The ghost, p.2
The Ghost, page 2
Lincoln’s mouth twisted without humor at the taunt. “I have not employed a secretary. Nor did I write the missives you each received this morning. Indeed, I received one myself, telling me to prepare for the arrival of seven visitors this evening.” He nodded toward the silver tray on his desktop, upon which a decanter of brandy and eight glasses stood.
“Seven visitors?” Melborne glanced pointedly about the room. “There are only five of us. Six counting yourself, of course, but you cannot be classed as a visitor in your own home.”
Lincoln snorted. “I am starting to feel like one when some unknown person has dared to issue invitations to all of you on my behalf.”
“It is vexing, to be sure.” Oxford frowned.
“I wonder—” Lincoln broke off as his butler appeared in the doorway. “Yes, Stokes?”
“Mr. Stanley is here asking to see you, Your Grace.”
James Stanley had been valet to the previous Duke of Plymouth. He had returned to England some months ago and was now employed in helping the remaining Ruthless Dukes and Plymouth’s heir in their efforts to discover the truth of how Plymouth died and where his body now rested.
The arrival of Mr. Stanley now, at the same meeting the five dukes and Granger had been invited to attend, perhaps meant the other man had fresh information on that subject.
“Well, show him in, man,” Lincoln said testily.
The butler hesitated. “There is another gentleman with him, Your Grace.”
“And?”
Stokes looked uncomfortable. “The second gentleman refuses to give me his name or remove his hat and cloak.”
“Odd behavior,” Bristol muttered.
“Very,” Oxford agreed.
“Some of Stanley’s informants can be less than…presentable,” Flint reminded.
“But the arrival of Stanley and his cohort does bring the number of visitors to seven,” Melborne pointed out.
“So it does.” Robert Granger nodded.
Lincoln turned to his butler. “Show both gentlemen in, Stokes.”
He hesitated. “Are you sure, Your Grace?”
Lincoln gave a reassuring smile. “What I am very sure of is that Mr. Stanley would not bring anyone into my home who meant to do any of us harm.”
“He might if he was being made to do so,” the butler reasoned.
Lincoln’s brows rose. “Does Mr. Stanley look as if he is acting under duress?”
“Not exactly, Your Grace,” Stokes allowed.
“In what way ‘not exactly’?” Bristol prompted.
“I have always found Mr. Stanley to be a quiet and serious gentleman, Your Grace.”
“He is not quiet and serious this evening?” Lincoln frowned.
“Oh, he is, but there is also an underlying…excitement to his manner.”
“Excitement?” Oxford echoed.
Melborne straightened. “I suggest we stop discussing the subject and have Stokes show both gentlemen in. We can then decide Mr. Stanley’s mood for ourselves,” he bit out impatiently. “There will also be six of us against one if Mr. Stanley’s guest should prove to be more than he seems.”
“And what do I seem to be to you, gentlemen?”
Every head in the room turned sharply in the direction of the cloaked and hatted man currently standing in the open doorway behind Stokes.
The man stepped farther into the room, revealing himself as being several inches over six feet tall. Short, tousled dark curls were visible beneath his hat, and while they could not yet see his face clearly, there was a glitter of intense blue beneath the brim of that hat.
“Your voice…” Robert Granger openly stared at the man.
“Illusion,” Melborne muttered.
“It has to be…” Bristol agreed as he rose slowly to his feet.
“I assure you, my friends, I am very real.” The man removed his hat so that his face was now fully revealed to them.
Six shocked gasps sounded loudly in the room, and the face of each of those men had turned white as chalk.
The man removed his cloak and handed both it and his hat to Stokes with the comment. “I apologize for any concern I might have caused you.”
“That is perfectly… There is no need… It is so very good to see you again, Your Grace,” the butler managed before hurrying from the room.
The visitor stepped forward to look about the room at the six men staring at him as if they still feared he was an apparition. “I assure you I am not a ghost, gentlemen.”
No one moved nor spoke as they all attempted to digest the knowledge that the sixth Ruthless Duke, Spencer Granger, the Duke of Plymouth, was now standing before them.
His face was gaunter than any of them had ever seen it. His jaw was sharp. His eyes were a hard and glittering blue, with none of the laughter lines beside them they all remembered.
His frame was also much thinner than previously, made to appear more so in the tailored black superfine and waistcoat.
Despite those changes, there was not a single doubt in any of their minds that the haughty and cold gentleman standing before them was truly their missing friend, Spencer Granger, the Duke of Plymouth.
And he was not, as they had believed, dead and buried in a nameless grave somewhere, but still very much alive.
Spencer wondered, as he took in the shocked white faces of his five closest friends and that of his cousin Robert, if he should perhaps have chosen a less dramatic manner in which to alert them all to his being alive. Rather than, as he now knew from Mr. Stanley, them having all believed he was dead after being struck down at Waterloo.
He also knew from Mr. Stanley how long and arduously his friends and his cousin had searched for news of him once it had been revealed that his body had been loaded into a cart and transported from the battle.
Spencer wished he could tell them what had happened to him directly after that, but he had no memory of being loaded aboard the cart nor where he had been taken and kept until his wound had healed.
He truly had not been aware of anything until he woke in the dark, damp cellar that had become his prison.
At the time, he’d had no idea how long he had been kept there either. But he knew now, again from Mr. Stanley, that when he arrived in London a month ago, a full sixteen months had passed since everyone believed the Duke of Plymouth had met his end at the Battle of Waterloo.
His cousin quickly crossed the room to pull him into a fierce hug. “Good Lord, coz, you have no idea how pleased I am to have you return to us alive, after all!” He gave Spencer a delighted smile as he stepped back, his face alight with the same happiness his words expressed.
Spencer looked at him quizzically. “Even if my return means you will no longer be the Duke of Plymouth?”
Robert’s grin widened. “And a happier circumstance I cannot imagine.” He grimaced when Spencer arched a questioning brow. “Your being alive means that your friends will no longer believe me responsible for your demise.”
“You are not cleared of that suspicion yet,” Melborne taunted. “We have yet to hear the details of Plymouth’s disappearance.”
Robert gave a disgusted shake of his head. “I have also discovered these past months that being a duke ain’t at all the privilege it appears to be, coz.”
Spencer eyed him ruefully. “In what way?” He had been a duke for so long that he had only learned this past year and a half what it meant not to be known and treated as the recipient of that title.
His cousin straightened the cuff of his white shirt beneath his black superfine. “For one thing, I ain’t been allowed to wear the clothes I prefer. These surly buggers, and even their wives on occasion, have lectured me on what clothing they think is suitable for a duke to wear.”
Spencer smiled. “I have always rather liked your penchant for wearing brightly colored apparel.”
“As have I.” Robert turned to give the other men in the room a triumphant look. “Which is why, tomorrow morning, I intend to visit my tailor and be measured for several new jackets and waistcoats in the gaudiest materials I can find. I shall then demand that they be made as quickly as possible so that I can go back to being the fashionable peacock known only as Lord Robert Granger.”
“Then do not expect an invitation to dine at my table,” Bristol informed him haughtily.
Spencer turned to look at all the other dukes in the room. They looked slightly less shocked than they had a few minutes ago but they all still stared at him as if they could not quite believe their eyes.
Something Spencer had felt himself when he first caught sight of his own reflection after escaping from the house in which he had been held prisoner. He had not recognized the thin and bedraggled man reflected back at him in the river as being himself. His matted, long dark curls hung greasily down his back, and a beard covered the lower half of a face gaunt from deprivation. Only his eyes, a clear and piercing blue, had looked familiar to him.
He had cut his dark locks and shaved since arriving back in London and now also wore tailored clothes.
But still, he was changed, and God knows how his five closest friends must feel upon seeing him risen from the dead. Still obviously their friend Plymouth, but changed, he believed, inwardly as well as outwardly.
“Good God, Plymouth, I still cannot believe it really is you!” The words burst out of Melborne as he crossed the room in two long strides to pull Spencer into a hug before pulling back slightly to look at him closely. “My God, man, you look absolutely dreadful!”
Spencer laughed for what felt like the first time in years. Definitely, the first since he had fallen at Waterloo, run through with a sword. Trust Melborne to be the one to speak with such blunt but good-natured honesty.
“You might look the same as I do if you were recently risen from the dead!” he mocked before sobering. “You should have seen me two months ago when I escaped my prison and jailer.” He gave a shake of his head. “Or even a month ago, when I arrived in London and was able to locate and ask Mr. Stanley to help me return to at least some of my former robustness.”
Five pairs of accusing eyes turned and leveled on James Stanley.
“You was all on the Continent when he appeared like a bloody ghost on my doorstep,” his valet defended. “Once I had recovered from me faint”—his ruddy cheeks reddened slightly—“’is Grace swore me to secrecy regarding telling anyone as to ’is being alive and in London.”
Spencer grimaced. “I wished to be a little more like my previous self before facing you all again.”
“You are here now. That is all that matters.” Lincoln walked toward Spencer as if in a trance before hugging him as tightly as Melborne had done. “Indeed, I believe we should put aside any and all recriminations and instead celebrate the fact that our dear friend Plymouth is very much alive.” He stepped back to begin pouring brandy into the eight glasses.
The remaining Ruthless Dukes each hugged and slapped Spencer on the back in turn.
All remained standing close to him once their embraces were at an end, their happy smiles accompanied by the glitter of tears in their eyes. Even Bristol, not known for showing his emotions, seemed overcome with joy by Spencer’s return from the dead.
“Gentlemen.” Lincoln handed out the brandy glasses himself. “A toast to give thanks for the safe return of our dearest and very much missed friend.”
All made the toast enthusiastically.
“I believe Robert mentioned something about each of you now having a wife…?” Spencer teased once they had all partaken of the brandy.
His friends all looked suitably abashed, Oxford’s stern cheeks going so far as to redden slightly. “To a man, we all met our wives on our search for who had struck you down,” he explained.
“And you are all happy with your choice?”
“Very,” they all confirmed in unison.
“And what of your sister Lady Rowena?” he prompted Flint. “She is well, I hope?”
“Very well, and now also my mother-in-law, having married my wife’s father, Lord Nicholas Hall.” He narrowed his gaze on Spencer. “And do not think I am unaware of the ruse the two of you practiced upon the rest of us the year before we went off to war in regard to having pretended you were fond of each other.”
“We are fond of each other,” Spencer insisted.
“But not in a romantic way,” Flint insisted.
“Well…no,” he conceded. “But Rowena was exhausted by being courted for her money, and I…” He broke off. “At the time, my affections were engaged by a young lady who was betrothed to another man. A betrothal I had believed she was about to bring to an end so that the two of us could be together. I have learned since my return that she married him after all. That she did so within weeks of learning of my death,” he added bitterly before frowning darkly. “But Stanley informs me she has since been widowed.”
“I can think of only one young lady who has been all of those things in the past sixteen months,” Bristol said slowly.
Spencer’s mouth tightened. “Then I advise that you keep her identity to yourself.”
One of the first things he had asked of Mr. Stanley was that the other man seek out news of Olivia. His valet had regretfully informed him that Olivia had married the Comte de Fontbleau over a year ago, but that she had been the comte’s widow for the past six months.
Finding himself enamored before having gone off to war with a young woman who was betrothed to another had been difficult enough. But to now learn that she had, after all, chosen to marry the man she was betrothed to was beyond bearing.
The fact that Olivia had since been widowed did not detract from Spencer’s sense of betrayal that she had chosen not only to continue her betrothal, but marry the other man.
As if the love she and Spencer had once professed to feel for each other had never existed.
And perhaps it had not.
Which meant he must now put all thought of the woman he had once loved firmly from his mind.
Not an easy thing to do when he was sure Olivia had been the only reason he had managed to maintain his sanity during his long months of imprisonment.
It had been the hope of seeing her again, being with her again, telling and showing her how much he still loved and wished to be with her, that had kept his lungs breathing and his heart beating.
He had felt utterly foolish for having harbored such hopes and dreams once Stanley told him she had married another man.
Those initial feelings of foolishness had now turned to anger. Toward himself as well as Olivia.
Her for the lack of any depth or longevity of her proclaimed feelings for him.
Himself for ever having thought himself in love with such a shallow young woman.
He knew well enough what his reputation had been a year and a half ago. That his wealth and title rendered him and his equally wealthy and titled friends as being very eligible bachelors.
An eligibility which Spencer acknowledged he had taken full advantage of over the years, with no real interest or intent of ever marrying any of the widows with whom he dallied.
He had thought Olivia was different to those other women, that her feelings for him were genuine rather than her having her eyes on the Plymouth fortune.
But he realized now he should have taken into account she was only the daughter of a baron. An impoverished one, at that, with a son and three daughters to see make an advantageous marriage.
The Miller family was in need of a fortune, and no doubt de Fontbleau had provided them with that when Olivia became his wife. That she was now the other man’s widow and only living relative would have meant Olivia had inherited all of the Frenchman’s fortune.
A comte was nowhere near as wealthy as a duke, but Spencer knew that the de Fontbleau fortune had been extensive in property and money.
Added to which, Spencer knew from remarks Olivia had made to him the previous year, that her parents believed Spencer to only be playing with her affections rather than having any serious intentions toward her. Olivia had told him her mother had been very vocal on the subject of his dissolute and flirtatious behavior and how foolish Olivia was to believe Spencer’s lies.
Both the baron and his wife had cautioned Olivia that a rich comte who wished to marry her was worth far more than a very wealthy duke who had only ever flirted with and then discarded the widows he usually became involved with.
Usually—because Spencer had never before been attracted to a single young woman like Olivia.
Spencer had tried to resist her beauty at first, aware that the fourteen-year difference in their ages and her betrothed state made one of the brief liaisons Spencer usually indulged in impossible.
But Olivia’s distinctive beauty—her golden hair, amber eyes, and full and desirable figure—was such that it became impossible for him not to notice her. Not to spend time with her at every society event the two of them found themselves attending. Spencer admitted that after their first meeting, he had deliberately arranged to be at those same society events.
As he came to know Olivia better, he had fallen in love with not only her beauty, but also her ready intelligence and gentle wit.
She had led him to believe she returned those feelings.
Only for him to have now learned that once she was informed of his death, she had wasted absolutely no time in marrying the man to whom she was betrothed.
That Olivia was now a widow was ironic when his previous taste had always been toward such ladies. But he had been burned by Olivia once. He would not be so again.
It was doubly ironic that he had returned to London to be told all five of his friends were now happily married.
Spencer looked forward to meeting all their wives and knew from Mr. Stanley the part those ladies had played in helping to search for their husbands’ missing friend.
“I, for one, should like to know where the hell you have been all this time?” Lincoln voiced the question, which was no doubt of interest to all the other gentlemen in the room.
Except for Mr. Stanley, of course. Spencer had already told his valet all that he remembered of that horrific time.
