The Last Duke (Thornton 1)

Daphne started after him, then hesitated, her sober gaze returning to the little girl who cringed before her, clutching her doll to her chest.

It was the little girl they’d seen in the garden. Daphne recognized her immediately, from the moment she’d darted into the hallway.

She was as lovely as her plaything, despite unkempt hair and worn clothing. Beneath a thin layer of grime her coloring was fair, her eyes huge and thickly lashed.

Once again, those penetrating eyes met Daphne’s, wide and unblinking.

A chill encased Daphne’s heart as she stared into those eyes—dark, fathomless eyes—nearly black in their color and intensity. Their hollow depths were filled with fear and sadness and something far worse than either.

Futility.

Acting on instinct, Daphne took a step toward her.

“Daphne!”

Tragmore’s thunderous summons cracked through the hall, striking Daphne with all the force of a whip.

“Coming, Papa.” Instantly, she complied, helplessly bolting from the dingy workhouse walls and the haunting gaze of the little girl.

But it wasn’t over, nor would it ever be. For the image of that child and her doll were forever engraved in Daphne’s mind, profoundly etched in her heart.

Why can’t Papa see? an inner voice cried out. They’d both be so very lovely.

All they need is a bath and a change of clothes.

1

Northamptonshire, England

October, 1840

THE LAST DUKE WAS dying.

Dragging shallow breaths into his lungs, the sixth and final Duke of Markham cursed the fates for snatching him so quickly and himself for not foreseeing how imminent was his end. His legacy lay in fragments, shards of immortality he could no longer ensure. Markham itself, the perpetuation of his title, both would be beyond his protection, lost to the hands of strangers.

He needed time.

He had none.

Moistening his lips, the duke reached for the bell pull beside his bed, summoning the valet he’d only just dismissed.

“Your Grace?”

It was that blasted doctor who entered, and impatiently the duke waved him away. “Bedrick. Send Bedrick.” He dissolved into a weak fit of coughing.

“Of course, Your Grace.” The doctor gestured for the uniformed valet to enter.

“Get—out.” The duke gasped at his grim-faced physician. “Bedrick—alone.”

With a curt bow, the doctor complied.

“You sent for me, Your Grace?” Bedrick frowned at a loose button on his coat, his demeanor as calm as if he planned to assist the duke in shaving, rather than stand by his deathbed.

“Pen—paper—”

“Certainly.” Bedrick provided both.

With a shaking hand, the duke scrawled a name and a few words on the page, barely managing to fold the paper in two. Utterly spent, he fell back against the pillows. “To my solicitor,” he whispered. “I’ve made provisions. He’ll know what to do.”