Destiny with a Duke, page 4
“It is Uncle,” he said, his voice breaking. “Victoria, he is . . . dead.”
“Dead? What do you mean?”
“Come.” He pulled her to the settee and they sat together, facing one another. He still gripped her hands, almost to the point of pain.
“He is gone.” Elliott shook his head. “I have escorted the body home. I rode ahead to come and give you the news in person so that a servant might not say anything first.”
“But . . . how? Pemberton has always possessed excellent health. Was it an accident?”
Victoria knew she should feel something receiving news of her husband’s death but only numbness encompassed her.
Elliott closed his eyes, pain evident on his face. “He was . . . he was . . . murdered.”
“Murdered?” She jerked her hands from his and stood. “I don’t understand.”
He rose and placed his hands on her shoulders, as much to steady himself as her.
“I cannot hide the truth from you, Victoria. You know how the ton loves to talk. I feel if I keep it from you, you would learn what really happened in a terrible way.”
Her voice steady, she asked, “What happened?”
“It was a woman. She . . . she . . . well, she stabbed him.”
“Stabbed him,” she repeated, horror filling her. “Was she a pickpocket? Did Pemberton refuse to give up—”
“She was a whore,” Elliott blurted out.
Victoria collapsed on the settee, the numbness turning to cold. Elliott sat beside her.
“Uncle had . . . unusual tastes,” he began and then hesitated.
“Go on,” she urged. “I don’t understand but I need to know it all, Elliott. Tell me. I can handle the truth.”
He flushed red with embarrassment but nodded. “I am certain you never were subjected to his tastes. Wives generally aren’t. But Uncle regularly visited houses of ill repute.”
That didn’t surprise her. He probably hadn’t been able to keep a mistress happy and so went to the stews to find doxies.
“And?” she asked, wishing Elliott would just spit it out.
“Uncle was a good man. He always treated me kindly and I know he did the same to you.”
“Yes, he did,” she assured him, though Pemberton and she had been little more than polite strangers after all these years.
“But . . . well, suffice it to say that with those women, he did not.”
“Did not what?” she asked, utterly confused.
Elliott’s gaze bored into hers. “Uncle did terrible things to those women, Victoria. He beat them. Whipped them. Burned them. Hurt them. He once told me it was the only way he could enjoy it. The only way he could become . . . excited.”
Disgust filled her. Though her husband had never raised a hand to her, many times he could not grow hard. She would work and work, trying to help him, only for him to push her away and stomp from her bedchamber. Victoria had thought something was lacking in her.
Now, she understood it was him.
“They let him do those kinds of things to them?” she asked, becoming lightheaded.
“Yes. I went with him on a few occasions. I never partook in any of the activities he enjoyed but the places he frequented cater to men with special tastes. They charge a great deal in order to allow certain acts to take place.”
“Did . . . did Pemberton go too far with this . . . woman?” she ventured, not wanting to know what her husband had done.
“Yes. At least according to the trollop who was arrested for his murder.” Elliott looked at her as if he were lost. “I cannot reveal what she said about Uncle, Victoria. I cannot cause you that kind of pain. But what he did to her . . . my God . . .” His voice trailed off.
She hadn’t known her husband did such despicable things and she certainly had no need to know what those acts involved. She placed a hand on Elliott’s shoulder and he broke down, sobbing pitifully. She did her best to comfort him, knowing the two men had been close.
Finally, he removed his handkerchief and mopped his eyes. “The woman will hang for her crime. I am sorry I had to tell you all of this, Victoria.”
She placed a hand on his forearm. “I understand. I know how this will be gossiped about. How that gossip might hurt you, as the new viscount.”
He looked confused a moment and she realized Elliott hadn’t even thought of himself in that role.
“Give it time,” she suggested. “Neither of us will participate in this year’s Season. By next year, a good deal of the gossip will have died down. You are young and full of good cheer, Elliott. You will need to look for your viscountess next year. For now, however, we will remain in the country and mourn together.”
He took her hands again. “You are so calm, Victoria. So wise. You will always have a home here at Broadside.”
“I appreciate you saying so, Elliott, but I will leave when the year of mourning is up. This will be your home now. You will build your family here. Hopefully, children will fill these rooms. Your wife will not want me looking over your shoulder.”
“But . . . where will you go?”
Victoria didn’t know if Pemberton’s will made any provisions for his widow. She would need to find out. She already knew, though, where she would turn.
“I will go to my aunt and uncle, Lord and Lady Weldon. Aunt Hermione is my mother’s sister and we have always gotten along well.”
She rose. “I appreciate you accompanying Pemberton’s body back to Broadside. He always thought you would make for an excellent viscount. Come, let’s get you into a hot bath to warm you and find you something to eat. I will take care of everything from now on.”
He embraced her. “You are so kind and thoughtful, Victoria. You always think of everyone but yourself. The tenants will be sad to see you go.”
“That won’t happen until next spring, Elliott. For now, I need to prepare for the viscount’s funeral.”
She led him from the room. Their butler hovered just outside the door.
“See that Lord Pemberton has a hot bath drawn and food brought to him,” she instructed. “Have my husband’s chambers cleaned so that his lordship can move into the rooms by the end of today. Send for the vicar so that we might plan my husband’s funeral. The body will be arriving soon, hopefully with Lord Pemberton’s valet. The two of you need to prepare the body. I will be in my sitting room. I have numerous letters to write.”
“Yes, my lady.” The butler turned to his new employer. “I will have the bath and food brought up to your current chambers, my lord.”
Elliott nodded and went up the staircase as if in a daze.
The butler left and Victoria retreated to her sitting room. She dropped into the chair beside her desk and took a deep breath, exhaling it slowly.
Then she looked around the room, peace descending upon her.
This is what freedom felt like.
Chapter Four
Marbury—January 1815
Finch placed another log on the fire and took a sip of his tea. He thought on the piece he would start carving, a chair for one of his elderly parishioners. He could see it in his mind’s eye and would start once he drained his cup of tea.
He did most of his woodworking during the cold months of the year. During the warmer ones, he preferred to be painting outside. Lady Marksby had been correct. His landscapes, signed Walter Findlay, sold for a pretty penny in London. His agent, Charles Leigh, was always pushing for him to produce more. Finch did as he pleased, though, painting when he had the time.
Being a vicar suited him. Though he was without a curate now and had to accomplish all parish business himself, he still enjoyed getting to set his own pace. Prioritizing as he saw fit. He tended to his flock, visiting the sick, marrying couples, and baptizing babies. He also cultivated his garden and the glebe, the acreage provided by the parish. That was his true pleasure, farming those acres of land. Finch loved getting his hands into the dirt and sowing the seeds, pulling weeds, and harvesting the vegetables. While painting would always be his great love, farming was a close second. Out in nature, being at one with it, brought him peace.
Peace was important to him. Calm surroundings helped him maintain his sanity. A fire still raged inside him, stoked over the years until it burned incredibly bright. It took everything he had to contain it and keep the rage from spilling from him. Instead, all who knew him thought him to be calm, thoughtful, and a bit brooding. They had no idea of the pain he carried within him. Finch had gotten very good at hiding things.
He had gone into the church not only to save other souls—but to save himself.
So far, it wasn’t working.
True, the solitude had helped somewhat. He was friendly to all but close friends with no one in his parish. A clergyman had to hold himself a bit apart from the masses and Finch had done this with ease. He did visit with Lord and Lady Marksby frequently, serving as a surrogate son to them, but he knew even they had no idea what tortured him.
He did miss his fellow Terrors. His four brothers-in-arms had all gone off to the Continent to fight against Bonaparte after their Cambridge days. Finch, too, could have done so. Cyril said a commission would be purchased for him. Yet the idea of serving as the Marbury vicar intrigued him. Even though he was the best shot of the five Terrors, he believed it would have been dangerous to put a gun into his hands. He feared he might go berserk and have too much blood on his hands, of friends and foes alike. So he had told the Terrors he had no one to purchase a commission for him and remained in the English countryside while they marched off to war.
All the Terrors were back in England now, surprisingly as dukes. The five had all been second sons and, over the years, four of them had claimed titles and inherited vast wealth and properties. His chosen brothers had also found love, down to the last one of them. Miles had led the pack, finding his Emery, who had helped all four dukes learn about the management of their estates. Wyatt had been next. His recklessness had been tamed by Meadow. Donovan followed, soon smitten with Wynter. Finally, Hart had found Olivia. Finch was proud that he had united each of these four couples in holy matrimony, soulmates coming together in love, creating families and new bonds.
He would never experience any of that. He had no desire to find love. For him, it didn’t exist. His family had turned their backs on him. No love lost there. It would be unfair to bring an innocent, unsuspecting woman into the quagmire he lived in. He would never be able to share with her what had been done to him, acts so vile he could never forgive—much less forget. It wouldn’t be fair to wed and keep so many secrets from his wife; therefore, he would never seek one.
Not that his parishioners didn’t keep trying. Young ladies of a certain age were always being thrust into Finch’s path. His female congregants always made certain to extol the virtues of marriage and constantly remind him how happy they were and that he, too, could partake in this happiness if only he would be open to the idea of marrying.
He would laugh it off, telling them he was wed to the Church of England and that the needs of his flock came before his personal happiness. He had the love of Christ and was satisfied in it.
But in truth, faith was fleeting. There were days when Finch knew the good in humanity and sought to live his faith. Other times, he sank into a pit of blackness, certain that most men were evil and good would eventually vanish from the face of the earth.
He found it interesting that a vicar did not even necessarily have to be a Christian, though he doubted any clergyman would admit to being agnostic or an atheist. To become a vicar, Finch had needed a degree from Cambridge or Oxford, which he readily possessed. Since no theological course of study existed, his honors degree sufficed.
To be considered for a position by the church’s leadership, he had sought a testimonial from his college that vouched for his fitness for ordination. Lord Marksby had helped him find a bishop who made the arrangements for an examination. The bishop quizzed Finch in Latin, making certain he had a solid grasp of the language. He had been told to study the Thirty-Nine Articles so that he was familiar with the liturgy and church doctrine. The bishop had been so pleased with Finch’s fluency in Latin that he asked only a handful of questions regarding the articles.
That was all it took to become vicar at Marbury and take on the living Lord Marksby had offered him. He Japanned, slang for putting on the black cloth of a clergyman, and suddenly he was deemed qualified to administer the sacraments of the Church. Usually, his career would have begun as a deacon and, for a year, he would have assisted an ordained priest, a type of training period. The bishop, with Lord Marksby’s urging, had allowed Finch to skip that requirement and immediately saw him fully ordained. Finch had even been given a curate to assist him. The man had stayed for three years and then found a church of his own. Finch had gone it alone ever since then, preferring it that way.
He lived alone in the vicarage, with a woman coming in twice a week to clean and do his laundry. He did all his own cooking though many female churchgoers dropped off casseroles and breads on a regular basis, telling him they didn’t want him to starve. He ate some of the food he grew himself and donated the bulk of it to the poor in the parish.
It was a quiet life. A life surrounded by doing for others and yet one of solitude. It agreed with him. He did enjoy the times he left Marbury for a few days and visited with his old friends, usually officiating at one of their weddings. Though they were eager for him to spend holidays with them, he had to refuse. Those holy times were when the most congregants turned to the church and he made sure the doors were open and that all were welcomed at services.
With a sigh, he picked up his knife and began work on the chair. He had no other duties to attend to today. It would be him, his knife, and this block of wood. By day’s end, he would have the chair he crafted and feel immense satisfaction.
Finch didn’t know how long he had worked when someone rapped loudly upon his door. He glanced out the window and saw a carriage sitting in front of the vicarage. He had been so lost in his task that he had not heard it pull up on the gravel. Rising, he set the knife aside and took a deep breath, composing himself. Visitors who came to see him didn’t arrive in nice carriages. They walked or arrived in a cart.
The gleaming black carriage had him worried. He said a swift prayer, asking for all the Terrors and their wives and children to be in good health and included Lord and Lady Marksby in his request.
Only then did he answer the door.
A young man of perhaps thirty stood waiting and he eagerly asked, “William Finchley? Are you William Finchley?”
“I am,” he said warily, the cold January wind sweeping in the cold. “Would you care to come inside?”
“Yes, please,” the man said, visibly shivering despite his heavy coat.
Finch stood aside and gestured for the man to enter. He did so, immediately going to the fire and removing his gloves, warming his hands. Then he wheeled.
“Oh, I have bungled this badly,” he said. “I do apologize. I am Mr. Pole. The frigid weather has frozen my manners. I am sorry for not making a proper introduction.”
He knew the name. Pole was the solicitor for the Duke of Sommersby. It had been the name on the few pieces of correspondence Finch had received during his time at Turner Academy and university. It had also been the man he had written to, turning down the offer of an army commission, explaining he would be taking up the living at Marbury.
That was the last he had heard from Mr. Pole, seven years ago.
Finch had never received any letters from Cyril since their meeting at Turner Academy though his brother had known he was set to attend Cambridge. Mr. Pole would have told the duke of Finch’s decision to be ordained, as well. Yet nothing had come from his brother. Nor had any letter ever come from his mother. He had locked away that part of his life.
Yet here Mr. Pole stood.
“I assume you are the son of Mr. Pole, solicitor for the Duke of Sommersby.”
Pole stepped forward and offered his hand. Finch shook it and said, “Please, return to the fire and warm yourself, Mr. Pole. I will get you a cup of tea.”
“I would be grateful.” Pole turned back to the fire, holding his hands toward the blaze.
As Finch prepared the tea, the man gradually came out of his coat and scarf and set them aside.
Indicating a chair near the fire, Finch had Pole sit and took the seat opposite him.
“Thank you.” Pole took the cup of tea and sipped it. A sigh came from him. “Nothing like a cup of tea on a cold day. It always hits the spot.”
“Why are you here, Mr. Pole?” he asked. “I suppose you come on your father’s behalf.”
“I do. Father is ill. I work alongside him and handle the bulk of our business now, including everything dealing with the Duke of Sommersby’s estate.”
“I have not spoken to my brother in over a decade. I don’t think there is anything we need to discuss. Sommersby’s business is his. Mine is with God and my flock.”
Pole visibly grew uncomfortable. “I am afraid I have a bit of unexpected news for you, Your Grace.” His eyes grew large. “I mean . . . that is . . .”
But Finch had already leaped to his feet. “No,” he said hoarsely. “No.”
He stormed from the cottage.
The bitter wind whipped about him as he fled. Finch didn’t know where he was going, only that he needed to go. He walked a good half-mile before he slowed and when he did, he realized he had left without his coat. He clenched his teeth to keep them from chattering together noisily.
He was the blasted duke. That is what Pole had come to tell him.
He would refuse it.
Finch started back to the vicarage, the cold now painfully burning his limbs. His feet and hands had become frozen blocks. He couldn’t sense any feeling in his face. By the time he returned to the vicarage, he trembled from head to toe.
Stumbling inside, he watched Pole spring to his feet.
“I have tea prepared for you, Your Grace,” he said, throwing a quilt he had claimed from Finch’s bed around his shoulders. “Sit.”
