The Not So Perfect Duke, page 1
part #5 of The Rakes of St. Regent's Park Series
The Not So Perfect Duke
Rakes of Regent’s Park #5
By
Karyn Gerrard
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The Not So Perfect Duke (The Rakes of St. Regent’s Park #5)
Copyright © 2022 by Karyn Gerrard
KG Publishing
Vers 1.2
ISBN: 978-1-7772205-7-0
Cover art by ©EDH Professionals
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work, in whole or in part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.
Table of Contents
Summary
The Rakes of St. Regent’s Park Series
Author’s Note
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Epilogue
Author’s Note #2
Author Biography
More Books by Karyn Gerrard
Sneak Peek of The Viscount of Shadows (The Rakes of St. Regent’s Park #6)
Summary
Due to his father’s untimely demise, Damon Cranston is thrust into the role of the Duke of Chellenham. His loathsome and debauched father was too busy indulging in his vices and left the dukedom in shambles. Damon turns to Althea Galway, co-owner of the Galway Investigative Agency, to assist in unraveling the tangled mess. Since meeting Althea months ago, he hasn’t been able to get her out of his mind, for he is captivated by her intellect, compassion, and confidence.
Althea Galway has never been impressed by money or title. Or by looks—although Damon, the devilishly handsome, golden-haired duke, caught her attention at first glance. Arrogant and egotistical, he is called Dorian Gray by society because of his reprobate reputation. But Althea senses deep loneliness, perhaps even inner scars, and is compelled to find the honorable man she believes is hidden behind the cool exterior.
Damon and Althea are swept up into a maelstrom of revelations: a conspiracy involving the late duke and others from the privileged class. Add a personal crisis into the mix, and finding a way to a shared future together seems hopeless. But they cannot deny the scorching attraction between them. Finding a way to make it all work will be a challenge. But it is one the duke and the lady detective are determined to overcome.
Rakes of Regent’s Park Series
In a private meeting place, in an old bank office behind Colosseum Terrace on Albany Street, a group of gentlemen attended a gathering. It had nothing to do whatsoever with financing, investments, or stocks—unless you counted moral bankruptcy. The central rules of this club: no serious attachments to anyone, and the pursuit of one’s own pleasures, especially of the carnal variety, were to be of the utmost importance.
But weariness and boredom were setting in. Along with something more worrying: loneliness. A disquiet of the soul. These bad boy peers of Victorian London were damaged, hiding their inner torture beneath a thin veneer of devil-may-care dissoluteness.
It takes an exceptional group of women to capture the hearts of such men. To see past the outer shell. The ladies are determined to live and love in their own way, with no relinquishment of their independence and no compromises. How satisfying to find that deep down, these progressive men are in total agreement.
Author’s Note
Book #5 is all new material! There should be hyphens between the phrase ‘not so perfect’ since it’s a compound adjective, but I decided to leave them off the title for my own aesthetic reasons.
The Rakes of St. Regent’s Park consist of the following books (so far). Will there be more after book 6? I never say never.
Book 1: Protecting the Duke
Book 2: The Baron and the Mistress (Revised Edition)
Book 3: Knight of Christmas
Book 4: The Duke of Pain
Book 5: The Not So Perfect Duke
Book 6: The Viscount of Shadows (coming soon!)
Each historical romance author does their own world-building, much like authors in fantasy, paranormal or other genres. Each author has their own set of characters and peers. That is why my characters from different historical books pop up in the stories I write. They are all part of my own particular historical romance world. See the detailed author’s note #2 at the end of this story for specific historical details.
Prologue
Costa de la Luz, Spain
July 1898
It had been several years since Damon Cranston, Marquess of Brookton, had any contact with his mother, the Duchess of Chellenham, much less encountered her in person. But here he stood, awaiting her appearance on the veranda of her hacienda. When Damon arrived at his mother’s home unannounced, the servants had been dubious about allowing him access to the property. Showing his card and throwing his imperious manner around gained him entry eventually, with a muscular footman keeping watch.
Damn it all, his insides twisted in knots. Feeling like an 8-year-old lonely little boy had him annoyed to the extreme. Holding his temper will be a definite challenge. When was the last time they had met face-to-face? Scads of years. Decades. The chasm between them was insurmountable, at least in Damon’s eyes.
His mother breezed onto the patio and stopped cold in her steps. “My God, it is you. I would recognize you anywhere,” she whispered while removing the scarf from her head. She then turned toward the footman. “Mateo, you may leave us. Bring refreshments, if you please.”
“Si, de inmediato Duquesa,” the brawny footman replied, giving her a bow. He departed directly, leaving them alone.
How astounding to find his mother had retained most of her youthful beauty after twenty-plus years.
Damon stood with his hands clasped behind his back. “I haven’t heard from you in a decade, so I thought I would check to see if you are alive.” He kept his voice devoid of emotion, as usual.
“As you see. I am well. Come, and sit at the table,” the duchess replied as emotionlessly as he had done. Once seated, she asked, “And what brings you here?”
No need for pleasantries or kind words; right to the point. Then so shall Damon.
“I want to know of father’s affairs and how many children there are from all his various debaucheries and dalliances.”
His mother blinked rapidly but kept her expression neutral. “Before I answer, do you wish to know why I have not contacted you since that lone letter of ten years ago? Of which, you did not reply.”
“I don’t care to know,” Damon sniffed indifferently.
She gave him a plaintive look. The first display of emotion from her. “Yes, Damon. You do. There was no contact before or since that impulsive letter because it was the arrangement I had agreed to.”
His brows knitted. “What are you on about?”
His mother sighed. “The only way your father would agree to the separation was for me to leave the country without further communication with you. The duke gave me this cozy villa and a monthly stipend in the settlement. I had to get away, no matter the cost. That cost was—you.”
The churning of his guts increased, along with his annoyance. “And when I grew older and came of age, what then? You could have contacted me besides that one time, and I would have assisted with your upkeep. But you did not.” The last words ended with a hiss through clenched teeth. “Two sentences in that letter. To say you are well and that you hoped I continued in good health.”
“And you never responded. Who pays you a monthly allowance?” the duchess shot back. “The duke would have cut you off. Besides, I made inquiries through the years and learned that you were following in your father’s footsteps by joining a debauchery club and haunting East End brothels and music halls. What is the name, The Rakes of St. Regent’s Park?”
She tapped her finger on the table. “I could not subject myself to such again. Not ever. Not if I were to keep my sanity. I barely escaped with a semblance of lucidity, and I had what is called in polite society—a breakdown. Your father threatened me with incarceration in an asylum, and I had to leave.”
At that shocking moment, the footman entered and laid a tray in front of the duchess. Damon needed a lull
Who to believe? One was as bad as the other. Or so he had supposed. His mother’s abrupt departure had affected him so profoundly that he accepted his father’s blatant fabrications. At the time, Damon was 8 years old, an imprudent boy, hurt and afraid. His father was all he had. Of course, he believed the duke. But be damned if Damon would reveal how much his mother’s absence had damaged him.
“Iced tea?” She held the pitcher aloft in question.
“Yes.”
His mother poured a glass and passed it to him. “Thank you, Mateo. You may leave us.”
The footman departed, and Damon took a long swig of the cold beverage. Perhaps it would cool the heated uproar spiraling inside of him.
“There are almond biscuits, called panellets, and citrus sponge cake. Please, help yourself,” the duchess offered politely. “Where are you staying?”
Still the gracious duchess.
As if he could partake of any food. Regardless, he reached for a biscuit. “I am staying at the Casa Cádiz.”
“You are stunningly handsome. You have grown into the beautiful man I always knew you would be. On the outside. I have no clue what beauty exists within you.”
“Do not bother delving deep. I let no one in,” Damon replied as he absently nibbled on the biscuit.
The duchess eyed him askance but gave no reply to his dismissive statement. “Now that we have the pleasantries out of the way regarding your father. Inasmuch as I detest the man, it is time I discussed him. It was not a love match at first,” she stated matter-of-factly. “But God help me, I grew to love him most desperately. Or it was more of a wild infatuation. Why? Perhaps it was his breathtaking golden looks. I was that young and shallow once. Oh, how he took advantage of that vulnerability. He was cruel, the devil incarnate. I assume he still is.”
“What, handsome and a devil? Yes, and he has only worsened with age. And yet, you left me in his care. Abandoned me to that overt cruelty,” Damon accused. “And his cold indifference.” So much for keeping his emotions hidden.
The duchess frowned. “I tried to depart and take you with me. Reach back in your memories.”
He sneered. “I banished all memories as far as you were concerned.” Perhaps a harsh taunt and not all that accurate, but Damon said it anyway. It appeared he acted as a sullen child, after all. He often lashed out and said things he really did not mean.
His mother visibly winced. “Yes, you were always adept at pushing away and hiding horrible reminiscences. I envied you for that. Even at a young age, I watched how deftly you tucked away your emotions. Hiding them, denying them, just like your father.”
“Stop comparing me to that wretched bastard,” Damon snapped.
“Not hiding the emotions now. Think, you were 7 years of age. We traveled as far as Euston Station before your father, and his men dragged us back, and he thrashed us both for good measure.”
The buried and hauntingly disturbing memory pushed its way through the protective haze and returned in full force. Yes, he recalled it, just as his mother described. His father beat him, the only time he had done so, then made him watch as he battered his mother and—worse.
“Damn you for making me recall that,” he whispered dangerously.
“Forgive me. I will not speak of our shared past under your father’s harsh and corrupt rule. You see why I departed in such haste? And why I couldn’t take you, even if I wanted to? I sent numerous letters, but the duke returned them unopened. So, I waited until you reached the age of majority. I honestly believed that you were lost to me, that you are your father’s son.” The duchess reached across the table and took his hand. “Are you—his son?”
Was he? It was a chilling thought.
Partly, perhaps, but not deep down. At least, Damon hoped that was the case. What was the decades-old proverb or idiom? The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree?
“I don’t want to be,” he whispered. Damon gave his mother an affectionate squeeze of her hand, and tears welled in her eyes. This was the first time he had admitted this to anyone.
“I am glad to hear it. Avoid emulating the duke in any way.” Releasing his hand, the duchess dashed away the tear trickling down her cheek. “Let us change the subject. Why do you wish to trace your half-siblings?”
“Guilt. To know some children have been tossed aside—picks at my conscious. Yes, Mother. I have one, impaired though it may be.”
She sipped her iced tea thoughtfully. “And have you taken care of your own dealings?”
“I would never act as recklessly as the duke. That is all you need to know.”
“What have you discovered so far?”
Damon stared out over the serene scenery, squinting at the bright sun. “Two half-sisters, or so the claim goes. One refused to meet, and considering the source, I believe the statement was untrue. I have met Olivia Durham. There is no denying it, as she has the same blue eyes and golden hair I imagine all his spawn possesses. We are going to attempt friendship. Perhaps, in time, think of each other as brother and sister. Perhaps we are starting to do so already.”
His mother smiled warmly. “I am glad to hear it. Is that the baby adopted by the country vicar and his wife?”
Damon could feel the blood drain from his face. “You knew of her?”
The duchess nodded. “And more besides. I found out about these children after my wedding. Your father took great pleasure in bragging about his perfect progeny. You had best pour us a drink, my son. You will need it. And so shall I. There is Brandy de Jerez over on the side table.”
Damon rose but gripped the table to steady himself as his legs shook. Such revelations, such unfamiliar sentiments. He wondered if coming here was a terrible blunder. There was something to be said for staying removed from family drama and well above the fray. He would be picking at threads best not pulled.
Well, he had come this far.
After pouring the drinks, he handed one to his mother.
She took a sip, then sighed. “You have an older half-brother by three years; last I heard, he is with the Metropolitan Police. You have a younger half-brother working as a footman at Chellenham Park.”
The mouthful of brandy Damon had taken sprayed across the flagstones.
A copper—and a footman? A footman at the country seat?
Damon searched his mind for recollections of a blond-haired footman, but he never stayed at Chellenham Park, and he barely even looked at the staff the few times he did.
God above.
He picked up the serviette and wiped his mouth, then took another mouthful of the brandy to steel himself for the disclosures ahead. “How do you know about these children, and what became of them?” Damon asked.
“Your father kept me apprised of their progress through the years, whether I wanted to hear of it or not. With each quarterly allowance statement, he sent a noxious letter bragging of his conquests and the fact he had illegitimate children in every corner of London and beyond.”
Damon glowered, despising his father afresh. “I am sorry you were subjected to that.”
“After a few years, I no longer cared. But I read the letters to spite the duke. And to prove to myself they had no effect on me.”
“How many more offspring are there?”
“I know of seven, no wait, eight,” his mother murmured. “But, as I said, I know there are more, considering the infidelities. At first, your father noted locations and names and even continued their maintenance, at least the boys. But later, he ensured they were taken to an orphanage and never thought of them again. Those are the ones you will never locate. There are no doubt a dozen or more of the poor children. At least, that is what he told me. I doubt the veracity, considering the information came from him.”
