My Dearest Friend (Books We Love Regency Romance) Read online

  My Dearest Friend

  By

  Hazel Statham

  ISBN: 978-1-77145-055-3

  Books We Love Ltd.

  Chestermere, Alberta

  Canada

  http://bookswelove.net

  Copyright by Hazel Statham

  Cover art Copyright by Michelle Lee

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  Chapter One

  London, January 1812

  The candles burned brightly in the sconces set about the smoke-filled gaming room of Regan’s, the latest and most fashionable gaming hell to open its doors to the cream of London society. The clock in the main entrance hall had struck the hour of four some while since and still a small crowd stood transfixed about the table occupied by the two gamesters. All other play had been suspended and an air of hushed expectancy filled the room.

  “Is it Lear’s intention to break the boy?” whispered a small dandy to his companion. “I swear I’ve never seen him play so deep. It’s a devilishly one-sided game, and still his luck holds.”

  A fellow spectator, who craned his neck the better to view the game in progress, turned sharply and admonished him to “Hush!”

  Placing his cards on the table, Robert Blake, Duke of Lear, drew the pile of notes and gold coins toward him, adding them to the already considerable amount that lay on the green baize. His countenance remained impassive, his mood unreadable.

  Lord Julian Harwood, the young man who sat opposite him, ran his finger nervously around his neck cloth, his handsome young visage appearing flushed in the bright candlelight. Taking a handkerchief from his pocket, he mopped his perspiring brow, eyeing his opponent with a great deal of resentment.

  “Enough?” queried the duke indifferently. “Do you find yourself out of funds?”

  “You need not concern yourself, I have funds enough,” replied Harwood, straightening in his chair and feigning nonchalance.

  His grace collected the cards and shuffled them with an experienced hand. “You appear surprisingly eager to squander your inheritance my young friend.”

  The scowl on the young lord’s brow deepened perceptively. “Damn you, Lear, just deal the cards and save your concerns for those who would value them. I do not!”

  There was an almost tangible tension in the room and a murmur ran amongst the spectators. Sir Richard Austin, a tall, fair-haired man of fashion with pleasing features, placed his hand on the duke’s shoulder and bent to whisper into his friend’s ear. “Have done, Robert. It does no good to fleece the boy.”

  The duke gave him no answer, but returned to the game in hand. A waiter shouldered his way to the duke’s side and prepared to replace the bottle of brandy at his elbow, but his grace, wishing for no diversion from the cards, waved him aside with an impatient hand.

  Lord Harwood finally won a hand and an appreciative murmur ran through the spectators. Throwing his cards onto the table, he turned triumphantly toward the duke. “As you see, Lear, I come about. My luck has finally changed. Look to yourself now, sir.”

  His grace bowed slightly in return and replied in his cool way, “May I suggest that we call a halt to the play for this evening? It will give you the chance to recoup your resources. However, should you desire a rematch; I will place myself at your disposal at any given time or place.”

  “I desire no rematch, sir,” his lordship responded hotly, his face turning an unhealthy shade of puce. “We will have this matter over with now. You must and will give me the opportunity to come about. You owe me that at least.” In a show of bravado, he leaned back in his chair, straightening his shoulders. “I suggest that we stake all on one final hand. Or is it that now you see that the luck runs in my direction, you have no nerve for the game?”

  Murmured comments were heard amongst the spectators, exclaiming at the scarcely veiled insult, but his grace appeared without interest. “Whatever you wish. It matters not to me. Either way I am willing to oblige.”

  Sir Richard, standing behind his friend, uttered an admonitory comment and the duke turned sharply in his chair to face him. “Have done, Rick. I know what I’m at. If my play is not to your liking, then you are not compelled to stay to witness it.”

  “Well I don’t like it, I don’t like it above half,” replied Sir Richard in reproving undertones.

  The duke’s attention was recalled to the table as Harwood dealt the cards and a hush once more fell over the hardy few onlookers who remained. The cards were played and when the duke finally placed his hand face-upwards upon the table, Harwood sat back, his once flushed countenance now deathly pale.

  An excited hum of comments erupted amongst the spectators as the young lord reached for a scrap of paper and wrote out his final note of hand.

  Pushing away his chair, he rose unsteadily to his feet and, thrusting out his arm, let the note drop to the table. “I wish you good night, sir,” he said, bowing stiffly and, turning on his heel, he made his departure. Those spectators who witnessed his leaving did so with mixed emotions, not least of all Sir Richard.

  ***

  The cold grey light of dawn was breaking over the skyline when the two friends left Regan’s portals. Sir Richard shivered and drew his satin-lined cloak closer about his slim figure as he entered the waiting coach, but the Duke of Lear seemed impervious to the sharp frost in the air. The indifferent street lighting revealed him to be a tall, athletic man in his early thirties, with dark hair cut fashionably short, almost aquiline nose and a wide, well-shaped mouth. However, it was the eyes, set beneath slightly winged brows, which took the face out of the ordinary. They were of a particular shade of green that often mirrored his emotions and when lit by a rare smile, completely transformed his austere visage. Few however, ever having had the privilege of viewing this transformation.

  Entering the carriage, he cast aside his cloak and cane and lounged back against the velvet squabs, rocking only slightly as his coachman sprung the horses in the deserted streets.

  The duke made himself more comfortable, easing his position slightly so that his powerful shoulders rested against the corner of the coach. He stretched his long legs before him, his hands thrust deep into his pockets.

  Although the interior was deep in shadow, in the fitful light of a passing lantern he became aware of his friend’s frowning scrutiny, sensing rather than seeing that Sir Richard’s eyes never left his face.

  The Duke of Lear’s dark countenance remained impassive. “It would seem that once more I incur your displeasure, Rick,” he drawled. “Of late I can do naught else. Tell me, what despicable deed have I performed now?”

  “Damn you, Robert, you’re a cold fish, make no mistake,” Sir Richard expostulated. “I suppose you will tell me you didn’t realize that you have taken young Harwood for every farthing he possesses?”

  “As much as that?” the duke responded, raising his brow. “I hadn’t thought to keep a strict tally. I’m obliged that you did. I take it then that my winnings are considerable, as the Harwood estates are extensive.”

  “Nom de Dieu! Surely you realized when you were taking his notes of hand how matters stood. How could you have allowed the play to become so deep?”

  “My dear Rick, you talk as if it was I who forced the odds, but I can assure you, you wrong me. It was Harwood’s suggestion that the bank should play so
high.”

  “A young pup fresh on the town. You could give him ten years, Robert. Ten years of experience…”

  “Experience that cost me dearly,” purred the duke. He took a snuffbox from his pocket and traced the design with a long slender finger devoid of rings. “However, it is here that I must disillusion you, my dear friend. My motives are not as worthy of contempt as you believe them to be. Now I will explain...”

  Sir Richard would have spoken, but Robert raised a hand to silence him. “Hear me out and then you will understand my actions,” he ordered shortly. He paused slightly before recommencing in a more even tone. “When I was just such a callow youth of four and twenty, but recently come into my fortune and fresh on the town, I found myself in exactly the same straits. However, the hand that fleeced me belonged to a hardened gamester, a hawk, whose sole purpose was to relieve me of my inheritance. In Harwood, I saw history preparing to repeat itself and I determined that if he were of a mind to dispose so readily of his fortune it would be preferable that he relinquish it to me than to some less principled gamester. In fact, the type of hawk whom I fell prey to, whose main aim is to target the young and inexperienced. It is not my intention to keep my winnings. Indeed, once he has had time to reflect on his stupidity all will be returned to its rightful owner and he will be that much the wiser for the experience. I managed to come about, believe me, so read me no lectures on that head, my friend.” He paused before adding in his deepest tones, “I would have hoped that you had more faith in me than to believe me capable of such infamous dealings. Obviously I was wrong.”

  “I cannot say that I approve of your methods, for fact is I don’t,” Sir Richard said with some force, appearing unrepentant of misreading his friend’s actions. “You’ve changed, Robert. God how you’ve changed!” He watched the duke as he flicked open the lid of his snuffbox and, with an elegant turn of the wrist, partook of its contents, then he continued, “I wish I could say you were still the man I knew six months ago, but fact is I can’t.”

  “You amaze me,” replied the duke coldly, replacing the box and taking a handkerchief from his pocket to lightly dust his fingers. “I’m totally unaware of this great change of which I am accused. Behold, am I not the same man you have known these eight years or more?”

  “Not the man I had grown to respect,” Sir Richard replied, averting his gaze.

  “And what pray have I done of a sudden to destroy this respect, my friend?”

  “It is not of a sudden, Robert, it’s ever since…”

  The duke’s faced hardened and he raised an enquiring brow. “Ever since...?” he prompted.

  Sir Richard sat slightly forward in his seat the better to view his companion. “I must speak the truth and I will. You have not been the same man since news came of Stefan’s death. I realize it was a terrible shock. You were so close, but...” seeing the stricken look upon the duke’s face, he fell silent. Despite the fact that they were at odds, he had no wish to wound his friend by evoking memories of his brother’s tragic death. “Forgive me, Robert,” he stammered. “My outburst was unforgivable. I should not have spoken. Not at all the thing. Private grief. Quite understandable.”

  The duke sat as if turned to stone and an uneasy silence fell between them. The only sound being the horses’ hooves as they echoed through the empty streets. Suddenly, sitting forward in his seat, Robert called to his coachman to halt, flinging wide the door before the horses were brought to a clattering halt. “My man will take you to your lodgings,” he snapped over his shoulder as he sprang lightly into the deserted roadway and set out on foot.

  His black evening coat was no proof against the sharp wind that whipped about him but he paid it no heed, his mind being otherwise engaged with thoughts of his brother. He strode on in the general direction of Blake House not caring that he should prove a strange sight in this less opulent part of the city as the tradesmen awoke and set about their duties.

  Change? My God, what a change, he thought. Will this emptying grief never lessen? It was not only that Stefan was dead but the manner of his dying. Stefan, the younger brother, so gay and carefree, who had gone to defy Old Bony in the Peninsula. Who would have thought such a brilliant flame could have been so callously extinguished? He had been young and vital and enriched the lives of all whom he encountered. Was it any wonder that he could not reconcile himself to his young sibling’s death?

  A cannonball had inflicted such devastation on Stefan’s vigorous frame, leaving no hope for recovery, but still, against all odds, he had lived. When the troops had been forced to move on, he had been placed in a lonely garret in the care of his aide and a local medic to await the inevitable end.

  He waited, his senses dulled with laudanum to ease the pain and calm his ranting, knowing it was but a matter of time. In rare lucid moments, he had cried out against the futility of attempting to prolong the life of the tangled wreck that had once served him as a body, wishing only for a merciful release.

  That release came one morning, when left alone during a bout of sanity. His thoughts at their clearest, Stefan had taken the opportunity afforded by a discarded pistol that had been left within his reach, to end his existence.

  Robert would never know whether the weapon had been left at his brother’s bedside by design or by a careless act, he only knew that its owner, whoever it might be, had earned his eternal gratitude. He could not bear to contemplate the agony Stefan had endured, wishing only that he had been at his side to ease those last few days of life.

  The grim lines about the duke’s mouth betrayed his thoughts as he strode homewards. He relived his years of oneness with Stefan, knowing they had been as close as two brothers could be. It was as if a part of him had died too in that country so far away, strewn with the horrors of war. A war in which his brother would have played no part if he had not succumbed to Stefan’s pleading and bought him his commission in Kincaid’s Brigade. Was it any wonder that he should now feel this void, his grief too deep for tears?

  To the outside world, he presented a façade, retreating further into himself, protecting himself with a barrier of indifference, determined that none should witness his sorrow. He was a proud man and cared not to share his grief with others.

  Arriving some short while later at Blake House, Robert surprised a sleepy porter who had looked for his master’s return by coach. However, he cut short the man’s profuse apologies with a curt order for his curricle to be brought to the front within the hour. His grace was intending a journey out of London.

  Taking the stairs to the upper story two at a time, he called for the attentions of his valet, demanding that no time should be lost in the preparations for his departure.

  After issuing final orders to his butler, the duke, resplendent in a many caped drab driving coat over a coat of olive superfine, biscuit colored breeches and gleaming top boots, descended the steps from Blake House and mounted his curricle.

  Seeing his master’s darkened mood the groom, who had been standing at the horses’ heads, hastened to take up his post at the rear of the vehicle. He leapt to his perch just as his grace released the lash from his whip and skillfully cracked it above the leaders’ heads, deftly catching the thong as the horses moved forward at a brisk trot.

  Once free of the confines of the dusty London streets, Robert sprang his horses and with the groom perched precariously behind, he drove his curricle at a breakneck speed toward Stovely Hall, his country seat.

  He paused only as often as was necessary to change horses, eager to reach his destination before the light should fail. It had been at Stovely that he had been informed of Stefan’s death and this would be the first time he had traveled to his estate since. He knew not why he felt this sudden desire to visit it once more, only that he wished for its tranquility, hoping in some way to heal his tortured thoughts.

  It mattered not that he had absented himself from the estate for almost six months. He paid his staff well and knowing the vagaries of his moods, the housekeep
er, Mrs. James, kept the Hall forever in readiness for his return. She never knew whether he would arrive alone or with company, therefore, the house was always well tended.

  Stovely Hall was set in magnificent grounds a short distance from the coast, but the duke was impervious to its beauty when he halted his curricle, just as the light was beginning to fade, before the Palladian frontage. Hesitating slightly, he allowed his eyes to wander over the impressive house of varying antiquity, not daring to dwell on the memories the mere sight of it evoked.

  The groom dismounted from his post and went immediately to the horses’ heads.

  “Take them to the stables,” his grace ordered, alighting from the driving seat and handing the vehicle over to the groom’s care.

  As he mounted the stone steps to the large front door, it opened immediately as if his coming had been anticipated hourly, the footman in attendance showing no surprise at his master’s arrival.

  His grace, entering the hallway and drawing off his driving gloves, allowed this stalwart individual to divest him of his driving coat and issued instructions that Mrs. James should attend him in the library immediately.

  The housekeeper, entering the room a short while later, found her employer standing before the fire she had ordered set earlier in the day. He stood with one arm resting on the mantle whilst extending the other to the flames and did not immediately look up as she entered. Mrs. James stood respectfully awaiting the duke’s notice and it was a few moments before, as if suddenly made aware of her arrival, he turned toward her.

  “Ah madam,” he said, turning from the fire and taking the winged chair at its side. “Be so good as to arrange some refreshment and have it served here in the library. I intend to stay only a few days and I would be grateful if you would keep town hours. I will take my meals in the small salon, not the dining room; there is no need for the formal as no one else will be here.” He paused. “I trust that my brother’s apartments have been kept in the manner I instructed?”