“Indeed! Charles was the first born as well. Such an awful blow! But one could never have a scullery maid as a duchess. Of course you’ll understand, my love.”
So strange, Cordelia thought, regarding the funeral attendees gathering on the lawn in their dark clothing,that they should be so congenial as my world continues to fall apart. “But growing up, surely my father would have mentioned—”
“It was agreed upon to never mention Charles’s name. Written right out of the will.”
There was sliver of hope. “Well, thank God for that, at least.”
“Yes, thank God. And the babe was a girl. She wouldn’t stand to inherit anything.”
Cordelia heaved a sigh of relief. Her stomach stopped swimming.
“And then, there was that small issue with the adoption…”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“Well, there was a blacksmith that used to work in your father’s household who was raising up a young boy. The scullery maid looked after him too, on occasion. Apparently, she formed an attachment to him. Anyway, Charles agreed to recognize the boy as his own.”
“The son of a blacksmith?”
“Yes! Possibly the next Duke of Rothesay. Can you imagine? I told your father, this is the kind of effect the French Revolution was having on young people at the time…”
Lady Billings’s voice faded away curiously, as the colors of the attendees’ black skirts and great coats began to blend in with Hollyhead’s brilliant green land. Then, everything went dark.
Chapter Two
From the society of papers of one Lady Prudence DeLessops. 15 April 1825
It appears that after a rather short search, the man of the hour has been found. The heir who will be taking on the mantle of the next Duke of R. is none other than a son of unknown parentage, rumored to have been sired by a blacksmith. This author has learned the man has been made aware of recent good fortune and will be traveling to Hollyhead House shortly to claim it.
Upon hearing the news, Lady C.N. swooned so heartily she required both a good dousing with cold water and smelling salts to come to. Readers who have been familiar with my column know that the men of the ton also refer to Lady C.N. as the “Lady Icicle.” This recent news is of a particular shock, as we long assumed that her heart was frostbitten by the Earl of H., who continues to languish in France with an Italian dancing girl. She is recovered, but perhaps not for long. The man in question is unattached. With this news, the Earl of H. might want to grace our shores with some haste sooner than later. Is it possible the blacksmith’s son could not only win a dukedom, but the Lady Icicle as well?
You can be sure, dear reader, that this author will be keeping you abreast of the entire scandalous situation…
“Will you be gone long?”
“Not three weeks and I’ll be back!”And not a second over, Justin Wright thought to himself. This was all a large misunderstanding that would be swiftly remedied so his life could continue unperturbed. He flipped open his pocket watch to check the time and then snapped it shut again. The coach was five minutes late.
“I should have told you. I should have prepared you better for this moment,” his mother said. She’d been pacing the morning room in her London house all afternoon.
“You’ll wear a hole in that carpet,” Justin said. “You know how he loved it.”
That got her to stop for a moment, and smile. “Of all the things he brought us from India, how has this wretched carpet managed to stay the course for so long?” she asked, gesturing to the multicolored fabric that matched hardly anything fashionable. But somehow, Mrs. Alice Nichols had made the best of it, turning what most people would have considered a lost cause into something beautiful, just as she’d done so many times before.
Now in her late forties, Mrs. Nichols was still the lovely woman she’d been when his father ran away with her all those storied years ago. Though her mahogany hair was shot through with gray, her green eyes retained their youthful spark which helped her rule over her family with a gentle gravitas and sense of humor that made them all fall in love with her.
“Oh Justin,” she said, her eyes glazing over once more with unshed tears. “Your father and I tried to tell you so many times when you were growing up. But you were so focused on your studies, and by the time the duke had remarried we thought for sure there’d be another son born…”
“Alice, please,” Justin said, throwing her a wide smile, dampening his annoyance with the delayed coach. “I understandthe position you and Father found yourselves in was… unusual at best. This was a one in a million shot. Now that it’s happened all we can do is push forward—”
“And not look back,” his mother finished. “You are so like your father at times, my dear.”
Justin made no move to correct her. That was one secret he’d always known—Charles Nichols was not his father by blood.He’s your father by heart, Alice would remind him. Eventually, that became true.
“Rothesay!”
His brother-in-law, Anthony Morgan, strode into the morning room, ready to embrace him. Justin’s sister waddled in after her husband, eight months pregnant. Full-blooded Nicholses were also rarely on time.
Justin groaned, “Please don’t call me that.”
