The Heir and the Spare (29 page)

It was a perfect start to the first day of the rest of their lives together, reclining against the pillows, with tangled limbs and shy smiles. They knew, however, what awaited them on the other side of the door.

Phillip stalked into the duke’s bedchamber later that morning. He leaned against a post at the end of the bed. He glanced at Devon and Emilia—she was sitting on his lap, and his arms were clasped around her waist. Phillip found such a display of affection vastly annoying. They possibly truly cared about each other, which seemed likely, and he had tried to ruin that. He ignored the fleeting pang of guilt that thought inspired. Or perhaps they were cruelly demonstrating that he had no one to comfort him at this present moment. Not that he wanted that.

He looked at his father instead. The face that had often towered above his, reeking with unconcealed disappointment and occasional disgust, was now pale and old. His eyes were glassy. His breath was coming out in strangled gasps. It was obvious that this was the end.

Phillip felt nothing. Not grief or sadness, and not even excitement in all the ways his life would change once the world would start addressing him as His Grace. Not even dread at the debt that would soon become his. The old man had never liked him. When he had gotten Devon out of the way, he had thought that perhaps his father would stop comparing them, would start to value him. Phillip wondered why he was even here. When the old man was alive and well, he had never requested his son’s presence. Should the old man give a damn now?

The duke’s strangled breaths were starting to get under Phillip’s skin. He felt that strange feeling of guilt again. The poor old man couldn’t help the sounds.

Emilia reached out and took the duke’s hand in her own. With the last of his strength, his fingers closed over hers. She held Devon’s hand, too, linking father and son. No one paid any attention to Phillip. After a moment, the duke’s fingers relaxed and turned cold, that awful gasping sound ceased, and his eyes closed once and for all.

Phillip announced that he would send for the solicitor, and left.

Devon held on to Emilia, not quite able to move just yet. They remained until Marksmith entered the room, his extremely somber expression indicating that he had heard the news. As Devon and Emilia left, the butler called out after him.

“I am sorry, Lord Devon. Do forgive my forwardness, but when you have a moment, there is something I must tell you.”

Devon nodded numbly. He didn’t want to hear anything just now, and so instead he left the room.

Devon encountered Phillip in the library. The rain had picked up and was pummeling the windows. Thunder rumbled in the distance. The fire was roaring. There was a candle burning on the desk, upon which Phillip leaned while blowing on a sheet of paper to encourage the ink to dry. For the first time, he wondered how Phillip was feeling, if he needed comforting or something, and if Devon was able to provide it.

“What do you want?” Phillip started. “If you’re going to have a good cry at the loss of our father, who never gave a damn about either of us, you should know I am not the slightest bit sympathetic. Perhaps you ought to have your little wife make you feel all better,” he said sharply. “In fact,” he continued, “I really ought to thank you for taking her off my hands. Though I could have used the money, and really, couldn’t we all, I simply could not tolerate her.”

“Do not speak of my wife like that. Do not speak of her at all,” Devon said, crossing his arms over his chest and leveling a cold stare at his twin. Like Phillip, he had come here to write a letter. Apparently, that was something he could do later.

“Well, aren’t you just wrapped around her finger. Such a display of weakness in a man is sad. Pathetic, really.” Phillip shook his head in disgust.

“Phillip,” he said with unmistakable warning, “I did not come here to fight with you.” It was the truth. Had he known his twin was still there, Devon would have waited until he was gone before coming to the library. Still, he didn’t leave. He was done just leaving when the circumstances grew difficult. And so he watched as his irascible twin sauntered over to the window. A flash of lightning illuminated his hair, which was slicked back with pomade. And that face, his own. It was awful enough that he shared blood with this creature. But a face?

“In fact,” Phillip said slowly, turning to face him, “since you stole her from me, perhaps I should be compensated.” Smiling cruelly at the growing rage apparent in Devon’s features, he continued. “Financially, of course. I’ve already had a taste of what she has to offer, and I have no wish for seconds.”

Devon heard something snap, crack, break. It could have been the lightning, or it could have been his patience. He walked forcefully across the room, closing the distance between them.

“Don’t talk about her,” he growled, standing inches away from his twin. “If you have a problem with me, that is one thing. But don’t drag her into this.”

“I’ll talk about whoever I damn want to,” Phillip retorted. “And why are you still here, anyway? Haven’t you realized by now that you are not wanted?”

Devon didn’t realize he was doing it. He pulled his arm back, and with the force of twenty-five years of rage, he propelled his fist into Phillip’s identical face. It hit his jaw first and continued up, landing solidly on his eye. Caught off guard by the unexpected blow, Phillip stumbled back. Instinctively he reached out to touch the place where he had been hit.

“Is that the best you can do? Really?” Phillip retorted, still unsteady on his feet.

Devon threw another punch, one that lifted Phillip off his feet and sent his body smashing through the French doors.

He landed on his back with a thud, amid shards of glass. Devon winced at the sound of Phillip’s head cracking on the slate. He watched, as if in a dream, as Phillip spat the blood from his mouth and foolishly attempted to brush away the raindrops that slapped him in the face.

But Phillip was not finished yet. He heaved his body up and lunged at his brother. Devon employed the first maneuver he had learned when dealing with Phillip: he stepped aside, reaching his fist out and allowing Phillip to run full force into it. He doubled over coughing, and bracing for another hit. When it didn’t come, his own fist punched out, hitting Devon in the stomach, knocking away his breath and sending him stumbling back.

Seizing the moment, Phillip jumped upon him, knocking them both to the slate, where they proceeded to roll and struggle upon the shards of glass. Devon felt the pain of the cuts for a mere second before the searing pain of a fist connecting with his jaw overtook his senses. Far off, he heard Emilia yelling at them to stop. His hand flew up just in time to catch Phillip’s arm, ready to land another blow. With all of his strength he forced them to turn, to roll, so that he knelt on Phillip’s chest. Ignoring the blows flailing upon him, Devon punched his brother solidly in the nose. A hideous cracking sound broke through the noise of the storm, and the blood began to flow steadily, mingling with and washed away by the rain.

Devon looked down at his brother with horror. It was, as always, like looking at his own reflection. The damage to Phillip’s face made it all the more horrifying.

Emilia burst out of the house. “Stop it! Both of you!” she hollered.

“Go back inside,” Devon yelled at her, but not out of anger. He was mortified that she saw him like this, a barbarian thrashing his own brother in the middle of a storm.

He pulled back and stood up. He even offered his hand to Phillip, who sneered and turned his head in refusal. Brushing the shards of glass from his soaked jacket, and shaking them out of his hair, Devon followed Emilia inside, through the library, and into the hall. Marksmith was standing there, with barely concealed shock and horror at Devon’s appearance.

“My brother had an accident,” he deadpanned, “and I am in need of a hot bath.”

In their chamber, Emilia watched in silence as Devon stripped off his sopping garments. He swore as he reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out the letter. He handed it to her before sinking into the tub of steaming water.

Emilia read it immediately—miraculously it was still mostly legible. After, she knelt beside her husband in his bath.

“What was that all about?” she asked.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he muttered.

“Well, I do. So please continue,” she said, ignoring his sulk.

“He insulted you. And me. But mostly we’ve been waiting years to beat the hell out of each other,” he said as he mussed his fingers through his hair, shaking shards of glass onto her skirt.

“That letter . . . that was what you needed to hear, wasn’t it? It was why you came back,” she said softly.

“Yes.”

“I wonder if there is one for Phillip hidden away somewhere.”

“I don’t know. I don’t care.”

“I do feel badly for him right now,” Emilia said.

“What? Why?” Devon said, turning around to stare at her.

“He just lost his father, and then received a beating by the only family he has left.”

“So? Me too,” Devon muttered, turning back around.

“Yes, but here I am washing your back. I wonder who is tending to Phillip, or comforting him right now.”

“I don’t,” Devon said bitterly. Now that she mentioned it, he did think of it. Phillip was probably taking comfort in a bottle of brandy at this moment. If it were a competition, Devon thought that he had certainly won, for he was the one with a beautiful wife by his side. He was surprised by the feeling of pity he felt when he expected to feel triumphant.

“In that letter . . .” Emilia started. “What do you think your father means when he says he has remedied the situation?”

“I don’t know.”

“Close your eyes,” she commanded, pouring water over his head to rinse the suds from his hair.

“I could get used to this,” he said gruffly.

“Please do,” Emilia replied, smiling, although he couldn’t see it.

“Do you know what would be even better?”

“What?”

“If you were in here with me,” he suggested, leaning back to look at her.

“There is not enough room!” she halfheartedly protested.

“I’ll make room. Come here and turn around.” With wet hands, he undid the buttons at the back of her dress and loosened the stays of her corset. She stood, slipping off her gown, her corset, and all of her undergarments, leaving them in a puddle at her feet.

“Get in here,” he growled, reaching out for her. Through the soapy water, she could see that he was aroused. And now she was, too. And so with a feigned sigh, she slipped into the water with him.

The
solicitor arrived at Cliveden the following afternoon. Barnaby Hampshire was a heavyset man, with a moustache that dominated the round rolls of his face. For the most part, he found his profession suited him admirably, although reading the will to distraught relatives, who inevitably became more distraught as the portions were announced, was his least favorite task. News had reached him that a second son who had been presumed dead had returned. He also had firsthand knowledge of the elder son’s temper. He was not looking forward to this session.

He groaned to himself as he was shown into the dining room for lunch before the reading of the will. The two gentlemen were identical, save for unique combinations of bruises and cuts on their faces. They glared sullenly at each other over the table, and it seemed that if a lady had not been present, they might have lunged at each other over the table, making full use of all the knives present.

Settling his girth into his chair, he accepted large portions on his plate. He and Mrs. Kensington chatted about little things throughout the meal—the stormy weather, and how it had affected his travel from London, how he became involved in his profession, and her wedding just three days earlier.

Mr. Hampshire came to understand that she was married to the younger brother, the one that had been presumed dead. He also realized he could distinguish between the twins by the damage to their faces. Phillip, the eldest, sported a hideously broken nose. The other had a small cut, framed by a deep purple bruise upon his jaw.

They adjourned to the library for the reading of the will. Barnaby Hampshire donned his spectacles, Phillip ordered a brandy and slouched in a chair, and Devon sat on the settee with an arm around his wife’s shoulders.

The solicitor shuffled over to the desk, where he had set his case. After rummaging through the various papers, he found the one he was searching for. With a biting command from Phillip to hurry up, he resumed his place before the family. He paused, however, as the butler had entered with a tray bearing three glasses of brandy and a glass of sherry.

“Do get on with it,” Phillip said impatiently. The older ones were always the most impatient. Mr. Hampshire wondered about reading such a sensitive document in front of the butler, but Phillip looked to be seconds away from snatching the will out of his hands and reading it himself.

Mr. Hampshire cleared his throat and began to read.
“Dated June fourteenth, 1816. I, Arthur Phillip Archibald William Kensington, seventeenth Duke of Buckingham, being of sound mind and body, leave the bulk of my estate to my eldest son.”
Peering at Phillip through his spectacles, he said, “That is you, my lord, correct?”

“It is
Your Grace
, and yes,” he snapped.

“Right, of course. I beg your pardon, Your Grace. I’ll just continue then,” Mr. Hampshire said, pausing as his eyes skimmed over the next few lines. “Oh dear.”

“What is it?” Phillip snapped again.

Mr. Hampshire spoke the words on the page:
“I have reason to believe my eldest son to be Devon Kensington. He shall be named my heir, and inherit the title, the Cliveden estate, and all other estates in my holding except for Aston house and its land, provided the account of the birth related in the late Mrs. Betty Marksmith’s diary can be verified. In the event that Devon is my heir, my other son, Phillip Kensington, shall keep the honorary title of Marquis Huntley and be given the Aston estate to pass to his own heirs. In the event that the account in the diary cannot be verified, then Devon shall take the honorary title of Marquis Huntley, to be relinquished upon the birth of an heir to Phillip, and Devon shall keep the Aston estate to pass on to his own heirs.”