Lady of Shame. Ann Lethbridge

she asked as they travelled through the antechamber towards the great double doors, ‘who else has come to claim relationship to the duke?’

      Smithins stopped and pivoted a hand to his lips. ‘You have heard already?’

      ‘I heard a chance remark. It is not one of his … his …’

      The duke had been a bit of a rake before his marriage. And after, if some of the tales were true.

      ‘No, no.’ The man waved an elegant hand like a lady batting away a fly. ‘It is Lord Jamie’s wife.’

      ‘I hadn’t heard that Lord James had married.’ She’d always watched the newspapers for news of her family. Births, deaths and the occasional mention in court reports.

      ‘Nor had anyone else,’ Smithins said with a sly smile. ‘Married her on the continent. She arrived just a few months ago with her son, Lord Jamie’s heir.’ He lowered his voice. ‘And very little proof, I’m told. But His Grace is happy to be convinced.’

      ‘She’s here at Castonbury?’ It was strange she hadn’t taken dinner with Claire or that Mrs Stratton hadn’t mentioned her.

      ‘She lives in the Dower House.’ He flung back the door and ushered her and Jane into a vast room where the curtains covered the windows and only one branch of candles shed any light apart from that given off by the hearth.

      A smell of illness pervaded the room. Sickly smells. And the smell of elderly man. Someone should open a window and let the fresh air in. It reminded her of visits to her aged father, the previous duke.

      It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the gloom. When they did, she made out a male figure sitting close to the flames in a scarlet banyan and slippers with a matching embroidered cap perched on a balding pate.

      He looked like a man of eighty instead of the sixty summers she knew he owned. The gaze fixed on her seemed bright enough though. She approached his chair. ‘Your Grace.’ She dipped a curtsey. ‘It is Claire. Your sister. I am come home. This is my daughter, Jane.’ She drew the child closer.

      Jane bent her knees and wobbled only a little. Claire felt very proud. Jane might carry the name Holte, but she was also a Montague through and through.

      ‘Claire,’ His Grace said with a vague wave of a trembling hand. ‘Welcome. Forgive me for not rising. Knees aren’t what they used to be. Pull up that stool and sit in the light where I can see you. I don’t see as well these days.’ He shook his head.

      Claire did as she was bid and once seated she gazed long at her half-brother, looking for the man he had been, proud, tall, full of authority. She found only a face etched in lines of grief and a body bowed over with sorrow.

      ‘What brings you home, Claire?’ A shade of his old smile kicked up one corner of his mouth. ‘I thought you’d brushed off all signs of Castonbury dust. How can I be of help?’

      Her angry words coming back to haunt her. It saddened her that he realised she had not simply come to visit. He must be used to receiving petitioners, people who came because of his power, not for the man himself. She regretted it could not be otherwise with her.

      ‘My husband is dead.’

      ‘I am sorry, my dear.’ The regret sounded genuine.

      ‘I am not. You were right. He was not a kind man. Or a good one. But I made the best of it until he left us destitute.’

      Worse than that, in truth. But she would hold that information until she had a sense of his reaction.

      Rothermere sat silent for a moment staring at the fire and Claire wondered if he had slipped away into his own melancholy and forgotten her. She glanced at Jane, who was staring at her uncle intently.

      ‘Why is he wearing his night clothes?’ the child whispered. Jane’s whispers were piercing.

      ‘Hush,’ Claire said, thinking she would have to leave and try another day. ‘Your uncle is not well.’

      The duke raised his head and looked at her. ‘I followed, you know. I almost had you just before the border. Hit a rut and broke a wheel.’

      ‘You came after me?’

      He nodded.

      So a wheel had altered the path of her life. ‘I had no idea.’

      Jane slipped off her stool and wandered across the room to look at a portrait of a man in a full Elizabethan ruff, then moved on to peer into a glass cabinet full of snuff boxes.

      ‘When he came later, for his money,’ Crispin said, drawing Claire’s attention back to his face which looked quite sad, ‘he said you never wanted anything to do with us, but he wanted the dowry I owed.’

      Claire gasped. ‘You didn’t pay it?’

      The bushy brows drew down. ‘I did. Not that he was all that grateful. I think he thought it would be more.’

      She gasped. The money was gone? Her heart twisted, her mind reeled. She’d been relying on her dowry to resolve her troubles. ‘George said you refused to part with a penny.’ George had cursed the name of Montague. Blamed his failures on not receiving his proper due. This was worse than anything she could have imagined. ‘He told me you threatened to horsewhip him for his audacity.’

      The gnarled hand tightened on his stick. ‘I should have.’

      Jane moved on to look at a suite of armour. ‘Don’t touch it, please, darling,’ Claire said.

      ‘I’m glad you came home, Claire.’ Crispin’s eyes glistened. Tears? For her? ‘I made a mess of things, Claire. Cocked it up.’ He shook his head. ‘No. Wrong words in front of a female. I sold when I should have bought.’ He lowered his head as if to hide his anguish.

      ‘I don’t understand, Crispin,’ she said softly.

      ‘The funds. I sold them. Jamie would have known better. And now, finally when you come to me for help, I’m of no use to you or anyone. Not any more. Not any more.’ His lifted his head, his eyes focusing sharply. ‘I was right about Holte though. You wouldn’t listen to me. But I was right. I told you he was a dashed loosed screw.’

      ‘Yes.’ She swallowed. ‘You were right.’

      He glanced over at Jane, who was now inspecting a statue of a Roman soldier. ‘Your daughter looks like you.’

      He meant Jane was not pretty. Was not a true Montague. All the Montague women were lovely. And the men handsome as sin. It hadn’t carried through to the child of the duke’s second marriage or to her daughter. But to Claire, Jane was the most beautiful child ever born. ‘She has some of me and some of her father.’

      ‘Hmmph. Well, why did you come back?’ His mind seemed to dart hither and yon and there would be no point in beating about the bush if she was to get an answer.

      ‘Holte left debts. I thought to ask for my dowry to pay them off, but it seems he was before me.’

      ‘Money,’ he said gloomily. ‘You’ll need to speak to Giles about financial matters. There’s little to be had.’

      She knew a refusal when she heard one. She’d humbled her pride for nothing, but in truth she was glad to know her brother didn’t hate her. Glad to know he was happy to see her again, even if he couldn’t be of assistance. ‘I am so sorry to have troubled you,’ she said. ‘You clearly have more important things on your mind. Jane and I will leave in the morning.’

      ‘You need a husband.’

      She gasped. The beautiful face of the chef flashed into her mind, leaving her aghast at the wayward turn of her thoughts. ‘It is the last thing I need.’

      He shook his head. ‘Every gel needs a husband. You are young. You are still in your child-bearing years. A duke’s sister is quite a catch, you should do very nicely on the marriage mart.’

      She