Game of Dukes Read online

  Game of Dukes

  Wendy Soliman

  GAME OF DUKES

  Copyright © Wendy Soliman 2019

  Edited by Perry Iles

  Cover design by Jane Dixon Smith

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

  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

  This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of International Copyright Law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction fines and/or imprisonment. The e-Book cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this e-Book can be shared or reproduced without the express permission of the author.

  Chapter One

  Phineas Webster leaned both elbows on the ship’s rail, bracing his legs against the swell that rocked the vessel as dawn broke and the contours of the coast of England slowly emerged from a shroud of mist. He turned his face upwards and felt the sting of salty water against his cheeks as his hair was whipped away from his face by a sharp breeze. No one else had emerged from below and he relished having the deck to himself. This was it, he thought. Within hours he would set foot on the land of his birth for the first time in sixteen years—a moment he had simultaneously longed for and dreaded during the intervening period.

  ‘The time’s upon us. No use wishing you could turn the clock back.’

  Phin looked over his shoulder and scowled at the man who had come up behind him so stealthily that he had been completely unaware of his presence. A man who possessed the ability to read his mind and assess his moods, or so it sometimes seemed to Phin.

  ‘Unless you have something intelligent to say, John, I suggest you take yourself off and find a useful occupation.’

  John Kline, Phin’s tutor, valet, advisor, ally and trusted friend merely shrugged. ‘Take out your bad temper on me if it helps,’ he replied. ‘You usually do and it makes no odds to me. I am quite immune to your fits of pique, your grace.’

  ‘Don’t call me that,’ Phin snapped.

  ‘You might as well become accustomed to it. You are the Duke of Suffolk now, and have been for over a year, much as you sometimes wish it could be otherwise. Most men in your position would consider themselves fortunate.’

  ‘Then let most men take my place.’

  John leaned his own arms on the railing as the two of them watched the mist rise and the bustling port of Liverpool slowly take shape. ‘It won’t be so bad,’ he said, sounding less than convincing. ‘And at least you will be in Newmarket, at the heart of the racing fraternity. That ought to make you feel at home.’

  Phin nodded, feeling churlish still, but regretting his childish outburst. John, the most dependable, sensible and even-tempered of men, did not deserve to feel the sharp edge of his tongue simply because he’d tried to chivvy Phin out of his curmudgeonly mood. Without his constant company and sound common sense to guide him through the devastating loss of his mother, closely followed by the stormy years of adolescence, during the course of which just about everyone he met seemed to want a part of him, he would likely have fallen apart. Phin survived, but he was then forced to endure the pain of his father’s unexpected death, and hot on the heels of that tragedy he learned that his uncle, the duke, had also died—along with his cousin, the old duke’s son—leaving Phin as the unwilling heir to the title.

  Now Phin must face the battles that awaited him on English soil, well aware that he had John to thank for his state of readiness for a situation in which he had never anticipated finding himself. A situation that he most emphatically did not want.

  ‘Hmm,’ he said, non-committedly.

  But John, as always, was in the right of it, at least insofar as Newmarket was concerned. Horse racing was established in England and had justifiably become known as the Sport of Kings. The only racing in America was unofficial, the wagering controlled by unreliable elements who were not too fussy about the methods they used to collect outstanding debts. Phin had made do with breeding horses built for speed and relished the prospect of becoming an owner to be reckoned with now that he was back in England. Always supposing, of course, that his fortune was not eaten up by the demands of the estate he had inherited along with the title he had no use for.

  ‘Do you want to spend the night in Liverpool before setting out for Suffolk?’ John asked. ‘It will give us time to establish our land legs.’

  ‘No, I want to get on the road as soon as we can. Have arrangements been made for a suitable conveyance?’

  ‘No, I thought we’d walk the two hundred miles.’

  Phin chortled and sent John an apologetic look.

  ‘Do you want to go to London first? You ought to consult with your uncle’s man of business and find out what you’ve actually been left.’

  ‘No to that one too. I’d prefer to simply see the Abbey first. That will tell me all I need to know. Besides, there’s no reason to suppose that I have any unpleasant surprises in store. My aunt can surely be trusted to run the house. Everything else is looked after by my uncle’s steward and attorney.’

  John inclined his head. ‘As you wish.’

  Phin shook off his depressed mood and returned to his cabin to finish dressing and break his fast. By the time he had done so, the ship had docked. The formalities were quickly dealt with. A man in Phin’s position, he quickly discovered, was not required to present himself to the customs’ officials. In his case, Mohammed came to the mountain. He was a little embarrassed when the rest of the passengers were required to wait until Phin and John had disembarked before they themselves were permitted to do so. He heard their speculations as he walked down the gangplank.

  ‘I told you he was someone worth knowing,’ a mother with two ambitious daughters in tow muttered. ‘You should have tried harder to make an impression upon him, Harriet. The opportunity is lost to you now and someone else will snap him up.’

  ‘I reckon he must be an undesirable with more money than sense,’ a gentleman replied. ‘You were sensible to keep your daughters away from him, madam. Goodness alone knows what would have become of them had you not done so.’ The daughters in question looked at the man with open curiosity, clearly keen to know the particulars of the fate they had narrowly escaped. Phin wanted to laugh and assure them that neither would have been in the slightest danger. ‘I have met men like him before, returning from the new world with their ill-gotten gains, thinking that money sets them apart and that they can continue to behave like savages.’

  ‘I think he’s rather dashing,’ another lady said dreamily. ‘All that dark hair and brooding good looks. He simply needs taming.’

  ‘Taming, be damned,’ Phin muttered. ‘I’m not a bloody horse.’

  John laughed. ‘Get accustomed to it,’ he said. ‘You’re a prime catch now. A young, handsome duke, heaven help you! Every single female beneath the age of forty will have you in her sights the moment she learns of your return.’

  Phin rolled his eyes. ‘God have mercy!’ he muttered.

  ‘Perhaps you should have taken that floozie up on her invitation during the crossing,’ John said casually, referring to an attractive widow who hadn’t been deterred by Phin’s incivilities. ‘A meaningless tumble would have been just the thing to pass the time, ease your frustrations and take your mind off your changed circumstances.’

  Phin chuckled. ‘You are supposed to temper my excesses, not encourage immoral behaviour.’

  ‘It’s been years since you’ve listened to a word I say.’

  Phin lifted a shoulder in casual acquiesce. ‘True enough, but then you seldom say anything worth hearing.’

  Phin had kept himself apart from his fellow passengers for the duration of the crossing, discouraging their attempts at intimacy and pretending not to hear their questions about his personal affairs. Travelling under his real name of Phineas Webster, no one seemed to have made to the connection to his recently inherited title, thereby avoiding it becoming shipboard knowledge. His relatives, what remained of them, would learn of his return soon enough, but he would prefer it if they had no advance warning that he was back in England. He wanted to see for himself what havoc had been wreaked at Webster Abbey, resigned to the fact that they would have somehow got their hands on at least some of his uncle’s wealth, without giving them an opportunity to hide their excesses.

  A port official awaited them at the foot of the gangplank. He bowed low and welcomed Phin to Liverpool.

  ‘If you would care to step this way, your grace, a travelling chaise awaits, just as you asked.’ He snapped his fingers and two porters staggered behind them, bearing their luggage. ‘It is a privilege and pleasure to see your grace returned to English soil.’

  Since Phin had never laid eyes on the man in his life, he wondered at the extent of his flummery. His thoughts were doubtless reflected in his acerbic expression, as evidenced by the sharp nudge in the ribs he received from John’s elbow. The reminder had the desired effect and Phin thanked the man with courtesy.

  ‘Get used to it,’ John said from the side of his mouth.

  ‘Never.’

  B
ut Phin perked up when he saw the sleek carriage that awaited them, four matching bays shuffling their feet between the shafts. A tiger came with the conveyance, and he helped load the luggage into the trunk and then jumped up behind once Phin had settled himself on the box seat and taken up the ribbons. The boy would know the best roads to take, the most reliable posting inns at which to changes horses and spend the two nights on the road that it would take them to reach their destination.

  He slapped the reins against the horses’ rumps and the carriage moved forward at a slow pace, hampered by the paraphernalia of arrival and the swell of bodies. The noise was deafening as porters, dockers, stallholders, officials and pickpockets alike scurried about their business. The bays were skittish and it took all of Phin’s concentration and skill to negotiate their passage away from the docks without trampling the unwary underfoot. Clear at last, he gave them their heads when they reached the open road and felt a brief moment of optimism filter through his unsettled mood as he breathed in the fresh, clean air and enjoyed the sight of the trees bursting into fresh leaf.

  Summer was almost upon them. A new season to mirror the changes in his own life.

  Two days later they reached the outskirts of Newmarket and the freedom of the road gave way to new demons. Phin’s father had been the previous duke’s brother, driven from England by the raging dispute that had sprung up between them when Phin had been just ten years old and finding his feet alongside his cousin and friend Matthew, the duke’s heir, at preparatory school. To his dying day, the pater stubbornly refused to tell Phin what the dispute had been about, advising him to forget about the land of his birth. His brother had a son to succeed him, there was nothing left for them in England and they would be better advised to take the opportunities available to them in the New World and make their fortune through their wits, connections and knowledge of horse flesh.

  They did so, unaware that the duke and Matthew would manage to break their necks in a carriage accident, leaving Phin as the new duke. His accession to the dukedom would, he suspected, be unpopular with his remaining relations, none of whom he’d had any contact with since leaving England. The old duke had a daughter who was two years older than Phin. Lady Emma was married to Lord Toby Darwin—who was, according to John’s exacting research, a handsome wastrel who had taken up residence at Webster Abbey upon his marriage to Emma. He had no occupation, frittered away his time at card tables and racetracks and seemed content to allow the duchy to support him and his wife. A parasite to be dislodged, Phin had already decided, unless he deigned to make himself useful.

  Of more immediate concern to Phin was his aunt Alice, the old duke’s sister, another long-time resident of Webster Abbey, along with her son Alvin, who had never lived anywhere else and would likely resent Phin’s return. He was three years younger than Phin, who had little recollection of him as a child, and was prepared to reserve judgement about what type of man he had become.

  Part of him was tempted to tell his family that they were welcome to keep the estate, since he had no use for it. But he was not in a position to indulge in such philanthropy. Webster Abbey was part and parcel of the duchy, had been for centuries, and he bore a responsibility to hold it together for the next generation. If Alvin and his mother had kept it profitable—and he had no reason to suppose that they had not—he would have no quarrel with them and they would be welcome to remain in residence. As to Lady Emma and her husband—their future was less certain.

  ‘I remember this lane,’ Phin said as he slowed the conveyance to walking pace in order to negotiate the narrow pathway, partly overgrown with cow parsley, elder and goat willow. ‘Matthew and I used to steal the apples from that orchard over yonder. The famer used to chase us away with his pitchfork.’

  ‘Lucky that’s all he did, given that you two came from such a privileged background and were stealing his livelihood.’

  ‘Well, you know how it is, John. Boys will be boys.’

  Phin felt a moment’s sorrow at the loss of his cousin, even though he hadn’t seen him since leaving England all those years previously. They had been close in age and the very best of friends, unconcerned about the tensions that hovered beneath the surface between their fathers. Damn it, Matthew should not have died in such a reckless manner! He should have had more consideration than to die at all and leave Phin—who had been perfectly content with his life in America—to deal with a fragmented family and an aging Abbey.

  ‘Ye gods, what the devil…’

  He stopped the conveyance at the entrance to the estate, appalled by the dilapidated condition of the lodge. Crumbled masonry had been left where it had fallen, impeding access, and there was no sign of the porter who should have been on duty.

  ‘This situation could not have arisen in the year since my uncle died. Did you know that matters had deteriorated to this level?’ Phin asked as he steered his team around the obstacles and walked them down a long driveway that was overgrown and neglected. The fencing to the paddocks on either side of it was broken in places and there was no livestock in evidence.

  ‘Rumours of mismanagement reached my ears,’ John replied. ‘I didn’t mention anything since I was unsure about their validity.’

  ‘And you didn’t want to further sour my mood.’

  ‘Quite,’ John replied. ‘You have enough adjustments to make as it is. Besides, you know how things get exaggerated and it hadn’t occurred to me that it would be quite as bad as this.’ John glanced around and winced. ‘Welcome home, your grace,’ he said in a dour tone.

  ‘Dear God!’

  The Abbey came into view, and it was not a welcoming sight. The gravel courtyard immediately in front of it was strewn with weeds, there were missing roof slates and several broken windows. The front steps had crumbled in places and Phin noticed that some of the chimney stacks looked unstable. He halted the conveyance, just as a young woman with wild copper curls and blazing hazel eyes appeared at the side of the Abbey, a shotgun levelled directly at them, held in rock steady hands.

  ‘Who the devil are you?’ she demanded.

  *

  Celeste Stirling surveyed the remains of the previous night’s activities with ill-disguised dismay, wrinkling her nose against the pervading aromas of stale rum and tobacco that lingered in the only habitable salon in the main wing of the house.

  ‘Alvin, what the devil went on here?’ she asked, striving to keep a hold on her temper.

  ‘Steady on, Cel,’ Alvin replied as he strolled into the room, stifling a wide yawn. ‘A few friends came back from the tavern for a friendly game of cards.’

  Celeste eyed the discarded glasses and empty bottles with repugnance. ‘How much did you lose this time?’ she asked with an exaggerated sigh.

  ‘What makes you imagine that I lost?’ Alvin, a sturdy young man with a handsome face and boyish disingenuousness that would appeal to some women’s mothering instincts, sent her an innocent look. ‘I am quite capable of holding my own, I’ll have you know, and when I have recovered our fortune, you and I can be married.’ He touched the side of her face and she slapped his hand away, rather as though swatting a fly. He was such a child. A child who was becoming increasingly influenced by Toby Darwin’s debauchery. ‘You know very well that was my uncle’s dearest wish.’

  ‘Don’t be absurd,’ she said, shaking her head at his ability to convince himself that the old duke would countenance such a mésalliance.

  ‘Absurd? Come now, my sweet. Don’t be so modest. Besides, you wouldn’t want to disappoint the old boy in the afterlife now, would you?’

  Alvin flashed the smile that highlighted his handsome features and almost always got him what he wanted, especially when he deployed it upon his doting mother. Since Alvin never held onto whatever blunt he managed to accrue for long, Celeste didn’t bother to set him straight with regard to his marital aspirations. She had told him often enough that she wouldn’t marry him if he was the last man in England, but Alvin, who has been spoiled and indulged from the cradle, steadfastly refused to believe that anyone he fixed his interest upon would be able to resist his charms indefinitely. Hopefully his passing interest in Celeste would be transferred to a more deserving cause when he grew tired of being rejected.