Chapter Three

“The Reverend Augustus Shackleford.”

Nicholas laid down his pen as he watched the stout man walk into the study, his waistcoat straining to cover his stomach. The last time he’d seen Augustus Shackleford, the Reverend had definitely been a lot trimmer. In all other ways, time, or possibly God, appeared to have treated him very well.

“Your grace,” the Reverend said, cordially, bowing as much as he was able.

“Reverend,” Nicholas acknowledged, gesturing to the chair before the desk. It had taken him every bit of courage he possessed to step into this study, though he doubted he would ever feel comfortable in the leather chair he currently sat in.

The ghost of his father still seemed to linger, and Nicholas knew he would likely never rid himself of the bastard’s presence for the rest of his days.

“May I offer you a drink?”

“Perhaps some cordial? A cold drink would be very welcome on such a warm day,” the vicar responded, pulling out his kerchief and dotting his forehead with it. Nicholas nodded to the butler and invited the Reverend to take a seat.

Reverend Shackleford seated himself with a grateful sigh. He’d forgone the curricle this morning in favour of a sedate walk, thinking the time it took him to reach the Duke’s residence would provide a much-needed quiet interlude to mull over the recent turn of events. Things were clearly much worse than he’d thought. There was plainly something wrong with his eldest daughter.

Grace, who’d never to his knowledge ever ailed in her life, had continued to float around the vicarage, seemingly unable to settle, ever since her episode the day before. Normally preferring the sanctuary of her room, the Reverend had seen more of her in one day than he had in the last ten years, and for the whole time, she appeared to be watching him fearfully.

While Reverend Shackleford was not lauded for his patience, neither was he unkind or particularly bad-tempered. Indeed, his most important consideration was to ensure his life continued as peacefully and uneventfully as possible. To his knowledge, none of his daughters held any great fear of him, and Grace’s constant staring was seriously beginning to unnerve him, especially as she continuously appeared on the verge of speaking.

He did not know how, but it was becoming clear that Grace somehow knew of his plans. His first thought was that perhaps Percy had been loose tongued, but when he’d casually thrown the curate’s name into the conversation, there had been no reaction. And she certainly hadn’t shown any interest in Percy during dinner. He fervently hoped that was the issue. There were, of course, other causes which would be far worse. He shuddered, wondering how much it would likely cost him should he be forced to persuade some gentleman to make an honest woman of her.

“A wife!” The reverend heard the words through a fog and looked up at the Duke in horror, wondering if he’d somehow spoken his concerns aloud.

“I beg your pardon, your grace,” he stammered hurriedly. “I must beg your indulgence, but I didn’t quite catch what you were saying.”

Nicholas frowned. Clearly, the cleric hadn’t heard a word. Was the man addled? The Duke opened his mouth to deliver a blistering set down, but at that moment, Huntley appeared with a tray of refreshments. After carefully setting the tray down on the desk, he handed a crystal goblet to the Reverend who took it gratefully. Nicholas shook his head when offered a glass, enduring the interruption with ill-concealed impatience.

Reverend Shackleford used the opportunity to gather his wits. Perhaps the Duke would be an ally in finding a suitable match for Grace. A quiet word from someone so influential would go a long way to silence the gossipmongers. By the time the door closed on the elderly butler, he was able to direct his attention to the Duke in the pious and restrained manner expected of a man of the cloth.

“You were saying, your grace?” he offered, sipping at his drink.

The Duke of Blackmore set his jaw, causing the Reverend to shift in his seat a trifle nervously.

“I am in need of a wife,” Nicholas grated out finally, the words clearly struggling to make it past his tongue.

Reverend Shackleford blinked. He wasn’t sure how the Duke expected him to help in his grace’s matrimonial ambitions. As a vicar, he certainly didn’t mix in the kind of circles favoured by the higher echelons of the aristocracy. And he had enough matrimonial problems of his own to deal with. “Err, I’m not sure how I can help you, your grace. Is it spiritual guidance for a young lady perhaps? Or is it more of a chaperone you’re in need of? I’m happy to be of service if I can.”

The Duke ground his teeth in frustration. Infernal man. “I need one of your daughters.”

∞∞∞

After some discreet correspondence, Nicholas had learned that Reverend Shackleford had eight daughters in his household, a few of them of marriageable age. He had no intention of going through the business of wooing a wife or taking off to London in search of a titled one.

He needed a respectful, meek and dutiful woman who would quietly provide him with an heir without any fuss and bother. Surely, as a man of God, the Reverend could be relied upon to have raised his daughters to be such?

Nicholas became aware that the older man was staring at him open-mouthed.

“Is something amiss?” he asked as the silence lengthened.

The Reverend coughed finally. “Let me get this straight your grace. You wish to wed one of my daughters and make her a duchess?”

Nicholas sighed inwardly. “Yes, that’s precisely my wish. I will leave the choosing to you.”

“Choosing?” Was the bloody man being deliberately obtuse, or was he usually this dull-witted? It certainly didn’t bode well for the intelligence of any offspring that might issue from his stock. But then, intelligence had never been considered a prize in the ton .

“As to which one it is to be.” Nicholas flipped over the paper he had been working on and pushed it across the desk. “I’m willing to pay handsomely for a pious, biddable wife.” One that was likely to do her duty and not ask for anything more from him.

Reverend Shackleford let out a strangled sound as he eyed the contract the Duke had prepared, and all of a sudden Nicholas was more concerned the man might be having an apoplexy. Just as he was about to rise and ring for help, the Reverend finally coughed and spoke.

“Certainly, your grace. I would be happy, and of course honoured, to give one of my daughters into your keeping for this happy union.”

“Good,” Nicholas stated, pressing his pen against the contract. “Sign and we will then discuss the particulars.”

The Reverend wrote his signature on the contract with a trembling hand before pushing it back to Nicholas. “When would you like to post the banns?”

“No banns,” Nicholas said as he scrawled his name under the Reverend’s. “No wedding day. I wish to be wed by the end of the week.”

“The week?”

Nicholas arched a brow. “Is that a problem?”

The man was wiping his forehead again. “No, of course not, your grace. It will be as you wish. I will preside over the ceremony myself.”

Reverend Shackleford paused to savour this prodigious moment. “My eldest. You will have my eldest.”

It mattered not to Nicholas. “Bring her at the end of the week, and she will become my duchess. I trust she is of childbearing age?”

“She’s twenty-five,” the reverend replied hesitantly, belatedly wondering if Grace’s age might bring this miraculous turn of events to ruin at the last moment. Wincing slightly, he hurried on “I know she’s a bit long in the tooth, your grace, but most assuredly right at the peak of her childbearing years. And to top it all, she’s a good, dutiful girl and will make you an admirable wife. Of that I am sure.”

“Fine,” Nicholas sighed. He did not want a simpering miss straight out of the school room. “Huntley will see you out. Iwill procure the special licence and send you word of the day and hour I wish you to conduct the ceremony.”

“I will await your instructions eagerly, your grace. And may I say how truly honoured I am that we are about to become family.”

The Duke eyed him coldly, and Reverend Shackleford hurriedly took his leave, only just resisting the urge to skip out of the room.

∞∞∞

After the Reverend left the study, Nicholas’s valet ambled in, his thumbs hooked in his waistcoat. “So, this is where yer spending yer days now.”

Nicholas leaned against the chair, feeling weary. “A valet does not come seeking his master.”

The Scot quirked a grin as he settled into the chair the vicar had just vacated. “Good thing I’m not a normal valet then, laddie.”

Despite his need to make his unorthodox valet understand the correct airs and graces of English society, Nicholas returned Malcolm’s grin with one of his own. The Scot had been his steward for a good number of years. As Nicholas had risen in the ranks and been appointed from ship to ship, Malcolm had accompanied him and probably knew more about him than any other living person.

During their last campaign, which culminated at the victorious Battle of Trafalgar, Malcolm had saved Nicholas’ life, but in doing so had taken a vicious bayonet wound to the leg. It was while they were both convalescing in Gibraltar that word finally reached them of the Duke of Blackmore’s death, catapulting Nicholas into a role he was neither prepared for, nor had ever really wanted.

In some ways, the news had been fortuitous, although Nicholas would have died rather than admit it. Having been so grievously wounded in the battle, he’d been forced to give up his commission and simply had nowhere else to go.

Malcolm, ever his loyal steward, elected to return to England with his erstwhile captain, earning him Nicholas’s undying gratitude. The Scot might not know the difference between a barrel knot and a waterfall cravat tie, but he understood what his captain had gone through since reaching manhood, and because of that, Nicholas would never see him homeless.

“That’s yer brother?”

Nicholas followed Malcolm’s gaze to the large portrait above the fireplace. Two solemn boys stared down at them, their father’s hunting hounds flanking them. “That’s him.”

“Ye really did look alike.”

Nicholas’s lips rose in a small smile as he thought about the times he and Peter had tricked others regarding their identities. It had proven very resourceful with their tutors, and though they often saw the end of their father’s belt for it, they continued to do so, even throughout their youth.

There were times, after he’d left England, especially when he was at sea, that Nicholas could have sworn he saw his brother or felt his presence on a stormy night.

After all, it had been on a stormy night he’d lost Peter, and for the life of him, he still could not understand why they’d thought it would be a good idea to race their horses in the rain. Nicholas would never forget his brother’s cry as the horse had slipped on the wet road, how he’d snapped his neck on impact, forever silenced.

The Duke had blamed Nicholas for pulling his brother into the foolhardy escapade that had ended his life. Peter had always been the Duke’s favourite and the true heir of Blackmore. As the second son, albeit by minutes, he was merely an interloper.

“Leave me be,” Nicholas growled, turning back to his papers, determinedly pushing the hurt back down into the locked box he kept it in. “I have work to do.”

“Looks like it,” Malcolm remarked, unruffled by his master’s bad mood.

Nicholas waited until his old friend had left the room before wiping a hand over his face. The past had no place here. He had no choice but to press forward, to look toward a future which no longer included the rolling of a deck beneath his feet.

Starting with the wife he would have by the end of the week.