Rules for Heiresses by Amalie Howard

Twenty-One

Ravenna frowned. The servants were unnaturally quiet at breakfast and no one would meet her stare, not even her usually talkative lady’s maid. Courtland was ensconced in his study with Rawley, her brother, and Waterstone, no doubt planning for the takedown she’d arranged. As expected, Sommers had written her the day after the ball a week ago, requesting use of her husband’s liner. He must have been desperate, but it was an opportunity that everyone was grateful for.

When another silent footman dashed out of the breakfast room after clearing her plate, she scowled and stalked out into the hallway where the butler stood. “Morgan, what on earth is going on?” The distress on his face made her nerves tighten with worry. “Just tell me.”

“It’s the newssheets, Your Grace,” he said.

“What about them?”

Silently, he handed her the neatly pressed pages. Opening them, Ravenna’s eyes chased over the front page in absolute horror, her chest clenching with every single damning word. It was one of the gossip rags, but still, the scandal would be interminable.

THE DUKE OF ASHVALE IS A SHAM!

How a Lowborn Bastard Lied and Manipulated His Way into the Ton.A True and Unbiased Account.

Her heart ached at the vile and vulgar words. This had to be Stinson’s doing. Unbiased, her foot! No wonder he’d seemed so smug during the ball when they’d danced, saying that the truth would come out sooner or later. Ravenna hadn’t paid much mind to his ramblings.

“The dukedom was never yours, Stinson,” she’d told him gently, hoping he’d see reason.

“Because he stole it,” he’d snarled.

“He’s your brother.”

He’d shaken his head. “That lowborn bastard is no brother of mine. You’ll learn the truth soon.”

There’d been no convincing him then. She’d only accepted the dance out of a misguided hope to salvage what was left of their friendship. It was clear that that would never happen when he was still so consumed with jealousy…as was made obvious by the callous, erroneous evidence in her hand. It didn’t matter if any of it was true; this was everything Courtland had feared. His origins would be exposed and he would be vilified.

She glanced at Morgan. “Is the duke still in the study?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Folding the vile papers beneath her arm, she strode to the study and knocked. Without waiting for a reply, she entered. None of the men seemed surprised to see her, which informed her that they must already know. Courtland’s face was expressionless.

“You’ve read them, I gather,” he said eventually.

“They’re lies.”

Her brother cleared his throat. “I’ve dispatched my lawyers, but the damage is already done. Lady Borne is swearing on her husband’s and the late duke’s lives that the claims are true. She is stating that Bingham was paid handsomely by your husband to declare Ashvale the legitimate heir, when he is, in fact, illegitimate, lowborn, and mix-blooded to boot.”

“But that’s preposterous,” she burst out. “What does the last have to do with anything?”

Her brother’s mouth twisted. “You, of all people, know the narrow-mindedness of the ton. Sarani still faces their bigotry at every turn. They will champion a duke from their own ranks and class before exonerating one who is not.”

“But he’s the true duke!” she said.

“They won’t care,” Courtland said. “I will have already been tried, convicted, and sentenced, even though my parents’ marriage was recorded in the local parish register. My grandmother took me to see it, and my father had to have made some record here. Unless there was some error in the filing.”

“What about Bingham?” she asked. “He’s the one who came with the documents of Courtland’s succession. He must have proof of the marriage.”

Waterstone looked grim, his perpetually amused smile missing from his somber features. “Bingham is in the hospital, fighting for his life. Thieves broke into his residence and ransacked the place, stealing a lifetime’s worth of files before thrashing him to within an inch of his life.”

“Who would do such a thing?” she murmured.

“Who, indeed?” Waterstone said. “But I’ll find out, never you mind.”

But Ravenna already had a sneaking suspicion. It had to be Stinson. No one else had anything to gain by discrediting the new Duke of Ashvale, and he’d all but admitted it. But Mr. Bingham? To set ruffians upon an innocent man? That seemed beyond the pale.

“What can I do?” she asked. “I want to help.”

Her brother turned. “You can be the Duchess of Ashvale. Hold your head up high.”

“She should separate herself from me,” Courtland replied at the same time. “That was the plan anyway.”

“That was your plan,” she snapped. “Never mine.”

Rhystan’s eyes narrowed. “Plan?”

She exhaled, her hands fisting at her sides at the expression on Courtland’s face. She could barely look away to answer her brother’s question. Ravenna’s heart felt as though it was tumbling from a great height, off a cliff to jagged rocks below. Those sharp edges loomed, taunting her with the end. The end of them.

Swallowing past the knot in her throat, Ravenna firmed her jaw and walked past her gaping brother to the desk where she met her husband’s shadowed eyes. “Let me make this very clear. I. Do. Not. Want. A Divorce.”

“Tying yourself to me was a mistake.”

“Marrying you was the best thing I’ve ever done!” She felt the tears breach her eyelids, but let them fall. For once, she would not hide her vulnerability. “Go on. Ask me why.”

His face was impassive. “Why?”

“Because…” Her voice trailed off, breath, strength, and hope rushing from her in a desperate attempt to save her poor heart from impending doom. “I love you.”

The confession was strangled, whispered. Raw.

Light slivered in his beautiful, midnight eyes before it was suffocated by the sheer force of his will. “I warned you not to hope for more with me.”

The night of pleasure they’d shared in the conservatory came back to mind. She had started falling for him long before that. A small, rueful smile touched her lips as she recalled the falsehood for what it had been. “Well, I did.”

“Don’t let this misfortune”—he gestured to himself—“ruin you.”

She leaned over the desk, uncaring of the other men in the room. “You are neither misfortune nor ruin, Courtland Chase. You’re the star…the light that brightens everything it touches. It’s time you saw that.”

His eyes widened, but Ravenna knew he wouldn’t change his mind. Not just yet. She would have to show him. Turning on her heel, she stalked from the study, nodding to her brother, Waterstone, and Rawley, whose faces seemed suitably discomfited. It was good to see she wasn’t losing her touch when it came to causing mayhem. As if a woman couldn’t announce that she loved a man in her own home. It was laughable, really.

She had a plan. Well, the glimmerings of one. Ideas spun through her brain. If Stinson was the one responsible, there was a chance he’d have the documents from the thieves—the proof they needed. Grabbing a shawl and a bonnet, she tucked the foul gossip rag under her arm, left the house, and went across the street.

After knocking, she was greeted by a butler who peered down the length of his nose at her, surprise on his face at a visitor at such an early hour. Drat, this was London. She’d always been an early riser, even after late nights of dancing, but most of the ton stayed in bed until the afternoon.

“May I help you, miss?”

From the look on his face, Ravenna wished she’d worn something fancier than the plain morning gown she’d donned or remembered to bring her calling cards. But then she shook her head. She was a goddamned duchess!

She squared her shoulders. “Her Grace, the Duchess of Ashvale, to see Lady Bronwyn.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” He bowed. “I shall see if Lady Bronwyn is at home to callers.”

His tone, despite the formal address, made it sound like it was an absurd request. Ravenna wanted to scowl. Rising before noon wasn’t a crime. She only hoped that Bronwyn wasn’t still abed.

Not long later, a smiling Bronwyn came down the hallway. Thankfully, it looked like she hadn’t been dragged out of bed. “Your Grace, how lovely it is to see you. Humbold, send for tea in the morning room.”

“Lady Bronwyn,” she said. “I apologize for the early hour.”

“Pish, posh, I’ve been up for hours,” Bronwyn replied. “Though Mama and Florence are both still abed. Stinson has not returned, though he hasn’t been here for the last few nights.” She lowered her voice as she beckoned for Ravenna to follow. “I suspect he spent the evening at his club or with his mistress.”

Despite her shock at the girl’s nonchalant statement, Ravenna did not reply. Once they were ensconced in the room, and the tea was served and poured, she closed the door. Bronwyn’s eyes went wide, but she did not say anything. “I know you have no reason to trust me, but I need your help.”

A pair of shrewd blue eyes assessed her over her teacup. “I’m afraid you’ll have to give me more than that.”

Gracious, it was like dealing with a mini-Courtland. She was his mirror in everything but coloring. Even the attentive expression on her face reminded Ravenna of Courtland. She hid her smile, but something like warmth filled her heart.

“My husband, your brother, confided that you thought…kindly of him.”

She nodded. “I do.”

“You might be the only one in your family who does.”

Bronwyn sighed. “No need to couch your words. I’m well aware of my mother’s and brother’s opinions. Florence vacillates.”

“He’s in trouble.” With that, Ravenna handed over the newssheets. She watched as the girl scanned the front page, blue eyes widening with every breath.

“Goodness, this is dreadful. Courtland is duke; there’s no contestation.”

“Stinson doesn’t feel that way.”

Bronwyn folded the offending papers and, with a decisiveness that made Ravenna like her more, thrust them into the grate. “What is it you need my help for? My brother has no care for me, and I have little sway with him. If he’s behind this, you know what he’s capable of.”

“Can I trust you?”

“If you’re here, then you must already do so.”

Ravenna drew a breath. It was a windfall that Stinson was not at home, one she couldn’t afford to miss. She’d planned to speak to Bronwyn to find out Stinson’s usual routine, then return with a plan to snoop. “Very well, I need to search his rooms.”

The younger woman bit her lip, none of her thoughts visible on her face, but after an interminable moment, gave a firm nod. “If you think that will help.”

Rising, she went to the door and crooked a finger to Ravenna. Together, they dashed up the stairs, stopping on the landing where Bronwyn put a finger to her lips. They tiptoed past several closed doors until Bronwyn stopped at one near the end. It opened with a creak that made Ravenna wince, but there were no other noises, from the door or elsewhere in the residence.

Stinson’s bedchamber was dark and the bed was empty, thank goodness. It would have been a nightmare, and a shock, to discover that he had returned at some point. Ravenna crossed the room with swift steps, pulling back the drapes to let in some light. There was nothing on the table beside the bed, so she made her way over to a settee and a low table in front of a cold hearth. Nothing.

Her stomach sank.

She wasn’t even sure what she was looking for.

Bronwyn must have wondered the same because she tapped her shoulder. “What is it you hope to find?” she whispered. In a few short words, Ravenna explained what had happened with the late duke’s solicitor, letting the girl come to her own smart conclusions. “You think he stole the documents?”

“I don’t know. I suppose I was hoping to find proof that Courtland was the true heir.” She gnashed her teeth in frustration. “This was an absurd scheme. I’m sorry to have involved you.”

Bronwyn frowned, eyes glinting in the gloom. “I think I can help, but I need time.”

“How?”

“You’re going to have to trust me a tiny bit more, Your Grace.”

* * *

Courtland stared at the missive that Rawley handed him. The news from his cousins could not have come at a worse time. Three of the estates given over to the locals to farm had caught on fire, and while his men had done their best to contain the fires, they had caused significant property damage. Courtland wasn’t too concerned with the loss of money—he’d make sure the families were compensated—but more about those who had been hurt. One fire might have been chance, but three at the same time suggested a plot.

“Arson?” he asked his man of business.

“I suspect so, Your Grace.”

“I should go back and assess the damage myself,” he said. “See to it that the workers and their families are cared for. Ready the Glory for travel now.”

“And Sommers?”

Courtland frowned. “He will have to wait until I return. A delay won’t hurt him. Alert Embry and Waterstone to the change in plans. Alternatively, we can arrange for another ship. But right now, the lives of those who depend on me matter more.”

“What about the duchess?”

He sighed, the thought of her a hot lance to his chest. Since Embry and Waterstone had left, he’d been hard-pressed to get her urgent confession out of his head and the blatant defiance in her teary eyes. She loved him. “She should stay here in case there’s danger. Inform her as well.” He paused. “After I leave.”

“Is that wise?” Rawley asked.

Courtland smiled wryly. “Probably not, but she’s prone to disguise and stowing away when the situation requires it. I’d rather she not have the chance. You’ll stay behind and keep an eye on her here.”

“Very well, Your Grace.”

After Rawley left to take care of everything, Courtland pressed his hands to his desk. Ravenna would not be happy, he knew. Nor would Embry and Waterstone. But he had a duty to those people who had gotten hurt because someone wanted to attack him. Showing up was the least of what he had to do.

He had a full wardrobe on the Glory, so it was only a matter of collecting some documents before leaving. Morgan had informed him that the duchess had gone out for a walk, which was a relief in itself. Facing her meant facing his own feelings, and he wasn’t ready to do either. Thanks to Rawley’s efficiency with the arrangements, he was quickly on the Glory and ready to depart in less than a handful of hours.

“How bad was the damage, Rawley?” Courtland asked his old friend, who had joined him on deck where he was waiting while the crew prepared the liner to leave the Docklands. He ignored the feeling resting like a boulder in the pit of his stomach. Something didn’t feel right. Perhaps it was leaving Ravenna behind. At least Rawley would be staying with her.

“Extensive.”

“Any deaths?” he asked.

“No, Your Grace. Minor injuries from smoke inhalation and burns.”

He blew out a breath. “Thank God. They have care?”

“Yes, as you instructed.” Rawley handed him a packet. “Here are all the names and the arrangements made as discussed.”

“Good. Excellent work. Thank you.” He cleared his tight throat. “Cousin, please take care of her. Tell her I said I’m sorry.”

His man nodded. “Of course, you have my word.”

Suddenly, a commotion on the docks grabbed their attention as a troop of mounted police surged onto the wharf. Courtland frowned, watching as they headed right for him and strode down to the gangway. One of the men dismounted and walked toward him.

“Are you Mr. Chase?”

Courtland’s frown deepened. “The Duke of Ashvale.”

“We received word that there are stolen goods aboard this ship. We have orders to search it. Permission to board?”

Courtland frowned. Stolen goods? That was preposterous.

Rawley stepped forward. “Cousin, do not allow this. This doesn’t feel right.”

“I have nothing to hide.” He gestured to the policemen. “Go ahead.”

Despite’s his cousin’s warning, he watched as the men marched onboard and proceeded to search every nook and cranny. Courtland wasn’t upset, but he was irritated over the delay in his departure. He needed to get to Antigua—there were people who needed him there. Even with a dozen men, searching a ship of this size would take time. Not that they would find anything.

“Arrest this man,” the main policeman declared.

Rawley moved to block the nearest man’s approach, but Courtland shook his head, stalling him with a palm. He didn’t need any violence or for Rawley to be locked in the stocks. “I am a peer of the realm, and you will explain yourself, sir.”

The man closest to him spat. “You’re a thief. We found the crates as described in the cargo hold, full of stolen goods, tea, and lace, and God knows what else, out in full view for anyone to find.”

Courtland felt the blood drain from his body. “None of any of that belongs to me and I can prove it. Who claimed those goods were stolen and on my ship?”

A man from the wharf cleared his throat. Rage filled him as Sommers strolled into view. “I did. These good English people deserve to know what kind of cur they let into their midst, wouldn’t you say, Duke?”

“You rotten, lying bastard.”

“No, Chase, last I heard, that was you. At least, that’s what was printed in the scandal sheets. Poor sniveling Stinson, all he needed was a little encouragement to tell his side. It’s too bad you won’t get to tell yours.” He grinned. “Who will comfort your little wife now?”

Fury burst through Courtland’s body in a blaze, and it was all he could do to hold himself back from shoving past the wall of policemen and taking the lying blackguard to the ground.

“Come quietly, Your Grace,” the head policeman said.

But Courtland had no intention of going quietly, not while Sommers stood there with that smug smile on his face. Had he planned all of this?

“Out of the way!” Momentary relief sluiced through him at the sight of Waterstone, shoving through the now thick crowd. He was followed by the Duke of Embry. “I’m acting on orders from Her Majesty, and this man is under my authority. You will step back.”

“This man is a criminal.”

Waterstone glared. “If that is true, he will be in my custody. Now move before I make you move!”

As the policemen dispersed, Courtland tracked the crowd for Sommers, but the slimy snake had also disappeared. When the earl gave him a slightly sardonic look at his current predicament, he ignored it. “Sommers. He did this. Planted goods he claimed were stolen on my ship. He was just here.”

“I gathered,” Waterstone said. “Embry’s on it.”

“What happens now?”

The earl grinned. “You’re under house arrest, Your Grace.”