A Duke in the Night(27)

“Self-made?” Rose repeated with disbelief. “Come, Harland, dukes are not self-made. They’re victors in the game of accidental birth.”

“Did you know his father was in debtors’ prison?” Harland asked, giving Rose an irritable look. “Ten years before Faulkner became a duke.”

Clara stared at her brother. Even Rose looked surprised. Holloway would have been fifteen when his father had been incarcerated.

“I didn’t know that,” Clara said.

“No, I don’t suspect many people do. At the time he was only a distant footnote on the ducal family tree and therefore of little interest.”

“But why was his father in prison?”

“I imagine the same reason everyone else winds up in Marshalsea.”

“But surely someone in the family would have wanted to assist to keep him out of prison? If only to preserve the family name?”

“For whatever reason, that did not happen. His father was estranged.” Harland shook his head. “But that’s not the point. My point here is that August Faulkner, in five years, managed to make enough money to pay off his father’s debts and buy his release. Two years after that, he had made enough to purchase back the lifestyle that his family had once enjoyed. Not that his father lived long enough to appreciate it much. As I understand it, the man never did recover his health once released.”

“How do you know all this?” Clara asked.

“I attended his father as a medical student while he was in prison,” Harland said. “He suffered from dropsy.”

Rose sniffed. “Was it cards or horses?”

Harland frowned. “What?”

“Did the duke get lucky at a gaming hell or a racetrack? After all, that is how men like him—”

“The duke has made his money on industry. He buys broken things and breaks them apart further before building them back up into profitable ventures.” He looked faintly troubled, even though his words held respect. “His empire is bigger than most people realize. Much, much bigger. If we possessed even a fraction of his capital…”

“Still no word from London?” The familiar foreboding settled heavily in Clara’s gut.

Harland scrubbed his face with his hands before letting them drop. “Not yet. If I thought it would help, I would stand on the edge of the London Docks and wait for those damn ships. But that’s all I would be doing. I can do more to help here than there.”

“I have two sittings this week,” Rose said. “And two more next week. All have agreed to pay up front. I’m sorry I can’t paint faster—”

“Stop it.” Harland cut her off. “We’ve all discussed this a hundred times. We’re all doing everything and anything we can.”

“‘The end crowneth the work,’” Clara murmured.

Rose shot her a long-suffering glance. “Do we really need another Elizabethan quote?”

“The woman managed to keep her head and her throne while living amidst a pack of jackals.”

“I’d settle for my head and the surety that there will be a roof over it in a year’s time.” Rose sighed.

“Let’s change the subject, shall we?” Harland suggested. “Before we all drown in self-pity.” He glanced at Clara. “Where, exactly, is our dinner invitation with the illustrious duke?”

“The Silver Swan.”

Harland seemed to perk up at this. “Well, then. As much as I rather resent His Grace’s presence, at least he has good taste in food.”

Clara turned to Rose. “Will you come with us?”

Rose looked down. “I think I’ll need the time to finish setting up my studio,” she said.

“I can help you. The students have a free morning, and I’m not meeting with them until—”

“No, thank you. I’ll take care of it.”

Clara recognized the stubborn shade to Rose’s tone. She glanced at her brother for help, but Harland was already pulling his coat off the table where he had left it.

“You may wish to change your mind once you remember how good French wine tastes, Rose,” Harland said.

“I don’t think so.”

“Suit yourself. I assume we’ll leave from here,” Harland tossed over his shoulder, already halfway out the door. “What time?”

“Six,” Clara told him. “Where are you going now?”

“An appointment,” he replied vaguely, not breaking stride.

“For what?” Clara called after him, but he was already gone. “Why does he keep doing that?” she asked into the silence.

“Disappearing?” Rose moved past her and shrugged. “I don’t think I want to know.”





Chapter 8



Clara loved this part.

Because, like their very first day here, this would be unlike anything her students had expected. And no matter what happened, even if this was her very last chance to do this—especially if it was her last chance—Clara was determined to enjoy every minute.

She led the nine students from the house through the gardens and out onto the expanse of grassland that topped the cliffs overlooking the sea. In the late-morning sunlight, the ocean was silvered with a sheen that danced and glittered as if a thousand suns had been strewn across its surface. Long wisps of clouds drifted over their heads, almost like elongated angel wings pushed westward by the wind. To the south the distant shape of Dover Castle partially blocked the view of the town that sprawled away in its shadow.