2. David

2

David

“ W hat do you mean it’s already gone?” David asked blankly.

The deckhand paused in the middle of loading his cargo, his patience clearly running low. “The Berengaria left the day before yesterday.”

David closed his eyes in frustration. He knew exactly what had happened. It left on the fifth, not the seventh. “Your ship isn’t going to New York, is it?” He nodded at the vast ship before him.

...which was decidedly not RMS Berengaria. The ship on which he’d booked a first-class cabin. The one that had apparently left two days ago.

The deckhand scoffed, hoisting a box onto his shoulder. “Not likely. We leave for India tomorrow.”

David thanked him, leaving him to carry on with his day. Five and seven. What was it about five and seven that he couldn’t get through his skull? He was an intelligent, well-accomplished man of almost forty years of age , but he just didn’t have the knack for numbers. Or letters. Damn the bloody things.

Defeated, he made his way back up the dock. It was teeming with industry, from deckhands loading and unloading cargo to sailors relieved to be back on land to officials carrying clipboards inspecting the latest shipment .

He cut through them all, thankful he travelled light. It was a lesson he learnt during the Great War when he’d been stationed in the Middle East as part of the Egyptian Expeditionary Force. It had been a necessity back then, but nowadays he had an entire wardrobe of clothes in New York to facilitate it. Just as Sian and Roscoe had wardrobes of clothes in Anglesey with him.

Shoving his hand through his hair, he gave a defeated laugh. He swore under his breath, contemplating the 300-mile journey he’d now have to navigate by himself. It would be an enormous ball-ache to have to organise his journey back to Castell Du'r Arddu, but it couldn’t be helped.

Eventually, he arrived at the offices for the passenger line. While he was here, he might as well rebook his trip, he supposed.

And then he’d need to send a telegram to Sian and tell her not to bother sending a car to meet the Berengaria in New York—because he definitely wasn’t on it.

The tinkle of a bell sounded above his head as he walked into the office. The smell of cigarette smoke infused every surface, and David wasn’t surprised to see a trail of smoke coming from a door behind the dark wooden reception desk. The reception desk itself was manned by a young woman, her stylish yellow dress swishing around her knees as she posted letters into pigeonholes.

She gave him a welcoming smile as he approached. “Good morning, sir. How may I help?”

“Morning.” He nodded. “I was supposed to be on the Berengaria departing for New York, but I missed the ship. Would I be able to rebook for the next crossing?”

The receptionist opened a folder, running her finger down the paper until she found what she was looking for. “RMS Olympia leaves today, but that’s fully booked. The next departure with a free cabin will be with RMS Berengaria on the 21st, arriving in New York on the 28th. Would that suit?”

“Of course.” He was rather low on commitments. It wasn’t like he had a boss to bow and scrape beneath—or a wife and family.

Just an adult son who was concealed from him by his mother.

“What class would you like to book for?”

“First.”

“And are you looking for a one-way trip or a return?”

“A return, please.” David would go mad if he had to live with his sister indefinitely. “For a month later.”

Christ. That would mean he’d be in New York for his 40th birthday. No doubt Sian would organise some enormous party in his honour.

She nodded. “That’ll be ￡188.”

Another ￡188 . It was but a drop in the ocean for him, but he didn’t enjoy throwing money away. “That’s fine,” he muttered, pulling out his chequebook and inwardly cursing himself.

“And what name shall I record on the passenger list?”

“David Pearce, Marquess of Menai.”

She sat up straighter, her eyes widening as she wrote him onto the list. “Apologies, Your Lordship.”

David waved her away. “I don’t suppose you have any ships sailing from here to Anglesey, do you?” he joked.

“Not passenger line cruises,” she admitted. “But we can certainly sort out a private charter if that’s something you require.”

He blinked. His question had been in jest, but he’d much rather sail than try and sort out a 300-mile taxi drive. “That’d be perfect, actually.”

“When were you looking to depart?” She smiled up at him, pulling out another folder from beneath the reception desk .

“As soon as possible.” He gave a self-deprecating snort, patting his leather satchel. “I’m all packed.”

“I’ll make some calls and see what we can do for you. In the meantime, we have a first-class lounge that you’re welcome to use.” She indicated a corridor to his right. “And I’ll update you as soon as I have news.”

“Ta.” David nodded. He made his way down the corridor, finding the lounge to be a large, spacious room full of constant chatter and comfortable seating—most of which was occupied by men in tailored suits and women in fur coats. He breathed a sigh of relief as he sighted a free seat in the corner, picking his way through the busy room.

A ship directly to Anglesey would be perfect. Castell Du'r Arddu had a dock, and, depending on the size of the ship, he might be able to disembark within shouting distance of his front door.

There was no telling how long it would take him to reach Anglesey. He hoped whatever boat the receptionist could charter for him had a sizeable engine, but then again, he was the clod who’d arrived on the wrong day, so he couldn’t be picky.

“Lord Menai,” a voice interrupted his thoughts. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

David dragged his attention back to the waiting room. His heart sank. He’d unwittingly sat across from Lady Snetterton, a social climbing, rake-thin harridan who’d once taken a fancy to him. “Lady Snetterton. How nice to see you again.”

“Indeed.” Though her lips were arranged in the politest of smiles, her jaw was clenched. God knows how many times her late husband had seen that expression before he passed. “I believe the last time we met was at the start of the war.”

Yes, the war was the reason he’d given for rejecting her not-so-subtle hints at starting a courtship. It was true, of course, but he’d have never wanted to court her in peacetime either. The woman had only married her husband because of his title, and it was well-known she was keen to bag something better than a baron the second time round. “Has it been that long?”

“Indeed,” she said again, distaste entering her eyes. “Before you brought your… illegitimate son to London.”

David let his gentlemanly expression drip off his face. He’d been gobsmacked to discover he had a son. Even 18 months later, he was still gobsmacked. “I was very proud of Harry’s efforts in the Waziristan campaign. His Victoria Cross deserved to be celebrated.”

Lady’s Snetterton’s eyebrow kicked up. “It’s a shame you weren’t proud enough to marry his mother.”

If she was a man, he’d have walloped her.

“His mother is dead.” Emotion occupied his throat, dense and stubborn. If Alice had told him she was pregnant, David would have married her in a trice. He hadn’t even reached his age of majority when Harry was conceived, and Alice hadn’t been much older.

It had been a summer dalliance—but still, he would have married her.

Alice had been an heiress, as it turned out. David wondered if that was why she’d rejected his marriage proposal—and never told him they had a son to boot. Frustration travelled through him, as it had so many times.

Do not think ill of the dead.

David tried not to think ill of her. But he had so many questions .

At one point in his life, he had dreamt of having a great love. But between the war and caring for his parents, he’d never found it. He’d settled for smaller fry—brief, fleeting affairs that never lasted long enough to turn into anything of substance. Like ships passing in the night .

They hadn’t been rooted in love, but they’d been honest.

Or so he thought.

In his periphery, the young receptionist he’d spoken to earlier entered the room carrying a clipboard. Please let them have found a boat already. Anything to get away from Lady fucking Snetterton. “RMS Olympic is boarding now.”

The majority of the waiting room’s occupants got to their feet—including Lady Snetterton. Thank Christ for that. David didn’t bother to bid her farewell or hope she had a safe journey. With any luck, another passenger would throw her into the sea.

The topic of Harry was a sensitive one for him. David loved his son…even if his son wasn’t particularly fond of him. Not after he’d cut him off financially.

David hadn’t wanted to do it, but Harry had burnt through his inheritance from his mother in record time, drinking and gambling to his heart’s content. At the beginning of their relationship, David had all but given his son a blank cheque.

Now, though, he knew better. David let Harry live in the marquessate’s fully staffed London home. He gave him a car. He paid all of his bills. He even bought all of his food. But he wouldn’t give him money.

He supposed the one upside to this palaver was that he’d get to spend some more time with Harry. It had been sod’s law that he planned to be in Anglesey just as David departed for New York, but an extra two weeks with his son was always something to look forward to. Perhaps he could even persuade Harry to come to New York with him, a proper father-and-son trip. David knew Sian was desperate to meet her nephew.

And some time in a country that prohibited alcohol would be good for Harry.

As he waited, he took out his glasses and balanced them on his nose—followed by his notepad and pen. While he was here, he might as well send a telegram to Sian. Usually, he’d dictate them to his valet, Owain, but his sister would understand his massacre of letters; she’d had plenty of practice when they were growing up.

He touched his Duro pen to the paper and began to write.

In the storm’s midst, Castell Du'r Arddu’s weathered stone facade looked to be taken directly from the pages of a gothic novel. The turreted towers and carved battlements stood out in stark contrast against the moon’s silver light.

David’s foot almost slipped as he carried his leather satchel up the stone path, the rain cascading down the steps in droves. Behind him, the motor yacht had already disappeared back into the night’s depths. The skipper had wanted to be away from the rocks, and David couldn’t blame him.

They’d offered to escort him up to the castle, but he’d declined. “I’m going to get wet either way.”

He reached the top of the steps with a sigh of relief. A few lights were still on in the castle, not many—but just enough to illuminate his way to the front door.

Icy droplets crept their way down his head, below his collar, and down his back, freezing him from the outside in. David shivered as he followed the path along the driveway, but the sight of something odd stopped him in his tracks.

There was a car in the driveway. Harry’s car.

Or the car that David had bought for Harry back when their relationship was still in its infancy. Back before Harry’s grief for his mother had made him turn to alcohol and gambling. Their father-son bond had started out positively; initially, Harry shared his grief with David, allowing David to comfort him.

Before it had all gone wrong.

David loved his son, but he couldn’t watch him destroy himself. He allowed Harry to live at Menai House, the marquessate’s fully staffed London address, to keep a roof over his head—and to ensure he was being sufficiently fed and cared for.

Would he rather Harry live at Castell Du'r Arddu? Of course. David had always said as such, but Harry’s visits had been sporadic at best. David suspected the lack of nightlife in Holyhead was the cause, but he’d kept the offer open-ended.

Had Harry changed his mind?

Harry’s answer could wait until morning. David pressed the doorbell, his fingers slipping off the metal slightly. He stepped backward, until he could be seen from the windows of the entrance hall. At this hour, only Trevor, the hall boy, would be up to open the door—and Trevor wasn’t going to open the front door unless he could see it was David ringing, and not some criminal.

It felt like an eternity before Trevor’s suspicious frown appeared at the window, but the shock on the lad’s face made David hack out a snort of laughter.

The heavy door opened, letting a ripple of wind and rain into the castle. “My lord,” Trevor whispered. “I thought you were going to America.”

“Me too.” David gave him a weary nod as he stepped inside, hanging his drenched overcoat on the hook. A chair from the dining room had been placed next to it, for whatever reason—but he didn’t have the energy to investigate. “I missed the ship. Is Harry here? ”

“He is, my lord,” Trevor replied, throwing the locks on the lower half of the door—before he moved to drag the heavy dining chair over to it.

And suddenly David understood. Trevor had dragged the dining chair over to the entrance hall because he couldn’t reach the locks on the top half of the door. “I’ll do the rest of them,” David told him, easily reaching across to slide the bolts into place.

Trevor was a good lad, but he wasn’t blessed in the height department.

“I did take my shoes off before I stood on the chair, honest.”

This time, David couldn’t hold in his chuckle—but mostly at the thought of the butler’s face if he saw Trevor doing such a thing. “I won’t tell Williamson if you don’t.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Trevor stepped back with an embarrassed grin. “Can I fetch you anything else? Some sandwiches, perhaps? Or some tea?”

“Tea would be wonderful, if you could.” Other than that, the only thing David wanted after such an exhausting day was to collapse into bed.