The Duke's Legacy

  This novel was previously published as The Carstairs Conspiracy by Robert Hale, London, England.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any method, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of The Author – Wendy Soliman.

  The Duke’s Legacy - Copyright Wendy Soliman 2013

  This e-Book is a work of fiction. While references may be made to actual places or events, the names, characters, incidents, and locations within are from the author’s imagination and are not a resemblance to actual living or dead persons, businesses or events.

  Any similarity is coincidental.

  ISBN: 9781483511726

  Chapter One

  Abbey glanced down at a sea of upturned faces and fought the urge to turn tail and run.

  “Relax, my dear.” Lord Bevan patted the fingers that drummed a nervous tattoo on his sleeve. “You look perfectly lovely and have nothing to fear from this throng.”

  “Do you really think so, Uncle Bertram?” She stood at the head of the stairs leading to the ballroom in the Duchess of Argyle’s palatial mansion, endeavouring to appear calm. “I feel like an exhibit in a museum with all these elegant people gawping at me.”

  “What else did you expect?”

  “Well, I—”

  “Have courage.” Dimples appeared on Lord Bevan’s jovial face when he smiled at her. “All of your training has been leading up to this moment and you know precisely how to behave. I wish your dear mother and father could be here to see you tonight. They would be as proud of you as I am.”

  Abbey wrinkled her brow. “I would give everything I own if I could make it so.”

  “Don’t frown, m’dear. This is your first ball. Try to enjoy it.”

  “Thank you, Uncle Bertram.” His absolute certainty that she could carry this off gave Abbey’s courage a timely boost. “I shall try to do precisely that.”

  Abbey continued to survey the upturned faces as she and her uncle took their place in a long line of arriving guests. She wondered which of them was responsible for turning her into a bundle of nerves and uncertainty. Was he here tonight, hoping to see her quake? The thought caused Abbey to straighten a spine that was already rigidly erect. She absolutely would not be intimidated into behaving like a church mouse.

  She would not!

  Not so long ago her only concern had been about making her curtsey to the ton. She had been forced by circumstances to lead a secluded existence during the course of her eighteen summers which had not, to her precise knowledge, afforded her the opportunity to acquire any enemies.

  So why was someone trying to kill her?

  She and her uncle had now reached the position where the duke and duchess were receiving their guests and her training kicked in. Abbey smiled and tried to forget her concerns. She would take her uncle’s advice and enjoy the ball. No one had ever been murdered in a crowded ballroom, had they?

  It was the period before Christmas when half the families were still in residence at their country estates. Uncle Bertram had suggested introducing Abbey to the ton at this quiet time, allowing her to become accustomed to the ways of society, and the avid attention he warned her to expect, gradually. But it seemed he’d miscalculated since Abbey could see the ballroom was already full to capacity at this unfashionably early hour, at an equally unfashionable time of year.

  “I thought you said it would be a quiet ball, uncle.”

  “So it ought to be.” He sighed. “I should have anticipated this.”

  Abbey gasped. “These people aren’t here because of me.”

  “I have it from the duchess that speculation about your first appearance in society is so rife that not a single invitation was declined.” Uncle Bertram chuckled. “She’s quite in alt. Several families, not usually seen in town at this time of year, made a point of returning early.”

  Abbey winced. “I wish you hadn’t told me that.”

  She placed a slippered foot on the tiled floor at the bottom of the steps. Taking a deep breath, she ignored the butterflies performing summersaults inside her stomach and forced her second foot to join the first. A hush descended upon the ballroom at the announcement of Abbey’s name and she was conscious of several hundred faces looking at her with avid interest. Abbey pretended not to notice the unnatural quiet that had descended upon the room as she put years of training to good use and greeted her hostess with a curtsey of exactly the correct depth.

  “You’re especially welcome, Lady Abigail,” the duchess said with a warm smile. “My little assembly will be the talk of the season, thanks to you.”

  Abbey suppressed a wry smile as she glanced at the splendour of her surroundings, wondering how anyone could refer to such a grand occasion as a little gathering

  “Thank you for inviting me, your grace,” Abbey replied.

  The duchess patted her hand and focused her attention on the people behind Abbey.

  Free to mingle, Abbey was confronted with an endless procession of spectacularly attired aristocrats clamouring to make her acquaintance. Her fingers were squeezed until they felt raw, suggestive winks were directed at her by some of the less scrupulous gentlemen in attendance and requests for dances saw her card filling rapidly. Everyone seemed anxious to get close to her, curious about an heiress in circumstances as peculiar as her own and about whom, Abbey suspected, rumour and innuendo abounded with careless disregard for the facts.

  Accosted from all sides by people whose names she’d already forgotten, Abbey was grateful to the musicians for striking up the first dance. She was claimed by Lord Evans, the gentleman whom Abbey knew her uncle favoured as prospective husband for her. Not that he would force her into a union against her will, but she had a duty to marry and produce an heir at the earliest opportunity. From her admittedly limited observations of the married state, felicity must surely be a matter of chance, so did it really matter whom she chose? Lord Evans was young, well educated, entertaining company and reasonably handsome. More importantly from her uncle’s perspective, he was of impeccable lineage, not a whiff of scandal attaching to his name. He was acutely aware of his position, a trifle formal in his manners and stiff in his form of address, and Abbey had yet to ascertain whether he was the possessor of a sense of humour. All the same, she considered Lord Evens would treat her with kindness and so she might as well select him as anyone else.

  “Good evening, Lady Abigail.” Lord Evans’s approving expression was his only deviation from rigid formality.

  “Lord Evans,” she replied, smiling. “How kind of you to rescue me. I was quite in fear of being crushed by the throng.”

  “You need never fear for your safety when in my care.”

  That was easy for him to say since Lord Evans had no idea she was in danger. She wondered what he would say or do if she admitted her concerns to him. Not that she had any intention of doing so. He would think it necessary to inform her uncle and her hard won freedom, such as it was, would be immediately curtailed.

  “That’s most reassuring.” Abbey replied, smiling as she moved down the dance.

  “You look exceptionally beautiful tonight,” Lord Evans said when they came together again, surprising Abbey with his spontaneity.

  “Why, thank you, Lord Evans.” Abbey treated him to a sparkling smile. “How kind of you to notice.”

  “Most of the coves in the damned room have noticed,” he replied with what, for him, was almost a snarl. “Pardon my language.”

  She tilted her head and sent him a probing glance. “I’ve never seen you so roused to passion before.”

  He stared into his eyes, looking as though he wanted to pursue the subject of passion now
she had, perhaps unwisely, alluded to it. “I see you received my small token,” he said instead, indicating the posy of cream rose buds attached to her waist.

  “Indeed I did, and it was my immediate intention to thank you.”

  “It’s thanks enough to see the flowers gracing your person, although they could scarce hope to compete with your natural beauty.”

  Abbey arched a brow, genuinely surprised. She was seeing sides of Lord Evans’s character tonight she hadn’t encountered before. “Such poetry, sir, I’m quite overcome.”

  With a capricious smile she twirled away from him and took her position lower down the dance.

  Abbey, conscious of much attention still focused upon her, was grateful to her seamstress for having risen to the occasion. For her debut she had created the most ravishing garment ever to have graced Abbey’s person. Her gown was of the finest silver-blue changeable silk, with a spangled overskirt of silver and contrasting flounces adorning the hem. It fitted Abbey like a second skin, swirling in a froth of lace and petticoats around her ankles as she danced. It also gave her flailing confidence a much needed boost. Being an heiress fresh to the marriage mart was, she had already discovered, an exhausting business. There didn’t seem to be a single moment when she wasn’t being watched, analysed, admired or criticised.

  Yes, Lord Evans would definitely do. An hour in this melee was enough to convince her of that.

  Abbey was swamped by people at the conclusion of each dance and it was with some relief she recognised the opening stanza to the evening’s first waltz. Not having been presented, Abbey wasn’t permitted to waltz. Politely disengaging herself from the press of people who appeared intent upon sitting the waltz out with her, she went in search of her cousin, Beatrice. Just one year Abbey’s senior, she and Bea had shared the schoolroom at her uncle’s imposing country estate in Cornwall. They had also shared their adolescent secrets, exploited the strict rules laid down for Abbey’s protection to the limit and, in the process, forged a relationship that bound them closer than sisters.

  “Phew!” Abbey flopped onto the seat beside Beatrice in a manner that would have earned her a sharp reprimand from her governess, had she witnessed it. “I had no notion these occasions required such fortitude. How do you manage to look so cool, Bea?”

  Beatrice smiled. “This one is a little more crowded than the norm, I suppose,” she conceded, a spark of amusement lighting up her pretty face.

  “So the duchess remarked.” Abbey glanced around the packed ballroom, simultaneously concealing herself behind a pillar to gain a much-needed respite from the more tenacious of the gentlemen still perusing her. “Where’s Lord Woodley?” she asked, referring to Bea’s fiancé.

  “He’s gone to fetch me some lemonade.”

  “I hope he brings some for me, too. I’m parched.”

  Bea laughed. “There are at least twenty men hovering who would fight a duel to perform that small service for you.”

  Abbey wrinkled her nose. “Precisely my point.” A commotion near the stairway caught Abbey’s attention. “Who are those gentlemen who’ve just arrived and caused such a stir?”

  “That,” said Bea, a note of excitement entering her voice, “is Lord Sebastian Denver.”

  “So that’s the infamous rake.” Abbey chanced surreptitious peeps at the gentleman in question from behind the protection of her pillar. “He looks just like any other man,” she said, disappointed.

  “I thought him to be still in France.”

  “Since when did you take it upon yourself to keep tracks of his movements?” Abbey asked, pretending to be shocked.

  “His every move is catalogued in the newspapers.” Bea’s innocent expression was ruined by the mischievous glint in her eye. “One cannot help but notice his name. And you’re quite mistaken, Abbey, he’s anything but ordinary. Did you ever see such a physique? His disdainful air ought to be shocking but he carries it off with such elegance that it only adds to his distinction.”

  “Beatrice, really! You’re shortly to be married to Lord Woodley. I’m sure it’s not at all proper for you to speculate about other gentlemen in such an exacting manner.”

  “I haven’t forgotten I’m promised to Lord Woodley,” Beatrice said with a return of her wicked smile, “but that doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate the…err, assets of other gentlemen.”

  Discarding her efforts to be censorious with a speed that belied any true conviction, Abbey indulged in a gurgle of laughter with her cousin. She kept her eyes trained upon Lord Denver as she did so, observing his every movement. It soon became apparent from the excited snatches of conversations reaching her ears, to say nothing of the sudden frenzied deployment of fans, that half the females in the room were similarly occupied.

  “Anyway, Abbey,” Bea said, “you’re to be congratulated. I think you’re the reason his lordship has seen fit to attend this evening. In spite of his reputation he’s still invited everywhere. He’s too powerful a man to ignore, but he hasn’t shown himself until now.”

  “Me?” Abbey was genuinely surprised. “But he doesn’t even know me.”

  “No, but like everyone else here this evening, he most assuredly knows of you and is probably curious to have a peep at you.”

  Abbey lifted her shoulders, totally bewildered. “Why, if he’s such a lost cause, would he be invited everywhere?”

  “Because, silly, he’s rich, titled, handsome, and most importantly of all, eligible. Besides, some of the matrons might well invite him to their functions for reasons of self-interest, much as they site their unmarried daughters as their justification.”

  “Bea, really!” Abbey didn’t bother to feign shock this time and simply joined her cousin in a fresh bout of laughter.

  “It’s rumoured that he fought a duel earlier this season,” Bea said in a conspiratorial whisper, although how she could suppose they’d be overheard amid the din in the ballroom Abbey couldn’t imagine. “Lord Avery called him out after catching him in some indiscretion with his wife.”

  “Who won?”

  “Well, the weapons of choice were pistols but could just as easily have been swords. Lord Denver is widely regarded as a first-rate sportsman. He’s a top marksman as well as an expert with a rapier. I understand however that both gentlemen fired into the air.”

  “Which means they were both willing to accept a portion of blame,” concluded Abbey, no longer surprised at her cousin’s seemingly unending stock of information regarding the infamous Lord Denver. “But do explain, Bea, what indiscretion did he supposedly commit?”

  “Oh, I’m not sure.” She flapped one hand in an airy gesture. “The usual, I would imagine.”

  “Well, you may be able to imagine but I can’t. That’s just the problem. I don’t know and no one bothers to enlighten me about such matters. Nor,” she added, waving an accusatory finger under her cousin’s nose, “do they answer any of my questions on the subject. I’m taught how low to curtsey according to whom I’m being introduced to. God forbid I should get it wrong! I’m taught which knife to use with each course, how to talk about nothing at all and make it sound like the most fascinating subject on God’s earth, and all those other things that make one acceptable in the eyes of society, but no one tells me anything about…well, about what I really want to know.”

  “He’s also renowned in the gaming hells, so Gerald would have it,” Beatrice said.

  Abbey sighed. Bea’s smooth change of subject and the imminent return of her fiancé with the promised lemonade meant Abbey wouldn’t learn anything more about the indiscretion in question.

  “A gamester as well as a womaniser,” she said quietly, sounding more impressed than shocked. “I would have supposed a gentleman with such a formidable reputation to be more remarkable in the flesh, but he appears to have nothing in excess of the requisite number of limbs and I can’t see there’s anything special about him. In my opinion he thinks far too well of himself,” she added, watching him as he kissed their hostess’s hand. A
bbey tossed her head, causing a tumble of corkscrew curls to dance about her face, and then turned her attention to the marquess’s companions. “Who are the gentlemen with him?”

  “His greatest friends. Lord Jenkins is on the right and the other is Lord Trump. Lord Denver is believed to have rescued Lord Jenkins’s sister from abduction recently, as well as recovering jewels stolen from the Beaufort household. He has a reputation for handling such matters with the utmost discretion.”

  “Of course! Now I know why his name sounded so familiar.”

  Abbey fell into a contemplative silence while Bea’s attention was claimed by her beloved. Lord Denver could be just the person to help her with her own difficulty. But how could she, an unmarried girl who hadn’t even been presented, possibly approach such a person and apply to him for assistance without sullying her reputation beyond recall?

  Her cogitations were brought to a premature end by the arrival of her partner for the next dance. Devising a means of gaining Lord Denver’s attention would have to be put aside until a more suitable juncture.

  ***

  Sebastian Denver surveyed the crowded room and made little effort to disguise his boredom. Why he’d given in to his friends’ cajoling and agreed to attend this crush when he’d been comfortably ensconced in a game of cards at his club, he had not the slightest notion. They were anxious to have sight of the elusive heiress but Sebastian had no interest in juvenile chits fresh out of the schoolroom. His tastes ran to the more exotic.

  Sebastian conceded that even by the standards for gossip set within the ton, Abigail Carstairs story was extraordinary. As sole heir to the late Duke of Penrith’s extensive fortune, vastly protected and seldom seen in public before tonight, her situation was already established in the questionable annuls of folklore surrounding the quality. Why that should matter to him was less easy to fathom and he already knew the evening would be a massive waste of time. He hated these assemblies and usually avoided them like the plague.

  “It’s crowded very early,” he remarked to his friends.

  “I suppose everyone else was keen to meet the young thing at the earliest opportunity,” Trump replied.