A Duke in the Night(26)

“The Duke of Holloway is not the same as Anthony,” Clara said gently. Though the resemblance was there, both in appearance and, it would seem, rumored popularity with women.

“Of course not. The Duke of Doxies does not appear to be dead yet.” Rose’s lips twisted.

Clara looked down at her hands. Rose’s fiancée had broken not only her heart but her trust as well, and had he not been killed at Waterloo, Clara might have done it herself. And while Clara didn’t really know Holloway intimately enough to pass judgment on his true character, there was no conceivable way he was as contemptible as the late Anthony Gibson. “Rose—”

“Who doesn’t appear to be dead yet?” Harland Hayward asked as he strode into the room, pulling off his coat as he came. “Bloody warm out there already,” he grumbled as he dropped the offending garment on the surface of one of the long library tables and looked at his sisters expectantly.

“The Duke of Holloway,” Clara said with a sigh.

“The Duke of Holloway was indeed very much alive last time I saw him,” Harland said with a slight frown. “In London. Though that was a good while ago.”

“So you didn’t see him last night?”

Harland stared at her. “Last night?”

“The duke is not in London,” Rose offered. “He’s here.”

Harland blinked in confusion. “The duke’s in Dover? And he’s dying?”

“Ooh, my limerick keeps getting better and better,” Rose murmured.

“He’s not dying,” Clara told Harland, ignoring her sister. “He’s here on business for the Earl of Rivers.” That seemed like the simplest explanation at the moment.

Harland flopped into one of the upholstered chairs and ran his hands over his face. “So he doesn’t need me to save him. Good. That’s one less thing for me to do. I don’t need or want to know anything else.”

Clara studied her brother. He looked exhausted. His hair, darker than Clara’s but still possessing the same red highlights, was disheveled and in need of a scissor. He had pronounced shadows under his eyes, and the angles of his face had become sharper, his long, muscle-roped limbs leaner. “Did you even sleep last night, Harland?” Clara asked.

He made a derisive noise and let his head tip back on the chair, closing his eyes. “I’ll sleep when I’m dead. Too much to do right now.”

“Harland—”

“The duke has invited all of us to dinner,” Rose piped up. “Tonight.”

“Tonight?” Harland’s eyes popped open. “Why?”

“Because he’s here, he asked, and one generally tries not to offend dukes by refusing their invitations. It did not seem advantageous.” Clara felt her pulse skip. Which was unacceptable, because that meant that somewhere deep down she believed that he had asked her to dinner for the sake of asking her to dinner. To spend more time with her, or some other foolish nonsense.

“You accepted, then?” It wasn’t really a question.

Rose blew out a disgusted breath. “Of course she did. You can share a carriage.”

Harland frowned. “Wait, what do you mean when you said that he’s here? In Dover?”

“Avondale,” Rose corrected waspishly. “His Grace is moving in.”

“What?” She saw her brother’s hands curl into fists before they relaxed again almost immediately.

Clara grimaced. “He’s staying at the dower house.”

“Why? And how long does he intend to stay?” Harland didn’t sound happy.

Clara sighed wearily. “I’m not sure. Rivers asked him to take a look at the land and livestock.”

“Now? Why?”

Clara threw up a hand helplessly, ignoring the pointed look Rose was giving her. “Both of you can ask Rivers the next time you see him.”

Harland seemed to be waging a war within himself to find words. “Damn his titled timing all to hell,” was what he finally came up with.

“Language,” Clara admonished half-heartedly. “But agreed.”

“Did he say anything else?”

“He hoped you would be available for a hand of loo.”

“Loo?”

“Or whist.”

Harland pinched the bridge of his nose. “Bloody hell, Clara.”

Clara didn’t bother to hide her own displeasure. “I couldn’t very well demand that he leave, now could I?”

“You could have,” Rose said, jumping back into the conversation. “You just didn’t.”

Harland closed his eyes. “Clara is right, Rose. One does not simply order dukes about. But dammit, having August Faulkner here is the last thing we need.”

“I didn’t realize that you don’t have a very high opinion of him,” Clara said, and she could hear the edge of accusation in her own words. “You and Rose seem rather united on that front.”

Harland opened his eyes and sat up. “On the contrary,” he said. “The man’s raw ambition has made him quite formidable. You will not meet a more ruthless, cunning adversary than Holloway when he goes after something he wants. He may hold the title of duke, but for all that, he is completely self-made. That is not something that one should ever dismiss lightly.” He shifted his attention to Rose. “You disagree?”