The Infamous Duchess Read online

  Dedication

  To all of my lovely readers

  with many thanks for your incredible support

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  By Sophie Barnes

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter 1

  St. Agatha’s Hospital

  London, 1820

  Viola Cartwright, Duchess of Tremaine, stared down at the crisp piece of paper balanced between her fingers. Since she’d read the words written thereon, her heart had run off, leaving her chest with a painful knot in its place. She expelled a long breath in an effort to calm her riotous nerves and perhaps ease the churning in her belly. It was to no avail. Even though she’d known this moment would eventually come, she hadn’t been prepared for the news of her stepson’s homecoming.

  Hoping against all odds that she might find a different message if she read the letter again, she adjusted her spectacles and considered the bold script for a second time.

  Findlay,

  Please be advised that it is time for me to come home. My ship sails from New York harbor on the fifteenth of March with expected arrival in Portsmouth no more than thirty days later. I hope I can count on you to greet me upon my return.

  Robert Cartwright,

  Duke of Tremaine

  No request for the loyal butler to inform Viola. No mention of her at all.

  Setting the letter aside on her desk, she raised her gaze to Findlay, who stood near the door of her office waiting. “Thank you for showing me this.” She couldn’t imagine what she would have done if he hadn’t warned her.

  Findlay nodded. “I felt it my duty to do so.”

  He took his leave, and Viola forced herself to relax. She didn’t owe Robert anything. The decision to marry his father had been hers and hers alone. Robert should have no say in the matter. Especially not since he’d chosen to marry the Earl of Clarendon’s daughter right before departing for his father’s coffee plantation in the West Indies. He’d been away ever since and had written only once to inform his father that his wife was dead and that he’d sold the plantation. There had been no word from him since. Worse than that, when Viola had written to inform Robert of his father’s passing, her letter had been returned. It had taken two years to track him down somewhere in India—a task she could finally claim to have accomplished satisfactorily.

  And yet, the pricking of skin at the nape of Viola’s neck made her wary. She and Robert had not parted on the best of terms and she worried how he would react to her now, knowing she’d married his father.

  A quick rap at the door brought a nurse into Viola’s office. “You’re needed in the operating room. Florian is already there,” she said in reference to one of the best physicians Viola employed at St. Agatha’s Hospital. His full name was Jonathan Florian Lowell, but he chose to go by his middle name because he claimed it helped people differentiate between him and his older brother Henry. This had not changed since he’d inherited his uncle’s title and become the Duke of Redding. He still insisted his colleagues call him Florian.

  Viola blinked. Florian was supposed to be on his way to Paris with his wife, the Duke of Huntley’s sister Juliette. They’d planned everything so they would be back again in time for Juliette’s expected due date. So if Florian was still here, then . . .

  She was on her feet in an instant and hurrying after the nurse. “What can you tell me, Emily?” she asked as they half walked, half ran through a series of corridors and down a long flight of stairs.

  “A man, roughly thirty years of age by my estimation, has been shot. Florian brought him in himself.”

  “Any idea who the man might be?”

  “No. If Florian knows him he gave no indication.”

  Of course not, Viola thought. Why would he? Issuing orders and acting with haste would have been his top priority. They pushed through a pair of double doors and turned down another hallway, entering the first room on their right.

  “Help me,” Florian said as soon as he spotted Viola. His expression was tight and professional, but his eyes revealed a crack in his otherwise serious demeanor.

  Viola rushed forward while Florian continued speaking. “I am going to give you some morphine for the pain,” Florian told the patient concisely. “It should put you to sleep.”

  Locating a bowl of hot water, Viola reached for the nearby soap, soaked her hands and proceeded to scrub them clean. Florian was adamant about cleanliness. He adhered to William Buchan’s notion of poor hygiene spreading disease and infection. He also believed in considering new developments in medicine. So when a German colleague of his had managed to isolate morphine from opium years ago and had written to Florian of its improved effect over laudanum, Florian had started his own study into the new medication. He’d been so pleased with the results that it had become his preferred opiate even though it was not yet commercially available anywhere.

  Emily handed Viola a towel, and once her hands were dry, Viola picked up another bowl containing gin-soaked surgical tools.

  “I am going to get you through this,” Florian added to the patient, his rough voice piercing Viola’s heart. “You are not going to die today. Do you hear? Now drink this.”

  Fishing out a scalpel, a probe, a pair of forceps and a needle, Viola placed the surgical tools side by side on a silver tray and handed Florian a wad of antiseptically treated linen. The patient’s jacket, vest, cravat and shirt had all been removed and were lying in a heap on the floor.

  “Thank you,” Florian muttered. He proceeded to clean the discolored wound in the patient’s left shoulder. The man was pale, his body trembling slightly beneath Florian’s touch, until the morphine’s effect caused him to relax in a state of gradual unconsciousness.

  Reaching for a sponge, Viola helped dab away excess blood. “I take it you know him,” Viola said as she watched Florian probe the wound carefully with his finger.

  “Locator,” he replied while presenting her with the palm of his hand.

  She picked up the tool and gave it to him, then helped hold open the wound for better access. Florian slid the locator in, probing for the lead ball and other foreign matter lodged beneath the patient’s skin. She’d seen the procedure performed a dozen times before.

  “He’s my brother,” Florian suddenly said, answering her question. He knit his brow and closed his eyes, allowing his sense of touch to guide him. “There! It’s not too deep, thank God, but there might be some fabric as well. Let me have the forceps.”

  Viola handed the tool over and sponged the wound clean once more. She wasn’t too surprised to discover that the man lying outstretched on the operating table was Henry Lowell. His reputation as a notorious rake was such that even a nonsocial woman like herself could not avoid hearing of some of his exploits, like the affair the Earl of Elmwood had
accused him of having with his wife.

  “Please check this against his shirt,” Florian said. He dropped a piece of bloodied linen into a small empty bowl.

  Grabbing the garment, Viola stretched the front of it out on a nearby counter and tried to match the piece of fabric to the part of the shirt that was missing. “I think there might be a little bit more,” she told Florian.

  He bowed his head again and probed deeper. Seconds ticked by with infernal slowness until, with a long exhale, he pulled the tiniest fabric piece free. Getting the lead ball out after that was fairly simple, after which the only remaining task was to trim the dead skin around the wound with a scalpel and suture it.

  “I’m sorry he got shot,” Viola said, not because she had much sympathy for a renowned libertine, but because it was clear to her that Florian was upset. She threaded a needle with waxed silk and handed it to him as soon as he’d finished using the scalpel.

  He snorted and proceeded to stitch up the wound. “He’s a wonderful brother and I love him dearly, but he can also be a bloody idiot at times. In this case, he chose to offer a young dandy advice on his clothing.”

  Viola pressed her lips together to refrain from smiling. This was, after all, a serious matter. She was fairly sure Florian wouldn’t approve of her being amused by it. She cleared her throat and began preparing a compress. “Which poultice do you prefer to use?”

  “I’ll have the one with the crushed onion and honey.”

  Spreading the mixture out on a thin piece of linen, Viola placed it carefully over the wound while Florian went to clean his hands. She then added a thicker wad of clean linen on top and asked Emily to help her secure it with a bandage.

  It wasn’t until she was finished that she allowed herself to consider Mr. Lowell’s appearance. Until now, she’d been methodical in her work and professionally detached. With her task completed, however, she became aware of Mr. Lowell’s size and, more to the point, his stunning physique.

  This was not a man of leisure but one who exercised frequently. His belly was flat, his abdomen tight and his arms well-defined by muscles. As far as she could tell, he was broader than Florian, but this was not the only thing that set the brothers apart. While Florian’s hair was vibrant with varying shades of copper, Lowell’s was raven black. His jaw was also more angular and his lower lip slightly fuller. Staring down at him, Viola fleetingly wondered about the color of his eyes, now hidden from view beneath a pair of lids that were fringed with thick, dark lashes.

  “It’s surprising no one ever suspected us of being only half brothers,” Florian murmured, startling Viola from her quiet perusal.

  “People often believe what they’re told as long as the story’s convincing enough. In your case there was no reason for anyone to think you weren’t Armswell’s son.”

  Not even Florian’s brother had known until Florian had told him last year that their fathers weren’t one and the same. While Mr. Lowell shared Armswell’s blood, Florian had been sired by Bartholomew, one of England’s most infamous criminals. The scandal when the news had broken had almost destroyed Florian’s career.

  “I suppose so,” Florian said. He touched his knuckles briefly to his brother’s arm before saying, “We should get him upstairs so this room can be cleaned.”

  “Of course.” Viola turned for the door with the intention of calling a couple of orderlies to assist. She paused and glanced back at Florian. “How come you’re here, by the way, and not on your way to Paris with Juliette?”

  Florian shrugged. “Henry came to see me last night, told me about the duel and asked if I might be able to delay my trip.” He glanced at his brother. “I’m glad I did.”

  “Of course. It was the right decision to make.” She considered his weary expression for a second before saying, “He’ll be all right now and there’s a team of well-trained staff to help with his recuperation. So if you want to catch the next ship, I see no reason why you shouldn’t. You and Juliette deserve your adventure. Once the baby arrives, there’ll be no time.”

  Wincing, Florian removed his surgical apron, tossed it in a basket for laundering and rolled down his shirtsleeves. “There’s not enough time as it is. My work is demanding, Viola, which is why we weren’t able to get away sooner.”

  “Then for heaven’s sake go on your trip with Juliette while you still can and entrust me with your brother’s care.”

  “You’re taking on a lot of tasks, Viola. Between running the hospital, readying the rejuvenation center for its grand opening and now this . . . I really ought to be staying.”

  “We’ve discussed this, Florian. Running the hospital is second nature to me now and the rejuvenation center is coming along splendidly.” Intended to offer the rich a spa-like experience without going to Bath, the center would provide the hospital with additional funds. For although St. Agatha’s still ran smoothly thanks to donations, it could not continue to do so for long. Due to the free care it provided to the poor, its popularity continued to increase, which meant it would soon require expanding. For this to be possible, Viola would need to ensure a steady income, and her plan was to use the center’s profits to do so. “Last I checked, the artists were about to get started on the murals, and that was already a few days ago. Besides, we both know I’m more likely to draw a crowd for the grand opening than you are. It won’t matter what Society thinks of me, Florian. People will come for the sole purpose of sating their curiosity if I send out the invitations. They’ll want to catch a glimpse of the woman who snagged a duke one day and inherited his fortune the next.”

  Because of her brief marriage and her lack of interest in mingling with a social class to which she did not feel she belonged, she’d kept a low profile by moving into a modest house after her husband’s death, focusing on her work and maintaining what would probably be described as an unremarkable appearance.

  “As for your brother,” she added, “he’ll undoubtedly sleep most of the time, I should think.”

  Florian hesitated. “He will wake up eventually, and when he does, he’ll want to be entertained. He doesn’t like being bored.”

  “I don’t think anyone does. Do they?”

  Florian watched her with his typically inscrutable expression. But Viola knew him well enough by now to know he was carefully weighing the options she’d laid out before him. “My servants can help with the grand opening. You’ll need someone there to welcome the guests and to offer them drinks and some sort of food.”

  “I’ll meet with your manservant and cook to make the necessary arrangements.”

  He hesitated briefly, then grabbed his jacket from a hook on the wall and shoved his arms into the sleeves. “Very well. I shall agree to think about it.”

  Happy with that assurance, Viola smiled to hide her concerns and continued out into the hallway. Because although Florian deserved a reprieve and she’d pushed for it, his absence would mean she’d somehow have to deal with Robert’s arrival alone, not to mention Florian’s handsome rake of a brother. And the truth of the matter was she had no idea how to handle either.

  When Henry Atticus Lowell awoke, the first thing he became aware of was the gentle tread of someone moving carefully about. He flexed his fingers and felt the soft cotton of a sheet draped over his body. Well, it would seem he was still alive, thanks to his brother’s miraculous efforts. And the pain . . . it was more of an ache now, which was a definite improvement.

  Hesitantly, he opened his eyes just enough to let a bit of light in. It was blinding, the sunshine spilling in from a nearby window with unforgiving brightness. He winced and immediately closed his eyes again.

  “Mr. Lowell?” The voice that spoke was feminine, soft and soothing, a mere whisper almost. Henry grunted his response and sensed the woman come nearer. “I hope I did not disturb you.” A soft hand settled upon his brow for no more than a fleeting second. “You do not seem to have a fever, which is excellent news.”

  He drew a deep breath, focused on the tightening effect i
t had on his chest, and gradually expelled it. “No.” Again he tried to open his eyes, to see the nurse who’d come to attend him. She sounded lovely and . . . The light was no longer as bright as it had been. It shone at the woman’s back, surrounding her in a halo of gold. She was fair, with dark blond tresses catching the sun and tossing it back. Her face, however, was perfection itself, a pair of pale blue eyes and full lips portraying the deepest shade of rose he’d ever seen.

  Perhaps he had died after all.

  Henry closed his eyes on that thought and allowed himself to drift off again, certain he’d just caught a glimpse of heaven and one of its prettiest angels. But the matter of leaving his earthly state was quickly dismissed when he woke again later to find his brother sitting nearby. The room was now cast in shadows, alerting Henry to the late time of day.

  He tried to speak but wheezed instead and was grateful for the glass of water Florian swiftly pressed to his lips. “Thank you,” he managed after savoring the cool liquid flowing down his parched throat.

  Florian eyed him with stalwart gravity. “I was worried about you for a moment.”

  Henry grinned and shifted, immediately regretting doing so when his wound stretched uncomfortably in response. He winced and grew serious, making every effort to relax. “Is that really all I deserve? A mere moment of concern?”

  “Humph! I’ve enough faith in my own skills to know when more is unnecessary. That’s the moment I’m talking about. The second it took to assure myself that I wouldn’t have to convey the news of your death to our parents.” He paused for a second, and then, “What the devil were you thinking, antagonizing a cocky lad who’s barely quit his leading strings? You know someone like that is going to fight before he thinks.”

  “You’re lucky he isn’t here to witness your insult or I daresay he’d call you out next. All I did was tell him his orange jacket looked ghastly and that his tailor ought to give better advice.”

  “Christ, Henry.”

  “What? Would you not prefer for someone to tell you that you look ridiculous instead of continuing to parade about as if you’re presenting high fashion?”