The Duke Goes Down by Sophie Jordan

The day following Perry’s uncharacteristic attendance at church, he was hiding in the wine cellar, three sheets to the wind, when Thurman found him.

“Your Grace,” Thurman intoned with all the disappointment only an ancient butler could wield. “Dinner is served.”

Perry understood his disappointment. He was disappointed, too. His booted foot slid out in front of him. He kicked at nothing in particular.

He lifted the paper his mother had given him earlier in the day and waved it wildly in the air. “It’s official, Thurman. The banns are posted. Lady Circe is betrothed to that sod, the Earl of Westborough. Can you believe it? She will marry that oaf? When we were at Eton he liked to jump off the roof of the conservatory and see if he could land in the rhododendron hedges. More oft than not he missed, and landed on his head. He’s a stellar grade arsehole.”

Just another disappointment. Another one of the many things he had thought to have for himself but did not. Propped against the wall between racks of wine, Perry turned an eye to the myriad bottles, contemplating which vintage to crack into next. If ever there was a time to get foxed, this was it.

“Forgive me, but it must be said. Do you really think it advisable to wed someone named after the goddess Circe? She was a necromancer known to seduce men and change them into swine.”

Perry peered up at the steely-eyed retainer from where he sat on the ground. The man had served his parents faithfully since his predecessor had retired in Perry’s infancy. He stuck by them, moving into the dower house with Perry’s mother rather than remain at Penning Hall to await the new duke. Loyalty like that could not be bought.

“She was beautiful and could carry an intelligent conversation,” Perry countered.

Thurman’s lips twisted as though he tasted something tart. “And also vain and short-tempered. Word has it she treats her staff abominably.”

Perry sent Thurman a sharp look. “You never mentioned that before.”

“A vain and short-tempered noblewoman bears mentioning?”

“She was not any noblewoman. I was considering marrying her,” he reminded reproachfully. He was damned close to asking for her hand when the bottom had fallen out from his world.

“It was not my place to interfere.”

“But now you don’t mind telling me of my near miss?” He snorted.

“I thought you might be glad of it now. Count yourself fortunate.”

Fortunate? He supposed he was. He could not imagine being married to Lady Circe now that he had fallen so low. What if they had wed before the truth of his illegitimacy came to light? She would despise him. At least he did not have to endure that, waking beside a woman who loathed him for the circumstances of his birth. At least now whomever he married would know what she was getting—a bastard born son of a duke without a penny to his name.

Perhaps he should set aside the entire notion of marriage, pack a bag and leave. Head for some distant land where he might start anew and make his fortune. Men and women were doing it every day. Sailing across the pond. Canada. New Zealand. South America.

With a muttered curse, Perry lifted the bottle of wine he had been nursing and took a deep swig. A final swig, it would seem. He gave it a small shake, and looked through the mouth to eye the hollow interior. With a regretful sigh, he tossed the empty vessel to the ground at his feet. “A fine year. Pity ’tis gone.”

“Your mother awaits, Your Grace,” Thurman reminded.

Perry spread his arms wide. “As you can see, I’m not fit to sit at my mother’s table.” He then wagged a finger at the stern-faced butler. “And Thurman, you know better. I’m not ‘Your Grace’ anymore.”

“Old habits are not so easy to alter.”

They certainly were not. He was still learning that himself. It was difficult to break the customs of a lifetime.

“Call me Perry.”

His mother’s butler shuddered. “I would never demean myself to call you that revolting moniker.”

Perry chuckled. “Very well. You may call me by my truly revolting name then.”

Peregrine.

It was the type of ostentatious name that belonged to a duke. Not a bastard like him—the bastard he’d turned out to be. But he would let Thurman have his way.

Thurman waved toward the door. “Your mother . . .”

Perry looked down at himself. His clothes were hopelessly wrinkled, and wine stained his cravat. “In my present state, she would not wish me at her table.” His mother was fastidious and exacting in nature. A duchess through and through. She would not approve.

“Perhaps.” Thurman sniffed and started to leave, but then he stopped. “If I might be so bold as to inquire, how was your time in Shropshire yesterday?”

“You mean did I manage to corner the baroness and her daughter in the churchyard?”

Thurman inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment. There was not a fraction of shame in the motion. The old gentleman had taken Perry’s descent hard, perhaps only second to the unhappiness Perry’s mother suffered, and he wholeheartedly supported Perry finding an heiress.

In fact, Thurman and Mama had spent a great deal of time strategizing over that very matter, insisting that Perry attend church and all local happenings where the few heiresses of Shropshire congregated.

“Fret not. I did engage with the baroness and her daughter after church. Well, mostly the baroness. The girl hardly speaks.” Truth be told, her widow mother was more intriguing than the callow daughter. “I escorted them to their carriage.”

“They were amenable?”

“As always,” he said, feeling wearier than he should.

He had begun courting with the intent to wed well over a year ago when he was still the duke. Naturally he had not courted anyone in Shropshire then. He’d thrown himself into the season and the London marriage mart like a good nobleman. The time had come and he had resigned himself to taking that next step toward the proper state of matrimony. Now, however, the act of courting felt so very desperate and soul-crushing.

“Very good. The baroness’s daughter is by far the most eligible female Shropshire can boast.”

It did not bear mentioning that while she might be the most eligible female in the shire, Perry would never have bestowed any amount of attention on her before. Harsh perhaps. And yet true. It was simply the way things had been in the before times.

The before times. When he was a duke and life had been decidedly uncomplicated. When he had everything he ever wanted. Before a pair of dour-faced gentlemen, agents of the crown, had arrived in his drawing room alongside the morose-faced Penning family solicitor. It had been the most lowering moment in his life.

Initially, given their expressions, he had thought they were before him to deliver the news of a death . . . and he supposed, in effect, that was precisely what they were about on that ill-fated day. Only the loss they were there to proclaim was his own.

He’d sat stunned, hands limp at his sides, speechless as a slab of marble as they’d imparted the news of his illegitimacy. It was all a blur. He vaguely recalled the pop and crackle of the fire in the great hearth. The scent of leather from the armchair he sat ensconced within filling his nose.

As dark and somber as crows, the gentlemen had circled him within the shrinking space of his drawing room, citing their proof. They presented him with several signed documents and witness statements.

Perry remembered looking at those papers, trying to process the words, the parchment brittle in his shaking hands. He’d felt like a lad in school again, attempting to decipher a particularly difficult Latin text. Latin had not been his best subject.

In the rubble of his shock, he recalled feeling a sense of gnawing guilt. Perhaps that was because of the grim lines of the faces watching him, the tight set of their mouths. Judgment was writ all over their expressions. Condemnation. As though he were somehow culpable. As though he had set out to defraud the true Penning duke of his rightful life.

It had not been his doing. None of it. He had led a life of blissful ignorance, unaware of the truth waiting to materialize.

Truth always had a way of doing that, of revealing itself and illuminating the darkest, hidden corners. It could not stay buried forever.

The wrongdoing had belonged to his parents alone, but his father was dead now and unable to answer for his deception. That left only his mother.

When all had come to light, she had behaved as though she were the victim of a hoax. A cruel hoax perpetrated against her.

“It was your father’s idea,” she had wept when Perry demanded an explanation from her.

Fortunately she’d been in Town for the season and Perry had not needed to travel far to arrive at her house in Mayfair to confront her. She was just rousing herself at noon and taking her breakfast in her private rooms, comfortably attired in her dressing robe with her hair hidden inside a turban—as she had done ever since he could remember. As children, he and his sister knew not to bother his mother until late in the afternoon.

“He said the title belonged to his son, no matter if you were born before we were wed. He was off on the Continent when I learned I was increasing.” She sniffed and dabbed at her nose with a lacy handkerchief. “He wanted a grand tour before he settled down.”

“What for?” Perry had snorted, pacing a hard line in her chamber. “It seems he was having quite a bit of fun sowing his oats right here in England. Why did he need to go abroad for his diversions?”

“Peregrine.” His mother lifted her tear-stained face from her handkerchief to glare at him reproachfully. “Don’t you dare cast judgment on me. It’s not as though you have led a saintly existence. Have you?”

His mother was the daughter of a marquis. She came from an old and venerable family. She had always known she would marry the Duke of Penning and one day become the Duchess of Penning. That had been taught to her alongside her letters and embroidery. He supposed this certainty might have accounted for her willingness to prematurely consummate her union. She must have felt her future was assured.

Perry did not know what his mother or father could have been thinking. Clearly they weren’t using good judgment. He could only guess that they had been afflicted with youthful short-sightedness and functioning from the waist down . . . but he would rather not contemplate his mother and late father together in so intimate a fashion. It was all too much. He was already battling nausea over finding himself in this grim situation.

“I never lied to the world,” he had told his mother in the face of her censure and accusation. “I never stole a life that wasn’t mine.”

I just lived that stolen life.

The color had burned hot in her cheeks. “Once I sent word to your father, he returned as soon as he could . . . as soon as he was located.” A grimace crossed her face. “It just took some time for word to reach him.” She paused and tilted her head. “I believe he was found in the Netherlands.” She shrugged as though that were of no account now. “Alas he did not get here in time. You were born as he was en route home.”

“A great inconvenience, that,” Perry said with all the bitterness one might feel in such circumstances. Not that he imagined many people ever found themselves so similarly devastated. His situation was wholly unique.

“We married as soon as he returned.”

“Little good that does me now.”

“We shall contest this!” His mother struck a fist on the surface of the table, her eyes bright with the impulse to fight.

He’d grimaced, recalling the grim visages of the crown’s agents in his drawing room, armed with documentation that verified the true date of his birth was before his parents’ wedding, an event that took place at a small church in Yorkshire. That alone served as a flag.

Why had his mother not been wed in grand style in St. Paul’s Cathedral in front of hundreds of members of the ton as her sister had done? As her mother had done? As all the previous Dukes of Penning had done?

A small wedding at a remote shire in Yorkshire was certainly not in keeping with tradition or with his mother’s enduring need for spectacle and admiration.

His parents had been married in near seclusion and without pomp because she had been hiding her newborn son from the world.

“You want to contest it?” He shook his head. “Why? Are they mistaken? Was I born after your marriage? Am I legitimate? Am I not a bastard? That is the only point that matters here.”

She glared at him in mute frustration, her lips pressing together mutinously. “It is not right.”

“And yet it is indisputable.”

They would not take on the laws of primogeniture and win. Surely she knew that. Certainly she was not so arrogant to believe she was an exception to long-standing tradition and the rules that governed their land?

She stabbed a finger toward him. “You are not the only one affected here, Peregrine.”

He blinked at her sudden attack on him.

“Oh, the shame.” She pressed her hands to her flaming cheeks. “Thank Providence your sister is already married to Geston and can weather this.”

“Indeed,” he’d said wryly. “Thank Providence for Thirza’s good fortune.”

At least one of his parents’ offspring would be untouched by the day’s revelations. But then Thirza was the legitimate one. She had nothing to fear other than the barest tangential shame. Her marriage to the Earl of Geston would spare her the worst of the damage. Thirza’s mother-in-law was a great friend of the queen, after all.

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.

Shewas 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.

Bloodyhell.

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.

“Did, er . . . nothing untoward happen yesterday when you were in the village?” Thurman queried.

Perry considered that for a moment. The question seemed rather arbitrary, which was not a word he would have applied to the rigid butler in any sense. If one word could be applied to Thurman, it was deliberate. “Why do you ask?”

“You did nothing to offend anyone whilst there?”

Perry contemplated that, playing the morning over in his mind. “No. Not to my knowledge.” True, it was not in his habit to consider how others might perceive him, but certainly he would know if he had caused offense to others when he was out and about.

“Think on that a bit,” Thurman prompted, clearly convinced Perry should recollect.

“What are you getting at, Thurman? Speak plainly, man.”

“There have been . . . stories circulating.”

“Stories?”

Thurman appeared discomfited. A definite first for the man. He might not be nobility, but he carried himself with more hauteur than a king. “They would best be described as . . . rumors, I fear.”

“Rumors?” he echoed. “Since yesterday?” He snorted. “I attended church with my mother. No more than that. What could have happened that was so scandalous in such a short passage of time?”

“I would not say these rumors are scandalous precisely . . . merely unfortunate for the subject. And in this case, the subject is you.”

“Me?” He pointed to himself with bewilderment. “Well, out with it, man.”

“It is purported that you wear a wig and are stark bald beneath.”

“Bald?” He reached for his hair and tugged fistfuls of his thick locks. “Does this look like a bloody wig to you?”

“All rubbish, certainly.” Thurman nodded forcefully.

Perry released his hair. “What else? What else is being said about me?”

“Nothing too . . . damaging.”

“Thurman,” he warned. There was clearly more.

“Only that you possess twelve toes.”

He shot up straight, his outrage a lightning bolt to his spine. “S-slander!” he sputtered.

The only thing Perry had going for him was his charm and appearance and now that was under attack, too. Brilliant.

Thurman lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “In ancient times, it was believed a sixth toe was a blessing reserved for kings.”

“Except it does not apply to me because I have five toes on each foot.” He waved angrily to his boots.

“And there are those who believe it to be a witch’s curse,” Thurman admitted, still continuing as though Perry did, in fact, possess extra toes.

“With my recent misfortune, I am certain there are more than a few people who believe me cursed.”

He dropped his head back against the wall with a thunk. “What am I going to do?”

The question was posed more for himself, but Thurman answered. “You’ll go to the Blankenship ball and waltz so closely with every heiress present so that they will have no doubt you’re in possession of a full head of hair.”

“What of this twelve toes nonsense?”

Thurman made a sound in his throat that reflected how little he thought of that rumor. “Nonsense indeed. And if it were true, who really cares about one’s toes?”

“Ladies,” Perry snapped. “Ladies care about toes. Especially the ones who are superstitious when it comes to extra ones.”

Thurman shrugged. “And I am assuming this bad kissing business is a rumor, too.”

“Bad kissing?” he demanded.

Thurman blinked. “Did I not mention that is also being bandied about?”

Indignation swelled up in him, threatening to choke him. “No, my good man, you failed to mention that.”

“Oh.” Another shrug from Thurman. “I did not think it overly significant compared to the other rumors.”

Not overly significant that he was a bad kisser?

Perry lowered his head into his open palm. That ranked as significant to him. To females, too, he knew, it ranked as extremely significant. “The ladies tend to care about that, Thurman.”

Thurman offered up yet another unhelpful shrug and gestured toward the stairs leading from the cellar. “Dinner, if you remember, sir? Please do not keep your mother waiting. She abhors tardiness.” With that, the butler turned and took his leave.

Bad kisser?

Perry’s ego stung from that. Perhaps more than it should have, but that was one complaint that had never been lodged against him, and London was a place where gossip thrived. If such tittle-tattle had been spun about him among the ton, it would have reached his ears in record time. As, apparently, it had done here in Shropshire. Gossip was gossip everywhere. He grimaced at that cold truth.

This bad kisser rumor was perhaps the most damaging one of all. He had to clear his reputation on that matter. He needed to prove his kissing prowess and soon, so that the eligible ladies of Shropshire knew that particular rumor bore no substance. Of course, it meant finding a candidate who would not mind advertising the fact that she had kissed him. Not necessarily an easy task.

Again, the idea of uprooting himself and seeking his fortune on some far distant shore dangled before him and the notion was not without merit.

In either circumstance, staying here or leaving, he would have to prove himself. That much was undeniable.

Staying, he would have to see about tackling all of these rumors and doing his best to quell them. Finding the source seemed the most obvious solution. Find the culprit and stop him.

Or, most likely, stop her.