp look to his eye.
Justin met his gaze without blinking. “I rather thought the countess was the cause of the scandal.”
“So youhaveheard,” Lord Darvington said with an amused chuckle.
Justin sat back in his seat. “What exactlyisthe story, Darvington? I’ve read the society pages, but as of yet I haven’t spoken to Case about it.”
The earl looked delighted at the opportunity to impart his knowledge. And who said gossip was a woman’s vice, Justin thought dryly.
“It’s quite obvious she made a cuckold of Penroth long before his death, and with your brother, at that. Just a few days after his funeral, which Lady Penroth didn’t attend, mind you, she was gallivanting about London in the most scandalous apparel, and Lord Case was her constant companion. Chit hasn’t observed a single day of mourning in the six months since the earl’s death. It’s shameful that a woman of noble birth would act with such blatant disregard for propriety.”
