Several hours later, Robert awoke with a start,
disoriented, his heart thundering. The bed was too soft,
the room too large. Slowly, it all came back to him.
His escape.
His hiding in the shadows.
His creeping into the house.
His finding John, asleep, unsuspecting.
The Warder arriving just after midnight to let the duke
know that prisoner D3,10 had escaped. Knocking John
unconscious with a good solid punch that had gone a long
way toward appeasing his anger at the time, but now the
fury was roiling through him again and he worked hard to
squash it. It had been festering for far too long. .
He'd always thought revenge was supposed to be sweet. He
was surprised to discover that it tasted bitter. He shook
off the guilt. He'd given John what he deserved.
Lying still, he listened to his own rapid breathing, his
heartbeat thrumming between his ears. Then the sweet song
of a lark. Outside the window. Was that what had awakened
him?
Relaxing his taut muscles, he inhaled deeply, a fragrance
so pure that if he were a sentimental man he might have
wept. But he feared whatever tendency toward sentiment he
might have once possessed had been brutally stolen from
him.
Still he could appreciate the scent of cleanliness and the
comfort brought by a soft, feathered mattress beneath his
back. Tonight he would indulge in all the vices he'd been
denied by his brother's calculating schemes. Denied
through no fault of his. It was an aspect of this entire
untenable situation that nagged at him.
Had he done something to deserve his brother's unjust
treatment? He'd committed no crime, harmed no one. He'd
gone to school, studied hard. He'd learned manners,
etiquette, and protocol. He'd been prepared to step into
his father's shoes when his father left this earth--which
he'd assumed would be after a long life--but until that
precise moment he carried out his duties and respective
responsibilities with the proper decorum expected of the
heir apparent.
He'd been an exemplary firstborn son. Was it his striving
to make his parents proud that had turned John against
him? Or was it simply his entry into the world first? It
was hardly something over which he'd had control. Come to
think of it, he'd had no say in a good part of his life.
Obligations were thrust upon him, and duty dictated that
he accept and meet them head on, never shirking his
responsibilities.
And yet he'd been unjustly punished and found himself in
the untenable position of having to prove who he was and
taking some recourse to ensure that he managed to hold
onto the dukedom. He had little doubt that John would
attempt to usurp him with some sort of treachery, and the
next time he intended to be prepared. He'd not be caught
unawares again.
He stretched his muscles--relishing the luxurious
sensation of silk gliding over his skin--shoved his hands
beneath his head, and stared at the canopy above his bed
while the first fingers of dawn spilled into the
bedchamber. He'd left the draperies at the windows and
those around the bed pulled aside. He wanted nothing
denied him. And he had such grand and self-indulgent plans
for his first day and night as the Duke of Killingsworth.
A steaming, hot bath with sandalwood soap. Followed by
warm towels rubbed briskly over his entire body.
Clean clothing.
A hot, hearty breakfast while he read The Times.
A leisurely walk through London.
A brisk horse ride through Hyde Park.
A carriage ride.
Another meal.
Another bath.
More clean clothes.
And then a night of revelry to celebrate his newfound
freedom.
A bottle of the finest wine.
A cigar. Perhaps a hand of cards.
And then a woman. A beautiful woman.
Tonight he would have it all, after being denied
everything for so long.
He would do the same tomorrow night. And the next. He had
a youth denied to make up for. And then he would see to
his dukedom.
He'd known a moment of worry that his plans would unravel
when he'd carried his unconscious brother to Mr. Matthews.
He'd recognized the warder as one of the more brutal ones.
The guard had recognized him only as the man who had paid
him. Matthews's fear had been palpable as he'd stammered
his profound apologies for the prisoner's escape, and
Robert was left to wonder if it was more than coins that
had made the man serve as John's henchman. Matthews had
been only too willing to accept Robert's explanation that
the prisoner had come here to cause him harm, and once
again he was to be returned to Pentonville and held as
before.
A prisoner without the promise of freedom.
Another niggling of guilt pierced the contentment of the
morning and Robert pushed it aside. He'd not be denied
this day, no matter how selfish. He deserved it: the
drinking, the womanizing, the sating of his long-denied
body, the self-gratification. As long as John kept his
mouth shut and his cap covering his face, he'd survive
exceedingly well until Robert determined the best manner
in which to prove the truth of what had transpired.
The door leading from the bathing room into the bedchamber
opened, and Robert held his breath. His next test was
descending upon him with rapidity. He'd once theorized
that servants didn't truly look at their masters, but kept
their eyes averted or downcast. If his theory were proven
correct, then he would be fine. If false . . . well, he'd
had worse things to worry over.
The servant quietly entered the room. His valet. Or more
precisely, his brother's valet. And he suddenly realized
that he was in a spot of trouble because he didn't
recognize the man. He was tall, slender, held himself
well, and while he appeared to be relatively young, he was
balding, the top of his head reflecting the sunlight
streaming into the room.
Robert had expected Edwards who had once been his loyal
valet to still be serving his brother, but as he pondered
the situation it made sense that Edwards had been let go.
The man might have had the ability to detect subtle
differences in the heir apparent, and while he might have
held his doubts to himself, it was probably a chance John
had been unwilling to take.
And this unknown valet might notice subtle differences in
today's duke as compared with yesterday's. Mainly that
today's duke hadn't a clue as to his valet's name.
"Good morning, Your Grace," the man said, as he crossed
the room.
"Good morning." Robert cursed beneath his breath. The
words had come out hesitant, unsure, not at all the tone
usually rendered by a man in control, a man to whom
deference was given by virtue of rank if nothing else.
The valet suddenly stopped in the center of the room as
though aware that something was terribly amiss. He looked
at the bed--not so much the man lying in it--the windows,
then quickly at the walls, the ceiling, the floor, and
Robert wondered if the servant was feeling the room close
in on him as Robert was. Robert should have held his
tongue, kept his silence.
"I'm not accustomed to the draperies already being pulled
aside," the servant said. "You must be anticipating the
day."
"Indeed I am." The truth was easily spoken. It was the
first time in years that he'd awoken and actually looked
forward to the day ahead.
"I've had your bath prepared." The servant walked to the
wardrobe, opened the doors, and began gathering items.
Robert contemplated lying abed a bit longer, perhaps even
having breakfast brought to him on a tray, but the amount
of food he planned to eat was best handled by a sideboard.
He slid out from beneath the covers. Standing in a
nightshirt he'd confiscated from a drawer, with his bare
feet on the floor, he suddenly felt exposed.
The servant had yet to take a full measure of him, and
when he did . . .
He was a duke now. Closing his eyes, he drew on the
memories of his father's commanding voice. His father had
never left any doubt as to who was in charge, even before
he inherited the dukedom from his father. Self-assured,
confident. Robert simply had to follow his father's
example and teachings now. He felt calmness descend over
him. He could do this. He would do it. He opened his eyes.
"I should like to take a ride in the park this morning,"
he said. "See to having my horse readied."
The servant turned slightly, his brow creased to such an
extent that it seemed to roll his balding pate forward,
and Robert easily determined that he was hesitant to
speak.
"What is it, man?" he demanded to know--impatiently, as
his father had when a servant was slow to respond.
"With all due respect, Your Grace, I'm not certain you
have time for a ride this morning."
"Why ever not? Is there some pressing appointment that
can't be put off?"
"Only your wedding, Your Grace."
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