CHAPTER 2

England, later in August 1875

An elegant though road-dusty traveling coach bearing the Whitfield coat of arms labored around the rolling green hills of the Midlands area of England. Inside the plush cabin, the Right Honorable—and very hungover—Earl of Roxley, Edward Sparrow, a blastedly cheerful and randy cousin of Spencer’s, remarked: “I say, Spence, old man, I quite look forward to seeing your charming wife again.”

Seated opposite his cousin and peering out a small, square-cut side window, which was open like the others to allow for airflow through the coach, Spencer absently watched the passing landscape and just as absently replied to his cousin. “That makes one of us, then.”

“Oh, come now, certainly it’s all the rage to pretend one did not make a love match and that one isn’t in love with one’s wife, but yours is an especially lovely woman. And I was being honest when I said I look forward to seeing her. She’s as witty and charming as she is pleasing to look at. And I do love to hear her talk; that lovely Southern drawl of hers could charm a wild boar—perhaps even you—into purring. So, admit it, you want to see her.”

Exasperation had Spencer frowning at Edward, a slender man with thick brown hair and merry, though bloodshot, brown eyes. The younger man held on to the hand strap to steady himself in the gently rocking enclosed cabin and stared back at Spencer, who said: “What makes you think that?”

“Good Lord, dear fellow, we’ve been on the road from London for nearly two hell-bent days now, destination Wetherington’s Point. Are you going to tell me this trip was my idea?”

“Hardly.”

Edward’s expression crumpled to confused. “Will you at least tell me why we are on this trip?”

Spencer fought the urge—only because he knew firsthand the effects of a hangover and could sympathize—to reach over and cuff his cousin. “Had you been sober when we left London, you would know why we are.”

“Well, I’m sober now. Frightfully so. Therefore, please tell me why we’re in this coach and out in the hellish countryside with that obnoxious sunshine.” Edward held a hand up between it and his eyes. “Has it always been that bright?”

Spencer chuckled. “Yes. And it has taken you two days to ask me, Edward.”

The earl crimped his lips together. “I occasionally suffer from a singular lack of curiosity. One of my many faults. Now, are you going to enlighten me or not?”

“Certainly. We travel to Wetherington’s Point at the request of my overseer.”

Edward squinted and frowned. “Your overseer requested my presence at your country house? I find that hard to believe.”

“Of course he didn’t, dolt. He asked me to come. Actions and decisions only I can make in person, that sort of thing.”

“Oh, lovely,” Edward groaned. “Nothing to do with a peasant uprising involving pitchforks and torches, I hope?”

Spencer shrugged. “Not so far. But they are in a tiff over some boundaries and fences and escaping cattle. Threats have been made.”

“And what exactly am I supposed to do? Help you fight them off?”

“Hardly. You’re along, my dear fellow, to get you away from the gaming tables.”

“But I was winning.”

Spencer shrugged. “For once, but not by very much.”

“By enough.” Edward leaned forward to tap Spencer on the knee. “You just want to see her, don’t you?”

“I do not, and stop saying that.”

Undaunted, a smug grin riding his features, Edward sat back. “You want to see her.”

“If you say that one more time,” Spencer warned, “I will be forced to throttle you.” When his cousin only laughed, Spencer added: “You think every man feels the way you do because you do not have a wife of your own and so you look forward to seeing every other man’s wife.”

His brown eyes widening with clearly feigned shock, Edward clamped a hand to his chest, over his heart, and slumped on the narrow leather seat across from Spencer’s. “I am wounded, sir, and the various ladies are insulted.” He immediately abandoned his pose and sat up, his expression prim. “And I do not look forward to seeing all the wives, mind you. Only the young, pretty, and ignored ones.”

Forcing from his mind an image of his own wife, who fit all three categories, Spencer said: “You’ll be shot dead by a jealous husband one day.”

Edward wrinkled his nose and tossed away Spencer’s judgment with a flick of his wrist. “He’ll have to catch me first.”

“And he will.” Though he had remarked in a dry, teasing vein, surprising Spencer was how quickly jealousy and possessiveness had swelled in his heart at simply hearing another man, even his cousin, remark on his wife. He supposed his reaction was only natural, though. No matter her transgressions, Victoria was the Duchess of Moreland. Her title, if nothing else, deserved a show of respect and should not be sullied by scandal. Further scandal.

Dismissing, with effort, thoughts of his wife, Spencer focused on his cousin, a man five years his junior and the oldest son of Spencer’s mother’s younger brother. Infuriatingly enough, Edward was a man who found all of life to be good and everyone in it wonderful. An awful attitude for a twenty-eight-year-old peer of the realm to have. “How is it, Edward, that your mother has not long since married you off and seen you happily siring her grandchildren?”

Edward ducked his chin and arched an eyebrow. “How do you know for a fact that I have not done so already?”

“You’re not going to tell me you’ve fallen in love?”

“But I have. Every day and every time I see a pretty woman—”

“That is not love. It is lust, dear fellow.”

Edward feigned confusion. “Oh. I suppose it is. But to what I was referring earlier was not love and marriage, but the siring of children. My question was: How do you know I have not been off and happily doing just that?”

“No doubt you have.” Spencer once again peered out the window to his left. This conversation was damned close to his very real situation with his wife. What had he been thinking to drag Edward along with him to Wetherington’s Point? Why was he even—

“Tell me if I’m out of line, Spence, but are you and your new wife estranged?”

With the sound of the horses’ jingling tack and their hooves pounding the dusty road serving as a backdrop, Spencer turned to look into his cousin’s for-once sincere and concerned eyes. “You are out of line.”

Edward sighed. “Then I’m right; you are estranged.”

“What we are, or are not, is none of your business, Edward.”

“But it is.” Edward’s expression was deadly serious—and affectionate. “We share a close kinship, Spencer. You’re like a brother to me, so it wounds me to hear the gossip among the ton.”

Spencer sat up rigidly. “What are they saying?”

“What else? How you two seemed inseparable when she was introduced at court, but then suddenly she’s not been seen at all.” Edward leaned forward and spoke conspiratorially. “You can tell me, old man, but you haven’t killed her, have you?”

“Don’t be a fool. Of course I haven’t. But, damn it, Edward, I can’t spend every waking minute—”

“You spend no waking minutes with her, and you hide her away.” When Spencer narrowed his eyes in warning, Edward added: “I’m telling you only what I hear.”

“What else do you hear?”

“How you ignore your fabulously beautiful and wealthy American-heiress wife. Do I really have to tell you how it raises suspicions among those with nothing else to occupy their time except the ruination of others’ reputations? You know that set, Spencer. Victoria’s sudden absence, following her dazzling debut, and your now being alone in London, not even during the season, is wagging every tongue.”

Spencer hit his thigh with his fist. “Damn them. Is nothing sacred? Can a man have no privacy?”

“I’m afraid not—and it’s your fault, old man.”

Spencer frowned at Edward’s grinning expression. “Mine? How the bloody damned devil so?”

“You introduce your charming new wife around; let it be known she has royal Russian blood, causing increased interest in her; make a mad dash of all the balls and dinners; she charms the prince; and then … nothing. She disappears, evidently consigned to the country. What else is all of London supposed to think?”

“I don’t give a damn what London thinks.”

“And me? Do you care what I think?”

Spencer stared at his favorite cousin, wondering if or how much he should confide in him. Edward was a gadabout, true, but he was loyal and could keep a secret. He was also a good friend. Then Spencer realized that Edward would soon enough see for himself, once they arrived at his country estate, the truth of how strained Spencer’s relationship with his wife was.

“Well?” Edward prodded. “My feelings are beginning to be hurt.”

Spencer made up his mind and forced himself to speak as dispassionately as possible. “My wife and I are perhaps more than estranged.”

Looking instantly stricken, Edward said: “Then it’s true. Good heavens, Spencer, I really had no idea—”

“No need for sympathy. All I will tell you is I knew—or thought I knew—what I was getting into when I took Victoria to wife. But I found out it was much worse than I thought. Two weeks ago, the truth came out and we quarreled. I left, saying I would not be back until … well, any time soon.”

“How awful. May I ask what truth was revealed?”

“You may ask all you want, but I will not answer you.”

Edward was undaunted. “As bad as all that? I see. Well, then, I believe I can look forward to a good and bloody battle while at Wetherington’s Point. I have always loved a good and bloody battle, whether it be of words, wills, or swords.”

Spencer made a sound of self-deprecation. “I think I can promise you two out of three, then.”

“Care to say which two?”

Spencer smiled. “No.”

*   *   *

Several more miles on the long trip had passed in silence between the two men. Spencer gazed out over the familiar passing landscape … green and rolling hills, thousands of forested acres, fertile farmland and quaint villages tucked around almost every turn in the road. Every acre of land, as far as the eye could see, belonged to him and gave him daily headaches. Speaking of headaches, he spared a thought for the occupants of the two less grand vehicles following his, which also belonged to him. The rear wagon held all the necessary baggage for this long trip from London. And the second carriage, the one just behind his coach, carried his valet and secretary, Hornsby and Mr. Milton, respectively. Spencer wondered if they’d killed each other yet.

Suddenly, with Spencer’s next breath, gone were thoughts of his bickering staff, because there it was, brought into magnificent view as the coach rounded a bend in the dusty road. Wetherington’s Point—the magnificent and stately countryseat of his family’s ancestral holdings in the Midlands. Though he loved this land, though it owned a part of his very soul, as did the manor house perched like a crown jewel between two green hills, today he took no joy in seeing its nearness. With disquiet marring his handsome features, Spencer stared out the window at the rapidly approaching manor house.

Just then, the coaches pulled into the graveled drive and slowed, finally stopping smoothly at the impressive front doors of the estate. Footmen appeared to attend to the various duties of welcoming the master and his guest home. Welcome, indeed. Spencer knew one person here who would not be happy to see him. And he didn’t blame her one damned bit as he’d behaved abominably toward her when last he’d been here. Spencer contemplated making an apology. Should he? Dare he? After all, if the baby was not his …

He had no time to finish that thought as he and Edward stepped down from his coach and into the wonderfully warm sunshine. Suddenly, he realized something here was terribly wrong. He looked around. The estate seemed in perfect condition as he had expected. But there was something else. Spencer tensed, realizing that only a funereal quiet, coupled with the sliding gazes of his footmen, greeted him.

Just then, Fredericks, an elderly stick of a wispy-haired man and trusted family retainer for more than forty years, emerged from the house and approached Spencer, stopping in front of him. When he did, the footmen fled, leaving Spencer and Edward alone with Fredericks, who dispensed with the pleasantries and said: “I am afraid I have some rather bad news to impart to you, sir. News best taken with a shot of your finest whisky.”

Somehow, some way, Spencer knew it had to do with his wife. “I see. Then let’s go inside, shall we?”

Tight-lipped, with fierce emotions roiling just under his skin, Spencer pivoted on his heel and proceeded inside. There, he stalked through the manor, with Edward on his heels and the butler desperately trying to keep up. Spencer closeted them—him, Edward, and the butler—in the familiarity and seclusion of his well-appointed study. He poured himself and the young earl equal measures of whisky and sat down on his worn-leather chair behind his massive desk. Edward discreetly sat down on a chair nearer the fireplace and across the room.

“I assure you, Fredericks,” Spencer began, “that I am aware you are merely the messenger here. As such, I assign no blame to you. Now, that said, I want only to know one thing. Where is she?”

Fredericks, an ancient and revered relic whom Spencer had inherited upon his mother’s death, stood at rickety attention in front of the carved mahogany desk. But Spencer’s question had him abandoning his formal pose. Speaking on a wheezing exhalation, he said: “But how did you know it was regarding the duchess, Your Grace?”

“Oh, who else, Fredericks? She is the only one missing. Now, where is she? What has happened?” Though outwardly he sounded only perturbed at this news, inside Spencer’s heart damned near pounded out of his chest with fear. He imagined all sorts of tragedies. A riding accident. A carriage turned over on her. Murder. Drowning in the lake.

“The duchess is … no longer with us, Your Grace.”

Spencer’s eyes rounded; he met Edward’s gaze. His cousin shook his head and shrugged his shoulders, as if to say he had no clue, either. Spencer addressed his remarks to his butler. “We have established that, Fredericks. Are you trying not to tell me she died and was buried in my absence? I will find it extremely hard to believe that I was not notified in such a case.”

“Oh, no, sir. Not at all, sir. Good heavens, no. I never meant to give you that impression. Indeed, I pray daily that the duchess continues to enjoy splendid health, Your Grace.”

She will, but only until next I see her, was Spencer’s thought. “I did send word to Mr. Dover that I would be arriving today from London. Was that message received by him and did he relay it to you?”

“Yes, Your Grace, he did, indeed. Your overseer is very diligent.”

“Then…?”

Fredericks suddenly would not meet Spencer’s gaze. “I hope you find everything at Wetherington’s Point to your satisfaction?”

“Yes. Quite.” He knew the butler meant that the manor house had been thoroughly cleaned from top to bottom, the silver polished, the larder stocked, and the lawns groomed. Spencer cared not one jot for such preparations. “All very nice. Now, out with it, Fredericks. What are you keeping from me? I can tell you are withholding something.”

The longtime servant stood there, looking as morose as if he were facing his own beheading. “Perhaps you ought to have more of your whisky, sir.”

“I daresay, Spence, old man, this is probably the first time in your life that a man has tried to get you drunk.”

“Shut up, Edward.” Spencer narrowed his eyes in suspicion as he reached for his whisky and tipped it up. He peered over the cut-crystal glass’s rim at his butler. Though the man remained as dear and familiar as an old, comfortable shoe, Spencer felt a growing impatience with him. He lowered his glass. “There, I’ve drunk all up like a good little boy. Now it’s your turn, man. The question before you is a simple one. Where is the duchess?”

The frail butler slumped. “At this exact moment in time, Your Grace, I will have to say that I have no idea.”

A rude snort of amused disbelief came from Edward. Spencer’s hand tightened around his drink, though he would have preferred it were his cousin’s neck. “Fredericks, what the devil do you mean? There is something you’re not telling me, isn’t there?”

Fredericks’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. “I am most sorry, Your Grace, but I find myself in quite the quandary.”

Spencer sat forward abruptly in his chair. “Well, by God, man, you are not alone in it, I will say that. Is there some mystery here? What did the duchess do—walk out into the mists and disappear, never to be seen again?”

“I’m afraid that’s not far from the truth, Your Grace.”

“Oh, this is jolly good entertainment.”

“Shut up, Edward. And you, Fredericks, explain your remark.”

“As you wish, Your Grace.” And yet, amazingly, he said nothing more.

Another snort from Edward, and Spencer snapped. “What I wish, Fredericks, is to know where my damned—” He clamped his jaws together so tightly his back teeth ached. Only when he felt more in control did he continue. “That is, the duchess’s whereabouts. And, preferably, I’d like to know before I am anywhere near your venerable age.”

“I understand, sir. Yet I fear you are not going to like what I have to say with regard to that matter.”

“Rest assured that I have yet, in the fifteen minutes or so that I’ve been home, to like anything at all that you’ve had to tell me … or not tell me, is more like it. So, proceed.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Fredericks pulled himself erect. “Her Grace the duchess”—he slid his gaze over to Edward and back to his employer, intoning his words as though he were announcing the death of royalty—“caused her belongings to be packed and left posthaste in a coach.”

The butler’s words struck Spencer like physical blows, but it was the oddest thing. He felt nothing. Nothing at all. Except cold. Very cold. He sat there, frowning, as he forced his mind around the meaning of his servant’s words. She had her belongings packed and left in a coach?

Suddenly, the enormity of her actions sank in. She’d left when he’d specifically told her she was to remain here. An onslaught of outrage and insult overrode breeding and years of training in comportment and had Spencer exploding from his chair. The hapless piece of furniture scraped backward with a horrible shrieking sound across the polished wood flooring. He all but spat out his curse: “The very devil, you say! She has packed her belongings and left? When? When did this occur?”

“Easy on, Spencer,” Edward urged, who had suddenly appeared at his elbow. “Surely there’s a simple explanation.”

Spencer heard his cousin but had eyes only for Fredericks, who first addressed Edward. “I’m afraid there is not, Lord Roxley.”

The elderly retainer, dressed in a suit of black formal clothes too big for him—or perhaps he’d suddenly shrunk inside them—turned his sad gaze his employer’s way. “She left almost a week ago, Your Grace.”

“A week ago, man? A week?” Spencer didn’t know which stung more: the duchess’s fleeing or this glaring lack of loyalty to him on the part of Fredericks, a man who had known Spencer since he was a baby, a man for whom he bore a great deal of affection, and at whom he was now genuinely angry. “You didn’t think to do something as simple as dispatch a rider to me with this news?”

“Yes, of course we did, sir. Mrs. Kevins and I—”

“Who the devil is Mrs. Kevins?”

“The new housekeeper the duchess hired in your absence, Your Grace.”

Impatient now that he knew this to be an inconsequential domestic detail, Spencer waved it away. “Never mind. Go on.”

Accompanying his words with an abbreviated bow, Fredericks said, “Yes, Your Grace. Mrs. Kevins and I wanted very much to apprise you of this development, sir. But it is hardly our place to … tattle on the duchess.”

“Well, he’s got you there, Spence, old man.”

Spencer’s narrowed eyes ached with the intensity of the humiliation and the anger pressing against the backs of them as he stared at his cousin. “Yes, I can see that.” He then addressed Fredericks. “Just out of curiosity, Fredericks, how long would you have waited to notify me—if for no other reason than out of loyalty to me—had I not scheduled this trip at this time?”

The butler again looked everywhere but at Spencer or Edward. “All I can say is your decision to return home at this particular time was fortuitous for all concerned, Your Grace.”

“No, you will quickly find it is not all you can say. Damn it, look at me, Fredericks. And you, Edward, may step back.” He waited; Edward stepped back; and Fredericks gave Spencer his attention. “Thank you. Now, what do you mean by fortuitous, Fredericks? How so?”

“I mean not only did convention prevent us from apprising you, sir, but the duchess left orders.”

Spencer ignored Edward’s little sick sound of doom and narrowed his eyes. “Orders? What orders? What are you talking about?”

Fredericks pulled himself up to his formal posture. “The duchess forbade us contacting you.”

“She … forbade? Why in God’s name would she—” He didn’t finish the question because he already knew the answer: So she could make good her getaway. Feeling a sudden need to sit down, Spencer retrieved his chair and dragged it over to the desk. He then sank down heavily on the padded leather seat and slouched back against its familiar comfort. He closed his eyes and rubbed the taut skin between his eyebrows. Damn.

Spencer felt his shoulder being squeezed compassionately. “Are you quite all right, Spence, old man?” Edward asked.

Feeling bleak and empty inside, Spencer opened his eyes. “Never better.”

“If I may intrude, Your Grace?”

Spencer indicated with a gesture for the butler, whose brow was furrowed with worry lines, to proceed.

“Thank you, sir. I want … well, I just would like to … Oh, rot and balderdash, sir, I’m trying to say how sorry I am and that it pains me to see you hurt and I had hoped against hope that the duchess would realize her mistake in leaving and return before you discovered her gone. There, I’ve said it.”

“Oh, jolly well said, Fredericks,” Edward cheered.

To Spencer’s surprise, he found he could smile, even under these circumstances. “Thank you, Fredericks. You’re very kind.” Then, his next thought sobered him, but he knew he had to ask it, whether Edward was in the room or not. “When the duchess left … was she alone?”

“Hello, what’s this?”

“That’s enough, Edward.”

Obviously perceiving the implication behind Spencer’s question, Fredericks’s eyes widened and his face colored. “Oh, yes, Your Grace, entirely alone. Well, except for her lady’s maid, Rosanna, of course. And Herndon, her driver. And the footmen—”

Spencer had held up a hand to stop him. “I understand, Fredericks. Thank you.”

He wondered for how long his wife would be alone. He’d thought at first she’d left to avoid another confrontation with him. After all, she had to have known his overseer had requested his presence here. The nagging thought was no, she didn’t have to know. The tenants knew to go directly to Mr. Dover, and the overseer had orders not to involve the duchess but to contact Spencer with any problems or concerns to do with Wetherington’s Point. Most likely, the overseer had not crossed paths with Victoria. But even had he, he most likely would not have mentioned to her he had requested Spencer to return at this time.

Spencer had now to accept the possibility that she was not running from his imminent arrival here, or even to her mother, but was instead running to her lover, the other man, perhaps the father of her child. Spencer didn’t know the man, or want to know him. But should he ever see him … he’d kill him. If she thinks for one moment that I will allow her to get away with this, she is sorely mistaken. I will follow her and I will find her— He stopped right there. Follow her where? He sighted on Fredericks, who still stood in front of his desk. “Do you know where the duchess was going? Did she say?”

“Not directly to me. But I heard one of the footmen say they were traveling to Liverpool.”

“Liverpool?” Edward’s voice was rich with distaste. “Why in God’s name would anyone travel to Liverpool?”

Spencer treated Edward’s question as rhetorical and focused instead on his butler. “Tell me, Fredericks … what occurred here before the duchess’s sudden departure? Did something specific happen to precipitate her leaving, is what I’m asking you.”

“I believe something might have, yes, sir.”

Spencer waited; his butler apparently did, too. Through gritted teeth, Spencer said: “Then out with it, man.”

Fredericks’s frown lowered his thin, gray eyebrows over his bird’s beak of a nose. “Yes, sir. Although I didn’t credit it at the time, she did receive a letter late one afternoon.”

“A letter?” This, again, was Edward, who made it sound as if he’d never heard of such a thing.

With an abrupt, threatening movement, Spencer turned to his cousin. “Edward, for the love of God, man, quit interrupting. Can you not see the very devil of a time I am having trying to get a coherent narrative out of Fredericks? You do not make it any easier, sir.”

Edward sat up stiffly. “My apologies. I will try to refrain from interjecting my continuing startlement with these developments.”

Spencer searched Edward’s face for signs of sarcasm or defiance and saw neither. “Thank you.” He turned to Fredericks. “The letter, man.”

“Yes, sir. I mention this particular one because, uh, one heard from Her Grace’s lady’s maid…”

Spencer knew the reason for Fredericks’s hesitation this time. He would now be relating gossip. It was not news to Spencer that the servants gossiped among themselves belowstairs. Though he generally condemned it as a ruinous practice, this time he silently thanked God for the gossips; otherwise, he might never have known this detail. “Her lady’s maid, eh? That Rose girl?”

“Yes. But it’s Rosanna, Your Grace.”

“Like I said. What did one hear from the girl?”

“She’s hardly a girl, sir, being a woman past middle age.”

“I could not care less, Fredericks. The letter, if you please.”

“Yes, Your Grace. The letter was … not from her family and, well, caused a strong reaction in the duchess.”

A numbing cold worked its way up Spencer’s spine. He’d been right. She was running to the man. The son of a bitch actually wrote to her here. Have they no shame? They’ve been plotting this, probably since our very marriage. I’ve been such a fool. Feeling ragged and betrayed, Spencer exhaled sharply and asked Fredericks: “And this reaction you spoke of? What was it?”

“She seemed greatly distraught at first. Worried. She hardly ate and paced about as if in turmoil.”

“I see.” It was small comfort to learn her decision to leave hadn’t been an easy one. Spencer thought now of his wife, picturing her pacing and worrying. An image of her, dominated by thick waves of mahogany hair and striking blue eyes, coupled with her succulently desirable body that he did not know anywhere near well enough, assailed his senses— No. I will not—indeed, I cannot—think of her in that way. I cannot. He slowly exhaled his breath and resumed his questioning of Fredericks. “How soon after receiving this letter did she leave?”

“If I’m not mistaken, sir, I believe it was two mornings later.”

“Two mornings.” Well, there it was: two and two neatly put together. She’d received a letter not sent by her family; was greatly upset by it; and soon packed and left, having forbidden his servants to contact him. What else could it mean but a lover’s reunion? Like a banked fire threatening to leap once again to flame, Spencer’s temper smoldered with the certain knowledge that he’d be a laughingstock when word got out that his wife had flown. People would say this was Whitfield family history repeating itself.

Everyone in London knew that his mother had left his father when Spencer was only three years old. His parents had remained separated, though married, all their lives. And though he loved his mother dearly, and her family as well, and though she’d been a wonderful woman who’d done what she’d had to do under difficult circumstances, Spencer had still suffered from the taunts of other children and then, later, those of casually cruel gossips in the ton.

But he was a grown man now. A titled duke. And while he wanted to say he cared not at all what others said about him, he knew better. He did care—and he cared exactly because of his late father’s reputation for being an ineffectual man and husband and a profligate with women and money. Spencer had worked hard all his adult life to counter that impression of the Whitfields and to recoup the duchy’s lost wealth. But events and nature had conspired against him. The damned agricultural depression with its resulting daunting loss of income had forced him, like it had so many others of his peers, to marry a rich American heiress for her money in order to save everything that was dear to him. And, dear God, how much he’d had to compromise to do so. He could only ask himself now … was it worth it?

Feeling overwhelmed on several fronts, Spencer forbore a further mental litany of his troubles and told Fredericks: “Thank you. That will be all.”

The older man looked surprised. He opened his mouth as if he meant to say more, but then he firmed his lips into a straight line, said, “Yes, sir,” bowed deeply, and slowly inched around to walk in a shambling gait to the closed door of the study. The very picture of dejection, Spencer decided.

“That’s all?” Edward cried. “Oh, surely not. I hardly think we’re to the bottom of this mystery yet, Spencer.”

“‘We,’ Edward? What ‘we’ do you mean?”

His cousin’s face colored. “Oh. Of course. I see what you mean. Sorry. Didn’t mean to make a parlor game of your life unraveling, old man.”

“My life is not unraveling.”

“But it is. You may be older than me and you certainly outrank me in the scheme of things, my dear cousin, but still … I beg to differ. Your life is most definitely unraveling. Even your butler thinks so.”

Spencer looked from Edward to Fredericks. No doubt, and as Edward had intimated, Fredericks was disappointed in his duke. Not the usual thing for a butler to make known, however subtly, his opinion of a peer’s behavior. But Fredericks was different. He’d adored Spencer from the day thirty years ago when he and his mother had arrived at her family’s estate to stay.

From that day forward, Fredericks had championed him through all the triumphs and travails of boyhood and adolescence. He’d been the one, as well, to comfort Spencer when his mother and then, a few years later, his father had died, leaving Spencer alone and a young duke who’d had to learn fast and hard how to handle himself and his inheritance.

And now this. Frustration took a bite out of Spencer’s further eroding mood. He scrubbed a hand over his face, impatient with his own self. Damn it all to hell. What a huge, bloody disaster. With a force of will that had seen him through many personal tragedies, Spencer tamped down the hurt he refused to name. This situation must be faced head-on. There could be no shirking of his duties as the duke or to his duchy.

Thinking hard, and weighing his upcoming meetings, obligations, and the problems with the farmers he’d come here to deal with, Spencer called out to Fredericks just as the butler made it to the door. When the man made a wobbling turn in his direction, Spencer said, “Find Mr. Milton for me and have him attend me here. Get word, also, to Mr. Dover that I will see him immediately regarding the tenant farmers.”

“You’re sending for your overseer and your secretary, man?” Edward’s eyes widened with disbelief. “What do you intend to do—have Mr. Milton fire off a scathing letter, which Mr. Dover will deliver to your duchess? I must say, Spencer, I would think you’d first want to fire off a gun.”

Spencer stared pointedly at his cousin. “Oh, I do. But with you as my target.” With that, Spencer carried on with his butler. “The Earl of Roxley notwithstanding, Fredericks, tell Mr. Milton to bring the tools of his scribe’s trade with him when he comes. We have many people to write and meetings to change. And then ask Hornsby to have the footmen carry my traveling trunks to my rooms.”

Spencer had further orders for his personal valet, but had no wish to start a domestic war by having them carried to him by the butler. “Tell him I’ll be up to direct him when I’m done with Mr. Milton and Mr. Dover.”

Fredericks’ gaze held Spencer’s. A ghost of a smile played at the corners of the older man’s thin-lipped mouth. “Are you leaving us so soon, then, Your Grace?”

Edward cut in. “Yes. Are we leaving so soon, Spencer? Where are we going?”

“We are not going anywhere, Edward. I am.”

“Oh, blast.”

Spencer ignored his cousin in favor of answering Fredericks. “Yes, I am leaving as soon as it can be arranged.” Fredericks’s face split wide in an approving grin. Spencer couldn’t let him get away with being so smug. “Do try not to look so happy about being rid of me, will you?”

A twinkling gleam flared in the butler’s eyes. “Hardly, sir. It’s always a pleasure to have you in residence—and you, as well, Lord Roxley. But will you be traveling back to … London, sir?”

“No.” Spencer’s answering smile was conspiratorial. “Liverpool.”

Edward gasped. “Good heavens, you’re going after the girl, aren’t you?”

Beaming, Fredericks pulled himself up to his full height of an inch or two over five feet and crowed, “Oh, well done, sir. Most excellent.”

“Glad you approve. That will be all, Fredericks.” He turned to his cousin. “Yes, I’m going after her. Of course I am. She is my wife. And she is possibly carrying my heir.”

Edward’s eyes rounded and his mouth dropped open. “The hell you say! I am not missing this.” Edward chased after the butler. “Fredericks, have them place my bags in the traveling trunks as well. We are going after the duchess.”

Spencer pounded a fist on his desk. “Edward, damn it, man, you are not going, and Fredericks will give no such order.”

As he watched the butler leave, with Edward on his heels, both of them effectively ignoring him, Spencer suddenly became aware of a growing excitement inside him. He was going after her. This felt good and right. Images filled his mind. Images of the wife he wanted back, damn her. Yes, honor and pride were involved. And yes, he’d pushed her away. Yes, he’d told her he didn’t care. But, to his surprise, she’d been all he’d thought about in London. None of his usual haunts or pursuits had held any attraction for him. Only thoughts of her had. So when his overseer had got word to him of this tenant-farmer debacle, he’d jumped at the chance to return here without a loss of face.

And why had he jumped? Spencer finally admitted the truth—because he’d wanted to see his wife, plain and simple. The woman had somehow wormed her way under his skin. He thought now of her fiery temper, her blazing blue eyes, and her indomitable spirit. A smile of admiration found its way to his face. By God, she was magnificent. How could he have thought he didn’t care about her? How? The evidence had been right there in front of him all this time. But it had taken her leaving to make him realize it.

His eyes suddenly narrowed as he reminded himself there was every possibility that she’d left him to run to another man. But even if she had, he could not allow her abandonment to stand because the child she carried could possibly be his—and his heir. But if he had any sense, Spencer told himself, he would simply put her aside. A cold-blooded part of his mind assured him her fortune would remain his if he did, especially under these circumstances … or, to be fair, the ones he suspected.

Angry again, Spencer picked up his whisky, realized the glass was empty, and set it down again. Staring blankly across the way at a globe of the world, he turned his thoughts to the busy port town on the west coast of England where ships left regularly for America—including Savannah. With any luck, he’d be on one of them before too many days and tides ebbed. With him would be traveling the element of surprise.