Page 172 of The Dueling Duchess

“It is only eleven thirty, Guy,” she protested as he poured himself a hefty portion of brandy.

“Mmm-hmm.” He tilted his head, threw back the contents of the glass, and then poured another. “Read the letter, my dear. I’ll pour you one, too.”

Cecile looked down at the page of writing, and the first line leaped off the page: Your Grace. Her head whipped up and she found him staring at her.

He nodded even though she’d not spoken. “Read it out loud,” he ordered, striding to the chair across from the desk—gold leaf and royal-purple brocade—and dropping gracelessly into it.

Your Grace,

Yes, you read that correctly and no, I’ve not been on the tipple. I know you didn’t wish me to look into your cousin’s claim on the dukedom, but Sin and I decided it would be remiss to allow things to go ahead without any verification of his identity.

Cecile looked up. “You didn’t want to look into your cousin’s background?”

He shrugged but refused to meet her gaze.

She gasped as she realized what he’d done. “Guy! You suspected that he was lying, didn’t you?”

Again he shrugged, a deep red shade creeping up the muscular column of his throat until even the tips of his ears were pink.

He didn’t look for the truth because he wanted to be with me—he didn’t want to be forced to choose between his responsibilities and me.

He loves me enough to give up everything.

“What?” he demanded rudely as she stared at him.

Cecile just shook her head, too choked up to trust herself to speak.

So, with that confession out of the way, let me just tell you a story. It is about a boy named Etienne Boulanger who was the son of a working woman and one of her long-term clients—Henry Darlington—an Englishman who often crowed that he would one day be a duke.

Etienne grew up hearing fascinating, drunken tales of the luxury that awaited his dear papa. He heard about a life that would never include an illegitimate son.

Yes, Etienne is your blood cousin, but without the benefit of marriage.

Interestingly, you really did have a legitimate male cousin named Barrymore Edward Darlington, but he died at the age of only ten days.

The unfortunate Barrymore was a mere five weeks older than his illegitimate half brother Etienne, and the two were actually born on the same estate where your uncle lived with his wife—albeit Etienne was born in a tiny cottage where Lord Henry kept his mistress until he lost the entire property.

While your aunt died in childbed, Etienne’s mother survived and is still living on Réunion island along with three other children, none of which share the same father.

The gentleman I sent to Réunion (a former government operative who is well accustomed to dealing with matters of the utmost delicacy) was able to assemble the requisite affidavits and paperwork necessary to overturn your cousin’s claim.

Etienne’s mother must have written to warn her son that his masquerade was nearing an end. So, I regret to tell you that “Barry” and his small cadre of associates fled England two days ago. They left on a ship bound ultimately for Calcutta. I’ve sent letters to the authorities in several possible ports of disembarkation, but there are simply too many places for him to slip through the cracks, so I would not hold out any hope of ever seeing or hearing from him again.

I thought you might wish to lay hands on him given the unfortunate fact that he has, I’m afraid, stripped at least part of Fairhurst Hall and most of the London house of valuables and family heirlooms.

In any event, this information has been conveyed to your family solicitors—who allowed this plundering to go on with their knowledge, and during their watch. I imagine they are, even as I write this letter, on a packet to France to beg you for leniency.

So, congratulations on your elevation in status, Your Grace.

All is well here. Helen has engaged a new duo for the Fayre—a rather spectacular rope-dancing act called The Siren Sisters—that has been drawing quite a crowd.

I look forward to seeing you when you return.

Yours respectfully,

Elliot

Cecile looked up to find Guy had moved closer to the desk and was sliding a glass toward her.