Duke Darcy's Castle Read online

  If only his brother had married and had a son, Lance wouldn’t be in this impossible situation. He would still be in the Royal Navy. Hayward’s son would have inherited the title, his mother could have managed the estate until he came of age, and the problem would be theirs to solve, not his.

  But no. That wouldn’t have been an ideal solution, either. The estate’s financial situation was too far gone for a boy and his mother to have dealt with. The whole thing would have come crashing down upon their heads, they would have been forced to sell out, and the dukedom would be in tatters. Now that he had inherited, Lance at least had a chance, however miniscule, to figure out a solution to this mess.

  “What an interesting space.” His visitor’s voice drew him from his musings. She was studying the entrance hall and the profusion of ancient weaponry hanging on the walls.

  Lance gave himself a quick mental shake. This was no time to be brooding about his financial situation, however dire. He had a schoolteacher to contend with. He had to smile and keep up appearances. It occurred to him that he didn’t remember seeing this woman at the funeral yesterday morning—the entire parish had turned out to honor his brother. Lance must have missed her in the crowd. Or perhaps, for some reason, she had been unable to attend.

  “The stonework in the vaulted ceiling is remarkable,” she added.

  “Is it?” She really was quite pretty, he thought. What a shame that she was so buttoned up beneath that high-collared blouse and velvet-trimmed suit jacket. Her whole air, as she stood taking in the room, was prim and proper and extremely professional.

  Which was just as it should be, he tersely reminded himself. He needed to get this meeting over with as efficiently as possible, and get back to his paperwork.

  “Pray, follow me.” He led her through the drawing room and down a connecting passage.

  “This isn’t a typical castle layout,” she commented. “Is there a fortified inner courtyard further on?”

  He looked at her. “Have you never been inside the castle?”

  She seemed to find this a strange question. “No, I have not.”

  She must be new to the school, Lance thought, and unfamiliar with the Mount’s history. “St. Gabriel’s Mount only served as a fortress for a short time. It began as a monastery, a Cornish counterpart of Mont-Saint-Michel in France.”

  “Oh yes, I read that somewhere. Didn’t Queen Elizabeth later give the Mount to a nobleman?”

  “Yes, and he sold it to my ancestor, the first Duke of D’Arcy. There have been additions and improvements over the years, and it was a military stronghold at several points in time. But for the most part it has served as a residence.”

  She nodded in fascination. “Do you know in what period this part of the castle was built?”

  He shrugged. “I have no idea.” As they proceeded down a labyrinthine corridor, he felt her eyes on him, alive with curiosity. “What is it?”

  After a slight hesitation, she admitted, “I just . . . found it most unusual, Your Grace, that you answered the door.”

  He couldn’t help but laugh. “I suppose it is. We are short-staffed today. It came to my attention at breakfast that Hammett, my butler, hasn’t taken off more than a half day a month in the past thirty years, which I found appalling. I gave him leave to visit his sick mother for a few days.”

  “That was kind of you.”

  “It was the least I could do. But that is only the beginning of my staffing woes. The footman, it seems, has come down with a cold. The housekeeper has a sore knee and moves at a glacial pace. The housemaids are busy freshening up rooms all over the house. Which only left the scullery maid, who was too timid to come upstairs. I therefore insisted that I would take over the task of door-answering today.”

  “An occupation which you carried off with aplomb, Your Grace.”

  He laughed again. “Thank you.”

  Lance ushered her into the study. A dark, hideous excuse for a room, its green walls were hung with oil paintings of the castle as well as several portraits of his brother at various ages. Every surface was cluttered with Hayward’s books and assorted knickknacks. Gesturing toward a fraying tapestry chair, Lance sat down behind the desk, a monstrosity that would have been at home in the palace of Louis XVI. “So tell me, do you enjoy what you do?”

  She nodded, setting her satchel on the floor as she took her seat opposite him. “Very much. Every day is filled with new challenges.”

  “I am glad to hear it.” Her eyelashes, he couldn’t help but notice, were the same golden hue as her hair. His gaze lowered to her nose, which was slender and had the tiniest upward tilt to it, perched over a sweet, rosebud mouth with lips the color of coral. An idle thought possessed him: what would it be like to taste those lips?

  Confound it. Keep your mind on the business at hand. “You must be fond of children.”

  “Children?” She paused. “As a matter of fact, I am fond of children. But . . .” She seemed to be struggling for what to say next.

  “I admit, I am surprised to discover you are American. What made you decide to move to England? There must have been plenty of professional opportunities for you in the United States.”

  She hesitated again, her pale brows wrinkling. “Perhaps not as many as you might think. I came to London to study. I went to college there. I loved it, so when I was offered employment, I stayed.”

  College? This woman really was a surprise. All the teachers he had known had been educated by governesses or at local schools. “I have never in my life met a woman who attended college.”

  “Well, then, I will have to introduce you to my sisters.” Her eyes twinkled with pride. “All three of us attended Vassar College in New York.”

  “What an illustrious family. My hat is off to you.” Lance leaned back in his chair. “I have always wished to visit New York,” he mused, “but never had the opportunity. I served the best years of my life in the Royal Navy, but was deployed exclusively in the waters of the United Kingdom and the Mediterranean Sea.”

  She stared at him. “I beg your pardon? Did you say . . . the Royal Navy?”

  “Yes.” He didn’t know why she appeared so dumbfounded. “I presumed that you . . . that everyone knew of my service to the Crown?”

  “I . . . did not, Your Grace. As I understood it, as heir to the title, you have lived here all your life.”

  It took a moment, but then he realized what must have caused this misunderstanding. “Can it be that you never met my brother, the ninth duke? Are you unaware that he passed away?”

  A small gasp escaped her lips. She shook her head silently.

  It was incredible that she didn’t know. Everyone in the parish knew. But then, she lived across the bay in Rosquay. “I’m sorry, it seems I did not go far enough in introducing myself.” Clapping one hand to his chest, he explained: “I am Lance Granville, the tenth Duke of Darcy.”

  “Oh I see,” she managed.

  He gestured to one of the portraits of the former duke which hung on the study wall. “My brother, Hayward—my only sibling,” he explained, “held the title these past eighteen years since our parents died, while I have had the privilege of serving in Her Majesty’s Navy, most recently as captain of the Defiance. A fortnight ago I received a wire at a port of call in Spain that my brother had died—the doctor said it was a heart attack. I was obliged to resign my commission and come home straightaway.”

  “I had no idea. I am so sorry for your loss, Your Grace.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I would not have come, had I known.” She squirmed in her seat, apparently uncomfortable now. “Would you prefer that I go and return at a later date? Or perhaps not return at all? This must be a difficult time for you.”

  “No, no. Thank you for your sensitivity, you are very kind. But in truth, I did not know my brother all that well—he was seven years older than me. So . . .” Lance leaned his forearms on the desktop and clasped his hands. “You are here, after all. We may as well get down
to business. Pray tell me how I can help you.”

  She seemed puzzled. “Forgive me, but I believe it is I who am here to help you.”

  “Indeed? I don’t understand. I thought you were here to . . . I don’t know . . . request funds for materials for the coming term?”

  “The coming term?” She gave him a quizzical look. “If you are referring to drawing materials, I brought my own with me.”

  What was she on about? “I’m sorry. Let us begin again.” Lance searched through a stack of missives in the overflowing basket on his desk. “I am in receipt of a letter from you, requesting a meeting. Here it is.” He quickly perused the document, quoting the relevant sentence: “‘I would be most grateful for an audience to discuss the needs of my students in the upcoming school year, et cetera, et cetera. Yours most respectfully, Miss Kerenza Chenoweth, Schoolteacher, St. Gabriel’s Mount School.’”

  She started in surprise. Then she shook her head. “Your Grace, I didn’t write that letter.”

  “You didn’t?”

  “No. I am not St. Gabriel’s Mount’s schoolteacher.”

  “Then who are you?”

  She leaned forward earnestly. “I’m the architect who’s been sent from London to remodel your castle.”

  Chapter Two

  Words failed Lance for a long moment. The phrase remodel your castle rang in his ears.

  “Forgive me,” he said at last. “There has clearly been some kind of mistake.”

  “I’m afraid not. I understand why this is confusing. It was your brother, not you, who has been corresponding with my employer and who arranged this meeting today. Mr. Patterson told me he would send a wire this morning, though. I hope you received it?”

  “I did.” Sifting through his pile of paperwork, Lance found the telegram. “It merely states: ‘Deepest regrets. Unable to travel today. My associate K. J. Atherton arriving on afternoon train.’” He set down the telegram. “I had no clue what it was about, presumed I would find out when this Mr. Atherton arrived.”

  “Yes, well.” She cleared her throat. “The ‘K. J. Atherton’ to whom he refers is not a Mr. Atherton, but rather me. Myself. I am Miss Kathryn Jane Atherton.”

  Kathryn Jane Atherton? “What the bloody hell?” Lance retorted. She didn’t flinch at that, but even so he felt a twinge of conscience over the outburst. It was one thing to swear like a sailor on the deck of a turret ship traveling full steam ahead. The Duke of Darcy, on the other hand, had to behave with more dignity. “Pardon my French, Miss Atherton. Nineteen years in the Royal Navy create habits that are difficult to break.” Something about the name Atherton sounded vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t say why. “I admit I am at sea here. Patterson of London is an architectural firm. Is that not so?”

  “It is indeed, Your Grace.”

  “And you are employed by this firm as . . .” He glanced at the letter again. “Patterson’s associate?”

  “I am.”

  “But . . . you are a woman.”

  “I cannot deny it.”

  “Did you travel down from London on your own?” he asked, surprised.

  “I did. I am twenty-seven years old, Your Grace. I keep no lady’s maid and I often travel unaccompanied.”

  He had never heard of such a thing, for a woman of her stature. But then, it was hardly the most unusual thing about her. “Did I hear correctly? Did you say that you are an architect?”

  She hesitated, then removed an envelope from her satchel and slid it across the desk to him. “Here is a letter from my employer, Mr. Patterson. I hope this will serve both to introduce me and to explain your brother’s intentions.”

  Lance opened the letter and read it through. Damn it all to bloody hell. What kind of mess had Hayward gotten him into? And what the hell was Patterson doing, sending a woman? Even if he had sent a man, however, Lance wouldn’t have been able to hire him. The dukedom didn’t have a farthing to renovate the castle.

  Still, he was curious to learn what his brother had had in mind. “Your employer seems to hold you in high esteem,” he noted.

  “I am honored by his confidence in me, Your Grace.”

  “He says he was thrown from his horse. I hope his injuries are not grave?”

  “He suffered a concussion and broke his right leg and hand. Thankfully, the doctors said he will fully recover. But he is on bed rest and will be unable to walk or draw for eight weeks or more.”

  “I am sorry, but glad to know he will mend in time.”

  “So am I.”

  Lance crossed his arms over his chest, determined to get to the bottom of this. “I had no clue that my brother was contemplating making improvements to St. Gabriel’s Mount. Can you fill me in as to what changes he was considering?”

  “The details were never fully established, Your Grace. But as I understand it, he wished to update the interiors of the rooms which are currently most occupied. He insisted the work must begin without delay.”

  Lance took that in, trying to comprehend what his brother had been thinking. Why had Hayward wanted to update the castle? And why the rush? Then—like a punch to the gut—it hit him.

  While going through the piles of paperwork on Hayward’s desk this past week, Lance had come across a recent appraisal of St. Gabriel’s Mount from an estate agent. Holy hell. Hayward had intended to sell St. Gabriel’s Mount to pay off the outstanding loans. He must have hoped that modernizing and cleaning up the most visible parts of the castle’s interior would make it more appealing to a prospective buyer, and increase the value of the property.

  Where did Hayward intend to get the money for said renovations? True to form, Lance deduced grimly, Hayward must have intended to have the work done on credit and pay it off after the castle was sold.

  The whole idea, however, was lunacy. The debt would be called on December 11, just three months from now. It would be impossible to design and execute any useful modifications to the castle in such a short time. Wouldn’t it?

  “Miss Atherton,” Lance began, “I regret to say that—” He stopped himself. His father, and afterward Hayward, had kept their financial straits a secret from Lance and the family for decades. Lance felt certain . . . at least, he hoped . . . that no one, other than the money lenders to whom he owed mountains of cash, knew that the Duke of Darcy was on the ropes and in danger of losing his castle.

  It was a painfully humiliating circumstance in which to find himself. Did he want this total stranger to know how badly off the dukedom was? No, he did not.

  On the one hand, Lance mused, maybe Hayward did have the right idea. The castle was like a millstone around his neck. If Lance sold it and paid off the debts, he’d be a duke in name only. He’d have no property to maintain. No tenants to oversee. He’d be free to go back to the Royal Navy. Back to the life he loved.

  For a fleeting moment, the notion was tempting. But at the same time, it made him feel sick to his stomach. If he sold out, where would his grandmother go? She’d lived here almost the entirety of her life.

  More importantly, St. Gabriel’s Mount had been the pride of the D’Arcy family for almost three hundred years. He may not like this shabby excuse for a castle, or the idea of being trapped on this far-flung island for the rest of his life. But history had placed him in this position, had made him accountable.

  Could he really just give up? Didn’t he owe it to his family legacy, to all the as-yet-unborn generations of Darcys, to at least try to save her?

  There was a way out of this. Lance didn’t like the idea one bit, but it had been gnawing at the edges of his mind for days, impossible to ignore.

  He could marry money.

  It wouldn’t be easy to find an heiress with a dowry upward of £68,000 these days. But a widow might have that kind of cash. Or he could turn to the American sector.

  It bothered him, the idea of marrying for money. He had always been of the mind that if and when people married, they should do so for love. His parents’ union had been a love match, after all,
and they had been very happy.

  A mantle of gloom descended on Lance like a dark cloud, reminding him that his parents’ situation had been unusual. For most people of their class, a love match was pure fantasy. He ought to know. Look how that turned out for you, you poor stupid bastard.

  Money, or the lack of it, had been the primary reason behind most unions for centuries. Aristocrats with impoverished estates married women with money. Poor women married rich men if they could snag one. He was a duke now. His wife would be a duchess. He ought to be able to snag anyone he liked.

  Whether or not the woman in question would be someone he could stand living with—sharing his bed with—was another matter, and one he didn’t care to contemplate. To save St. Gabriel’s Mount, however, a sacrifice had to be made. And there was no one to make that sacrifice but him.

  Meanwhile, what was he supposed to tell the comely woman sitting so expectantly before him? She’d come a long way down from London for nothing. He was sorry about that, and felt sorry for her. Well, he would just have to be vague and let her down gently.

  “Miss Atherton,” Lance began again, carefully choosing his words, “I regret to say that while I might be interested in undertaking renovations to St. Gabriel’s Mount at some point, it is impossible for me to do so at present.”

  Kathryn’s pulse hammered with frustration. The duke had just fired her. Before she’d even had a chance to show what she could do.

  The hardest part was, she couldn’t be angry with him. First off, even though he was the Duke of Darcy, one step down from Queen Victoria herself and arguably among the most fortunate men on the planet, he’d just lost his only brother.

  Had she known, she never would have come to Cornwall. But she and Mr. Patterson had been working such long hours lately. If there’d been an announcement in the newspaper about the previous duke’s death, they hadn’t seen it.

  Secondly, this was all, quite obviously, coming at the duke out of the blue. He had just been torn from a career in the Royal Navy which he had apparently enjoyed. Judging from the state of the desk in front of him, he’d been saddled with endless paperwork. Not to mention an unexpected meeting with her on a subject he had probably never entertained in his life.