Duke of Thorns (Heiress Games 1) Read online

Mrs. Jennings’ mouth dropped open. “I thought you weren’t going to accept. You said we were going to England to wait out the war.”

  Callie had refused every offer to return to England after her father had drowned on his final, quixotic voyage. Lord Tiberius Briarley had been a conniving charlatan — but he had also been the youngest son of the Earl of Maidenstone. Her grandfather had insisted, repeatedly, that she move to England, but she had declined. Her father often lied, but his hatred of his father had seemed genuine.

  She should have refused the most recent invitation as well. The old man was dead now, leaving terms that seemed designed to make her and her only remaining female cousins fight over Maidenstone Abbey and the rest of the estate. The man her grandfather had left in charge of settling this farce — Ferguson, the Duke of Rothwell and her closest male relation on her grandmother’s side — had invited her to a summer house party at Maidenstone.

  It wasn’t a party, though. It was a matchmaking opportunity, with a single goal in mind — whichever girl made the best match, according to Ferguson’s judgment, would inherit the estate.

  It was ludicrous.

  She had very nearly turned it down. She didn’t want a husband. From what she’d seen, husbands were only good for kissing and making babies. If she married, the man would want her to keep his house and follow his lead until he buried her.

  She’d far rather run a shipping company and sacrifice the kissing, if it meant she could follow her own lead.

  But with the war escalating, she’d felt she had no other choice. She wasn’t wanted in Baltimore, either. Her father had never bothered to become an American, and some factions in the republic’s government wanted to see British citizens like her removed from major ports like Baltimore, no matter her allegiances.

  Callie saw the writing on the wall. Captain Jacobs wouldn’t bow to her command, not when he had bloodlust and prizes dancing through his dreams. The American government could order her removed from the coast at any moment, costing her the comfortable, if lonely, life she’d built in Baltimore. She thought she could bribe the authorities to let her stay, but if she could not, the alternative was untenable.

  She had nowhere to go.

  Callie didn’t give a fig for the Briarley legacy, or for Maidenstone Abbey. But the idea of winning it, of having something permanent…

  She liked the sound of that. Even if it meant marrying someone she didn’t particularly care for. This business with Captain Jacobs had reminded her, cruelly, of her place. She couldn’t rely on a friendly business agreement to control her company, or her life. She needed a husband, preferably one who could be trained — one who would let her use his name for her own ends. If she became a widow, even better.

  She was already a privateer. She may as well become a mercenary. It was a good plan, if she ignored the morality of it — and what marriage to an unloved stranger might mean.

  Callie pulled on her gloves like they were gauntlets. “Find me a hat, Mrs. Jennings. I must find the most easily managed husband in England. And I must look the part of a lady if I’m to do it.”

  CHAPTER ONE

  Salcombe, near the Devonshire coast - six months later

  “I trust you’ve guessed why I have assembled you in a backwater such as this.”

  Gavin Emmerson-Fairhurst, better known to the world as the Duke of Thorington, drawled the words. He ran his gaze over each sibling in turn, gauging their moods.

  None of them were frightened yet. “I’ve no idea,” Portia said, yawning. “You’ve kept us in this horrid inn for three weeks. Must you have rolled us out of our beds before breakfast to tell us your intentions?”

  It was already eleven in the morning, but Thorington didn’t comment on the time. He caught Anthony, the youngest, rolling his eyes.

  “You know our guardian,” Anthony said in a carrying whisper. “Our schedules are of little concern to him.”

  Thorington tapped his fingers on the table and refrained from commenting on the ‘schedules’ he had impacted. He would grant that three weeks in the small village of Salcombe had bored all of them to death. But they lived on his largesse — their schedules had always been set at his whim.

  Portia and Anthony, the youngest at twenty and nineteen, tended to unite forces whenever Thorington called the family together. The others, though, were more unpredictable in their allegiances. Serena, twenty-two, was as likely to spar with Portia as she was to support her. But today Serena had chosen to share a settee with her sister rather than aligning herself with Rafe — the one member of the family she usually idolized.

  Thorington would have made the same choice. Rafe had been awake until dawn, pursuing whatever meager entertainments could be found in a village of Salcombe’s size, and he reeked of whisky and tobacco smoke. He sprawled now in the chair farthest from Thorington, one arm draped over his eyes as though even the thought of light was enough to make the demons scream in his head. Pamela and Cynthia, born between Rafe and Serena, weren’t present. They had their own husbands and families, and so they were spared from Thorington’s machinations. And their father’s bastards — more numerous than their mother’s — never figured into Thorington’s calculations, save for the annuities he owed them.

  Thorington stood and adjusted the drapes until every window down the long wall of the pub’s private dining room streamed sunlight. Rafe groaned and burrowed deeper into the chair. “Can we not delay whatever it is you want until tonight, Gav? I need a bed, not a lecture.”

  Rafe was the only one who still called him Gav. The rest may well have forgotten that they’d ever had a brother named Gavin. To the youngest three, Gavin had raised them for the entirety of their living memory. Even before their parents had died, he was the one who had kept them fed, sheltered, and safe. By the time he’d become the Duke of Thorington at twenty-four, they were already accustomed to his caretaking.

  Caretaking he could suddenly no longer provide them.

  “It’s not a bed you need, Rafe,” Thorington said as he returned to the table he’d claimed as his desk. “Nor can I afford to give you one.”

  Rafe lifted his arm enough to look at Thorington with one bleary eye. Whatever he saw forced him upright.

  “Don’t say your luck’s run out?” he asked quietly.

  Thorington nodded, once.

  Rafe exhaled. “I thought it might have when you started losing at cards.”

  Portia sniffed. “You’ll recover your gambling debts. You always do. May I be excused now?”

  Serena stared at him, then put a quelling hand on her sister’s knee. “Mayhap we should hear the rest of this.”

  What could he say? They didn’t particularly like him. But he had given them every comfort, every bit of security he could provide.

  Portia, for once, was silent. Even Anthony sat up. They all looked to him. They always looked, ultimately, to him. When their house had gone unheated, they came to him. When the creditors had threatened and the greengrocer stopped delivering and even the most devoted retainers muttered about missing wages, they came to him. Their father had left them in a tremendous bind.

  And he had fixed it all. Made it all safe and secure again, safe enough for them to forget their wounds and mutter instead about how he was too controlling, too cold, too devilish.

  He couldn’t fix it anymore. Not without a massive, unimaginable influx of funds. And there was no sense in delaying the inevitable.

  He scrubbed his hand over his jaw. “It is past time that all of you married. I want to see it done within a month.”

  Rafe put his arm over his eyes again. Serena and Portia gaped at him with identical expressions of confusion. Only Anthony didn’t react — which was a reaction of its own, given how voluble the boy usually was.

  “I am glad none of you object,” Thorington said drily.

  Portia’s confusion turned to a potent glare. “I could have married any number of times if you’d only allowed me to.”

  Serena couldn’t let that
go without comment. “He would have allowed it if you weren’t so fond of impoverished cavalry officers.”

  “Better cavalry officers than dancing masters,” Portia shot back. “None of your paramours found favor with Thorington either.”

  Thorington sighed. “I will arrange everything. All you must do is accustom yourself to the notion and choose your dresses. Something you already have would be preferred. Your husbands can pay the next modiste’s bill.”

  “Anthony and I haven’t a thing to wear,” Rafe complained. “All my dresses are shockingly out of season.”

  “You can shift for yourself,” Thorington said. “I’ll take care of Anthony.”

  Anthony was still quiet. At nineteen, he was everything Thorington might have been then — alternating between cocksure confidence and moments of boyish doubt, simmering rebellion and childish clinging to safety.

  Thorington had seen every tantrum, heard every sullen recrimination. But he’d also played spillikins with him, told stories to him, given him dreams of princesses and castles rather than the reality of what a younger son faced. He should have bought Anthony a military commission or found him a clergy position as soon as he had left Eton. But the memory of Anthony, a squalling newborn in his arms, as their father threw their mother out of the house…

  That memory sometimes made him soft.

  He forced his face into something distant, something unassailable, and waited to speak until he knew his façade was back in place. “If you’ve wondered why I’ve dragged you all into Devon for the summer rather than going to our family seat, the Maidenstone estate is two miles from here. We will go there this afternoon.”

  Anthony’s face turned pale, nearly matching his perfectly starched cravat. He always dressed immaculately when Thorington called them on the carpet, even if he claimed not to care. “You can’t be serious,” he said. “Ferguson would never invite you.”

  That was true. The party’s organizer — Ferguson, the Duke of Rothwell — had no love for Thorington. But Thorington had secured an invitation through other channels. This wasn’t an opportunity he could afford to lose.

  “Maidenstone?” Rafe asked. He sounded entirely sober now. “I knew it was close, but I didn’t think you’d have any interest there. You don’t mean to go after one of the Briarley heiresses, do you?”

  Thorington snorted. “I’m far too old for any of those chits. And I’ve already married for a large dowry once. It’s time for Anthony to earn his keep.”

  The reference to his dead, mostly unlamented wife further soured the mood. “I would think you, of all people, would refuse to condone another arranged marriage after what Ariana did to you,” Anthony said bitterly.

  “It wasn’t arranged — it was forced.”

  They all knew it was. She’d trapped him most effectively, in one of those situations where he had to do the gentlemanly thing and marry her despite having no love at all for her. But then, giving her the title she wanted for the dowry he needed had saved his whole family from disaster.

  Anthony, with his romantic notions and no memory of their former poverty, wouldn’t see it that way. “Making me marry one of the Briarley heiresses wouldn’t be forced?” he retorted.

  Thorington shrugged. “You can choose whichever of them you prefer. That’s a better option than I had.”

  Anthony scowled. “It isn’t my fault you lost at cards. And I shan’t pay your debts with my heart.”

  It was a brave, bold phrase, one he tried to back up with a puffed-up chest and dramatic inhale. But Thorington’s arched brow was sharp enough to puncture his resolve.

  “You aren’t paying my debts,” Thorington said. “This is for your benefit, not mine. If you prefer not to marry an heiress, I can use my influence to make you a private secretary to a richer man than I. Is that what you prefer?”

  Anthony’s pale face was the ghost of a memory. He had been so sickly as a child, so likely to slip away from a mere cough or infected cut. It sometimes felt like a miracle that Anthony had survived, when Thorington could only see the fevered child rather than the healthy adult.

  “I want to have a choice,” Anthony said.

  Thorington almost relented then. What if the Briarley heiresses were like Ariana — conniving social climbers who would always demand more? Could he condemn Anthony — Anthony — to that?

  “Choice is a luxury, not a right,” Thorington said. Anthony flinched, but this wasn’t the time for mercy. “We can’t afford that luxury at the moment. I’ve ordered your valet to pack your things. We will make our grand entrance at Maidenstone this afternoon. Our residence in Salcombe has been of long enough duration that you can get a marriage license from the bishop at Exeter as soon as you offer for one of them — no need to wait for banns.”

  The seriousness of the situation, and how much he had planned for it, seemed to strike all of them. The girls turned pale. Anthony, with his blond hair and fair cheeks, was always pale, but a flush slowly spread over his skin. “You can’t force me to marry any of them,” he said.

  “I won’t have to,” Thorington replied. “You can choose between the security of an heiress and the peril of being disowned. I don’t have to be a prophet to know what you’ll decide.”

  “You aren’t my brother,” Anthony said.

  There was an awful moment of silence. The girls both looked at their feet. Rafe dropped his arm over his eyes again. But Anthony didn’t back down this time — he met Thorington’s coldest look without flinching.

  Thorington couldn’t make his life better, though. If Anthony didn’t marry someone, preferably someone wealthy, before the direness of Thorington’s situation came to light, he might never get another chance. Third sons with no wealth were not in high demand.

  And Thorington would rather see them all settled well, even if they hated him, than risk ruining their lives because of his debts.

  “You are welcome to say whatever you wish about our relationship,” Thorington said. “But I remain your guardian. And I will see you in the carriage this afternoon even if I must order the servants to drag you there. I trust you know better than to cause such a scene in the neighborhood where you may someday be the master of the estate.”

  Anthony stared at him for another long moment. Then he left, not asking to be excused. Portia cast Thorington a reproachful glare before rushing after her favorite sibling. Her voice, calling after their brother, scoured him. Every footstep rushing up the stairs was a body blow; the slam of a faraway door was a shot to his stomach.

  Then, silence.

  He looked at Rafe. “Nothing to say?” he asked.

  Rafe dropped his arm, along with all pretense of nonchalance. “Serena, be a dear and excuse us?”

  Serena ignored him. “What happened? Why are you so put out by a few losses at the gaming hells?”

  “Don’t concern yourself,” Thorington said. “There’s enough left for your dowry.”

  Only if she married before the middle of September, when the quarterly bills came due. But he didn’t clarify, and she didn’t care anyway. “My dowry doesn’t matter,” she said. “And you’ve only lost five or ten thousand in recent months, according to the Gazette. That’s hardly enough to signify.”

  His losses had been reported in the gossip sheets, unprecedented as it was for him to come out the loser. Thorington shrugged. “You shouldn’t discuss gambling debts with a gentleman.”

  “But…”

  “Serena,” Rafe said gently.

  Serena glared at Rafe, then turned her focus back to Thorington. “What if I want to worry? I’ve precious little else to do with my time. Why won’t you let me help you?”

  “I’m not your responsibility,” he said. “If you want to worry, do so — I can’t stop you. But you can’t help me, save by marrying someone appropriate.”

  Serena’s mutinous scowl was answer enough. But she followed it with, “I wish you would find someone who can cut you down. Heaven knows you need it. Then the rest of us mortals ma
y have a chance to help you.”

  It would have made him laugh if it didn’t sound like a curse. Thorington knew something of curses. It was the reason he was in his current predicament. He didn’t want to learn anything more about them.

  He gestured to the door. “Pack your things.”

  Serena scowled again, but she didn’t fight him. She flounced out of the room, slamming the door behind her. No one came to investigate all the noise — but then, with the extravagant sum he had paid to rent every room in the small establishment for the last three weeks, he could tear the entire building down from the rafters to the floorboards and the owner would probably offer to build him another one.

  Thorington examined his cuffs. “Do you wish to follow her?” he asked Rafe, not looking up.

  “Of course,” Rafe said. “I’d be a fool to stay when you’re in your ‘savior of the family’ mood.”

  “It hasn’t bothered any of you to be saved. Or if it has, you’ve never spurned my money.”

  Rafe moved to a chair directly across from Thorington’s. The shift in position brought him uncomfortably close — made the grim light in his eyes more apparent, more direct. “You’ve never given a damn for what bothered us. How bad is it?”

  “What is the opposite of whatever luck I’ve had in the last decade?”

  Rafe whistled. “I would pour you a drink if the thought of another round didn’t make me ill. Surely it isn’t…”

  “It is,” Thorington said flatly. “Everything I could have lost is lost.”

  “I know you’ve been losing at cards, but surely the rest is safe,” Rafe said.

  “You should disabuse yourself of the notion that you know my affairs better than I do,” Thorington said.

  That skin-flaying voice usually won the day, but Rafe was immune to Thorington’s charms. “Your money is in land, shipping, and industry,” Rafe said. “Serena’s right — ten thousand pounds lost in a gaming hell is nothing to you. That isn’t reason enough to sell Anthony into marriage. And you are incapable of staying broke for long.”