Christmas With The Duchess. Tamara LejeuneЧитать онлайн книгу.
her tremble, Hugh smiled. “It was the one thing I did not bring out in court. When my poor nephew died so suddenly, I knew it was my duty to take his private papers into safekeeping. One doesn’t want such things to fall into the wrong hands, after all.”
“You have my letter,” Emma said dully.
He smiled. “I have your letter, madam. I always thought my nephew indulged you too much, but it is to his credit that he refused to let you pass your bastard off as one of his lawful children.”
“I will kill you,” Emma whispered, her nails digging deep into the palms of her hands.
He laughed harshly. “I have thought of that, madam. If anything happens to me, your letter will be made public. Your little bastard—what is her name? Althea? Athena? Attila? Unless you heed me, she will learn that her aunt is really her mother. Her little life will be ruined. As for your legitimate children, they will repudiate you, and despise you, too, if they don’t already. I could make your letter public now, of course, if that is what you prefer?”
Blind panic seized hold of Emma. She struggled to keep her head clear. “No,” she said, biting her lip. “Don’t. Please.”
The last word was forced from between frozen lips.
He smiled horribly. “Oh! You’re prepared to be reasonable then? Good. Pay my debts, and I will be reasonable, too. There is no need for your little Agatha to ever know the truth.”
Emma went rigid with contempt. Helpless hatred poured from her eyes. “You shall have a banknote for seven thousand pounds,” she said icily.
His fleshy lips curved in a grotesque smile. “Could you find it in your heart to make it ten thousand?” he asked. “One is always so strapped this time of year.”
Chapter Three
Otto disliked Nicholas the moment the young man popped his golden head into the billiard room, throwing off Otto’s concentration, and causing him to scratch.
“Sir, you interfered with my shot,” Otto complained, retrieving the cue ball from the corner pocket. He had removed his coat for the game, but, otherwise he was impeccably over-dressed in black satin breeches and a silver-embroidered waistcoat. His white silk shirt was heavily adorned with lace, and he wore his usual diamond rings.
“I beg your pardon, sir!” Nicholas stammered, lingering in the doorway. “I am just arrived at Warwick Palace. I was told I might find some of the other guests here.”
“I dismissed them,” Otto explained. “I do not require an audience.”
To his surprise and annoyance, the younger man came deeper into the room. “You must be the Duke of Warwick,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m Nicholas. Nicholas St. Austell. You have a magnificent home. Thank you for inviting me.”
Otto merely looked at his hand. “I am not the Duke of Warwick,” he said coldly. “The Duke of Warwick is only twelve years old. This is not my house. I did not invite you.”
Nicholas withdrew his hand. “I beg your pardon.”
“As I said, I don’t require an audience.”
“Quite,” said Nicholas. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but would you mind if I rang for a servant? I keep getting lost! I’ve never been in a palace before.”
“There’s no need to state the obvious,” Otto said languidly. “By all means, ring the bell.”
Evidently too stupid to take offense, the young man went on doggedly, “I was in the Admiralty, in London, once, when I took my lieutenant’s exam, but that was nothing compared to this place. It’s hard to believe this is a private residence. I daresay, one could drydock a frigate in the entrance hall!”
“Yes; but to what purpose?” Otto said dryly. His exacting eye passed over the young man’s ill-fitting coat with critical contempt. “That is not the work of a London tailor,” he said.
“No, I got it in Portsmouth last year. I know it doesn’t fit me anymore,” Nicholas said ruefully. “My uniform fits me very well. I did have that made in London. It cost me nearly fifteen pounds! You will see it at dinner.”
“I look forward to it immensely,” said Otto, but it was no fun baiting a man as impervious to sarcasm as this simple, good-natured fellow.
“I should have liked to have some new clothes,” Nicholas admitted, “but my uncle did not think there would be time before the blizzard.”
Otto’s brows went up slightly. “Blizzard?”
“Yes, apparently, there is a blizzard here every year. It makes the roads quite impassable until, oh, well after Christmas,” said Nicholas. “I realize the weather is uncommonly fine at the moment,” he added rather lamely, “but my uncle assures me that is usually not the case. We did not want to risk delaying our departure from Plymouth for anything as foolish as clothes.”
“I see,” said Otto, swallowing this pack of nonsense unblinkingly, just as, apparently, the young man had. Against his will, Otto’s curiosity had been aroused. “You’re not one of General Bellamy’s men, are you?”
“General Bellamy? No, sir. I was in the Royal Navy.”
“And, pray, who is your uncle?”
“Lord Hugh Fitzroy. Do you know him, sir?”
Otto smiled grimly. “Oh, yes. What did you say your name was?”
“Nicholas. Nicholas St. Austell. My friends call me Nick.”
“Ah! You’re Anne’s nephew,” Otto said, sounding slightly less bored.
“Yes. I did not mean to mislead you, sir,” Nicholas said quickly. “Lord Hugh is my uncle by marriage. Lady Anne Fitzroy is my aunt. My father was her younger brother.”
Otto stared at him thoughtfully. “I read about you in the papers. The long-lost Earl of Camford.”
Nicholas snapped his fingers. “Camford! Of course!” he exclaimed. “That’s the name of the place. I keep getting it wrong.”
“Do you really?” Otto said politely. “How strange.”
“I keep calling it Candleford, for some reason.”
“I suppose you may call it what you like,” Otto said generously. “It belongs to you, after all. I am Otto. Otto Grey. My friends call me Scarlingford. Everyone else calls me Lord Scarlingford.”
Nicholas grimaced. “Oh, no! Are you a lord, too?”
“Yes, Camford, I am,” Otto said patiently. “You don’t mind if I call you Camford, do you? Who knows? It may help you remember it. I am the Marquess of Scarlingford. Alas, it is only a courtesy title.”
“Courtesy title?” Nicholas echoed, ignorant but eager to learn.
“My father is the Duke of Chilton,” Otto explained. “I am his heir. As a courtesy, I am allowed the use of his lesser title. I should say, one of his lesser titles, for he has several.”
Nicholas shook his head as if he would never understand. “You were born into the nobility, then,” he said glumly. “At the risk of stating the obvious again: I was not.”
Otto laughed at him, a light, dry laugh. “Of course you were born to it. How else do you come by the title, if not by virtue of your birth?”
Nicholas felt foolish. “The title is mine by birth, of course, but I never knew it until a few months ago. I’d never even heard of Camelford.”
“Camford.”
“Right! The Gorgon—that’s my ship—” He paused, a fond glint in his blue eyes. “A real beauty! A thirty-eight gunner. I wept when I left her at the dock in Plymouth.”
“I’m