A Duke for the Penniless Widow
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Christine Merrill
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Chapter One
Talk of the Ton
After a night of high-stakes play and heavy losses, the unfortunate Mr John Ogilvie returned home and succumbed to despair, ending his life.
Tragedy might have been averted if not for that final hand of cards played with the callous Duke of G., who is known about London for his rapacious appetite for gaming.
Mr Ogilvie leaves a widow and a seven-year-old son.
What will they do now?
And what does G. have to say for himself?
Alex Conroy, the Duke of Glenmoor, stared down at the morning’s newspaper in dismay, his finger tracing the item in the gossip column and its veiled references to him. ‘I am not callous. I am not rapacious. And I am not at fault. I was there when it happened, of course. But correlation does not imply causation.’
‘Your students at Oxford might have been impressed by such a response. But you will have to do better than that to impress the ton.’ His stepbrother, Evan, shook his head, obviously disappointed at Alex’s handling of the situation.
Of course, nothing like this had ever happened to Evan. He had known he would be the Duke of Fallon from the moment he’d known anything. He had received a lifetime’s training in navigating London society and had no trouble keeping his name from the scandal sheets, other than the brief hubbub created by his sudden marriage.
But Alex had never expected to inherit a title. The death of an heirless cousin had resulted in his sudden elevation to a dukedom, a move that had left him scrambling to keep up with the new expectations put upon him and the prurient interest of strangers in the intimate details of his life.
Alex tapped the paper again. ‘This makes it sound as if I drove a man to his death. That was not what happened at all.’
Evan sighed. ‘As you should know from my marriage, it is not what happened that matters. What people think happened is far more important. Since you are relatively new to your title and were not expected to be heir to it, everyone wonders what sort of a peer you will make. They will watch you and they will read the gossip.’
‘But this makes me out to be some kind of monster,’ Alex said with a weak laugh. ‘You know I am hardly the sort to push a man into risky wagers just to see him suffer.’
‘I know it. But others may not,’ Evan replied with another shake of his head. ‘Unless they were there, all people will know is that, after losing a card game with “the Duke of G.”, Mr John Ogilvie went home and blew his brains out.’
Alex winced. It was an accurate way to describe what had happened. But he could not help but wish that Evan had chosen a more polite euphemism to screen the truth. ‘I did not know that the man had a problem with gambling. I thought it was a friendly round of loo to pass the time.’
And it had been just that. There had been nothing to distinguish this particular game from hundreds of other hands he had played in his life. The stakes were not particularly high and the other men at the table good-humoured. Even Ogilvie had seemed in high spirits and not the desperate man that he must have been.
‘Earlier in the evening he had been banned from another gaming hell for his erratic play,’ Evan said, repeating a truth that was common knowledge now that the gossip rags had got hold of the story.
‘I did not know he’d already lost his savings and his house,’ Alex said. ‘Why did he not stop at that? Why did he insist on playing with me?’
Evan shrugged. ‘Perhaps he thought his luck would turn.’
‘And it was not even that great a loss. Fifty pounds...’
‘That is more than some of my tenants make in a year,’ Evan said gently.
‘It was more than I’d planned to bet,’ Alex agreed. ‘But the fellow kept raising the stakes.’
‘Trying to win back enough to stall the inevitable. By the time he got to you, there was nothing left to cover his loss. Fifty was the same as a thousand fifties to him.’
‘Had he but asked, I’d have torn up his marker and thought nothing more about it. It was only a game...’
‘Pride prevented him,’ Evan said with a sigh. ‘And the same pride caused him to take his own life rather than admit to his wife and son what he had done.’
This was even worse. The knowledge that a family was suffering as a result of what he had done was almost more than Alex could bear.
‘Since you were the only titled man at that last card game, you are the one to take the blame,’ Evan said, heaping guilt upon guilt.
‘It is not fair,’ Alex blurted, feeling like a selfish fool as he imagined the widow and child and what they must be feeling.
‘I said something rather like that when I was forced to marry last Season,’ Evan said with a smile. ‘And you reminded me that it was not about what was fair, it was about what was proper.’
‘That was an entirely different matter,’ Alex said quickly. ‘People thought your scandal was romantic. But this?’ He picked the paper up and threw it into the fire. ‘They will think me a murderer.’
‘Some will,’ Evan agreed. ‘But the rumours fade with time. I would avoid the gaming tables for a while to prove that you are not going to make a habit of leading men to their ruin.’
Alex nodded in agreement. ‘And I must see if there is anything to be done for the widow Ogilvie. It is not right that she and her son are to be turned out into the street because of her husband’s folly.’
‘A measure of forgiveness from her would go a long way towards mending your reputation,’ Evan said.
It would salve his conscience as well. Though Alex knew he was largely innocent of what had happened with Ogilvie, he could not say he was totally blameless. If he had cried off the game, perhaps the fellow would still be alive. But he’d had no reason to. Perhaps Mrs Ogilvie would find it in her heart to reassure him. ‘I will go to her. At the very least, I can give her the damned marker back and release her from a small portion of his debt.’
Then he could come home and begin the process of forgetting that this tragedy had ever happened.
It was Selina Ogilvie’s first real day as a widow.
Though her husband had died three days ago, those first days had hardly counted. A hush had fallen over the house in the minutes after the discovery of the body. But when it had ended, there had been a flurry of activity that had not stopped since.
First, the housekeeper had sent for a physician, which had been thoughtful but pointless. It was quite clear to anyone that looked that her husband was far beyond the need of one. All Dr Crawford did to help was to try to force laudanum on Selina, which was even more pointless. She was stunned, but in no way hysterical.
If anything, she was angry. The least John could have done before ending his life was to have written her a note of apology. Instead, he had used his final moments to make a record of his losses, a carefully annotated list of markers and IOUs that contained the deed to the house and all the money in the bank. Then, as if he could not decide what to do about the debts, he had put a pistol to his head and exited life’s stage, leaving the problem to her.
If she was asleep as Crawford wished her to be, who would take control of the household? There was no family on either side that would help. She had been an orphan when they’d married. And by his erratic behaviour and requests for loans, her husband had destroyed any family bonds or friendships that might have yielded aid in this difficult time. Judging by his final ledger, there was not a person she could think of that he had not already borrowed money from.
So she had done the only thing she could think of and sent her maid to pawn her jewels to pay for the funeral and to keep the house in groceries for as long as she could. Then she had gone upstairs to explain to little Edward that he would never see his father again.
With the arrangements to be made and the visit to the church, there had been no time to think about herself and her new status as a woman alone in the world. But now the study was cleaned, the body was buried and quiet had descended again. All the emotions she had kept at bay for those few days had come flooding back, threatening to engulf her.
The worst part of it was the change in the quality of the visitors. At the start, there had been a thin trickle of bereavement calls from acquaintances making vague offers of help and looking thoroughly relieved when she did not ask for any. But today’s callers were the men who held the bulk of her husband’s debt. She had been asked how she meant to pay, when and how much and, worst of all, when she was planning to vacate this house, which she no longer had the right to inhabit.
Mr Baxter, the house’s new owner, stood before her now, staring at her with an unctuous smile and patting the pocket that held the deed. ‘It is an unfortunate matter, Mrs Ogilvie. Most unfortunate. But it is a debt of honour and I am sure your husband would want to see it paid.’
She was tempted to shout that if John had wanted to see it, he would still be here. But it was clear that a display of temper would do nothing to move this man. Perhaps she could appeal to his sympathy. ‘I am aware of that, sir. And I do mean to make good on all my husband’s losses. But the current moment is a difficult one. John has only just died and there were arrangements to be made and the funeral to think of. We have not yet had time to look for new lodgings.’ She added a hopeful smile to hint that it was in his power to give them time, if he chose.
He returned a smile so reptilian she expected to see a forked tongue dart into the middle of it. ‘I am aware that it has been a difficult week. But I am sure, if you are amenable, an arrangement might be made that would allow you to stay here as long as you like.’ He blinked once, then stared at her, his expression unchanging, and added, ‘As long as we are both satisfied, at least.’ Then he waited.
She stared back at him, shocked. He could not be suggesting what she suspected. But there was something in the sibilant hiss of the word satisfaction that made his meaning clear.
‘If you are worrying about your son,’ he added, ‘you needn’t. There are many schools that take in indigent students as a charity. He would be away most of the year and would not need to know.’
‘That was not what I was worried about,’ she said, ‘because I have no intention of taking your despicable offer. I cannot believe that you would come here, when my husband’s body is barely cold, and suggest that I...I...’ She could not finish the sentence with anything more than a shudder.
‘I am only suggesting what others will suggest, when you tell them that you do not have the money they are owed,’ he said in a reasonable tone. ‘You are only angry with me because I am the first. But once you realise the depth of your troubles and once you have weighed the solutions available, you might feel quite differently.’
‘I will not,’ she said.
He shrugged. ‘Then you must tell me when you plan to be out of the house. I could perhaps wait until the end of the week, if you can be packed in that time.’
‘It will take at least until the end of the month to auction off the furnishings,’ she said with a frozen smile. ‘Unless you mean to take those as well.’
When he seemed to be considering the idea, she added, ‘Since they are not listed as part of what you are owed, I will have them appraised and you can pay me by cheque.’
‘That will not be necessary,’ he said, his eyes narrowing at the prospect of parting with money over something that was not her. ‘You may have until the end of the month, Mrs Ogilvie. And in that time, if you have reconsidered my offer, you may reach me here.’ He reached into his pocket and withdrew a calling card, which he set on a side table. ‘For now, good day.’
‘Goodbye, Mr Baxter,’ she said emphatically, sinking into the nearest chair as he left her alone in the sitting room. As much as it disgusted her to admit the truth, he was probably right. He would not be the last to suggest that she work off her husband’s debt while on her back. She was still young, and handsome enough to attract unwanted attention. Some people would assume that, simply because she was a widow, she would be eager to have a man in her life, with or without the sanctity of marriage.
As if she would seek more trouble, after the mess her husband had left her in. The idea made her want to laugh, but she was afraid if she did, she might never stop. It was either that or cry from sheer frustration. Was she to be allowed no time to grieve at all?
But if she did not mean to bend to an unsavoury offer, how was she to manage to pay off the rest of the creditors? This afternoon, she would have to contact an auction house, just as she had said, and begin the process of liquidating her life in the hopes that there was enough to balance the books. Then she would have to let the servants go and search for a place where she and Edward could start over, though she had no idea where they would get the money to do so. What was she to do?
The thought brought on the first tears she had shed since John had died, and she allowed herself the luxury of letting them fall.
‘Mrs Ogilvie?’ Her housekeeper appeared in the doorway.
‘What is it?’ she said, quickly wiping the tears away.
‘You have another visitor.’ The woman gave her a worried look. ‘The Duke of Glenmoor.’
The man who had all but killed her husband had decided to collect his debt in person, just as Baxter had. Selina sucked in her breath, her tears forgotten in a flash of anger. ‘Tell him I am not at home to him.’
The words were barely out of her mouth before she saw the man just behind the servant, waiting to be announced. He was standing between her and escape, in plain sight and hearing of her attempted snub. Now he was staring at her just as Baxter had done and probably thinking the same thing: that she was alone and vulnerable to improper suggestions.
She glared back at him, her despair turning to anger. She had no experience with the peerage. When she had ventured out into society, her acquaintances had been far more modest, limited to untitled ladies and gentlemen and a few moderately successful cits. But the man who stood before her now was everything she would have imagined a duke would be.
His tailoring was perfect, his linen immaculate. Together they framed a body that was impressively tall and in peak physical condition. His short hair shone dark and shiny against a face that was unmarked by sun or worry. His eyes were dark as well, a rich sherry brown, and their alert gaze was fixed on her as if she was a problem in want of a solution.
In any other circumstance, she’d have been impressed by his rank and cowed by his good looks, stunned into submission by the sheer elegance of him and too aware of how far beneath his notice she must seem. She would also have been more than a little flattered by the intensity of his interest in her.
But not today. She had no intention of bowing down to the man who had ruined her life, or blushing and simpering like some idiot girl at her first ball. ‘What do you want?’ She spat the words at him, taking the offensive to prove that she was not about to be taken advantage of in her lowest moment.
‘I... I came to help,’ he said, taking a half-step back as if to move out of range of her ire.
‘You have done quite enough already,’ she said with a bitter smile, reminding herself that, though his appearance was pleasant, he was also the man who had fleeced her husband. ‘I have you to thank for my current position. What more could you possibly do?’
‘I...’ Was it her imagination, or had her accusation hurt him? There was something in his dark eyes and the set of his too-perfect mouth that hinted at injury.
If so, he deserved it. Compared to her own pain, his was nothing. ‘You,’ she said, sneering back at him, ‘have done quite enough, thank you. But I suppose you will be wanting me to settle my husband’s debt to you. It is a matter of honour and I know how important that is to a man of your stature.’ She let the last drip with irony, to remind him of what he had done.
Then she reached to her throat, her fingers grasping the jet cameo brooch she wore as a symbol of her mourning. ‘Here.’ She pulled it free. ‘If this is not worth fifty pounds, it will have to do. It is all I have left.’ Then she threw it at him with all the force she could muster.
He snatched it out of the air with a graceful swipe of his hand and said, ‘I am sorry.’
‘You should be,’ she snapped back, feeling the unshed tears prickling the backs of her eyes, ready to fall at the least provocation. She would not show weakness. She did not dare to, or she would be preyed upon by every unscrupulous man in London.
And this one was the worst of the lot, because his offer would not be as obviously repellent as Baxter’s had been. He had been a serpent, but this man was Lucifer incarnate, proud and beautiful and all too tempting.
Staring too closely into those lovely eyes or focusing too long on that perfect mouth would weaken her reserve. The proposition that he was likely to make would be surrounded by sweet words and delivered with a gentle smile and a soothing voice. If she was not careful, she would agree to the unspeakable and think herself lucky. She should get far away from him as fast as possible, before she forgot that she had nothing left but her honour and bartered it away.
She must not run, or he would know how he affected her and use that knowledge against her. Instead, she rose slowly and walked to the door with her head held high, pushed past him and mounted the main stairs, never looking back until she reached the safety of her bedroom and had locked the door behind her.
