Duke of Honor, page 4
“Good for you, Arabella,” he murmured softly. “And good for you, Jon. You found your perfect mate.” A warm glow filled him, knowing Jon, who had suffered the loss of his twin and taken up the mantle of Duke of Blackmore, a title he had never wanted or expected, now had found complete happiness.
Sebastian folded the letter and set it aside, taking up the last one. The handwriting was unfamiliar. He turned it and froze.
The seal of the Duke of Hardwick.
In all his years away from England, his father had never written to him. Sebastian had sent regular letters home out of a sense of duty, except for that one dark time that he tried to forget.
Why would Hardwick write now after all this time?
With trepidation, he broke the seal.
Dear Colonel Cooper –
I am writing on behalf of your father, the Duke of Hardwick, who has been in ill health for the past five years. Gout has bedridden him and in his weakened state, the duke has contracted the pneumonia. Dr. Sloop, the local doctor, has said to prepare for His Grace’s imminent death, most likely within the next week or so. His Grace’s affairs are in order and all estates are being well managed, as is his household. This is merely to inform you of His Grace’s circumstances and prepare you for his demise.
Though your father has not corresponded with you, I can assure you that he has read every letter you have sent over the years. He is proud of your service to our country and the leadership which you have shown on the battlefield with your men. You are a true hero and England owes everything to men such as you. The newspapers write of the upcoming clash between the allied forces and those of Bonaparte’s, most likely in Belgium. I pray that you will come through this horrific time unscathed.
Sincerely,
H. Hampton
The old man was finally dying. Sebastian had thought Hardwick too mean to actually succumb to death. He realized the duke would be seventy by now. The last time Sebastian had seen him, he already had run to fat. It surprised him Hardwick had actually lived this long. He had always had a heavy hand in managing all of his various properties so at least that had been taken care of. Sebastian knew that if he survived this engagement at Waterloo tomorrow and the Anglo Alliance prevailed, he might actually be going home soon. It was good to know the estate hadn’t been bankrupted during his long time abroad.
But who on earth was this Hampton? It wasn’t the name of the steward of Hardwick lands, unless the previous one had retired and a new one had been hired in his stead during Sebastian’s absence. Hampton wasn’t the family solicitor, either.
Wait. Buried in the depths of his memory, Sebastian heard the name being spoken aloud. He turned it over in his mind, trying to recall where and when he had heard it uttered.
The ward. Lord Pendell’s boy. The one who was supposed to arrive the day Sebastian left to join his regiment. Was he still at Hardwick after all of these years? Had Hampton taken on management of the estate?
It didn’t matter. What was important was to concentrate on tomorrow’s fight. His focus needed to be on his men and attacking their enemy.
If successful, only then would he worry about the impending death of the Duke of Hardwick.
And how it impacted his future.
Chapter Three
Weymouth, England—End of July 1815
Sebastian disembarked from the ship and walked along the docks, still sensing the motion of the sea rolling beneath him. He carried nothing with him save for a small satchel with a fresh shirt, a bar of soap, his razor, and a few letters. Pitiful, when he thought about it, to have so little to show for his years away.
As he continued walking, enjoying stretching his legs, he thought of how grateful he was to be back on English soil. After so long at war, events of the last month wrapped up surprisingly quickly. Bonaparte abdicated—again—and, this time, where the powers that be decided to banish the broken emperor wouldn’t be Sebastian’s concern. Wellington had pulled Sebastian aside and told him it was time for the both of them to return to England. He had shared with the duke how a letter had arrived on the eve of the battle at Waterloo that informed him his father was on his deathbed. Wellington had gripped Sebastian’s shoulder and told him that he had new duties to see to now since the Duke of Hardwick had vast holdings throughout England. Now, Sebastian would manage tenants and properties instead of regiments of soldiers.
He had landed about five miles from Hardwell Hall, which lay to the southeast of Abbotsbury. Weymouth was the closest port to his destination and he had been lucky to gain a spot on the civilian ship that had brought him here. Most soldiers were taking military ships back to England and would land in Portsmouth, dispersing from there.
His years in the army had left him in excellent shape and so he determined to walk to Hardwell Hall. He would be able to do so in a little more than an hour with his wide stride. First, though, he would visit his tailor. Nothing left at his former home would fit him and would be terribly out of date, though he cared little for fashion. Since he was already here and Weymouth was larger than Abbotsbury, he would see to a new wardrobe now. He chuckled, thinking Weston or George would prefer being with him, giving him advice on what to choose. Most likely, they would demand that he go to London and be fitted by one of their tailors. He would need to travel to town at some point, especially since Hampton’s letter said the duke hadn’t ventured from his bed in five years. Sebastian wanted to check on the Cooper London townhouse to see what shape it might be in after so long a time of neglect, as well as meet with his solicitors while there.
For now, he would have a few clothes made up in Weymouth. He also would write to his friends and inform them that he had finally returned from the Continent. Once he saw that Hardwell Hall and his other properties were in working order, he looked forward to the house party Andrew had offered to hold so they could all reunite for a time. Sebastian had missed his friends dreadfully. At first, he had tried making new ones from among his fellow officers but oftentimes they were transferred about—or killed in action. He couldn’t fraternize with his own men, many whom also met their demise in war. To protect himself, he had withdrawn inside himself. If he wasn’t close to anyone, their deaths couldn’t hurt him as much.
Or so he thought.
He looked forward to being in his closest companions’ company again and meeting the four women who were now a part of their circle. And Andrew’s son, of course. He smiled, thinking the next generation had begun. With George, Weston, and Jon having all wed in the last year, he knew they, too, would be starting families of their own.
It would be something he also needed to address. Being the Duke of Hardwick meant he must provide an heir to the dukedom. That meant marriage and children. Perhaps one of his friends’ wives had a sister or cousin that he could consider making his duchess. Sebastian didn’t really care whom he wed, as long as she produced the requisite heir. He did plan to treat his wife with kindness, though, something that had not existed in his father’s vocabulary. Hardwick had been a hard man, bullying and intimidating his own family and everyone who surrounded him. He thought again of Lord Pendell’s son and wondered if Hampton had cowered before the duke or stood up to him better than Sebastian ever had.
He traveled several blocks inland until he came to the familiar tailor shop of Mr. Wilson. The man had made up all of Sebastian’s clothes during his youth through university days. He opened the shop door and stepped inside.
A young man no more than twenty eagerly stepped forward to greet him. He favored Wilson and might actually be the tailor’s son or another close relative.
“Good morning, sir.” The man glanced at the stripes on Sebastian’s coat. “Is it Colonel?”
“It was,” he said. “I have recently sold out. I am Lord Marbury.”
At least he was if the duke still lived. He wouldn’t know until he reached Hardwell Hall.
“Lord Marbury?” a voice called out and he saw Mr. Wilson hurrying from behind a curtain, a huge smile crossing his face. “My lord, it is most wonderful to see you again.”
He offered his hand, which the tailor pumped enthusiastically.
“My, it’s been what—almost a decade?”
“Yes, Mr. Wilson. You last outfitted me before my final year at Cambridge. I have been wearing uniforms ever since that time.”
“I cannot thank you enough for your service to England, my lord.” Wilson paused. “I should say . . . oh, you might not know . . .” The tailor’s voice faded away.
“That I am now His Grace?” Sebastian ventured. “It is possible. I received word about six weeks ago that Hardwick was near death.”
Sorrow crossed Wilson’s face. “He did pass on, Your Grace. I think it has been more than a month, hasn’t it, John?”
“Yes, Father,” the young man who had greeted Sebastian replied.
“This is my boy, John,” the tailor said. “He works with me now and will one day take over the shop.”
He offered his hand. “I am happy to make your acquaintance, John. I seem to remember you as small, mischievous boy.”
John grinned. “I was certainly that, Your Grace. I have settled down, though, and apprenticed with Father for several years.”
“Then I will ask the two of you to make up a wardrobe for me,” he declared, deciding he really didn’t care about putting coin into some smart London tailor’s hand when Wilson had done such a fine job all these years.
“What do you have in mind, Your Grace?” the older man asked.
“I will need everything, Mr. Wilson. Shirts, coats, trousers, waistcoats. A greatcoat for when the weather grows colder.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” said the younger Wilson with enthusiasm. He snatched up a pad and removed the pencil which had been tucked behind his ear. “How many of each? And of course, we have materials for you to look at.”
Sebastian bit back a smile at the young man’s eagerness and turned to the father. “You know my taste, Mr. Wilson, as well as what men are wearing nowadays. I haven’t worn civilian clothing since I left England nine years ago. I haven’t a clue what I will need except that I will need everything. Spare no cost. I want the best of everything you have in your shop.”
As the Duke of Hardwick, he knew he had a role to play and would need to look his best at all times. It would be a far cry from his usual attire of the past decade. While he and his batman had striven to keep his uniforms clean and presentable, it was beyond difficult to maintain a pristine appearance in a time of war.
“I am humbled, Your Grace,” the tailor said. “I will be careful in what I make up for you and will wish for your approval before I supply you with everything you desire. I do know your taste in apparel but I will need to measure you. Your frame has filled out since you last came to visit me.”
Dread filled him. He remembered Mr. Wilson was meticulous in his measurements, part of what made him such an excellent tailor. Sebastian only hoped he would be able to leave on some of his clothes. A flash of pain rippled through him and he winced.
“Are you all right, Your Grace?” Mr. Wilson asked worriedly.
“Yes. Quite fine,” he said curtly. “Shall we commence?”
“Come to the dressing rooms, Your Grace,” John said.
“No, John, I will measure His Grace. You watch the shop for me.”
Disappointment filled the son’s face. “Yes, Father.”
Sebastian accompanied Wilson to the rear of the shop and they went through a set of curtains, turning left and entering a small room. He went and stood on the raised platform as Wilson closed the door.
Shrugging out of his scarlet jacket, he handed it to the tailor, who hung it carefully and said, “That is all you need to remove, Your Grace.”
Somehow, Sebastian knew that Wilson suspected something was wrong and that his client would be loath to remove anything beyond his coat.
The tailor took his tape and carefully measured everything on Sebastian, from the width of his chest to his inseams. Wilson jotted the numbers down in his neat hand.
“I will make up three coats and waistcoats, Your Grace, along with five shirts. Two pair of buff breeches and three dark trousers. Once you have seen those and only if you are pleased, we will go from there.”
“What about evening wear?” he asked, thinking of the house party he longed to attend to reacquaint himself with his friends.
“I can make up a set, as well as your cravats.”
“And a banyan,” Sebastian added. “In silk.” He longed for the luxurious material against his skin, the one item of pampering he had missed during his war years.
“Certainly, Your Grace. Will you be visiting the hatmaker and bootmaker?”
“Yes, I will do that once I leave your shop. Then I will head to Hardwell Hall.”
“How will you get there, Your Grace?”
He chuckled. “I suppose I will walk. I have literally just gotten off the ship that brought me to England and knew I should see about clothing before I returned home.”
“Stop back here and I will have John take you in our wagon.”
“I wouldn’t want to trouble you.”
“Oh, it is no trouble at all, Your Grace. The boy will be eager to hear about the war.”
That was the last thing Sebastian wanted to discuss but he realized it would be a popular topic of conversation wherever he went and he might as well get used to it.
“Thank you for your thoughtfulness, Mr. Wilson.”
He stepped down and the tailor helped him into his coat.
“It is good to have you back, Your Grace,” Mr. Wilson said. “You didn’t have to go to war but you chose to do so. You have earned the respect of those far and wide.”
Once, he would have longed for the respect of men. His time at war had changed that, though. He merely wanted to be a good lord to his people and left alone by others. Wilson might not have asked but Sebastian knew those he ran into would want tales of the glory of war.
He had nothing to give them. War was dark and ugly and purged a man’s soul from his body. Sebastian never wanted to think of the war again. Unfortunately, he would see the reminders of it every day when he dressed.
After stops to have several new hats made up and a pair of boots and leather-laced shoes, Sebastian returned to the tailor’s shop. John escorted him to the rear, where he had already harnessed a horse, and they climbed into the waiting cart. Wilson must have cautioned his son about peppering Sebastian with questions because John asked not a single one. Instead, the younger Wilson told him a bit about what had happened in the area during the last few years.
The weather was warm but not unbearable and the conversation friendly as they traveled west. When they reached the village closest to Hardwell Hall, he asked John to stop.
“But it’s still another mile or more to our destination,” John protested.
“I wish to visit my mother’s grave,” he said quietly.
“Very well, Your Grace.”
John drove to the church yard’s gate and brought the horse to a halt.
“I can wait for you if you wish.”
He wanted privacy more than company and said, “No. I don’t know how long I will be. Besides, I am not far from home now. Thank you for bringing me this far.”
John beamed. “It was my pleasure, Your Grace. Count on Father and me. You will be pleased at what we make up for you.”
“I know I will.”
He climbed from the cart and waved. John turned the wagon and continued back toward Weymouth while Sebastian crossed the road and entered the graveyard. He made his way through the markers, catching a name or two of someone he hadn’t known was now deceased.
Finally, he arrived at his mother’s grave. Surprise filled him. A fresh bouquet of flowers graced the plot, tied with a pastel ribbon. He recognized pink dahlias, tall irises, and the purple stocks that his mother had loved most of all.
Kneeling, he said, “I am home, Mama. Finally home.”
His hand went to his chest and rested against the familiar locket he had worn under his regimental colors since he had taken it from her dressing table.
“I know you watched over me, Mama. Even in those darkest of times. Know that I appreciated that and could feel you with me always.”
Sebastian remained at the grave a long time before rising. He kissed his fingers and placed them to her headstone before retreating. Then he looked around the area, seeking and finding the newest addition to the Cooper section.
The Duke of Hardwick.
He went to the grave. Hovering above it at the head was a tall monument. The duke’s dates of birth and death were inscribed into the stone. Ironically, Hardwick died on the day of the fighting at Waterloo.
“I am home, Your Grace. I plan to be the duke you never were. Slow to anger. Generous with my tenants. Kind to the wife I take. Loving to my children.”
He spit on the grave and strode away.
Chapter Four
Sebastian cut through the cemetery instead of returning to the main road. The shortcut would get him to Hardwell Hall more quickly and allow him to cross a bit of the land so he could see the condition it was in. He would ride the property tomorrow after speaking with the steward and see what immediate needs should be met. He wanted to see the state of the tenants’ cottages and view the crops and livestock. The autumn harvest would be upon them soon and he had many decisions to make, not only about Hardwell, but his many other properties, as well.
He came across a fence and hopped over it, deciding to follow it. As he walked, he saw someone ahead near the fence, hammering. Drawing closer, he looked upon the extremely short coat in distaste. If this was the new fashion, he should immediately turn around and return to Weymouth to instruct Mr. Wilson he wanted no part of it.
Then his eyes dipped lower and he halted. The most deliciously rounded derriere was below the jacket, shown off by tight, fawn breeches. Long, slim legs were encased in tall boots. He realized it was a woman—dressed as a man—a gentlemen’s hat perched on her head. Angry, Sebastian strode toward the figure bending over.
