“I’ve only ever seen a miniature of her,” Nicole admitted quietly.
Regina clasped her hands together and gave Nicole a bright smile. “Oh, we’ll have to rectify that. There is a grand painting of her in the east wing. I’ll show it to you while you’re here.”
“I would like that very much,” Nicole replied. She dared a glance at Mark. He was staring out the window, clearly lost in his thoughts.
“Well, I’m certain you two are exhausted,” Lady Harriet said, taking a long deep breath. “I’ll show you to your room. We picked out one at the end of the corridor. It’s large and comfortable and far away from the others.” She beamed at them and batted her eyelashes. “You know, so you’ll be at ease getting to the business of producing an heir, which is even more important, I’m afraid, now that our poor dear John is gone.”
Nicole barely had a chance to contemplatethosesurprising words before the old woman added, “In fact, we don’t have any plans till dinner. Now’s the perfect time to begin.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
An hour later, having refreshed himself with a change of clothing and a stiff drink, Mark knocked on the door to his uncle’s study. He and Nicole had gone up to their bedchamber together and silently laughed after Lady Harriet left them, waggling her eyebrows. If they’d expected the older woman to be proper because she was in mourning, clearly they’d been mistaken. Lady Harriet didn’t know the meaning of the word “subtle.”
Mark and Nicole agreed they’d change clothing and rest for a bit, allowing Lady Harriet to think what she would. Nicole had actually fallen asleep, her light breaths filling the air. Mark had lain on the bed next to her, his body stiff as a board, until he gave up the pretense of resting. It was not the time to pounce upon Nicole, even if the idea of lovemaking in the afternoon held a certain appeal. Mark had sneaked out the door quietly so as not to disturb her, in search of a drink.
He scowled at the door to the study, the same room that had once housed his pompous ass of a grandfather. The door seemed smaller now. It was no longer the dark imposing barrier that had hidden an awful, scary man behind it. It was just a door. Just wood. Nothing special.
“Come in,” came his uncle’s frail voice.
Mark pushed open the door and stepped inside, further banishing his painful memories to the shadows. The space smelled of wood and lemon polish. The room was not as imposing as he’d remembered. Ornate furniture filled the space. The desk was still large and centered in front of the mullioned windows, but it was just a desk, nothing but a piece of furniture. The man who sat behind it now was a much different man, in amuchdifferent set of circumstances.
Despite his illness, his uncle had managed to wheel his chair to sit behind the desk. He looked so pale and thin, hunched over the grand piece of furniture. The duke couldn’t be much more than five and sixty years old, but his illness had taken its toll and his son’s death hadn’t helped. He seemed to have aged ten more years since Mark had last seen him.
His uncle raised his arms and spread them wide to indicate the room at large. His voice shook when he spoke. “This will all be yours… soon.”
Mark clenched his jaw and stared out the windows into the flower-dotted meadow beyond. “Please don’t say that.”
“Why shouldn’t I? It’s true.” His uncle lapsed into a coughing fit. He slowly pulled a handkerchief from his lap and covered his mouth.
Mark took a seat across from him on the other side of the desk and waited for the fit to subside. “Nothing’s been decided yet and you promised—”
His uncle waved a thin hand in the air. “I know. I know. I promised not to tell anyone that you’re my nephew… yet. But once I announce the heir—”
“Just a few more days,” Mark replied. “For the sake of the investigation.” Would he ever be ready to be named heir to a dukedom? No. No, he would not.
“Very well.” The duke sighed. He carefully backed up his chair and pulled open the drawer in front of him. With painstaking slowness, he retrieved a small, aged letter from inside the drawer. “I want to show you something, Mark. Something I hoped I wouldn’t have to.” The old man deliberately pushed the letter toward him with a shaking, wrinkled hand.
Mark glanced at the parchment. Then he narrowed his eyes on it. His name was written on top in a bold scroll. “No.” Had he said that aloud?
The duke nodded toward the letter. “It’s from your grandfather. I never sent it to you before because I assumed you’d rip it up. Such acts done in anger cannot be undone. I hope you’ve matured enough to finally read it, regardless of how you respond to it.”
Mark took the letter. Rage rose in his throat, threatening to choke him. He didn’t want to read it, but he also had no intention of ripping it up.
“Read it, Mark. I think it will help you to understand your grandfather a bit.”
“You’re assuming I want to understand him,” Mark said through clenched teeth.
“I only meant—”
“I already understand perfectly. I understand he disowned my mother because of me and my father.”
“Read it,” the old man repeated in an even tone, pointing feebly toward the letter. “Please.”
A knock at the door interrupted them. The butler stood there with Daffin Oakleaf at his side. Daffin was dressed in the red vest his profession was famous for.
“Ah, Oakleaf.” Mark stood and crossed the thick carpet to greet the Bow Street Runner. Oakleaf’s arrival was a welcome distraction from arguing with his uncle about the letter sitting on the desk, untouched.
The butler left them and Mark introduced Daffin to the duke. “Your Grace, may I present Mr. Daffin Oakleaf? He works for Bow Street and is the best of the lot. Daffin, this is my uncle, the Duke of Colchester.”
