Rosemary Rogers - Scandalous Deception

There was never, ever anything to disturb the serenity of Meadowland. No sounds of squabbling servants, no upheavals from unwanted guests who were firmly, but diplomatically, turned from the door, no awkward unpleasantness during the rare social events that were held at the grand house.

He was, all in all, the perfect butler.

“Thank you, Goodson,” Edmond said. “I am shockingly pleased to be here.”

“It is always good to come home,” Goodson replied, able to hide the least hint of reproach at Edmond’s lengthy absence.

The staff would never fully resign themselves to Edmond’s preference for living in Russia. To them he was an Englishman, regardless of his mother’s blood, and a duke’s son. His place was at Meadowland, not some strange, foreign land.

“Yes, I suppose it is. Is the Duke at home?”

“He is in his study. Do you wish me to announce you?”

Of course Stefan was in his study. If his diligent brother was not overseeing the work in the fields he was always in his study.

“No, despite my advancing years, I believe I can still remember my way.”

Goodson gave a dignified nod. “I will have Mrs. Slater bring you a tray there.”

Edmond’s mouth watered at the mere thought. He had eaten the food of the most famous chefs in the world, but none could compare to Mrs. Slater’s simple English fare.

“Will you ask her to include her famous seed cakes? I haven’t had a decent one in years.”

“There is no need to ask,” Goodson assured him dryly. “The woman will be so delighted to have you returned to Meadowland, she will not be satisfied until she manages to produce every dish you have claimed to prefer since you were in shortcoats.”

“At this moment I believe I could eat them all.” Edmond turned toward the steps only to sharply turn back toward the hovering servant. “Goodson.”

“Yes, my lord?”

“My brother happened to mention in one of his letters that Mr. Howard Summerville was visiting his mother.”

“I believe he and his family did stay several weeks with Mrs. Summerville, sir.”

There was nothing to be detected in the bland tones, but Edmond did not doubt the servant knew the precise day Howard arrived in Surrey as well as the exact moment of his departure. It would, after all, be the valet’s unpleasant duty to ensure the sponger did not manage to slip past his guard and trouble the Duke with his tedious pleas for money.

“How many weeks?”

“He arrived six days before Christmas and did not leave until the twelfth of September.”

“Rather odd for a gentleman devoted to the delights of town to leave London for such a protracted length of time, was it not, Goodson?”

“Very odd, unless one believes in village gossip.”

“And what village gossip would that be?”

“That Mr. Summerville was forced to close his town house and retrench.” The disdain deepened. “It was said that the gentleman could not so much as step out his door without being surrounded by bill collectors.”

“It seems my cousin has managed to become an even greater dolt than I had anticipated.”

“Yes, indeed, my lord.”

He sucked in a deep breath. “Once I speak with my brother I would like to have a word with his valet.”

The flicker of surprise was so brief it might have been nonexistent. “I will have James awaiting you in the library.”

“Actually I would prefer the privacy of my personal sitting room, always presuming it has not been converted into a nursery or filled to the ceiling with Stefan’s farming manuals.”

“Your rooms are just as you left them,” the servant assured him in grave tones. “His Grace insists that they always be prepared for your return.”

Edmond smiled wryly. It was predictable of his brother. And oddly comforting. There was something to be said for always knowing there was a place waiting for you.

“Have James meet me in my sitting room in an hour.”

“As you wish.”

Knowing that Goodson would not only have James waiting for him, but would do so with the sort of discretion that would avoid any unnecessary chatter below-stairs, Edmond turned and continued his way to the second floor.

Deliberately avoiding the Picture Gallery, Edmond chose the lesser-used Minstrel’s Gallery to make his way toward the private rooms of the vast house. A faint smile touched his lips as he realized that the pale blue damask wall panels were precisely the same as they had been when he was a child, as well as the blue and ivory silk curtains that framed the high, arched windows that ran the length of the gallery.

His amusement only deepened as he silently pushed open the door to the large study that was nearly overrun with books, ledgers and farming manuals stacked on every available surface. Only the heavy oak desk was relatively clear of debris, with one ledger book spread open. Stefan was seated behind the desk in a leather chair, quill in his hand.

“Do you know, Stefan, it is nothing short of remarkable how nothing ever changes at Meadowland, including you,” he murmured softly. “I believe you were sitting at that precise desk, tallying the same quarterly reports in that same old blue coat the day that I left.”

Lifting his dark head, Stefan stared at him in shock for a long beat.

“Edmond?”

“For my sins.”

With a choked sound between a laugh and sob, Stefan was on his feet and hurrying to clasp Edmond in a bear hug.

“Dear God, it’s good to see you.”

Edmond readily returned the embrace. His feelings for Stefan had never been complicated. His brother was the one person in the entire world he truly loved.

“And you, Stefan.”

Pulling back, Stefan allowed a rueful smile to touch the face that was an exact replica of Edmond’s.

Oh, the discerning eye might pick up the fact that Stefan’s olive skin was a shade or two darker from the hours he spent overseeing the tenants, and that the vivid blue eyes held an expression of sweet trust that would never be seen in Edmond’s. But the thick raven hair curled in exactly the same manner, the chiseled features held the same Slavic beauty; even their tall, lean bodies were exactly matched.

The two had spent their childhood taking great delight in switching places and confusing others who could never tell them apart.

Everyone, that is, but their parents and their young neighbor Brianna Quinn. The tiny minx with a wild mane of autumn-hued curls could never be deceived.

“I will have you know this coat is not above three or four seasons old,” Stefan assured him as he smoothed his hands over the blue coat.

Edmond gave a soft laugh. “I would lay ten quid your valet would tell me differently.”

Stefan wrinkled his nose, his gaze skimming over Edmond’s closely tailored mulberry jacket and silver waistcoat.

“Well, I never was as dapper as you.”

“Thank God,” Edmond said with utter sincerity. “Unlike your feckless brother, you have far more important matters to fill your days than the cut of your coat or gloss of your boots. Not the least of which is allowing me to live in magnificent comfort.”

“I would hardly consider being the guardian angel of his Imperial Highness as being feckless,” Stefan countered. “Far from it, in fact.”

“Guardian angel?” Edmond gave a sharp, disbelieving laugh at the ridiculous words. “You are far off the mark, dear Stefan. I am a wicked sinner, a rake, and a self-indulgent adventurer who has only avoided the hangman’s noose due to the fortune of possessing a Duke for a brother.”

The vivid blue eyes narrowed. “You might be able to fool others, Edmond, but never me.”

“Because you are always determined to believe the best in everyone, even your worthless brother.” Edmond lowered himself into a wing chair near the desk, quite ready to be done with the conversation. “Presumably Mrs. Slater is busily preparing a banquet, but in truth I am in more need of a shot of that Irish whiskey you keep hidden in your drawer.”