Mr. Cavendish, I Presume Page 8

  Something foreign seemed to invade Thomas’s body. It was furious and black, with rough edges and hot teeth, and before he knew it, he was leaping through the air, going for Audley’s throat. They went down with a crash, rolling across the carpet into an end table. With great satisfaction, Thomas found himself straddling his beloved new cousin, one hand pressed against his throat as the other squeezed itself into a deadly weapon.

  “Stop!” Grace shrieked, but Thomas felt nothing as she grabbed at his arm. She seemed to fall away as he lifted his fist and slammed it into Audley’s jaw. But Audley was a formidable opponent. He’d had years to learn how to fight dirty, Thomas later realized, and with a vicious twist of his torso, he slammed his head into Thomas’s chin, stunning him for just enough time to reverse their positions.

  “Don’t…you…ever…strike…me…again!” Audley ground out, slamming his own fist into Thomas’s cheek as punctuation.

  Thomas freed an elbow, jabbed it hard into Audley’s stomach, and was rewarded with a low grunt.

  “Stop it! Both of you!” Grace managed to wedge herself between them, which was probably the only thing that would have stopped the fight. Thomas just barely had time to halt the progress of his fist before it clipped her in the face.

  “You should be ashamed of yourself,” she said, and Thomas would have agreed with her, except he was still breathing too hard to speak. And then it became apparent that she was speaking to him. It was galling, and he was filled with a not very admirable urge to embarrass her, just as she had embarrassed him.

  “You might want to remove yourself from my, er…” He looked down at his midsection, upon which she was now seated.

  “Oh!” Grace yelped, jumping up. She did not let go of Audley’s arm, however, and she yanked him along with her, peeling the two men apart. Audley, for his part, seemed more than happy to go with her.

  “Tend to my wounds?” he asked, gazing upon her with all the pitiable mournfulness of an ill-treated puppy.

  “You have no wounds,” she snapped, then looked over at Thomas, who had risen to his feet as well. “And neither do you.”

  Thomas rubbed his jaw, thinking that their faces would both prove her wrong by nightfall.

  And then his grandmother—oh now there was a person who ought be giving lessons in kindness and civility—decided it was time to enter the conversation. Unsurprisingly, her first statement was a hard shove to his shoulder.

  “Apologize at once!” she snapped. “He is a guest in our house.”

  “My house.”

  Her face tightened at that. It was the one piece of leverage he held over her. She was there, as they all knew, at his pleasure and discretion.

  “He is your first cousin,” she said. “One would think, given the lack of close relations in our family, that you would be eager to welcome him into the fold.”

  One would, Thomas thought, looking warily over at Audley. Except that he had disliked him on sight, disliked that smirky smile, that carefully studied insolence. He knew this sort. This Audley knew nothing of duty, nothing of responsibility, and he had the gall to waltz in here and criticize?

  And furthermore, who the hell was to say that Audley actually was his cousin? Thomas’s fingers clawed then straightened as he attempted to calm himself down. “Would someone,” he said, his voice clipped and furious, “do me the service of explaining just how this man has come to be in my drawing room?”

  The first reaction was silence, as everyone waited for someone else to jump into the breach. Then Audley shrugged, motioned with his head toward the dowager, and said, “She kidnapped me.”

  Thomas turned slowly to his grandmother. “You kidnapped him,” he echoed, not because it was hard to believe but rather because it wasn’t.

  “Indeed,” she said sharply. “And I would do it again.”

  Thomas looked to Grace. “It’s true,” she said. And then—bloody hell—she turned to Audley and said, “I’m sorry.”

  “Accepted, of course,” he said, with enough charm and grace to pass muster in the most discerning of ballrooms.

  Thomas’s disgust must have shown on his face, because when Grace looked at him, she added, “She kidnapped him!”

  Thomas just rolled his eyes. He did not care to discuss it.

  “And forced me to take part,” Grace muttered.

  “I recognized him last night,” the dowager announced.

  “In the dark?” Thomas asked dubiously.

  “Under his mask,” she answered with pride. “He is the very image of his father. His voice, his laugh, every bit of it.”

  Everything made sense now, of course. The portrait, her distraction the night before. Thomas let out a breath and closed his eyes, somehow summoning the energy to treat her with gentle compassion. “Grandmother,” he said, which ought to have been recognized as the olive branch it was, given that he usually called her you, “I understand that you still mourn your son—”

  “Your uncle,” she cut in.

  “My uncle,” he corrected, although it was difficult to think of him as such, given that they had never met. “But it has been thirty years since his death.”

  “Twenty-nine,” she corrected sharply.

  Thomas looked to Grace for he wasn’t sure what. Support? Sympathy? Her lips stretched into an apologetic line, but she remained silent.

  He turned back to his grandmother. “It has been a long time,” he said. “Memories fade.”

  “Not mine,” she said haughtily, “and certainly not the ones I have of John. Your father I have been more than pleased to forget entirely—”

  “In that we are agreed,” Thomas interrupted tightly, because the only thing more farcical than the present situation was imagining his father witnessing it.

  “Cecil!” he bellowed again, flexing his fingers lest he give in to the urge to strangle someone. Where the hell was the bloody painting? He’d sent the footman up ages ago. It should have been a simple endeavor. Surely his grandmother had not had time to affix the damned thing to her bedchamber wall yet.

  “Your grace!” he heard from the hall, and sure enough there was the painting for the second time that afternoon, bobbing along as two footmen attempted to keep it balanced as they rounded the corner.

  “Set it down anywhere,” Thomas instructed.

  The footmen found a clear spot and set the painting down on the floor, leaning it gently against the wall. And for the second time that day Thomas found himself staring into the long-dead face of his uncle John.

  Except this time was completely different. How many times had he walked by the portrait, never once bothering to look closely? And why should he? He’d never known the man, never had cause to see anything familiar in his expression.

  But now…

  Grace was the first to find words to express it. “Oh my God.”

  Thomas stared in shock at Mr. Audley. It was as if he were one with the painting.

  “I see no one is disagreeing with me now,” his grandmother announced smugly.

  “Who are you?” Thomas whispered, staring at the man who could only be his first cousin.

  “My name,” he stammered, unable to tear his eyes off the portrait. “My given name…My full name is John Augustus Cavendish-Audley.”

  “Who were your parents?” Thomas whispered. But he didn’t reply, and Thomas heard his own voice grow shrill as he demanded, “Who was your father?”

  Audley’s head snapped around. “Who the bloody hell do you think he was?”

  Thomas felt the world dropping away. Every last moment, every memory, every breath of air that made him think he actually knew who he was—they all slid away, leaving him alone, stark, and completely without bearings.

  “Your parents,” he said, and his voice shook like the wind. “Were they married?”

  “What is your implication?” Audley snarled.

  “Please,” Grace pleaded, jumping between them yet again. “He doesn’t know.” She looked at Thomas, and he knew what she was
trying to tell him. Audley didn’t know. He had no idea what it meant if his birth was indeed legitimate.

  Grace looked at him with apology. Because she was also saying that they had to tell him. They could not keep it a secret, no matter what the consequences. She said, “Someone needs to explain to Mr. Audley—”

  “Cavendish,” the dowager snapped.

  “Mr. Cavendish-Audley,” Grace amended, ever the diplomat. “Someone needs to tell him that…that…” She looked frantically from person to person, and then her gaze finally settled upon Audley’s stunned face. “Your father—the man in the painting, that is—assuming he is your father—he was his grace’s father’s…elder brother.”

  No one said anything.

  Grace cleared her throat. “So, if…if your parents were indeed lawfully married—”

  “They were,” Audley bit off.

  “Yes, of course. I mean, not of course, but—”

  “What she means,” Thomas cut in sharply, because by God, he could not stand another moment of this, “is that if you are indeed the legitimate offspring of John Cavendish, then you are the Duke of Wyndham.”

  And then he waited. For what, he wasn’t sure, but he was through with this. He’d said his part. Someone else could chime in and offer their bloody opinion.

  “No,” Audley finally said, sitting down in the closest chair. “No.”

  “You will remain here,” the dowager announced, “until this matter can be settled to my satisfaction.”

  “No,” Audley repeated, with considerably more conviction. “I will not.”

  “Oh, yes, you will,” she responded. “If you do not, I will turn you in to the authorities as the thief you are.”

  “You wouldn’t do that,” Grace blurted out. She turned to the man in question. “She would never do that. Not if she believes that you are her grandson.”

  “Shut up!” the dowager growled. “I don’t know what you think you are doing, Miss Eversleigh, but you are not family, and you have no place in this room.”

  Thomas stepped forward to intercede, but before he could utter a word, Audley stood, his back ramrod straight, his eyes hard.

  And for the first time, Thomas no longer believed he’d been lying about his military service. For Audley was every inch an officer as he ordered, “Do not speak to her in that manner ever again.”

  The dowager recoiled, stunned that he would speak to her in that manner, and over someone she considered beneath notice. “I am your grandmother,” she bit off.

  Audley did not remove his eyes from her face. “That remains to be determined.”

  “What?” Thomas burst out, before he had the chance to temper his reaction.

  Audley looked at him with cool assessment.

  “Are you now trying to tell me,” Thomas said disbelievingly, “that you don’t think you are the son of John Cavendish?”

  The other man shrugged, suddenly looking more like the rogue he’d been playing earlier. “Frankly, I’m not so certain I wish to gain entry into this charming little club of yours.”

  “You don’t have a choice,” the dowager said.

  Audley glanced at her sideways. “So loving. So thoughtful. Truly, a grandmother for the ages.”

  Grace let out the choked sound that Thomas would have made—in any other circumstances. No, he would have laughed aloud, truly. But not now. Not with a potential usurper standing in his godforsaken drawing room.

  “Your grace,” Grace said hesitantly, but he just didn’t want to hear it right now. He didn’t want to hear anything—no one’s opinions, no one’s suggestions, nothing.

  Good God, they were all looking at him, waiting for him to make a decision, as if he were in charge. Oh, now, that was rich. He didn’t even know who the bloody hell he was any longer. No one, possibly. No one at all. Certainly not the head of the family.

  “Wyndham—” his grandmother began.

  “Shut up,” he snapped. He grit his teeth, trying not to show weakness. What the hell was he supposed to do now? He turned to Audley—Jack, he supposed he ought start thinking of him, since he couldn’t quite manage to think of him as Cavendish, or God help him, Wyndham. “You should remain,” he said, hating the weary sound in his voice. “We will need—” Good Lord, he could hardly believe he was saying this. “We will need to get this sorted out.”

  Audley did not answer immediately, and when he did, he sounded every bit as exhausted as Thomas felt. “Could someone please explain…” He paused, pressing his fingers into his temples. Thomas knew that motion well. His own head was pounding like the devil.

  “Could someone explain the family tree?” Audley finally asked.

  “I had three sons,” the dowager said crisply. “Charles was the eldest, John the middle, and Reginald the last. Your father left for Ireland just after Reginald married”—her face took on a visible expression of distaste, and Thomas almost rolled his eyes as she jerked her head in his direction—“his mother.”

  “She was a cit,” Thomas said, because hell, it wasn’t a secret. “Her father owned factories. Piles and piles of them.” Ah, the irony. “We own them now.”

  The dowager did not acknowledge him, instead keeping her attention firmly on Audley. “We were notified of your father’s death in July of 1790. One year after that, my husband and my eldest son died of a fever. I did not contract the ailment. My youngest son was no longer living at Belgrave, so he, too, was spared. Charles had not yet married, and we believed John to have died without issue. Thus Reginald became duke.” There was a brief pause, followed by: “It was not expected.”

  And then everyone turned and looked at him. Wonderful. Thomas said nothing, refusing to give any indication that she deserved a reply.

  “I will remain,” Audley finally said, and although he sounded resigned, as if he hadn’t been offered a choice, Thomas was not fooled. The man was a thief, for God’s sake. A thief who had been given a chance to legally snatch one of the highest titles in the land. Not to mention the riches that accompanied it.

  Riches that were unfathomable. Even, at times, to him.

  “Most judicious of you,” the dowager said, clapping her hands together. “Now then, we—”

  “But first,” Audley cut in, “I must return to the inn to collect my belongings.” He glanced around the drawing room, as if mocking the opulence. “Meager though they are.”

  “Nonsense,” the dowager said briskly. “Your things will be replaced.” She looked down her nose at his traveling costume. “With items of far greater quality, I might add.”

  “I wasn’t asking your permission,” Audley responded coolly.

  “Nonethe—”

  “Furthermore,” he cut in, “I must make explanations to my associates.”

  Thomas started to intercede. He could not have Audley spreading rumors across the county. Within a week it would be all over Britain. It wouldn’t matter if the claims were proved baseless. No one would ever judge him in the same way again. There would always be whispers.

  He might not really be the duke.

  There was another claim, hadn’t you heard? His own grandmother supported it.

  It would be a bloody nightmare.

  “Nothing approaching the truth,” Audley added dryly, with a look in his direction. It made Thomas uncomfortable. He did not like that he could be read so easily. And by this man, most especially.

  “Don’t disappear,” the dowager directed. “I assure you, you will regret it.”

  “There’s no worry of that,” Thomas said, echoing what they all had to know. “Who would disappear with the promise of a dukedom?”

  Audley seemed not amused. Thomas didn’t much care.

  “I will accompany you,” Thomas told him. He needed to take this man’s measure. He needed to see how he conducted himself, how he behaved with no female audience to woo.

  Audley gave him a mocking smile, and his left eyebrow rose, just like—good God, it was frightening—the dowager’s. “Need I worry for m
y safety?” he murmured.

  Thomas forced himself not to respond. The afternoon hardly needed another fistfight. But the insult was acute. His entire life he had put Wyndham first. The title, the legacy, the lands. Nothing had ever been about him, about Thomas Cavendish, a gentleman born in the English county of Lincolnshire; who loved music but abhorred the opera; who preferred to ride astride rather than in a carriage, even when the weather was inclement; who loved strawberries, especially with clotted cream; who had taken a first at Cambridge and could recite most of the sonnets of Shakespeare but never did, because he preferred to linger over each word in his own mind. It never seemed to matter that he found satisfaction in manual labor, or that he had no patience for inefficiency. And no one cared that he had never acquired a taste for port, or that he found the current habit of snuff asinine at best.

  No, when the time came to make a decision—any decision—none of this had ever mattered. He was Wyndham. It was that simple.

  And apparently, that complicated. Because his loyalty to his name and his legacy was unchecked. He would do what was right, what was proper. He always did. It was laughable, really, too ironic to contemplate. He did the right thing because he was the Duke of Wyndham. And it seemed the right thing might very well mean handing over his very name to a stranger.

  If he wasn’t the duke…Did that make him free? Could he then do whatever he wished, rob coaches and despoil virgins and whatever it was men with no encumbrances chose to do?

  But after all he had done, for someone to suggest that he would put his own personal gain above his duty to his family name—

  It did not cut to the bone. It burned.

  And then Audley turned to Grace, offering her that annoyingly smarmy smile, and said, “I am a threat to his very identity. Surely any reasonable man would question his safety.” It was all Thomas could do to keep his hands—fisted though they were—at his sides.

  “No, you’re wrong,” Grace said to Audley, and Thomas found himself oddly comforted by the fervor in her voice. “You misjudge him. The duke—” She stopped for a moment, choking on the word, but then squared her shoulders and continued. “He is as honorable a man as I have ever met. You would never come to harm in his company.”