Her Mystery Duke by Natasha Blackthorne Page A

first became unable to work,
I went to his family in Marylebone. I humbled myself and I was turned away by a
servant at their doorstep. They were ashamed of Papa’s descent into madness.
They feared his child would share this insanity and they wished only to forget
the bond.”
    “Who was your father’s father?”
    “He is a well-respected barrister.”
    “What about your mother’s family?”
    “She was a clergyman’s daughter, the third youngest of
eleven children. She was sent to be a governess but she dreamed of being an
artist.”
    “She taught you to read and write?”
    “Yes, Papa did as well. He was proud of me.” She couldn’t
help a smile. “He called me his ‘clever girl’ and encouraged me to write my
daydreams down as stories. He was a very charming man. Mama was besotted with
him from the first, she claimed. Her family did not approve of him. He already
showed signs of instability.”
    “Did he? Such as?”
    “At the age of thirty-five he abandoned a successful legal
practice and devoted himself to his art. But such wild visions fueled his art.
Many people were repulsed. His work was shocking, bordering on sacrilegious and
obscene. But Mama was young and naïve. She thought he was a rare genius and he
promised her so much. He promised to develop her art and to help her become
known for her talents. Since Mama was under twenty-one, they ran away to wed.
Her family struck her name from the family Bible. Each year at her father’s
birthday, she wrote to him, and each year he ignored her letters. Why would I
have ever expected help from them? Especially since I am tainted with my
father’s insane seed?”
    “Do you fear that you shall become mad like him?”
    “I try not to think about it. The worries of today are more
than enough for me.”
    His expression became pained. “You have known too much
worry.”
    “Goodness, David, I am hardly unique. When I lost that last
position, I told myself that I had best focus all my efforts on developing my
writing. I worked hard on my own and then later the doctor introduced me to his
friend, Bernard. He is a playwright and he helped me to develop my writing.”
    “He bedded you as well and gave you rent money?”
    “Yes, of course he did.”
    “Do not ever tell me the name of this doctor or I fear I
shall be greatly tempted to find him and call him out.”
    She gaped at him. He seemed perfectly serious. She hadn’t thought
of a gentleman being an idealist. Women all over London were forced by
circumstances into bedding men for money. It was just the way of things.
    “He is dead, David. He died of an apoplexy in late autumn.”
    “Fortunate for him.”
    At his hard and cold tone, a shiver convulsed her heart for
she believed him capable of murder in that moment. It made her feel that she
knew nothing of him. What the devil? She did know nothing of him.
    So, why had she told him so much of herself? She never spoke
of herself to others, not if she could help it. Yet she’d poured out her whole
story to him as easily as if she’d been simply reviewing events in her own
thoughts.
    Suddenly, all the energy drained from her body, and she lay
back and sagged into the pillow.
    “You’re tired?” He smoothed the hair off her face.
    “Yes, I fear I am.”
    “Then sleep, sweeting.” He caressed her hair. “I promise
your future will be far, far better than your past.”
     
    * * * *
     
    David awoke with a start. Sunlight illuminated the tiny
garret in all its stark poverty. Jeanne was nowhere to be seen.
    At last, he now remembered everything from that last day at
his chambers at the Inns of Court.
    That pivotal day, over a week ago now, he had wiped his
mouth with his handkerchief, still tasting the bitterness of tea and stomach
juices. Dizziness had confused him as he wandered back into the Inn and leaned
against the corridor wall.
    Charles Toovey had been at his side. He had aided him back
outside into the fresher air and eventually had helped him