Duke of a Gilded Age (2 page)

Wesley leaned against a wooden pillar inside the tiny garden apartment, waiting for his mother to finish tying string around a large paper-wrapped bundle. She gave him a disapproving glance.

“You shouldn’t slouch, Wesley.” Lady Frederic’s cultivated English accent was at odds with her inelegant surroundings.

“If I don’t slouch, I end up hitting my head on the pipes.”

“It’s your own fault for growing so tall.”

“I can’t help it!”

Lady Frederic flicked Wesley a teasing glance. “I’m not serious! Any mother would be proud to have such a tall, strapping son. You may have just turned twenty years old, but to me you’ll always be my little boy.”

“If it’s any consolation, I think I’ve stopped growing.”

“I certainly hope so, since I’ve let the hems out of all your father’s pants as far as I can.” She tied a bow in the string and gave the bundle a pat. “Deliver this to Mrs. Zinna, and don’t forget to collect for the week.”

“All right.”

Wesley tucked the bundle under his arm. The movement revealed an inch of bare, rawboned wrist sticking out past the frayed cuff of his shirt. His mother frowned.

“Oh, dear. While you’re gone, I’ll see if I can find you a shirt with longer sleeves,” she said. “I’d like you to look presentable for our guest.”

“So why is this English lawyer coming to see us? Is it just because Uncle Scrooge kicked off?” he asked.

“His name was Septimus and that’s completely disrespectful!”

Wesley’s shoulders moved up and down in a shrug. “Father disliked him and therefore so will I. Nevertheless, I hope he left us some money.”

“Most assuredly his estate went to his own son. But perhaps he left your father an heirloom.”

“An heirloom?” Wesley wrinkled his nose. “I hope it’s something we can sell or trade for food.” He headed for the door.

“Be sure to stop by Lombardi’s on the way home to buy a tin of biscuits.”

Wesley paused. “We can’t afford biscuits, can we?”

“I’ll just have to economize somehow. Mr. Oakhurst will expect a certain level of gentility.”

Wesley surveyed the apartment. “Then he’s coming to the wrong place.”

His mother bit her lip and tears welled up in her eyes. “I’m doing the best I can.”

Shame washed over Wesley and he hung his head. “I’m sorry, Mother. Look, the other day I ran into George Halverson, the supervisor at Palmer’s Dock. He was impressed with the muscle I’ve put on from slinging bags of rice and flour at Lombardi’s, and told me I could start working for him on Monday if I wanted to.”

“No, you won’t!”

“It would only be temporary until I begin my teaching job this fall. It pays far better than delivering groceries for Lombardi’s and you wouldn’t have to take in laundry anymore. Maybe we could even move to a better apartment.”

“How could you even
think
of working at Palmer’s Dock after what happened to your father there? I forbid it.”

Wesley scowled. “Fine, but you deserve better than this.” He twirled the bundle in the air. “I’ll be back with the biscuits.”

“Don’t dawdle. Mr. Oakhurst’s last telegram said he’d arrive by two o’clock.”

At the door, Wesley grabbed a cloth cap from a hook and slipped it over his thick brown curls. “I hope this lawyer fellow has a solid gold candle snuffer with him and not the family Bible.”

“Oh, Wesley!”

Unrepentant, he left the flat and mounted the short flight of stairs from the garden apartment to the sidewalk. The coal delivery cart was rolling past, and Wesley waved to the driver. “
Ciao,
Gino
. Come stai?”

“
Non mi posso lamentare
, Wes.”

Wesley grinned. “
Buono! Arrivederci
.”

After the cart passed, Wesley crossed the street, careful to avoid the fresh trail of manure left by Gino’s team of horses. Mrs. Zinna’s flat was a few blocks over, in Bensonhurst. As he walked through the neighborhood, he noticed a group of Irish boys—former friends—clustered on the sidewalk, playing jackstones. Wesley groaned inwardly. Today of all days, he couldn’t afford a fight. Unfortunately, he’d already been spotted.

“Whatcha got there, Wes? More dirty knickers for your mummy?” sneered a stocky redhead.

“I’d love to exchange insults with you, Liam, but I’m busy,” Wesley retorted.

As Wesley turned a corner, he glanced back.
Blast!
The Irish had abandoned their game and were tailing him. He quickened his pace, and sped over to the next street, where a gang of Italian boys was playing kick the can. Wesley nodded to one of his old classmates.

“
Ciao
, Sergio.”

Sergio grinned. “
Ciao
.”

When Wesley’s pursuers spotted the Italians, they dropped back into an alley. Wesley laughed and strolled unmolested the rest of the way to Mrs. Zinna’s apartment building. He dropped off his bundle and collected money for the past week, but when he stepped onto the street a few minutes later the Irish were waiting for him.

“Thought you’d give us the slip, eh?” Liam said. “Where’s your silver spoon, pretty boy?”

Wesley’s hackles rose, and he assumed a cocky swagger. “How’s that sister of yours, Liam? I hear she’s lonely for me.”

“Shut your filthy mouth about my sister! Why would Colleen be lonely for the likes of wee Lord Fauntleroy?” sneered Liam. He knocked Wesley’s cap off his head and into the gutter.

Wesley’s knuckles showed white. “Don’t
ever
call me that again.” He decked Liam with a wide right hook and turned to face the others.

One down, four to go.

The hansom cab rolled to a halt outside a rundown building on a dirty street. Mr. Oakhurst consulted his pocket watch. “It’s already ten minutes past two o’clock! I had no idea it would take so long to get from Manhattan to Brooklyn.”

“This
can’t
be the correct address,” Belle murmured, aghast.

“I’m afraid it is.”

Belle stepped from the cab onto the sidewalk while her father asked the driver to wait. When Mr. Oakhurst moved toward the apartment building entrance, she caught his arm.

“I believe it’s down there, Papa,” she said, pointing to a descending stone staircase.

He peered at the number plate affixed to the wall. “I think you’re right.”

Mr. Oakhurst followed his daughter down the steps. Before he could knock at the door, however, a woman opened it. Her worn black cotton gown hung off her rail-thin frame, and her hands were reddened and chapped.

“Good afternoon. You must be Mr. Oakhurst,” she said.

The woman’s unadorned dress, severe hairstyle, and work-worn hands were those of a housekeeper. Mr. Oakhurst handed her his business card.

“Mr. Oakhurst and Miss Oakhurst are here to see Lord Frederic Parker. Is he at home, madam?”

A faint blush stained the woman’s cheeks. “I’m Lady Frederic. Please come in.”

Belle’s eyes widened, despite her effort to mask her surprise. She curtsied nevertheless, and stepped into the stifling hot apartment. The odor of detergent and starch assailed her nostrils and perspiration prickled at the back of her neck.

“Please be seated,” Lady Frederic said. “Would you care for some tea?”

Belle couldn’t think of anything she wanted less than a cup of hot tea. “No, milady,” she murmured. “Thank you.”

“Thank you, no,” Mr. Oakhurst said. “Forgive me, but could you tell me when your husband will return? I’ve come a long way to discuss a matter of urgent business with him.”

Lady Frederic sank onto a rickety chair. “I couldn’t afford to send a cable overseas, Mr. Oakhurst. I’m afraid I have bad news.”

She handed the attorney an official-looking piece of paper. As he read it, a gasp escaped his lips. “This is a death certificate!”

“Yes, my husband was killed in an accident several years ago.”

“How very dreadful for you!” Belle exclaimed.

“I’m so sorry, milady,” Mr. Oakhurst said.

“Thank you. His loss has been quite difficult to bear.”

“I understand. I lost my wife—Belle’s mother—going on five years now.”

“What a tragedy,” Lady Frederic said.

“Yes, it was. Milady, I came to inform your husband of his brother’s wish to reconcile, but this changes everything. Not only did Septimus Parker make Lord Frederic his sole heir, but also your husband was in line to become the eleventh Duke of Mansbury. With no other male heirs, however, the title will become extinct.”

Just then the front door burst open and a policeman yanked a bareheaded, bloodstained young man into view. Belle winced at the man’s injuries. His nose was bloodied, his left eye was purplish, and his lip was split open. Lady Frederic shot to her feet in horror.

“Wesley! What happened, Officer Hannigan?”

“Yer son’s been fightin’, Mrs. Parker,” the policeman said.

Lady Frederic wrung her hands. “Not again!”

Wesley scowled. “The Irish started it!”

“Aye, and that’s the only reason I didn’t book ye with the rest o’ the lot,” Officer Hannigan said. “There were witnesses who said the other lads were followin’ him, Mrs. Parker.”

“Thank you for bringing him home, Officer,” Lady Frederic said.

The policeman released his iron grip on Wesley’s arm and wagged his finger. “You’re too old to be acting like a brawlin’ child, for pity’s sake. Stay out of trouble!”

“Thank you, Officer Hannigan,” Wesley said. “I’ll try.”

After the policeman left, Wesley seemed to finally notice Belle and her father. He smacked the part of his forehead still unmarked by bruises. “And after all that, I forgot the stupid biscuits!”

He flopped onto a stool, and Lady Frederic shot him an exasperated look.

“Mr. Oakhurst and Miss Oakhurst, allow me to introduce you to my son Wesley—the eleventh Duke of Mansbury.”

Chapter Two

The Inheritance

S
ILENCE
E
NSUED
A
S
W
ESLEY
gaped first at the visitors and then at his mother. “You’re joking.”

“Not in the least,” Mr. Oakhurst said.

The attorney explained at length about letters patent, hereditary titles, and the dukedom known as Mansbury. To Wesley, the legal language was incomprehensible. Even though his mother brought him a wet cloth to clean his face, his injuries had begun to sting, ache, and throb—in that order—and he couldn’t concentrate. Worse, Mr. Oakhurst’s daughter was staring at him with ill-disguised disgust—or was it revulsion? Why on Earth was
she
here? There she sat, in all her ladylike perfection, while he resembled Sunday’s pot roast. In addition, he’d rolled through the gutters during the scuffle and he smelled like Monday’s chamber pot. Even his cap was missing, having been lost during the fight.

Finally Mr. Oakhurst paused and Wesley managed to get a word in.

“Sir, forgive me for being blunt, but I was born in a country where everyone is equal. I don’t want any sort of title and I’ve no intention of leaving America. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to wash up.”

He slid off his stool, moved over to the washbasin around the corner, and shrugged off his tattered coat. It had been tight across the chest even before the fight, and the seams were now split open at the back of his shoulders. As gingerly as possible, Wesley washed his battered face and cut knuckles with soap and water. A glance in the cracked mirror hanging on the wall gave him no satisfaction; he looked as bad as he felt. Miss Oakhurst suddenly appeared in the mirror, just behind him.

“Are you daft?” she whispered.

A drip of water hung from the tip of his nose.

“What? No.”

“Perhaps you got a knock on the head, then? My father and I have come a long way to deliver good tidings and this is your response? That silly speech you just gave left your mother in tears. Perhaps you don’t care about titles or England, but obviously
she
does.”