Prologue
There were many things that the Duke enjoyed about writing. Research was one of them.
That day, however, he could not help but feel as though his attempts were futile. He thumbed the pages of countless books and skimmed over what felt like thousands of words, but it was all the same to him. No matter the writer, they all saw his ancestor, Sir Nathaniel Pyke, in much the same way. Roland knew that it would be an obstacle to overcome; that was his exact purpose for writing a biography about him to begin with, but it had begun to irritate him, if only a little.
“It is quite alright if you have changed your mind about writing this, you know,” Ambrose smirked, “Nobody would blame you.”
It was not a mean-spirited comment, nor was it one of concern, and Roland knew that. His friend, Lord Moor, had simply witnessed his process thus far, as well as the struggle he had had with it.
“I cannot abandon this, Ambrose. You know that. Besides, it is more than likely that I shall find exactly what I am looking for soon enough.”
“And what exactly are you looking for?”
Roland blinked.
It was a simple question, and truly the answer should have been much the same. He wanted to explain that it was to honour his family, or some such thing as that, but it was untrue.
“Something interesting, I suppose,” He replied at last.
“Did he not conquer Spain?” Ambrose asked quizzically, “Is that not interesting enough?”
“That isn’t quite what happened, no-“
But before Roland could explain any further, a loud hushing sound came from nearby. Both gentlemen turned to the source, but once they glanced at each other they struggled to keep themselves from laughing in a less quiet manner.
“Come, Roland. It appears that some people do not know how to treat a duke.”
“You know I hate when you do that, Ambrose,” Roland sighed as they left the reading room, “My title is no reason for me to think myself better than anyone.”
“Not when you are so well liked for other things, no.”
“Well, whoever we angered may not think so highly of me now.”
“You are most welcome for that,” Ambrose grinned, “So, where can we look now?”
“I shall speak with Mr Smith. He is the Head Librarian here, so if anyone will know where to go it will be him.”
“Excellent idea, Your Grace.”
“And this time, you will refrain from-“
“Behaving like a boy?”
“Something like that,” Roland nodded, smiling.
Mr Smith was looking at a collection of books when the two gentlemen approached, and when he turned to them he seemed equally as happy to see Ambrose as he was Roland. It was a quality he had that Roland liked a great deal.
“Your Grace,” he greeted, “A pleasure as always. What can I do for you and your friend?”
“Lord Moor and I were hoping that you may be able to help us. I am researching an ancestor of mine, and I require these works to aid me. You wouldn’t happen to have them, would you?”
Mr Smith scanned the list, his face falling the further down he went.
“My apologies, Your Grace, but we do not have the right to house these.”
“The Bodleian Library cannot have them?” Ambrose asked, “What exactly are you looking for, Roland?”
Roland gave Ambrose a look to remind him of their conversation, and Ambrose nodded, biting his tongue.
“I would love to have such works here at Oxford University, but they belong to an earl. The Earl of Worrell, if I am not mistaken.”
“Ah, yes. I have heard of him,” Roland said, and both Mr Smith and he grimaced slightly.
“What is it?” Ambrose asked, “Is he not in London? That would be terribly strange, what with the season beginning and all.”
“No, it is not that, Ambrose,” Roland sighed, “He is known for housing… particular works. Rarities. He is not known, however, for his generosity.”
“But you are-“
“Being a duke will hardly help. He cares much more for his works than having a bond with some duke that he has never spoken with before.”
“Well, you never know,” Mr Smith nodded, “It might be worth a try.”
“Do you think so?” Roland asked.
“There is certainly no harm in trying. Perhaps send him a letter. I wouldn’t count on a response, much less a positive one given his countenance, but you never know.”
“I suppose so,” Roland considered.
“Think of it this way,” Ambrose grinned, “If you do not write to him, the answer is absolutely no. If you do…”
“You are right, Ambrose. Very well. Mr Smith, would you happen to know his address?”
A short while later, the two gentlemen left the library, The Earl of Worrell’s address tucked under Roland’s arm. Upon boarding the carriage, Roland remembered what Ambrose had mentioned about the earl, and how his absence in London was strange.
“I forgot about it, you know” the duke said suddenly.
“You? You never forget anything. What could have possibly slipped the biggest mind in London?”
“The season,” he explained, “I forgot that it was beginning.”
“Ah, well that event hardly interests you.”
“But it is about time that it interests you, Ambrose.”
“Perhaps it already does.”
Roland wanted to believe his friend, but he knew better than to do so. When he looked him in the eye, however, he couldn’t help but notice a gleam of sincerity.
“So you shall be attending the soirées?” Roland asked.
“Yes, and you shall accompany me,” Ambrose nodded, his tone self-assured.
“Certainly not!”
“But the duke must find a duchess! If not, how else will I ever find a wife?”
“My fortunes have little impact on yours, I assure you.”
“If that is the case, then why is it that when we enter a room it is you that the ladies flock to?”
“The mothers of ladies,” Roland corrected, “And that would only happen if I were to accompany you, which I am more than happy not to.”
“But I cannot handle the mamas alone!” Ambrose pleaded, “They’re frightening when they wish to be.”
Roland couldn’t help but agree.
“Very well,” He sighed, “But I am not looking for a wife.”
“I am not asking you to,” Ambrose replied, his devilish grin returning, “But if the opportunity were to arise-“
“No, Ambrose,” Roland groaned.
“Alright, alright,” he chuckled.
“You wouldn’t happen to have your eye on any young lady in particular, would you?”
“No, not yet.”
“Then why the sudden enthusiasm?”
“I simply think it is time that I act as a gentleman. Such a title includes starting a family.”
Roland nodded, but he couldn’t help but envy his friend, at least a little.
“As for you,” Ambrose continued, “Have you thought about how you are going to ask the earl to see his collection?”
“I do not think that even with a year of preparation I could find the words for that.”
“Is he truly that terrible? How bad could the gentleman be?”
“In truth, I do not know. I only know him through hearsay, but the circles that we run in are small, and the people in them are not exactly prone to gossip.”
“Then I wish you the best of luck,” Ambrose smirked.
At that moment, the carriage arrived outside of Ambrose’s manor home.
“You are welcome to join me for dinner, if you wish.”
“Thank you for the offer, but I ought to write this letter.”
Ambrose nodded, exiting the carriage. Roland remained seated for a moment before motioning the coachman to continue.
Returning home, Roland thought about his day. For a moment, as he seated himself at his desk, he wondered if Ambrose was right, and if it was time to do his duty and find a wife. It was only for a moment, and then he pushed the thoughts out of his mind. He had a letter to write.
The words came to him more easily than he had expected. He considered spouting off some nonsense about how brilliant the gentleman was, and how much it would mean to him to be selected as one of a worthy few to be able to witness his esteemed collection, but he couldn’t help but laugh at the idea. It would be disingenuous, and he knew that the earl would see through it.
“My Lord,
My name is Roland Waring, the Duke of Anglefield. In all honesty, I come to you out of desperation.
It has always been a dream of mine to write a biography about my ancestor. It is my duty to honour my family, and I truly do believe that this will enable me to do so. I know that it is not something that you allow on most occasions, but upon hearing that you own a collection of papers about my ancestor, Sir Nathaniel Pyke, I knew that I at least had to try.
I have made a start on my biography, but I cannot help but read it and think about how shallow it is. I’ve found the same information time and time again, but there is never anything about his personal life. I do not know if he enjoyed being a father, nor if he doted on his wife, nor a single passion of his.
I do not want to write about him if all that I can talk about is his exploits. That is simply too easy. I wish to challenge myself, and to discover and talk about another side of a man that people do not know about.
As stated, I know that it is not the done thing for you to allow people to view your collection. I am not asking so that I can say that I was the first to see it all. I truly am asking in the hopes that I might discover more about my ancestor.
I hope to hear from you soon, be the response positive or not. It truly would be an honour to hear from a scholar such as yourself.
Yours Faithfully,
His Grace, the Duke of Anglefield”
It wasn’t perfect, but it was exactly what he wished to say. With a sigh, he folded the parchment and handed it to Reece, his manservant.
“Ensure that this reaches the earl with the smallest delay possible,” he instructed.
“Certainly, Your Grace,” Reece nodded, leaving immediately.
Roland watched him leave through the window. He felt strange doing so, but he couldn’t help himself. At first, it had been a mere desire to find the research papers that he required, but the more that he thought about the prospects of seeing the famed collection of the Earl of Worrell, the more he realized just how exciting of an opportunity that was in and of itself.
The ensuing day transpired, yet his agitation remained unabated. Had the earl responded favourably, his letter would likely arrive later that day.
But it didn’t.
Chapter One
“Father, you may wish to see this!”
Sylvie had been, as she always did, aiding her father with his correspondence. She had been doing so for years, her father claiming that her writing always looked much better than his own.
“If it is an invitation to a ball or some other such thing, you know what to do, Dearest.”
Normally, Sylvie would have sighed, scribbling a polite rejection and continuing to the next, but this time she came to an abrupt halt.
“No, Father. It is not an invitation. It is a request.”
“You also know how to respond to those.”
“Can you please just read it?”
The earl huffed slightly, though he flashed a grin at his daughter. It was unusual for her to be stubborn, and so she quite clearly had a reason.
She watched her father skim the letter that she had handed him, immediately seeing his face fall.
“The answer is no, Sylvie.”
“But Father, you must have missed the name.”
“Yes, some duke. I do not care, Dearest, you know that.”
“No, the other name. Sir Nathaniel Pyke.”
“Yes, the privateer of Queen Elizabeth the First. He is hardly any of our concern.”
Sylvie’s shoulders drooped. He had forgotten once again.
“He is indeed a concern of ours, given that I am also writing about him.”
“Ah, yes! Of course you are. My apologies.”
“It is quite alright. You can apologise for your error by allowing the duke to visit.”
“Certainly not. Those papers are ancient. If they were to be handled roughly-“
“He is a duke, not a commoner.”
“My answer is final.”
She wanted to argue, and to tell him that he was being terribly unfair, and that perhaps she wished to see someone beyond their servants for the first time in three years, but she held her tongue. She rarely argued with her father, and she did not wish to begin doing so now.
But she had so enjoyed the letter. She sifted through several every day, each one attempting to win her father over with praise. They had become repetitive, and long, and exhausting to deal with. This, however, was new. He had not arrived in a supplicating manner, so to speak, imploring to see their collection. Instead, he had spoken with what could only be described as passion. She blushed at the thought of the word.
In all honesty, her father’s reclusive nature was beginning to affect her more than she cared to admit. She had nobody to talk to besides their servants, and she was not allowed to go to their home in London and partake in the season. Indeed, she had not desired to participate in it, but the fact was inconsequential. The problem was that she couldn’t, and no amount of pleading with her father was going to change that.
That could well have been the reason why she enjoyed the duke’s letter so much. It was a glimpse into the life of someone other than herself; someone that just so happened to be writing about the same person as her. It was fate, she was certain of it.
“Then we shall invite him,” she affirmed, “And I will read them to him.”
Other young ladies would be concerned about infuriating their father, especially those with fathers such as the earl, but instead of chastising her, the earl cracked a smile, chuckling softly and ruffling her hair. Any other time, Sylvie would have smiled softly, not making good on her threat. That morning, however, she did not care for it in the slightest.
“I am serious, Father.”
“No you aren’t, Dearest. You know how our family works.”
“I know how you work,” she sighed, “Ever since Mother-“
But she stopped herself. She knew before she said it that it was unfair, and that her father did not deserve that. He had done his best by her; far better than most would have in his situation. She was frustrated with him, and she mourned the life she could’ve been leading had her circumstances been different, but she knew wholly and truly that her father had only ever done what he thought was best.
“Ever since she left us,” he finished for her.
It was the only way he could say it, even after two years had passed.
“Ever since she left us,” Sylvie nodded, “You have been wonderful, being both parents at once for me. But I am no longer a child, Father. Nothing bad would happen, and you can ensure that he doesn’t ruin any of your books.”
“You hold the utmost significance in my life, surpassing any trivial documents my dear. You are my concern.”
“That is all the more reason for us to accept, Father,” she sighed, “I am so terribly lonely.”
“But you have me, and Bess.”
“And you are both wonderful company, but I require a little more interaction with the world outside of my father and my lady’s maid.”
Her father seemed to crumble at her words. That hadn’t been her intention; she would never do such a thing.
“I am trying, Sylvie,” he said quietly, “It isn’t easy.”
“I know,” she replied softly, placing a hand on his shoulder, “And I know that you didn’t want any of this to happen, but I’m growing up. It’s time for me to live a life, and experience all of the wonderful things about the world, just like Mother did.”
The earl’s eyes were glassy when he looked at his daughter.
“You look just like her, you know.”
They sat in silence for a while, and Sylvie thought about a story her mother told her before she began her first and only season.
Her parents had had a chance encounter. Her father had attended a ball one evening, enduring the entire affair with the unfortunate occurrence of having his feet inadvertently trodden upon by well-intentioned ladies, and subsequently evading their vigilant mothers. It so happened that one of his hiding places had been in a library, and he stumbled into it and almost fell at a lady’s feet. She was wandering around the room, so engrossed in her book that she didn’t notice him come in. She went on to trip over him and fell beside him.
The young earl had apologized profusely, but upon asking what she was reading she began giggling and told him about it. She only explained for a few seconds before telling him that it would be easier to explain it by showing him. He reassured her not to fret, expressing his reluctance to compel her to perform once more. However, she was determined and disregarded his refusal, swiftly returning to the beginning. They remained there for the rest of the evening.
They were married within the year.
“Do you think I shall marry someday?”
She hadn’t meant to ask it, and it certainly was not the sort of question a lady should ask her father, but he didn’t seem to mind too terribly.
“Of course, one day.”
“Even without another season in London?”
“Sylvie, if you wish to re-enter society one day then I suppose that I could accommodate it.”
“It is quite alright, Father. Not after what happened.”
“Well, do you wish to leave this house or not?”
They both laughed heartily. Sylvie knew that she was difficult to understand, especially for a mildly clueless father, and she hardly understood what she wanted herself.
“I wish to meet people,” she shrugged gently, “And I truly do think that allowing the duke to visit would be a start. It can be controlled, and it would help him. It would help me, too. You forget that I am writing about the same gentleman as him.”
“Oh, of course!” her father exclaimed, “Though a research paper and a children’s story are hardly the same thing.”
“It would still be an excellent opportunity to meet a family member of his.”
Her father sighed again, and he was clearly deep in thought.
“And I would see everything?”
“Everything,” she affirmed.
“And you shall make sure that it is you that handles the papers?”
“Certainly, Father.”
“Then perhaps it shall be alright, just this once.”
Her heart soared. For the first time in two years she would be meeting someone. It was unnerving, especially given that the gentleman held such a high rank, but it was an incredible opportunity nonetheless. She turned to her father and clung to him as if she were a girl again.
“Thank you, Father,” she beamed, “I shall not make you regret this!”
“You could never make me regret anything, Dearest,” he replied, “Just remember my rules.”
“The duke cannot touch your books, I must ensure the windows are firmly shut to protect them from the outside air, and no removing them from the library.”
“Good. Now, you may respond to him and tell him that he can visit for as long as he requires. I would do it myself, but I must continue with my other work for the day.”
Sylvie wondered how exactly her father would word such a letter and silently thanked the fact that he was too busy to do so.
“Certainly. I shall do it right now.”
“Only, sign it with my name,” he added, “I want to make sure that he knows I am aware of the situation.”
Sylvie nodded. It was not out of the ordinary for her to do so; an earl was always taken much more seriously than his unmarried daughter. Her father left, and she went to begin her response when Bess appeared in the doorway.
“I am terribly sorry, milady, but the cook wishes to see you.”
“Oh! I completely forgot. I shall be right there. Thank you, Bess.”
With all of the excitement that morning, it had slipped Sylvie’s mind that she had promised to help with the food preparation that day. She stole one final glance at the letter on her father’s desk before leaving for the servant’s quarters.
“I thought you would never arrive!” the cook greeted her with a warm smile. “You know, you need not assist if you do not wish to. It is, after all, my responsibility.”
“And not be able to see my favourite cook? I am afraid that is not a possibility.”
It was true. She helped more often than not. It began when her father had complained about the size of the onions served, and he asked Sylvie to show the cook how he liked them. Charlotte, the cook, had not taken it in good stride and had been curt with the young lady. Sylvie couldn’t help but understand; it was most improper for a young lady with no experience in cooking marching into the servants’ quarters and telling them how to do their jobs.
So she visited more often, offering to help but more importantly asking to learn. Charlotte had agreed out of obligation to begin with, but the two of them had built a good relationship over time. Sylvie was not allowed to help in the evenings anymore, as she was required to spend time preparing herself for dinner, but mornings were slower, easier to be a part of.
Besides, she decided, it was not as though she had anywhere else to go during the day.
“Nothing to do today?” Charlotte asked, and Sylvie sighed as she cut some bread.
“I almost argued with Father.”
“Goodness. What did he do?”
“He didn’t do anything, not really.”
“That makes a change,” Charlotte smiled, “In that case, what did you do?”
“Nothing! It’s just… Well, we received a letter.”
“And he told you to throw it away, possibly without even reading it?”
“It was from the Duke of Anglefield.”
“Ah, so you had to read it. I suppose reply to, given his status.”
“Father says we are under no obligation to do such a thing, though I do think it is terribly rude not to.”
“So that is why you almost argued?”
“The duke wishes to visit Father’s library, as he is researching an ancestor of his. It just so happens that that ancestor is none other than Sir Nathaniel Pyke.”
“The gentleman that you are writing about?”
“Exactly. Can you believe it? I mean what are the odds of such a thing happening? So for the first time in a very long time, I told Father that we needed to invite him. I am in charge of the preparations, and I must keep a very close eye when he comes, but Father accepted.”
“Perhaps you may find a husband in him too?”
“Charlotte, you can be quite overwhelming at times. It is not as though a duke would have any interest in a reclusive earl’s daughter. One-and-twenty and-“
“And beautiful, and intelligent, and a budding historian. Ladies can be worse than that, you know.”
“He is probably married. Dukes often are, and they’re usually old, too.”
“Well, if he is unmarried and old at least he will take what is being offered to him!”
Sylvie rolled her eyes, suddenly yelping as the knife caught her fingertip.
“It is quite alright,” Charlotte said, fetching some cotton for her cut, “I do apologise. I do not mean to distract you with thoughts of a mysterious duke.”
“A duke that will visit, find the research that he is looking for, and then leave.”
“Stranger matches have been made, and on a lot less at that.”
Sylvie glared jokingly at her, holding up her finger that she had cut.
“Yes, yes,” Charlotte said quickly, “I know. We can work in silence if you prefer.”
“No! I simply wish to talk about something other than the duke, especially given that he is all I have thought about since opening the letter.”
“Very well. Might you then tell me about this story of yours?”
“Certainly!” Sylvie beamed, suddenly forgetting all about her finger, “It is a children’s story. I doubt that it shall ever be published, of course, but it is about the dashing privateer Sir Nathaniel Pyke and his many daring exploits. I hope to have it illustrated one day, too, though I cannot say that I have the talent for such a task.”
“I am sure that you will manage just fine,” Charlotte nodded, “Though if not there are many painters that would do it, for a fee of course.”
“I have considered that also.”
“Has your father granted you permission to use any of his papers for your research?”
“Begrudgingly, yes,” Sylvie smirked, “He has one in particular, a letter, that I have sneaked one or two glances at.”
“A letter?”
“From Her Late Majesty Queen Elizabeth herself! It was to congratulate Sir Pyke on his elevation into the nobility. The duke would love to see it too, I’m sure. The letter talks about Sir Pyke becoming the first duke of Anglefield, after all.”
“I thought that we weren’t talking about the duke?”
Sylvie looked to Charlotte, who was eyeing her carefully while smiling.
“Ah. Yes, I suppose I did say that, didn’t I?”
“It will be lovely for you to meet someone, Sylvie. Especially after what happened.”
It wasn’t exactly proper for the cook to call Sylvie by her first name, but neither cared for such a rule. Sylvie encouraged it, if anything, mostly out of desire to be seen as a person, just the same as everyone else.
“I am not meeting the duke in hopes of such a thing!” she said quickly, “It would be most improper, even to accost. Besides, after what happened last time…”
“It isn’t the same now, Sylvie.”
No, Sylvie said to herself, It isn’t.
“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” Charlotte continued, “Harriet wishes to see you.”
“Harriet?” Sylvie echoed, “Whatever for?”
“According to her, you agreed to help her with drying some herbs. Something like that. I hardly ever pay attention to a word she says.”
“Ah, yes! Yes, I did promise to help her.”
“You do understand that we are here to help you, Sylvie. Not the other way around.”
“I know,” she replied sheepishly, “I just… I need to do something with my day instead of simpering about the household.”
“Is that not what a young lady such as yourself is supposed to do?”
“Perhaps, but it is of no interest to me. I would much rather be of use.”
“Then you shall make a fine duchess.”
Sylvie tried to glare at her, but it only caused the cook to giggle as if she were a young lady herself.
“Alright, alright. I have the preparations under control, so you ought to run along now. I wouldn’t want to keep the housekeeper waiting. I certainly would not want to be the reason why you are late, either.”
“Of course. I shall see you later this evening, then, Charlotte.”
The cook nodded to her, smiling, and Sylvie left for her next task of the day. She found Harriet preserving some apples and immediately moved beside her and began helping without a word.
“I’m not entirely sure why your father insisted on having an apple tree if he does not wish to eat them.”
“They were Mother’s favourite,” Sylvie explained in a hushed tone, “He thought it best.”
“Ah,” she mumbled in response, “Well, have you any plans for the day?”
“No, not particularly.”
As usual, Sylvie simply couldn’t understand why speaking with Harriet was so much more difficult than with Charlotte, even though she enjoyed spending time with her just as much. The two worked side by side for what felt like hours, sewing and mending once they had finished with the apples.
“Perhaps you might deliver this to the Vicar for me, if you have nothing more to do?” Harriet asked, pulling some parchment out of her pocket, “It is a little late in the day for it really, but you are more likely to find the time tomorrow than I am. You might also be able to pay Ellen a visit, so long as Bess is with you.”
She handed Sylvie a letter, and immediately Sylvie’s eyes widened.
The letter.
“Yes, of course,” she said quickly, rushing out of the room, “I’ll take it tomorrow!”
She broke into a run upon entering the hallway, a most improper thing to do, but she knew that she needed to return to the study, and that there was no time to waste; she had to finish it before she returned to Charlotte.
Upon sitting in her father’s study, however, she realized that she needed to slow herself down. She could not, under any circumstances, deliver a duke a letter that was hastily crafted, especially when she was to sign it with her father’s name. Either way, she was too late to have it delivered the next day; she had time to spare once she had helped Charlotte.
So that was what she did. She waited until after, when night had fallen and it was only her awake. She was tired, but she forced herself to pay attention so as to not make any errors. Slowly but surely, she created a letter that would make up for arriving later than expected.
That was what she hoped, at least.
Chapter Two
“It has been but a day, Waring. Do not worry yourself so.”
“It has been a day, Ambrose. That is precisely why I am worried.”
Ambrose, as well as a few other gentlemen, could not help but chuckle at the duke. He had been different from the moment he had sent his letter, anxious almost. Roland knew fully well that his demeanor had changed, and he was quite concerned that it wouldn’t go away until he received a response.
“You already know what the response shall be,” Ambrose continued, “It shall be a refusal, then you will be positively miserable for a while, then it shall pass.”
“It is not a rejection that concerns me, but the fact that it is highly likely that I shall never receive a response at all.”
“You never know,” another gentleman interjected, “The reclusive earl may think of his daughter for once and reconsider an immediate dismissal.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Did nobody tell you about his daughter?” Ambrose asked, and Roland eyed him carefully.
“Do you mean to tell me that you knew about her too? Just yesterday you were telling me that you didn’t know a thing about the man.”
“That is simply because I didn’t then. Now that I have asked around, I know much more.”
“And who on earth did you ask?”
“A few people,” he shrugged, smiling brightly, “I have connections, as you know.”
Roland considered the possibility that the earl was indeed attempting to marry off his daughter, but only for a moment. If that was his aim, he would have accepted the duke’s request by now, yet he had not sent anything. Not only that, but Ambrose had never been against teasing his best friend, and so it could well have all been some sort of joke.
“From what I heard, the poor young lady is given all of his correspondence to manage,” A fourth gentleman added.
“How would you know such a thing?” the duke asked.
“A friend of mine requested an audience with the earl in order to read one of the works that he holds captive in that ridiculous library of his. His response came with an S signed at the bottom that was then crossed out. We all know that the earl should sign his letters with Porter, so why would he do that?”
“Perhaps his wife was aiding him?” Roland suggested.
He didn’t need more than the quick glances between the others to know that that could not have been the case.
“Regardless,” he continued, “If I have not heard anything when I return home, I shall consider it a refusal. I do not believe that I could bear it otherwise.”
“And then what is your plan for your biography?” Ambrose asked, suddenly showing a whisper of concern.
“Perhaps it is a sign to leave it. It isn’t as though I have had any luck so far, and it is only the early stages. If I am already finding it this difficult to begin, I can only imagine how difficult it shall become.”
“In that case, let us hope that the Earl of Worrell has thought of his beloved daughter.”
“I still don’t quite understand how you’ve found anything out about the man.”
“I have my ways,” Ambrose smirked as he placed his whiskey glass down theatrically, “Now, shall we be off?”
“If you have paid off your debts, then certainly.”
Ambrose feigned hurt feelings before the two laughed and said their goodbyes to the others.
“You wouldn’t court an old maid, anyway,” Ambrose said firmly as they left the gentlemen’s club.
“And why is that?”
“You are a duke. Could you imagine the scandal?”
“And would you like to tell me when I cared for the opinion of the ton?”
“You care about the opinion of your mother, and if I recall correctly she cares a great deal about their opinion.”
“Regardless of what my mother thinks, I shall not be courting an old maid because I shall not be courting any lady. I told you, it is of no interest to me.”
“But you shall join me for the ball next week, yes?”
“If I am not in the middle of a riveting tale about my ancestor, yes.”
“Then I shall consider it a yes,” Ambrose grinned.
“You truly do not think that there has been word, do you?”
“I wish there was, Roland,” he sighed, “Truly, I do. I know that I have avoided taking the matter seriously, but it was only because I do not want you to feel too terribly. The man is mad, a recluse. He has been for years.”
“You ought to tell me more, I believe.”
“I do not think that wise. You never know, you could be seated across from him in a few mere days. I wouldn’t want you to have a skewed perspective of him.”
“I suppose,” Roland nodded before finally allowing a smirk to flash across his face, “I could well ask you tomorrow, after I’ve returned this evening to see that there is nothing for me.”
“In any case,” Ambrose said as they approached their carriages, “Do not take it personally. I assure you, it has nothing to do with you but everything to do with himself.”
Roland was confused by his friend’s sudden seriousness; he had never been like that in all the time that they had known each other. Even when their fathers had died in the same accident, Ambrose had been the first to dare mention it, and he had decided to say how funny it was that it had happened in such a manner. It was, of course, not in the slightest bit even remotely funny, yet Roland had laughed at him. It had been the first time in weeks that he had done so.
He didn’t know what to expect when he returned home. There would be one of three outcomes: an acceptance letter, a rejection letter, or nothing at all. He knew that the acceptance letter was his preference, and there was no contest about that in the slightest, yet he could not fathom which of the two options would prove more dire. A rejection would be an answer, but nothing at all would be a glimmer of hope.
However, he did not feel hopeful when he returned home to see that there was nothing waiting for him.
“And you’re sure that you did not miss anything, Reece?” he asked his manservant for the forth time.
“Quite sure, Your Grace,” Reece replied for the fourth time.
“My apologies,” he said quickly, realizing that he was suggesting his most faithful servant was incompetent, “Only-“
“You need to know. Do not worry, Your Grace. I understand completely.”
“Well, no news is clearly not good news.”
“Perhaps not, but there are other ways to go about these things.”
“No, Reece. It is quite clearly a sign that it is a bad idea to continue.”
“You cannot leave it behind that easily,” another voice came suddenly.
“Mother!” Roland yelped.
“Had you been thinking of abandoning this story for a wife, that would have been another matter, but to give in so quickly? This is but a small hurdle. I certainly do not have a coward for a son, do I?”
The dowager duchess did not mean her words in any way other than a reminder to her son that he was capable, Roland knew that perfectly.
“No, Mother. Of course not.”
“Good,” the lady said with a deceptively sweet smile, “Now, tomorrow morning you shall go to that earl’s household and demand an audience.”
“Mother that is quite improper-“
“Do you truly think you shall cause a scandal by doing such a thing? The Earl of Worrell is not exactly the sort of gentleman that will talk about it. He hasn’t spoken to anyone in years.”
Roland tried to argue further but he stopped himself, and not merely because it was his mother who had come up with the idea. In all honesty, she had a point. He could well appear at their door the next day and there would likely be no repercussions.
“Except he would be under no obligation to allow me to enter,” he said finally.
“At least you would have an answer,” Reece replied, and the dowager duchess looked at her son triumphantly.
“You see? Reece agrees with me, and he is terribly clever.”
“He is not agreeing that it is a good idea, Mother,” Roland laughed, “But very well. If I do not receive word tomorrow, I shall pay him a visit.”
Fortunately, there was no need for such extreme measures, because the following morning, to his astonishment, Roland awoke to find his reply.
“My Lord Duke of Anglefield,
I hope this letter finds you in the best of health and spirits, and I must apologise for the lateness of my response. It is with great pleasure that I write to extend an invitation for you to visit our estate.
I have heard of your ancestor, and I believe that a visit to our estate may greatly interest you. Our collection of valuable books and manuscripts may pique your scholarly curiosity. Your visit would provide an opportunity for a scholarly exchange of ideas and knowledge, something I am sure we both would find enriching.
I would like to assure you that you are most welcome to visit as soon as it suits your convenience. Your presence would bring joy and excitement to our home, and I look forward to the prospect of your visit.
With the utmost respect and anticipation,
Lord Porter, The Earl of Worrell”
It was strange in parts, but the duke did not care. The earl had responded, and he had said yes. Now there was only the matter of arranging the visit. His mother would be well taken care of, he did not doubt that for a second.
“Are you leaving today then?” The dowager duchess asked at breakfast, “That is not a question, just so you are aware. You shall be leaving today.”
“But, Mother, there are arrangements to be made.”
“Yes, by Reece. He is already doing so. He has told me that you can both be on your way within the hour.”
“Oh indeed he has, has he?”
Just as he said this, his manservant entered with a sheepish smile on his face.
“I may or may not have planned in advance,” he explained, “Just in case.”
“And that is why you are the best manservant in all of England!” Roland said firmly, quickly going to him and taking his things from him, “We shall not be away for long, Mother.”
“Take all the time that you need, Dearest. I will be here.”
Roland kissed his mother’s cheek before nodding to Reece, his smile still a mile wide. He found that he hadn’t stopped smiling when they were around two hours into their journey, and only then it was because his face had begun to hurt.
“Now that we are on our way,” Roland began suddenly, “I have to know.”
“Know what, Your Grace?”
“I need to know about the earl. Nobody would tell me for fear that it would worry me, or that it would taint my viewpoint of him, but I need to know what I am walking into.”
“I thought you knew about the gentleman?”
“I know of the rumours and little more, but I know that you know more. There is no other possible way that Ambrose would have found any information about him.”
“And you are quite certain that it will not affect your perception of him?”
“Quite.”
“Very well,” Reece said in a hushed tone, although there was nobody around to hear them, and Roland leaned in, “Since the death of the earl’s wife a few years ago, he has refused to leave his home. Apparently, she was promenading when she died and so he became too fear-stricken to ever leave again. He abandoned society in favour of his literary works, claiming that they would never be taken from him.”
“That is terrible,” Roland sighed, “I feel for him, truly.”
“That is not all,” Reece continued, “I wouldn’t pity him so, because according to a few people he never truly loved his wife. He is an ill-tempered and cantankerous man. Everyone has abandoned him in the same way that he has abandoned them, except of course for his daughter. Then again, it is likely that she is only allowed there because she is of service to him, someone to care for him in his old age, as well as his precious library.”
“And what is she like?”
“She is a young lady with no marriage prospects that lives with a reclusive father. I am sure that you can decide her demeanour for yourself.”
Leaning back, Roland imagined what the mysterious young lady would look like. He thought about her as an old maid, too hideous to have been considered as a wife and too unfortunate in terms of breeding to have been considered a good mother. Not only that, but her only company beyond a frightening old man would have been literary works, so it was quite likely that she was a bluestocking. A woman of no physical appeal and with what could only be described as frightening level of intelligence.
Wonderful.
“I shall have to write to Ambrose,” Roland said instead of telling Reece about his thoughts, “I did not notify him of my upcoming absence.”
“He must have known you would be going though, surely?”
“He was certain that the earl would refuse to see me. If anything, I find myself wanting to tell him merely so that I can prove him wrong.”
“Oh?”
“Not like that, of course. Only because of how I would have felt if I had been refused.”
“Ah, yes of course.”
“How much further shall it be, do you suppose?”
“A few hours, at least. I would advise you to think about something other than the visit for a while, lest you become mad.”
The duke knew that he was right, but beyond the visit all that he could think about was the unfortunate young lady that he would be confronted by upon his arrival.
He was to be the first in years to see the earl, and that in and of itself was an honor of sorts. Roland couldn’t help but wonder what had made him so special, beyond being a potential match for his daughter, even if he were indeed a duke.
Time continued to pass, with Roland certain that he had irritated his servant greatly by asking time and again if they were almost there. Suddenly, the once pleasant summer weather seemed to vanish. The bright blue sky turned a menacing gray, and both men heard the unmistakable sound of thunder.
“We ought to stop, Your Grace,” Reece said gently, “It is unwise to travel in these conditions.”
Roland looked out of the window, seeing the puddles forming. He wanted to keep going, and to take the risk, but he thought about the poor horses pulling them and knew that it would be best to let them rest. Fortunately, there was an inn nearby with shelter for them all. Unfortunately, it meant that Roland had to sit at the bar and stare into space and wait for enough time to pass so that they could continue.
The evening dwindled into night, a prospect that Roland dreaded. However, when Reece elucidated that he had secured chambers for both of them, Roland reluctantly acknowledged that it was in fact a most pleasant abode from which they were confined. It was warm, and the dinner smelled wonderful. It would have been enjoyable had he not been so desperate to leave. Regardless, he gritted his teeth and beared it. He had, in truth, waited a few mere nights. One more would not pose too much of a problem.
The next morning, the weather had remained much the same. Stormy and unforgiving. Roland groaned, but Reece promised that once it settled they would continue. It eventually did, though it was still raining. They continued their journey, soon coming to smaller and smaller roads. It became so troublesome that the carriage rocked as it traveled over the stones. Roland gripped the seat, almost regretting his decision to leave in the rain, but as he did he looked out and saw it. Midhurst Manor, home of The Earl of Worrell.
He had made it.
