“The sender’s name’s smudged. So’s the address. It’s a miracle it arrived here at all.” Handing the letter to Raphe, she watched as he turned it over and studied the penmanship. Sure enough, the only legible part of the address, which even appeared to have been altered once or twice, was his name: Mister Raphael Matthews.
Curious, he set down his spoon and tore open the seal.
“What’s it say?” Amelia eagerly asked.
Reading it slowly to ensure he understood it correctly, Raphe sucked in a breath. He looked up at his sister, blinked, then bowed his head and read the letter again. Silence settled. Amelia’s feet shifted, conveying her impatience. It seemed impossible, yet there it was—an extraordinary pronouncement staring him right in the face. Raising his gaze, he leaned back in his seat, the letter rustling between his fingers. “According to this . . .” He shook his head, unable to fathom the absurdity of it. “I’m the new Duke of Huntley.”
The silence that followed was acute. Amelia stared at him, eyes wide with a strange blend of surprise, uncertainty and hope. She looked like she wanted to believe him, and yet . . . “Really?”
“If what this says is true, then yes.”
“But as far as I know, Papa ‘ad no title, so I don’t—I don’t understand.”
“I know. It seems inconceivable. Preposterous. But . . .” He handed her the letter and watched while she read. “Do ye think it might be a hoax?”
Amelia shook her head. “I daren’t suppose such a thing. It looks authentic enough with this seal right ‘ere and a stamp at the bottom.” Squinting, she read the small print that Raphe had missed in his surprise. “Mr. Rupert Etheridge, Solicitor to the Duke of Huntley.” Amelia drew a deep breath. Expelled it again. “Bloody hell!”
Raphe quietly nodded. “It’s the damnedest thing, don’t ye think?” He stared up at Amelia, still trying to process the news.
“Yes. It is. In fact, I wouldn’t ‘ave thought it possible at all. Not ever.”
“Me neither.” Amelia handed the letter back to Raphe, He set it on the table next to his bowl of soup and jabbed it with his finger. “But our great grandfather was the Sixth Duke of Huntley.”
“I’m aware of that. But when ‘e died, the title passed to our great uncle an’ split off from our side of the family.” She hesitated, as if trying to understand. “I thought succession ‘ad to be lineal—that it ‘ad to go from son to son. So ‘ow can it possibly jump to ye?”
“That’s just it. Says ‘ere that—” leaning forward, he carefully read what had to be the most significant part, “the letters patent generally include a limitation pertainin’ to the heirs of the body, but in this instance it ‘as been left out. With this taken into consideration, we’ve looked fer the late duke’s nearest kin, and ye, Mr. Matthews, appear to be it.”
“Ye’re it?” Amelia’s eyebrows were raised, her lips parted with dumbfounded surprise.
“Apparently so.”
“Bloody hell,” she said again as she slumped down onto another chair with a dazed expression. “I can’t believe ‘e ‘ad no sons. Don’t aristocrats always ‘ave an heir an’ a spare for these situations?”
“Yes, but accordin’ to this, the Eighth Duke of Huntley’s sons perished at sea a couple o’ months ago. The shock of it was apparently too much for their father. It killed ’im.”
“God.” Amelia paused for a moment before saying, “So there’s nobody else but ye to fill ‘is shoes.”
“No. Only problem is, I ain’t so sure I’ll be able to manage it. It’s been fifteen years since . . .” His shoulders stiffened and his chest tightened. He couldn’t speak of the event that had plunged them all into destitution. Refused to do so—refused to open the door to the darkness.
Thankfully, Amelia spoke, filling the silence. “Ye can ignore the letter if the thought of being a duke disagrees with ye.”
“True.” He considered the ramifications of showing up at Huntley House. And then the door to the darkness creaked open, quite unexpectedly, and he was faced with the faith that Bethany had placed in him. She’d believed in his ability to save her. He’d been her older brother, and she’d looked to him for help. Except he’d failed her, and now she was dead.
He slammed the door to the darkness and stared at Amelia. This was it. The chance to do what he wished he could have done for Bethany—a chance to get his surviving sisters out of St. Giles and back to the world where they belonged. “I can’t ignore this opportunity. I can’t deny ye the things ye deserve.” I can’t take the risk of losing you because of my own apprehensions and prejudices. “Think of it, Amelia. No more ‘ungry bellies, or worryin’ about money. No more scrapin’ to get by.”
“No more Mr. Guthrie,” she murmured.
The uplifting thought spilled through him, immediately halted by another. “Ye know, we’ll never fit in.” They’d spent too long amidst the lower classes—could barely recall what it meant to live in a fine house and to have servants. Fox Grove Manor, where they’d grown up, had not been overly large, and most of the servants had been gone at the end, but he had a vague recollection of tin soldiers and the sound of piano music playing while Molly dusted the china. It seemed so peculiar now, the thought of hiring someone to do the simplest task.
He shook his head at the absurdity of it all and wondered if he would be capable of becoming such a person after growing accustomed to the working-class ways. And that was just the beginning. It did not take into account the ridicule they were bound to face with every misstep they made. Because if there was one thing he knew about the aristocracy, it was their cold, hard censure of those who didn’t belong.
“Here at least we ‘ave friends.” He thought of what Ben had told him earlier. Of Ben, in general. He’d never understand the decision Raphe now considered making. Worse than that, Raphe knew in his gut that claiming the Huntley title would destroy that friendship—that in order for him and his sisters to stand any chance at all of making a life for themselves in Mayfair, they’d have to sever all ties to St. Giles.
“True. There are surely people I’ll miss—people who’ve been kind to us over the years, like Mary-Ellen’s family an’ the ‘aroldsons.” She reached for Raphe’s hand and squeezed it tight. “But we also ‘ave no future ‘ere. At least none that I can see.”
“I know. It’s me greatest regret.”
“It’s not yer fault.”
