Chapter One
Two years later.
Spring, 1816. Thornton Shipping & Trading. Bristol.
“The Duke of Wansford? Me?”
Justin Thornton sent a scornful glare at the black-clad apparition hovering in the doorway of his study. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
The solicitor clutched his leather satchel to his chest. “I realize that this is unexpected, given your distant connection to the deceased, but there’s no doubt. None at all.”
Justin pinched the bridge of his nose. He could feel a headache coming on. He’d only been back in England for a month, and he had a hundred things to do today. Why was he wasting precious time listening to the ravings of this clearly deranged individual? How had the man even managed to get past Simms?
He glared at the intruder. “Mister…?” he tailed off with an expectant lilt.
“Turnbull,” the lawyer provided instantly. “Josiah Turnbull. Of Turnbull, Blomfield, and Brown. We are the executors of the late duke’s estate.”
“Mister Turnbull. Explain to me how, exactly, you have arrived at this erroneous conclusion.”
The younger man pushed his spectacles higher on his nose and gestured toward Justin’s desk. “If I may?”
Justin gave a permissive wave of his hand, and the man stepped forward. He pulled a sheaf of yellowing papers from the satchel and spread them on the leather top. Justin glanced down at what appeared to be a family tree, with lines and names neatly recorded and an official-looking wax seal on a ribbon at the bottom.
The clerk pointed. “Here, you see, is the eighth duke, one Archibald Thornton. He was married three times, but since none of those unions resulted in any offspring, his brother, Cecil, was his heir. Unfortunately for my colleagues and I, Cecil moved to Italy before the war, and it took us several months to locate him. When we finally did, we discovered he’d drowned in a canal in Venice, not six weeks after the death of his own brother.”
“Unfortunate for Cecil,” Justin muttered.
“Since he also died without issue”—the clerk pointed again, his finger following an inked line sideways and upward—“we had to go back a generation, to the seventh duke. He had two brothers. The elder died six years ago, and although he left twelve children, only one son was actually legitimate. That child, one Clarence Thornton, celebrated so enthusiastically on hearing the news that he fell from his horse, drunk, and broke his neck.”
Justin rolled his eyes. He had no patience for such idiotic behavior. He hadn’t made it to his current position in life by drinking and gaming his days away. He’d worked bloody hard to gain his fortune.
“The seventh duke’s other brother died of a head injury in his twenties, so we were forced to go back yet another generation, to the duke’s grandfather, Sir Sidney Thornton.”
Justin drummed his fingers on the desk, wishing he’d installed a bell to summon Simms for moments such as this.
The solicitor, aware of his impatience, rushed to finish. “Sir Sidney had a younger brother, Bertram, who himself had two sons. The eldest, George, was killed in a duel a month ago. Which brings us to his brother, William.” He paused meaningfully. “Your father.”
Justin frowned. “My father died in Canada three years ago, on a fur-trading expedition.”
The younger man nodded. “Which brings us to you, one Justin Trevelyan Thornton. Heir presumptive to the duchy of Wansford, and all its associated incomes and estates. The principal seat, Wansford Hall, is a fine example of the Jacobean architectural style, I believe.”
Justin shook his head. “I don’t care if it’s a fairy-tale castle made entirely out of gingerbread. I don’t want it. Give it to someone else. Whoever’s next in line.”
Turnbull sent him a pained, regretful look. “That’s not how it works, I’m afraid. You can’t refuse a dukedom. Even if you choose not to claim the title by applying to the Lord Chancellor’s office for a writ of summons, the title can never be granted to anyone else until you yourself are dead.”
Justin groaned. “This sounds very much like a Trojan horse: something that looks like a gift, but in truth will be nothing but aggravation. There’s always a price to be paid. Come on, out with it. Is the duchy in debt? I bet it is. Mortgaged to the hilt. Crumbling into the ground. Sinking into a swamp.”
“I don’t believe so, no. I’m not privy to the accounts, of course, but the duke’s widow has been running the estate with the aid of the estate manager since the old duke died, and I’ve heard nothing but high praise.”
Justin squinted at the dates inked above the eighth duke’s name and did some swift mental calculation. The man had been over seventy at his death. His widow was doubtless similarly decrepit, but at least it sounded as if she had competent advisors. That was something, at least.
“There will be costs involved, though,” he said. “Am I right?”
Turnbull pursed his lips. “Well, as to that, yes. There are homage fees: one on acceptance of your claim to the title, and another the first time a peer makes his appearance at the House of Lords.”
“Of course,” Justin said acidly. “How much must I pay for the privilege?”
“I believe for a duke, it’s around three hundred and fifty pounds.”
“Bloody Hell. So I’m expected to rejoice in suddenly becoming responsible for an estate I’ve never seen, a title I don’t want, and an army of dependents I don’t need?”
The solicitor swallowed. “Er. Yes, sir?”
“I also suppose that I’ll be expected to choose some well-bred, empty-headed chit to provide the duchy with an heir?”
“Well, yes,” Turnbull conceded. His lips twitched with a hint of amusement. “But there are worse things a man could be required to do.”
“I disagree,” Justin countered sternly. “It sounds like a fate worse than death. An inescapable one.”
The clerk schooled his expression, and made a deferential bow. “You have my condolences. But I’m sure you’ll be equal to the task. After all, you already run one of England’s most successful trading companies, do you not?”
Justin snorted. “I do indeed. I gather you think I should be more grateful?”
The solicitor shrugged. “With respect, a dukedom is the highest rank a man can achieve in this country, short of being born a royal prince. You will have power. Respect. Wealth.”
“I already have power, respect, and wealth. And I’ve earned them, not had them handed to me on a silver platter.” Justin glared at him, but there was no escaping the inevitable. He let out an impatient huff. “Fine. I’ll give it a year, no longer. I’ll go to London, set the duchy’s affairs in order, find a wife, and be back here by Easter.”
The solicitor rolled his papers and neatly stashed them away. “You’ll be coming to London soon, then?”
“I suppose I must. Did the eighth duke keep a town house?”
“He did, sir. In Portman Square. But I believe it’s currently being occupied by the late duke’s widow. As the new duke, you do, of course, have the right to occupy the premises, but it might be politic to give the lady a few weeks’ grace to remove to the dower house at Wansford, or to some alternative lodging of her choice.”
Justin frowned. He had a well-deserved reputation for ruthlessness in his business dealings. No doubt half of London would expect him to evict the old crone as soon as he arrived in the capital, but he had no desire for a fight in this case.
“Agreed. I have my own house on Curzon Street. I’ll stay there until matters are resolved.”
“Very good, Your Grace.”
Justin winced at the honorific title.
Turnbull placed the leather satchel on the edge of the desk. “I’ll leave these documents for your perusal. And should you need any further assistance, I am entirely at your disposal.”
Justin waved him away. “Thank you. I’ll be in London by the start of next week. Simms will see you out.”
When the clerk finally left, Justin sat back in his chair and gave an audible growl.
What in God’s name had he done to deserve this?
His acquaintances—friends and enemies alike—said he had the devil’s own luck, but it had been his own tenacity that had turned Thornton & Co. from the modest, single-ship enterprise he’d inherited from his father into the astonishing success it was today. His fleet conveyed everything from luxury goods from the Continent, to timber and furs from Canada and North America.
Being named heir to a dukedom was a surprise, certainly, but Justin had no doubt of his own abilities. The duchy would be lucky to have him. He would be infinitely better at running it than any of the previous incumbents, had they stayed alive long enough to accept the position. Those idiots would have gambled the place away, or fleeced the tenants to line their own pockets.
Justin rubbed his cheek, testing the dark stubble that shadowed his jaw. He hadn’t bothered to shave that morning. He’d expected no visitors, had no woman to impress. Anne-Marie, his most recent paramour, had finally tired of what she called his “cruel inattention”—namely, his desire to get back to work instead of lounging around in bed after pleasuring her—and had flounced back to her French homeland two weeks ago.
She’d undoubtedly used him for a free voyage back from Canada—Montreal being less lucrative in terms of potential suitors than she’d hoped—but he’d been perfectly amenable to sharing his cabin for the tedious Atlantic crossing. He’d been neither shocked nor saddened to see her go. Her parting words, however, rang in his ears, and to his surprise, they still stung.
“You are a beast.” Anne-Marie’s magnificent eyes had flashed with indignation and her equally magnificent bosom had quivered beneath her lace fichu. “And you know what? I pity you!”
Justin had unwisely allowed his snort of amusement to escape. “Pity me? Why? I’m one of the wealthiest men in England. I can buy whatever my heart desires.”
“You ’ave no heart. Only desires.”
His raised brows had incensed her even more. Anne-Marie plopped her bonnet on her head and tied the ribbons with furious, shaking fingers. Her accent always became more pronounced when she was emotional.
“You ’ave passion, but no love.” Her eyes filled with a scornful, withering expression that caught Justin like a punch to the chest. She stabbed her gloved finger at him. “You, Justin Thornton, are a man who knows the cost of everything, and the value of nothing. Nothing important, at least.”
With that excellent parting shot, she’d slammed out of the house and out of his life.
It was just as well that she’d left, Justin reminded himself. He made it a rule to limit his liaisons to a maximum of three months, which not only avoided boredom, but also prevented either side from developing deeper feelings that might complicate an otherwise agreeable relationship.
His parents had married for love, and the dreadful toll that grief had wreaked on his father following his mother’s death was something he planned to avoid at all costs.
He’d blamed his recent stretch of celibacy for why he was so on edge, but if he was honest, he’d been plagued by a smoldering sense of dissatisfaction for long before Anne-Marie had left. Until her parting diatribe, however, he’d never considered that the thing he might be missing could be … something that couldn’t be bought.
Something like love.
He instantly dismissed the notion as absurd. He was a grown man of thirty, not a child in leading strings. He had no shortage of friends, colleagues, acquaintances whose company he enjoyed. When he had a physical desire, he sated his passions with whichever woman happened to catch his interest, as long as they were amenable. His affairs were mutually satisfying arrangements, in which love played no part.
Abstinence was clearly addling his brain. The brief, clinical pleasure he received from his own hand was no substitute for being with a woman. But women were, on the whole, a pain in the arse. Even semiprofessionals like Anne-Marie. They always claimed to be happy with a casual arrangement, but they always secretly wanted more.
More commitment.
More emotion.
More than he was willing to give.
Justin exhaled loudly. God, what a morning.
The weight of the unexpected dukedom felt like a lead cloak around his shoulders and he rolled them to relieve the tension.
He’d be inundated with women in London, even more so than usual, once word of his inheritance got out. Matchmaking mammas would be thrusting their quivering, doe-eyed daughters at him as prospective brides, while society wives and widows would be privately offering him carte blanche.
Engaging a new mistress would be good, but to do so while he was also publicly selecting a wife would require a great deal of discretion. It would be a situation fraught with potential for disaster, and he preferred to minimize risk wherever possible.
His gaze fell upon the uppermost envelope on his stack of correspondence. He’d been about to refuse Careby’s invitation; his old school friend’s house parties were infamous for their raucousness, and Justin generally avoided them, finding the dedicated pursuit of drunkenness and pleasure rather puerile.
Copyright © 2024 by Kate Bateman.
