The Secrets Of Lord Lynford. Bronwyn Scott

Chapter Four

       Chapter Five

       Chapter Six

       Chapter Seven

       Chapter Eight

       Chapter Nine

       Chapter Ten

       Chapter Eleven

       Chapter Twelve

       Chapter Thirteen

       Chapter Fourteen

       Chapter Fifteen

       Chapter Sixteen

       Chapter Seventeen

       Chapter Eighteen

       Chapter Nineteen

       Chapter Twenty

       Chapter Twenty-One

       Chapter Twenty-Two

       Epilogue

       Extract

       About the Publisher

       Prologue

       London —June 18th, 1823

      Death had officially come to Mayfair. Richard Penlerick, Duke of Newlyn, and his Duchess were buried, and the funeral witnessed by the ton’s finest that morning in the hopes of bringing closure to the tragedy that had stunned their exalted world a week earlier: a peer—a duke, no less—and his wife, stabbed to death in an alley after an evening theatre performance.

      Eaton Falmage, Marquess of Lynford, closed the front door behind the last of the funeral guests, wishing he could just as easily shut the door on the week’s horror for the sake of those who remained within the Newlyn town house on Portland Square. But for them the journey into grief was only just beginning. Now that the pageantry of death was over, the real mourning could commence, as he and those closest to the Penlericks could give free rein to their emotions.

      Eaton found that inner circle, a collection of friends he’d known and loved since childhood, gathered in the library, a male conclave of power and strength, both of which had been lent unreservedly this week to Vennor Penlerick, the heir.

      Vennor stood by the sideboard, pouring brandies, a rare blond in a room full of dark-haired men. He glanced in Eaton’s direction, his eyes asking the question.

      ‘Yes, they are all gone,’ Eaton offered in low tones. ‘I had the servants sweep the halls for stragglers.’ He gripped Vennor’s arm in a gesture of assurance. ‘We are entirely alone. At last.’

      The week had been nightmarish for all of them, but none so much as Vennor, and it showed. Despite his immaculate grooming, Vennor bore the unmistakable signs of strain and grief. To lose one’s parents without warning, even at twenty-eight, was devastating. Vennor had been strong all week, the ideal heir, the consummate host to those who’d imposed their company and their own grief. Eaton took both the glasses. ‘Come, sit, you needn’t be on display with us.’

      The group had gathered around the cold hearth. Someone, Inigo perhaps, had culled chairs from about the room and arranged them in one central place to accommodate the group known throughout the ton as ‘the Cornish Dukes’: heirs from four long-standing ducal families whose patriarchs had grown up together in the wilds of Cornwall and in turn so had their four sons. The bond between those fathers and their sons was legendary, as was their loyalty to one another.

      That impressive connection had been on view throughout the week for all of London to see, as if to say ‘let no one doubt there are no lengths to which we would not go for one another’. The fathers had taken their leave discreetly a half an hour ago to give the four friends privacy to grieve together, as they would no doubt be doing themselves at another undisclosed location. They had lost their dear friend just as Eaton and the others had lost a man they’d looked upon as an uncle and mentor but Vennor had lost a father and a mother all in one blow.

      ‘Thank you, Eaton. I’m glad the guests are gone.’ Vennor took the brandy and slumped into the chair beside Inigo. He favoured them with a tired smile. ‘I had no idea my father’s friends possessed so many daughters of a certain age. I knew it would happen, of course. I just thought people might have the decency to queue up after a period of mourning. I don’t think I can tolerate one more offer of marriage wrapped in a condolence. I can’t bear to hear one more time that my father was a good man who’d want me to look to the future as soon as possible. Dear lord, some of them weren’t even subtle about the fact that I’m an only child and the Penlerick nursery is a veritable ghost town in immediate want of infants.’ There was none of the usual humour underlying Vennor’s words. There was only anger today, as well there should be. The deaths of Richard Penlerick and his wife were violent, senseless crimes.

      Eaton’s chest tightened at the thought. Thank God it hadn’t been his own father in that alley. The guilt of such a sentiment gripped him, as did the reality. It hadn’t been his father yet. One day, though, it would be; an accident, old age, God willing not a crime, but the terrible moment would come. Not just for him, but for all of them. Eaton looked about his circle of friends: dark-haired, strong-jawed Cassian, heir to the Duke of Hayle, enigmatic Inigo, Boscastle’s scion with the pale blue Boscastle eyes handed down from generations of Boscastle Dukes. Were they thinking the same? That this scene would be re-enacted in variation three more times as each of them assumed the titles to which they’d been raised? They would all lose their fathers. It was an inherently deadly business being a duke’s son.

      The morbid aspect of that ‘business’ had Eaton staggering emotionally as much as the visceral quality of the murder had him reeling, along with the rest of the haut ton. If a duke could be murdered in cold blood at the theatre, no one was safe. People did not like reminders of their mortality. Rich people especially.