Grace shot her a quick look. "You don't say. In that case, I suppose I don't need to be giving you any more advice, do I, child? You obviously have a natural talent." She lovingly patted her hand. "Well done, Rebecca. We have crossed the first threshold. I believe we are one step closer to your future happiness."

But after all the deprivations in her life so far, it had almost been too easy, Rebecca thought, with a strange and unexpected niggling of doubt. She thought of the old adage: too good to be true, and hoped it would not apply to her fairy-tale dreams of this man-and of the grand, passionate, perfect love she desired.

That night, after all the guests and family members were asleep in the palace, the duke, wearing only his nightshirt and cap, slid quietly out of bed and lit the lantern. Carefully picking it up by the squeaky handle, he padded across the dark chamber to his slippers by the door, then slid his bare feet into them and gazed anxiously about the room. He raised the lamp and peered through the dim golden light at the wood-paneled walls. His brows pulled together in a frown, his mouth fell open. His breath came faster in the chill of the night air.

He hastened to the door and ventured out into the dark corridor, looking both ways before he stepped softly to the right, quickening his pace while he checked over his shoulder. Carrying the lamp to the end of the hall, he stopped there and held it high before the massive gilt-framed portrait of the second Duke of Pembroke.

His Grace stared at it for a moment, then quickly shook his head before starting off toward the south wing. He passed a number of the guest chambers, glancing briefly down at the brass knobs on the doors as he passed.

"Yes, it is a very good time," he said.

He continued on, reaching the main staircase and hurrying down to the ground floor, his thin nightshirt flapping about his legs as he went.

He raised the lamp again and looked around the great hall. "No, Brother Salvador, not that way. This way." The duke slowed his pace at last and shuffled into the gallery. "Now let me tell you about young Rupert," he said. "He was a very good boy, but no one seems to remember him. No one except for me."

He walked the long length of the gallery, and the glow from his lamp seemed to bring the portraits back to life in the dark.

Chapter 7

"At least we have until winter," Blake said to Vincent over the breakfast table the next morning, before any of the guests joined them in the room.

Vincent chuckled bitterly. "Good God. Leave it to you to find the silver lining in hell."

Devon walked into the room and met Vincent's dark gaze. His brother, seated at the white-clothed table with a plate of eggs and sausage before him, paused with his fork in midair, then lowered it with a noisy clink upon the fine china. "I believe I've lost my appetite."

Exhausted-for he had been up all night, his thoughts bouncing back and forth between his father's insane demands and the stimulating allure of Lady Rebecca-Devon went immediately to the sideboard for coffee. "Don't miss out on a hot breakfast on my account, Vin. You know I'm not worth it."

He could feel his brother's gaze at his back while he poured himself a cup, then he took a seat at the table across from him. They glared at each other. Vincent picked up his fork again and resumed eating.

"We were just discussing Father's intentions to see all four of us married by Christmas," Blake said.

Devon curled his hand around his hot coffee cup. "I have news about that. Early this morning, just before dawn, Father came to my room and informed me that he would offer a reward to each of us if we marry before the end of the Season. Five thousand pounds in a lump sum on the wedding day."

Blake whistled. "That's a hefty sum. He is losing his mind, isn't he?"

"Five thousand pounds you say," Vincent sat back in his chair.

"Garrett must be informed of the situation as soon as possible," Devon said.

"The last time we heard from him," Blake replied, "he was somewhere in the Greek Islands enjoying the Mediterranean wine. He won't be pleased to hear this."

"I doubt he'll even care," Vincent said. "He's already declared he wants nothing from Father. He'd be just as happy to stay in Greece and let us all drown in the bloody flood."

Devon brought his hand down flat upon the table. "There is no flood."

"You don't say," Vincent replied with sarcastic bite. "Look, it's your fault the old man went so nutty in the first place," he said. "You weren't here to witness his wrath after you left. He probably burst something in his brain from all the ranting he did."

Devon gazed out the window at the rain pelting down upon the devastated garden terrace, filling the deep holes with water, the wind howling through the trees.

Yes, perhaps part of their father's madness was his fault, for he had disappointed him more than ever that last day, walking out after what he'd done and leaving the country without a word. He had abandoned them all.

You are no longer my son.

He was not proud of his prolonged absence from England, he never had been, but he'd always known his exodus was necessary. He'd needed to go off alone and suffer for a while, to wallow in his shame before he could finally distance himself from certain events. He'd had to do that before he could return home and fulfill his duty to the family.

He looked at his brother-the brother he had betrayed. "You are correct in that regard," he said. "I am to blame for the sorry state of affairs here at Pembroke."

Vincent set down his fork again and leaned back in his chair. "Bloody well right."

"No, Devon," Blake said, interrupting. "Our father's madness is not your fault."


"And what is the point, exactly?" Vincent asked.

Devon tapped a finger on the table, thinking for a minute. "Whether Father is sane or mad, he has taken legal action to change his will, and it appears we are all in a bit of a bind."

"Brilliant deduction," Vincent said.

Devon met his brother's burning gaze across the table. "I've been awake all night thinking about this and what must be done. I have been absent for the past three years and have avoided my responsibilities." He paused a moment, looking up at his mother's portrait over the fireplace, which had been painted just before her wedding day. "But I am home now, and I will do what I must. I will remain here at Pembroke to marry and produce an heir." They both stared at him with surprise in their eyes. "What the two of you decide to do is your own choice. I will not force a future upon you because of our father's preposterous belief in a family curse." He took another sip of coffee, then spoke quietly and pensively. "Perhaps in time the promise of a grandchild from me will be enough to pacify him, and I will be able to talk him out of this nonsense about a curse, and get him to change his will back to the way it was. Perhaps we can get him proper treatment. That is what he needs above all."

Blake stood up. "Do not let father do this to you, Devon. Do not let him put guilt on your shoulders and use it to steer you where he wants you."

Vincent gestured toward Devon with a wave of his hand. "That's not what's happening here."

"And what do you think is happening?" Blake asked, while Devon merely waited in silence for his brother to state his opinion.

"What's happening is that he is manipulating things to make everyone forget what he did three years ago. Instead we will all grovel with gratitude because he came back to save us all from utter ruin." He glared at Devon. "Maybe we should both just drop to our knees right now and thank you. What a martyr you are-the good son who sacrificed so much for his younger brothers. Someone get me a bucket so I can retch."

"Vincent," Blake said. "For God's sake, is that really necessary right now?"

"It's all right, Blake," Devon said, holding up a hand. "Let him speak his mind."

Vincent pointed a finger at the table. "Our father said it plainly. We are all named in the amendment to his will, and I have no intention of losing my inheritance, so I, too, shall marry."

"You never fail to surprise me," Devon said.

There was no warmth in Vincent's eyes. "I suppose, if we're going to be dragged by our ears to the altar, we should at least make it interesting. What do you say? I, for one, will fare better if I can call it a race."

Blake pinched the bridge of his nose. "God help us all."

"I will not play that game," Devon informed him.

"Why not?"

"Because I will not compete with you, Vincent, just to feed your hunger to knock me about. Besides, such a challenge hardly leaves room for romance, does it?"

"Then a swift seduction it will have to be," Vincent replied, "with the first decent-looking female who crosses my path. Speaking of which…" He stood up and strolled to the window. "Didn't I see Helen of Troy driving up with a coachload of bags this morning? How very convenient."

Without so much as a mere second to think about the finer implications in all this, Devon heard himself say, "Stay away from that one, Vincent. She is mine."

Vincent eyed him shrewdly. "Is that a fact? I didn't think you paid any heed to boundaries where women were concerned."

Devon's gut turned to ice at the sudden memory of that letter he had carried in his pocket three years ago.

"Do you already have an arrangement with Lady Rebecca?" his brother asked.

"No," Devon replied. He had lied to his brother once before and paid the price. He would not do so again.

Vincent laughed at that. "Well, I don't see why you get to have first choice."

"I have not yet made my choice."

"It sounds like you have. You just said she was yours."

Devon stopped for a minute to consider his intentions. Did he actually mean to choose Lady Rebecca as a bride without even considering Lady Letitia, or without taking a look around at the other young ladies who were sure to be in London for the first ball of the Season? He barely knew the girl. And that's what she was-a girl. She'd been out in Society for what, a day?

And what of Lady Letitia? he wondered. She would certainly appease their father.

"I have known Lady Rebecca for quite some time," he explained nevertheless, "and I have met her father. For that reason, there is some connection between us."

God help him, even now, some deep, guilt-ridden part of him was pushing him to step aside and let Vincent have first choice-because he owed him that. Didn't he? He certainly owed him something.

But could he step aside?

He thought about it, and found himself growing tense.

His brother stared intently at him. "Have you no interest in Lady Letitia? She is the daughter of a duke, and from what I understand, Father handpicked her."

Devon made no reply.

Vincent turned away, waving a dismissive hand. "All right, all right, you can have the Trojan. Perhaps I shall consider Lady Letitia, just to make Father happy because I adore him so." He faced them again and spread his hands wide. "What a noble son I am."

Vincent left the room, and Blake seemed to breathe a sigh of relief, while Devon merely squared his shoulders, going to refill his coffee cup and preparing himself for the week ahead, as it appeared he was suddenly in the market for a wife and had already voiced his preference for one woman in particular.

Who would ever have thought he would find himself herded into a future so soon after returning home? Who would have thought he would give in to the pressure to take a wife in such a swift, calculated fashion?

But what did it matter, he supposed as he stood next to the sideboard and sipped his hot coffee, when all was said and done? He'd always known he would marry one day, and he had come home to make amends and fulfill his duty as heir. He had never been eager to combine marriage with love. Love brought a fleeting, temporary joy, then it inevitably soured into a lifelong hell. He'd seen it countless times before. His parents were no exception, and he'd experienced it quite plainly for himself.

What he needed and what he must look for was someone uncomplicated. Someone who could be a proper duchess, provide heirs, and run this household. Lady Rebecca had been running the house at her father's estate for years, and he was most certainly attracted to her, which would at least make the duty of producing an heir a pleasant one. Unlike Lady Letitia, she had not been out in society for long, so she was a clean slate, so to speak, and would be easily molded to fit into his life at the palace the way he wanted her to. She had no scandals in her past, no other gentlemen sniffing around. Outside of Vincent, that is.