Part 33 (1/2)

Edward sucked in his breath. Letters often went astray due to the war, and even official dispatches had been slow to reach them in Naples. But St. John dead, gone so long without him knowing-he felt the shock of it even though he hadn't been close to his brother.

”No, my lord,” he said softly. ”I had not received the news of his death.”

”Ah, ah, Ramsden, I didn't realize.” The earl grunted, and shook his head. ”h.e.l.lacious circ.u.mstances, too, being shot by one of his own men. A great loss, of course. To your family, and to the country. My condolences.”

Edward nodded, silent. He had not seen St. John in at least five years, nor had he wished to. Perhaps because he'd been the brother closest to Edward in age, as boys he'd always taken pains to ally himself with George and Frederick against Edward, and the tendency for bullying had lingered into his adulthood. Edward suspected St. John must have made a miserable officer, but he'd never guessed his brother's life would end because of it.

”That is not all, Ramsden,” warned the earl ominously, rubbing on his cheek. ”There is, I fear, considerably more. At least Major Lord St. John died in the service of his king. The same cannot, I fear, be said of your other two brothers.”

”My other two brothers?” repeated Edward faintly, though his thoughts were already racing toward the inevitable, ironic conclusion of this whole unspeakable farce. ”What has become of them?”

”An 'accident' of the most grievous, most ludicrous sort.” The earl grimaced, as if even to speak of such events was distasteful. ”While you were risking your life for your country in the company of Admiral Lord Nelson, your two brothers were risking theirs for the purest folly imaginable. They had hired a French balloonist to take them high aloft in the company of two harlots they had likewise hired for their lascivious diversion. You can, I am sure, guess the rest, and the shameful scene when the wreckage was discovered. The scandal was enormous-the printmakers and wags have never had such sordid grist-and the only good that shall come from such a mess is that you, Your Grace, are a gentleman capable of removing the stain upon your family's ancient name.”

Your Grace? Edward shook his head, grasping at the arm of his chair as the only way to keep his bearings. All three of his brothers lost, and him the only one left. All three of his brothers gone, dying the same wretched ways that they'd lived. All of them dead, and him the only one left, and not a single chance remaining for reconciliation or apologies or answers or whatever else he'd always hoped for from his brothers but now would never have, not in this life.

Your Grace? He had never remotely considered himself an heir to the t.i.tle, nor did he want to possess it now. Instead he wanted to be the Centaur's captain again, with an honorable purpose in life. h.e.l.l, they could make him master of a tiny sloop like the Antelope, and he'd prefer it to this. He did not want to wear a cloak trimmed with ermine, or attend the king at court, or sit in the House of Lords, or oversee at least four separate households, or accept the responsibility for the lives of countless servants and tenants, and most of all, he did not want to become his brother or his father, either.

Your blasted, b.l.o.o.d.y, double-d.a.m.ned Grace. Edward, seventh Duke of Harborough, Earl of Heythrop, Baron Tyne. He'd have to learn to answer to that now whether he wished to or not. If his three brothers and father had together wished to contrive one final, vindictive cruelty to inflict upon him, they had succeeded beyond measure.

”Perhaps you should have been told earlier, Your Grace, but a letter seemed most heartlessly impersonal. His Majesty himself suggested that this would be the better way to ease the shock you must be feeling.” The earl rose slowly to his feet, bowing stiffly before Edward. ”I am honored to be the first to wish you well, Your Grace, and many long years of happiness and contentment.”

d.a.m.nation, he now outranked the First Lord of the Admiralty. He was supposed to sit here and be grand while the Earl of Spencer bowed to him.

He rose abruptly to his feet, thumping his tumbler on the table beside him and splattering claret across the carpet. ”I do not want this, my lord, and I never have. Why can't I remain a captain? What the devil will a medal for the Nile mean to me now? Why can't I continue to serve His Majesty in the way I can be of the greatest use?”

”You know the reason yourself, Your Grace,” said the earl patiently, ”else you would not be asking now. As much as I hate to refuse the talents and experience of an officer such as yourself, you know as well as I that the navy cannot have a peer of the realm rus.h.i.+ng about in battle.”

”But d.a.m.nation, I was-I am-a captain in the king's navy first!”

”This is as much about what you represent as who you are, Your Grace,” said the earl severely, his eyes turning hard as a flint. ”If a duke, a peer, were captured, can you imagine what Napoleon would make of it? No, I am sorry, but it will not do. It cannot do. His Majesty himself was most adamant about that fact. When you gave up your commission to the Centaur, you were removed from the list of able and active captains.”

To be removed from the list was as good as being dead. Somewhere another captain had moved up the list, into his place, another captain who could rejoice in knowing he was one step closer to becoming an admiral.

Another captain who hadn't been cursed and ruined by being made a d.a.m.ned duke instead.

”There are other ways to serve, Your Grace,” continued the earl. ”I should be honored and grateful to have your expertise here in the Admiralty, and the Navy is always in need of advocates in the House of Lords.”

He didn't want to spend his life rotting behind a desk. He could give up the fighting if he had to, but not the sea, landlocked forever the way the navy wished for him. h.e.l.l, the sea was where he belonged.

But all anyone else could see was astounding good fortune. Clearly Admiral Lord Nelson had thought that-- he'd known the truth in Palermo, of course, he and the Hamiltons both, though all of them refused to admit it-and even Lady Hamilton had believed the same. What was it she'd said to her outside the villa? Something about whatever happened in life, he'd always have Francesca, just as she would have him.

Francesca.

”I must go tell my wife,” he muttered, as much to himself as to Lord Spencer. ”I have to tell her now.”

”Your wife?” asked the earl with obvious delight. ”I'd no idea you'd wed, Your Grace! What splendid news! Who is this fortunate new d.u.c.h.ess?”

”A lady who has lived her entire life in Naples,” said Edward. He couldn't guess what Francesca's reaction would be. Most ladies would be thrilled to learn they'd become an English d.u.c.h.ess, but Francesca was so unlike other women that she could just as easily see the t.i.tle as a grand, glorious trap-exactly as he did himself. ”I doubt you would know her, my lord. She accepted my offer at Sir William Hamilton's palazzo, and we were wed just before Christmas.”