Page 6 of A Siren for the Duke

CHAPTER TWO

Lionel Hunt stood before the imposing marble tombstone after the funeral, his gaze fixed on the meticulously carved letters that spelled out his brother's name. Horace Hunt, beloved son, doting father, sweet husband. 1775-1810. There was a trite poem, as well as some carvings of cherubs to further adorn the slab of stone.

“Horace was the best of us,” Edmund whispered to him as the choir sang a Lacrimosa.

Lionel nodded. Horace had been the very picture of duty for so long. He had attended Oxford, done the Grand Tour, obeyed their father, Duke Hunt, to the letter, and married a beautiful noblewoman of good breeding. The one duty he had not fulfilled: sire a son. Unfortunately, that meant the dukedom now fell to Lionel, who wanted nothing to do with it and had been vocal about that his whole life.

As the minister began his sermon, Lionel decided to observe the crowd. Black veils draped over bonnets and mourning coats clung to the figures of mourners. His blue eyes swept over the crowd, recognizing both familiar and unfamiliar faces etched with lines of sorrow. It was a solemn gathering indeed.

His own face was a reflection of his inner turmoil. Anguish and anger mingled within him like a tempest, threatening to consume him whole. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, hidden beneath the fabric of his black attire. The knowledge of Horace's unexpected passing, snatched away by an untimely illness, ignited a fierce fire within Lionel's chest.

Why did Horace have to leave so suddenly? That was so like him. He was a good man, but like all elder brothers, he did what he pleased, without much regard for the rest of his family. The unanswered questions ate at him like a festering wound. It was a torment that threatened to unravel his carefully constructed composure. As a Captain in the Royal Navy, it would not do to be seen breaking down.

Lionel was about to turn his attention to the minister again, for lack of something better to do, when an unexpected familiar face caught his eye.

Lady Upton was there with her husband, her son Ferdinand and her daughter Sophia. They looked appropriately sorrowful in their black attire and stone faces. But Jemima was not present. It was befuddling to him. Did she not care enough to say her goodbyes? The Uptons and Hunts were friends; surely, the entire family would be in attendance.

That’s just like her, a sour voice said, worming its way into Lionel’s mind. The moment you left, she forgot about you. She abandoned you. Why would this be any different?

Still, he wondered. Where was she? If she was not here, was she alright? Was she ill or possibly dead herself? Or had she married another and moved somewhere far away?

He didn’t have time to ponder any more after that, as it was time for the procession.

Lionel's heart pounded within his chest, each beat a resounding reminder of the weight he now carried. The creak of the wooden cart carrying the coffin, the shuffling footsteps of the pallbearers, and the mournful dirge of the distant church bells merged into a melancholic symphony. Thunder rumbled in the distance, threatening rain. At least the weather matched the mood.

The hole in the earth where his brother was to lay to rest seemed ominous, like the gaping maw of a beast ready to swallow its prey. The awareness that he had now become the future Duke of Kent, assuming the role as the esteemed leader of the Hunt family, settled heavily within his being. A fleeting respite, he found himself relieved when the somber service concluded, and his kin returned to the familiarity of their home, though the relief was short-lived.

At nearly the exact moment the footman took Lionel’s black coat, he heard his father’s voice in the study.

“Lionel, is that you?”

Lionel steeled himself for the interaction, then heaved a sigh.

“Yes, father, it’s me.”

“Would you come in here, please?”

The very last thing he wanted was a lecture on duty and responsibility, but he knew he was going to get it anyway. With slumped shoulders, most unbecoming in a Naval officer, he trudged into the study.

His father, Duke Hunt, was sitting in the high-backed wing chair behind the massive mahogany desk, looking like a shell of himself. In recent years the Duke’s health had declined rapidly, and Horace had taken over much of the duties, tasks that would now fall to him.

“You look well,” the Duke said as Lionel sat across from him.

“I wish I could say the same for you,” Lionel said gently, no malice intended. His father had once been a handsome man of rather imposing stature, but illness was wracking his body, reducing his height, rounding his shoulders, and taking a toll on his lungs. When he breathed, it was with a slight wheeze and he was painfully thin. A strong gust of wind might well carry him away.

“Yes. Well, youth is not eternal, my son. Which is why we need to have a serious conversation about your future and thus, the future of this family.”

Lionel gritted his teeth as he dug his fingers into the upholstery of his chair.

“Father, the sea is my calling,” he said in a stern voice.

“I know, Lionel. I know. But this family is your duty and it is also an honor to serve our country as stewards of the land and the lower classes.”

Duke Hunt had always been a benevolent man, stern but fair, and he truly saw his place in the nobility as one of servitude rather than power. If only all the nobility in England thought the same way, Lionel had often thought. But one good apple would not miraculously turn a rotten bunch.

“I cannot carry the title as Horace did. I am not him,” he protested.

“And for that, I am grateful,” the Duke said in a low voice.