Covendale smiled. ‘Like all young women, she wishes to marry respectably.’
Leo’s fists tightened. ‘Have I ever conducted myself in any way that was not respectable?’
‘Not that I’ve heard.’ The man wagged his finger at Leo. ‘With the exception of courting my daughter in secret.’
Leo burned as if the flames continued to surround him.
Covendale made another mollifying gesture. ‘You must look at this situation rationally. Given a choice, Mariel cannot debase herself with—with a man of your birth.’
A bastard, he meant.
‘Your father, for all his titles and high friends, flouted the manners of proper society. What is more, he and your equally scandalous mother reared you in a most amoral atmosphere …’
Was this explanation necessary? Leo had always lived with knowledge of his origins.
His father, the Duke of Manning, left his wife to set up housekeeping at Welbourne Manor with the equally married Countess of Linwall. They lived together for twenty years in unmarried, free-spirited bliss, producing Leo and his two sisters from their unsanctified union. His father’s two legitimate sons, Nicholas, now the duke, and Stephen, a successful horse-breeder, spent nearly as much of their childhood at Welbourne Manor as Leo did. Also reared there was Justine, Leo’s half-sister by a French woman his father bedded before meeting his mother.
Society called the lot of them The Fitzmanning Miscellany. But not to Leo’s face, not if they wished to avoid broken bones.
Leo’s hand curled into a fist. ‘My brothers were reared at Welbourne Manor.’ Except Brenner, his mother’s legitimate son, the current Earl of Linwall. Leo and his siblings had not known Brenner until after their parents died. ‘Do you consider them scandalous?’
‘Of course I do!’ Covendale exclaimed. ‘But they are legitimate. Society accepts them for that reason alone. You, however, would not be accepted anywhere if not for the fact that your father was a duke. It was the only reason I ever allowed Mariel to befriend your sisters.’
Leo damned well knew society merely tolerated him. And his sisters. The difference between being the legitimate son and being the bastard had always been made crystal clear to him.
Truth be told, even his brothers treated him differently, albeit out of love for him. Nicholas and Stephen were forever trying to shield him from the consequences of his birth, to make it up to him for the shabby treatment by others. Their efforts were almost as painful as the barbs he’d endured as a schoolboy. Or the cuts, as an adult.
Society expected him to become a libertine like his father, but he was determined to prove society wrong. From the time he’d been a mere lad, he’d made certain his behaviour was unblemished.
A man should be judged by his own character. And by his achievements. Leo intended to reach the pinnacle in both.
Mariel understood that. She’d supported him. Admired his drive. It had never mattered to her that his father had not been married to his mother. She’d loved him.
Leo faced Covendale and looked directly into his eyes. ‘I do not believe any of this. This daughter you speak of is not the Mariel I know. She would not marry merely for a title. It is impossible.’
The older man pursed his lips. ‘Well, there is also your financial situation. A stud farm is nothing to Ashworth’s fortune. And now, with the fire, you have several buildings to replace, not to mention livestock. Even if we could ignore the vast inequality between your birth and that of Ashworth, you presently have nothing to offer my daughter.’
The fire. For all Leo’s grand thoughts about achieving the pinnacle of respect, the ashes of his former dream revealed his failure.
Covendale turned all sympathy. ‘I realise this is difficult for you. It is difficult for me that she left it to me to inform you, but I assure you, Ashworth came courting her and it has resulted in this.’ He picked up the special licence.
Leo shook his head. ‘She would have contacted me. Told me herself if her sentiments had changed.’
Her father held up a finger. ‘It almost slipped my mind. Mariel did leave word for you. She wrote you a note.’ Covendale opened a drawer and withdrew a sealed, folded sheet.
Leo took the paper from the man’s hand and broke the seal.
It read:
Dear Leo,
No time to write a proper note. I meant to be there in person, but Father will explain it all.
Wishing nothing but good to you, Mariel
It was written in her hand. The paper even smelled of her.
He crushed it in his fist. Father will explain it all.
‘I’m sorry, boy,’ Covendale said quietly.
The fire roared inside him again and flames filled his vision.
The special licence. Mariel’s absence. Her note.
His failure.
There was no more denying it. She’d chosen respectability over him. A legitimate husband over a bastard one. And, without knowing, a wealthy man over a failure.
‘I do not know what else to say to you,’ Covendale said.
Leo barely heard him.
He thought about losing his horses, his stable. Losing Mariel was a thousand times worse. The pain was so intense he had to fight to remain upright. It was as if his insides were consumed by flames and what was left was ashes, a void that never could be refilled.
Respectability be damned. Stud farm be damned.
What had all his conscientious behaviour and hard work brought him? A pile of cinders.
Being jilted by Mariel.
He forced himself to rise to his full height.
‘You are correct, sir. There is nothing more to say.’ He nodded to Covendale. ‘Good day.’
Leo turned and strode out of Covendale’s library, out of the town house, into the grey afternoon drizzle.
And the emptiness that was now his life.
Chapter One
June, 1828—two years later
Loud pounding forced Leo from a dead sleep.
He opened his eyes and was stabbed by a sliver of sunlight, harbinger of a fine spring London day. He clapped his hands to his head.
Too much brandy. Now he was paying the price.
More pounding. A caller at his door.
Why the devil did Walker not send them away?
Walker was Leo’s valet, but likely not out of bed himself. He and Leo had engaged in a bout of celebratory drinking after Leo returned from the card tables the previous night.
Walker might act as Leo’s valet, but he looked nothing like a gentleman’s gentleman. He’d been a ruffian from the Rookerie, caught by circumstance in Paris and hungry for a new life. Leo encountered him by accident and they had become more than gentleman and gentleman’s man. They’d become friends … and now business partners.
The pounding resumed and Leo could just make out the voice of a man demanding to be admitted.
He groaned and roused himself from the bed, searching around the room for the clothes he’d shed the night before. The sound stopped and he sat back on the bed. Excellent. Walker would deal with it. Send the caller away.
Once, Leo would have been up and out to his stables at dawn. He’d have done a half day’s