Historical Romance: The Gentleman's Rules A High Society Regency Romance: Heirs of High Society, #5

prologue

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December 1784

London, England

I’ve never met a man more vexing in all my life and am sure that You created him for no other reason than to test the world’s patience. The Duke of Avon cannot be helped, no matter how much I try. It will take a legion of Your angels to help him see the errors of his way. And still, I pray for him just as I do the many who come across my path.

Many believed the birth of his first son would change him, soften him.

It didn’t.

And now the boy is with me. Delivered to my doorstep on December 25, I had no other choice but to name him Christmas. Perhaps, the name will bring him cheer in such a dreary world.

And maybe he’ll grow to be nothing like his father.

Who knows what the future will hold? Only you.

From the Journal of Mary Elizabeth Best

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July 1800

London, England

Christmas Smith tapped his foot rapidly against the marble floor in the hallway and clenched his hands together between his knees. Then he straightened and adjusted himself on the bench. The footman turned at his movement, likely making sure that Chris, as he preferred to be called, didn’t steal anything in the hall, as though he could manage to smuggle an antique out of the mansion.

He thought about how he would get it done, as a way to distract his mind. He’d never actually steal from anyone. At least, not anymore. He was sixteen and far too old for such silly nonsense.

In fact, he’d spent most of his life being what many would consider a ‘good boy’ until the age of eleven. That was the same year the only mother he’d ever known had died. Mary Elizabeth Best had raised Chris, along with the other children who had been abandoned at her orphanage, but he’d taken her absence from his life hard, giving her sister and successor, Mary Francis Best, all sorts of trouble for at least two years.

He’d stolen, learned to pick pockets, and had almost been jailed even at that young age. But the threat of jail hadn’t stopped him. In fact, he didn’t cease his careless acts of defiance until the day he picked the pocket of a man who would later teach him a skill he’d grown to love. There’d been a whittler in the park and within hours, Chris had mastered the skill. It was easy to find wood in the park and sometimes, he’d find even better pieces, of broken chairs and tables, on the streets. He’d build army men and small dolls for Alex, the girl he’d claimed as his sister.

The other children at the orphanage loved his creations and soon he’d begun to sell them on the streets. In no time at all, he’d started a business. He didn’t earn much, however, since the wealthy didn’t frequent his side of London often, but it was enough.

His mind returned to the vase. It looked old, likely worth more money than he’d ever see in his life.

That thought angered him, because had his life been different, he wouldn’t have had to think about how he’d steal the priceless artifact. If his life had been different, he’d have inherited it.

The door across the hall opened and the footman walked through, giving Chris a very withering look that told him to stay put.

He heard voices from beyond the open door and his stomach felt like a hundred carriage wheels were rolling through him. Then the footman returned. He was barely older than Chris, maybe only by a year or so, yet the serious set of his face made him seem ages away.

His Grace will see you now.

Chris stood and locked his knees in an effort to not collapse. Then he took a breath and walked through the door that led to the Duke of Avon’s office.

Chris hadn’t fooled himself into thinking he’d be prepared to see the man who’d fathered him. He’d known he’d feel some emotion. Anger. Pain. Astonishment if the duke looked anything like him.

What he’d absolutely not been prepared for was finding the duke was not alone.

A young man stood by the duke, and Chris immediately noticed he and the lad had the same eyes. A pale brown with flecks of gold and green. He also had dark hair and his brows were currently set in a scowl. Father, please.

No. Now there, you have my answer. Leave. The duke didn’t bother to look at his son. His eyes were set on Chris.

Chris wasn’t sure if his half-brother even glanced at him before he stormed from the room.

Chris... That’s your name, correct? The duke looked him over and narrowed his eyes. Was there any recognition in those hazel eyes? It was a surprise to learn that he’d inherited most of his features from his father. The duke hadn’t aged well, but his former handsomeness had been evident in his son. Chris looked like the lad, whatever the lad’s name was.

He didn’t want to know. Not really.

Yes. His voice came steadier than he thought it would.

Avon leaned back in his seat. He seemed much older than Chris had been prepared for. His hair was white, peppered with black on the ends. In a few years, Chris knew the black would vanish. He wondered if the duke was ill.

And why have you come, Christmas? Avon asked cautiously.

Chris was sure the man knew, but he lowered his gaze and decided to pretend otherwise. Reaching into his pockets, he pulled out the miniature soldiers he’d recently carved and placed them on the desk. The men were in various positions.

Avon leaned forward and began to study them.

Chris cleared his throat. I... studied paintings at the British Museum and cut the soldiers from memory.

Avon’s gaze lifted and then lowered back to the miniatures before he plucked one from the table. What are they for?

Boys, Chris said. Children who wish to play. They’re quite popular at the orphanage I lived in.

Avon looked at him again, moving the object in his hand without looking at it again. They’re very good, but I’m not a boy. What is it you want from me?

I want to sell them to other children. Chris straightened. To the children here in Mayfair. His heart was racing. I’d think they’d sell well.

Why? Avon asked quickly. Unlike you, the boys of the ton have other things to do with their time. Was he purposefully trying to anger Chris?

Chris was slightly caught off guard, but he pressed on. Because... we’re at war with Napoleon and... anyone who’s a patriot to the Crown would wish to show it, wish their sons to know as well. The soldier is more than a toy; it is a symbol of allegiance to England.

That last part had been given to him to say by Mary Francis Best when he’d told her what he planned to do today. He hadn’t disclosed that Avon was his father or how he’d come to learn it. Instead, he’d said he would try and sell his idea to the duke, and Mary Francis had told him that the man was a member of the Whig Party, a supporter of industrial pursuits, gains, and power remaining within aristocratic hands. Meaning, they’d take a profit anywhere they could.

Avon chuckled as he stared at the soldier. He’d need to wear the British colors.

Chris crossed his hands behind his back. Or not... if one wished to sell them in France as well.

Avon stared at him and then his smile broadened. An excellent idea, though why would I need you for this? I could hire whittlers to do this without your help, keep the profits to myself.

That had always been a possibility.

I’ve other ideas, Chris said. And I know what children like. I’m around them all the time.

Avon leaned onto the table. What are your other ideas?

Chris’s throat closed. I... believe I shouldn’t say.

Avon laughed and then pointed to a chair. Sit.

Finally, the invitation came.

Chris took the chair.

Avon asked, What do you want?

I’d need funds to hire more workers. I can train a few. Also, I’ll need a store, preferably in Mayfair on St. James or in Burlington Arcade. That was where the wealthy liked to go and collect things they didn’t need.

Avon narrowed his eyes. You’re far too young to run a store. It would be best if I put someone I trust in charge.

I’ve been selling toys for nearly five years. I know what I’m doing, and I’d rather not have too many hands in the pot. Those words had also been given to him by Mary Francis. The woman was not as warm as her sister had been, but she was wise. She’d traveled the world and had met men both rich and poor. She knew how men thought and had given Chris the tools he’d need to go up against the Duke of Avon.

Avon nodded and sighed. Yes, it would be better if there were fewer people involved. He looked Chris over. I own a property or two on St. James Street. I’ll give you the smallest one. The chandler who currently rents it is late with her payment. I’ll kick her and her little boy out and give it to you. I’ll also give you the funds you’ll need to start up. The first share of profits will return to me until my money is paid back in full. Then we’ll split it reasonably. Seventy percent for me. Thirty for you. Do we have a deal?

I think not. Chris had been excited until Avon had spoken of how the profits would be split. I’m doing all the work.

And I’ve all the money, Avon said.

I’ve money saved, Chris said.

How much?

He gave an amount and watched Avon blink in surprise. It wasn’t much, but it was more than many farmers made. Chris had had his heart set on owning a store on St. James for five years and knew it wouldn’t come easily. He didn’t know where his ambition came from. All he knew was that he wouldn’t stop until he’d made a success of his life.

Avon stared at Chris. I’m impressed. It was the first compliment he’d given him and foolishly, Chris felt his heart expand.

The duke put the soldier he’d picked up down in line with the others. Sixty-forty.

Forty for you, Chris said. Sixty for me. His body had begun to shake at his audacity, but Mary Francis had told him not to allow his fear to show. He grabbed the chair’s arms to keep himself stable. Eventually, I’d also like to buy the storefront.

Out of the question, Avon said immediately, a crease between his brows. You’ll never be able to afford to buy the storefront from me.

Quote me a price.

Avon gave a number Chris knew to be at market value and yet it hurt to hear it. Couldn’t his own father come down on the price? Chris still wasn’t sure Avon knew, but he suspected he did. How could he not? He looked just like his other boy.

I’ll have it within five years.

Avon laughed. If you have it in five years, I’ll give you any property you can afford. He stood, as did Chris. The duke moved toward a bell pull. I’ll have my man of business draw up the papers. You can read over them before you sign them. Then he gazed over Chris’s less than appealing appearance and said, You can read, can’t you?

His clothing couldn’t be helped. As an orphan, his clothes had been given to him by another boy who’d outgrown them and it was likely they’d been owned by quite a few boys before Chris got that. I can read, and I’m good with figures.

The duke nodded. Of course, you are. Mary Elizabeth made sure all her foundlings learned the basics.

Chris froze. He’d never said which orphanage he came from and there were many in London.

He knows.

The men held gazes and then the footman came in.

Send a messenger to Mr. Douglas’s office, Avon instructed. Tell him I’d like to see him immediately.

The footman bowed and left.

Avon closed the door. There’s another matter we should discuss.

Chris felt the wheels in his stomach start up again.

Avon’s face grew firm. You may tell no one that you’re my son. I’ll never claim you as anything more than a business associate and, should you fail, I’ll not even claim you as that. Swear this to me and everything I’ve promised will be yours.

The rejection burned a hole through his chest. Avon did know. Had he known when he’d seen Chris walk through the door or before? Did it matter? It was clear his father didn’t want him, only his ideas.

Something ugly took seed in Chris at that very moment, but he nodded nonetheless.

I demand verbal agreement, boy, the duke pushed. I’ll not have you interfere with my plans for my real son, Gerard. Swear aloud you’ll keep this secret between us.

The ugliness took root, his eyes burning. I swear it.

Good. Avon moved back to his chair and sighed as he took his seat. Then he grinned at Chris. I never thought we’d meet in person. Let’s hope that it was worth it for the both of us.

Chris vowed it would be, at least for himself.

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chapter 1

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April 1818

Grace,

By the time you’ve read this, I will have departed from this world. Yet before I meet my end, I had to write you, for you, Grace, were always the light of my life’s work. Your kind heart and ability to find happiness in the darkest of places always seemed to prove that the world was not as dreary a place if one saw it through your eyes. Watching you grow touched my heart and though I regret many things from my past, protecting you will never be one of them.

I have loved very few, but you, Grace, I did love. From the moment you were placed into my arms as an infant, I felt a sense of ownership that I could never part with. It did not matter to me that you were but an assignment given to me by your father, who would only claim you by name, yet never lay eyes upon you. It didn’t matter to me that you were illegitimate, and never do I wish you to think that, because from that moment on, you belonged to me.

I wasn’t always there with you as you grew, but I gave you the best tutors money could find and made sure they were kind. I did my best and your character alone proves that I did something right.

Good-bye sweet, beautiful Grace. I hate to leave you. Of all the people in the world, you are the only one I would have stayed for, but alas, my time has run out.

So, I write this letter and send it off, so you would know my heart before you read what the papers will say about me. But also, I write this letter so you will know what is to come after I die.

Upon your father’s death many years ago, you became the ward of a man who will not be as kind to you as I am. It will take great courage on your part to survive this man’s plans for you, but I know that if you keep your spirits high, you can do anything.

Be blessed, Grace, and always strive to see the light in the dark, for I believe that is why you were placed on this Earth.

Forever Your Friend,

Mr. Jed Reed

Grace Sticklander had never cried as much as she did while reading Jed’s letter. Each time she did, the tears grew worse. She felt a tearing sensation within her heart and knew the wound would never close now that Mr. Reed was gone. She’d never been one to read papers. They didn’t come to her house and the one time she’d purchased one from the nearby village had proved there to be no happiness found within its pages. The papers from London were full of useless gossip and tragedy, neither of which made Grace happy, so she’d stayed away, instead focusing on the books Mr. Reed would send her, reading stories with happiness, or simply learning interesting facts about the world.

I’ll make you proud, Mr. Reed, she promised, just as he had months ago when she’d received the note, along with a few other documents from his solicitor.

She sniffed and folded the letter as the carriage jostled on a road that seemed to suddenly change from packed dirt to something even more solid. She heard the clicking of the horses’ hooves and chanced a glance outside the window.

Her breath caught as she got her first look at London.

It was grayer than she’d suspected and an unpleasant scent clung to the air, but otherwise, she was amazed at the sights before her. There were people shouting and children running at the road’s edge. A boy bumped into an older man in a fine suit with a cane. He nearly toppled over but caught himself at the last minute. She smiled, glad he’d not taken a fall, but then gasped when he began to shout, Thief! He took off toward the boy. Some men in red uniforms seemed to come out of nowhere and took chase down the street as well. Their clothing was the brightest thing she’d seen in the city thus far.

She gasped at the women in beautiful dresses. They looked like the paintings in the book Mr. Reed had commissioned just for her. They were paintings that resembled those in the British Museum, which was yet another place Grace desperately wanted to go.

She watched as the city changed. There were pockets of sunlight, but it quickly vanished. Then the rain began, and she could see nothing. She leaned forward in the carriage with a wide grin. She was in London. There were so many people to meet. So much to do. She could barely contain herself in her seat, yet she did.

She took on a more ladylike posture, lifting her chin even as she fought back a giggle. Miss Potts would have been so very pleased with her. Minus the giggles, of course. All her many years of training had led to this. Her very first Season. She’d seen more people outside than she’d ever seen in her life. What would she say to them when she was introduced? Oh, what did it matter? She was sure everyone would be pleasant. Why wouldn’t they be when they lived in London, one of the most spectacular cities in the all the world?

The carriage turned down a road and Grace moved toward the window once more. This part of the city looked different. There were trees lining the road and then a field. Had they returned to the country already? The carriage rounded a corner and then something large came into view.

She gasped at the sight of the beautiful building. A mansion.

The carriage stopped, and she watched a footman rush toward her. The door opened and a man with an umbrella held a hand out for her.

She took a breath and placed her hand in his, allowing him to rush her toward the building.

It’s amazing, she said aloud once she was inside. She turned in a full circle so she could take everyone in. Then she caught sight of an older man by the front door and grinned. Oh, hello. I’m Miss Grace Sticklander. She bowed.

The man stared at her with a wide-eyed expression. Miss, there’s no need to bow to me. I’m only the butler.

Oh. Her smile widened. Well, you look quick dashing in your uniform. I’d have likely never been able to tell you apart from a lord had you not said so.

Red tinted the older man’s cheeks, and he looked away. You’re too kind, ma’am.

He seemed kind.

This way, ma’am, one of the footmen said before escorting her down the hall. Her feet squeaked against the marble floors until the water that clung to them was gone.

She looked over her shoulder at the puddle she left behind. Then she stopped. Oh, I’m leaving a mess.

Don’t worry, the footman said, coming to stand by her. A maid will get it up soon.

But anyone could fall in the meantime. I should clean it up now. From her reticule, she produced a handkerchief and started for the puddle.

Miss! The footman jumped in front of her, his hand up, panic in his eyes. I couldn’t allow you to do such a thing.

She frowned. Well, why not? I’ve made the mess, haven’t I? I should be the one to clean it.

He seemed puzzled. That’s not the way things work here.

She thought that odd. She’d only ever had one servant and she’d never allowed poor Mead to do anything. How many people does His Grace employ?

The footman blinked. Many.

Grace made a sound of consideration and then put her handkerchief back. Very well, Mr...

You can call me Robert. He straightened, and she thought him very attractive. Blond with green eyes.

You have a very wonderful face, Robert. she declared.

He blinked. All part of my station, miss.

Really? She wondered at it all. Well, Robert, I shall leave the seeing to the puddle in your most capable hands. She