The Duke Goes Down (The Duke Hunt #1) by Sophie Jordan

His mother had looked at him with sudden dawning horror. “What of me? You don’t think I shall lose my title and widow’s jointure, do you?”

In that moment, he could have been justly scathing toward his mother who had so little thought for him and his ruin, but he did not possess the inclination.

It took energy to be angry and hostile, and he found he lacked the will. It had already been an emotionally fraught day.

Instead, he had marched across the room and sank down across from his mother. He reached between them and took her hand, giving it a comforting squeeze. “You will be fine.”

And he was correct.

She was fine.

Even though it was well within the crown’s right to strip her of her title as the Duchess of Penning for her involvement in the fraud, no one wanted to drag things out in so dramatic and punitive a fashion. It would be a public embarrassment for all. So Mama had weathered the backlash.

She fortunately retained her widow’s jointure, and most of her friends stood by her. They weren’t so spiteful as to hold against her an indiscretion from almost thirty years ago—not when she ultimately married the man in question. Besides . . . if they renounced her then they would not be privy to all the despair in her life—or rather, in Perry’s life. They wanted a front-row view for that spectacle. Shunning Mama would prevent them from that pleasure.

As predicted, his sister was saved and untouched by the disgrace. She was actually even more popular than ever—still the darling of the ton. Everyone wanted to be close to her to hear all the juicy bits of her brother’s downfall.

Whereas his mother and Thirza were spared, there was nothing to be done for Perry.

Perry wholly and fully felt the sting of his life going up in smoke all around him. The smoke was still all around him. Most days he struggled through the haze.

Thurman was still talking as Perry dragged his attention back to him.

His mother’s butler was shrugging. “If the baroness’s daughter does not come to fruition, then we shall move on to the Blankenship lasses.”

Ah, the giggling Blankenship chits.

The sisters might possess significant dowries, but they lacked rank, which had been a priority once. He winced at his complete about-face. It made him feel an arse—but that was nothing new. He’d generally felt like an arse these days. Ever since the wretched truth of his illegitimacy had come out.

It did not occur to Mama or Thurman that these heiresses might want more for themselves now that he had . . . well, nothing.

The Blankenship sisters had been kind enough to his face, as were most people, but who knew what they really thought and what they said behind closed doors.

No one in Shropshire had rebuffed him directly. Perhaps it was because his mother still occupied the dower house and was an important personage in the community. Or perhaps the residents of Shropshire were genuinely kind and accepting in true Christian spirit.

Except her.

Ironically, the vicar’s daughter treated him to her usual disdain. She was nothing like the kind and accepting residents of Shropshire or her benevolent father in that regard.

Miss Imogen Bates had always managed to look down her nose at him even though he stood a good half foot taller. She had not concealed her distaste for him—not since they were children and his mother had forced him to spend afternoons with the vicar’s daughter whilst his father and the vicar engaged in long philosophical conversations. What lad wanted to spend the day with a girl? Especially a priggish one who never wanted to do the things he wanted to do.

“And if the Blankenship lasses do not come to scratch, then we shall move down the line.”

Perry wasn’t even certain what—or whom—was down the line, but he was certain he would be told. Ever since he’d moved in with his mother, she and Thurman had resumed old habits. They treated him like a green lad who needed instruction on every matter—from how to attire himself to which ladies he should court. It was unendurable and yet he’d put up with it ever since he’d been evicted from his properties.

“Of course.” Perry gave a two-fingered salute. Unless he wanted to permanently spend his days residing with his mother in the dower house, he had best heed their advice and consider any young lady touting a dowry. That was the sad truth of matters.

Bloody hell.

Perry started eyeing the bottles to his right, desperate for another drink to numb his mind from the bleakness of his life.

He had no wish to spend the rest of his life leeching off his mother. Rather, he amended, the rest of her life. Her widow’s jointure would see her through the rest of her days, and she was granted the dower house until her passing. There was no provision for him, however.

He’d been raised a duke.

He’d been told he was the duke.

That had been the provision left to him. That was his legacy.

All lies.

The dukedom belonged to another and Perry was on his own, without property. Without funds. With only his wits and the strength of his two hands and the charity of his mother. He winced.

His gaze fell on the discarded paper again where the betrothal of Lady Circe to the Earl of Westborough was stamped in ink for the world to see. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut for one long blink as though the sight pained him. When he opened them again, the portentous words were still there. Irrefutable.

He swallowed against the bitter taste coating his mouth, longing to open one of the fresh bottles surrounding him, but he resisted the impulse. He’d imbibed enough for the night. He needn’t drink himself to oblivion. That was the act of a desperate man. He was not that. All was not lost. He would persevere. He would find another heiress. His life would improve. Somehow. He would make certain of that.