The Last Duke (Thornton 1)

“Yes. That’s what I’m saying.”

Slowly, Pierce pivoted, his jaw working convulsively. “Had the duke’s son not perished in a riding accident, we wouldn’t be having this conversation, would we?”

“Yes, I believe we would. Markham made it clear to me that, even had you not been his sole heir, he was determined for you to know your true parentage.”

“What a fine man. I feel infinitely better knowing I carry his blood in my veins.” Pierce swallowed. “What else are you responsible for relaying to me before I walk out and dismiss everything you’ve said?”

“Sir,” Hollingsby walked to the front of his desk, the document clutched in his hands. “I understand your shock, even your anger. But I don’t think you understand what I’m telling you. You are the duke’s only surviving child. Were it not for you, the Ashford name would die along with your father. It is imperative that you assume his title.”

“Imperative? I think not. No, Hollingsby, I decline the honor.”

The solicitor gaped. “Have you any idea what you’re refusing? The size of the estate you stand to inherit? How vast were the duke’s wealth, his land, his influence?”

“I don’t give a damn.”

“But His Grace wished—”

“His Grace wished?” Pierce exploded, advancing toward the disconcerted solicitor. “His Grace wished? What about my mother’s wishes? What about my wishes? He condemned us to rot in a filthy, diseased workhouse without so much as a second thought. And now, with my mother cold in her grave, he wants to welcome me to his coveted world? To acknowledge me as his son? Now that he himself is dead and gone, and the ensuing scandal can no longer hurt him? Now I’m to step forward and proudly assume the role of the Duke of Markham—because he wishes it?” Eyes ablaze, Pierce kicked a chair from his path, then veered toward the door. “My wish is for the filthy blackguard to burn in hell. And, if there is any justice at all, he already has. Good day, Hollingsby.”

“There’s more,” the solicitor said quietly.

Pierce swung around. “Find another victim.”

“Please, Mr. Thornton. I have yet to enumerate the terms and conditions I spoke of.”

A harsh laugh erupted from Pierce’s chest. “Terms and conditions? Don’t bother. I’ve denounced the title.”

“Please, sir. I beseech you. My job is to relay the specifics of the codicil. What you choose to do about them is your concern.”

Pierce sucked in his breath, struck by the truth of Hollingsby’s plea. Markham’s coldhearted negligence was not the solicitor’s doing. “Very well, Hollingsby. Come to the conclusion of this nightmare.”

“Thank you.” Turning the page, Hollingsby shoved his spectacles back up on his nose. “The codicil states the following: In order to retain your newly acquired title and to permanently reap the benefits and privileges thereof, you must fulfill two stipulations. First, you must not only accept the title of the Duke of Markham, but you must assume all related responsibilities for a minimum of two years. That means living at Markham, overseeing the estate and the servants, supervising the businesses—”

“You’ve made your point. And the other stipulation?”

“Second, you must marry and produce a legitimate heir to the dukedom.”

“A legitimate heir. In other words, not a bastard like me,” Pierce clarified, bitterly precise.

“Correct.”

“Tell me, Hollingsby, what if my duchess turns out to be as uncooperative a vessel as Markham’s was? How many years did you say it took her to conceive? Or perhaps my duchess will be totally barren? Or, heaven forbid, she might bear me a daughter rather than a son. Have you considered that?” Pierce demanded mockingly. “What if I myself am incapable of fathering a child? It does happen, you know. Then what? All Markham’s provisions will have been for naught.”

“The duke considered that. During my final visit to Markham he presented me with a sealed envelope, instructing me to lock it in my office strongbox, to be removed precisely two years from the day you accept your rightful position as his heir. At that point, should any of the circumstances you just described exist, I am to send for you and reveal the contents of the letter, assuming, that is, you’ve fulfilled all your other ducal obligations during the prescribed time.”

“And if, over the two-year period, I do produce the necessary heir?”

“Then the provisos contained therein will be declared null and void, and I shall give the envelope to you, unopened, to do with as you wish.”

“The son of a bitch thought of everything, didn’t he?”

Hollingsby wet his lips. “To resume the codicil’s terms,” he pushed on. “During the two-year probation period you’ll be furnished with a generous weekly allowance of ten thousand pounds.”

“Ten thousand pounds?” One brow rose. “How charitable.”

“Finally, once the two years have elapsed and presuming you’ve fulfilled both conditions, you are free to recommence your old life or continue your new one. In either case, you will have full access, within reason, of course, to the Markham funds, heirlooms, property, etcetera, for the rest of your life, and your son will be groomed as the future Duke of Markham.”

“Lucky lad.”