Mr. Quincy Nesbitt had suspected his return to London would be painful, that riding down streets that were at once foreign and familiar would be like tearing open an old wound.
It brought him not an ounce of pleasure to know just how right he had been.
He took a deep breath as he made the turn down Davies Street from his hotel, trying to rein in the sensation of being suffocated under a wet blanket. But no matter his attempts, the feeling persisted, increasing with each clip of his horse’s hooves on the cobbles. Damnation, but this had been a mistake. He had thought it the ideal plan while setting sail from Spain. Being so close to England, and not knowing when he might be back this way again, he could not pass up the chance to visit his closest friend, Peter Ashford, now the Duke of Dane. And with Peter in London for the season, it gave Quincy the push he needed to finally reveal truths too long buried—and to confront the ghosts of his past. It was something he should have done long ago.
Now that he was here, however…
His mount tossed its head in protest. Quincy took a deep breath, relaxing his iron grip on the reins, silently reproaching himself for his distracted ham-handedness. There was no reason for his anxiety, he told himself stoutly. Though his family’s townhome was but two streets up in Berkeley Square, though he was closer to that place than he had been in fourteen long years, he was not headed there just yet. He would see Peter first before bearding that particular lion.
As he thought of his friend, however, and how he might react to what Quincy must now reveal to him after so many years of concealment and outright falsehoods, he broke into a cold sweat.
And why shouldn’t he worry? Peter had become more of a brother to him over the years than his own had ever been, had stayed by his side through every high and low. This was a meeting long overdue, a tale too long untold. But he just might lose his dearest friend in the bargain. Panic whirled through him, sending his stomach tipping in the most dangerous manner. Nevertheless, he turned down Grosvenor Street, headed for Peter’s townhouse. He would finally make things right.
Though his friend’s home had a quiet elegance, blending in with its surroundings in an understated way, it was still an impressive specimen. Quincy gazed up at it as he dismounted, a low whistle escaping his lips. Egad, but the filthy orphan he’d met shortly after running away from home all those years ago had certainly come up in the world. Then, Peter had been reeling from his mother’s untimely death and running from an uncertain and abhorrent future. It had bound them, that fear, a lifeline for two young boys.
Now Peter was a duke. Quincy grinned, anticipation overriding his anxiety for the first time since stepping foot off the ship and onto English soil. Damn but he had missed his friend. The past year had been a long one; he had not been without Peter’s companionship for more than a day or two at a time since that first meeting. Their time apart had brought forcefully home just how much the other man meant to him. Securing his horse, he strode up the front stairs to the imposing black door.
His knock was answered with alacrity by a stoic-faced butler. “May I help you, sir?”
“Is His Grace in?”
“Who may I ask is calling?”
Quincy grinned. “Oh, now, don’t spoil the fun.”
The man blinked. “Pardon me, sir?”
“I shall, and gladly,” Quincy said, pushing into the front hall, “if you play along and show me to the duke immediately.”
The butler’s mouth fell open. “Sir, I must insist—”
“Have no fear,” he declared, holding up a hand, “for His Grace will not bring down fire and brimstone on your head; though he can be a grim fellow at times, I promise he will be happy to see me.” He smiled his most charming smile. “Now do a man a favor, for I’ve traveled long and hard to see my friend and I cannot wait a moment longer.”
The man, dazed by the barrage of charm Quincy was piling on his head, nodded and mumbled, “If you’ll follow me?”
Quincy’s grin of victory quickly faded as he took in the interior of the cavernous house. Though the place had been impressive from the street, he hadn’t expected such a behemoth to be hiding behind the elegant facade. They’d lived a comfortable life in Boston, yes. And he had not been a stranger to these places of elegance and excess in the past. But this put that all in the dust. Soaring ceilings painted with heavenly landscapes of cavorting cherubim basking in their divinity, black and white marble tiles glistening at his feet, the walls a buttery yellow and covered with all manner of paintings. He just managed to swallow down a chortle. Best to save his mirth for Peter, when it would annoy the most.
The butler stopped before a closed door. Instead of opening it, however, he looked at Quincy with a healthy dose of uncertainty. “Sir, if you would only let me introduce you—”
In answer, Quincy clapped the man on the shoulder, winked, and threw open the door. It hit the wall with a resounding thud as he strode within. “His Grace the Duke of Dane, I presume,” he bellowed into the silence.
Peter, seated behind the desk, jumped a foot, nearly falling out of his seat before catching himself on the edge of his desk. “What the ever-loving…Quincy?”
He grinned. “Surprised to see me, old man?”
When Peter only sat there, mouth hanging comically open, eyes like saucers, Quincy laughed. “Damn, but that expression there was worth the hassle of diverging from my travels. Now come and give me a proper greeting, for I’ve missed you like the devil.”
Peter, it seemed, needed no further urgings. And Quincy soon learned he had made a fatal error, for his friend was quite the largest man he had ever known. Surging from his chair, a grin breaking over his face, Peter rushed to him. Quincy barely had time to brace for impact before his friend’s bulk hit him like a veritable wave. The breath was knocked from his body, meaty arms surrounding him in a crushing embrace preventing even a single gasping breath.
“Damn me, but you’re a sight for sore eyes,” Peter exclaimed.
“Air!” Quincy managed.
Peter merely chuckled, squeezing a bit tighter—how was that even possible?—before releasing him. “When last I’d heard from you, you were just setting sail for Spain. What are you doing in England, man?”
Quincy’s exuberant mood took a stumble at that. He held on to his grin by pure will alone. It was the opening he needed, the perfect time to reveal all. And yet…
He had not realized until this moment just how lonely he’d been over the past year. Though he’d had Captain Adams and his family back in Boston, though the months of travel following his leaving that city had brought him into contact with more people than he’d ever dreamed of, he always felt as if he were searching for something, some unidentifiable need that he couldn’t quite attain.
Now that he was with his dearest friend again, however, he felt the ache in his chest begin to ease. Surely he could not be blamed for postponing his mission just a few minutes longer.
Ignoring a pang of guilt, he grinned. “Do you think I could sail this close to England and not visit you?”
Though Peter rolled his eyes, Quincy could not fail to see the smile tugging on his lips. “I’m sure my charms pale in comparison to the wonders you’ve seen. But how has it been, traveling and seeing the world? I know it’s a dream long held.”
“It’s been incredible,” he replied softly. “If only my father had been alive to see it.” A vision of his father’s face swam up in his mind then, that long-ago grief tempered now by the distance of time, and by the knowledge that he was finally seeing the man’s dreams realized. He had worked hard over the years, surviving, building an empire to be proud of with Peter. Now, however, it was time to return to that promise he had made so long ago when leaving his family’s house.
He gave Peter a considering look, only half teasing as he said, “You made a pretty penny in the liquidation of our assets. I don’t suppose I could ever tempt you to join me? Even for a short while?”
Peter grinned. “There’s not a chance of that. But I do plan on enjoying your company while you’re in town. How long before you’re off again?”
Quincy shrugged. “Not long, a week or two at the most.”
“You will stay here at Dane House, of course.”
Quincy’s chuckle was strained. For there was one reason, and one reason only, he had made certain to find lodgings before coming here: he did not think he would be welcome after the truth was revealed.
“Not on your life,” he said. “I’m a bachelor in London. If you think I’m going to miss out on cavorting to my heart’s content, you are sorely mistaken. But Mivart’s is just a street away, and so you may see me much more often than you’d like. Though,” he said, casting a glance about him, taking in the richly carved bookcases, the deep blue silk-covered walls, the towering windows looking out onto a verdant garden, “I admit to feeling more than a bit of regret now that I’ve seen your London residence. The place is amazing, man. Is Danesford even half as incredible?”
“Even more so.” A quiet pride shone from Peter’s eyes. “I thought I would forever despise the place, that I would be glad to see it fall to ruins. Yet now my feelings could not be more different.”
“And I suppose having Lenora by your side has not aided in that about-face,” Quincy murmured with humor.
“Laugh all you want, for I can only heartily agree with you.” Peter chuckled.
Quincy shook his head, grinning. “I cannot believe the change in you, man. After all, when last I was here, you were in the throes of despair for love of Lenora. And now look at you, happily married, master of all this.” He swept his arm out. “And a damn duke. Don’t tell me I have to start calling you Your Grace now.”
“Arse,” Peter muttered. “If I hear those words from your lips, I’ll gladly trounce you. Sit, while I pour a healthy dose of something to celebrate this visit.”
As Quincy settled himself into an overstuffed chair before the hearth, his friend went to the small cabinet in the corner. “Never tell me you’re drinking strong spirits now.”
Peter chuckled. “I’ve not changed that much. Though,” he added, his tone turning rueful as the sound of clinking glass echoed about the room, “there are times I wish for a small dose of something stronger than lemonade or wine.”
“Has it been much of an adjustment, then, taking over the dukedom?” Quincy asked, stretching his long legs out.
Peter’s lips twisted as he turned and made his way to his friend, a glass of whiskey in one hand and something that looked suspiciously like ratafia in the other. “Transitioning from commoner and self-made man to a duke has been…different,” he said. “There are so many people whose well-being and livelihood I’m responsible for here, it boggles my mind. Without Lenora by my side, I don’t know that I would have taken to the position with any grace.”
Quincy snorted as he accepted his glass and Peter settled across from him. “Grace. That is one word I would have never associated with you. But how is our dear Lenora? I look forward to seeing her again after so long.”
At the mention of his bride, Peter’s face lit up. That was the only phrase to describe it, for it fairly glowed from within. It was an expression Quincy had never witnessed before in his normally stoic friend, a softening of features typically held tight against the rest of the world.
“Lenora is wonderful. She’s out with Clara and Phoebe just now.”
At the mention of Lady Clara Ashford, Quincy started. Just barely; the whiskey hardly quivered in his grip. But inside he felt the shifting of something. He recalled Lady Clara well. He had not met much with her when last he was in England; her father had been quite ill, keeping her close to home. But he recalled each meeting with her as if they had been etched on his brain.
What had it been about her? Even after all this time, he still didn’t have the slightest clue. She had been pretty, yes. Most women were to him. He always found something lovely to admire in every female he came into contact with.
With Lady Clara, however, it had been more. A calling to something inside him that he had been hard-pressed to understand.
And apparently he was still just as affected. He should have known such would be the case, of course. Whenever Peter had written to him, Quincy had been incredibly aware of any mention of her. And so he knew she and her younger sister, Lady Phoebe, had stayed on at Danesford at Peter and Lenora’s insistence after their father, the previous duke, passed on, and that Lady Clara was in the party that had made their way to London for the season and Lady Phoebe’s come-out. He had told himself it was merely a healthy interest. Lady Clara was, after all, Peter’s family.
Which, of course, did not explain why the lady’s sister, or any other member of Peter’s family, had not garnered as much attention.
Blessedly Peter spoke then, breaking him from thoughts of a freckled, round face and dark blue eyes. Unfortunately, it was to ask about the very last thing Quincy wished to discuss.
“Doesn’t your family hail from London?”
How Quincy didn’t blanch outright, he would never know. He brought the glass to his lips, taking a healthy swallow, followed by a second, letting it burn all the way to his gut. “They do.”
Peter regarded Quincy over the rim of his glass, worry clouding his eyes. “Do you plan to see them while you’re in town?”
“I had considered it, yes,” he admitted gruffly. He gave a nervous laugh as his friend continued to look at him soberly. “It worked out so well for you, after all, I thought why not give it a chance.”
His sad attempt at humor only made the worry in Peter’s eyes grow. “I could come with you if you’d like,” he said, his voice quiet. “For moral support.”
A mad laugh threatened, only barely held in check. “Ah, no, I’m not sure that would be wise,” he managed.
But apparently his attempts at deterring Peter only made him suspicious. He narrowed his eyes. “What is it, man?” Before Quincy could think of a suitable reply that would allay the situation, an understanding light dawned in Peter’s eyes. “You needn’t be embarrassed, you know,” he said, his tone gentler than Quincy had heard it before. “I grew up poor, too. You know that.”
Quincy did blanch then. Ah, God, if Peter only knew.
The alcohol sat sour in his stomach. This had been a mistake. He should never have postponed telling Peter; he should have been up front from the beginning instead of trying to wring out one last bit of closeness with the man.
He knew in a moment it was time. He looked to his drink, noticing as if from far away the trembling liquid, realizing only then how much his hands shook. Placing his glass down with care on the table beside him, he dragged in a steadying breath. “Peter, there’s something I must tell you—”
A commotion in the hall just then interrupted him. In the next moment, Lenora sailed through the study door.
“Peter, darling,” she said, tugging off her gloves, “your aunt has bid me to tell you—Oh! Mr. Nesbitt, what an absolutely wonderful surprise!”
Quincy, his heart pounding in his chest from dredging up the courage to finally tell his friend the truth, wanted to simultaneously howl that the moment had been snatched from him and kiss Lenora for postponing this thing he dreaded so very much. He surged to his feet, plastering a stiff smile to his face. “Your Grace.”
“Oh, none of that. Lenora, please,” she said with a warm smile.
“Lenora,” he repeated, some of the tension melting from him. “I do hope you don’t mind me dropping in unannounced.”
She laughed, accepting a kiss from her husband before taking Quincy’s hand. “Why, you make it sound as if you were merely in the neighborhood and did not have to sail for weeks across an ocean to get here. But we never received word that you intended to visit. Did you not write?”
“I admit, I had hoped to shock this fellow here.” He jerked a thumb in Peter’s direction.
“I do wish I had seen that. For though I try my hardest, not much surprises my husband.” She sighed happily. “But this is just splendid. I’ll have Mrs. Ingram prepare a room right away.”
Before he could lay waste to that generous offer, a sweet voice carried in from the hall. “Prepare a room for whom, Lenora?” And then Lady Clara was there, filling the doorway and his vision.
The breath caught in Quincy’s chest. Damn, but she was just as lovely as he remembered her, if not more so. Rich brown hair in a riot of curls so soft his fingers itched to dive into their depths. Pale skin with a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. A willowy figure, accentuated by the light blue of her dress.
And those eyes. Damnation, those beautiful clear blue eyes that widened when she saw him. Her full lips parted on a soft gasp of air.
He bowed a second later than was polite. “Lady Clara, it is an absolute pleasure to see you again.”
The delicate rose of a blush spread up her neck and settled, bright and warm, on her cheeks. She gave a quick, shallow curtsy. “Mr. Nesbitt. How lovely to have you back in England.”
Quincy, please. The words echoed through his head, aching to be let loose. He just managed to hold them back. To hear his name from her lips would be the most exquisite torture. And if there was anything he did not need right now, it was more to tempt him with this woman. Not taking into account the fact that he would be gone in a matter of weeks, she was Peter’s cousin and under his protection. There was no way in hell he could ever act on whatever this was he felt for her.
Her blush deepened as his silence crept on. She looked to Lenora. “Shall I go to Mrs. Ingram to have that room made up, then?”
Before Lenora could answer, Quincy stepped forward, his hand raised. “No need, my lady. I’m staying at Mivart’s, you see.”
Was that relief in Lady Clara’s eyes? Or disappointment? And why did he want so badly to know which one ruled her? Thankfully he would never know, for it was there and gone in a moment, her face taking on a pleasant if blank expression.
“Oh, but we have more than enough room,” Lenora said. “And Lady Tesh will be ever so disappointed. She always speaks so fondly of you.”
Quite an accomplishment, that. Peter’s irascible great-aunt, the Dowager Viscountess Tesh, was as plain spoken and opinionated a woman as he had ever had the pleasure to know. And he adored her.
But as much as he wished to stay here with these people, he could not. Not just yet. Not until everything was settled.
The remembrance of just why he was there in London hit him then, coursing through him in a wild panic that was especially potent after the pleasure of being with people he loved so well. Which just proved what he had known all along, that he would never be free until he put the past behind him once and for all.
“That is because she has wonderful taste,” he teased, desperate to rein his anxieties in. “But I shall be about so much, you’ll no doubt grow sick of me. Speaking of which.” He turned back to Peter. “I don’t suppose you have a moment, old man, before I head out?”
“Of course,” Peter was quick to say. Until Lenora placed a hand on his arm.
“I’m so sorry, but can it wait for this evening? We’re expected for tea at Lord and Lady Crabtree’s, and are already running behind schedule. Phoebe is recently engaged to their son, and this shall be our first informal meeting with them. And they are quite the sticklers for propriety,” she added ruefully.
Peter groaned. “I had forgotten.” He gave his wife a pleading look. “I don’t suppose I can stay behind?”
Quincy might have laughed at his great beast of a friend, who looked more the part of a Viking than a duke, begging his wife for a respite from a tea, if his disappointment wasn’t so sharp. For this meant he would have to postpone revealing the truth to the man. And it had been difficult enough to build up the nerve for today.
Any hope he had that Peter might stay behind died a swift and thorough death as Lenora leveled a stern look on her husband. Which was an impressive thing, being as small and delicate as she was.
“Peter, you know you must attend. This meeting is important.” She turned to Quincy. “You are, of course, welcome to join us. You’re family, after all.”
That warmth in his breast was back, and he very nearly relented. Especially when Peter gave him a look that fairly begged for his company.
But he knew, having stood on the edge, muscles tensed to take the leap and reveal all to his friend, that he could no longer pretend that everything was well. He could not converse and smile without betraying the turmoil in his breast. Nor could he return to his rooms and sit and wait for the axe to fall. No, he had to take action, to move forward. And that meant it was time to visit his family.
The very thought had him breaking out in a cold sweat. But underlying it was a sense of relief. In short order, it would be over and done with. And he could move forward.
Filled with a new determination, he smiled at Lenora. “Alas, I have an errand to attend to.”
“You will return this evening?”
That it was Lady Clara who spoke shocked him. And by the look on her face, she was equally stunned. Once more she colored. “To make certain we have enough places set for dinner,” she explained. “And to mollify Lady Tesh. She’ll be livid she missed you.”
He should have looked upon his return to Dane House with nothing but dread; though it would be later than he wished it, there could be no postponing telling Peter the truth of the matter tonight.
Instead he felt an odd kind of anticipation. “Yes,” he replied, unable to look away from the deep blue of her eyes, “I’ll be back.”
He saw it then, the slight tightening of the corners of her mouth, a smile suppressed. As he made his farewells, he wondered why it pleased him so.