Chapter 1

Chapter One

“ W hat is this?” Samuel Fletcher, Duke of Yarmouth’s hazel eyes flashed in anger as he held the recently opened letter up high for all to see, despite only a single male servant being present. “Speak,” he ordered.

“I am not certain, Your Grace. It was a letter delivered from London.”

The servant’s voice was shaky, and he trembled in his boots as the Duke stared at him, his eyes narrowing.

“Thank you. Pardon me, it’s not your fault that the letter is not what I wanted. You are dismissed.”

With an absentminded gesture of his hand, he dismissed the servant who had delivered the letter to him. The servant left the room as fast as his legs were able to take him, and the door slammed behind him.

In Samuel’s hand was a newspaper clipping of an article, the reckless words of which would certainly raise more than a few eyebrows. And it probably had already, he feared, as he continued to read. Someone was pitching the gammon, since not a single word in the article was accurate. The author, whoever it was, certainly did not have their facts straight. Samuel turned his attention to the letter which had enclosed the article, and immediately recognized his good friend’s penmanship. His eyes darted across the page as he devoured the words on each line. His face tensed, his brow furrowing deeply, leaving creases on his skin.

“I do not believe this,” he muttered, throwing the letter onto the desk before him.

“Whatever is the matter, Your Grace?”

While he read the letter, Samuel had completely forgotten his friend’s presence, and now, after a momentary start, he exhaled slowly. He raked his fingers through his dark brown hair with pure agitation and stared at his friend, Lord Felmar. Despite Samuel’s semi-hermit state in Cornwall, he and Lord Felmar were good friends. Hopefully, his friend would forgive his manner - it had been a long while since such fury had coursed through him, but this was both unacceptable and maddening. An unknown author had written an article in a London newspaper, claiming the most preposterous things about him.

Lies. All lies.

Who would believe such Canterbury tales? The residents of London, of course. They were starved for gossip and rumors during the Winter months, for, since the Season had come to a close, there was not much for the gossips to do.

Samuel had been residing at his country home for nearly two years, come this winter, and had not set foot outside Cornwall during that time. How on earth could such lies be taken as the truth? Of course, he was also well aware of how things operated in London. The rumor mills churned, regardless of what time of the year it was, but he had not expected to be involved in a rumor.

He turned his attention to a large portrait on the wall opposite him. His late father stared tight-jawed at him, as though he was already filled with disappointment at his only son.

“What an utter pack of lies!”

Lord Felmar appeared befuddled by Samuel’s statement and tilted his head to the side.

“I beg your pardon, Your Grace?”

“It appears that someone, who is nameless at this point, is intentionally spreading scandals throughout London about me.”

“I still do not follow.”

Samuel handed the newspaper snippet to Lord Felmar, and after reading it, Felmar’s brows shot up.

“Your Grace, what do you intend to do about this?”

“I am not quite certain,” he said and chuckled. “At first, I was infuriated, understandably. But then, I became amused that someone would publish such things about me. The idea that I retreated to Cornwall because I had overextended myself is ludicrous. I have never enjoyed gambling, and I am far from financial ruin.”

“And the claim of you frequently visiting undesirable haunts?”

Samuel glanced at Lord Felmar and raised his hands.

“I may be a man with desires, but certainly not these kinds. I am not my father’s son in that regard. Thankfully.”

“What will you do about this issue, Your Grace?”

Samuel smiled solemnly.

“I feel the need to unmask this anonymous writer.”

“And how will you do that?”

A grin curled across Samuel’s mouth, and his eyes sparkled in the sunlight that came from the large window that overlooked his country estate gardens. The late Duchess of Yarmouth had loved the gardens’ lush greenery and immaculately kept flower beds. Although the gardener kept them still pristine, no one had set foot in those gardens since the Duchess’ passing. They were not truly appreciated by the eyes and hands of those who maintained them. Samuel dared not enter the gardens, for there, the memories of his mother which still lingered in his heart would overwhelm him. He recalled sunny days when he and his mother would enjoy delightful picnics together, laughing and being happy. Those memories would remain forever with him, although he supposed that, with time, their intensity would fade, and the reminder of her passing would not be so painful.

A portrait of one of those many picnics hung in the gallery. His mother was depicted sitting on their most favored cotton blanket, with him sitting on her lap in the shadow of the large tree. It was a remarkable piece of art that he would never get rid of. Getting rid of it would be getting rid of a piece of his heart and soul - his very existence would be empty without it.

Samuel often sat in the gallery for hours, staring at the painting, recalling the smell of the flowers, the softness of the blanket, and the sound of his mother’s voice, her laughter. Despite the painful memories of her passing, he did not wish to lose the joyous time they had spent together. Sunny days had a special place in his heart, as they reminded him of his late mother. But the winter months in the country made him miserable, and he needed distraction. Too many memories dwelled within the walls of Fletcher Hall, and those memories suffocated him. Fletcher Hall was his home and had been so for his entire life, but it had not been the same after his mother’s passing, and even less so after his father’s tragic end. He welcomed any form of distraction.

Searching for this man, who seemed to know more of him than he knew of himself, was the perfect excuse to leave Cornwall and its morose atmosphere. He no longer had the requirements of mourning to hold him here, and the sights of London might be precisely what he needed to lift his spirits, as well as to allow him to restore his reputation. But he would need to be careful, as he did not wish to ruin it more than it already had been tarnished by these scurrilous writings, and a single misstep might do that.

Samuel turned his gaze to Lord Felmar, who patiently awaited the Duke’s response.

“I will return to London and find the true identity of this feebleminded gabster who cannot distinguish fact from fiction.” Samuel stared at the letter resting on his desk, and his jaw clenched. “It was very courteous of Lord Timothy to bring this to my attention. He has always been a very close friend to me. If I inform him of my plan, I am confident that he will wish to join me on my quest to uncover the identity of the person who has so maligned me. After all, his constant presence in London will be of great advantage to me. He knows his way around the ton as well, far better than I do of late.”

“Your Grace thinks that it is a member of the ton who has written this?” Lord Felmar asked.

“It must be. The writing gives the impression of an educated man. Although his foolish ways might count against him.”

“And what will Your Grace do with the author of this article, supposing that you find them?”

“I have not quite decided yet, but this person, whomever it may be, has managed to have the whole ton question my reputation, and has brought shame to the good name of my family. That is something I will not stand for it. I will hunt him down.”

“You think it wise to do so? It could be dangerous.”

“Indeed. But I will not allow anyone to ruin my reputation in such a dishonorable manner. To publish such a thing anonymously is scurrilous!”

Samuel reached for the silver bell on his desk, irritated by the tension that had settled between his shoulders, and rang it vigorously. The door to the study opened slowly, and his butler appeared in the doorway.

“Your Grace.”

He quietly awaited Samuel’s response.

“Donnelly, I will be visiting London.”

“When would Your Grace wish to depart?”

“As soon as possible.”

“There is a storm coming. Must Your Grace travel in this abominable weather?”

The Duke narrowed his eyes at Donnelly and nodded.

“Yes, I must.”

“Your Grace, I implore you-”

“Silence, Donnelly. I have decided, and my mind cannot be changed. Please inform all of the staff of my plans to depart for London. I wish to leave as soon as possible.”

“Very well, Your Grace.”

Donnelly left the study and closed the door behind him. Samuel drew in a deep breath and stared at the newspaper article that his good friend, Lord Timothy, had sent him, with a letter that explained what had been happening in his absence. Although Samuel still found it amusing that someone would dare attempt to sully the Fletcher name, he grew angry at the audacity of this man.

Or perhaps it was a woman?

But how on earth would a woman pen such things of him? Unless it was someone who knew him well. After all, one’s enemies are frequently the ones who act as friends.

“I will unmask this man.”

“First Your Grace must safely arrive in London.”

“I am not afraid. Would you not do the same if you were in my position?”

Lord Felmar nodded, and Samuel felt confident that his actions were justified and not excessive.