The man squinted back down at his papers. “The line of succession is verified. Seeing as the duke had no heirs and you are the only son of Jack Cole, you, Percival Jackaby Cole, are the new Duke of Grandfellow.”
Percy froze at his given name. No one knew his full name. He’d made sure every scrap of paper or person that could be traced back to him had conveniently burned up, in pieces.
Stomach flipping, a new, and unacceptable, thought dawned. “I’m a duke.”
The other man sighed. “As I’ve been trying to tell you, sir—er, Your Grace.”
The man removed his monocle and handed Percy the Cole family ancestry.
Percy took in the sweeping lines and fine calligraphy of an official family registry of theton, and stared at his full, legal name in charcoal black.
“That’s impossible,” Percy said.
“I assure you, Your Grace,” the solicitor said, his expression tired. “Nothing is impossible when it comes to your family.”
*
Mr. Frendstone, theDuke of Camine’s butler, personally delivered Percy to the drawing room, where he found Renard Louis, Duke of Lux, lounging on the window seat.
Renard and his duchess, Camille, had been married years ago in a simple and secret ceremony in Scotland. They’d come back to England, holding hands and smiling at one another like lovestruck idiots ever since.
Percy was in no mood for sentimental nonsense. “Shouldn’t you be at home, making cow eyes at your wife?”
The other man sighed, his gaze fixed in the direction of Lux estate, twenty miles to the west. His coat and pants were smart in hunter green and charcoal grey, but his sand-colored hair lay curled and unkempt on top of his head. “I was told, in no uncertain terms, to make myself scarce or risk violence to my person via footwear.”
Percy smirked, feeling for the first time the world wasn’t on a personal mission to ruin his day. “Surely, after the second throw, there would be less of a threat?”
“My lady owns twelve pairs of indoor slippers alone.”
“That’s excessive.”
“Not to her.”
Percy felt for the man. Aside from the Duchess of Camine, whom he had a small soft spot for, women were tiresome and fickle.
He pushed away the sudden image of a young woman, dark haired and full of fire.
Hamish Hurstfield, Duke of Camine, entered the room, breeches and coat starched into dangerous angles, making his large build and tall height as intimidating as his title. He smirked upon seeing Percy.
“There you are, Lord Grandfellow.” He thumped Percy on the back. “Enjoy your errand?” He rubbed his hands together. “I can’t wait for the first ball so I can watch the ladies run screaming for the door.” He smiled. “Or watch you do the same when said ladies’ mothers dig their claws into your eligible hind.”
Percy extracted himself from his friend’s reach and remembered he had six knives hidden on his person. “Iwillkill you.”
“Be careful, Camine,” Renard said from the window. “He looks serious.”
Hamish eyed him, and then shook his head. “No, he won’t. He’s too fond of Charlotte to make her a widow.”
Renard snorted. “You mean too fond of his person to risk her seeking revenge.”
“And who exactly am I to seek revenge on?” Charlotte sailed through the open door in a lovely blue day dress and glanced at each of them in turn. Eyes huge behind wire spectacles, her gaze flicked from the two guests before settling on her husband with a warmth that rivaled the sun.
Hamish crossed the room and wrapped an arm around his duchess. “Anyone involved in my untimely death.”
She pulled back and raised her brows. “Is there a concern from any company present?”
“Not at the moment.”
She nodded. “Good, because your son would like a word with you.”
