Page 50 of The Dueling Duchess

Guy gawked at the man who had entered his study ten minutes ago and then immediately set about tearing down his entire world.

“This is most . . . unexpected,” he finally managed to spit out.

The stranger chuckled merrily—as if he hadn’t just destroyed another man’s entire world using only a handful of words.

“Unexpected,” his unwanted guest repeated. “I recall my father used to be a master of understatement, too. I didn’t realize it was a national characteristic.”

“I don’t suppose you possess any documentation or proof of who you claim to be?” Guy asked, proud of himself for not yelling.

“I was wondering when we’d get to that, old man.”

“Yes, well forgive me for not taking only—”

“No, no, not at all.” He reached for the satchel he’d set beside his chair earlier.

Guy took the opportunity to study this—this usurper.

He was tall and broad and bore an uncanny resemblance to Guy himself. There was no denying they were related. But whether he was who he claimed to be—the son of Guy’s long-lost uncle Henry, the man who would have inherited the dukedom before Guy—was another matter.

Guy thought it was entirely possible the other man had been born on the wrong side of the blanket—probable, even. After all, the Darlington men were well-known for sowing their seed far and wide.

Barrymore Darlington—or Barry as he’d introduced himself—stood and handed Guy a slim sheaf of papers. “Here you are.”

It took Guy a shockingly brief amount of time to discern that his uncle had, indeed, married and produced a son. Said son was born on the island of Réunion, off the coast of Africa, in 1775.

He read through the marriage lines and certificate of birth a second, and then a third time, as if repeated perusal might alter the contents of the documents.

“And just who is this . . . Sarah Norton?” Guy finally asked.

Rather than appear offended, Barry looked tolerantly amused. It was an obnoxious expression and Guy wanted to punch it right off his smug, handsome face.

“I take it you are inquiring into my departed mother’s lineage. She was the daughter of a sugar plantation owner—the biggest heiress on the island. So, you see, my father—blackguard and murderer—actually took a step up when he married dear mater. I never knew her as she died bringing me into the world, but she left my father a wealthy man and the means to become even wealthier.” Barry pulled a face. “My father, being who and what he was, failed to seize the opportunity to change his ways. Instead of making a go of the plantation, he died when I was a mere sprig of fifteen, shot in a duel over a game of cards.”

“Well, at least he was consistent,” Guy said, and then immediately felt cruel.

But Barry merely laughed. “Indeed, he was. He was also a dreadful father, and I suspect he was a horrid husband. Not to mention a rotten cardplayer.”

“And apparently a poor shot.”

“Yes, that was his assessment, as well. He once told me that the man he’d shot and killed—the reason our grandfather banished him from Britain—actually died of a freak complication from a minor flesh wound in his elbow, of all places.”

That was the story Guy had heard, as well.

He sat back in his chair—or Barry’s chair, rather—and tried to absorb what all this meant.

But he must have been in shock because he couldn’t make himself believe it.

“Why did you wait so long to come back to England?” he asked.

Barry shrugged. “As far as I knew, I’d be coming back to a host of relatives who despised me, so I was in no hurry.”

“By that reasoning, why are you here now?”

“Pure happenstance, old boy. I was planning to make only a brief stop on my way to the Americas and—”

“I may not have been the best student of geography, old boy, but I’m pretty sure England is not on the way from east Africa to Boston.”

Barry gave another of his smug chuckles, a sound Guy suspected he would come to hate in short order.